Thoughts of a Human that Loves

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

------

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.

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.

***

Conversations

This is a freewrite I did with Melissa when we met today. It's called Conversations and it started with a starter phrase from the book she's reading. The phrase was: "You must have slept". Enjoy!

Oh... it's a series of conversations, so don't be confused...

***

Conversations

- You must have slept.
- Yeah, it was Shakespeare. What do you expect?
- Your English teacher made you go?
- Yeah, for extra credit. I have a fucking 79.4 percent in that class.
- That sucks.
- I woke up in the second half and thought they were talking about refrigerators.
- Were they?
- Dude… it’s Shakespeare, they used fucking holes in the ground.
- Oh.
- You obviously didn’t go.
- I just told you. I was at Bill’s house.
- What’s Bill up to?
- He’s got a new girl.
- Yeah?
- Yeah, the secretary in his dad’s office.

…

- Where were you last night?
- Bill’s.
- You didn’t do anything, did you?
- No, mom. We had to go over some paperwork.
- I don’t trust you, Anna. You know that. What were you really doing?
- Paperwork! I told you!
- Michelle’s mom told me Michelle tells her the same exact thing!
- Yeah well… Mrs. Hudson is crazy! God… Why don’t you just leave me alone!?

…

- Last night, I saw the most wonderful young singer.
- Oh really? What was her name?
- His. He was Joseph Joplin. Excellent steak, John.
- He can’t hear you, Barbara. When he’s barbequing, he’s completely gone.
- My husband’s exactly the same way! All the time! He got a phone call the other day and you know what he says? “Mr. Hudson? Yeah… Oh! That’s me!”
- How funny! What was he doing?
- He’d just gotten home from walking Baxter.

…

Baxter lies in his basket in an empty house. They’ve gone out for the night, but it doesn’t bother him. For once, they’ve left him inside and he gets bored easily.
He’s already covered the shoes and the side of the couch. He even took care of the handbag on the floor in the kitchen and now he is slowly working on a little booklet of paper he found in the recycle.
If Baxter could read, he might have stopped after noticing the word “Shakespeare”.

***

This is Not Working

... it really isn't. This is the second freewrite I did tonight.

***

This is not working. You look at him and open your mouth to speak or kiss. You're not sure which. But you definitely know this is not working.

He intimidates you- how confusing. You see a little sparkle in his iris- of the streetlights and yellow lamps and yes, maybe the red light from the gas gauge. There's that little glint, almost as if he knows, but you know he doesn't and maybe that makes you a prick but guess what? It's true.

But you're too timid to try anything. You think of all the implications, you think of the awkward immediate future. You always tell people to "live in the moment". "Go for it!" and you're a fucking hypocrite because the only hand that's holding you back now is your own.

And before you know it, you convince yourself that nothing will happen anyways. He's going a good 20 over the speed limit- literally, but you're not keeping pace- symbolically. If the car didn't exist, you'd be left at the start.

So now you're pulling up along the curb- dark street. Somehow, they forgot the street lamps here. You linger a while, procrastinating. But wait. Did you just compare him to a piece of homework?

A moment, music filling the silence, thank goodness. You think about working up your nerve but he smiles and gets out of the car to walk you up. Goddammit. You liked that song too!

There's still hope- maybe. But now you're at the door, saying how it was a great evening. God, he is smoking in a t-shirt and dress pants.

He leans in. You will your heart to start beating faster, but then he hugs you and says goodbye and when you're standing on the inside welcome mat, you make yourself smile but secretly think

Fuck.

Haiku

Melissa and I went to Starbucks today and did some freewritin', so here ye are. The beginning word was 'haiku'.

***

I taste my coffee.
Its vanilla and sugar
mixed into dessert.

***

I write haikus in the clues of my crossword puzzles. Most of the readers don't even know what a haiku is and most of them don't do the crosswords. So I guess you could safely say that only old people sitting in their rocking chairs and stuffy over-decorated living rooms read my poetry.

In Tempton, Missouri, working for "The Newspaper" is not a big deal. Somebody has to do it- just like somebody has to write the crossword puzzles that nobody but Aunt Betty and Grandma Martha do.

I'm not complaining. If I didn't like Tempton, I could be in New York in two hours. My brother has a plane three minutes out of Tempton. But the truth is, I like this place. I like it's quiet naivete and it's little scandals and mocking birds in the mornings.

One quiet day, I got home from work, took the semi-winding road up to my front door and opened the mailbox to a surprise- an official looking letter among the usual advertisements and family greetings.

With a finger, I slit open the letter and unfolded the single sheet of paper inside. It said only this:

We like your haikus.
Come to New York and work here.
The Times welcomes you.

***

Ta-Da. (I actually have no idea if there is a Tempton, Missouri... so yeah).