Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Egg Hunt
Perhaps she is not a hypocrite, nor wavering in the wind, but resetting a vision based on an ever-changing reality. She wades in the stillness, gently churning memories, kindly caressing the possibility that she is still collecting pieces of who she wants to be. Like little girls in lacey shifts on Easter morn, searching for colorful eggs in the grass. Their radiating smiles and high pitched laughter, not the product of knowing what the eggs contain, but quite the contrary. They are driven by the mystery within. Perhaps the eggs hold candy, change, or even a tiny ring, plastic of course, but no less beautiful than their mothers’ Tiffany bands. Grass stained stockings, tousled curls and frayed hems, all sacrifices made to fill their little straw baskets…
If only the secrets she conceals could fit in tiny pink and lavender shells…
And other times, she is found savagely dismantling the woman she vigilantly constructed, rebuilding the ashes into new visions, entirely obtrusive and unfamiliar. After all, Rome, nor her identity were built in a day. But fluctuations, both subtle and severe, of visions once fiercely embraced, cast shadows where she treads. Bumps and bruises on her knees, not covered by her slip, are evidence that her journey was not smooth. And now she finds herself haunted by things she once valued, unable to escape the guilt from casting them from her conscience.
And she is a mosaic, not a smooth and seamless vase. Her character is the effect of that who she strives to be, she who cannot be erased, and present impulsions that detract from any consistency.
Is this a sign of a healthy and flexible mind, or is she just mad? Is every day evidence of a change of heart or is she returning to her inescapable self? The paint beneath her nails, the smudge of charcoal on her cheek, all suggest that she never left her former self behind. It seeps to the surface. So perhaps, as she trudges through the brush, madly searching for the golden egg, she seeks not a mystery, but permission to return to fancies long abandoned, for fear they had no place in her tomorrow.
If only the secrets she conceals could fit in tiny pink and lavender shells…
And other times, she is found savagely dismantling the woman she vigilantly constructed, rebuilding the ashes into new visions, entirely obtrusive and unfamiliar. After all, Rome, nor her identity were built in a day. But fluctuations, both subtle and severe, of visions once fiercely embraced, cast shadows where she treads. Bumps and bruises on her knees, not covered by her slip, are evidence that her journey was not smooth. And now she finds herself haunted by things she once valued, unable to escape the guilt from casting them from her conscience.
And she is a mosaic, not a smooth and seamless vase. Her character is the effect of that who she strives to be, she who cannot be erased, and present impulsions that detract from any consistency.
Is this a sign of a healthy and flexible mind, or is she just mad? Is every day evidence of a change of heart or is she returning to her inescapable self? The paint beneath her nails, the smudge of charcoal on her cheek, all suggest that she never left her former self behind. It seeps to the surface. So perhaps, as she trudges through the brush, madly searching for the golden egg, she seeks not a mystery, but permission to return to fancies long abandoned, for fear they had no place in her tomorrow.
Saturday, January 9, 2010
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
House of Cards
He asked why she identified as passionate, and without delay, her mind flooded with volumes of evidence... In her opinion, no better descriptive came to mind. Whether a tactic of self-defense or a manipulative attempt to glamorize habits she could not avoid, she had grown to see herself as proudly impassioned, and prone to defend any and all correlated inclinations.
For better and sometimes worse she perceived herself the victim to no alternative but to completely and feverishly immerse her heart, mind, and soul into the task at hand. Sometimes this paved the way to unusual success while other times unusual mishaps, beautiful and terrifying experiences. But I suppose that is the risk one takes when giving all of their being to a singular vision, trusting that a thread won’t snap. To her great fortune, her strings have usually defied gravity, bearing enormous weight.
Passion, however, is often misinterpreted by the uninformed or conservative observer and as such, mistaken for irresponsibility and even selfishness. These individuals however, have never tasted the nectar of risk, nor been lost in the fervor of an intoxicating vision.
But for her, this self perception, is unmistakable, insatiable, her heroine of sorts. It is the feeling, the drive, the energy that comes from loving something completely, risking all and giving, acting unpredictably in response.
But when asked why she saw herself as passionate, and prompted for examples, she grew defensive. How odd it is that she is compelled to justify her nature. Is it immature or telling of some deep and hidden insecurity? Or rather some need to act in contradiction to past experiences or influencers? The mere curiosity of her interworkings is experienced as a threat to her house of cards. Perhaps she is not passionate at all, just ungrounded, undecided, and fleeting. After all, semantics, when repeated time and time again, become ideas that lend to embraced beliefs. And this is process through which her self-perception is born, and there, in the stillness , she finds sanctuary from herself, peace with her inability to understand exactly who she is.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Stockings or pull-ups?
Describe what you were wearing from head to toe, or toe to head if you rather. I want visualize you, sitting there with that little sultry pout, pretending you are focused.”
The blood rushed to her face, caught off guard by his directness. He, a prominent business man, handsome, suave, respectful stole a glimpse into her soul.
“I told you” she responded, “I was in all black with red lips and rouge, only a whisper of my white skin peeking through.”
“But what was the fabric, where was the whisper?”
Her heart began to beat a little faster, and her mouth grew dry, aroused by the seductive and artistic approach of this unexpected observer. She was vulnerable and transparent, read.
She cleared hear throat and responded. “Black stockings with a little diamond pattern, a silk high waist pencil skirt, black cashmere turtle neck, and hair pulled back sleek, and don’t forget my snake-skin pointed toe-pumps.”
“And the supposed whisper?” He countered, more concerned with what was not covered than hidden.
“My neck, strong but tired from hovering over the keys, posture not what it should be.”
“Women have a unique power,” he grinned, “And they are usually completely oblivious to extensive nature of this power.”
She laughed at his comment, because she did in fact know her power, he told her nothing new.
“It is in the details you see,” he proposed. “For example, do you wear stockings or pull-ups?”
His language dated him.
“Stockings ofcourse.” She blushed. “I am seeking no scandal. There is nothing sexy about the office…”
“I do not allude to a scandal, and I too believe “sexy” is for off the clock. I just know the power a woman holds if she harnesses it. Do you know what it does to a man, to see a classic beauty, dressed with the upmost modesty, and to catch just the slightest glimpse of flesh between her skirt and cusp of her pull-ups? It is intoxicating, it renders a man immobile for just a moment, and then you look at him as though you know. He becomes your slave…”
She could not hold back the laugher, “But it is so cold out!”
“I suppose you are right” he smiled. “A glimpse of the neck will have to do.”
The blood rushed to her face, caught off guard by his directness. He, a prominent business man, handsome, suave, respectful stole a glimpse into her soul.
“I told you” she responded, “I was in all black with red lips and rouge, only a whisper of my white skin peeking through.”
“But what was the fabric, where was the whisper?”
Her heart began to beat a little faster, and her mouth grew dry, aroused by the seductive and artistic approach of this unexpected observer. She was vulnerable and transparent, read.
She cleared hear throat and responded. “Black stockings with a little diamond pattern, a silk high waist pencil skirt, black cashmere turtle neck, and hair pulled back sleek, and don’t forget my snake-skin pointed toe-pumps.”
“And the supposed whisper?” He countered, more concerned with what was not covered than hidden.
“My neck, strong but tired from hovering over the keys, posture not what it should be.”
“Women have a unique power,” he grinned, “And they are usually completely oblivious to extensive nature of this power.”
She laughed at his comment, because she did in fact know her power, he told her nothing new.
“It is in the details you see,” he proposed. “For example, do you wear stockings or pull-ups?”
His language dated him.
“Stockings ofcourse.” She blushed. “I am seeking no scandal. There is nothing sexy about the office…”
“I do not allude to a scandal, and I too believe “sexy” is for off the clock. I just know the power a woman holds if she harnesses it. Do you know what it does to a man, to see a classic beauty, dressed with the upmost modesty, and to catch just the slightest glimpse of flesh between her skirt and cusp of her pull-ups? It is intoxicating, it renders a man immobile for just a moment, and then you look at him as though you know. He becomes your slave…”
She could not hold back the laugher, “But it is so cold out!”
“I suppose you are right” he smiled. “A glimpse of the neck will have to do.”
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Men
He told her life is best lived in boxes and she responded with a curious stare.
“Boxes?” She questioned, “And what my dear do you mean by that?”
“My success,” He explained “I attribute to my boxes. A box for love and passion, a larger box for work, another for hobbies and so on. If you want what I have, you must create boxes.”
And she looked at him, a handsome man, but aged by the stress and responsibility hidden in the lining of certain boxes and she wondered if she too could actually compartmentalize her life.
-
“Women who are 35 are crazy” he explained.
She laughed, never quite able to predict what he would bring to the table. Her look was enough to beckon an elaboration.
“They wake up one day and look at themselves in the mirror and ask what the hell have they been doing since college. They wanted to keep up with the boys, and at the end of the day they failed, and now their eggs are drying up and the successful men want the woman they were 10 years ago. You take them on a date and they want a ring, not an appetizer”
He looked at her and continued, “Men like myself want women like you.”
Her stomach clenched, and she remembered something her father once said. A man and a woman can only be friends for so long before one wants more.
He was that one.
-
“Something about you pulls me in. I can’t place it. Maybe it is the sadness in your eyes. They are so beautiful, but so sad.”
She uncomfortably laughed and said she was the happiest girl in the world. And began to list reasons as to why, creating a case for her contentment, but she trailed off..
He looked at her with a serious stare and said “No, that is not true, there is something behind those eyes, hidden in that heart.”
And she felt vulnerable. She missed being misunderstood.
-
She lost her mind, and her heart.
“What do you want me to say??? Give up everything, come with me to Israel? Forget your dreams, make sacrifices.”
Yes, she thought, I want you to say precisely that, or maybe just that you love me. That I didn’t follow you around the world to discover I can’t keep you for myself. That you were meant for another.
But she discovered precisely that. A delayed flight back from Panama, a restless sleep on an airport floor, and a silent drive home. She then understood why there are thousands of novels written about broken hearts.
-
“Come with me to Paris!” He said with an unattractive dose of enthusiasm.
“Oh, don’t be silly” she responded.
“I’m serious. Or Vegas, London, New York, the moon…Just come with me somewhere”
She sipped her dirty martini and grimaced at the bite of the vodka. She turned to him with kind but sad eyes and replied, “I don’t think I can ever fall in love with you . I don’t feel the connection you do. I see you as a friend, but we can never be more. I’m sorry”
“Love?” He questioned. “ I’m not asking you to jump beneath the sheets, just to take a chance on me. I will make you a queen.”
But she did not want to be a queen.
She never spoke to him again, preferring her pauper she left in Panama.
“Boxes?” She questioned, “And what my dear do you mean by that?”
“My success,” He explained “I attribute to my boxes. A box for love and passion, a larger box for work, another for hobbies and so on. If you want what I have, you must create boxes.”
And she looked at him, a handsome man, but aged by the stress and responsibility hidden in the lining of certain boxes and she wondered if she too could actually compartmentalize her life.
-
“Women who are 35 are crazy” he explained.
She laughed, never quite able to predict what he would bring to the table. Her look was enough to beckon an elaboration.
“They wake up one day and look at themselves in the mirror and ask what the hell have they been doing since college. They wanted to keep up with the boys, and at the end of the day they failed, and now their eggs are drying up and the successful men want the woman they were 10 years ago. You take them on a date and they want a ring, not an appetizer”
He looked at her and continued, “Men like myself want women like you.”
Her stomach clenched, and she remembered something her father once said. A man and a woman can only be friends for so long before one wants more.
He was that one.
-
“Something about you pulls me in. I can’t place it. Maybe it is the sadness in your eyes. They are so beautiful, but so sad.”
She uncomfortably laughed and said she was the happiest girl in the world. And began to list reasons as to why, creating a case for her contentment, but she trailed off..
He looked at her with a serious stare and said “No, that is not true, there is something behind those eyes, hidden in that heart.”
And she felt vulnerable. She missed being misunderstood.
-
She lost her mind, and her heart.
“What do you want me to say??? Give up everything, come with me to Israel? Forget your dreams, make sacrifices.”
Yes, she thought, I want you to say precisely that, or maybe just that you love me. That I didn’t follow you around the world to discover I can’t keep you for myself. That you were meant for another.
But she discovered precisely that. A delayed flight back from Panama, a restless sleep on an airport floor, and a silent drive home. She then understood why there are thousands of novels written about broken hearts.
-
“Come with me to Paris!” He said with an unattractive dose of enthusiasm.
“Oh, don’t be silly” she responded.
“I’m serious. Or Vegas, London, New York, the moon…Just come with me somewhere”
She sipped her dirty martini and grimaced at the bite of the vodka. She turned to him with kind but sad eyes and replied, “I don’t think I can ever fall in love with you . I don’t feel the connection you do. I see you as a friend, but we can never be more. I’m sorry”
“Love?” He questioned. “ I’m not asking you to jump beneath the sheets, just to take a chance on me. I will make you a queen.”
But she did not want to be a queen.
She never spoke to him again, preferring her pauper she left in Panama.
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