Wet Socks

        A small car, twisting through cobbled streets, winding down alleys and one-ways. And the sky rumbled. A couple, huddled in the back seat, eyes drooping, passports safely stowed in pockets. And the sky ignited. A house, room enough for two travelers to find comfort in, but small enough to keep the two close. And the sky cried.

        The two hooded figures pushed out of the car, tip already delivered, and met the sky’s welcome. Thunder, lightning, rain, and a cold, “hello”. Bags in hand the two scrambled up to the house that was just the right size. It was a code or maybe keys to get in and out of the sky’s greeting. The couple pushed open the door, bringing quarts of water in with them. The clean, dry floors quickly were introduced to discarded coats, muddied boots, drenched beanies, and wet socks. Suitcases were quickly dug into to find replacements for the wet mess that the man and woman wore.

        Steam began wafting from the tiled room into where the man arranged the clean clothing. A small dresser began to again fulfill its purpose as he allocated drawers for each of the suitcases contents. Then the kettle needed to be tended to, plugs needed to be discovered, and wet clothes needed to be relocated. A voice broken through his checklist. An invitation, the type that isn't refused unless one is clueless or simply didn’t hear correctly. Wafting steam and an invitation. More wet clothes found their way onto the floor, checklist discarded for the time being.

        The sky continued its theatrical performance above the town full of cobbled streets, winding alleys, and one-ways. But inside the house that was just the right size, with wet socks laying beside the shower, two people found warmth in the most simple of ways.

Weathered Hands

        The mahogany always had to be polished. Didn’t matter how many patrons made their way to the stools for a drink, the mahogany always had to be polished. The glasses, some for beer, others for other drinks, but mostly just mugs for beer. Those needed cleaning too. And the floors turned grimey after looking away for the barest fraction of a second. All those people bringing in the mud and muck of the outside world. This hadn’t been his choice. A little farm out in the highlands would have been preferable. Even a little shack on the edge of a cliff would’ve sufficed. Yet here he was, tending to someone else’s dream.
        In the corner, men with long beards rolled back and forth in laughter in their open-bottomed clothing. Mostly locals and a few the man hadn’t seen before. But mostly locals. The man pulled back from the bar for a moment, into the pantry to gather up a few odds and ends for the midday meal. The framed visage of the bar’s founding proprietor lay above the piles of dried meats, staring down at the barkeep as he scrounged up ingredients. Older brothers have a way of staring silently, but with intent disapproval.
        Sausages in a stew, bread interwoven with herbs, and another beer to go along. Midday meal as produced by a man wishing he were a different man. The patrons came, a few at a time, to gather up their portion of the slop the barkeep dished out onto wood serving ware. Everyone knew a menu was a relic of the past in a place like this. Well, everyone except those two out-of-towners.

        They strolled in, wanting some gluten-vegan-lactose free bullshit. After a few stern words they settled with a few lentils from the pantry and ran back to their booth, tails between their legs. The barkeep sniffed, looked heavenward, and returned to polishing. It’d been 20 minutes since the mahogany’s top had seen a rag. Too long by his standards.
        The day continued, the hipster assholes pranced on to their next dandy adventure and the bar moved and flowed as it should. Old men with nothing to do but drink and laugh, young men done with an early day of hard labor, women cackling and joking too, just with wittier jokes than the men. Back to normal, as it should be.
        Evening meal came and went. Drinks were served, jokes were overheard. The men and women moved about each other with seasoned ease, each knowing the buttons of the next. Soon the patrons milled slowly out the doors, bantering and bickering. Still the man polished that mahogany. And finally, when night fell and the man tucked himself in bed he lay and readied himself for another day of cleaning that damned fucking mahogany.

Embers

        Fascination.
        The crackle of the new logs, moisture releasing, twigs bursting alight. The smell of chocolate and mallow slowly cooking amidst the coals. The warning of heat and careful respect for this untamable mistress. The creation of memories that will last until the sun sets its final time. That first campfire.

        Fantasy.
        Huddling up next to your first, giddy at finally an excuse to be close to them. The world seems to melt away as faces are illuminated against the raw heat of the fire. Marshmallows are only an excuse to give something to them. A guitar finds its way to the fireside. Chords are strummed poorly, songs with quiet undertones of romance. A hopeful beauty in that bright moment.

        Family.
        The fire gets built by the kids now. The kids that are barely kids anymore. First the little tipi with bits of torn newspaper underneath. A smattering of what dry grass could be found and finally a spark. Soon tin foil parcels are set amidst the kindled coals to cook the night’s meal. Stories being told, exaggerated and retold in fanciful new ways. Silly accents, ridiculous jokes, and warm smiles that rival the fire’s heat.

        Friends.
        Old glasses, collected over the years, now filled with mint leaves, lemon slices, and the sophisticated brother of vodka. Stories among old and new friends, the fire pulling them all together in a half-conspiratorial circle. Eyes flicker, reflecting the spontaneous spirit of the flames. A moment of simple perfection, hands held, smiles natural and genuine.

        Future. 

        The logs have burnt away, now just embers, whispering their last crackles. Two seats and two mugs of tea. Two shapes, silhouetted against the night. Two figures that have blended into one picture, painted by the quiet sparks on the night’s canvas. Two hearts waiting out the embers.

The Dance

        The vehicle plunged into the wall of white in front of it. For a moment everything else around the car disappeared and the two inside were totally alone in the world, wrapped in a cocoon of fog. Past red spires, past brave runners, and camera-holding tourists. They emerged from the cascade of fog, a silver blip among all those traveling southward. Up the twists and turns, the ocean a steady presence out their window. And then home. Or what had become an ancient home to them amidst the aged canvas, polished stones, and fabled pieces.
        The car came to a halt at the crest of the hill. The man turned to the woman as she pushed the car into park.

“You ready?”
“Just a moment.”
“Ok, yeah. No worries.”



“Do you want to walk first?”
“Uh, sure. That sounds lovely.”
“Ok, let’s do that.”

The couple pushed their doors open simultaneously and met each other wordlessly, hands clasping together. The woman led them up the hillside, past trees and stones, out to where the ocean’s breadth expanded before them. She stopped at the cliff’s edge, wind wrapping around her, attempting to tug her hair from the handkerchief that held it steady.

“Everything good?”
“Yeah. I needed to just be for a moment.”
“Yeah, for sure. We can just be. I’m happy to just hold your hand and look at the waves.”
“Ok. Thanks.”



“Actually. . . Do you want to dance with me here for a moment?”
“Yes. Yes, I would. I’d like that very much.”

An Early Morning

        In the early hours of the morning, when frost covered the grass and the trees still rested, a small human pulled off their covers. As two feet touched the floor, cold rushed up to meet the exposed skin. The child shivered and pulled their blanket close around them and ventured from the room. In the adjacent room embers faded slowly and the fireplace grew darker and darker. The child found their way to the couch and pulled the blankets close about them to ward off the night. And from this perch the girl spied stars biding their last farewell as the sun chased them westward. She sat, bundled up, watching as the world slowly came to light.

        She shifted in bed. Today was one of those few days where she allowed herself to sleep until the sun had at least said it’s first “hello’s”. She reached her arm to the side, questing for what she expected to be a warm body. Instead she found a few pillows where a human should have been. Where is that man? Doesn’t he know that this is prized cuddling time? She pushed herself up against the backboard with a few pops resounding in the process. First glasses, then socks, because otherwise her feet would not make it through winter. She pulled aside the sheets to meet the chilly embrace of morning and shuffled towards the wafting smell of coffee.

        Normally he slept like a rock, nothing and no one being able to wake the grumpy ogre whilst he slept. But tonight he’d awoken to the pitter patter of small feet moving across the hardwood floor. He read the time on a watch sitting on the bedside table. Why can’t this child sleep like a normal human being? Groggy and only awake in a technical sense, the man slapped the side table until his fingers found a pair of glasses. The world sharpened and he pushed himself from the protection of the covers. She hadn’t stirred. Hopefully one of us can get some REM. He charted a course through the house until before him he spied a small figure curled up on the couch. “Hey princess. You trying to learn a thing or two about astrology?”

        Coffee with almond creamer in hand, now maybe mostly alive, the woman ventured from the kitchen towards the sounds of quiet whispers. As she turned the corner before her she found the man and the girl bundled up in a blanket, eyes glued to the glass. He was telling her fanciful stories again, about the squirrel’s complicated relationship with the neighboring raccoons and the on-going novela of the woodsfolk. She shook her head softly and sat with the two loves of her life on that cold winter morning.

Aperture

There was a lot she left behind when she stepped off the plane.

More than just America, or work, or normalcy. She left behind the past, the chains that had tried to hold her down.

She stepped off the plane, met by heat, met by a home she had forgotten.

And as she stepped into the land she had long been waiting to return to, she knew in that moment that she was home.

A lens opened to accept the light of the world.

A heart opened to accept the light of the world.

And she knew again, she was home.

Home amidst the hearts of those she had loved before and had continued to love, despite the miles.

So she set to the work before her.

Capture the light. The light of the sun. The light in their eyes.

The light she didn't expect to find, though, was that which was reflected in the eyes of those she saw.

For in their eyes, her own light was reflected. The light she often ignored or forgot.

She sought the light in the eyes of others.

And discovered that the same light lived in her.

An Anemologist by Nature of Listening

A Noiseless Patient Spider by Walt Whitman, released 1891
Fog by Radiohead, released 2003


Stinson, 1971

       Fog lifted off the waves, drifted the few feet and commingled with the steam rising from her mug. The waves licked at heels and the sun nipped at closed eyes, tempting them to reopen. But a moment longer, that’s what she needed. A moment longer in memory. It was the seagull that brought her back, pulled her from the recesses and asked that she rejoin today. Seagulls have a very poor knack for identifying melancholy.

       The seascape appeared once again before her, inescapable. The gull nipped at her heels this time, bold for one so small. But for all its inability to identify a sad soul, it did know a friendly one. The gull scuttled back as she leaned down, pulling a handful of bread from her left pocket. As the gull ate she watched and pulled a handful of parchment from her right pocket.

       Crisscrossed in the sand she wrote on the paper. The seagull ate. And they were this way for some time. I don’t remember who finished first, the gull or the girl, but at some point they both rose. The gull moved on to find other friendly souls and the girl walked to the waves.

       The first paper that she placed on the face of the ocean didn’t melt away immediately as one might expect. It held its integrity for a few eye blinks before being taken in. Heavy paper stock, perhaps. A few eye blinks. Then she placed the second, then the third and more. Each lasted a few eye blinks. The ink stained paper held for a moment then took its words into the depths. I can’t tell you what was written on each sheet. But it might not be the words that matter, but the action of writing and releasing them.

       “Filament, filament, filament”, as he said.

       Soon all the written pages had been gifted to the waves. So she sat, silent as she had been in placing each sheet, but perhaps in a different silence. Not the silence of remembrance, no, something else. More the silence of the present. The silence that surrounds the waves, the trees, the mountains, the valleys, and all between. The noiseless force that moves boats, forms valleys and lifts hearts. She sat in this silence and nothing else. She sat with this silence for years. Listening to it, knowing it, loving it.

       And so she learned to catch the wind.

He Held It All Within

He held it all within

The expanse of the cosmos
The gaze of the deer
The crash of the waves

He held these moments

The tears for a woman
The love for a woman
The affection for a woman

He held eternity

The movement of the sea
The heartbeat of the trees
The stillness of the sky

He held it all within

The pain of then
The confusion of now
The hope of tomorrow

He held it all and asked,

“Am I allowed to live?”

Fives Years and Another Day

i’ve often wondered
why has Life chosen
to give me the people
it has

is it my
Choice

or is it simply
Life

"what if all the things i've done
were just attempts at earning Love
cause the hole inside my heart is
stupid deep"

jon bellion said that
that was my “break up song”
i think i was just trying to decide
Life or Choice

now i wonder it again
but in a far different context
one i didn’t expect i’d ever know again
the First person

it seems rude to attribute
numbers but First has to mean
something
right

First a love

broken by my young dumb hands
Seconds a love
broken by other young dumb hands

and now after 5 years
another day to think
of the First
of Life or Choice

i still have dumbs hands
they simply have more hair
more scars
more tears on them

Life
Choice
i’m not sure which it is
that brought me here

i do think Love
regardless of the result
is more than emotion
or a feeling

not to say i believe in the one
but i find Love to be significant
and if i can
i’d like to not squander it

i don’t ask for promise
or trust
or much of anything
really

friendship would be nice