gifted_pen (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} gifted_pen) wrote,@ 2004-03-24 18:10:00 |
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The following are lists of select essays and short fiction pieces:
Avowals on Autumnal Leas Memorable Awake at Three AM In The Heat
Avowals on Autumnal Leas
What a beautiful day to die.
The songbirds’ ballad peals across the meadow, and the echinate dandelion spores flutter on the eastbound currents, and the prairie dogs, the ants, the field mice, all the wildlife peers over their burrows, seemingly scoffing at the anthropocentric assumptions of humans, then retreating back into the earth, aware of so much more…
I can see all this now.
I am without shape, without form. Not a substant shell to encapsulate the universe of knowledge with which I am now one.
An overwhelming consciousness of what of my new state, my new place fills my being: a pure renewed life form not tainted, not jaded by the forbidden fruits and unreal fantasies of this world.
I have only just left his place, not yet a headstone erected for my body, but it feels like I have waited an eternity to return.
Floating across the leas I watch grass grow, flowers bloom, spiders creep… as if time had temporarily slowed so I could see, hear, smell… everything. I can sense the scent of the salty sweet dandelions and try to absorb the feeling into my memory, so as never to forget. I cannot feel the breeze; I see it swaying the blades of yellow-green grass and the spindly trees, but cannot feel it. I do miss it.
In all the new comprehension of my world departed, I counter with the only question to which I have no answer: Why did I die? This question, the only reason I have returned.
I had been dwelling on these hills, walking back to my home. Suddenly disoriented, dizzy, my vision glazed and I fell to darkness…
I ponder, but I have no answer.
A rabbit sees a dragonfly flit by and pounces after it.
I follow. I feel an excitement rise from within me that I had forgotten. After dormant years, I feel a twinge of glee, glee and eagerness to see more. More of this world on which I had lived for almost seventy years, but am only now seeing.
Green and golden trees, violet and white blossoms, a sky of silver and blue… and the rabbit is still chasing the winged trail of the dragonfly.
I wander forward, then stop, overcome with the feeling that, if I desired, I could rearrange my molecules and mold into the ground. a tingling sensation, like currents of energy slowly surge through me. I feel it. I can feel. Why?
My sky becomes hazy and I feel I am being peeled away from the air. Slowly, my senses fade and become aware of the persistent tugging of the unseen thief taking me back. Back to the void.
Already? Has a day on my earth passed already?
Had I lips I would smile; had I lungs I would laugh. I can never remember experiencing this much joy.
I disappear from the meadow, or more the meadow disappears from me.
I am gone.
Never to be heard from again, I vanish from the earth, content that I saw my world from crystal eyes. I can see now that the insignificant questions burning inside us need not be answered.
Memorable
She sipped her cosmopolitan at the bar, batting her wax-coated lashes at passersby. When he came and sat by her, she smiled.
He extended his hand, "Hello, I’m Jake."
"I’m Elizabeth," she replied in a sultry tone.
They began to talk, discussing careers, music, movies—the universal fillers between "Hello," and "Back to my place?" so that returning to a dark apartment with a stranger does not seem so awkward.
Elizabeth drained the last of her cosmo and Jake offered to buy her another.
"No, I really must be going."
Jake appeared surprised, "I don’t understand; I thought we’d hit it off."
"Sorry," she explained, "I didn’t come here to pick you up. Coming here makes me feel better about my break up."
"What?" He furrowed his eyebrows.
Elizabeth decided to elaborate. "You see, I broke up with my boyfriend. We had been together a year and a half but he dumped me."
Jake gave her a confused, half-hearted, "I’m sorry…"
"Well, a month later he fell off a ladder and was diagnosed with amnesia."
"Oh…" Jake mumbled, as if unsure of the relevance of her story.
Elizabeth leaned in close to him and lowered her voice, "that was six months ago. To this day, I still come here to prove that he never stopped thinking I was attractive."
"Okay, I think I get it. So, you come here and see if a man talks to you and then you know you’re still good-looking?"
She chuckled under her breath, standing, "Yeah, something like that." Walking toward the door, she stopped, turning to face Jake.
"Oh, and sweetie…? You’re name is ‘Jack.’"
Awake at 3:00 AM
Three AM.'(The Witching Hour),' I think whimsically in a spooky, mysterious tone...
It is also the hour I am sitting up in bed with wide, red eyes, a mouthful of Cocoa Krispies, and a hand with a death grip on the remote. I swallow my sugary placebos and slump back flat onto the pillows after taking in a lethal overdose of shopping network infomercials—the only form of entertainment (and I use that term loosely) one has access to at Three AM.
I take a final bite of chocolaty-goodness, drain the brown-swirled milk, and realize that even the remnants of my cereal—a few mere flakes dancing on the last bit of milk in the bottom of the bowl—are having a more productive night than I. I crunch down once extra hard as though in retaliation. Stupid Cocoa Krispies.
I stare up at the ceiling and watch the colored flashes of light from the TV that decided unexpectedly to scream at me about how I'll never live without this amazing toothbrush cleaner. "Foaming action! It's revolutionary!" Because if I don't, apparently the bacteria growing on the bristles will eat me alive or something... Who knows?
A honk from the quiet, overly-lit street reminds me of the outside world and how sad it is that the last contact I had with it was telephoning Pizza Paradise for an olive-mushroom hand-tossed pie with extra cheese. Normally, after thinking of the deliciousness that is an olive-mushroom pizza, I would jump up, grab a cold slice from the box sitting on the coffee table, and begin gnawing on it like starving dog with a rawhide bone, but I am certain that—because I don't have the "Turbo Cleanser 3000"—the bacteria teeming on my toothbrush (in the bathroom 15 feet away) has overtaken the pizza and declared anarchy on the olives. (Those jerks!)
With a 'humph,' I switch off the TV and collapse (again) backwards; I watch the shadows climbing my wall and ceiling from my window and I feel like a kid playing charades with the clouds. "Worm... Train... That's a squirrel, no doubt about it."
I take a sip of a Diet Dr. Pepper on my nightstand only to realize I grabbed the wrong one. Apparently, I got the can that I have been intending to throw away for six days. I replace the can of flat soda and think, "I'll get to that tomorrow." The taste lingering (or should I say plastering) to my tongue from fermenting soda makes me want to go brush my teeth, "But oh, the bacteria. The Bacteria!" I mock aloud.
My eyes slowly droop.
Lower.
Lower.
"Deodorant!" I blurt out. So, that's what I've been forgetting on my list!
Good. Now I can get some sleep. I grin with satisfaction; my eyes close and sleep begins to set in, but not before I catch myself thinking, 'Man, I'm glad no one hears that weird stuff I'm thinking when I'm awake at three AM... People would think I was crazy.'
In the Heat
What is it that attracts us so to martial arts? Everyone in the world at one point wanted to be a Power Ranger (I would have been a red ranger) or Jackie Chan's apprentice, and I bet it was not for the 'wicked cool' outfits. The appeal of a flying sidekick or a gravity-defying back flip-full nelson combo is irresistible.
As kids, all we ever wanted was to "kick butt" like the Marvel superheroes we idolized. Didn't we all attend at least one Karate class? We'd pretend to fly and jump and kick and spin in our theatrical ways. Jumping off couches onto 'bad guys' and diving under the coffee table, radioing back to HQ that the "evils are vanquished" and "the world is safe again."
My five year old brother has been either super-, spider-, or batman for Halloween from the moment he saw one of them flying "faster than a speeding bullet" in a cereal commercial. In his costume—Halloween or not—he dashes through the house humming his own theme music and yelling (in as masculine a voice as a five year old boy can have), "I'll save you!" or "I'm here to save the day!" He challenges me to arm-wrestling and is astounded to see how his teenage sister (a mere mortal) can defeat the invincible Superman (or what ever mask and outfit he is wearing that particular day).
There is something so universal about it all—the power, the speed, the ability! To be able to, at any time, take on anyone. (Don't deny that you have seen a movie with a great action or battle scene and watched the spinning kicks or flying samurai swords and said, "That would be so cool; I wish I could do that.") We would all love that. Ninjas, superheroes, (cough, cough) Tomb Raiders... (Whether the Harrison Ford or Angelina Jolie persona...) There is not anything more strong, empowering, and chic as the martial arts.
I have few passions in life, but when you can be laying on a tournament mat with a busted lip and the coppery taste of blood draining into your mouth (result of an inside-out kick), a bruising-blue hip (result of a roundhouse kick), a throbbing head (result of a half-dozen head punches), and blurred vision with a dizziness that won't shake (result of being thrown over your opponent's shoulder and flat onto the floor) and the judge hovers over you... begins counting... but you cough, wipe the blood away, and stand, grimacing through your red-stained mouth guard, ready for more—Then you have a passion.
When you learn it is not about winning or losing your match, but if you can look at yourself in the mirror as you tape up your knuckles, laughing to yourself because you gave it your all—you have a way of life.
When you regard the newly-forming scar on your blocking arm as a battle trophy—you have a discipline.
When your blood is pumping, red-face, dripping sweat, racing pulse, with a body temperature of 100 degrees and you still refuse to quit practicing—you have a sport.
When you can perfect that crane kick combination that you have been attempting for a month—you have an art.
When you can challenge an opponent twice your size to spar and you never lose an inch of confidence—you have Martial Arts.
