As of yet untitled

Thelma had a dream. In her dream the sky was the purest of blues. The only clouds were the ones that were scattered by her outstretched arms as the wind folded obediently under them. Below her the sea flew by. Below her the land grew out of the water. Below her the island circled, and the village on the iland craned its head, and the many hands reached up. Their finger tips wanted so badly to touch her perfect skin. bit if wanting could make it so, we would never wake from our dreams.

***

"You have such perfect skin" he said. Thelma could see why he would think that. His skin was rough, like his hands, but not like his voice. His voice told her sweet things, and did so smoothly. His hands were made pretty by the smooth metals that choked his fingers. His skin might have been nice if she ever saw him in any kind of light aside from the street light or the club light. The many orange hairs on his arms and chest might look handsome in the sunlight on a beach somewhere. he could look like Brad Pitt. Yes. He could be her Brad Pitt. Only with rougher hands. And a smoother talk, if not a gentler voice.

***

He has such a gentle voice. usually baby's cry and cy and they sound like they could shatter glass. Or they bawl just to drive you crazy. not this one. he has the gentlest voice a baby ever had. Its almost like he's singing.

***

Come baby. Walk for mommy. its not far. Come, you can walk. Come, come. No, mommy can't carry you. mommy's too tired. And you're too heavy, baby. Shhh...Don't cry. Don't cry, we'll be there son. Just a little bit further. But you have to walk. mommy can't carry you baby. Ay, mi back. Ay, mi legs. Mommy can't carry you, baby. you too, too, heavy. This baby just too heavy.

***

Won't be long now. its a good thing we got here early though. See how much the baby likes the planes? Now, when you reach you know hotw to get where you're going? Personally I don't see how a man can send for you but not have the decency to pick you up from the airport. Doesnt he own car? Well then can't he pay for a taxi? i know, I know. you're your own woman now. Woman by law and nature That don't mean your aunty can't worry. Now when you reach you must call and let us know you're alright. And you have to let the baby hear your voice so he doesn't feel left behind. Are you listening? First chance you get you start saving up, hear? Don't depend on no white man for too long, you hear? Take it from me! maybe in about six months you can send for the baby? A year? A child needs his mother. And you must call regular so he knows your voice. You hearing me, Thelma? Well answer me then! I swear, you acting like you already miles away.



(This is probably the roughest draft i've ever written, but i was feeling rushed that day. I like this story. i really like this story. i was hoping fo something greater from it though. I wanted to link each paragraph with the one after it, but that fell apart by the third. I also don't like that ending, its too harsh. Too solid. Doesn't have convey enough idea or emotion. I do like the fact that 'Thelma' either speaks or thinks actively in all the others except this one. When I re-work it, I want to keep that.)

For My Dawg (Very first draft)

Oh, what brown a face!
What a wide, well shaped nose.
You, my friend, were made a thing of beauty!
But you smell, quite strongly, of horse manure.
Is that what you were doing, perhaps, when I first saw you?
Lost in a field of high grass
All four legs in the air.
And then you came charging along the path,
excitement in your eyes as if
you knew you'd done something wrong.
and you blazed by me.
I could run with you
in the heat of mid day sun
and call you brother.
But only if I threw my human being away.

Oh, what brown a face.
What a wide, well shaped nose.
Don't you know you were made a thing of beauty?
But you shine, quite strongly, from the sweat on your brow.
Is that what you were doing, perhaps, when I first saw you?
Lost in a sea of bodies
until strong fingers snatched free a golden lace.
And then you came charging through the street,
hunger in your eyes although
you knew you'd done something wrong.
And you blazed by me.
I've seen your kind of hunger,
Brother.
I could run with you.
But only if I threw my being away.

Stay Classy, Benicio Romero

"Oooh!  Way to put me in my place."  Benicio thumps the table, pleasantly ammused with the reaction he'd incited.  He stands, adjusts the lapels of his black and gray vest, the collars of his silver polyester shirt, and the sides of the wide mohawk.   And then, he begins to recite his own lineage.

He knows why they do this.  He recognizes yet another method for sizeing each other up.  Obviously he's done it often enough to mention the names and exploits of all four Kindred between himself and Troile.  More names between himself and Caine than many in the room, but also more names to have passed down their aggression, cruelty, and passion.  Each city destroyed, each stewardship sacked, each decade of barbarism and banditry he names with gusto and a gleaming grin as the light reflects off the gold teeth flanking his left fang.

When he's done he sits again, looking around the conference table for whoever would speak up next.  And while he waits, one steel toed boot thumps on the far edge of the table, and the other rests crudely on top.

For someone who considered this all a hassle, the Brujah seemed to be quite pleased with having gushed at his predecessors, and therefore himself.

[January, 2009]

Against the Light: Original Inspiration

In New York they walk against the light.
There'll be no delay of our daily pursuits
No insincere righteousness to fix us
to someone else's worn, bitter road.

Why should we walk when our goal is flight?
Why should we stop?
For a little thing like danger?
A little thing like fear?
A litle thing like failure?

For a little thing like the loss of life?
Which, until we stand to lose it
we have no idea of its true value.
And what would a life spent be worth
having never walked against the light?

[5:40 PM, watching the sun set from 5th floor window at Filene's Basement across from Columbus Circle. Also inspired by waiting at interections, holding Merri's hand, and wondering....]

Eulogy Time

Its the beginning of a new year.  Or the first month, at least.  In my prime (which I hope has only lagged behind, rather than past) It would be the time I close another writing journal, banding up another Moleskein or twisting the cheap notebook out of the make-believe leather covering.  And before I'd start fresh, letting the ink sink into the first unsuspecting pages of my replacement, I'd look back one last time at what I'd written, attempted to write, or failed to complete throughout the year.

Because its always somewhat bittersweet, and because the memories soon fade and are replaced with new ones, much like new life replaces death, I called it 'Eulogy for a Journal.'

But, I haven't quite been performing like i was in that prime lately.  Not only have I failed to exhaust my journal, but through some wonderful folly, I wound up with two journals.  One, the same faux leather covering over a stiff, simple, easy to carry notebook.  The other is something I picked up at a Borders in New York.  Beautiful hardcover, magnetic flap, and covered with elegant, driven scrawl.  A speech by Abraham Lincoln.  In the one that's easy to have everywhere, I have the thoughts that I have everywhere.  Including many of the banal things that I simply have to write down.  In the other beautiful, writing inspired/inspiring book, I have my beautiful writing.  Or, what I try to write, at the very least.

It works out well, I suppose.  Two books.  Two blogs.  And going back and seeing the failed attempts, or the poor successes, has always lead to great things, in my mind.  So I'll be having a eulogy for both.  Check in at The Changing Leaves if you want to know some of the foolish, boring, insane, truthful things that went through my mind in 2009, and check Eulogy for a Journal, if you want fiction, poetry, and pretty words that don't quite belong anywhere. Lets remember that year together.