the quiet people

Does a person exist beneath those robes?
Or just a mess of flesh and gears?
Is there mouth, that dares not speak?
Or is the face blank behind that scarf?
Is it sewn away by strips of black cloth?

Do they walk?
Or do they follow?

Dragged?
By husbands?
By children?
By culture?

Is it hard to hear?
Is it hard to see?

Tell me
Teach me
What is beneath those robes?
A life?
Or simply a tradition?

I swear I'll be gone in the morning, I just need somwhere warm to close my eyes

I find it kind of funny,
I find it kind of sad,
the dreams in which I’m dying
are the best I’ve ever had.

What does it mean when all of your dreams are nightmares? Some believe that dreams are our mind’s method of working out things we didn’t come to terms with during the day. Should my eyes brace themselves closed, caught between relief and regret?

The planks creak beneath me. The gravel between each board cuts into my skin; my feet are going numb. I am farther down then I thought. Everything seems closer when you are looking down. The station is quiet. None of them see me. And I understand. No one waits to see the end of a boring film, whose star falls deeper into obscurity with each turn of the reel. It’s coming. I hear it. I feel it. My legs move with the tremors. But I am calm. My eyes hang closed. My breath is easy.

It’s getting closer. Focus on the breath. Slowly: In. Out. A gentle sound as the air rubs against the throat. A mild rise the chest as the lungs press against the ribs. In. Out.

Almost here. Taste the dust in the air. Feel it scratch across the tongue. Return to the breath. Breathe correctly and all air will be pure. Feel the connection between the heart and the breath. The beat is soft. It is the metronome of the lungs.

I open my eyes. The lights get bigger. The gravel begins to shake .

I open my eyes. Lightning paints jagged lines across the wall. Thunder rattles in the distance.

[I] Don't Mean a Thing

Why won’t you dance with me? I know I’m American, but don’t worry, I’ve had all my shots. I won’t give you rabies. And no, George Bush was a person, not an infectious disease.

I’m standing alone in a crowded dance hall. The gibberish chatter pervades my eardrums. It blends into the music, marring an impressively remastered version of “Are You Hep to the Jive”. There are tables everywhere. None of them are empty of course. Not that I’d want to sit down. Being alone is less obvious when you are standing. Sitting with one’s own company at a table for four seems to boast “that’s right, I really DON’T have friends” just a little bit too loudly for my liking. I suppose it is conventional swing wisdom that, "if it ain't got that swing", it don't mean a thing. Well the music is jiving, and the room is jumping; so it seems I am the only one left without meaning.

All of a sudden I’m back in Seattle, leaning up against the wall at Blues Underground. Peggy Lee flirts with my ears as the dancers paint an enthralling display before me. Dim lighting and mirrors always make for an impressive, faceless, palate of bodies. I smile at the art they create, but I smile only slightly. Standing here, at my spot along the wall, with the slightly rusted water pipes pressing uncomfortably into my back, I feel somewhat voyeuristic watching everyone else. It’s as if I’m watching something I don’t deserve to see. Something I’m not a legitimate part of. As it were, a five dollar entrance fee and a smudged stamp on my wrist hardly make me a dancer. Later that night Andrew explains my predicament. He tells me that I’m the wallflower who, no matter how lovely, always ends up staying on the wall. He elaborates. You’re like that homeless person who everybody feels bad for but nobody gives money to. Thanks Andrew. I feel wildly better about myself.

Perhaps he was right. I certainly seem to be flowering upon the walls here in Germany. Most of my dancing has been composed of sidestepping waiters and quietly tapping my foot. But you know, I don’t much like the term wallflower. I know it is meant to imply that we are beautiful, despite our estrangement at the fringes of an otherwise social gathering. In this way, the term is a rather backhanded compliment. And yet, I feel the compliment is misplaced. Standing here, awkward and alone, I feel far from blossoming.

Maybe I can train her to be a vegitarian....?

I have a problem. It’s called a guilt complex. Now, I know we all need to feel guilty sometimes, it shows some level of empathic morality. But I’m with Aristotle on this one, the path to good is one of balance—and let’s just say I’m sitting out on the fringe of the gradient for this one. Now in theory, I could blame my father. He’s catholic and is quite equally infected with this complex. It is perhaps by virtue of his hand in my inception and upbringing that the malicious habit was able to seep itself into my daily routine. This is a reasonable story; however if I were to blame him I would, you know, feel guilty about it. Because after all, it’s not really his fault now is it? This is just the way he was raised. And of course I can’t blame his mother, because she was really just looking out for her kids. She was making damn sure that the burning fear of god would get them a direct ticket into heaven. In the end, it’s my fault really. You see, I allow myself to feel guilty. My father never dragged me to church, nor did he guilt me relentlessly—at least not with the intent of passing on the magic. And what’s worse, I’m not even catholic; so I don’t even get the eventual redemption. No, I just get that vicious, spiraling thought process: “Why would you DO that Catherine?” “She CLEARLY needs that more than you do Catherine.” “It’s ALL your fault Catherine.”

I am reminded of a particular day in high school; I was standing in line at the coffee machine. By line, I actually just mean that there was one girl ahead of me; but hey, when all you’re doing is counting the minutes between now and your next fix, that one girl is a line a mile long. And in my defense, this girl was taking her sweet time. IE: wasting time I could be spending choking down some public school quality liquid god. But in her defense [guilt complex], I think she was just taken aback when she realized our semi-functional coffee machine, which had more dust in it than coffee grounds, didn’t offer the entire Starbucks menu. That, or karma was teaching me to have patience—it’s a tossup. I tapped my foot relentlessly on the cafeteria floor. As per usual, some viscous something had been spilled and my duct tape covered converse made a thoroughly irritating sound as they dragged themselves on and off the sticky mess. In the end, by some miracle, a decision was made. A near orgasmic shiver of anticipation tickled across me and an inadvertent smile pulled at my lips as she pressed the mocha button.

And yet, my elation was rapidly flattened. You see, there was no small paper cup falling from the right, much less a puddle of glorious sludge dripping into it. The coffee machine was broken. I’m not sure if what followed was a moment of silence for the death of my beloved friend, or simply a gapping pause of horror and dismay; but in either event, I quickly snapped to (after all, I’d already had at least seven cups of coffee by then). And what did I do? Did I begrudgingly move on to the student store, where I could by equally shitty and slightly more overpriced coffee? Hardly. Upon hearing the girl lamenting that she had lost her 75 cents, a wave of guilt flowed over me and I promptly handed her the dollar I was planning to use on my own cup. It was my only dollar. And she took it.

Why did I feel guilty? After all, was this my fault? Perhaps not at first glance. But give me a minute and I’m sure my twisted little debate mind will come up with something. Perhaps my obnoxious tapping caused her to input her change at an angle, thus breaking the machine. Or perhaps if I had not been running late from the parking lot I would have been first in line and would have saved her the loss. Clearly it should have been my dollar lost, not hers. After all, as a frequenter of this machine I am jaded to such losses. She, on the other hand, is perhaps new to this world of broken machines and shattered caffeine dreams. In this way, such an experience could drive her away from the machine forever, causing her to resort to extortive Starbucks expenses. And of course we all know that Starbucks coffee beans are this year’s flavor of third world blood crops. So really, my actions are perpetuating the poverty and ill health of small child laborers in Ethiopia in addition to depriving this kind girl ahead of me her well deserved beverage. As you can see, I have a problem.

Everyone is out. They are painting the town as it were. I, however, chose to stay in. For some reason I believed that being alone in a room staked with beds would somehow be conducive to blog writing. It was a bit on the hot side. No problem. Let’s turn on the fan shall we? Oh. Hm. Looks like the fan doesn’t work. Bummer. No worries though. That’s why we have windows. I propped open the window with the questionably stained curtains. And sat down before my keyboard. I looked briefly at the curtains once again. I wondered what stories those stains might tell, and whether or not they were stories I would want to hear. After all, this is a dorm room. I was suddenly compelled to wash my hands. Once again I sat down before my keyboard. The bitter sweet of Turkish tea still clung to the edges of my lips and the smell of the Bazaar begged of entries to be written. I mulled over my day in my mind. I need to find that image. I had accidentally stepped on a live fish on the bridge while walking home; that seemed like a promising scene. Playing it back in my mind, it seemed a bit more of a gag real than an image, complete with overly dramatic facial expressions, slow motion slippage, and sound effects that may or may not have actually existed. My mind’s eye wandered towards the fish itself. A wave of guilt poured over me while I watched the personified memory fish scream with pain as its miniature organs ruptured and homogenized beneath my girth. My gruesome recollection was cut short, however, by another specimen of Turkish wildlife: the mosquito.

And so here I am, watching as the little bitch needles her way into my arm and begins sipping on my life juice. Her stomach is actually getting bloated and red. That’s my blood. I see my blood in her fucking stomach. First instinct. KILL the bug. It’s a bitch squish bitch world after all, right? Besides, mosquitoes can kill. Granted, the odds of this specific mosquito having malaria IS slim. But hey, you never know. And I didn’t buy the international health insurance. So if I get some Turkish bug flu I could be a gonner. But just as quickly as my vindictive and murderous thoughts rise up, they are quickly squelched as my guilt complex raised its nagging voice. After all what right do I have to hurt this innocent creature? Let’s be honest here, I’ve got some blood to spare. And it’s not her fault that evolution has caused her to inject a dose of itching poison with each bite. Killing this bug would just be…Wrong. Yes she is eating me, but as a creature of higher consciousness is it not my responsibility to take the ethical highroad? Besides, these bites are probably just karma for stepping on that fish. The poor fish. I feel guilty enough over that whole sea side fiasco, the last thing I need is a bug induced guilt panic. Such a state would surely be counterproductive to blogging. Not that these fresh wounds, of which I now count 8, are particularly good for focusing. But hey, who knows, maybe it’ll be something I can blog about. For now I’ll just watch her, waving her away whenever she comes in for…ninths. But then am I starving her? I couldn’t do that…after all…

Riddles

Guess. Go on. Just try it. Do you get it yet? I’ll be impressed if you figure it out. It's the simple things like this that are often the hardest to get.

Icarus on a Swing Set

She walks up and pulls herself onto the seat. Her feet are dangling below her. She briefly looks around for spectators, just in case her skirt flies up. She giggles in anticipation.

She begins. Back and forth; higher and higher.

Look ahead. She sees the ground before her. Flowers push their way through fading footsteps. They begin to cover old paths with the promise of new beauty and future harvest. She can barely see the soil, but it does faze her. She does not wish to see the dirt. The blooms are far too seductive for her gaze to move to the roots.

She continues. Back and forth; higher and higher.

She now sees the canvas. It rises from the flowerbed before her. The paintings are so colorful, and with each swing she pushes harder, flying closer. She sees the detail of the faces. She laughs. After all, she’s never seen a kiss between two old men.

The chains are taught with her weight and they hum with her rhythmic motion. Back and forth; higher and higher.

She sees a field of blocks beyond the canvas wall. The rectangular obelisks seem almost like toys from this height, and children jump playfully from one to the other. She questions why such a playground was made to be such a somber grey color. Around the field she can see specs of gold shining up from the ground. They brighten the dull pavement and nicely complete the scene.

She is almost at the top now. She need only swing a little bit harder, and fly a little bit higher. Back and forth; higher and higher.

She sees the sky. The warm blue tone smiles at her, with clouds framing the edges of its face. At this height she can see forever. She sees the power plants. She sees the construction. Towering buildings are rising in the distance. Finally the sun catches her gaze. It burns her eyes and she presses them shut. She loses focus. The chains tear violently, her legs flailing off the edge of the seat.

She is falling now. Back and forth; lower and lower.

Her eyes crack open, and through the slit she sees swarms of people. The odor of refuse scratches at her nose and cigarettes are ground into the grass below her. She falls farther with each swing. She sees them climbing the fence that guards the canvas. They are spraying upon it their own take on history. She watches their colors mix into the cement. Eventually she loses track of the original work.

The rust from the chains pinches at her fingers, but she dare not loosen her grip. Her feet are reaching towards the ground below her. Back and forth; lower and lower.

The blocks are staring at her, screaming at her. They are listing names. The names beat against her ears, eventually forming an oppressive and deafening hum. The sound reverberates through the field and the golden squares reflect the burning sunlight back into her eyes. The faceless children continue to play. They are blind. They are deaf. How else could they not see it? How could they not hear it?

She twists and writhes, the chains shrieking as she falls. Her feet desperately grab at the ground. The toes touch first. They curl and pull at the grass, begging it to help. Reaching farther, she grinds her heels downward and finally comes to rest. She sits. She is still, her feet firmly planted in the dirt.

She is motionless, except for her gaze. It stares; lower and lower.

An Ode to Inadequacy...Assignment 1?

Here I am; my pen floating idly over a mockingly blank page. The neurons are firing, the ink is flowing, and yet here I am; my pen floating idly over a mockingly blank page. I’m trying to find the words. And, in case you couldn’t tell, I’m at the lower end of the curve. What’s worse, the journal containing this page is not even of German origin. Sorry Shawn, but as a poor starving college student, a 3 euro tub of yogurt won over a new journal. If I spoke German, perhaps I would have realized that said tub was in fact one of sour cream and not yogurt, in which case the journal may have been in the running. But alas—what’s done is done.

I want it to be good.
I want you to be interested. I want to be compelling.

I gaze in awe at the beautiful world into which the author has taken me. The words seem to breathe in a way that mine never will. How does he do it? The mellifluous phrasing bites at my eyes. And the carefully placed parenthetical statements, which recreate the tangential nature of memory with the subtly of a true artist, seem only to further illuminate my lack of creativity. Three paragraphs and suddenly I find myself bitterly drowning in high-school-esque feelings of inadequacy.

Oh but I’ve tried. Believe you me. I’ve tried. Yet each time I do, my words seem to come off as an awkward soliloquy from a wannabe Juno one act. Have a varied register. Pepper with some offbeat phrasing. Paint a picture. Be there. And take them with you.

And maybe one day I’ll get there. I’ll have that moment of “look mommy, I can do it too--nine months of prenatal diabetes and eighteen years of your time and money weren’t completely for not.” But, in light of the rambling drivel that has comprised my blog so far, I’m going to go ahead and assume that day isn’t today.

And so, here I am; my pen floating idly over a mockingly blank page.