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| MotherAnd so a mother watched as her son stepped off of the dock and into the sea, cried as he sank to the bottom. She wept for years until she died, never knowing that life lives on. He found a place of mermaids and melancholy, the kelp groves masking merriment. Otters swam about the beds, making otter sounds and otter faces as he swam past. Kelp lashed out. An otter writhed in its grip, gnawing at the slippery green plant.
A ripping sound beneath the waves. It echoes. An otter swims away post-haste. The echo returns. He holds his hands to his head and sinks as the echo echoes beyond his hearing, yet forever pulses within his heart. Touch the bottom and see nothing but blackness. Pressure cannot crush what is already thin and brittle.
Lights! A panoply of lights dragging after-images like reluctant hounds on leashes. He watches as the glow spreads and fish appear. Inches long teeth, pale, sightless eyes - they stare at him, through him. They watch, and he watches, and they watch each other, the son becoming uneasy under their scrutiny. He walks toward them, each step causing silt to carouse around his worn sneakers, filling them with the sounds of twirling. The fish are motionless as he passes and disappear when he looks back to see.
Again, blackness. Sneakers slip and a sussurration of sliding stones announces deeper silence. Haunting melodies rise from this pit and he is embraced. Small bloody fingers tear holes in his skin and the arms tighten in a stranglehold of emotion.
Hunt for prey.
The melody crescendos and a black ghost whispers past him, taking with it every memory of strangulation. He cannot see the red, twirling mist clouding around him, yet it takes him in, unlike the foreign invader of before. Takes him in and holds him in quiet. Nothing can be heard but a pulsing. A pulsing in the water around him. A pulsing in his head. A pulsing of blood, a heart.
His surroundings fade into being, the navy colors reminding him of a fleeting idea born on the wind and gone with the storm. He sees the colors brighten, though always tinged crimson and feels as a newborn must. Bars of light now pierce the depths and the body rising looks a red-hued comet slowly hurtling to the sky, rimmed by white bars - a new prison.
Animals pass and take notice and sharks congregate in his wake, passing blood through gills and back again - a cleansing. He bobs to the surface and takes no breath. No oxygen can sustain him any longer. His saviour cloud bubbles from beneath the surface and rises, fog-like, into the sun's browbeaten aura. He floats, spreadeagled, upon the tension born of water and air and waits. Waiting is pleasurable, staring into blue.
A hook. He is pulled back from reverie and into revelry. Saved. The rust encrusted schooner leaves a green wake in its path and he can't see the significance. Women hold him to their breasts and cry and the salt is returned through a bilge pump back into the sea. Artificial and cloying. Above the stern waves a standard, flicking the wind with its exuberance. It reads: Mother.
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| Link From Dan Dooley to the Masses.http://www.bushwackers.org/member/bushwackers-performance-schedule.html
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| They say tomorrow is a poor man's dream.I say music is a swing
Told to carry emotion
Into the sky.
Eyes.
Look out upon the valley
And its generous
Wastes.
Wait.
Stop fumbling for words that
Still won't convey
The way.
The way to hearts
Is in a deck of trials.
Watch - the kings.
I fold.
Old restraints corrode and break
Bonds weathered with wariness.
Willpower wanes.
Wait.
The words will not come,
Yet the breeze brings them
'Round again.
I hear them speak to me.
Do they speak to you?
Hush.
You're breathing too loud,
And your heart cannot
Hear the truth.
Speak the truth,
Bear the truth,
Bury all truth in this moment that leads to tomorrow.
Tomorrow is a poor man's fortune.
...
I would exhume your soul.
Lest you rot.
Let you rest.
Crying eyes blink,
No tears fall,
Absorbed into you.
Rest your head here -
My shoulder.
Your tears only serve to
Sanctify an open wound.
I would close it with you.
Your eyes.
My eyes.
A melody without words.
Stutter.
Swing the view into focus,
Tomorrow is a poor man's dream.
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| Be a Lighthouse - Not a Jetty Insincerity paid off - for a time. Is it sad to feel little remorse for lying in a card to my own mother? I think so. I've been willing the end of my college career to come swiftly so I can find somewhere to move to. Life is a precarious stalemate at my house. One false step could cost me hundreds of dollars. How do I cope? Living life in two rooms only and keeping my presence to a minimum.
Today is Father's Day. Kind of strange that I update on Mother's Day on Father's Day. I don't have much to say about today barring that I am leaving after this post to sneak into my dad's house and leave him his card. I like my dad.
On other notes, people - or at least the ones I've been surrounding myself with - never cease to surprise me. I'm not sure if I've only now changed enough to see this or if it's been there all along and I'm only now seeing it. Subtle difference. It's difficult to write on the subject, considering that alluding too far one way or another would probably be remiss. I'm not even sure the point I wish to make. Thank you comes to mind. For the trust.
I see so many people, or at least hear about them, moving through the tides of the population, finding others to spend time with and get to know. I hear about them fight, apologize, laugh, etc. and can't help but think that's so vague. For getting to know someone is not in the witnessing of their actions, although that is a part of it. Getting to know someone is getting behind the mask they show everyone else, even if it's just a peek, and see what resides there. Sometimes I wonder what it's like to live a life where so many people pass through that you rarely get to look behind their facades. You have fun, definitely, and may have the time of your life. What have you really gotten besides the experience of the event (though it could be argued that the experience is the most important part)? You have what you went in with - yourself. You also have your impressions of everyone else. Impressions are washed away by the tides. You are left with yourself. Sometimes I envy those who are social and who have fun almost every weekend, but other times I can't help but feel content with me and those near me. These people are all I need, really, though I'm never opposed to meeting more. I've seen behind their masks, I've kept confidences, I've listened. Doing these three things are what some define friendship as or sometimes relationships (though those are so much more). I look upon those three items and feel that unless I have grown from doing them, they are useless.
This is why gossip is such a deceitful whore. It occurs to me that everyone involved in its web cannot be friends, by default, else gossip would never find root. Those worst at gossiping, or what many call drama, are friends with none, by my definition. They listen to all information given them, yes, that is one of the 3 criteria, but they mar the other two. They only keep the confidences that need to be kept and exploit others in exchange for new information. They never see behind the masks.
Enough of that bit on gossip - just random thoughts.
I seem to have run out of ammunition.
I suppose the meaning of this post is, "Thank you"
Until then
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| I Waved at Life as it Blew Through the Trees There are times when I don't want to be sincere. Situations that seem to mock me with their simplicity, yet taunt me with the tenacity of the response I may get if I choose the wrong choice. On one hand, there is the choosing of honesty and sincerity. In this case, honesty and sincerity will get me a dagger-glare while lying and deception will reap another 6 months of stalemate around the house. One is significantly better than the other. I would rather skip the glare and keep a home. Not that my veracity would get me kicked out of my house, I'm just worried that it might. Mother's Day is coming up and I'm dreading it. Can you tell?
There are times in your life when things don't make sense. They just don't. You're a fool if you attempt to figure them out. The second edge to that statement is that there is also a point where if you stop trying you'll fail to appreciate the journey. Balance in life should be my credo. Though I don't practice it. Familiar, anyone? Touche(imagine the accent is there). Past the point of fulcrum-shattering imbalance comes indifference. I've been there before, back in 2004. It's not such a bad place to be. At least for a time. I've come to realize that beyond that point lie dangerous currents. You navigate lightly, attempting to thwart each tide's attempt to pull you under and yet this frothing fight for survival only drags you further out to sea and more of the same futile maneuverings.
You come to know people well. Better than most, at least. This is the plus side of the cryptic tide. You become ... lackadaisical ... for lack of a better word. Not that I'm not determined in certain aspects. You learn that despite your best efforts, you'll probably never move past a certain point. One of my metaphorical brick walls, if you will. And yet, people continue to surprise you. Again and again. Something out of the blue one day and a phrase from left field the day after that. What the hell does it all mean?
Past indifference comes acceptance. Acceptance of what things are like and that it will take a serious life event to snap you out of it. I'd rather not accept this fate - if Fate is, indeed, what colors our skies. Possibly, I'll build a makeshift raft and let the tides batter against its hull rather than my bruised emotions. I'll ride out the waves until my ship comes in, as they say. Until then, I will hail everyone nearby until something catches inside me. It's even becoming easier to do so.
If you catch any of my meaning in there, good. The words just seemed to flow and link together in sentences that endowed meaning perfectly and so I was loathe to tone down the vocabulary.
Until then.
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