frost over

You say I’m all wound up;

I say you’re just too loose.

So we both agree

We need a little screw

To fit together, flush and snug--

A few turns left, a few twists right

Against hard wood

And we’ll be good to go.

Quit digging around in my toolbox

Trying to find an extra nail

For that hammer that’s been laying

There for nights and days.

If that doesn’t work,

You can be the superglue

That holds us together for a little while.

But maybe, just maybe

You’re a frayed knot, you’re nuts, you’ll bolt--

Heart wrenched, I’ll saw right through you.

Forget it – we’ll level it off

And leave it be

If only to be left crooked and hanging

Over uneven floors.

I'd like to say it's the art or the coffee, but I think it's him every time.

----

"Weak Ends"

    It was not dawn that woke her but the sound of rubber on wood and the subsequent whispered "shit!" that reverberated through the disappearing darkness.
    "Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you.  I really have to get going, though.  You can let yourself out."
    As her eyes fluttered open, she saw the small of his back first, the one she had clung to hours ago, now covered with a shirt just like the rumpled one she had unbuttoned so deliberately earlier.  The light began filtering in through the faux wood blinds, tiny slivers of reality to bring them both out of their somnolent stupor.  Though she was comfortable in his bed, smelling the scent of him on the pillows and watching him lean down to pick up the shoe he had dropped, the uncomfortable nature of his apparent disinterest and haste began to intrude.
    She reached out to grab his hand and pull him back into the warm, soft folds of Egyptian cotton that held such safety.  His flinch seemed preemptive, a mere split second early as he reached across her for the security and reliability of his cool titanium watch on the nightstand.  He couldn't look at her -- not out of guilt or love or boredom -- simply because at this very moment he felt nothing at all when he looked at her.  Her hair draped across his pillows as if it were marking territory, staking its claim as if it had belonged there all along.  With her knees slightly bent, hands thrown above her head, almost touching, he had to admit it wasn't a terrible sight.
    "I could take you myself," she started quickly, pulling her sweater over her head.  "I'll put on some coffee to go."
    Her thoughts jumped from blankets to traffic lights, both of which required caution and thoughtful timing.  His workplace wasn't too far from her hotel, and she had a few hours before her flight.  She shrugged out of bed onto her feet, fully dressed by the time he reached for the doorknob.
    "No, that's all right, thanks.  You have a plane to catch.  Just...call me when you arrive so I know you got there safely.  I'll probably be in a meeting."
    Some part of him hated when she was like this, the way she would prolong the inevitable because she thought the outcome could be different.  At first it was innocent and sweet, almost romantic before it became routine.  Greetings and farewells became shorter, conversations were often tangential, but the amount of time together was about the same.  This arrangement was best for him.  It was best for them.  Surely she knew that.  Facing away from her, his eyes flicked upward briefly, perhaps both in short silent prayer to something that he could leave without conflict and in exasperation to carefully tiptoeing around her sincerest niceties.
    As he turned away, she knew they were going through the motions, but she too felt the irritation and banality of it all.  Some part of her clung to it out of loyalty to their proclaimed natural order of things.  It wouldn't be a visit without it.  Nor was it a visit if she spent significant time by herself in his apartment.
    "Okay, I'll do that.  Actually, I'll leave now.  That way there's no fuss about locking up."
    No nonsense, just distance.  She often had to repeat this to herself in her head although she couldn't help but think that this was all nonsense anyway.  It was all she had at the moment.  Familiarity was easier, instinctive, and more destructive than novelty.  Some people spend their whole lives looking for comfortable and sufficient, let alone extraordinary and rapturous.  At least there was satiety.  There was a delicate balance.  She could settle for that, she thought; everyone does to some degree at some point.
    She clutched her purse and heels to her chest and he his briefcase and suit jacket - their lifesaving devices in case of emergency landing on their way out the door across the cold tile foyer next to the elevator.  Down the four flights in the elevator, they fully composed themselves, smoothing disheveled hair and emotions.  Their doubt silently came and went with the single jolt of their arrival at the ground floor.  They did not touch; in fact, their truncated kiss did not even allow enough time for the faintest pressure to be felt upon their lips.  Exiting his building, they diverged without a single glance, submerged into crowds of people with certain known destinations, not to converge again until loneliness got the best of them.

Silver and blue,
Alone with a cue
Card and "How To" guide
For pomp and circumstances,
Fortunate third second chances,
And recently swallowed pride.

Happy 100th, OK.

----- 

11/16/07

There are pops and dull roars
Fading into the background;
The white noise is secondary
To the glittering, technicolor sky--
Those explosions to embellish
The great state of things we are in,
In the great state we are in.
--The plains and the plain Janes,
Land runs and man's sons,
The winds and historical rewinds,
The wheat, the weeds we'd planted to grow
Lazy circles in the sky and airy prairies--
These silent pauses in between booms
Tell me that we could be doing better soon
But we are trying, and that's enough for now
For this century that has passed.
We are doing fine, we are doing okay.
Half of us know why we're celebrating today,
And the other half is content with
Stimulating those receptors in our eyes,
Standing next to strangers,
Shivering from the cool breeze
And the rumbling and echoes of those before us.

Childish?

-----

"6th Period"

And so it began
As if we were in grade school
"Do you like me?
Circle 'yes' or 'no' "
Passing you feigned courage
And all my insecurities
In passing you that note.
Some teacher, some Creator
Demanding attention at the front of the room
Trying to tell us something
We would surely memorize now
But never use later or when it was too late.
Our little island-like desks, our lives
With scribbles all over from the older folks--
They are old and worn, but they are ours for now.
I'm squirming in my seat, wishing all the time
That it were lunch or recess
Or after-school specials and paper airplanes.
My head is buried in my arms, ears open
When the blessed bell rings
And my declaration has returned to me
From the vast classroom sea
Neatly folded with a secret
And a round shape drawn inside.

-----

Currently Listening:  "Sealion" -- Feist.  Her album The Reminder is candidly refreshing.

Corresponding lyricism:  "Sea lion woman -- she drink coffee, she drink tea, and a rooster crows.  Sea lion woman dressed in red, smile at the man when you wake up in his bed..."

I'm sure everyone says it, but you hope that with every year will come a little more wisdom, understanding, happiness, love... And then you sort of remember that everyone makes this day his or her day of entitlement.

I spent the day in and out of airports and airplanes. No candles to blow out, no distinct excitement as in the days of early childhood. It was simply a very different day. There was a lot of quiet time and contemplating involved.  Silent appreciation of everything (and everyone) I take for granted and constant wondering of a possible need to change for an uncertain future that lies ahead.

Currently, my nose is in a book, but I hope to write something before the classes start up again.

"Lover By Number"

He thought prematurely that he had one her over,
That she loved him two just the same.
But by and by, he counted to three
And be four he knew it, she was gone.
All his five senses felt her absence;
Six to his stomach, he was indeed.
And on day seven, it was time for rest
As he eight and swallowed his pride whole.
You see, he had never had be nine emotions--
Only ten toes to keep him steady.

I am in love.  No, I am enamored by/with.  Too much.  No, I have it; I have found a strong, immediate interest towards.  His name is Chicago.  Chicago By Night, in fact.  He's bright, funny, sometimes talkative, rather calm...and he has great structure/build.  He's cultural, historical, and musical...and he has pretty good taste.  What else can you ask for?  And he's tall and clean-cut.  Looks fantastic next to a lake and can be found enjoying a hearty pizza and sidewalk jazz.

Oh, and he holds a pretty good convention crowd since that's where I spent the majority of my time.  Like I said, lovely city.  If I had to pick a good-sized city to live in, that might be it.

Perhaps my favourite part was standing on Michigan, on the bridge overlooking the river, and listening to dull city sounds and the saxophonist on the corner.  Childish, I know...

Still reading and writing, which more than occasionally gets overtaken by pure laziness and television.  A sad story indeed.

But I'm quietly excited about getting published.

Currently Listening:  "Chicago"  -- Sufjan Stevens, from which title of my post was taken.

"Going Under"

The sun was not glaring to welcome summer. Instead, it parted the clouds and gave off a hint of heat, long enough to say at the very least that in due time the change would come. Still for her it was bright enough as she tiptoed across the cracked concrete to the sleek metal railing. Peering into the water with unwarranted uncertainty, she ignored her reflection, dressed in the top she'd almost grown into and the bottom that had become a size too big. It was the rippling light at the bottom of the shallow end that had caught her eye -- the transient shadows and the seemingly random patterns that sometimes repeated. She gingerly dipped a toe into the deserted water and reactively shivered, a little more strongly in anticipation of the impending submersion that lay ahead.

She stepped into the pool until she was waist deep, pacing the chill of the water with the slowing of her thoughts. It's like ripping off a band-aid, she always had to tell herself; the faster she did it, the less it would hurt. For the five seconds her whole body is underwater, she feels the cold overtake her, shake her, as if bringing her back to her senses. The shock fades as quickly as it came as she begins to drift to the surface towards the light. Her nostrils fill entirely with the scent of sweet blossoms, and her head is greeted by a delicate warm breeze. She closes her eyes as the trees rustle and sway with the wind as if silently dancing to a famous waltz. The music in her soul that had been quieted as of late by the mundane affairs of everyday life had suddenly reached its crescendo in an underwater symphony.

She feels alive as she plunges headfirst into the cerulean coolness, reaching out into unknown space. The water floods her ears with a calming dullness that she hasn't heard in over a year. For in this moment, there is nothing. There are no familiar voices, no deep contemplations, no deep-seated tugging feelings. There are only routine movements, tightening muscles, and minute, intermittent bubbles that signal a release of some kind. Her outstretched arms trace large circles, and her legs kick steadily in perfect rhythm to the beating of her heart. To an onlooker, it would seem that she had some goal in mind, some drive to propel her forward; yet, she feels no hurry, no pressing objective to fulfill. She is dictated by the lifespan of her breaths alone. It is in this enclosed body of water that she finds her freedom, her strength and her ability to let go. Stroke by stroke, she swims the length of the pool and back again, over and over, channeling all of her energy and effort towards making a fluid and continuous motion so as to embody the medium that surrounds her. Her hair floats gently underwater as though it were caught in a slow-motion wind storm. She watches the leaves that silently crumble against the vinyl floor and those that delicately rise to the surface. Why couldn't real life be this quiet and simple, she wondered. A frozen glacier in the moving waters, she lingered for a moment, deciding which leaf to follow.

Enough time passes, and there are no longer bubbles nor ripples close by. Rays of sunlight slow to a halt and begin to fade as her movements cease save a slow blink of her tired eyes. How easy it would be to give up at an instant and float away peacefully and unknowingly. Only the leaves and the light would know, and they would not give it a second thought. The comfort she takes in these notions is fleeting and suddenly replaced by the increasing negative pressure inside her chest. Her lungs ache for new air, but she waits until the last possible moment to resurface because to be surrounded by water promises a world of safety, leisure, and continuity. As her lips touch the air, her eyes remain closed as tightly as possible, keeping the outside world at bay and clinging desperately to beaded water droplets. Simultaneously, and somewhat to her dismay, her body longs to leave the wet comfort and greedily gasps for oxygen as though she were reborn, taking her very first breath of life.

Of all the things she had felt -- the jolt of cold stepping in, the water wrapping itself around her, the slow graceful nature of the underwater ballet -- this struggle for air was her favourite and defining moment. She held her breath as long as she felt she possibly could and then some. The penultimate joy was in the waiting, the anticipation that something more than content was seconds away. And after some time, she would decide to let go of the comfort and ease of this refreshing ambience of feigned weightlessness and surreal beauty. It would seem like a choice between life and death, and in a way the unaware onlooker would be right.

She emerges from cold waters, alone and unnoticed. Her triumph of exhilaration is solitary; coming up for air is like the powerful, private rush of the first kiss. As she gazes up to the brighter blue hue of the sky, the coy sun ducks behind a cloud as if to say it is not quite that easy. Her heartbeat returns to normal, and she floats on her back for one last lap. Tears are streaming down her face, she thinks, but she cannot be sure for perhaps it is only the pool water.

Currently Listening:  "Mushaboom" -- Feist.  Lyricism:  "I got a man to stick it out and make a home from a rented house.  And we'll collect the moments, one by one.  I guess that's how the future's done.  How many acres?  How much light?  Tucked in the woods and out of sight.  Talk to the neighbours and tip my cap on a little road barely on the map..."

Home.  That now has two different meanings.  Home for the summer.  First variation on May 2006, I guess.

First year of medical school done, and I like having nothing to do, nothing to study or think about, academically speaking.  For now.

Reading, writing, and piano are on the schedule in significantly greater time allotments than during the previous school year.  Hopefully running around to avoid the weight gain and general sloth.  Also, decorating and organizing at the other home.  And taking crash courses on somewhat obscure Chinese dialects.

Currently Reading:  Dry:  A Memoir by Augusten Burroughs.  Candid, full of insight...or hindsight, rather.  Great descriptive text, with one of my favorite lines as "highly evolved sense of denial."  Sounds familiar.  Except for the whole recovering alcoholic part.  I'd like to read more of his work.  And soon.

Quote:  "What I really want is to sit next to someone under an L.L. Bean blanket on the beach in the fall and drink coffee from the same mug.  I don't want some rusty '73 Ford Pinto with a factory-defective gas tank that causes it to explode when it's rear-ended in the parking lot of the supermarket.  So why do I keep looking for Pintos? (205)"

By the way, I'm taking book suggestions if you have them readily available.

In the meantime, I'll be trying to jumpstart my creative self into gear so I'll have something new to post here.  I feel that I've been quite neglectful...

since i can't seem to find my own as of late.

-----

[click me.  i'm worth it.]

It's the music, its beauty, and its appreciation (or lack thereof).  Time well spent.

I know I've had nothing to say lately, but it's the very much busy-ness of school that is running right now.

The rest of what went with yesterday's post:

I took the weekend off.
Did I mention that I made the weekend a four-day weekend? Whoops.

And because it's the smart thing to do, I think I ended up doing more things while I was sick. I felt better, but I don't really know if that means I'll actually get better. And those "things" do not include staying on top of school.

Thursday
--yoga + steam room (relaxation spent well.)
--cafe do brasil (some magnificent apple cake.)
--med students' bar tour (cafe nova, vzd's, the sip(ango).)

Friday
--pilates (getting rougher, if that adjective is allowed with that noun.)
--sleep (missed out on movie night because my nasal passages/lungs/airways said, "no, i don't feel like working well anymore.")

Saturday
--orl/ent endoscopy workshop ("nasopharyngoscopy." saw the inner workings of the nose and throat with a little video-game-esque device. nice.)
--lido for chinese food.  (they were still celebrating chinese new year.)
--art museum (a little chihuly glasswork never hurt anyone.)
--charleston's, i-240 style (...umm. delicious food shared -- shrimp cargot, house salad, hawaiian top sirloin, loaded baked potato, grilled sea bass, pineapple upside-down cake, cafe charleston's. good company [planned]. interesting company [slightly unexpected]. see below.)
--tapwerks -- infamous bar in bricktown, one of the city's "hotspots."  parking is crazy.  i don't like all the busy-ness.

Sunday
--classen grill for extraordinary breakfasts (you're always such a wonderful place.)
--sleep (can't stop.)

In immediate retrospect, worth it; however, my immediate retrospect is not always the greatest determinant for what is "best."

(I use a lot of quotes and parentheses and other frequently non-essential, nonsensical, and ineffective punctuation marks.)

~~~~~~~

random tidbit:

It wasn't a slap to the face
So much as a brief comment made in passing,
But it stung and burned bright red
Long after it was said
In the place in my head I'd tried to forget about.

Background: by some interesting twist of fate, one of my best friends works at the same restaurant with the last guy I dated (see most of previous posts). So my close friend decided to take me to dinner since he gets a discount. And *someone* happened to be working that evening. Now the story.

Saturday I met her (the new girl). After I conversed with him (the most recent ex-dating one). And before I knew that they both already knew earlier that evening that I was coming in to dine (our waitress who is good friends with my best friend sort of leaked it to her, and it probably got to said ex). And I'm sure they know I know about them. She's pretty. Younger. Physically different from me, and I'm sure also mentally/emotionally/most everything else different. In a better way. And I would probably like her if I ever had/accepted the chance to get to know her. And I wonder if she's like whoever came before me, and if I was just the random wildcard thrown in for good measure.

It's not a game and it's not a race. But when I watch the former other reach this next place or restart this process before I do, there is a feeling similar to losing gracefully (or not). And so I invert and think for a little while. I realize that there is so much more distance here than before and that I have no idea how I will ever get to this next place/restart this process for myself.

[insert yesterday's non-prose post here]

Currently listening to Corinne Bailey Rae -- "Put Your Records On". Corresponding lyricism: "Girl, put your records on. Tell me your favourite song. You go ahead, let your hair down. Sapphire and faded jeans, I hope you get your dreams. Just go ahead, let your hair down. You're gonna find yourself somewhere, somehow."

It's not a game of life
It's trial and error
And the grey standard deviations
Tension and friction and loss of energy
Irony and fiction and truth hidden
Half-lives and time constants of love and lust
Reactivity and relativity and sparks flying
Homeostasis and variable control
Grand pauses and dissonance
Hyperboles and ellipses
Your use of lines and light
My primary emotion and your countertransference
The continuing struggle for a coup de grace
All of these things so we can move on
But never find ourselves in the same place
And on the same topic
With the people who need to witness it.

 

Now, if you were actually a boy, this would all be a piece of cake. You're nicely washed, well-kept, just the right length, and just the right fit, Mr. J.Crew version on final sale.

Boys as jeans. What a thought.

In other news, sorely pissed and in disbelief in a vicarious sort of way. But that's personal, and perhaps for another day.

It's amazing how resilient I've become at refusing to mature.

Watched two total knee replacement surgeries last week. Didn't hate it, so that's a start, I guess.

Writer's block. I need someone to move it for me, if you please.

Currently Listening lyricism (modified just for me) from "Virtue and Wine" -- Sondre Lerche : "I've frozen down my memory. It's morning when [s]he gets up. [S]he puts on Lionel Ritchie. I've already had enough. The queues are long; I guess I am wrong. This chemical environment is getting out of hand. Virtue and wine cannot help you swim. Pain and sorrow must come if you go. It's the chemistry and the things we shouldn't do. I am nothing without you."

Snow day #2, and campus is closed. This hasn't happened to me in years, and I didn't really expect it to in graduate school.

So I've holed myself up in my apartment for the past two days, studying here and there mostly, watching TV, and listening to music. And this is what happened. Nostalgia will get you every time. And being cooped up in an efficiency/studio can make you miss (certain) company.

------------------------- -----------------

We argued over whether it was Sarah or Ella
Drifting ardently into the room.
You always thought the former, I the latter,
But it never mattered for very long
Because it was nighttime and that was enough.
And as we sat and comfortably chatted,
I realized how much I missed quiet conversation
Without pretenses or struggles to come up with something clever,
With genuine interest and no hurry at all.
But as the city settled itself down for the evening
And the candle held its steady glow,
We still smiled through the yawns
And told each other histories and futures
That neither of us had been or could be part of.
Finally caught between late and early,
Nodding off and drifting away,
I almost wish we'd danced before bed instead--
Across the living room, into the kitchen,
Even in such a state we'd found ourselves.
But it was sleep that came quickly, and nothing more
Than softer jazz and fading memories.

 

Currently Listening:  "Middle of Nowhere" -- Hot Hot Heat.

Corresponding lyricism:  Don't get mad if I'm laughing.  Blame the caffeine for all the 5 a.m. phone calls.  I haven't slept a single night in over a month.  Not even once did you start to make sense to me.  Well, maybe I'm a little bit slow; I'm just consistently inconsistent.  She said unpredictability's my responsibility, baby.

Early this morning.

entitled: ... (Actually, I'm not quite sure yet. Medical school is influencing, so perhaps "Anatomical Positions.")

And yes, the reprise of rhyme. It's been a while.

----------

I’m scratching my head;
I’ve a bone to pick
Though it’s too late now,
Burned both ends of the wick.

Your smiles too much,
Your words too few
To save me now,
But you haven’t a clue.

So I’ll say it again--
Oh, it’s perfectly fine
To leave us in a stitch in time,
Saving yourself for number nine.
Well, how was I to know
Where you’d drawn the line?

My ears are burning;
My stomach’s in knots.
But we’re talking about you
And your unspoken thoughts.

I’d keep you on your toes,
But you’ve got cold feet.
And I never heard
Your heart skip a beat.

So I’ll say it again--
Oh, it’s perfectly fine
To leave us in a stitch in time,
Saving yourself for number nine.
Well, how was I to know
Where you’d drawn the line?

My knees are knocking at your door,
But you’re not answering anymore.

***All the inner prosaic ramble for myself for later days...as per usual, skip and head to italics.

We did it. We had that nondate last night. The dinner where he doesn't offer to pay the bill, but we split it in half...yet afterwards, after driving 30 minutes away to pick me up for dinner, he drives us 30 minutes back to where I can listen to him perform and drives me all the way back to my apartment, despite my offer to simply follow him down in my own car. Over dinner, it was like getting to know a new friend...or rather, reconfirming facts about each other from the past and our viewpoints on life. And yet, there was a lack of novelty somehow because of this history -- this awareness of the physical, mental, emotional, intimate, (and virtually every other kind of) vulnerability that I felt he'd seen of me before. Sometimes it was comforting, sometimes painful. Before heading over to the music hall to listen to him play, we stopped at his house for coffee, and this new nostalgia I'd never felt before raced through my system as I walked around his house again with familiarity. I walked around every room, remembering where we'd sat, embraced, laid beside each other, played, exchanged gifts, made meals while sharing our favorite music, had our first and last kisses, discussed what we had considered the salient points of our lives then. I felt somewhat strange and restricted now...banished from those privileges of walking around so comfortably.

So "listen to him perform," I said. Key point of the night: he finally played marimba for me. He finally showed me the love of his life. I sat there watching him do what he wanted to do for the rest of his life, admiring it, and thinking that I was still glad to have met him. And he's someone who I want to know about and stay in touch with years from now and all the time in between.

Note to self: no one has ever affected me the way he has...never so strongly.

It's been said that "a guy and a girl can be just friends, but at one point or another, one of them will fall for the other, maybe temporarily, maybe at the wrong time, maybe too late, or maybe, just maybe, forever." I think I want the "just friends."  "Just friends" period.  I think.  Is that even possible?  That would definitely be best at this point in my life and hereafter. I want to simply learn and move on, and most of the time, I feel like I already have, but why is it so difficult sometimes?

Attending his senior recital in a month...and I wonder if things will be different then.

Last night, on how we met:
"Harp...I know that's how we met, but when I think of you, I don't think of that. I think of piano." (the instrument I've played longer)  We met at a harp studio party thrown by my professor at her house; he was bartending for the evening.

And on yesterday's little private recital:
"The last time I played in here was on my birthday...I was practicing late at night, and I remember listening to your voice message when you sang 'Happy Birthday' to me."
"Really?"
"...Do you remember that?"
"Of course...but I didn't know you were here..."

-------------------------

10/07/2006, 1:18 a.m.

I sat quietly and bottled the anticipation
As I watched this hidden passion I'd never seen before
(Even when I knew you then and there)
That I assumed you were saving for someone, someday,
Flood over your entire being -- every muscle and every fiber.
I stared intently, in awe, as it washed over you and out your fingertips
And onto what suddenly became a well-crafted sonorous extension of yourself,
Radiating energy across your face and resonating to the highest rafters
Only to echo back in waves of whispers the secret to a personal happiness.
It was meeting a you I'd never known,
The one I'd read about, heard about, the one everyone else knew.
And in that moment, I felt fortunate to witness it:
The great moments of our lives when everything stops
To allow us what we love,
Untainted by life's urge to stay on schedule.
So I closed my eyes, as if to hold this vicarious feeling inside
To save for a rainy day or for every day,
After the music fades away.

She’s become the outer shell of herself

That sheds itself like trees’ leaves in autumn—
The beauty of vibrant living while dying.

Each gracefully falling leaf goes unnoticed

Until it joins the others on the ground below;

So too are parts of her lost, one by one.

There is no logical explanation, no prevention.

It’s just the change of seasons and of reasons.

Life and death are happening for her

With no stillness of winds, no pauses.

As the leaves fall, their paths are steady,

Delicate, but unknown to outsiders;

So too is her journey and her realization

That this happens every year.

Yes. It feels pretty much the same. It's just a number, right? Moved into a new apartment, trying to get all settled in. But as usual, my mind consistently has trouble doing so.

Three Little Words

     "Keep the change."
     He didn't need a watch to tell him it was late; it was written all over the cab driver's face as he handed him a fifty and stepped out onto the street in front of his hotel.  He was just another grey suit, locked away in a conference room all day, every day for the past week.  Crunching numbers and batting around recycled ideas had occupied him for so long that he was amazed that he could still find the energy and the courtesy to nod and thank the doorman for granting him passage from the swirling, chaotic city into one of several, well-lighted, chic eyes of the storm.
     Though it was warm and inviting, the lobby too was weary from the day.  Paintings of Manet adorned the light cream walls while three tasteful chandeliers illuminated the well-worn path to antique golden elevators.  To the right and left of the path were large, dark red chairs and couches complemented by cherry armrests and tables.  It took every effort for him to forgo the velvety comforts for something a little harder and to the left.
     Upon entering the room, he paused to adjust to the dim light and to take in the soft jazz playing.  He crossed the room and realized he'd waited all day to say these three words:
     "Martini, straight up."
     The bartender nodded slightly, polishing a snifter with such conviction only seen when one is prepared for a long night ahead.
     He removed his grey jacket gingerly as if he were peeling off his second skin.  He placed it on the stool next to him and loosened his cream silk tie to reveal a light blue dress shirt in fairly good condition, considering the hour.  As he turned away from the bar, he spotted a tall, slender man, maybe ten years his senior, standing next to a sleek black grand piano, sifting through his tip jar to quantify his luck for the evening.
     "Oh, what the hell," he muttered to himself as he crossed the room to the piano man.  "Would you happen to know any Bill Evans?" he asked, as he dropped a twenty in his jar.  The kindly gentleman tipped his bowler hat, sat down, and started "Very Early."
     As the suit made his way back to his trustworthy libation, he noticed the gentle aroma of the hotel soap mixed with ginger and lilies.  A single diamond solitaire twinkled at him flirtatiously just above the notch of her collarbone in competition with the soft, silken, dark purple slip dress to match her soft, silken, onyx hair, accented with white lilies.  He swore he'd seen her somewhere before as she made a beeline for the bar.  As she leaned over to make her order, he suggested that she take the seat nearest him.  Her eyes flashed briefly, as if she had met him before but forgotten his name.  She gave a single quick nod after a moment of reluctance and smirked slightly with amusement.
     "Dirty martini, please," she requested, in the same tone with which he'd heard his boss fire colleagues.  She flicked her eyes over his shirt and forgotten jacket and back to his face, briefly.  "Those cucumber eyes cause you trouble or fortune?" she asked casually, head cocked.
     "That depends.  Are you fortune or trouble?"
     A smirk crept across her face.  "Neutral grounds.  But I could be swayed either way, given the right circumstance."
     He brushed the wavy, sepia hair from his forehead and eyed her cautiously.  "I'm sure that happens a lot," he replied as he sipped his drink.  "Another, please, sir," he asked the bartender as "My Foolish Heart" slowly faded in.
     "Rough day, huh?  Let me guess...some big conference you're burnt out from?"
     "Yeah, something like that.  All business lately.  What about you?  I'm guessing little trip with the girls but now you need some alone time."
     She picked up her glass with a ringless left hand.  "Spot on...except no girls.  Despite all the tourist types, this is one of my favorite places to unwind in this city.  That and the guy at the keys is a good friend of mine."
     The older gentleman looked up and grinned.  "It's your last night in town.  I wanted to see you off right with a favourite."
     She laughed lightly, "Thanks, pal,&q uot; as he began to play "Airport Sadnes s".  Turning her attention back to her drink and company, she found him standing with an arm outstretched.
     "How about a last dance since apparently I'm never going to see you again?"
     "Well, why not?"  She took her last sip and his hand, and they found themselves floating on a tropical wood floor under soft white lights.
     She inhaled and exhaled deeply.  "I am so very ready to leave this place.  I just want to go somewhere where all I have to worry about is finding my next dirty martini on the waterfront in a string bikini.  Even if just for a few days.  I know that must sound silly to you..."
     He shook his head.  "No, not at all.  Actually, that is what I had foolishly hoped to find here.  A new, beautifully mysterious city, and all I have to show for it is dark circles under my eyes and a drinking habit."
     He closed his eyes and sighed with all his strength.  Half of him believed it was funny, the other half sad.  But holding this stranger to the jazz of a different era in the almost darkness was the closest to perfection he had ever been.  That was something he could accept.
     The tinkling of glasses and of closing chords brought him out of his daze, and he found himself staring into eyes that somehow seemed familiar and understanding.
     "Thanks for the dance," she whispered and kissed his right cheek.  He smelled faintly of laundry and citrus, but she was ready to leave.  And in an instant, she was gone, the door slightly ajar for the trail of optimism she'd left behind.
     He made his way back to the bar to find that she had picked up his tab.  As he shrugged on his jacket to make the trek to the elevator, he reached into his left pocket for his room key.  Inside he found her name, a number, and a brief message:  "Keep the change."

06/17/06, 11:14 p.m. 

I am the crumpled piece of paper lying next to the wastebasket
--The potential for a literary vision
If you'd had more ink and a desire for a thesaurus.
I am the smudged, half-filled manuscript paper lying on your desk
--The potential for the best thing you've ever written
If you hadn't grown bored and tired of finding new rhythms.
I am the exposed roll of film in your half-open camera
--The potential for capturing the ephemeral occurences of your life
If you hadn't been so impatient to take it out so quickly.
The clutter in your living space is growing slowly but steadily,
And entropy is always increasing, as my kind will tell you.
I'll do work against it; I'll fight the maddening chaos, I say
As I start the housework you never asked me to do.
Washing dishes because it's therapeutic and it keeps me from thinking,
Making the bed so I'll forget that it was once wrinkled and warm
When we laid and played in it only moments ago, it seems.
But I think I'll save the front porch for last,
Not because it's a beautiful summer day outside,
But because I like to synchronize the swirl of dust
And the subsequent watery eyes
With thoughts of you.
And I pretend that I'm sweeping you away into the wind
Only to collect here again -- at first unnoticed -- in a few days.

I crawled into bed after a long day of airport terminals, and he mumbled a "Welcome back," stroked my arm briefly, and rolled over on his side. I kissed him lightly, but something was different. It was difficult for me to understand this shift as I'd been on vacation for the past five days. We spent the night, as one of my favorite Death Cab for Cutie songs puts it, "like brothers on a hotel bed." Tosses and turns for hours on end as I watched the red dots on the alarm blink 2:37, 4:18, 6:27, until the actual alarm sounded at 8:30 a.m. I rolled over on my stomach, praying for just one minute of true rest, when I felt his fingers gently knead my back for an unusually long period of time. As I was drifting off, he stopped, stood up, and with one word, made things normal again: "Hungry?" as he smiled softly and gazed into my eyes. I followed him into the kitchen, and we started our only very recently daily routine while I was in town. As he made oatmeal, we exchanged stories about my vacation of beaches and tropical storms and his week of work and sunburns. Sitting down to eat, familiar banter, pauses for smiles and locking eyes...and gradually, I watched the sadness creep into his green eyes. He had just set the coffee to brew, and before I could realize what was happening, I heard first. "Umm...I don't think this is working out." I was shocked, unable to think, breathe, react. He stopped himself and gestured between us -- "I don't mean this (I guess us talking) isn't working out...but I hate this feeling that things aren't quite right...I've been trying to figure it out all week objectively. You are everything I've always wanted when looking for someone to date. Anytime I describe to my friends the type of person I would want, you fit it all. But it's like all of the elements are there...except it's more like good friends. You know I'm a quiet guy, and I don't talk about relationships, but I've talked to five of my friends this week, trying to figure out why I felt this way. While you were gone, I thought, 'Yeah, I miss her. But I miss her the way I would miss a good friend.' And it's different how you would miss someone you were in a relationship with, you know?" I remember it. And then everything else said and done seemed blurry and surreal and it was as if I'd had the wind knocked out of me and I'd been kicked onto the floor. I was stunned and speechless. And obviously somewhat heartbroken, though I promised myself I wouldn't be, if it ever came to this. We had the possibilities-of-friendsh ip discussion and intermittent awkward silences. Yet, the remarkable thing to me was watching the dynamic change within this 20-minute conversations. Smiles and gazes became more distant...less and more understanding at the same time. I saw the potential hugs, kisses, caresses, intimate moments slowly slip away as the second hand ticked away, and all I could do was silently scream, "No! Come back. I've fallen for you."

And after it all, I simply wanted to bury myself in his chest and whisper, "I think I fell in love with you and I don't know what to do now." But there were only slowly forming friendship smiles and hugs and promises to keep in touch the next time I came to town. Because I don't know how to fight for him and us if the spark or feeling overpowering "good friends" was never there for him to begin with. I don't think I can change his mind, his instinctive feeling...or rather, lack thereof.

This is cliche, I know...but I'll say it anyway. My heart hurts.  I still don't understand it all...and what exactly is going on in his head.  But regardless...it all hurts.

Well, I went and graduated from college. Such a blur of three years...I don't know if I've realized yet that this chapter of my life has ended.  A short two month break ahead of me, and then to medical school I go.

And I suppose that's all that's new.  Other than the potential of the previous post.  After not having to think about how to socially interact and start things that could become relationships for such a long period of time, I have definitely forgotten how to act.  Insecurity begins to rear its ugly head, and logic is clouded indefinitely.

I'd like to know where everyone has gone on tblog?  I miss reading up about you all.

/end prose

everything surroundi ng is in slow motion
except for thoughts hurtling in the opposite direction,
and there's a pain in the middle of my chest
where i thought there was emptiness.
one foot in front of the other,
but i'm already dizzy from the change in pace,
watching the clouds for some sign
that i'm doing things right this time,
that the future is more certain than i give it credit for.
i don't want to get caught up in the mess of conformity
that i so adamantly said i would avoid,
but it's as if i rejected it all
because i lacked it all,
and now that i have it all
life's contradictory nature intensifies.
the difference between black and white is so stark,
but i wander in grey for days.

In conclusion, my current musical recommendation is the State of Mind album by Raul Midon.  I recently went to a Jamie Cullum (who I absolutely love) concert that Raul Midon opened for.  Both artists are wonderful.  So put a little jazz back in your life.  It's a great feeling.