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Redundancy Redefined
Friday, June 12, 2009
Friday, May 29, 2009
Irregular Imperfections
I wrote this a few years back in college. Just posting it here so that its somewhere other than an unreliable hard drive.
-Iso
She sat there waiting for me, lovingly watching me walk in, I threw my bags down, tired and drained. Cheeks expelling a rush of air, and with it a bit of the stress that is pulsing in me waiting to pop from my chest like some alien spawn.
She was quiet, waiting. Serene and peaceful. Untouched by my whirlwind life.
I rolled over after a few moments, looked in her direction, and right through her. I'm sure somewhere I saw her, and saw the pain the flashed over her face before being swallowed up by her stoic facade. I reached past her, grabbed a bottle of golden forgetting and poured a memory away in a glass. Some of the caustic liquid sloshing out over the edges and adding to the stains on my grandfathers old oak desk. A monument to his years of hard work, and my years of anguish.
Still she watched. No judgement passed, only sadness as a tear mixed with the whiskey on her face, dancing down till it dropped off into space.
I threw back my head, face clenching and the fire burning down, down, down into the my stomach, and down, down, down I went, further into the nest of oblivion I had spent years weaving myself. From somewhere in my cradle I spied her, sitting there alone, waiting. She would wait for me forever, waiting for me to crawl back out, and waiting for me to slide back down. Waiting for me to scream into the night my loneliness, and waiting for me to blame all my anguish on her. But she would wait.
Hours passed, and when I came around someone had emptied the bottle, a small lake gathering, and settling into the wood of the desk, tracing along the timeworn top until it found a place of rest. How I envied it; to rest. It was probably her, she did it while I slept. But I stumbled past her to the bathroom, tossing the empty bottle into the garbage can, the sound of glass breaking glass and small shards exploding against my arm. A profound sense of relief assailed me and swooning I caught myself against the wall. In my inebriated state I almost allowed myself to drift off again but stopped, re-zipped my fly and stared into the grime mirror at my face. Was that me? I looked nothing like the young man on the wall... he looked happy, with promise in his future. Must be the shit on the mirror, that couldn't be me. I stumbled back into my room and pulled the curtains, beams of light fought heroically into my dingy room through moats of dust and into forgotten corners. The sun was rising.
With the master of the waking world rose my hope, tears streaming down my face, cutting into the layers of sweat and filth, I swung open the windows, tearing cobwebs away and letting fresh rain cleansed air into the room, its cool body spilling downward while the heat of my personal hell roiled up and out, startling a bird sitting on the line above my window. Ugh... I think I smell burning feathers... What was that sound? Oh, the rain had started again, but it felt nice to even be near it. It felt... what was that word? It felt clean. I turned around, I had forgotten she was even in here with me. She was still crying, or was that rainwater that had gotten in through the open windows? Maybe... warmth? What was that? My arm was warm, brushing off the water with my hand it crossed my mind that the rainwater was likely cold, and then when my hand left a red mark on the strangely white paper laying on the desk i looked down to see my arm was bleeding. My blood, thinned by the whiskey had finally escaped the body I could not. The cuts weren't bad, just little scratches from pieces of the glass that had skated across my forearm when the bottles collided, and exploded. It was a lot like my life and reality, a collision course, and it would be my blood left in a dark stain on this road. Still she watched. Why was she always watching, was... what was her name again? I forget. Its so cloudy in my mind, maybe some more fresh air. Tendrils of it pulled me forward in my still drunken haze, and I leaned out the window breathing it in, enjoying the scent of flowers from my neighbors window box mixing with the rain still falling. Mmmm... breath it in, life, vitality. My head started to clear, and I remembered her face, on the desk, watching me. Yes, that loving face, she who waited for me.
Waiting. Breathing.
Another breath in, and out. The footsteps of life. Lean out more, and soak up the fresh, sweat and grime memories, my skin singing and wet, strands of unkempt hair hanging down onto my cheeks. Soon the rain kicked up and started pouring down, I didn't care, the fresh water freezing me and cleansing me, covering my whole body, filling my work boots and trickling onto the wood floor, pooling around my feet.
Its strange how someone you care about so much, the very reason you live, can fade into a memory, a presence barely felt, but never gone. What was her name?
*Slip* I was flying, this is what that bird felt, with its singed tail, flying up into the rejuvenating rain. I passed a window now, its warm golden glow illuminating a family around a fire, the remnants of a breakfast sitting on the table in the background, laughing and enjoying the moment. A couple sleeping in each others arms, not yet aware of the sun creeping up over the rooftops, and the stranger partaking of a moment with them.
Silence.
Not even the sound of the rain passing, because the same drops and I had been companions for three stories now. Looking ahead I saw an empty street, not a soul in sight, no vehicles, not even a cat walked its lonely stretch. Just me, and the rain, and her. Tears mixed with rain, and both pooled on the desk with the whiskey, the blood, the history. Mixing, becoming, her, and him.
I at last was at home, and home is rushing up to meet me with open arms. It first kissed me on the forehead, breaking years of secrets open, my mind is free. The fog was cleared. Next it embraces my body, holding me close and not letting go, taking the stress from my chest, freeing it in a torrent. Freedom. As I lay here, slipping into the deepest sleep I had ever encountered, glancing up I see a form walking toward me, is it her? Did she finally move from her perch, to come to me? But the feet were bare. It couldn't be her, she always wore her shoes. Stained and dirty, with holes in them, covered in the character life brings all its children. Something trailing behind the form, shimmering on the pavement, it seemed to surround me too, is it blood? Whatever it was, it has the warmth I crave. It saturates and cradles my tired form. The feet came closer, and stopped not a pace from my face. I want to look up, but can't summon the energy, so I groan a quiet hello. "Hello," the voice said, it was deep, and caring. the feet were covered in grime too, I couldn't even see his skin for the dirt. Probably a homeless guy coming to collect from those who slumber. But he was hurt, how could he stand? Fresh wounds marred his feet. I felt a hand brush my hair from my face, and his eyes came level with mine. I remember nothing else past that point other than peace.
I really was home, maybe she'll find me here.
-Iso
She sat there waiting for me, lovingly watching me walk in, I threw my bags down, tired and drained. Cheeks expelling a rush of air, and with it a bit of the stress that is pulsing in me waiting to pop from my chest like some alien spawn.
She was quiet, waiting. Serene and peaceful. Untouched by my whirlwind life.
I rolled over after a few moments, looked in her direction, and right through her. I'm sure somewhere I saw her, and saw the pain the flashed over her face before being swallowed up by her stoic facade. I reached past her, grabbed a bottle of golden forgetting and poured a memory away in a glass. Some of the caustic liquid sloshing out over the edges and adding to the stains on my grandfathers old oak desk. A monument to his years of hard work, and my years of anguish.
Still she watched. No judgement passed, only sadness as a tear mixed with the whiskey on her face, dancing down till it dropped off into space.
I threw back my head, face clenching and the fire burning down, down, down into the my stomach, and down, down, down I went, further into the nest of oblivion I had spent years weaving myself. From somewhere in my cradle I spied her, sitting there alone, waiting. She would wait for me forever, waiting for me to crawl back out, and waiting for me to slide back down. Waiting for me to scream into the night my loneliness, and waiting for me to blame all my anguish on her. But she would wait.
Hours passed, and when I came around someone had emptied the bottle, a small lake gathering, and settling into the wood of the desk, tracing along the timeworn top until it found a place of rest. How I envied it; to rest. It was probably her, she did it while I slept. But I stumbled past her to the bathroom, tossing the empty bottle into the garbage can, the sound of glass breaking glass and small shards exploding against my arm. A profound sense of relief assailed me and swooning I caught myself against the wall. In my inebriated state I almost allowed myself to drift off again but stopped, re-zipped my fly and stared into the grime mirror at my face. Was that me? I looked nothing like the young man on the wall... he looked happy, with promise in his future. Must be the shit on the mirror, that couldn't be me. I stumbled back into my room and pulled the curtains, beams of light fought heroically into my dingy room through moats of dust and into forgotten corners. The sun was rising.
With the master of the waking world rose my hope, tears streaming down my face, cutting into the layers of sweat and filth, I swung open the windows, tearing cobwebs away and letting fresh rain cleansed air into the room, its cool body spilling downward while the heat of my personal hell roiled up and out, startling a bird sitting on the line above my window. Ugh... I think I smell burning feathers... What was that sound? Oh, the rain had started again, but it felt nice to even be near it. It felt... what was that word? It felt clean. I turned around, I had forgotten she was even in here with me. She was still crying, or was that rainwater that had gotten in through the open windows? Maybe... warmth? What was that? My arm was warm, brushing off the water with my hand it crossed my mind that the rainwater was likely cold, and then when my hand left a red mark on the strangely white paper laying on the desk i looked down to see my arm was bleeding. My blood, thinned by the whiskey had finally escaped the body I could not. The cuts weren't bad, just little scratches from pieces of the glass that had skated across my forearm when the bottles collided, and exploded. It was a lot like my life and reality, a collision course, and it would be my blood left in a dark stain on this road. Still she watched. Why was she always watching, was... what was her name again? I forget. Its so cloudy in my mind, maybe some more fresh air. Tendrils of it pulled me forward in my still drunken haze, and I leaned out the window breathing it in, enjoying the scent of flowers from my neighbors window box mixing with the rain still falling. Mmmm... breath it in, life, vitality. My head started to clear, and I remembered her face, on the desk, watching me. Yes, that loving face, she who waited for me.
Waiting. Breathing.
Another breath in, and out. The footsteps of life. Lean out more, and soak up the fresh, sweat and grime memories, my skin singing and wet, strands of unkempt hair hanging down onto my cheeks. Soon the rain kicked up and started pouring down, I didn't care, the fresh water freezing me and cleansing me, covering my whole body, filling my work boots and trickling onto the wood floor, pooling around my feet.
Its strange how someone you care about so much, the very reason you live, can fade into a memory, a presence barely felt, but never gone. What was her name?
*Slip* I was flying, this is what that bird felt, with its singed tail, flying up into the rejuvenating rain. I passed a window now, its warm golden glow illuminating a family around a fire, the remnants of a breakfast sitting on the table in the background, laughing and enjoying the moment. A couple sleeping in each others arms, not yet aware of the sun creeping up over the rooftops, and the stranger partaking of a moment with them.
Silence.
Not even the sound of the rain passing, because the same drops and I had been companions for three stories now. Looking ahead I saw an empty street, not a soul in sight, no vehicles, not even a cat walked its lonely stretch. Just me, and the rain, and her. Tears mixed with rain, and both pooled on the desk with the whiskey, the blood, the history. Mixing, becoming, her, and him.
I at last was at home, and home is rushing up to meet me with open arms. It first kissed me on the forehead, breaking years of secrets open, my mind is free. The fog was cleared. Next it embraces my body, holding me close and not letting go, taking the stress from my chest, freeing it in a torrent. Freedom. As I lay here, slipping into the deepest sleep I had ever encountered, glancing up I see a form walking toward me, is it her? Did she finally move from her perch, to come to me? But the feet were bare. It couldn't be her, she always wore her shoes. Stained and dirty, with holes in them, covered in the character life brings all its children. Something trailing behind the form, shimmering on the pavement, it seemed to surround me too, is it blood? Whatever it was, it has the warmth I crave. It saturates and cradles my tired form. The feet came closer, and stopped not a pace from my face. I want to look up, but can't summon the energy, so I groan a quiet hello. "Hello," the voice said, it was deep, and caring. the feet were covered in grime too, I couldn't even see his skin for the dirt. Probably a homeless guy coming to collect from those who slumber. But he was hurt, how could he stand? Fresh wounds marred his feet. I felt a hand brush my hair from my face, and his eyes came level with mine. I remember nothing else past that point other than peace.
I really was home, maybe she'll find me here.
Saturday, May 16, 2009
A Recipe
This is a timeless recipe, that can be as easy or difficult as the one preparing it makes it. Proportions are really a moot point, as you can be full up with a surprisingly small amount, while your neighbor insatiably gluts themselves on a seemingly equivalent portion. Some will tell you that the recipe doesn't really matter, its the hunger that makes the meal; of course there are others who will adamantly proclaim their particular formula to be the one far superior.
If you're one who likes to experiment with your meals, then try some variation on the traditional formula; for some this can be incredibly rewarding, though others will feel quite guilty about deviating from the traditions set up by those before them.
Something quite interesting, is how fiercely the debate will rage over which recipe is the best, which is carries with it the most intrinsic virtue, and which will best leave the consumer whole. You will find should you pursue this particular meal plan, that your decisions will be evaluated and critiqued by every person near you. Each ingredient you bring into the mix will carry with it its own amount of baggage, generously supplied by others who are all ironically making their own meal.
It should be mentioned that if you let too much of the extra spice donated by your compatriots actually make it into your meal, that it could very well ruin one of the most rewarding dishes to make. Keep in mind that your neighbors each have their own meal to prepare and eat. As the pun is pleading to be given life, their advice should be taken with a grain of salt.
Below is my own compulsory list, though bear in mind the contents may not be palatable to others.
1. Hunger
2. Humility
3. Thoughtfulness
4. Critical self evaluation
5. A sense of humor
6. Adaptability
Finally, I cannot leave out some of the minds greater than my own who shared with me insights I didn't know I needed.
The Great Divorce by C.S. Lewis
Servants or Friends by A. Graham Maxwell
The Miracle of Mindfulness by Thich Nhat Hanh
-Iso
If you're one who likes to experiment with your meals, then try some variation on the traditional formula; for some this can be incredibly rewarding, though others will feel quite guilty about deviating from the traditions set up by those before them.
Something quite interesting, is how fiercely the debate will rage over which recipe is the best, which is carries with it the most intrinsic virtue, and which will best leave the consumer whole. You will find should you pursue this particular meal plan, that your decisions will be evaluated and critiqued by every person near you. Each ingredient you bring into the mix will carry with it its own amount of baggage, generously supplied by others who are all ironically making their own meal.
It should be mentioned that if you let too much of the extra spice donated by your compatriots actually make it into your meal, that it could very well ruin one of the most rewarding dishes to make. Keep in mind that your neighbors each have their own meal to prepare and eat. As the pun is pleading to be given life, their advice should be taken with a grain of salt.
Below is my own compulsory list, though bear in mind the contents may not be palatable to others.
1. Hunger
2. Humility
3. Thoughtfulness
4. Critical self evaluation
5. A sense of humor
6. Adaptability
Finally, I cannot leave out some of the minds greater than my own who shared with me insights I didn't know I needed.
The Great Divorce by C.S. Lewis
Servants or Friends by A. Graham Maxwell
The Miracle of Mindfulness by Thich Nhat Hanh
-Iso
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