Eyelids open to a white ceiling. Not completely white though. Places are gray and others slighly yellowed from water or age or something. A finger twitches. The pinky pinky finger, to be exact, twitches for a minute or so, as if some otherworldly force compelles that solitary finger to incessantly struggle against sleep. Eyelids and pinky fingers. The only external body parts moving. And the insides are moving slow.
What of waking thoughts? A tidal wave at low tide. Fireworks on a black night. A newly opened oven, stuffed with sweets, in a sterile kitchen. A chance meeting with a lost, loved, relative. Thoughts overwhelm like old emotions as pungent as inimitable baking goods. It's sensory overload of the mind.
Birds, small birds, chirp cheerily outside. Creation woke earlier and gently requests for company. The invitation is broad in scope. Nature isn't a picky host, all that's required is life, to simply be alive. A twitching finger, open eyelids, wonderous thoughts, and an all incompassing invitation. Tough to turn down.
Now if only I can get these blasted warm covers off.
Thursday, June 30, 2005
Monday, June 20, 2005
The Unprepared Visitor
"Last night I was about to throw it all away." Elliot Smith
I came by on a Friday night in high summer(1). Glowing clouds hid a ruddy semi-set sun, and as I entered through the front door, its rays cast a long shadow over my face. The halflight warmed my back, the only warmth likely for me that evening.
You sat on a worn, green couch with deep cushions. Soft light from the lamp on the antique oak endtable highlighted your face and hid the lower points of your satin contour. The lamp also revealed a table cluttered with glamour magazines, book review journals, and dirty dishes. A weak fragrance, pinesole, barely masked a distinct funk from the soiled carpets and half finished meals. It smelled like home.
She smiled when I entered. Not at all what I was expecting. I stopped just inside the door, lingering in the warmth of the sun and her quivering smile. She put down an old tome, yellow with age. She loved old books and ancient words, and behind the couch on the far wall sat a bookcase. Its shelves held volume after volume of leather bound books kept in excellent condition. The bookcase was clean, freshly dusted, seemingly in step with the occupants priorities.
The weathered book was placed upon the flowery green pattern of the cushion beside her hips. She stood up, and I started. What was happening? An unfaithful, disrespectful, disheveled dump of a man had crossed the only threshold his heart feared. I was petrified. Was her warmth but a show? Could I detected any stiffness in her gait or hardened anger in her gaze? Only my eyes fruitlessly moved, searching for the signs I so expected. My fear and her potential anger rooted my feet to the gritty fake wood of the entryway floor.
One step and two. Three steps then four.
And a tears began to stream from her eyes.
Five steps then six. A seventh and an eight.
She only came within five steps of me. The sun had set on that Friday night in high summer, and I bolted for the door. I leaped down the five steps of the wooden porch flight chipped by time. Never did I return her gazed which I'm sure followed me out the whitewashed gate and down a narrow street lit by harsh blue streetlamps. The prodigal husband had returned to have live, searing coals heaped upon his head.
-----------------------------------------
1. The first line taken with permission from Christopher Wood.
I came by on a Friday night in high summer(1). Glowing clouds hid a ruddy semi-set sun, and as I entered through the front door, its rays cast a long shadow over my face. The halflight warmed my back, the only warmth likely for me that evening.
You sat on a worn, green couch with deep cushions. Soft light from the lamp on the antique oak endtable highlighted your face and hid the lower points of your satin contour. The lamp also revealed a table cluttered with glamour magazines, book review journals, and dirty dishes. A weak fragrance, pinesole, barely masked a distinct funk from the soiled carpets and half finished meals. It smelled like home.
She smiled when I entered. Not at all what I was expecting. I stopped just inside the door, lingering in the warmth of the sun and her quivering smile. She put down an old tome, yellow with age. She loved old books and ancient words, and behind the couch on the far wall sat a bookcase. Its shelves held volume after volume of leather bound books kept in excellent condition. The bookcase was clean, freshly dusted, seemingly in step with the occupants priorities.
The weathered book was placed upon the flowery green pattern of the cushion beside her hips. She stood up, and I started. What was happening? An unfaithful, disrespectful, disheveled dump of a man had crossed the only threshold his heart feared. I was petrified. Was her warmth but a show? Could I detected any stiffness in her gait or hardened anger in her gaze? Only my eyes fruitlessly moved, searching for the signs I so expected. My fear and her potential anger rooted my feet to the gritty fake wood of the entryway floor.
One step and two. Three steps then four.
And a tears began to stream from her eyes.
Five steps then six. A seventh and an eight.
She only came within five steps of me. The sun had set on that Friday night in high summer, and I bolted for the door. I leaped down the five steps of the wooden porch flight chipped by time. Never did I return her gazed which I'm sure followed me out the whitewashed gate and down a narrow street lit by harsh blue streetlamps. The prodigal husband had returned to have live, searing coals heaped upon his head.
-----------------------------------------
1. The first line taken with permission from Christopher Wood.
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