What are boundaries for, if not to be crossed?
One says "I draw a line of comfort, to protect myself", another says "I draw a line to protect you from harm", and yet another says "I draw a line because I want to see if you care enough to cross it, simply to find out why it's there."
Be prepared for lines to fade with sunlight, disappear from neglect, and become fuzzy, and indeterminate with age and wisdom.
Let loose your boundaries, if only for a day, and set yourself free. You might be surprised what you find on the other side...
Friday, December 21, 2012
Sunday, December 11, 2011
prove true, imagination, o, prove true ~ twelfth night
My latest children's story. Please travel to my creative writing blog, posted below.
http://poesiesandprose.blogspot.com/2011/12/pove-true-imagination-o-prove-true.html
http://poesiesandprose.blogspot.com/2011/12/pove-true-imagination-o-prove-true.html
Thursday, April 7, 2011
'tis still a dream, or else such stuff as madmen ~ cymbelline
My life seems quixotic and never drab, but when I dream, the thoughts that prevail through my attempted slumber are somehow so detailed and epic that I’ve been keeping a journal for memory’s sake…
If you wish to be entertained by a retelling of a dream I had last week, read on…
I was living in another world. Not a futuristic world, and not some sort of unimagined world, but a world existing with the correlation of time, coinciding with my own reality of the world from which I am writing this entry.
The only way for someone to find their way into this other inhabitance, is to travel by way of an underground train. Everything on the train has an outward appearance of being dated back to a time I can only explore through history books and old photographs in vanilla and sepia.
I’m not sure how I found myself travelling by way of this mysterious train, but I know as the journey progressed, and we drew closer to this somewhat, seemingly magical world, everything started changing around me. I noticed that I was no longer dressed in my modern day attire, but that my clothes had been replaced with an exquisite gown, made of silks the color of merlot, and a sort of sauvignon satin. It was draped about my figure, accentuating all of my best womanly features, and the pieces were held together by jeweled brooches and handcrafted clasps that provided the dress with a sense of royalty to which I indeed did not feel entitled. My hair was long and dark, and the front pieces were pulled away from my brow in a sort of crown-like style, with my somewhat curled locks hanging loosely down the graceful lines of my back. My reflection stared back at me from the looking glass, so quiet and aware – keeping her secrets hidden behind her pursed lips. Her eyes seemed more beautiful than my own, and she was so elegant and lovely. I didn’t even feel as though I was looking in a mirror, but looking into the soul of someone I had just met.
I stepped back from the mirror and surveyed the room that I was given on the train. The furniture was no longer the hard, angled pieces of the twenty-first century décor, but was now handsomely sculpted, sturdy pieces – like something from an era resembling the 1800’s. I ran my fingers across the top of the dark, cherry-wood armoire; the smell of magnolias and history rising from its wooden pores. The chair in the corner of the room had petticoats draped over its arched back, in lifeless solitude, and it was upholstered in a delicious, golden, marigold velvet. The bed was massive, and the brocade duvet was plump with goose feathers, and so enticing to a wearied body.
I noticed that my suitcases had been replaced by wooden trunks, and my old clothes were no longer folded within. Instead, there were exquisite, hand-sewn gowns, cotton petticoats, satin peignoirs, muslin nightgowns, and a navy blue, velvet cloak. I was astonished. Where was I and where was I going? How were things changing so quickly around me without my instant observation?
I looked over toward the writing desk. A brass writing set with two bottles of sepia ink and a quill pen, rested on the tabletop, with a note pinned to the ribbon that was tied around the leather-bound journal laying close by.
The note read:
“This journal is yours. It is the only way for you to discover your way home.”
I opened the journal, hoping to unfold pages of history, informative instructions, directions on what to do next – but the journal was empty.
My thoughts raced through the life I once knew -- the life I had been a part of mere hours ago -- and dashed from my childhood to my present life back home, and then wandered into the questions of the world around me. I traced my fingertips along the embossed pattern on the front of the book and down its rigid spine. I picked up the quill pen, and ran the feather along my cheek, down my neck and across my chest, tracing the lines of my body, hoping for answers from within. I closed my eyes and breathed in the musty air of the dimly lit room. I crawled into the middle of the bed, arranging the train of fabric that was swirling around the bottom of my dress, so that I was sitting in a pool of russet waves. I turned the book over and over in my hands, hoping for an answer.
The train seemed to be slowing down. Was I to de-board when the train stopped?
Absentmindedly, I opened the journal to the first page. Nothing. The light flickered in my room as the train jostled the cars along the tracks. What was that? The light shone on the inside cover of the book, and I caught a glimpse of tiny words inscribed in a light colored ink, against the taupe color of the inside endpaper. I held the book up, hoping to catch the light again.
Tiny, but legible, the words read:
“Ink puts to paper the indelible answers
to the heart’s unanswered questions;
Thus you will find your way.”
I felt just as lost as I did before reading those words. Was I correct in understanding, that by writing in this journal, I was supposed to uncover truths I hadn’t known before and find my way back home? I didn’t even know if I really wanted to go back home. This was proving to be far more adventurous than my previous life.
The train came to a halt. There was a knock at my door. Who would I find on the other side?
I tucked my journal under my arm, slipped the quill and jar of ink into the pouch tied at my waist, and went to the door. I drew in my breath and turned the knob. There was no one there. I looked down the long hallway of the train car, my eyes adjusting to the different lighting of the corridor. The floor was lined with a sort of mossy green covering, and the walls were painted a deep chestnut.
Should I gather my trunks now, or will someone fetch them for me later? This whole experience was surreal and had no logical pattern from moment to moment. What was my first instinct? Leave them. Fetch them later if they were not brought to me. I had not an inkling of an idea of where I would be going and I didn’t want to make a heavier load for myself if it wasn’t going to prove a necessity for the time being. I steadied myself just outside the door of my room, my hand pressing into the wall. I could hear the chatter of people just outside. I moved my hand to the window. Cold. I couldn’t see outside, for the window was fogged, and the only portal to the world beyone was through the handprint I left on the pane. My cloak! In one of my trunks was the navy blue, velvet cloak! I rushed back into my room, rummaged through my trunk and drew out the cloak. I draped it around my shoulders and tied the rope near the top, securing it and drawing in its warmth.
I counted my steps toward the train’s exit in quiet meditation. When I stepped off the train, journal in hand, I couldn’t quite take in the magnitude of what picturesque scene unfolded before me. Elegant ladies roamed in pairs and trios, no doubt gossiping over the latest news about town; all were dressed in clothes much resembling my own. Men stood in distinguished groups, clothed in long coats and top hats – some leaning on walking sticks, others puffing slowly on cigars. I watched as the cigar smoke rose into the evening sky, circling around in willowy swirls, entangling itself with the steam rising from the steam engine. I bit down on my lip and ventured eastward. I hadn’t known where I was going thus far, and had no one there to tell me which way I was meant to go, so I figured whatever direction I chose would be the right one.
Once again, time lapsed and I found myself looking through a haze. What seemed like only a couple hours ago, I had stepped off the train and started walking into the unknown. I was carrying a blank journal. Now, I was in a cozy room within a magnificent castle, what looked like something out of a dark fairytale. The room looked lived in and was filled with things that were seemingly mine. There was a vase filled with wildflowers, sketchbooks, a bookshelf filled with poetry and literature and yet another writing desk. I still had no idea what year it was, as everything around me seemed timeless, and not distinctive of one particular era. I had a headache. As I rubbed my temples, I realized I had memories of this place. I had been studying here. I had friends within these castle walls who also resided here. There were dinners at long wooden tables, with me at the head of one end, and a man at the other. He wore garments tailored with the same color as mine. I was wearing the same dress I had been wearing the day I arrived. I looked in my closet. All of my gowns and simple frocks were sewn with similar shades of fabric. Crimson, burgundy, sienna, ruby, garnet – all of them beautiful and so courtly by design.
I closed the doors to my wardrobe and closed my eyes, trying to bring forth more memories. The man at the table – he was my mentor; someone who not only taught me to reach further than I ever thought I could, and someone to guide me, but a man who completely loved me. He loved me not as a man loves a woman, but as a father loves his daughter. Most of my memories featured him standing right there beside me. He was tall. Very tall. There was no one I had ever met who was as tall as he was. He stood maybe seven feet tall – large, without being overweight. He had a head of long, grey hair, and a full beard. He loved to laugh, and he loved to sit with me while I was writing. I just couldn’t grasp why I had all these memories, but I didn’t recall making any of them. My journal. If all this time had passed, I would have made some sort of entry in my journal. After all, I had several memories of the seven foot man sitting with me in the library by the light of the fire, him reading his books and me keeping close track of my thoughts.
The journal lay at the foot of my bed. I opened it to find that nearly half of the pages were filled with words; entries full of memories and questions, things to ponder and things I had grown to understand. Every word, every phrase was my own, and documented in my script.
I decided to go for a walk. I needed some fresh air. I found myself wandering through the castle gardens. I had been there for three months. I felt alive and free. Home seemed so grey and so very far away. I wanted to live in this new world forever. I stopped when I came to the edge of Willow Lake, and lay down beneath the weeping branches sweeping mournfully in the afternoon breeze, staring up at the melancholy sky. I let myself drift off to sleep, wondering what dreams may come…
When I awoke, I was standing just outside the train station, wearing another one of my sanguine colored dresses, this particular one almost undistinguishable from the one I was wearing when I first arrived. My hair was longer now, reaching just below my waist, but plaited in a single braid falling down my back. My trunks were packed, and my cloak was draped over them with anticipation. The seven foot man was standing before me, my hands in his. His green eyes seemed even brighter through the tears brimming in his saddened gaze. Tears were running down my rosy cheeks, as I tried to say my goodbyes.
He reached down and took me in his arms. I couldn’t stop sobbing. I didn’t want to leave him behind. Why couldn’t I just stay there? He kept whispering words of wisdom as he clutched me tightly, my feet dangling two feet above the ground.
“You don’t need me anymore,” he whispered
“you have found what you needed to know, and now you must go home.”
I just kept crying. I couldn’t even speak. He gently put me down and kissed my forehead. I knew that this was going to be the last time I would ever see him. The world started spinning around me as I grabbed my trunks and boarded the train. There were so many passengers boarding various train cars that I felt dizzy from all the flurry of movement surrounding me.
I turned around to wave to him one last time, but he was already off in the distance, his head hanging low and his shoulders hunched forward, and I knew he would have done anything to have been able to keep me there with him. But I knew as well as he, that I must return home.
As I walked through the train cars, and back toward the car that was awaiting my return, I was stopped by a staggering amount of passengers, all of whom had some sort of question for me about their lives; questions about love, questions about their hearts, questions about their lives – all of them yearning for answers. I was able to tell them exactly what they needed to hear. But wait – how did they know my name and why had they chosen me to answer their questions?
When I finally made it back to my room, I was exhausted. I grabbed my journal and curled up amongst the feather pillows. I didn’t even bother changing into my nightgown. I just wanted to understand what I had learned through my journey of this other realm, and I knew all the answers to my questions lay within the pages of my handwritten thoughts. Entry number one was titled: “A New Understanding”.
As I drifted off to sleep, I dreamed of a life I could understand and desire; a life of security and hope, love and propensity. But when I opened my eyes, I realized I was no longer in my bed on the train, but in some sort of field near my house. I was transformed back into the modern woman I am today, but my journal was there, in my grasp. I sighed a sigh of relief, knowing that every question, every proclivity unknown, everything I ever wanted answers for, I had discovered their elucidation throughout this mysterious journey.
My gown was gone and I was once again wearing the clothes I had slipped into before leaving home. My trunks had disappeared and in their place were my ever-so-plain-looking suitcases. My journal. It was still clenched between my hands. A smile spread across my face as I realized that through this adventure, I had documented life, and life as it should be – complete with the answers to questions I had frequently pondered. I opened the leather bound book, only to find hundreds of empty pages. I flipped frantically through the journal, prayerful words slipping over my lips and onto the pages, hoping the script would reappear. But when the sun peeked from behind the clouds and I felt his rays intoxicating my already blushing cheeks, I noticed that the inscription on the endpaper was different.
I held the book toward the light, and drew in my breath as I read the words I saw inscribed before me:
“You have lived.
With your thoughts, you get to live again,
as your memories will be a treasured keepsake.
Rewrite history, it’s your only escape.”
If you wish to be entertained by a retelling of a dream I had last week, read on…
I was living in another world. Not a futuristic world, and not some sort of unimagined world, but a world existing with the correlation of time, coinciding with my own reality of the world from which I am writing this entry.
The only way for someone to find their way into this other inhabitance, is to travel by way of an underground train. Everything on the train has an outward appearance of being dated back to a time I can only explore through history books and old photographs in vanilla and sepia.
I’m not sure how I found myself travelling by way of this mysterious train, but I know as the journey progressed, and we drew closer to this somewhat, seemingly magical world, everything started changing around me. I noticed that I was no longer dressed in my modern day attire, but that my clothes had been replaced with an exquisite gown, made of silks the color of merlot, and a sort of sauvignon satin. It was draped about my figure, accentuating all of my best womanly features, and the pieces were held together by jeweled brooches and handcrafted clasps that provided the dress with a sense of royalty to which I indeed did not feel entitled. My hair was long and dark, and the front pieces were pulled away from my brow in a sort of crown-like style, with my somewhat curled locks hanging loosely down the graceful lines of my back. My reflection stared back at me from the looking glass, so quiet and aware – keeping her secrets hidden behind her pursed lips. Her eyes seemed more beautiful than my own, and she was so elegant and lovely. I didn’t even feel as though I was looking in a mirror, but looking into the soul of someone I had just met.
I stepped back from the mirror and surveyed the room that I was given on the train. The furniture was no longer the hard, angled pieces of the twenty-first century décor, but was now handsomely sculpted, sturdy pieces – like something from an era resembling the 1800’s. I ran my fingers across the top of the dark, cherry-wood armoire; the smell of magnolias and history rising from its wooden pores. The chair in the corner of the room had petticoats draped over its arched back, in lifeless solitude, and it was upholstered in a delicious, golden, marigold velvet. The bed was massive, and the brocade duvet was plump with goose feathers, and so enticing to a wearied body.
I noticed that my suitcases had been replaced by wooden trunks, and my old clothes were no longer folded within. Instead, there were exquisite, hand-sewn gowns, cotton petticoats, satin peignoirs, muslin nightgowns, and a navy blue, velvet cloak. I was astonished. Where was I and where was I going? How were things changing so quickly around me without my instant observation?
I looked over toward the writing desk. A brass writing set with two bottles of sepia ink and a quill pen, rested on the tabletop, with a note pinned to the ribbon that was tied around the leather-bound journal laying close by.
The note read:
“This journal is yours. It is the only way for you to discover your way home.”
I opened the journal, hoping to unfold pages of history, informative instructions, directions on what to do next – but the journal was empty.
My thoughts raced through the life I once knew -- the life I had been a part of mere hours ago -- and dashed from my childhood to my present life back home, and then wandered into the questions of the world around me. I traced my fingertips along the embossed pattern on the front of the book and down its rigid spine. I picked up the quill pen, and ran the feather along my cheek, down my neck and across my chest, tracing the lines of my body, hoping for answers from within. I closed my eyes and breathed in the musty air of the dimly lit room. I crawled into the middle of the bed, arranging the train of fabric that was swirling around the bottom of my dress, so that I was sitting in a pool of russet waves. I turned the book over and over in my hands, hoping for an answer.
The train seemed to be slowing down. Was I to de-board when the train stopped?
Absentmindedly, I opened the journal to the first page. Nothing. The light flickered in my room as the train jostled the cars along the tracks. What was that? The light shone on the inside cover of the book, and I caught a glimpse of tiny words inscribed in a light colored ink, against the taupe color of the inside endpaper. I held the book up, hoping to catch the light again.
Tiny, but legible, the words read:
“Ink puts to paper the indelible answers
to the heart’s unanswered questions;
Thus you will find your way.”
I felt just as lost as I did before reading those words. Was I correct in understanding, that by writing in this journal, I was supposed to uncover truths I hadn’t known before and find my way back home? I didn’t even know if I really wanted to go back home. This was proving to be far more adventurous than my previous life.
The train came to a halt. There was a knock at my door. Who would I find on the other side?
I tucked my journal under my arm, slipped the quill and jar of ink into the pouch tied at my waist, and went to the door. I drew in my breath and turned the knob. There was no one there. I looked down the long hallway of the train car, my eyes adjusting to the different lighting of the corridor. The floor was lined with a sort of mossy green covering, and the walls were painted a deep chestnut.
Should I gather my trunks now, or will someone fetch them for me later? This whole experience was surreal and had no logical pattern from moment to moment. What was my first instinct? Leave them. Fetch them later if they were not brought to me. I had not an inkling of an idea of where I would be going and I didn’t want to make a heavier load for myself if it wasn’t going to prove a necessity for the time being. I steadied myself just outside the door of my room, my hand pressing into the wall. I could hear the chatter of people just outside. I moved my hand to the window. Cold. I couldn’t see outside, for the window was fogged, and the only portal to the world beyone was through the handprint I left on the pane. My cloak! In one of my trunks was the navy blue, velvet cloak! I rushed back into my room, rummaged through my trunk and drew out the cloak. I draped it around my shoulders and tied the rope near the top, securing it and drawing in its warmth.
I counted my steps toward the train’s exit in quiet meditation. When I stepped off the train, journal in hand, I couldn’t quite take in the magnitude of what picturesque scene unfolded before me. Elegant ladies roamed in pairs and trios, no doubt gossiping over the latest news about town; all were dressed in clothes much resembling my own. Men stood in distinguished groups, clothed in long coats and top hats – some leaning on walking sticks, others puffing slowly on cigars. I watched as the cigar smoke rose into the evening sky, circling around in willowy swirls, entangling itself with the steam rising from the steam engine. I bit down on my lip and ventured eastward. I hadn’t known where I was going thus far, and had no one there to tell me which way I was meant to go, so I figured whatever direction I chose would be the right one.
Once again, time lapsed and I found myself looking through a haze. What seemed like only a couple hours ago, I had stepped off the train and started walking into the unknown. I was carrying a blank journal. Now, I was in a cozy room within a magnificent castle, what looked like something out of a dark fairytale. The room looked lived in and was filled with things that were seemingly mine. There was a vase filled with wildflowers, sketchbooks, a bookshelf filled with poetry and literature and yet another writing desk. I still had no idea what year it was, as everything around me seemed timeless, and not distinctive of one particular era. I had a headache. As I rubbed my temples, I realized I had memories of this place. I had been studying here. I had friends within these castle walls who also resided here. There were dinners at long wooden tables, with me at the head of one end, and a man at the other. He wore garments tailored with the same color as mine. I was wearing the same dress I had been wearing the day I arrived. I looked in my closet. All of my gowns and simple frocks were sewn with similar shades of fabric. Crimson, burgundy, sienna, ruby, garnet – all of them beautiful and so courtly by design.
I closed the doors to my wardrobe and closed my eyes, trying to bring forth more memories. The man at the table – he was my mentor; someone who not only taught me to reach further than I ever thought I could, and someone to guide me, but a man who completely loved me. He loved me not as a man loves a woman, but as a father loves his daughter. Most of my memories featured him standing right there beside me. He was tall. Very tall. There was no one I had ever met who was as tall as he was. He stood maybe seven feet tall – large, without being overweight. He had a head of long, grey hair, and a full beard. He loved to laugh, and he loved to sit with me while I was writing. I just couldn’t grasp why I had all these memories, but I didn’t recall making any of them. My journal. If all this time had passed, I would have made some sort of entry in my journal. After all, I had several memories of the seven foot man sitting with me in the library by the light of the fire, him reading his books and me keeping close track of my thoughts.
The journal lay at the foot of my bed. I opened it to find that nearly half of the pages were filled with words; entries full of memories and questions, things to ponder and things I had grown to understand. Every word, every phrase was my own, and documented in my script.
I decided to go for a walk. I needed some fresh air. I found myself wandering through the castle gardens. I had been there for three months. I felt alive and free. Home seemed so grey and so very far away. I wanted to live in this new world forever. I stopped when I came to the edge of Willow Lake, and lay down beneath the weeping branches sweeping mournfully in the afternoon breeze, staring up at the melancholy sky. I let myself drift off to sleep, wondering what dreams may come…
When I awoke, I was standing just outside the train station, wearing another one of my sanguine colored dresses, this particular one almost undistinguishable from the one I was wearing when I first arrived. My hair was longer now, reaching just below my waist, but plaited in a single braid falling down my back. My trunks were packed, and my cloak was draped over them with anticipation. The seven foot man was standing before me, my hands in his. His green eyes seemed even brighter through the tears brimming in his saddened gaze. Tears were running down my rosy cheeks, as I tried to say my goodbyes.
He reached down and took me in his arms. I couldn’t stop sobbing. I didn’t want to leave him behind. Why couldn’t I just stay there? He kept whispering words of wisdom as he clutched me tightly, my feet dangling two feet above the ground.
“You don’t need me anymore,” he whispered
“you have found what you needed to know, and now you must go home.”
I just kept crying. I couldn’t even speak. He gently put me down and kissed my forehead. I knew that this was going to be the last time I would ever see him. The world started spinning around me as I grabbed my trunks and boarded the train. There were so many passengers boarding various train cars that I felt dizzy from all the flurry of movement surrounding me.
I turned around to wave to him one last time, but he was already off in the distance, his head hanging low and his shoulders hunched forward, and I knew he would have done anything to have been able to keep me there with him. But I knew as well as he, that I must return home.
As I walked through the train cars, and back toward the car that was awaiting my return, I was stopped by a staggering amount of passengers, all of whom had some sort of question for me about their lives; questions about love, questions about their hearts, questions about their lives – all of them yearning for answers. I was able to tell them exactly what they needed to hear. But wait – how did they know my name and why had they chosen me to answer their questions?
When I finally made it back to my room, I was exhausted. I grabbed my journal and curled up amongst the feather pillows. I didn’t even bother changing into my nightgown. I just wanted to understand what I had learned through my journey of this other realm, and I knew all the answers to my questions lay within the pages of my handwritten thoughts. Entry number one was titled: “A New Understanding”.
As I drifted off to sleep, I dreamed of a life I could understand and desire; a life of security and hope, love and propensity. But when I opened my eyes, I realized I was no longer in my bed on the train, but in some sort of field near my house. I was transformed back into the modern woman I am today, but my journal was there, in my grasp. I sighed a sigh of relief, knowing that every question, every proclivity unknown, everything I ever wanted answers for, I had discovered their elucidation throughout this mysterious journey.
My gown was gone and I was once again wearing the clothes I had slipped into before leaving home. My trunks had disappeared and in their place were my ever-so-plain-looking suitcases. My journal. It was still clenched between my hands. A smile spread across my face as I realized that through this adventure, I had documented life, and life as it should be – complete with the answers to questions I had frequently pondered. I opened the leather bound book, only to find hundreds of empty pages. I flipped frantically through the journal, prayerful words slipping over my lips and onto the pages, hoping the script would reappear. But when the sun peeked from behind the clouds and I felt his rays intoxicating my already blushing cheeks, I noticed that the inscription on the endpaper was different.
I held the book toward the light, and drew in my breath as I read the words I saw inscribed before me:
“You have lived.
With your thoughts, you get to live again,
as your memories will be a treasured keepsake.
Rewrite history, it’s your only escape.”
Thursday, November 18, 2010
the chiding autumn ~ a midsummer night's dream
I know now that I have been hiding from myself – okay, that’s not entirely true. It’s not that I’ve been hiding per se, but I think I’ve been attempting to sometimes allow my heart to be dictated by what I supposed I should be. I didn’t really realize that I been held captive within the confines of my own restraints. I’ve built walls, I’ve put up fortresses around pieces of myself I didn’t know I was trying to hide from others. I pride myself on loving people completely, always being myself. Despite my complete idiosyncrasies of not being able to handle silly things like weird noises that people make with their mouths, or the irritation I feel when I hear “I love you” carelessly tossed about one’s lips, almost in the same tone as “Hey, what’s up?” – cause then I don’t feel it necessary to reciprocate the phrase, which can come across as heartless. And pondering all of these little things, I have, somewhat unknowingly, kept friends apace with my non-compliance of the heart.
I have often said things as removed from emotion as: “I love you as much as my inability to love allows me to.” – which isn’t quite truthful in concept. I have a lot of love to give. I love everyone. In fact, sometimes I think I love too much, but when it comes down to the pressures of love, the expectations of love, I fall apart. Sometimes I can be so affectionate, and sometimes receiving affection is like hearing someone relentlessly fumbling with a candy wrapper during a production of Swan Lake, when the music is lilting and mesmerizing, as the ballerina is fluttering to her death amongst a pile of feathers on stage, and all you can focus on is that damn candy wrapper being tormented between the weathered hands of the idiot behind you. Yeah, sometimes love is like that.
I know I don’t have to hide anymore though. It’s okay to feel love differently toward different people, and it’s okay to express it glowingly on some days, and cinch it closed beneath pursed lips on others.
The leaves are falling outside my window right now, and as each branch becomes less clothed with it’s summertime companions, the tree seems a bit lighter, a bit more free; yet all the leaves seem to chase the others as they glide through the wind, gathering in sepia piles at the tree’s roots. No matter how hard they try to cling to his limbs, they can’t help but let go eventually and fly away with their seasonal pals. After all the leaves are gone, the tree is still there, still watching the world go by, still welcoming the birds to his branches, and the squirrels to his nuts (sorry, I couldn’t resist) - warming his soul in the sun, and sleeping in the moonlight, keeping post in the neighborhood under the street lamps. I wonder if he’s happy. For so much of the year, he has no choice in the matter of friendships. The leaves stay with him whether he welcomes them or not. But when winter teases their loyalty, they find humor in providing piles of fun for children’s games, as their little hands and feet scamper through the crispy outlines of the parched foliage. As the tree stands through the seasons, he meets so many. And knows that next spring, a whole new gathering of leaves will join him, and remain steadily loyal throughout the fall.
I feel as though, perhaps it’s always a bit like fall within my heart, never wanting to have anyone cling to me too tightly, so that as they fall away, I can smile and watch them from afar, admiring the qualities I’ve loved of them, and knowing that a piece of them will always remain with me. But it’s nice to love and let go, to have friends who come and go. It’s nice to endure the seasons with different picturesque views, each one different from the one before it, and yet equally as beautiful. And sometimes, there are leaves so spectacular that you can’t help but want to keep it pressed tightly within the confines of your scrapbook; but that’s when you examine it carefully, place it amongst the others, and know that one day, when you’re walking down the street, and you stub your toe, and mumble curses about how awful your day has been, the wind will blow just right, and that leaf will be at your fingertips, reminding you that even when you let go for a while, the most beautiful things will return to you -- if you hope, love, and allow your heart to believe that the fates do exist.
I have often said things as removed from emotion as: “I love you as much as my inability to love allows me to.” – which isn’t quite truthful in concept. I have a lot of love to give. I love everyone. In fact, sometimes I think I love too much, but when it comes down to the pressures of love, the expectations of love, I fall apart. Sometimes I can be so affectionate, and sometimes receiving affection is like hearing someone relentlessly fumbling with a candy wrapper during a production of Swan Lake, when the music is lilting and mesmerizing, as the ballerina is fluttering to her death amongst a pile of feathers on stage, and all you can focus on is that damn candy wrapper being tormented between the weathered hands of the idiot behind you. Yeah, sometimes love is like that.
I know I don’t have to hide anymore though. It’s okay to feel love differently toward different people, and it’s okay to express it glowingly on some days, and cinch it closed beneath pursed lips on others.
The leaves are falling outside my window right now, and as each branch becomes less clothed with it’s summertime companions, the tree seems a bit lighter, a bit more free; yet all the leaves seem to chase the others as they glide through the wind, gathering in sepia piles at the tree’s roots. No matter how hard they try to cling to his limbs, they can’t help but let go eventually and fly away with their seasonal pals. After all the leaves are gone, the tree is still there, still watching the world go by, still welcoming the birds to his branches, and the squirrels to his nuts (sorry, I couldn’t resist) - warming his soul in the sun, and sleeping in the moonlight, keeping post in the neighborhood under the street lamps. I wonder if he’s happy. For so much of the year, he has no choice in the matter of friendships. The leaves stay with him whether he welcomes them or not. But when winter teases their loyalty, they find humor in providing piles of fun for children’s games, as their little hands and feet scamper through the crispy outlines of the parched foliage. As the tree stands through the seasons, he meets so many. And knows that next spring, a whole new gathering of leaves will join him, and remain steadily loyal throughout the fall.
I feel as though, perhaps it’s always a bit like fall within my heart, never wanting to have anyone cling to me too tightly, so that as they fall away, I can smile and watch them from afar, admiring the qualities I’ve loved of them, and knowing that a piece of them will always remain with me. But it’s nice to love and let go, to have friends who come and go. It’s nice to endure the seasons with different picturesque views, each one different from the one before it, and yet equally as beautiful. And sometimes, there are leaves so spectacular that you can’t help but want to keep it pressed tightly within the confines of your scrapbook; but that’s when you examine it carefully, place it amongst the others, and know that one day, when you’re walking down the street, and you stub your toe, and mumble curses about how awful your day has been, the wind will blow just right, and that leaf will be at your fingertips, reminding you that even when you let go for a while, the most beautiful things will return to you -- if you hope, love, and allow your heart to believe that the fates do exist.
after a guilded butterfly ~ coriolanus i.iii
For Denice Hicks, my mentor, my muse, my friend.
January eyes swimming in a dark roast
beneath cerulean skies,
sing to me Shakespeare's lullabyes.
Hearts dance between her fingertips,
her gestures wise;
brushstrokes of antique cinnamon
soar through butterfly goodbyes.
Cobblestones and weary bricks
measure a lonely street,
counting patterns,
counting feet.
Awaiting that forgotten man
who comes to sit awhile,
burbon tears slipping through his broken smile,
forget-me-nots reaching for his sole
breezes pushing past his shadow-
fireflies on patrol.
January eyes, an unmasked Muse,
in disguise,
sing to me Shakespeare's lullabyes.
Hearts woven through her fingertips,
her gestures wise;
brushstrokes of antique cinnamon
soar through butterfly goodbyes.
Concrete steps and paper bags,
a simple home this lonely street,
quieting his whimpers,
quieting his feet.
He's forgotten life,
no more to dream,
newspaper headlines cushion his sleep,
burbon tears fall silently
down his wrinkled face,
no one to care for him;
his soldiered friends turned to epitaphs,
left alone-
battlefields haunt his shadows,
no more to love,
not even a trace.
January eyes drowning in blackened waters
beneath the ashen skies,
sing to me Shakespeare's lullabyes.
Hearts mending through her fingertips,
her gestures wise;
brushstrokes of antique cinnamon
soar through butterfly goodbyes.
Stepping stones bound with leather and spines,
covered in dust;
words within,
words to trust.
A fairy queen and lovers' quarrels-
stately kings, crowned with laurels.
A ghostly father,
a son's murmured speech,
a tempest whirling 'neath a nectarine sky,
breezes sifting through the pages-
this Muse awakening moments
within reach.
January eyes, uplifting yesterdays
in humbled reprise,
sing to me Shakespeare's lullabyes.
Hearts beating with the rhythm of her fingertips,
her gestures wise;
brushstrokes of antique cinnamon
soar through butterfly goodbyes.
A pebbled past and wearied soul,
overcome by poetic measures.
He's counting sunsets,
counting treasures.
He longs to remember tomorrow,
pushing past his sorrow.
Sunny tears encircle his crooked smile.
She reaches for his soul,
whispering music past his lighted shadow;
she has played her role.
January eyes peering through a locked door,
beneath the Poet's skies,
sing to me Shakespeare's lullabyes.
Hearts unlocked with her fingertips,
her gestures wise;
brushstrokes of antique cinnamon
soar through butterfly goodbyes.
January eyes swimming in a dark roast
beneath cerulean skies,
sing to me Shakespeare's lullabyes.
Hearts dance between her fingertips,
her gestures wise;
brushstrokes of antique cinnamon
soar through butterfly goodbyes.
Cobblestones and weary bricks
measure a lonely street,
counting patterns,
counting feet.
Awaiting that forgotten man
who comes to sit awhile,
burbon tears slipping through his broken smile,
forget-me-nots reaching for his sole
breezes pushing past his shadow-
fireflies on patrol.
January eyes, an unmasked Muse,
in disguise,
sing to me Shakespeare's lullabyes.
Hearts woven through her fingertips,
her gestures wise;
brushstrokes of antique cinnamon
soar through butterfly goodbyes.
Concrete steps and paper bags,
a simple home this lonely street,
quieting his whimpers,
quieting his feet.
He's forgotten life,
no more to dream,
newspaper headlines cushion his sleep,
burbon tears fall silently
down his wrinkled face,
no one to care for him;
his soldiered friends turned to epitaphs,
left alone-
battlefields haunt his shadows,
no more to love,
not even a trace.
January eyes drowning in blackened waters
beneath the ashen skies,
sing to me Shakespeare's lullabyes.
Hearts mending through her fingertips,
her gestures wise;
brushstrokes of antique cinnamon
soar through butterfly goodbyes.
Stepping stones bound with leather and spines,
covered in dust;
words within,
words to trust.
A fairy queen and lovers' quarrels-
stately kings, crowned with laurels.
A ghostly father,
a son's murmured speech,
a tempest whirling 'neath a nectarine sky,
breezes sifting through the pages-
this Muse awakening moments
within reach.
January eyes, uplifting yesterdays
in humbled reprise,
sing to me Shakespeare's lullabyes.
Hearts beating with the rhythm of her fingertips,
her gestures wise;
brushstrokes of antique cinnamon
soar through butterfly goodbyes.
A pebbled past and wearied soul,
overcome by poetic measures.
He's counting sunsets,
counting treasures.
He longs to remember tomorrow,
pushing past his sorrow.
Sunny tears encircle his crooked smile.
She reaches for his soul,
whispering music past his lighted shadow;
she has played her role.
January eyes peering through a locked door,
beneath the Poet's skies,
sing to me Shakespeare's lullabyes.
Hearts unlocked with her fingertips,
her gestures wise;
brushstrokes of antique cinnamon
soar through butterfly goodbyes.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
and proofs as clear as founts in july ~ king henry viii
5.July.2010
It’s a Rufus Wainwright kind of day. Before I continue, perhaps I should credit Mr. Wainwright for the soundtrack of my afternoon journaling. Here’s to you, Rufus.
I finally - stopped. By that, I mean, I’m through with bustling throughout the house. I’ve been away all weekend, living the good life at Casa del Sol Resort & Swim Spa. I had the most wonderfully relaxing weekend. Okay, so it wasn’t really a resort, but I did spend the weekend at Tim Larson’s - dear friend, confidant, and theatrical consort. He and his brother have a beautiful home in Bellevue, and they invited me over for the weekend.
Surprisingly, after the night I previously mentioned in my other entry, I somehow still managed to wake up and head over to Tim’s house by 11:00am. We were in the pool by noon, margaritas by two o‘clock, wine by six o‘clock, dinner by eight o’clock, night swimming to commence shortly thereafter, followed by a poolside nightcap, preceded by late night television comedies and deep discussions of sordid lives; then off to bed by two o’clock in the morning.
Fourth of July brunch was served at eleven o’clock, and by eleven forty-five, me, Laura, Morgan, Tim, Kenny, and Ted were all floating in the pool, laughing, talking, playing games, and simply relaxing hopelessly on this gorgeous, July afternoon.
After yet another incredible dinner, Laura, Morgan, Tim and I traipsed off to the front yard to enjoy the panoramic view of the neighborhood, fireworks display, making a marvelous game out of guessing the color of the firework-yet-to-come. Of course, five year old Morgan seemed to truly delight in this game, which made the three of us adults enjoy it’s silliness even more.
The shooting stars of light soared elegantly through the shadows of the skies, arching gracefully above the treetops, lighting up the heavens as they couldn’t soar any higher without bursting into unexpected colors through the starlit evening. A cerulean hibiscus, fuchsia starfish; illuminated baby’s breath, and more fairy dust than I’d ever seen, poured down upon our eyes of blue and deep brown.
Even sillier than the color guessing came was the shadow creature game that we played on the lawn, creating stories to match our elongated, moonlit silhouettes. Sometimes my quiet silhouette was overtaken by Tim’s monstrous one, as he chased it about the lawn, and sometimes Morgan’s five-year-old, diminutive outline seemed to pounce on mine even more-so than the six and a half foot Tim’s!
I went to bed that night, completely content and full of magical stories. All that previously seemed to cause me anxiety, and all of those disparaging thoughts that had previously overtaken my consciousness throughout the earlier days of the prior weeks before me, somehow found a different residence for the weekend, leaving me freed of my previously heavy mind.
I’m home now. The kitchen’s tidied. The living room is picked up. I’m unpacked from my weekend away - my room is as pristine as if Mary Poppins herself had been here, snapping her fingers and singing about spoons and sugar, while chirping birds sat perched on her outstretched fingers - my clothes put away and pillows fluffed. My bronzed skin seems so foreign against these ecru cushions of my writing chair, my hair highlighted by the sun’s tickling right arm. (In order to understand that slight inside joke, you’d have to ask my mother about the story I dictated to her, that she wrote on a napkin when I was merely four years old and too young to write for myself. Simply mention “Sun‘s tickling arm“ to my mother, and she‘ll gladly tell you all about how I started writing stories, once I figured out I could translate my imagination into scripted words. She LOVES to talk about that.) All the creatures of the house are curled up in my room, apparently also fans of Rufus, as they are quietly snoozing - one at my feet, two on the bed, one on the window sill, and one beneath the chair - as Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk plays on in the background.
It’s been a wonderful weekend. I know I only have four more days until the week is over and I can perhaps try again and have just as exciting Saturday and Sunday at this week‘s closing, but I just don’t want this magical weekend to end…
It’s a Rufus Wainwright kind of day. Before I continue, perhaps I should credit Mr. Wainwright for the soundtrack of my afternoon journaling. Here’s to you, Rufus.
I finally - stopped. By that, I mean, I’m through with bustling throughout the house. I’ve been away all weekend, living the good life at Casa del Sol Resort & Swim Spa. I had the most wonderfully relaxing weekend. Okay, so it wasn’t really a resort, but I did spend the weekend at Tim Larson’s - dear friend, confidant, and theatrical consort. He and his brother have a beautiful home in Bellevue, and they invited me over for the weekend.
Surprisingly, after the night I previously mentioned in my other entry, I somehow still managed to wake up and head over to Tim’s house by 11:00am. We were in the pool by noon, margaritas by two o‘clock, wine by six o‘clock, dinner by eight o’clock, night swimming to commence shortly thereafter, followed by a poolside nightcap, preceded by late night television comedies and deep discussions of sordid lives; then off to bed by two o’clock in the morning.
Fourth of July brunch was served at eleven o’clock, and by eleven forty-five, me, Laura, Morgan, Tim, Kenny, and Ted were all floating in the pool, laughing, talking, playing games, and simply relaxing hopelessly on this gorgeous, July afternoon.
After yet another incredible dinner, Laura, Morgan, Tim and I traipsed off to the front yard to enjoy the panoramic view of the neighborhood, fireworks display, making a marvelous game out of guessing the color of the firework-yet-to-come. Of course, five year old Morgan seemed to truly delight in this game, which made the three of us adults enjoy it’s silliness even more.
The shooting stars of light soared elegantly through the shadows of the skies, arching gracefully above the treetops, lighting up the heavens as they couldn’t soar any higher without bursting into unexpected colors through the starlit evening. A cerulean hibiscus, fuchsia starfish; illuminated baby’s breath, and more fairy dust than I’d ever seen, poured down upon our eyes of blue and deep brown.
Even sillier than the color guessing came was the shadow creature game that we played on the lawn, creating stories to match our elongated, moonlit silhouettes. Sometimes my quiet silhouette was overtaken by Tim’s monstrous one, as he chased it about the lawn, and sometimes Morgan’s five-year-old, diminutive outline seemed to pounce on mine even more-so than the six and a half foot Tim’s!
I went to bed that night, completely content and full of magical stories. All that previously seemed to cause me anxiety, and all of those disparaging thoughts that had previously overtaken my consciousness throughout the earlier days of the prior weeks before me, somehow found a different residence for the weekend, leaving me freed of my previously heavy mind.
I’m home now. The kitchen’s tidied. The living room is picked up. I’m unpacked from my weekend away - my room is as pristine as if Mary Poppins herself had been here, snapping her fingers and singing about spoons and sugar, while chirping birds sat perched on her outstretched fingers - my clothes put away and pillows fluffed. My bronzed skin seems so foreign against these ecru cushions of my writing chair, my hair highlighted by the sun’s tickling right arm. (In order to understand that slight inside joke, you’d have to ask my mother about the story I dictated to her, that she wrote on a napkin when I was merely four years old and too young to write for myself. Simply mention “Sun‘s tickling arm“ to my mother, and she‘ll gladly tell you all about how I started writing stories, once I figured out I could translate my imagination into scripted words. She LOVES to talk about that.) All the creatures of the house are curled up in my room, apparently also fans of Rufus, as they are quietly snoozing - one at my feet, two on the bed, one on the window sill, and one beneath the chair - as Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk plays on in the background.
It’s been a wonderful weekend. I know I only have four more days until the week is over and I can perhaps try again and have just as exciting Saturday and Sunday at this week‘s closing, but I just don’t want this magical weekend to end…
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
to our gayness and our gilt ~ king henry V
Friday night I had a Gayte (gay date) with one of my best gays, Christian. We met up for Appletinis at his gorgeous West End town home, and then took a cab to Bound’ry for dinner, sharing a crisply refreshing bottle of Sauvignon Blanc, and devouring a scrumptious dinner of Cajun trout and sautéed vegetables. Then onward to TRIBE (my most favorite gay bar in town), for an evening of dancing, martini-ing and gaiety. (no pun intended)
One White Gummy Bear Martini later, and the muted colors of the overhead lighting poured through the room as the gay heavens opened and all of my dearest friends emerged from the neon-lit Church street,. John-Todd and Eric were there, perched at the corner of the bar beneath the magenta lights; five minutes after we connected, I could almost hear a chorus of Lady Gaga, Ke$ha and Shakira, uniting as one untouchable trinity, as yet another group of friends came into the mix, making me as giddy as a twelve-year-old getting to meet Justin Bieber. We all ventured into the side bar area, only to discover Joe-The-Opera-Singer, and Lee Druce, one of my most favorite people of all time.
My phone started to “teleport” (that’s the text tone I have set to go off when I receive messages) - “Hey gorgeous! I‘m outside TRIBE. Where are you? - Shawn. He had been at the movie theater with friends, seeing that god-awful “Eclipse” movie - or whatever the latest “Twilight” film had been released in theaters, and knew that I was going to TRIBE, and decided to come too! Christian was having a difficult time keeping everyone’s names straight, not that there is anything straight about being in a gay bar. His eyes widened as our Gayte turned from a quiet night out, to a small group of people conversing at the bar, to thirty-five people taking over the entire establishment.
I was too busy playing “catch-up” with everyone to realize that Eric bought me a shot. If I could just shut up long enough to drink it, that probably would have been nice, I presume. Several taps on the shoulder, and I came around, but I don’t really enjoy “shots” as they are intended - well, no, it’s not that I don’t enjoy them, it’s that it’s just too much for me to swallow all in one gulp (that’s what she said), not to mention, shots like “Lemon Drops” are so delicious, it seems a sin to waste the tastiness of it by swallowing it too quickly (this is the last time I swear - that’s what she said). I wouldn’t drink it all in one swig, so I casually sipped it throughout the next two conversations.
By this point of the night, with what to my wondering eyes did appear, Holy Bejeezes, Judson. It’s been at least a year since we’d seen each other, and here we were, on a random Friday night, at TRIBE, finding the smiles and chatty reflections of ourselves in the corner of our favorite meeting place.
Christian, by this time of the evening, turned to me in disbelief, and with no abandon proclaimed: “We OBVIOUSLY need to hang out more often. How is it that you know EVERY gay man in NASHVILLE!!?!?” I laughed. Then, I pondered this quandary of a notion. You know, I have absolutely no idea how I have so many gay male friends in Nashville, but it’s true. I knew nearly thirty gay men at the bar, all whom are astonishingly handsome, and always know how to make me feel like the queen of queens. Ha. That was COMPLETELY an unintentional pun.
I didn’t get home until nearly a quarter till four in the morning. I hardly ever stay out that late, but I was having so much fun, that taxiing up in a Checker Cab and heading home seemed so dull, and thus, we kept the night rolling. When I finally got home though, after deciding my night had gone on long enough, I put in one of my favorite Judy Garland movies of all time (I suppose that’s a little cliché after spending the evening at a gay bar), “The Clock”, and fell asleep to my dearest Ms. Garland. How is it, that no matter what time of day, the sound of her voice is always so comforting?
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