if you forget me

i want you to know
one thing.

you know how this is:
if i look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if i touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
i shall stop loving you little by little.

if suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for i shall already have forgotten you.

if you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where i have roots,
remember
that on that day
at that hour
i shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.

but
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine

-pablo neruda

awaiting resurrection in rain

I was reminded tonight of how driving in a snowstorm on a pitch black night down a street with no lights and your high-beams on can make you feel like you're falling. Is it a latent suicidal urge that keeps you from pulling over? Like how Milan Kundera suggests vertigo is not the fear of falling, but rather jumping? You can only see a few feet ahead of you, the illuminated flakes whipping towards you is enough to prompt an epileptic fit, but you persist. I'm always amazed that I continue to drive when I feel so unsafe, but even more so, I am amazed at the assholes who come blazing up behind you going 20 over the speed limit, and then ride your ass like there's something wrong with you. I want bad things to happen to these people.

I mean, I suppose I don't actually want bad things to happen to these people, but in the moment I get mad enough to wish it upon them, usually taking the form of a few mumbled curse words and a good old fashioned tap of the breaks.

I don't get angry very often, but I will admit I am prone to some serious road rage (what did George Carlin say about anyone going slower than you is an idiot, and anyone going faster is a maniac... smart man; RIP). I learned the virtue of patience by necessity at an early age. And since then I have learned that patience and kindness are some of the more important things in life. It can be all you have to offer anybody that truly means anything it all.

I fear that these qualities are too often mistaken for naivete.

Take elementary school; how the quiet, nice kid was the easiest target, and therefore the one facing the most shit. I felt for those kids in school... it didn't stop me from teasing along, I'm sorry to say, but I've remembered those moments heading into adulthood. And now, I see the same game, it's not as transparent as it was in grade school, but it's there in essence. The weak-hearted being strong-willed (to steal a phrase from Ani Difranco). And the strong-hearted seeming weak. It's all backwards. What does It say about the meek inheriting the kingdom of God? I guess that bit is glazed over by the fist-pounders.

And here's where it really get's tricky. Because, like the maniac driver, I would love to give these people a piece of my mind. But would I then be abandoning something imperative? Where's the line of righteous indignation?

I don't have an answer for that. It's a line I've never been able to make out. Most of the time I continue to smile, and stare in bewilderment.

There are people out there who are going to make you feel like shit for trying to be good. The easy ones to deal with are the ones who are blatant in their methods. These are the ones that you can see coming a mile away. Their transgressions don't hurt too much. Astounding in their ignorance, but otherwise negligible. But there are other ones; ones that will smile to your face, who will wear the guise so well that it takes you a while to see them for who they are. These are the worst kind. Those who save their enmity for private ears.

I just hope they know that kindness is not the same as naivete, that they aren't fooling anyone, except maybe themselves, and maybe not even then.

I'd love to come right out and tell these kinds of people to fuck off. Sometimes I slip up and I do. But, really, when it comes down to it, it's much easier to do that. It is so much easier to hate than it is to love.

So where is the line of righteous indignation? Maybe it's a private place. Maybe it's something internal, where you have to realize that you'll be damned if anybody ever makes you feel stupid for loving. (see: You are what you love, not what loves you)

And in the end, I believe, that's the only thing that is ever going to make you feel good. I was furious with the maniac behind me tonight. Furious as I pulled over to the side of the road at too-high a speed and nearly slid off the road completely because he/she was riding too close. Furious as their horn rang out as they sped by. Furious as I turned around on the dark road and headed back. Furious up until I got out and asked that guy sitting by his car on the side of the road with his hood up and hazard lights on if he needed any help.

I'm not suggesting I'm some sort of saint for stopping to lend somebody jumper cables in the middle of the night. But that simple act of kindness brought things back into balance for me. I realized that this is the kind of person I want to be. And so I just shook his hand, and sort of smiled when he said "you wouldn't believe how many assholes have just driven by."

it is at moments after i have dreamed
of the rare entertainment of your eyes,
when (being fool to fancy) i have deemed

with your peculiar mouth my heart made wise;
at moments when the glassy darkness holds
the genuine apparition of your smile
(it was through tears always)and silence moulds
such strangeness as was mine a little while;

moments when my once more illustrious arms
are filled with fascination, when my breast
wears the intolerant brightness of your charms:

one pierced moment whiter than the rest

-turning from the tremendous lie of sleep
i watch the roses of the day grow deep.

-ee cummings

shut softly your watery eyes

I was fourteen and fifteen when I worked for two summers in a nursing home. I worked in the activities department, and so my job was to entertain. We threw birthday parties, held bingo afternoons, movie nights, etc. There were three separate buildings, at least four floors in each building, about fifty residents on each floor. There was an "activities director" assigned to each floor, and I would take turns assisting different directors every day. Every floor had three planned activities for the day posted on a dry erase board:
9:30: Bingo
12:30: Movie: Once Upon a Time (starring Cary Grant)
3:30: Arts and Crafts.
Between these planned activities I would just walk around and spend time with people, wheel them around the courtyard, read them the paper, help them try and chew their food, anything, anything to brighten those dingy walls that surrounded them.

The buildings and floors were organized by the tenants' abilities, or, in so many words, their life expectancy. I mean that in the most literal sense (expectancy - the state of thinking or hoping that something, esp. something pleasant will happen or be the case). And so some floors were much sadder than others.

A good majority of the people were completely non-responsive. There were younger, severely disabled people, who were unable to speak, or move - I remember one man, he was probably about 35, was in a car accident at some point, paralyzed; he sat reclined in a chair, always covered by dozens of white towels, situated to collect the constant flood of saliva that fell from his twisted mouth like a leaky faucet. I remember the smell of him, and feel embarrassed that at first I had a hard time sitting near to him; I imagine the shit and piss in his pants was much more uncomfortable to him than it was to me. But I also remember his eyes, and the way he would smile somewhere in them when you came near and asked him how he was. He couldn't speak, but would sort of grunt and gargle responses. And his one hand, that permanently rested upright, his elbow wedged to his hip and bent upwards, fingers clenched tight, thumb inside barely jutting out between his middle and ring finger, when you would gently close your hand around it, saying, "give me a high five, Ed" his gargling would come in great, loud spurts, and his head would slightly rock back and fourth. This was the only way he could laugh.

Sometimes some of the older women thought I was their grandson, or some long-lost family friend, or even, sometimes, their husband. I learned early on it was better to allow them the delusion. "Yes, Martha, I'm still in the Navy. No we haven't set a date yet. Yes, Martha, I'm happy as well. She certainly is a wonderful gal."

I spent a lot of my free time with this one woman, Grace. She was, quite simply, adorable. She sat hunched over in her wheelchair, the brightly colored afghan wrapped under her frail legs. Though her face was textured and worn, and her eyes sunk behind large, thick glasses, you could tell she once possessed stunning beauty. Her smile was mischievous and enigmatic. She was a great conversationalist. Her mind was sharp. I would often take her outside and wheel her around the grounds, maybe stopping to sit on a bench and read the paper. And sometimes when I wheeled her into the elevator, and stepped back around her to press the button, a wrinkled brown hand would come out from under the afghan and two shaky fingers would reach out and lightly pinch my bottom, and when I would turn around in feigned offense, she would quietly laugh to herself. This was how it was on the good days. But for as many good days as Grace and I had over those two summers, there were just as many bad days. Sometimes you would find her wheeled into a corner, and she would be crying. I had never seen this kind of crying before, and perhaps never have seen since. It was unintelligible that such a feeble, and ordinarily lighthearted creature, could produce such deep and immutable sobbing. Any inquisition to the source would invariably fail. She would not, or perhaps, more likely, could not, reply. The tears would stream, and her lungs would lunge in dissonance, her head hanging to her breast, rising and falling with each pang.

When I mention good days and bad days, I am not being figurative. The days she would cry, she would cry all day. And the days that she laughed, and talked, and coyly smiled, she laughed, and talked, and coyly smiled all day. There was no overlap.

I never found out what caused that pain in her, and I never figured out how to bring her out of that dark prison she would find herself locked into. I could only occasionally reach out and wipe away a few tears with the side of my thumb, stretching out her furrowed cheeks, softly whispering apologies... or I could exaggerate how long it took to press the button in the elevator, giving her enough time to struggle her hand from her lap.

just delightful

I just finished watching Away We Go, and man, it was fantastic. You can tell it was written by Dave Eggers, the man has such a unique voice. I feel like it's been too long since I've seen a film that has moved me. This one did. I'm always impressed when a film can make you laugh and cry. In the wise words of Joni Mitchell "laughing and crying, you know it's the same release." Oh and the Alexi Murdoch songs laced throughout was pretty rad too.

I just found out Is Anybody There? was playing at the Polk this weekend, and I'm really bummed I missed it... that's another one I desperately want to see.

stuck inside of mobile with the memphis blues again

It looks as if I'll be in Florida a little bit longer than expected. Due to an evening of revelry with several friends under the guise of a going-away get together at DC's sports bar, and, more specifically, the afterparty at Benji's with George and Austin, coupled with their fairly-convincing, provocative, albeit outlandish attempts at convincing me to move back, I entirely missed my flight. I didn't really miss it, as such - I didn't have a McCallister-family style run through the Tampa airport - I just slept through my alarm (which, in hindsight, I should have seen coming since me and Austin's 5 o'clock-in-the-morning bike-peddling adventure doesn't bode well for an early departure, especially since when I collapsed on my friends futon at roughly 5:30 my bags were still scattered all over the floor). So that 8am alarm went unheard, and a grumbly voice informed my ride, when he arrived, that there was simply no way this thing was going to happen.

[A brief aside/admission: I'm glad my father is technologically impaired and cannot read this, because I told him that my ride's car broke down... a small lie, one I don't feel entirely absolved of, but one worth not having to endure that prolonged sigh/grunt of disapproval ordinarily laced with "oh boy's" and "straighten your act out's" - to him any deviation from a plan, unless entirely outside of one's hands, is nothing short of extreme negligence and immaturity, age and parental independence notwithstanding. Though, I will say, the old man isn't all that gullible; he half-jokingly accused me of lying, saying, "I bet this is all one big scam, and it has something to do with a girl." Oh, Dad.]

Unfortunately, Southwest isn't really sympathetic to my plight of flight (ooooh... clever? ... probably not), and insists that another ticket be purchased. They will, however, put the cost of my empty seat toward the new ticket... which doesn't really amount to much unless you purchase in advance. So, looks like I'm here another two weeks. I will be missing out on a few additional weeks of my beloved autumn, but I suppose it's not all bad, there are things about Lakeland I've become quite fond of on this trip.

The only real downside is that I have already blown through all the books I brought on the trip... I do have my collection here in town, and there is probably one or two in there I haven't read yet... still, I knew I should have packed a few more.

And let it be noted: On Thursday Oct 23rd I will NOT be bamboozled into a late evening

... probably.

curb

My best friend's wife, Rachel, when we first met, told me that I looked like Tom Yorke. It's been a long-standing joke between us (one that I mentioned during their wedding toast). It was a compliment in her mind, and I didn't really take offense at the time, but still, I always give her shit about telling me I looked, essentially, like a lazy-eyed-homeless-looking man. But tonight, since I have been vehement through the course of their relationship that they both watch 'Curb Your Enthusiasm' in it's entirety and embrace the hilarity, she told me that every time she watches that show she thinks of me. She said that, in almost every way, I remind her of Larry David - the mannerisms, the way I walk, everything. And while I don't really see it at all... I'll actually accept this one as a huge compliment, because, seriously, he's awesome. I wish I had HBO... this new season is going to be great... I mean, how can it not be?