Writing, Running, Being.

The finish line is a shifty Thing and what is life, but reckoning?
Ani DiFranco

Friday, June 9, 2006

Red Cloud

In 6th grade I made fun of Ben in art class because he colored his cloud red. Years later at his wake I knelt over his dead body. I stared half in anger and half in disbelief at the excessive amount of makeup someone had slathered over his face in order to conceal the grey tinge that death can leave on one's complexion . Ben never wore makeup. I thought to myself: If his soul gets wind of this there will be a haunting like this funeral home has never seen before. I wanted to rip through his crisp white buttondown shirt (Ben would have never worn that) and put my hands through that self-inflicted bullet wound that lay underneath. I wanted to make sure it was real and abate the voice in my head that kept reminding me of Huckelberry Finn. Ben was always so funny...
The next day I hung my head at his funeral as Father David assured us that Ben would probably make it to Purgatory (at least). That was the last time I recieved Communion. I spent the next few years searching (unsuccessfully) for a more lenient god. I have since discovered Colorado and found Peace that no sermon can provide. I have felt here, a sense of belonging that joining hands in prayer with fellow church goers cannot transcend. I have seen skies and clouds of all colors, including red. I am an artist now, and although I rarely paint clouds myself, I cringe when others use white.

Wednesday, June 7, 2006

reading between the lines we failed to draw

I would like to know the psychogalvantics of kissing. It seems to occur only when there is nothing to say, or nothing left to say. What though, do you expect to find inside my mouth that is tangible and capable of being scooped up by your tongue? The biomechanics of a kiss are so strange... what is it that compels you to drive your tongue aggressively through my lips? What propels the eager ransacking of my mouth? What are you trying to take from me? What are you trying to give? Perhaps it is just a displaced human hunger...
You spoke of loss and the need to win and I noted the screaming correlation between the two. You spoke of the rejection you recieved from loved ones. The cold righteous hands steering you away from yourself were incentive to rebel and through kissing you renounce those hands and their efforts to change you. And now you are searching for the love you lost in places that you and I both know you didn't leave it. Of all the ways you've tried to reach people, only one will affirm that the message was heard. Felt. Understood. If I kiss back you have succeeded in forcing someone to acknowledge you.
And I sopke of trickery and fraud. I told you how I used to call it love when really it's need and how I mistakenly interpreted a need for love and how I heard that word over and over with strong hands wrapped around my throat. By recieving your tongue I am saying that I have learned nothing from those hands. That I am as easily and willingly manipulated as ever. Each time I kiss back I try to convince myself that this time it will mean nothing and I will leave here as nonchalant as I came, carrying with me that smug, cannibalistic satisfaction that comes from stealing something from someone. I tell myself that I will leave here glowing with complacency and the primitive "get yours" mentality. But this has not been the case thus far.
"Survival of the fittest" has recently evolved into "survival of the heartless" and I drive home with all the windows down in hopes that mine will fly away so I can finally stop losing. I am hoping mine will fly away so I may come back tomorrow night with no qualms about using you...and the rest of your body.