Monday, December 17, 2007

With One Cheek on the Concrete

anthropomorphize (an-thruh-puh-MOR-fyz) verb tr., intr.

To attribute human qualities to things not human.


Suddenly, swiftly, the gun-cock unclicks and I collapse to the floor in a clump of relief. The cloaked assassin exits--who was he? how did he find me?--and the door thuds in his wake. A manifestation of his already wooden punctuation.

I curl, nearly touch my knees. Nothing so cold as now, nothing so sweet as soon. My eyes burn, open or closed, and each breath grasps for itself, never reaching. I feel, with the damp tip of my tongue, each new crease in my lips like stitches on a baseball. I sweat. I gurgle inquiries from innards and come up empty.

But even half awake, a witness to my own life in tilted sepia tone, I still see my shadow. I still block some light from view. I still encompass some measurable form, still hold weight. I do, I still do.

I exist.

Friday, December 14, 2007

Partly Cloudy, Awaiting Snow

shank's mare (SHANGKS mare) noun

One's own legs. Also known as shank's pony.


I'm standing in a thick tub of Almost Finished. I'm close to finalizing my application, I'm close to leaving for the holidays, I'm close to two or three projects in January.

I just accepted an invitation to join a theater company and making that experience its own blog for the New Year.

Overall, today, with Built to Spill rhythms chugging from home-stolen-for-workplace speakers, I am excited about all my endeavors. I suddenly feel...achieving. The creative aches never dissipate, but that makes me me. It's not a noble thing, it's not about the greater good, or good at all. Occasionally, I just get flashes of who I really am, and where I find joy. That's all it really is. Following my mostly invisible eponymous avenue.

This is a gear shift.

Don't give in to the Bitter Culture Machine, the consuming strain of cultivating sensibility through the fictions of dollar signs and their ever-present depictions of wealth and possibility. We are our own creations, we are our own connections. There are, too, etched-in names and carved reliefs on the inside of prison walls.