LUTALICA

I've never been in the eye of a hurricane before (or even a hurricane for that matter) but I'd imagine it would be something like this:
like standing motionless on a busy street corner during rush hour in the middle of a big city--cars whirling about as blurs of steel and color on the streets like trees uprooted in the wind, people swarming the sidewalks like worker ants in an anthill going about their business. All contributing to the cacophony of sights and sounds that give life and color to the tempest of the big city.

Or maybe it can be better compared to the first day at a new school, new faces of all shapes and sizes, each with their own circle of friends and cliques and stories to tell, trying to get to class or lunch or wherever; all someplace to be, something to do, and someone to see. All in motion.

And then there's me--motionless in the center of this storm, in the middle of the school yard, new and clueless as the world happens all around me.

But here I am, I've arrived! That counts for something, right? Me, the FNG, the "I have no idea what's going on" written all over my face goes hand in hand with the dark circles under my eyes. I haven't even moved in yet. Instead, all of packaged me resides somewhere in this precarious armload of boxes and bags and luggage and baggage--all the things they said I would need to survive. Most of these are "necessities", the things you absolutely can't go without--all the neat little cubbies and compartments, tagged, bagged, and labeled appropriately. Without these, no one is gonna know who you are or who you're supposed to be. Without these, you won't know your place--and everybody has a place. It's only fair. Thus, my arms are full and still no one--not even I--knows who I am.

And the other half of my load, the non-necessities? Well, some things you'll always carry with you, no matter how hard you try to leave them behind.

All in all, it really is too much to carry. Everybody else clearly has it down to a science. Most only carry one, maybe two bags, or just a briefcase or a backpack. Some don't even carry anything at all--they hold hands with another. But me? I'm pretty sure I look ridiculous carrying all of this extra weight. I feel worse. 

So it's been a little while now--maybe a couple weeks, maybe a few months, I'm not sure--and I still have all my boxes like I'm constantly moving house but I never actually moved in. It's the nightmare of move-in day that doesn't inevitably end with sleeping in my own bed because I never found my room. Instead, it's always new boxes and new labels for new places and new faces, something for every occasion and circumstance. Always moving, forever struggling to carry everything I'm supposed to need and leaving behind anything else that doesn't fit.

So I learned to think on my feet, to categorize and summarize, to condense twenty-something years of existence into twenty seconds of "so tell me about yourself"--to revise my own history. Eventually, with some trial and error, I learned to bring forward only what I hoped was interesting, leaving out the boring parts, the mundane, the quirks, the details--because no ever sticks around long enough to find out you really are.

And now it seems like the only thing left to talk about is what fits where, and which labels are offensive or acceptable. Take a test to determine your career, your inclinations, your personality. It's all planned out for you, just pick a path and follow it, find a recipe and cook it up. Maybe I really should pick a path, but I can't even see my own feet.

I mean, it's almost comfortable. I'm wearing clothes that almost fit and I've somehow managed to shove myself into the right shape, folding and contorting myself until I almost look the part, armed with a twenty-second sales pitch for a product that I still don't fully understand--or know why I'm selling it.

But hey, stuff happens right? Sometimes things leak. Tags fall off. Boxes break. After all, they're only made of plastic and serrated cardboard. Things get mixed up, mingling into places they're not supposed to be, running the risk of contamination and potentially hazardous chemical reactions. And when stuff does happen, I embarrassingly wear the stains of my mistakes on my sleeves. And now they can see my innards smeared across my chest.

But even with all my compartments and tags and labels and warning signs, I still don't fit.

Everything hit the floor, and it all came crashing down in an instant. I didn't even see her there; I swear she just materialized out of nowhere.

My cheeks hot with embarrassment, I scrambled to pick it all up and stack it as it was before. I spent years trying to learn this balancing act and now it's all on the ground around my feet. Thanks for making me look like an idiot. Again.

I at least expected this round of 52 Pickup to be a two-player game, as she was the one who so rudely bumped into me (or I into her--doesn't matter now), but she didn't even bend over. Can you be more inconsiderate? I noticed her hands were empty, arms free. I don't think she was carrying anything before we collided, nor was she carrying anything now. No nametag, no boxes, just a smile. Who are you supposed to be?

"Are you... lost?" I fished.
"No," she smiled. "Are you?"

From the center of this whirling dervish of trash and broken boxes scattered on the ground, I watched incredulously as she extended a hand to me. If my life had been anything more than lugging useless piles of junk around for the last few years, it would've flashed before my eyes right then. But one hand isn't going to tame a hurricane.

"Thanks, but I got it."
I gritted my teeth, veins bulging on my forehead as I used my legs to lift my load off the ground like they taught me. I'm guessing she wasn't smiling anymore but I can't see much from here. Can't afford to worry about things like that; this stuff is already heavy enough. Everything still smells like cardboard.

My curiosity got the best of me, however, and it took a bit of effort to turn around and look back. I expected to see her standing there alone where I left her but she wasn't.
She was gone.
I was alone.

Heavily inspired by
"Lutalica"
The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows
by John Koenig

broken soles

i tried to call for help
but as i feared
no one came
and no one hears because their ears
are filled with their own screams
the silent ones that populate bad dreams
while you struggle to wake
from scary scenes that you know arent real
but it definitely feels that way
its easy enough to shake those feelings during the day
but when its dark out
the blood in the water brings the sharks out
ominously circling floundering swimmer
as he slips beneath the waves of his own fears
and while he fights to stay afloat
just remember that we're all in the same boat
as desperate cries escape water-logged throats
with the same look of desperation on each face
all trying to escape from the same place
running from nightmares

that empty shriek that makes no sound
like the absence of a crash when a glass hits the ground
was it full or was it empty?
shattered violently or crushed gently?
does it matter now?
just a hairline fracture
the smallest crack in the surface
can make the earth shift
or burst a pursed lip
one misplaced nail can sink the whole ship
a small mechanical fail
can derail the mighty train
or down the fastest plane
and a few days later
theyre put to rest
by strong men in dark clothing dressed
complete with flowers laid across their chests
mercilessly slain before they reached their best
only to live on in verses penned in cursive
once they depart from blacked-out hearses
curses!

but i digress
back to plan b
back to gingerly tiptoeing over tiny shards of me
spread haphazardly across the floor
while i limp around in shoes that dont work anymore
broken soles cant mend bleeding feet
tattered shoes wont hide cuts these deep
crimson footprints smear the wood as i try to sweep
crystal daggers under the rug
would you know it was there
if i didnt tell you it was?
sometimes i think
a lengthy hug is the least of what i need
to keep this straw man from bursting at the seams
but other times it seems
that a little bit of love
would undo me
completely

broken souls
dirty feet
open wounds
killing me

gone fishing

The windows were shut, the door locked; a lone sign hung loosely in the breeze.

He peered closer to read the sign and then threw his hands up in disgust.

So I wasn't in the office today.

Or yesterday.

Or the day before that.

Instead, here I am, tie untied, slacks rolled up to the knee, bare feet swinging inches above the water, trying to tease the Loch Ness Monster out of the shallows with my naked toes. At first, the silence was refreshing to my bruised ears, but now the thick sound of near nothingness was almost painful. I almost miss the dull roar of life, the murmur of movement, of people doing and going about their day--almost.

Now, all I can hear is the faint sounds of calm water lapping against the rotting wood. It's dead out here. The bucket is empty and the rod is still. I feel like the Old Man and the Sea, except I'm not old (yet), I'm not in the sea, and I have no idea what I'm trying to catch--still stressing out over what bait to throw, what hooks to use, which lines are the strongest. Why am I sweating the big catch when I can't even get the little greedy ones to bite?

My patience is wearing thin. Maybe I should go back. At least I get paid to sit there and be miserable. At least there's food on the table every night. Out here, if I don't catch, I don't eat--and I'm starving. The ringer on my phone is off but all the calls I'm neglecting are clanging loudly in the back of my mind.

But perhaps there's a better way to fish than wishful thinking on the dock.

Perhaps I need to get into the water.

i thought i was

I thought I was an apple

I mean, I live in a box surrounded by other apples

I'm shiny and red; I even wear that stupid little sticker just like all the other apples

I fell off a tree, landed in a truck, and now I'm here

but your hand descends and then it leaves again, pushing me aside, picking all the other apples
slowly emptying the crate, leaving me alone at the bottom

because I'm not the biggest apple

because the wax has worn off and I'm no longer shiny

because I'm bruised and ugly

because of the hint of sourness that grows stronger and stronger with each bite
because of the worms that have begun to burrow through my insides

because I'm two weeks past my expiration date and should've been tossed a long time ago

I thought I was an apple

because I thought you liked apples

but I don't think I want to be an apple anymore

dust to dust

It tumbled several more feet before finally coming to rest. Ouch. That one was almost too big to kick. But with the ground covered in loose chunks of earth of all shapes and sizes just begging to be given a good boot, the temptation was just too great. It's an excellent way to break up the monotony of hiking in the middle of the biggest desert in the country--plus it's the only thing currently keeping my mind off the blistering heat and wishing I was back in the air-conditioned tour bus.

Now it tumbles around somewhere in the bowels of my backpack, jammed in with books, water bottles, and my camera as I continue to walk new paths and see new horizons, soon to be joined by anything else I deem noteworthy enough to throw in my bag, recording and preserving both ancient and recent memory, all contributing to the weight on my shoulders.

I caught up with my most recent victim and stopped to examine it more carefully, giving myself a few seconds to catch my breath. It was still warm, faithfully radiating the heat of its native sun as I turn it over in my hand, carefully tracing its jagged edges with my fingers. Other than a bit of coloration on one side, it looked just as dusty and dead as the landscape around me.

I dumped the contents of my bag onto the floor and everything tumbled out--all the accumulated dirt that slipped through the cracks and tiny bits of trash I forgot to throw away and a few gems I thought I'd lost or forgotten, along with the ones I'd purposely collected. I stood there in the middle of my mess scratching my head. I don't remember acquiring all of these--too busy collecting to worry about carry weight. One of the unforeseen problems of travel. How am I supposed to fit all of this in my suitcase for the flight home? Even worse, how in the world am I supposed to pick which ones to keep and which ones to leave? Which one is more valuable than any other?

True, it's been dead longer than I've been alive. But it's probably (definitely) seen many more years than I have--it could have been resting here for centuries or even a thousand years before I, traveling wanderer extraordinaire, forcibly removed it from its tanning spot (and now I feel bad for kicking it). Who knows how many civilizations worth of dust it accumulated before I nonchalantly brushed it clean Indiana Jones-style, or what historically significant person may have dragged his or her shadow over this very spot. And now, as I squeeze it in my historically insignificant hands, my DNA is mingled in with the dust of history too.

I repositioned it carefully on the shelf for the fifth time. It had to be perfect, my personal display of my most prized possession. Dust and desert were months and miles away but now I traveled the jagged edges as much as I could, both alone and with anyone who would listen.

I looked both ways and slipped it into my pocket like I was stealing priceless artifacts from a museum--because dust and sand make for poor security guards.

I brushed past it again. It's still right where I left it. My fingers don't dance in the ancient dust like they used to, no longer gracing its grooves once worn smooth by desert winds and now by frequent finger traffic. Sometimes it lingers at the edges of my vision or I get to mention it in passing but nothing more. Once a proud resident of a free land now lies a stale ornament on a shelf like a majestic lion rotting in a cage, muffled by the graying dust that settles over things that no longer move or live or remember.

~

I laughed sheepishly, almost embarrassed how quickly I passed over it without noticing.

"Wait, you went where?" he stopped me.

I picked it up off the floor where it had fallen, nearly two years since the very first time I stooped to retrieve it.

"You went to Israel?"

I turned it over in my hand carefully, tracing its familiar grooves and edges once more just like old times, no longer warmed by its native sun but by the grip of memory.
I smiled.

shadowfall

Can anyone explain to me that almost beautiful yet oddly depressing moment 

when you watch the sun fall behind the mountains and descend below the horizon, 

and all that remains are tongues of fire painted in the ever-changing sky as shadows begin to creep along the ground and darkness slowly consumes everything around you while your thoughts grow louder and louder by the minute 

until all traces of the sun and its glowing warmth has faded away, 

and you realize darkness has prevailed yet again 

and another long night awaits you with hunger in its eyes, 

and you find yourself alone once again 

as your thoughts reverberate off the walls 

of your own emptiness...

disparate

sometimes i wish
just for a moment
that you could feel as i feel
see as i see

but perceptions disparate
is a gift
not a curse

it's what makes you, you
and me, me

OPIA

I heard footfalls, quick and rhythmic moving in my direction and instinctively braced myself. When I looked up, I immediately regretted it.

I've seen it far too many times in my brief existence--two galaxies swirling about, minding their own business until they are inexplicably set on a collision course as if drawn together by some unseen, inescapable force or gravitational pull that feeds off the clashing of worlds and smashing of stars.

The streets are full of these "galaxies" set up in neat little living quarters not unlike mine, all in a line, all purposely facing the same direction to avoid such catastrophes. But some days it's hard to walk down the street and resist the urge to steal a glance at every passing window. I know staring is considered rude, but a quick peek won't hurt anybody, right?

As gravity pulls and distance shrinks, it grows and looms larger in my path, and I find it increasingly difficult to avert my gaze--his, however, is nowhere to be found. It's probably tucked away somewhere behind that expensive glass, or maybe buried in the glow in his palm, or even flirting with the space just above his shoelaces--it's hard to tell.

Oh! I've crossed the moat--now I'm at the front gate.

There it lies, beneath the typical assortment of decorations, distractions, and window dressings: the front door--the final frontier. It's amazing how much effort some people go through to hide it, and how much others put in to make it more visible--but if you pay attention long enough, you start to see the same doors on different houses. Although they come in all shapes and sizes, each one always possesses the same weakness: the little two-way tunnel of glass in the center, right at eye-level.

Yet, beneath it all, there is more. Something else lies beneath--something small and fragile perhaps. I can almost hear it rattling about in that uninhabited space masquerading as residency, like the echoes of a rock hurled down an empty well as scary sounds reverberate from walls that haven't seen the light of day for a long time.

And suddenly here I am, up the steps and on the porch, within arms reach.

Do I knock?

I lean in and carefully put one eye to the glass. At first, I see... I don't see anything. It's too dark. But as my eyes begin to adjust I begin to see shapes and forms, and then...

I jumped.

I turn tail and fly unashamedly away from the door, unable to hold my gaze any longer, retreating blindly back to the safety of doubled locks, blacked-out windows, and thick curtains. The walls around me shudder as he swooshes past my right shoulder and out of sight.

My hands won't stop shaking. All is quiet again except for the faint sounds of sharp breaths escaping my chest.

~

I looked up again. Mistake.

I see it coming from a long way off, just a single cloud on the horizon. But I know better.

And this time, she sees me too.

The space between us begins to do that terrible thing again--shrinking. But the cloud is multiplying and growing and moving towards me now in an almost gliding, sort of floating fashion. I blinked really hard; maybe the stale air in here is affecting my vision.

I pressed my face against the glass, trying to look through the smudges for a better look. Yup, it's still coming, racing towards me and gaining speed like a tidal wave as I look on helplessly from my little shack stranded on this deserted island with nowhere to go, no way of escape. It's overwhelming my defenses, climbing the seawall. I can't fight gravity; I can't slow these winds.

We're gonna crash.

Everything in me screams to bar the windows and lock the doors, but I can't move. It's like that cliche, slow-motion moment that lasts forever yet no time at all where I'm standing there waiting for impact against my better judgment. And on it comes, this rolling thunder, this explosion of motion and light.

Light.

My eyes start to water from the sheer brilliance of this anomaly descending into my front yard; light and color pours in from the windows and seeps in through cracks in the door. Afraid to look and too terrified to pull my eyes away, I see her. She's here. The house begins to quake as she makes her way up the steps.

Oh no, you can't come in.

I finally convinced my stupid feet to move, backing away from the door as light gathers at the edge of the doorframe. I hear a commotion at my back--the trembling of the house has rattled loose everything I shoved into the back closet, and now they're awake and moving, falling and crashing to the floor. The windows clatter loudly as the locks clink and jingle in their bolts.

Beams of light begin to crawl about the room, investigating every corner--but not like the overpowering spotlights of a guard tower. These were small and gentle, fireflies searching, looking. For what? For who?

You can't come in. Not here.

This place is an unforgivable mess but if she comes in--no, she can't; she will destroy everything. She will be a tornado in the parlor, crushing my little arrangement, breaking furniture, and smashing it all to bits.

You will rearrange me. All without a word. With just a look--a glance.

I shrank into a corner and hugged my knees, trying to make myself as small as possible. For a guy who strives to be invisible, I am painfully visible. I sat there waiting for the front door to swing off its hinges, for my house to be destroyed, for the waves of this storm to wash over me and drown me in something so terribly wonderful.

Now she sees. Now she sees me.

I looked up and caught her gaze, strong yet gentle, soft but bright. The corner of her mouth curls ever so slightly, and for the first time in a long time I feel...

The lights begin to retreat from the windows and then disappears altogether as she brushes past my left shoulder. The house descends into a thick darkness once more, empty and bare. I sit on the floor alone in the dark, ears ringing, eyes full of light. How long I sat like this, I don't know.

I heard footsteps. I looked up. And then I got up and unlocked the door.

"Those eyes of yours could swallow stars

galaxies and universes

what hope did I ever have?"

Heavily inspired by
"Opia"
The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows
by John Koenig

The Present

No new promises, no fancy diets, no regurgitated resolutions. I always break promises, my attention span lasts longer than my diets, and I'm behind on my resolutions by at least four or five years.

We both know long before the new year rolls around what we should and shouldn't be doing with our lives, whether it be huge, life-altering decisions or simple things like "I should really spend less time on the internet" (which could also be life-altering). But we generally don't and won't think about those things until it's socially acceptable to publicly lay out a list of things that we know we probably won't see through to the end.

So let's not do that this year. This isn't my "resolution to not have a resolution". This time, let's keep things simple.

Whatever you (and I) know that you should be doing, just do it. Whatever action/lifestyle we know we shouldn't be doing, stop doing it. Or start taking the steps to remove said bad habit or addiction from your life. And all the good and positive things you've been doing or have already started, keep going. I'm gonna go ahead and quote Shia Labeouf because it's true: If you're tired of starting over, stop giving up.

Let's not wait until New Year's Day to start trying to fix everything. Just as the new year is a jump off point to start doing things right, so is every morning of every day--even every breath you take is an another chance to do right, that coveted clean slate that we're all looking for. Change isn't a one-time decision; it's a constant one.

Every day, every morning, every breath is a gift. Let's not waste it.

Don't count the days.

Make the days count.