Le Poeme Parle

I was recently invited to recite some poetry, which I've only done a handful of times. The most memorable being at my high school graduation. It was not my best work, but it was poignant and fun. Ultimately, the words were emblazoned in the yearbook, with one grammatical error forever immortalized. C'est la vie.

I'm less inclined to share my poems these days, not because I fear judgment, I'm just hardly ever satisfied. I wonder if movie directors feel this way. I tend to toil, edit, and revise works that I've written years ago. An ungratifying pursuit really, like the covering of a tattoo who's meaning has changed...a bitter sweet and fleeting satisfaction. 

The invitation has me thinking about writing some poems intended solely for reciting. The thought of being able to infuse humor, facial expressions, and dramatic pause is tempting. These elements are lost when words are fettered to paper. When people read your poems, they don't always pause where you want them to, or pronounce a word just so. They conjure different worlds. My words merely a bridge to a place all their own. One in which only their imagination can take them. At times I wish I could go there.

Hearing my words floating through an eager coffee shop like the permeating, hypnotic aroma of a freshly made cappuccino would be magical. Casting a spell on caffeinated hipsters and baby boomers...enticing them not to construct their own worlds with the power of rhyme and metaphorical prose, but to take a ride with me instead. Trusting that while the destination is unknown, the journey would be worth the wait. Well.....at least devoid of grammatical errors.

Speed Racer

The rains here are short lived, but they still flood the streets like the ones from my childhood. It would rain in the tropics for days at a time, leaving children no recourse but to play in it, braving colds, broken glass, tetanus, and tape worms. Although warned, we never thought of such things, but were more concerned with perfecting the slide during muddy soccer games or simply splashing around.

We would dismantle wooden clothes pins and use the cement curbs to sand and shape the heads into a point. The torrential rains would create a fast current between the edges of the roads and the curb which were used as rapids upon which to race our boats. We would yell and cheer them on as we sped barefoot along side them until the end of the street. It never mattered who won. We were too eager to run back to the start line to watch our litte speedboats dunk, spin, and wind through the gray, gushing river over and over again. 

Shotgun Sunday

My last post was on September 15th. I'm making this statement for a couple of reasons. 1) a reminder that it has been over a month since my last post 2) the begininng of a writing exercise 3) as part of a concentrated effort to write something creative everday. 

I sit in an Internet cafe as I type this, watching people. I watch them come in and begin their rituals, reading their faces and deducing from their outfits and accoutrement what their intentions may be. I wonder what each person is writing, reading, or watching on their monitors as the soft digital glow from computer screens gently illuminates their faces. 

I hate my posture and I'm dedicated to improving it with the determination of someone adhering to a new year's resolution, or trying to remove a ring they tried on in a store that is one size too small. After 8 years as a massage therapist and working on hundreds of people, I have witnessed first hand the myriad ways that poor posture can manifest in the body. In fact, I'm sitting up straighter as I type this.

I didn't watch one game of the World Series this year. I wasn't interested. I'm only happy for the city of Boston in that it gave people an opporutnity to come together and deal with the travesty that happened there. Otherwise, I hate the team and am annoyed by most of their fans, particularly their attrocious accent. I realize that it's an unfounded and arbitrary hatred, yet it exists and I cannot ignore it any more than one can act like nothing happened when someone spits on them while talking. I hate them as one might despise cauliflower, or celebrities for adopting African babies. 

I just watched The Dark Knight Rises for the 8th time. I'm still unsure of exactly how I feel about the movie; all I know is that when it's on, I have to watch it. There is a handful of other movies that once they are on the tv I can't stop watching. This phenomenon tends to happen with the Bourne Identity, Shawshank Redemption, Saving Private Ryan, Unforgiven, 300, Gladiator, and just about any movie with Clint Eastwood. 

Well, would you look at that...I've written an entire post. Looks like the writing exercise was a success. Yay me.

Coastal Musings

Surreal indeed... a body part to the ethos of those inexplicable moments of pure heaven in which life overwhelms us; inspires us, cleanses, and melts away worry and angst. Those moments we commune with nature...inhaling atoms that once traversed the bloodstreams of our kin, whose feet tred before ours leaving both imprints in the earth, and in the pool of the universe whose ripples have now returned from whence they started. 

I sit above the ocean as do seagulls floating upon a wind's capricious breath; a feather at the mercy of vicissitude  and chance. Below, the waves' frothy fingers pour over the jagged rock, winding and weaving through the contours of time; cavernous wrinkles upon a swarthy, weathered face caressed and soothed by every breath the ocean exhales. 

I feel lucky in these moments...blessed even. As stressful and as difficult life can be to navigate and comprehend, what is always effortless is the soul's inherent ability and desire to do what it craves most, to be. The sound of waves are soothing, calming, and comforting...pleasant reminders that life, the world, the universe and everything in it is part of something greater, whether by design or accident, that has already been set in motion on an indiscernible direction and path. All we know is that we are an inextricable part of this harmony, residents of the same pool in which all of our actions create ripples that in time, will return to those who set them in motion. Which, logically, leads me to believe that God exists...waiting for us to return.

But this isn't what should concern us...when we create art, when we make love, when we run or cry, or laugh as we splash in water, or when we are tickled...we do not care why. Our souls are expressing themselves as they were intended to; unbridled, naked, unrestrained and without boundaries. In turn, we should not worry about where or when we shall return from whence we came, but let our hearts sing when they are compelled to do so, and enjoy every wave, every gust of wind, every kiss, every caress and let the feather fall where it may. 

Star Trek: Into Darkness

I have three words for you. Benedict Cumberbatch plays the best futuristic, maniacal, kick-ass villain ever! In this next sentence, the one in which I’m about to tell you how I think Star Trek: Into Darkness may be better than Iron man 3, I would normally have a link to the review I have already written about Iron man 3. However, no such review exists yet, thus, there is no link….but the show must go on.

One would think that a man with the name Benedict Cumberbatch would be anything but a futuristic, maniacal, kick-ass villain…..and one would be right. Thankfully his name in the movie is not his real one. Those of you who are fans of the British television show "Sherlock", are familiar with his work and may have possibly been as giddy as I was in the theater waiting for him to appear. Those of you who are not, will still appreciate his commitment to crazy.

Anyway, as I was saying, Into Darkness is a wholesomely entertaining movie that in my opinion, was not as good as the first, but still didn't disappoint. There was just enough action and the story line, while plausible and multifaceted, was still easy to follow. Even the nuances in the development of the intricate relationships between humans and Vulcans was masterful, and well…logical.

I could have done without the Dr.’s plethora of over-acted metaphorical quips, and while I felt there were

some decent moments of comic relief, most of the attempts at humor were a little contrived or poorly timed, an ailment of which the first film surely didn't suffer. I did enjoy the film and was mostly entertained, but I couldn't help thinking that this movie was like the U.S.S. Enterprise with a stalled hyper-drive, floating along the fringes of the galaxy without the ability to warp into greatness.  

Some critics, like the Huffington Post had more to say about the films lack of profit generation and celebrity status, but I find that a movie review commenting solely on a film's box office numbers is sort of like judging an entree by the dessert that follows it. Others like Rotten Tomatoes, reported the movie at a 78%, while audiences rated it at almost 90%. Even though the movie fell a little short of expectations, it's still a fun, sleek, intergalactic thriller worth watching.

In short, those three words I promised earlier sum it up rather well….two thumbs up! 

I love the 80s...

I should be studying right now and working on an assignment that's due at the time after which you should never feed a mogwai, but every cell in my body is fighting it. My mind is literally remembering all the things I've been neglecting to do, and trying to get me to do them. Must. Be. Strong. I have a poem that wants to come out and my blog keeps calling..."Brown, ya no me quieres"...you don't love me anymore.

I just started grad school, and every time I begin an assignment I ask myself what the hell I was thinking when I enrolled (I just noticed there were a lot of I's in that sentence). I suppose gleaning information from charts and graphs that illustrate Health Care Expenditures in the United States since the 1960s will do that to you. I'm up to my eyeballs in health care data. These are the moments I wish I could absorb the information like Johnny 5 in Short Circuit..."Need more input!"

Sorry for those of you who didn't grow up in the 80s and know that reference..."Your battery fluid is leaking!" (sorry, couldn't help myself) Your childhood was not nearly as awesome as mine if you didn't wear a Swatch, collect Garbage Pale Kid cards, watch Wrestlemania, The Cosby Show, The A-Team, Silver Spoons, Remington Steele, Magnum PI, and have at least one of these on your bed spread or pajamas: Star Wars, Pac-Man, Knight-Rider, The Goonies, Smurfs, My Little Pony, Rainbrow Brite, The Snorks, GI Joe, Gremlins, Karate Kid, E.T., or the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.

Yeah, you wish you knew what a Care Bear Stare was.

I'm in the mood to share a poem with you. I hope you don't mind...

Eternal Love

Walk into the tomb my sweet
and fall upon my grave.
Fear not the statued sentries there,
who guard this hallowed cave.

Yet deeper through the dark abyss,
where whispers go off to die.
You’ll find me quietly waiting,
upon a bed of stone I lie.

These catacombs are winding,

chambers fraught with dreams and bone.

Carve softly your name upon the walls,

So I shall never rest alone.

By Brown