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.

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!