Thursday, March 8, 2007

Finding my way Home

The stars are out when it's Time. I now know when to go, as the wind twists through me and me. I need to find home.
"It's time to drink the stars and say goodnight."
With my eyes above I must make the way home, through the field of moonlight waves and across the whispering dreams that will lead me astray if I let them. I have been here before, this is not unfamiliar, yet I am still lost in the tall grass of life. It is dark, the moon is out, the trees call for me to join them.

I cannot. I must go home. Home. Home to the warm orange glow that I have come to understand. My companions are waiting like pirates before a swarm. Waiting. Waiting and watching the world around them. Comfortable in place and yet stuck.
"how could they be stuck? They are happy."

Simply. They are conent.
I have been here before too. That straight path ahead leads to a glorious dawn, but it is not mine to take. The darker and twisted is for me.

I will not find home tonight.

Wednesday, March 7, 2007

The snow keeps falling

Snow has a distinct way of falling when sorrow is in the air. The air always seems heavier, fuller and even more of an obstacle than before. I remember one such time, watching a tragedy befall an innocent man who just wanted to go home. He looked married, full of life and looking forward to the dinner which he held in the brown bags cradled in his arms. He was not a young man by any stretch. Indeed, the wear of years shown on the grey in his beard and the full bulge of his jacket around his belly. He walked with a brisk pace, headed to what appeared to be home. Head bowed and shoulders up he met his fate.

The sirens were loud in the quiet that followed.

And after that, the snow kept falling. Slowly, purpousfully covering the spot of tragedy. Wiping clean the slate that is life and filling in the gaps of memory, burying what once was with white nothing.

This is life.

I look towards the sky and there is nothing but the disappearance of what is and the replacement of what should be.

The snow keeps falling.
The snow keeps falling and the cold will soon consume me.

This is life.
This is the gift that disappears too quickly.

Monday, March 5, 2007

"This is for Sale"

A man clad in black stands in the snow, back turned to the listener.
"This is for Sale" the somber tone tolls.

It's a child's crib, out of place in the black on blacked out windows. The pink of the bars that wrap around to keep the potential inhabitant safe seem out of place. There is nothing to protect anymore, and it seems that the crib, knowing this, has let itself fall to pieces. There is nothing that could fix this crib,

Could it be that the child is just grown? Perhaps the family received another as a gift and just needs one to go? It's possible, but I think the voice tolls somber because what should not happen has happened. Why? Why would this happen? Could it be possible that such horror would befall one so innocent? Apparently so. Indeed, the world is full of the tragedies that befall children, the horror that seeps inward to consume their innocence.

Sunday, March 4, 2007

Upon the wall

Beyond the college lane and open winding access road lies Kennedy Theatre. And upon the expanse that I have come to know as a wall there are various trophies that bare grim witness to the horrors of humanity. Bleached and polished skulls of beautiful beasts rear from the wall in dessicated horror at the indignity of their new existence, crying for the abuse administered to obtain them. Five such horrors exist. 2 caribou, one deer, and two unidentified sets (we spend wasted hours trying to guess what they are, so far nothing of use has come of it) that I believe are of African origin. The greater of the two extends nearly four feet into the open air, with 3.26 in base at each horn that gently spirals into a sharp gleaming tip. The other set, by far my favorite, is shorter and thicker, with an extension that winds around the horn as the staircase winds around a fake castle.
In each case, the horns are attached to a piece of the original skull, and mounted upon the wall. Where they came from, who gave them and what they mean to the owner, I may never know. Yet, I spend my time gazing at them and enjoying the thought of making something so that I could wear them.