Between Silence and Poetry

THIS

2009-09-08T02:52:00.001-04:00

This world is filled with questions.

We ask each other, when we first meet: What do you do for a living? Who’s your favorite author? What’s your favorite color?

And we’re left still, with the emptiness of “I don’t know you”.

Because.

We forget to ask the questions that really mean something, and we forget how to speak in intimate “I know you” ways of brothers and sisters and friends forever. We forget to ask about why you turned your eyes away, or what do you dream of? Not, where do you want to go in life? But what do you dream.

And.

We forget to remember.
The details, just the little details,
and eventually we forget the outline of a person we never quite managed to fill in all the way, leaving scattered bits and pieces of pigment and color across a canvas that was never finished.

And.

We forget how to answer. We often don’t know what to say when the right question comes along, and that right moment passes us by, and we find ourselves a little farther apart instead of a little closer together.

So we are left with words caught between our teeth or in the grey folds behind our eyes and we are left alone with our “What Ifs?”.

Until.

We find some reason, or some moment, some feeling, some cataclysmic coming of events/occurrences/situations that finally let us say: This, this is what I need you to hear/say/understand.

This.

Just this.

You Melt Me

2008-08-01T20:30:00.002-04:00

The clouds come up to my waist. I begin to wonder how long it will be until they reach the top of my nose. Another winter comes quickly; enthusiasm defies science and I freeze before the temperature is low enough.

And I fall, a snowflake without a single bandage or bruise.

With a parachute on each fraying edge, I descend slowly, landing intentionally on the tip of an upturned nose. Walking across the bridge, blaming movement on the breeze, I look into the emerald green eyes, jewels, large and valuable, staring.

I let myself melt, covering a tiny area of her skin with a glittering sheen.

New and Improved

2008-06-08T23:30:00.001-04:00

I purchased body wash recently. I’ve been using the same brand for quite a while. While in the shower one morning, I noticed in the corner of the label on my body wash was a little yellow tab, which read ‘NEW AND IMPROVED’. This puzzled me for several reasons.

The scent of the wash was the same as always.
The texture and color were the same.
The result was the same. I was clean, my skin was smooth, and I smelled nice. My day went on.

I didn’t notice any “new improvement”. Even after I knew my wash was somehow different, I still didn’t take note of any change.

The same can be said about us. Many Christians know this verse by heart, “Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation; old things have passed away; behold, all things have become new.” (2 Corinthians 5:17)

At the moment of salvation, we become new. It is a life-changing event. But sometimes, the newness doesn’t last or doesn’t take hold at all. Maybe it wasn’t a heart-felt commitment; maybe it was the result of pressure and not actual belief. There are many reasons why some who believe never hold on to and practice that new faith.

If we are to be true Christians of true faith, it must be evident in every moment of our lives. People should know by our actions and deeds and by the way we speak that there is something different about us. Those who knew us before our conversion should immediately notice a difference. We should be “new and improved”. That label should be written all over us in screaming neon colors. How can we be effective witnesses for Christ if our faith isn’t recognizable to our lost world?

Winter Moment

2008-03-09T04:48:00.005-04:00

I woke up, tightening the comforter around me. The weather guessers had predicted this would be the coldest day this season and it appeared they were right. Even the house seemed frostbitten as I walked across my room. The floorboards creaked beneath my bare feet, sending chills up my spine.

I put on layer after layer of clothing, catching my rapidly escaping body heat. Excitement and longing bubbled inside of me, causing a smile to spread across my face.

Outside, I could smell it. The sky was a thick, grey blanket, blocking the undesired sun. Flakes of snow fell upon the ground like powdered sugar sprinkled on funnel cake. I lifted my face to the sky, sticking out my tongue, hoping to catch a delicate flake.

A City Sky is Never Blue

2008-02-19T19:38:00.003-05:00

A city sky is never blue. Even when it's cloudless, even if it's serene, it's never blue. Have you noticed?
In the mountains, the real mountains I mean, it's different. There the sky is an upside-down sea, there you can breathe air, you feel it pulsing inside you, its blueness penetrates you, you can feel it, fresh, pure. And you sense that even if it rains. It's a constant companion. Yes, in the mountains the sky is blue even when it rains, beyond the growling, beyond the slumberous hues. It stubbornly cuts a hole in that blackness and it imposes itself. That lively, vibrant, blinding, huge, endless blue! It smells of water, and echoes of silence.

In the city the sky is a metal slate. It's gray. It smells of rush, alienation, void. It's aseptic. It stays there above you like a bare ceiling, like a pagan god who disowns his apostles and just stares at them with indifference. But then again, cities sky is not even fucking infinite. How can you call it a sky? It doesn't even deserve the name. It's a series of tears, neutral pieces of a badly put together collage, between a skyscraper and a factory, between a satellite dish and an abusive terrace. And clouds are not to be seen today, this so-called sky brags about being clear in front of you that don't know, that don't see it so closely as I do now. Poor fool, you don't know, you don't lift your eyes and don't understand. So much blindness under this sky. But it's not your fault, don't fear. It's always its fault, the sky's, this cape soaked in petrol that doesn't let you breathe and is a roof to you. When your forefathers dreamt of flying, when one still could see the blue, the sky was crystal clear, it was like the Atlantic Ocean, but without any Pillars of Hercules, it was an invisible virgin forest, and the first fools were challenging it, dying, yes! They fell! They broke their bones and tried again, until they actually got to the sky, but in a much more direct way. And now? Explain to me what's the fun of flying, what's the use for it, if you can only do it trapped inside a metal box, with those loathsome dandy maids bringing you newspaper and coffee and speaking all Babel's languages, what's the joy in seeing the Earth through a fish tank?

Tell me.

What is closing eyes and spreading wings good for? Okay, I'm an idiot, you have no wings. This paper maché sky made us cynical, anchored us to the floor with cement ballasts. The worst of mafias is this lack of aspiration; we're too caught in checking train timetables, too captured by the last terroristic attack, by the ass of the cover model, to be able to look up. And see it. And dream, yes, because you need it too, even if you don't want to see it because it's "uncool". You hear that voice too, don't you? Even if you don't listen, it's there, you feel it, it's a pounding ringing in the middle of your skull, you hear it? Don't lie, I know it's there. Imagination is a cliché, doesn't win an audience, dreaming is for losers. But the need for it stays. You can't deny it. Admit that you too want to fly, admit that you would want to be here where I am, now, say it! Scream to me, you little ant, burn those vocal chords and scream so that I can hear you, outdo those ambulance and police sirens, and look at me on the edge. Or are you scared of this too? Your balance is weaker than mine.

You go on and pass your useless days stuck in the claustrophobia of tin motors, strapped to a dirty seat and your throat choking in a regulation tie. Sweat on your leather seat, bend to the boss' will only because he's more elegant and more charismatic than you are, let your ambition loose on your remote and feel accomplished when you light the answer of your quiz. You have imposed on yourself an existence without flying. But I am not giving that up. No. I'll have to settle for a plastic sky, and a skyscraper will be my cliff. But where Icarus failed, I will succeed.

He Doesn't Tango

2008-02-19T01:35:00.002-05:00

I don't know this song.

The tango is finished, which is a shame, because I always liked the tango. It's a heady dance, with undertones of sensuality and an exhilarating story to tell. It's symbolic of prostitutes and the men who want them, and I like that just fine. It adds excitement to the movements. It's jealous and teasing, dramatic and overbearing all at once, and when you're pressed chest-to-chest with your partner, the rest of the world disappears for whole minutes at a time.

But the tango is finished.

This dance is different. It's more refined, with less passion and more grace. And the music is prettier, less heavy, with a lilting melody that calls to mind those old romantic movies like Breakfast at Tiffany's. I don't know this dance as well as I should. I know the basic steps, and I can keep time with the one, two, three; one, two, three-- but every time a waltz comes on I'm too busy watching him to practice myself.

I don't think I've ever used the word "beautiful" to describe a man before him.

He asks her to dance. It is a simple thing; all he has to do is extend one long-fingered hand and wait for her to take it. She is not his usual partner--he doesn't have one--and she is not a girlfriend or a fiancé or a lover. She is just a woman who is lucky enough to be allowed to place her hand in his, and I find myself envying her like I've never envied anyone in my life.

He does not envy. He is not dramatic or overbearing, and he does not tease.

Instead, he waltzes.

And I am surprised, as I am every time, to find the rest of the world fading out. I never thought that something as polite as a waltz could cause such a fixation, but it does, and all I see is him, eyes distant, face calm. I can't help but wonder what he's thinking of as he glides over the floor with an ease of movement that can only be called beautiful. Whatever it is, it must be amazing to inspire such perfection. I knew from the time I first met him that he was extraordinary.

I watch him, as I always do, oblivious to the men who are trying to get my attention--I don't see them until they're blocking my view, and even then I only notice them long enough to move. There is nothing that matters more than paying homage with my eyes; to tear them away from such a sight would be blasphemy. It is the same set of steps, the same patterns and motions that I see every time I watch him, and every time it seems just as novel and impossible. I am obsessed for those few minutes, and when the song draws to its sweet, elegant close, I can't help but think that it wasn't nearly long enough.

A moment of quiet, and then a new song starts up. It is loud and dissonant after the calmness of the one before it. It is cacophonous, almost, and this is my element. This is where I am confident, where I know my steps and my counts and how to tilt my head just so. It's emotionally charged and I am moving almost before I've found a partner, caught up in the fervor of it all.

He is sitting out, I notice, as I take my place. My body is pushed against my partner's, and he, with his grace and his beauty, never tangos. He sits and he watches, and I don't understand why. He could give the dance an entirely new level of magnificence if he would only stand and take someone's hand. A small part of me adds 'my hand' to the end of that thought, but it's too late now and I'm moving, trying to pull my focus back to what I'm doing.

And it doesn't matter, because he doesn't tango.

Knowing that he's sitting there watching us--all of us; I am not vain enough to believe that his eyes are specifically on me--only makes me self-conscious. But I hide it well, I think, and I'm sure my success is due to the fact that I know the tango well enough to do it even when nervous. I could do it with my eyes closed, using my body against my partner's as my only link to reality as the rest of me whirls away on the wings of emotions that, while not real, are not entirely feigned, either.

There is a secret that I will never tell anyone face-to-face, and it is this: the emotions are not entirely feigned because I am thinking of him when I dance, of his beauty and divinity and absolute perfection. I am thinking of the way he floats when he moves, the way his smile, rare as it is, fills the room with a golden glow. My partner is close to me, and his subtle hints tell me what to do and when to move--

--but I am thinking only of him.

My partner and I do not end our dance with the waltz's gentle spin. We end with a lunge, dramatic and deep, and as I return to my feet I find that he is still watching us. I try not to blush as I return to the sidelines; my coordination abandons me as soon as I am off the dance floor and I fall into a chair less than gracefully.

11:26. Practice is almost over. There is a call for requests: some people shout for a waltz, while others want the last dance of the evening to be another tango. I personally don't care which one they play. The effect is the same whether I'm dancing or only watching him.

I've spoken to him very few times, and those few times were brief at best. I do not know him. I do not know his likes or his dislikes or how he takes his coffee. All I know is that I never thought anything could imitate the rush and the passion of a dance like the tango. I never thought anything as tepid as the waltz could hope to compare--until I watched him.

And now I am lost to him entirely.

It's a bittersweet feeling. I wouldn't trade the chance to appreciate his beauty for all the world, and I wouldn't give up these little indulgences. I like to watch him. I like to admire him. It is a feeling unlike any other, and although I am not romantic enough to mistake it for love, I have seen enough to know that it is something very close. As sweet as that feeling is, it's bitter, too. It's very bitter. And it makes no difference to me which dance they play next.

I would sell my soul for one dance with him.

But I cannot waltz, and he doesn't tango.

So I must be content to watch.

Orange in a Mug

2008-02-18T23:45:00.000-05:00

"Why is there an orange in the mug?" the young man asked, fumbling in his folder for his essay.

"The orange," she began, swallowing the word as if tasting it whole, "Represents satisfaction."

"I don't get it," he laughed, "It's more than just an orange in a mug?" He looked at her briefly to register her response. It was a condensed smile that he shriveled under, and he continued to hunt for the elusive essay with slightly reddening ears.

"The mug is you," she declared, one finger resting lightly on the smooth curve of ceramic.

"Right," he said, letting out another wry laugh, "I am a mug. I am a drinking vessel. I'm sorry...I still don't follow."

"Look," she said, and pointed inside. For a moment he stopped rummaging and looked. But no matter how much he squinted, he saw nothing - except the orange.

"What am I looking for?"

"Not 'for', but 'at'," she said, and he could hear her smiling. "The orange does not fill the mug."

It seemed to make some sort of sense, for a tiny flourish of thought before he again reverted back to the missing essay.

"Basically," he said between the rustlings of his bag, "I can never be satisfied?"
"So it would seem, because how can a sphere ever fill a cylinder?"

The rustling stopped. His fingers had found the papers jammed between two of his books, but his attention was caught by something else. He picked up the mug and carried it to the sink where he carefully tipped out the orange and emptied the water. Then he brought the mug back to the lecturer and filled it with the orange juice on her desk.

"There," he said with an odd sense of pride, "Satisfied."

The lady smiled at him, uncalculatingly this time.

"You can be content with life if you choose to be."

He handed over the essay, his gaze linked to hers for a minute in which he found himself altered, and no longer quite himself. Suddenly he was struck by an inexplicable urge. He picked up the orange, peeled it, and ate it.

"That," he said with a devilish grin, "Was satisfying."