I Can Live…

If you Love someone.

I haven’t a qualm in remaining obscure. I enjoy my freedom and my mystery. For I am– I am a mystery. What you knew to be me, a figment of humanity; an ego that existed as a partial class to a greater and more relevant being. One can not run from reality but one can easily extinguish a flame that exists figuratively. And since my life here is presented through metaphor, I’ll open the door, and walk right through it. Be that as it may, there are some beautiful people out there, breathing air, furnishing muscles with fine motor reflexes, typing and thinking and expounding about sorrow and grief and love and triumph and hate and glory and luck and wealth and relationships and harrowing romance, and wine, and food, and sickness and children and theater and music and art and art and art! This list is immeasurabley long! Is it too much to ask for someone to simply tell me a story that isn’t real? It’s all I’ve ever done here. It’s a good thing I can unplug and walk away. I’ll have no scars, wrong, there will be one. I’ve an Achilles heel to bear upon one certain fact. One certain curiosity. And for that I am week. But in the end, I can live. I can live quite well indeed. I can live… without you.

Set them free.

A Jean Valjean…

What causes one to steal a child’s tricycle?

Hunger.

Pallid…

As the sun mounted the horizon, for a brief and warming moment it bellowed gleaming hope across the countryside. I wanted it to last the entire trip, but before I arrived those shining rays were swallowed whole, muffled behind the most expansive bedding of bureaucratic cloud. I wept. Now everything feels grey, and whatever the opposite of rosy is.

A love on…

I have a beautiful childhood memory of my dad knee deep in the ocean, a few hundred meters off shore. He was out there for what seemed like hours and brought back shells, sand dollars, and dead starfish for my sister and I to play with. It was the Florida Keys and we had a hitchhiker with us on his way to the Everglades. I was like glue at the hitchhiker’s side the whole time he was with us. He gave me a little green Octopus toy his girlfriend had made him out of wool and styrofoam. I cherished that little toy for years and I still have it. I will never forget our good-byes… he knelt in front of me as I cried. He smiled slightly and said, “My girlfriend gave this to me to make sure I remember her on my trip, but I won’t forget her, not in a million years. You can have him, and you can remember me forever.” I had such a crush on him, Marcus, and I think it was the first time I had felt that. It’s my little secret.

Symphony…

Symphony.

I was there just shortly after I grew out of my 3/4 size violin. I have tried to reject the instrument, but have been unsuccessful. Violins have a life in which they must take ownership of a soul. I think it is a blessing and a curse to be bound to such a thing. Drama.

Reality.

The thing that I love most about the symphony is the tune-up and warm-up before it all begins. There is a hush and an excitement that infiltrates the audience. Usually people are still entering the theater and are finding their seats. Children rush to peer into the pit and to be dwarfed by the stage. It is a moment of awe. It is an auditory Hors Deurve. There is anticipation for the sounds and sights about to begin on stage. There is, in the end, a story to be told; one that needs music to invoke imagery and hence emotion.

Still Tick-Tocking…

You chimed in
And I feel much better
Despite what we now call time:
The Riddle-me minutes
Some Subtlety-seconds
And an Honesty-hour
Or two
Or three
From me
So!
She’s still an existence
A complex and instance
An abstraction
A distraction
But she…
Can’t turn you to rock
She can’t make you stop
My stone cold face
On your stone cold clock
Tick-tock
Tick-tock

Tick-tock

Tick-tock

Tick Tock…

Tick
I’m as patient as any mistress can be
Tock
But
You Mr., are conspicuous in your absence
Tick
I might just be jealous of the time you keep
And
Tock
If time had a name
What would you call her?
Tick

Talk.

I haven’t been around…

Tweet, tweet, chirp, chirp, peep! There, I got it out of my system. My apologies for not being around lately. I’d really like to blame it on the cat given how much he needs me, though in truth he is still chronically attention starved. I suppose I could blame my lack of presence on my killer career, but then again I have that licked now. I’d love to place blame on my social life, however that– well let’s just leave it at that. I’m hoping to be here more now.
Love, xo

Crave the light and want the dark…

Casta reached behind her low back, touched the long silk ribbon which hung from her dress and whispered “Ultra violent… violet.” The ribbon tightened, drawing its shoulders together like a soldier standing at attention, effortlessly raising itself off the floor enough that it would not drag the earth. There, she thought, all better. Satisfied, with hands folded upon the railing in front her, she peered out over the lake narrowing her eyes against the day’s brilliant array of luminescent blues and magentas. The water reflected pain into her vision and the greenery, the lands, they too shone strikingly as if ablaze. All was on fire here except for the clouds. However, unlike the water and land, the clouds had their own very special patina. It was not so hard on the eyes but offered as much light to the senses as any of the other surfaces.

She needed to look away, to hide from it but couldn’t. Drawn in, Casta was sure the sky and clouds were somehow meant as a vector to offset the high summer glare at the behest of one or more of the Godrights she had come so bitterly to despise. Her jaw clenched briefly, no, at intervals. Faery tales she thought with disgust, just try to relax, at least the breeze is refreshing. It was ambitious of her to try this today and as she scrawled some last minute ideas she noted that her pencil was dulling quickly; more quickly than usual. This was new. Had the spell waned? She couldn’t be sure she wasn’t simply overpowering the thing with accute senses made so by an overwhelming environment. With everything around her so contrast and sharp, why not dull the only thing she could? Better to be safe and go a little easier on it. She grinned to herself that she actually could cast a spell.

The sky, the landscape and the water in concert orchestrated a vista that appeared in the way a knife would sound being ground across a sharpener’s stone. It reminded her that it was time- time to make her way from the quiet confines of the Student Villa, across the campus to the professorial clan awaiting her at The Authority Circle. She packed her belongings and turned to exit the place stopping momentarily to look around one last time with the the eyes and experience of her youth. She began to wonder if this life was in fact within her power to control. Should she afford herself any small degree of arrogance? Would that solidify her idealism?From what she had seen the youth seldom see their adulthood coming and before they knew it, they were old and jaded with no way of finding their way back. Where is the logic in craving the sunlight while wanting a dark room? Perhaps this would be answered in the following seventy-two days.

Human Spectrometry…

When a person gets sick, they might learn much about their friends. Mostly which ones truly are and which ones truly aren’t– through shadows cast from invisible things.

Katherine the Great…

Katherine lay dead still beneath a blanket of freshly fallen dewy autumn leaves desperately holding her breath in order to not be detected. She had pursed her lips as tight as possible and with her cheeks puffed like a trumpeter, her face became as crimson red as the Sunday roses her father had often picked for her mother. Marc was only a few feet away and had not yet checked the exceptionally still pile for human life. She was sure it was only a matter of time before the young boy would make his way over to kick heedlessly at the pile of leaves. She had to think fast. Would she wait until he was directly upon her or would she bolt immediately? She was sure there was a great chance she could out run him to the safe zone! Her mind was racing but before she was forced into a decision, it was made for her as Marc lumbered away having not considered a sullen pile of dead leaves a viable place for anyone to hide.

The adrenaline rush was over like a roller coaster coming to a grinding halt at the top of the first drop-off. The thrill of being the prey had vanished within the very second Marc had stepped away. This, she would not accept and so Katherine leaped to her feat and shouted at Marc, proclaiming that he had seen her and simply wanted to make her suffer under a stinking pile of rotting vegetation. With complete surprise, Marc reacted as any animal would, and immediately took chase. Pausing for effect, Katherine then quickly reared and began to run for home base. She ran without thought of anything else, letting a new wave of adrenaline soak her insides. She thought of nothing other than making it to the finish before Marc and that is exactly what happened. Katherine won the race by a mere fraction of a second and joyously, with a pinch of youthful mocking, called the customary home free for all.

To Be Continued?

Exclusion, Judgment, and Groups…

Belief systems are exclusionary by nature and by virtue of that they inherently inject judgment into their ideological bodies, despite well meaning morals. There is simply no way around the judgment of others from outside an organised human grouping. The human race is configured for social groupings and hierarchies which ultimately exclude others based on some sort of adherence to a sophisticated guideline or codebook. Through exclusionary practices judgment and thus conflict and pain are unavoidable. It is a disturbing irony that through right or good, or merely social belonging, people in groups create pain and discomfort for each other at all levels of existence. Organised groups, all of them, even the well-meaning ones, are disturbing examples of potential hate and pain, suffering, fear and even terror. If any individual were to take a moment to reflect on one civil liberty or restraint they either agree with or not, they would most likely find that belief stemming from a judgment born from within some sort of organised group. Ultimately, social groups are an unavoidable condition for humanity. However, if people were simply more critical of the ideas stemming from within their groupings, their own judgment and that of real or fictitious leaders and gods, they would be increasingly more free and equal- even in their many wonderful differences.

Six Days…plus Three Hundred and Fifty-Nine…

I waited six days to burst the seventy-two balloons I blew life into for New Years. As I place my Santa hat in the cupboard, and dispose of the colourful yet limp remnants of what was an evening of joy and friendship, I feel sad and slightly lonely. I think when I’m done putting the last of the decorations away I’ll look back on the photos, place them away and maybe have the last of the Jagermeister. This years New Years party meant a lot to me given the sort of mindset I was in. Everyone was so loving and so fun and the emails are already coming in on what the theme and plans should be for the next one. I’m going to savour every day this coming year in anticipation of a lively party with my best friends. I love them so much it hurts.

Fear you…

The shadow lays flat, hiding behind in fear of the very thing from which it was born– what a miserable state of affairs.

A Final Epitaph…

The surface of the lake is ever in motion with under currents that bubble to the top like hungry Coi foraging for food. It is as if a serpent lurks just inches below, inhabiting the lake, making its bed under a feather blanket of blue. The air is humid and thus cool and the leaves have finally changed their colour. To me they signify death, yet they do it in the most stunning way. It is a fireworks anniversary, a yearly blast, the only epitaph that remains in this strangely dissonant place on earth. The Queen Anne’s Lace is brown and dried, it is dehydrated and dead while the Lustrife still drinks greedily from the water table and so blossoms late. Would this be a satisfactory place for a final bath? I’m not sure really, however the lonely road that winds wearily down to where I stand reminds me that this was someone’s one way street to eternity.

Lockjaw…

Don’t live your life to impress other people with your talents. Rarely will anyone even care, and you will suffer disappointment. When you stand up, high upon the citadel, and proclaim your worth, the sheer volume of silent salty air that results will rust the shine on your jaw before you can close it shut again. Live life to quietly impress yourself and you will have no end of fun and discovery.

Illumination…

Your expressionless face remains unflinching as you watch over me; no bedside manner at all. I know however that at a moments notice you will cast the demons aside.

A Yummier Message…

Who in their right mind doesn’t simply love some freshly sliced field cucumber on toast with a dash of salt? I’m mean really!

From the old Blog…

My Dating Ad

I am the cheap wine that tasters shun. But I say to hell with them, anyone should be able to fall in love with a ten dollar bottle! You could take me home without spending much more than a tuppence on open mindedness. I won’t shower you with pretenses, and not to boast, but my ‘legs’ go for miles. Swirl me around and give me a taste-test. When you suck me through your teeth and aerate your tongue, I think you may discover a refreshing perspective that can’t be grown in even the most regal fields of Château des Charmes. My variety is tolerant to plus or minus thirty degrees, and even though I am extraordinarily resilient I can be both dry and sweet. I can bend to your desires, your every fantasy. That is something not any wine can do. I am a uniquely polarized Pinot Grigio, I am a deep dark Merlot, I am a punk-cabaret Cabernet, and I can party like a sparkling Chardonnay. I bet you could love me, I really do, despite what the critics might say. Because anyone should be able to fall in love with a ten dollar bottle.

Expression…

Expression is unlike any other close companion; on some occasions it is all you have in a never-ending sea of depression, and on other  occasions you can barely remember it’s address. And if you leave it, it will never question you upon your return, even if you have come to know it as something else entirely.

Michelle

Disassociate…

I want to disassociate from existence, sometimes. It’s not that I wish to be gone, I’d just like to be off to the side where I can switch the channel at will. I haven’t the desire to get close to people any more because I always get singed by the intangible. People radiate inviting warmth, however time and knowledge expose fear and motive and there is almost always something I am unwilling to accept– even from myself. Perhaps I have grown weary of the anxiety associated with caring for those I cannot touch. Perhaps it’s simply that I am really just an intollerant bitch.

Take a Trip Around the Heart… <3

 

I wait for cold, rain drenched week-nights when everyone is inside warming up to each other after work and the streets become as hollow and sad as a drained can of Coca-Cola. I like to wander down to Fifty-nine West and fourty-fourth to stand, hip cocked in the middle of the intersection, flipping a dripping pink Gerbera daisy lazily at my side. I often simply stand and stare pensively up towards sixth street. I like to experience types of  love in extreme conditions because my mind has a funny way of making my body feel insulated from the world when the hurt becomes too much. If I lose touch deeply enough, vehicles moving down the road slip soundlessly past my silhouetted soul, their rumbling sound muffled like a muted trumpet.  Even if  experiencing love is merely hearing some no-name talent practicing for a weekend gig in the old Oak Room behind me, the sound of a saxophone, or piano, or bass, or voice is enough to invoke an apparition of you. For those fleeting moments to me you are still alive and I want to hear the music of your voice just one more time. Here on the street, in the rain, in the cold, you appear.

Laugh for me. Say my name. Touch my hand and sing for me. Please just sing a few notes into my ear so I can feel your breath. Remind me that you didn’t leave me alone on purpose. I’ll eventually work out if that straight line of pavement I’m staring at really does curve to the right where it fades from sight. I’ve heard that up there, so far that the music fades, one can travel along the curved portion of road and it will swing a sharp left turn and a new curve will continue on and on and on. Apparently there is an identically straight road on the other side. I’ve been told that over there is where you will be. Left up center, on the avenue, in a heartbeat, I might find you… standing at the tip of there and here between the junction of two large sweeping curves. I just wonder if living with this loneliness is easier than living with the loneliness of discovering nothing but another swanky jazz bar. Take a trip around the heart and find lost love on the other side. Sure. Happy St. Valentine’s my love, I miss you so very much.

It’s funny how…

My humour has no sense of me.

Surprise!…

I did not complain when you usurped my office for your own in order to make room for someone else. I did not utter dismay when you hired someone else instead of me… twice. I did not flinch when you condescended me by belittling my position within the company. I have always given up for others while you have taken. You believe you are assertive and that you have a competitive drive. You do enjoy your locker room don’t you? I personally believe you are a coward. I can feel your fear. I believe this because I have something you will never have: leadership qualities. The staff look up to me and would do anything for me as I would for them. Your boss even told me so himself. He sees you fit to be his corporate lapdog and he knows I won’t do the kind of dirty work you do. Did you know the staff don’t ask you for help any more? You’ll never know that you are your own worst enemy because you lack sincerity. There is no room for your passive aggressive behaviour either. So kind sir, enjoy your position as Chief Operations Officer because that is most likely where you’re going to hit ceiling. You will first alienate the staff and then you will alienate the clientele. Some have already begun to email me about it at my personal address. Don’t worry, I won’t go all ‘Jerry Maguire’ on you, that would be to easy. I think I will most likley silently take  your prowess with me when I leave– along with your clients.  Surprise.  

Sincerely, Michelle

Think, but not for too long…

Idealism without checks and balances is recklessness from a positive perspective. Realism without checks and balances is rigidity that stifles creativity. Idealistic realism is a positive perspective with just enough rigidity to not permanently hinder creativity. These things are not vectors that cancel each other. They drive each other forward and, though at a more moderate pace, they complete the work that eventually moves mountains. 

Michelle.

Drowning…

As I move along any one linear axis of life I experience conversely proportional gradations of wonder and disgust. Often times the bilayer upon which they flow simultaneously changes direction and velocity and I am left aghast, head spinning and dizzy. It seems no matter which dimension I chose, I find the same thing in beholding its entirety: insanity. Imagine yourself standing on a glass floor one thousand one hundred and thirty-five feet in the sky when suddenly the glass turns to water. Splash. You’re drowning in a free-fall.

I Would…

I would wield a scimitar of tempered poetry laced with wild flowers and senile love. I would think in flourishes of dazzling colours conjuring  heartache, euphoria, delusion or lust. I would invite fantasy for a poison drink, murder it, then wrap it in silk thread for future assimilation into my clouded reality. I would shatter a thousand-million bottles of wine and spread the shards along the path to make life difficult for those who don’t own shoes. I myself would buy a pair of shoes if I didn’t like the pain so much. But I would trudge bloody-footed, laughing hysterically, pausing only for moments to convulse with tears and terror over the dead bodies of those who have bled to death. I would raise a glistening piece to my neck if I could only light the fire fast enough to burn my ragged carcass to the sky. I would find my lost spirit and materialise with the smile and the verve I used to have. I would be the person I used to be before the switch flipped. I would be me again, if I only knew how.

Anapestic tetrameter (a silly study)…

Cordelia the Dragon

You can see by the soil on her head, back and arms

That this mighty young dragon servery lacks charms

She fell down a  hill, rolling  here rolling there

Shrieking and moaning and gasping for air!

If only this dragon so out of control

Would realise at once she could cease her mad roll

By beating her wings like a light butterfly

She could rise off the ground in the blink of an eye

-Michelle

Kitten…

Up until fairly recently I have never, in my life, been addressed as… Kitten. I’ve always credited my given name coupled with my personality with the great variety of nicknames and endearments I already posses. I should think I would balk at such a moniker! I didn’t. I didn’t bat an eyelash. I’m someone’s Kitten? Well no, this kitten doesn’t belong to anyone at the moment, though I still feel a sense of schoolgirl intrigue over it.

Change…

In life, our individual worlds forever come and go. Each time we are left searching among the regrowth, wailing, as infants for some semblance of what has past.

Music…

Music is what you give when words are not enough, and making love is still in the works.

Mich.

Hearts and sleeves…

Take some sage advice, and don’t wear your heart on your sleeve, at least not in and around springtime. You will find that you will be a most susceptible fool on this day in particular, the first of April.

The Vampire…

The Vampire Lestat and I get together regularly to discuss the violin. I talk shop and all he wants to do is bite my neck and get liquored up. I make sure that I have enough wine in my system that he gets weary and has to go home early. I mean, when he starts going on about his childhood it’s nothing but hundreds of years of history, treachery, murder, love, revenge, fear… well you know. But he’s nice enough, and though he’s a fine classical musician, he can play one mean ‘Devil Went Down to Georgia”. Seriously! Who would have known? I think, in fact, that he may even be one of the studio fiddle players on the last Dixie Chicks album before Natalie opened her mouth about being ashamed of her president. Don’t quote me on that. In any case, here’s to Lestat. He’s got it right. And if the violin doesn’t take my soul, perhaps he will instead. Someone needs to be be sucking on my neck, it may as well be him!

–Michelle Shannon, from a comment to Dark Knightingale