New Year

Webs of starlight stretched out for miles across the sky.

The best stargazing I’ve ever witnessed.

As I was driving home,

I asked for a shooting star,

And whether it was New Year’s luck or something else,

I don’t know,

But as I stood in my driveway,

I saw it dart across the sky.

Magic straight from space.

Magic at three a.m.

In nowheresville.

No-where-I’d-rather-be-sville,

At least in that moment it was.

Moments of quiet reflection-

Of laughter and modest pride

Of simplicity and

Delicate dreams we pray burst into existence.

Moments that sparkle and bubble over

The tops of champagne glasses.

Proseco glasses. Asti Spumanti glasses.

So here we are in 2012,

With the whole year stretched out in front of us.

A blank canvas

Just asking for a masterpiece.

Asking us to remember,

Who we are and what we want.

Asking us to forget,

About limitations of the past.

Asking us to make this

A year for the books. 

Photo Credit

On the Age of Princesses and Pirate Ships

It was like listening to herself babble away in the backseat,

About nothing, and everything.

“Mommy made me wear these to, what is that thing called when

Someone dies? Yeah, a funeral, that’s it.”

I must have said something to that effect ten years ago.

It was like watching herself discover pop music for the first time,

As they listened to Taylor Swift.

“On a bandview in somedale.” “On a balcony in summer air.”

I like this song. God her songs are sad.

“Do you like this song just because it mentions the seven dwarves?”

I didn’t even notice it mentioned the seven dwarves “Yes.”

It was like reliving the innocent days,

As they talked over a cappuccino and a hot chocolate,

About how boys are gross,

Video games and kissing and all that, gross. Yeah…you. just. wait.

She gets home and half expects to see her
eight year old self in the mirror

because she’s been living in a pre-adolescent memory all afternoon.

She thinks back to the movie theater, the blue-raspberry slushie,

To the kids section of the book store,

To the song playing on the radio.

There’s a reason the song goes,

Don’t forget to look before you fall.

Not before you leap, but before you fall.

We’re all bound to. We all jump,

and we all fall. Blame it on gravity,

blame it on fate, or blame it on nothing

and embrace the impact as best you can.
Love the fall, because sometimes it will be all you've got.

Along with some nostalgia and a new-found appreciation

For the wooden toys her mother gave her (her fingers went numb

Trying to fit those silly plastic dolls in their silly rubber clothes.),

That was the take away.

Look before you fall.

She’s practically a grown-up now,

with responsibilities, with worries, with honest desires, with attainable dreams.

She knows that the Elf on the Shelf isn’t magical,

But my God, how she wishes it was.

She knows that childhood lenses shatter somewhere around adolescence,

            And she wishes she could save the young,

            Or at least prepare them for what lies ahead.

She can’t remember the day, month, or even exact year,

            When she made a devastating realization.

The world wasn’t on her side.

            No one could save her from what she’d do to herself.

Her childhood had evaporated.

            Christmas brought sadness, not presents,

            And it’d be that way for a while.

She’s in the middle of childhood naïveté

            And the vast bitterness of adulthood. 

            Neither quite here nor there.

She swears she won’t let the world get to her,

            But fears she’s beaten the world at that race.

But maybe it’s not so bad to see things for what they are--

            To recognize sadness and humor, grief and irony

            To feel disappointment is to appreciate love

            and all the rest of it just a bit more.

Besides, in one way or another, she’s still got parts of that sparkling youth.

She thinks she can do anything.

She thinks the world’s her canvas,

Because up until this point, it has been.

She’s tried and failed and healed and tried again,

And nothing’s ever stopped her.

She prays that it will always be this way,

That she can act with no regrets, forever.

That she can hit the target every shot she takes, forever.

She prays, but she still knows better.

She dreams the same way Children do.

The only difference is that she recognizes

The foolish parts.

She writes them off.

I’ll bounce back.

Or else deal with it when I’m really an adult.

But Children aren’t sophisticated enough to know

that someday the world won't be at their fingertips.

Someday they'll be hit hard, and it'll feel like

a ton of bricks, the weight of the world.

Someday they'll see more clearly, 

and someday they'll be scared of more than

just monsters under the bed.

They can't grasp the concept of growth and change,

And thank God for that.  

 And at her age,

all you have to do is reach out

and touch the world. 

At her age, it's all possible. 

It's all right there.

Photo Credit

Every Time A Bell Rings...

...an angel gets his wings. 

Inspiration from It's a Wonderful Life.

Baby, it's cold outside. I don't feel like moving from this deep sleep. 
Baby, it's cold outside. I need you close to me. 


She lights a candle and puts on that slow record,
the one that lulls her into sweet dreams. The moment pulls along,
like the long drag of a cigarette; like honey dripping off a spoon. 
She cracks the window and sits on the sill; she tucks her legs up to her chest. 
It's snowing outside. The moon's casting shadows across her bedroom floor.
That lonely bedroom. That lonely moon. 
Lasso it. She wishes she could lasso the moon. 
She wishes she could find someone willing
to make dreams like that come true--
wishes she could find someone worth wishing for. 
The snow sparkles on her sill like shattered panes of glass.
If only she could pull the moon down from its high palace. Then she'd have someone
to spend the night with--someone to whisper her dreams to
in the dark, black night. 

Where do those dreams go, into the darkness?

Into the night sky?

Out into the storm, to get mixed in with the snowflakes

and built into an igloo in some child's front lawn? 

I hope so. I hope they make their way in a world as

cold as this one. I hope they make it long enough

to see the ground thaw and the spring bloom. 

I hope they make it.

She wants moonbeams to shoot out of her skin. 

She wants to dance until the sun rises and makes the hillside pink. 

She wants to live in a perpetual dream, in which the record never

stops spinning and her feet never tire and her dance partner never tires.

She wants to look at her flower and watch it multiply into a garden. She wants to be 

foolish enough to believe, fully, that the real world can mesh with her dreams.

She wants beauty. She wants to be made of moonbeams.

Dream a little dream for me, 

for  all's fair in love,

isn't that what they say?

That's why she lights up

like a firefly,

that'd look so pretty in a jar on a bedstand or

on a printed postcard--

That's why she shys away

like a secret--
when you're around.

For, all's fair in love.

Her taken heart jumps just thinking

of walking with you.

All's fair in love. All's fair in love. All's fair in love

and war. Well, I don't know about war.

Baby, it's cold outside. Won't you climb in next to me?
Won't you catch that moon, ring that bell, sing that tune?
And take these fallen petals and tuck them away, for
they'll be worth something, someday. 
Let me have your vacant ear, 
let me whisper my childish dream,
though I know you'll never hear,
Baby, it's cold out, hold me close, hold me near.

 

Two Walks Back

She walks home alone
with nothing but the sound of her heels
clicking impatiently on the pavement.
The confidence shooting out of her feet.
her fingers. her eyes.
Like a live wire,
jittering in the moonlight.
Happy to be alive. 


*

She walks home alone,
with no one but the moon,
iridescently casting shadows on her skin.
Her bare feet grateful for the cool
dark pavement they're embracing.
A natural craving she satisfies from time to time.
In these moments of contentment
she looks turns around with her head staring straight
up into the deep black sky
and whispers,
how lucky I am 
to be alive.

Angels and Bears

She walked back alone that night—unused too strolling alone, in the dark—she began to think of her bear dream. Terror had run through her fingertips as the image of a 500 pound black bear tumbled into her mind. She wondered, quite seriously, if things in our lives, the things that make us smile or cringe or laugh or break down--fresh fruit gone bad in the fridge--babies being lifted onto tall shoulders--were placed there fore a reason. Did fate exist? What pain was that in her chest? He pushed her to the ground, out of the bear's path, into a new kind of nightmare. What kind of magic was  at work there, toiling that messy ball of yarn into a massive knot that sank to the pits of her stomach? 

She slowed her pace from a brisk walk to a walk to a drag to a staccato arrangement of semi-steps. At points, she stood frighteningly still. The dream took over. She was fierce enough to ask for what she wanted. To demand it. To act on it. Why couldn’t that virulence succeed in daily life? Why did she drag her legs so sunkenly behind her body, walking back, alone? She couldn't die without knowing what it was like.

Everything in this world could be taken. Won. Earned. Deserved. This was true. She had hoped that upon waking, the shambles she’d created would be miraculously fixed. That some angel, with big bushy wings and tufts of golden hair, who spoke in a mixed tongue of charms and melodies, would slip through her window at night and take over her helpless body.

Waking Dream.

"I'm not an actor on your personal screen,
I'm a practical person.

You might be surfing in the wake of a dream
I'm not fast, but I'm certain. "
-Senator and the New Republic, Call My Mechanic




I think the whole world is filled with signs, but if there's no laughter, I know they're not for me. 
-StoryPeople.com

Her existence is in question. 

The ridiculousness of all this. 

Oy. For another day. Another time. 

Time's not your friend. Time won't stand on its hands. It won't bolt back to the house, like your muddy dog ready for dinner and a bath. Its spent. Every minute of it. Money given to the ice cream man. Never to be seen again. So who are you this time? Are you the girl from swampland adventures? From late night walks around town? The girl laughing out loud, writing songs about lemonade & gossiping? 

Are you the girl trapped in a memory--a dream shattered--shards of glass sparkling with feigned beauty in the sun. That damned setting sun. 

Are you the girl who marks time with letters, holding the pieces. Acting like glue. You have more to contain now than that pink house could ever hold. God forbid you let the moments go. God forbid you let go.

Legs of Ice

What is this mess she harbors,
tangled up inside-
Is it a torment
Self-inflicted?
Or is it imposed
by someone else,
Someone Who,
as the night blackens,
fills heads like hers with sorrow
grief and lingering memories?
Who revels in the idea of Power--
Who cares not for the sanctity of her balanced scale?

Whose shadow is that,
Lurking around the corner,
Beckoning her to follow?
Whose shadow remains
Long after the sun has set--
Is it the ghost of a lonely lover,
She tried so hard to forget?

What song is that
Resonating in the stagnant air
Tickling her reluctant ears?
What melody still rings,
Petering above the hollow ground
In a world where all that’s left
Is the likeness of a familiar sound?

**

She decided it was time
To remove the limited time offer sticker.
She likes to make the rules,
But doesn’t like to be the only one
Running laps around the field,
with legs cold as ice, stable as jello.

Arms stretched

She stretches out
her arms around the world

To reach all she loves,
all she misses.

Those who she can't see,
but can only dream of

At night when it's dark
when the stars appear,

She reaches her arms out.
And the world reaches back.



**

Leaving pieces of her heart in every place she goes,
With the hope that someday she can go back
And collect them all.

Without a sense

We learn at an early age that we each have 5 senses. Sight, sound, taste, touch and smell. We use these to sense danger, if we smell smoke or hear a siren. Our sense heighten pleasure, so much so that the smell of warm baked cookies can link you to your mom's kitchen, or the taste of cotton candy can bring images to mind of your first carnival. What would a hug mean if you couldn't feel the person's arms wrapped around yours? What importance would music have in religion, culture and history, if not for our ability to sense sound with our ears?

In addition to those, we often discuss a sixth sense. (And no, I'm not thinking about the Bruce Willis movie.) That feeling of deja vu, or the crawling feeling you get when you know someone's watching you, those are senses too. These internal senses help evoke emotion, stir longings, grapple with memory. They can't be tested as easily as sight or hearing, but for most people, this sixth sense can be, well, sensed. With out, we'd all be grossly out of tune with one another. This humanistic sense connects us, makes us wired in a strange, intangible way.

But the list of definitions for sense continue. The dictionary includes entries such as: sound, practical intelligence--the value, merit, or significance of something--a DNA sequence capable of coding for an amino acid--an opinion formed by a group consensus. In a properly functioning society, leaders have a good sense of what's going on. They also are able to sense change arriving; they provide a sense of security for their followers. Followers too utilize their own senses when listening to broadcasts and empathizing with situations. In order to seek progress, individuals must provide a moral sense in their lives. To keep things light, we must develop a sense of humor. We must realize that there's little sense in holding on to the past, when the future lies so close to our eyes.


Sometimes, we lose our senses. Flustering situations, panic, laughter, change, can all alter our perception of the life we have built for ourselves. That's perfectly OK. Some moments in our lives, sense shouldn't take the reigns. Death, for instance, make perfect sense. Life happens, and it ends. Biological, right? So why do we cry and mourn for our loved ones when they pass? It's illogical if you think it through, and yet our emotions take over, and sense gets put in the back seat. A lot of decisions made in Washington make sense for the greater good, and yet they result in arguments and anger among different political parties. In forming our own opinions, we essentially give up any hope of finding common ground, a set of simple, sensible rules to live by. When we follow our own desires, we forfeit the right to say 'this makes sense.' Sense, in this sense, refers to personal perception, not straight knowledge. That's perfectly OK too. 

A man who hopes to get close to others, to make connections stronger than political, social, or business allies, must overstep the boundaries of what makes sense to himself, and accept that things can be right without being logical. Life isn't a puzzle. It's not a race to see who can build the most impressive picture. It's about indulging in delicacies on occasion, living out our dreams, and speaking up, even if our sentences make no sense.  In the long run, comprehension can't compare with our internally developed six senses. Those primitive aspects did, after all, came first. 

And now that you've read all that, 

listen to this completely nonsensical song by the Barenaked Ladies (a nonsense name if I ever saw one.) I may or may not (I do) know all the words to this song.

Hurricane Irene

Life is sad;

Life is a bust.

All you can do,

is do what you must

Bob Dylan's an inspiration. Saw him in concert a few years ago, and must admit that his recorded stuff is better. He certainly has not aged well. I absolutely love this song. Listen to it every time it rains, along with the rest of my rain play-list, which makes my pen (or keys) dribble out thoughts like these...

***

In my dream, you looked like a pirate

and I said

you need a haircut

and you agreed

so I said

let's go

and we went

***

Thinks she's too old for plucking petals

from daisies.

There are some things we should just know.

Her toes curled over that sharp ledge, 

she looks out at marshmallow skies, 

which twitter with sparrows,

with the symphony of late August.

An applause of fallen leaves

sweeps the ground.

A standing ovation

persuades her

to stay for

Act II

 ***

Spent days filling her journal with all the stories of her life.

She figured those things happened

simply so that she could write them,

and please others

with her fairy tales.  

In the land of dreams

        The sky was the color of eggplant. Stars reflected, writing dreams upon her face. She gazed out there just wondering how to get to the great beyond. She imagined and invented things that she thought might exist....out there. 

Found at kelliehill.blogspot.com
Check out her site!

        A place with an endless supply of warm, balmy days. Lemonade glasses so tall and cold, and always full. Toe nail polish that never chipped. Laughter rolling over the mountains, turning every drop of water into a crisp diamond. Running bare-foot through the grass and not having to turn back. A land of sunshine so pure it immediately made your skin golden brown and your hair shiny blonde. Sailboats and fishermen and mermaids swimming alongside dolphins. Shelves stocked with ripe avocados, Colombian coffee and Swiss chocolate. A place where your favorite song, the one your grandmother used to play over and over as she lulled you to sleep, would play on forever, and not on replay. The song would extend forward, continuing into the hills as you danced along at your own pace, just waiting to hear what else the instruments had in store.

        The sky looked like eggplant that night. She dreamed. She sent those visions off to the land of supernovas. The place where the Fates sit. The place where the cosmos combine and it all happens.

Variety Hour

Early start to the day- Headed on an adventure...first east, then north. 
Wanted to leave you with some stuff to peruse while I'm gone, since I won't be posting much until Saturday or Sunday (please check back, though!) 

The theme of this week's Variety Hour is dreams...~

I always buy cards in this style. They have the best quotations!!

"Around My Head" by Cage the Elephant, performed on David Letterman. 

I always play this song after I have a dream about an old friend or memory that I didn't particularly want to relive in my subconscious. 

Best line: "You got me tangled like a braid, tied twisted." (though I sing it, "like a bread-tie twisted", because I like the sound of that much better. Way more original)

My brother got me into this band-- New rock, pretty good stuff. I have two of their albums off of itunes. Check them out! 

And from his tongue leapt promises--emptier than their cabinets,

and his pockets.

But at least his words were rich enough to satisfy

her most ambitious dreams.

{piece from a Tori Original Notecard, dated 2010}

Ciao,

TB