Whispered In The Wind

Whispered In The Wind
Just a fairy blowing in the wind, singing tales to the west wind

Friday, October 28, 2011

We'll Meet Again

 -When I grow up I want to be an old person.It is amazing how much of life..doesn't need any fiction added to it.-

We visited him today. He had lost weight and his skin was wrinkled  and pulled across his bones. His long gaunt hands were colored with purple veins. His eyes were bright, a cover of fog touching them. He was in the hospital, contained by white walls and smooth tile. He clutched a red pen in his hand, a note book of drawings at his side. When we walked in I clasped his old hand and he called us his family. He showed us paintings he was turning into place mats, still a business man with his gears turning. He said he went broke but he's turned out all right. He always says that. We always laugh. 

I told him that every morning when I wake up, in the room he used to sleep in the first thing I see is his painting of the birds and the sea. He told me those birds could be any bird I wanted them to be. They are. Sometimes I call them my silly geese, other days they are my swans. When he signed his name on that painting he added a little flag to the sail boat. I remember that every morning..what use is a boat without a proper sail? He's no different today.

He tells us about World War Two and his little white cap. He says everyone steals money. Everyone is a thief. But I know he loves them anyways. He talks about Carlos, who recently choked on his own vomit and died. He talks about how drunk Carlos could get. But when I think of Carlos, I think of the way he smiled shyly and always forgot my dog's name. He told me he had a dog once. The way Carlos said it, I know that dog was much more than a dog. I miss that old drunk with his greasy hair.

Sometimes I feel like I'm grasping at time, desperate to save these moments....because if I don't who will? He says no one calls and we write our number on a whiteboard and we ask if they'll let him hang his paintings on the wall. He says today the nurse said he could now. But his best painting is him. Every story is stretched across his forehead and his fingers are long like paintbrushes.

Last time I saw him, he demanded to know if the kids at school know how beautiful I am. I smiled.  But does he know how beautiful he looks to me right now? I wish I could bottle each of his queer funny sentences, his stories, and hang them from the ceiling of my room. When we leave he begins to sing in his croaky voice

"We'll meet again..
We join in, out of tune, smiling, filling the white hospital with loud flat notes..
"Don't know where, don't know when, but I know we'll meet again some sunny day."
See you then, Peter.

Thursday, October 27, 2011

Bird Bones

Every time you close your eyes
what do you see?
Catch the moon and the sun
but too weak to see between the two
Sometime I feel inadequate like paper dolls
in a paper world
scissors through my white confidence
I don't bleed 
I just find the wind and sweep myself away into it
And I wonder if I seem too tongue tied around you
breaking into me
and all my mache walls
because I'm paper thin and waste deep
two steps forward and I'm your sinking sand
did I tell you I write because it's the only thing I'm true to?
the only thing I find myself as how
I want to be
I am
I will be
and I was
they said make your face delicate with bird bones
and I tried
But now i'm stuck with the feathers growing from my thoughts, hummingbird heart beat
and no where to fly
or maybe too many clouds to perch, but afraid of leaving my roost
Graffitied heart with pencil shavings between my nails
I'm a space cadet with a bad case of head dreams
and a broken image of skewed memories
I want them to write on my head stone 'She is Love'
not she was
but she is
But instead my life stone says 'she is a scatterbrained chatter bird with a mousy soul'
if you read my palm, you wouldn't see a fortune
just the pattern of a little girl with wide eyes and sheered hair, staring up at you
without the smallest clue of what she is doing, looking at you
                       ~Lady Of Bolinas~

Tuesday, October 18, 2011

Ode To My Dear Friend, Trouble.

-listening to Lenka's song  Trouble Is A Friend Of Mine..and voila..Trouble wanted me to write a story about my relationship with the imp.-

Trouble is a friend of mine. We first met at a young age. He was freckled, with sharp green eyes, an imp with long feet and even longer hands, which he never washed. I've found over time he has many forms, though. He recommended I steal marshmallows and feed them to my young brother.His logic was "You aren't allowed to eat them, but who said you can't feed them to your little brother?" No one. Once, Trouble told me to throw a banana at my mother. He was always imaginative like that.  To this day,Trouble convinces me to stay up late,till I rub my eyes and my eyelids threaten to peel off my face in the morning.

But the most annoying thing about Trouble is the fact that he makes me so mad at myself. I've never been a rebellious, radical child. But Trouble distracts me when I am supposed to be working and makes me forget simple things. Trouble convinces me that I have more time to waste then I do. His absolute favorite thing to do,  is hide my common sense from me. After that, he hides my lipgloss and logic from me. He tends to hide them in the nearest sock drawer (when he hasn't fed all my socks to a washing machine).

Trouble dropped my phone once and cracked it. He has a history of this. He also dropped my favorite book in the bathtub,a prior phone in the toilet and multiple favorite pieces of jewelry. This impertinent imp also rips up paper, loses assignments and stains my shirts when I'm not paying attention.  One of his proudest achievements is pouring bleach into a load of my favorite clothing. He is also quite proud of the time he put salt in my baking rather then sugar, while blowing up an entire tea kettle of hot cocoa. He even managed to make the hot cocoa explode all the way across the kitchen.

 Trouble is very skilled. I wouldn't suggest otherwise. The time he locked me out of my house, which was for sure unlocked ten seconds before, will attest to this.  This is not to mention how he likes to treat me to parental lectures on a weekly basis. 

And we seem to be inseparable. I should say that I don't like him very much. My record would say otherwise. Why just today he turned my alarm clock off and laughed as I had to get dressed and run to the bus in less than five minutes. He keeps me on my toes, if nothing else. He sat next to me on the bus and purposely dimmed the sun, so I couldn't study my math. He followed this up by hiding my gym shorts and stealing the lock for my locker. Sometimes I wonder if he is a magician. It would certainly seemed so today, when he ruined all the erasers on my pencils and blew my history papers onto the floor, without moving a muscle. 

Trouble, is a close friend of mine. Now, if you'll excuse me, he seems to be currently feeding papers the wrong way  into my printer.. ...

Sunday, October 16, 2011

Show. Don't tell.

~ prose poetry attack..again!~

Show. Don't tell .

Here's the thing.

They say "Show. Don't tell." But isn't everything written on my sleeve, bleeding out from my heart? Maybe we all ought to tell a bit more. This whole showing thing is starting to drain me. I've shown this and I've done that, but in the end I've barely told anything. 

I'll show you how I feel about them, how I feel about you. You can read my face and the cracks in my skin. Feel free to watch me show you how to mess up and trip over one's own feet. I'll show you how to cry over nothing, how to get confused by the voices in your own head. I'll show you how to care so much your veins pop and your eyes bulge. I'll show you jittery nerves and perspiration on my brow. I'll show you every little paranoid quirk in me. I can walk up and down stairs with no purpose, just so my blood keeps pumping and I remember how to breath. It's perfectly acceptable to watch me raise my hand and bite my lip, waiting for the teacher to call on me. I tap my feet with nervous energy and burn it off by flipping my hair like a manic hair stylist. I will breath heavily so that you ask me what I'm thinking. When you don't I will sigh like a lonely hound dog. I won't howl at the moon but I will sing underneath it. That way  you know what a once sane person morphing into a night lunatic looks like. I will show you everything. Every layer of my rainbow skin and red blood, blue within.

But I wish I could tell you more, so I didn't have to make it all so painfully obvious. If I knew how to tell more, speak out better, then you could have a better sense of me without me falling over my feet and scraping my knees. I could tell you about blood, rather than you seeing the crimson dripping from my knees. But it seems I'm doing better with this showing, though not what I want you to see. I don't want to be the know-it-all with her nose in the air. Is that what I'm showing? I'm not the sure, steadfast door with wooden frames. But they said show, don't tell. 

I'm botching it all.

I'd tell you about the way the sun kisses the ocean and the birds sing to the trees. I want to tell you about the way I laugh in my head at every single strange thing you say. I'll tell you about the dreams I have, that clutter my eyes and are scattered through my bedroom.

But instead I'm stuck showing you how I can answer every question and still get it all wrong.

"I want warm summer nights, to lie in a hammock, staring at the stars, telling you stories. "

"I want warm summer nights, to lie in a hammock, staring at the stars, telling you stories. "
"When asked not to make waves, I just smiled and said, don't worry this is just a ripple"