Empty bottles, on shelves
hold ships, unable
to travel from sea to shining sea.
Empty bottles becomes
empty with sip
after sip
of Riesling,
which has traveled from
my lips, around my tongue
and through my
knees. You walk
in front of me
but i'm much farther
ahead. Waiting
on the bed, i can't
remember
how i got there
all i know is Time
stopped the moment
the shipped moved.
forward. An ellipses
takes pause in
words, unbeknownst
of their meaning.
And, when the ship returns
to one shore. I'll
have grown old.
white hair,
like my father,
like my mother, dying
to go back to moving
forward...
without words.
Friday, August 20, 2010
Ramblings of a so-called Writer
Traveling. Without fear. Well with some fear, worry, anxiety. I write the same way. I suppose that's why the two seem connected. Travel is the best time for thinking; writing is the act of thinking. To combine the two seems natural. The cultural precedences of the "open road" "on the road" "road trips" "rocky road" the road is already taken by literature, so what do I hope to add to it?
The road is already taken over by semis, motels, inns, rest stops, planted trees, meek- dotted white lines, ferocious thick yellow lines. No, the road has no use for me but I still dare to venture out. With my half-baked plans, the closest I'm willing to go on my required post-graduate adventure. You know the kind, the one that allows me to be the free-spirit that romantic comedies have shown me to be (when my hair is down, not in a pony-tail) .
Where was I? oh yeah, free spirits.
the Adventure. It comes in many packages, RVs, used-Hondas, Euro-rail passes, backpacks. I've been attempting an adventure since 2006, the year of graduation, of growth, of change.
Shitty first drafts, right?
We're doing this. We're gonna write if it kills us.There's a stop that happens, a block. Thoughts are formed independent of writing. Whether it's a pencil or a keyboard, the thoughts stop, the art of language is stifled by the fear of reality.
The Spirit of Adventure. What would it look like? male of female? old or young? black, white, Asian, thick Russian accent? I'd say it's a child. Small hands, large eyes. Giggle at the sight of kitten. Desire to touch the soft fur.
The road is already taken over by semis, motels, inns, rest stops, planted trees, meek- dotted white lines, ferocious thick yellow lines. No, the road has no use for me but I still dare to venture out. With my half-baked plans, the closest I'm willing to go on my required post-graduate adventure. You know the kind, the one that allows me to be the free-spirit that romantic comedies have shown me to be (when my hair is down, not in a pony-tail) .
Where was I? oh yeah, free spirits.
the Adventure. It comes in many packages, RVs, used-Hondas, Euro-rail passes, backpacks. I've been attempting an adventure since 2006, the year of graduation, of growth, of change.
Shitty first drafts, right?
We're doing this. We're gonna write if it kills us.There's a stop that happens, a block. Thoughts are formed independent of writing. Whether it's a pencil or a keyboard, the thoughts stop, the art of language is stifled by the fear of reality.
The Spirit of Adventure. What would it look like? male of female? old or young? black, white, Asian, thick Russian accent? I'd say it's a child. Small hands, large eyes. Giggle at the sight of kitten. Desire to touch the soft fur.
For a Moment
for a moment I wasn't me
I was the girl twirling in her sari
powerful enough to catch the wind
and throw it back to the clouds.
for a moment I wasn't me
I was the boy caught with wisdom
blue eyes stared down the sky
and strong arms welcomed the rain.
for a moment I wasn't me
I was the lost and lonely girl
seaking shelter amongst loving strangers
then she thought of me
and for a moment she was me.
she observed the strangers
awed at their spirit and strength.
I could feel the wind and rain.
I could see the children and the sky.
I could feel their love, and in return
I was the Sun.
I was the girl twirling in her sari
powerful enough to catch the wind
and throw it back to the clouds.
for a moment I wasn't me
I was the boy caught with wisdom
blue eyes stared down the sky
and strong arms welcomed the rain.
for a moment I wasn't me
I was the lost and lonely girl
seaking shelter amongst loving strangers
then she thought of me
and for a moment she was me.
she observed the strangers
awed at their spirit and strength.
I could feel the wind and rain.
I could see the children and the sky.
I could feel their love, and in return
I was the Sun.
Durian
Durian. Is a fruit that smells like stale bread, feels like soft boiled eggs, and tastes of sweet onion and garlic. The outer shells is designed by evolution to defend this treasure. Spikes cover the skin, ready to prick any intruder that dare take this fruits eccentric taste. It understands the treasure it guards.
You have been invited to taste this treasure. Once you've gotten past the cleverly designed fortress, the pungency, similar to used gym socks, fills your lungs. You then grip the skin, which folds easily under the weight of your fingers. With a feeling of haste and insecurity, you bring the fruit to your mouth, unexpectedly your hands find the hard seed in the middle and before the white juicy skin fruit falls from the seed, you toss it between your lips.
Your adventurous eating habits have prepared you for this, yet still you most force your mouth to suck out the seed while the soft fruit fills your throat. Your taste buds quiver in confusion.
Finally, after the initial shock, your throat opens and allows the moistened fruit to fall. You take the seed out of your mouth, the fruit slides down your throat, with very little chewing necessary, and you pause- wondering if you liked or disliked what you just tried.
You look up at the man who introduced you to this strange experience. He's smiling- you smile back, not because you decided you liked the fruit, but because you liked the experience.
You have been invited to taste this treasure. Once you've gotten past the cleverly designed fortress, the pungency, similar to used gym socks, fills your lungs. You then grip the skin, which folds easily under the weight of your fingers. With a feeling of haste and insecurity, you bring the fruit to your mouth, unexpectedly your hands find the hard seed in the middle and before the white juicy skin fruit falls from the seed, you toss it between your lips.
Your adventurous eating habits have prepared you for this, yet still you most force your mouth to suck out the seed while the soft fruit fills your throat. Your taste buds quiver in confusion.
Finally, after the initial shock, your throat opens and allows the moistened fruit to fall. You take the seed out of your mouth, the fruit slides down your throat, with very little chewing necessary, and you pause- wondering if you liked or disliked what you just tried.
You look up at the man who introduced you to this strange experience. He's smiling- you smile back, not because you decided you liked the fruit, but because you liked the experience.
First Meeting
Blake's eyes showed pure joy in the sky blue pupils as he discussed the New Talavana community. His comfortable attitude made me feel equally at home. The silence was not awkward and the conversation not forced. We were two strangers with one thing in common, we were sharing a ride. Best of all our conversation wasn't a search for anything in common. We were OK with being different. Instead we wanted to learn about each other, for a love of each other, for a love of humanity. We asked questions, told stories, stated beliefs with openness and clarity- well, there was more clarity on his part.
His current state of happiness, of pleasure with the life he built, was obvious in every manner. His eyes, his smile, his laughter- they were all those of a man who was joyous in his beliefs and lifestyle. It was in his voice where the pain of his past revealed itself. Not in the intonation, or volume- anything that was affected by the present reflected his current happiness. It was the harsh chiseled throat, that of a smokers voice that gave Blake away. He had not lived at New Talavana his whole life; his past was not one of purity.
"Are you a part of the religious community here." I usually don't ask about faith, but as we headed toward the Hare Krsna community, it seemed relevant.
"I am a believer in Jesus Christ. I believe he died for our sins and comes to us in various ways."
"Oh," I said, not really understanding what he meant, but I'd learn.
"And you."
I sighed, "Well, I consider myself an atheist, " without stopping I quickly offered an explanation. "But I don't think of atheism as a negative, as a staunch belief that God, of gods, don't exist. Rather, I don't make the claim that either exists or doesn't exist. In it's most basic form atheism, means without, a, religion, theism. And that's how I live my life, without religion." I was out of breath.
"Oh," he said.
He's tall, thin, and - I have difficulty saying 'white' because as a person he is too pure to be associated with the historical imperialist state of "white," so let's say -creamy yellow skin. His skin seems to have enveloped the shine of the sun, seen brighter when he smiles and you look into his calm eyes.
***
Without thinking he picks up two flowers and says, "Choose one."
I, with much thought, finally choose the red one- I've got the white one in my cabin. I stare into the flower, marvel at its simple construction that forms into a complex web of beauty. Petals line-up, one after the other, the outside petals growing in strength, hugging the smaller-inside petals.
I lean in to smell. I breath deeply, welcoming the fresh, natural scent. I look up and Blake is smiling. I try not to look directly at him, I'm unsure of why. I don't want him to catch me looking at him, think I'm attracted to him, think I'm scared of him, think I think he's weird. Really when I look at him, look directly at him - which is rare- I feel happy, and I smile, without thinking about it, it's fascinating to see an individual with so much peace.
"Where'd these come from?"
"I picked them this morning. Then sat here and ate fruit."
I smiled. This morning he woke up, picked roses and ate fruit. Would that give me as much happiness as it gives him? Before I could even formulate the question I've already given the answer, "I could never do this forever," and there it is, I ruin the peace. I look down at the flower he gave me and breath in again, hoping to find peace through my nostrils since my brain just pushed it out again.
"Thank you," I say and walk towards my cabin. I should leave him and his peace alone before I ruin it.
His current state of happiness, of pleasure with the life he built, was obvious in every manner. His eyes, his smile, his laughter- they were all those of a man who was joyous in his beliefs and lifestyle. It was in his voice where the pain of his past revealed itself. Not in the intonation, or volume- anything that was affected by the present reflected his current happiness. It was the harsh chiseled throat, that of a smokers voice that gave Blake away. He had not lived at New Talavana his whole life; his past was not one of purity.
"Are you a part of the religious community here." I usually don't ask about faith, but as we headed toward the Hare Krsna community, it seemed relevant.
"I am a believer in Jesus Christ. I believe he died for our sins and comes to us in various ways."
"Oh," I said, not really understanding what he meant, but I'd learn.
"And you."
I sighed, "Well, I consider myself an atheist, " without stopping I quickly offered an explanation. "But I don't think of atheism as a negative, as a staunch belief that God, of gods, don't exist. Rather, I don't make the claim that either exists or doesn't exist. In it's most basic form atheism, means without, a, religion, theism. And that's how I live my life, without religion." I was out of breath.
"Oh," he said.
He's tall, thin, and - I have difficulty saying 'white' because as a person he is too pure to be associated with the historical imperialist state of "white," so let's say -creamy yellow skin. His skin seems to have enveloped the shine of the sun, seen brighter when he smiles and you look into his calm eyes.
***
Without thinking he picks up two flowers and says, "Choose one."
I, with much thought, finally choose the red one- I've got the white one in my cabin. I stare into the flower, marvel at its simple construction that forms into a complex web of beauty. Petals line-up, one after the other, the outside petals growing in strength, hugging the smaller-inside petals.
I lean in to smell. I breath deeply, welcoming the fresh, natural scent. I look up and Blake is smiling. I try not to look directly at him, I'm unsure of why. I don't want him to catch me looking at him, think I'm attracted to him, think I'm scared of him, think I think he's weird. Really when I look at him, look directly at him - which is rare- I feel happy, and I smile, without thinking about it, it's fascinating to see an individual with so much peace.
"Where'd these come from?"
"I picked them this morning. Then sat here and ate fruit."
I smiled. This morning he woke up, picked roses and ate fruit. Would that give me as much happiness as it gives him? Before I could even formulate the question I've already given the answer, "I could never do this forever," and there it is, I ruin the peace. I look down at the flower he gave me and breath in again, hoping to find peace through my nostrils since my brain just pushed it out again.
"Thank you," I say and walk towards my cabin. I should leave him and his peace alone before I ruin it.
"First" Post
Now that the rules are out of the way, I'd like to explain my intentions. (Open and honest communication is key to a good relationship.) This blog doesn't really have a "point." I'm not acceting a challenge of any sort, I'm not going restrict posts to a certain topic, and my life is certainly not interesting enough to require constant recording.
No, this blog is for writing. And traveling. Let's face it, this is hardly a new idea. The connection between The Road Trip and story telling is as infamous and unrealistic as the American Dream. Supposedly, the further one gets away from home, the better writer one becomes. It's even better if your parents can afford a plane ticket but you decide to hitchhike and dumpsterdive instead.
All kidding aside, I'd like to write more. I'd also like to travel more. So, as a way to push myself to do things that I love (but easily get distracted from) I've created a blog, this blog. Something that will inspire me to travel and push me to refine my writing.
So that's that. Let's see where this takes us.
No, this blog is for writing. And traveling. Let's face it, this is hardly a new idea. The connection between The Road Trip and story telling is as infamous and unrealistic as the American Dream. Supposedly, the further one gets away from home, the better writer one becomes. It's even better if your parents can afford a plane ticket but you decide to hitchhike and dumpsterdive instead.
All kidding aside, I'd like to write more. I'd also like to travel more. So, as a way to push myself to do things that I love (but easily get distracted from) I've created a blog, this blog. Something that will inspire me to travel and push me to refine my writing.
So that's that. Let's see where this takes us.
How to Read This Blog
1. Read everything as fiction. There are no coincidences, tons of lies, lots of exaggerations, and (most importantly) my life is never this exciting.
2. Get distracted. Make connections with the reading, follow that thought, see where it takes you.
3. Post. Did you make a connection? Tell me and other readers about it. Isn't that why we do this, write blogs, tell stories? I've made the step to share, so please share with me!
4. Read Openly. Open your mind and your heart to this blog. If you feel your brow furrowing and your chest tightening- give it up, shut the window and go do something that you enjoy. Feel free to disagree with any ideas but if the mere reading of a blog gets you angry, then this isn't the place for you. Therefore...
5. No expectations. Please, just don't.
2. Get distracted. Make connections with the reading, follow that thought, see where it takes you.
3. Post. Did you make a connection? Tell me and other readers about it. Isn't that why we do this, write blogs, tell stories? I've made the step to share, so please share with me!
4. Read Openly. Open your mind and your heart to this blog. If you feel your brow furrowing and your chest tightening- give it up, shut the window and go do something that you enjoy. Feel free to disagree with any ideas but if the mere reading of a blog gets you angry, then this isn't the place for you. Therefore...
5. No expectations. Please, just don't.
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