The Brave Fool

You're my memory

My past

Failure pulls at me

Sharply, and with absolute force:

It is the goad at my heel

The bit in my mouth

I clench and gnash

My jaw, aching, swollen and mangled

I'm held in place, paralyzed

Whilst a tidal wave advances at my back.

Judgement holds my tongue.

I remember all the times before

The passion of the new, quickly met

By the heartache of

Defeat

I cannot summon a contradiction

To testify in my defense

The sins of my fathers, for which

I am held to account.

We have always dreamed and failed

Seen far and held in squalor

Envisioned the thrones of kings

Only to be left alone,

Facing our regret.

Having despised the life we were given

Uncompromising, distant and without hope,

Or too much of it.

At the first spark of intention

Your flame envelops my becoming.;

I am, as I always was.

I will, for we always do.

You would comfort me with wise words

Of precaution:

Did I not keep you from the inevitable angst of loss?

You cajole.

Did I not keep you from forgetting your true self?

You kept me.

And so I am held.

Victim to myself

I cannot lose what i do not risk

Nor can I gain.

Ah, Sophia

Turn your head from my capricious imaginings

Cover your eyes, if you must

As I wander, unarmed into the

Unknowable

But do not stray far from my side

I will need you before the night is over.

I must be foolish now,

Leap into the absurd

I will most assuredly fail

I will lie humiliated before all

I will beg the hands of a hundred starving children

To raise me from my sinking bower.

If death is sure

Why not partake from the rush of youth

Glittering and sparkling in the new sun.

7 Weeks

lost.

6 Weeks

Tidal ebb and flow does not obey my whims,
Not of the great seas, nor of my draining womb.

Pangs of suffering do not ease at my song,
Not of the inumerable oppressed, nor of my straining flesh.

Peaceful surrender does not fall as I whisper,
Not upon the brutality of man, nor upon my fretting heart.

Time's presence and passage does not keep pace with my desire,
Not for the earth's rotation, nor for my yearning impatience.

I cannot summon the moon;
I cannot heal the poor;
I cannot calm the storms;
I cannot speed life on her way.

Though powerless, I bring forth life;
Though broken, you mend my many woes
with
one
quiet
steady
heartbeat.

If only

As another year hastens to a close, I find myself still sinking into the couch, still hoping for health, still pondering the big question: life, the universe and everything. Since I'm not feeling particularly melancholic tonight, but rather easy (thank you codeine cough syrup with a green tea and honey chaser) and inspired (thank you Tony Bordain, my favorite loquacious, traveling lush). So, I'm not interested in deep meaning, but rather a list - clean and simple.

Following is a list, in no particular order of that which I truly long to do at some point in the short time I'm allotted:

Sommelier Certification
The love of wine requires no explanation. However, this particular pursuit might lead to a command of regional distinctions between each blessed grape, getting to use words like terroire without attracting dirty looks, and perhaps most importantly, increased consumer confidence when facing the interminable pursuit for the perfect $5 bottle of Pinot Noir.

Falconer License
After 7 years of study and hard work, I could either be an MD or a falconer. Other than my quiet love of birds and increasing desire to hunt, I find myself longing to beckon a falcon with a slab of sweaty raw meat in my grip for an entirely different reason: they're so goddamn beautiful. The Peregrine Falcon with its be-speckled chest tufted proudly in the waning sun as it clenches and releases my leather glove, lovingly clawing me with its fierce talons... this is a moment I must know.

Publish a Book
Okay, I'll settle for finishing a book. I'm not particular about the genre. I just want to stare down the blank white page that has intimidated me for as long as I can remember, and with a decisive stroke write, "The End."

Study at Le Cordon Bleu in Paris
It's my intention to grow as a cook with each new meal. This is one of the few pleasures that isn't tainted with the nagging necessity to turn talent into a career. I know that kitchen work isn't my cup of tea. However, I also know that food isn't quite done with me yet. We have a love affair that can only be truly consummated in Paris.

Act in Musical Theatre
Though my theatrical resume begins with "chorus member in Annie" at the age of 12 and ends with "chorus member in the Music Man" at the age of 14, my love for musicals remains fierce and true. I'm not looking for a lead on Broadway. But, perhaps a supporting, yet striking role in a humble but dedicated public theatre. You know: Mrs. Hannigan, Rizzo, um... Adelaide.

See Europe
Perhaps the most vague and ambitious aspiration on the list, and yet such is Europe to me. Other than some stolen glances out of the sky high windows of Charles de Gaul, my exposure to that fair continent comes only through Jane Austen, Albert Camus, Mmes. Bronte, and an ever expanding list of foreign cinema. I refuse to let Ethan Hawke's dialogue with that blonde Frenchie on a train through their youth act as the only mediator between me and Venice, Nice, London, St. Petersburg, Barcelona, Dublin, and of course, Paris.

That'll do for now. There are, of course, many more. I have sighed all my sighs for the evening. My insatiable longing for the richness of a romantic life is quite exhausting. Although, I have just this moment remembered one more...

Drink Peyote on a Reservation
I want to have a vision quest. I want to find my soul's mate in an animal. I want to have my hair braided by a gray streaked elder with leathery, pruning fingers. I want to taste freedom and breathe color.

Oh yeah... and I want to Own a Horse of my very own.

regret

when the strain of too damn much erupts
my clammy palms stretch the skin at my temples
reeling back the piercing ache that threatens to overtake me.
can a brain swell from the stress of unfinished business?
like keeping pressure on a wound, all slippery and pulsing,
my hands constrict and push, fumbling desperately at a broken dam;
a life awash in worry, wasting away in the wonder of what should have been,
too preoccupied to entertain the what if.
hope is a commodity too valuable for the angst of regret.

It's the Birthday of Ernest Hemingway

It's the birthday of Ernest Hemingway, (books by this author) born in Oak Park, Illinois (1899). He was just 22 when he moved to Paris with his wife, Hadley, having taken a job as a foreign correspondent for the Toronto Daily Star. Even though he was making decent money, he liked the idea of living like a bohemian, so they moved into an apartment in the Latin Quarter, in a neighborhood full of drunks, beggars, and street musicians. Rent was 250 francs a month, or about $18, which left them plenty of money to travel around Europe when they wanted to.

He rented himself a room in a hotel, and every morning, after breakfast, he would walk to his writing room and work. He said: "I would stand and look out over the roofs of Paris and think, 'Do not worry. You have always written before and you will write now. All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know.'" One of those sentences read, "I have stood on the crowded back platform of a seven o'clock … bus as it lurched along the wet lamp lit street while men who were going home to supper never looked up from their newspapers as we passed Notre Dame grey and dripping in the rain." ~ courtesy of the Writer's Almanac.

It's also the birthday of Candace Ruth Morris. Born to Bruce and Mary Whitney amid the desert air of Southern California in 1978, their youngest. In her youth she was often taken to spontaneous singing with a boldness that stemmed from her ardent desire for a true expression of love from her father and yet a sense that she was alone in the world and therefore couldn't possibly embarrass herself. At 24, she married Joel Hansen Morris, the son of a country pastor from Washington state whom she met at a rural Bible College in Northern California. Though she was initially fraught from wooing him, he would soon recompense this romantic redress with a lifelong tenderness and passion that would restore the young woman's heart bit by bit and evermore.

Perhaps it was the shameless consumption of Syliva Plath or the classical literary training that would inevitably find it's way to the page, but regardless of its origin, one day the world was given "Musings of a Melancholic." Within its web pages, Candace created a blog of soulish beauty. Whether she is featuring her brilliant photography, praising her husband (aka. The Saint), or recounting the painful, yet profound steps of a woman who manages to care deeply for others without losing herself, through this blog the world is granted passage into daily life through the mesmerizing turquoise of her watery eyes.

From there we found "Booklings" (a foreshadowing of the Bookish Wine Bar we are promised), "Pretty, Please" (An altar to coveting aestheticism) and "Secret Snob" (The shameless confessions of a faux-hemeian with a trained palate). Her words are a compass, a weather vane, the wooden mermaid carved into the hull of an ancient vessel retaining the remnants of a sea-stained teal paint all the more beautiful for the patina it has earned from each passing voyage.

Much is still to come from Candace Morris. She has tried her hand at waitressing, teaching high school English, executive assistance, and even home-making. Motherhood, I am sure, is soon to come. One thing is for sure, however, in whatever path she takes, her words will endure. To the world, she will be the sage that awes and edifies them. To me, she will be nothing more or less than the dearest friend I have ever known.

Hollow Chocolate Bunny

There it is,
The kingpin of the Easter basket.
Those happy hyperbolized eyes,
The pastel suspenders and that toothy grin.
It's floating in a sea of mommy-loves-me Easter grass,
Which is made of some mysterious and unnaturally green material.

Once you peel that metallic pink and green wrapper
Into little strips as you delicately move around
Its fragile ears and little bunny toes
Making sure to keep it all in one piece
You sit back from your wicker treasure chest
And admire the work of your deft fingers.

Soon, your body temperature begins to melt the chocolate,
So you bring your thumb, now marked with brown goo
Up to your welcoming, parted lips.
It occurs to you that this bunny does not have long to live
In such a warm and hostile environment.
So, you bite the ear.

I'm sure there's a chocolate bunny factory secret
As to why the ear is the most solid part of the bunny,
Which is probably we always start there.
It also seems less cruel, I mean
Who goes for the foot first?
To dive right into the torso is serial killer material.

But, the ear is a farce.
You go a little further and take on the head
Opening your mouth wide for this big, chocolaty bite,
And then, crumble, fumble, spill and stain.
Chocolate pieces fall everywhere and all you're left with
Is a mediocre mouthful of waxy preservatives.

Determined that Harvey won't let you down,
I'm not sure why I think they're all named Harvey,
You start to lick up the pieces in your hand
And then, head into the shoulder.
The back of your throat starts to tickle
With the mounting levels of sugar your ingesting.

Is this worth it?
Your hand is now brown and Harvey is bending.
The once splendid creature inviting you into childhood
Is now a big brown mess that you can't put down.
After all, there isn't a foil piece big enough.
You start to survey the other tasty treats that await you.

So, you get up chuck Harvey on a paper towel in the kitchen,
Promising to come back for him later.
Soon you forget your Easter hero
With malted mini-eggs, marshmallow eggs, Cadbury eggs, jelly beans,
And Peeps, although I prefer my Peeps the next day,
A little stale.

As for Harvey, he disappears sometime during your sugar coma.
Perhaps mom decided to throw him out,
Maybe your little brother finished him off,
Or maybe he just couldn't take it anymore
And hobbled off with his stubby feet and one remaining arm
Still neatly nestled in his pocket.

I'm a chocolate bunny.
I look appealing, you might even come to me first,
But as my colors fade and my confidence melts
All that's left is a facade of strength
When in fact, I couldn't lift the box I came in
Without it crushing my fragile, hollow frame.