the burning hills.
rose my color is and white, pretty mouth and green my eyes.
Permalink
50’s Speak
It was early in the evening, just before the sun had set completely, and sunlight the color of a late summers bonfire poured in through the cracks in the curtains. He sat on the edge his bed, which was not quite level, breathlessly fixated on the shafts of light across his wall, illuminating peeling paint and dark patches of discoloration. “Have you ever seen an orange so orange?” He asked her, slack jawed and unblinking. She shifted uneasily on the bed, crossing her delicate legs to the right, then the left. “Like the fruit, or the color?” She asked in a high pitched, uninterested voice which suggested a level of intelligence that rivaled a common house plant. He tore his eyes away from the wall long enough to look at her, genuinely astounded by her response. “Do you even see any goddam fruit?” He asked incredulously. She paused a moment, then slowly surveyed the room, frowning. Before she could answer he held up a hand to stop her, then with some small amount of effort stood and walked to the door. “It was good of you to drop by, Evelyn, it really was. I appreciate it, I appreciate it a hell of a lot.” He said, trying to be warm and friendly, but ever since he was a kid he had a hard time telling people the opposite of the truth. She eyed him cautiously, not completely sold on what he was saying. She herself stood slowly then and began to make her way to the door. “Well, John, I just worry about you. I worry and worry, and how couldn’t I? I mean, look at you!” She sighed exasperatingly and motioned frantically to the surrounding room. “Look at this place, John, just look!” John surveyed his studio apartment apathetically, shrugging his head to the side. “It’s fine here. Really, I mean it. It’s not so bad, I enjoy it even. The peace and quiet, all that.” he said unenthusiastic. Just before he had ended his sentence a train went past, rattling the dishes in the sink. Evelyn looked at him and furrowed her brow in desperation. “John, I just wish you would come and live with me and Roger for a little while. Just a while, you know, just until you can get back on your feet.” He looked at her for a moment, eyes focusing in and out, then realized that he needed to respond. “Christ, I appreciate that. Really, tell Roger I appreciate that, but it isn’t necessary. I’m doing well now, honest.” She just stared at him for a long while, lips pursed.
It was true that Evelyn Ely was not the brightest woman he had ever known, but she knew him all too well, and even a house plant could perceive his current condition as it was. The worst part about Evelyn, though, was how much she cared for him. She was was like a mother to him now, at least in her own mind which was very much set. She was around fifty, and she looked it as well. She had short hair cropped at the shoulder, which had probably once been long and dark. She was not incredibly attractive either, given her age, but John assumed that had always been the case. She wore a pressed tweed skirt, cream colored turtle neck sweater, and overcoat to match. She was a small woman, and there was nothing particularly memorable about her, but she commanded a certain quality that people liked being around.
John took his hand off of the brass doorknob, realizing she wasn’t going to leave any time soon. “For Godssake, Ev, it’s been a year.” He said to her, lighting a cigarette. His eyes wandered the rug sprawled out on the floor, frayed at the edges, covered in stains. Evelyn sat back down on the edge of the bed and sighed, a melancholy, descending sigh. “I know.” She said quietly, fiddling with her own cigarette now. “I know.” She repeated, pausing to exhale. Her eyes lit up then and she pointed at John’s face, a small smile forming on her lips. “But hey, I met this sweet, sweet gal down at the hospital.” John threw his hands up in a gesture of disgust, cutting her off. “Evelyn, no, how many damn times do I have to tell you no?” Evelyn, unperturbed, continued. “Really John, she’s a sweet gal, honestly. I wish you’d meet her. She’s sweet, really.” She said in that hope-sick sort of way. John rubbed the back of his neck and groaned. “You’re killing me, you know that? You’re tearing my goddam heart out every time you-” Evelyn cut him off then, more and more apparently annoyed. “John, you’re a grown man, a nice man, and for Godssake, it’s been a year. You yourself said that it’s been a year!”
A wave of caustic anger washed over John and he looked up from the ground slowly, setting his eyes on Evelyn. She shifted uneasily on the bed, trying to form words that wouldn’t come out. “Listen Evelyn, and listen close.” He said evenly in a low voice, betraying his obvious anger. “It’s not like we just broke up or something, she didn’t just move away to a different town. She’s dead, and you’re a damn fool if you think I’m just going to move on from that.” Evelyn put her hands to her mouth, head hung low, and began to cry softly. John shook his head a sighed, knowing he had been too stern with her. “Hey, I didn’t mean it like that. I know she was your friend too.” Evelyn just shook her head, still crying in short gasps. Her cigarette had fallen to the ground. John walked over and crouched on the floor next to her, picking it up. He put it in the ashtray on the table next to the bed, then placed a hand lightly on her shoulder. “Really, Ev, it’s alright. I didn’t mean it that way.” She looked up, dabbing her nose with a handkerchief, inhaling sharply. “I know you didn’t.” she said in a small voice. “But she really is a sweet girl.” John stood up quickly and walked to the door, opening it with one hand and motioning for her to leave with the other. “Oh John, you can’t keep being so damn stubborn!” John looked at her coldly… and, and, and I’ll finish this story later.
Permalink
downpour
recall
that stormy coast
where you said you loved
just me, but i knew it was just
rainfall
Permalink
may 9th
the days pass slowly now, and i’m left with all wonder aside. how could lost feel so gone. it’s a small miracle there ever was a we, now that us is i. i suppose it’s a relief though, no longer pretending maybe is always. i’m comfortable with sometimes filling in for forever. i’m ok knowing love no longer moonlights as something it’s not. have is had and had is reassuring. had is have in past future tense, just as much as hoping is knowing.
Permalink
immobile uploads
I just received an email. A friend died. He wasn’t a good friend. But he was good, and he was a friend. It was cold, I gave him a shirt. We laughed because we were poor, and we laughed because we didn’t care. We met in a small Central Asian country, and it was winter. He was Canadian, I was American. He gave up his life to help people, and I asked for mine back. So I left, and he stayed. I never saw him again. He’s dead now. I left that life, and I feel so strange. I feel like… maybe I never came home, maybe he was the one that finally made it home.
Permalink
technicalities
i am not at all technical, in fact, far from it. i suppose i’m old fashioned that way. i use my type writer more than my computer, and i’m not trying to win anyone’s affection with that statement, although i know people around here bleed for that sort of thing. it’s more of a defeatist statement. i wish i was more technical. i wish i could make a beautiful blog, and be faithful to updating. but as it were, more often than not i end up in bed with my journal.
so, how about i stop blogging and just mail my journal to the people who want to read what i write? blogging, the way god intended. through the usps.
sigh. my poor old mother would be the only person who would graciously ask to be put on this mailing list.
Permalink
quietly, love
I’ve never been impervious to hurt, in fact, throughout my lifetime it has been a propensity of mine. I am drawn to it, led by it, surrounded with it. It’s so easy to get caught up by life, to languish in the small, defining moments of caustic sorrow that pepper your existence. It’s effortless, and we are gluttons for sorrow, for feeling. I am, personally, in a constant state of denial in which I convince myself that either I do not deserve what I currently have, or that what I had five years ago was somehow much better. I deny the beauty of the moment, trading for false hope and fragmented memories.
Permalink
i knew this girl once.
she was a kindhearted soul, never spoke much. we used to smoke cigarettes together, hardly a word. i can say though, with a certain amount of confidence, that when she did speak, she said something warm and beautiful. she was the type that encouraged love out from the hidden places in peoples hearts. as with so many people, when she looked at a person, she didn’t cast judgmental glances, or unspoken thoughts of ignorant understandings. there were no preconceived notions, only sunshine. it wasn’t the sort of sunshine you see in mid-summer, either. it wasn’t a brilliant blaze across a blue sky, and it wouldn’t light up the sky from behind closed eyelids. it was a soft, warm, early autumn sort of sunshine. golden and easy across the sky, no hurry in it’s motions. the sort of sunshine that rests across a valley some warm afternoon with not a single inclination, nor plan of ever leaving. you could languish in her glances for hours, and it was like being home around a crackling fire, surrounded by people you loved.
it was october, and we were twenty in those days. we smoked and laughed, and we cried sometimes too. we cried when my father died, and i kissed her. it was a small kiss, and it was only on her forehead, but i put every single bit of love my broken heart could afford into it. i remember it vividly. she smiled and touched my cheek, tears rolling down both our faces. she didn’t say anything after that, but she held onto me until spring. warm autumn colors turned to frost and ice as we stood there, crystalized. by summer, she had gone.
fond are my thoughts, always.
