What would it be like, to not ask questions? To not be curious? There is no time in my life after puberty that I can recall not being inquisitive. I don't mean questioning of the rapid-fire "daddywhyistheskyblue?" type questioning. I've always been a quieter, observe-and-research type asker of questions.
Why do birds do that?
Why do leaves turn red?
How does an eddy form in the water behind a rock?
What do people hear in the music of Kesha that makes them want to listen to it?
Why is the sky blue? (I do known the answer to that one. Now.)
Being a questioner is strongly correlated with being a thinker. And so it is with me. I am wont to think. Lately, I have been thinking a lot about love. Love always brings up questions, does it not? One question that I've been ruminating on a lot is this: Why love?
I'm sure this is a question that we can attempt to answer, we may think we have an answer, but ultimately cannot really be answered. I entertain the notion that rather than try to answer it, it is best to just live it.
Is that enough? Will that do? Tell me, for you: Why love?
30 September 2011
29 September 2011
Cool Room
Rooms with a bed or a couch,
I like them cool,
especially on summer nights
that feel like fall nights
because I can open the windows
turn off the air conditioning
listen to the music of the night
feel the breeze on my skin
and imagine it to be the hands of a lover
a lover for me
who likes the cool room
where we can stay together
building that cool room
in the center of our hearts
I like them cool,
especially on summer nights
that feel like fall nights
because I can open the windows
turn off the air conditioning
listen to the music of the night
feel the breeze on my skin
and imagine it to be the hands of a lover
a lover for me
who likes the cool room
where we can stay together
building that cool room
in the center of our hearts
28 September 2011
Petals of Silver Halide
There are fragments, shards,
emulsified drifts and stacks of paper
opalescent eyes in black/white,
smile an eclipse of the sun
Across the room, not daring to sit,
his gaze an offering of loyalty
upon an altar sacrificed,
his love ambered in silver halide
emulsified drifts and stacks of paper
opalescent eyes in black/white,
smile an eclipse of the sun
Across the room, not daring to sit,
his gaze an offering of loyalty
upon an altar sacrificed,
his love ambered in silver halide
27 September 2011
Little Mirrors, Big Reflections
September 13, 2011, 8:20 p.m. Home. Drinking tea and thinking.
Living alone, as I do now, has not been easy. It is easier than it was when I first was thrown into it, yes, but some days it grates. No, not grates. That isn't quite the word I sought. Let me rephrase it: Some days, it exhausts. It wears down. Today was like that. The weariness started, as it often does, at work. One too many repetitive questions over things I had considered settled, another iteration of not being allowed to do my job without undue interference. Sparing the details, it is difficult to manage when the second guessing and redirection starts.
Anyway. That is not exactly the topic at hand.
I left work feeling quite drained, a physical state that induces in me a tendency to ponder. True to form, the wheels in my head were turning almost as fast as the wheels on the car taking me home. I considered what I do, and my reactions to things, and how I ended up where I am in life. And I wondered how much was fated and how much would be different had I just paid more attention and stood up for myself more often.
I thought about this, because I wondered about the incredible creature who is my daughter, and what she will be like when she gets older and has to make increasingly difficult choices in her life. Choices that will have material effects on the person she will become and the life she will lead. This led me to saying out loud to myself "I hope she doesn't turn out like me".
The hardness of the truth in that whopper was matched only by its utter absurdity. I then laughed at myself, because why on earth would I say such a thing? More importantly, why would I believe such a thing?
The truth of it is, I do hope that my daughter doesn't turn out like me. I don't want her held in thrall to a sometimes crippling lack of self-confidence, or gripped by the sudden bouts of social awkwardness that occasionally sink their claws in to me. I hope she doesn't fail at standing up for herself, as much as I have on some occasions in the past.
I don't want her to be steamrolled by doubt.
I know by objective measures my life and the way I live it isn't so bad. My sense of self is in much better shape than it has been in a long time. I hope I am being successful at showing my daughter how to be strong, how to be balanced in life. I can't say I'm perfect, but I do hope I'm good.
That way, maybe my daughter will grow up to be better than me. I have all confidence in her...but it's me that still has things to learn, too.
Living alone, as I do now, has not been easy. It is easier than it was when I first was thrown into it, yes, but some days it grates. No, not grates. That isn't quite the word I sought. Let me rephrase it: Some days, it exhausts. It wears down. Today was like that. The weariness started, as it often does, at work. One too many repetitive questions over things I had considered settled, another iteration of not being allowed to do my job without undue interference. Sparing the details, it is difficult to manage when the second guessing and redirection starts.
Anyway. That is not exactly the topic at hand.
I left work feeling quite drained, a physical state that induces in me a tendency to ponder. True to form, the wheels in my head were turning almost as fast as the wheels on the car taking me home. I considered what I do, and my reactions to things, and how I ended up where I am in life. And I wondered how much was fated and how much would be different had I just paid more attention and stood up for myself more often.
I thought about this, because I wondered about the incredible creature who is my daughter, and what she will be like when she gets older and has to make increasingly difficult choices in her life. Choices that will have material effects on the person she will become and the life she will lead. This led me to saying out loud to myself "I hope she doesn't turn out like me".
The hardness of the truth in that whopper was matched only by its utter absurdity. I then laughed at myself, because why on earth would I say such a thing? More importantly, why would I believe such a thing?
The truth of it is, I do hope that my daughter doesn't turn out like me. I don't want her held in thrall to a sometimes crippling lack of self-confidence, or gripped by the sudden bouts of social awkwardness that occasionally sink their claws in to me. I hope she doesn't fail at standing up for herself, as much as I have on some occasions in the past.
I don't want her to be steamrolled by doubt.
I know by objective measures my life and the way I live it isn't so bad. My sense of self is in much better shape than it has been in a long time. I hope I am being successful at showing my daughter how to be strong, how to be balanced in life. I can't say I'm perfect, but I do hope I'm good.
That way, maybe my daughter will grow up to be better than me. I have all confidence in her...but it's me that still has things to learn, too.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
