Place

How can place be so significant
I return, repeat that moment years ago

Come back

And the places and spaces haven't changed
Traces remain of my life heretofore
My memory reconstructs the image
As seen by some supposed observer:

     And I am standing there with her
     In the empty classroom
     I've asked her to stay late
     As the others have all gone
     And I stumble on the words
     She waits as I collect them up
     My knees shake, nerves brittle
     The moment arrives, and I ask her
     No, no, no - not supposed to go this way

     Come back

All of these things still are in this space
The echoes continue to persist, carry on
Even as the event itself becomes legend
My own private personal little myth.

Until finally the event is lost in its own repetitions
Swallowed up in the narrative of its own telling.
And I have gone over the story so many times
That I can no longer remember it.

Come back-
Please come back

The Death of the Author

They strung him up last Thursday. I can't say that any of us were particularly surprised, but at the same time it was a shock to see him struggling, to see him actually depart this world. But it was inevitable after all he'd done, all the words he wrote. The problem is, though, what are we going to do now? I've tried to go back to reading the same as before, but it just doesn't come the way it used to.

I thought it would be okay. I thought that after he was gone I could just go back and keep flipping those pages, but I- I just can't, there just isn't anything there anymore. Or at least, I can't understand them. The words are so wrapped up in who he is, the sort of person he was and the way he used the words that came out of his mouth to talk about the ones that came out of his pen. He was the only person who could speak of the text, who could tell me what he meant and then tell me what he meant by his meaning. But that's all over now.

I just couldn't believe when he--

I'm sorry.

When they started the execution, he looked composed, orderly even. It was unreal, but I felt sort of confident that it would be different with him, that the words would still make sense just because he was still making so much sense even when none of the stuff around him was. But then it happened, he choked and choked and there wasn't anything left, and the pages flew up in the air and shifted and changed order and shape, and all of the connections dried up, and it was done. I burned all his books later that day, they're useless now.

I don't know, maybe that's why books are so wonderful. Maybe because they only live as long as the person who wrote them, that's why they're so special, so fleetingly precious and fragile, like a butterfly or something. Maybe that's why being a reader is such a powerful and achingly meaningful thing, and it's true and beautiful, and I believe it, but you can tell me that over and over and I still won't be okay when they die, when all that power just vanishes like it never existed, when the meaning of a text just disappears as soon as its creator's last breath expires. And I am constantly haunted by the knowledge that my own words, even these, will cease to cohere as soon as I am gone.

So, the end, I guess?

Ghost

This is a tragedy. This is a portrait of an emotional cripple, a failure, a man whose fundamental relational faculties are broken. This is also a ghost story.

 He hoped that someday she would understand. He hoped that she would be able to decipher the codes that he laid out for her in his words, in his actions, in the tilt of his head as he looked at her, in the light that reflected from her eyes to his and back again. He saw heaven in those eyes, but he was broken. He could not use the tools of language to communicate his vision, so he relied on unwritten symbols, on the play of the light, on the labyrinthine illusions of movement and time. He could not trust language; it had betrayed him too often for him to entrust it with this most precious responsibility. But this mistrust had crippled him, leaving him unable to make her see how he felt. He could not expect her to acquiesce to his ultimately impaired mode of communication, and yet language was even more impaired. It would fail him, he would fail it, and the words he was trying to say would be erased forever, replaced by other words, words that would sound the same but would somehow fail to conjure the appropriate meaning to her.

 Indeed, his words would fail in the same way that these words are failing. They are failing to convey urgency, they are failing to communicate the deep feelings of regret and loss that he felt at this infirmity of communication, this inability to simply come forth and speak. Simply put, it was a tragedy to him, just as it should be a tragedy to you. This man is lonely and lost, unable to trust even the words that fill his thoughts, let alone the words he tries to speak. He has no center, no confidence, no security in himself or his ability to communicate meaning, to mean anything to others. He often wonders if anyone is even aware of his presence as more than an impotent spectral breath, haunting the edges of perception.

Existence

Every day I experience the immeasurable joy of simply existing

The beauty of the world and the beauty of all of its people

The joy, the power found in the heights and even the depths of passion

A fire

a tree

starlight

the bright face of the moon

eyes (I want to write forever about eyes)

newborn hands and hands worn down with time

voices rich and full of history

the special, sacred sensation of touch

love -consider all the associations that simple word brings-

reason, the wild notion that we can find meaning in anything

temporality, the storied past, fleeting present, mysterious future

life

life life life

life forever and always fully existent experiencing the world seeing life everywhere bounding and leaping and creating and hoping and flying through the air into daddy's lap and kissing the person you love and staring at clouds and reading a really good book and writing one someday and the sheer joy of existence in a world with other people to share it with and to talk to and love and exist with-

~

These things exceed my capacity to understand

to contain

to create

and all I can do is fail to comprehend the impossible fact that I exist, and sit back in my chair and be glad.

Six Variations on a Theme (Six Simple Sentences)

I
They kissed under the exploding stars.


II
“We all die,” he sadly replied.


III
I’ll miss you when you’re gone.


IV
What does it mean to lie?


V
,the author asked with a grin.


VI
I dance into the bloody sunset.

Of Young Love and Uncertainties

This story has never been and will always be true.

High school, May 2010. My knees shook as I stood there alone with her. I had rehearsed this moment, planned it, executed it a million times in my head. Plans within plans, outcomes judged and anticipated, acceptance, rejection, hesitance, eagerness.  But the illusion of control quickly vanished in the shifting sands of reality. My world fell apart, my carefully constructed artifices shattering, crumbling as quickly as my hopes for success.

-God help me I’m not ready I can’t do this she’ll say no she doesn’t even know me that well she’ll never speak to me again I won’t even be able to ask she’s so beautiful I’m not ready-

"Hey... so... I was wondering if maybe... you'd like to, maybe... go with me to a movie or something, at some point..."

The moment of suspense. Thoughts racing. Wish I could see what she was thinking. Wish somehow I could know, wish I could get inside her head and see what’s going on, but I can’t, so time just goes on and on and it really hasn’t been any time at all but at the same time it feels like it’s been forever as I look at her and wait to see what she will do. What if she says yes? What if we go to a movie, go to coffee, go to a nice restaurant, go to school together, slowly build a life together? What will this moment come to mean? Will my future self look back upon this moment as the true beginning of a beautiful life? What if she says no? What if we go our separate ways, lose contact, go to different schools, find different friends, and build our own lives apart from each other? What will this moment come to mean? Will my future self look back on this moment as the true beginning of a crippled life? No matter what she says, am I prepared for this to be one of the most significant moments of my life? With the myopia we have about the future, is it even possible to be prepared for something like this? Is it possible to be prepared for any significant event in one’s life? What does it even mean to be “prepared”? Does it mean an encyclopedic knowledge of all possible outcomes of a complex moment in time, the ability to anticipate everything that may happen, and the readiness to have power over any potential future? This is impossible. But perhaps it means something else. Perhaps being prepared means possessing a willingness to live in the present without disregarding either the past or the future, to see that one’s actions have consequences but to be content with making decisions without having all of the answers. Perhaps being prepared means understanding that one will never be prepared, but that life is there to be lived, difficult decisions and easy ones, beautiful triumphs and crippling disappointments, and that all one can do is embrace that difficult, easy, beautiful, crippling life. All one can do is live.

She is about to speak now. And I am ready to live.

Someday I Hope You'll Understand

Someday I hope you'll understand this cuz I'm not real good at writing yet but I really want you to understand this someday. I want you to understand how much I love you and how you've always been real nice and you mean so much to me and I think you're the nicest and prettiest and most soft girl I ever met. I like when people are soft cuz when people are hard they like to hurt the other people even if they don't mean it they still like to do it sometimes even when they don't know they're doing it. Sometimes people think they're real soft or real hard when they're really the other one and when people think that sometimes it hurts all the other people then too cuz then even the soft people can hurt real hard. But you're not like those people cuz you're soft and you know you're soft but not in that hard way where your knowing makes it hard and makes it hurt all the other people.

I hope you can read this but I know I don't write so good so please don't think I'm hard even though my writing is so hard but writing is hard for all the other people too I think. I want to be soft like you but I think maybe you can't be as soft as you are without some of the other people being soft too and showing you how. So I guess what I want you to understand is that I want you to show me how cuz I'm tired of writing hard and being hard and being hard to all the other people when all I want is to be soft but no one will show me how but I want you to. So will you show me cuz I love you and I want to be soft like you.

Fullness

I am empty, and I hope that someday I can be full. I have felt fullness; I felt it that night in that car, and I felt it during that long conversation, and I felt it on that cold winter walk. I cling to those moments in time, those memories that contain within them all that I desire and dream. That dance, that bonfire, even that day in the classroom when you pushed me away. All of these events linger constantly on the horizons of my brain, and I race toward them even as they recede hopelessly into the sameness of the past. There is no going back; it is futile to look to the past for the fullness I desire for my future. And yet, what is the past but a future that has already occurred? Fullness is infinite, and the fullness of the past is more vivid to me than the fullness of the future. Perhaps one day fullness will be more than a fleeting moment of contentment. Perhaps the fullness I have only experienced momentarily will become a way of life, and I will be able to laugh as fading memories of emptiness replace the past I covet so dearly now. Until then, I can only pray that I can find the momentary joy of fullness buried like hidden treasure in the desert sands of my life. Fullness in a book or film that caresses my soul; fullness in loving the people around me; fullness in my trust in a God who will one day make all things full.

May that God of fullness bless you and keep you through all the fullnesses and emptinesses of your life. If you are empty, may you find the peace and fullness that comes through the experience of being human, living, breathing, creating, and loving without reserve or limit. If you are full, may you hold fast to the blessings in your life, never growing complacent or forgetting the infinite value of the life you have been given to live for whatever length of time remains for you. And for the sake of both the empty and the full, may He come soon to restore His kingdom, where fullness will be found by all, and emptiness will be banished forever into the abyss of history.

Peace be with you.

Story

The world is a set of icy fingers

Wrapped around a fragmented page

On which are written broken words

In a language I can’t understand

Telling a story with no ending

At least, not one that is written yet.

I am trying to write an ending

But I don’t know what words to use

And the ink is drying on the quill

With only a little while left

For me to learn the language

Much less to tell a good story.

But just when I lose all hope

I think, maybe, I understand

Just a few little words, like

“grace”, “laughter”, “patience”

And maybe that’s enough

To carry on just for now.

Not an ending but a beginning

A story still being told.

And maybe I’m not the only one

Who gets to tell it.

Maybe I’ll leave the next part

For you and for you and for You.

Broken

This narrative is broken. Behind a carefully constructed facade of seemingly ordered words, only chaos reigns. Just as a life, a seemingly unified unit of animate existence, is in fact a constant struggle between constituent pieces, a roiling conflict that seems to have no singularity in itself, so also this narrative is filled with internal conflict, failed expectations, colliding inconsistencies.

I want to tell a story about a man and a woman, but I cannot. I want to relate with clarity and truth the ways in which they lived their lives, caught within life's cyclical routines, never escaping, never changing, never accepting the touch of another, never looking outward to see the face of the Other. I want to talk about a certain day, a day in which the previously divergent paths of their lives became connected, a day in which the endless cycle seemed to

stop.

Stop writing. Stop this nonsense. Stop this misguided attempt to tell events as they are. The narrative will not support any attempt to tell the truth. Symbols on a page cannot tell the truth. Words refer to words refer to words refer to words refer to words refer to words refer to

Words exchanged on a sunny day. Secret smiles, shaded symbols. A kindness shared by two blossoms, two rose blossoms rose together. A second meeting, not by chance. Meals shared, meaning shared. Time passes and the narrative continues. Two cycles merge. A bicycle trip, a world common to both, days, weeks, months. Life and love abound.

A bound manuscript, bound with bonds, bound with chains, bounded by cut corners and missing pages. A shadow crosses the sun, the page, the world, the life. Meanings diverge, multiply, deconstruct, crumble. A misunderstanding, a fight. Battles, losing focus, out of focus, out of sight, binocular breaking, one circle becomes two, one cycle becomes two, a unicycle trip. Time apart, time parts, parting time.

And so the narrative remains unfinished, unfinishing, unfinalized, unfinalizable. The circle closes but the ends miss each other. He misses her and she misses him. Cycling again, but the narrative remains unfinished. The story goes on and on, up and up, story upon storey, Tower of Babel, endless babble, babbling brook, broke, break,

broken.

The Story Cycle, Part I: Origin

So, a few weeks ago I posted the prologue to a new, longer piece I've been working on for a while. It's been stalled for a while, but I thought I would go ahead and post the next section. Before reading this, MAKE SURE to read this prologue.

Finished with the prologue? Enjoy Part I.

~

Part I: Origin

All stories have a beginning, an origin. All people are born. Darkness gives way to light as new life enters the world, and so begins a single story. That story, following on the infinite, immortal path of countless others, will make its own permanent mark on the greater Story of existence, which contains and combines all the rest.

Even I have a story. It is not like yours, as I am not like you. My story is already written, and it will not be altered by time, chance, or decay. Your story is fragile; it has a beginning and it will have an end. My story will remain the same even after I no longer exist to tell it; it is a fixed point, an unmoving center in the flow of the eternal.

Your story is different. You inhabit your story; you are the protagonist of your own existence. Your story begins, an explosion of life out of non-life. Choices determine the flow, both your own choices and those of the people around you. Their stories move into and out of your own, enriching it and being enriched by it in turn. Your story contains both comedy and tragedy, truth and lies, heroes and villains. You make it, but you are also made by it.

Your story begins in helplessness; you are unable to define your plot in even the most infinitesimal details. As you inherit full ownership of your status as a protagonist, you gain more and more control and understanding of how to alter your story, how to change it in ways that are both subtle and bold. But you will never gain complete control. The Story is something outside of yourself. You are free to make choices, but the choices are defined by the ultimate flow of the Story.

You cannot predict your story. It flows on despite your best efforts to slow or stop it. You can revisit the best moments by means of memory, but you cannot go back. Your story echoes itself in a million ways, but it is not recursive. Your story is short. You have precious little time to change your story, to achieve the plot you seek to achieve. You cannot define your story, but you can alter it; you can direct it toward your dreams and desires. And so you should.

The Busy Week, or Inevitability: A Brief Poetical Tragedy

On the first day, I woke up, realized that all ideas of time are merely an illusion created by the brain in an attempt to make sense of an unexplainable, chaotic existence, and went back to sleep.

On the second day, I woke up, realized that there is virtually no likelihood that any of my thoughts or observations have any relation to reality, and went back to sleep.

On the third day, I woke up, realized that love is nothing more than a meaningless series of chemical reactions, and went back to sleep.

On the fourth day, I woke up, realized that there is no link between cause and effect, and went back to sleep.

On the fifth day, I woke up, realized that my existence is entirely irrelevant, and went back to sleep. 

On the sixth day, I woke up, realized that meaning is meaningless, and went back to sleep.

On the seventh day, I rested.

~

Postscript: This note was discovered next to the body of Eve Adams, who was found lying in her bed on September 17th, 2012, three days before her twenty-second birthday.

Fraction

Proposition 1: I am going to die in a fraction of a second. The bullet currently flying through the air at approximately 1500 feet per second directly toward my face will almost certainly guarantee that. And I don't want them to keep me on life support if a few bits of grey matter somehow don't explode out of the back of my head. I don't want to be a vegetable. I would rather die. In fact, based on the set of circumstances that got me here in the first place, a very persuasive argument could probably be made that I want to die.

Proposition 2: The gun from which the bullet was ejected is performing its proper function. This one is a no-brainer (excuse the pun). The function of a gun is to fire bullets, and this one seems to be performing very much up to speed. The bullet is not the result of some malfunction on the part of the gun; it is only a good little device (can I call a device good? Never mind, doesn't matter now) doing what it was told by its master. Which leads me to the next step.

Proposition 3: The owner of the gun wants to kill me. This would seem obvious not only from his actions (firing the gun at me) but from the chilling look of murderous rage that is wildly contorting his face. This begs a question: why? Why does this stranger, who I have never met before, want to fire a gun at my face? I suppose I can't blame him, really; the knife I stuck between his ribs is probably sufficient to create a causal connection, or at least some major blood loss.

Proposition 4: The knife is fairly large, a 4-inch steak knife taken from a drawer in my kitchen. Needless to say, I took it. Apparently not as sharp as I thought, though... who knew it took so much effort to stick a knife in someone? That's what gave him time to pull the Glock (it's a Glock, right? I think so... that's what it is in all the movies, at least). But how am I supposed to know it doesn't just slide in? Well, I got it in eventually. 

Proposition 5: And who am I? Why did I do it? These are the big, important questions, aren't they? And yet... I'm pretty foggy on both of these things, especially the last one. Because I didn't do it for any particular reason. Unlike the seemingly logical progression of this narrative, the preceding events lacked any semblance of causation. A series of unconnected events resulted in a series of connected ones, and that's the best explanation I can give. I can give a slightly better answer to the question of who I am, though: my name is-

Conclusion: *drops of blood speckle the page*

Reminisce

I miss the days when we were young,
Love flowed like honey on our tongues,
Things were simple, life was free,
Hours as long as we wanted them to be.

I miss the good times and the bad,
The lovely years we never had,
Eternal springtimes decked with flowers,
Peace to while away the hours.

I miss the days of faerie-land,
You smiled as I took your hand,
Love kept us warm through bitter cold,
We clung to dreams of growing old.

I miss the endless whispered talks,
Summer days and garden walks,
Flowers bloomed as we strolled past,
I prayed to God these times would last.

I miss even our tragic fall,
Evening sweetness mixed with gall,
Falling leaves and autumn light,
Empty day and lonely night.

I miss above all you, my dear,
Your presence turning grey skies clear,
But love can end and dreams can die,
And so they did with you and I.

The Story Cycle: The Beginning

This is the prologue of sorts for a new (as yet untitled, except that this part is called "The Beginning") thing that I'm writing... I can't call it fiction or non-fiction particularly. It's both and neither. But all that can be said at the moment is that I'm extremely excited about it, and I hope this isn't a waste of anyone's extremely limited time. After all, the world spins so quickly...

~~~

Prologue: The Beginning


If I were you and you were me,
How long would it take to see?
Hold me near and listen well,
For I have many truths to tell.

~

Are you paying attention? Do you know what's doing on? The world is small, but there are so many people on it. They move in circles, repeating the same motions day after day, age after age. Time flows on, empires rise and fall. Nothing really changes, but nothing stays the same. Everything gets older.

Except for me.

I do not grow old, fall, or die. My perspective on the world is an eternal one, and I do not change my mind. The world flies by in a supersonic, motionless blur, and I see all of it at a glance. I sit in one place and see the turning of the spheres, the clockwork repetitions of nature and man, the stories that tell themselves over and over. And so I tell them as well.

A young man meets a young woman and falls in love. A son murders his brother and is forever haunted by the ghosts of his own conscience. The philosopher finally and wholly understands the universe, only to be forgotten in his own time and buried under the sands of the years. An old woman cries out in revolt against the death that she knows will inevitably come to claim her. A new religion rises out of some unknown corner of the world, explodes like a firework illuminating the universe, then fades just as quickly into obscurity. People live and people die.

People live and die not for what they believe, but for what they feel. They love one another and hate one another, and that is why they care so much about how and when they live and die. All of their stories, all of their love and hate, flow together, echoing and repeating but never ending. The story goes on forever, and only I can see it being told.

And if you will pay attention, I will share the story with you.