The garage has been cleared for spring, hosed down and washed, bicycles on the front lawn flipped onto their handlebars and drying, rivers of lather down the concrete driveway and snaking through the tire treads of all the vehicles planted on its surface. The cars sit satisfied in the sunlight, waxed, shining, silver, black and red. The motorcycles lean casually on their kickstands, dusty and waiting. In July our grass will be brown, saturated and scratchy. In May the sunlight is still something it’s missed since autumn and it drinks it in accordingly, appreciative, and greener for it. The crabapple trees near the street have started to bloom. They will for two weeks, first peppered with white blossoms and then covered entirely until the leaves are lost behind them. Then they’ll fall, only some days later, all of the flowers lilting down and laying over the grass. The breeze will take them early, sometimes, so that the blossoms fall before being a part of the tree’s summer coat, and it brings them over the driveway. One flower falls while I’m watching and drifts over, circling me at the top of the driveway where the garage meets it at its open door, adjusting and polishing steel-toe boots made for an eleven-year-old’s foot.
After a second it moves to the bulging headlamps of the yellow Ferrari Dino, to the top of its smooth and earnest eyes, landing just above the wheel-well on the front left side. It lingers for another second or two. It’s taken again by the breeze, taken in by the motorcycles, surveying the group, and then it moves again, slowly, to my father at the edge of the driveway near the street, cranking the throttle of a small, white dirt bike and trying to keep it running.
The blossom catches the exhaust pushed from the tiny bike’s tail pipe and darts away, high up and over the house to the backyard.
I blink, watching my father waving and telling me to come over while he’s got it running. My gaze shifts back to the boots, never used, my hand still running a cloth over their surface again and again, finding spots on a pair of boots that’d never seen dirt.
“The boots are fine, Alex! Let’s give this a try.” He said.
It was a Christmas present. I’d wanted it. I’d asked for it. And now I have it. At the back of the garage it’d looked almost meek, shy and reserved behind all those bicycles propped up against it. Sitting there it looked tame, friendly, like it might bring us both somewhere interesting. But it’s something frightening, I realize, unused for too long. An anxious child. I sympathize.
10/14/11SO there was this girl… This girl that we used to be friends right We was like good friends the kind that goes over each othas houses and spenda night and tell each otha our secrets and thangs…well… she told me ha secrets…I aint much tell her mine’(hmmph) I got sense. But anyway, this girl this girl she just always seemed jealous, I mean always seem jealous- so jealous- so jealous… I never really trust her cause her eyes is like snakes but I befriended her anyway cause she was beneficial and she kinda grew on me. Then she grew off me. *shrugs* whadaya gonna do? What’n my fault and I guess it really wan’t her fault either, just a change of the times you know? You live you grow… you learn new thangs, meet new people, forget old friends, aint that life? Right? Well… Tell me why I saw her the other, you know overthere in that market on green an fif? I spoke and said HEY GIRL!!! LONG TIME NO SEE… You know that heffa had the nerve to smack and huff at me? SMACK AND HUFF? WHODA*&$%&YOUSMACKINGANDHUFFINAT? Hmmph, shoulda bust her in ha face, that’s what I shoulda did, shoulda bust ha in ha face that’s what I woulda did but I realize, shoulda bust ha in ha face that’s what I COULDA DONE…. But I didn’t… I mean I coulda wrote I did hell y’all wouldna know the difference so gimme some respect fa telling the troof damn. Anyway, yea she got smart and her snake &*^ got slick but I let it slide cause… it aint me she mad with… its ha as she stood there with babies dangling off of ha… still in the same city, same state, same hood… even with the same niggas, same *&&^….*laughs* - Hatin Undastood. MORAL: FORGIVE THE HATAS, IT’S NOT YOU, IT’S THEIR OWN LIVES THEY MAD AT.
There's a MAJOR difference between someone being remorseful for what they've done and someone being sorry for getting caught. The easiest way to tell the difference is this: When someone has remorse, they will do whatever they can to avoid that behavior again and make an effort to make up for what they have done. They truly did not mean to cause harm, so they turn away from whatever they've done wrong with a decision to never do it again no matter the temptation. They confront the issue directly because they don't want unresolved issues and they move forward with a clear conscience and a pure heart. When someone is simply sorry, they will do whatever they can to avoid getting caught again.They aren't sorry that you are hurt or for what they've done They don't really care if it causes you harm or not because they are only consumed with getting what THEY want. They develop lies to cover their tracks just in case and get angry or shut down whenever you try to discuss it because it's difficult to work through an something you don't really want to stop doing. There is no major effort to set things right because the more you discuss it the more they might get caught up. So, they ignore the issue, act like nothing ever happened, and work overtime to cover their tracks so this time, they won't get caught - until they get caught again. "Sorry" people are selfish people. Now, we should treat these two people the same when it comes to forgiveness - never hold a grudge over anyone, it serves you no good no matter how much you are entitled to your feelings. However, once you realize that your mercy has b een given to the one who is sorry for getting caught... allow them to keep the mercy but create a situation between the two of you that prevents them from ever having to be "sorry" around you again...Remorse brings change, if there's no change...there's no remorse. Protection.
I can't really say that I ever know what to write. So much of my time is spent stuck in the constant turning-over of thoughts in my brain that writing becomes a practice of rehashing what I've already thought of, making it more of a chore than I would like it to be. The conversations in my head tend to be so loud that they muffle the voices of those around me, so I don't tend to speak to a lot of people. What's there to say when you cannot listen? There are many people who often start a conversation with me only to quickly become bored or uncomfortable due to my short (or lack of) response. These people then begin to believe that I am arrogant, off-putting. I wish it were the case that I was so smart that I was somehow above conversing with people. No. It is simply that I do not know how. It's as though words dissolve in my chest before they can even make it up my throat. My face remains stoic as they wait on a response, not sensing my distress, my inability to form words in my mouth. I simply stand, stagnate, choking myself with the words I can't seem to say. My head's so low that the only things I can describe in accurate detail are my shoes. I believe my quietness to be a product of too much solitude. There's a sort of mystique that revolves around the quiet, brooding type: they must be deep, they must be intelligent, they must be...whatever - not normal - something like that. Perhaps that is me, though it is not what I would consider valuable, nor necessarily accurate. I wish it were true; that quietness equaled genius. If solitude bred genius, then you should find the deepest, darkest pit in the world; from there, take the man resting his head on his knees, staring blankly at the ground beneath him, and you will have found the wisest man in the world. Ask him any question you wish, and you will receive the most thorough and detailed of answers. Ask him things which he has never experienced: friendship, love, care, spirituality, reason, theory et al. Ask him these things and he will answer them for you more properly than the greatest wiseman the world knows. Tell him about yourself, and he will remedy any pain or loss that you may feel. He will listen until your throat has dried up, and then, because you have the answers which life has so cruelly confused you with, you will leave into the night sky, heart aloft amidst the understanding this man has brought to you. From then on, life will go a little bit more steadily, a little bit more comfortably. "Beware the heavy things," he will have told you. "Behold the light." And then, torn from the wonder and beauty of the world through new eyes he gave you, you will hear from the depths a quiet moan, a stifled gasp, a strangled sob. As though you're capable of calming him, you'll return to where he was. In the middle of a field, you will find him, head on his knees, weeping. "What's wrong?" you will say. His jaw will stutter, his lips will shake, his breath will catch, and finally, he will say the first words t
Today's writing prompt: Describe your remedy for a 'case of the Mondays' (i.e grumpy, lethargic).
One of my least favorite phrases (and I thank 'Office Space' for this) is "Somebody's got a case of the Mondays!" Or some variation on that. I find that 'case of the Mondays' feeling can come any day of the week. Sometimes it is because I am too close to Monday. A Sunday night can sap my will to accomplish anything or to even be happy with creation just as much as Monday morning. Other times it is because I am not far enough in the week from a Monday. For whatever reason, waking on a Wednesday and realizing that I still have 3 full days to put in before it is Friday evening can be more disheartening than a Monday with the entire week stretching out in front of me.
In order to counteract this displeasure with the existence of Mondays, or days that feel like Mondays, I find that making lists can help. If I can find a way to keep busy and accomplish some of the things that I need to, I can at least feel the day was not a waste. While To-Do Lists do not sound much more exciting than the realization it is not, in fact the weekend any longer, it helps me to focus on the fact the weekend is coming again. I love to cross things off of lists. The act of doing so is almost better than knowing the job is done. It is the physical evidence that even if Monday has me down and out (or Wednesday as the case may be), I still can accomplish the tasks at hand.
These To-Do List items are not necessarily the things I have put off until Monday, but maybe the things I could not enjoy until Monday. Instead of making the To-Do List as dreaded as the actual tasks on it can be (such as vacuuming - the worst chore in existence), I make sure to write down the things I want to do as well. This can be something like getting coffee with a friend, getting a new book, buying a bottle of wine, or watching a movie. I still did something, I accomplished a goal, I get to cross it off. Take that, Monday!
I have found that by adding at least one reward aspect into a To-Do List, it adds purpose to my day in that it is both something to accomplish and something to enjoy. That way, when I do get to that task which is vacuuming or equally unpleasant, I know after that I get to do something I wanted to do. The time goes by quicker that way and at the end of the day, I get to cross that day off and hope the next one is not another Monday.
While today is Tuesday, I felt that this prompt was apt as I felt as though I had two Mondays this week. The above are my thoughts on how I approached today and yesterday. Here's hoping tomorrow is actually Wednesday.
tendered flesh where your
found my skin—
[jaw lines, joints, appendages twixt]
indistinct regret as my
turnt my chin.
reminiscent of your essence,
everpresent in all my recollections
seeps between discretion.
you linger like a dream
lining my subconscious,
you stick to my clothes—
[jeans dirtied, hair tousled]
you re-emerge in inhalation and contemplation;
disrupt the surface with ease.
the smudges left,
the rubber burnt,
the charcoal scent stains
in a chest pit;
fueled with every
the skin-to-skin sensation
and each beat accelerated—
a feather-lined stomach
wont to sway in anticipation
stays its state
as if it were expected.
and to lie beside
is more than welcoming,
to sit with a firelit
until the morning; tempting.
loyal like a dog,
loyal to a fault,
blue fluxes navy
in effervescent splash dances
complacent with your words,
skin pigment laced pink
stains and tinges grey
while trails of liner treadway
fade with your name
still, my head mimics
dramatic scenery within film strips,
of horroresque cinematics
so sluggishly shaking horizontal
still, after weeks proceeding months
in the near completion of one-hundred-days
strings frayed garrote my heart
in utter asphyxiation
and still, my breath undulates
I tiptoe into plasmic veils
and now my shadow seems less vivid,
always careening to outline behind
I don't need a replica,
I just want a friend
Here's something I just recently put together. Simple, short. I'm not very poetic, and I know very little about modern poetry, so I'm mostly just slapping words on paper.