Finding hope. Not the happy me kind, but the kind that goes deeper into what we are struggling with in our selves. Without struggle there is no need for hope.
We build places for ourselves that tell us what we want to hear, and we share with others only those things that make us feel good about ourselves. We create stories for others to paint a picture of who we want them to think we are. Sometimes we craft them carefully, sometimes we are raw and open. The truth is that things happen in our lives, some good, some not so much. Some we are proud of, some not so much. Those who tell the stories with no sadness, no difficulty haven't yet told themselves the truth, since no life is lived without these things. A perfect life is not a life lived, but one painted over. The sadness is what the paint covers means the most to our being human. Hope is being able to peel the paint, and having the notion that you will still be okay. Needing hope is being human. So is giving hope. Giving hope is letting others know that removing that paint is okay. Being human is not in the covering, but in the uncovering.
Being human is needing, and giving hope. My plan for 2013 is to be human.
Tuesday, January 1, 2013
Posted with Blogsy
Thursday, December 6, 2012
Falling into the deep
Gilbert sat quietly. He could hear the rain falling outside, the steps of passers by all finding the same small puddle that collected a share of the run off from the cafe's canopy. His tea had gone cold some time ago, untouched. It paid his rent for the table, but other than that he had no interest in it. He sat with his hands clasped gently in his lap, unmoving, giving a sense of macabre to the story the waitress was making up in her mind to explain him, the handsome gentleman in the simple flawless dark gray suit with the thin black tie and tailored white shirt who seemed to be waiting with immense patience for someone whom he knew would never come. He wasn't mysterious at all, he thought, rather plain, simple and uninteresting. It was the world around him, and the people in it that were fascinating. It all seemed to exist merely for his bewilderment.
The 7:30 evening trolley rumbled by, telling him he had to go. He pushed back his chair, collected his hat and umbrella, and walked through the tables, all in flawless motion that spoke of a man with grace and power. The waitress smiled as he passed, he returned the favor and nodded as he set his hat in place, a bit down in front, opened the umbrella and stepped into the warm soft rain. It had stormed earlier, but now there was no wind. He avoided the puddle and walked purposefully down the street towards the station, outlined against the city lights, the clock tower marking time in the center of the sprawling noble and ancient structure. The trolley was slowing to a stop just outside, seeming to come a thing alive as a dozen people came and went from it. He knew she was one of those disembarking, and that she would head straight away for the platform, ticket in hand.
He crossed the street, the trolley clanging its bell as it began to pull away. He caught a glimpse of her entering the station, and he hurried his step. He was not anxious, but he could not miss this time. On reaching the massive door, he closed the umbrella, and tossed it into the trash bin outside, taking the opened door from the man who passed before him with a thanks, and entered the station, removing his hat and brushing rain drops from his sleeve. The station smelled of steam and hot metal, but he caught a whiff of humanity, unique as it was. He moved gracefully but with determination down the way to the waiting train. She would have boarded now. He looked down the length of the cars and could not see Mr. Benton, unsure if it mattered now. He boarded the last car and made his way forward through the first class cabins.
He remember this from the last time, the smells and sounds drowning him suddenly in a pressing cacophony of memories, emotions and visceral tension. He pursed his lips and refocused on the moment at hand. An old woman struggled with her bag blocking the way, he took a moment and lifted it for her, another grateful smile, and he moved past into the dining car. As fate would have it, it being necessary for them to meet having never met before, they would find themselves here in this place of legend where everyone knew them, but no one knew their purpose. The maitre d'hotel greeted him by name with a smile, took his hat and lead him to his table, his merlot having already been poured. His chair was pulled back by the gloved waiter, and he sat, unbuttoning his suit jacket, half listening to the waiter as he extolled the marvelousness of the evening's menu, allowing his napkin to be placed across his lap. He nodded, took the stem of his wine glass between his fingers, and sipped.
She came into the car as he finished the last of the escargot, heading his way, serene in her coppery beauty and shimmering manner as she was plain in her dress. She was removing her gloves as she approached him, the waiter pulling a chair aside for her as she settled in across from him wordlessly. The waiter offered her nothing knowing he had nothing she wanted or needed. Gilbert had fallen into her deep blue eyes from the moment she had entered, knowing all too well the spell she cast was a delicate web of dangerous provocation. He was not surprised that he felt no tension, though this moment could engulf the world with its urgency, undefused by Mr. Benton's remarkable absence.
After a moment she spoke with a smoky allure that indicated a coy playfulness underlined by a wanton seriousness, "Gilbert, its a shame you are gay, for I would love to ravage you just as you are...."
"Ah, and so it begins," he replied with a sip of wine. Of all the people in this odd place, she bewildered him most of all.
The 7:30 evening trolley rumbled by, telling him he had to go. He pushed back his chair, collected his hat and umbrella, and walked through the tables, all in flawless motion that spoke of a man with grace and power. The waitress smiled as he passed, he returned the favor and nodded as he set his hat in place, a bit down in front, opened the umbrella and stepped into the warm soft rain. It had stormed earlier, but now there was no wind. He avoided the puddle and walked purposefully down the street towards the station, outlined against the city lights, the clock tower marking time in the center of the sprawling noble and ancient structure. The trolley was slowing to a stop just outside, seeming to come a thing alive as a dozen people came and went from it. He knew she was one of those disembarking, and that she would head straight away for the platform, ticket in hand.
He crossed the street, the trolley clanging its bell as it began to pull away. He caught a glimpse of her entering the station, and he hurried his step. He was not anxious, but he could not miss this time. On reaching the massive door, he closed the umbrella, and tossed it into the trash bin outside, taking the opened door from the man who passed before him with a thanks, and entered the station, removing his hat and brushing rain drops from his sleeve. The station smelled of steam and hot metal, but he caught a whiff of humanity, unique as it was. He moved gracefully but with determination down the way to the waiting train. She would have boarded now. He looked down the length of the cars and could not see Mr. Benton, unsure if it mattered now. He boarded the last car and made his way forward through the first class cabins.
He remember this from the last time, the smells and sounds drowning him suddenly in a pressing cacophony of memories, emotions and visceral tension. He pursed his lips and refocused on the moment at hand. An old woman struggled with her bag blocking the way, he took a moment and lifted it for her, another grateful smile, and he moved past into the dining car. As fate would have it, it being necessary for them to meet having never met before, they would find themselves here in this place of legend where everyone knew them, but no one knew their purpose. The maitre d'hotel greeted him by name with a smile, took his hat and lead him to his table, his merlot having already been poured. His chair was pulled back by the gloved waiter, and he sat, unbuttoning his suit jacket, half listening to the waiter as he extolled the marvelousness of the evening's menu, allowing his napkin to be placed across his lap. He nodded, took the stem of his wine glass between his fingers, and sipped.
She came into the car as he finished the last of the escargot, heading his way, serene in her coppery beauty and shimmering manner as she was plain in her dress. She was removing her gloves as she approached him, the waiter pulling a chair aside for her as she settled in across from him wordlessly. The waiter offered her nothing knowing he had nothing she wanted or needed. Gilbert had fallen into her deep blue eyes from the moment she had entered, knowing all too well the spell she cast was a delicate web of dangerous provocation. He was not surprised that he felt no tension, though this moment could engulf the world with its urgency, undefused by Mr. Benton's remarkable absence.
After a moment she spoke with a smoky allure that indicated a coy playfulness underlined by a wanton seriousness, "Gilbert, its a shame you are gay, for I would love to ravage you just as you are...."
"Ah, and so it begins," he replied with a sip of wine. Of all the people in this odd place, she bewildered him most of all.
Friday, November 30, 2012
My wish
Today I wish that those who feel less than seek to lift themselves up, not by pulling others down, but by doing their best, and when that is not enough, stretching out a hand for help in getting there, or for a hug to try again another day.
Tuesday, November 27, 2012
The light in the abyss
There is a reprieve in the bottom of that abyss,
that comes of having no place else to turn,
nothing else to expect,
nothing else to fear,
no hope,
no desire,
only silence and despair.
The silence there echoes so profoundly
one's voice is lost not in the absence of sound,
but in the cries that cannot escape,
the symphony of souls lost, blind and deaf to one another,
unaware they suffer only because the other is there,
imagining they are alone, they alone know this place.
The sad truth being that escape is impossible
only because one will not help the other,
but would rather tear and rend themselves
than lift another from the darkness.
Some repent, bowing to an imaginary being,
others to their self reliance.
All fail for placing themselves first,
and thusly die alone, lonely, sad and disappointed
thinking themsleves having won.
The light is not in a god or in oneself.
It lies in the hearts of others, not one, but all.
And it is all that are required
that we might escape this abyss we have thrown ourselves into,
seeking to be nearer our desires,
when taking the hand of those next to us
is all, all, that matters.
It is the brave one who stops the agony and seeks the light,
who looks up, and to the other,
and sings despite that silence
and takes the hands of those next to them,
pulling them out of the shared darkness
and into one another's arms,
embracing their differences,
and becoming more for the sum,
than for the division.
Be the light, give it to others, find your peace,
leave the abyss.
Never return.
that comes of having no place else to turn,
nothing else to expect,
nothing else to fear,
no hope,
no desire,
only silence and despair.
The silence there echoes so profoundly
one's voice is lost not in the absence of sound,
but in the cries that cannot escape,
the symphony of souls lost, blind and deaf to one another,
unaware they suffer only because the other is there,
imagining they are alone, they alone know this place.
The sad truth being that escape is impossible
only because one will not help the other,
but would rather tear and rend themselves
than lift another from the darkness.
Some repent, bowing to an imaginary being,
others to their self reliance.
All fail for placing themselves first,
and thusly die alone, lonely, sad and disappointed
thinking themsleves having won.
The light is not in a god or in oneself.
It lies in the hearts of others, not one, but all.
And it is all that are required
that we might escape this abyss we have thrown ourselves into,
seeking to be nearer our desires,
when taking the hand of those next to us
is all, all, that matters.
It is the brave one who stops the agony and seeks the light,
who looks up, and to the other,
and sings despite that silence
and takes the hands of those next to them,
pulling them out of the shared darkness
and into one another's arms,
embracing their differences,
and becoming more for the sum,
than for the division.
Be the light, give it to others, find your peace,
leave the abyss.
Never return.
Thursday, October 25, 2012
The rippling of water
It is odious, he thought, to awaken this way.
A morning is rebirth
and should come with refreshed joy,
not the weight of yesterday.
Tired, bone tired, his heart still heavy
with the sadness that comes from understanding
that but for one,
he had finally found a place he loved and could call home.
It would be well, he thought, to let this one be.
To choose his own happiness, his own way.
Yet this one seeks him out wherever he may go,
darkening any joy he might find here,
among these people, these places.
To be left alone was not enough, he would have to hide
and that is not his nature.
To be less than made more painful
by choosing to be less than.
If anyone else cared enough to move this ill on,
to stand against the history for a better way,
that would be all that is required.
But no one else cares enough to stand.
Better to remain silent than be noticed and risk.
So another leaves, another comes,
the water rippled for a moment,
then again it is as if nothing happened.
Its all good.
Until one becomes a majority
greater than this one who is a majority
this place remains dimly lit. Nothing will grow here.
Everyone becomes used to living in silence
watching the others fall,
the water ripple,
and things remaining the same.
Why is it always this way?
A morning is rebirth
and should come with refreshed joy,
not the weight of yesterday.
Tired, bone tired, his heart still heavy
with the sadness that comes from understanding
that but for one,
he had finally found a place he loved and could call home.
It would be well, he thought, to let this one be.
To choose his own happiness, his own way.
Yet this one seeks him out wherever he may go,
darkening any joy he might find here,
among these people, these places.
To be left alone was not enough, he would have to hide
and that is not his nature.
To be less than made more painful
by choosing to be less than.
If anyone else cared enough to move this ill on,
to stand against the history for a better way,
that would be all that is required.
But no one else cares enough to stand.
Better to remain silent than be noticed and risk.
So another leaves, another comes,
the water rippled for a moment,
then again it is as if nothing happened.
Its all good.
Until one becomes a majority
greater than this one who is a majority
this place remains dimly lit. Nothing will grow here.
Everyone becomes used to living in silence
watching the others fall,
the water ripple,
and things remaining the same.
Why is it always this way?
Wednesday, October 17, 2012
A man illuminated
The passage of light was softened by the distance from the windows high above in the arched way to the cathedral floor below, dusty and ancient. His footsteps echoed in muffled cadence with his thoughts, flickers of sadness edged with anger and anxiousness. He paused, taking in the moment, framed in the scintillating glow of the colored shards of glass between thin edges of lead. He could feel the warmth of the sun on his face penetrating him. Looking up, he closed his eyes. His thoughts went from this place, to that place, far and distant in time, in travel. His thoughts went to the coast, where the trader's ranged within sight of land, where he once stood on the deck of his frigate, the sounds of sails snapping, men working rope, a ship making way, and breathed the clean fresh air of the sea, the sun warming his face against the sea breeze. For a moment he was no longer here, where he was commanded, but there, where he commanded, where his fate was his alone, among men he knew and trusted. He opened his eyes and stared into the window that illuminated him, his patch of the world at this moment, then lowering his gaze he saw them waiting for him in the atrium. They turned their attention to him, first one, then all, their whispers silenced as they took him in, their coats and scabbards noisily reflecting their tension, hats in worried hand. He looked into the sun again, allowing the colors to fill him, his thoughts, and he breathed in deeply, holding his breath. He calmed himself, and returned his piercing gaze to the gathered men, renewing his confident stride towards them. Their fear was palpable, not knowing he was as afraid of them as they were of him, they believed in him. The time had come for good men to do what is right.
"Smartly now, there is not a moment to loose."
"Smartly now, there is not a moment to loose."
Thursday, September 27, 2012
Fear of falling
"For the first time in several years I feel safe."
Safe. It wasn't a word he would have thought to use, but it was the word that came forward when called on to explain how he felt. He wasn't in a dark mood, more of a dimly lit one, but the word brought an intellectual smirk, not of satisfaction, but of self indulgent irony. He knew that for so long, as far back as he could remember, he had been on a razor's edge. He had been cut badly, not once, but several times, and not wanting to be cut again brought a deep seated fear to rest near his soul, casting the gloom that gave his mood that dim sheen that cast that fear across everything he saw, everything he experienced. He had been constantly afraid. Until this morning.
Nothing in particular had happened to release him. He just simply realized as he drove in that morning that he was changed. He wasn't sure if he had fatigued his neurosis to the point of just not caring anymore, or if he had somehow managed to finally fall into a place where no one could get him, figuratively speaking. Truth be known, he was skeptical of this new feeling, or absence of feeling. Would a word, a call, a meeting, shatter this peace? It was telling that he wasn't listening for the other shoe to drop anymore. It was true he had tired of the constant fear, worrying, preparing for the different vignettes on how this or that fear would play out. Maybe he was just tired? Falling now would be no less painful, tragic and wrought with complications for responsibilities that would go unmet, pride lost, and lives changed. It was just no longer something he feared. Maybe that's what was different. It wasn't that he was no longer afraid of falling again, but that he had been treading water in so many waterfalls it no longer frightened him to wakefulness that he would likely go over. He was no longer afraid of falling. But then, as painful as falling was emotionally, the more he thought about it, it was not being able to rebuild after the fall that truly haunted him. The fall was just the signal that he would have to supplicate himself and start at the beginning again. The fall lead to the need to rebuild, and at some point rebuilding would no longer be possible. That was the monster under his bed.
And now that monster no longer mattered. It was what it was. He realized that had been his nemesis, that he might not be able to get back up next time, so he feared the next fall, and he saw it coming from everywhere. (Of course he did, after all it always snuck up on him because they lacked courage and leapt out from their hiding places without warning). But now, awake and aware, it seemed something he would be able to deal with because he no longer had expectations it would be the same afterwards. Now that he no longer cared if he could get back up, he felt safe. That's just odd. Knock me down. Fine. I'll just lay here for a while and see what happens rather than live in constant fear of what may happen. This notion gave him freedom, peace. And with that he felt safe.
He wondered how long this would last.
Safe. It wasn't a word he would have thought to use, but it was the word that came forward when called on to explain how he felt. He wasn't in a dark mood, more of a dimly lit one, but the word brought an intellectual smirk, not of satisfaction, but of self indulgent irony. He knew that for so long, as far back as he could remember, he had been on a razor's edge. He had been cut badly, not once, but several times, and not wanting to be cut again brought a deep seated fear to rest near his soul, casting the gloom that gave his mood that dim sheen that cast that fear across everything he saw, everything he experienced. He had been constantly afraid. Until this morning.
Nothing in particular had happened to release him. He just simply realized as he drove in that morning that he was changed. He wasn't sure if he had fatigued his neurosis to the point of just not caring anymore, or if he had somehow managed to finally fall into a place where no one could get him, figuratively speaking. Truth be known, he was skeptical of this new feeling, or absence of feeling. Would a word, a call, a meeting, shatter this peace? It was telling that he wasn't listening for the other shoe to drop anymore. It was true he had tired of the constant fear, worrying, preparing for the different vignettes on how this or that fear would play out. Maybe he was just tired? Falling now would be no less painful, tragic and wrought with complications for responsibilities that would go unmet, pride lost, and lives changed. It was just no longer something he feared. Maybe that's what was different. It wasn't that he was no longer afraid of falling again, but that he had been treading water in so many waterfalls it no longer frightened him to wakefulness that he would likely go over. He was no longer afraid of falling. But then, as painful as falling was emotionally, the more he thought about it, it was not being able to rebuild after the fall that truly haunted him. The fall was just the signal that he would have to supplicate himself and start at the beginning again. The fall lead to the need to rebuild, and at some point rebuilding would no longer be possible. That was the monster under his bed.
And now that monster no longer mattered. It was what it was. He realized that had been his nemesis, that he might not be able to get back up next time, so he feared the next fall, and he saw it coming from everywhere. (Of course he did, after all it always snuck up on him because they lacked courage and leapt out from their hiding places without warning). But now, awake and aware, it seemed something he would be able to deal with because he no longer had expectations it would be the same afterwards. Now that he no longer cared if he could get back up, he felt safe. That's just odd. Knock me down. Fine. I'll just lay here for a while and see what happens rather than live in constant fear of what may happen. This notion gave him freedom, peace. And with that he felt safe.
He wondered how long this would last.
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