Original Thought On Cleaning, I Think

I will go so far as to claim that I believe the following to be an original thought that I've come up with on my very own. I will say that it would not surprise me to find that someone out there, present or past, has said, implied, or thought something similar to it.

The process of cleaning is essentially to erase the proof of your existance. That is to say, your home is supposed to look as though you've furnished it and then left. The lack of dust is a sign that some supernatural force has made sure to preserve the home's integrity. Something like God making the moon without so much as a footprint to show he was ever there. Mankind landed and now no one or no thing will every forget we were there. I have an innate fear of being forgotten.

Today, It Wouldn't Be Words

I'd really like to have more things to share on the blog. Unfortunately, I just don't. The medium is best suited for porn, photography, videos. Ah hell, if it's visual it's on here. I just can't compete with those types of things.

Still, I'd like to get more in tune with my artistic side. Photography is pretty easy. Just get a picture and snap away. With the digital form, you don't have to worry if you take a bad pic. Or in my case a million bad pics. You can just delete them. Now I don't have a fancy camera. Actually, I don't have a camera at all. I use my parents' camera because they claim to not understand this new technology and leave me to it.

We've finally gotten some snow around my parts and I decided to grab the Olympus 12 megapixel and take some photos. At night, with the snow and all, everything has an orange hint to it. Orange is my favorite color, and it always awed me how when it snows the nights are so bright. But the photos were coming out so dark. The flash wasn't helping. Maybe if I played with the settings I could have worked it out. But it was night, snow had fallen, and I was cold. I snapped away and turned to the computer just to play around.

What you see above is the result of my very amateur photo manipulation. I suppose it looks interesting. Sadly, that is all. Feel free to say if you've stopped by. Or not. This way is more mysterious and keeps me guessing.

Pulls

bruised and battered

this heart no longer shines

dimly mottled

stretched

is your reflection

the only thing that

pulls

Astral Travel

About midway last year I wrote a poem titled "Dream". I pause now while writing to debate if I should share said poem here. I don't think I will. It would be like those scientists who are sending messages out into space in hopes of finding extraterrestrial life. I have a feeling if anything reads this post, it won't bother to respond.
Still, the major point of the poem was how dreams must be stored some place truly safe. I picked the back of the universe, far behind even the stars. A truly Earth-centric view, but that's really the only view man can come to know. We've never been anywhere beyond the moon. And photographs are never the same as standing somewhere in person.
So, the poem pointed out how safe dreams and even nightmares really are. Untouchable to human hands and unreachable in terms of distance. And there, I was in bed feeling vulnerable in the world. Didn't anyone dream of me? The answer had to be no for I wasn't tucked away in the deepest reaches of space but in bed smack dab in the middle of Earth.
I shared that poem on a forum, and one of the other members commented on it. She went as far to say that if the last line, the one about no one dreaming of me, was meant in a literal sense than I was welcome to enter her dreams. But, she cautioned, I'd have to do some astral travel at that.
I stop here to contemplate the message sent. While this isn't anywhere near as serious as telling someone you love them, it must fall along the same rules. That is, you can't say it unless you really mean it. Imagine if I did stumble into one of her dreams only for her to feel violated. How would either of us recover from that?
And yet, if I actually knew how to project myself I think I just might. Though the whole thing doesn't seem possible to me. And how on Earth would I find this one person whom I've never met? I'd be amiss to recognize her in a crowd of people. How would I recognize her through her dreams?
Andre for a time a while back was very interested in astral travel and dabbled in it a bit. I've always meant to ask him if he's kept up with it, but he's so busy lately that I doubt he would have the time. I'm sure when he does sleep it is strictly for the rest. Traveling tires, why would the astral kind be any different?
In the end, this whole thought reminds me of how I've often times wished I were a thing rather than a person. A poem rather than a poet. A song rather than a musician. A dream rather than a dreamer. The body hurts, eventually and for always. The soul is trapped in a sinking ship forced to go down as its captain. But a poem travels from eyes and lips to other eyes and lips. A song burrows through ears and leaps from throats. A dream does whatever dreams do. They are always searching for the perfect home and are bound to find it. Younger, prettier, wiser. A fuller life awaits them. People await death. And you know the rest.

Big Fish

So, it's a new year. As much as there is only room for anything to happen, the possibilities seem limited. A whole year to change, but this beginning feels a lot like the last. I'm not even old yet, and I've already begun to get nostalgic.

Take for instance the last post. The photo of the couple in the tub is a still from the film Big Fish. I never intended to see that film, even though I was on a Ewan McGregor high. I thought he was an excellent actor and didn't get the proper respect. I still feel that way, but I'm not so keen to just run out and see one of his films.

Anyway. I never planned to see the film. But my friend Andre recommended it highly. I figured it was worth viewing. Generally, we agree on films among other things. And so, I set out to see it which was rather depressing. Obviously, I wanted to see this movie with Andre.

He had moved away at that point. For college, he picked a school in Boston. I was still in Connecticut, so I guess a visit either way could have been possible, but what was the point? I suppose there were other options if I really wanted them. But it wouldn't be the same.

And so I found myself at the theater alone to watch the film. It was a great film, even if it did leave me upset in the end. The tale of a man who lived every minute that he bragged about, but dressed it up in the retelling just for fun. I guess it reminded me of my grandfather. He could always pull a prank on someone, or tell them one of those white lies not meant to hurt but tease. Like the time he convinced his nephew, about 13 at the time, that a little man sat in the radio and read the news. Silly games like that. Point is, he could always make people laugh and so always had a friend.

The old man in the film was sick and dying. At the point of the tub scene, he gets into the tub pajamas and all so that he can cool off. His wife climbs in with him, and they just embrace. I really fought the tears back hard. I'm talking Rocky style. I gave it everything I had, and that first bout ended a draw like Balboa-Creed I.

The embrace was everything I wanted, but knew I didn't and wouldn't have with my girlfriend at the time. The man in the film was confident, and supportive, and happy. I was 0 for 3. I just accepted that if I didn't love myself, no one else could. Quite frankly, there wasn't much to love.

Still, I put it out of mind about as fast and sloppy as this transition here. I let it be to watch the movie. Yet, I couldn't stop thinking about that scene. It was a fictional account. Sure, such a scene may have happened to someone, or may still happen to people. But the fact that it was in a movie didn't mean that it had or would. It seemed like most things in movies, larger than life. Not possible. As likely as Uma Thurman's character killing all the Crazy 88's in one take in Kill Bill volume I.

Victory was that now I vow to work for that kind of love. Try to make it happen with every breath. But it's easier said than done, and I've no one to work on it with. But it still feels like fiction.

I was able to finish watching the movie, and it had the expected sad ending. For all the malarky of the flashback scenes of the dying man in his younger days, the scenes his son drove showed that death was the only way out.

There at the funeral, all the people the old man spoke of congregated to celebrate him. Every single one. None of them exactly as the man had described, but similar. The siamese twins weren't siamese, but they were identical. Carl wasn't a giant, but he did stand over 7 feet tall Danny DeVito's character may not have been a werewolf, but he sure looked like one. And so on.

The son saw this, all these people smiling as they recalled the history of a man extinguished. He joined them, and laughed. He appreciated his father in a different way. He realized that his father wasn't a liar.

Balboa-Creed 2 began. But I didn't have the luxury of Adriane waking up and telling me to beat Apollo. The fact was, I had an assignment in college that originaly got me thinking about what my funeral would be like. I wondered, if I outlived my parents and sister, would there be anyone to bury me. I couldn't picture the type of funeral in the movie. No friends from foreign places and times. No one to remember any cheer I placed into their lives. Nothing.

And then, the knock out. As the credits rolled, Pearl Jam's "Man of the Hour" started playing. I've never been the man of anything. Not so much as a minute or a breath. I don't think I could handle that type of pressure.

I snuck out the back of the theater so no one would see me. I remember crying on the way to the car. And there was no one to tell me how stupid I was. No one to tell me it would be all right. No one.

Trying to go to bed tonight, I feel the same way. Only worse. I, too, feel a man extinguished. Nothing more. Some start to a new year.

As always, your advice is appreciated.

In a Tub

I received a book in the mail today from Andre. He is the closest thing to a 1 in 6 billion that I have. And so, when he sends me something I take it very seriously.

In wonderment, and anticipation (I don't get random gifts hidden in packaging these days. I usually know exactly what something is and expect it.) I opened up the package to find The Collected Stories by Amy Hempel. Short stories, a perfect start for anyone interested in fictional writing. I'll never get there.

Apparantly we spoke about her, though I can't remember anything. Particularly something called "burnt tongue" that he brought up to me. I don't recall this. I must have spent that conversation wondering why we even spoke anymore. My loss.

So, I opened the book and began to read. The introduction was rather boring but served its purpose. And then it was onto the first story "In a Tub".

Not counting the title, the story is 405 words typed over a page and a half. I've read it several times and still can't get passed it. I read and re-read as though the meaning of life is somewhere inside of it.

What strikes me most is that it is prose that resembles poetry in terms of its value. So few words, rather originally arranged and used. Just the idea of passing two churches and stopping at the third because no one was there. Or waiting for your next heartbeat.

In fact, it wasn't until the third read that I put together the connection between her escapades onto the lake in a concrete-mixing tub and the bathtub. I felt stupid. But then, deep writing requires you to look and make connections.

It is a lonely task to do so on your own. Perhaps sharing creativity, whether you originate it or borrow from someone else, is something better done with others. That moment of understanding where something that transcends feeling and thought are conveyed in some image and converted back to that transcendence is something you want to share. Like harnessing fire. You're excited, now go, find, tell.

Everyone I know prefers to watch television.

"In a Tub"

My heart---I thought it stopped. So I got in my car and headed for God. I passed two churches with cars parked in front. Then I stopped at the third because no one else had. It was early afternoon, the middle of the week.

I chose a pew in the center of the rows. Episcopal or Methodist, it didn’t make any difference. It was as quiet as a church.

I thought abut the feeling of the long missed beat, and the tumble of the next ones as they rushed to fill the space. I sat there---in the high brace of quiet and stained glass---and I listened.

At the back of my house I can stand in the light from the sliding glass door and look out onto the deck. The deck is planted with marguerites and succulents in red clay pots. One of the pots is empty. It is shallow and broad, and filled with water like a birdbath.

My cat takes naps in the window box. Her gray chin is powdered with the iridescent dust from butterfly wings. If I tap on the glass, the cat will not look up.

The sound that I make is not food.

When I was a girl I sneaked out at night. I pressed myself to hedges and fitted the shadows of trees. I went to a construction site near the lake. I took a concrete-mixing tub, slid it to the shore, and sat down inside it like a saucer. I would push off from the sand with one stolen oar and float, hearing nothing, for hours.

The birdbath is shaped like that tub.

I look at my nails in the harsh bathroom light. The scare will appear as a ripple at the base. It will take a couple of weeks to see.

I lock the door and run a tub of water.

Most of the time you don't really hear it. a pulse is a thing that you feel. Even if you are somewhat quiet. Sometimes you hear it through the pillow at night. But I know that there is a place where you can hear it even better than that.

Here is what you do. you ease yourself into a tub of water, you ease yourself down. You lie back and wait for the ripples to smooth away. Then you take a deep breath, and slide your head under, and listen for the playfulness of your heart.

you know