music for a rainy day

Yesterday, Today, and Tomorrow: A sonata of words in four parts. Part IV: messages

2006-03-12T20:22:00.000-08:00

My dear friend,
I know it has been a long time since I last wrote you, though I hope you will forgive me. Certain circumstances have prevented me from sending you letters, and besides, until now I could not find the right words to write, and without those this letter would have been pointless. The months have passed, and the seasons have changed, but I am sure that I will be away still a while longer. Do not think I have forgotten you, or that I do not think of you, for you are in my thoughts often. You wouldn't believe how beautiful it is here. The air is sweeter, as is the water, and every time I inhale, every time I drink, I feel as though I were in a special kind of paradise. Even the light, it seems, is somehow cleaner, purer. I am sure that both the days and the nights are longer, though it doesn't seem possible, but everything moves at such a relaxed pace that it doesn't strike one as the least bit surprising. I am certain that my work will keep me away longer even than I expected, though I am uncertain as to just how long that might be. This will be the last letter you will receive from me until we see each other again. You know, as always, how to find the messages laced into this letter. I trust you will know what to do.
Until we meet again,
Your dearest friend

Yesterday, Today, and Tomorrow: A sonata of words in four parts. Part III: The colder winds

2005-11-17T11:05:00.000-08:00

I can taste snow in the colder winds of autumn. The warmer winds hold the memory of summer and wrap themselves around in a friendly embrace, as if to say, "Goodbye; I'll see you next year." Soft breezes, neither warm nor cold, rustle the leaves on the peaceful autumn afternoons, their faint whispers dying after so short a life. Such brief breaths just as the transient autumn is brief, only a season in passing on our way to winter. But the colder winds hold a taste of snow, so faint that perhaps I imagine it. Even the winter winds that bring on the snows do not taste of snow themselves, as though those tiny flakes deny the winds they ride on of any flavor they posess. The winter winds are coldest of all, but the colder winds of autumn are colder still. They stir the air and bring a chill in a way that winter winds cannot, for icy caress of the winter winds touch faces that are already shivering. Faces that have had time to learn to ignore the cold. The colder winds of autumn bring a chill that is unexpected. They sneak up and spring themselves upon you when you least expect it. And they through stuff at you, though the colder winds of autumn don't have the greatest precision in aim. I swear that several times I've passed this one tree and an acorn falls with more force than can be attributed to gravity in a spot where I had been standing only a moment before, and then once one fell right in front of me, where I was about to step. The quick gust that accompanies each of these attacks disappears as soon as I look up. Something else I've noticed: those colder winds are always dry, even when everything else is soggy and wet.

Yesterday, Today, and Tomorrow: A sonata of words in four parts. Part II: teddy bear: a poem

2005-10-27T20:16:00.000-07:00

Our backs against a tree,
she read aloud, to herself as much
as to me, and I listened.
Orange leaves (and brown and red)
carpeted the little hill.

"I feel cold," she said.
She looked at me, a wry grin
touching those rosy cheeks;
"I envy you — the chill doesn't
bother you, does it?"

Back inside the house,
I sat on the bed as she changed and brushed
her teeth. The lights out,
she gave me a quick squeeze and sighed.
I watched the ceiling all night.

Yesterday, Today, and Tomorrow: A sonata of words in four parts. Part I: Never enough time

2005-10-23T23:13:00.000-07:00

I was walking to school one brisk, chill, autumn day. Towards the end of my walk I always cross the park (or "common," as it's called) and that little interlude almost always instills in me a sense of peace found in few other places. The walkway is uneven red brick and there are plenty of trees and grass and open space -- a built in respite from the harsh, fast-paced city life. On this one particular day -- I suppose it must have been early in the afternoon -- the common was loosely populated; a few people passing through, some sitting on benches, others out on the grass. I was halfway across when a dark brown average sized dog shot across my vision like an arrow. My first reaction was to remark to myself just how arrow-like the dog's rush was. My second thought, following the first within the same instant, was to wonder what it was bolting after, and my gaze followed the dog's path, which led to the base of a tree. My eyes caught the flicker of movement as a squirrel darted up the trunk only far enough to be out of its pursuer's reach. The dog, whose momentum had carried it past the tree for only the slightest moment, had adjusted its movement quickly and stood now with its forepaws a little ways up the tree, eyes intent on the squirrel. I saw no more of this scene as I passed by, but as I continued my jouney to school, I breathed in the cool fresh air and smiled to myself.

louder now

2005-10-11T19:50:00.000-07:00

I can see them coming, friends with worry in their eyes and concern in the question they all share: am I alright; am I okay? I give them my best smile. Yes. Everything is alright; how could it be otherwise when the scent of freshly cut grass persists stubbornly just outside the window, while someone sings brazen showtunes in the parking lot, and I can see my car nestled perfectly in that slot next to my last class? I smile again to send them on their way and then turn to stare at the window once more. What do they see? I wonder if, perhaps, there some secret in my reflection, some ghost in the glass to expose the flaw. I search desperately for something, anything to fill that hole in my understanding. What am I missing? My thoughts fade as the singing falters outside and is replaced by the sound of cursing as a dreamer is led back to class.

...

2005-07-15T22:22:00.000-07:00

In the middle of July a boy sits down to write an article for a blog that has not been updated in over a month. He sits and stares at the white, the piercing white, that seems to swallow up the whole screen. The little vertical line is blinking, waiting to be pushed aside by the words rushing in to fill the white. Nor words come. Still, the line blinks.
Ages pass. The white remains, the line blinks, no words have filled the void. Tides rise and fall, stars die, continents shift, grandchildren become ancestors, the centuries fall in and out, and the page remains blank. Time stands still, time dies. No words. The boy's no writer. Why should he write?
So he writes...about not writing. As he doesn't write, there aren't words, and the page does not begin to fill. The little line does not move from its spot and the words do not rush in to push it aside. The boy does not update the blog, and the writing that wasn't written does not get published.
This is how the boy is left, with a blank page on the computer screen that was never written on.

cat by day

2005-06-01T14:45:00.000-07:00

When the day draws to a close and the sun falls into scarlet fashions, my cat comes to sit in my room with her back against the setting sun spilling through the window. She seems fixiated on the inky shadow she casts across the floor and onto the wall, and while my sister believes she is just soaking up the last rays of the day, I think she is simply awed by just how much her silhouette looks like batman.

We Laugh

2005-04-29T20:47:00.000-07:00

We laugh at Death,
We who are young
and vibrant. We laugh as
we laugh at a dog
who growls
and
barks
loudly.

We do not heed the bark.
We laugh,
and stare it in the face.
And we tell ourselves His bark
is worse than his bite.
We tell ourselves this

Until he bites.

cons-fix

2005-04-10T22:33:00.000-07:00

compilation of pre-xanga-fied posts
Spring 2005
Carefree approach
folksy romance
eclectic mix of the organic
and the luxurious
sun-drenched brights
striking palette
evening
fades into watercolor shades
primrose, crystal and sheer lilac
ethereal allure
layered textures and patterns
discreet
charming simplicity
studded cashmere
clouds of wispy chiffon
delicate sparkle
with a quiet glamour
spearmint with crystal
bluecrinkled silk
papaya juice
olive butterfly
lemon meringue
white strawberry
bermuda apple
antique pink

“oh, god. i am just like everyone that ever lived."

My little sister has perfect skin. She says it’s because she eats apples. Ahh. There we have it. watch her revolutionize dermatology with this little secret.

mister artist shows up anonymously at his own gallery. Blends in with the crowd of pseudo connoisseurs. Hears them rave about his work. Vapid inane commentary. ‘The gray reflects the emptiness of the soul. The circle in the corner embodies a liberating transcendence and reconciliation with the universe. He is clearly conveying the loss of moral values with the blended edges.’ Oh the pain. mister artist leaves as equally unnoticed as he arrived.

here's to devious smiles. ; )

wait

2005-04-10T19:13:00.000-07:00

a Lantern upturned
at my door glaring in
earnestly, She
presses nose on
glass making faces
a yearning bright
smoulders for all to see
But I--
I turn away certain
She is still there
always be there,
a smoke rising.

You see
for Her
it was never a question
of 'if'
only 'when'.

caprice: Market Square

2005-03-10T20:37:00.000-08:00

No one walked or shopped in Market Square that afternoon. The contents of at least two lakes were currently being dumped on the whole city; a conspiracy that several suspicious clouds had been seen plotting for the last few days. Market Square was in no shape to be walked and shopped by the average hundreds of people that patronized the center on a daily basis. Some of the stores remained open, in desperate hopes that someone might actually stop by to pick up some groceries, or perhaps purchase a rare book, but most of the stores had given up entertaining any notions of business that day. The rain was not debilitating, at least not physically. If a brave soul had determined that he absolutely must go to Market Square to fetch some fine wine for his evening party, then he would simply become a very wet person. There was no danger of harm to anyone, nor was there any danger of serious flooding, but it drowned spirits with melancholy and flooded minds with boredom. That having been said, if one were to look upon Market Square that soggy afternoon, one might find a surpising sight. In the middle of the Square was a chair. On the chair sat a man. The man wore a jacket and tie, and looked a perfect gentleman. He sat, facing the west entrance to the Square, with his right leg crossed over his left knee. He looked around every once in awhile and every other once in awhile he would check his pocket watch, but seemed otherwise at peace. By his side, on the ground, was an umbrella the most extraordinary shade of orange.

caprice: The wake of a dream

2005-02-03T21:04:00.000-08:00

The waves rush past me and I am standing in the wake of a dream. The flood of images recedes and the mind is mine to roam. A thought, and I am on moonlit shores, soothing waves lapping at my feet. I walk for bit and move shoreward to sit on dry sand. Sand slips through my fingers, dropping from one hand to the other, and in the sand in my hand I search for answers. Nothing. A thought, and I sit on a hillside, painted in the lushest of greens. I lie back on the silken blades and the turf embraces me like a pillow. I look to the clouds, seeking secrets. Nothing. A sweet breeze, a thought, and I lie on a warm rug in a dreamed up living room. A blizzard rages on outside, but in the heat of the fire, I can ignore the storm and lie comfortable. I get up to sit in an armchair and settle into the cushions. The wind beats against the window, but as it changes direction, the noise stops. In the haven, I am safe. I stare into the fire, looking to uncover hidden truths. Yet again, nothing. The wind knocks on the window once again, but to no avail. A quick chill, a flicker in the fire. I remove myself from the chair and go to the door. A thought, and I am wrapped in a coat to defend myself against the snow. It falls heavily, and the gales swirl it around me. The clouds flash with lightning and seethe like an angry sea. I shout into the abyss, but my words are lost, and even I soon forget them. The cold engulfs me. The skies roar. The storm around me spins, and the world shifts and changes, and the clouds collapse, expanding, and the winds buffet me. I no longer stand in a snowstorm, but a thoughtstorm, whirling around me. I stand in the wake of a dream. I stand unwelcome on the territories of my subconsious, forbidden from roaming the grounds. I stand in the wake of a dream, and if I do not get out, I may drown. Suddenly, there is silence, there is darkness, and there is sweet, peaceful sleep.

I can have my cake and eat it too.

2005-01-30T11:22:00.000-08:00

Miserable morning. half the day has died without me. Miserable soberization.
Yesterday I heard her name. Two, three times. Rebecca prime. the original variation. only took a moment to remember who she was. To remember why I should recognize the name. not the person. Just the name. we’re strangers. familiar strangers. not paradoxically or oxymoronically. I peer into her existence and she sees me seeing her. She looks into mine as I watch her watching me. we don’t know one another. pas du tout. But she knows about me. and I know about her. Not much. Maybe enough. neither of us are sure. about anything. We’ve caught the static-y gist. I can’t help but feel badly. I wish I could have given her something. something she wanted much more than I ever did. something that foolishly preferred me. she would have been better to it. Maybe not for it. Can’t say. I don’t suppose I know it well enough even after these years to know what was good for it. at any rate it wasn’t me. or at least I didn’t want it to be me. perhaps I didn’t care enough even if it was me. it will be fine. i hope the same goes for Rebecca prime. yes I’m quite sure of it. nonetheless, the injustice is ridiculous. I’m glad she didn’t hear my name yesterday. I’m glad I don’t have a name.
Right. I don’t have a name. I don’t need one. I don’t deserve one. I simply narrate. Mostly in third person because ‘she’ is so much less startling than ‘I.’ though I did have a name once. just a little while ago actually. I deleted it all by myself. With the unintentional help of Rebecca. Not Rebecca prime. plain Rebecca. god. there are too many Rebeccas. Even I’m a Rebecca. am is are was were. It doesn’t matter. Because now I matter. I like to think I matter. I don’t care enough even if I don’t really matter. I will be fine. I hope the same goes for you.

A scene recreated: Part of a Dream, having fallen asleep while sitting on the riverbank.

2005-01-25T19:07:00.000-08:00

Off to the end of the world with that one. Take a slip of paper, I have over fifty of them. Don't listen to that tyrant. Her head's not screwed on right. If it were, she wouldn't yell so much. I know who she is. Why does he hide. Should he cower so? Another tree to fill up the dancing gardens with song and laughter, but only while she does not watch. The watch changes at three in the morning. Forever and again, a song for another day. Today is not for songs. Off, I say, off to the end of the world. With sixteen cats, we have no worries as to mice in the food, and we have plenty of food for the journey. Your own life sometimes depends on standing up. Head to the next town and you may find that the rest of the world isn't all the same. Stand up, take my hand, stand up. For your self may not be as intact as you may think. Get up, don't be so small. The clouds loom overhead. When did she get so tall? I can see lightning now. A huge grin. The flowers dripping: is that blood? No. There is a face behind that desk, that tall podium. And to the right, the same face twelve times over. What angry looks they give you, but one is smiling. Just smiling. It is not a pleasant smile. She stands up and walks towards you. Too tall. She bends down, seemingly from the clouds. Holds out her hand, there's something in it. Is this your card? The Queen of Hearts.

caprice: imaginary

2005-01-13T20:01:00.000-08:00

I have a friend.
He is imaginary.
When I turned six,
so did he.
I talk to him
when I am alone.
Sometimes
we play together.
I never talk
to other kids.
They look
right through me. But when I sleep
I dream that my imaginary friend
has other imaginary friends; I dream
he talks to them and plays with them.
When I wake up,
It's only me and him.
When I wake up,
he talks to me.
But now he talks to me less. Now,
he got older, but I'm still six. Sometimes
when the other kids don't see me
neither does he. I only watch now.
I watch him play with his other imaginary
friends, but only while I sleep.
When I wake up,
it's only me and him.
Why have I been sleeping for so long?
Will I ever wake? I guess
my imaginary friend has forgotten me.
I have a friend. He is imaginary.

cream and sugar

2005-01-05T07:34:00.000-08:00

a sexy blend of lustra's scotty doesn't know and otown's we fit together.

It’s a hell of a good thing I spend much more time awake than asleep

========
blonde Norwegian. Norwegian or Swedish. It doesn’t matter. Faint accent. Of the tall pasty athletic persuasion. Less than attractive complexion. Perfectly messy hair. Most awkward manner of dancing. ever. I’m embarrassed for him. Hell there’s not even music playing. But he complains of other things. How he used to be fatter and the arbitrary system of social ostracism has not yet been revoked by his new stunning physique. Where the hell am I supposed to know you from? Where did mikey and brian go? Just a second ago…
The usual greeting. What’s up. dog. With the amusingly unpreppy handshake. I never realized the conversation hardly ever goes beyond that. A dynamic duo we made. Slacker boy meets overachiever girl. Best world geography projects. ever. Shake it up baby. Voice inflections. That breath that precedes exciting news. Hey you’ll never believe who…
Holy crap. Whoa. Wait. Of course of course, it’s January. He graduated. I think. It’s summer break no? yes yes it was around this time he came to see me last year. I completely overwhelmed the poor aussie boy with my 100 wpm voice on the phone. But I do that to everyone. He gives perfect hugs. Asks me what I would do if I were in his position. hm? I missed something. I missed a lot. Maybe he wants me to forgive him for staying in Australia. Of course I knew he was staying. Living abroad. Wow. Never really considered it. International baccalaureate. It doesn’t matter. So long as he likes it. Which I’m sure he does. And there’ll always be January.
Somewhere meshed in there. meekil is back. Wearing his Stanford sweatshirt. How dashing. Just like the debate patch on the letter jacket. The window is clear. Obviously. Well I mean it might not be polite to stare at them outside. Oh. Sorry. Somewhere there’s a little dance class without a door. Taught by lindy who couldn’t possibly be a civilian she was so extraordinarily flawless. Those are like really cute pink tulle skirts. I dig your satin ribbon headband. Nice. Yea she was a fashion icon of sorts. I’ve heard my best friend gush too much about that. The scene flips back and forth with the computer screen.
Rubber ducky you're the one david replies to my email. I forgot what I asked. I don’t really need help. He says something about one account for the team. Why do I need to talk to them again? Oh. Spirit. Riiight. Thanks buddy.
And. Guilt rears its fugly little head. A four letter word I don’t care to think about anymore. Why the hell did he have to write that. I don’t need your confessions. Keep your feelings to yourself kiddo. Wow heartless bitch. Totally. Very vicious. I’m sorry. Only not that much actually. Next time don’t be so ‘out of this world.’ fine fine I’ll type it back. was that another lie? Horrendous. Ouch. You can’t take that kind of stuff back you know. Yea I know, but if I avoid it long enough maybe he’ll give up. Great…
Ew. So Norwegian boy holds his breath a long long time. Dives to the bottom to pick up gold coins. Why am I swimming? I don’t like water. Get out, dry off, wave goodbye. Holy crap I don’t even know your name. too late to care now.
It’s a dark and nonstormy night. Polite greetings. Everyone’s a monsieur. Suburbia turns to woods turns to hotel rooms turns to southwest barren Death Comes to the Archbishop by Willa Cather country turns to mules on the side of a mountain tourist attraction san Antonio.
What. the. hell. Loss of respect. Totally.
Turn to the right. Nope Richard didn’t call to wake me up today. The bagel bites are in the microwave because I’m too damn lazy to preheat the oven

And all the while she thinks of his lips forming the word gorgeous

amusing liaisons

2005-01-03T07:47:00.000-08:00

Here’s the story of a girl whose supposed soul mate calls from two hours away for the first time since the voicemail on her birthday whose chronological figure is eleven years over what that juvenile teased her for or what the world thinks she might as well be while she’s at the playground doing things that are better left to the wholesome imagination with her plusplatonic friend while he points out what roman candles are, set off by other teenagers out on a Saturday night there in the grass where the kite never flew where our sneakers were stained where our pants were splattered with wet dirt where we laughed and shrugged and walked away. She hangs up. Be safe. Be courteous.

pondering: Clean

2004-12-28T09:05:00.000-08:00

Whenever I thirst for water, there is one little tap I have always trusted. It is no ordinary tap water that flows from this tap, no (never anything so ordinary for an esteemed subject of Suburbia). The flow of common pedestrian water is redirected and filtered through six tanks, each roughly the breadth, width, and weight of a brick. Sand as fine as flour is skimmed away (in enough quantities it colors water a transparent amber) and chemicals I have never known are eradicated like any dodo bird or tasmanian tiger you may have ever seen. Six stages of purification and cleansing produce water (tasting of nothing, if that is possible) that flows through a precisely engineered tap that every morning gets licked and sucked upon by my cat.

I tell my dad this as he pours himself a glass one day, but he only shrugs and drinks it regardless. After a moment of reflection and a brief sigh, I quickly follow.

caprice: Pursuit

2004-12-27T23:16:00.000-08:00

He runs and runs and runs. He is pursued, but he is not afraid. He runs simply because he must. He runs fast, and he runs hard. He does not tire, nor does he slow. He has no name, for he was only moments ago born from the terrible heat of fire. It was fire that gave him his strength; fire hardened his flesh and gave him life. He is not human, but his pursuer is. His pursuer is getting tired. His pursuer looks down on our little man, for he is a giant in comparison. Our friend looks back and only giggles derisively. His pursuer looks infuriated. They run and run and run. As of yet, their distance has neither waxed nor waned, but now the distance grows. The man grows tired, but his rage urges him on his chase. Though he is larger and longer legged, the little one is swift of foot and he laughs devlishly as he flees. The pursuant man stops, and he sees his prey turn, still running, and shout back at him: Run, run, run as fast as you can. You can't catch me...

caprice: This is how the blog starts

2004-12-15T16:47:00.000-08:00

This is how the blog starts. With a sentence or two. All works of writing have to start like this, with a few sentences and a vague idea. With time, that idea will be refined and more sentences will be added, but for now, this is what is here. We don't claim to be great writers, or even good writers, but we write, and that is enough. Our subjects may seem trivial or occasionally profound, but everything we write is original. We do not write in order to achieve a certain purpose. We write to write. Also, there is no prescribed format or style of writing for articles on this blog. Some articles may be written in simple prose; sometimes we may share a story, true or untrue. Occasionally we may lapse into poetry, or perhaps some perverse, rough form of verse (we do not claim to be poets). Some entries may be revised and edited many times before being posted, some may be raw stream-of-conscious writing. Again, we do not claim to be good writers. We only work to present ideas in our own fashion. This, my friend, is how the blog starts.