Life on the Screen

Do you remember when I first loved you?
Do you think of the first time spoken?


There were crowds around me that day:
   crowds ambling on their way to business
   crowds nosing into the daily happenstance
   crowds peeping in to see our faces (mine in real time, yours, a mere picture on a screen)

I told you then. I TOLD you then:


"Of course I love you."




And now...it's all too true.

"Of course I love you," when you snore instead of smile.
"Of course I love you," when you point and prod after a long, hard day.
"Of course I do," when questions becomes accusing.
"Of course," as water drips from my ever-leaking eyes.

Damn allergic eyes.

The sand surrounds us and swallows us whole.
The noise external obliterates the sweetness of whispers.
The traffic blocks the easy walks.
The rage and pressures eviscerate the calm and comfort.
The town of desperation swallows us whole.



I'm sinking now,


          I'm sinking now,





  (I'm sinking now)

into a discomfort lined with razors (the pointed edges, not the flat).
The pinpricks that surround me leave me no wiggle, wriggle, giggle room--
I see a cool and comfy spot!




--Oh wait.



It's just reflections from
the daggers
from the daggers of the razor blades of
broken hopes of
shattered dreams of
pieces of your face in a screen.

"Don't believe what you see on T.V."

Almost.

"Don't believe what you don't see in reality."

The Cardboard-Crate Life

The boxes have a pile again.
This time, there's plenty of furniture wrap, bubble wrap, newspaper, and label paper.
This time, I know what to expect.
I know what needs protecting.

I expect the goodbyes to be "I'll see you soon"s.
I expect the moving day will be filled with helping hands and end in a sweaty mess.
I expect tensions will be high as I try to organize each detail
                                            as I try to direct the flow of delicate possessions
                                            as I try to both hold onto the fond memories of this house and grieve for the life I now leave behind.
I expect some excitement and fear as I drive away with a car filled dangerously full.
I expect to have a new iPod playlist to distract me from the work.
I expect these things for that day.

As I look forward, I look back.
What happened last time? What happens this time?

I expect that I will know no one in this new town of new buildings and streets.
I expect that the "I'll see you soon"s will turn into mere imprints on the wind.
I expect that I will only know where the good food is once I am preparing to leave.
I expect the excitement will be dulled as there are no girlfriends to share it with when I get old.
I expect I'll learn a new way to drive with the "worst drivers ever."
I expect that another 15 pounds is waiting for me on the couch.
I expect I will just want to stay cuddled up in my new home on the furniture I know,
with the stuff I know, with the only person I know,
safe in the few things I know
Until I am too sad to try to get out.
Too lazy to build up new hobbies.
Too quiet to make any new friends.
Too "content" (or discontent) to mess up my routine.



I can't let this happen again; I have no patience for the doldrums.
I can't survive in a cardboard-crate life.
I need the touch of grass, the breath of breezes, and the laughter of water.
I need to reconnect with humanity and Earth.
I need a place to settle in that's more than just a house--a home.

The Agony of Analysis

For the entirety of the following essay, the following nomenclature is adopted throughout:

·   “the Writer” is the one who analyzes; the reader of the original text;

·   “the Author” is the one who has written the original text;

and

·   “the Scholars” or “the Critics” are the ones that have written previous analysis which the Writer uses to find information.

The Agony of the Analysis

"I celebrate & sing myself"

“I celebrate & sing myself”

(a poem inspired by Walt Whitman)

I sing myself in words that fill my life

                Words that share myself with yours

                              that share my heart with yours

                              that share my eyes with your imaginings

But I am ever blind, then see—

                again, again I learn again

                stories

                (and dreams)

                of who I am again.

Somedays I am the scholar, with unquenching thirst for knowledge and numbers

                (blind to feelings or practicality)

Somedays I am the homemaker, with aromas (paprika and pinesol)

                pervasive along with ordered chaos

Yet other days I am the sloth, with chocolate, popcorn, and tactile-glee

                (blind by shutting out the daily pressures on myself)

But most of all, on most of days

                I’m merely just the rolling tide of

                emotion, feeling, empathy, misery

                that I embrace with emerald pools for eyes.

                I share myself with you and take your share of you

                because only in our life together

                (with God & nature and water & things)

                does life mean anything in song

                               

Elizabeth Gay

1.11.2012

910am