Saturday, March 10, 2007
Love in Seasons
It was Spring when we met and fell quickly in love. The blooms were beginning to bud on the naked trees and as they burst into bloom it appeared as if there were fireworks tethered to the ground by branches, echoing and celebrating the love that I felt exploding in my heart, filling me with a radiant kind of energy that made me feel that nothing in this world was impossible for the two of us. I told her this and she smiled that pursed, close-lipped smile that first attracted me to her.
Saturday, March 3, 2007
Sunday, November 19, 2006
The Pull of Water
It wasn't the alarm, he shut it off with a practiced arc of his arm. It wasn't the cold that found its way through the gap between the blanket and the sheet. It wasn't the dim winter light working its way through his eyelids. It was the pull of water.
Robbie pushed the blankets forward, swung his legs over the side of the bed and hesitated there for a moment, let his eyes adjust to the light. The cold, unfiltered through the warmth of wool, crept up his legs, down his arms, across his back. Tendrils of icy bite wormed into nerve endings. He wavered for a moment between making coffee first or heading straight to the shower.
The ideal course of action would be to begin the morning brew before entering the shower - that way, a fresh cup of coffee would be ready for him just as he was making his way out of the bathroom. But mornings, particularly Monday mornings, particularly these recent Monday mornings, are not a time for linear thought or logic. He grabbed a fresh towel and a set of clothes. He stepped into the bathroom and shut the door.
It was winter outside, a season particularly suited to death - the barren trees, the ice, the fog, and of course the relentless, endless cold. His father had passed away two weeks ago. He had used up all the bereavement time allowed by his workplace, but most of that time was spent with his mother and siblings and relatives near and far, geographically and personally. He himself had to fly in from Seattle. He wanted to stay at a hotel, but his mother insisted family sleep at the house for as long as they were in town. No one had the heart or the energy to refuse, least of all Robbie.
Robbie pushed the blankets forward, swung his legs over the side of the bed and hesitated there for a moment, let his eyes adjust to the light. The cold, unfiltered through the warmth of wool, crept up his legs, down his arms, across his back. Tendrils of icy bite wormed into nerve endings. He wavered for a moment between making coffee first or heading straight to the shower.
The ideal course of action would be to begin the morning brew before entering the shower - that way, a fresh cup of coffee would be ready for him just as he was making his way out of the bathroom. But mornings, particularly Monday mornings, particularly these recent Monday mornings, are not a time for linear thought or logic. He grabbed a fresh towel and a set of clothes. He stepped into the bathroom and shut the door.
It was winter outside, a season particularly suited to death - the barren trees, the ice, the fog, and of course the relentless, endless cold. His father had passed away two weeks ago. He had used up all the bereavement time allowed by his workplace, but most of that time was spent with his mother and siblings and relatives near and far, geographically and personally. He himself had to fly in from Seattle. He wanted to stay at a hotel, but his mother insisted family sleep at the house for as long as they were in town. No one had the heart or the energy to refuse, least of all Robbie.
Sunday, November 12, 2006
Postage Stamps
How did the stakes get so high? How is it that two people come together and fall in love? How is it that two people independently decide to give their hears to one another ? What is it within us that draws us to love another, to give up all one can of one's self for the joy of another?
It's one of the only truly beautiful, nearly perfect things in life. Simultaneously intricate and straightforward, easy and hard, strong and fragile, eternal and passing.
Love lifts you up and the higher it takes you, the better the view and the longer the fall. Everyday love asks you to make a choice between staying and soaring ever higher or leaving and cutting your losses because no matter how beautiful the story, no matter how true the mate, no matter how giving, how selfless, how valiant, how kind, ". . .time will have his fancy, tomorrow or today," (Auden).
"I suppose we do the best we can with what time we have together," answers M.
"Well that's rather dark, don't you think?" A asks.
"What else can I say, I mean the guy's got a point.
"What point?"
"That we're all going to die someday, that no matter how good we are to one another, one of us is going to die someday."
"Yeah, but why do we have to think about this now?"
"Well, I think the point is to make sure that we don't waste time, that we appreciate it, that we don't take it for granted."
"Do you think that's what we've been doing?"
"Well, no."
"So what's the point of all of this then?"
It's one of the only truly beautiful, nearly perfect things in life. Simultaneously intricate and straightforward, easy and hard, strong and fragile, eternal and passing.
Love lifts you up and the higher it takes you, the better the view and the longer the fall. Everyday love asks you to make a choice between staying and soaring ever higher or leaving and cutting your losses because no matter how beautiful the story, no matter how true the mate, no matter how giving, how selfless, how valiant, how kind, ". . .time will have his fancy, tomorrow or today," (Auden).
"I suppose we do the best we can with what time we have together," answers M.
"Well that's rather dark, don't you think?" A asks.
"What else can I say, I mean the guy's got a point.
"What point?"
"That we're all going to die someday, that no matter how good we are to one another, one of us is going to die someday."
"Yeah, but why do we have to think about this now?"
"Well, I think the point is to make sure that we don't waste time, that we appreciate it, that we don't take it for granted."
"Do you think that's what we've been doing?"
"Well, no."
"So what's the point of all of this then?"
Saturday, November 4, 2006
Love
How did the stakes get so high? How is it that two people come together and fall in love? How is it that two people independently decide to give their hears to one another ? What is it within us that draws us to love another, to give up all one can of one's self for the joy of another?
It's one of the only truly beautiful, nearly perfect things in life. Simultaneously intricate and straightforward, easy and hard, strong and fragile, eternal and passing.
Love lifts you up and the higher it takes you, the better the view and the longer the fall. Everyday love asks you to make a choice between staying and soaring ever higher or leaving and cutting your losses because no matter how beautiful the story, no matter how true the mate, no matter how giving, how selfless, how valiant, how kind, ". . .time will have his fancy, tomorrow or today," (Auden).
"I suppose we do the best we can with what time we have together," answers M.
"Well that's rather dark, don't you think?" A asks.
"What else can I say, I mean the guy's got a point.
"What point?"
"That we're all going to die someday, that no matter how good we are to one another, one of us is going to die someday."
"Yeah, but why do we have to think about this now?"
"Well, I think the point is to make sure that we don't waste time, that we appreciate it, that we don't take it for granted."
"Do you think that's what we've been doing?"
"Well, no."
"So what's the point of all of this then?"
It's one of the only truly beautiful, nearly perfect things in life. Simultaneously intricate and straightforward, easy and hard, strong and fragile, eternal and passing.
Love lifts you up and the higher it takes you, the better the view and the longer the fall. Everyday love asks you to make a choice between staying and soaring ever higher or leaving and cutting your losses because no matter how beautiful the story, no matter how true the mate, no matter how giving, how selfless, how valiant, how kind, ". . .time will have his fancy, tomorrow or today," (Auden).
"I suppose we do the best we can with what time we have together," answers M.
"Well that's rather dark, don't you think?" A asks.
"What else can I say, I mean the guy's got a point.
"What point?"
"That we're all going to die someday, that no matter how good we are to one another, one of us is going to die someday."
"Yeah, but why do we have to think about this now?"
"Well, I think the point is to make sure that we don't waste time, that we appreciate it, that we don't take it for granted."
"Do you think that's what we've been doing?"
"Well, no."
"So what's the point of all of this then?"
The Identity Thief
John.
He had been at it for so long that he wasn't sure exactly who he was anymore. He had taken on so many identities and had buried himself so deep into them that he ultimately lost track of where it was he had started from. It was an amnesia of sorts. Perhaps there was a finite capacity for his brain to contain identity and he had passed that limit many names ago.
But that's a bit of what theft is. You think you're getting something for free but what you get you purchase with bits of your soul.
He was done with the business. He had made more than enough to keep him from having to work for the rest of his life. He was tired of pretending. He was tired of stuffing the guilt down his gut - the pill got smaller and easier to swallow but he had his fill. He was tired of the fast talk, tired of being on his toes all the time. He just wanted to go back to his . . .
And that was the problem. There was no life to go back to because there was no life to remember. He also suspected that even if he had remembered, a part of him knew it would be a futile effort.
He had been at it for so long that he wasn't sure exactly who he was anymore. He had taken on so many identities and had buried himself so deep into them that he ultimately lost track of where it was he had started from. It was an amnesia of sorts. Perhaps there was a finite capacity for his brain to contain identity and he had passed that limit many names ago.
But that's a bit of what theft is. You think you're getting something for free but what you get you purchase with bits of your soul.
He was done with the business. He had made more than enough to keep him from having to work for the rest of his life. He was tired of pretending. He was tired of stuffing the guilt down his gut - the pill got smaller and easier to swallow but he had his fill. He was tired of the fast talk, tired of being on his toes all the time. He just wanted to go back to his . . .
And that was the problem. There was no life to go back to because there was no life to remember. He also suspected that even if he had remembered, a part of him knew it would be a futile effort.
Thursday, November 2, 2006
The Lamb Ghost
Legend has it, the lamb escaped from its pen on Halloween night. By all accounts, she should have been sound asleep. Domesticated creatures of habit, slaves to instinct, she should have been asleep. Some say it might have been stray trick-or-treaters that woke her, some say that strange lamb never did sleep a wink, most folks just accepted things as they happened and didn't ask why or how. This story isn't for them.
There's no truth to the matter, of course, none that's knowable to human intelligence. The lamb knows why it was she got up but she's not letting anyone in on it, even if she could have. God knows, but his ways are higher than ours - we wouldn't understand it even if he were to spell it out for us point by point.
But all of that is irrelevant because this story is not about a lamb waking in the middle of the night so let's move on.
This is a story about what happened after she woke up.
What's know is that after waking, trackers were able to trace her steps to the corner of the pen where she squeezed under a gap, made her way across the yard into the wheat field through which she made a path straight to the road. It's likely that she was struck by the Taurus as she was crossing, but there are some who believe she was there on the road, waiting for it - that she picked a spot just past a rise in the road so that she would not be seen from a distance.
Again, the details of her death are of no consequence. She was struck, she died, no one was found liable, and the insurance company repaired the vehicle. This story is about what happened afterwards.
There's no truth to the matter, of course, none that's knowable to human intelligence. The lamb knows why it was she got up but she's not letting anyone in on it, even if she could have. God knows, but his ways are higher than ours - we wouldn't understand it even if he were to spell it out for us point by point.
But all of that is irrelevant because this story is not about a lamb waking in the middle of the night so let's move on.
This is a story about what happened after she woke up.
What's know is that after waking, trackers were able to trace her steps to the corner of the pen where she squeezed under a gap, made her way across the yard into the wheat field through which she made a path straight to the road. It's likely that she was struck by the Taurus as she was crossing, but there are some who believe she was there on the road, waiting for it - that she picked a spot just past a rise in the road so that she would not be seen from a distance.
Again, the details of her death are of no consequence. She was struck, she died, no one was found liable, and the insurance company repaired the vehicle. This story is about what happened afterwards.