sun or sleep

I couldn't get to bed last night. I sat there, sleep and even tiredness had abandoned me. I was left, just me and my clock, to wait for an intervention, whether that meant sun or sleep.
I am not so blessed to have patience as a virtue. I will not, however, give up trying to obtain it. So as the red numbers stared at me, switching ever so slowly, I felt frustration grip the inside of my stomach.
I know!! I must try to relax and think of nothing, that should help. So I switch sides, putting my stubborn clock to my back, and try to lay as still as possible. I deepen my breathing, and pretend relaxation is overcoming me. It starts at my toes, creeps up to my heels, into my ankles, and through my shins. I think of my body sinking deeper into the mattress with each exhale, as the weight of relaxation calls to tired to come back.
The surest way to insure that tiredness will not come, is to think of him. Now that I look back, I see this is in fact where I went wrong. For just when relaxation was numbing my shoulders, I thought of tired, and that is indeed when he ran away from me for the second time.
I try to win the battle against my clock and not look at him, but of course in my undeniable defeat, I face him and his mocking red numbers ablaze that read 3:26. I sigh, completely beside myself in frustration, and then it happened, something I haven't done since I was a small child, completely forgotten in it's on little world. It brought a wave of nostalgic pleasure into my heart, in turn making me smile.
When I was a little girl, I had a yellow baby blanket. It even had a zipper, so that you could make it into a sleeping bag, should I wish it. Around the edges was stitched thick durable white lace. My dad would tuck my sister, Courtney, and I in for bed at night, and I remember he would always spread my yellow blanket over me.
My dad did this thing where he would rub his cheek on ours, so that we could feel his whiskers like sandpaper against our skin. Courtney and I loved getting whiskers before bed, after that Courtney would contentedly pacify her thumb and drift right to sleep. When I was on the verge of sleep I would always grab the corner of my yellow blanket and rub it between my fingers as my cheek tingled from my dad's whiskers.
Last night in my desperate fight to sleep I subconsciously grabbed the corner of my comforter and started to rub it between my fingers just like when I was little. When I realized it, a flood of childhood memories came back to me. I lay there in the sweetness of my treasured times, remembering when it was all so simple. It was almost tangible, my childhood, and then I finally fell asleep as my clock, defeated, blinked 4:00.
I should like to find my yellow blanket, so that when I have children, I will have something to cover my little daughter with. I smile thinking about this, and now, I feel I am in need of a nap.

Like a Bird

Whenever I am having a hard time, I sometimes imagine where I would venture to if I could go anywhere. Somehow I always end up in an airport amongst all the other possibilities. I have often wondered why an airport would be the one to bring me solace or comfort...
When I am watching that movie, you know the one that is created to make your heart long for something? Sometimes it is the movies about love, or even loss, and often times adventure. It is this epic story about finding something that is worth all these undignified actions. Well when I get to the" airport scene" of the movie my heart nestles in this place of amenity. Even as the characters are walking away from each other, I confusingly find a sort of solace in the scene. I find sometimes I even rewind and watch it again to enjoy every second of it.
I found myself in my beloved airports these past weeks, and as I walked through the terminal to my gate I felt the buzz of adventure and the tingle of nostalgia. It is an odd thing, standing in a room full of perfect strangers. Yet, somehow you all have the same intention that is a destination or concourse that you will all embark upon. All of us, like a flock of birds, are going somewhere.
I muse ideas of where the Amish looking couple sitting in front of me will be going. Newspapers expertly unfolded as if they were home in there small drawing room, as always. There was a sort of captivating essence about the make-up less face that the woman wore. Her stark white tresses pulled loosely back in a small bun at the nap of her neck, you know the kind you only see in prairie movies. Her husband in his itchy Grey woolen sweater had a fanny pack fastened safely around his middle. How perfect they looked on the orange padded chairs that we shared.
I wonder how it would feel to be a Nun, like the two sitting behind me. They sat laughing in their polyester and grey-blue head coverings complete with rosarys latched around their necks. One had a battered guitar case next to her, which made me think of Julie Andrews and The Sound of Music. I thought about the ugly dresses this Nun would wear if she hadn't decided to swim in her polyester and celibacy. Nuns are interesting, indeed, I would like to become acquainted with one someday.
As I stood to board, I noticed the guy in a black hoodie with two beautiful women standing on both sides of him. There was an impressively large trophy in the youngest girl's hands. 'World Champion' was etched on the plate of the glorious golden statue of a man with raised arms. The guy in his hoodie had scars on his face, and the women were all too beautiful. I understood his agitation and his emptiness. Even though the world declared him champion and he had two more beautiful trophies on his sides, he had a desperation in his eyes. I remember how it felt and I even felt it only briefly as he walked past me to his seat a few rows behind, girls giggling in there onomatopoeias.
There is a blond boy sitting on his papa's lap in the front left seat. He likes to look at me, and I give him a smile that says "we have a secret". He agrees to my proposal of friendship. He is maybe three years old, and I decided he would make a good "Connor" or maybe an "Emmit". We played face games for awhile, all the time his dad completely unaware of the social butterfly perched on his lap. Connor fell asleep looking at me. It was a sublime and perfect moment, one I hope never to forget.
I sit back as the plane takes off. Mr. married next to me grasps the arm rests as if they can save him from his undeniable queasiness. Later he asks if he can buy me a beer, and I reply "umm I'm 19, thanks though" The screen entertains us with a movie about a man with aspergers syndrome, and a beautiful woman that fall in love. Through their awkward romance yet strangely powerful with emotion and harmony, Mr. Married sits closer to me resting his arm against mine, no longer clutching his arm rest, but completely safe resting against me forgetting all about the turbulence. For a moment I didn't even notice, I was so caught up in the screen that displayed such beautiful and honest affection that I didn't even recognize the hazard and red lights that started flashing when his left hand rested on my wrist. As the credits scrolled towards the ceiling I looked down, and came to my senses, standing up with my seatbelt still on I acted like seabuscit in desprete need of the commode. Needless to say after that he kept to himself as did I.
Through all these, I still don't know why my heart longs for terminals and checked bags. I don't know if it is the adventure I long for, or the escape. I don't know if it is the love story locked away waiting just for me to step unto the screen, or the feeling I get in my chest as I fly with the sun. I don't know if it is the way my imagination gets drunk off of all the things and people my eyes drink in, or peeing 40,000 ft in the air. My heart is determined to live in a suitcase, and for now I will not object.

"I walked in the mountains, and it was Autumn, you see. Yes, the mountains that are up north from here." You began as if you were telling a story to a king, instead of just little me. "I love the way the leaves fall in the mountains as if they were snowing. To just sit and watch the snow fall would be enough to content me. Oh, but the way the trees themselves would take your breath away." As you spoke I noticed our own trees towering around us, as i am sure they were listening too. I thought I saw them grow a little taller as you prod them on with your words and staggering compliments.

"I wouldn't trade all the world, little sister, if I could but know how to express the overwhelming sensation that is the wind blowing the scents of fall all around as the sun stares at you through the leaves of gold and crimson. To bring understanding to those who only smell the moth balls rot away in their closets, and the green paper that seems to be out of reach for most who desire it." He had a twinge of frustration in his eyes, but not a hopeless one. It was mostly a frustration that is the kind to press one onward into attempting the goal (no matter just how impossible).

Whenever he speaks I like to repeat in my head his sentences that I admire. At this point I was still repeating "I walked in the mountains, and it was autumn, you see." It seemed that every time he spoke he did so as if the words were his friends, each one carefully examined, and tested perfect for their own use. He never misplaced a word, and rightfully so.

It is by him, my dearest brother, that I have just barely understood the beauty of words. I have only been just acquainted with them, but I feel as if they shall be very faithful and loyal companions to me for the remainder of my life. Each one it's own beauty, and particular meaning. I could fondle their meanings all day long in my head and never grow weary! Mostly I love how sacrificial they are. For hardly any admire the actual words, but what they are intending to communicate. I have come to hold the highest respect for the words (even the ill-used ones) and it has given me the joy of being delighted in their proposals.

It was on this day as my brother spoke of an autumn so indescribable in the mountains of the north, that Words allowed me to relive actual experience. I captured the wind that blew the scent of fall all around, and yes even the sun stared at me through the leaves of gold and crimson. My entire being was caught up in the sweet elation of that perfectly described moment.

As I have told myself I would try, so I have, to convey this moment I experienced in all it's glory. I used to believe words could never be enough, that they would always fall short of true meaning and experience. I stand corrected, and most gladly!! Even though I fall quite short of mastering this technique of placing words in their correct and most rightful of places (yes, I daresay it is a technique) I shan't become discouraged, for I have the rest of my life to become more acquainted as friends.

Awake my soul, and REJOICE!!

I have been sleeping on my knees as of late.
Attention has run off to a place where time isn't old.
In the younger time it moves faster, so fast in fact that your eyes only comprehend a few pictures.
Most in which never actually did happen (something of a dream). Yet, some of course are just a mere reflection of desire. It is when attention runs to a more youthful and irresponsible place that we have given away our very will for ignorance. (oh what "bliss")
This child, Attention, is not easily persuaded, entertained, or even controlled.
It is almost as bi-polar as the menopausal pharmacist behind her raised counter or even the weather.
(Autumn, how I long to feel your brisk wind)
I also have another that accompanies me on occasional outings, Discipline, is his name.
He doesn't come out much, (though I know he's there) because attention constantly harasses him.
I don't blame discipline for his cowardice for it was only his upbringing that was the cause of such an attitude.
The thing I keep pondering is, what if Attention (like all young girls) only puts on this front of dislike towards Discipline and is actually in love with him?
Yes I know hardly even a plausible thought that should even be considered.
Yet, If the arrangement could only be made THEN I should stay awake on my knees as I pursue the one whom I love!
I am dreaming of a romance between two lovers that they might become one.
Then Attention would become mono-polar and discipline would lead the way of my desires, carving a path in this untredged ground under my feet.
Oh if the love would bud and bloom then (and only then) could I meet with my love, and in a time much older then even now.
That I would sit in a room in the heart of the house of my Love.
There would be pictures on the wall and even furniture elegant and quaint.
I would sit in the chair (or kneel at it rather) as He sings in my ear (a song I have never heard).
The melody would be so stunning that my heart would keep it's tempo (almost as if it was created to do so).
I would sit silent, quieted by a love so tangible.
Quieted by truth often misunderstood and misrepresented, as I sit there on my knees.
I would be wholly and irrevocably consumed in a pleasure, as the pictures of my heart (that He painted of course) hang on the wall.
I would not fall asleep. Yes, the time would be ancient, and finally I would not fall asleep.

edgar allan poe

It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of Annabel Lee;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea:
But we loved with a love that was more than love -
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her high-born kinsmen came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me -
Yes! that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud one night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we -
Of many far wiser than we -
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling -my darling -my life and my bride,
In the sepulchre there by the sea -

In her tomb by the sounding sea.

book sale

I have always loved the smell of books. A scent often scolded for it's lack of perfumed elegance. It is one that brings me a great deal of comfort. It is the smell that sings me to sleep, that asks me about my deepest wanderings, and that has been there through all my days of learning.

Today I breathed it in as I walked down rows of literature for sale. Half off a dollar fifty hardly seemed to do the masterpieces justice. Don't get me wrong, dear friends, I always try my luck at any local used book sale I hear of but today, well, today was different. I saw a sort of injustice as I walked the tattered carpeted floors to the "fiction" section. I saw Genocide, a slaughter of pages. I heard their screams as I browsed over unfamiliar titles and still others only too familiar.
I looked around and saw that I was the only person under the age of 60 in the room. These veterans of book clubs understood the desperation of this unruly situation. I stopped suddenly feeling like a 5 year-old puppy obsessed little girl in the middle of a dog pound. I wanted to save them all, to guarantee each of them that
"Yes, you shall be read again someday! Yes, you will sing another to sleep. Yes, you will teach a college student about the absurdities of the Vietnam war. Yes, you will encourage a young boy to be the captain of a fishing boat. Yes, you will give solace to the depressed. Yes, you will ignite the fires of love between two awe-struck teens."
These are the dreams of books. I stood there in the middle of the hopelessness that was this situation and suddenly understood. We are all books, you and I. We sit waiting, content to be read when the time is right. Content to wait for the perfect reader. One who understands the beloved content they are beholding. While others still have prettier covers. They have many readers. they open themselves up to anyone's eyes. They long for the adoration. Yet still others that shall never be read except by the one who they themselves created the inhabitants. Yet isn't the story all about they author anyway. I shall live my life living to please my author and not my beholder whoever they might be.
I hand 3 dollars to the cashier as I take my treasures. My head dizzy from the sweet elation of aromas and adventurous thoughts. Tonight I will drink deep of these weathered pages. yes, I will always love the smell of books.

vanity

So this is vanity,
admiring my face as I blow dry my hair. Alone in a room that screams unthinkable compliments. Looking into my own eyes in the mirror trying to practice a stare of perfect naive innocence. That's what lovers like, or so I'm told. I look into my eyes with the perspective of a love-struck man. He would be tall of course, and he wouldn't speak at a time like this as my hair blows all around dark and smooth. He would let his eyes say everything. Mine would respond with quiet longing, yet reserved.
Yes, this is vanity.
It would almost be a comfort if I could have a mirror in front of me always. As soon as I walk away from this one the only reflection I'll see is that of my own soul, and this is what brings my humility. I am often times shocked at my grotesque state. So shocked in fact that I forget any one beautiful thing about me. That is until I am reminded again with wet hair and the task of drying it.
Yes, this is vanity;
to seek obsession with WORTHLESS beauty so as to forget the horrendous state that is me. Sometimes I wish I could tear my hair out by the root so that I shall never remember my one true ugliness...beauty.