I'm not sure if I seek some sort of fulfillment in my compositions, but nevertheless, I trace my thoughts and feelings into words, and somehow I survive.
Current Projects
Lullaby for a Nightingale: Prose dedicated to Monsieur Michel Sojpikov, a melancholy tale of the search for redemption of the soul. (in progress)
Ninth Hour: Prose dedicated to Miss Elsa K. Dryly, a tale of grief and dreams beyond the sea's horizon.
Three Muses: A personal essay about inspiration, astounding friendship, and the ways of artists. (finished)
The Flame Suite: Prose dedicated to J. Alfred Fueyestes, a tale of passion, and the price humans pay for such passion.
What the Rain Knows (tentative title): Prose dedicated to Miss Rosaline Crack, a tale regarding nature's hidden wonders and the atrophy of poetic culture. (in progress)
This is going to take a long time to accomplish all this, but nevertheless, I will update with my progress as I journey through them all. Please be patient with me, and I hope to give you all something worthwhile to read soon!
- Location:a dim room...
- Mood:
contemplative - Music:Air: How does this make you feel
20th Century American Literture:
"House of Mirth", "Custom of the Country" by Edith Wharton
"As I Lay Dying", "The Sound and the Fury" by William Faulkner
"The Sun Also Rises", "For Whom the Bell Tolls" by Ernest Hemmingway
"Grapes of Wrath" by John Steinbeck
"Slaughterhouse Five", "Cat's Cradle" by Kurt Vonnegut
"This Side of Paradise" by F. Scott Fitzgerald
"Ballad of the Sad Cafe" by Carson McCullers
"Collected Stories" by Eudora Welty
"Ship of Fools" by Katherine Ann Porter
"Collected Plays" by Lillian Hellman
"Collected Stories" by Flannery O'Connor
*
You don’t know where you found him. It may have been a mistake, finding his home.
You might have paid him.
Might have said: I want to come here every night for a few days.
He’d have given you a long look and said nothing. Then he would ask: What is it that you want with me?
You say you want to try, try it, try to know, to get used to that large body, that chest, that smell. To beauty, the be caught in the risk known in the beauty of that body, to that muscular body, that face, that naked skin, to the identity between the skin and the life it contains.
You say you want to try, for several days perhaps.
Perhaps for several weeks.
Perhaps for your whole life.
Try what? he asks.
Loving, you answer.
He asks: Yes, but why?
You say so as to sleep with your sex at rest, somewhere you don’t know. You say you want to try to feel something in that particular place.
He says nothing. He knows the condition too well.
He asks what else you wish of him.
You say you want to get used to that shape molding into yours. You want to, as each day dawns, be less afraid in knowing where to aim your love, to be less lonely.
He looks at you. Then stops looking at you and looks at something else. Then answers. He says that there will be no price. For in truth, he wants to know the same thing.
Every day you’d come. Every day you come.
The first day he strips and lies down on his bed.
You watch him go to sleep. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to. Just goes to sleep. All night you watch him.
You’d come at night. You come at night.
All night you watch him. For two nights you watch him.
For two nights he doesn’t speak.
Then one night he does. He speaks.
He asks if he’s managing to make you less lonely, your body less lonely. You say you don’t know. That you can’t tell if you’re becoming more or less lonely.
Once during the night you ask: What’s that sound?
He says: the sound of the brook, or the sound of the mountain.
You ask: Where?
He says: There, beyond those walls.
He goes back to sleep.
Young. He’s more young than you thought. In his clothes and his skin and his hair there’d be an odd smell. You’d try to identify it. You say: A smell of musk or ambergris. He answers: Whatever you say.
Perhaps you get from him a pleasure, some sort of pleasure you’ve never known before. I don’t know. I don’t know if you hear the low and distant rumble of his breathing, the inhale and the exhale. I don’t think so.
Sometimes you walk around the room, around the walls by the brook or the mountain.
Sometimes you cry.
Sometimes you go outside in the growing warmth of the night.
You don’t know what’s in the sleep of the man.
You’d like to start from that body and get back to the bodies of others, to your own, to get back to yourself. I’m sure he feels the same. And it’s because you must do this that you cry.
And he, in the room, sleeps on. Sleeps, and you don’t wake him. As his sleep goes on, some feeling comes into the room. You can’t identify it. You sleep, once, right next to his body.
He sleeps on, deeply. He doesn’t wake if you touch his body, his chest, his thighs. He only wakes for no reason, perhaps to ask if the sound is of the brook or the mountain.
He wakes. He notices some change in you.
You ask: What is that change?
He says he doesn’t know.
Night after night, you embrace his body, you want to stay that way, with him, though at once you are afraid to touch him, to touch his sex. But with joy always comes sadness. You cry when you touch him.
You don’t know what he knows, in sleep or in waking. Nobody else will know what he thinks of you, of your body, of your mind, of the world. He’s mysterious, but you’re not sure why, and you don’t think you’ll ever know. But he doesn’t know himself. You could learn nothing from him.
Because you know nothing about him, he knows nothing about you. You’ll leave it at that.
He’d be tall, he’d be wide. His body would be proportionate, the muscles and bones. He would be perfect in his individuality. He would never tell you so.
He would be unlike everyone else in the world.
You look at him.
You say: You must be really beautiful.
He says nothing.
You don’t touch his body. You won’t touch his body.
He sleeps.
You wake him up one night, asking if he’s a paramour or escort. He shakes his head.
You ask why he accepted the bargain.
He answers in a drowsy voice, barely inaudible: Because as soon as you spoke to me I saw myself in you, that suffering, that malady of life. That phrase doesn’t sound right. I still can’t put a name to it.
You ask how he knows. He says he just knows. It’s an instinct, you know without knowing.
You ask: Is the malady of life fatal? He answers: No, not if you do something about it. Some aren’t aware of the condition. They don’t know that they live without life, just death. You know, you always know. You must get back your life.
You ask: How do I do that?
He says he doesn’t know.
He sleeps. While he sleeps you remember the color of his eyes, the name he gave you on the first night. You can’t forget them, they are always there, always there even in sleep. But you realize that it’s not the color of the eyes or the name that haunts you. It’s the look.
The look.
You realize that he’s looking at you.
You cry out. You try not to cry out.
He says: It will end.
*
You go on looking. He is asleep, he is silent. Yet his spirit still moves across the surface of his body, it is always present—the hands, the eyes, the curve of the torso and the face, the chest, the legs and the arms, the temples, the heart, the breath.
You go out and listen to the sound of the brook or the mountain.
There are cries inside you that you can’t explain. They are there, but you can’t reach them. You can only listen.
You go back inside. He is sleeping. You don’t know how he can’t know of your tears, how he can be unaware of the world and yet be the world.
You lie down beside him. And as you sleep, you try not to cry.
Dawn approaches. The room fills with an undistinguished hue. You leave the lights off. You see him. Him. What you do not know, but what clings to your spirit. You see the loose shadows across his body, moving.
He sleeps. It’s almost light.
Dawn still approaches. Time has stopped.
You listen to the sound of the brook or the mountain. He is in the bed, in the stream of white blankets. The white contrasts with his body, like the presence of life or death.
You look at his shape, and you realize its power and weakness, your power and weakness. You are there, he is there. Nothing else.
You realize that he’s made so that he could stop living on a whim, vanish into air, and in his sleep, he exists. It’s a risk he takes in his sleep.
The brook or the mountain is empty and still. And you sleep.
(In a tan Toyota Camry, a FATHER, in driver’s seat, makes his way through Rhode Island, landscapes passing by in the background. In front passenger’s seat, a SON rides and looks out the window. A foreign yet soothing female voice, in New Age style, sings from the CD player. The song is “Era of Queens”; the album has the same name.)
PLAYER: (Inhaling) Hōyehdiohbadadabahādiyeidihōdiyeidi
FATHER: (Chanting) Serengeti, Serengeti.
PLAYER: Yōrehdiyobadadabahādihyedihyāra
FATHER: (Still chanting) Look for yeti, look for yeti.
(Pause)
FATHER: Is this Kelly Furtado?
PLAYER: (Exhaling) Hōōōōhōāyōhōāyōh Hōōōōhōāyōhōāyōh
SON: No, Dad. It’s Origa—Olga Vitalevna Yakovleva , if you prefer.
PLAYER: Badibapabadibapa badibapabadibapa badibapabadi heiyehōdiyōhā
FATHER: Oh.
(Pause)
What language are they singing?
SON: Russian.
FATHER: Oh.
(Pause)
SON: You should recognize this CD, Dad. I’ve had it and played it for the past couple of years.
FATHER: Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention.
PLAYER: Boodooboodooboodoo bingding boodooboodooboodoo dingling beeyoom sheeyooah
SON: You never pay attention to anything, do you? You go through life in a fog of cluelessness, farting your way around without a clue.
(Pause)
FATHER: Nuggets of gold.
PLAYER: (Exhaling) Beeyum sheeyoooshium shidishidishidishidishidi beeyum sheeyooshiiium whooooaam
SON: What? A cloud of nuggets?
(Pause)
FATHER: A cloud of thorns.
PLAYER: (Inhaling) Hōyehdiohbadadabahādiyeidihōdiyeidi Yōrehdiyobadadabahādihyedihyāra
SON: What do you mean, ‘a cloud of thorns’?
(Pause)
FATHER: Headache.
SON: Garbage.
PLAYER: (Exhaling) hōōōōhōāyōhōāyōh hōōōōhōāyōhōāyōh…
Innocence constantly finds itself in a false position where inwardly innocent people learn to be dishonest. The system of affections is too corrupt for them. They are bound to blunder, only to be told they cheat. In love, the sweetness and violence they have to offer involves a thousand betrayals for those who are less innocent.
Her innocence died with fury.
In those elliptic days, she was always brooding over desktops, tapping unsteadily, rolling eyes, pouting. Pale skin mismatched snarls of black hair, with the occasional grey or orange thread, suggesting foreign islands. She only wore glossy pink caps when shaved dots were evident at the back of her skull. But the hair always grew back, and all was forgotten.
With her mercurial mind, she was constantly at odds with strangers and allies. She could never concentrate on the patterns of numbers and words that flowed through the classrooms. Nothing made sense. Her parents struggled to fully understand their daughter, but many evenings ended with absurd conflicts, brass handles. I remember the dirty, swollen feet, the sullen face in the moonlight.
Fight or flight; her mind had one agenda. Once she charmed her way onto a plane to Indiana. The illusion of love grapples the willing, and her prince smelled like cigarettes and cheap vodka. Even the authorities couldn’t defy her without a struggle. Plastered smiles accompanied the homecoming, but the circle always revolves backward, the routine continues.
It is no wonder that the doll was finally broken, thrown carelessly into the well. She is the eternal witness to the wound, the plastic squint drowned in the mud. I see her pallor stare at me ungently from every pool, my Ophelia.
Death. Water and death. Death by water.
I’m surrounded by swirling bodies, and I’m their caduceus. I cannot relinquish this wet seduction, pulling me under the dark waves. I’m entranced and horrified by their existence, the way they move. The way she moved, undulating up and tumbling down. The bodies clutch the cold sand. One by one, the phosphorescence of the moon leaves them, they revolve endlessly down. As we left the shores, we return to the shores. Once we were all jellyfish.
Her skin was pale, she was nine and three quarters uncoiled. The nebulous echidna. No two snowflakes are alike, the patterns don’t match. Her drained, eyeless form hovers. Sallow scales, rotten teeth yawning, screaming from her abyss. My room smells like rotten fruit and soured milk. My sister veils the discovery with an aubergine towel, my mother sees nothing but grimaces in the distance. She was content in misunderstanding the grotesque.
Even in death, my darling Tamora was beastly adorable. She was neither monster nor human, neither nymph nor mortal; a chimera of sorts. I loved the manner in which devoured her prey, pulling apart meat like a dog and gnashing the flesh from her grim caves. She’d eat five-sixths of the world without permission, and then vomit it up later. I remember plucking the bones and white mucous from the rock, wondering what else would vanish.
Too much salt, not enough light. She was damned from the start, my sister.
Through the glass, the burnt umber of her irises scrolled upon the curtains of water. She watched the strands of beads roll across the window and wondered if the heavens would raise and expose another panorama. Yet ocular strokes caught nothing but a kaleidoscope of umbrellas swirling in stray gusts. Her mirror clouded with steam until she drew lines across it.
She always draped herself in white. When patterns of light come together, it creates that ambiguous shade. Smirches of brown pasted onto the cream of her blouse, but after hours of meticulous engineering, nothing else mattered. Her lithe hands were too often caked with earth that splotched across her arm, as if she had contracted an epidermal virus. Sighing, she returned to her unfinished task. This was a room of her own.
From the waifs of heat emanating from the corner of the room, she craved what she couldn’t have. Fumbling through her pockets, she found the box of metal. She liked to snap the container: open, flick, close. It was as calming as the smoke that permeated from the chalice, hints of forbidden places. Her lungs welcomed the perfume into her body, then slowly released. This was the closest she could return to forgotten habits.
There was something alluring about warmth, spreading out in gentle arcs. She tapped the steel cylinder of her furnace lovingly, recoiling quick enough to elude pain. Soon enough, the machine would stop and she could continue her project. She never relied on the metronome of clocks; with the hustle of the outer world, she could count each drifting moment.
While the machine hummed quietly, fur swished between her feet, lightly brushing ankles. The patient glow of the calico’s mismatched eyes knew something, but the woman couldn’t touch the unknown psyche. Curiosity poured from his extended claws, tugging the coiled yarn tumbling across the floor. It was a rarity to discover him among the dominion of females. Nevertheless, with a soft mewling, he demanded access at her doorway. It was her only relinquishing maneuver.
With a click, she knew that the moment had arrived. She carefully opened the matrix and withdrew from the compressed heat. Bravery forced her to peer into the kiln, upon with laid a ring of creation. She carefully lifted each piece from the chamber to a crowded shelf to prepare for the next coat. Each miniature beast was so detailed that their celadon scales seems to protrude from their otherwise chalked skin. She prided herself upon her craft, though such was more of a hobby compared to the vessels of sculpted tradition. Yet among the creatures, one loomed over the rest: the glossy jade of the chameleon seemed to undulate in the radiance of shaded lamps. In that instant she couldn’t decipher the sloth or malice in the lizard’s bulging eyes. Ashes to dust, it lost her trivial design.
Her eyes returned to the window. The rain had thinned, though cumulonimbus stirred in the distance. The calico leaped upon the sill and curled into a strange oval, soaking up the peeping sunrays. She leaned against the concrete, basking in the success of the clay metamorphosis. Yet the ambience of the room had transformed as well; the clouds of warmth seemed to dissipate.
“The time has come.” she heard a deep voice rumble from anywhere, “Beatrice, the time has come to undo.” Silence, and nothing but stray earth.
Knots of amber hair sloped without grace. She fingered each strand as she sat in front of the closed door. Had she washed her hair good enough this morning? Her fingernails remembered the glossy odor. What was the vague shadow in the window? She traced a loose thread on her shirt. The snap made her twitch. The sterile walls only made her tug harder. The shadow inched further as if time was her enemy. The flutter of her heartbeat danced in the seconds passing by.
A click followed a pause. She stepped forward and felt the world oscillate behind her. The shadow drifted across the room, faint in the tumble of the afternoon. Wires pulsed into machines with a declared hiss. Fluorescent lights ticked at an unsteady beat, as if it was a telegraph. Her parading eyes fell upon the knobs and veins of a hand sunken by age. She did not need to touch the jaundiced figure to sense the ambient cold. This was life: through needles and blood, medicine and steel. They only disrupted the natural chaos of things.
“Heather,” a ragged voice whispered. She surveyed the room, but she was the only life there. A shadow is not life, but a projection of life. Its amorphous figure connected to nothing, slowly crossing the off-white corners. Yet something else was there, creating the snarls in her hair and the breath on her neck. The heels of her shoes wished to recoil, but her joints could only pirouette in response.
The open passageway no longer led to that hostile room where she waited, but to elsewhere. No longer sat an audience of chairs, but an overgrown field. The parched straw hummed as the wind moved across each string like a gentle hand. Among the harvest was an elderly woman in the haze of the afternoon sun. She arched her back while stroking the dried straw with a scythe—a gentle death. The woman didn’t hear the crunch of footsteps towards her as the wind pushed back wisps of grayed hair; she continued her residual task under the shade of a large parasol.
The shadow beckoned Heather towards the woman, and she followed in a guilty fashion. She remembered the valleys of the face like a crumpled map, the omniscient cold of those blue eyes that always snapped in her direction as a child. She could sketch the sepia outlines of her memory. Like an old photograph, they lost color with age, but still remained. The shadow drifted further until reaching its target, then seemed to consume the woman whole in black like a cloak.
Heather tried to force some words, but her tongue only slashed out, inviting oxygen in. The woman slowly looked up at her granddaughter. “Heather, what a surprise. It has been long since I saw you last. You have grown into a wonderful young woman.”
She cringed at the quiet timber of the woman’s voice, and mouthed a ‘thank you’.
“It’s quite all right, dearie. You don’t have to be afraid anymore. What is written has been done…thus spoke the ancients. But alas, even the gods must die. I am but their handmaid.”
Riddles. The mystery of ages.
Heather tried to utter something, but failed again. “Call me Evelyn, if you may,” the woman added, returning to sift through the straw. The girl couldn’t distinguish awe from dread. Evelyn noticed a dilapidated butterfly touch the edges of a stray poppy and tenderly snipped the flower. Picking it up with her fingertips, she seemed to gaze into the eyes of the insect. With trembling hands, she grasped the butterfly in her palms, then opened to reveal nothing but dust. She ground the poppy with ease, leaving the remains on the bare ground.
“Grandmother, how can you live like that?” Heather whispered.
“It is not a choice. I love no longer.” The eyes of memory glared at the girl. “We have no control when the time comes. Now I cut the loose threads of this wasteland. Waste, and nothing more. If you want, you can measure these threads and make use of yourself. All you need to say is ‘yes’ and all shall be done.”
The shadow created the form of two loose arms, clawing at the girl. She firmly shut her eyes, resisting what she had been offered. The shadow retreated at Heather’s decision, returning to cloak over the grandmother.
“Perhaps we have an alternative after all is said. Take heed, Heather, in affirming your words and actions—they will come for you later.” Evelyn gazed into the mirror of the blade, as sallow flesh emerged. All vanished.
With open eyes, she saw a smile in the crevices of the moon. The dream seemed lucid and nebulous among the lines of noise. Heather hugged the etherized patient adrift in a sea of blankets.
“Now there is something to live for,” she murmured.
Sun in Cancer. Another was born. She is Gemini. Two are one. The eternal belief. Loving family abound. Had another sibling. An older brother. Life is blurry. Bumping into things. Glass brings clarity. School comes next. The old routine. Peers and lessons. Happiness was simple. Sister was gone. Yet still bossy. I always listened. I always obeyed. No other thought. Grades go by. One, two, three. Girl s are nicer. At least then. Very few friends. Somehow I thrived.
Father left home. Away, but close. Mother never remarried. He still tries. No such luck. Nobody’s “the one”. Somehow I survived. Not much trauma. Such strong resilience. Things became worse. Silence became virtue. Judgment then disappears. Is that masculine? To say nothing? I don’t know. Male and female. What am I? Very odd times. Middle school blues. Friends start disappearing. Writing poetry helps. Voracious reading ensues. Words make sense. Orientation is directed. Language becomes strength. Feelings are exchanged. I had ventilation. Things became easier. Academia was possible. Though awkwardness remained. That drowning feeling...
College brought freedom. Rhode Island bound. No overbearing parents. Social struggle continues. Writing, then breathing. Therapy helps mind. Social anxiety disorder. Chronic depression realized. Everything placed together. Muses bring strength. They can relate. Others, not much. We thread together. There is purpose. Books bring wisdom. No more teaching. Libraries bear future. School may end. Yet learning doesn’t. Not understanding self. It will come. Patience will help. Silence is useless.
A voice sings. I can live.
Leave me now - return tonight, tide will show you the way. If you forget my name, you will go astray like a killer whale trapped in a bay.
I'm a path of cinders burning under your feet...you're the one who walks me; I'm your one way street.
I'm a whisper in water, a secret for you to hear; you're the one who grows distant when I beckon you near.
I'm a tree that grows hearts, one for each that you take...you're the intruders hand; I'm the branch that you break.
Leave me now - return tonight, tide will show you the way. If you forget my name, you will go astray like a killer whale trapped in a bay.
He could hear the frantic footsteps; perceive her chilled breath in the twilight. Few moments elapsed before her eyes, green lanterns of wonder and fright, laid eyes upon her brother emerging from the forest. With haste, she moved in a march, then a sprint, over to embrace him, as if his absence had spanned over decades. “My dear
His rueful eyes, trembling to keep impassive, told otherwise.
The smell of complacent warmth embraced the siblings as they removed their shoes and coats in a leisured fashion. A woman of her late forties, slender in build, adorned with a rosy calling-dress, and topped with a silk feathered hat upon her chestnut hair appeared from a quaint drawing room and approached her children with a sigh of respite and grace.
“My goodness,
“It’s alright, mum. As I told
“But you give her every reason to worry,
“Oh, balderdash! Nothing like the chatter of birds to cause distress,” called a voice from the back parlor.
“I forgot to tell you that Mr. Glenfiddich has arrived back to Kingsbury while you were missing. He decided to stop by to see how his dear friends were doing,” the woman said heartily.
“Pshaw,” muttered a man entering the corridor. “Isabella, the only reasonable conversation you’ll get from those women is silence. We have nothing to fear from the spirits; it is the humans that we should dread. They’re the ones who are causing all this nonsense and chaos.” The man paused, staring intently at the young gentleman before him. “Where are my manners?
A whistle screamed in the distance. “Lets retreat to the parlor, shan’t we?” said Isabella. “The tea should be ready in just a moment.” In a scurried motion,
Once finding a place to rest, a well-cushioned burgundy chair, Mr. Glenfiddich carefully placed his rosewood cane beside him and fell into his seat.
“It was a foolish decision, sir,”
With a curious knock,
“Now, back to our tête-à-tête. Certainly, there was purpose in your visit to the woodland. Would you like to refine your answer, hmm?”
“Please, call me Winston. We know each well enough to avoid formalities.”
“Well, Winston, it…it…”
He could not bear himself to say it. What made him so afraid of his beloved mentor? Not a sound was emitted between the two, save for the nine imposing tolls of a grandfather clock in the corner of the parlor, its gears pulsing in a circular rhythm.
After moments of patient silence, he spat it out like a chunk of undercooked meat: “It was for Philomela. While you were away, she—”
Winston’s face turned sullen. “I am aware of the unfortunate circumstances of Philomel; I felt an ominous wind upon entering Kingsbury, and that was enough to inform of what has occurred. The world must seem miserable without her…”
He was not looking for an answer, but could tell that the mention of the name struck a powerful sorrow within the boy. Sipping lightly from his teacup, the gentleman continued. “There is only one way to pull oneself from grief, and it is something that will not be pleasant to the ears. You have to move on with your life; it is what Philomel would have wanted most. Easier said than done, right? A change will not occur over night; overcoming your darkest fears takes more time than one would imagine. But I have faith in you, Raleigh, that you can do this.”
“Her memory…”
The young man divulged his discovery in the woods to his mentor, pouring out its contents across the room.
“The fact that you’ve gone to the spirits for help is a step in the right direction. Your mother should not listen to what the townsfolk say; the spirits would never harm a soul. Nay, they probably thought your wishes were very noble. Do not fear,
“Chamomile and lavender, Winston. I’ve been preparing batches from the garden since mid-spring,” returned a voice from the kitchen.
“A gift from the Gods, my dear. I must depart; I shall be back in a few days or so. Farewell!” With those words, the jolly gentleman had exited, walking himself out with his third leg of a cane.
The midnight hours passed slowly. Cobalt hues receded into the amber; the dawn quietly prowled across the ozone like a solitary lion in a savannah, then lurching forward in scarlet fury. The brilliant light pierced through his curtains, giving the bedroom a soft, evanescent glow.
Then, in swift motion, his mind was ambushed, taking his thoughts hostage to the memory of her, the girl who had inspired a change within. It was alluring and torpid, the memory, as it slowly grazed across the nape of his neck and caressed his body. A warning for such sensuality of though was superfluous; through dim passageways he was forced back into her arcadia.
Defined legs transitioned the scene in monotonous steps, the dreary woolen scarf wrapped tightly around his neck waving in the chilled air. Anything beyond that seemed to blend into a thin fog, clouded meaning. Within minutes, he found himself at the edge of a river trickling quietly over protruding rocks. His pace dithered as his shoes crunched the fallen snow, and he finally stopped, staring in awe at the place where his memory had escorted him.
This was the place where their love was consummated, where timid feelings were liberated like the wings of a dove.
Beside the almost regal maiden was a young man, his trousers and partially unbuttoned shirt swaying alongside the girl’s patterned summer dress, his hair ruffled gently by elegant hands. They walked by the riverside, with honeyed breezes blowing over the water and moths swirling down. At dusk, they laid in the tall grasses, sighing in bliss. He gingerly picked wildflowers and braided them into her soft tresses, and they couldn’t help but smile playfully at the sight of the other.
Her damp lips were sweeter than the clementines that tumbled from her arms.
Words became futile. Passion swirled as if it were the blood that flowed through their veins of existence. He was embraced by her eyes, splendid, sparkling fire through downcast lashes. In moments of perfect silence, he whispered, “Philomel, will thou sing for me?”
She nodded slightly. They raised themselves from the lush ground, and she clasped her hands in prayer. She closed her eyes, listening intently to the world about her, and began her melancholy serenade:
The poor soul sat sighing by a sycamore tree,
Sing all a green willow.
Her hand on her bosom, her head on her knee,
Sing willow, willow, willow.
The fresh streams ran by her, and murmured her moans,
Sing willow, willow, willow.
Her salt tears fell from her, and softened the stones
Sing willow, willow, willow—
Lay by these—
Prithee, hie thee, he'll come anon—
Sing all a green willow must be my garland.
Let nobody blame him, his scorn I approve—
I called my love false love but what said he then?
Sing willow, willow, willow.
Her mellifluous voice rang out along the riverside, carrying itself in the honeyed breezes. Once the song was completed, Philomela paused for a few moments of reverie, and then said, “T’is a sad song, but I know not how to be sad when I be with you.” Her sparkling eyes watered slightly, and then she leaped into the man’s arms as if life itself depended upon it. The man could only whisper, “Philomel, my lark, be with me always…and always, I shall.” He clutched her tightly, and their limbs became intertwined as the Lughnasadh evening fell into the sky.
The dream slowly perished, the incident before him nothing more than a spectacle of light.
It was a beautiful memory, that poignant, grisly illusion.
- Mood:
morose
thrown aside by a child, scampering downhill
to hide under the skirts of his mother!
In twilight’s quiet he took sudden fright
as toadstool caps snatched at his tongue,
foxgloves crooked their fingers at him
and from the oak, he heard the owl’s low call.
His little heart almost stopped when a weasel
went by, with a fat young rabbit in its jaws,
loose guts spilling over the grass while
a bat wing flicked across the evening sky.
He rushed away so noisily and ever since
you are a lasting witness to the fairy arrow
that stabbed his ear; stuck in the mud
your plastic eyes squinny open from morning
to night: you see the vixen and her brood
stealing up to lap the ferny swamphole
near their den, the badger loping to wash
his paws, snuff water with his snout. On
Pattern days people parade seven clockwise
rounds; at every turn, throwing in a stone.
Those small stones rain down on you.
The nuts from the hazel tree that grows
to the right of the well also drop down:
you will grow wiser than any blessed trout
in this ooze! The redbreasted robin
of the Sullivans will come to transform
the surface to honey with her quick tail,
churn the depths to blood, but you don’t move.
Bemired, your neck strangled with lobelias,
I see your pallor staring starkly back at me
from every swimming hole, from every pool, Ophelia.
- Mood:
cynical
The footsteps of two people always resounded on the road
Withered and dead trees along the road side
Noticed my pace became faster
The small fallen leaves again return to the sky, passing my shoulder
Even that sort of violent wind, I now somehow love
I was smiling softly
Leaning by the window
A familiar figure is reflected in the fading sunlight, then disappears
Murmuring words of overflowing memories
"At least until I wake from my dream..."
Longer
I want to sleep holding you
Even now the gentle memory has changed
I want to sleep holding you in my arms
Like we were when we first met
Leaning by the window, in rustling trees
I softly mutter the same words once again...
Even if the figure from that time doesn't appear
At least it is in my dreams
Longer
I want to sleep holding you
Even now the gentle memory has changed
I want to sleep holding you in my arms
The same as we were when we first met
I want to sleep holding you
I want to sleep holding you in my arms
- Location:Corcaigh, Ierann
- Mood: contemplative
- Music:Malice Mizer
and then when I had some
To my surprise, I grew to like both, scared or brave without them.
The thrill of fear...thought I'd never admit it,
The thrill of fear...now greatly enjoyed with courage
When I once was untouchable,
innocence roared, still amazes
When I once was innocent,
it's still here but in different places.
Neurosis only attaches itself to fertile ground where it can flourish.
The thrill of fear...thought I'd never admit it,
the thrill of fear...now greatly enjoyed with courage.
When I once was fearless,
innocence roared-still amazes
untouchable innocence...
it's still here, but in different places.
Fear is a powerful drug:
overcome it and you think that you can do anything!
Should I save myself for later or generously give?
Fear of losing energy is draining;
it locks up your chest, shuts down the heart,
miserly and stingy.
Let's open up : share!
When I once was fearless,
innocence roared-still amazes
Untouchable innocence...
it's still here, but in different places.
- Location:Corcaigh, Ierann
- Mood: contemplative
the world is always going to be made of this
you can trust in it
unless you breath in
bravely
I adore how you simply surrender to high
and your lungs
they're mourning
t-b style
all the stillborn love that could have happened
all the moments you should have embraced
all the moments you should have not locked up
understand
so clearly:
to shut yourself up
would be the hugest crime of them all
hugest crime of them all
you're just crying after all
to not want them humans around any more
get over that sorrow, boy
get over it
- Location:Corcaigh
- Mood: cold
- Music:Bjork: Volta
In the late afternoon of the fifth of September, I arrived a bit wearily at the small dock on the middle of the
The main road on Inis Meain was not a paved street but a dirt road scattered generously with chunks of gravel. As I traveled along it, I remembered that my teacher had told us that the people of Inis Meain were naturally shy, and I noticed that as some of the island’s citizens lowered their heads as we passed by them on the road. However, after going past the sole pub on the island, a fair, slightly-dirty dog ran from the pub to join us. In a friendly slack of its jaw, the dog stopped beside us and gently placed a rock from its mouth on the road, waiting patiently for some reason. One of my classmates kicked the stone a bit up the road, and the dog immediately fetched the stone, and then repeated its former actions. My classmates continued this game of fetch with the dog until it followed a trio of students to the home they were staying. Perhaps the dog was an omen of the warm hospitality that we were about to receive.
As the sun began to set in the sky, leaving bold shades of pink, purple, and indigo across the sky, my group of seven finally found Sean’s bed-and-breakfast with only a slight bit of confusion. After Eli, the only other boy in my class, asked e to room with him, the hostess of the bed-and-breakfast served us an overwhelming dinner. I almost did not expect the amount of food placed before me, but the kindness of Sean and his wife was remarkably genuine. I believe that they were the archetype for the people of Inis Meain: that amiable, benevolent force has been the pinnacle of hospitality that I have received in
After dinner, the seven of us decided to venture to the pub; my friends Jackie, Casey, Erin, and I were curious as to what kind of atmosphere it would have. Since Inis Meain is by no means technologically advanced, we walked in the darkness, save for the faint light coming from a sole flashlight. The pub was unmistakable in the darkness; it shone with a dim brilliancy, and the people, whether my classmates of tourists or the island’s inhabitants, drew to it like moths to a flame. My friends and I found a corner of an empty room to sit in, and within minutes, the room was full of laughter, shouting, and pretentious conversation.
It did not take long, with my stockpiled anxieties, to release me from that stifling place of life. Walking alone in the silent air, I was finally allowed a moment of repose. Gazing upwards, I realized that the night sky was making its own silent music. The stars, glistening specks of illumination, filled the heavens; I could easily distinguish Ursa Major and Orion’s belt. The antiquity of the island suddenly overwhelmed with me; I could almost touch the history of Inis Meain as the sky told stories in patterns of shining dots. I felt truly grateful for this still reverie, for it was soon broken as my companions rushed to accompany me through the darkness back to Sean’s home.
In the mid-morning of the next day, after having a very generous breakfast, my group of seven decided to explore the island. Following a trail that led away from Sean’s bed-and-breakfast and towards a jagged pathway of rocks, we made our way around the rough edges of the island, climbing boulders and looking down from the edges of cliffs. I was not audacious enough to hang my head from the side of them, per request of my teacher, but I was still able to see the magnificent, untouched scenery below. As the ocean churned and sprayed upon the cliffs, one could view the various tide pools spawning hordes of algae, and gendering upon closer pools, seashells clamped to rock like barnacles, and scattered gull feathers. The landscape showed the organic beauty of the island, and as Eli strummed a ditty on his mandolin, the wind beckoned on the rocks, and I felt the tranquil nature of Inis Meain flow through me.
After passing three massive windmills, we followed a pathway home and arrived just in time for lunch (the times of the meals truly did set the course of events of the days I spent there). Later, my group proceeded to the other side of the island, where a classmate of mine led us through a labyrinth of ancient stone walls to a secret beach he and the other students from my class discovered. I noticed the island’s graveyard on a hill as we walked, though nobody else seemed to notice, but the marks on the tombstones did pique my interest. Reaching the unlimited amount of sand dunes, my group promptly joined the rest of my class in a gaggle of beach blankets and bathing suits.
Meanwhile, I wandered the sands alone; I was never fond of group socialization. Skimming the surface of the grains, I found myself in a seemingly natural graveyard, the broken sea shells and crab cadavers blanketing the sand, the marrow of life drained from their cracked forms. This eerie panorama was more chilling than the manmade graveyard of Inis Meain, and as I felt the toothed end of shell shard press against my palm, I could almost sense how ancient and unspoken the island really was. Each fragment and bone told a story similar to what I had experienced the previous night, but in a less celestial manner. I did not need to speak to the actual people of Inis Meain to discover its wonder; the force of nature told it, stringing pain, joy, and sorrow across the sand in broken memories.
Becoming somewhat lost among the beach, I trekked back to Sean’s home, making my way across sharp blades of dune grass of the verdant land. Reaching a recognizable path, I observed wild patches of blackberries growing upon the sides of the rock labyrinth. I had seen such plants in my home in
With a little help from an islander, I made it back to Sean’s house before dusk. The six other classmates staying at Sean’s bed-and-breakfast were sunburned. Despite my animosity with the sun, I managed to tan slightly.
With the termination of dinner, Sean went pen of rocks just in front of his home. A couple of adult goats walked slowly about in the pen, their necks tied together by an aquamarine rope to keep them from jumping and making trouble. However, as Sean pulled out a baby bottle full with milk, the more gentle of a pair of identical twin goats leaped up the side of the pen and sucked with vigor onto the bottle. Taken aback by the vitality of the little goat that was only two months old, it was quite a sight to see so much energy coiled up within the little beast, searching for sustenance from the bottle like a surrogate mother.
While my classmates ventured to the pub that night, I stayed in my room and thought about Inis Meain and what wonder I had discovered over the course of a day. I felt very lucky to be there and I vowed to spend the remaining time left on the island in pursuit of what else Inis Meain had to offer.
On the morning of the seventh of September, the last day on Inis Meain, I followed my companions Jackie, Casey, and Erin to one of the ancient forts on the island. After being stared down by four cows as if we were aliens (I suppose we were, for the most part), we eventually reached the fort, a structure composed of massive stones. I was brave enough to climb up one of the fort’s slightly unstable walls and viewed the plain beauty of the island in stone grids and various shades of greens that reached towards the sea. After getting down, we traveled to the beach once more; however, we found it rather different than we left it: the ocean had disappeared in the morning fog. All that was noticeable was that the sands were more of a wasteland than a beach, leaving a grisly chill in my mind and soul. My friends eventually found the water and waded into it, and I found solace once more by my lonesome, musing to myself on the rocks. I looked out into the horizon, and in my mind, I immediately returned to the solitaire of the cliffs in
Returning to reality, I decided to walk back along the labyrinth of stone to Sean’s home. Eventually the three girls caught up with me, telling me that they had shouted my name to catch my attention, but I must have not heard them in the depths of the fog, the cloudiness of my mind.
In the remaining hours of my time on Inis Meain, I sat outside of the bed-and-breakfast with my copy of The Aran Islands by John Synge. However, a flock of swallows balancing on nearby telephone wires and the neighboring chimney diverted my attention. As they flew away together, like a cirrus of cobalt wings, to another gathering place, they seemed to be similar to the citizens of the island. It was not by individual efforts but by the communal force of the islanders that made Inis Meain such a hospitable, humble, organic wonderland, and I felt very fortunate to spend the brief moments I did there.
As I departed on the ferry that late afternoon, I knew that the memories of what I had experienced on Inis Meain would carry with me longer than the souvenirs of shells and feathers would. If you are willing to listen, the nature of the island can tell stories of its history that the people cannot, in life and death, ecstasy and grief. The stone monuments and restless tide pull those interested in, swirling a rooted past with a fertile present in endless possibility. May those that breach that island be willing to comprehend its hidden glory and splendor.
- Location:Corcaigh
- Mood: melancholy
- Music:Sarah McLachlan: Adia
...
I'm feeling miserable again. I don't feel like typing out anything because of my current nihility.
I can't believe how people write so much on here. I wonder when they have the time to live. Somehow, I suppose, I don't.
The clock strikes nine; ominous clouds settle in the sky. The river lee whispers in a hushed reverie, and the world, in a sudden movement, seems brilliant and still.
Cheers.
- Location:Cork IE: Random Internet Cafe
- Mood: melancholy
- Music:Radio speak.
I went to New York City with Lisa, Cat, and my dad. Splendors and squalors were seen. Many people, young and old, male and female, asked, "Hanbag? Chanelle, Coach, Prada, Gucci?" I politely said no.
I went to Newport-my true home, the sepulchre by the sea- and saw my dear friend Joe. The ocean was amazing. Jasmine green tea was pressed and shared, as well as stream-of-consciousness quotes, used books, and beautiful French films. A cup with the words 'RUN' spiraling down its core and outward was sipped from in my trembling hands as the cellist exchanged chatter with Joe. A mansion with amazing statues and exterior was photographed for its stunning beauty.
I went to Boston yesterday with just my dad-Lisa was sick, Cat was still bitter over a silly fight with my dad, and Laura could not escape work. Few stores were entered, many restaurants were seen. The Vietnamese crispy lo mein was...interesting. The grocery store was...insane. My dad's hernia was acting up again, so we left.
This week, I revealed to a co-worker at Kent Library my innermost, darkest, and most melancholy secrets, and she revealed some to me. We are to meet this week to discuss such matters.
Nine days remain. Nine days, and I disappear from the continent to the Emerald Isle. Nine days, and the withdrawal becomes much more brutal. Nevertheless, I cannot elude from my pains, my sorrow, and I fear it will only intensify as I continue to live.
I just saw the movie 'Stardust' with my dear sister. The beginning was somewhat amusing, then the plot line became predictable and sappy/cheesy. I would not give it another chance. Love isn't so magical, love isn't so grand. It is something I am devoid of, that romance, and something I can never know. A prince of ice can never be thawed.
Soon Three Muses will be written and somewhat complete. It shall be sent off to Monsieur Michel and Miss Amelia.
Nine days...God, let me find redemption.
- Location:a room full of shadows...
- Mood: morose
- Music:Moby: Dead Sun
I spent my birthday a month ago on the lovely Aquidneck isle-specifically in the town of Newport. There I spent the day in a corroding old mansion with a dear friend of mine, Monsieur Michel Sojpikov, and we delighted in wonderful conversation, aromatic tea, lulling jazz music, a game of chess-a perfect day.
No more needs to be said.
Besides working long shifts at Kent Memorial Library and coming home to my mother, screaming about why I have not done enough for my preparation of Ireland, leaving a lingering fatigue on my life and a weariness to return home. I elude from the danger, gathering fancy in stalking butterflies and bumblebees grazing on coneflowers, lonely swingsets shrieking in a gentle breeze, hazy sunsets and low-swinging stars...
I have begun to see a counselor again; this time, a man in the town across the river, by the name of Mister Kenneth Colby. He's alright, though sometimes his mannerisms are a bit...strange. I shrug them off and move on.
I told Bekah about my seven-year problem at a Ruby Tuesdays late one Monday night over pomegranate tea and chardonnay. Surprisingly, she understood and told me her own grips with the melancholy ghosts. I feel some sort of trust in her, however misguided it may be, her quick wit compelling.
With the remains of my birthday money, I bought a Canon Powershot SD750 camera, which I have dubbed Oberon (if you're unfamiliar with the name, try Shakespeare's A Midsummer's Night Dream). As of late, I've tried to use it in creative measures, but as my friend Lyssa Bryant can attest, most, if not all, have been failures that I'm too insecure to even dare to post at my deviantart account. Like most of my visual art, I guess most of the photographs I've taken will lie in my computer and rot like corpses in a graveyard.
I've had rushes of ideas flow throughout my head for my stories and the like, but none have translated onto paper. Thus, this summer seems like a fleeting failure that I wish I could escape...and so often, I wish that I could escape this world, but alas, I cannot.
I feel tragically alone. Even though I've made a few attempts to see people this summer, I still have a throbbing misery and loneliness in my soul...but I guess I'll save it for some other time...
As I end this post, my misery still tolls through. I dare say it will not leave for a long, long time.
Goodnight, ladies and gentlemen.
- Location:a room full of shadows
- Mood: lonely
- Music:Cold Fairyland: The Dead Children in the Newspapers
Yes, I play pokemon. However, I'm a closet player, and I'm afraid to admit it, because of the following reasons:
1.) I'm twenty years old now, and my family thinks I'm too old to be playing 'such a child's game'--hence why I was very hesitant that I got a Nintendo DS for the sole purpose of Pokemon Diamond and Pearl. Playing it at my age is something embarrassing to admit.
2.) It's also something unaccepted by my culture. Heck, while I was working at Kent Memorial Library yesterday, a patron commented to me how hard it is to find pokemon items, such as the movies. If I mention to other people that I play, they might think less of me, especially my maturity, as a human being.
Nevertheless, and as the people on smogon.com say in rebuttal, I think that the game can be simple child's play, but it can also be complex as it requires training, thought, and strategy. A gambit of people play, young and old...and maybe I'm just interested because of my initial love of animals and desires for fantastical escapism, but I don't know.
At the moment, I'm trying to figure out how WiFi works. I guess I have to get some adapter or something for it...like I have the money for that. To add on, I don't even know anyone who plays (minus
![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
kyliemuffin , who is difficult to contact due to the fact that we live on opposite ends of the globe), which doesn't help things.However, I am trying to train a group of pokemon that I am curious and interested in. I'm not sure how to train for EVs and IVs, so I only search for natures at the moment, which is difficult by itself. Here are all the ones I intend on training below. Note: I don't use legendaries of any type, nor ridiculously commonly used pokemon, such as Tyrannitar, Salamence, Heracross, Blissey, Garchomp, et cetera. However, it may be my downfall that I don't...
Offense:
Defense/Support:
I'm pretty sure I'll be working with these pokemon; there are others that I'm unsure of, but oh well.
I'll write more when I have a moment...I'm going to go see a friend I haven't spoken to in a long time...
- Location:a dim room...
- Mood:
busy - Music:Utada Hikaru: Kremlin Dusk
