Soul Business

I don’t want to share my soul. It’s barely enough for me alone. Already spread thin covering the expanding horizons. Sometimes I wake up at night because my feet are cold and I find them dangling soullessly from the side of my bed, slipped out from under the covers.
In wintertime it gets especially bad, when I want to keep warm and find there’s barely enough material to wrap around my body once.
In a panic I asked my mother to teach me knitting last Christmas. My soul needs an addendum or I will stand exposed, my head still wrapped in metaphors but my heart without a song.
So when you asked to know my thoughts and understand my poetry, I felt the tearing and ripping as my soul stretched to engulf you whole. If I had known you brought a sewing kit, I wouldn’t have minded so much. But you have two left hands, so I had to kick you out and reclaim my manuscripts from your arms. Not an inch of fabric could I let you take, for I would sorely be missing it later.
I don’t know if I’ll have enough surpluses to let you keep a part of my soul or at least share a corner of it with me. The fabric is so hard to come by, the patterns so intricate to create and completion takes so much time. It has to sit and ripen. Much like you can’t hurry a good wine. So don’t you go opening that sacred jar all the time to check if it’s done! You’ll only ruin it and leave indissoluble stains of intrusion in the linen, which is only meant to absorb inspiration and clarity. Everything I am is wrapped in that soul sheet. If you go poking holes in it with your persistent wish to figure me out, there is not telling what will tumble out first. My habit of correcting grammar or my belief in love. Either way a tragic loss. I would never be the same.
Your only option is to fashion your own textile, make your own patterns in your own sheet. Then together we can weave a thread of laughter and tears and sew my sheet and yours together, creating a perfect patchwork of personality to keep us safe and sane.
Get to work!

FALL (Failing At Lowest Levels) [Part XI of my "Thinking in Acronyms" series]

I thought I was ready for fall. One sunny morning I stepped out and I could smell it coming. The cold already hovering above, waiting to settle in; the leaves all but ready to dare the jump off their branches and twigs. Fall was imminent, it made me smile. It would be time for tea again, people and relationships would settle in and be figured out. Finally everything would slow down, shed the heated haze, and could be captured in a photograph.

And then the rain came and suddenly I knew I wasn’t ready at all. For days floods soaked the streets and the little boy on his tricycle. I had braced myself against the cold, but the rain melted my coat of sugar, forced me into jackets. The wind picked up and returned me in circles to where I’ve always been. In truth, fall is just a descending chute into winter and only ever filled with joy if you have something you want to take a picture of. Drink tea alone and have no relationships to figure out, the brumal depression is already knocking at the door.

For the cost of an airfare I could have spring, but my moss-green pouch is spent. Frantically I gather Christmas decorations to build myself armor against winter time and its black, thorny tentacles that wrap around my heart each year. And then I get started on those lists I’m gonna need, ranking the joys of the year to argue away that it has been wasted. It’s not so much the dusk that does me in, but the melting dawn that follows. It’s best not to shut your eyes at all, when the sights scare you back to sleep.

“It started feeling like October…”

SUMMER (Sad Unsung Melodies Mollify Every Reason) [Part X of my "Thinking in Acronyms" series]

High noon, high tide, high-heeled sandals. Tools to wade unharmed through the heat haze on the shimmering asphalt.

Temperatures melt ice, sense and resistance. So easy to fall backwards into the grass and into arms. Under the rays of brother sun conversations turn to lighter topics. But on the morning after the burns from staying out too long will hurt inside and outside. The eternal search for myself in someone else doesn’t respond favorably to heat stimuli.

What I make seem easy in truth is hard. I’m waiting for someone to call my bluff and dare me to go all in. I let you call. What would you do if I raised the stakes?

Progress came to a screeching halt and it’s too hot to work on the engine. Pretty boys, shoes and shiny objects are enough to numb the brain. Luckily coffee can be served on ice.

One big last breath, one carefree season, one soulful departure from days gone by. Never again will living be so easy, leisurely and light, because in the real world you don’t get summer off.

Summer TV doesn’t help. It isn’t distracting enough and only reminds me that time runs on and out. Hopefully September will bring relief.

It’s too hot to move now, wait till the fall. Storms and rains will dictate a direction, the air will travel and you’ll go along for the ride.

“So I’m building you a tornado to get back East.”

Too Bad To Remember, Too Good To Forget

Ideas I had in fever dreams
keep raging in my blood
He talks of giving objects names
and says it's not my fault
his mood changes with every passenger

Seems lately I stopped making sense
of words strung on my chain
He speaks of giving people truth
and says it is in vain
to hope for change in the wind's direction

But when you fight the morning sun
and are in league with silver moons,
it's hard to tell
where living ends
and ghosts remain

Visions I had on summer drives
keep swirling in my head
He talks of giving actions weight
and says I shouldn't dread
the endless road I have to walk back home

But when you fight the evening moon
and are in league with golden suns,
it's hard to tell
where dying ends
and ghosts remain

His objects,
his truth,
his actions,
his ghost,
all pearls upon my necklace
forming my noose


Copyright June 2008

PAUSE (Pursuing All Urgent Senses Eastward) [Part IX of my "Thinking in Acronyms" series]

Tired of waiting for warmer times. Chasing sunny days compares to chasing the grand dream.

The cold wind scares me onto assorted bus lines jazzing all over town. In between the designated times is there still a fraction of me left?

New constants were introduced: beer always too foamy, eternally wet hands, all my hated bands as the soundtrack, night owl having to be herself and the early bird.

Half the effort wins all the hearts in the room by just walking in. What would all the effort do?

I am more alive in people’s minds than in my own body.

Oh, yes, to crave the televised fights reveals absences in connections and I shudder at the thought.

Hugging the steel blue wall of that house I passed for years the exhale is marvelous. Comforted by rugged stone I rip my hands on human contact. Dancing in the same spot to the same tune and the pain constant instead of temporary. Commitments piling up, perspectives running out, head swelling, heart shrinking.

I buy more locks and safety bars for the well. Once opened there is no telling what devastation might be left behind. Best to tunnel underneath the river with iron strength and see the other side. The darkness of the confined space frees you of more distant worries and liberates the fighter within, hopefully.

“I’d never thought that I’d turn down the offer to fail.”

Volume & Frequency

We didn’t stop talking, we’re following Pond Advice and letting our silence have its say. We listened to all the music and now it’s time to wait out its affect.

From the grain of sand the silence started out as it expanded to encompass our skies above. From within our clasped hands it rose in a fume higher above our heads, spilt over the sides and now set itself down like a snow globe glass. We are but miniatures trapped in the silent snowstorm now. Words stopped doing us good, the lack of them now is supposed to cure us. The fading echoes of our raised voices persistently linger on and fill the space around us, but with enough patience we can wait them out. We can let all sounds die and examine emotions for their substance, not their resonance. As long as no one shakes our snow globe, we still have time.

I know the symphony of street noise, Damien Rice and the coffee maker soothes you, but it makes you deaf to everything that is originally you. You cannot tell anymore who mothered the thoughts you give birth to, when your days are filled with input. And neither can I. Speaking has motivations mostly rooted in the wish to find something to hide behind, only rarely are words uttered to reveal an honest truth. So we lower our well-sounding swords and shields and attempt the picturesque scene of the snow globe confinement.

Can we stand to stare at each other naked, no explanations, variations, denials or apologies? Can you hear what I don’t say and see me when I don’t move at all?

Slowly now the silence mollifies us, we become tranquil and defiantly set on our mutual muteness. We cling to it as the last resort to clarify our communication. The stillness creeps into the cracks and gaps we left and fills them up, completing the structure, solidifying the brittle glass above our heads and leaving no room to move. Careful now, breathe in too deep and you may suffocate us both!

Our hush-filled snow globe is in constant danger of shattering, we can only burke outside sounds for so long. So we eagerly listen to the nothingness while it still exists and it hones all our senses and straightens out our souls. Quiescence comes over us, we rest within our snow globe utopia. If the world was fair it would let us be, but its incessant audio track will find its way back into our ears soon enough.

That first new uttered sound we intently await is already weighty with expectation, because it will be formed by unbiased hearts and minds cleansed of foreign imprints. Our words will finally have meaning beyond sense. When our shattered snow globe gives us back air, space and noise, we will see if we still want to breathe in unison, walk in step and talk in tune.

The Diamond Mine of Civilization

When the Curious Girl realizes the Beautiful Weather compels her to see The World, She may find Madness in The Forest and Bizarre Beauty in the Field.

Pictures from my Easter Walk:

In Silence they mourn their Brothers and Sisters, who have fallen before their feet.

Sometimes it just gets Too Much to take, those Happy Faces on the screen.

At least now he can see the sky instead of Weary Faces staring blankly back at him.

Maybe it got Too Much for him as well, so he jumped to his Death, no more Vision for anyone.

Conchobhar, Devotee, Paramount

What are your big, sad eyes doing invading my dreams? You’re supposed to be an incorporeal voice singing songs of inspiration in my ear. Physical desire has no place in our relationship.
Yet suddenly one night there you are, with your eyes so dark they almost look black and - most certainly - always lost. You ask me countless questions without saying a word and I never have any response. Fortunately answers are not what you’re after. All you want me to do is undress and shed my skin, be who I am underneath it all. The reason you’re so haunting is because you never hide. You’re true for everyone to see and the masses are starved for unfeigned honesty, it gives them something to hold on to. And you demand commitment equaling yours from any one you allow to come within your focus. So, with my fear-filled heart beating the rhythm of love, I open all the zippers and buttons and peel away the layers. What else is there to do? How could I defy you and the commandment in your glance?
As inch by inch I am revealed, the forlorn expression beneath your brows is slightly reassured and every jagged square of naked skin draws the soft attention of your stare. Finally bare I realize how cold it is out here and suddenly I am not bewildered anymore by the pain, fear and resignation in your eyes. We stand together now in the winds atop the mountain, the trees around us all clear-cut with only stumps remaining, the grass singed black from fiery rain, and we do our best to keep our heads. We find comfort in the presence of a second pair of eyes staring out at the destruction and insanity. What we see is disconnected; contorted figures of a world that hasn’t found its place and is falling hopelessly behind. Black static is whirring above the restless valley filled with fatuous demands. Our only chance to drown it out is listening to the silent volumes that we speak.
Every person that happens our way we look in the eyes and ask them to follow our suit and we take heart in every single one refusing, because it means we’re on to something. 
When the night sky leaves us frightened, we sing your songs and recite my poems and chase our dreams away that infatuate us with visions of an unattainable reality. With the morning light the veil of dejection across our pupils lifts and we are rejuvenated to bear the puzzled stares for another turn around the sun. 
When I’m in danger of floating away on a drift of convenience, I rest myself in those dark circles that give your soul a voice and let them haunt me back to clarity. 
And when it gets too bad, when I see tears swelling in your eyes and your hand shakes so much it can barely hold your cigarette, then I reach out and softly brush your wild, dark hair out of your face to reveal your delicate features.
There’s not much to our bodies, life has worn them out, and our skin is alabaster-pale from being pent-up inside with gloomy thoughts. Still I find you beautiful, my fibers all electrified from being inches from your skin, your body heat crashing into me in waves assimilated to your mood swings. The unaware glitter hurrying across your iris for fractions of breaths tells you feel the same. And when the light hits us just right – some time still ahead – it’ll make us shine and transform us into gleaming beacons of hope, tinged with a shadow of tragedy.
You jolted me awake with all the vigor of your beliefs, your eyes and presence invading my dreams, and now I can’t shake you anymore. In the quiet moments I take delight in having you look at me in my exposed state. Only when the racket picks up around me, I still find I cringe once in a while at the vivid stimuli hitting my senses with painful intensity, now that the cushions and shields are removed. But when I lie down and there you are with your gently pleading eyes, my strength returns and I know
"If I can make myself believe, the rest is easy."

Easter Endeavors

I am a bit hesitant to break the narrative voice this blog presents, but then again, you all know it’s me writing, so there’s no harm in a bit of shameless self-indulgence.

What have I been up to these past days since I last posted? Well, I have been listening to everything old and new from Bright Eyes. That always gets me in a very pensive and sad mood, which is something I seek a lot, so it’s nothing negative in my eyes. And Conor just makes more sense to me than most people, which – considering his perceived awkwardness in some interviews – is quite worrying. To get what I mean, watch the videos from YouTube I have posted below.
If he makes sense to you too, then I am infinitely calmed.

In other news, there was a HUGE Buffy reunion in California at Paley Fest on Thursday. It was so huge that even Sarah Michelle Gellar made it. Looking lovely as always and according to Tony Laszlo from CC2K being very gracious.

So in order to celebrate this most rare of events, here’s the link to the 70+ page Buffy paper I wrote to earn my Bachelor’s degree in Media studies for all of you to enjoy.
Don’t worry, it’s not all scientific, I made it fun to read as well! Comments are welcome, be they geeky or academic.

I am working on two more creative/poetic/dreamy posts to hit this spot over the Easter holidays, so stay tuned for more…

Happy Easter!

SPRING (Seasonal Palpitations Rouse Intrepid Neurological Ghosts) [Part VIII of my "Thinking In Acronyms" series]

The swollen gland presenting as a chunk of wood lodged in my throat refusing to be swallowed makes it impossible to chuckle at Easter snow in the flatlands. April weather in March fares on the ticket of ridiculous and global warming.

Wading through air like molasses – another sensation created by viral intruders – everything happens too slowly. Who pushed slow motion? Puddles of sea-like magnitude open up before my feet. Not only did it snow, it rained as well, how does that work? Urban obstacles, of course. In the country you go ‘round, in the city you have to wade through or get run over by traffic. A sigh and a coughing fit carry me across.

Impressions and imprints you made quickly fade now. I am like good dough, if you don’t keep impressing and imprinting, I return to my original state.

After all these years I still use varied metaphors I borrowed from a single source. In my defense, I also bake a lot, dough is on my mind.

I whisper a soft goodbye to the last coins I fished from my pocket, now spent to deliver chocolate love to the world. Chocolate insanity is more like it. Must have been viral madness even back then. But remembering my holy word I couldn’t bear the guilt of bailing out now.

Backwards the molasses has turned to jell-o and the sickness of the town – cars – aggravates the sickness of me.

When pillows are softer than you can bear and bring back memories of skin, it’s best to avoid resting your head in them.

My cottoned ears drown out the sounds you make. Better for it, they were lies anyway.

"I can be quiet. Wish you could hear me."

Parisian Observations

• Paris is not London.
• Paris sometimes wants to be London, but it ain’t cool enough.
• If you wanna leave, get your stuff together, sort yourself out and look for a "Sortie".
• Men and women share bathrooms in Paris and that’s okay. It makes for some interesting conversations about "American bastards" and "asking permission first".
• Coffee is overpriced and undermilked in Paris.
• The French definitely didn’t invent French kissing. Americans just call it that to make it sound fancy, like French Vanilla. In truth, either the Irish or the Scottish must have invented it. They are the most charming of people anyway.
• You should always listen to friends when they tell you to watch your stuff in Paris.
• You shouldn’t travel with your driver’s license, not to Paris or to anywhere else where you don’t plan to drive anyway.
• A beer cannot be bought for less than 5€ in Paris.
• In Paris history is omnipresent. Where else do you meet your friends in front of something like Notre Dame to go out for dinner?
• Baguette is fast food in Paris, although I still believe you can eat a burger faster.
• Paris has more pubs than you can count.
• Numbering your underground lines like the Parisians do is definitely less effective than naming them like the Londoners do.
• "Jardins" in Paris are gardens, not parks, so don’t you dare step on the grass! Stroll through them in a civilized manner, but don’t get comfortable or you will be promptly removed.
• Parisian sidewalks are always wet in the mornings, courtesy of all the shops, bakeries, cafés etc. washing down their strip of pavement with hoses.
• The Eiffel Tower twinkles at night on the full hour for a few minutes.
• James Dean is alive and fairly well in Paris, though he is working hard on returning to his deadened state.
• It is highly recommendable to take an hour-long train ride out of Paris and see the beautiful countryside, complete with trumpet players who live with their geese and wear their hair long.
• It’s great to be in Paris without speaking French. You can make up what people say to each other in your head. It’s funny if you’re me!!!
• Paris isn’t any more love-inspiring or romantic than other cities, it’s just their tourism campaign.
• It is possible though to find love in Paris. I have proof.
• There is no panther anymore at the Jardin des Plantes, but some trees from Rilke’s time may have survived.
• Some Japanese food in Paris may cause sudden onset of vertigo and lopsidedness.
• Paris makes a lot of noise.
• Paris wasn’t all good to me, but now I know there are some amazing people there. All of them not Parisians.

TOP II (Taming Our Present) [Part VII of my "Thinking In Acronyms" series]

The hurricane outside may very well have been summoned by the tornado inside the head.

Attempting to calm the winds with soothing strokes of a pen is nothing short of ludicrous.

The flakes of thoughts ought to be resting, so tread lightly in order not to stir them awake. If no one will listen, it's best to keep silent for now.

The flakes cover the secret that's meant to be kept, for sake of the unspoken promise that was made.

For the little I hold holy, my own word should be one such thing.

The once softly gliding kite now rigorously wrenches at the string, torpedoing between emotions and threatening a downward plunge. Its lifeline hopelessly tangled from all the indecision about the right direction, hope for smooth sailing is implausible.

Standing in the field, arms outstretched, I offer a landing place, a safe haven, and naivety paints the scene.

The winds I dared haven't knocked me down yet, the kite though bears alarming potential for success.

I lost my boots of principle running uphill to watch it fly.

I spent the contents of my pouch buying simple sentiments from strangers.

Now all my strength is focused on keeping my wisdom-stuffed hat and emotion-padded belt in place.

The newly-acquired coat of mystery doesn't fit me and bares a cold shoulder.

I close my eyes and let out a suppliant scream.

"Hush now, you're insane."

ICON (I Can't Overlook Nonsense) [Part VI of my "Thinking in Acronyms" series]

While I eat little pieces of chocolate heaven, the ghost lets the hallway lights flicker. I think of a scary movie that could be shot in confined spaces, when really the socket is just broken.

Some intimidations have trite explanations. Let that be disappointing or uplifting to you. I find it rather comforting. Perspective can be a beautiful thing. How did people see the world before the golden ratio?

Rather than fill my pen with ink, I dip it into the pot every few words. A sudden splash of silly romanticism.

Homage to days gone by can reward richer than adherence to modernity. Chopin beats Clap Your Hands Say Yeah.

The lid hums on the countertop, sings of a longing, misses its pot.
Toilet paper whales smile at me. They live in this town alone; I've never met them anywhere else.

Even from the city bus I can see how silly this all is. Not you or me, all of this. The houses built from cement and held down by gravity. This giant mass of mass spins around itself and there ain't nothing to be done about it. To believe we are anything but an accidental occurrence seems overly foolish. But then again there is nothing wrong with enjoying a bit of tomfoolery now and then. I have no doubt we will fade just like the dinosaurs did. We should have learned by now.

In the meantime, make yourself comfortable, stay amicable. In the really long run, the grand picture, nothing you do matters. So matter to someone next to you and leave the whales in the ocean. They'll thank you for it and your God has a soft spot for good people.

"I feel like something Picasso would've made."

END (Earning New Dawns) [Part V of my "Thinking In Acronyms" series]

So the year endeth. Was there something I was supposed to do?

On the bench I let the busses pass by.

Twinkly lights past their expiration date captivate my fleeting mind.

Indistinguishable whether they move voluntarily or are moved along with the shaking tree.

Matt pond PA are in the light. A measly tree in a measly city brings me close to it. Leaving the moment, the bags I carry and the shadows I covet.

Don't I have somewhere to be?

The somewhere of 2015 is clear, the somewhere of now is nebulous.

"I'm going home" - a last resort remains. The diminutive place that will keep you trapped.

Getting up the thoughts already fade. They will return, they always do. Nothing is ever lost on me. Circles represent my line. I take my straight line for a curve like once I was told to. In the end I will find if it was worth it. For now the line is 41.

"Money doesn't buy us freedom, it pays for our prison".