The Human Race of Nesting Dolls

We are hauntingly capable of so many things.

Regeneration, compassion, kindness, love, healing, invention, discovery.

Anger, hatred, murder, apathy, disdain, selfishness, greed, pride.

Constantly grappling over Jekyll and Hyde. Can they co-exist in some twisted form of harmony? Or will anger always try to kidnap happiness, covering its head in a burlap sack? Will hatred always try to deceive and turn compassion, willing it to ignore someone in need?

It is no wonder we spend our lives searching, wandering, looking for some semblance of peace.

We are but a collective, chaotic chorus of screaming demands, each trying to be heard above all the rest, each trying to reign supreme.

It Sounded Kind of Orca-ish

low-frequency symphonies(un-listen-able

to you,to me)echo the

things i do not(willnot,cannot)say.

do they mourn or do they exalt?perhaps

joyandloss are two halves of

their whole.

mourn(jubilant)ing mammoth,

you are no match

for the crux

that

pulsatespulsatespulsates

within this chest,for

even you

are dwarfed by

this sanguine nucleus and all that it holds,

this pith i have

come to behold;but

nothing does it mean

if he is not the kindling

for

this flame.

Healing Takes Time

i am a burnt tongue,

its function pointless and evaporated

at the carelessness of its owner.

press me against something, anything;

i will feel it, know that it is there,

but will be powerless to experience it

the way that i should;

be patient.

i am waiting for the day

when my dead and damaged cells

will have all but shed and disappeared

and i will know what it is like

to be complete again.

Neighborhood Watch

i ooze into places i shouldn't,

and i drip into holes

that are too deep.

fingers go into soc(electric!)kets,

tongues taste the could-be-poisonous,

toes get too close to passing motorbikes,

scarves whirl dangerously near ceiling fans.

always at the risk of kablam and fizzbang,

always friends with kerplunk and kersplat,(they

are a pair, aren't they?)i am always

on the endangered list,

the kind that sends out disclaimer flyers to

the surrounding neighborhoods:

"she may spontaneously combust!" or

"she may bring about her own demise!" or

"she may talk of beautiful things, but believe in nothing!" or,

my favorite,

"she has issues!"

but there is someone(he must know who he is)

who shoos away kerplunk and kersplat;

who makes kablam and fizzbang

just onomatopoeia-s;

who renews her hope

and renews her courage

and renews her strength

and renews her love

with every touch of his hand

and every brush of his lips.

until she has no choice(no

matter her futile attempts

at stating otherwise)but to believe him.

Jaws Theme

to stay afloat

in a sea so intent

on letting(demanding that)you drown

is just asking for trouble

for which no one is really

prepared(as if they can).

but kick harder,

won't you?

paddle stronger,

won't you?

tread the water.

stay afloat.

stay alive.

Fly Away Home

to feel at

home

in a place so far from

the dwelling, officially termed,

to feel a

love

in a place overflowing with

strangers and unfamiliar faces,

to feel that

peace

in a place as tumultuous

as anywhere to Timbuktu,

to feel a

"something"

that has no name but

is stronger than the Himalayas,

to feel a

loss

at having once found it all,

hoping one's feet will somehow

wander back to those

cobblestone paths

and overgrown mews,

to the "ou" instead of "o" and "s" instead of "z,"

to the dreaded prawn-flavored-everythings,

to the seed that has found its landing,

knowing that if it only had the chance,

with perhaps a bit of sun and

a bit of water,

it could blossom into

something

spectacular.

Cyclical Motion

the trickling stream is

destined for greater things;

poured into the sea and into the bay,

tripping into the ocean and then

upwards to the sky,

only to come back down to its

humble, bubbling brook.

so are we, destined for greater things,

always meant to come back

to where it all began.

Conglomeration of All Things Terrible

at worst, i am nothing more than body parts,

a bone here, a socket there,

tendons and ligaments that have been

strategically

arranged

so that i may walk and move and speak

and think and love and feel

like other homo sapiens.

at best, i am nothing more than a damaged product

of my environment and,

more likely and most importantly,

my own self-destruction.

there is no forgiveness that i can

allow myself.

not when i've got so much to prove.

at least, i am nothing more than a lost soul,

wandering this vast orb to try and find

some kind of meaning

some kind of anything

so that it won't feel like a waste

or like i've just been sucking up space

and air and resources

that could have been used on someone more

deserving.

at most, i am nothing more than who you see before you,

this tracing-paper-cut-out of who i used to be,

with all of the necessary parts

(the lungs and heart and brain and things)

i need to make me whole,

vacant in the places that should be full,

hollow in the parts that should have substance.

at worst at best at least at most.

don't ask me to explain it all.

i haven't got a clue.

Catch Up

I have returned from Missouri, with daily entries still written, posted below. The trip was wonderful and the flights, both to and from, were quick and painless (I passed out while still on the runway).

11 august 2010

if i lived here,

i'd be home by now.

how we fight and kill

and slaughter to defend our

tiny, infinitesimal section of this

hardened rock.

from a mile above,

it all seems pretty folly,

realizing that what we own

is not what we are,

and all of these things

are anything

but

permanent.

but we continue to kill

and we continue to fight,

unwilling to let go of one of the

only things that makes us

feel like we're bigger than

mortal and more residual

than gods.

but we'll cease to exist.

we'll leave it all behind,

with only the dwindling and idling

memories we have spent a lifetime

creating

remaining.

---------------------------------------------------------

11 august 2010 (post 2)

home is a state of mind,

not a place.

i realized this long ago,

feeling at home in hotel rooms

that smelled faintly of smoke

from twenty years prior,

because my family was with me.

the section of the living room

rug where i always fell asleep

felt more like home than

my bed.

this place doesn't feel like home.

because it is missing you.

and, my darling,

you are light

and you are warmth.

you are home.

---------------------------------------------------------

12 august 2010

i wonder how it'd feel to

be suspended - in time, in space,

in life.

there are moments when

it is more than enticing,

when there wouldn't even be

an ounce of hesitation if i

would but be offered this chance.

then a part of me realizes

the downfall to this idea,

to this state of existence.

peace would be abundant,

i'm sure of it,

but so would apathy.

after all, how can one feel

anything when there is

no reason to feel?

never moving forward

and never moving back.

never moving anywhere.

purpose would be just a memory,

the kind that always lingers

in the back of the mind,

until it becomes the vague outline

of what once was.

perhaps this state of suspension

would be no good after all.

perhaps we have no choice

but to continue to move and

to continue to breathe and

to continue to die and be born.

always destined for heartache,

always destined for loss and grief,

always destined for love and

joy and celebration,

always destined for something.

---------------------------------------------------------

13 august 2010

every baby will grow up

someday.

everyone on this earth was once

microscopic, tucked away inside the

womb of some woman somewhere,

destined for what seemed an eternity

of captivity and hibernation(for what

could you really know of time?)

then, released into the world,

(hopefully with welcoming arms and

opened hearts)

breathed her first breath

of this newly discovered world.

then came a life summed up in a

series of moments:

the first day of school,

the first crush(that will break her heart;

it is inevitable),

the first failed test,

new schools,

new friends,

the first love(who, most likely, will be

suspiciously similar to that first crush

from so many years ago)

and so on, for what seems like forever,

until each moment becomes a memory,

until each memory becomes a story,

passed on and passed down,

until the cycle starts again.

---------------------------------------------------------

15 august 2010 (scribbled after a dream)

he stands in your front yard or when you least expect him. you shake your head and try to wake yourself because surely, this must be a dream. he tells you there is no point. he's real. he's there to stay, to guide you to all of the happiness that have you been seeking. but you must do what he says, this clairvoyant stranger. you tell him that you were going to see a friend and he politely responds that you are not. he explains that your friend is sleeping, having hurt his back, and you will see him tomorrow. instead, he sends you driving down long highways until you always crash, but manage to stay alive. he sends you to a film festival and tells you to buy a year-long membership (because apparently these things exist and you've got a lot to learn).

in the daylight, he looks old and frail. he carries an oxygen tank and his fine, white hair flutters with the lightest of breezes.

but he is still your sage. you must do as he tells you. he will make you a better person. a happier person. he will bring you to everything you want.

---------------------------------------------------------

16 august 2010

they say that distance

and abs(over-whelming)ence

makes the heart grow fonder.

i suppose that i must be extremely

fond of you(though i

did not need much encouragement

to be begin with).

this foreign bed

becomes vaster and more daunting

than the Sahara,

with even less inhabitants.

how i wander,

how i seek you out,

how every inch of me yearns for you.

but you are nowhere to be found

in this strange land.

you are eons away,

resting your head where mine should be,

curled amidst blankets and pillows

that should be my body.

but, my dear, my heart has grown

fonder(i thought it impossible),

suspending visions and memories of you

to keep it warm and keep it safe.

i do not worry, as i wander in

search of you.

i know i will find your arms again.

i know i will find you.

Sister Aloysius Is Smarter Than She Looks

still,

somehow,

i am petrified.

reassurance was never

my most reliable ally;

in fact, i would

say it has a worse track record

than those pretend catholics

who attend church

on christmas-only(i'm

even worse than that.

i don't attend, ever).

this sinking,

this

fierce application of pressure on

lungs and insides,

lingers wordlessly,

content in not drawing attention to itself,

but when it becomes more

attention-starved than the

forgotten middle child,

there is no ignoring it.

there is no catching your footing.

not even an absurd amount

of fuzzy, blue blankets(that your

grandmother knit from scratch)

could make you feel

safe.

doubt is your only paramour,

and my, what big hands(and eyes

and teeth and fists)it has.

but what kind of life

would it be

if i were to keep this

no-good lover?,

constantly shivering in the desolate

shadow it casts?,

constantly searching for an answer

i will never find?

i must pry myself free.

i must show it to the door

and tell it never to return.

please, do not call.

do not write.

rain, rain,

go away,

and never

come back

again.

We Have Lost the Earth

As I drive down these populated roads, and as these colorful dwellings blur past the periphery of my vision, I imagine them gone. I imagine what it must have been like in this place, on this road, when it was nothing more than earth. I imagine what it was like for the first inhabitants to call that spot, and that spot, and that spot home. I imagine horses' hooves trotting down dirty paths, drowned out by the sound of wheels clunking over pebbles and rocks, buried in the terrain. I imagine lovers walking down this path, arm in arm, perhaps a parasol resting atop her delicately hidden shoulder. I imagine life before there was life and whether or not anyone could have imagined what it would be like now.

And then the horrendous sound of a car's outcry steals me back from these halcyon thoughts. I realize I am passing by another monstrosity of a "home," if one could even call it that; after all, how can it be a home when there is more dry wall and cement than people?; than love? I realize that I am passing by another temporal space in which another person will live out his life, having followed in the footsteps of who came before, and having laid down the path for who will come to follow. And then I realize that this is my street, and signaling to the cars around me, I continue my own journey home.

Mainly Fiction, Partly Fact

These stories that he tells to these kids (who think that his words are merely history book fodder, not an actual life that he has lived) help him to relive those temporal snapshots. He likes recounting stories from the war, talking about Frankie and Johnny and all those good old boys alongside which he fought. He remembers chasing after those dames who tried so hard to look like Ingrid Bergman and June Haver, with their lips red like cherries and their skin as pure as silk. He remembers when curvaceous, full-bodied women were more attractive than thin, ghastly-looking girls (he still doesn't really understand this cockamamie trend). He remembers working in the lumber yard when he had returned home from Germany and how hard he had to try to forget the horrors he saw as they infiltrated Buchenwald. He saw the wretched faces and mangled, skeletal wires that were once breathing, living bodies as he tied up those chopped and sheared logs, once living trees. He remembers wondering why they had waited so long to do anything about it; how many could they have saved if they had acted upon it at first knowledge?

But his life went on, as it usually does, and he remembers falling in love with his wife. Well, back then, it was more convenience than love, but it ended up being love as time went on. He's not sure when that exact moment was or when he finally saw her as his soulmate, but he knows that it happened. He figures it was sometime around the birth of his first child, nine months after their first anniversary. Perhaps, he thinks, that's unfair to say; perhaps he has always loved her, from the moment they met at the diner and he kept watching the way her hair fell into her eyes as she laughed. She was beautiful back then; she's just as beautiful now, with her hair silver like freshly fallen snow and her deep eyes like onyx.

He lets out a laugh as he hears a kid talk about the "good old days," and he wonders if those days were when he was still in his mother's womb (because he certainly doesn't have enough years under his belt to have any sort of golden age). He wonders what the future has in the store for the world. He wonders if there's ever going to be an end to war and to death and destruction. He wonders what he's going to eat for supper.

He wonders.

Curiosity Killed the Cat, But Introspection Saved the Girl

it is an odd feeling

when thinking

that we are no longer

who we used to be

and we have yet to become

who we will someday be,

so all we can do is

simply be who we are,

crooked toes

and hairy knuckles and mismatched

kneecaps aside,

because at the end of the day,

we must fall asleep in

the only skin we've ever

known,

and we've really no choice

but to be

happy.

When the Metamorphosis Would Not Come, Acceptance Was the Only Answer

I am who I am.

There may be moments where I wish to be somebody else, but I cannot be anyone but me.

My hips crack if I bend over too far. Only one knuckle cracks when I attempt to release the trapped air inside of my joints. My belly bulges more than I would care for it to. My left foot is slightly bigger than my right, which makes finding comfortable shoes a little difficult. I cannot put eyeliner on the same way on each eye as my left one opens up a little wider. When I have cried and gone to sleep afterwards, I wake up with eyes that refuse to open all the way, covered with lids that fold three times instead of two. My right front tooth is chipped because the filling that was put there following a root canal broke away. My cuticles are ripped and tough and all-around unfeminine. The fingers on my left hand are calloused from my many attempts at playing the guitar.

But I am me. I am who I have come to be over these twenty-three years.

I am the girl who hid under the basement stairs, making up stories and games with imaginary friends. I am the girl who found solace in climbing every tree possible, perched in its branches, viewing the world from what seemed a wondrous height. I am the girl who saved earthworms from the dampened piles of leaves that collected at the curb as her father was raking. I am the girl who could be entertained on long car rides with a paper bag full of books, crayons, coloring books, and word games. I am the girl who needed her mother and grandmother to help her hit all of the arcade alligators as they came out of their hiding holes. I am the girl who made her father ride the log flume in Busch Gardens dozens of times, who laughed each and every time he pretended to be surprised when they suddenly plummeted to earth.

I am the girl who spent her time in the library with her friends in high school. I am the girl who had a radio show every Tuesday afternoon. I am the girl who played melancholy songs about love lost and love unrequited, followed by a song that made her dance around the room. I am the girl who went to a predominantly white-bred college located in the middle of the ghetto. I am the girl who struggled with herself and her identity for her entire life. I am the girl who cried herself to sleep because she did not know who she was or, more importantly, why she was. I am the girl who dreamed of a woman she cannot remember, but knew once. I am the girl who contemplated taking her own life because she could not reconcile all of these differences. I am the girl who found renewed hope in life and in people after staring Death in the face. I am the girl who found God through religion, only to lose Him again, then find a form of Him in another religion. I am the girl who still cannot decide what she wants to do with her life or where she wants to go. I am the girl with too many interests and too many hobbies and too short an attention span. I am the girl who cried over boys who broke her heart when she foolishly gave it to them, hoping that "this one" would be different. I am the girl who found love in a man who caught her by surprise. I am the girl who closes her eyes when she kisses this man, even though she could stare at him for days. I am the girl whose hand he takes and squeezes when they are walking. I am the girl who stares through these eyes and inhabits this body.

I am who I am.

You cannot ask me to be more. You cannot ask me to be less. You do not have to accept me for all of these things. You do not have to like me for any of these things.

But I can be no one else.

I can only be

Me.

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.

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."