post-fall

i saw a girl i've seen a million times before today. about an hour ago. nothing special this time.

except the way she smelled.

regardless of how the scent came to inhabit her suburban pores, i'm sure that it didn't migrate directly to alabama from brighton in the past week. i know that sweet, infectious scent, that intoxicating smell that i have lost myself in, that delicious sequence of olfactory chemicals which, transcending their original purpose, invade my brain and invoke some mindless euphoria in every nerve. its extension, the body behind the odor, the mind behind the almost sinister gift; her eyes peer into my soul (right here) from beyond the foggy atlantic. and suddenly what i left (what left me) and the inevitable...seem like a fateful practical joke.

someday, i will either be immune to its allure or i will find her. otherwise, my life is to become an endless chain of unattainable temptations, this being the most recent and the most cruel.

cold

in the misty cold midday of this place, her face looks drearier and darker than ever before. 

the week ticks; the days melt; and a feeling of impatience permeates every grain that falls through my mind's rusted hourglass. it's as if, with my own dreams, i've returned to the beaches of that mythical place, where there is no sand to rush through my fingertips, nothing outside of my control, an unknown place made into a home. the rocks on that far-off beach are as cold now in december as my heart, and hers, and hers, and hers. is life but a rotating door of short-lived half-hearted happiness, with a nightcap of heartbreak on the rocks; the return of bliss and an icy reprieve, ad infinitum?

i walked around my neighborhood to have a cigarette today and i saw absolutely no one.

my heart in portland, my skin in texas, my mouth in england, and my eyes in huntsville. this is no way to live, broken. i need my heart back. my skin is cold. my mouth is tired. my eyes ache, weighty with tears. my speakers blare songs of no consequence, the television which i had forgotten for so long dulls my emotion. i miss knowing anything. i forget how it feels to feel whole. i fear that life will never be what it use to be. 

it could get better, though. but who exactly am i supposed to fuck until then?

on second thought, it probably won't get better. fuck until then.

the two americas

i've come to a realization that is, at once, frightening and uplifting. when i think about the events to come in coming days, my stomach drops - but my heart soars. i realized two inextricably linked truths, just now, just two minutes ago, while thinking about the junior senator from illinois, barack hussein obama. if (and, with any luck, when) barack obama wins the 2008 election, it will be the proudest, most satisfying, most viscerally emotional moment of my life. the intense euphoria that will invade my heart and mind when the first non-white president proves that, even if racism still exists in america (and it most surely does), it has been relegated to the fringe of our country, leaving the mainstream with a basically intelligent understanding of the importance of justice and the unimportance of skin color. personally, i will feel empowered, ennobled...at home. being a political fiend, having this irresistible attraction to this misunderstood business of society, culture, and power, i find that i can pinpoint no single event before now that would come close to the sheer joy, the ridiculously optimistic enthusiasm that will overwhelm me when i hear, see - know(!) - that he will be my president come january.

still, i said i came to two realizations and that was only one. the other, the one that makes my stomach drop, the frightening truth that lurks on the other side of the coin, is that, if the senator from arizona manages to steal this away from me, with the help of christian radicals who believe that all should believe as they do, with the aid of neoconservative pseudo-fascists who wish their power to extend indefinitely to the corners of the earth and the bedrooms of america...if john mccain and sarah palin manage to overcome barack and joe biden with some cruel twist of fate, it will, conversely, be the first moment in my life in which i really, truly question the decency of my own country. i will, for at least a moment, question america's greatness, rethink our grand claim to protector of liberty. i won't stop loving america, but from the cold depths of my mind i will carefully reexamine the worth of the country where i was born. if an old, undiverse, intolerant, elitist, imperialist, conservative administration can be voted into office after eight years of old, undiverse, intolerant, elitist, imperialist, conservative policies that have damaged our state and our reputations almost beyond repair...then i might not actually, morally be able to support my country as much as have before.

my mind is begging me to wait before i cash in all my chips...which is why the second paragraph is even an issue. i can't let my optimism and the polls lull me into a complacency that might be brutally shattered and replaced with the most bitter disappointment i've ever felt. but my heart holds sway here to. and it tells me i can at least rest easy, sleep soundly, in the knowledge - no, in the hope - that everything will be just fine.

don't read

in a state of flux, i find myself, as i do more often than not, not having any idea what i should be doing.

when it comes to the more simple things, those things that tend not to matter in the long run, things like getting a job and doing work for class, i know exactly what i can and should do. i need to get a job. there is no question. and similarly, i need to do work for my classes. there is no grey area...these issues are blatantly black and white.

still, while the things that aren't clear aren't necessarily more important (although they seem to be), they always seem to be more urgent, perhaps because there is some element of variability, some chance that what i do may affect the outcome, whether slightly or tremendously.

which brings us, finally, to the situation. and, more importantly, to the person it's all about, at the moment, anyway. she is beautiful, smart, and funny, in her own dry way. i enjoy spending time with her and talking to her. i feel like i understand her, somewhat, and she has probably figured me out. but i don't know what she wants. i have no idea, from one moment to the next, whether she wants me in her presence or not. it's not her fault. it's my own insecurity that plays at my perception this way. but it still bothers me that i never have a hold on what i should be doing. and i suppose that's the way it usually is. but something about her makes me feel like it's do or die, now or never. like if i slip, she'll be gone forever.

she doesn't want anything serious. and neither do i. but i have this problem, see? i find girls who i want to fuck all the time. i find girls who i can speak to intelligently less so. but a girl who i find extremely attractive and intelligent? it shouldn't be as rare as it is...but it hasn't happened many times in my life.

"fuck. what's that?"

"that's the pain of you shooting yourself in the foot."

the situation: an update

i sit here, in this computer lab in brighton, a small but bustling city on the south coast of england, surrounded by people i don't know. on the one hand, this realization is definitely frightening. so many experiences i cannot relate to, so many judgments to be made upon the way i look, the way i speak, the way i think from so many foreign vantage points. but at the same time, while the fear is sometimes paralysing, the excitement is palpable. so many oppurtunities to explore the vast humanity that embraces the globe, so as not to float off into space. so many clubs, so many classes, so many ears to hear me and minds to know me and hearts to conquer. it's a strange and exhilarating predicament. and i've just begun to accept it's magnitude. and i realize that it's okay to be scared, it's only natural to be anxious about this brave new world...which is actually the old world, but i digress.

i sit here, reloading my bank account statement, awaiting money from home. a poor student, on exchange in Europe. i don't have minutes on my phone but i can assure you, i am getting drunk tonight.

it's a grimy and hazy idealism. and i can't help but feeling like i'm on the edge of something epic. like i'm either going fall into oblivion or rise into the heights of existence. more than likely, though, i'm just going to have a really amazing year.

chloe & malcolm: a short story in progress

I. Malcolm and the Crying Incident

All that Malcolm had left to do was mail the damn thing. Hours of work, painstakingly crafting this, his altogether worthless show of affection: now what remained was the only part that mattered. Chloe slept in Boston...he knew that much. And here, in dank and gloomy London, the sun rising lazily over this damp February morning, Malcolm could think of nothing but her countenance; her visage overpowered his synapses and the terrible fury of her beauty ruthlessly expelled any hint of fatigue in him, eliminating any chance of rest despite classes resuming in a few hours.

As he carefully put his tongue to the envelope, sealed it, and peeled the postage stamp from its packaging, Malcolm felt a rare sensation on his face: a tear made its way from his eye to his cheek and slowly dropped onto the envelope, threatening to smear the return address. Strangely enough, it was only after the tear's descent that Malcolm realized what had provoked it. He had never been more sure of any fact in his life than the one that he suddenly became aware of now: his Venus, his Mona Lisa, his Heloise was most certainly not dreaming of Malcolm. As another tear escaped his clenched eye, he wondered whether she had ever dreamed about him or if he had led himself to foolishly believe his fantasies.

He looked down wearily at the postage stamp on the envelope, which was addressed in sloppy penmanship and blotched ink. It just so happened that FDR was Malcolm's second favorite president. Through another tear, Malcolm smiled weakly. He wondered, as he looked out the window, whether it would be sunny when he awoke in a few hours; the fifteen minute bike ride through the busy city was not the most enjoyable on slick pavement. Chuckling, he kissed the envelope softly and walked to his bed, shaking his head the whole time. He had no idea what to do.

II. Chloe and the Dream

As Chloe's eyes fluttered open reluctantly, she heard the usually pleasant chirping of birds outside her window. This time, however, the birds served as an unwelcome wake-up call on a morning she wished to sleep through. She was not particularly warm nor was she cold, yet a sleek film of sweat covered her smooth skin. As she touched her own arm, she remembered what she had seen in the middle of her sleep last night.

Dreams, to most, were merely indecipherable psychobabble, strings of images that illustrated deeper concerns in the most primitive of symbolisms. To Chloe, dreams were tools that contained advice on life from the subconscious. Her dream last night could not have been clearer. Chloe had sat on the quadrangle of Boston College staring into a pair of dark eyes; the face and body of the eyes' bearer were too blurry to make out. For reasons unknown to the real Chloe, her dream self had proceeded to look away from the piercing pair of eyes and walk in the opposite direction. As she did, the clear and beautiful summer day around her transformed into a rainy and windy night. She looked back and saw a withered figure, whose eyes had become dark and grey; this time Malcolm's features were clearly apparent. As she coldly walked away, she felt Malcolm fall to his knees just as she awoke.

Chloe felt troubled by the dream but dared not call Malcolm. They hadn't spoken since they met in Boston over the winter holiday and, besides, Malcolm had never understood her fascination with dreams. Still as she stumbled, hung over and confused, to her closet and began to undress, she had a throbbing feeling in her heart that her dream had not been far off the mark. She had no idea what to do.

To be continued...

the situation

i'm in a daze,
with all things simultaneously happening,
and not,
and, as my chest exhales its harsh condition,
we both know it's up to me,
no more.

the ball in her court,
her proverbial time is anything but up;
it pains me so sweetly to know,
that i, the weak romantic,
would wait for ages,
or at least until the age was up,
and i, with renewed vigor,
sought a new home for my needy lips.

the wall of flesh and bone stands upright,
blocking the way which,
in all natural beauty,
our hands would clasp and fuse,
into a glorious pile of flesh,
a holy collection of bones,
an infinite matrix of perfectly matching atoms.

as i sit here,
desperate for her warm gaze and her fleeting touch,
instead i settle for cold words on pages,
written about people who have,
for all intents and purposes,
figured out the complex network,
of loves and lusts and loves,
or, at the very least, have shut their urges,
down,

down, we descend,
will she follow me into this?
because, despite the face of stone,
i am nothing but straw, aflame,
held fast by water-weary clay,
a David of sorts, a Thinker,
a monument to humanity,
but most of all, to its flaws.

she don't think straight,
he can't see straight,
i don't think he...
i don't think i...
can do it on my own.