I look longingly to the end of the outstretched limb from which my feet dangle. I look to that one perfect leaf at the end; the one that can crush worlds with a flutter. Flimsy as it may be, I push the possibility of that one limb holding my weight and that of the world amassed on my shoulders.
I eye the ground below and wonder how long it will take for Newton’s Law to pull me into the bosom of the earth. I wonder if Vertigo would pay a visit and stun me into rigidity, or would unseen fingers ensnare me and pull with such veracity that my stomach pins to my spine. When does the count of demise begin?
The leaf looks so dainty and carefree as it moves with the wind. It seems as if it’s teasing my senses, trying to confuse my mind into thinking it wants me near. Perhaps, it, with its own confidence, believes that I can get no further than the bounce of the stringy wood before I turn back to the safety of my charge. Perhaps it knows more than I and in that knowing has the capability to floss its cellulose body in a dance of decadence.
So the story of every being goes; an endless game of wanting, seeing, and then deciding if what is seen is purely what is there.
I inch my way across the cutting bark, hypnotized and completely irrational. I see and want. I move with caution, feeling the push of the wind, feeling the bounce of the limb, and watching the lone leaf grow larger and dance more furiously. I continue my journey and disregard every warning placed in my path. I want to hold it in all its majestic power.
I hear a groan and pop come from the limb beneath. It tells me to stop and move away, but I am fixed and purposeful. I cannot stop. Then, as I manage to come within a mere arms distance, the limb sags and groans its final gasp.
Newton stands laughing and begins the time of my fall. Invisible tentacles wrap around my body and tugs. The leaf stops dancing; no, the leaf is gone. I fall…victim to the helical vortex of want. I’m sucked into the spiral and end my journey with a bone shattering jerk. Newton smiles and cries, “Two seconds.”
The sickness comes not in waves, but in one solitary strike. It creeps in the shadows waiting, tearing, and weakening the defenses, until there is no will left to fight. It’s cunning and calculating. It’s cold and murderous. It cares for nothing save the long awaited anticipation of a full scale war it hopes to win.
It doesn’t really matter what sickness stumbles onto our path. It could be a cold. It could be a fever, or even something we can never rid ourselves of. It could even be the yearly trip to the tax office, as if the IRS hasn’t stripped enough flesh from the bones. It could be some hidden desire that drives the body into irrational decisions. Who knows, and no one cares until the sickness hits.
For the past few days, I’ve battled with some foreign disease that has left me in sweaty sheets one moment and iced air the next. It has fogged my head to the point where I’ve felt that it has taken too much energy to think. My cat can offer no help except to lie on the bed next to me and watch the spectacle resume. That’s when it hit me.
There is much more to the word sickness, than the usual definition. Even when we presume ourselves to be in good hygienic health, we are still sick. It never seems that we are ever proactive enough to protect ourselves from the bacterial world.
It would be great if a mere orange a day would expunge our brain of the hate we hold for another person. It would be great if those cyanide apple seeds could kill off that bile that builds up when we spot something irritating in a friend. It would be better yet if that one stick a gum a day could cure the lusts of the flesh; those lusts that truly bring us to the brink of self-destructive behavior.
Who cares right? We’re not sneezing, coughing, retching, or healing from torn away body parts, which make us “sickness free.” Then again, is it really gone? If so, why is it so easy to walk into a group of negative talkers, listen to the drama and hatred of another person, and then decide to dislike that same said person without out ever meeting them? Seems very similar to a sickness, does it not? Ehh, who am I to say anything, I’m still writing this from the furnace of a body and could possibly, be delusional.
I'm slightly in a slump in the writing department today. So, I thought I would write something cheesy and utterly grotesque. I figured that since February is coming up and everyone is going to be looking at cheesy poems for the other; well, I thought I would write one just as cheesy and to prepare others for what they are about to receive.
A Thing
Could a day be a day?
Could a night be a night?
Could a thought be a thought
Or even a dream?
Could a voice be just a voice?
Could a touch be a touch?
Could a sigh be a sigh
Or would gentleness be too much?
Nay, I say. Not for many years,
And not for all things true.
A thing can not be a thing,
And it can not be, without you.
Ahhh...I can smell the wine bottle cork now.
This week has brought about a thought that has been bouncing around in my head. Are words really harmless?
I take the phrase “I love you” as an example. I think I can use this example here without a problem.
For longer than I dare, or care, to remember, people I’ve known have longed for those three little words as if it was the end all to the sadness inside. Once they gain those three words it has appeared as if the entire universe shifted, and suddenly the person is on cloud nine. I concede that this is the good part of language; the exchange of feelings, or the closeness of souls. Yet, once this ends, it seems that those three words were suddenly lies, and are the result of so much suffering. The person afflicted goes through emotional turmoil.
Words, once left, can never be reclaimed. There is not enough time in a lifetime to say “sorry” enough to make amends for the damage done by a word. For example, step on a toe…”Sorry about that, I wasn’t paying attention,” the pain goes away and all is well. Tell your child, “I hate you,” they remember for life.
If we claim to be so sensitive and empathetic, then why do we turn to words to hurt another when physical violence is out of the question. Proof lies in the enormous verbal fights people have with a spouse, friend, or lover. Fingers are pointed, names are called, one insult creates a worse insult, and items from the past, which should have been forgotten, are suddenly remembered. The aftermath only leaves the collateral damage of shredded hearts, feelings, and in worst cases, blood lying on the floor waiting to be swept or mopped up.
I’m no more innocent than the next. In fact, I apologized to a student for telling him or her to “shut up.” Even though it might have been warranted, do I really want to close that door? I could have used something a little less harsh. What damage did I do from that one phrase when I know that there is nothing that can be done to take the words back?
The worst word, in my opinion, in the language isn’t a curse word. I think the worst word in the language is “stupid.” Drop the f-bomb on a child from birth and all you get is a child who learned his/her first cuss word, or possibly a confused state as to what his or her name is. Call a child stupid from birth, and you have one who believes they are with little self-esteem and psychological damage that amounts to the destructive force of a super volcano.
What do I know though. Maybe words really are harmless. Maybe I’m the one too sensitive to the contexts in which people use their language.
Here...I am...somewhere south of heaven.
Somewhere...I am.
Here...I am...dancing on the ripples of something putrid.
Yet, it smells like home.
No matter where I am...I am, and will always be.
I have always wondered where I am. The answer would be, "you are where you are," or, "duh...on Earth." Maybe it's not that easy to answer. Maybe we lock ourselves down by our own reluctance to question where we are. I know this must be true because we seldom ask ourselves who we are.
Are we afraid of knowing? Is this why we package ourselves in tiny containers, restricting our movement only to safe havens, forcing ourselves to relive the same day every day with only subtle changes? At the same time, drive the same route, eat the same predetermined meals, watch the same shows, or shower. Has the box become so small? Is the world no longer that quest, but something to live through video screens and old history shows?
Are we afraid of knowing? Is this why we provide the fire during the witch hunts against those people, societies, or items suddenly deemed unholy by religious standards, or sanctity forbid, our own due to difference?
Are we afraid of looking at misdeeds, misfortunes, inner pain and suffering, or worst yet, those skeletons hung by the neck with decayed ropes swaying next to the newly ironed shirt for tomorrow?
The worst curse is to know...and this I do know. But then again, is it really a treat to claim ignorance, or is it merely one more excuse placed on top of all the others we have compiled to explain why we didn't or why we won't.
Hmmm...time to meditate I suppose.
From time to time, I will sit and write. It could be something I see, something I hear, or just some form of freakiness. I have been watching the playoff games this weekend, and noticed something peculiar.
I have this cat, Chuck the Great, who is very co-dependent. He's also very salty. If his favorite binky isn't on the bed, he'll let you know about it in a hurry. He's also not like the thin-railed cat you can just whoosh off the counter top. Weighing in at 22 pounds, he kind of goes where he wants to when he wants to.
Anyway, I have been on the bed most of the time this weekend, just watching the games and grading papers. Chuck's been here too, only he isn't grading papers, and he's not watching the game. Chuck's sleeping. Thinking back, Chuck has slept for more than a total of fourty hours since I got home Friday. His only movement has been to get up when I do, to go get a nibble in the kitchen and come back, to go get a drink and come back, and to go...well you know...and come back. Other than that, he's been glued to my hip while I watch the games.
I was thinking, how cool would it be just to switch spots with a cat who can literally sleep 3 days away and not even care. Those particularly bad moments in time when you're in an arguement with the partner of the house..."when mama ain't happy, ain't nobody happy"...or those agonizing days at work where it would be more fun to beat your head against a steel post.
You could even switch spots when the bill collectors call..."I'm sorry, Mr. Jones isn't awake at the moment, and by the looks of his lethargic mannerisms, it's highly unlikely you will be able to contact him anytime in the near future...uhhh yes, it is a coma. A self-induced coma, a new kind discovered recently. I think they call it Feloma."
Whip off a few days of sleep when those pesky family members show up for the holidays. The ones who never know when to stop drinking, even after they fall through the front window of the house. The aunt who brings 10 parcels of luggage, where 9 are filled with gossip and drama. Uncle Ned who swears he can bar-b-que, but it takes him 3 hours to fully cook a hamburger patty and smokes out the neighbors (which isn't bad unless you like them).
I think we spend 1/3 of our lives asleep. Chuck is spending 3/4 of his asleep. I think I'm going to have to get him on an exercise program. Maybe they have a treadmill built for cats. We'll see.
I guess it's not bad...he could be digging through garbage cans for food. Maybe that's how it would be if I had a lot of money. I would be laid up in the bed sleeping three days at a shot, with nothing pressing just enjoying the pleasure of slumber.
Pitch_Black Blog (6)