An artist, but one with a day job. The whole romantic “starving artist” idea is nice in theory, but the people that live it tend to be odd. Mid-20’s. Best feature by far is that this person is grounded. Realistic. Sensible, but still hasn’t lost his sense of fun. Not perfect. A tendency to talk before thinking, but not in such a way to be offensive. A tiny bit disheveled, not always moussed and buffed and perfect. Just comfortable in the skin he was given.
Jeff thinks all this as he looks in the mirror. He knows all of this about himself to be true. He knows it. But…
He can’t shake the feeling that his eyes aren’t his own, his clothes not what he picked, his hands not controlled by his brain.
He tries to remember what’s happened today. Waking up on the futon in his studio, cramped and sore from sleeping in an awkward position. Walking Guinness to the park and back, stopping for a newspaper and an iced chai. Coming home, showering, and heading for the Visual Arts 101 class that he’s teaching in exchange for graduate tuition this semester.
This is where he gets lost. He knows he put on his paint-stained jeans and shirt today, because the class is working with oils and it gets messy. Everything after that is blank. Not hazy, not fuzzy. Blank. Nonexistent. Gone.
This isn’t the first time it’s happened, but now, standing alone in his tiny bathroom, the moon as the only source of light, he knows he has to talk to someone.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
He wakes up to the sound of jogging feet. Get up quick, get moving, get going before the cops come around. He’s been lucky with this bench so far. It’s never taken at night, it’s close to a cozy place for Guinness, and it faces the sunrise that reminds him that he was once an artist. Now, he’s just another street bum, too proud to admit to the schizophrenia that now defines him.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Friday, December 3, 2010
Once...
Once upon a time,
when we were carefree seventeen
we would gather
at the flourescent-lit mecca
which smelled of coffee
and pancakes.
Next to La Quinta.
Aglow in the darkest hours,
an oasis of
syrup and sundaes.
Once upon a time,
we would gather
and laugh and devour
"One pitcher of Dr. Pepper...two!...three!...
Hit us up with a milkshake now...seven straws!"
Don't need the menu, thanks.
Grand Slams all around
Buttermilk, scrambled, sausage, grits
extra butter for the boys...
(our eyes affectionately roll).
Once upon a time
we cleaned our plates together,
brushed off the crumbs of our weekly hurts and confusions at the same time.
Solace in dessert and friendship - best of both.
Comfort in gatherings, comfort in communal ice cream.
Three-scoop sundae, vanilla for him, strawberry for her, chocolate for me
Cherries (extra, please!) atop fluffy mountainous
whipped cream (we always share).
Swirls of chocolate and caramel dance
to the clatter of mingling spoons
Once upon a time
when we were carefree seventeen.
Over now.
Kids, jobs, moves, jail, death.
The aroma of coffee still lingers
on late nights
when sleep is a teasing bully.
Lights still aglow,
laughs still echo,
even when the sundae has melted.
when we were carefree seventeen
we would gather
at the flourescent-lit mecca
which smelled of coffee
and pancakes.
Next to La Quinta.
Aglow in the darkest hours,
an oasis of
syrup and sundaes.
Once upon a time,
we would gather
and laugh and devour
"One pitcher of Dr. Pepper...two!...three!...
Hit us up with a milkshake now...seven straws!"
Don't need the menu, thanks.
Grand Slams all around
Buttermilk, scrambled, sausage, grits
extra butter for the boys...
(our eyes affectionately roll).
Once upon a time
we cleaned our plates together,
brushed off the crumbs of our weekly hurts and confusions at the same time.
Solace in dessert and friendship - best of both.
Comfort in gatherings, comfort in communal ice cream.
Three-scoop sundae, vanilla for him, strawberry for her, chocolate for me
Cherries (extra, please!) atop fluffy mountainous
whipped cream (we always share).
Swirls of chocolate and caramel dance
to the clatter of mingling spoons
Once upon a time
when we were carefree seventeen.
Over now.
Kids, jobs, moves, jail, death.
The aroma of coffee still lingers
on late nights
when sleep is a teasing bully.
Lights still aglow,
laughs still echo,
even when the sundae has melted.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Stubborn
stubborn…
stubborn…
stubborn…
from the Gulf, from the windows,
(old) streets
reside.
(old) stones
stand.
(the Gulf)
but…
peer in the path
and wear
strong. Stubborn. Still.
but…
the windows (old), and in the souls,
the streets.
In from their paths, reside, stand.
And still wear…
And still peer…
the gulf,
the gulf.
(paths) STRONG
(paths) STUBBORN
(paths) STAND
the windows peer…(old…)
the souls peer…(stubborn…)
(…the Gulf…)
(Lines taken from a previous freewrite and revised in the style of e.e. cummings.)
stubborn…
stubborn…
from the Gulf, from the windows,
(old) streets
reside.
(old) stones
stand.
(the Gulf)
but…
peer in the path
and wear
strong. Stubborn. Still.
but…
the windows (old), and in the souls,
the streets.
In from their paths, reside, stand.
And still wear…
And still peer…
the gulf,
the gulf.
(paths) STRONG
(paths) STUBBORN
(paths) STAND
the windows peer…(old…)
the souls peer…(stubborn…)
(…the Gulf…)
(Lines taken from a previous freewrite and revised in the style of e.e. cummings.)
Ah! Crustaceans!
crus(juice)tac(beer)ceans
L O V E
French bread!
L O V E
swimming…
butter…
crusty… (I think still…)
What’s tasty?
Result!
Peppers! end
Lemon! over
Spooned end
in juice
Is about…
…onions
…garlic
…beer
…peppers
…crustaceans
…all.
NOT to result in TASTY!
To result in LOVE!
(and bread…French…crusty, think I…)
A h h h h . . .
(Lines taken from a previous freewrite and revised in the style of e.e. cummings.)
L O V E
French bread!
L O V E
swimming…
butter…
crusty… (I think still…)
What’s tasty?
Result!
Peppers! end
Lemon! over
Spooned end
in juice
Is about…
…onions
…garlic
…beer
…peppers
…crustaceans
…all.
NOT to result in TASTY!
To result in LOVE!
(and bread…French…crusty, think I…)
A h h h h . . .
(Lines taken from a previous freewrite and revised in the style of e.e. cummings.)
Monday, November 29, 2010
Highway
Highway 90 hugging the Gulf,
the tacky glory of Biloxi Beach
brings it all back...
A marriage of necessity,
no honeymoon.
That's what we did.
Angled roofs and odd architecture,
mix-ups, confusion,
laughingly ineffective.
A vicious, violent pageantry
seen through a smudgy, dusty window
defines our history.
Up ahead, I see the pearly gates.
I've got 95 cents to spare.
Oh, how I wish.
This was created by randomly picking lines from previous pieces of writing and tweaking as needed!
the tacky glory of Biloxi Beach
brings it all back...
A marriage of necessity,
no honeymoon.
That's what we did.
Angled roofs and odd architecture,
mix-ups, confusion,
laughingly ineffective.
A vicious, violent pageantry
seen through a smudgy, dusty window
defines our history.
Up ahead, I see the pearly gates.
I've got 95 cents to spare.
Oh, how I wish.
This was created by randomly picking lines from previous pieces of writing and tweaking as needed!
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Healing
The colors seep through four layers of paint. Five. Six. How many more coats will it take? The little wavering scribbles of purple and green wiggle like ghosts across the dining room wall.
Maybe it's a sign. Maybe it's her telling me that these tangles of color aren't meant to be covered up. But - I just can't keep looking at the daily reminder.
"Mom! Pretty!"
The joyous voice echoed up from the dining room and up the stairs where I was saving the laundry.
"Come see, Mama!"
I sighed and bumped the closet door shut with my hip and dropped the rest of the dryer-warm clothes on the bed. Three-year-olds are a lot of fun, but they can exhaust you like nothing else. I turned the corner to find Maggie in the dining room, little fists clamped around handsful of crayons, grinning at the ribbons of color she'd wrapped around three walls.
This was a test, I realized. Multiple choice. Laugh? Cry? I had to laugh. She looked too proud of herself for me to be angry.
I shake my head to clear it of the memory. A week from today would have been her fourth birthday, and it still feels like she's right here, decorating the walls and my life with her rainbow spirit.
Painting over her "art" seemed at first like a step toward healing, but the fact that it isn't working makes me wonder if I'm making an even bigger mistake by erasing the evidence of her endless vivacity from the walls. Truth is, nothing will ever erase her. I'll always see her peanut-butter-and-jelly grin, hear her chortling giggle, wait for the pat-pat-pat of her Hello Kitty-slippered feet coming into my bedroom just before sunrise, and smell the summertime sweetness of her coconut shampoo.
I put down the paintbrush and pick up her box of worn, torn, half-unwrapped and broken crayons. I dig out the purple, and begin to trace.
Maybe it's a sign. Maybe it's her telling me that these tangles of color aren't meant to be covered up. But - I just can't keep looking at the daily reminder.
"Mom! Pretty!"
The joyous voice echoed up from the dining room and up the stairs where I was saving the laundry.
"Come see, Mama!"
I sighed and bumped the closet door shut with my hip and dropped the rest of the dryer-warm clothes on the bed. Three-year-olds are a lot of fun, but they can exhaust you like nothing else. I turned the corner to find Maggie in the dining room, little fists clamped around handsful of crayons, grinning at the ribbons of color she'd wrapped around three walls.
This was a test, I realized. Multiple choice. Laugh? Cry? I had to laugh. She looked too proud of herself for me to be angry.
I shake my head to clear it of the memory. A week from today would have been her fourth birthday, and it still feels like she's right here, decorating the walls and my life with her rainbow spirit.
Painting over her "art" seemed at first like a step toward healing, but the fact that it isn't working makes me wonder if I'm making an even bigger mistake by erasing the evidence of her endless vivacity from the walls. Truth is, nothing will ever erase her. I'll always see her peanut-butter-and-jelly grin, hear her chortling giggle, wait for the pat-pat-pat of her Hello Kitty-slippered feet coming into my bedroom just before sunrise, and smell the summertime sweetness of her coconut shampoo.
I put down the paintbrush and pick up her box of worn, torn, half-unwrapped and broken crayons. I dig out the purple, and begin to trace.
Shout, indeed...
August 23, 1992...
"Shout! Lift your hands up and shout! Kick your heels up and shout!"
Chad groaned, leaned over the wine glasses and crumb-covered plates, and stage-whispered to the girl that had taken an empty seat at the table with him. "Well, it's officially a wedding reception now!" She was gorgeous, and he didn't see a ring. If she understood his joke, she may just be a keeper! He held his breath as she looked at him out of the corner of her champagne-sparkling eyes. She leaned back his way and whispered back with a wink, "Nope...they haven't played 'Celebration' yet."
And that's how Chad and Hope fell in love.
Theirs isn't the first story of romance beginning at a wedding. The stage is set so perfectly. Music, slow dancing, candlelight, flowers to pluck from centerpieces and tuck behind ears...how could anyone not feel the flush?
May 9, 2010...
"Shout! Lift your hands up and shout! Kick your heels up and shout!"
Chad looked to his left at Hope, the candlelight still accenting her exquisite silhouette and doe-soft eyes, just like it did eighteen years before, the night they met. He leaned in, his lips brushing her earlobe, and stage-whispered, "Well, it's officially a wedding reception now." She turned to him and what he saw wasn't the smart-alecky, mischievous grin he'd expected, but a smirk, oozing with disdain. "Nope. They haven't played 'Celebration' yet." Her monotone voice and loathing stare stunned Chad.
Hope took a delicate bite of cake and gently placed her fork on the china plate. "Chad, honey, that joke was funny the first time, but I have to say...it got a little crusty after, oh, I don't know...the seventy-third time. Kind of like everything else about you." She was wringing her hands now, watching them as if she weren't the one moving them. "I'm sorry, sweetie." She stood, rested her hands on the table, leaned down, and kissed the top of his head. She turned and walked away. He dropped his head and saw her rings lying on the table where her hands had rested.
"Shout! Lift your hands up and shout! Kick your heels up and shout!"
Chad groaned, leaned over the wine glasses and crumb-covered plates, and stage-whispered to the girl that had taken an empty seat at the table with him. "Well, it's officially a wedding reception now!" She was gorgeous, and he didn't see a ring. If she understood his joke, she may just be a keeper! He held his breath as she looked at him out of the corner of her champagne-sparkling eyes. She leaned back his way and whispered back with a wink, "Nope...they haven't played 'Celebration' yet."
And that's how Chad and Hope fell in love.
Theirs isn't the first story of romance beginning at a wedding. The stage is set so perfectly. Music, slow dancing, candlelight, flowers to pluck from centerpieces and tuck behind ears...how could anyone not feel the flush?
May 9, 2010...
"Shout! Lift your hands up and shout! Kick your heels up and shout!"
Chad looked to his left at Hope, the candlelight still accenting her exquisite silhouette and doe-soft eyes, just like it did eighteen years before, the night they met. He leaned in, his lips brushing her earlobe, and stage-whispered, "Well, it's officially a wedding reception now." She turned to him and what he saw wasn't the smart-alecky, mischievous grin he'd expected, but a smirk, oozing with disdain. "Nope. They haven't played 'Celebration' yet." Her monotone voice and loathing stare stunned Chad.
Hope took a delicate bite of cake and gently placed her fork on the china plate. "Chad, honey, that joke was funny the first time, but I have to say...it got a little crusty after, oh, I don't know...the seventy-third time. Kind of like everything else about you." She was wringing her hands now, watching them as if she weren't the one moving them. "I'm sorry, sweetie." She stood, rested her hands on the table, leaned down, and kissed the top of his head. She turned and walked away. He dropped his head and saw her rings lying on the table where her hands had rested.
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