Just for Laughs

So, I’ve been told by a good friend (Anna) that my blogging is often abstract, a bit serious, why not write of amusing things? For this posting, I’ll hopefully do just that.

 

Several weeks ago, late on a Saturday evening, I’m standing outside the Jasper with the security guard catching up on each others’ week. An old white gent, likely seventy or more, wearing a pressed white blazer and snazzy zoot zoot shoes walks up to ask her a favor. “I’ve been waiting for a friend to come by. If you wouldn’t mind, please let her in when she comes. She’s a social worker wanting to discuss a case. I used to be a doctor you know; so, she wants my advice. Sara is a nice, black woman and she’ll be here to see me, please let her in and tell her my apartment number when she comes.” As he walks away, I’m head down laughing, and as he rounded the corner to the doors, she joins me. I say, “I don’t think a social worker is visiting at 9 PM at night. A different kind of worker is coming for him.” She nods and says, “I just may have believed him if he hadn’t told me she was a nurse a few hours ago!”  

 

At work, we’re required to run background checks on all applicants. One came back with a cocaine possession charge and when the sales manager was informed this he had quite an intriguing response. “Why do all of you act like he’s a hardcore criminal? Seriously, who hasn’t done a little coke in their life?” All of us in the office just look at him with a sideways glance, and I nonchalantly say, “Ugh, I’ve never even tried pot…” and then another sales manager chimes in, “Yeah, well ya know ‘Greg’ who hasn’t done a little meth either?” And we all just start laughing, the manager suddenly has that ‘I’ve said too much face’ and speeds out of the office.

 

Lately, I’ve taken on a sweet not sour approach at work. Since people seem incapable of doing their jobs correctly, I write saccharine saturated e-mails asking them to please do something and that I understand all that is put on them and appreciate what they are able to do, blah blah, bullshit bullshit. One boss said she could tell I tried really hard to be nice to the people I directed the e-mail to and smiled knowing I meant none of it. “Yeah, well, I finally figured out something about all the men here. Nothing gets done right if you don’t give them a hypothetical nut tickle. They don’t feel big boy without it and I don’t have time to for their crap.”

1-800-Don’t Call Me

My phone rings, an unknown number, I refrain from answering. An unrecognized number will always receive this response. If it’s important, then surely a voicemail will be left. But ‘unknown’ that’s quite rare. I can’t call back; I have no way of knowing who let alone why. This call comes again the next night, around the same time, again I miss the call. Now my mind stirs. Is it someone from my past? My abroad friend wondering why the hell I’m not picking up the phone? Some freak that calls to hear my voice for a 30 second message and is doing who knows what on the other line? 

Well, sadly nothing that interesting. I pick up the third evening. “Hello, this is ‘a name I will never remember because that involves caring’. I’m with the Edward Group wanting to do a survey of adults ages 18-30 about how they feel about certain groups. You’ll receive ten dollars for participating…” she doesn’t even take a breath, “Are you 18? Good. How do you feel about the IRS? Would you say strongly bad, bad, good, strongly…” I stop her, “Excuse me, I don’t want to be a part of this survey.” 

This is merely a speed bump. “You’ll get ten dollars.” I don’t care. “It will only take a few minutes of your time.” Doubtful, this has already taken a few. “But you’ll get ten dollars.” I’m getting ready to leave for work. “Then when would be a better time to contact you?” I’m irked at this point, and just say, “Never. Because I don’t want to be a part of your survey.” Well have a goodnight, click. Really?! Not to mention I’m receiving a telemarketing call at almost 9 P.M., but then the person is rude, obnoxious, and won’t take no for an answer. 

Lately, I’ve had a few telemarketing experiences that are proving to foster nothing but disdain for these people. I used to be a bit empathetical since I’ve had friends who have had similar jobs. It’s not easy calling person after person, likely getting cut off, hung up on, or cursed out; so, I usually let them finish their first portion of their script before saying I’m not interested, please take me off the list. I used to just lie and say I was seventeen because whether I’m lying or not, once I’ve made that statement, they have to end the call. But the tone of voice, the snideness in it, just makes me want to be so nasty right back. 

In May, I was practically being phone stalked by Rooms To Go. I didn’t recognize the number, called it back, and their hotline picked up. I assumed perhaps they were calling to inquire about my satisfaction with the furniture. Missed several more calls from then that week. Then I started getting called almost daily, sometimes two or three times, which made me think perhaps this was a call of importance, maybe a warranty or recall issue. I picked up on a Sunday evening. It was merely about purchasing an extended warranty on the furniture. “I’m sorry, I’m not interested.” “Why not?” I’m thinking why do I need to justify not wanting something? “Because I’m just not. No need for it.” “Yes, but this is a good offer. Why wouldn’t you want it?” “Because I just don’t!” Then I hang up. But the calls don’t stop. Several days later, the number starts popping up a couple of times a day again. I finally answer, just ready to unleash. But it’s a different woman, much friendlier, and she’s speaking quick to get the script out. I calmly explain that I received this call last week, and that I am not interested at this time. Please remove me from the calling list. She doesn’t ask anymore questions, just says thank you and hang ups. If only they could all be that easy.

But the worst came over a year ago. An acquaintance from high school had called asking if I’d be interested in joining a job thing he was pursuing that sounded similar to an Amway. I hate any job that involves solicitation. It’s not in my nature. Either someone wants something or s/he doesn’t. With that philosophy, I know I’d be horrible in sales. I let him explain the entire program, which sounded sort of like a pyramid scheme, and declined. Then several weeks later I get a call from the woman above him trying to repeat the same spiel as if maybe he did an insufficient job, there was some misunderstanding, and by her restating the same exact thing, I’d change my mind. I told her I didn’t have any extra time to pursue another career between a full time accounting job and freelance photography, which is where I felt my focus needed to be. “So, basically, you’re telling me you’re not interested in making extra thousands of dollars a year?” Again, it’s really the tone in voice that riles me the most, and I just said, “I guess so because I make plenty of money now and don’t need your stupid job.” Silence. A quick goodbye. Click. And in my mind, I’m saying much more unpleasant words.  

So, as of now, my patience is dissipated for telemarketers. For the one that called past a decent hour, for the ones that have no respect in the way they speak to people, and for using rude tactics when trying to persuade me to not say no. Don’t call me because in the future, I will be nothing but blunt, direct, and firm as can be, and when that initial no doesn’t shut them up, then I will.

Excerpts from Eden Prairie

Going against my paranoia of putting creative ideas in public domain, I’ve decided to put several excerpts from Eden Prairie, chosen a bit haphazardly late this night. 

Note: The following words are the property and copyright of Priscilla Thomas. And if I find anyone that ever plagiarizes these words, may whatever god you believe in help protect you from me. That’s not a threat, that’s a fact. 

Chapter II

When Ruth was younger, she sort of came upon the Forgotten Eden. From the outside, it don’t look like nothing more than an oversized shack. Some of the planks are rotting, others crooked out, all being held together by rust sick nails. The Forgotten Eden was built on the edge of town; it’s the first thing seen walking in and the last thing out as people leave. But most pass it because it don’t look like a warm place, a welcome house. And most in town consider it unholy. 

“Forgotten Eden is marked like Cain,” Ruth said, “Almost no man will deal with it, but they can’t help but be drawn to a cursed thing. You always wonder about its story, about a mark that can’t be hidden. And there’s a lot of cursed souls in a place like this. All a bunch of Cains tellin’ their story.” 

 

“I’m not sure I get what you’re saying, Ruth” I paused to take a drink from my cider, “But I just know I feel pain in a place like this. It aches just as bad as a bruise.”

Ruth smirked, and took into her cigarette, letting the smoke blow out slowly from her nose. “Jessie, one day you’ll come to know that everyone is Cain, just some come to realize it, and others just rather deny what they really are.” 

Chapter IV

There was no guitar or drum, so Ruth just started humming real soft with her eyes closed. And it seemed that all them men and women put down their glasses just to hear. 

Paradise got lost along the way

A forgotten dream like miner’s gold

It’s morning in Eden

But God is asleep

And I wish I could sleep

But I can’t go home

To a Mama that says I lie

To a preacher man that gone and made me cry

Pretty blue eyed girl he told me once

And I thought him kind

But I became a prophecy gone wrong

Fallen off Jacob’s ladder

Heaven lost forever 

Preacher man tore my wings

Now I just a bird that can’t fly

No longer the glint in the spirit’s eye

Yes, preacher man did me in 

With that nasty little smile

And a hand of sin

So I can’t go home

And I can’t go back

But I miss the fire in my soul

Before God slept in Eden

And left me on my own 

 

Chapter V

But none of that struck me so much as the music did. That thing called Blues was something different. The sound seemed like it came from the belly, a deep moan that just sang so loud and long, weaving through the air, and it just had the power of the soul. And that seemed its meaning, to rise up from the spirit to speak. It was something the people in this place could understand. And though its words was about pain, it somehow made me feel down but comforted. It healed because it made me come to see my pain and know my hurt, and it didn’t promise nothing past that. Didn’t give me no heaven, no promise of peace, but it made me think about my sick soul and I had to do the rest myself. And to me, the Blues might as well be God talking to me, telling me it knows my pain, lets me feel it, and lets me go mending how I see fit. 

I felt a gentle tap on my shoulder, and I knew I must have been lost in my mind again because I wasn’t paying any mind to anything around me. Rabbit stood pale and wet. Those eyes dark as coal seemed to shiver. Reaching up, I grabbed his face with my hands, and he felt cold. I rushed up, and took him to the back room where no one could see us. I sat him down on a wooden box, tucked back his wet hair cause it was sticking to his face. Taking his hands, I started blowing into them to warm them. He was shaking bad, and even his clothes were soaked. 

“I know you won’t like it,” I said looking him dead in the eye, “But you have to take your clothes off.” 

He jerked his hands back and shook his head.

“Oh don’t be so damn modest,” I said, “You want to just freeze? Ain’t no one gonna see you.” 

Rabbit just sat there shaking, not doing a thing, so I started unbuttoning his shirt. His body tensed up so tight, but I couldn’t stand to let him be going on cold. By the end of it, I left only his under britches on. I ran back into the main room to grab my coat and put it over Rabbit like a blanket. He’d finally stopped shivering. I asked him what had happened, and he actually tried talking. But nothing came out that I could understand, a bunch of sounds bunched together, and then the pained look on his face when he couldn’t get it out. Almost like he forgot he couldn’t talk. He just closed his eyes tight, bunching up his brow, and then he started to cry. I wanted so bad for him to tell me, but I knew he just couldn’t. All I knew to do was just stand there and hold him. And before I knew it, I couldn’t help but cry too. There we were in that back room, him in nothing but white shorts and my worn plaid jacket, holding each other and crying crazy mad. Neither of us could say why. His tongue was not right and my spirit was no better. So, I guess the crying was all we could do in a moment like that. 

I couldn’t think a darn thing, I just could feel it all. And that Blues was reaching for me in that back room, calling my spirit, but I didn’t want no pain. That melody deep and low like a knocking on the door. Leave me be, that music, it knowing me too well. And I sobbed into Rabbit’s hair, holding him closer. Took all I had not to scream for no good reason. But that music was climbing deep into me, it just wouldn’t let go. It swam in my blood, became my bones, and my heart was beating with those plucked strings. Blues had me good, and my eyes were aching from the crying. But I couldn’t quit those tears, and Rabbit cried into my shoulder. And in my mind I was yelling let it be, let me be, let it be…please, God let me be.

 

Chapter VI

I didn’t want anyone to wake, so I left the lights off. Bringing a chair to the kitchen window, the moon was shining down bright that night; so, I could read with just a bit of squinting. Right before I turned that first page, I was still debating to read it or not. This was Rabbit’s thoughts, but I just wanted so bad to know Rabbit. My curious mind won out, and I turned the cover slowly as if someone may hear the pages move and find me out.

His scribble was hard to read, like he slanted his hand while he wrote. On the inside of the cover was a sketch of a girl walking on creek rocks. It took me a bit to notice the wild hair, and I knew it was me. My arms were in the air almost like an L, on the tips of my toes walking across the creek. It was a pretty little sketching. I could better know his drawings than his words though.

 

Eve defied. Madam cursed by Adam. No serpent in Eden except Eli I’le. 

That first line alone seemed like nothing I’ve ever read before. And that’s all there was on the first page. If this is how Rabbit thought all the time, a working tongue wouldn’t do him much good anyway. 

 

A republic lost. Land lay in soil. Wrapped in the grasp of a snake’s coil. 

Eden forgotten like the left hand, evil a live, evil a live.

How easily Lucifer descends upon man,

Another pawn in the lions’ den.

 

Chapter X

“This is how He works,” his voice quaking, “I can heal, but my body reacts. I ain’t goin’ to make you sickly child. I just take in the poison of the unclean myself, but God lets it pass.”

I just kept thinkin’ about how nice Preacher Man looked, and how he looked covered with fat boils on his body. Eli ain’t no healer; he is. And Eli gone and needed somethin’ to make him look like a magic man. But he couldn’t do it alone. Preacher Man still on the floor cryin himself out of his mind. I can’t stand to see a being in pain. Hurts me bad when I can’t do nothin’ but watch. But I figure I ain’t got the power to heal a healer, but I can help him hurt less. So I find strips of white cloth and grab a basin of cool water and the holy oil Eli uses on occasion. And though he tried to push me away again once I settled on the floor, I just grabbed his hands firm like a man would and tugged them down. Not so much as lookin’ Preacher Man in the eye, I start dipping his hands in the water to help that fire in his fingers. And those boils feel almost like paper wax, like one tough touch and they’ll be busted open and sore. So, I keep gentle as can be, and once his hands feel a bit cooler, I take the holy oil and pour a small bit in my hand. Slowly rubbin’ it into his hands so that the oil coats the skin well, protecting it from the air. His hands gone cool just like I hoped, and in all that oil, they became shiny. Then I took the strips of cloth and started wrapping them around his hands till it looked like he was wearing a leper’s gloves. All the while he ain’t said a word to me. Just kept looking into my face, but I kept my eyes on his hands. And it wasn’t till I was done that I finally looked Preacher Man in the face. Though some bumps had come up, they wasn’t red hot or large like the ones on his hands. Just looked like he had some blemishes creepin’ up on his face. 

And it strange how you may see a person, but don’t see a person. All that while I’d seen Preacher Man and his city boy suit, and looks as nice as an actor in the picture shows. But his eyes didn’t match none of that. They seemed like an old man’s eyes lookin’ back at me. Something in them that ring more true that I had first thought. Preacher Man may put on a revival show, come as a God lovin’ entertainer, but he believe strong in what he does. So much so that the Lord let him heal. But that healin’ brings him pain, brings boils on his hands that heal, but that don’t stop him none. Preacher Man still came down to help little girl. He still hadn’t said a word to me, and I thought it funny for two people just to be staring at each other so long.

“I’m Jessie.”

“I know,” he said.

“Well that’s good and all, but I don’t know you from a hare.” 

He almost smiled, “Malachi Jefferson.”

“I know,” I whispered, “But for some reason, I just call you Preacher Man.” 

In the Hour

At night, my brain just releases a multitude of thoughts. Ideas that just flood out like a deluge, just as sporadic in theme and coherence as rushing waters. It makes falling asleep a restless affair.

In the past hour…these have been my thoughts, actions, rests…

- Holiday adventure with Anna. Beginning plans for a spring trip to…haven’t gotten that far yet. But I’ve asked that it be narrowed down to France, Morocco, or Egypt. Paris may be the most cost effective at the moment, but I find Europe so subdued to me.

- How to acquire money for this trip. I’m realizing I’m not so good with finances anymore, and debt from college doesn’t seem to be diminishing like I’d hoped. So, I need to start living as if I have nothing. Basically, I’ll be eating a lot of yogurt and fried egg sandwiches in the near future. Unless photography starts bringing in more paying gigs, but those are sporadic and usually not scheduled far in advance. I get the “we decided to get married in three weeks and need a photographer” stuff since I’m still in process of establishing myself in the photography business.

- What can I sell? My new laptop is coming this week (it’s a gift, no I didn’t spend more money just after complaining about not having any and trust, it makes up for a handful of pretty bad Christmases). My desktop. My total gym (that obviously doesn’t get use). Mini fridge that I didn’t ask for but appeared in my bedroom one day. Old cameras that will get pennies since tech stuff depreciates at a rate worse than cars. Old laptop is nearing 6yrs old…just going to mail that to my sister and brother-in-law to have. A leather couch with chihuahua teething remnants on the armrests. What sucks about still being a relatively recent college grad is that I was poor then, and still poor now, and the stuff I have still isn’t worth crap. Hmm…my tv…could sell the tv.

- Reading. I’ve neglected this so much lately. I keep abreast with news through several internet sites, but as for books, fresh crisp pages, virgin to being thumbed through, this I miss. I need to designate one evening for reading only. No tele, no editing, no internet use…just me snuggled in bed with a good book. Mondays sound good, just not this Monday, ha.

- I’ve been tossing around the idea of starting a short story within my blog. I’m still hesitant about putting creative ideas/writings in public domain, but this would strictly be for the blog and hopefully not the best thing to ever be written by this mind.

-Work…bleh.

-Sleep…should probably do that soon since I’m waking up at 5am.

-Pancake. Poor Pancake.

-He’s a carpenter? Oh, well, Jesus was a carpenter; so, I guess it’s okay.

-Editing…over 500 images to still edit…I loathe editing.

-Read Postsecret and several friends blogs. Wrote several e-mails.

-I should blog. But about what? I have too many ideas and they sound like trivial dribble. India? I can never decide what to write next of India. Hey, I’ll write about my scattered jumbled brain that wants me to be sleep deprived tomorrow for work.

-Work…bleh.

These are the thoughts of this past hour. This is how my brain works at night. Quite tiring, but how the mind won’t let me rest most nights. It awakens when the body needs to go coma. What a sadist my mind is, the torturous master to my being.

Lovely Surprises

Sometimes it is the smallest, perhaps simplest of effort, gestures that touch me the most. Especially the ones I never see coming.

A friend of mine is on holiday in Egypt (and he had a fortunate prolonged delay in Paris to explore its wondrous beauty). He mentioned sending a postcard, but I never expect people to remember such little things when trekking across the world. My friend Anna sent me postcards from almost every port when she did semester at sea, but the funny part was I only received several in the end. I still have just those few that survived the daunting journey by land, sea or sky to find my mail box. Anyway, I had forgotten all about this with my trip to Houston, getting ready for RAW, and a photography contest, oh and work of course as well since we had auditors the past two weeks (our own corporation auditors, it helps keep their accounting offices on point).

Friday afternoon after sitting in work traffic, I find on my bed a postcard from Egypt, stamp of Cairo and all! He told me in tiny barely legible scribble about his journey to St Catherine Cathedral, to Mt. Sinai. I can’t wait for the intricate details left out of the summation written when he returns. The front of the postcard is of an icon, “Ladder to Heaven.” Dozens of people (all men of course) are walking the rungs of the ladder to heaven, at the top is Jesus, palm out, waiting to welcome his followers, another outstretched hand by a less defined male figure. At the top left are angels dressed in pallid blue robes looking down upon the humans. But what amused me most, enticed the eyes, was not everyone made it to the top. Several men are falling, being plucked like rotten cores by dark figures with wings, demons perhaps, militant angels. Roping them like bulls for kill, and dragging them off the rungs. Stunning. And more so that no untouched man was trying to help, to grab an ankle, a robe, trying to save their fallen brothers. All eyes upon above, the brightened light, on the savior’s haloed presence. Then turning the postcard over, the first thing I notice in medium sized, bold lettering, “Best Wishes.” Oh, I laughed. A perfect choice, splendid gift.

Then this morning, I awake, grab my laptop from beside my bed. Skim news, Facebook updates (but no one really is awake yet, sleeping, hungover, all to be expected), read several blogs of friends, which leads me to a link to an upcoming show. And I search for her. Wondering what has become of her, this unnamed woman on canvas. He never told me her name, but surely, now she must have one. I click on that face I know so well, seeing what she has been christened, and I am utterly surprised. I didn’t know. He never said. I never asked again either. And I don’t think I believed it for several moments. I wonder what compelled him. But nonetheless, I was greatly moved, touched. She is so beautiful to me, the woman on canvas, I hope whoever is fortunate enough to have her will cherish her the way I did in seeing her path to existence. Priscilla Cuts Ties…and those three words strike me to the core more than anyone could realize. And I’ve been left smiling the rest of the day.

Thank you.

Incoherent Thoughts

A small collection of the randomness within this mind these past days…

I have the urge to stand outside an abortion clinic with a sign that says “No matter the choice made, you deserve to be loved” In my imagination, I picture a sudden focus on me. Protesters suddenly distracted. And no matter their antagonizing words, I am but silent. My sign says it all. Even for the ones that project hate and divide, that find the only way to pursue a cause is to make others feel shame, guilt, label them as god did Cain, but they are not god, why don’t they see that? Yes, they too, even in the midst of their insidious plight, deserve to be loved.

Leaping across the rooftops of Dharamsala. A morning fog cascading down the Himalayas. If I could but reach high enough to touch.

The faces of the men I have loved and left, or been deserted by. The realization that this loneliness in my heart is growing. My sense of being loved faltering. A sense of community an illusion. I am but one that stands in isolation. To go unseen, unnoticed. To take an opposing side no matter the topic. Just to shake minds. This place of neutral is such an abandoned land. Extremists about me.

No man will ever love me as I am. I will never take his name. May never bear his child, I have yet to decide. I can stand alone. If I take him by the hand, walk a path beside him, it is not because I need him, but because I decided I wanted him. So many men don’t understand this. A couple of years ago, I decided to fill out an E-harmony survey, yes, laugh, and the results were no one. No man in their database matched my answers enough. I have quietly felt this to be of more truth than a computerized system could realize. If I accept this now, then what worries will be upon this heart and mind in the year’s to come?

My eyes are hurting too much. They ache. I’m squinting more often. The astigmatism has been coming quicker through my lens. The images blur within my eye, and I can only but trust that the spinning of the automatic focus is holding true.

I want to chop off my hair. I keep saying one day I’ll dye it purple, a rich deep hue, plum violet mix.

I haven’t dreamed much as of late. Where have the dreams gone? They reveal more of me than even I know.

After shopping for several hours and only having two small bags to show for it, I thought any man that sees a woman walking out of a mall with this amount of stuff should think, “I could marry a gal like that.” It made me laugh.

This time next year, I wish to not be on Charleston soil. I need to know. Two more months. My answer will be given.

So much less trivial thoughts. But I can’t speak of them in this place. Too taboo, too personal, too much cowardice. But I want to, I need to, my tongue rambles the words I want to type even now, but my fingers have learned to not listen. They protect me. From what, I do not know. But it is this silence of the taboo that impedes me most. My silence no better than an advocate thinking only one avenue, one right way, is the only way to bring change. My silence is true cowardice. When will the time come?

Pintura

A tabula rasa born. Blank slate on cream colored canvas. It waits for its life to unfold, woven by the brush strokes of a man. Lines, smooth curves, deep hues, an underbelly whose remnants may be unknown at fruition. And so it begins…

A focused eye, a steady hand, a mind I don’t doubt keeps much unsaid. How he sees the world, a perception that teeters on youthful imagination and nostalgia. And the hint of make believe is wondrous, prompting pause to linear conditioned minds. How do we not see the world like he? Wonderlust. A sincere longing in the dot of an eye that permeates down to the hue.

The journey of his hand isn’t always known. He marks the canvas, reads the strokes, begins to see. And with each laying down of color, he reads, until the curves reveal a shape, an idea, a path to take. Soon a skewed outline of face appears, long strokes down to the torso, arms outstretched, but holding to what? Her hands puzzling, purpose unknown, and this is the obstacle that almost brought her end. But with a slip of thumbs, she is found and embraced.

I ask him how he sees this reality, what in this world inspires the paintings. A simple answer: Everything. I almost think him unaware of the imaginative filter innate in him. And what manifests before us is nothing I’ve seen of this world, but surely he found her in someone.

“My parents thought I was deaf.” And this comment makes me smirk. A boy lost in imagination, art, creating, and even now as a man, this part of him seems unchanged.

Several days. Twenty hours. Early evenings or late nights that somehow find early morning. Us in a small studio apartment. He paints. I photograph. We talk. We are silent.

This is his marriage, he tells me. Everyday, he comes home to his colored oils and canvases. This is his eternal commitment. And what does it feel to go too long without painting? Withdrawal. Something within goes a bit stir crazy. But is assuaged, kept at bay, with a sketchbook that remains on his person. And on long trips home, he finds another set of paints and brushes waiting. I find this to be at the core of an artist. The struggle. To refuse the call, the longing to create, is painful. But trust that there is great pain, frustration, angst, questioning, vulnerability, even insecurity entailed in an artist’s journey. A double edged sword bearing no promises.

And this woman of no name before him…so unsure of her was he. At moments of pause, he’d lean back in his chair or walk to the kitchen and stare from afar. His painter’s apron splattered in blues, yellows, reds, and greens. Pondering. What did he see?

He chanced her life, the outcome of the piece. First with a color of background he had never stroked. Originally, he was inclined towards a more sedated palette, and I silently hoped for a layering of burnt reddish hues. But the shade of pallid blue, a softness, such subtle beauty, was more befitting than either of us imagined. This left the purpose of her legs, the waterfall around her. Again he thought, wondered if another risk should be taken, a technique he hadn’t yet tried. It could ruin her, take much time to cover and repair. But wasn’t this what she was for? She seemed a muse designed by his hand. And so he pursued unchartered methods, to reveal beneath the waters. Delicate detail, an attentive eye to the curves of water, painting depth into a flat canvas. With it, she was complete.

La Vida De Una Pintura…

Disjointed

I lay in bed, too many thoughts to decipher, the brain a buzz, a hum, where to begin?

Hand upon heart, it  beats, pumps, the pressure of veins pushing blood, it soothes. Head back, eyes closed, I listen. And it beats. The rain on the window. The temples on my face. Blood in a hurry. And the train screams in the distance, a howl that echoes as it flees. No time to savor in this place, everything has somewhere to be.

…everything has somewhere to be…

Introspection

Ruminations.

I am lost inside my mind. Like a child, curious and wandering, my thoughts are wild, disjointed, unfocused.

In grade school, I asked for a typewriter. What child asks to be given a typewriter? But I wanted it, craved it, and I punched the keys on mint green paper, letters pounding, weaving their own trail. Words, my first love.

Even so young, I had already begun constructing the reality of my mind. The complex nexus, scenarios, plots. My mind is vulgar, creative, passionate, thoughtful, lust hungry, so much of the impure in this place. Makes me smile silently in the midst of people. How I wish they could read this mind.

But I fear being found. Letting someone in, so close to see the flawed within me. It’s as if I would be letting them trespass against my soul.

The Art of Touch

I enjoy the wind. It’s a lust filled element. Forever lonely, eternally needing solace in all it touches. And how she dances. Formless. Unable to be tamed. I admire it so.

Downtown on cobblestone streets, I walk, and on occasion turn my palms out, feeling wind, being touched. Sometimes I long for a hand to hold. To feel fingertips slide down, skin-to-skin, a connection in small action.

Reach for me, I’m asking, reach for me…