I realize now
I’ve broken you down
To something abstract.
An idea,
A formula for anyone
Of your same name:
A song multiplied by
Some memories,
Divided by
Some books on shelves,
Plus a cherished word
Or two,
Minus the vital concept
Of rationality.
Like those numbers
I was loath to calculate,
You were
Imaginary.
I'd tell them, you know, if they wanted to know. I'd tell them all sorts of things.
Saturday, March 23, 2013
Monday, March 18, 2013
Beautiful Things
When I was eight years old there was little that I desired more than a window seat. I had seen them at the big library in the city and something about them seemed so romantic; so wistful. I was a very wistful child in general, even if only for yesterday or last week.
In lieu of a window seat, after dark and if the sky was clear, I would remove the screens from my windows and perch on the sill, a folded blanket to cushion the awkward seat. Legs firmly pressed against the wall beneath the window for balance, I would lean out as far as I could. I would crank my head backward and up, satiating my ravenous eyes with as many stars as they could catch; as many as would fall in to the wide, rich pools of naivety that my pupils seemed to be. I’d look down and around, too, at the acres of pasture and woods soaked in dusk. The starlight did funny things to the tree line; if I squinted they could be mountains.
Even in the winter I’d sit there, layered in sweaters and blankets while my puppy lay at the foot of my bed, curled up tight against the cold. After replacing the screens I would wrap the little dog up in my discarded blankets to warm him up. He was very young then; I would lay next to him and whisper his name in his silky ear while he slept, to help him learn it.
I’d sing, too, to him or the cats or snakes or lizards or turtles or frogs or rats or fish or ferrets—to whatever pets I had at the time. I had one of my first pet snakes then—a fat, four-foot ball python named Lily. Knowing she couldn’t hear my voice, sometimes I’d gather her up in my arms and sing with her held close to my chest, hoping the mellow vibrations would have a sort of soothing, lullaby affect. I’d sing slow, sentimental songs that sometimes made me cry for no particular reason. Just because they were beautiful.
I have always marveled at the profound effects of music, and the power it gives to so many talented artists. Lyrics, compositions, harmonies; a single musician producing albums and albums of the enigmatic brilliance that is to twist or rouse a heart at will, song after song.
How can one person have so many beautiful things inside of them? It is God, pouring into and out of their souls, whether they know it or not.
I have some beautiful things inside me, too, but not so many as that. Not albums full like the musicians, or books full like the authors of great literature, or galleries full like real artists. I have made some beautiful things, just a few, and for them I worked so hard they were ground from my very bones. My bones are rather tired these days. Too tired to make any more beautiful things, at least for now.
I’ve heard that life is a series of rhythms, of ebbs and flows. I feel as if I am experiencing the former. Taking an unwilling sabbatical from production. Though I suspect that a large part of this current “ebb” comes from the paralyzing fear—or knowledge, even—that the things I try to make won’t turn out the way I’d envisioned. I think a “flow” will come again eventually, and until then I hope to absorb more of the beauty that already exists.
As a child in the window sill I was a black hole for all things beautiful, a vortex frantically sucking in more and more, stars and music and art, animals landscapes flowers and sparkly things, nature and glinting chandeliers, the sounds of violins and harmonies. I particularly liked the durable things, things that could keep their deepest beauty even in the rough. That was my favorite. Somehow I felt that the beauty wasn’t quite so genuine if it couldn’t survive a tumble or two; if it could be completely ruined by a bit of mud and mess.
I think maybe beauty shouldn’t be afraid to be ugly.
In lieu of a window seat, after dark and if the sky was clear, I would remove the screens from my windows and perch on the sill, a folded blanket to cushion the awkward seat. Legs firmly pressed against the wall beneath the window for balance, I would lean out as far as I could. I would crank my head backward and up, satiating my ravenous eyes with as many stars as they could catch; as many as would fall in to the wide, rich pools of naivety that my pupils seemed to be. I’d look down and around, too, at the acres of pasture and woods soaked in dusk. The starlight did funny things to the tree line; if I squinted they could be mountains.
Even in the winter I’d sit there, layered in sweaters and blankets while my puppy lay at the foot of my bed, curled up tight against the cold. After replacing the screens I would wrap the little dog up in my discarded blankets to warm him up. He was very young then; I would lay next to him and whisper his name in his silky ear while he slept, to help him learn it.
I’d sing, too, to him or the cats or snakes or lizards or turtles or frogs or rats or fish or ferrets—to whatever pets I had at the time. I had one of my first pet snakes then—a fat, four-foot ball python named Lily. Knowing she couldn’t hear my voice, sometimes I’d gather her up in my arms and sing with her held close to my chest, hoping the mellow vibrations would have a sort of soothing, lullaby affect. I’d sing slow, sentimental songs that sometimes made me cry for no particular reason. Just because they were beautiful.
I have always marveled at the profound effects of music, and the power it gives to so many talented artists. Lyrics, compositions, harmonies; a single musician producing albums and albums of the enigmatic brilliance that is to twist or rouse a heart at will, song after song.
How can one person have so many beautiful things inside of them? It is God, pouring into and out of their souls, whether they know it or not.
I have some beautiful things inside me, too, but not so many as that. Not albums full like the musicians, or books full like the authors of great literature, or galleries full like real artists. I have made some beautiful things, just a few, and for them I worked so hard they were ground from my very bones. My bones are rather tired these days. Too tired to make any more beautiful things, at least for now.
I’ve heard that life is a series of rhythms, of ebbs and flows. I feel as if I am experiencing the former. Taking an unwilling sabbatical from production. Though I suspect that a large part of this current “ebb” comes from the paralyzing fear—or knowledge, even—that the things I try to make won’t turn out the way I’d envisioned. I think a “flow” will come again eventually, and until then I hope to absorb more of the beauty that already exists.
As a child in the window sill I was a black hole for all things beautiful, a vortex frantically sucking in more and more, stars and music and art, animals landscapes flowers and sparkly things, nature and glinting chandeliers, the sounds of violins and harmonies. I particularly liked the durable things, things that could keep their deepest beauty even in the rough. That was my favorite. Somehow I felt that the beauty wasn’t quite so genuine if it couldn’t survive a tumble or two; if it could be completely ruined by a bit of mud and mess.
I think maybe beauty shouldn’t be afraid to be ugly.
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