Some people have a great sense of hearing. Others can taste a multitude of flavors. Me, I can see faces where no faces exist.
I've always had this odd ability to find faces. A bit of mussed paint on the wall. A crumpled towel on the bathroom floor. Oil in a puddle. Berries in a muffin. For some reason, my eyes seek them out so clearly. While fodder for my imagination as a child, the ability has become quite problematic of late.
See, the faces are beginning to look back at me.
For as long as I can remember there has a been a young man in the folds of my shower curtain. He's always stared forlornly at his reflection in the mirror, as if hoping he could wipe the tiny yellow flowers from his brow. Long ago I dubbed him the Reluctant Hippie, because I fancy myself as funny. Through hot showers and warm baths, the Reluctant Hippie keeps staring sadly. Until recently.
One morning, I walked into the bathroom and the Reluctant Hippie had turned to stare out the window. It wasn't just a tilt of the shower curtain, or a trick of the light. The face had turned. Somehow. This ordinary morning the face in the shower curtain had made the decision to look out the window. I stared for a long moment, wondering just what sort of response was appropriate. Do I scream in fright? Do I run in terror? Do I destroy the shower in a fit of anger? Do I find out just what is so interesting out the window?
In the end, curiosity won out. I edged around the curtain and peered out the window, looking for anything that would draw the attention of an inanimate image of a face. The view was the same as any morning. The same gray blue sky. The same thorny tree. There was nothing extraordinary. No wildly colored birds or floating balloons. Not even a passing airplane to draw the attention of my shower curtain face. I turned to check and from here it was even more apparent that the Reluctant Hippie was staring resolutely towards the window. I bent a little, trying to line up just where his gaze ended and then turned back to the window.
Which is when I saw it. A new face. A smear of paint and condensation which made up the visage of a very angry man. A very angry man who was glaring right at me. I blinked and turned back around to the hippie in the shower curtain. It was painfully obvious now that he hadn't just turned to face the window, he his whole expression had changed. He wasn't sad anymore.
He was scared.
Monday, September 29, 2008
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Stream of Consciousness
When I want to write but can't think of what to write about, I just start typing and hope that something sticks. Like in this instance, a lot of times it just ends up being a mismatched collection of thoughts.
Things always look different from above. Standing on the top of a building gives you such a different perspective. The potholes seem smaller. The streets seem shorter. Nothing seems too big to handle from high enough. I wonder if that's why God can do what He does. If it's because He's so high in the air that he's able to get the perspective that He has. Of course, being God probably doesn't hurt. Sure, I can stand here on the top of my own little world and muse about perspective and distance and tiny ant-like people. But I'm not omnipresent. I'm not omniscient. Which is a good thing. I wouldn't want that sort of hassle. To listen to everyone’s heart.
Not their thoughts, mind you. Their thoughts I wouldn't mind. Buy more milk. Does he like me? I want to look like Brad Pitt. Even the more upsetting thoughts wouldn't throw me for a loop. I think that I could deal just fine with being a mind reader. It's a heart reader that would make me cry. I can't imagine what the cry of a heart sounds like. I would think that it would be the most heartbreaking sound. I know that my thoughts and my heart speak two different languages and it would be a shock to hear it out loud.
Just what would my heart say? I'm not sure. Maybe it would cry out that life is just too hard. Maybe it would cry out that life is just too lonely. Honestly, I couldn't tell you. Like I said, my thoughts and my heart speak two different languages. Trying to decipher it is like trying to speak a foreign language from a guidebook. You may make a sentence, but who knows if it will be understandable.
Friday State workers and construction workers look a lot alike. The blue jeans and tired expressions are the thing that ties them together the most. Although in this heat, the sweat does that as well. Actually, the main difference isn't dusty boots or briefcases; it's the look on the state workers faces. They are done with their work. They’ve toiled and now they are on their way to rest. The faces of the construction workers are still focused. Still hard. That relaxing of the muscles, that lightness of the eyes isn't something that they have yet. It'll get there. In a few hours, when the machines have stopped and the lights are turned off, they'll head home and once again, it will be difficult to name their profession as anything other than human being.
Oh look! The clock is wrong. Or maybe I just can't tell from here. It looks like it's still at 4:55, but maybe its inching closer than what I can tell. Time is funny that way. Depending on where you are, it can be slow or fast. Taking days to inch forward a second or going by in the blink of an eye. I wonder how hard it was to measure time in the beginning. Sit five people down and tell them to speak up when a minute has passed would most likely garner you five different answers. But I suppose that's the trick of time. The trick that it plays on us all. A day is just 24 hours, conveniently measured for us, but time flits around like a poodle on pixie sticks. One moment she flies past as we try to grasp her, keeping just out of our reach. Other times she clings to us
heavily, sleeping and keeping us stuck in a mire of timelessness.
I've always wanted to drive construction equipment. I wonder why. Is it the size of the vehicles? The idea of piloting something so massive? Is it the usefulness? The thought that I could be doing something to help, to fix or create? Or is it simply the beep? The sound that trucks make when backing up. At times I feel like a kid who wants to make a lot of noise by gunning my engine and beating the horn and making the backing up beep sound.
Maybe it's a good thing that I'm not allowed to drive a cement truck.
Yeah, dude, that's just peachy. I'm sure that you in your big truck and your booming stereo don't really care that you've just blocked me in my spot. Of course, your passenger could get out before mine, but that's just an assumption. Mine could be on their way right now and here you sit, blocking my exit. Sometimes the rudeness of people just astounds me. I came in here and although there was no one in these two spots, I took the time and care to angle my car to take up only one spot. I not only wanted to make it easier for the person already parked to get out, I wanted to give someone else an option to park next to me. It wasn't something that was easy. I had to back up and twist and turn and make an effort. Kindness should take an effort It should be hard, should be difficult. Should take more than just mindlessness. And when it does take that effort, when it does require someone to be just a bit selfless, then it should be rewarded. Or at least respected. It shouldn't just be ignored and forgotten as you satisfy your own self love.
Isn't that just the crux of where rudeness comes from? Not from hatred or spite or callousness. It comes from self-love. The desire to make yourself happy or content and the complete disregard of anyone else. The thought of only one person in the world, you.
Things always look different from above. Standing on the top of a building gives you such a different perspective. The potholes seem smaller. The streets seem shorter. Nothing seems too big to handle from high enough. I wonder if that's why God can do what He does. If it's because He's so high in the air that he's able to get the perspective that He has. Of course, being God probably doesn't hurt. Sure, I can stand here on the top of my own little world and muse about perspective and distance and tiny ant-like people. But I'm not omnipresent. I'm not omniscient. Which is a good thing. I wouldn't want that sort of hassle. To listen to everyone’s heart.
Not their thoughts, mind you. Their thoughts I wouldn't mind. Buy more milk. Does he like me? I want to look like Brad Pitt. Even the more upsetting thoughts wouldn't throw me for a loop. I think that I could deal just fine with being a mind reader. It's a heart reader that would make me cry. I can't imagine what the cry of a heart sounds like. I would think that it would be the most heartbreaking sound. I know that my thoughts and my heart speak two different languages and it would be a shock to hear it out loud.
Just what would my heart say? I'm not sure. Maybe it would cry out that life is just too hard. Maybe it would cry out that life is just too lonely. Honestly, I couldn't tell you. Like I said, my thoughts and my heart speak two different languages. Trying to decipher it is like trying to speak a foreign language from a guidebook. You may make a sentence, but who knows if it will be understandable.
Friday State workers and construction workers look a lot alike. The blue jeans and tired expressions are the thing that ties them together the most. Although in this heat, the sweat does that as well. Actually, the main difference isn't dusty boots or briefcases; it's the look on the state workers faces. They are done with their work. They’ve toiled and now they are on their way to rest. The faces of the construction workers are still focused. Still hard. That relaxing of the muscles, that lightness of the eyes isn't something that they have yet. It'll get there. In a few hours, when the machines have stopped and the lights are turned off, they'll head home and once again, it will be difficult to name their profession as anything other than human being.
Oh look! The clock is wrong. Or maybe I just can't tell from here. It looks like it's still at 4:55, but maybe its inching closer than what I can tell. Time is funny that way. Depending on where you are, it can be slow or fast. Taking days to inch forward a second or going by in the blink of an eye. I wonder how hard it was to measure time in the beginning. Sit five people down and tell them to speak up when a minute has passed would most likely garner you five different answers. But I suppose that's the trick of time. The trick that it plays on us all. A day is just 24 hours, conveniently measured for us, but time flits around like a poodle on pixie sticks. One moment she flies past as we try to grasp her, keeping just out of our reach. Other times she clings to us
heavily, sleeping and keeping us stuck in a mire of timelessness.
I've always wanted to drive construction equipment. I wonder why. Is it the size of the vehicles? The idea of piloting something so massive? Is it the usefulness? The thought that I could be doing something to help, to fix or create? Or is it simply the beep? The sound that trucks make when backing up. At times I feel like a kid who wants to make a lot of noise by gunning my engine and beating the horn and making the backing up beep sound.
Maybe it's a good thing that I'm not allowed to drive a cement truck.
Yeah, dude, that's just peachy. I'm sure that you in your big truck and your booming stereo don't really care that you've just blocked me in my spot. Of course, your passenger could get out before mine, but that's just an assumption. Mine could be on their way right now and here you sit, blocking my exit. Sometimes the rudeness of people just astounds me. I came in here and although there was no one in these two spots, I took the time and care to angle my car to take up only one spot. I not only wanted to make it easier for the person already parked to get out, I wanted to give someone else an option to park next to me. It wasn't something that was easy. I had to back up and twist and turn and make an effort. Kindness should take an effort It should be hard, should be difficult. Should take more than just mindlessness. And when it does take that effort, when it does require someone to be just a bit selfless, then it should be rewarded. Or at least respected. It shouldn't just be ignored and forgotten as you satisfy your own self love.
Isn't that just the crux of where rudeness comes from? Not from hatred or spite or callousness. It comes from self-love. The desire to make yourself happy or content and the complete disregard of anyone else. The thought of only one person in the world, you.
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
Lost
One small notebook. College ruled. Pen stolen from Days Inn stuffed in the spine.
Filled with:
Phone numbers to various restaurants
Grocery shopping math
Corrected grocery shopping math
Haiku about cows
Unfinished fanfiction for Scrubs
Several short stories
List of places where I want to ride public transportation
Packing list for upcoming vacation
Letter to landlord
Collection of used post-its
If found, please correct spelling and return.
Filled with:
Phone numbers to various restaurants
Grocery shopping math
Corrected grocery shopping math
Haiku about cows
Unfinished fanfiction for Scrubs
Several short stories
List of places where I want to ride public transportation
Packing list for upcoming vacation
Letter to landlord
Collection of used post-its
If found, please correct spelling and return.
Sunday, September 7, 2008
Random
So many of my notebooks are filled with random things. Half forgotten story ideas, lists of rhyming words, doodled pictures and lines of pithy dialogue. I'm in a weird mood tonight so I thought I'd share some of my favorite random finds.
"You can't be her mother, you're an elephant!" - written down the side of a shopping list
"Dolores - Dorthea - Dorsey - Dogbreath " - name ideas for a story (I probably didn't choose the last one)
"Sorry Sport, I was thinking about soup." - Quote from Scrubs that I liked enough to write down.
"Man in red polo, dark jeans, sunglasses, logo has diamond shape, first letter 'P'" - no idea, could be a description of a character or someone who had just robbed me
"2,4,6,8 Who do we appreciate? PEOPLE WHO STOP READING OVER MY SHOULDER!" - I'm going to go out on a limb and say this one was written in class. There is a lovely stick-figure cheerleader doodled nearby. I like to commit.
"Baloney- It's not just for sandwiches anymore." - This is actually at the top of a otherwise blank page. I'm not really sure of the purpose behind this statement. Was I tired of the same old sandwiches? Was I contemplating the varied dishes I could make with the meat? Had I discovered an undiscovered alternative energy source? The world will never know.
"You can't be her mother, you're an elephant!" - written down the side of a shopping list
"Dolores - Dorthea - Dorsey - Dogbreath " - name ideas for a story (I probably didn't choose the last one)
"Sorry Sport, I was thinking about soup." - Quote from Scrubs that I liked enough to write down.
"Man in red polo, dark jeans, sunglasses, logo has diamond shape, first letter 'P'" - no idea, could be a description of a character or someone who had just robbed me
"2,4,6,8 Who do we appreciate? PEOPLE WHO STOP READING OVER MY SHOULDER!" - I'm going to go out on a limb and say this one was written in class. There is a lovely stick-figure cheerleader doodled nearby. I like to commit.
"Baloney- It's not just for sandwiches anymore." - This is actually at the top of a otherwise blank page. I'm not really sure of the purpose behind this statement. Was I tired of the same old sandwiches? Was I contemplating the varied dishes I could make with the meat? Had I discovered an undiscovered alternative energy source? The world will never know.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Last days
The sun always seems hotter in September,
The wind weaker, the grass drier.
The sun always seems hotter in September,
As summer refuses to let go.
I found that scribbled poem on the back of a receipt a few weeks ago and almost threw it away because the rest of the stanzas were really bad. Actually, this isn't all that wonderful either, but I realized how true it was today.
September is a month that I both love and loathe. It's the month in which me and all my siblings were born, the month that both my parents and my sister were married. It's the month of notebooks and lunchboxes and freshly sharpened pencils. It's also a month of change and loss, bad memories and best-forgotten hurts. Out of all the months of the year, this is the one that stands out the most in my memories.
I want to love September because it heralds the end of summer and the slow descent into winter, my favorite season. The end of muggy heat and endless sun makes me happy and the first glimpses of fall colors on the trees is a beautiful sight. The only problem is that summer always has a hard time leaving. It seems like every year just when it seems like it's getting cooler and fall is on the horizon...summer comes back with a vengeance.
Sitting downtown tonight in 90 degree heat with no wind and listening to the lovely sounds of major road construction, I decided that the poem was right. It isn't like the temp wasn't this high in July, or that the wind was any better in August. It's just that it seems worse in September. Summer has already had it's fun and it's time for fall and winter to have the stage, but it just refuses to let go.
The wind weaker, the grass drier.
The sun always seems hotter in September,
As summer refuses to let go.
I found that scribbled poem on the back of a receipt a few weeks ago and almost threw it away because the rest of the stanzas were really bad. Actually, this isn't all that wonderful either, but I realized how true it was today.
September is a month that I both love and loathe. It's the month in which me and all my siblings were born, the month that both my parents and my sister were married. It's the month of notebooks and lunchboxes and freshly sharpened pencils. It's also a month of change and loss, bad memories and best-forgotten hurts. Out of all the months of the year, this is the one that stands out the most in my memories.
I want to love September because it heralds the end of summer and the slow descent into winter, my favorite season. The end of muggy heat and endless sun makes me happy and the first glimpses of fall colors on the trees is a beautiful sight. The only problem is that summer always has a hard time leaving. It seems like every year just when it seems like it's getting cooler and fall is on the horizon...summer comes back with a vengeance.
Sitting downtown tonight in 90 degree heat with no wind and listening to the lovely sounds of major road construction, I decided that the poem was right. It isn't like the temp wasn't this high in July, or that the wind was any better in August. It's just that it seems worse in September. Summer has already had it's fun and it's time for fall and winter to have the stage, but it just refuses to let go.
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