Landing Back Here Again

Hello,

I’ve been away, I know, but I haven’t really. Part of me has been in music, and then so deep in a thick mud of embarrassment that I went and did other things. Spent the year doing science and getting good marks and feeling competent. Now it’s summer, and I’m trying to get myself into actually writing again.

Ever since I was little I was easily absorbed into books and writing. Poetry’s always been close too. Despite a lot of starting things, I never got through much of a novel, although I’ve written a bunch of short stories that were mostly DOA. But the push has always been there. So maybe it’s time to put the work in.

So, as a result, I’ve been doing a couple courses (to get feedback) and starting down the road of trying to get some stories written and submitted to places. It’ll be mainly rejection, but that’s OK, that’s how it’s supposed to be; I just have to find a way to kind of enjoy myself while kind of learning things. Maybe it’ll be slow.

Let’s see where the road leads…

Something About The Rain…

It’s there, letting my soul stand on the outside. I have more courage, more relaxation, and more happiness when it’s raining. I’m something, I’m shouting, I’m quiet, I’m safe and contained.

Today I hope it stays what those other, shadow-loving people call “gloomy”, or “overcast”, or “dark”, or “ugh”. For me it’s crow weather, it’s walking weather, it’s the perfect day to meet a friend and not feel too nervous. The rain is confidence.

The rain is self-sufficiency, and growth. It’s open to change, but not pushing too hard. It’s constant, and full, and overflowing, but not angrily (maybe, sometimes). The rain is what I feel like on the inside. The rain is my heart …

Between drops, that’s peace. The subtle coolness, the need for more skins; the time, just waiting, between this drop — and that drop — and this drop, again. Time is built from this beat, drumming, drumming, pointing, whispering. Rain!

Working

I worked, making my hands dusty. A fly kept buzzing, intermittently, providing an apt distraction once in a while. I would roll up any nearby piece of paper (I used a copy of my life insurance), and move threateningly towards it. It would buzz, and fly, and not land, and then I would lose sight of it against a mottled background and it would shut up for another five minutes.

Every time I sit down at the computer I feel inexplicably comfortable; at home. At the same time, I’m a little disgusted. It’s not like a fireside, or a boat on the water; it’s a little too comfortable, too easy to use, too bright.

I’ve started seeing random flashes in my vision when I close my eyes, occasionally. I think it has to be with the long, long hours spent on the computer this year.

Maybe it’s all a part of modern life. I don’t mind working; in fact, I quite enjoy it. It’s something to do, a kind of flexing of my mental muscles, a little challenge and a little reward here and there. I don’t have so many things to do to fill up the time, anyhow, so I might as well specialize in something.

Sirens, and the sound of the skytrain, and occasional beeps from the fridge. Birds cooing outside of my basement window, acting funny. Trying to stand up the motorcycle with my arms.

These are little moments, where sun catches me for a second, and I see my dusty hands with gladness.

Walking, Whispering

Was it that we were walking
side by side
talking lightly, occasionally laughing?

What was the point?
I suppose that, many years from this place,
if I am an old man singing,
with bushy eyebrows and scattered wrinkles,
I will recall
the kind of young man I am:
smooth skin, soft hands,
vigor.

So if I breathe now, and now again, (and now, again)
softly, slowly, I am transported, cloudlike
and I am neither here, nor
in a place far from here;
I’m human, and therefore
ever travelling.

I’m human, and therefore
ever aging.
This one tiny life — what a joke! What a trick!
What year it is hardly matters, what year I am hardly matters;
my eyes yet see,
and my heart yet beats.
Isn’t that enough, for tonight?
Isn’t it enough, that you’re
warm, and quiet, and alive
in my bed?

Let’s walk a little more, in the dark,
before our paths are separated
and let’s touch fingertips,
once more, once more, (and once more)
almost like children,
whispering.