'The world is too much with us…'
I am suffering from a failure of imagination. A lack of words. An inability to see the prettiness surrounding me. I don’t want to see it, I'm starting to doubt that it’s there. I know the world well enough. Right now, the world is too ugly for me.
I haven’t written a word in a week. I’ve happily forgotten how to shape a sentence. I’ve lost the melody of language. I've sung along to it far too many times. It is sickeningly familiar, a radio jingle. It's almost like bliss, to be without words. No words, and you have no idea how you really feel.
'For this, for everything, we are out of tune…'
Oh, you don’t need to know why. Just things, I’ll say. It’s just stuff, nothing really. Bad dreams, long days and too-short nights, the heat, bad TV, work, petty jealousies, mediocrity and the future all black, all black around me…It’s just stuff, nothing really. I haven’t suffered much, not recently. Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe I need to suffer. Maybe I need a new tragedy.
Never say that. The gods may be imaginary, but their love of irony is very real.
'And if the butterfly were to be asked, it might only point out that a world is far too easy a thing to break.'
Every time I write, it’s the same words. It’s the same sentence, every time. I can repeat myself endlessly. I echo echoes down empty hallways. I can’t write about butterflies, they are too pretty. I won’t try. I wouldn’t risk it. I will not crumble to dust their wings.
'I am what I am, and a world of pavement and success, of invented misery and magnificence, is what we are.'
Oh, I am something, something else indeed. I invent misery and I am looking for magnificence. But mostly I am nothing. Mostly I wander lonely as a cloud, although never so lovely. I like to go for walks in the evening, when the sun is setting and the world is quiet. That moment when a hush falls over everything; like the first snowfall, when the sky holds its breath and slowly exhales. I try to see the prettiness of it all, when it’s quiet. I try to see the butterflies. I don’t want to hold them in my hands, but I would like to see them.
'Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers…'
It’s not a big deal, I’ll say. It’s nothing, I’m just tired. It’s not like I’ve lost anything, not really. I’m just wandering the world with my eyes closed, knocking over buildings, kicking stones, snapping trees in half. I’ve lost the words, and my eyes are closed, and I destroy the world with my heavy hands. Oh, it’s okay, I’ll say. It’s just a phase I’m going through. I’m not worried. The world is still pretty, I hope. I hope that when I’m ready I will see it again. I hope that when I’m ready the words will find me.
'And dances with the daffodils…'
Unfinished.
Wordless.
Forgotten.
Forget you ever read this.
Please.
I’m scared.
The world is too much, indeed. Fuck you, Wordsworth. I prefer Coleridge any day.
You never felt this way.
Save me.
Friday, July 24, 2009
Friday, July 17, 2009
And Happiness Under Its Wings
Butterflies rest on the noses of little baby boys.
I knew a butterfly once. It flew up four floors up the office building where I worked, just to look inside the glass. It didn’t seem curious. It was not afraid of what it might see inside. Nothing was worth envying. Nothing inside was worth pause. But it did fly up, knowing nothing awaited it, and lazily floated by the glass occasionally. And I would see it. It was yellow.
How detached, the world of the butterfly. How beautifully removed from our order and our chaos. Our change. It doesn’t care about our silly little world. Our hard and cold buildings. Our fake plants. It doesn’t care about how many people were fed, or insulted, or murdered, or promoted. Why should it? It just is, and is happy to be. That other world, our world of becoming, is too harsh.
On the cool spring afternoons, often while I paused to speak to a friend, the butterfly would flutter by. It didn’t mean anything by it. Just delicately going about its business. It didn’t mean to interrupt. It wasn’t eavesdropping. And it wasn’t afraid of what it might hear. It didn’t care if it was being talked about. But it would cut between the two bodies of flesh and bone, because that was the way it wanted to go. And I would see it. And it was yellow.
Life was too delicate for it to waste time with trifles. Too delicate to fly faster or slower or any other speed than it absolutely felt like. Too fragile to build houses made from cards and comic books. I do not think it ever cared to own the world; I do not think it ever thought of that. And if the butterfly were to be asked, it might only point out that a world is far too easy a thing to break.
Or it might simply keep right on flying.
I wonder if I could hold a butterfly in my hand, what it might feel like. I wonder if I could let it sit in the cradle of my palm, and let its wingtips brush my fingers. Would it whisper the secrets of the universe to me? Tell me of how colours are simply sounds that we don’t have ears for... and how there never was a day and a night, a January or a July. I wonder if I could actually feel the laughter on its feet. If I concentrated hard enough, could I taste its lightlessness in my skin?
Or would it smell the weight of my world instead?
I never got to say hi to that yellow butterfly, but I think it knew. It noticed my wayward glances. Sometimes, I think that it lingered just long enough so that I could watch it. Its flight to my fourth floor was never a pilgrimage of pity, but I did welcome it. How stunning it seemed, to float there, between me and the rest of the world. The cars on the street zooming by could not compare to the brilliance of a butterfly.
I don’t think it ever begrudged me my attachment to a broken world, any more than it thought ill of the office building itself. How could it? I am what I am, and a world of pavement and success, of invented misery and magnificence, is what we are. That other world, a butterfly’s world of being, is too simple.
We were too far apart, that butterfly and me. But maybe it heard some colour of yesterday where our two worlds were not so different.
I was a boy once. And I met a yellow butterfly.
I knew a butterfly once. It flew up four floors up the office building where I worked, just to look inside the glass. It didn’t seem curious. It was not afraid of what it might see inside. Nothing was worth envying. Nothing inside was worth pause. But it did fly up, knowing nothing awaited it, and lazily floated by the glass occasionally. And I would see it. It was yellow.
How detached, the world of the butterfly. How beautifully removed from our order and our chaos. Our change. It doesn’t care about our silly little world. Our hard and cold buildings. Our fake plants. It doesn’t care about how many people were fed, or insulted, or murdered, or promoted. Why should it? It just is, and is happy to be. That other world, our world of becoming, is too harsh.
On the cool spring afternoons, often while I paused to speak to a friend, the butterfly would flutter by. It didn’t mean anything by it. Just delicately going about its business. It didn’t mean to interrupt. It wasn’t eavesdropping. And it wasn’t afraid of what it might hear. It didn’t care if it was being talked about. But it would cut between the two bodies of flesh and bone, because that was the way it wanted to go. And I would see it. And it was yellow.
Life was too delicate for it to waste time with trifles. Too delicate to fly faster or slower or any other speed than it absolutely felt like. Too fragile to build houses made from cards and comic books. I do not think it ever cared to own the world; I do not think it ever thought of that. And if the butterfly were to be asked, it might only point out that a world is far too easy a thing to break.
Or it might simply keep right on flying.
I wonder if I could hold a butterfly in my hand, what it might feel like. I wonder if I could let it sit in the cradle of my palm, and let its wingtips brush my fingers. Would it whisper the secrets of the universe to me? Tell me of how colours are simply sounds that we don’t have ears for... and how there never was a day and a night, a January or a July. I wonder if I could actually feel the laughter on its feet. If I concentrated hard enough, could I taste its lightlessness in my skin?
Or would it smell the weight of my world instead?
I never got to say hi to that yellow butterfly, but I think it knew. It noticed my wayward glances. Sometimes, I think that it lingered just long enough so that I could watch it. Its flight to my fourth floor was never a pilgrimage of pity, but I did welcome it. How stunning it seemed, to float there, between me and the rest of the world. The cars on the street zooming by could not compare to the brilliance of a butterfly.
I don’t think it ever begrudged me my attachment to a broken world, any more than it thought ill of the office building itself. How could it? I am what I am, and a world of pavement and success, of invented misery and magnificence, is what we are. That other world, a butterfly’s world of being, is too simple.
We were too far apart, that butterfly and me. But maybe it heard some colour of yesterday where our two worlds were not so different.
I was a boy once. And I met a yellow butterfly.
Friday, July 10, 2009
Triptych
1. Horses
All things pass. I’ve said this many times lately. Not just to myself – I say it often enough to myself, it ought to be tattooed across my chest – but, now, to my friends. My friends who are collapsing like marionettes whose strings have been cut. That’s a good simile, I think, if overused. Our lives by the whims of others – maybe a puppeteer named God, maybe the casual glances of strangers, maybe the approval of peers. We live our lives inside other lives. A butterfly flaps its wings in the Amazon; you wake up one day and realize you’ve lost everything.
It’s a wonder we don’t all collapse. It’s a wonder we don’t all cut the strings ourselves.
I like the irony of tattooing the words ‘All things pass’ onto your skin. I shiver thinking about it. It would feel good and right, I think, to dip the needle in ink and draw it across your skin. I think the words would feel good, going in.
I am stuck on the word ‘good’ lately. I’m not interested in the definition of good. I recognize good when I see it. I sense it. I hope I understand it, in a wordless way – a tacit, instinctual kind of way.
All this will pass. All things must pass. To everything, there is a season. I don’t give a damn about the Bible, but I like Ecclesiastes, by way of the Byrds. A time to every purpose. For me, it’s not that there is a lofty meaning to it all. It’s not that everything happens for a reason. It’s simple, the ebb and flow of it. The moon’s nightly work. That’s it.
I watched the water today. I sat on a stone step, and I watched the waves roll in. I think I finally saw horses in the waves. I saw them in the way the water galloped gracefully to the shore and broke, the way it tossed its head and white mane at the crest. I saw in the water and in the liquid movement of horses the undeniable flow of time. It moves, and we move in it. The current changes directions; the horses stampede on.
Still, it’s a wonder we walk into the waves at all. It’s a wonder we don’t all open our mouths wide and drown.
2. Like Russian Dolls
Sometimes I put my hand to my chest and I press until it hurts, just to remind myself of the heaviness of being. Funny how time moves us so lightly, so effortlessly.
Who hasn’t made a decision that has haunted them for years? Who hasn’t been a willing puppeteer? Who hasn’t jerked the strings and watched the puppets dangle? Who hasn’t laughed – silently, loudly – at the desperate swinging movement of puppets?
It’s okay if you don’t want to admit it. We all like to think we are good people. I won’t admit to half the mistakes I’ve made, not out loud, not to myself.
Sometimes I think I have a premium on goodness. What a joke.
All things pass, even the good. Especially the good. We don’t wallow in goodness.
We live our lives inside other lives. He lives his life inside my life. She lives her life inside his. Boxes inside boxes; stacked, we are smaller and smaller and smaller. I crush a butterfly’s wings; you wake up tomorrow and realize you’ve lost everything.
Put your hand to your chest and press. Press until the beat of your heart matches the pulse at his wrist. Press until the throb of her is in you. In this way we know we’re alive. In this way we know we are monsters, in this way we know we are good.
3. The Holy Trinity
I like to write in threes. Three is a divine number. Three is where I find the end.
Three is the number of lives we live – mine, his, hers. On either side of me is a life that I will touch, destroy, save. And on either side of you is a life, and on either side of him is another life, and so on, and so forth. Russian dolls. Puppets on strings. Stacked boxes. Horses and waves and heartbeats. Me and him and her. And so forth.
I know that all things pass. In the three days since I began writing this, much has passed. My friends are happy, now. Their strings have been cut, but they dance and dangle still. Two little Pinocchios. They are in the waves, they are riding the horses. They are triumphant. They have found the good.
Everything passes.
I will sit by the water more often.
All things pass. I’ve said this many times lately. Not just to myself – I say it often enough to myself, it ought to be tattooed across my chest – but, now, to my friends. My friends who are collapsing like marionettes whose strings have been cut. That’s a good simile, I think, if overused. Our lives by the whims of others – maybe a puppeteer named God, maybe the casual glances of strangers, maybe the approval of peers. We live our lives inside other lives. A butterfly flaps its wings in the Amazon; you wake up one day and realize you’ve lost everything.
It’s a wonder we don’t all collapse. It’s a wonder we don’t all cut the strings ourselves.
I like the irony of tattooing the words ‘All things pass’ onto your skin. I shiver thinking about it. It would feel good and right, I think, to dip the needle in ink and draw it across your skin. I think the words would feel good, going in.
I am stuck on the word ‘good’ lately. I’m not interested in the definition of good. I recognize good when I see it. I sense it. I hope I understand it, in a wordless way – a tacit, instinctual kind of way.
All this will pass. All things must pass. To everything, there is a season. I don’t give a damn about the Bible, but I like Ecclesiastes, by way of the Byrds. A time to every purpose. For me, it’s not that there is a lofty meaning to it all. It’s not that everything happens for a reason. It’s simple, the ebb and flow of it. The moon’s nightly work. That’s it.
I watched the water today. I sat on a stone step, and I watched the waves roll in. I think I finally saw horses in the waves. I saw them in the way the water galloped gracefully to the shore and broke, the way it tossed its head and white mane at the crest. I saw in the water and in the liquid movement of horses the undeniable flow of time. It moves, and we move in it. The current changes directions; the horses stampede on.
Still, it’s a wonder we walk into the waves at all. It’s a wonder we don’t all open our mouths wide and drown.
2. Like Russian Dolls
Sometimes I put my hand to my chest and I press until it hurts, just to remind myself of the heaviness of being. Funny how time moves us so lightly, so effortlessly.
Who hasn’t made a decision that has haunted them for years? Who hasn’t been a willing puppeteer? Who hasn’t jerked the strings and watched the puppets dangle? Who hasn’t laughed – silently, loudly – at the desperate swinging movement of puppets?
It’s okay if you don’t want to admit it. We all like to think we are good people. I won’t admit to half the mistakes I’ve made, not out loud, not to myself.
Sometimes I think I have a premium on goodness. What a joke.
All things pass, even the good. Especially the good. We don’t wallow in goodness.
We live our lives inside other lives. He lives his life inside my life. She lives her life inside his. Boxes inside boxes; stacked, we are smaller and smaller and smaller. I crush a butterfly’s wings; you wake up tomorrow and realize you’ve lost everything.
Put your hand to your chest and press. Press until the beat of your heart matches the pulse at his wrist. Press until the throb of her is in you. In this way we know we’re alive. In this way we know we are monsters, in this way we know we are good.
3. The Holy Trinity
I like to write in threes. Three is a divine number. Three is where I find the end.
Three is the number of lives we live – mine, his, hers. On either side of me is a life that I will touch, destroy, save. And on either side of you is a life, and on either side of him is another life, and so on, and so forth. Russian dolls. Puppets on strings. Stacked boxes. Horses and waves and heartbeats. Me and him and her. And so forth.
I know that all things pass. In the three days since I began writing this, much has passed. My friends are happy, now. Their strings have been cut, but they dance and dangle still. Two little Pinocchios. They are in the waves, they are riding the horses. They are triumphant. They have found the good.
Everything passes.
I will sit by the water more often.
Friday, July 3, 2009
A Man in the Glass
It had happened again.
He stumbled to the bathroom. He could hear the soles of his feet drag across the ground. When he crossed the threshold, the cool tile reminded him that his bed had been warm. He paid no mind; it was the devil’s warning. He ran his fingers through his hair. It was unflatteringly wild, and his scalp responded with strange sensations at its displacement. He could smell the burden of the night before heavy on his breath. He stumbled on.
Light poured garishly from the window directly above the sink, on to the alter of good-mornings below. Spanning the entire countertop, the window looked out to the day. It provided the perfect view of the ocean for brushing teeth. Down the hill were a scattering of houses amidst a forest of trees. Then further still, there was a small clump of sand that the locals called a beach, divided informally by a long pier. The sea greeted his eyes as he looked out absently. It sparkled under the same bright, early light as the chrome of his faucet. He forced a sigh from his mind and it burst out his lips in an elongated, lazy “pahhh...”
His heart was tired.
How did he get here, to this side of the glass? He used to be out there. He used to be the laughter you heard on the wind.
Absentmindedly, he reached up from the countertop to touch the warm pane. He had to stretch a bit, it was a long and wide counter. As his arm extended, is body hoisted him on to his tip toes. The rags he wore, with sleeves too short, pulled away to expose his wrists to the un-heated air. His fingertips pierced the beams of sunlight and connected with the window. He closed his eyes. It felt like heaven. He rested like this for a moment, a perfect picture of the devout. His fingers left grease marks.
It wouldn’t be enough, he knew. Nothing would be. But he didn’t care; he had nothing else. He was stuck here, a prison he had built, piece by piece.
He plugged the sink and turned on the tap. His eyes watched the movement of his hand as it went from the glass, to the tap, to the countertop, and his body relaxed. It resigned. His eyes caught a glimpse of a crystal bobble pushed to the side that had been left there eons ago. Dust covered it.
Of course, he had help. There were countless stupid, ignorant people willing to chip in. And the world had always been, beneath its sunny exterior, indifferent to the cause of man.
He hated it. Why did he always do this? Why did he always revert to this? Why wasn’t he stronger? Why wasn’t he braver? Why wasn’t he the man who meant something to himself?
That was enough. He stopped the tap. He lingered, his eyes closing again beneath the crushing weight of his despair. Every moment was a challenge. The water was crisp and cool, he knew. The ideal baptism for a sleepless night. The splash life’s blood across the face refreshed even the most haggard of men. He needed that; it would be enough to keep going. The echo of a last drip ceremoniously reminded him that it was ready.
He bowed his head down to the pristine water. He opened his eyes. He recognized himself.
There it was: the face of a thousand failures. The face of everything he loathed between himself and salvation. Perfect. Seamless. Disgusting. A reflection of his true character – that liquid, insubstantial form. Never firm, never tangible, never real. He could not grip it. He could not hold on to it and cage it; lock it away. He could not tear it from himself. The abyss of his soul.
Everything happened in slow, potent flashes then. He ripped himself from his own gaze in silent loathing. His momentum carried him around in a staggered circle. An angry growl immerged and echoed. His fingers scraped and grabbed. The dusty bobble was thrown. The water was shattered.
And then the colours. Hundreds of shards of fluid mirrors sparkled in mid-flight. The crystal kissed the light in dazzling reds and yellows and purples. A garbled and deformed laughter. All the room in painted perfections.
The cool of the floor on his skin. Escape from the assault above. His hand reached up. The blinds came down.
The room went dark.
He stumbled to the bathroom. He could hear the soles of his feet drag across the ground. When he crossed the threshold, the cool tile reminded him that his bed had been warm. He paid no mind; it was the devil’s warning. He ran his fingers through his hair. It was unflatteringly wild, and his scalp responded with strange sensations at its displacement. He could smell the burden of the night before heavy on his breath. He stumbled on.
Light poured garishly from the window directly above the sink, on to the alter of good-mornings below. Spanning the entire countertop, the window looked out to the day. It provided the perfect view of the ocean for brushing teeth. Down the hill were a scattering of houses amidst a forest of trees. Then further still, there was a small clump of sand that the locals called a beach, divided informally by a long pier. The sea greeted his eyes as he looked out absently. It sparkled under the same bright, early light as the chrome of his faucet. He forced a sigh from his mind and it burst out his lips in an elongated, lazy “pahhh...”
His heart was tired.
How did he get here, to this side of the glass? He used to be out there. He used to be the laughter you heard on the wind.
Absentmindedly, he reached up from the countertop to touch the warm pane. He had to stretch a bit, it was a long and wide counter. As his arm extended, is body hoisted him on to his tip toes. The rags he wore, with sleeves too short, pulled away to expose his wrists to the un-heated air. His fingertips pierced the beams of sunlight and connected with the window. He closed his eyes. It felt like heaven. He rested like this for a moment, a perfect picture of the devout. His fingers left grease marks.
It wouldn’t be enough, he knew. Nothing would be. But he didn’t care; he had nothing else. He was stuck here, a prison he had built, piece by piece.
He plugged the sink and turned on the tap. His eyes watched the movement of his hand as it went from the glass, to the tap, to the countertop, and his body relaxed. It resigned. His eyes caught a glimpse of a crystal bobble pushed to the side that had been left there eons ago. Dust covered it.
Of course, he had help. There were countless stupid, ignorant people willing to chip in. And the world had always been, beneath its sunny exterior, indifferent to the cause of man.
He hated it. Why did he always do this? Why did he always revert to this? Why wasn’t he stronger? Why wasn’t he braver? Why wasn’t he the man who meant something to himself?
That was enough. He stopped the tap. He lingered, his eyes closing again beneath the crushing weight of his despair. Every moment was a challenge. The water was crisp and cool, he knew. The ideal baptism for a sleepless night. The splash life’s blood across the face refreshed even the most haggard of men. He needed that; it would be enough to keep going. The echo of a last drip ceremoniously reminded him that it was ready.
He bowed his head down to the pristine water. He opened his eyes. He recognized himself.
There it was: the face of a thousand failures. The face of everything he loathed between himself and salvation. Perfect. Seamless. Disgusting. A reflection of his true character – that liquid, insubstantial form. Never firm, never tangible, never real. He could not grip it. He could not hold on to it and cage it; lock it away. He could not tear it from himself. The abyss of his soul.
Everything happened in slow, potent flashes then. He ripped himself from his own gaze in silent loathing. His momentum carried him around in a staggered circle. An angry growl immerged and echoed. His fingers scraped and grabbed. The dusty bobble was thrown. The water was shattered.
And then the colours. Hundreds of shards of fluid mirrors sparkled in mid-flight. The crystal kissed the light in dazzling reds and yellows and purples. A garbled and deformed laughter. All the room in painted perfections.
The cool of the floor on his skin. Escape from the assault above. His hand reached up. The blinds came down.
The room went dark.
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