the rest is up to you.
Tuesday, June 5, 2012
Thursday, May 31, 2012
"But now I don't fear again--now I'm free"
Today she asked me where the bad dreams come from, and I couldn't answer her.
But I do know what the good ones are made of.
Tuesday, May 29, 2012
Intro to Voice Final: This Thursday at 5!
Are you going to Scarborough fair?
dearest friend will i see you there?
life's not always pretty
it hurts to care
and sometimes love's too much to bear
parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme
am I yours and are you mine?
give me reason
give me rhyme
the tardy fruit's the fullest wine
Remember me to One who lives there
if you knew would you still care?
he says "truth"
and i say "dare"
far from home in a villain's lair
he once was A true love of Mine
is this life more than a tombstone's line?
a hope chest of maple
a casket of pine
we'd make something good, we'd make something fine
Tell Him to make me a cambric shirt
can i hold your hands when they're covered in dirt?
I want to dance
in a flowing skirt
made for joy and prone to hurt
without no Seams nor needlework
if death is drowning is Life the murk?
my heart still flutters
my knees still jerk
you see my silence you hear my quirks
tell him to find me an acre of land
Is there treasure under this sinking sand?
we stole our hearts
and took our hands
so full of desires and whispered demands
tell him to reap it in a sickle of leather
is it just me, or is it the weather?
raised in glory
Falling together
i caught an angel and hold Every feather
parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme
you will always remain a true love of mine
Sunday, May 27, 2012
San Pellegrino
Pre-worn leather furniture on cowhide rugs. Old foreign trinkets that pique curiosity but not memories. Finger paint art in gilded frames. Marble philosophers with vacant eyes and stiff hair. Some things too ornate, others expensively plain.
Even their children seem like living accessories-- growing collectibles whose main purpose is to warrant an oversized house.
They are an attractive power-couple. More put together than I could ever hope to be.
Him: George Clooney's suave meets Brad Pitt's hair. Add a pinstriped sports jacket to dark wash jeans. A distinguished grey with professionally whitened teeth. Hospitable upon request, but not naturally. He has it all and knows it. This recent outgrowth of yuppie pursuits unsettles him to the core, reducing purpose to pretentiousness and servitude to show with lots of tell.
She, for her part, is ostensibly Italian. Beauty, mannerisms, dress, complexion, charisma. But no flourish. No spark of joy without coaxing. Her movements are floundering; a fish out of water doing its best to breathe air. She has subdued herself to his dreams. She misses her parents more than the best tomato sauce could ever convey. Here, she is reduced to half a spirit, and this adventure Americana has become a desperate search for anything familiar. She too has begun to realize that no amount of wine and kickshaws could ever make this home, but its not for lack of trying.
After petting the dog and mentioning thirst, I am offered filtered water or fizzy water. Aqua frizzante it is. There is no discussion of the two dependents sleeping above us. She rushes upstairs to powder her face, and he takes the opportunity to show off his new stereo system. I am lost in bubbly water and contemporary Jefferson Airplane. Of course my first instinct is to spill all over my shirt, which I disguise admirably. After dabbing at my chest with a burlap pillow, I wander the house awkwardly while my employer entertains a British chum with similar grooming habits. My ears are impressed, but I sense that my opinion on vintage turntables is inconsequential. I begin to feel like yet another accessory, so I bite my tongue and let the water tickle my nose away from snootiness. I turn then to the strangest art I have ever seen. It is a conversation piece, at best. A demon's nightmare at worst. Besides the myriad of non-plastic designer toys, this place feels inhospitable to sticky fingers and sibling rivalries. Kids, it seems, were an afterthought. Or perhaps far to planned?
After a few minutes of grooming each other, Brad and Angelina leave in a hurry to dine across the street. A trial run for me, apparently. From one place with nice things to another place with nice things, though somehow I doubt she will care for the meal. When you are raised on Strega Nona's homemade pasta, even the best that metropolitan market has to offer tastes like shit. Which makes me laugh, actually. But only for a second, because in all this finery I too have forgotten that there are two small children sleeping upstairs and that I am here to guard their dreams of ipads and leather bound books and stainless steel and treasures not to touch.
Part of me wonders if I should have come more prepared. This feels more like nightshift at the Louvre than babysitting, and I wonder if I should be patrolling with a weighted maglight. The dog, of course, is no help. Obviously starved for attention, he is more likely to fend off an intruder with bad breath than ferocity. At best, he might stall them with desperate hugs and kisses. Useless.
So its really just me here, with my unintelligent phone and glass of flattened Pellegrino.
Don't get me wrong. I am not angry, nor am I bitter. People have nice things, and that is great for them. Heck, I have nice things. I appreciate the work that it took to acquire and display them so artfully. I enjoy looking at things from a different time, a different land, a different perspective. People have nice things and they like that about themselves. Good for them. Good for me.
But after spending a weekend in the simplicity of home, I am reminded once more; that's just not my best.
I was born in mess, I live in mess, and I will die a glorious mess.
Despite a tone of mild annoyance, the past few hours have not emblazoned permanent disdain upon my face, but have instead strengthened my desire for something else.
When I have a home, there will be no untouchables. Nothing so valuable that it cannot be treasured by tiny hands. There will be leather bound books and paperback books and children's books jumbled together--probably all with juice stains-- and they will share many many shelves and we will read them. Walls decorated with things we think are beautiful and things our children create and scuff marks from wrestling matches and coloring endeavors. We will sit on the kitchen floor for the deepest talks. There will be messes made and messes that don't get cleaned up until days later. Dusting will be easy. Keeping animals out of the house will not. My children will be loved enough to be disciplined, and just poor enough to share.
My house will not have an abundance of niceties, but it will be filled with joy. I dream of a house where the highest and the lowest are made welcome. A space where even the wanderer can feel at home. A place that knows it's place.
Until that day, I will continue getting paid to do homework in this quasi-gallery, and I will enjoy my fill of fizzy or filtered water with these delicious imported organic apples.
But hear you me, and hear me clear: you can't keep this girl under a bell jar, and these nice things will outlive us all.
Even their children seem like living accessories-- growing collectibles whose main purpose is to warrant an oversized house.
They are an attractive power-couple. More put together than I could ever hope to be.
Him: George Clooney's suave meets Brad Pitt's hair. Add a pinstriped sports jacket to dark wash jeans. A distinguished grey with professionally whitened teeth. Hospitable upon request, but not naturally. He has it all and knows it. This recent outgrowth of yuppie pursuits unsettles him to the core, reducing purpose to pretentiousness and servitude to show with lots of tell.
She, for her part, is ostensibly Italian. Beauty, mannerisms, dress, complexion, charisma. But no flourish. No spark of joy without coaxing. Her movements are floundering; a fish out of water doing its best to breathe air. She has subdued herself to his dreams. She misses her parents more than the best tomato sauce could ever convey. Here, she is reduced to half a spirit, and this adventure Americana has become a desperate search for anything familiar. She too has begun to realize that no amount of wine and kickshaws could ever make this home, but its not for lack of trying.
After petting the dog and mentioning thirst, I am offered filtered water or fizzy water. Aqua frizzante it is. There is no discussion of the two dependents sleeping above us. She rushes upstairs to powder her face, and he takes the opportunity to show off his new stereo system. I am lost in bubbly water and contemporary Jefferson Airplane. Of course my first instinct is to spill all over my shirt, which I disguise admirably. After dabbing at my chest with a burlap pillow, I wander the house awkwardly while my employer entertains a British chum with similar grooming habits. My ears are impressed, but I sense that my opinion on vintage turntables is inconsequential. I begin to feel like yet another accessory, so I bite my tongue and let the water tickle my nose away from snootiness. I turn then to the strangest art I have ever seen. It is a conversation piece, at best. A demon's nightmare at worst. Besides the myriad of non-plastic designer toys, this place feels inhospitable to sticky fingers and sibling rivalries. Kids, it seems, were an afterthought. Or perhaps far to planned?
After a few minutes of grooming each other, Brad and Angelina leave in a hurry to dine across the street. A trial run for me, apparently. From one place with nice things to another place with nice things, though somehow I doubt she will care for the meal. When you are raised on Strega Nona's homemade pasta, even the best that metropolitan market has to offer tastes like shit. Which makes me laugh, actually. But only for a second, because in all this finery I too have forgotten that there are two small children sleeping upstairs and that I am here to guard their dreams of ipads and leather bound books and stainless steel and treasures not to touch.
Part of me wonders if I should have come more prepared. This feels more like nightshift at the Louvre than babysitting, and I wonder if I should be patrolling with a weighted maglight. The dog, of course, is no help. Obviously starved for attention, he is more likely to fend off an intruder with bad breath than ferocity. At best, he might stall them with desperate hugs and kisses. Useless.
So its really just me here, with my unintelligent phone and glass of flattened Pellegrino.
Don't get me wrong. I am not angry, nor am I bitter. People have nice things, and that is great for them. Heck, I have nice things. I appreciate the work that it took to acquire and display them so artfully. I enjoy looking at things from a different time, a different land, a different perspective. People have nice things and they like that about themselves. Good for them. Good for me.
But after spending a weekend in the simplicity of home, I am reminded once more; that's just not my best.
I was born in mess, I live in mess, and I will die a glorious mess.
Despite a tone of mild annoyance, the past few hours have not emblazoned permanent disdain upon my face, but have instead strengthened my desire for something else.
When I have a home, there will be no untouchables. Nothing so valuable that it cannot be treasured by tiny hands. There will be leather bound books and paperback books and children's books jumbled together--probably all with juice stains-- and they will share many many shelves and we will read them. Walls decorated with things we think are beautiful and things our children create and scuff marks from wrestling matches and coloring endeavors. We will sit on the kitchen floor for the deepest talks. There will be messes made and messes that don't get cleaned up until days later. Dusting will be easy. Keeping animals out of the house will not. My children will be loved enough to be disciplined, and just poor enough to share.
My house will not have an abundance of niceties, but it will be filled with joy. I dream of a house where the highest and the lowest are made welcome. A space where even the wanderer can feel at home. A place that knows it's place.
Until that day, I will continue getting paid to do homework in this quasi-gallery, and I will enjoy my fill of fizzy or filtered water with these delicious imported organic apples.
But hear you me, and hear me clear: you can't keep this girl under a bell jar, and these nice things will outlive us all.
Tuesday, May 22, 2012
Monday, May 21, 2012
Monday, May 14, 2012
The Golden Times
Walks along the railroad tracks with a lifelong friend, talking about things discussed the day before.
Meandering through the same old streets on a rusted bike, wishing for enough money to buy a donut.
The only limitation is to "be home by dinner"-- fresh corn, watermelon, barbecue, beer.
Skipping rocks on the beach--or watching as Carmen challenges my dad and always wins
Forcing miniature crabs out from under rocks and into a dug-out "battle arena" to fight
Swimming out to the dock
Picking blackberries and rhubarb with a mother's promise of pie
Ghost stories at bonfires
Sleeping outside to watch the meteors fall
Building a tree house with dad's lumber scraps
Papa plays guitar after dinner--we belt "Angel From Montgomery" through mouthfuls of s'mores
Raiding my best friend's fridge for otter pops
Running through the sprinkler and chasing water rainbows in a circle
Pegging my sister with water balloons while she tans
Catching fireflies
Playing horse shoes at the park (hahaha, Charlie!)
Long drives across the sound
Sailing to Mye island and trekking out to the sea dragon
Long walks to nowhere in particular
Naps in the hammock
Losing myself in a book without the guilt of "wasting time"
Listening to blues music
Outdoor movies in the backyard
Driving that truck to god knows where and blasting twangy country tunes
Road trips to wherever the sunsets hold the most promise
Lounging around Grandma and Grandpa's house--drinking milkshakes in exchange for gardening
Surviving on dried mangos, peas, cherry tomatoes and pizza
Trekking through the woods, finding the Big Mama clay wall and inscribing our own hieroglyphs
Sitting in the double-Kayak and letting the current have it's way with our destination
Hiking those Olympic peaks and gorging on Chimacum Cheeseburgers and Root beer afterwards
Cutoff shorts, Tevas, tie-dye tshirts, farmer tans, ray bans and whirring fans
Watching Stand By Me, The Sandlot and Breaking Away for the nth time
Laughing with friends and family
Putting all our efforts into the 4th of July
The smell of sulphur and the ear-ringing blasts for days
Weddings at the park
Slip and slides
Rope swings
Drinking on the porch
Making water marks on the street with your butt
Becoming overly serious about the rules of croquet
Fresh cut grass
and sun. Sun. SUN!
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