No Man's Snow

Been thinking a lot about the Phoenix lately, and how to rise from the darkness that’s surrounded me these past few years. Maybe poetry is part of rising again… if I can distill these emotions and thoughts into simple lines, which together aren’t so simple at all… perhaps they can balance the tens of thousands of words swirling around in my head attempting to create my novel. Over long periods of time the weight of all those words wears me down, and I just want it to be over...

Light goes gray

Prior to blackened.

In the ash to cross

These boundaries now covered.

Where footsteps remain,

Scarcely remembered,

Barely etched before shaken.

Memories cherish the sun.

Truth shrouded in cloud.

Fact beholden to none.

Over either shoulder,

Only yesterday survives;

Subconscious remission,

Repainted set.

Love now powdered,

Powerless to elemental whim,

Sits still for no man’s snow.

Thought on a morning walk...

In the effort to get back in shape, I've been walking through errands in the morning and hitting the gym at night. Unfortunately, it's like walking through air soup here in Kansas City right now. At 8am it's already over 80 degrees Fahrenheit and the humidity is pourable. However, walking is always a great opportunity for me to think...

On today's walk, I realized that my inclination to "see all sides" reflects itself in my photography. Now, I feel rather silly even saying "photography" because I'm far from a photographer like my long-time friend PoppaZ. I suppose I'd much rather say that my pictures often reflect the reflections that my eye has a tendency to see in surfaces; as if we don't have the whole picture unless we see what's there and see what's in the mirror... or on the window... or on the granite.

I came back from this latest trip to Europe and noticed that I took several pictures that highlighted the reflections of what I saw. To me, there's something fascinating about this. If thinking about my book, I can see a similar tendency to look at all sides. There isn't simply the light and the dark, we're all some combination of them--all some blend of gray. In order to achieve our goals, we must understand the real world and the signals we get from the metaphysical world. With both, we accomplish our dreams... and our dreams.

I often use the light switch analogy, stating that I simply can't be with someone who is either on or off. The right partner for me is a dimmer, changing the light and dark based on the situation or the circumstance or the mode or the feeling. This was never more evident than with the young woman I dated from a nearby city who consumed everything at a rapid pace--she was either running full-speed or dead to the world--that I once asked her why she was always in such a hurry. Her response, she didn't want to miss anything wherever she was going. Now, I eat my meals quickly, for example, but I'm never in a hurry to get up from the table. I like to take in the moment, admire my environment, stroll through the park, consume a book in the shade and cool breeze off the lake.

Now that I think about it more, this concept of "dimming" was very apparent in my couple of weeks with a former lover turned friend in Sweden. We made a wonderful team making meals, cleaning, planning, taking it easy, talking, exercising... there was no rush, even when there was some demand to get out of the summer house, into some nice clothes and visit a restaurant. We both adjusted to levels of light that complemented one another. That was nice, I must say. Now, if my teammate wasn't 6000 miles away...

I have a few hours today that I will be able to use on my novel. After yesterday's shredding (a self-edited, disheartening endeavor), I feel more like my own harsh criticisms are today's words of progress as soon as I fix the wrongs that I discovered. But first, GO USA!

When Fire Meets Sea

A month and a half ago, I sat staring into the fire: the fire of anger, the fire of ailing friends, the fire that once burned brightly, but was singeing the long hairs hanging from my head. Though the fire provided light, it was fueling my desires in the dark.

A voice called out from afar, “Come here.” I obliged.

For a month, I walked unquiet shores and dilapidated facades to find a peace among friends—a different world of weather, wine, and women—who helped unearth my core, my soul, and dilute the importance of my senses.

Instead of jibberish, speak now more the language of truth and love. And, when fingers touch, make sure there is a spark. Bzzzzt.

Born again—refreshed and committed to my goals—I returned home, an arduous journey of reflection, with a sadness for having left a country I admire, but also with a greatness welling up inside, symptom of my life's mission, with each mile that I drew closer to home.

“Left my soul there, down by the sea.” A piece of it, yes. I will come back for it soon.

Thank you, my friends, for all the analysis and support that you provided during my journey. I will not be soon to forget your kindness nor your love.

Suerte,
Bob

Dark Requiem (Revised)

I first wrote this poem on October 20th, 1997. Heartbreak was the reason. As I was working on a chapter in my book last weekend, I ran across it, and decided to rewrite it. The new and old versions follow:

From 01/08/11:

Loss is the dark requiem
When suffocated by separation
Dead souls in repose are
Feathers of a broken heart’s bed
A claustrophobic coffin
Comforts the loveless
When there is no air to breathe


From 10/20/97:

Sense of loss.
Requiem.
Repose of the souls of the dead.
Rest.
Sleep.
Peace.
A part of me missing.
Loss of that piece.
Dark.
Black.
Claustrophobe.
Suffocating.
Can’t get out.
Can’t sense movement.
Where is she?
Loss of sense.
Quiet.

Glimpse of a Cat

A glimpse, maybe a clue, but last night I experienced another piece of the puzzle, for sure. It's a game. At least, I've decided to start calling it a game, which should make it more fun to play than a mission in life. A fucking mission exudes the word "pain" in its ultimate reward. Believe me, I get that already; I don’t need a reminder every single time I hear it.

Snap.

Simply put, I saw her.

Now, I suppose that I could argue that I saw a vision of her, for I haven't yet answered the question about whether Promise is one singular person or many. I believe in the many over the one. However, finding the piece of hay that fits so comfortably out the side of my mouth in this stack of painful needles might aptly describe the search process, so far.

The soul medicine that I'd so desperately needed came in the form of the night, oddly enough. Which reminds me; never confuse The Black and the night. Never. Under the stars and the limp threat of storms, far from those polluted by their own urbane nature, where the man in the moon provides the only true light--a telling light, but not a truthful flood, for many things hide in its glow--I found my rest among things that sleep, and things that don't, under no cover but that which the earth or from simple construction of its assets does provide.

On most nights I only hear the beating of my own heart—that constantly beats too fast, even more so with the punishment that I've been putting upon it. Kick ‘em when they’re down. How quickly can I plug my arteries with poison to get the fucking lub-dub out of my head? On most nights, not quick enough, so I've prayed for the nectar squeezed from grapes, permitted in our most hallowed cathedrals, to lead me on hands and knees into oblivion. Together we crawl into the mysteries of the dream-hungry mind. Yes, on most nights, we do.

As I lie there last night, I could feel It coming. It walked in eternal shadow; no light from the moon revealed its face. It made no shortest-distance-between-two-souls-is-a-straight-line path toward me. It meandered, whether toying with little lives, suffocation by approximation, or simply testing my own constitution, it approached slowly... and, like I said, I felt it. I don't know if it walked, floated, or danced; I just know it was there. It was there in the real world.

I deliberately metered my breath to calm my heart. Deeper. Slower. Calmer. By not dwelling on its presence, I could force myself to transition into my dreams where I was more familiar with the tools that I had at my disposal to fight or parry. Yet, it still moved, determined and closer. The lone sheet became my shield; its warmth forced my body to sweat, but I pulled it up until it covered all but my nose. Any higher and I'd feel my own suffocation begin. The only thing I need to sleep is fresh air. No human body, no pillow, no blanket, no forceful hand can cover my means of breath and still expect me to sleep. This long hair on my head would serve as a dark helmet, perfectly camouflaging my only exposed body part.

It still came... until the sweet state of intoxication whisked me away.

--

"You don't have any idea what she's doing to you, do you?" she asked.

I didn't recognize her and I had no idea who she was speaking about. But, I was lucid and active in this dream rather than a passive observer.

"Soup?" She waved her hand front of my face before repeating her question.

I focused my eyes on her trying to place the face.

"Been somewhere?" she asked.

"Something like that," I replied.

"I know your mind travels. I know it brings back all these wonderful stories," she said while pointing to the bookshelves and piles of paper that hadn't yet made been bound. "But, I need you here. Now. I need you to listen to me in this life."

This life? Which fucking life is this? "I'm here, Cat. I'm here." CAT! With a "C" and not a "K," which must mean that it's Catherine, not Kathy, not Katie, but could be Cathy. It wasn't lost on me how strange it felt to discover something that it seemed I already knew. I study the shape of her face to give me a small chance of remembering it in what would surely be some split-second, chance meeting at some point later in life.

"Well then, if you're here, do you mind talking with me instead of over-heating that brain of yours with the possibilities?" she asked as she turned her seated body slightly toward me.

"Okay," I replied.

We sat in a dimly lit room—a bedroom—that felt like my bedroom, but not one that I was currently familiar with. The light came from over my shoulder to light up her face. Don't forget her face. After all of these experiences with Promise, none where I've ever been able to see her face, it surprised me to have hers facing me. Pudgy cheeks and soft lines gave her that naturally cute look. Her hair, which looked like it was between where it used to be and where she wanted it to go, tickled her shoulders where several pieces had escaped the knot that held its relatives captive. It was too dark to see the color of her eyes, but her hair grew a reddish-brown and I wasn't able to determine whether it was red by nature or by choice. Nor did I care.

Can she see my face? With the light behind me, can she see my face? This strange thought surprised me.

"HEY! DID I LOSE YOU AGAIN?" This time she snapped her fingers when she said it.

I mumbled, "I can't place myself."

"What?"

"Nothing." And suddenly found the place in short-term memory that replayed that question she'd asked a few moments prior. "I know what she's doing, I just don't want to believe it."

"Why do you try so hard?"

"I want to believe. I want to believe in the good-natured heart, the wise soul and the comfort of trusted commitment."

"You sometimes want to believe it so much that you create a fantasy amidst reality."

"At least I know it."

"Knowing it and doing something about it are two totally different things," she said flatly. "Well, all of that's going to change tonight."

Somehow, I just knew that things were about to me exposed in such a way that I could no longer deny their existence or believe the lies that gave me the opportunity to suspend disbelief. I knew all of this and it didn't bother me. In fact, it felt a welcome coming. I didn't know what Cat expected of me, perhaps not such a state of calm, but that's what studying her face gave to me. How long had I known her? Forever. Duh. She didn't back down from my gaze, simply held her strength in the light, making her even more beautiful.

When I brought my lips to hers, she didn't move, didn't act as if it was something that she'd always wished for, but had too much respect for what's right to pursue. She didn't wrap her arms or legs around me, and didn't turn her body into mine, not even a slight opening of the shoulders to my kiss. She did, however, purse her lips milliseconds after mine touched them, and that was all the reaction I needed to linger, lips brushing across each others' like fingers tracing the names etched into monuments--as if you could reach out and touch history; feel the sense of struggle, but ultimate accomplishment of the men and women in our past.

She pulled away from me and quickly jumped out of bed. Before she spoke, I realized what she'd already heard; quick, bare footsteps on the floor above.

"What do we do?" she whispered. I looked at her blankly and she returned a shrug of her shoulders that reiterated her question.

I shrugged my shoulders in return before saying, “You just told me that everything will change tonight, is this"--I gestured around the room drawing a circle that encompassed us--"not what you meant?" I knew it wasn't what she meant, but didn't miss the opportunity to employ my wit.

"NOOOO!" she whispered with as much authority as she could and still have it labeled a whisper, then checked her clothes as if she’d just put them back on.

I reached for her, hoping that my touch on her elbow would bring calm, but as I reached...

--

I woke to a night where even those awake at night had fallen silent. I often forget that there comes a time in the night when the night itself is completely still. I felt calm, resting with everyone and everything, which was very different for me--in the majority, a group that I'd not felt a member of in a very long time.

The pillow, as is often the case during a deep sleep, was wet with saliva in a circle that I knew from memory would be about the size of a silver dollar, though I couldn't confirm it in the darkness. I made my one hundred and eighty degree flip, from left side to right, adjusted the covers and thought hard to capture the face that I'd been so intent to study in my dream.

Cat. Catherine. Not Kathryn, or Kat. Cats and I have an unspoken deal since I'm allergic to them: if they don’t mind me not petting them, I don't mind them spending time around me or on me. With most cats, it works out. Wouldn't it make sense to find a Cat that I wasn’t allergic to? I mean, really, wouldn't that just bring my life into the balance I always claim to seek.

I fell back to sleep with something that I hadn't had in ages, a smile.

The Plain

Feet that don't touch the ground

Image by ecstaticist via Flickr

Dangling above the bottomless precipice
Reactivated ignorance of youth
Peering into death

Sweat clears the path
For screams that never end
An imprisoned soul
Behind walls that stifle life

Stasis wins over change
Amidst the squeals of the cycle
What has passed does pass again
Despite optimistic altruism

Darkness erases a face
That's been alight forever
When the poles disconnect
And the time of light ends

A cloud family moves across the earth
Too quickly to engage in banter
Or to hitch a ride across the chasm
Other priorities in nature than mine

But their message is left just the same:
Dream of the shapes that you can be
Carry life great distances
Floods of emotion leave high-water marks

It's your choice to live
Above or below
The plain.

Disease in the Dark

I close my eyes in the Light to see the Dark.
I close my eyes in the Dark to see the Light.
Lightning forces open my eyelids—
A brilliant jolt that slaps me with sudden lucidity—
But my addiction to the puzzling peril remains.
Afraid of the show, but eager for it to return,
As if the symptom of some addicting disease,
I close my eyes to return to the Light.

Proof of Life

A headache knocked me out this afternoon; too much play between the light and the dark

Image by The U.S. National Archives via Flickr

created a conflagration inside of my skull. I took two, found a spot of sun on the couch, and cradled a Ray Bradbury book in my hands. The off-white pages acted as a reflector, angling the rays of sun that penetrated the wall of glass behind me, streaked over my shoulder, and bounced from the pages of the book into my eyes... deep into my soul.

There's more than one way to skin the dark cat--blind it with light.
(Revved up like a Deuce, another runner in the night)

The warmth of the light felt right. I skimmed the pages with my eyes and let my mind wander off to wonder about other things in my life. Because it wasn't forced to focus on these hurdles in the foreground, it was free to see them objectively, and in objectivity it always gains more perspective.

I love, love. I am always at its beckoned call. And, maybe that isn't the right place for me to be. If I walk away from the line between where you are and where I am, would you eventually cross the line to come looking for me where we're supposed to be?

I put my iPhone on my stomach. An intuition shouted that someone had something to say, though I knew not what it would be. When said, I wanted to be there to listen, not necessarily to respond. While my phone sat there on my stomach, the same sun's rays reflected from it onto the ceiling across the room; some symbol from a ancient language of love that stayed in constant motion, dancing on the white paint. I breathed and it moved back and forth with the rise and fall of my stomach. I held my breath, expecting it to be still with me, but it did not.

It pulsed, like the beat of a bass drum, a rhythm from none other than my heart. I am alive.

My intuition was right. The switchboard operators at The Network are doing their jobs well today. Now, if ony they could interpret the messages for me...

I guess that's my job as a writer, eh?