Monday, August 24, 2009

Another recovered poem

Found this in a notebook... wrote it about 2 years ago.


Mocha


"Mocha brown, I lump color with sound,

and texture fair like Knotty hair.

No pun, no pun just mocha brown.


And taste like salt or Reese's piece

like chocolate wedding cake.

Like she, like she, ya weh.


Fond memory- mocha eyes,

find safety - knees and thighs

and feet, and feet and gaps in teeth.


In days for hours. Four hours in bed.

Lump sheets mix feets mix memories.

Life story, life story mix sheets and teeth.


No word for punny- a pun for a word.

No name like YHWH has ever been heard.

New words, new words on tiny screens.


And call thousands of miles or drive five hours?

I fathom blissfully. I debate endlessly.

No answer, no answer yet hastily.


Mocha skin. Iranian. Trapped serenity.

Quiet mystery- half secretary, half lost in admiration.

No surprise, no surprise trapped in mocha eyes


Mocha dress, jacket too-

just several days - mocha shoes.

I'm lost, I'm lost I'm confused."

Friday, June 12, 2009

Damn internets

So as you (both haha) already know I deleted my myspace account because it has become obsolete due to the far superior quality of facebook. I did this on a foolish whim and failed to remember that my myspace blog was the only place that like half of the things I have ever written was backed up. Then POOF gone forever...
So I think I will try and recreate some of it here. I will start with some stuff that I already have written down. Then later on I think I will actually try and rewrite some of the old stuff. It will be different of course... because i am not in the same place I was when I wrote those things, and I want to feel like it comes from the heart. But maybe I can sort of keep the construction and rebuild with my current thoughts and feelings. It will be a fun experiment anyway.

Here are a few I found on my computer randomly... I don't even remember writing these haha




HOME IS WHERE THE HEART IS:

"Home is where the heart is

So I’ll lock my heart up in my chest

Everywhere I go I will have a home

Locked up tight within my breast"



Actually here is one I remember writing. It is not very good but sort of interesting I guess. I was walking across the Hawthorne Bridge in Portland, OR and it was night time and I was wondering about how close we are to death all the time. How random it is and how with every small decision or step we take we could possibly be putting ourselves in the path of something that will end our lives... its sort of a dark subject but I guess I was contemplative that night. Here is what came out of my head and onto the paper...


RED AND BLUE

"So I’m at that point. Faced between death and death- red on the right

blue on the left.

It could have been avoided I guess, I could have taken the bus

But life doesn’t give us a choice- life just happens.

Here is how I died:

I am on the bridge walking home, walking away and wondering

Why it always happens that I have to go home this way. I’m a penny pincher I guess.

It is crisp tonight and I’m thinking… the Willamette must

Be nice this time of year. All cold with currents pulling backward.

In a different world I would have wanted the currents to pull me down

To a waterfall and flip-flop around and fall fall fall until I make a bold splash.

 

The river is on my right. Takes three seconds for my spit to hit the surface, I should

Try and avoid the bikes. The Hawthorne Bridge connects Madison and Main and it

Always happens this way- the locals know. They drive slow because they know.

 

On my left is a car. It is red and driving fast. A careless bike begins to nudge my back

And my feet run fast and smack smack on the concrete surface.

Balance gives option and I’m predestined to choose between left and right,

death and death.

 

Its natural to choose left, as my body tumbles awe full and timing bad.

To go there is red and the death is fast perhaps. As the car screeches and screams-

My bones cracking on the metal grate. The car could try and stop but it is

Useless to try. I am dead before they arrive,

At the knowledge of my brain on the dashboard.

 

So maybe jump right. I could switch it up in time I guess. Over the wheels and handlebars,

The flashing lights and flailing arms. I could throw my body into black-

One

Two

Three seconds and I splash a wonderful dive to concussion and frostbite.

Oregon cold and icy hair- I always thought those handrails were rather low.

I doubt the thinly snow felt shores will even let me get a grip to pull myself out.

It would not come to that anyway. I’m dead before I arrive,

At the realization that my body is descending to the depths where fish swim

Among heavy items discarded by other passers by.

 

Left I’m a deer and right I’m a salmon. The choice between death and death.

I could blame the bike but what’s the point? I could not have chosen it another way

Death has a way of finding us and it is merely the sequence of events

That led me to this day. So I better choose

Between red and blue.






Here is the last thing I will post today. Wrote this little story right after I first arrived in Scotland for the first time. I had not done a whole lot of traveling prior to that so it was all pretty new to me. I was 18 when I wrote it so my skills were not quite honed but I like the story because it reminds me of a big adventure that happened what feels like a long time ago.


The endless tracks

 

“It is good to have an end to journey towards, but it is the journey that matters in the end.“

 ~Ursula K. LeGuin

           

 

 

            Click-clack click-clack click-clack. It is amazing how a massive steel train, as it rolls along two endless iron beams, with sparks flying and horns blowing, can produce such a comforting and sleep inducing lullaby. It is unclear at what point I stopped noticing the music in my headphones, because you can never tell exactly when you fall asleep. I always try and think back to the last moments I am awake before sleep happens, but it’s impossible. All you remember is that at one moment you were staring out the window listening to Pedro The Lion, and the next moment you are in some distant place dreaming about life on mars or something. I love to think about things like that, especially when riding on trains in foreign lands.

            This particular train was Scotrail #463 departing from London-King's Cross at 13:45h, and finally arriving at Glasgow-Central at 19:00h(this is how British people tell time; also they write the date in dd/mm/year format. So instead of writing January 1st, 2004 as 01/10/04, they would say 10/01/04. I am scarred for life because of this. In fact, I can't write dates in the numerical format at all anymore because I can never remember if month or day goes first). Trains are my choice of transportation almost everywhere I travel to. It is one of the best ways of getting familiar with a new place. You see, people often think they are going to travel to some foreign place and do all the things the local people do, and they are going to have some "off the beaten path" adventure. This never happens though; because they are walking around with some travel guide they bought at Barnes and Noble, which just proves that the secret of those "off the beaten path" places just might be out. So I choose trains because that way it is possible to not be super "touristy" yet at the same time still soak up a large amount of culture and geography as you just sit there and stare blankly out the window. It's for this reason that I have found myself all over the world in trains; it makes for a good collection of memories.

            I usually try my hardest to stay awake on the daytime ones, but for the first time in my life, I was just too tired. I guess it was because I had just been on a 9-hour flight from Atlanta, finding myself lost and confused in a huge London airport, then getting on the wrong train and ending up at Victoria station, which has no connection to Glasgow at all. So I had to get on the London underground with 6 months worth of bags, and ride on two different lines in order to get to King's Cross station. Then waiting on the trains, and purchasing the tickets, and on top of that I was completely alone. The alone part is okay though, I am quite content by myself, but it does make traveling a bit more hectic and stressful. Also, the people were not very friendly. I always imagined that when I got to Great Britain, everyone would be polite and sophisticated like in movies, but this is not true. They are the same as people everywhere, in fact it was worse for me. I didn't even have to talk; yet they somehow knew I was an American right away. It was like this the whole 6 months, even if I had no bags or anything, they just knew by how I walked and dressed. So not only were people rather rude to me in my fragile and tired state, they also made me feel like a minority.

            The date was January 10th, 2004, and the time was about 19:00h. I had not spoken more then five words to anyone since leaving America almost 24 hours earlier. I stepped onto the escalator that goes up and exits the historic, old train station and feeds out onto the streets of Glasgow. As I gained altitude, a picture unfolded before me, and revealed what historic, old Scotland looks like. At first just dim streetlights that fought to serve their purpose despite the thick air, then the beautifully carved (yet miserably grey) archways of buildings adjacent, and then I was even able to see the old cobblestone sidewalks neatly lined with green metal bins labeled "rubbish". Near the top I stepped to the middle of the escalator and let the cool wind blow through my hair and sooth my soar muscles. Then suddenly, "move oudda the way, ya fuckin septic", and a quick shove as a flash of pink mohawk and silver studded jacket brushed past me in a brisk and offensive manner. I learned quickly that when you are on an escalator, it is mandatory to stand to the right side. (To the British, not observing this courtesy is as rude and offensive as giving the middle finger. There is a very specific order to how you use stairs and escalators.) Suddenly my heart stopped (as did the escalator, causing a bit of embarrassing stumbling) and my head began to spin. I had been in a complete state of business all the way until this point, and really had not gotten a chance to breath in the new air, as I so love to do in new places. So right there on the sidewalk I dropped my bags and quietly whispered six very profound words: "I will never be the same."

            It was only 19:00h but the sun was completely down, which was a bit disturbing because I expected it to be light. It is sort of like that feeling when you go to the movie theater during the daytime, and after the movie you walk out and expect it to be night and you are sort of confused and uncomfortable about the fact that it is still light outside, except this was the opposite. I looked into the night and a drunken man was staggering around in the road and shouting at the long line of old-fashioned British taxis that were honking at him. (I wish I could explain these taxis better; they were just so cliché. It is one of those things where you know that is how something is, but you never really fully understand it until you experience it yourself.) Through the headlights of the taxis and the streetlights hanging on the side of the train station, it was evident that a light drizzle was falling from the sky. (Little did I know that that pretty much wouldn't stop... ever.) Eager to explore more, I took to walking.

            I was not allowed to arrive at the Seamill Centre until the 11th because they did not have the rooms ready yet until then, so I had to find a hostel. But first I resolved to find a pub. Eager to experience the essence of Scottish culture, I sat at the bar and sort of looked around.

"Whadda ya have mate?” from behind the bar.

"Um... is Guinness good?"

"Ha! Ay atis, yeed havda be daft te say its not."

I had to really think hard to make sure I understood what he was saying,

"Okay well then a pint it is", I said cheerfully and really quite American.

The bartender poured the pitch-black liquid into the pint glass and left it sitting under the tap.

"I'll just let dat settle fer ya. s'gonna be two quid sixty”. I really didn't understand that, so I took out the Five-pound note I had in my pocket from the change I got for my train ticket. The bartender gave me my change and after a few seconds the beer as well.

"Thanks"

"Cheers mate, down tha hatch"

This made me smile, and I sat in the smoky pub and enjoyed a very delicious beer.

            After two pints and about a half pack of cigarettes I decided I was pretty tired and really needed to find that hostel. To my luck I found one that was only 10 pounds a night. Whether the luck was good or bad is up for debate. I am not sure if I have ever been to a sketchier place in my life. I have heard stories about an infamous hostel in Dundee, Scotland called the “Ho Ho Hostel” and the name says it all. Although I have never been to Dundee… I believe this hostel must have been equally as bad. I just sat in my bed, in a room filled with about 10 other beds and listened to the conversations, realizing it was pretty much a foreign language to me.

"Oi mate, fetch me anotha can, I needa get fucked up",

"Piss off ya shited cunt, ya couldn't even be bothered ta drop a few quid in me direction back at the shop? Ha, piss off, getcher own".

"Well fuck you then, yer no mate oh mine, ya fuckin dafty. Ya wee spaz. Go drive around after a few pints ey? Go on then... fucking wanker" (This language is known as Glaswegian, it is English, but a very thick dialect that gets thicker the closer you get to the center of Glasgow. Seeing that I was just outside of "Glasgow Central Station", you can imagine just how thick it was).

            I was beginning to wonder if my time in Scotland was going to be a bad one. These people just spoke so incredibly fast, and their language was overwhelmingly offensive and vulgar. It took me about a month before I realized that it is just part of the culture to insult each other. That is how they communicate. It is funny because later that night those same two guys were talking to me about my trip over and traveling and such, and were nothing but polite and entertaining. In fact, they gave me some great tips on things to do while I was in town. I just hoped that when I arrived at the Seamill Center the next morning I would find that there is a breed of Scots that are not so down on themselves and dead inside. I fell asleep praying that the Lord would protect my possessions while I slept and that I would never have to return to the Blue Sky Hostel.

            The next morning my train pulled into West Kilbride-platform 2 at 09:45h and I was speechless. I was standing on a hill at a small outdoor train station, and the most beautiful landscape I had ever seen unfolded before me. The deep green hills were thick with wet grass and hundreds of grazing sheep spotted the emerald horizon. Down to the left was the ocean, and since it was such a clear day, I could see Northern Ireland masked in gray way off in the distance. This whole scene was a rare scene, because there was never a day more clear and beautiful for the whole time I was abroad. Just on the coast I could see huge windmills turning their turbines with great force, and just below that, was a massive stone castle. I stood there wondering if someone was going to pick me up when suddenly,

"There's Patrick!"

"Huh?” I turned around.

A slightly overweight man with glasses and short, balding hair, and a thin quite naturally beautiful woman were standing before me.

"You must be Patrick. I am Lee and this is my wife Carolyn. We talked to you on the phone last week, remember? We are so glad you are here," said the man, in a soft English accent. We shook hands and exchanged small chatter.

"Is that the Seamill Centre down there?" I asked with a bit of awe and fatigue in my eyes, as I peered down at the ancient dinosaur of a castle.

"It is indeed. Welcome home mate. We're so glad you're here".

Friday, April 17, 2009

Cease to begin

Ok Lindsey I started a blog but I'm too busy to write in it presently. You can follow me though and I will update with random thoughts and tidbits of creative writing.