jaybird

it's amazing how like a little bird she was. her hands waved nervously as she attempted to give an earnest plea or perhaps excuse for something that never quite made itself clear. admitting fault became a cage she avoided yet inhabited nonetheless. two steps forward and one back she fearfully desired the seeds held out to her, and defiantly begged for them. her apologetic tone occasionally pecked when she felt threatened beyond endurance--which was further than most. she impressed her audience with a sense of fragility combined with stubborn indecision. the adroit listener hovered between a desire to protect her and exasperation. in strikingly ironic fashion, her husband lumbered beside her as a perfect ox.

each moment

time is like a snowflake
on your cheek. you have
but a moment to examine
its unique points before it
melts. the moment you
touch the lines on your face,
realise how quickly the years
have turned, another day is
fleeing and you cannot rewind.
when did the lines as you
furrow your brow become
visible when your face is at
rest? you cannot pinpoint that
moment and if your gasping
head broke out of the icy lake
in self-aware shock when your
last hair turned silver it would
still be racing into the never-to-
be-known past as you drown in
the sea of tomorrow. the shops,
the bars, the television programs
beckon with smug arms. you cannot
hold onto today so forget that reality
and immerse yourself in stores forever
fresh, drinks forever young, and shows
forever new. perhaps by the time you
awake with all the unavoidable aches
and pains you will be too drugged to
care. or perhaps you will fight, grasp
the beautiful angst of frozen water, no
two drops alike, and live breathless in
each moment. 

the last snowfall

the world whispers
the trees hold their breath
as flake after flake
drifts
slowly
down
blanket of peace
enveloping earth
as frozen waters
pile
lazy
banks
grey skies muffle
no sunlight kisses
as unexpected chill
keeps
warmth
away
early daphne blooms
wearing snow dust
as opposites meet
life
above
death
winter's strong surge
cannot cover green
as melting mounds
reveal
stubborn
blades
a moment at rest
frozen denouement
as all around
springs
silently
forward

when the wind blows

she pulled her knees close
not in fear
in delight
the rushing sound
freight trains through trees
storm clouds dancing
sent her heart soaring
let others live becalmed
the pilgrim's path
though sure is not safe
though lone is not lonely
when billows roll
she faced the wind
head on
and rose
only those who fly
know the thrill
so rage on
crash and blaze
she was made for this
cages and disuse destroy
battles polish her glory
when the clouds
finally clear
all will be well

ramblings on hope, trust, a new year, etc.

they (the indefatigable they) say that no destination is achieved on the sole basis of one decision. rather, little turns and twists, choosing 'a' rather than 's', a bob when others weaved, leads one to the current state of affairs. try as you might to pinpoint how you arrived at this point in history, in this job, with this grim future looming, you will fail since there is no apex. or is there?
hope for a definite outcome is, subconsciously or not, what gets most people moving. in each of those pivotal moments if you could step outside yourself and define why you chose to step in that direction and not the other it would likely ring with the hope that the road you are tiptoeing down leads to peace, prosperity, and a general state of bliss. no one (or not many at least) chooses to end up homeless, friendless, purposeless. they are trusting that somehow this decision will lead them towards that elusive spectre of happiness.
so then when, as oscar notes, some of us gaze out of the gutter at the starry night and realise the slime in which we move, how do we embrace the new year finding that all the honestly intended bliss-bringing choices have ended us here, where we cannot see the way forward and we cannot look back to where we are no longer?
brenne says the wilderness is the only place of true belonging and yet when you are starving in the wilderness with paralysing analysis whispering that if this is as good as it gets can i please tap out how do you, lonely, find your way back to real trust and hope?
it's not, as she proposes, a dig down deep in oneself, a humanistic gospel of inner strength. if we are honest with ourselves we see that by ourselves we cannot make the sum of our choices achieve our desires. the world is horribly screwed up and only by realising that can we make the wilderness make sense.
i don't have all the answers on this new year. 2019. 18 years past the odyssey. a world that even science fiction could not have dreamt and one chock full of paradoxical dilemmas yet a world in which there still emerge people that hope against hope because they are made in the image of One who is the Answer. that destination, made out of small choices that transcend this life of hills and valleys, will watercolour the past and bring beauty out of the pain.

aborted

the door slammed
the lid shut
i didn't even get the chance
to say i'm sorry
to say i love you
to say whatever the hell it takes
pardon my french
but these words bite
trapped forever unspoken
you gave up on me
without even trying
i'm lost in longing
for what might have been
for a life unlived
for a chanced to breathe
you stole my voice
won the argument we never had
afraid i might change your life
i'm suffocating alone
imprisoned without a choice
abandoned to wonder
how you could reject
someone you never knew
all i asked for was love
never even got to mess that up
i may be voiceless
but i can hear the angels singing

The Dog King (a travel essay)

Honestly, the size of his balls made me the most nervous. This was no tame mutt but a wild pack leader submitted to no one. Nipping at my heels he embodied all my feelings about being in this spot in the first place: I hated package tours. 

When I travel I make plans like outlines—hoping the details are surprising moments with a large dose of acculturation flavor. Though technically a tourist I dislike acting as one and package tours are the epitome of all I eschew in travel. On this sticky Thai day I had acquiesced to my local friend’s wishes, appeasing her guilt in being unable to take off work to personally show me around and her inability to believe that just wandering the streets of Bangkok finding unexpected sights would satisfy me immensely. 

The tour left at an ungodly hour from a local hotel and promised a ride through the floating market and a trip to an elephant show. After hours in nauseating morning traffic I knew the fine print included being herded into the path of vendors whose wares and services promised to significantly increase the cost of the already expensive all-inclusive day trip, so instead of following the dutiful crowd of my fellow simpletons when the opportunity to browse came I struck off outside of the main market area hoping to find some authentic flavor.

The narrow stone bridge beckoned and I eagerly headed toward the modest ramshackle dwellings most likely empty of the very vendors I sought to avoid. My sense of direction allowed me to explore without fear of finding my way back and several blocks further on my spirits had lifted to the point where I thought the day might not be a waste after all.

Enter the dog king. Usually I enjoy local wildlife. But this mutt made me nervous. He ran straight for me across an empty lot as I passed. Of no particular breeding, his short blonde hair and wiry build combined with a few scars in non-lethal places spoke of a confident survivor. I already mentioned his balls. Seriously. Prominent. At first he just followed closely at my heels. I had a water bottle but dreaded using it—in a fight I was pretty sure he would win. The few Thai phrases I knew did not include “go away” or “bad doggie”. Occasionally he nipped at my heels but without making contact. Was this his way of establishing dominance? I didn’t really want to know, I just wanted him to go away. The whole stay-with-the-group began to gain some appeal.

Walking at my normal confident stride I hoped he would get bored and wander off. That’s when things went further south. Turning my steps back towards the market I suddenly saw a pack of about five dogs spot me and race across a bridge in my direction. Visions of me bandaged in a local hospital, rabies vaccines, stitches, tropical diseases, among other worst-case scenarios flashed through my head. 

At that moment the dog king proved his balls: he single-handedly chased off the entire pack, establishing his claim to me and their defeat. We walked on, him at my heels, me grateful yet still slightly uneasy. I finally lost him at the stone bridge—a worker yelled at him as I crossed—and I gladly rejoined my placid group. While staying with the group can be the safe way to go, the best stories lie off the beaten path. I’ve never done a package tour again.