She could tell. He seemed annoyed or disinterested. It was as though she could hear his eyes roll. It was almost as though she could hear how bored he was; she heard it in the sigh that she imagined he exhaled. She didn't blame him, she just wished it was different but it wasn't; she was self-centered and weird, especially after a few beers. Why would she expect him to look at her any differently? It wasn't that long ago that she walked out on his life, their life.
But then he looked at her, the way he used to, the way she was used to, and she began to imagine it in another way. . While he sat there beside her, in the crowded hazy bar, she imagined their future based on the past they already shared. While he spoke to his friend, she pictured herself stretched out in skin, with the growth of their child. The waitress brought their bill. As he stepped up and offered to pay, she remembered his subtle yet obvious way he always protected her. It wasn't as though she was ever in any immediate danger and he knew that but still, he always watched over her, in his silent unobtrusive way. She watched him walk back from the bar, stuffing his wallet into his jeans that always hung a little just below his waist and she imagined his hand wrapped around her side, guiding her to wherever they were going. She had even felt his lips, his love, his presence, holding her, providing for her and the imagined family she thought they might have. She pictured it all, based on the dreams they once shared. There was a time that was theirs, when they had made their dreams real by uttering them, whispering them, into one another's ears. Their vocalized future held them together and she knew he would do everything in his power to make her dreams come true. He was like that and she liked that. He made her feel real again.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qWlIzwHfAk8&feature=related
Saturday, February 4, 2012
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
Underestimate; understand.
It was evening, before sunset but after dessert. The sun was thinking about setting, you can imagine the sky in all it's ice cream rainbow colors. Soft clouds stretched out like cotton candy, stuck in the sky. When it rained, it rained sweet droplets of sugarcane, or well it did in children's books, authors imaginations, in the mind of artists, and in the lyrics of poets.
She stood at the window with a glass of Merlot in her hand. Nina Simone's voice sang out from the record player, Wild is the Wind. It was windy out there, that was true. How appropriate, she thought, as she raised her wine glass to the lip of her subtle expression. Her mood did little to suggest or assume. She seemed content just to be there, watching the waves slowly heave their heavy bodies towards the cliffs below their house.
It didn't matter that he wasn't there yet, she knew he would be arriving home after her. It wasn't that she was afraid to be alone, at home, in the evening. In fact, she was usually most comfortable in said quiet moments, until recently. Recently, she had taken to whipping her head around at the sound of the cedar house shifting. She had been startled a few times at the scratch of a branch on a pane of glass. She silently cursed the names Ann Holt and Jo Nesbo, Steig Larsson. These names never used to mean anything to her but now these Scandinavian authors and the crime stories they created had come to scare her. I should try reading more Canadian prairie tales, she thought; there's nothing scary about farming, is there?
She turned and slipped onto the leather couch, her legs curling under her. From the seat she had taken, she was able to maintain her comfortable view of the ocean. She sat there, starring through the 12 foot cedar encased windows, the glass of wine still in her hand. From here she watched the water breathe and sigh and breathe and sigh, exhaling to herself, to the rhythm of the earths' gravitational pull. Satisfied that she had finally relaxed, she tossed the end of her shawl with her left hand over her shoulder and let her mind wander. She thought back to the morning when she had ordered breakfast at the restaurant. After placing her order she had turned for no particular reason to look behind her and caught the eye of a woman who had been greeted by the waiter. A reassuring moment passed between them. Regardless of the fact that she had never met the woman, nor was she about to, there was a look between them seemed to suggest a kind of knowing. It was as though seeing each other in the backdrop of their respective lives was somehow expected and not a surprise.
He was walking towards her. She had heard him come in and he knew she was home, so neither thought it necessary to break the quiet moment with a cliche "Honey, I'm home" or a "Hi". Why say what we already know, was a kind of unspoken understanding they had between them. It has always seemed that way; she knew he had similar thoughts to hers and vice versa. Looking past the fireplace, she turned to face him. He had dropped his bags on the floor and was walking past the table they bought together at an understated second-hand store. The heel of his boots echoed a small command of authority. He walked up to her, intentionally yet casually, as thought by accident; he enjoyed savouring the moments he came home to her. She welcomed him back with a kiss, holding her hand at the nape of his neck so that he remained in her space just a moment longer. He starting pouring himself some wine in the glass that had been waiting for him. She watched the deep maroon liquid drop from the mouth of the bottle that was held in his grip and glanced up at him. He held her eyes with his then sat down beside her.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T4YWUvjQZWw&feature=related
She stood at the window with a glass of Merlot in her hand. Nina Simone's voice sang out from the record player, Wild is the Wind. It was windy out there, that was true. How appropriate, she thought, as she raised her wine glass to the lip of her subtle expression. Her mood did little to suggest or assume. She seemed content just to be there, watching the waves slowly heave their heavy bodies towards the cliffs below their house.
It didn't matter that he wasn't there yet, she knew he would be arriving home after her. It wasn't that she was afraid to be alone, at home, in the evening. In fact, she was usually most comfortable in said quiet moments, until recently. Recently, she had taken to whipping her head around at the sound of the cedar house shifting. She had been startled a few times at the scratch of a branch on a pane of glass. She silently cursed the names Ann Holt and Jo Nesbo, Steig Larsson. These names never used to mean anything to her but now these Scandinavian authors and the crime stories they created had come to scare her. I should try reading more Canadian prairie tales, she thought; there's nothing scary about farming, is there?
She turned and slipped onto the leather couch, her legs curling under her. From the seat she had taken, she was able to maintain her comfortable view of the ocean. She sat there, starring through the 12 foot cedar encased windows, the glass of wine still in her hand. From here she watched the water breathe and sigh and breathe and sigh, exhaling to herself, to the rhythm of the earths' gravitational pull. Satisfied that she had finally relaxed, she tossed the end of her shawl with her left hand over her shoulder and let her mind wander. She thought back to the morning when she had ordered breakfast at the restaurant. After placing her order she had turned for no particular reason to look behind her and caught the eye of a woman who had been greeted by the waiter. A reassuring moment passed between them. Regardless of the fact that she had never met the woman, nor was she about to, there was a look between them seemed to suggest a kind of knowing. It was as though seeing each other in the backdrop of their respective lives was somehow expected and not a surprise.
He was walking towards her. She had heard him come in and he knew she was home, so neither thought it necessary to break the quiet moment with a cliche "Honey, I'm home" or a "Hi". Why say what we already know, was a kind of unspoken understanding they had between them. It has always seemed that way; she knew he had similar thoughts to hers and vice versa. Looking past the fireplace, she turned to face him. He had dropped his bags on the floor and was walking past the table they bought together at an understated second-hand store. The heel of his boots echoed a small command of authority. He walked up to her, intentionally yet casually, as thought by accident; he enjoyed savouring the moments he came home to her. She welcomed him back with a kiss, holding her hand at the nape of his neck so that he remained in her space just a moment longer. He starting pouring himself some wine in the glass that had been waiting for him. She watched the deep maroon liquid drop from the mouth of the bottle that was held in his grip and glanced up at him. He held her eyes with his then sat down beside her.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T4YWUvjQZWw&feature=related
Sunday, January 8, 2012
Exchange; explain.
It had always been so that she needed to rationalize everything, not only to her self but to those around her. How boring for those who sat by her side and cared to listen. It was as if she held herself in contempt, judging herself, demanding evidence and proof, that she did indeed feel this way, that she did indeed have such and such a thought, with certainty. Nothing is as boring as listening to someone spin wheels in an attempt to explain reasons, already known to themself, for choosing X Y or Z. It was unnecessary for her to think that she always needed to explain herself. It wasn't as though she was speaking in a language I couldn't decipher. There was no mystery, no cryptic passage or riddle she spoke in. There was no language barrier. The only curtain she drew between herself and those around her was this habitual practice she had of explaining her every move. She didn't have to do this.
Somethings don't need explaining at all. Take matters of the heart for example. Emotions, sparks, chemistry, reactions, these experiences can not always, and are often not, within our vocabulary of understanding. In fact, the actuality is such that through the process of trying to explain oneself in such a circumstance as love, the experience becomes one of the head and intellect rather than one of emotion, and thus the experience of lust/attraction is lost to the inability to put the experience into words. It is moments such as these that words become a hindrance because they limit us and perhaps even belittle the experience we are in. Consider when you take a camera on holidays and spend each blinking moment snap snap snap snap snap snapping. There is no room in this flurry of time, no matter how large the aperture, for a true experience of the moment. In these instances, the experience becomes a technical one - did I frame the shot correctly, did I set the light meter to the right setting, did the flash go off? It is in these instances, when we are on different continents and turning our heads in different times zones, that the true experience of travelling is lost. How often have you heard "well the picture doesn't do it justice" followed by a chopped-up description of the ancient architecture or painted sunset. The chopped-up description rarely serves the experience justice either, largely do to the fact that the participant was too involved in checking their f-stop. Travelling involves that you must sometimes put away the camera so that you may spend the moment embracing the new sights, sounds, smells, surrounding people. It is the same with matters of the heart. Sometimes we must put away the words in order to fully embrace the affection we are receiving. We need silence to hear the murr murr of the heart.
And this is how it was with these litigations she summoned herself to apear in. There would be no time to experience the pure innocence and excitement of certain emotions if she spent the time explaining how she got to be in situation X Y or Z, or why she was experiencing emotion A B or C. It didn't matter how she got there. It didn't matter that she felt the way she did. What mattered most was the she decided right then and there, waking up in his bed for the first time, that there is no way she could turn her back on him. She decided this without articulating it and thus, in my opinion, experienced a very rich moment, one she will never forget. I think she will always remember this snapshot of time because she didn't spend the moment trying to put it into words. Words that hinder, limit and confuse us as we struggle to explain this experiences we find ourselves in - explanation is not always possible.
He didn't chose her but she chose him. To spend this time explaining how it happened or reiterate the events leading up to the decision to act, dear councilor, are futile, boring, and of no consequence. What matters now is that she woke up, in his bed, for the first time. She didn't owe herself an explanation. She don't have to prove to her self that she deserved this; I said to her, "he is the ultimate sweetheart." She didn't respond but I could hear it in her silence, as she focused on driving home through the icy streets, "I, your honor, am the recipient of this affection and I am guilty for ensuring that I am worthy of this experience. You may sentence me to silence for I will not need words to explain my decision to say nothing in exchange of experiencing everything."
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oOHQs405XcU&feature=related
Somethings don't need explaining at all. Take matters of the heart for example. Emotions, sparks, chemistry, reactions, these experiences can not always, and are often not, within our vocabulary of understanding. In fact, the actuality is such that through the process of trying to explain oneself in such a circumstance as love, the experience becomes one of the head and intellect rather than one of emotion, and thus the experience of lust/attraction is lost to the inability to put the experience into words. It is moments such as these that words become a hindrance because they limit us and perhaps even belittle the experience we are in. Consider when you take a camera on holidays and spend each blinking moment snap snap snap snap snap snapping. There is no room in this flurry of time, no matter how large the aperture, for a true experience of the moment. In these instances, the experience becomes a technical one - did I frame the shot correctly, did I set the light meter to the right setting, did the flash go off? It is in these instances, when we are on different continents and turning our heads in different times zones, that the true experience of travelling is lost. How often have you heard "well the picture doesn't do it justice" followed by a chopped-up description of the ancient architecture or painted sunset. The chopped-up description rarely serves the experience justice either, largely do to the fact that the participant was too involved in checking their f-stop. Travelling involves that you must sometimes put away the camera so that you may spend the moment embracing the new sights, sounds, smells, surrounding people. It is the same with matters of the heart. Sometimes we must put away the words in order to fully embrace the affection we are receiving. We need silence to hear the murr murr of the heart.
And this is how it was with these litigations she summoned herself to apear in. There would be no time to experience the pure innocence and excitement of certain emotions if she spent the time explaining how she got to be in situation X Y or Z, or why she was experiencing emotion A B or C. It didn't matter how she got there. It didn't matter that she felt the way she did. What mattered most was the she decided right then and there, waking up in his bed for the first time, that there is no way she could turn her back on him. She decided this without articulating it and thus, in my opinion, experienced a very rich moment, one she will never forget. I think she will always remember this snapshot of time because she didn't spend the moment trying to put it into words. Words that hinder, limit and confuse us as we struggle to explain this experiences we find ourselves in - explanation is not always possible.
He didn't chose her but she chose him. To spend this time explaining how it happened or reiterate the events leading up to the decision to act, dear councilor, are futile, boring, and of no consequence. What matters now is that she woke up, in his bed, for the first time. She didn't owe herself an explanation. She don't have to prove to her self that she deserved this; I said to her, "he is the ultimate sweetheart." She didn't respond but I could hear it in her silence, as she focused on driving home through the icy streets, "I, your honor, am the recipient of this affection and I am guilty for ensuring that I am worthy of this experience. You may sentence me to silence for I will not need words to explain my decision to say nothing in exchange of experiencing everything."
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oOHQs405XcU&feature=related
Thursday, January 5, 2012
Face; faith.
Her new face came out to greet her one morning as she walked out of her house, to go fetch the newspaper for her dog. She was greeted by Humphrey Bogueheart, in his plaid golf cap and green housecoat. "How are you this fine spring monrin', Mrs. Face?" "Well, thank-you Mr. Bougeheart. You're roses are looking down right outstanding!" You should see the way this old man tends to his roses, readers, his meticulous care was flawless by design. Impecable. A world class hero champion all-star but inside his head, it was the United States of Ramalangadingdong.
"HONEEEEEEE" She heard her mating call singing from inside their house. "Yes, what is it sweetie?" This is what she always wanted, she thought to herself, a loving husband. "Can you fix me up some of those yumm yumm yumms that you love to make me so much?" She didn't respond, she didn't have to. He knew just by the enduring look she gave to him, like a gift wrapped up under a tree one December morning, that he would have his pancakes and eat them too.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bs1BNBstU1c&ob=av2e
"HONEEEEEEE" She heard her mating call singing from inside their house. "Yes, what is it sweetie?" This is what she always wanted, she thought to herself, a loving husband. "Can you fix me up some of those yumm yumm yumms that you love to make me so much?" She didn't respond, she didn't have to. He knew just by the enduring look she gave to him, like a gift wrapped up under a tree one December morning, that he would have his pancakes and eat them too.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bs1BNBstU1c&ob=av2e
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