As I climb the stairs I hear the alluring sounds of a guitar and voices coming down from the porch. I creak the door open and the cold rush of night air hits my face. My friends are sprawled around the deck - some cuddled under blankets, some lying on chaises. In the centre our two performers sit, singing about the pumped-up kicks of some other kids. The song ends as I sit down, but we pick back up with another one advertising our swagger.
We shed mutual tears as the newest addition to our group sings a lament about a footballer. My warbling croak joins in for the chorus of "Wonderwall". Despite the musical ineptitude of most of our number, we manage to contribute to the songs in some form or another. In our melodic interruption of the night we have found peace. And even the most distressed of us are happy.
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Monday, June 6, 2011
The Road to Insanityland
It's terribly difficult to watch clouds when it's overcast. Not for lack of clouds, just for lack of distinction between them.
The man from the house behind me walks past, gawking slightly at the strange girl lying on his front lawn. I wave and he waves back. I like him.
This insane serenity I feel now is distinctly different from the mad fervor with which I was running through the streets just a few seconds ago. I hope for their sake that any nearby children escaped the string of foul-mouthed-ness that accompanied my sprint. Probably not.
The incessant buzzing in my pocket briefly pulls me back to sanity. I laugh into a black box, and it laughs back with me. Someone walks down the street towards me.
And then everything is okay because it's raining grass.
The man from the house behind me walks past, gawking slightly at the strange girl lying on his front lawn. I wave and he waves back. I like him.
This insane serenity I feel now is distinctly different from the mad fervor with which I was running through the streets just a few seconds ago. I hope for their sake that any nearby children escaped the string of foul-mouthed-ness that accompanied my sprint. Probably not.
The incessant buzzing in my pocket briefly pulls me back to sanity. I laugh into a black box, and it laughs back with me. Someone walks down the street towards me.
And then everything is okay because it's raining grass.
Smooshing
Everything's right again
It's the only thing I can think as I pull my blankets tighter
For May it's far too cold
But at this point I couldn't care less
Not when the order of the universe has been restored so perfectly
And yet there is still one thing wrong with this picture
The distance holds me back
A bridge burned by ancient stupidity
Mistakes made before I knew regrets
And so with this I close my eyes and sleep
A man stands over me
His body obscured by math
He slowly sighs and turns away
Lamenting time and acknowledging perfection
There's justice in this scene filled with almonds and blueberries
A dream of a morning
The morning after a dream
Everything's right
It's the only thing I can think as I pull my blankets tighter
For May it's far too cold
But at this point I couldn't care less
Not when the order of the universe has been restored so perfectly
And yet there is still one thing wrong with this picture
The distance holds me back
A bridge burned by ancient stupidity
Mistakes made before I knew regrets
And so with this I close my eyes and sleep
A man stands over me
His body obscured by math
He slowly sighs and turns away
Lamenting time and acknowledging perfection
There's justice in this scene filled with almonds and blueberries
A dream of a morning
The morning after a dream
Everything's right
Grounders
Within sight of the playground, the running starts. Quickly, I cover my nose with my hand and join in the chorus of "shotty not"'s. We turn around to see which of our friends has been chosen as the blind pariah for this round. Thankfully, it is not me. I elect to forgo my crappy sandals for the added agility of bare feet.
Together, we scatter onto the equipment. Many of us choose to stand on the various platforms situated around the playground. One hangs dangerously off the side, reminiscent of another paragon of acrobatics I know. I choose to run across to the monkey bars, wincing slightly at the feel of woodchips between my toes. The trolls of the group start their catcalling. The game has begun.
For several rounds I perch at the top of my hideout, celebrating the remarkable agility of some friends and the brazen daring of others. Then, the friend who is it turns toward my spot. I'm trapped. Attempting a tricky maneuver, I jump away from the reaching hands and land on the other side of the bars. I am successful, but the vibrations have alerted my friend to my presence. I scramble backwards. I jump over his hands. My bare feet slip against cold steel, and I am falling...
Together, we scatter onto the equipment. Many of us choose to stand on the various platforms situated around the playground. One hangs dangerously off the side, reminiscent of another paragon of acrobatics I know. I choose to run across to the monkey bars, wincing slightly at the feel of woodchips between my toes. The trolls of the group start their catcalling. The game has begun.
For several rounds I perch at the top of my hideout, celebrating the remarkable agility of some friends and the brazen daring of others. Then, the friend who is it turns toward my spot. I'm trapped. Attempting a tricky maneuver, I jump away from the reaching hands and land on the other side of the bars. I am successful, but the vibrations have alerted my friend to my presence. I scramble backwards. I jump over his hands. My bare feet slip against cold steel, and I am falling...
The Poem
The girl gazed quietly at her masterpiece. It was the product of hours spent madly typing at her computer; a contemporary poem about Death, The Human Condition, and Man's Isolation from god. Scrolling down, she surveyed the piece for things to fix. There were none. It was perfect.
She clicked the print button and eagerly rushed over to grab each crisp page as it rolled out over the printer. The first few pages were her artist's statement, which explained in detail all of the intricacies of the poem. How the girl's bald head represented her exclusion from society. How her disease was a symbol of the hatred she felt for humanity. How the tears she cried every night at the despondency of her situation were a hidden reference to her alienation from god. Her teacher had always loved her work; the girl felt for sure that this time she would win a prize. Genius like her poem deserved to be recognized.
It didn't bother the girl that she had never met a cancer patient in her life. It didn't bother the teacher the next day when she showed him how arrogant the girl had been to assume she understood perfectly what it felt like to be dying. The girl won her prize, because from one non-cancer patient to another it made perfect sense.
Several weeks later, the girl sat down to write at her computer again. She was debating whether to write about an orphaned Peruvian boy who was about to lose his native homeland to oil developers or about a starving Ethiopian mother dying of AIDS. She decided on the Ethiopian - after all, what did she know about Peru, really? At least she had heard news reports about recent uprisings in Ethiopia. Or was that Egypt? She couldn't remember, so she just turned back to her next masterpiece.
She clicked the print button and eagerly rushed over to grab each crisp page as it rolled out over the printer. The first few pages were her artist's statement, which explained in detail all of the intricacies of the poem. How the girl's bald head represented her exclusion from society. How her disease was a symbol of the hatred she felt for humanity. How the tears she cried every night at the despondency of her situation were a hidden reference to her alienation from god. Her teacher had always loved her work; the girl felt for sure that this time she would win a prize. Genius like her poem deserved to be recognized.
It didn't bother the girl that she had never met a cancer patient in her life. It didn't bother the teacher the next day when she showed him how arrogant the girl had been to assume she understood perfectly what it felt like to be dying. The girl won her prize, because from one non-cancer patient to another it made perfect sense.
Several weeks later, the girl sat down to write at her computer again. She was debating whether to write about an orphaned Peruvian boy who was about to lose his native homeland to oil developers or about a starving Ethiopian mother dying of AIDS. She decided on the Ethiopian - after all, what did she know about Peru, really? At least she had heard news reports about recent uprisings in Ethiopia. Or was that Egypt? She couldn't remember, so she just turned back to her next masterpiece.
Ode To Evil Dragon
Inspired by http://verymarykate.com/
Oh evil dragon, greatest of state birds
Thy beauty is renowned throughout the land
And I await whene'er your voice is heard
When I take drugs or other contraband
Your glowing orange eyes, they shine like suns
Your scaly skin is blacker than black things
You aid those presentations I find hard
As dragons come you are the greatest one
And yet you are, am discovering
No other than my faithful bodyguard
Oh evil dragon, greatest of state birds
Thy beauty is renowned throughout the land
And I await whene'er your voice is heard
When I take drugs or other contraband
Your glowing orange eyes, they shine like suns
Your scaly skin is blacker than black things
You aid those presentations I find hard
As dragons come you are the greatest one
And yet you are, am discovering
No other than my faithful bodyguard
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
Childhood Memory
I sat quivering, my arms tightly clutching massive armrests and my legs kicking the soft cushions of my seat. I turned to face my friend Meaghan, who was also squealing with excitement behind her bag of popcorn. Our mothers eyed each other skeptically over our heads. When the lights finally dimmed Meaghan and I huddled together and watched painted Chinese brushstrokes move across the screen. The next ninety minutes were an adventure across ancient China, filled with songs and love and a dragon named Mushu. Meaghan and I let out collective sighs when the movie ended. Our families went out for dinner together after. We spent the entire time going over our favourite parts, which were everything, and begging our moms to let us go again.
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