There Comes An Age When Certain Things Are Inappropriate

It all started when she was a little girl. Shes not entirely sure who she learned it from - if anyone - or if she figured it out on her own. She's not even entirely sure at what age the whole thing started, but if she had to guess, it would be around the age of four. Maybe five. What she does know is that it helps her.

Back then, it helped her fall asleep when outside forces seemed intent upon keeping her from meeting slumber. Sometimes, it was the looming threat of a monster, waiting for the opportune moment to strike. Sometimes it was the neighbor's cat, constantly wailing some high-pitched lament that could only be understood by other feline creatures. Sometimes, and more often than not, it was the elevated voices of her parents, always trying to outdo the other. Insults that she couldn't quite understand (her mind was still untainted, you see) hurdled on the sound waves of her father's voice. Scoffs of disbelief or insults she understood a little better (but not in relation to her father) came shooting back from her mother's mouth. Hours would go by. Hours that she was supposed to be asleep (they didn't tuck her in or read her bedtime stories anymore). Didn't they realize that their arguing was certainly not conducive to a little girl's beauty sleep?

But that's when it all started. Somehow, her small, plump thumb had found its way into her tiny mouth. Suddenly, she felt comfort. Let those silly adults yell all they want. Let the monsters under her bed and in her closet attack some other child. She wasn't scared anymore. Sleeping was suddenly within an arm's - or in this case, a thumb's - reach.

But most kids outgrow this habit. Moat kids become teenagers who develop defense mechanisms (like apathy) when mom and dad are fighting - again. Not her. She was too naive (or perhaps too trusting, or perhaps too simplistic) to create for herself a hardened, jaded shell. She kept her proverbial security blanket wrapped up in her thumb.

This makes it difficult for her in her day-to-day life. After her sister's fatal car crash on a local highway (she was sneaking out one night to see her boyfriend that no one approved of), she finds her blood pressure and heart beat spike when she's forced to take one of these deathtrap roads. "Killer speedways" she calls them.

Her finger - not as small as it has once been - again finds its way to her not-so-tiny mouth (crusted with the $0.99 lipstick she received as a gift) until it slides inside, soothed by the feeling of her wriggling tongue against the fleshy pad of her finger.

She forgets that other people can see her as she does this. But she doesn't care. She's already running late, and there's so much work to get done.

John Lennon Got It Right - Life Happens When You're Busy Making Other Plans

she wonders how

she got here.

only a child

for a fleeting(ever so

fleet

ing)moment

until she awoke one

morning and found that

she had been deceived(she was

no longer the innocent

babe

of yesteryear;

her hands were gnarled

and her skin like a

cartographer's creation;

she had never

agreed

to this metamorphosis).

I Wonder if This is What Michaelangelo Thought As He Painted the Sistine Chapel

I am in the business of creation.

I create visuals using magazines, ink, glue, and sometimes words. I create alternate universes with the stroke of a brush. I create the remnants of a memory - now faded and most likely different from the reality that once existed - with the entertaining viscosity of rubber cement and a few newspaper clippings.

I create feelings that you've never felt before. I create feelings that you buried deep inside when you were small. I create moments of confusion in how I place objects around a blank canvas (I'll give you a hint: most of the time, it's haphazard. I've never been one for planning). I create disgust with the still-sticky spray adhesive that seeped out from underneath a photo that you accidentally get on your finger as you brush it against the canvas (you really shouldn't touch).

I create fantasy worlds with the vocabulary I've learned over time. Colors become fruit and black becomes green. Still, somehow, things seem to make sense - in one way or another. It is the only place in which the non-sensical can be logical. In fact, when things are too straight-forward, you complicate things with what must be hidden symbolism or a cleverly disguised metaphor.

I create a representation of myself, naked and exposed, for all of your eyes to penetrate. You see through me. You rip me apart and take pieces as your own. You criticize every inch of my goosebumped skin, telling me how I can be different and how I should be changed. This figurative body is not to your liking, and you demand that I should act accordingly.

Until I am no longer in the business of creation.

I am in the business of conformity.

All of These Unknowns Really Clutter the Mind

I don't know how long we laid there. It could have been minutes. It could have been hours. And if logic didn't tell me otherwise, I would have even thought it days. I don't remember much about it, except that the sky was an odd hue. One that only came around once in a lifetime, if that. And I remember wondering why more people weren't mesmerized by the concoction of melon, mango, plum, bubblegum, and cherry that blazed overhead.

There was a dialogue between us; I remember that, too. We talked about the future. We talked about the past. We talked about every, minute detail that could have been born into our brains. We weren't looking for answers. We were only looking to talk.

"What about tomorrow?" he whispered, as though the slightest rise in decibel level would spoil our ill-contrived hideout.

"What about it?" I asked, my words slurring with a combination of contentment and approaching sleep.

"Will we be together?" My eyes fluttered open for a moment, turning towards him as the crickets begged for an answer. I wanted to ask what he meant. I wanted to ask why he had to doubt it. I wanted to ask if he even wanted us to be together, but I couldn't force an ounce of sound from my throat. The quiet existed there, between us and between the world before he caught onto my plight. "It's a weird sky out tonight, isn't it?"

My brows furrowed at his changing of topics. I knew he could see my disturbance out of the corner of his eye, but he wouldn't turn to me. He wouldn't look at me.

"Yeah," I mumbled as I gazed back up at the celestial fire. "Yeah, it's weird."

I don't know how long we laid there in silence. My mind couldn't even focus on the bleeding colors, brightened by the sun's impending slumber. All I could think about was his question and the tranquility of his voice as he asked it. Immediately, I began to worry, thinking that perhaps it was his subtle way of telling me that he already had big plans for his tomorrows and that I wasn't a part of them.

Ten minutes.

Twenty minutes.

Thirty minutes crept by, and I was still obsessing, until I felt movement against my tingling fingers (they were tingling with the adrenaline coursing through my body). I couldn't quite figure out what the sensation was for a few seconds before I realized he was holding my hand and squeezing, ever so slightly.

In that instant, I realized. I understood. I had all of the affirmation I could have wanted.

Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow were going to come, whether we wanted them to or not. And when those tomorrows came, the only person I could imagine them with

was him.

Falling Into a Bottomless Pit Means You'll Be Falling For a While

it reaches new depths.

depths i've never felt(and,

perhaps,

never knew

existed).

how much further can it

go?

how much more could

i possibly weep

(with joy)

at the mere thought

of you?

yours, yours

to keep,

always, always,

i'll be.

and when i think it

defying logic

and defying physics

or some other scientific

construct,

it happens again

and i fall further,

knowing full well that

i will never be able

to recover,

and the only light

i will be able to tolerate

and stomach

will be the bathing

illumination

calling to me

from

your eyes.

My Greatest Wish For You

oh, my beautiful love,

show me the radiance(i

know it exists)that

once shone

in your eyes.

serenade me(the

most dulcet melody

i will have

ever

heard)with

your laughter.

steal my breath

with the grace of

your smile(my god,

it has me on my

knees).

to know of your happiness

is to know of my own

and

to know of the world's,

for that's what you are to me,

sweet darling,

and i can ask

for no more.

Not Just a Haunting in Connecticut

& no matter how i try,

something always ling(haunting haunting)ers.

ghosts are prevalent in this

ivory-and-entrails cage:

the faint wailing of

memories long

long

suppr(in order to

survive)essed;

the fading sobs of

who she used

to be(she can

never

go back);

the rushed

and worried

breathing of

who she will come

to be(unknown);

the shattering echos

of a heart once

untouched(once

pristine),

now disfigured;

these unsettled and wandering

spirits are plentiful.

constantly swirling

and constantly fighting,

grappling over who will be

victorious.

there is no calm

to be found

here.

only resigned

acceptance.

The Embrace

follicle flames
cas
ca
ding
down wool and flesh,
tickle the roots,
tickle that external(thick but not impenetrable)epidermis;
but there is no laughter here.
there are no sounds
fated to spread joy
as the(non-existent)waves crash upon
your oratory drum.

but what creates this
hang
ing
stagnation?

perhaps a rough breakage of
of epidermal layers(now lost)as
his footing deceived him
and unwillingly proved
grav
ity;

or perhaps the
un(is it ever accepted?)timely passing
of his childhood memories,
now
laid in the ground with his
once oldest(and dearest)friend;

further still,
perhaps it is the overwhelming(it
bubbles
and froths
and downright oozes)vulnerability
that he has tried to escape
yet strangely enjoys
from this auburn-locked form,
her body encompassing him as
her heart encompasses him;

or, perhaps it is the realization
that his pride in autonomy
has all but crumbled at the simple fact
that
he can no longer be alone
and he can no longer go back
and he can no longer be who he was
because he has let himself fall
and he has let himself feel
and he has let himself know,

but the damnedest thing of it all
is not that she knows him
and it is not that she understands him
and it is not that he allowed all of this to happen,

but it's the fact that he's still alive
and the fact that she revived him
and the fact that she saved him
and, to his
greatest
surprise,

when he thought
himself
dead,

he has fallen
in
love.

Based on the above painting by Edvard Munch, more commonly known for "Scream."

The Conversation (Part 2)

"friend," he repeated,

his smile never fading.

seemingly satisfied, he continued,

"i know you have questions,

and i know there is pain.

there are no boundaries here,

and you cannot say anything i have yet to hear

or have yet to know."

here was my chance,

to ask the most difficult questions(most

of which began with the ever

d a u n t

ing

word "why").

but the silence hung between us,

stagnant like water

after a

flood.

"do not try so hard," he encouraged,

"ask what you need to ask."

i cleared my throat and shifted my weight

and readied myself for the Q&A

barbara walters(what a minx)would never

even have.

"whyistherepain?" i managed to mutter,

my words slurring like a drunken lush.

"would you know of happiness if there was

nothing

against which to compare it?" he asked.

a rise and fall of my shoulder(pathetic,

truly). "you cannot live a sheltered life.

you will have only existed,

and will never have lived."

his eyes softened as they peered into

my ethereal reality(now

pulsing with light

that matched my

heart

beat).

almost as though in time

with my body's blood-metronome, he

spoke:

"next question."

In This Case, Wandering Equates Lost

the concept of "what if" is

often(too commonly)explored.

it creates for the wonderer

a world of possibility,

most of which

cannot be obtained

and will

never

be obtained,

thus resulting in the complete

lo(disappearing act)ss of said

wonderer to these

hypothetical

imaginary

fantastical

make-believe

situations.

yet i find myself to be a wonderer

from time to time,

despite all attempts at grip(vice)ping

my focus like the hand of a small child.

the thought of never having him

knowing him

(most of all)loving him

is one i cannot comprehend,

yet some 22(and 7/8ths)odd years were lived

and experienced

and known

and had

without him(though, perhaps,

there had always been a hole,

meant only for him).

his house would be another dwell(home)ing

i would have never explored or known.

his smile(like the first warmth of summer)would have

shone for someone else.

his eyes(how i can drown in them)would gaze

softly

eversosoftly

at another, perhaps more deserving.

his hands(strong and perfectly constructed)would have

reached for her's, whoever she is,

while their toes were lost amongst the grains of sand

at the mouth of the atlantic.

and his lips(perfect and divine)would have

intertwined and mingled with lips not my own.

but i cannot lose myself in this

ridiculous(utterly)world of

situations that melan my choly.

the ultimate fact of the matter is that he is

here,

he is

known,

he is

loved(my god,

he is loved);

he is

Mine.

From Here to There

constructs of man:

time;

days;

months;

dist(so very far)ance.

i know that is nothing more than

one mortal's attempt to

control this uncontrollable universe.

it is a wild and crazy place,

more vast while more compact

than we will ever know.

yet

there is this sense of

space

be(twixt)tween you and

i

that unsettles

unnerves

unravels

me.

each of us

lived a sep(unbeknownst)arate life

long,

long,

long before we were aware

of the other's(in your case)beautiful

existence.

we survived somehow, didn't we?

why is it now that

what was perceived as nothing more than

eleven(give or take one)miles of asphalt

are suddenly too much for my

love-sick heart?

why do i now count each

p a s s

i n g

inch that is found and forgotten

as i crawl my way back to your bed?

how can i ever go back

to unknowing you

when you have invaded(so willingly, i let you,

again and again and again)my soul?

how can i ever manage to be the same(but

truly, why would i want this?)when i am

forever

changed?

Reaping the Answer (Part 2)

It started when the homeless man reached out his hand to me. Being a naturally good-intentioned citizen, I reached my hand back in an effort to help him stand.

A flash of light.

A sear of pain.

And then .. nothing.

Blinking my eyes a few times, I tried to gather my senses again. A strange feeling of existence combined with a perpetual purgatory draped over me. To this day, I still can't quite explain it. I suddenly heard the sobs and wails of millions of people that I could not see. Every teardrop crashed on my skin like acid, burning me alive and making me wish for death .. Only, as I would soon realize, I was only wishing for myself.

The homeless man, with a gentle, amber light glowing from the inside of his chest, peered at me through the calmest eyes I have ever seen. For a moment, I could have sworn I saw Enlightenment. His voice rippled the stagnant air surrounding us, but I wasn't disturbed by it; his tone matched his gaze.

"Thank you." I stared at him blankly, unsure of why this strange being was showing me gratitude, but could not will myself to talk. "For freeing me," he further explained. Again, I blinked. "For over a thousand years, I have been guiding newly-formed souls to their earned destinations. I have been listening to the despair of their loved ones, left behind, night and day. I have earned my own place in Paradise. He thought it time," he whispered, pointing upwards with his eyes. With a serene smile, he began to fade. "Now, it is your turn."

"T-t-turn to do what?" I managed to mutter. The stranger's smile curled into the faintest of smirks.

"To guide. To continue the cycle that all mortals fear, but all must succumb to. No one is above it. No one can escape it. You are finally a necessary part of this world," he said quietly. I clenched my jaw at his last sentence; how could he have known? My eyes must have given me away for he reached out his hand again and, placing it on my shoulder, he murmured, "Thank you," before fading away completely. Even with him gone, I felt his fingers lingering on my body.

"I suppose you're wondering what's happened?" I heard a voice thunder from behind me. "I will reveal it all to you, in time. But, for now, you have a job to do."

Father's Day

Our relationship isn't anything special. We did what most have done in the past and most will continue to do in the future. We weren't the first to create our own kind of waltz, where he was the lead and my feet, too small to follow and understand his movements, perched on top of his. I certainly wasn't the first to cry to songs that talked about getting older, getting married, and being given away. We weren't the first to practice the best way to field a ground ball or catch a pop fly without dropping it (you use your other hand to guard the ball once it's in the mitt). He wasn't the first to co-coach my softball team and to always encourage me, even if I purposely ran slow after getting a hit so that I could eat my melting Italian Ice in the dugout. He wasn't the first to clumsily fumble with my hair when it was long (too long), trying to understand how exactly a braid came to form (this usually happened when my mom was out-of-state). He wasn't the first to concoct strange snacks for me after I got home from school, the most notable (and delicious) being saltines with butter and jelly and his english muffin pizzas. He wasn't the first to cry as he danced with me to "Butterfly Kisses" at my Sweet 16, when my feet were too big to sit on top of his.

No, he wasn't the first to do any of those things - and it'd be foolish to think that he'd be the last. But somehow, it feels as though these memories are ours and ours alone. We both know that there are thousands of other fathers and daughters who have had done the same things, only in their own particular flavor. Yet these are ours. They do not belong to anyone else.

I often wonder how many memories are buried deep in the cranial labyrinth of my brain that I've since forgotten. I wonder if I'll remember them as I get older, or if they're destined to collect cerebral dust as they fall to the wayside. Perhaps it doesn't matter whether I can recollect them all or not; perhaps the point is that they're there, they exist, and maybe that is enough.

On Love, In Love

this alternate universe

is one i only vaguely know,

and only for a moment at a time.

it is the ghost of where

and who

and how.

diaphanous cloak,

threaded with the puppeteer's minions,

envelop all that exi(does it

really?)sts.

my arms to wings

and my eyes to globes;

my hair to wheat

and my lips to fruit;

the world's gold to happiness

and water into wine;

sunsets ablaze with melons and corals

and azure pools that swallow you whole.

it is a beautiful place,

this temporary home.

and yet, it does not appease me.

ever-hungry for something more,

i slip onto a part

ing ship,

and sail for more familiar shores.

the sight of you is more wondrous than it all,

that alternate world i once called home.

skies on fire and oceans eternal

are shadowed and obscured by your eyes.

the embracing coves that welcome a stranger

are less inviting than your arms.

the most alluring of worlds

cannot steal me away,

for all i can comprehend,

all i can see,

all i can love

is

you.

The Conversation

i sat and talked with the Man with

many names today.

i do not call him what i used to,

and it is rare that i even capitalize

the pronoun-ed reference(as i had been

taught to do

back

in school).

but still, he sat and talked with me,

though my

p e r s p e c t i v e

has changed(as we are always chang

ing).

i asked him which name he prefers,

and he told me that, "Truly, I cannot be named."

i must have pouted or frowned,

or perhaps he was merely doing what he always does(you

know, that telepathy or voodoo or

something),

for he told me then

that i may call him whatever brings

us

closest.

"friend," i replied.

with a gentle smile, he nodded,

and we

began ..

From Behind the Epidermal Road Map

Don't look at me that way. I see the disgust you try so hard to shove under the proverbial rug in your eyes. But that rug is as gossamer as netting. I can see right through it. I can see right through you.

You think I was always this way. You think that my bones have always creaked and my life was always lonely. I had friends once, you know. Dorothy, Mildred, Gertrude, Penelope, all of them. We grew up together, living in the same brownstone back before Brooklyn was the home of tattooed kids who graffiti walls and break into homes. Before the age of so called "communication" that you read from an eye-strangling screen, we would meet at the corner and walk to get penny candies from the general store (if you were lucky, your mother gave you a nickel). I had friends once.

Dorothy, well, she just about lost her mind after Fred was killed in the war. She didn't know what to do with herself; he was her life. I always told her that she had to find her own purpose for living, that living entirely for someone else was suicide. She never listened to me, though. She was always the defiant one. We eventually lost touch. The last I heard, she was living out her days in some insane asylum upstate. I randomly caught wind that she had died a few years back, but never had any sort of confirmation from her family. They never liked me much.

Mildred killed herself after her second child died. She had miscarried the first one, seven months into it. She was going to name it Henry if it was a boy and Rebecca if it was a girl (this was before the age of taking the obligation out of loving your child, no matter what the gender). When she finally carried a child to term, she found him (his name was James) floating face-down in a pool when he was four. It was too much for her. Her husband found her hanging three feet from the ceiling.

Gertrude died the way we all want to die: peacefully, in her sleep. She wasn't sick or in pain or suffering. She had lived a good life. Escaped most heartache and trouble - though no one can escape it all. But she was happy. She brightened everyone's life with her stories and with her presence. Everyone was almost grateful when she passed - not because she was gone, but because we knew it seemed only right for her to go as calmly as she lived.

And Penelope .. No one's heard from her in years. I don't think she's died, but I've no real way of looking it up. I don't know how these electronic things work these days, and I don't talk to the grandkids who could help me figure it out. My assumption is that I would've heard something about a service or a wake if she had finally kicked the bucket. Since I haven't, I figure she hasn't, either.

No, I wasn't always this way. I loved the way you do - how I adored my Jimmy, but that's a story for another time. I laughed at the same jokes you laugh at. I cry at the same things that break your heart. I raised two children, both of whom have moved away and onto bigger, better things than I. The world had a place for me once.

Once.

Reaping the Answer

No, I never wanted it to be like this.

When I imagined my (after) life, I always pictured some sunny meadow, painted by sunlight, warmed by the radiating knowledge that it was smooth sailing here on out. I figured I'd run into Hunter, the greyhound I grew up with until his untimely passing when I was fifteen years old. We'd romp and run and chase each other like we used to when I was wide-eyed and hopeful and no taller than my father's thigh. Then, we'd fall onto our backs, surrounded by blades of grass so soft, they'd kiss our very skin. We'd stare up at the materialized eternity above us, knowing that we could get up and do it all over again the next day.

So it makes sense that this was the furthest thing from my mind when that vagabond by the subway steps reached out his hand, and I absent-mindedly took it to help him stand.

Like I said, I never wanted it to be like this. I never wanted to be the most hated entity that has ever existed. I'm cursed on a second-by-second basis. People mourn me, people hate me, people pray and wish for me to stop existing. What's worse is that I cause some of the worst heartbreak and most intense pain for people I've never even met. We are but strangers and yet, we're closer than they have ever been with anyone in their lives before. We are tied by darkness. We are tied by that which no longer exists. We are tied by the absence of life.

I suppose the question to answer now is: how does one find himself in this profession? Perhaps the question is: what IS this profession?

Please, let me explain ..

The Perpetual Love Affair

my eyes ache and yearn for

sleep(it has

been so long

since they've been more than

faint

acquaintances),

yet they are unsettled and,

really,

un

willing

to close and rest

without the silhouette

of the body i have

explored and come to

adore, slumbering

beside(against and around)me.

but they find solace in the

hope(how they hope)

that they may see

you yet

from behind their own thin

shields.

but it can only be when their love affair

is reawakened and rekindled, and i find myself

in slumber once again.

'Til Kingdom Come

Sometimes

it doesn't feel like it

really happened. O

ther times, I get th

ese vivid flashbacks

to what feel more like dr

eams I concocted than the

recollections of a part

of my life. But I know

that it was real. I

know I've felt completed a

nd whole. I know that I've

walked those dreary stre

ets and felt the Kingdom rai

n on my skin. I know I've been

HOME. will i ever feel it again?

First is the Worst

I already have another blog (which is here), but I write in it only when I feel the overwhelming urge to do so. It isn't nearly often enough. So, with that, I've decided to keep a second blog, one in which I write every single day. No excuses. No "I'm too tired" or "I can't think of anything to write." Much like many online writers challenge themselves with NaNoWriMo (which is National Novel Writing Month), I'm going to challenge myself with this.

What my brain churns out may not always be useful or even good writing, but at least it'll be something, right?