Thoughts of a Human that Loves

Another Freewrite. The tiny romantic part of me couldn't stop smiling after I wrote this.

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Thoughts of a Human that Loves

Jaw set, I look at you. I take in what your eyes try to say to me and inform you, using obscene gestures and a raised voice, that your eyes failed in their job. Oh yes they did. Because I don’t comprehend what you say nonverbally.

I’m easy.

A middle finger means ‘no’. A kiss means ‘yes’. A wander of the hand under clothes means ‘let’s fuck’.

But no.

You just stand there and stare. I don’t see the sparkle, or the twinkle, or the fucking glitter of the pupils, the iris, whatever. And if I do, I blame it on the light and tell you, with a huffy sigh and irritated exclamation, that one person couldn’t possibly expect another to understand.

Because understand doesn’t come in a blink, in a two second moment. No, that only happens in romantic comedies, sit coms and old silent movies—all of which you like and I find unbearably boring.

So you stand there. Your face is slack, relaxed and… I can’t put an emotion to it. But I’m just across from you and my jaw is set. I have my hands ready to do the talking. Ready to tell you what I think if I could only understand what you’re saying with those brown eyes.

And really, all I feel in response is frustration. Honey, sweetie, baby girl, love. But then, as I raise my hands to answer, as I form the thought and bring life to it through words, through actions… I remind myself that I forgive you. I forgive you. Plainly, love, I remind myself that I forgive you—

Because though your lips can move, they make no sound. You delegate their job to your eyes. But I love you, love, my love, my mute, my love and I let your kiss do all the talking we need.

Me: Hi, Blog! Haven't seen you in a while.

Blog: Thanks for ignoring me for the past... *counts on fingers* Three months.
Me: You're welcome.

I just got back from a trip to the East Coast to visit a couple of friends and a couple of colleges. I flew into Portland, ME and worked my way down the coast and then inland to fly out of Columbus, OH.

These interesting things happened:

1. I stayed in a Motel 6 for 5 hours from 5 am. to 10 am and was lucky to be rented a room as they usually don't rent to under 21-ers. There was a sketchy stain on the floor from the door to the foot of the bed that my uneasy, sleep-deprived and popular movie saturated brain turned into blood.

2. A bitter, middle-aged and failing businessman named Constantine may or may not have been flirting with me at 3 am. in an Amtrak station full of 1 part Amtrak customer, 1 part policemen and 2 parts homeless.

3. I met a guy named Devon who I'd call a legit, modern hippie-- A glassblower of "water pipes", huge fan of the band Phish (A weird mix of Bob Marley, Pink Floyd and Jimi Hendrix), hopeless romantic (Philosophically) and staunch advocate of hallucinogens. :)

4. Sitting two seats away from us on the train was a lady with a portable DVD player. I watched movies over her shoulder-- Including one called "It's Alive". The menu was a picture of a baby in a womb. I immediately assumed it was an anti-abortion movie. It turned out to be a horror movie and... I kid you not, the thing that went around killing everyone in excessively bloody ways... was a baby.

5. I saw an albino squirrel on the lawn at Oberlin College.

6. I was almost stranded in Mansfield, Ohio as I was trying to find my way to Kenyon College from Oberlin. We arrived in Mansfield around 8 pm and I was the only one to get off the bus. It was dark and raining outside and the Greyhound station closed as soon as I stepped out. Unlike all other bus stations, train stations and airports I'd been in so far, there were no Taxi's idling outside.

My phone was just about dead and the rest of the surrounding city was deserted so I looked up Taxi services in the Mansfield phone book. Only two numbers were listed-- one was the number for the Mansfield Public Transportation Office. The other was a number for a cab company who refused to pick me up because they only had one taxi in operation that couldn't leave the city limits.

I tried 411 on my phone and was connected to an out of service number, so I walked a few blocks towards the closest city lights I could see. A few bars were open, but that was it.

A middle aged couple got out of their car as I was about to cross the street again, so I asked them if they knew of any local taxi services or convenience stores that might be open. They thought for a while and invited me into their jewelry store to figure things out. They called the same numbers I'd called earlier with no luck and finally tried the Hilton Hotel where they found a rather new service called C+D Taxi.

The taxi driver didn't even know where Kenyon College or Gambier, Ohio was until I told him it was near Mt. Vernon and they had to ask for directions at a gas station there. That was definitely my most expensive day of the trip.

A thank you advertisement: Haring Jewelers, 13 Park Avenue West, Mansfield, Ohio.

All in all, it was a fantastic trip. I met really great people, saw some close friends, fell in love with Boston and discovered that traveling in the U.S if you're under 25 is going to cost you a leg, an arm and over 10 hours of waiting in train or bus stations.

Incomplete

I wrote this one immeditaely after "The Color Orange".

***

When does something feel complete? That felt almost complete, but there were definitely gaps. Maybe the feeling of completeness is one and the same with having gaps because maybe in order to be complete, there MUST be room for improvement.

If every hole was filled and every empty space eradicated, the work would feel packed—like a teenage girl’s suitcase on the way to a beach resort an hour from her upper-middle-class, white stuccoed home.

The empty places in her suitcase are now full of make-up and thong underwear and packets of condoms to use with the young golf course attendees. Before they were filled she felt naked, left in the open for others to squawk at, but now she feels whole, covered and protected by little plastic bottles and little plastic bags and little pieces of plastic on her little cloth underwear.

And on the road to the beach resort, she thinks of everything she could have brought and everything she would have brought, but her suit case now has no more empty spaces and she realizes she’s forgotten her toothbrush

… so she wails to return, but they’re already at the front gates and her family can see yellow sand and green grass and bright, bright blue water beyond the white and beige and light brown and light blue building where the guests stay…

… and somebody assures her that she does not need a toothbrush: they can buy one here and she sniffles a little and calms as they drive through the gates and she turns her head to brood and look out the window as she’s seen almost-celebrities do on reality TV as they drive up in their sleek, black stretch limos.

and she sees the grass and the water and the sand and the place where the guests stay and she can do nothing but think of her packed suit case and somehow feel

incomplete.

The Color Orange

Rotting oranges in your fruit bowl. I want to say the white and brown adds a little color, but how can you say that white and brown add color when the fruit is orange already? You must be insane.

What a strange color: the color orange. It’s so exclusive and bright. It feels like a VIP member of some high-roller club, but it’s the member that dresses 60’s and brings a good attitude with them.

And all the other guests grin and turn to each other—they’re dressed in black suits and tuxedos and hot-shot cars and girls and they say: “Oh, here comes Orange!” and they secretly smile to themselves but frown then there are people watching.

So Orange strides in—wide, bouncing steps and a glowing smile and the first person it greets is the nondescript, common person in a suit carrying a tray of drinks and tasty bites.

Orange says “Good evening, sir!” in a bright voice. “Let me help you with that!”

And the waiter only smiles politely, looks just over Orange’s shoulder and says “Thank you, but I’m fine. Good evening, Mr. Orange.”

And as Orange walks, it smiles and grins at people who turn and give a secret smile and sometimes a secret hand shake before they turn back to their esteemed conversation and speak again in quiet, polite voices about the latest scandal or natural disaster.

Advice and Introductions

So over the summer, at this summer school program I went to (CSSSA), the dramatic writing teacher gave these pieces of advice:

1. Write five pages in the morning and five pages at night.
2. Do something that scares you.

The second one, I've taken to heart already. Now, that's not to say that I've done it very often... I did just recently though, so we'll see how the results of that attempt work. (To be determined tonight at 6 pm.)

I just attempted the first one this morning! And succeeded. I wrote five pages and discovered that writing is bad for my coffee habit. One cup got me about three pages in, so I poured myself another cup and wrote the next two. :)

This is the first part of... part of those five pages. (I'll post it as another post because the formatting gets all wierd if I try to do it here...)

Life is but a drug...

Another freewrite... I did this one on my own though, this morning... over coffee... and I've got to run now. I have graduation rehearsal.

***
I’ll keep my pen moving, keep it moving just like we will be—moving through life. We’ll be moving alone, first college—but in my case, travel, then on to college, then more college and finally… life. We’ll be on to life, because most of us, including me, haven’t started living yet. I had a taste and that wasn’t enough. Life is like an addiction. You do it once and you want it more
More
More.
And sometimes you take a coffee break and look back on what just happened and you wonder where some of it came from, but then your coffee’s gone and you’re moving on again. Fast moving and you cling to little things that make some sense to you but not really…
just like the people in your life. They come and go—you cling, they cling and it’s hard to pull you apart now and then but
you
change.
And you didn’t know what to say but “I’ve changed, sorry.” And it’s all very surreal but they take it and smile and stay for a little longer and walk away because
this new you means
nothing
to them now.
So soon after this has happened, you sit for another coffee break and think: Look, they’re gone. Now what? But someone comes to take their place and you smile and drink your coffee and exchange stories of youth because you can’t call yourself young again. No more
High school
College…
It’s just pure life, but pure life isn’t good enough now and there’s no drug to move up to but sitcoms and beer and your fading, torn couch and
Wait, it’s just a coffee break and this new person sitting across from you who’s now your friend has the same nostalgic expression as you and they swill their coffee, maybe tea, and after that all you can do is smile sadly, or maybe pretend to smile sadly and talk some more and start each sentence with
I remember…

Open

This is another freewrite I did. "O-P-E-N" is referring to the flashing sign that I was watching across the street and the rest of it was inspired by a random lyric I heard in one of the songs they were playing.

Enjoy, and I don't mean to offend anybody. It was all good fun... ;)

***

O-P-E-N. Flash Blue Flash flash flash flash. O-P-E-N… And over again.

“And Jesus was a sailor.”

Flash flash O-P-E-N

But if Jesus was a sailor, he probably had a lot of fun when they made port and in that case, he died for his own sins too.

Flash Flash.

Too bad. If only the general public knew it. I could write a book about this called “Jesus the Sailor” and it would open their eyes and maybe even gather a cult following.

Flash Flash

They’d call themselves the ‘sailorists’ and I’d go down in history with L. Ron Hubbard and maybe Matt Damon would be our official spokesperson and jump on Dr. Phil’s La-z-boy and get some bad press for that.

O-P-E-N Flash Flash.

Too bad it was just a song. Jesus isn’t a sailor—a musician just decided to make him one… kind of like the other Jesus, the guy on the bus. The one who’s one of us.

… because everyone in Poway rides the bus.

***