A Fresh Mind - A Birthplace of Wonder

There is this joy -

this perverse glee every time
I feel a pen, pencil, charcoal touch a page -

when memories and fantasies 

flood fresh tabula rasas, 

when hearts bleed inky reds, blues, and blacks, 

when whole universes, worlds, dimensions, and beings

explode into existence

with a single stroke of a pen.

When the deep sea valley truths

give rise to mountainous emotions - 

the volcanic passions threaten 

to overtake and destroy all traces of realism - 

only to give life to further creations of the

mind and soul.

Only is it when every space, ever crevice

of the tabula rasa filled, is the

tabula plenus born but yet,

not realized.

The Soul Behind The Register

I met him in the winter just before Christmas, my coworker named Alva Turstell, yet I only truly began to learn who he was - what journeys his life afforded him, just before I left in the late summer for college.

He was 68 and quiet and kept to himself mostly, occasionally remarking to customers and associates whenever a question was asked his way. He was slow to action; his stroke and a battle with skin cancer, along with his time through life's journey left him more measured and tired in step. While he wasn't the most outgoing of my coworkers in the store, his attention to detail was his skill; whether it was stocking the medicines or putting new arrivals of candy on the shelves or even taking basic inventory of the sodas. Yet, while his retail cashiering skills are commendable in their own right, it was the small details of his life that he would mention in passing that drew me in, in those last two weeks of working with him.

Hearing quips and short tales of living in Heidelberg and China for many years at a time, of attending both Georgia Tech as well as Duke, of traveling through Italy for weeks on end - I began to believe that after the many years of his life, the autumnal years began to breathe truth into fisherman's tales within his mind.

While stocking energy drinks, his tired demeanor would disappear, his eyes brighten, and his stories of college life at Georgia Tech or at Duke would unfold, occasionally his mind switching the colleges without his lips knowing. From art history and art criticism lectures, to studying mathematics and mechanics - course after course, his memories allowed him to relive his past.

But even when things were going well for him, working in retail did throw unfortunate occurrences - unapologetic, impatient customers who demanded instant gratification from a man who's speed was not set to the notch eleven. The only thing worse than the intolerant customers, were the intolerant customers vocalizing their rather crude remarks - however not directly to him, instead to other cashiers where he was in earshot. He never retorted in any fashion, never shot back - instead he continued on, acting as if nothing was said. But oh, when the face remains calm and stone-like, how the eyes betray the soul within - the pain and anger visible, only to be drowned within sadness and the feeling of being used to such comments.

He wasn't as fast as us young summer-hire cashiers, wasn't as sprightly or as flexible as us, but he was more mature and calm than us; not only in action, but also in speech - for when he was silent in the fray of busied conversations and ringing up customers, his mind ran laps around us all; catching minute details whilst we young bucks tried to appease every customer who walked in the store.

That summer I met a man who has lived more than I have, who has seen more, and done more, and loved more than I have. He has seen oppression and joy in everyday moments, has seen love and warmth, and hate and despair. His movements were slowed down compared to us, but his mind was miles ahead of us. He was quiet and docile but his memories exuded noise and life. That was the summer I truly learned what a well lived and traveled human soul looked like - and I've yet to encounter another one.

Hermetical Forerunning of Life

Heat...everywhere. Blinding heat, raging and rolling from every angle. Heat within the stars has no comparison to the heat
against my every side, scorching my every branch and leaf and bud.

Oh my friends, my lovers, my family - how they fell a midst the flames and fire - dark billowing smoke from the slowly perishing
young; slow gray smoke out of the fallen old. Why did you go - here I stand alone, the single oak a midst the graves of children
and friends.

Lo, even the critters, the furry friends who used to run amok through my feet of branches, burrowed and found shelter under my skin - where too have you gone? Away, you have, away from me - a hermit standing tall but singed, beaten and battered against
the storm of winds and flame.

No longer do I hear the songs of the breeze through family's hair - no longer the soft trill of the 'jays and the hovering drum beats of the hummingbirds - now just silence, endless echoes of nothingness. No home left to protect against stray storm or
lightning strike; here I stand, a monument to what once was.

Even now, laid deep beneath the smoke and ash, deeper still beneath my roots, I can feel it. The soft hum of you - my kin. I hear your soft earthly echo, no longer in screams and cries of pain but now; now in hymns of rebirth, now in love songs of the
spring.

I hear your once thought dead seedlings emerge from the dark soot emptiness. I hear the long-out calls of the 'jays. I hear you returning to me, returning home,
returning to where you belong.

No longer am I a hermit, a solitary monument to what was and will never be, a lonely reminder of past destruction; now,
now I am forerunner -
with my buds and fruit; they shall return anew and grown. Because of me, kin and friends shall return - the songs of the past are now the songs of the future; the drumming of the hummingbird, the trill of the 'jays and their young, the soft scratching from within as new small residents take up shelter within me.

Now, there shall be life - born beating back against the oppression of flames and fiery tyranny. Now there shall be life - singing hymns of past and future alike. Now there shall be life - so that when I too pass, others will take my place a midst the forest of songs and memories, the forest of what was and will be -

the forest of life.

Her

It's not true,
at least not partially in the sense of your definition of joyless truth -
while I did find fantasy and beauty written in her skin,
I never found this evilness within our love that you call sin.

It wasn't her cheeks or her lips that stopped me from believing,
it was swimming amongst the dreams and stars and Naiads in her eyes -
it made me awake from a hell I was tired of carrying in my pockets -

I felt release, sweet blissful freedom within her arms
as our demons mingled within our hearts -
neither of us loving our own,
but raising our minds in anarchy
for the other's soul.

As teeth graze lips,
as hair is brushed by fingertips,
as eyes are closed tight,
my soul melds with yours;

as I feel your words still warm from your lips,
as you curl into my tender palms,
as we embrace into one life,
our beings are born abreath with new purpose;

to reach a new level of addiction -
to the other's taste, smile, and laugh,
to live more fully within each other's day and night,
to love together;
to let our demons thrive in peace,
to breathe each day in universal harmony,
to enjoy our silence and our mirth,
to just be.

Ad Consolatio Herbam

Take this sprig of fresh grass, this scepter of nature's creation, this abundant bed from which man will lay in at the end.

This lone blade, this wee-whistle calling all fairies and pixies abound.

This grasslet, this green tuft of Gaea's hair that we caress and massage - giving salon makeovers with push to industrial clippers when Gaea needs a new look for the new season.

Take this single stalk of grass, hold and admire the virescent pastoral being in your hands. The smell lingers - softly, hung with patience and unaged grace.

Notice the viridescent color slowly with time, for every second and moment of man becomes a last breath, a last aeon for this single inhabitant of its homely meadow-land veld.

"Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it and whispers, 'Grow, grow.'" - The Talmud

The Spell of Love

It must definitely be something in the air,
this wave after wave of emotional sensation -
the flickering lights of the candles in the summer night breeze,
the slow rise of smiles across my face as I see you each time,
the realization that I'm falling madly in love with you.

You caught my heart off guard,
slipped through my defenses and shined some light on my life,
made me realize that you felled my walls with a single kiss,
now I can't stop thinking about us.

The passion in your eyes has me spell-bonded,
the witchcraft in your lips keeps me alive,
the love in our lives has us intertwined,
so tight that we dream that we can fly.

There's something in the air,
it's got us in love with each other,
it might be the feel of our skin pressed together,
or the slow rise and fall of our chests as we breathe in time,
but all I know is that I've fallen deeply in love with the thought of you and I.

Casa de Amore

The usual evening dinner chatter filled the restaurant. Waiters moved about the room; taking orders from recently-seated parties of two or more, reciting the wine list from memory, recommending the guinea filet with wild mushroom sauce alongside a selection of cluttered fresh asparagus wrapped in prosciutto with a hint of crème fraiche.

A pair of waiters were cleaning off a couple tables after a party of six had finished dining. The waiters talked amongst themselves, both young, twenty-something males still doe-eyed amongst the world – their only knowledge of the outside world coming from the half-nights with college co-eds in smokey piano jazz bars and steamy hashish lounges until drink and smoke coalesce with their teenybopper senses.

The sounds from the kitchen only further ennobled the men and women in there – head chef calling out dish names, busboys dodging verbal lashings from worked up sous chefs. Each dish plated with repetitive accuracy – lamb shanks a la bourgeoisie, steamed mussels with long cut seasoned potato skins, fennel salad with grilled chicken marinated in ginger root, orange zest, and hoisin sauce.

A bartender flips a vodka bottle through the air twice, catching it and pouring three fingers worth in a shaker already containing some grenadine, a little lemon juice, some lime and orange zest, and a cherry. Shaking the drink for a few seconds to allow the contents to hurl themselves together creating alcoholic glory within a gleaming metal bullet, the bartender pours the fresh drink into a martini glass, handing it off to a clean-pressed-waisted waitress who delivers it to it's rightful drinker.

The hostess seats yet another couple for the night, this time sitting them next to the window overlooking the rainy water-colored streets lit up by fading flickering yellow street lamps in the old city. Menus are handed over to the couple as mentions of a waitress being right with them are given. The hostess finds herself at her command station, looking over her map of the restaurant as a commander overlooking her troops and formations – finding open territory for each new brigade upon arrival to the feast of war and food.

The arrival of the waitress in front of me heralded the end of my leisurely visual stroll through the restaurant. After taking my drink order, she disappeared towards the bar, flirting with the bartender while simultaneously ordering my glass of  red wine. I closed my eyes and massaged the worn bridge between the eyes who had seen love born, stoked, grown, rekindled in the cold of winter, only for love to roar again. The eyes have seen love, yes, but they had also seen death young and sporadically as they aged. Opening my eyes, the sight of the wine was welcoming indeed. Taking but a small drink, I held the small jeweler's box in my hand, opening it slowly, smiling as the ring echoed the freedom call as hope escaped into my world with each catch of the restaurant lighting. Warmth from the wine slowly coursed through my body, massaging every tension and fear out of me. Another sip wouldn't be out of place. Placing the box back into my pocket, I set the glass down. The wine was definitely warming my body, teeth to toes, as final apprehensions wore away. Sultry silky smooth peace ebbed and flowed over and through my body, the alcohol relaxing me further as the sounds of the kitchen lulled me into another stroll through the restaurant.

As my eyes meandered around the restaurant again, passing and admiring dish and patron alike, the sound of the hostess called the eyes back home. Looking over in her general direction, every fiber, every muscle gained a slight tension of nervousness from desertion.

She walked in the room. The forest green-eyed woman with short brunette hair in a silky cream dining gown walked in the room and smiled as her eyes found and met the welcoming if not yearning sight of mine. With each step, the heartbeats began to rise, not out of fear or nervousness now, but from excitement and love and holding a secret in my pocket. She gets to my table and I rise, holding her seat out for her and letting her in. She smiles as she sits. Her eyes embrace mine, reading every pool within the iris for emotional tea leaves, emotional tells for what lay hiding near my breast. Her eyes widen with shock as I get to one knee, procuring the box from its hiding place.

I look down at the box and up into her eyes. Shock, fear, apprehension, nervousness, excitement, love, joy, fear some more – all of it mixing and hiding in the forests of green within her eyes. As I let the hope escape from within the box and run rampant into her world; I grin, the words spoken normally but feeling as if they tumbled, stumbled on the restaurant carpet, and only just before falling flat on their faces did they adjust themselves and become a single coherent thought that knelt before her with box in hand and ring within the box;

“Will you marry me?”