Monthly Archives: February 2013

Under blankets of deception.

Sometimes, I struggle for warmth. When the fire of the day is too thin and pale to hold through the long night. I’m afraid I’ll disappear before the morning comes again—the alarm, the pale sun, to hustle me on my way out the door and into the cold morning light, where I forget that I even need a fire—or what a fire is… On those nights, I will, from time to time, pick up the little books on my shelf. The thin books. Not fat full of thousands of pages of prose, but lean, compact, filled with words carefully crafted for maximum impact. Sonnets and plays. Short forms. Poetry, to light the fire. Tonight I picked up a small collection of sonnets and short writings by a friend-of-a-friend. A friend of my friend, who I always wished had been a better friend of mine.

The sonnets are full of sparks and I can hear the little scritching noises as I read, the flint and steel meeting and falling onto the steel wool. Inside the front cover is a letter, handwritten, and that reminds me of a time we sat at a table, plates of pasta between us. I could talk about the cheese but had nothing else to say. There was a latency to the connection. My middle class wanderings in the midwest were insufficient—I lacked exposure to the elements that would have allowed me to amplify the resonant frequency between us. I still lack. There is potential energy still passive, suppressed, and sleeping. I wonder if I will ever walk up the mountain far enough for it to become kinetic.

Still, here is the book. One of only a few copies, I’m sure. And the letter, which is only mine. And I recognize, in the words, a latent connection to something inside that has never been fully realized. A way of being—everything aligned into circles and spirals and patterns—layers and metaphor and meaning.

I ache for warmth.

Table!

I’ve hated this table for a long time. I’ve always felt bad for hating it, because I got it for free when I really needed it. I had conversations with myself, about how much I shouldn’t hate it, because I got it when I really needed it, and I didn’t have a table at the time, and it was free, and I shouldn’t hate it so much (why do I hate it so much?) and it’s really not that bad, even though it’s not my style, it’s still a really nice, solid, good table (I should like it!), plus it was free, and I didn’t have a table, and now I do have a table, and I should be grateful to have a table now, so I can sit down at the table, which was free, and somebody else probably would really appreciate having it, so I really shouldn’t hate it so much (why do I hate it?), etc. etc. The table, when the leaves were up, wasn’t straight, so the plates always felt like they were going to fall off the end. And it was round, so it didn’t fit really well… anywhere. It was awkward for two people, let alone 3 or 4. And I just… kept… failing to not hate it.

I’ve been having this internal dialogue, on and off, about how much I hate the table, but I shouldn’t hate the table, for a couple of years. Someone gave it to me when I moved to southern CA, and it lived with me in my apartment when I was working for the PennySaver. I was barely making it when I lived in O.C., and I was glad to have any table at all. I certainly couldn’t afford anything else, so I tried not to think too much about whether I hated it, because what was the point? At least I had a place to sit and eat.

And then… I was browsing craigslist yesterday, and I saw it. It was perfect. Square. Simple. Lovely. Someone else had an old table that they were trying not to hate, and now it’s my new table.

And my old table (which I really don’t hate (I never really hated you, table)), will go be someone else’s table. Hopefully someone who will not hate it as much as I didn’t hate it.

Morning

Good morning, upstairs neighbors! It’s 6:30 a.m. on a Saturday! Glad to know you’re up and at ’em. Wouldn’t want the day to get away from you. And I’m extra glad to know that you’ve finally gotten around to trying on EVERY PAIR OF BOOTS YOU OWN, to find out which ones are the LOUDEST. Because otherwise, when these guys came to call, you might not be ready to join their group. But now, oh boy! You’ll be able to just walk out the door and onto the stage. You’ll be a star. Now go back to bed, for goodness’ sake.