My apologies for missing this past weekend; I was traveling. And this is what I saw.
You wouldn't think so, but places look so different from the sky.
When landing for a layover in Chicago yesterday, I was fascinated by the trees like tongues of fire sweeping across an otherwise barren landscape. Looking closer, you notice the tendrils of streams and branches of small rivers running through them. The cities are at the big junctures. Look close enough and you'll see their water source.
Above Seattle, there is just water. It looks like a water city, built on tiny outcroppings of land connected by bridges. Walk in any direction and you find it. The water glints like scales on a dragon until you get closer and start to see the ripples of movement. It goes from glossy green to gray-blue with white caps, all the magic lost to reality.
Vegas is a desert. Everyone knows the city is like a massive oasis in the middle of the driest of dry we are aware of. I always recall stepping out of the airport the first time I went there and feeling the pressure of the heat on my shoulders instead of the sticky humidity of home. When flying over, you see real mountains and dirt hills and ripples of where the wind has carved out the landscape. Suddenly, a line of buildings appears like an army over a hill, and the density doesn't stop until you've passed it over completely.
Tennessee is greener than you might think. Passing over you can barely see Nashville for the giant parks surrounding it. Whereas everywhere you see the circles and squares of crop land, here you see the tips of trees and fields, no particular order, left alone to their original shapes. Over the city, everything is identifiable. The stadium pops up first, giving reference to downtown, midtown, and campus areas. Most places, even home, it is difficult to find something familiar from the sky, but Nashville is simply laid out for you.
Baltimore is a port city. When flying into BWI, you have an ocean to your right the whole time. All of the places where ships made history by landing and claiming for their king, from above, are just parts of the great sea. I'm sure it must be the same on the west coast, but I wouldn't know. The Chesapeake Bay is just one of those arms of the sea, anchoring Maryland to it. If you know the geography, which I don't, you can see the Inner Harbor, the smaller bays, Ocean City. To me, they all look the same. I spend my time identifying cruise ships and fishing boats by their triangular wakes, wondering if anyone I know is out there. The land is built close to the water, tall buildings and townhouses, unafraid of storms and flooding (though perhaps they should be). If we came in by land, as we leave the city, you can see the circle of the beltway, connecting Baltimore and Washington like a bridge between two huge posts. If you glance to the west on a clear day, the river weaves between what we call mountains (those in the actual west would disagree). On an overcast day, it looks like a fog and hulking shadows, a mystery what lies beyond. Unless you know, which I do.
Wednesday, May 30, 2012
Saturday, May 19, 2012
Birthing of an Alphabet
Her feeling thus was amorous;
His feeling merely beastial.
Thus their acts were cordial.
There remained a cosmic dissonance,
An interrupting electricity
That continued on, frenetic.
And on they grappled.
There would be no honor
If the victory was instant.
There were no jurors.
They required a kleptomaniac
To steal the moments, languid.
To be so monstrous.
To make the word “never”
Less ominous,
More porous.
To breed the lacking quality;
Reinstitute the racket;
To make them swear,
At their most terrified,
To be upstanding
and have some valor.
They were to keep the universe in whack
Until the day they were exes.
And on that day to warn us with a yowl
So we will know it is our zed.
His feeling merely beastial.
Thus their acts were cordial.
There remained a cosmic dissonance,
An interrupting electricity
That continued on, frenetic.
And on they grappled.
There would be no honor
If the victory was instant.
There were no jurors.
They required a kleptomaniac
To steal the moments, languid.
To be so monstrous.
To make the word “never”
Less ominous,
More porous.
To breed the lacking quality;
Reinstitute the racket;
To make them swear,
At their most terrified,
To be upstanding
and have some valor.
They were to keep the universe in whack
Until the day they were exes.
And on that day to warn us with a yowl
So we will know it is our zed.
Sunday, May 13, 2012
Connections Never Made
The whole family is parallel parked down the street in front of your house, crammed into the large kitchen, and eating snacks while mingling in the living room. But you are exhausted. You stare at the maps you create on your ceiling and listen to the murmurs as it gets dark and you drift in and out of a nap.
There is a sports car belonging to your uncle. There is arguing. A familiar voice. You drift in and to the window. Parting the shades you see two figures in the twilight. One your uncle standing by the redness of his convertible, and one could just be him. He has hit your uncle's car while attempting to fill a too-small space. Where did he get a car? And when did he get here? And why?
You greet him at the back door to the basement by the drain. The ping pong table sits behind you. Your cousin and your best friend stand behind it. His hair is shorter and he has filled out a bit. You hug him like you always have, remembering the last time you jumped into someone's arms. Three men and you. The little girls might be playing outside the game room, but here it is just you and the three boys. They greet one another.
You introduce them all. They have never met. You sit on the ping pong table. It has always been a gathering space. They all wonder which one of the others is your boyfriend. None has ever been, nor will ever be. They wander in and out of your consciousness.
You awake in a wholly different world. The three men in your dream haven't been in your life for years. The house with the sidewalk and the ping pong table are gone. Wondering where they all are right then. Letting them go. Turning towards the middle of the bed, you drift off holding the hand of the only man in your life. You dream of the past and what could have been.
There is a sports car belonging to your uncle. There is arguing. A familiar voice. You drift in and to the window. Parting the shades you see two figures in the twilight. One your uncle standing by the redness of his convertible, and one could just be him. He has hit your uncle's car while attempting to fill a too-small space. Where did he get a car? And when did he get here? And why?
You greet him at the back door to the basement by the drain. The ping pong table sits behind you. Your cousin and your best friend stand behind it. His hair is shorter and he has filled out a bit. You hug him like you always have, remembering the last time you jumped into someone's arms. Three men and you. The little girls might be playing outside the game room, but here it is just you and the three boys. They greet one another.
You introduce them all. They have never met. You sit on the ping pong table. It has always been a gathering space. They all wonder which one of the others is your boyfriend. None has ever been, nor will ever be. They wander in and out of your consciousness.
You awake in a wholly different world. The three men in your dream haven't been in your life for years. The house with the sidewalk and the ping pong table are gone. Wondering where they all are right then. Letting them go. Turning towards the middle of the bed, you drift off holding the hand of the only man in your life. You dream of the past and what could have been.
Sunday, May 6, 2012
My Block
I walked the block. Right to the crosswalk. Right to TGI Friday’s. Right to the man who sells The Contributor. Right back towards the fountain. And right to the front door. I only wanted to see so I turned up the volume on my iPod.
There were students everywhere, crossing from the University to their apartment. Wearing back packs. Either blabbing on their cell phones or to their partner. Never walking quiet and alone. Perhaps texting.
Groups of sorority girls or fraternity boys cut through the parking lot with their cases of beer in high high heels and short dresses, laughing and swaying.
Waiting at the corner was a man in a suit. With a briefcase. He carefully waited for the light to change, for the walking man to appear. He took long strides to the parking garage behind Friday’s. Going home. Taking work home.
Those sitting at the bus stop held Arby’s cups and their fare cards. Some stand, some sit. Most are quiet, worn from a long day. They wear jeans and t-shirts, few with blue collared shirts and emblems. One man has a cane and stares at the ground. The bus arrives and they all file on to greet neighbors and people they ride with every day. The bus driver is always the same.
The man with his newspapers leans against the light pole, waiting for the light to fill his street side with cars. He smiles as he walks, limps a bit, says nothing. A few hands gesture him to their windows. He shakes their hands and takes their money. It is a good day. He gathers his satchel and winter coat from the brick wall and gets on the bus with the others.
The street by the church is silent, then raucous by the corner bar. Men and women sit out on the patio. It is mild and they are warmed by their beers and a winning game. I smell the cigarette smoke as I pass the front door.
I type in my code and hold the door for a guy with his groceries. Girls stand waiting for taxis. I enter the cool lobby. No mail. I avoid the elevator and climb the three flights tomy apartment. No one out on my floor tonight. I can hear music playing from the end of the hall and people on the deck. The windows are open.
There were students everywhere, crossing from the University to their apartment. Wearing back packs. Either blabbing on their cell phones or to their partner. Never walking quiet and alone. Perhaps texting.
Groups of sorority girls or fraternity boys cut through the parking lot with their cases of beer in high high heels and short dresses, laughing and swaying.
Waiting at the corner was a man in a suit. With a briefcase. He carefully waited for the light to change, for the walking man to appear. He took long strides to the parking garage behind Friday’s. Going home. Taking work home.
Those sitting at the bus stop held Arby’s cups and their fare cards. Some stand, some sit. Most are quiet, worn from a long day. They wear jeans and t-shirts, few with blue collared shirts and emblems. One man has a cane and stares at the ground. The bus arrives and they all file on to greet neighbors and people they ride with every day. The bus driver is always the same.
The man with his newspapers leans against the light pole, waiting for the light to fill his street side with cars. He smiles as he walks, limps a bit, says nothing. A few hands gesture him to their windows. He shakes their hands and takes their money. It is a good day. He gathers his satchel and winter coat from the brick wall and gets on the bus with the others.
The street by the church is silent, then raucous by the corner bar. Men and women sit out on the patio. It is mild and they are warmed by their beers and a winning game. I smell the cigarette smoke as I pass the front door.
I type in my code and hold the door for a guy with his groceries. Girls stand waiting for taxis. I enter the cool lobby. No mail. I avoid the elevator and climb the three flights tomy apartment. No one out on my floor tonight. I can hear music playing from the end of the hall and people on the deck. The windows are open.
Sunday, April 29, 2012
The Benefit of Trees
I’ve watched the trees always. They bend and twist, reaching for the sun, creating tunnels for cars. Shading the roads.
I bend, twist, and reach too. I’m not looking for the sun. I feel kin to the trees though. Shading and protecting others while I strain towards my goal.
Me and the trees aren’t free. Birds are free to roam. We are rooted in the ground. We go down as we grow up. We hold on below as our arms stretch ever upward.
The sun is billions of lengths from the trees. Is my goal? My dream. I am awake enough to know when there is no hope of success, aren’t I? I am not as the trees, unknowing and needy.
I am connected to my home. But my legs aren’t buried in dirt to my knees and growing ever downward. I can walk though I can’t fly. I can find the sun and the wind without growing. My movement is freer.
No one ever told me, before I figured it out, that the trees looked for the sun and that is why they bend. I just looked at them and knew. Only later did I have evidence (photosynthesis and all that).
Trees stay alive by reaching up and down at the same time. Is that how I change? Do I need to connect to my roots while looking into the future? That is how we humans live and grow and learn.
Perhaps we should take our lessons from the trees. Studying them always.
I bend, twist, and reach too. I’m not looking for the sun. I feel kin to the trees though. Shading and protecting others while I strain towards my goal.
Me and the trees aren’t free. Birds are free to roam. We are rooted in the ground. We go down as we grow up. We hold on below as our arms stretch ever upward.
The sun is billions of lengths from the trees. Is my goal? My dream. I am awake enough to know when there is no hope of success, aren’t I? I am not as the trees, unknowing and needy.
I am connected to my home. But my legs aren’t buried in dirt to my knees and growing ever downward. I can walk though I can’t fly. I can find the sun and the wind without growing. My movement is freer.
No one ever told me, before I figured it out, that the trees looked for the sun and that is why they bend. I just looked at them and knew. Only later did I have evidence (photosynthesis and all that).
Trees stay alive by reaching up and down at the same time. Is that how I change? Do I need to connect to my roots while looking into the future? That is how we humans live and grow and learn.
Perhaps we should take our lessons from the trees. Studying them always.
Sunday, April 22, 2012
A dream told me...
My sister wanted to be a poet. At first I was surprised of this career choice coming from an acclaimed perfectionist - for poets do not gain success or money easily (those qualities included in the perfect life). Once I focused on the writing of poetry, though, I saw her appeal for it. Metered lines, perfect rhymes. The model for perfection.
She claimed that with her best friend she would run up and down the aisles of the school auditorium for exercise. Sometimes they would hide from the janitor behind the orchestra wall. They did this when she got writer’s block. It is hard to imagine my sister running to avoid writer’s block. Perhaps her marathons are remnants of those days.
I’ve been comparing my sister to myself forever. When she followed the pictures on the Lego box I found that boring and created masterpieces with whatever was left over. I claim myself abstract. And here I see it too. I require freedom of words and sentences and fragments. She needs a structure to place words into.
I just found out in a roundabout way that my sister wrote poetry. She is not a poet. She is an accountant. Her structure is evident (in gaining success and money easily). I guarantee she would have been a better poet than I a writer. I am more accustomed to breaking the mold I suppose.
I find it much more difficult to abandon my childhood dream for a successful life. Life will be difficult no matter which path I choose. I’d like to live the happier one. However, there is always time to reconsider this. An unsuccessful writer cannot stand beside a successful accountant and feel good. Perhaps freedom comes at a price. Perhaps this is why my sister is not a poet.
She claimed that with her best friend she would run up and down the aisles of the school auditorium for exercise. Sometimes they would hide from the janitor behind the orchestra wall. They did this when she got writer’s block. It is hard to imagine my sister running to avoid writer’s block. Perhaps her marathons are remnants of those days.
I’ve been comparing my sister to myself forever. When she followed the pictures on the Lego box I found that boring and created masterpieces with whatever was left over. I claim myself abstract. And here I see it too. I require freedom of words and sentences and fragments. She needs a structure to place words into.
I just found out in a roundabout way that my sister wrote poetry. She is not a poet. She is an accountant. Her structure is evident (in gaining success and money easily). I guarantee she would have been a better poet than I a writer. I am more accustomed to breaking the mold I suppose.
I find it much more difficult to abandon my childhood dream for a successful life. Life will be difficult no matter which path I choose. I’d like to live the happier one. However, there is always time to reconsider this. An unsuccessful writer cannot stand beside a successful accountant and feel good. Perhaps freedom comes at a price. Perhaps this is why my sister is not a poet.
Saturday, April 14, 2012
The Grand Adventure: Part II
During my whole bus adventure, I had been keeping in contact through text message with a friend. Wanting to let them know that I was alright and made it home, I dug into my bag. Problem was, no phone.
I have this habit where I place my phone on one leg while I’m waiting for text messages so that my hands are free but it is within reach for quick responding. A few times I’ve done this in the car (since it is illegal to use cellphones in the car, I always want ready access to my phone as soon as I stop) and then gotten out of the car, leaving my phone to slide onto the seat without my noticing. This time, that occurred on the public bus.
Normally I would despair. Losing my phone unleashes so many problems from cancelling service to people worrying about me to getting a new one to not getting my errands done because I freak out about it. I must have been high on the community feeling though, because I quickly formulated a plan.
I figured out when the bus would come around a second time (about an hour), and ran some errands while I waiting. While I was checking my work schedule, one of my coworkers called my phone with no answer. I used social media to get in touch with the friend I had been texting with on the bus so they knew I was alright.
I caught the bus on its trip around and asked the bus driver about my phone. He was gruff, but he told me it would be in the lost and found at the main bus terminal. I knew where that was! I hopped in my car and drove over, even remembering to bring quarters for the meter. When I reached the lost and found I described my phone. The kind woman said she did not have that phone, but that the bus I was on parks on the main floor, so they wouldn’t receive it until the following day. Though I knew my day was busy, I didn’t think it would be too difficult to come back the next day. I went home to finish unpacking.
When I returned home I had several emails and messages, all from the friend I had contacted. He had called my phone and Supervisor 57 had answered, saying he’d be in the main bus terminal until eleven. Though I had just been there, I turned around and went back.
After wandering the now closed terminal, looking for a sort of office and asking the Dunkin’ Donuts clerk if she knew where I could find a supervisor to no avail, I saw a man who looked like a cop talking to a bus driver. He was right by the lost and found office, so I wandered over there. The uniformed officer asked me what I was looking for. I replied, “Supervisor 57.” That was him. There is a picture of me on my phone, so I didn’t even need identification (which is good because I had left it in the car). I thanked him profusely and went home to finally finish unpacking.
I was so giddy about having my phone back I contacted everyone, asking about plans and work schedules and everything. I went to write down a time in my planner, and that is when I started laughing. My planner was missing too.
I walked through my frantic phone search and concluded it was at work. I ran barefoot down the street until I was about halfway there when I realized I had filled prescriptions from my planner after I had checked my work schedule. I called the pharmacy and they had my planner. Now being a crazy person who forgets everything and runs around barefoot, I kept laughing at myself all evening. I collected my planner that night and actually got a few errands done.
End Part II
I have this habit where I place my phone on one leg while I’m waiting for text messages so that my hands are free but it is within reach for quick responding. A few times I’ve done this in the car (since it is illegal to use cellphones in the car, I always want ready access to my phone as soon as I stop) and then gotten out of the car, leaving my phone to slide onto the seat without my noticing. This time, that occurred on the public bus.
Normally I would despair. Losing my phone unleashes so many problems from cancelling service to people worrying about me to getting a new one to not getting my errands done because I freak out about it. I must have been high on the community feeling though, because I quickly formulated a plan.
I figured out when the bus would come around a second time (about an hour), and ran some errands while I waiting. While I was checking my work schedule, one of my coworkers called my phone with no answer. I used social media to get in touch with the friend I had been texting with on the bus so they knew I was alright.
I caught the bus on its trip around and asked the bus driver about my phone. He was gruff, but he told me it would be in the lost and found at the main bus terminal. I knew where that was! I hopped in my car and drove over, even remembering to bring quarters for the meter. When I reached the lost and found I described my phone. The kind woman said she did not have that phone, but that the bus I was on parks on the main floor, so they wouldn’t receive it until the following day. Though I knew my day was busy, I didn’t think it would be too difficult to come back the next day. I went home to finish unpacking.
When I returned home I had several emails and messages, all from the friend I had contacted. He had called my phone and Supervisor 57 had answered, saying he’d be in the main bus terminal until eleven. Though I had just been there, I turned around and went back.
After wandering the now closed terminal, looking for a sort of office and asking the Dunkin’ Donuts clerk if she knew where I could find a supervisor to no avail, I saw a man who looked like a cop talking to a bus driver. He was right by the lost and found office, so I wandered over there. The uniformed officer asked me what I was looking for. I replied, “Supervisor 57.” That was him. There is a picture of me on my phone, so I didn’t even need identification (which is good because I had left it in the car). I thanked him profusely and went home to finally finish unpacking.
I was so giddy about having my phone back I contacted everyone, asking about plans and work schedules and everything. I went to write down a time in my planner, and that is when I started laughing. My planner was missing too.
I walked through my frantic phone search and concluded it was at work. I ran barefoot down the street until I was about halfway there when I realized I had filled prescriptions from my planner after I had checked my work schedule. I called the pharmacy and they had my planner. Now being a crazy person who forgets everything and runs around barefoot, I kept laughing at myself all evening. I collected my planner that night and actually got a few errands done.
End Part II
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