Birds

the birds crept in twilight padding on the wet grass.
I lay with my head on the concrete staring at them.
The red robins were my favorite because they always seemed to turn toward me and stare. Something about being stared at with their beedy eyes, while their chests heaved up and down. But in that time they would sometimes look for a minute or more, just staring. Sometimes it hopped closer to me.

Eventually it would turn away, pounding its beak into the clay soil and ripping out grass til its prey wiggled wildly in its beak. Then it’d jump then let out its wings and flap them as it would go up and up till it swooped into a thick tree where it disappeared.

I see other birds too sometimes. But they never look at me. Just stay for their breakfast bugs and then off to the tree to chit chat with their friends across the block.

Now there are no birds in the yard. But there is a whipering chatter, quiet but fervent, like whispers during church. Just the empty grass, and the empty plants, and empty trees. Not even the bees are up to make their entrance. The sky is a chilly blue. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to watching for these birds who could care less about me. But here I am. Listening to their singing. They have started singing. They are so excited. They can feel the rush of dawn coming. They know the time for their eggs to hatch is coming. And soon they will have have helpless little babies clinging to their nests, which they will feed, and they will love. That is nature. Everyone loves their babies.

Their singing, like small hymnals, like children running. I want to feel excited too, I want to sing out just because I am alive and sun is coming. I am almost annoyed to be witnessing their divine faith.

Being a frail bird is accepting death can snatch you up any night, so morning is a celebration always. I poke my finger into the dirt, slowly pull a blade of grass from out the dirt. Its long root lay flat in my hand. I toss it aside, it lay lost forgotten to god as it will dry and wither away.

My plants will appreciate that though, kill a few blades of grass, make some more room for their roots to florish.

 

 

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Busy?

Busy? Holds up hands and shrugs.
I took a nap a little bit ago and woke up off the couch, keeping the pictures in my head wrote it down on my computer notepad. Then spent another 15 minutes looking up the meanings. One of the symbols possible interpretations was that you are not getting enough done in life and you are falling behind. I actually don’t work right now. I take care of my son. He plays independently for long stretches and still takes three hour naps even though he is three, and my daughter is in school.
This is a great opportunity for me to explore my desire to create art. I like both writing and art. Both are time consuming. And the funny thing is that it takes a really long time to get started on either lately. I went 4 days last week where I didn’t create anything. All I did was read stuff online. I had gotten really interested in mythology and alchemy due to some weird dreams I had been having. But I haven’t been able to concentrate on anything for days.
But sometimes I feel guilty for even getting the chace to do art. I wanted to for such a long time but I was working full time and had a daughter to spend time with when I wasn’t working. And that familiar catch phrase everyone has heard before, “I just couldn’t find the time.” But I have time now and I don’t know how to use it effectively enough. I want to start a novel, but I am also terrified. So instead I just practice, and am waiting for a great inspiration to hit me. But I feel even though I have more time than most, I am always afraid. I am running against an invisible clock and if I haven’t gotten something done by that time I will have failed. I feel failure breathing on my back, it’s hot breath leaves my neck damp. I feel if I ever see it, it will be wearing black robes and wear its face should be will be nothing but blackness.
I am afraid of writing, because I will be looking down the well, and I can’t do it all at once. The music coming up from the well is haunting and also so enticing, but what if I never get back up and out. I know that sounds irrational, but how could art kill you? But I don’t know, I get a strong feeling it could.
I guess many days do play out busy at times. I make breakfast for the kids, try to keep a limit on my explosions and explain very calmly to my daughter that you really need to eat quickly and I asked you to put on your shoes three times now, why are they not on? Keep it in check, do not explode, do not be a terrible monster mother, but talk to them. They will understand if you explain. OK I probably ended up blowing up again. We are in a hurry kids, you are not going to be late. And kids fed, lunch packed. Wait… You didn’t eat your sandwich yesterday?
But I do not like the turkey on my sandwich.
You had me cut out cheese last week and I did, and now you want the meat out too? Your sandwich is going to be two slices of bread, some mayo and avocado and that’s it. That isn’t a meal. She stares not saying anything, standing fast to her point. You need to eat your sandwich today.
The kids shuffle out to the car. No time for shoes today for the boy. Some objections from him because it’s different.
“It’s okay, no shoes today. There’s no time” He walks over the grass barefoot and stands by the car.
I strap my boy in his seat, seats today have become contraptions of torture for both kids and parents alike, but at least they’re safer I guess. My daughter races to see if she will get her seat on before I get my sons on. She wins.
I start the car and drive to her school.
Drop her off, Chinwah, my boys stand in name (something feels wrong about putting in his name), Chinwah then asks if we can go to the library.
Sure but the library isn’t open for an hour. We go home, he is ready for snack, even though he has just had breakfast. I sometimes say no, wait till lunch and other times I say fine. Today was a fine day. I grab a little bowl and put some nuts and raisins in it, his eyes shine.
He carries his bowl to the table but he tips the bowl and nuts and raisins fall over the floor. He is crying. He wraps his arms around me and his head is tilted up and he let’s out tear filled wails.
Oh it’s okay, I comfort him, rubbing his back. You can have some more. It’s okay. I get the mess cleaned and offer another bowl that I place on the table. He smiles again and delicately, examining each piece before popping it in his mouth.

Last ten minutes

In ten minutes the bomb is gonna come. I will be knocked out of existence like a fly being struck in someones hand.

Some notes to take from my life: People don’t change. We are changed, but there is always weakness staring us in the face in the most challenging moments. And even when you overcome something one time there will probably be another challenge later that will show us how weak we are.

People do what they have to to remain in their comfort level.

Spiritual truths are part reality and part fantasy, and telling which is which is pretty much impossible.

People are so optimistic, no matter how people are knocked down people are always trying to get themselves back up. It’s almost heart breaking. When I think of how much suffering people have endured overall time and in all places, it is unbelievable that more people haven’t shut down.

That if you can’t cry at a sad movie or a sad event part of your heart is locked up somewhere. I rarely cry.

The earth is floating in outer space right now, majestically in outer space. It too continues moving, and maybe that is not always easy for it either.

In these last minutes I think of my ancestors, and want before I die to say a little prayer for those that have come before. And my ancestor, a ghost in the other worlds, will hear my prayers and they will pray for me, and I will matter to someone somewhere.

I take a drink of alcohal. Drugs the worlds numbing agents, along with so many others, many musics, movies, relationships, are simply drugs to make the days go by a little easier. And I embrace this drink, hearing my fathers chuckle in the back of my mind as he would say I will think of death when I die till then lest not let the drink run dry, and my scowl of reproach as he toasted his drink, a droplet spilling and falling out. And in space a droplet will continue to float forever. Likewise these memories are droplets in my soul. I want to rub them out sometimes because so many of them don’t make any sense any more. It has all become so ridiculous that I can’t stand it anymore. I laugh, swish the burning liquid and force myself to swallow it.

I guess that is the last thing I have learned. No matter how I have loved my family enjoyed them, was uplifted by them, in the end I am alone and they are alone. Even if I spent every waking second next to them. We are separate and yet so important to each other. Like a curse and a gift. A curse because people were never too fond of me, and I had wished that that hadn’t mattered. I tried hard to make it not matter. I wanted to lock it all out. And my heart is somewhere in a chest somewhere thousands of feet under in the ocean. Like the squid man in Pirates of the Caribean, Dead Man’s Chest. And I am not sure if I want to have to find it again, and go through all the pain that is bound to go with it or let it be, and find a party get another high while life is moving and I’m still alive.

Just then I hear a boom. And my life flashes over my eyes. And I see a young woman, scared and feeling so alone, pregnant with me in her. She is so scared and her mother is telling her, “You need to have an abortion, there is no way you are mentally well enough to take care of a child. And she says, “No mom, I think I want to keep her.”

And then there was nothing. A fly under a human hand. And then there was nothing.

Relics

Wild flowers pop out among the grass and pollen weaves through the air.  I think maybe I can see fairies riding on the backs of pollen.

But if I look too hard they’re gone.

Day turns darker blue.

I breathe.

“Why are you here?” asks a voice from the darkness.

Then a black wolf jumps from behind a bush, snarling as it comes this way.

I pull out my sword, my wrists are shaking.  His growl is low and guttural, I drop the weapon and run, pumping my arms and legs, pressing back the air as I go.  But after a while I can’t get my breath anymore and I turn around to see where the wolf is.  But the wolf is gone.

Seasons change.

The color of chestnuts painted across the trees and other trees are yellow like the Anjou pears. The trees appear soft and and are gently tossing their leaves on the grass. Giving up themselves to their dead mother.

And I fall too, falling on top of the leave’s graves. The stars above shine like maps in the sky, I look at bear, lobster, and bird, and the air let’s out a fresh breeze around me.

Old songs return. I hear the distant rumble of Bear’s drum, he is said to be wearing a blue feather and a maroon silk vest, embroidered with round fruits.  But no one ever sees, they only hear the distant rhythmic sound from the mountains.

I grab the junk from my pocket, relics, that is what they will be, but they are just worthless scraps that I happen to carry with me, a bottle cap, a handful of wildflower seeds, and a pog with a biker hog on it with a large grotesque silver nose ring. But one day I will lift up a box and see these and think of it as a treasure,  marking the point of who I once was.

I think I will just sit on the couch.

Mark stood on the top of the hill and looked at the house.  Through the windows several people were drinking and dancing.

He closed his eyes and breathed in several breaths. Then plodded down the hill towards the house. As he came up to the large house, a girl was at the doorway. He noticed her hair. Blonde, reached just past her ears, and with large curves in it like blonde waves.

“Welcome,” she said.

“Thanks” he said, he waved stiffly.

Then two guys from his gym class who he never talked to, came up to him and slapped his back like they were good friends.

“I didn’t see you come in.” said Troy.

“Have you found the beer yet?” said Smith.  “Come on it’s this way.”  Mark followed.

“Thanks,” Mark reached into a cooler and fished around till he pulled out a Coors. One of them gave another slap on his back, “Catch ya later,” one called out as they left.

He saw some people gathering around a room.  He started to make his way there.

“Stop,” said a short Asian girl with black angular glasses on, a palm outstretched. “You can’t go in there.”

“Why not?  What’s going on??”

“It’s a seance.” She gave a sideways smile at him.

“You don’t actually believe that stuff do you?” He asked, one eye brow cocked up.

“Get back to the party.”  She pushed up her glasses with her finger then grabbed his arm and turned his direction back to the living room.

“Alright.” He shrugged defiantly. He twisted open his beer, the top came up with a pop.  The top dropped to the floor and he bent to pick it up. He placed it in his pocket till he could find a receptacle for it. Then he took a long swig and sat in the middle of the couch. Some people were dancing together to the pop music playing. A few people were talking in the corner behind him.

A tall and very attractive girl sat next to him. “Aren’t you going to join the party? I mean why did you come here if all you were going to do is sit on your butt by yourself?  Couldn’t you do that at home?”

“No.  When I am home it isn’t the same as when I’m here, hence the sitting is different also.”

“Well I guess you’re too busy to dance.” She turned around, her long strawberry blonde hair swinging with her.

“Wait.”  She turned and looked at him. “Okay, I will.” He got up.

She turned her hips naturally, the way the ocean’s tides seamlessly flip.  He just stood there.  She smiled, but it wasn’t cheery smile, more like a patiently waiting smile.   Like when a mother smiles at her kid when the kid is taking a really long time getting dressed and the mother looks at the clock figuring just how long the kid could take before they would be irreparably late.  Instead of getting pissed she shows her loving support by smiling instead, it ‘says look kid I am not overly happy with you but I am going to show my support by smiling so you know I still love you,’ but the kid knows they better hurry up or mom will stop smiling pretty quick as her last nerve starts to wear and then things aren’t going to be so nice.

So he faked it, did what he saw everyone else doing and pretended it was the most natural thing.  He was a little disappointed to find that it worked.

the Mountain

He reached out his foot and took a step on the top of the mountain. He felt a cool breeze welcome him, and the clouds pillowed majestically as if god himself
tipped his hat at him. “You made it.  Good show, Good show.”

He stretched his blanket on the ground,
and poured a bit of tea from his thermos into the thermos lid. He took a small bite of the last sandwich attempting to savor its flavor, but then savagely bit into it until it was gone.

He felt dizzy, unable to believe he had made it. So many years of practices and so much nagging doubt that he had wasted all this time on an impossible dream, and yet he had.

He looked down at all he had traveled, and saw pillowy clouds nestled below him.  It was a scene he absolutely earned. Unlike people who can sign onto pinterest and see the most
beautiful of scenes at a glance and then dully look it over before
flipping to the next thing of the moment. This was completely his for
this moment, not borrowed, but earned. He was here.

He pulled out a folded up piece of paper, as if it was never doubted
that he would make it, he pulled out his stubby pencil and scribbled:
Dear Family:
I am writing from the top of the mountain. I have made it.
Love your son.

Then he folded the note back up and tucked away his pencil. He was not
one who was very verbose and the letter said what it needed to.

Even though the cold made him shiver almost constantly, he didn’t feel
cold at the moment, he just felt rich with victory. High on success.

But he knew it was time to get packed up again. And fear had waited for
this moment, as he buttoned up his coat and harnessed ropes, slinging
the 50 pound pack on his back and then securing that too.

It was the fear of down and the horrible things that go with down. He
looked over the mountain down the pass he would go. It looked like it
plummeted more than gently swooped. In all the mountains he had gone
down, this was the first that was both so high or steep.

He wanted to wait until his body had recovered from the climb up, he
wanted to badly. His body still ached in so many ways.
He could not stay though, that would lead to death, either by freezing
or starvation. So he had to keep going.

He held onto the rope and gently let himself go a little at a time.
While keeping a firm grip on the rope so that he didn’t fall into the
cavernous abyss below. After a while the muscles in his arms vibrated,
and it felt if they got just a little more sore he may lose the ability
to hold on altogether.

The wind began to pick up and it was soon blowing hard. He walked along
the cliff holding his rope, and trying to maintain balance. But it felt
like the wind was taking bites of his flesh with it.

Every little cliff that was protected somewhat from the blasts of wind,
he stayed longer than he should have. He had gone an entire day
without any food and had just finished the last of his tea. He still had
part of a water bottle though.

He reached a cliff that looked safe enough to stay the night, and he
took it. With three feet in each direction he was fairly safe from
rolling. He poked his head into his coat and wrapped his arms around
his knees to have some shelter, like a bird puffing itself up in its
nest during a storm does. He huddled against the rock to accumulate
what little warmth and protection there was. And due to exhaustion he
did manage to sleep. And he woke up safe in the same place as the sun
was hitting the sky. He was still tired and stiff but he rose and
started back. He noticed that after the rest the muscles in his body
felt like they were on fire.

Not only that but along with the gentle light of the sun, it began to
rain. Just a light rain, but it didn’t matter. This meant the ropes
would be slick and so would the rock. He had to go slower than before.
By noon he had barely made any progress. And the pain in his stomach
started to gnaw at him.

Fortunately the rain did stop and the sun actually came out from behind
a cloud and began to provide some warmth.

But he finally could see the bottom. There were people down there, they
looked like black spots, but he saw them a few miles down. He was
elated, he was getting close.
He started to make quicker time, pushing himself to go fast. His foot
searched for the rocks eagerly and the hands felt a new sense of vigor
too. But then he stepped down on a rock and it broke from under him and
he started sailing down. He gripped the rope with all his strength.
His hands bled and it stained his rope. And he was still falling. He
started to slow the rope as he landed on a cliff.

He sighed in relief that he was still alive. He made a move to get up
but a pain shot from his leg to his brain and he screamed. His leg was
broken.

People were looking at him, he could see them point at him. Half an hour later a helicopter came up and released a rope with a stretcher bed at the bottom and men came down from the ladder and got him up from the rock and tied him to the stretcher.

In a few hours he was in a hospital. His leg bandaged and he was eating food again. His wife stands over him thanking God he is still alive while there are friends that semi-circle around his bed. They all watch as the tv talks about the dangerous rescue on the mountain that day. Someone shouts, “you lucky dog, you made it back.”

He was still very ill and weak but his faced beamed.  “Yeah,” was all he said.

 

Creativity and getting inspiration

Something that helps me is to figure out why I am writing something.
People don’t write unless there is a reason, something inside that needs
to get out. I think all creative things are like that. People open
themselves up so the creativity can come out.
But understanding it is important I think. What do I need to express? And then thinking about those thoughts and refining them further helps. I do not like corny writing often even though the ideas may be right. Because life is not positive affirmations. It is much deeper and harder than that. But it also is not too deep or too hard. By analyzing life I can hopefully get to the right amount of deepness and hardness that is realistic.
Also another thing I do to inspire myself is read books and watch movies, or pay attention to my dreams. Pay attention to my life.
Where can you learn more then from your own self and your own mistakes?
What causes pain? Where is joy? What do I keep messing up at? What is the world like to me? Where is it headed?