Curiousty Killed the Cat

We past corridors, your slick smooth

Gait sliding easily along

While I tapped my impatience

Behind you.

The marvels behind locked

And frosted doors grinned in

Their secret hidings.

I wanted to peer under their

Dusty doorframes

And fractured hinges to the cold

Marble swirls of their guarded floors.

But each moment I stooped,

Head bend at an unsightly angle

Hand and cheek burnt frozen

And stretched,

Took you further up and further absent

Till your fading beauty could

Only be glimpsed through

Slitted and focused eyes.

Fickle Peace

There is no telling with peace.

It steals into the brain quietly,

nothing so intrusive and blatant

as doorbells or invitations.

Instead it slips coolly through the cracked window

with the fresh air and smell of approaching fall,

the musty browns and crisp oranges.

It lingers as long as you take no notice,

filling in your routine gestures

with its simple mulberry glow.

Yet, when gawked at it bends and flees

taking the draft of autumn's brisk air along.

The doors that have been slowly creaking open

slam.

And you avert your gaze,

hoping it will be fooled into believing

that you never looked, but it won't.

And you will, instead, survive

by moving aimlessly around the house,

shutters closed and locked waiting

for your brain to stop spinning and leave room

for the soft return of fickle peace.

Clearness

by Richard Wilbur

There is a poignancy in all things clear,

In the stare of the deer, in the ring of a hammer in the morning.

Seeing a bucket of perfectly lucid water

We fall to imagining prodigious honesties.

And feel so when the snow for all its softness

Tumbles in adamant forms, turning and turning

Its perfect faces, littering on our sight

The heirs and types of timeless dynasties.

In pine-woods once that huge precision of leaves

Amazed my eyes and closed them down a dream.

I lost to mind the usual southern river,

Mud, mist, the plushy sound of the oar,

And pondering north through lifted veils of gulls,

Through sharpening calls, and blue clearings of steam,

I came and anchored by a fabulous town

Immaculate, high, and never found before.

This was the town of my mind's exacted vision

Where truths fell from the bells like a jackpot of dimes,

And the people's voices, carrying over the water,

Sang in the ear as clear and sweet as birds.

But this was Thule of the mind's worst vanity;

Nor could I tell the burden of those clear chimes;

And the fog fell, and the stainless voices faded;

I had not understood their lovely words.

Kindle woes

For some reason I don't like the idea of kindles. Its hard for me to pinpoint reasons, logical reasons that is, but there it stands. I liked this...

"Kill Your Kindle"

http://www.frontporchrepublic.com/?p=7478

On self, randomness and a desire to blog.

Caution: Aimlessness ahead.

I often wonder what compels people to blog, to write their thoughts down onto a blank screen where there is a chance that others will see (a higher or lower chance depending on the person writing). I often wonder why I blog. What is this urge? Honestly, I have nothing very significant to say at this moment and the only reason I'm typing is from an impulse to type.

Maybe blogging is just a desire to be published without the hassle of actually writing something worth publishing. I mean, that crazy button down on the left side of the screen saying "PUBLISH POST" is a pretty compelling feature. All the sudden I feel much more important than I did 5 minutes ago with a simple click of a mouse (or whatever the thing on laptops is called.... a leech, maybe, since its attached)

Maybe its just a desire for connection. I don't know who all reads these posts. I know of two people. I would not be surprised if they were the only two. If we throw our thoughts out there, though, who knows who will stumble upon them and convey sympathy with our strange mind (now our has turned into I, the royal plural) and then maybe we will feel some kind of moments peace, a somehow realization that we are partially understood.

I don't know. Though, come to think of it, I understand some people's blogging tendencies: the ones that have an agenda, a thought they want to circulate, a product. I, however, have no such thing, unless the product is myself. I would expand but I'm not sure I want to enter that realm. Even if it is truth.

Somehow, for me at least, I think blogging is a way to work at being okay with myself, as silly as this sounds. I'm beginning to realize the intricacies of the differences of me from others, or of others from others. The second sentence relates to first, I swear. More than realization of differences, I am beginning to see the beauty. I want to refrain from sounding cheesy t.v. show on you, but I think there is some truth to the fact that we must learn to be happy with ourselves (not too happy, maybe, we are a fallen people, but I don't want to complicate this more than I must). At least happy in our uniqueness and okay with the way our mind works, okay enough to put one's insignificant rambling thoughts out there. I'm reminded of a lovely line from Phoebe in Wonderland that states

"At a certain point in your life, probably when too much of it has gone by, you will open your eyes and see yourself for who you are. Especially for everything that made you so different from all the other 'awful' normals. And you will say to yourself, 'But I am this person.' And in that statement, that correction, there will be a kind of love."

Though maybe that has gone too far away from my original intent of what I was trying to say, which is merely that I am finding the complexities of what sets people apart fascinating, even what sets me apart, for I feel as though I'm discovering new arenas of myself all the time. Maybe this is the intent of blogging after all, to show others how strange and unique you are. Maybe it is to show yourself and convince yourself that its okay to be this person.

Wow, I'm pretty sure none of this made a whole lot of sense, but I wanted to type, and I wanted to push that shiny orange button. So, I'm sorry, Dad and Abby, for the stream of conscious type typing that has occurred here. If you actually have read this far all I can say is, I am truly loved.

Obscured

Head poised against the cold

she sighed with wonder lost,

her blue faded coat and soft

scraggly scarf of muted hues

were dulled against the backdrop

of vibrant staccato sounds.

Once lost amid the scuffle

of overpowering shades

-there was no escape from

the neon greens or the blush

of fuchsia's greedy grasp -

and covert amid the torrent

she was never seen again.

Her faint untidy figure

misplaced among the rubble

of a brightly blaring scope.