hardtimes
Took a while, but pretty much everything is up and running again.
Still have another semester of med school, so it’ll be a while before I write anything worthwhile.
In the mean time, enjoy the archive.
Sing Like You Think No One's Listening
Existentialism on Prom Night - Straylight Run
It’s been a while.
Summer flares in rebellion to autumn’s swift approach, and children’s days become a little shorter, a little less exciting (except for those who need not be taught).
For a season of death, fall brings such welcome tidings as sunburnt memories ferment like fine champagne.
“For the Lilies”
As I write this you lie sleeping in the room beside me.
A few days from now you’ll be gone once again, and I don’t know what I’ll do.
We always think we have just a little longer, even with the finish line in sight.
And though already you’ve gone, I still linger each time I pass by your door.
I dream as the sun rises because I can choose when to tend,
The furtive plowman digs deep, sowing victory into dead ends.
And as I plan another dozen summers sipping wine with dear friends,
Somewhere, pulsing deep, the heartache still mends.
The Sight of Bridges and Balloons Makes Calm Canaries Irritable
Bridges and Balloons - The Decemberists
The world is always changing.
People care so deeply during the seconds problems ride the airwaves.
And yet, for the observant, it becomes a question of whether people can care at all beyond what they’re told.
No matter where you are: in your mind, your feet, your heart, your stomach–don’t forget about the flowers.
They bloom for you.
Act one for Emarosa is done.
Taking a break for the summer to work on music and enjoy such needed daddy-daughter time.
Enjoy your summer. Kiss someone you love. Embrace someone you don’t.
“The Prolepsis of Ink & Grumble”
Trees sway in the distance.
Or at least they’re distant, it seems.
Towering above, or have we fallen too low, to be shrouded by so many leaves.
Ink, the ebon imp, grumbles at his misfortune.
For anything that’s not so clearly opportune must be cursed.
Then again, for an imp, it’s hard not to be.
Clouds lord over their sky, stealing away the beauty of stars we were promised.
It’s as if fate colludes to garner the rights on felicity.
Fortunately for us, there had been her.
Anesidora alone remembers when her name was just a name.
Along with the smell of rich cedar wood early in the morning as the man she called her father braided her hair.
The world’s greatest anathema was someone’s daughter, too.
The crashing of the waves before nightfall signals of the end of days (or at least today).
An onyx blanket lies itself over the sleeping beach.
And not a soul will ever know; the tide washes it all away.
A fat, runty orc stuffs its face with the foulest of greases it can find.
People are runnin’ and screamin’ like they’ve lost their minds.
The gettin’ is good when the gettin’ is good.
The fragrance on the breeze curdles, becoming something unworthy of expressing scent.
Things that were clear turn opaque, like trying to spell with an alphabet of 37 tar-mucked letters.
And then they were there: the imp, the fabulist, the orc.
Whether it’s the beginning of the world or the end,
To a mayfly it’s all the same.
Hardships will come and hardships will go, but our loves and stories shall remain.
One Bright Moment is All I Ask
Leave My Body - Florence + the Machine
Most of Act 1 for Emarosa is done.
Plan to start revisions for Act 2 in July.
Unrelated: if for some reason you’re unfamiliar with Florence + the Machine, strongly recommend you become familiar.
Life may be just a bit better because of it.
Little bit of goodness.
“To You”
To you, whom were never me nor mine, and yet…
As long as I’ve known you (if I’ve ever known you), you’ve sought something.
Never quite sure of yourself, yet never so unsure you’d listen to anyone else.
You would fancy yourself a mystery if you fancied yourself at all.
It’s no wonder you hate mirrors with what you tuck away in the back of your mind.
I’ve wanted so many things for you because I never knew what you wanted.
If there could be just one thing that would make it alright, you would have it.
And just like you, with the answers to every problem gift-wrapped upon your doorstep, you’d turn away.
You wouldn’t even know why. Not really.
You almost died once. Twice. Actually I’ve lost count.
Still, you take the future for granted as though it’s something your teacher made-up in kindergarten.
I think you were more skeptical then, before the world acquainted you to madness.
Even so, you shelter a tender heart that continues to beat with somber reluctance.
It’s impossible to say what I wanted to say.
Or rather honestly, I just wouldn’t know how.
You have a way of misunderstanding the simple things while laying complications bare.
You’re a carnival trapped in a shoe box.
So to you, whom were never me nor mine, and yet…
There’s nothing more to be done except to hope.
Hope you learn to dance.
Hope your songs roar with such elegance they rouse dreamers into lovers.
Hope the things you turn away from clutch tight with faithful arms and never let you go.
More than what you would ever believe, I hope you find a warm, caring place to rest your head beside another, and wonder just how this moment could happen to you as you nestle your face deep down, eyes weary, letting a gentle hum carry you off to sleep.
The Dragonfly It Ran Away, but It Came Back with a Story to Say
Dirty Paws (Live From Vatnagarðar) - Of Monsters and Men
“Drafted in B minor”
She looks into you as the camera comes out of frame,
You feel your pulse pounding as the blood bursts in your veins.
He will consume you and take all but your name,
You breathe in the fire as you swallow the pain.
They feed on their energy, the world dancing to their needs,
Drawing a horror spectacle as both beauties start to lead.
They were to marry in a graveyard amidst dandelions and rotting leaves,
Because they wanted to show their lost children life persists beneath dead trees.
Locked in their eye-lines, they’re perfectly strange.
Walking step-in-step, they burn in each other’s brain.
We can see through them, and yes they are same.
But we could not hope to try and understand their game.
Tearing into thee it woke you from the dream,
Destroying piece-by-piece the blueprint of what you need.
Calling for help you’ll fight to salvage the scene,
Trying in vain to re-draw the map from the little you’ve gleaned.
But more than this I wonder is there anyone that still knows,
The tale of the little prince and his dainty, precious rose?
Then again looking back I suppose it’s all just prose,
And in the end that’s how every story goes.
Never Knew I Was a Dancer 'til Delilah Showed Me How
Delilah - Florence + the Machine
Four chapters written/re-written for Emarosa so far.
Don’t expect the next draft to be anywhere near ready before fall, but it’s coming along nicely.
In lieu of that, Florence Welch put together this amazing piece called The Odyssey.
It’s about 50 minutes, but well worth every one.
“Self-Portrait”
A child wandered into the woods yesterday.
We spent years searching for him, but she was nowhere to be found.
A friend says this guilt is misplaced because these things happen.
I wonder when they’ll go missing, though they’ve never really been here.
I believe that meeting love is so unlike having met her.
I also believe calories don’t count on the weekend.
No one knows what the matter was with Van Gogh. Not really.
Some understand better than they ever wanted to, though they would never tell you.
I still think about that child sometimes, and perhaps the child thinks of me.
I doubt the thoughts are the same.
You took my hand and told me to never forsake love for a lover.
Time’s not fooled by anyone: you never believed you.
I saw a thing once I couldn’t believe.
It was too much for words, and even if you had been there you still wouldn’t have seen.
So I drew you a picture to show the trees through the leaves.
The barren forest whispered as you stared at me, “Sometimes it’s better to forget the dreams.”
Some time later, or perhaps before, we finally abandoned the search.
If the child wanted to be found, then maybe we seemed decent (if not selfish).
But we know better than nature how things ought to be.
We’re more simple than we believe.
Dejalo (Nuestra Cosa)
Dejalo - Rilo Kiley
“The Beast with the Four Dirty Paws”
Little but the scent of the hunt fell from his sickly sweet breath.
Cold air wafted through his fangs like refugees slipping the gates.
Yet in the snow he with his dirty paws lie, because what else is a sated wolf-pup to do?
He dreamt the tales of wolf kind, of his coming greatness and glory, as he did so many days before.
At times, perhaps, he’d been something else.
Maybe this wolf life wasn’t his first.
But those thoughts passed with an ebon blanket tucking away the dusk sky.
He stalked through the Thickets by moonlight, following the scent of larger game.
Whether he was brave or dumb, the red-eyed pup would not be swayed.
By an old lake rested a weary traveler that would a make a fine meal.
From around the bend the wolf-pup came, creeping with due diligence.
The sleeping fool’s apathy insulted the wolf’s cunning, but a meal is a meal all the same.
The pup lunged, and received a stern bop in-kind as the sleeper dropped a stick unto the pup’s skull.
The ground welcomed the wolf’s body with great force, shattering his teeth on impact as the fool stood above.
And so the pair’s eyes met.
The pup snarled as best he could, while the glint of the hunt shone in the wanderer’s gaze–the large man holding a steely knife.
The deathblow loomed.
The hunter’s knife swooped above the pup’s head, presenting a keen opportunity.
The wolf struck, pinning his foe to the ground and gnawing away at the weapon hand with broken teeth.
The hunter broke free, and in bloodlust the rivals stood wanting.
Until the man drew from his satchel a fresh kill, and tossed some for the pup to devour.
Before long the two sat, sated, though no more at ease than cutthroats could ever be.
Yet the sway of the traveler tugged at the pup’s insides, as though the wolf had been hunting brethren.
As the wanderer stood to leave, the pup bore the remnants of his teeth to little affect.
The traveler watched, and waited, as the pup stared him down.
The pup waited, and watched, as the traveler returned the gesture.
Each took a step toward, and a step away, circling one another.
As the game waned, the two cautiously wandered on together, no more content than an infant at birth.
By the time they’d drifted from the Thickets, the pair had become less like enemies and more like old thieves, exploiting their schemes amongst the other by moonlight.
No the matter the victor, the two continued on together.
Beasts amidst beasts can never have friends, yet all creatures know respect.
The red wolf’s first litter dwelt in the wanderer’s earliest den.
And the wanderer’s first daughter knew her guardian beast well.
When the time that always comes finally came, there were no tears to see.
For no feeling could do justice to losing half of the once and future king.
Hello Teacher Tell Me, What's My Lesson
Mad World - Gary Jules
“A Daft Memory”
Never killed a man, but still they locked him away.
Left him in a cell of flowers and dirt because anything else would be cruel.
Even if angels are assholes, we’re not monsters.
I used to think he was beautiful.
There was a song he’d hum just before dawn.
I would’ve loved it so, had it not been his.
Every now again he crosses my mind.
I wonder if his dreams remained dreams.
Because only one could make it out, and who would you choose?
I pass the days quietly by the lake, just like we’d often planned.
He always told me not to make myself small.
This couldn’t have happened any other way.
For those of you that knew him, you never knew him.
And now you never will.
Though that’s hardly my fault, is it?
But enough of the dreary.
It’s such a pleasure to meet you.
Would you like to go to dinner?
Never Gonna Live If You're Too Scared to Die
So Alive - Goo Goo Dolls
Got the first round of edits back for Emarosa.
May hold off on posting more for a bit as it needs some lovin’.
In the interim, a new short story, Okami, the Grey Wolf, is posted.
I Have Written You down, Now You Will Live Forever
Poet - Bastille
Second interlude, Those Who Remained, posted.
“Fille Inferno”
In a world ever imaginary the flightless take flight.
They soar among dreams, weaving melodious tapestries to keep the sleepers at ease.
She who longed to wake never could.
Because her lovers loved her so.
Breezes sift through trees, unaware of the seasons from whence they came.
Heat sings in the throes of wintertide, crooning its bittersweet respite.
Coital refuge passes the time, burning flesh until flesh burns again.
Only the young cherish snowfall.
We cry ‘til it hurts ‘cause it’s a beautiful thing.
Being what you are instead of what you should.
Boxes were never meant for long term, and neither were we.
Weird thing is you know what I mean, even if you don’t.
You want to look back but you don’t turn around.
Of course there’s nothing there you haven’t already found.
What could you see that you haven’t seen before?
What could you possibly miss when your eyes are on the door?
She forges herself anew, burning brighter by the day.
She’s lost as much as many, but she never gives herself away.
And even as they tell her that resolve will never last,
She charges on as each moment leads to the past.
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