Monday, March 30, 2009
Spilling Out
If there is a Maker then He is cruel. What was I ever supposed to do with a heart so fragile? Who cares for its strength when it breaks just walking out the door? Are we supposed to wear armor to protect us from Cupid's arrows? Who am I kidding? Cupid would just use better arrows. Lilliputians took down Gulliver with twigs and string.
What is the use of feeling anything? Why should I care for anyone who indulges in such relentless narcissism? The fascination wore off long ago. The only connection I still have is some semi-psychic response to an old feeling I can barely remember. It's a lighthouse nightlight that won't let me sleep. There is no distance that makes it wane. Yet there is no closeness of proximity that can light it to its former brilliance. All I ever really feel is nauseous.
I am a stray dog captured on a leashpole. I cannot get any closer nor can I pull further away from my captor. And she has forgotten me. All the inventiveness in the world cannot replace the generations of evolution it would take to develop opposable thumbs to release myself from this noose.
Resentment fills my heart these days. I cannot interpret such violent disregard as anything but malevolent. Not while reconciling my self respect with my circumstance. I tell myself that I'm in this situation because I trusted too much. I gave too much. I let my guard down. I let her in. And I will not let it happen again.
Yet even now I want to. I want to let someone in. Anyone in, to drive away the loneliness. Loneliness isn't so bad except for the fear that it will stay forever. Like the relative who needs a place to crash but makes no plans to get a place of his own. Oh yeah, and he doesn't shower.
Someone told me recently that I was the smartest person they knew. I couldn't help but think they must know some pretty stupid people.
I used to compose poetry. It was never written down. If it was published it would have been a gift to all the world and recited by lovers in ages to come. Some think that depriving the world of such art could only be done out of spite. I don't hold any spite for the world.
My poetry was meant for one person only. The person who inspired it. Recited during moments of passion. She ignited a part of my brain from which words flowed like a waterfall. I showered her with beautiful expression because I knew of no other gift. I had no money for diamonds or gold. I was without means to even support myself but I felt enriched as if touched by the essence of life itself. Waterfalls will cut at the seemingly invincible rocks beneath them, over time.
In those moments, sections of my brain that were foreign to each other were introduced like emissaries of peace. They found common ground and united in a cause to rival the greatest and most heroic invasion stories. Mankind is assaulted by a foreign competitor that threatens to wipe it out so the people put aside their differences and band together to fight back. Resources are offered plentifully and freely without regard for recompense. So were the technical and emotional parts of me united in those moments. I've never had the words to express how I've truly felt since.
I never had a muse before her, or since. I'm not sure if they're all unable to understand or appreciate the sentiments they inspire. Mine kept her obvious intellect drifting untouchable in a void. Unconnected to anything real. Unable to leave the distractions of her fears, insecurities and social trappings. She was a crystal ball and my words slid off her without leaving a mark like so much water. I watch water that has cut through rocks and I marvel at the thousands of years of dedicated erosion I could not summon or afford. I feel like someone who played road hockey as a kid and now only watches the pros on TV dreaming of what could have been.
She knew my words were worth something. But she misunderstood. She wanted me to write them down and so asked me to write her a love letter. The only words I could master came to me while I was in her arms. She would have done better with a tape recorder. What words I had were freely given for her eyes only. Without her wellspring to drink from and knowing she would show every girlfriend who cared to read it my prose was stilted and broken. Clumsy. I would have done better keeping the pen between my toes than my fingers. Well-meaning but still so much chicken scratch.
Ever since that time I've been searching for ways to connect those parts of my brain again. To give my emotions a shape with my words. To find that quality of expression that would remind me of home. The only home I've ever wanted: her arms.
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What is the use of feeling anything? Why should I care for anyone who indulges in such relentless narcissism? The fascination wore off long ago. The only connection I still have is some semi-psychic response to an old feeling I can barely remember. It's a lighthouse nightlight that won't let me sleep. There is no distance that makes it wane. Yet there is no closeness of proximity that can light it to its former brilliance. All I ever really feel is nauseous.
I am a stray dog captured on a leashpole. I cannot get any closer nor can I pull further away from my captor. And she has forgotten me. All the inventiveness in the world cannot replace the generations of evolution it would take to develop opposable thumbs to release myself from this noose.
Resentment fills my heart these days. I cannot interpret such violent disregard as anything but malevolent. Not while reconciling my self respect with my circumstance. I tell myself that I'm in this situation because I trusted too much. I gave too much. I let my guard down. I let her in. And I will not let it happen again.
Yet even now I want to. I want to let someone in. Anyone in, to drive away the loneliness. Loneliness isn't so bad except for the fear that it will stay forever. Like the relative who needs a place to crash but makes no plans to get a place of his own. Oh yeah, and he doesn't shower.
Someone told me recently that I was the smartest person they knew. I couldn't help but think they must know some pretty stupid people.
I used to compose poetry. It was never written down. If it was published it would have been a gift to all the world and recited by lovers in ages to come. Some think that depriving the world of such art could only be done out of spite. I don't hold any spite for the world.
My poetry was meant for one person only. The person who inspired it. Recited during moments of passion. She ignited a part of my brain from which words flowed like a waterfall. I showered her with beautiful expression because I knew of no other gift. I had no money for diamonds or gold. I was without means to even support myself but I felt enriched as if touched by the essence of life itself. Waterfalls will cut at the seemingly invincible rocks beneath them, over time.
In those moments, sections of my brain that were foreign to each other were introduced like emissaries of peace. They found common ground and united in a cause to rival the greatest and most heroic invasion stories. Mankind is assaulted by a foreign competitor that threatens to wipe it out so the people put aside their differences and band together to fight back. Resources are offered plentifully and freely without regard for recompense. So were the technical and emotional parts of me united in those moments. I've never had the words to express how I've truly felt since.
I never had a muse before her, or since. I'm not sure if they're all unable to understand or appreciate the sentiments they inspire. Mine kept her obvious intellect drifting untouchable in a void. Unconnected to anything real. Unable to leave the distractions of her fears, insecurities and social trappings. She was a crystal ball and my words slid off her without leaving a mark like so much water. I watch water that has cut through rocks and I marvel at the thousands of years of dedicated erosion I could not summon or afford. I feel like someone who played road hockey as a kid and now only watches the pros on TV dreaming of what could have been.
She knew my words were worth something. But she misunderstood. She wanted me to write them down and so asked me to write her a love letter. The only words I could master came to me while I was in her arms. She would have done better with a tape recorder. What words I had were freely given for her eyes only. Without her wellspring to drink from and knowing she would show every girlfriend who cared to read it my prose was stilted and broken. Clumsy. I would have done better keeping the pen between my toes than my fingers. Well-meaning but still so much chicken scratch.
Ever since that time I've been searching for ways to connect those parts of my brain again. To give my emotions a shape with my words. To find that quality of expression that would remind me of home. The only home I've ever wanted: her arms.
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Saturday, March 07, 2009
Slumdog Millionaire
I realize that the few blog posts I've done recently have all been about movies but at this point in my life those are the things that really touch me.
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I love hearing a great story. I also love telling stories and I try to tell them engagingly. This story is one of the very best I've ever been told. The music is the most amazing thing about it, in my opinion. It keeps you on edge and alert. These are the sounds of a raw desperation that I would not be able to fully understand if I saw the scenes with no music.
It saddens me that some people hear about a depiction of a sequence in a movie and judge it for these things alone. For example, I could tell you that more murders occur in this movie than occurred in Reservoir Dogs. Does that make this movie more violent than Reservoir Dogs? Hardly. Each death is an event that is put in its proper context. Loss. Sadness. Justice. Rage. Fear. These emotions are woven into the story and tell of lives lived, terrors experienced, horrors seen and tragedies overcome. The only stories that occur without deaths are children's books. They have their time and place but after that time is over we need to all get over it and realize that life is happening all over the world. I hate the movie ratings system.
There is one element that makes this story at once believable, engaging and thrilling. The main character understands one of the most basic elements of life that most of the rest of us struggle with. It is shown plainly from the time he is a small boy and first meets the girl who becomes the love of his life, follows through every scene and caps off the finale of the story. It is the motivation for everything he does and it is what makes us root for him. It's something he needs the girl to understand or nothing he does is worth the effort. There's no amount of money he could earn or win on a television game show that could ever make him happy if she doesn't come to understand this one simple truth.
If you haven't risked it all for love then you haven't really lived.
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I love hearing a great story. I also love telling stories and I try to tell them engagingly. This story is one of the very best I've ever been told. The music is the most amazing thing about it, in my opinion. It keeps you on edge and alert. These are the sounds of a raw desperation that I would not be able to fully understand if I saw the scenes with no music.
It saddens me that some people hear about a depiction of a sequence in a movie and judge it for these things alone. For example, I could tell you that more murders occur in this movie than occurred in Reservoir Dogs. Does that make this movie more violent than Reservoir Dogs? Hardly. Each death is an event that is put in its proper context. Loss. Sadness. Justice. Rage. Fear. These emotions are woven into the story and tell of lives lived, terrors experienced, horrors seen and tragedies overcome. The only stories that occur without deaths are children's books. They have their time and place but after that time is over we need to all get over it and realize that life is happening all over the world. I hate the movie ratings system.
There is one element that makes this story at once believable, engaging and thrilling. The main character understands one of the most basic elements of life that most of the rest of us struggle with. It is shown plainly from the time he is a small boy and first meets the girl who becomes the love of his life, follows through every scene and caps off the finale of the story. It is the motivation for everything he does and it is what makes us root for him. It's something he needs the girl to understand or nothing he does is worth the effort. There's no amount of money he could earn or win on a television game show that could ever make him happy if she doesn't come to understand this one simple truth.
If you haven't risked it all for love then you haven't really lived.
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