~muse of mine~

FOUND: The Universal Love Story

2011-03-16T21:08:00.001-06:00

Quasi-atom – a system formed by two colliding atoms whose nuclei approach eachother so closely that, for a very short time, the atomic electrons arrange themselves as if they belonged to a single atom whose atomic number equals the sum of the atomic numbers of the colliding atoms. [McGraw-Hill Dictionary of Physics]

-muse

Notes from Mexico: VIII

2011-02-26T16:19:00.000-07:00

-muse

Notes from Mexico: VII

2011-02-17T18:39:00.002-07:00

Constellations

To my right, I see the table, still laid with a white tablecloth, where we ate supper right outside our room, in full view of the setting sun. Now, the sun has long since disappeared, and looking up at the skies, I see a thousand other suns shining down. I can make out some constellations – the few that I know. Orion, the dippers, and the one which was always my favourite as a child – the seven sisters. I think I liked it because I didn’t have to draw any lines in my mind’s eye; the picture was just there – seven pinpoints of light, seven beautiful women. Even at that age, I could take in the world as symbols. I could see how a person could be reduced to a pinpoint of light, or, how a pinpoint of light could be reduced to a person. I felt like that sometimes, still feel like that sometimes – like I am some abstraction of an existence. So I liked knowing that there were seven others up there, seven others who didn’t need to be drawn together to be understood, who didn’t need to outline a bear, or a hunter, or a piece of cutlery, but who could exist simply as the light that they were, and be seen that way as well.

-muse

Notes from Mexico: VI

2011-02-13T15:56:00.001-07:00

Alamos, Mexico

-muse

Notes from Mexico: V

2011-01-27T21:27:00.000-07:00

-muse

Notes from Mexico: IV

2011-01-23T20:09:00.002-07:00

Sky sketches

I look out the window, and I cannot decide is the clouds are the brightest, or the sun. There is barely room for blue in the sky because of the light.

Clouds that look like white dinner plates stacked up in the sky.

I look up, and suddenly, the sky has gained a dimension – a plane cuts through scattered clouds, its jetstream delineating the third dimension, a dimension between cumulus and cirrus, a sky where clouds are cars and trees and rivers and hills, where the sunlight casts shadows over cool groves, and illuminated desert stretches. These words are not doing it justice, but nor could a photograph, for with the click of a shutter, all that depth would be reduced to a single plane. And there is so much more than that.

If you look out the window at the right time, the wires run parallel to the clouds.

The honey-coated land as the day begins to fade. Trying to catch the taste of the light in a photograph.

I watch the sun set through the black lace of the trees; an eternal tapestry woven by time.

At nighttime, the clouds are black instead of white – silhouettes against the orange cities below. They pass like widow’s veils, not quite obscuring the light, but dimming it to a more sombre hue. Still, through the veil, there is the orange memory of life, flickering.

-muse

Notes from Mexico: III

2011-01-21T16:15:00.000-07:00

I look out the bus window and farms pass by, anomalies of bright green in black earth, where grey, beige and buff are the natural colours. Occasionally, the landscape slows, and a few small shacks pass my window too – always one or two with a sign for “tacos” in various stages of decay. And always, after the few small shacks, I see a spread of plastic bottles scattered over the earth, their assorted blues and greens going white under the glare of the sun. The farms return, broken by patches of scrub and the occasional track leading off to the horizon, where ghosts of mountains lie in wait.

Sometimes I see people walking along those tracks, and sometimes, they walk towards the main road, towards my window. But more often, they walk away, towards something or somewhere that my window cannot see.

-muse

Notes from Mexico: II

2011-01-17T20:39:00.000-07:00

I was taking photos discreetly of three girls selling baskets at the train station, but I finally decided to stop hiding. I took a photo of the youngest, and showed it to her, and she was so excited to see her face, and the other girls too, that they posed for more photos. I showed them each image after I took it, and each time they clambered over eachother to see, pointing and speaking in a language I couldn’t understand – whether Spanish or Tarahumara, I wouldn’t say. In any language though, excitement is evident, and I could see by their wide eyes and bright smiles that they were as excited as me. The sound of the oncoming train ended our game, but after boarding, as I walked through the cars to my seat, I caught their eye, and waved. They waved back happily, even the youngest, who must have been just two years old. It occurred to me that they may never have known somebody on these trains to wave to before. I only wish I could have left copies of the photos for them to keep.

-muse

Notes from Mexico: I

2011-01-14T19:41:00.002-07:00

I’m looking out now, into the darkness as I often do when I’m searching for something- anything, really. I’m looking out, and instead of looking up to find light, I’m looking down.

There is a city below – I say city, but really that’s just interpretation, because from this height all I can see is a swirl of lights, the multitude of pinpoints barely distinguishable as separate sources of illumination.

And now, the plane dips lower, and I can look up as well, to the more distinct pinpoints above, in equal multitudes. Compared to their counterparts below, these lights seem years apart, and I know that scientifically, they are. Light-years. But I also know that beyond them, in the dark, are more stars, and beyond those, more, and that if we were able to see far enough, all those stars would appear to be so close together that they too would be barely distinguishable as separate sources of light.

Those are cities below, even though they may look more like constellations, more like galaxies from here. And maybe, up above, those are cities too.

-muse

Abstract

2010-12-16T16:02:00.000-07:00

-muse

Abstract: Rose.

2010-12-05T19:11:00.000-07:00

-muse

Frostbitten

2010-11-28T18:56:00.000-07:00

-muse

Here

2010-11-19T15:28:00.000-07:00

-muse

Red Shingles

2010-11-16T15:04:00.002-07:00

Red shingles, they told me

Red shingles, a green lawn

And a white picket fence.

I see red shingles

Splintered, the blood

Of the roof, or

The blood

Of the broken willow tree

The broken willow tree

That broke them

Red

They told me

Red shingles, a green lawn

And a white picket fence.

-muse

If.

2010-11-14T10:41:00.000-07:00

-muse

“The people that you don’t think exist do.”

2010-11-10T11:37:00.002-07:00

Julian Ford. A boy of seven years who ties knots in apple stems with his tongue, though he can’t abide the taste of the fruit itself.

Wayne Dwight. A man of forty years, blind and deaf, who described to me the most cacophonous thunderstorm I have ever known.

Ellen Lane. A simple girl, 23, who makes curtains out of old clothes, and new clothes out of curtains.

Clyde West. 34. Has a designated popcorn microwave. It’s a broken one. This is, apparently, the latest diet trend.

Maia Skye. Child of a hippy, doesn’t know how old she is or who her father is, only that she has a different name for every star.

-muse

A Study in Colour

2010-11-08T14:50:00.001-07:00

-muse

Portrait

2010-11-06T17:16:00.000-06:00

-muse

Night

2010-11-04T22:16:00.000-06:00

A city at night is simpler

All that you can see is light.

I used to like drawing on black paper

Because you didn’t have to put in the shadows.

I don’t draw anymore

But I can still see in the dark

The light

Of a cityscape at night

And on the horizon

Inverse shadows

Glow yellow.

-muse

Climb

2010-10-29T18:27:00.000-06:00

-muse

Untitled

2010-10-28T22:05:00.000-06:00

Somebody once told me that

The body is the unconscious mind

And so I danced

Hoping the whisper of satin shoes might

Tell the truth.

-muse

Still

2010-10-25T13:45:00.000-06:00

-muse

Rain (part two of two)

2010-10-23T11:37:00.000-06:00

It’s been raining for days, slowly raining, but the puddles are filling up. Even small things accumulate, become large. In my back alley, there is a lake, where the pavement is cracked in such a way as to keep puddles from draining. At least, there was a lake, when I was younger, every spring. Now, there’s only soggy pavement. They’ve repaired the alley since then, whoever they is, whenever then was. And it’s fall now anyways, not spring, and I’m older, so I don’t own rubber boots, and for that reason it’s probably just as well that they fixed the cracked pavement, otherwise, without boots, my feet would get wet. But somehow, rubber boots don’t seem to be a big enough reason. Somehow, I still wish that this rain was falling in the springtime, and that a lake, not a puddle, was growing outside my back door.

-muse

Rain (part one of two)

2010-10-22T20:19:00.000-06:00

The rain comes down constantly, not persistant, but more lazy seeming, as though the clouds can’t quite be bothered to stop. Their heart isn’t in the downpour anymore, but neither is it anywhere else, and so the wetness continues.

It is possible for pavement to be soggy – it is today, made so by lazy rain, too unsure to create real puddles, and too constant to allow for dry patches. The cement is porous, and as I step on it, I can convince myself that I hear it squelch, though it may also be my worn sneakers with their cracks in the soles.

Whether the rain is pervading the pavement or my feet, it is pervading me and everyone around me – I can see the same lazy rhythm of its drops in the motion of peoples’ feet, shuffling, noncommittal on spongy cement.

-muse

Flame

2010-10-20T14:20:00.002-06:00

There’s something secret about the extinguishing of a candle – like a kiss communicated from three inches away, and received by the whispering roar of the flame before it disappears.

-muse

On Writing

2010-10-19T17:05:00.002-06:00

I remember the times when I wrote because I needed to, when life wouldn’t make sense unless I put pen to page. It’s not quite like that now. Maybe I got better at living, or worse at writing. Does it matter? What is, is, and I still love to write. And sometimes, I do still need it as I used to – not so much to find solutions, but to calm me. And maybe, with this lessened dependency, my pen is a more powerful tool, for instead of me speaking to it, it can speak to the world.

-muse

Growth

2010-10-16T16:46:00.003-06:00

The strongest part of a tree

Is where it chose to go out on a limb

Quite literally

Knots and whorls that stem branches

Unbreakable.

-muse

Remember

2010-10-13T12:08:00.000-06:00

-muse

Colour

2010-10-10T22:20:00.000-06:00

-muse

Poetry

2010-10-06T15:20:00.000-06:00

-muse

Autumn in the Edmonton River Valley

2010-10-03T14:13:00.000-06:00

-muse

Dreamer

2010-09-25T18:30:00.000-06:00

-muse

A Seat

2010-09-10T12:46:00.000-06:00

-muse

Organized Laundry

2010-09-05T21:37:00.000-06:00

-muse

Stitched

2010-09-03T09:16:00.000-06:00

-muse

Paper Rock Scissors

2010-08-31T13:19:00.002-06:00

Paper planes dropping bombs over

Rocky shores

And I wonder what my

Scissors could be, wonder where my

Scissors could be

Cut those

Paper

Planes from our once-blue skies

Stop them covering our

rocky shores, so many covered

rocky shores

we wouldn’t need this

playground game

wouldn’t need this

cycling circle, shame

no more.

-muse

Leaves

2010-08-29T09:51:00.002-06:00

Silvery leaves coat the floor

And I wonder

How they got in

No windows

Closed door.

I reach down

Lay a fingertip on one

Feel it dissolve

Silvery

Wings.

A thousand remnants of flight

Cast off.

There were moths here, once.

Then, those silvery leaves

Flew.

-muse

Certain Moments

2010-08-28T10:24:00.002-06:00

The beautiful thing about certain moments is that they are certain only for a moment before they become uncertain memory. After all, every moment is just that – a moment, no more and no less, and any significance we may pretend to assign is little more than an act of vanity, or desperation, some attempt to make ourselves important in a single unit of time. There is nothing momentous about a moment, for it is not moments, but memories that assign significance. Uncertain memories of certain moments gone by. An uncertain kiss (the first), a certain word (happy), lips on a hand. A moment, or perhaps a lifetime, of moonlight between red walls. In memory is a certain uncertainty of time, having only a notion of past as its own singular and certainly uncertain moment.

-muse

Urban

2010-08-26T20:23:00.000-06:00

-muse

Notes from the Colorado River: Part VIII

2010-08-24T22:25:00.000-06:00

He said that the one thing a photograph can’t capture here is the subtle movement of the river in an otherwise stationary image. This morning, that movement seems not so subtle, in fact, it seems to me that as the river streams by, these rocky walls are streaming too, blurring as the river pulls me away.

-muse

Notes from the Colorado River: Part VII

2010-08-22T19:07:00.000-06:00

You can feel the river flex under your oars, just testing them, telling you that no matter how much you flex your muscles, you’ll never be in control. They speak of running rivers, but really, the river runs you. All you can do is hold on and ride it.

-muse

Notes from the Colorado River: Part VI

2010-08-20T13:49:00.000-06:00

Morning, and the mist hangs over the canyon like the memory of upriver wanderings – faint, alluring, yet ultimately unattainable, for on the Colorado, you can only continue one way: downstream.

-muse

Notes from the Colorado River: Part V

2010-08-19T19:04:00.002-06:00

There’s nothing really that makes this place, this moment special, save for an immensity of space. That’s what a canyon is, I suppose. An immensity of space in an otherwise solid earth.

-muse

Notes from the Colorado River: Part IV

2010-08-18T12:24:00.001-06:00

He told me that it was called a century plant, that tall green stalk sprouting up from the rocks. It lives about thirty years, he said, and in that time, it only flowers once. I asked then why’s it called a century plant? Thirty years, that’s not so long. But now, I’m thinking, maybe the number of years in a century, in a life, don’t matter so much. If you can put out a display like that, a pinnacle of green in the red cliffs, maybe that’s your century. Some kind of herald of a hundred-year-worthy accomplishment. And maybe, it takes the other 70 years to wither away.

-muse

Notes from the Colorado River: Part III

2010-08-17T18:36:00.000-06:00

Just above Badger now, we’re simmering in mid-afternoon heat, but it feels good. A slow release of sweat through sandy pores. We pass in and out of the shade of a cliff face on river right, and the clouds above are suspended in time.

-muse

Notes from the Colorado River: Part II

2010-08-16T10:34:00.000-06:00

Now I can understand that childish urge to count the stars – searching for some manner of placing such immensity within your grasp. Trying to fathom the unfathomable. So many pinpoints of light, so many other worlds. So much to be seen.

-muse

Notes From the Colorado River: Part I

2010-08-15T10:28:00.000-06:00

Have you ever seen something so beautiful you thought you would cry?
The canyon walls blushing as the sun sinks low.

-muse

Untitled

2010-08-11T16:25:00.000-06:00

-muse

The Torch

2010-08-07T11:13:00.000-06:00

Outside, a morning coffee

Perched benchside against the

Hospital-issue blue.

A cigarette

Between wrinkled fingers

Like a plea for comfort or sanity

Some glowing ember in a world of white

Speeding death.

Pass the torch.

The cigarette.

The torch.

There’s a light at the end,

Isn’t there?

-muse

Gowns

2010-08-03T15:11:00.000-06:00

A pair of teens

Give light to

Give a light to

Fading men

In equally faded hospital

Gowns

Isn’t that what you wear

At a christening?

At a wedding?

The palest, most faded of

White

Here it is again

In the gown and,

Paler still,

The skin

Which nears translucent

As it reaches for light

A light

A final cigarette

From future fingers

Who have worn

Will wear

Gowns.

-muse

Directions

2010-07-28T19:02:00.000-06:00

-muse

An Early Publication and Still Timely Tribute

2010-06-30T13:43:00.000-06:00

-muse

Wilting

2010-06-21T23:00:00.000-06:00

-muse

Untitled

2010-06-10T14:59:00.000-06:00

-muse

Fenceline

2010-06-01T14:41:00.000-06:00

-muse

The Smallest Matrushka

2010-05-30T13:38:00.002-06:00

I remember when I was younger and I figured that I was a matrushka doll, and that there was some infinite number of layers to open up, but now I feel a bit like the tiniest doll, the one the Russian vendor told me had hand-painted eyelashes, but when I squinted I could barely even make out the eyes. I think I’m that small now, the smallest, the single solid matrushka doll, naked, and waiting for somebody to come and dress me again in all my layers of identity with hand-painted eyelashes large enough for me to see.

-muse

Sky-scrapers

2010-05-26T19:48:00.000-06:00

-muse

Postering

2010-05-25T21:31:00.001-06:00

-muse

Musings on a Theme: Part 7

2010-05-20T14:53:00.002-06:00

The newspaper runs a special feature about men who have “made their mark” on this country. My friend sue, who is over for tea, remarks that they ought to be showcase the women as well, and that if these men have made such a difference in our country, how come we still don’t have a female president? But her words go past my ears rather than into them, I’m still re-reading the heading of the article. “men who have made their mark”. I want to tell sue that she’s wrong, it is the men that make the marks, and the reason we don’t have a female president is because she’d get marked up too fast, and everybody would see. But I don’t say anything because I know she’d send me to bed with a cup of hot tea, and electric blanket and some feminist literature. Sue is such a good friend, you see, she’d do that for me.

-muse

Musings on a Theme: Part 6

2010-05-19T18:37:00.000-06:00

I was only angry once. I saw a single men’s sock in the corner of the laundry room, grass-stained and stiff, and I screamed at it until my lungs were out of air and then I just collapsed and sobbed.

The next day I rode my bike to the other side of the river, and rolled down a grassy hill until I was dizzy and dirty and happy and free.

-muse

Musings on a Theme: Part 5

2010-05-16T22:25:00.000-06:00

The next night, I sleep on the couch. It’s lumpy and a bit too short, but that’s better than being too big. And besides, I can turn on the TV and listen to the sound of soap opera men cheating on their girlfriends as I drift into unconsciousness.
It’s not long before I’m full up with ice cream and soap opera men and I don’t have to think at all anymore. I allow myself fiend trips to carefully selected locations – childish places where I can retreat into distant memory. As I pass the cotton candy stand at the zoo, I remember Billy, who used to pull my hair and spit on my shoes. At the museum, when I pass the insect exhibit, I remember the time that Joe put a cockroach on Miss Brown’s chair, and how even though she didn’t scream, I screamed loud enough to satisfy Joe’s boyish desires. The library, the park, the swimming pool, and I remember the boys of my childhood. Greg, Matthew, Ned. If I remember enough, maybe I’ll forget.

-muse

Musings on a Theme: Part 4

2010-05-13T19:29:00.001-06:00

The next day I need groceries, so I go to the safeway and buy milk, bread and eggs. On my way to the checkout I pass the frozen food aisle, so I get a new tub of ice cream with no half empty memories. I pay for it all, and by that night, though the loaf of bread lies in the grocery bag untouched, I’ve eaten all of the ice cream, and my bed still feels too large, no matter how carefully I center myself on its sheets.

-muse

Musings on a Theme: Part 3

2010-05-12T14:45:00.003-06:00

I lie in bed, perfectly centered, and try not to be aware of the space. Perhaps if I ate more, there would be less of it. I get out of bed, find a chocolate bar, and after a moment’s hesitation, pull a half empty tub of ice cream from the freezer. So long as I don’t think of who ate the other half, it still tastes good. Snacks in hand, I head back to bed and prop myself up amongst the too-large covers. A half-empty ice cream tub isn’t that much after all – I polish it off and the chocolate bar too before I finally fall asleep.

-muse

Musings on a Theme: Part 2

2010-05-11T22:22:00.002-06:00

They say that everything will remind you of him at first, but that’s not true. Not everything. I can cook eggs for breakfast without a thought of him, as long as I use the metal spatula, not the plastic one with the melted handle. And I can wash dishes without a tear if I use only the green sponge. Driving to work is alright too, as long as I take the most direct route, and don’t accidentally turn down Willow Crescent. And for lunch, as long as I pack a sandwich, I won’t be reminded of the coffee shop across the street.

I’ll drive home the same direct way, and if I don’t look at the light on the answering machine, I won’t be reminded that he won’t have called, not anymore. They say that everything will remind me of him at first, but I guess I’m already past that stage, because I can go an entire day without even thinking his name. And if I can go one day, I can go two, or seven, or thirty-one, which is a whole month. If I can go one month, I can go twelve – three hundred and sixty-five days, a year. And once I’ve gone a year, I’ll be able to go more – I’ll be able to go forever.

-muse

Musings on a Theme: Part 1

2010-05-10T10:57:00.000-06:00

There is a reason that French is considered to be one of the romance languages. “Je t’aime”. “I you love”. No simplicity of I love you or you love me – the two entities are inextricably linked in the phrase. Whether it be I that you love, or I feel for you love, the two are one in words as they are in being. For nobody can love individually. Lust, yes. But never love.

-muse

Colour

2010-05-02T21:09:00.000-06:00

-muse

Paris Streets

2010-04-09T17:58:00.000-06:00

-muse

Sugar-Coated

2010-02-20T16:04:00.000-07:00

-muse

Pedro

2010-02-08T22:24:00.000-07:00

This piece is part of a script that I am working on writing. Pedro is the name of the character speaking.

Every Monday, I arrange the fruit in my stall to match the colors of the sunrise I see on my way to market. Today, la ciruela, the plums, are at the top, and just below them, el mango, so richly yellow. Have one, gratis- they are delicious. No?

Next is the peaches, grapefruit and lemons. A lot of people don’t like lemons, but I always put out a lot of them anyways, because it is good, to eat lemons. It is good to eat the fruit that is not so sweet.

The last colour is the watermelon- no, not green, the colour of the inside. I have broken one open so that everybody can see the pink.

Here, see?

-muse

Photo Exhibit

2010-02-04T20:49:00.000-07:00

This photo was the winner of the youth category for the University of Alberta'a International Week Photo Contest. Taken by yours truly. Below are some snapshots of the exhibit.

-muse

Night Lights

2010-01-31T13:18:00.000-07:00

The Night is for Daydreaming,
Daylight for Nightmares.

-muse

Away

2010-01-27T22:35:00.000-07:00

-muse

Haiti

2010-01-23T09:18:00.002-07:00

Tearful eyes of lives

Shattered stare at me through a

Fifty-two inch screen.

-muse

Searching

2010-01-21T21:04:00.000-07:00

-muse

Plexiglas

2010-01-17T09:35:00.000-07:00

I am up against the Plexiglas and
Trying to reach you
Trying to reach you through
But it is all made of Plexiglas and
So I can’t reach you
So I can’t seem to break through

And I hear you
On the other side
And I see you
On the other side
But it doesn’t matter what I do
I can’t get through

Do you see me
Up against the Plexiglas and
Trying to reach you
Do you see me
Gazing through the glass
Are you trying to reach me too?
Is there nothing that I can do?

And I hear you
On the other side
And I see you
On the other side
And I wonder if you see me too
I wonder if you see me through
The Plexiglas
Please see me, do.

-muse

Insect Dreams

2010-01-15T17:23:00.000-07:00

-muse

Christmas

2010-01-12T16:09:00.000-07:00

At the hospital, 2 days before Christmas.

There are few people about, and those who are have resigned themselves to their situation.

Too-white walls covered in an excess of garlands that aren't hiding anything.

----------------------------------------------------

Christmas Eve at the hospital.

They're consolidating rooms, closing down as many as they can, but making sure that patients have a window view, as if that might be enough to take them away from the sterility and pain.

----------------------------------------------------

Christmas at the hospital.

-muse

Untitled Portrait

2010-01-09T17:59:00.000-07:00

-muse

Empty

2010-01-07T14:20:00.000-07:00

-muse

Game

2010-01-02T13:21:00.000-07:00

I grew up playing Scrabble
Hunting for the right word
To fit within the grid.

Other board games too-
All sorts.

Life
was governed by rectangular cards;

Monopoly
existed in a static market;

Clue
was merely method
never hunch.

No matter the name of the game
The board-
Like some kinds of confinement to
Colored squares and rigidity-
Owned me.
I played by the rules
Played by somebody else's rules
Somebody else's game.

But now, I've got a Clue
That Life is just a game,
Some words are spelled backwards,
And in order to create a Monopoly
You have to make your own name
You have to play your own game.

-muse

New Year's Eve.

2009-12-31T16:48:00.000-07:00

In the hospital, she plays her harp delicately. After a time, I hear the patient murmur, just audible over the crystalline notes.

“What day is it today?”

“Thursday,” she murmurs back, fingers still coaxing melodies from her harp's strings.

“Thursday?”

“December 31st.”

New Years Eve, in the hospital. For so many here, it won't be the new beginning they'd been hoping for. Hard to have a new beginning when you're stuck in the same starched hospital sheets.

Still playing, the harpist says “This isn't really helping much, is it.”

It's not a question.

“No.”

But she keeps playing, different songs, one of them I know from a music box, and I wonder if the patient knows it too.

She must, because I think I hear her crying beneath the familiar tune.

Her crying is a part of that familiar tune.

Her crying is a familiar tune.

New Year's Eve.

-muse

Footprints in the Snow

2009-12-30T22:45:00.000-07:00

-muse

Wintery Well-Wishes to all My Readers!

2009-12-25T16:19:00.000-07:00

-muse

Twas the Night Before Christmas

2009-12-24T16:19:00.001-07:00

Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the ward

Not a person was stirring, no cries to be heard

The patients were tucked away snug in their beds

Sugarplums brought by morphine whirled round in their heads

And she in her green scrubs, and I in my gown

Ready for rest, had just settled down

When out in the hall there arose such a clatter

I sat up my bead to see what was the matter

I pressed my call button, and turned on the light

The nurses came running, they had quite a fright

But then they turned round and they saw what I'd heard

Not a plane, superman, no, not even a bird

But there, on the floor, in a glittering heap

Were presents, dropped off while I had been asleep

No Saint Nick with cheeks red and eyes all aglow

Nor raindeer with paws making prints in the snow

But a pile of presents, at bedside, so bright

That I could still see when I turned out the light

And that brightness, it sparkled right on as I dreamed

Though still I had morphine, how different it seemed

To know all that love was spread out on the floor

And that where it had come from, there'd always be more

-muse

Swing Set

2009-12-22T22:57:00.000-07:00

-muse

Ice

2009-12-20T13:26:00.000-07:00

-muse

Flyfishing

2009-12-11T20:10:00.000-07:00

When a flyfisherman goes out fishing, his usual alibi is that he wants to catch some fish. Certainly, that’s what he’ll tell his wife. But the truth of it is, fish are the last thing he’s thinking of catching.

The first thing he’ll catch is the musty scent of well-worn khaki, and he’ll linger over the sound of the zippers and velcro on his vest as he opens and closes each pocket, lovingly checking every flybox and forceps just in case, after forty years in the same place, they might have moved. Next, as he swishes through the bushes, he will catch the symphony of solitude underscored by the music of flowing water.

When his eyes set upon the ideal spot, he might tell you that it looks just right for fish, but what he really means is that it looks just right for fishing. There’s a difference, you see. A good spot for fishing may be characterized by a pretty meadow, a water of a particular blue, or a mesmerizing eddy. On a hot day, a good spot for fishing may be marked by dappled shade, while on a cooler day, sun may be more desirable. Later on, when a flyfisherman has been on his feet for a while, a smooth boulder within stream’s reach may look most promising – for fish, he’ll say, with no mention of aching legs. You see, there are many things which can make a spot good for fishing, but none of them are fish.

The thing is, flyfishing is not about the moment when the fish bites, it’s about all the other moments. The moments when the current tugs at your waders, willing you to wander unknown waters. Or, without waders, the moments when you venture in up to your knees, only to find that you can no longer feel your feet. The moments when you take a blind leap towards a strategic rock, hoping that it won’t wobble and willing your shoe not to slip. The moments when your rod doesn’t just cast, it becomes an extension of your arm, and the whirr of flyline letting out strikes harmony with the wind. Those are the moments that a flyfisherman sets out to catch. But he’ll never tell you that.

If you ask a flyfisherman if he’s had any luck, he’ll likely tell you numbers – numbers of inches, numbers of fish he has or hasn’t caught. But if he were to answer honestly, you’d never hear any numbers at all, because the things that really count can’t be counted – they can’t even truly be caught. They can only be glimpsed: a shimmer of silver scales between fingers before they slip away towards another flyfisherman.

-muse

Incoming

2009-12-08T16:39:00.000-07:00

-muse

Summer

2009-12-06T12:00:00.000-07:00

to sit
split grass between fingertips
strip bark from a twig
sigh

-muse

"How to Capture Your Audience" or "What I Learned from 'The Bone House'"

2009-12-04T10:52:00.000-07:00

Break the fourth wall. That's the first thing you do. Then, quietly, behind the backs of your audience, rebuild it. Let them notice that you've rebuilt it. Laugh, and smash it again. Build it up again, but don't leave it there, because everyone knows the third time's the charm. Believe me, it isn't for you. The fourth time, build the wall slower, so that the shadow it casts lengthens as lethargically as the passing of the day. By the time they realize (if they realize at all) that the wall has been built with them inside, it will be too strong and too tall for them to break. They are bound. You will, of course, have told them earlier where the exits are- will have pointed them out specifically. But you also will have extinguished the lights on those exit signs so that once the shadow of the fourth wall behind their back has grown so long as to obscure all outside light, they won't be able to see the way out.

Then have your fun.

When you've finished, turn the exit signs back on, but let them all wonder for a moment if the fourth wall is still there, and if so, where there is. Let the audience decide when the end is.

-muse

Escalator

2009-12-02T15:10:00.002-07:00

-muse

I walked to the train station...

2009-12-01T21:19:00.002-07:00

I walked to the train station and sat on the cold bench, waiting. I watched trains pass in opposite directions, watched doors open and close, watched people getting on and off. I watched until I had memorized the patterns of arrival and departure and then, when the next train came, I stood up and walked home.

-muse

I See the Moon

2009-11-30T14:49:00.001-07:00

I see the moon and the moon sees me – the moon sees the one that I want to see

The moon appears dim alongside all the city lights – white head-lights, red tail-lights, green go-lights, orange slow-lights. But what about that milky pearl on high? What kind of light is it, save for forgotten? It doesn't have the same allure anymore – more like been there, done that. Like so many other once-treasures now lost.

I see the moon and the moon sees me – the moon sees the world that I want to see

I imagine that these city-lights must be moon-dim from somewhere else, moon-dim and forgotten.

I am the moon and the moon is me – the moon is the me that I want to be

But perhaps we haven't forgotten all of its wonder; perhaps, as we seek to put light into city-bright nights, we do so out of a hunger, a hunger to bring that distant dim orb closer to our home.

-muse

Breath

2009-11-28T23:11:00.000-07:00

-muse

Expelling Ink

2009-11-23T21:21:00.000-07:00

Just expelling ink onto this page is relieving, relaxing. I wonder how people managed before they had pens. Scratching on a stone would not have the same satisfaction, for it is the flow that I covet – the feel of a ballpoint pen grazing the page, leaving ink-kisses in its wake.

-muse

Lone Dancer

2009-11-21T14:05:00.000-07:00

lone dancer on the floor
grey hair, eyes smiling
I can't tell if she doesn't know
or doesn't care
that she's alone

perhaps she isn't.

-muse

Reaching

2009-11-19T21:11:00.000-07:00

-muse

My Feet

2009-11-18T14:41:00.003-07:00

My feet are not things of beauty. Their skin is dry and peeling. Never mind leather, they're rock hard with callouses. Still, they always manage to sport a red spot of two, tokens of a more recent injury. Their nails are, well, hard as nails, I'll give them that, and they're thick too. Thick, ridged, and always kept cut to the quick.

But a pair of pointe shoes can change all that. Dress my feet in pink satin, and they come alive. My graceful arches extend from pointed toes, pushing the ribbons forward provocatively, daring the audience to follow their criss-crossing path up my ankle and into my dance.

-muse

Lego

2009-11-16T11:03:00.003-07:00

I watch two boys apply their teeth in an effort to separate Lego pieces, but that image is obstructed by visions of braces in later years. I push the visions aside, determined to see truly, and the present returns. I see lips part in a smile to reveal already crooked teeth, and I remember that the tooth fairy will straighten them up. I smile back with my neatly aligned, post-braces teeth, wondering if I should give their methods a try – it might save my nails.

-muse

Dreams

2009-11-15T18:41:00.000-07:00

-muse