My love for you is scary. I live in fear of your betrayal, my loss, and utter heartbreak.
I had always hoped you needed me the way I needed you--that you were capable of reciprocation. That you could love me back, and mean it. I watched you with undying hope; an unflagging faith in my power to elicit your unconditional love, your friendship.
I still love you through your failure. I've come to know your disappointment, though I begin to wonder: where does it become a detriment to me? At what point does my love for you entangle my despair and a growing self-loathing? You are both my biggest hope and worst fear. A complicated imbroglio of my confusion.
But my hope lives on, eternal in its patience, and I will never turn away from you. That is my love. I can't help it.
11.19.2009
11.12.2009
animation
I remember when I first read Voltaire's famous quote: "God is a comedian playing to an audience too afraid to laugh." It made me laugh. I sat in pensive agreement and mulled over the thought of a lifetime without laughter--a thought too unreal to consider with any seriousness.
My household has always been filled with the melodious euphony of laughter. I remember waking every Saturday morning to the sounds of my mother's uproarious amusement at my father's jokes. They'd lie in bed for what seemed like hours just laughing, and though I didn't understand the jokes, I felt the warm buzz of delight from hearing her unrestrained joy.
When I was old enough, I, enjoyed admission to the adult realm of humor. The jokes I'd heard during my childhood materialized into concrete significance; a testament to my parents' amusement with the world. And I joined the fun.
I watched the best television- seinfeld and the simpsons; got lost in decades- old episodes of monty python which I imitated to my 5th grade peers. I was the go-to girl for a laugh. We'd snicker, giggle, guffaw, and chortle at every opportunity.
The funniest person in any given room, I enjoyed the prestige and humble power of my ability to leave my peers in stitches.
I earned the highest degree of celebrity during high school for not only my quirky laugh, but also my (sometimes elusive) sense of humor. I'd recite from my arsenal of jokes at the drop of a hat, and was always rewarded with the merriment of my audience.
My parents bestowed onto me what is possibly the greatest gift I could imagine: the ability to turn the world into my own personal comedy. I enjoy the better part my time wearing a bemused grin at the absurdity of the world. The minutia of my daily experiences do not escape humorous appreciation, and I think God would like it that way.
My household has always been filled with the melodious euphony of laughter. I remember waking every Saturday morning to the sounds of my mother's uproarious amusement at my father's jokes. They'd lie in bed for what seemed like hours just laughing, and though I didn't understand the jokes, I felt the warm buzz of delight from hearing her unrestrained joy.
When I was old enough, I, enjoyed admission to the adult realm of humor. The jokes I'd heard during my childhood materialized into concrete significance; a testament to my parents' amusement with the world. And I joined the fun.
I watched the best television- seinfeld and the simpsons; got lost in decades- old episodes of monty python which I imitated to my 5th grade peers. I was the go-to girl for a laugh. We'd snicker, giggle, guffaw, and chortle at every opportunity.
The funniest person in any given room, I enjoyed the prestige and humble power of my ability to leave my peers in stitches.
I earned the highest degree of celebrity during high school for not only my quirky laugh, but also my (sometimes elusive) sense of humor. I'd recite from my arsenal of jokes at the drop of a hat, and was always rewarded with the merriment of my audience.
My parents bestowed onto me what is possibly the greatest gift I could imagine: the ability to turn the world into my own personal comedy. I enjoy the better part my time wearing a bemused grin at the absurdity of the world. The minutia of my daily experiences do not escape humorous appreciation, and I think God would like it that way.
11.09.2009
institutionalized
I took my watch off.
I'm not sure why; maybe for the change. Left it on my dresser, and drove off, disarmed by the absence of surety.
It felt like days not knowing the time. Any progression of events lacked sense without the marked importance of minutes and hours. I missed the comfort and guidance provided by the reliable, accurate tick-tock of my favorite amenity. My day's decisions seemed less navigable, and I, confused.
But I noticed: the sun seems to shine forever when I'm not wearing a watch. Time moves on discretely, asking little of me. I watch the sun set beneath the horizon, offering a fleeting glimpse of perfection; unspeakable beauty, but asking nothing of me in return.
I feel selfish.
and jealous.
My possibilities suddenly seem endless, and I am freer without the weight of a judging clock. I wish to want nothing, and be unbounded by the constraints of the human-induced penitentiary of time.
It is dark now; it is silent and infinite.
It is 9:36 and I am relieved.
I'm not sure why; maybe for the change. Left it on my dresser, and drove off, disarmed by the absence of surety.
It felt like days not knowing the time. Any progression of events lacked sense without the marked importance of minutes and hours. I missed the comfort and guidance provided by the reliable, accurate tick-tock of my favorite amenity. My day's decisions seemed less navigable, and I, confused.
But I noticed: the sun seems to shine forever when I'm not wearing a watch. Time moves on discretely, asking little of me. I watch the sun set beneath the horizon, offering a fleeting glimpse of perfection; unspeakable beauty, but asking nothing of me in return.
I feel selfish.
and jealous.
My possibilities suddenly seem endless, and I am freer without the weight of a judging clock. I wish to want nothing, and be unbounded by the constraints of the human-induced penitentiary of time.
It is dark now; it is silent and infinite.
It is 9:36 and I am relieved.
impeded
I dream that one day, I will wake up and not hate the world. I'd feel well-rested at the crack of dawn and take a jog to see the sunrise. And I'd know I deserve it.
I want to believe happiness is possible. I want happiness to be my possibility, my probability. My reality, and not the abstract longing that dulls the most vibrant colors, and cheapens a sweet melody.
I want to re-experience everything. Live it all over and change the meanings. When you look at me, I want you to see someone who loves you with unbounded passion. I want to return it, unfettered by the severe gravity of profound sadness. And I want to mean it.
I want to move. I want to jump and dance, just because. I want to walk with a bounce and smile at strangers. I want to sing and scream and be seen. It's somewhere I've never been.
I want to be wanted. Needed. And I want to stop the bleeding.
I want to demolish sorry. I am not. I won't apologize, and I won't regret it.
And I will sleep at night.
And dream of waking up to a world of love.
I want to believe happiness is possible. I want happiness to be my possibility, my probability. My reality, and not the abstract longing that dulls the most vibrant colors, and cheapens a sweet melody.
I want to re-experience everything. Live it all over and change the meanings. When you look at me, I want you to see someone who loves you with unbounded passion. I want to return it, unfettered by the severe gravity of profound sadness. And I want to mean it.
I want to move. I want to jump and dance, just because. I want to walk with a bounce and smile at strangers. I want to sing and scream and be seen. It's somewhere I've never been.
I want to be wanted. Needed. And I want to stop the bleeding.
I want to demolish sorry. I am not. I won't apologize, and I won't regret it.
And I will sleep at night.
And dream of waking up to a world of love.
9.15.2009
rubbish bracelet
Dear mom,
Remember when you got your ruby bracelet? I watched you pine for it for what seemed like years. You visited it weekly to make payments, and when you finally brought it home, you were gleaming. It was beautiful, I thought, and no one should have it but you. No one deserved that kind of beauty but you.
I thought it was just a bracelet... Just a ruby tennis bracelet. Your cousin Loraine wears three or four of them pretty casually--all with diamonds--but I always liked yours best. I watched you admire it, inspect the glistening gold and deep red stones. Most people think they're garnet, you'd tell me, but they're very rare rubies. Then you started to cry. You told me that you bought the bracelet because of the Bible verse that says a virtuous woman's worth is greater rubies.
I cried, too.
Remember when you lost that bracelet? I was crushed. I said you'd find it, but you didn't believe me. Told me that you were no longer a virtuous woman.
I found it after a few days, presented it proudly to you. You were wearing it when you told us about him. A married man. Ex-marine. Met him at work. Yes, Dad knows. I remember staring at those blood red stones as my heart broke. As my world tuned upside down.
And I thought about those rare rubies for weeks after, dangling from your wrist as I watched you leave. And I think about them now and wonder what they mean to you. You still wear them, but you don't tell people about the Bible verse anymore.
I'm not sad I found your bracelet. Or that you seem to have lost the pride you once had in wearing it.
I just wonder why you lost it in the first place.
Remember when you got your ruby bracelet? I watched you pine for it for what seemed like years. You visited it weekly to make payments, and when you finally brought it home, you were gleaming. It was beautiful, I thought, and no one should have it but you. No one deserved that kind of beauty but you.
I thought it was just a bracelet... Just a ruby tennis bracelet. Your cousin Loraine wears three or four of them pretty casually--all with diamonds--but I always liked yours best. I watched you admire it, inspect the glistening gold and deep red stones. Most people think they're garnet, you'd tell me, but they're very rare rubies. Then you started to cry. You told me that you bought the bracelet because of the Bible verse that says a virtuous woman's worth is greater rubies.
I cried, too.
Remember when you lost that bracelet? I was crushed. I said you'd find it, but you didn't believe me. Told me that you were no longer a virtuous woman.
I found it after a few days, presented it proudly to you. You were wearing it when you told us about him. A married man. Ex-marine. Met him at work. Yes, Dad knows. I remember staring at those blood red stones as my heart broke. As my world tuned upside down.
And I thought about those rare rubies for weeks after, dangling from your wrist as I watched you leave. And I think about them now and wonder what they mean to you. You still wear them, but you don't tell people about the Bible verse anymore.
I'm not sad I found your bracelet. Or that you seem to have lost the pride you once had in wearing it.
I just wonder why you lost it in the first place.
8.30.2009
all that glitters
My closest friend loves antique birdcages. I never noticed any sort of birdcage before she professed her love for them, but I can understand their appeal: there is a certain beauty in the tarnished silver and intricate, whirling metal craftsmanship of yesteryear. I began to secretly share her love of antique birdcages; I plucked my fingers over the corroded metal while I mulled over any collection I came across. The musical echo of empty cages rockets my imagination to a world of beauty that doesn't answer to practicality or necessity (due, in large part, to the fact that I would never own a bird).
She took me by surprise one morning during one of our cherished strolls to the nearest coffeehouse when she mentioned that she used to love spray painting her antique birdcages gold.
My heart sank. I thought of the scores of exquisite antique birdcages I'd seen dying a slow, cheap death to metallic varnish; a denial of their history, of my dream of beauty for its own sake.
I didn't say anything, but couldn't help feeling betrayed. How could she, my best friend, an artist, a literature fanatic, not see the beauty I had secretly admired? She, who never fails to notice even the most intricate details, had somehow overseen the perfection and beauty of imperfection that I adored.
I wish I could spray paint my imperfections gold; hide them beneath gleaming enamel and make them pretty--or at least acceptable. Unlike my revered birdcages, I've never believed that I have a right to beauty. Even in the best of times I only like myself half as much as I should.
But I hold my dream of birdcage beauty close. I embrace it in secrecy and nourish my aspiration to delight in an imperfect beauty that is my own.
She took me by surprise one morning during one of our cherished strolls to the nearest coffeehouse when she mentioned that she used to love spray painting her antique birdcages gold.
My heart sank. I thought of the scores of exquisite antique birdcages I'd seen dying a slow, cheap death to metallic varnish; a denial of their history, of my dream of beauty for its own sake.
I didn't say anything, but couldn't help feeling betrayed. How could she, my best friend, an artist, a literature fanatic, not see the beauty I had secretly admired? She, who never fails to notice even the most intricate details, had somehow overseen the perfection and beauty of imperfection that I adored.
I wish I could spray paint my imperfections gold; hide them beneath gleaming enamel and make them pretty--or at least acceptable. Unlike my revered birdcages, I've never believed that I have a right to beauty. Even in the best of times I only like myself half as much as I should.
But I hold my dream of birdcage beauty close. I embrace it in secrecy and nourish my aspiration to delight in an imperfect beauty that is my own.
8.16.2009
sound garden
My favorite aspect of driving is a satisfying chunk of alone time. An empty car creates a perfect concert hall to which I can dedicate my most revered music. During my solitude I revel in the uninterrupted beauty of elaborate drum solos, catchy guitar riffs, colorful bass lines, and a soulful, melodious piano. I can max out the volume, I can repeat, and three-peat, and I can bust out the drum beat.
And I can sing along.
And I do. I follow in the highest highs and the lowest lows. I am as faithful to a gyrating vibrato as I can be. I scat, hum, whistle, rap, shout, serenade, and harmonize. My musical warship blooms the ripest fruits of happiness and fulfillment; I sit in a garden of awe.
To me, music is as close to perfection as beauty can be. With every opportunity I strive to envelop myself in the warm cloak of symphony.
I thought everyone felt the same as me--until I was twelve. As sat in my mother's Chevy passenger seat peering at the drivers by; there seemed to be a distinct, yet vague something missing. When I finally figured out what the something was, I sat appalled: I couldn't hear even the slightest evidence of an enchanting melody amongst the cavalry of vehicles. Drivers sat alone, staring at the road. Their open windows shared nothing but air.
And it wasn't only on this one occasion; I began to witness an ever-repeating pattern of music-less, joyless drivers on virtually every excursion I made into the public driving arena. Even my mother's answers to my ceaseless whys did nothing to satiate my curiosity. I had yet to share the same fanatical obsession with music with another person (other than my family, my most beloved congregation of fellow freaks).
I have, since my moment of clarity as a child, observed strangers with a distracted interest in music--as something to live around, not in. But what I find truly perplexing is that I have never seen someone sing along--not even silently. I was convinced that the technological advancements that brought new frontiers to the portability of music might coerce the slightest peep out of even the most conservative individual; yet, nothing. The same dreary monotony.
It's time to stop speculating, I've decided after too many unanswered wonderments. Though I feel a tinge of regret for the unfortunate souls who cannot embrace the aweinspiring beauty of music, I suppose there is little I can do for these people but hope that they have the opportunity to witness the freak show that is me, alone, in my car, fully in bloom.
And I can sing along.
And I do. I follow in the highest highs and the lowest lows. I am as faithful to a gyrating vibrato as I can be. I scat, hum, whistle, rap, shout, serenade, and harmonize. My musical warship blooms the ripest fruits of happiness and fulfillment; I sit in a garden of awe.
To me, music is as close to perfection as beauty can be. With every opportunity I strive to envelop myself in the warm cloak of symphony.
I thought everyone felt the same as me--until I was twelve. As sat in my mother's Chevy passenger seat peering at the drivers by; there seemed to be a distinct, yet vague something missing. When I finally figured out what the something was, I sat appalled: I couldn't hear even the slightest evidence of an enchanting melody amongst the cavalry of vehicles. Drivers sat alone, staring at the road. Their open windows shared nothing but air.
And it wasn't only on this one occasion; I began to witness an ever-repeating pattern of music-less, joyless drivers on virtually every excursion I made into the public driving arena. Even my mother's answers to my ceaseless whys did nothing to satiate my curiosity. I had yet to share the same fanatical obsession with music with another person (other than my family, my most beloved congregation of fellow freaks).
I have, since my moment of clarity as a child, observed strangers with a distracted interest in music--as something to live around, not in. But what I find truly perplexing is that I have never seen someone sing along--not even silently. I was convinced that the technological advancements that brought new frontiers to the portability of music might coerce the slightest peep out of even the most conservative individual; yet, nothing. The same dreary monotony.
It's time to stop speculating, I've decided after too many unanswered wonderments. Though I feel a tinge of regret for the unfortunate souls who cannot embrace the aweinspiring beauty of music, I suppose there is little I can do for these people but hope that they have the opportunity to witness the freak show that is me, alone, in my car, fully in bloom.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)