Stain


coffee-stain-brown-paper-bag-3

I got my first pair of glasses in middle school.

I think it was sixth grade.

It’s a weird thing, prescriptive eye correction. You don’t really know you need it until someone else tells you that you need it. I had to sit in the back of Mr. Moreno’s class and I couldn’t see the board. I didn’t find it a problem, just moderately annoying, sort of like the gum that was stuck under the tables. The gum wasn’t annoying unless I accidentally touched it. The board wasn’t annoying unless someone asked me to read it.

I went to the coast land center mall and got my first pair of glasses. They were metal, green and heavy. I remember walking outside and not really noticing my eyesight was that much better until I looked at the palm trees lording over the parking lot.

They had individual strands in their palm fronds, making them look like giant, green feathers.

I’d never known that. I had just thought they were a giant leaf, like the plastic palm fronds in my Ancient Egyptian cursed tomb Lego set.

It took me another week, but I started to notice something else, too.

Everything was dirty.

When you have bad eyesight, you can’t see the dog hair on the carpet.You can’t spot the scuffs on the tile floor. You can’t see the dirt marks on the wall. You can’t see the stains in the ceiling.

When you’re half blind, it’s all clean.

But now…

Everything was tainted.

I hated it.

My parents used to look so young, but now…

Now they had wrinkles.

I wanted to go back, back to that fuzzy world where everything was clean and my parents were eternally young.

I couldn’t, though. I had to read the board in Mr. Moreno’s class.

As the years went by, I didn’t notice the dirt anymore.

I got used to it.

At some point, I started to notice the opposite.

I’d see somebody walking to class without a blemish on her face and I’d wonder “are you real?” I’d be at the pool and someone would have no body hair at all and I’d want to ask him “are you a human?” I’d go into somebody’s house and there wouldn’t be a stain in the whole place and I would almost say “why did you bring me here? Let’s hang out where you live.”

People are dirty. They make dirt. If there’s someone you know who isn’t dirty, then they probably aren’t a person.

I’m not saying clean people aren’t people. Most of them are.

No, that’s not what I’m saying at all.

I’m just saying what I want.

I want dirt.

Give me stains.

I take my glasses off and I look around and  think:

I don’t want this bright and clean world. Give me shadow and stain.

I don’t want this museum. Give me a place that’s lived in.

I don’t want somebody perfect. I want someone real.

Give me a waterlogged notebook. I wan’t it’s cover cracked and dyed with watermarks from blood and tears and sweat. I hope you dropped it in a puddle at one point. I hope you remember why.

I hope the words aren’t pretty. I hope they are scrawled almost illegible by a woman whose hand just can’t keep up with her brain. I want reading you to be like solving a riddle, cracking a code, finding the rosetta stone.

I hope your shoe has a hole in it.

I hope your right glasses lens is scratched.

I hope you have a scar on your knee from when you fell off a bicycle. I hope it didn’t heal correctly because you got back on the bike and kept riding anyway because you didn’t want your sister to get too far ahead and your parents had told you they’d get you a cappuccino when you made it to the coffee shop on third street and you love cappuccino even though your only twelve and everyone tells you twelve-year-olds should drink yohoo and coffee will stunt your growth and you know it doesn’t and but you’re a little worried that it does.

I don’t want a pristine world.

I don’t want a clean life.

I want a dirty life. A messy one.

I want a life that, when someone walks into it, they look around at all the underwear and beer cans on the floor and they crinkle their nose at the week old, half-empty coffee mugs on my desk and they glance at my unmade bed and they look at the water stains on my ceiling and they see the plates and the socks and the hair ties and the quarters and wrappers and they everything all over they place and they know.

They know that somebody lives here.

I want a dirty life, rough around the edges and stained.

I hope you have one too.

Those are the interesting sort.

 

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Glass


Here’s the last of my poetry series.  Viola!

She had a glass-hewn flower,

I never understood.

I crushed underneath my boot,

Simply because I could.

WeWriWa # 4: The Book


Here’s a short poem I wrote in participation of WeWriWa:

 

There is a book

An old Arab trader warned me of

that takes your whole life to read.

Whole worlds are contained within.

And when you finish

you have just one day

to think it over and decide

if it was worth it after all.

Farewell


Farewell

 Van_Gogh_-_Starry_Night_-_Google_Art_Project

A twinkling star shone bright for me

One night I asked it why.

Its twinkling light diminished,

And then it vanished in reply.

I pondered long what I had done

To cause the star to go.

I ponder of it still today

Perhaps I’ll never know.

Music


Music

Songs are like magic.  Good ones capture the soul and take it on a journey.  A journey to places it had long forgotten.  As it travels, it remembers, and the memories bring forth long since dormant emotions that mix with the melodies and the rhythm   so that you almost cry.  Not in a sad way, but  out of joy, like you’ve found a long lost friend and learned that they’re alright.

Songs capture the soul, yes, but then set it free and send it soaring above the highest mountains and into the ether.  It can see the whole world up there.   It’s always beautiful, like late evening, when the light’s a mix of pink and orange, and the sun casts long shadows.

Sometimes if you’re very lucky you can see the stars, even if the sun is still barely casting light. The sky takes on a purple tinge then, and the stars hang languidly above our sphere, casting light down upon us that they created millennia ago.  They don’t care for music, but I’m sure that if we just shared it with them, they would find it as lovely as we do.  They’d only need a little push, like that which a parent gives to a child sitting nervously on top of a slide.

I think that’s the real beauty of music.  It, more than anything, is meant to be shared.  You should never create a song just for you.  Share it with the world, with the sky and the stars, the great planets and their moons, and comets that streak across the stratosphere.  They’ll thank you for it, I’m sure, in their own way.  You might not find out for a long time, but they’ll thank you, as will we all.

One day.

The Grumpus Beast


The Grumpus went halumping,

over hill and dale

towards children who were a-slumbering

their breath shallow and frail.

It snuck up by the window

its tails all hithersbiddles

fangs drooling with salvia

for eating little kiddles.

The children a-woke to a sound

a sharp a rap tap tapping,

that must have been a stranger on the grounds

for they’re parents were a-napping.

They hopplescotched up out of bed

and scurried to the window,

unaware they’d soon be dead

they’re souls sent off to limbo.

The Grumpus beast was waiting there

mouths twisted into smiles.

The children saw its mangy hair

and their stomachs filled with biles.

The Grumpus went a leaping

a crashing through the glass,

where it commenced to feasting

upon the children’s mass.

The parents came in later,

they screamed and grabbed a phone,

for in the children’s nursery room,

was just a

pile

of

glass

and

bone.

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Addendum:

This is my first entry in the Weekend Writing Warriors experience.  The rule is that it has to be 8 sentences.  You’ll notice that I have several lines, but only 8 sentences, so hopefully that’s ok.  I had a lot of fun writing it.

Here’s a link back to the WeWriWa website.  Go and check out some more awesome blogs!

Also, I’ve added a new page of fan picks and some of my favorite posts.  Check it out.- corngoblin

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Addendum to the Addendum:

Oh dear me!  I was looking at my about page and realized that the venerable Blog of the Imaginator had awarded me the awesome blog content award!  I would like to nominate him/her for the awesome blog name award, but I don’t have the authority to do so.  Thanks so much, Imaginator.

abc-awardNow I have to do me in ABC’s.  Hmmm.

Arcane. Bizzare. Capricious. Defiler.  Erudite. Facetious. Gregarious. Horrifying. Inexorable. Just Kidding. Legendary. Minotaur. Negative. Original. Positive. Qualified. Rabid. Sinister. Titanic. Unrelenting. Vexing. Windblown. Xenial. Yummy.  Zealous.

Thanks Again!

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