Sunday, March 19, 2006

It's Going To Be Nice, Is What I Mean.

I've always liked riding on buses and trolleys. I used to hop on one whenever I was going somewhere and ride from one terminus to the other, not really caring where I end up. There's something quite soothing about being on a bus and watching the world go by outside. It feels like real life is put on hold for that little while. No matter how late you are for whatever it is that you are rushing for, you really don't have much of a choice but to just sit back, enjoy the view, and ride it out.

Sometimes it's nice to cede control like that. For that couple of hours, you are truly all relaxed because there isn't anything you can really do at all except to think and dream and read and rest.

I used to take a bus for one and a half hours to school every day. I read poems on the bus, formulated arguments, had discussions with myself, planned essays and dinner, struck up random conversations with strangers, laughed at random people, caught up with elusive sleep, thought about all of the stops I would make someday along the bus route in search of a playground with swings, a nice picnic spot under a huge tree, sweet rice or oriental herbal soup, or a pet store I see from the road. I did make some of those stops in the three years I went by that way; the rest lie forgotten, untrodden and unknown, a crinkly, yellowed leaf in the archives of my mind.

But the change in scenery will allow me the opportunity to delve my mind for those moments, and wants and urges.

Tuesday, March 14, 2006

Give Me Blue Silk Wings, Red Velvet Rose Petals And Snow.

I haven't been writing much in here out of superstition that writing seems to lend itself to self-deception and delusions when I least need them. I end up looking through metaphors like awkward, heavy goggles.

The truth is I feel at a stand-still. A still life of stone. If I wasn't weighted down I would have stayed in town, but I wanted to float. I felt too much like Macon Dead in Toni Morrison's Song of Solomon ("Mr. Smith's blue silk wings must have left their mark, because when the little boy discovered, at four, the same thing Mr. Smith had learned earlier -- that only birds and airplanes could fly -- he lost all interest in himself." "...he knelt in his room at a window sill and wondered again and again why he had to stay level on the ground").

I'm not sure that this perpetual state of being here (and not any particular place really, but just here) is a veiled sense of maturity, or me in the maturing process, but growing pains are taking place.

Maybe you have to have a variety of small heartbreaks until you can find joy and even flow.

There is possibly something growing inside of me, and quite possibly inverted and upside down, causing me to lose my balance and breath in normal day to day things. I don't quite seem to know what it is, or how to get rid of it. For now, at least.

(I think I'm homesick for a place that's changed too much for me to even recognize it as home (and it scares me to death).)