A boy
Frayed plaid trousers
Hair a mess
Rough around the edges
Eyes eons deep
He had suffered, lived, survived
I yearned to kiss him
Breathe in his stories
He grasped me with his gaze
“This morning I met myself”
I listened
A lady
Wrinkled hands
Mint-green polyester robe
Frail, withered, stunted with age
Ancient eyes, robust
She had brought life and held its dying hand
My arms wrapped around her
Absorbing her wisdom
She tipped my chin up, held my eyes
“This morning I met myself”
I listened
A notebook
Black and white marble
Spine worn thin
Cover fuzzed from carry and wear
Pages hold a universe
Battered exterior sheltering treasures within
My eyes devour the words
Ingesting their messages
Hieroglyphs, syllables, phrases draw me in
“This morning I met myself”
I listened
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Reflections
A teenage girl looks into a pewter mirror
Blue eyes reflecting horror and hope
Nazi troops in the village
American troops on the way
She runs the pewter brush through her dark hair
Sets it on the pewter tray
And walks to the window, waiting
A young woman looks into a pewter mirror
Blue eyes twinkling with promise and excitement
A tall, dashing Merchant Marine
A first date to the circus
She runs the pewter brush through her dark hair
Sets it on the pewter tray
And whispers to her sisters with anticipation
A bride-to-be looks into a pewter mirror
Blue eyes meet her mother’s, an identical pair
Antique ivory lace dress
Vows on the tip of her tongue
She runs the pewter brush through her dark hair
Sets it on the pewter tray
And prepares to walk down the aisle
A mother-to-be looks into a pewter mirror
Blue eyes moist with tears, patting her belly
Kicks and flutters from her unborn son
Saying “hello” from within
She runs the pewter brush through her dark hair
Sets it on the pewter tray
And returns the greeting to her firstborn
A mother-to-be looks into a pewter mirror
Blue eyes calm with experience
The seventh of her brood
Reveling in the blessings of her family
She runs the pewter brush through her dark hair
Sets it on the pewter tray
And smiles at her six little ones
An aging woman looks into a pewter mirror
Blue eyes acknowledging that life is full of surprises
Her oldest daughter
Becoming a young mother
She runs the pewter brush through her graying hair
Sets it on the pewter tray
And approaches her daughter with an embrace
A new grandmother looks into a pewter mirror
Blue eyes glistening with pride and affection
Her first grandchild
A delicate red-haired girl
She runs the pewter brush through her gray hair
Sets it on the pewter tray
And offers a silent prayer to the future
A grandmother looks into a pewter mirror
Blue eyes aglow with wit and humor
Over eighty summers and eighty winters
Surrounded with the legacy of a loving family
She runs the pewter brush through her silver hair
Sets it on the pewter tray
And gathers the three pieces for her great-granddaughter
Blue eyes reflecting horror and hope
Nazi troops in the village
American troops on the way
She runs the pewter brush through her dark hair
Sets it on the pewter tray
And walks to the window, waiting
A young woman looks into a pewter mirror
Blue eyes twinkling with promise and excitement
A tall, dashing Merchant Marine
A first date to the circus
She runs the pewter brush through her dark hair
Sets it on the pewter tray
And whispers to her sisters with anticipation
A bride-to-be looks into a pewter mirror
Blue eyes meet her mother’s, an identical pair
Antique ivory lace dress
Vows on the tip of her tongue
She runs the pewter brush through her dark hair
Sets it on the pewter tray
And prepares to walk down the aisle
A mother-to-be looks into a pewter mirror
Blue eyes moist with tears, patting her belly
Kicks and flutters from her unborn son
Saying “hello” from within
She runs the pewter brush through her dark hair
Sets it on the pewter tray
And returns the greeting to her firstborn
A mother-to-be looks into a pewter mirror
Blue eyes calm with experience
The seventh of her brood
Reveling in the blessings of her family
She runs the pewter brush through her dark hair
Sets it on the pewter tray
And smiles at her six little ones
An aging woman looks into a pewter mirror
Blue eyes acknowledging that life is full of surprises
Her oldest daughter
Becoming a young mother
She runs the pewter brush through her graying hair
Sets it on the pewter tray
And approaches her daughter with an embrace
A new grandmother looks into a pewter mirror
Blue eyes glistening with pride and affection
Her first grandchild
A delicate red-haired girl
She runs the pewter brush through her gray hair
Sets it on the pewter tray
And offers a silent prayer to the future
A grandmother looks into a pewter mirror
Blue eyes aglow with wit and humor
Over eighty summers and eighty winters
Surrounded with the legacy of a loving family
She runs the pewter brush through her silver hair
Sets it on the pewter tray
And gathers the three pieces for her great-granddaughter
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Johnny White's
"Open" blinked the green neon sign, barely visible through the hellacious rain. Everything was a haze as we stumbled across the cobbled street to Johnny White's. Just as we crossed the threshold into the dingy bar, a crack of lightning split the sky along with a symphony of bone-jarring thunder. The blinking neon sign flickered out, along with the rest of the streetlamps along the sidewalk and the dim bulbs in the barroom. Although it was crowded, wall-to-wall with people seeking shelter, there was a moment of almost religious silence while we absorbed the viciousness of Mother Nature's attack.
The owner went upstairs to his office and brought down a battery-powered radio. It was one of those standard items that everyone in this area owned. He twisted the crusty, dusty knob until he found WWL - the only station coming in halfway clearly.
The only sounds in Johnny White's were the idiot crackle of radio static, the roaring wind and rain, quiet worried whispers floating through the humid air, and the occasional clear phrase from the radio. "...Category 5...25 foot storm surge...pressure still dropping..." Each phrase struck us dumb. There was no way that this could be happening.
Johnny was quick, though. He glanced around at the faces crowding his bar, grabbed a few able-bodied folks, and they got to work. Together, they pried the huge, antique Jax and Dixie beer signs from the walls where they had hung as decorations for years and squeezed them into the window openings in case the glass broke. The bartender filled up every sink, pitcher, and empty bottle with fresh drinking water. Other people pitched in by rounding up all the lighters and matches they could find and lighting the candles in the wrought-iron wall sconces.
People from all corners of the area were here together. The older couple who owned the art gallery around the corner, Dave and Roger. Bianca, fresh from her shift at Rick's. Simon, caught on his way to Central Grocery for some last-minute shopping. People who would probably never cross paths in their everyday routines who, by virtue of the gathering storm, ended up together in this little dark bar.
The radio crackled some more, this time with more dire news. "...worst-case scenario...eight feet below sea level...possible levee breach..." Bob Breck's voice had gotten them through countless storms before, his predictions more reliable than those from God himself. They heard the tension in his voice for the first time ever, and the sound galvanized the people in Johnny's. They all read the same sentiment in one another's eyes as they glanced around the candlelit room.
With nothing but the flashes of lightning coming in through the cracks and the dim flicker of candles, Johnny reached up to the top shelf where he kept the good stuff. He produced a bottle of Single Barrel Jack Daniels, coated with a thin layer of dust. A few quick flicks of his trained wrist lined up a row of shot glasses along the brass-lined bar. He splashed a shot into each glass, one for everybody in the room, and the small glasses were sent around. Johnny lifted his glass and everyone followed suit. "Here's to you, Katrina. Come and get us...we're ready."
The owner went upstairs to his office and brought down a battery-powered radio. It was one of those standard items that everyone in this area owned. He twisted the crusty, dusty knob until he found WWL - the only station coming in halfway clearly.
The only sounds in Johnny White's were the idiot crackle of radio static, the roaring wind and rain, quiet worried whispers floating through the humid air, and the occasional clear phrase from the radio. "...Category 5...25 foot storm surge...pressure still dropping..." Each phrase struck us dumb. There was no way that this could be happening.
Johnny was quick, though. He glanced around at the faces crowding his bar, grabbed a few able-bodied folks, and they got to work. Together, they pried the huge, antique Jax and Dixie beer signs from the walls where they had hung as decorations for years and squeezed them into the window openings in case the glass broke. The bartender filled up every sink, pitcher, and empty bottle with fresh drinking water. Other people pitched in by rounding up all the lighters and matches they could find and lighting the candles in the wrought-iron wall sconces.
People from all corners of the area were here together. The older couple who owned the art gallery around the corner, Dave and Roger. Bianca, fresh from her shift at Rick's. Simon, caught on his way to Central Grocery for some last-minute shopping. People who would probably never cross paths in their everyday routines who, by virtue of the gathering storm, ended up together in this little dark bar.
The radio crackled some more, this time with more dire news. "...worst-case scenario...eight feet below sea level...possible levee breach..." Bob Breck's voice had gotten them through countless storms before, his predictions more reliable than those from God himself. They heard the tension in his voice for the first time ever, and the sound galvanized the people in Johnny's. They all read the same sentiment in one another's eyes as they glanced around the candlelit room.
With nothing but the flashes of lightning coming in through the cracks and the dim flicker of candles, Johnny reached up to the top shelf where he kept the good stuff. He produced a bottle of Single Barrel Jack Daniels, coated with a thin layer of dust. A few quick flicks of his trained wrist lined up a row of shot glasses along the brass-lined bar. He splashed a shot into each glass, one for everybody in the room, and the small glasses were sent around. Johnny lifted his glass and everyone followed suit. "Here's to you, Katrina. Come and get us...we're ready."
Monday, September 28, 2009
Title Still Unknown...
Sitting on the bank of the Mississippi River, I gaze around and soak up the view. Over my left shoulder is the river itself. Over my right is the Jackson Brewery. These neighbors couldn’t be more different from one another.
The river drifts, slowly, calmly, sure of herself and her direction. Barges and paddle wheelers caress her curves, making their way to their destinations on “Southern Delta Time.” The riverbank is dotted with people. Tourists and locals mingle in the sultry evening air, watching the sun turn gold on the water. I close my eyes and travel back over a decade, and I see myself at seventeen, sitting on a bench and listening to a saxophone solo drifting on the wind. Coming back to the present, I am thrilled to see that musicians are still entertaining the crowd. The water lapping at the rocks has traveled 2,300 miles to where I sit. It continues on its way, embracing the Crescent City and curving its way down to the delta.
The brewery bustles with activity. Once upon a time, it was the birthplace of Jax Beer, surviving prohibition as a place only could in New Orleans. Now, there is the dismal reality of its transformation into a tourist-trap shopping center. The “Ripley’s Believe It Or Not” Museum has replaced my beloved Fudge Factory, a required stop on all elementary school field trips. Now, only the echoing tune of “Eat on Fudge” survives in my memory. The activity is unbroken. Camera-laden visitors weave through shop owners to get a shot of a mime on the sidewalk taking his break and eating a Lucky Dog from the corner vendor while delivery trucks threaten to flatten them all. The building’s exterior mimics its internal frenzy, looking a lot like a random assemblage of forgotten toy blocks.
The juxtaposition of calm and chaos is the heart of New Orleans, giving the city her rhythm and charm.
The river drifts, slowly, calmly, sure of herself and her direction. Barges and paddle wheelers caress her curves, making their way to their destinations on “Southern Delta Time.” The riverbank is dotted with people. Tourists and locals mingle in the sultry evening air, watching the sun turn gold on the water. I close my eyes and travel back over a decade, and I see myself at seventeen, sitting on a bench and listening to a saxophone solo drifting on the wind. Coming back to the present, I am thrilled to see that musicians are still entertaining the crowd. The water lapping at the rocks has traveled 2,300 miles to where I sit. It continues on its way, embracing the Crescent City and curving its way down to the delta.
The brewery bustles with activity. Once upon a time, it was the birthplace of Jax Beer, surviving prohibition as a place only could in New Orleans. Now, there is the dismal reality of its transformation into a tourist-trap shopping center. The “Ripley’s Believe It Or Not” Museum has replaced my beloved Fudge Factory, a required stop on all elementary school field trips. Now, only the echoing tune of “Eat on Fudge” survives in my memory. The activity is unbroken. Camera-laden visitors weave through shop owners to get a shot of a mime on the sidewalk taking his break and eating a Lucky Dog from the corner vendor while delivery trucks threaten to flatten them all. The building’s exterior mimics its internal frenzy, looking a lot like a random assemblage of forgotten toy blocks.
The juxtaposition of calm and chaos is the heart of New Orleans, giving the city her rhythm and charm.
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Inspiration, Devastation
The bar quieted the moment the group of writers left. The bartender breathed a sigh of relief. He really wasn’t in the mood to pour yet another black and tan for the group. His relief was bittersweet, though. The writers’ presence, while a slight intrusion from his chats with the regulars, was intriguing to him. “Why here?” he thought with exasperation as they clambered into his pub. During their visit and throughout his eavesdropping, however, he thought again… “Why here?” with less criticism and more curiosity.
He looked at his daytime home through new eyes. Green in every shade adorned the walls and doors. The wood floors echoed as customers wandered to the bar in worn out Doc Martens and shredded Chuck Taylors. The pub was charming in its shabbiness and he saw the appeal it held for a group hell bent on finding creative inspiration. His eye wandered the bar and he secretly hoped for their return. He longed to be inspired.
The days had been stifling in their repetition. He found that his regulars were creatures of habit. Old Byron would wander in just after lunch every day, order a Bodington Ale on tap, and with his usual patience, wait for a chess partner. Byron always fell back on the same stories, the same recollections. Sandy would stumble in shortly after. Sandy was one of the only honest prostitutes in the city. She never hid behind pretty titles, like “exotic dancer” or “lap waitress,” a truly puzzling term. She, at least, could always be counted on for a sordid story or three, but even these began to run together.
The writers had left him in a quandary. As they departed, they had invited him to join them for dinner. He pondered this as his shift drew to a close. He drew beer after beer and debated the invitation. How could a group of complete strangers just ask him to join them? They didn’t know him. Then again, he thought, this is New Orleans. He ran a troubled hand through his shaggy brown hair and continued his inner debate. He considered the group. They had no rhyme or reason. Normally a group of friends has some cohesion, but they were the most eclectic bunch he’d ever seen. Why was he so hesitant? He only needed to ask himself this question once. Rebecca.
Rebecca. His valkyrie, his spirit, his muse. When she left, his inspiration left with her. Now he felt like Christmas decorations in January.
He drifted through the rest of his shift and reminisced about what once was. With Rebecca by his side, he was invincible. He wrote and sang and played his Country Gentleman in any venue that would accept him.
After his shift, he strolled down to Molly’s. It was one of the first places he’d discovered after moving to New Orleans only a few short months before. New Orleans was his escape. Once Rebecca left, he knew he had to move and the mythology of the Big Easy beckoned him. “Easy what?” he thought. There was no clear answer, but he was determined to look.
Trying valiantly to banish these thoughts, he entered Molly’s. The familiar groove of “Green Onions” by Booker T and the MG’s welcomed him, along with a chorus of hellos from a few familiar faces, and a meow of greeting from Blanche, the resident furball of the back courtyard.
Suddenly, the routine of his own life struck him. He had spent the morning criticizing his regulars and now he discovered the leash of his own routine. “Enough,” he thought. “I don’t care if they’re strangers…or that they seem a little bit strange. I’m going to meet them.” Eyeing his watch, he saw that he still had time to spare before making the invite.
He sat at the bar and ordered a Blue Moon. He found that he was tired of the thick scent of the ales and ambers he once loved. Did he love them because his Irish faerie loved them or for what they were? He wondered if a person could really know how much of what they enjoy is genuine or is a result of the powerful suggestion from those whose opinions they value. He knew that he loved to write and create, and he knew that he ached for the fire that he once felt when he grasped a pen or his guitar.
Somehow, during his musings on his sorrowful state, time had rushed by. He excused himself to his acquaintances (he hadn’t known them long enough to consider them friends), gave Blanche a goodbye scratch behind the ears, and left.
The group had plans to meet at Café Brasil for dinner. He turned left and headed for the Marigny, his favorite of the city's hidden treasures. His thoughts, seesawing between hope and regret, bombarded him as he made his way to the restaurant. When he finally arrived, he peered into the window and saw the writers, sharing and laughing. He placed his hand on the doorknob and took a deep breath. He closed his eyes and thought, “To the future.” Then his traitorous mind conjured up its favorite ghost. The swish of Rebecca’s hair as she departed. Her, composed. Him, shattered. He turned his head and with sudden stinging tears of mourning, went home.
He looked at his daytime home through new eyes. Green in every shade adorned the walls and doors. The wood floors echoed as customers wandered to the bar in worn out Doc Martens and shredded Chuck Taylors. The pub was charming in its shabbiness and he saw the appeal it held for a group hell bent on finding creative inspiration. His eye wandered the bar and he secretly hoped for their return. He longed to be inspired.
The days had been stifling in their repetition. He found that his regulars were creatures of habit. Old Byron would wander in just after lunch every day, order a Bodington Ale on tap, and with his usual patience, wait for a chess partner. Byron always fell back on the same stories, the same recollections. Sandy would stumble in shortly after. Sandy was one of the only honest prostitutes in the city. She never hid behind pretty titles, like “exotic dancer” or “lap waitress,” a truly puzzling term. She, at least, could always be counted on for a sordid story or three, but even these began to run together.
The writers had left him in a quandary. As they departed, they had invited him to join them for dinner. He pondered this as his shift drew to a close. He drew beer after beer and debated the invitation. How could a group of complete strangers just ask him to join them? They didn’t know him. Then again, he thought, this is New Orleans. He ran a troubled hand through his shaggy brown hair and continued his inner debate. He considered the group. They had no rhyme or reason. Normally a group of friends has some cohesion, but they were the most eclectic bunch he’d ever seen. Why was he so hesitant? He only needed to ask himself this question once. Rebecca.
Rebecca. His valkyrie, his spirit, his muse. When she left, his inspiration left with her. Now he felt like Christmas decorations in January.
He drifted through the rest of his shift and reminisced about what once was. With Rebecca by his side, he was invincible. He wrote and sang and played his Country Gentleman in any venue that would accept him.
After his shift, he strolled down to Molly’s. It was one of the first places he’d discovered after moving to New Orleans only a few short months before. New Orleans was his escape. Once Rebecca left, he knew he had to move and the mythology of the Big Easy beckoned him. “Easy what?” he thought. There was no clear answer, but he was determined to look.
Trying valiantly to banish these thoughts, he entered Molly’s. The familiar groove of “Green Onions” by Booker T and the MG’s welcomed him, along with a chorus of hellos from a few familiar faces, and a meow of greeting from Blanche, the resident furball of the back courtyard.
Suddenly, the routine of his own life struck him. He had spent the morning criticizing his regulars and now he discovered the leash of his own routine. “Enough,” he thought. “I don’t care if they’re strangers…or that they seem a little bit strange. I’m going to meet them.” Eyeing his watch, he saw that he still had time to spare before making the invite.
He sat at the bar and ordered a Blue Moon. He found that he was tired of the thick scent of the ales and ambers he once loved. Did he love them because his Irish faerie loved them or for what they were? He wondered if a person could really know how much of what they enjoy is genuine or is a result of the powerful suggestion from those whose opinions they value. He knew that he loved to write and create, and he knew that he ached for the fire that he once felt when he grasped a pen or his guitar.
Somehow, during his musings on his sorrowful state, time had rushed by. He excused himself to his acquaintances (he hadn’t known them long enough to consider them friends), gave Blanche a goodbye scratch behind the ears, and left.
The group had plans to meet at Café Brasil for dinner. He turned left and headed for the Marigny, his favorite of the city's hidden treasures. His thoughts, seesawing between hope and regret, bombarded him as he made his way to the restaurant. When he finally arrived, he peered into the window and saw the writers, sharing and laughing. He placed his hand on the doorknob and took a deep breath. He closed his eyes and thought, “To the future.” Then his traitorous mind conjured up its favorite ghost. The swish of Rebecca’s hair as she departed. Her, composed. Him, shattered. He turned his head and with sudden stinging tears of mourning, went home.
Saturday, August 1, 2009
A Day in D.C.
A group of us took a photo trip to Washington D.C. on Monday. Melissa, her sister Torie, Miles, Sammie, and me. After a grueling lunch at the pub in Denton (which is usually great, but our waiter was having a WAY off day) we made the trek to the Metro station. Our goals for the day were simple: take some good pictures, visit the Lincoln Memorial, and walk off our burgers.
Our first stop off the Metro was the Air and Space Museum. We really only went in to use the facilities, but the siren call of NASA ice cream and WWII relics kept us wandering for a while. We meandered our way through that museum and on to the Native American Museum, which we only got to see a smidge of since they were closing.
After another ice cream break, we split up for a while. Miles went to the National Museum, while the girls went to the botanical gardens and the capitol building. For future reference, the capitol is phenomenal for two things...great pictures of architecture and prize-winning people-watching. Once we'd exhausted the photographic possibilities of the fountain (much discussion of f-stops and shutter speeds...geekiness at its finest), we meandered our way towards the Natural History Museum with another stop at a big outdoor fountain/hangout place tucked into the sculpture garden.
A quick walk through Natural History. Hope Diamond, soil samples from all 50 states (Louisiana had a worm!), petrified coelocanths, and the elephant in the lobby. Sammie and I caught up with Melissa and Torie, who had gone bug-hunting in the insect zoo. Met up with Miles outside and began the trek to the Washington Monument, Reflecting Pool, and Lincoln Monument.
Pictures of these three monuments, no matter how well-composed, beautifully lit, or perfectly exposed, do no justice to them. The sheer mass of the structures is overwhelming. People were scattered everywhere for the half-mile stretch, playing frisbee and kickball, reading, walking their dogs, taking all the standard tourist snapshots, and feeding the incredibly tame squirrels. Lincoln himself is breathtaking. I can't fathom the work that went into its creation and maintenance since then. The detail of the statue and the walls around him are as sharp as I imagine they were on the day they were carved. Miles and I watched the sun set over DC from the back of the monument where a few others discovered the gorgeous view and lack of crowds.
Finally, we all decided that the photographic festivities were at an end. We were starving. Dinner in Chinatown was calling. Many, many blocks later, we stumbled down into a Metro station and found our way to food. Sadly, Fudruckers won. I would have preferred some hole-in-the-wall nook owned by a tiny Chinese grandma, but no such luck. It was pretty late. Hunger satiated, back to the Metro and then home.
Next time...Coney Island!
Friday, May 22, 2009
Frickin' Freaks
Frickin' bench full of frickin' freaks. Why can't the bus just get here when the schedule says it will. Now I have to sit on this bench, the only normal one around, with these two nutjobs in their jeans and t-shirts. What the hell. Why can't they just blend in? Noooooooo, though...some people just have to stick out and be all "Hey! Look at me! Look how different and original I am!" They need to be locked in a cage at the zoo marked "DO NOT FEED and definitely DO NOT MATE." Seriously.
Why? I'll bet they have hippie-freak names, too. Like Andy. Or Bob. I'm sure they came from those dysfunctional homes, too, where everyone ate dinner together and they had a family room with a frickin' sofa and TV. Damn freaks. Freaks and their Golden Retrievers and peanut butter and jelly with the crusts cut off and family vacations to Disney, all posed with that Mickey Mouse asshole.
Frickin' freaks in their frickin' jeans. Where'd you buy those, freak? The freaky mall? Did you eat PIZZA in the FOOD COURT? Did you get a COOKIE?
I hate you both. You two are exactly what's wrong with society. I oughta jab this cigarette in your eyeballs.
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