Where I've Been...and Where I'm Going

I haven't posted anything in two years. Nearly to date. So much has happened since then. I was once so naive about life. I thought I had a good grasp on the ideas of the human psyche; our very nature; our centers. I was so wrong. Today, I am putting the pieces back together. My creative juices seem to have ceased to exist. I don't know where they went. I have an idea - they left when a man came into my life, stole my thoughts, tore a part my heart, and ran away. He stole my focus. He made me forget. He was my anesthesia to life and my amnesia to my goals. I know I had the choice to leave him, multiple times, and should have. But, as the story goes, I was in love and that, at the time, was more important than anything and everyone else, including myself. Heartbreak makes a soul stronger through weakness. I don't quite understand it yet. But I'm getting there. I guess the best way to fully understand everyone else is to fully understand yourself. I'm looking forward to writing again! I am slowly but surely getting back into the flow of things. My life is starting again, those past chapters are officially closed and I do not plan on ever living them again. The last 6 months have been hard. Excruciatingly so. I've been torn down to a level I never knew I could be brought down to. I've been slammed (figuratively) against the wall and I am just beginning to breathe again. I can feel the phrases coming back. I've begun to keep a piece of paper and pen on hand again. I have found my moments, my creative niche is coming back. I feel the calm I once felt before begin to surround me again. My heart beats slow and I feel more moved than I have in a long time. I was so numb in my idea of what I thought was the feeling of love. Infatuation is the death of love. Never again. I'm so much stronger. I stand tall and I can now find the words to describe the transcendence that I have been feeling more and more over the last few months. I have left the toxicity of my old life and I am bringing back that pureness that I once lived for, strived for. Until my next post, which hopefully will be soon! Lots of love and tons of smiles :) Silke

Eliot Inspired

To set me aside from all others is to be wrong; for I am not different from everyone else and I am not unique. To discuss our individual existence as individual would be incorrect. If You set yourself apart from the rest, You are only casting yourself into another category – those who think that they are different, when in reality, they are like everyone else. For me to believe that I am different, then I am wrong. I must be disproved, because for me to be who I am, I must first look at those before me. For You to believe that you are different and individual is also wrong, and You, too, must be disproved. For either of Us, or any of Us, to believe that each is individual, that each is singular in thought and idea, We are wrong. Humankind is not individual or singular; it is not alone or unique. Humankind is unity, is bonded, is plural, and is alike. The Human race is not quite and thoughtful but loud and provoking. We have not individually proven and discovered knowledge but instead We have proven and discovered together, one after the other, using each other’s knowledge to build a greater knowledge, a greater thought, and ultimately, a greater understanding of who We are. T.S. Eliot once wrote “No poet, no artist of any art, has his complete meaning alone. His significance, his appreciation is the appreciation of his relation to the dead poets and artists. You cannot value him alone; you must set him, for contrast and comparison, among the dead.” The artist is not the only one for whom you must appreciate within a greater scheme. Each is their own, yes, and once in a while, Each presents Everyone with something individual, yes. But if Each isn’t first motivated by the Past who had once also presented something individual, than Each wouldn’t be considered important. Each wouldn’t have seemed important to Everything, for in order for greatness to transpire, We must first know about previous Greatness and what they did. To set me aside, to set You aside, would be wrong. To include, to involve, to unite, and to bond, would be correct.

Sofia's Concerto in Melancholy Minor

Sofia sits in her rocking chair by her dusty pane and listens as her thoughts scream at her and she nods in agreement and mumbles incoherent commentary.
Sofia reaches out and touches her finger tips, suddenly tapping lightly on the pane staring at dust particles – skin’s history – fall to the wooden ledge. Sofia nods, seemingly satisfied
Tap Tap Tap Tap Tap
Tap Tap Tap Tap Tap Tap Tap Tap Tap
Tap Tap Tap Tap Tap Tap Tap Tap Tap
she strums in rhythmic patterns. She is somewhere in her brain, lost in the plains of her mind, caught somewhere between nerve leaps and electrical currents, and visual compliance and temporal existence.
Sofia hears the soft soothing of the violin with the low vibration of a Bb clarinet playing in a soft, tonal accompaniment of the 1st octave below middle C. Harmonies, Sofia sways. The Bass clarinet appears, sharing octaves with a deep, full tidal wave that encompasses the piece and the players.
Finger strums slow and she begins to follow the graceful flow of the black lines, dashes, circles and calligraphic writings.
Tap
Tap tap
Tap tap tap
Tap
Tap
Tap
Tap Tap
Tap Tap
Sofia sees the second chairs watch her, waiting for the nod, the acknowledgement of their part. Swells and high tides, low tides and drowning envelop the players. Sofia breathes and feels music escape, art please her. Energies are thrown back and forth between fingers and strings, keys and fingers. Her head nods,
Tap Tap Tap Tap Tap
Tap Tap Tap Tap Tap
Tap
Tap
second chairs join her and now they tug-of-war, hide-and-seek, red-light, green-light the piece, taking turns at letting each player toss a melody and feel up a vibrato, softly caressing a decrescendo, and climaxing the fermata, sustaining the pleasures of each. Players look at, eyes meet, Sofia’s. Release and sigh in sweet, satisfied resolve.
Soft fall, whisper drop of hand as Sofia’s fingers leave the window pane, the keys of her instrument, the past of her livelihood. Eyes wander, left, right, still, back to center – memory lapse, total recall of falsities.

Brenan once loved Sofia. Brenan stares at a once alive woman and a soft glaze slides across his eyes, remembrance and hatred, guilt and sadness swallowing him, becoming his whole body.
Brenan stares in wonderment at his lover, lost at sea, clashing realities at the doorway. Dare he step in? Dare he exist?
Brenan watches as Sofia rocks, watches as she nods, strums, taps, and comments on her reality. Hesitatingly, steps in.
Brenan stares at Sofia on the stage, the way her dress seems to flow onto the floor, the cascades of silk, the twinkle of her polished keys; Sofia’s nod, soft, empowering. From below, Brenan looks up. Sofia will not see him past the lights. Brenan can judge and love without her knowledge. Brenan sees and lies to himself about the feelings running through his thoughts. Sofia will not know. Ever. Eyes avert to the Bass clarinetist. Beauty radiates from her; the soft rise of chest and exhale of the music that escapes her very center.
Eyes meet, instruments drop softly into laps, and Sofia leads into another piece, another concerto, another solo, another duet, and ultimately, another ensemble. Gracefulness escapes the players, the instrumentalists. The lives of women escape their fingers, dig into keys, and slide across strings, up the bow, and out the bells; women who follow Sofia.

Fingers grasping at the crinkled, sweat-soaked sheets. Whispers of covers sliding underneath and all around the bodies. Soft scratching of fabric against skin as love is transferred from being to being, body to body. Quickly the head is thrown back, the neck is strained, each vein, each curve and bend is exposed; over exposed. Eyes shut so tight, lids are crinkled. White dots appear at the corners of the lips as the mouth is stretched tightly in silent pleasure. Quick part of lips to smile, breathing quickened. Head whips from side to side, hair is long, messy, sweaty, frizzy from sheet static, sex crazed. And it starts. That feeling. From below there is intense tingling, as if being tickled from the inside out, nerves awakening and screaming. Moving up into the belly button and muscle twitch from inside, between legs, followed by many more muscle twitches and pulses. Pan to face and watch it become suddenly relaxed, pleasure known only to the beholder and only imagined to the performer, the entertainer. Chest rising and falling, sharp intakes with each muscle twitch, muscle pull, muscle loosen. Grasping fingers, twisting wrists, tight arms, rigid body, quick, short breathing, mouth wide open, eyes clasped shut, full lips forming not a smile but an “O” and brows are furrowing and head whipping back and forth as hair is heard scraping across the sheets that no longer whisper but scream. Sheets screaming for them and for the mouth that cannot scream because the neck throws back and it strains and the lungs tighten and the stomach not moving and the legs they shake and the muscles twitch and quiver and then it escapes, soft and instantly loud and over and over sung and legs keep shaking and the stomach, it quivers and the brow stays furrowed and the head it bends down towards the stomach and the eyes they open – wide and staring at this moment of incredible pleasure and the neck it throws the head back and lets the throat scream and moan and let out all sound until satisfied. The moans turn into groans which turn into grunts which turn into low growls and outbursts of desire as hips rock and thrust. The covers are floating to the ground and unnoticed. The whispers that became screams are now squeaks of metal on wood and accompanied by momentary spasms of words out of throats that are strained. Foreheads are beaded in sweat and chests are rising, falling, pausing, and rising again. Intakes and exhales –heard sharply within the sanctuary of the room. Moans and passions fly around the room, knocking into lampshades and bouncing off the windows, knocking against the closet doors and skidding across the hardwood floors. Stomach tightens, whites around the mouth appear and give way to open mouth and smiling lips as screams escape and pillows are thrown with a soft thump upon the floors. Sensitive nerves are exposed and touched and teased. Body becomes rigid and shakes, falling just as quickly as it rose into complete and utter satisfied exhaustion.
Brenan remembers the quickness of breath, the way she brought music into every part of their life together. Every movement of hers sang out and every touch like striking a harmonious chord. Sex with her was like listening to Cello Suite No. 1. The energy that emerged between their two bodies – Surpassing love making, it became a creation of energy, a making of another universal, orgasmic, musical, and earthly…something. It, whatever “it” was, was beyond words, beyond Brenan’s comprehension.

Sofia looks out the window, feeling the sun warm her lap and feels the heat of the stage lights, the intense glow that causes her brow to furrow and begins a tiny ache just above her right brow. Sofia’s eyes raise, meet the violinist’s and sparkle with excitement. Their melodious duet that excites the audience and fills the auditorium with fiery energy is felt throughout the fingers that key and the arm that bows, the necks that bow, and the eyes that frantically scan. Each body sway is calculated simultaneously and subconsciously. Sofia follows the staff, the steady paces, and remembers what she saw.
Crescendo to A major, soft touch of fingers to arm, eyes meeting, slight turn of lips, rush of pink cheeks; ritardando of realization; fermata of steady gazes; subito to whisper intake of breath; key change to minor, fermata of loathing. Sofia decrescendos into quiet harmony with the bass clarinet, feeling the slow sadness closing in on her.
The warmth of the sun makes her hands too hot, her palms too clammy, and her brow ache. Eyes avert left, away from dusty panes, and the dark paneling of the wood floors beneath her flowing dress that covers the ground around her chair stare back at her. The heat on her hands, the sweat beads beginning on her forehead. Ovation. Stand. Bow. Walking slowly off the stage, down the steps, touch of fingers on her shoulder, Sofia meets Brenan’s eyes.

Brenan stares at her as she raises her gaze to his. Heart stammers, his lips move in confusion as he attempts to speak to her. Sofia looks into his eyes as she slips underneath his fingers, feeling their soft, calloused pads slide across her shoulder. Suddenly, recognition. Sofia furrows brow and stares at Brenan, accusing him of all she knows to be true. Brenan removes his hand from Sofia’s shoulder and for a slight moment, wonders if Sofia knew. Guilt overtakes him and Brenan looks away, remembering those days in between the covers, but it is not Sofia’s face that he sees under the covers with him.

Sofia walks away and stares into the dusty panes once again. Her reflection shows her face on that night, her sorrow. An unbridled pain that seems to radiate from her very soul tears her heart apart. She lifts her hand into the air, staring out the window and waves a taxi. Sofia opens the cab’s door and climbs into a confined space smelling of thousands of perfumes and an undertone of body odor. Realizing she left her purse back at the hall, she tells the cabbie to turn around. As she runs up the stairs, Sofia runs into Charlotte. Words exchanged but not quite heard. Pleasantries turned to accusations. A shove of the hand, a stumble back, accusations and insults fly around them, a climax of anger and physical exclamation. Sofia stumbles backward and slips. Charlotte screams her name and reaches out in uncontrolled, involuntary muscle movement. The hands that touched Brenan, that betrayed Sofia, that made music with Sofia, reach out to save her.
Falling, she realizes there is nothing she can do but let go, accept that she is falling, that she will end up at the bottom. Charlotte covers her mouth and her eyes, wide with fear, watch as Sofia’s head hits a stair and Sofia somersaults her way down the steps, landing in a contortion of silk and twisted limbs. Brenan runs to the landing, sees Charlotte, sees Sofia, and runs down. Eyes unopened, limp, hardly breathing.

Brenan paces the hallway of the hospital. Knowledge of the damage has put him in a sense of panic. Guilt, happiness, hope, love, hatred, and loathing fill him. He had an affair, he hurt Sofia, but perhaps now he will be able to be with Charlotte, perhaps now he will be rid of Sofia and he doesn’t have to tell her. But how does he leave a woman who radiates beauty like her? How does he look at her, helpless, and walk away? He hates Sofia for making him feel this way. Paces stop. How could he hate her? What has she done? Karma has taken this out on her as a punishment for him. Hesitated resolve. Choice made. He must stay. Brenan breathes a sigh of guilted relief.

Sofia moves her hand to her head, feeling the loose braid that was put there, but does not remember by whom. She runs her fingers along her right temple. Fingers glide across a scar, but they do not recognize the skin, smooth now, once rough. Fingers fall with soft whisper back into the lap, the chair continues to rock, and Sofia stares out the dusty pane, into the sun, past her reflection, and into the audience of the concert hall. Eyes on her, she meets those of the violinist’s and with a slight nod, Sofia’s fingers lift to the pane, keying her solo, creating music, waiting for her duet to start and the bass clarinetist to join with the second chairs
Tap
Tap Tap Tap
Tap Tap
subito pianissimo.

Written While Listening to Cello Suite No. 1

Oh my God. She said, Oh my God, I thought that was a joint. Hahahaha. I replied. I looked down at the produce sticker I had taken off my Braeburn apple and rolled unconsciously into Yes, you guessed it, a very small, very miniature, but perfect imitation of, a joint. Hahahaha. I can see that, I say. Sitting here, without my laptop battery charger, checking my battery power in the top right corner of my task bar, I keep reminiscing about last night’s special brownie that he gave me and the giant joint he rolled for us that I smoked half of and she smoke the other half. I keep thinking about the burn, the sweet stench that only Mary Jane, Mary-J, MJ, whatever you wish to call it, can call claimsies to. I remember the dancing. The screaming and sliding around on the hardwood floors. “Jeremiah was a bullfrog! Da-da DA!” I smirk and glance nervously around the café to make sure no one saw me laugh like a crazy person. I remember when he (her boyfriend) came in and then he (the roommate that I’m dating but not, more like “friends” but not, so fuck buddies but potential) walks in and I’m high from the giant joint and high from the brownie so I’m stoned, he says. You’re stoned, he said. Hahahaha. Yeh, I reply. I’m stoned, yes, I think. I continue to watch Steve Carell. God, what a hairy Zeus. I want to worship his body. 40 Year Old Virgin could not have been better cast. He’s hot, I say. I smoked pot last night, he states. I turn around. I smoked it I took three hits from him. I’m open mouthed, agape, flabbergasted. I can’t believe he did that. Somehow he is less attractive. I’m scared now. But more turned on by the fact that my stoned hormones are now fiery and horny, burning a pleasurable, tingling hole through the walls of my vagina and I want to hop on his lap and pull his shirt off and trace his tattoo, Hail Mary Full of Grace, from collar bone left to collar bone right, run my finger down his stomach and under his pants. I want to surprise him and have him put me under him, take my shirt off, admire my breasts, I know they’re great, I’m not vain, everyone says they are. I see him kiss my neck, my chest, my bra line, nudge the fabric away and kiss me, trail down my stomach and tease me. No kissing, he doesn’t kiss. Fuck buddies. But he’ll thank me for sleeping because it gets lonely sometimes. Potential. In the morning he’ll sleep til noon or after and I’ll lay awake from sunrise til sunshine peak alone with him snoring. Adorable. “Friends.” All this I imagine in horny bliss while sitting on the chair a foot from the TV with the hot Steve “Zeus” Carell and he is behind me on the bed, my mouth still agape in turned on aw and they are standing laughing at my face and he shakes his head, gulps from his Coors Light and smiles at me. His nose is broken. He drinks too much. He’s an addict. Or was. Is? I don’t know how this wording works. His forehead is too big, his hair receded, tall which is nice but red in the face which is sunburn I think? and he is kind of rude but has a great laugh and he smells amazing and I love that when I go home I smell like him for a little while longer and if I sleep under his covers and on his pillow and against his skin and tangle our legs and lay upon his chest I leave the next day smelling all day like him and I like it but I don’t because I know I shouldn’t. You have a pattern she told me. You have a pattern my mom said. They are all alike, all the guys. I know this to be true, but while I sit in my chair and watch him and analyze, scrutinize, dramatize, and fantasize him all while stoned I don’t care because I like him and I know it may be a pattern but it’s him and I like all of him, not parts of him, and I’m attracted to him and he is me. We may not kiss or hug or hold hands but I have tons of apathy and I get it because that’s what I do I see the other side not judge and I go back and I call because I like sex and especially when I’m high and horny and he doesn’t like me high because I can’t possibly like myself high, right? but I do and I don’t give a flying fuck what he thinks because I like myself, except not and he can see that I don’t I’m sure because he’s smart and has a degree and drives a nice car I mean truck (the last has nothing to do with the proceeding) and I like sex with him in all positions and I wish he would kiss me but then that would be bad, right? I’m not sure, I think it would. But it doesn’t matter because I want to lay in his bed and though he doesn’t hold me like I wish he would it is nice, he is right, it is nice to lay next to someone, just to know that the bed made for two, which usually holds just one, is filled with two and four arms and four legs and 20 toes and 20 fingers and two hearts and four lungs. You’re wild he said. Hahaha What do you mean? I am sly and know what he meant but he turns around, naked, on the edge of the bed, stares at me, naked, with my hair sex-crazed and frizzy and I know I look hot and he I’m sure is thinking the same, and he smiles and says You know what I mean and I do, I know what he means. But I want to hear it confirmed. I remember all this, visualize on this, in a chair, in his bedroom (not his but the boyfriend, not my boyfriend/friend/fuck buddy/potential but hers), still staring he thinks they think I’m stoned out of my mind but I’m in my mind right mind, sober mind with stoned tinglies and I’m reminiscing/fantasizing about his penis and my vagina becoming friends and sure enough I’m horny and though we move to his room we do nothing but watch McClintok You like Westerns? Yes I do. I love John Wayne I reply and we continue to glance and stare at each other, smile and laugh at each other, small talk, high talk with each other, and I leave I don’t look at him because I want to jump on him and so I say Bye with my eyes out the door, my body in his fingers and I get in my car and I leave and I wish and then I want McDonald’s Hotcakes.

21

March 3, 1989
I was born. It's amazing how fast years can fly by and still memories of childhood seem like they were only yesterday, but yet what I had for breakfast yesterday morning does not even ring a bell. How fast and yet how slow these years have gone by me. I of course have regrets, but I think that I have grown from my mistakes and misunderstandings. I wish I could go back to the playground and play tag and hide and seek. Instead, if I go back to the playground, it is to return to those days only in thought upon a bench while I watch other children create their own memories.
I often think about life, not just mine, but the whole life in general and I wonder what it is that makes it so beautifully terribly wonderfully terriffyingly amazing? I think it's all the terrible moments, all the incredibly sad moments, all the horrendous moments that make us stronger. Every time I experienced one of these moments, I soon experienced some of the happiest moments of my life. I couldn't resist the laughter and smiles that encased my very being. And now today all I do is laugh and smile. I see the good in every day, every moment, and every person I encounter. My life has been full of ups and downs, obstacles, and dead ends, but I have come this far and I believe that I have so much to look forward to, as long as I keep in mind the past and what I have learned, I only have a bright future ahead and many more things to learn.
Is it possible to slow down time? Tonight as I head out with my friends to go downtown for the first time, I want to freeze frame moments and relive every sensation from the night. I wish I could freeze frame memories and certain moments, capture conversations and exact feelings. Tonight, as I head out, I will keep this in mind. I need to remember to smile and to laugh. Even if I trip or fall or meet someone great, I need to remember to smile and to laugh and to accept each moment and action as meant to be.

Almonds

This look of sultry, “please fuck me,” “I dare you to make an advance,” escaped her pupils. But it wasn’t just her pupils that forced me to freeze, solitary and astute in one my place. It was the perfect almond shape that slightly squinted, unblinking. It was when the almonds, draped in thick black, long, curled lashes slowly dropped and suddenly I was released from their bondage, but only for a lifelong second. When they lifted and parted once one long black line and suddenly, carefully two, they captured me and tied me up and held me, standing right there in my spot, unmoving, still, silent, hard. And oh, how those almonds knew. They laughed at me and taunted me; they questioned me and challenged me. They begged me and pushed me. They harnessed me, kept me, beckoning my every molecule and pore. It was the way the corners of the tear drops dipped down into her nose, almost giving an illusion of her eyes heading in separate directions, taking off, with me left alone and unsatisfied, confused and abandoned. She saw me, knew me, and was way ahead of me in this game of uncomfortable pleasurable torture. I grew hot as she continued to stand there, in all her beauty, but seeing none of her, only the almonds. The brown quicksand in her irises caught hold of my feet and sucked me in with no opportunity for escape. I was helpless, fearless. The lashes moved up and down, sizing me up. Just above the almonds was a perfect plain of smooth prairie brown, with an umbrella cover of black, just hovering, slightly arched in questioned ponders, but hungry for the kill. Trekking across the prairies again, back into the thick vines of my capturer, I stepped into the quicksand and let myself sink. I watched as she caught my steady resolve and her head slightly tilted, her curled curtains slightly framing the right side of God’s canvas, His best work. Almonds narrowed to slits in daring fashion, ready to pounce on any movement not allowed. She laughed through the black pupils, the tear drop corners, the umbrella plains and brown prairies, the black lined vines, and through my own saucers. She walked towards me, advancing on her prey.

The West

What does the west represent to you? Freedom. Opportunity. Anti-conformity. Clean slate. But when we look really close at the ideal west for many immigrants, we see the west is none of this, because with freedom comes boundaries, laws, fights, and bondage. With opportunity comes failure. With anti-conformity comes conformity to new social norms created by the new westerners. Clean slate is accompanied by dirty pasts and hidden truths; new lives waiting to be dirtied. The west is just an ideal, but the west is no different than the east. The east is the west’s future, the west is the east’s past. When the east was first discovered, it too was the frontier. The west is now the last frontier only because we have not finished civilizing the area; we will not finish either because of federal laws protecting the lands. Therefore, the ideal west no longer exists, does it? It no longer is the true west because the true west is undiscovered and truly free. This west is bound and shackled by law to be free.