bigBADbobby.blogspot.com: 01/30/2011

Sunday, February 06, 2011

Transit's Blur: A Poem

Image by o palsson via FlickrThis poem has been banging around in my head for a few weeks as I've tried to find the right words to say what needed to be said. It's a poem about timing, or the lack thereof, and about whether patience is justified when you know not whether your travel companion will arrive on the next Metro subway train or tap you on the shoulder as you stand staring at the board in Penn Station to ask if you're ready to go. But, you hope...

Our eyes peek into the past
To see footfalls in the urban snow,
Arm-in-arm on the long walk home.

Sleepless nights for our country as
Rain audibly sighs on a tired umbrella--
A train delayed by the unspoken fog.

Passengers of time go through the emotion,
Unsure whether loneliness is
Waiting to ride or riding pointlessly.

Stare at the faces that stare back--
Whether moving or standing still,
Life maintains its blur.

A heart longs for the day when
Its bus will arrive or its stop will come;
A transfer pass evident on its sleeve.

But, for now, commuters pass--
Individuality absent from expressionless faces--
None wearing a bright scarf and your smile.

It matters not--line, station, or port--
Our destination in the world
Is wherever we go and wherever we are.

As long as my arm has yours,
To hold and be held,
As we live through delays, departures, and arrivals...

Side-by-side.

Saturday, February 05, 2011

15/64: Kafka on the Shore

Cover of Kafka on the ShoreKafka on the Shore by Haruki Murakami, 5/5 Stars
Entertained Me: High, Made Me Think: High

As much as Murakami makes me want to stand up and scream at him, "WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?!?!" There is enough intrigue, despite the seemingly random nature of events, that Kafka on the Shore is a book that I know I will read again in the future--like a movie that whizzes by the first time you watch it, but the second time is when you catch all the nuances that make it so brilliant. My brow furrowed frequently; that furrowing changed into fever from the middle of the book until the end. I tried to explain it to a friend yesterday...

It's like reincarnation has overlapped. Like you're in love with two different people, young and old, but they're really the same person. And, somewhere out there, is a place that makes it acceptable despite the legal precedent of cultural mores. Because in this other place, it's core values that matter, not all this other crap that we've layered on top of it in society.

"Every one of us is losing something precious to us. Lost opportunities, lost possibilities, feelings we can never get back again. That's part of what it means to be alive. But inside our heads--at least that's where I imagine it--there's a little room where we store those memories. A room like the stacks in this library. And to understand the workings of our own heart we have to keep on making new reference cards. We have to dust things off every once in awhile, let in fresh air, change the water in the flower vases. In other words, you'll live forever in your own private library."

asterisktattoo*

Image via Wikipedia*I've decided, should I ever get a tattoo, then it will be a small asterisk in a circle, probably on my left wrist. Why? As often as I disclaim when trying to convey a point or tell a story, It'd be easier to just raise my left wrist, "Asterisktattoo!"

The tattoo after that is something that I've never yet seen or designed... a symbol that doesn't represent love or truth, but both--true love. A symbol for love is easy, but what is the graphic for truth?

Creative Blizzard

Image by TW Collins via FlickrIt was an interesting* week, was it not? Worked a lot, but didn't work much. Tons of sun, but a blizzard and below zero temperatures. Revelations and new beginnings.

*And, each time I say interesting I think to myself, "A professor once said (how often do I start with these four words--a product of nine years of college?), 'Interesting is the word you use when you can't think of a better word to use.'" I've decided that my mental thesaurus for that particular word isn't going to interrupt my thought flow any longer.

I spent the afternoon talking to a long-time friend (and psychologist) over a beer at a bar about life, last night's incredible dream, and my book. The revelation that I had earlier in the day was this, I need her on my book team to help me analyze what it is I'm trying to say--the story that I'm trying to tell. The combination that she provides--knowing me, a lifetime of exploring the metaphysical, and a daily foray into psychology--is a sounding board that has already been chock full of motivation, support, and thought.

Since I was a kid, her and I have always carved out our own space for conversation, either publicly or privately. In fact, she added, we also send out some vibe that prompts others to leave us alone to our musings. So true. We've reconnected this past year as her mother (a mom to me growing up, as well) goes toe-to-toe with lung cancer; it's nice to have one of the few people in my life that I've ever been able to, and comfortable with, telling the complete truth--revealing the bare, naked truth of me.

So many paths, so little time to go back and take them all to see where they go!

My favorite kind of conversations.