STOWAWAYS

--For those failed friendships we often visit in our dreams and desire long after we've stowed them away.


“Sit down. Let me channel my voice directly from yours so I may have a better understanding of what we are dealing with today:”

I haven’t written anything—not poetry, not the random ideas fluttering through my head encasing some wild prompt for a story—in so long. In fact each time I persuade myself to touch my pen to a piece of paper in my speckled black and white composition notebook, nothing is produced. Not a single letter. An interrogation emerges as I find myself struggling with radical ideas I presumed were put away long ago--placed in a beaten knapsack and buried under mounds of raggedy old clothes kept in vacant drawers to liven the empty space. But naturally, like the old track t-shirts from middle school, some things must come to a steady end, even if that end is more bitter tasting than hoped for. These ‘ends’ may happen to grace the life of another—perhaps the apparel was shipped to the Salvation Army—or exist in solitude. Either way, they are out of my view and I cannot say I miss them. You ask, withered in doubt—especially at my last statement, “What about the exceptions, the stowaways?” Surprised by an unexpected interjection, I reply, “There are none, not when the object you’ve tossed away has premeditated thoughts about leaving long before you’ve given voice to an opinion.” She squints her eyes into mine as if looking through the blinds at the open sun--I suppose to search for a tinge of bluff, or perhaps to find some comfort where these unsympathetic words provide none. Finding an empty vase of cobwebs, she takes a deep breath and leaves the tent, and my crystal ball, and ten crumpled dollars imprinting the stress from her creped fingers. Smoothing out each dollar bill against the edge of the table I mentally repeat our conversation one last time.

The truth is, if what you seek is the truth even though many a time it does not alleviate a situation but rather complicate it, I lied. There are stowaways; however, their existence depend upon those who are willing to sacrifice a piece of them for something that, although extravagant and pleasing, are rather unsafe, momentary, and self-served in nature. And, if that does not create enough helium to shoot her truth-balloon through the sky, I’m sure this will: I only wish I had enough strength left in me to make her one of them.

After smoothing the creases from the last dollar bill on the table I placed them neatly in a cramped, hand-made wooden box, shutting it tight knowing those dollar bills are the last piece of anything I’ll share with her again.

SHADOWS

We played in the sand, light breeze taking hold of our brown skin; I recall the calling of the robin, chased around our kidney road, an incessant obsession we followed until the hollow in our bones broke loose. How my hair tangoed the wind, resembling fingers of a pianist playing every black, white key. I drew a crimson house; all roads leading to it. Every landmark mapped within acres, every rosemary bush on adjacent sides of the street, every place where the road submerged unpredictable ends. You drew two figures, shadows describing the world. I placed my dirty hands like a tornado crunching through a steep hill, toppled them meaningless. I did not stop to think of the roads leading out. You drew two figures, shadows holding hands. Said it described the world. I did not stop.

LOOKING IN FROM THE OUTSIDE

A good friend of mine once said, "Life is NOT about finding yourself, it's about creating yourself."
Lately life has been hectic. Weeks consume themselves entirely, each day resembling the next and the next after that. Routine after routine. I take a second to breathe but humid air is strangling. Have you ever felt like you're watching your life from a window as if you're viewing a reality television show in which you're the audience; your opinions go unheard. How does one travel outside the realm of being a bystander in their own life? If life is about creation instead of discovery, is assuming the bystander role inclusive--in order to see where you're headed, you need to take a step back and address the problems. What I'm aware of at the moment: It's easier to be a bystander. It's easier to run away. The only downside to this approach is adapting to the inability to feel when all you really can feel is a numbing sensation--both physically, mentally, emotionally--and when you finally admit to yourself that feeling nothing at all is simply not enough, sometimes it's just too late.