Humpty Dumpty

As I sat on my patio this morning sipping coffee and reading my new book, Trevor Noah's "Born a Crime", I heard a cacophony of little birds chirping just above. One doesn't need to be from the jungles of Panama to discern that these frantic signals were not jubilation, but an alarm of danger. Seconds later, the ominous bully descended upon the tree's canopy, his black wings flapping aggressively like loose window shutters in a hurricane.

Determined to put up a fight, the little birds desperately chirped louder, flying frantically from branch to branch attempting to confuse and startle the dark invader. The crow remained stoic and unexcitable, calmly surveying the maze of branches and leaves while the tree's inhabitants flurried about in desperation. Looking up from my book, I sat paralyzed as I pondered the possibility of intervening. Should I let nature take its course, or attempt to help the birds defend their home?

While initially letting the universe unfold as it may, in the end, I decided I didn't like the menacing crow causing a raucous and disturbing the birds, even if their chirping often wakes me up well before my alarm is set to go off. Feeling a sense of kinship with my neighbors, I stood up and shouted at the crow and waved my book as intimidatingly as one can from 15 feet below in pajama pants and a cardigan. I'm certain the woman pushing a stroller as she walked by thought I was crazy...certainly wouldn't be the last time I'm sure.

Despite our synchronous teamwork, the ruse proved futile. As though a hand reaching in to a shallow, brook to retrieve a shiny gem, the crow's beak plucked a nest I hadn't noticed from a branch and absconded to a nearby rooftop with its prize. I had acted too late. Disappointed, I sat back down, but kept my eye on the bird as I watched it shake apart the expertly crafted nest to sift through its contents. Luckily, nothing fell out. I smiled sipping the last of my coffee, and after I was certain the bird noticed that I was giving him the stink eye, I returned to the memoir of a baby born to interracial parents during apartheid....a much calmer affair indeed.

I have since left my perch on the patio, but can still hear the birds. Their chatter seems to have calmed a bit, and now sounds like spouses arguing in a flooded basement over not having purchased the "other house". Surely the female bird was right...as is usually the case in these domestic disputes. I assume her partner will have a long day of reassembling what remains of their tousled abode. On the bright side, they didn't lose anything far more difficult to replace...although the male bird's ego did look a little worse for wear.

The Promise and the Vow

Slowly down the rabbit's hole a promise went to hide,
behind it pushed a solemn vow burying them deep inside.

Therein the tunnel's eye, the world began to spin,
and so began a falling rain, deep and dark as sin.

Sanguineous the pelting drops, that fell upon the earth.
until a raging crimson flood, drowned hope....and love...and mirth.

Now but barren lands of ash, with chambers dry as bone,
the promise crept up towards the sky, from its solitary home.

Upon a glance of dust and desert, anguish crossed his face,
for eternal love had been the vow, who had disappeared without a trace.

Evanescence

She stands in the kitchen when I arrive, her back to the world.
Her frame is elegant and she toils quietly…
as though a grooming leopard in a large tree.

Afternoon rays flow through the squinting blinds and set her aglow.
I’m drawn to her…she senses my presence and I notice her shoulders relax.
I hold her close, an embrace that never seems long enough.
She purrs softly as our bodies melt into one another.

I smile, slowly imbibing her scent: natural, sensual, with a hint of uncertainty.
Her skin feels warm like a smooth pebble basking in the sun.

Her hair is soft upon my cheek. The fine, curly hairs
that freed themselves from behind her ear tickle my nose,
and sway under my exhale like dandelions in the wind.

My heart beats steadily beneath a cage of sinew and bone,
but she does not know it wishes to erupt.
I tighten my squeeze as if to unite our forms,
hoping that she is comforted in this moment.

I wonder if my arms can shield and protect her like the jungle's canopy.

Before I can decide, I notice her perch is empty...

I catch but a glimpse of her tail, as she retreats into the shadows.

Life

We’ve been in one of the worst droughts in history. On my way out of work today I noticed it was raining outside. Not the usual, lazy and short-lived drizzle that teases the parched earth, but a hearty, heavy rain that causes rushing currents that sweep the streets, wiping things anew. It was beautiful, like the sultry walk of a woman from whom you’ve been away for a long time. As she saunters towards the bed, the morning beams slanting through the window set her legs aglow, while the breeze gently plays with the bottom of the dress shirt she borrowed. The coalescence of familiarity and magnetism in this moment makes you smile, wanting both for the feeling to never end, but also to be replayed over and over again in slow motion like the melodic nostalgia of your favorite song on repeat.

I admired the vigor with which it fell. A coworker stood beside me for what seemed like a half an hour. At first we shared short vignettes of the last time either of us had seen such a downpour, and the places we had lived where similar displays were commonplace. Afterwards, we stood in perfect silence…only the sound of raindrops throwing themselves upon the window could be heard. The world before our eyes glistening wet like the fading watercolors on a painting being sprinkled with tears.

The ride home was not as evocative, but equally dazzling. The rain had been accompanied by lightening and strong winds that bullied the weak and sun battered trees who lacked the strength to entrench themselves against the onslaught. Sirens flared and police cars blocked streets, while highway ramps were littered with debris, fallen branches, and toppled trees. Parking lots were peppered with growing puddles and once hurtled shopping carts that lay on their sides as though dying cattle. Thunder rumbled its warning in the distance like an angry god.

I was reminded that life is never without this quintessential display of duality, in one moment a nostalgic flirtation, a venerated remembrance, an appreciation of nature’s ineffable talents. On the other, a reminder of our vulnerability through a breathtaking exhibition of nature’s might as though we were mere game board pieces helplessly being scattered about…falling where we may.

Butterfly Effect

I love movies. The visual art of story telling. The depiction of raw emotion, life, and circumstance. The quintessential portrayal of detailed, human expression. I immerse myself entirely...feeling the weight of despair, the weightlessness of space, a tree's leaves being gently carried across the screen, a pencil's scratching upon the surface of paper, a freckled smile, the sound of lips. Details, which in and of themselves, can hurl atoms through space, causing worlds to collide.

I saw two great movies this weekend. Gravity and Blue is the Warmest Color. While I normally would write an entire blog post dedicated to a single film, both of these movies, which are polar opposites, evoke similar feelings. Thus, I am compelled to address them together. One was a film about an engineer's experience in space, as well as her personal struggle, the inability to let go of a past trauma. I found it poignant and simultaneously fascinating that her experience was so traumatic and indelible, that she was unable to let go of it even in the most remote, quiet and vast locales imaginable. To carry a weight so heavy that even in the vacuum of space's weightlessness you cannot wiggle from underneath it, is a powerful thought.

Conversely, Blue carried with it a weight we've all had to bear, and with which we are intimately familiar....that of breaking up, or losing our first love. The parallel of helplessness in both movies was palpable and salient, even though the path of each female protagonist was, for lack of a better description, on entirely different tangents. One, a young woman gripping with the harsh realities and intricacies of maturation, sexuality, and the dynamic of relationships while navigating the emotional oceans of life. The other, of a woman who's life has lost all meaning and is devoid of feeling, except for one that blinds her to even the magnificence of a bird's eye view of our amazing planet. Both characters faced the eminent danger of losing air or being eternally lost in the cosmos at any moment.

Both movies were fantastic, equally moving, and powerful. Admittedly, however, they are a little stressful, but entirely worth it. Just be warned that Blue is a French film with subtitles, and has a few scenes of graphic nudity that can only be found on Cinemax or HBO. Also, it's just shy of being 3 hours long.

Although I've never been in space to watch a sunset, to witness the glow of Aurora Borealis hovering over the North Pole, or to bask in the radiance of infinite stars and the blue shimmering brilliance of Earth...I hope that if given the chance, I shall choose to stop and appreciate the view.

I hope death is as quiet
as I imagine it. 
No mourners to and fro. 
No Dante,
no 9 circles of Hell, 
or creaking
across my soul.
Polite and purposeful
like a waitress filling my cup,
or a shiny beetle trekking across my lapel 
calculating with speech,
choosing her words
as though each
were expensive fruit
or a frail and brittle antique.
Graceful and elegant
devoid of riddles
precise and thoughtful, 
cognizant of time's reach
and slow, steady heartbeat.
Come quickly madame,
but stay only a while
cradling my head
as you peer in my eyes.
Hum your lullaby
and conjure your muse
as sleep descends
from starry skies.

By Brown

Olympic Trials part two: Leaping towards finality

Many years had passed since I had given up my aspirations to be an olympic bobsledder, and amazingly I still hadn't pushed my little sister into oncoming traffic, nor had I bled out or gotten rabies due to her unparalleled penchant for biting. In fact, we had been getting along better than usual...enough even to stand each other's presence long enough to play a game; to my little sister, a game of tag. In my eyes, however, training for olympic hurdles.

I have a lean build. Long wiry legs, but endowed with enough fast-twitch muscle fibers that I've always been fast and graceful...not unlike a gazelle, sans the face paint or gaudy head dress of course. Even at the age of 12, I knew that olympic hurdlers and I had something in common, and while becoming an olympic bobsledder was a noble pursuit, the lack of ice in the tropics, or appropriate equipment, would make it a challenging journey. Consequently, I had decided that I could hurtle myself to fame and fortune without a sled.

As our little "game" of tag progressed, I realized that I had egregiously underestimated my little sister's own fast twitch muscle fibers, and found that she was consistently within reach of my shadow...a distance I was determined to lengthen. I ran into the den, leaping over a futon, initiated a shake and bake maneuver around the entertainment center and my Dad's disheveled yet sophisticated network of extension cords and cables, and then I darted towards our older sister's room at the end of the long hallway.

I had to think fast, and I figured I could leap over my sister's bed and that would be enough to solidify my superior quickness and improvisational skill. I could see the finish line and one last hurdle to navigate. My little sister was so unbelievably close behind that I could feel her breath upon my neck. As planned, and like a antelope leaping over a fallen comrade, I cleared the bed, but sensed it hadn't created enough distance and the only way to finish this for good would be to entrap her in the room. After all, who can chase you behind a closed door? As I bolted from the room, I swung the door quickly in order to stymie the little speed demon's pursuit, but instead of the familiar sound of a slamming door, I heard the unmistakable sound of wood impacting a human skull.

Although the sounds was distinct and identifiable even at my age, the reality of what had just happened really didn't sink in until I heard the screaming. And not the I stubbed my toe, or even cut my finger kind of screaming, but the "oh my god I'm bleeding profusely and may not make it to see my next birthday" kind of screaming. As I doubled back to investigate, I saw what appeared to be the bludgeoning of a baby seal. Our older sister, who had been showering, was summoned by the screams, and stood before us dumbfounded and dripping wet.

Before I could entirely process what had transpired, my sister's head had been wrapped in quickly soaking towels and was carried away to the hospital leaving a trail of blood droplets along the shiny marbled tiles, the image of white towels turning pink to be forever seared into memory. I was left behind to mop up the mess and to ruminate, once again, over the fact that I may have killed my little sister...for real.

Needless to say, my olympic dreams were thwarted for good, and now I watch them on tv knowing the true extent of the difficulties one must overcome to accomplish such a feat. I don't know if I'll ever reconsider olympic aspirations, but at least for the meantime, writing is pretty safe. At least for my little sister anyway.