.
As a castaway on
A cold night at sea
Urinates
On himself,
Choosing
Momentary warmth
In spite of a
Burning, chafing
Future—
Whether in ignorance
Or
A lack of discipline—
So too do we choose
A luxurious today
Above
A fulfilling tomorrow.
.
I'd tell them, you know, if they wanted to know. I'd tell them all sorts of things.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Friday, May 27, 2011
Silly Little Girl
B.H. Fairchild wrote this poem called “Rave On”. It was about some teenage boys who fixed up these junky cars and sped them down the road and off the side, intentionally flipping the vehicles at maximum speed just to see if they’d come out alive.
I think I need to do something like that. Maybe not quite so dramatic—I’m not that mentally unstable (yet)—but something similar regarding broader concepts of life.
I used to think that I wanted to crash my metaphorical car without thinking; just do it on impulse. But I changed my mind. Now I think I want to fully understand the potential consequences—the possibility of shattered bones and twisted metal, of scorching flames and brassy blood and explosions spattering my shiny pinkish insides everywhere—and do it anyway.
Maybe it’s the way the summer air tastes, like mistakes and last year’s salt; maybe it’s how lately it seems the sun must run a gauntlet of clouds just to show its face to the day.
Still, I suppose it’s warmer than it was a few months ago and I’m glad of that. Of course, I knew this time would come again. I knew when the cold was so bitter as to draw tears from my eyes that someday I would walk with my face in the sun again. I knew spring would come, then summer. It was a secret, and I hardly believed it myself, but somewhere inside I just knew. It’s what made the cold bearable, knowing it would end.
Yes, things often end.
Sometimes to me, like the bones of birds, it feels so fragile.
That fact makes space for hope in the bad times.
As if, touched by anything except the air we share, it may fracture.
But it also makes space for fear when things are good.
Is it my fear or is it prophecy?
Maybe I’m too cynical.
Dear God, I pray it’s just me.
Silly little girl.
Could cynicism be sanity?
It’s not just me. It’s a dog-bite scar, it’s a bucket list; it’s blood on your guitar strings and a tin-bright day that puts spots in your eyes. It’s almost a year since my dog died; it’s dust gathering on things I had such big plans for. It’s time…it’s time for something.
It’s time to give my hands a break. They hurt, my hands do, and my wrists—they crackle when I move them—but I can’t stop twisting my hair. I just keep curling sections round and round my fingers until they’re wound tight up against my scalp. It’s time to give my hands a break but the second my hands have nothing else to do they’re up there again, tangled in the locks.
It’s time to cry a little, about anything at all, about the dead rat in my hands. Soft fur and brisk whiskers and eyes shut tight, as if fearfully resigned to its fate as snake-meal. Eerie stillness; poor little rat. Poor little nose that used to twitch at curious smells, poor little eyes that were bright once, poor little head that went bang bang bang on the edge of a pet store counter.
But poor little snake tummy, painfully empty; poor creature who didn’t choose to be carnivorous and cold. Poor little Gypsy who I love, Gypsy and her coiling hugs; her glass-smooth scales sliding against my skin; I love the way she hides her head beneath my chin when she’s frightened and tickles my ear with her flickering black tongue.
But to kill for her life; I don’t like that.
But what is one to do? How is one to choose? After all, Eve empathized with a snake. She made a choice, and then let nature take its course.
Did she cry a bit? Silly little girl.
.
I think I need to do something like that. Maybe not quite so dramatic—I’m not that mentally unstable (yet)—but something similar regarding broader concepts of life.
I used to think that I wanted to crash my metaphorical car without thinking; just do it on impulse. But I changed my mind. Now I think I want to fully understand the potential consequences—the possibility of shattered bones and twisted metal, of scorching flames and brassy blood and explosions spattering my shiny pinkish insides everywhere—and do it anyway.
Maybe it’s the way the summer air tastes, like mistakes and last year’s salt; maybe it’s how lately it seems the sun must run a gauntlet of clouds just to show its face to the day.
Still, I suppose it’s warmer than it was a few months ago and I’m glad of that. Of course, I knew this time would come again. I knew when the cold was so bitter as to draw tears from my eyes that someday I would walk with my face in the sun again. I knew spring would come, then summer. It was a secret, and I hardly believed it myself, but somewhere inside I just knew. It’s what made the cold bearable, knowing it would end.
Yes, things often end.
Sometimes to me, like the bones of birds, it feels so fragile.
That fact makes space for hope in the bad times.
As if, touched by anything except the air we share, it may fracture.
But it also makes space for fear when things are good.
Is it my fear or is it prophecy?
Maybe I’m too cynical.
Dear God, I pray it’s just me.
Silly little girl.
Could cynicism be sanity?
It’s not just me. It’s a dog-bite scar, it’s a bucket list; it’s blood on your guitar strings and a tin-bright day that puts spots in your eyes. It’s almost a year since my dog died; it’s dust gathering on things I had such big plans for. It’s time…it’s time for something.
It’s time to give my hands a break. They hurt, my hands do, and my wrists—they crackle when I move them—but I can’t stop twisting my hair. I just keep curling sections round and round my fingers until they’re wound tight up against my scalp. It’s time to give my hands a break but the second my hands have nothing else to do they’re up there again, tangled in the locks.
It’s time to cry a little, about anything at all, about the dead rat in my hands. Soft fur and brisk whiskers and eyes shut tight, as if fearfully resigned to its fate as snake-meal. Eerie stillness; poor little rat. Poor little nose that used to twitch at curious smells, poor little eyes that were bright once, poor little head that went bang bang bang on the edge of a pet store counter.
But poor little snake tummy, painfully empty; poor creature who didn’t choose to be carnivorous and cold. Poor little Gypsy who I love, Gypsy and her coiling hugs; her glass-smooth scales sliding against my skin; I love the way she hides her head beneath my chin when she’s frightened and tickles my ear with her flickering black tongue.
But to kill for her life; I don’t like that.
But what is one to do? How is one to choose? After all, Eve empathized with a snake. She made a choice, and then let nature take its course.
Did she cry a bit? Silly little girl.
.
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