Dawn M. Nevills - ReverbNation#!/artist/control_room/1316932?tab=store&subnav=store_buyproducts
A collection of Shakespeare's Sonnets....great for thespians, poets...or those who, like me, believe
Shakespeare only comes alive when the words do, too!
Just released to retailers....pick one up for the Stratford Festival lover in your family!
(Just don't be surprised if you see a few doing a slow sashay in the lobby...wink.)
Monday, August 6, 2012
Tuesday, June 26, 2012
Saturday, June 2, 2012
Intermezzo Dewings - A Sonata in Spring.
Oh, the steady pulse of spring, within the bright blessed orchestration of Season's Sound!
Birds, that chirp and warble, wakeful with the gleaming dew;
Bees and cicadas, measured drone and drill to warn and sound the methodical beating of each noted Pause;
Drawing deep from each, its pleasant sap and savour;
Rustle and round, the mild, playful whir of an errant, circling wind, flitting and flowing amongst the petals,
So that even the rollicking roll of a burgeoning, fuzzled caterpillar, is stilled by a waving, watchful Twig.
Oh, Tree and Twitter, hum and hasten....altogether! Drawing back its probing, curious Finger bod,
The Snail sighs, and waits, its glistening trail of wet and wonder, strange paving for a drying breeze, and,
Frond-like, the hula grass whispers and opens for its starring
Butterflies.
Birds, that chirp and warble, wakeful with the gleaming dew;
Bees and cicadas, measured drone and drill to warn and sound the methodical beating of each noted Pause;
Drawing deep from each, its pleasant sap and savour;
Rustle and round, the mild, playful whir of an errant, circling wind, flitting and flowing amongst the petals,
So that even the rollicking roll of a burgeoning, fuzzled caterpillar, is stilled by a waving, watchful Twig.
Oh, Tree and Twitter, hum and hasten....altogether! Drawing back its probing, curious Finger bod,
The Snail sighs, and waits, its glistening trail of wet and wonder, strange paving for a drying breeze, and,
Frond-like, the hula grass whispers and opens for its starring
Butterflies.
Monday, May 28, 2012
Warning: Authorship is not, by definition, autobiographical
It always astounds me that every spark of creativity is assumed to be drawn from the depths of autobiographical despair and angst.
I daresay that if it were, indeed, so, there would be very little creativity in the world. Indeed, having no license - or daring - for either character development beyond personal understanding or known lifestyle, the resulting prose would be the dull, flat stuff of weedy paperback novels, stolen from the same plot line as yet another pair of heaving somethings, cast aside amidst the throes of ....well.....something seedy.
And yet, mixed amidst the dire dreams of monotony, and tucked into the confines of a still beating heart, there live the quiet meanderings of the creative mind: ever the stuff of possibility, which, quenched by the better part of both valour and common sense, bid adieu to the sad, stale realities of the workaday, and, casting caution aside, ........live.
This is not autobiographical. This is beyond largesse, laundress, and finesse, and hovers somewhere in the nether shadow betwixt all good Reason, and the things we we were told would only result in us being......well........
not ourselves. Interesting, that.
I daresay that if it were, indeed, so, there would be very little creativity in the world. Indeed, having no license - or daring - for either character development beyond personal understanding or known lifestyle, the resulting prose would be the dull, flat stuff of weedy paperback novels, stolen from the same plot line as yet another pair of heaving somethings, cast aside amidst the throes of ....well.....something seedy.
And yet, mixed amidst the dire dreams of monotony, and tucked into the confines of a still beating heart, there live the quiet meanderings of the creative mind: ever the stuff of possibility, which, quenched by the better part of both valour and common sense, bid adieu to the sad, stale realities of the workaday, and, casting caution aside, ........live.
This is not autobiographical. This is beyond largesse, laundress, and finesse, and hovers somewhere in the nether shadow betwixt all good Reason, and the things we we were told would only result in us being......well........
not ourselves. Interesting, that.
Quietude, Finitude and the War of the Roses
His eyes were fixed on her face.
Her hands instinctively flew up to her cheeks, hiding the lines that time and pain had etched there. He stepped towards her, gently grasping her hands in his, and raised them to touch both hands, fingertips all, to his lips. His voice was low, and quiet.
"You have life, and the passage of time, in your eyes, to mix with the fire there". He pressed one of her hands to his chest, and raised the other to his cheek, laying it gently there, like a bandage. She stroked his face gently, spreading the fusings of time and agony away, like a brushstroke on canvas.
"Ah, Mishka mine." Her laugh hovered in her throat, like a piece of toffee, savoured and tasted, like the fire of a sip of brandy, on a freezing winter night - just enough tremble and sizzle to make him breathe in, tingling, and exhale....and, in doing so, recognize the thrill of being alive.
She bent her head, and pressed her lips to his cheek, and then drew back, smiling at him.
"I can feel the air, coursing through here". She touched his throat, gently, with her index finger, where the pulse was beating like a slow, methodical drum.
Then she threw back her head, and laughed, the wildness not yet extingished, despite the years.
He smiled, stroking the cap of hair, which made her look like some strange elf, or a wild Inuit woman, loping along in the gathering gloom, devoid of pelts. He rather liked her without the tresses...or with them; it just made her fiercer, somehow. The Roma in her made him twinge....and trod gently. He knew that glint.
"Can you imagine?", she murmured, leaning in against his lips, speaking against them, with hers, while conspiratorially, rubbing his nose with hers, and murmuring....."that some poor chit told someone else that I was a LESBIAN?'' The sudden, spontaneous grin split his face in two, with her glinting hazel orbs two inches from his face....he couldn't help it: he burst out laughing. It rumbled in his chest, comfortably.
Then he swung her around, roaring, until they both tumbled into the sand, and lay there, laughing; too old to care; and too young to stop from clinging to each other. The urgency, after this time, was touching.
He pressed her face against his neck, and spoke to the top of her head.
"Clearly a manic woman, Contessa Fireball....or maybe just jealous, I think." He said the last somewhat softly, and kissed the top of her head. "Are you still mad at me for leaving?" They were locked in an embrace somewhat startling to him, if only for its fierceness.
"Everyone leaves me", she said, quietly."Except the ones who cling to me until I can't move, or breathe...." she sighed, moving her head back , to look him full in the face, softly, and smiled at him. He held his arms in the air, exaggeratedly, wide-eyed, and she gave him a soft punch in the arm.
"Life gave me a moment of fire so sweet that it burned itself into my life, and my heart, forever....." She spoke the words with a nostalgic reverence, savouring them, quietly.
She continued. "Some might call me old, my darling, and I never was any kind of testament to physical perfection or beauty, but the lines are a different, wild testament - to fierceness, and feeling. Did you expect anything else from me, at the last, then?"
Her voice was soft, but her eyes were green flecks of steel, nestled amongst the grey. This was a woman who had made it her business to drag men bigger than him back into wanting to live. Beneath every other conflicting emotion coursing through him, there was immediately, there, along with what had been present the day he met her: unspoken, implicit respect.
He ran his finger along her lips, and kissed them. They were soft, and firm, and gentle rock, just as he remembered.
Age had made her interesting, concerned, compassionate, fierce, and complicated: gone was the girl. The wild rock woman in her place pressed her fingers into the side of his head, laid her cheek along the side of his face, and said,
"Time has flown away, along with all of the things I might have asked you, as far as what you might have expected of yourself, my Soul. There is only today."
They lay back, wild and calm, peering at the stars peeking out into the blanket of ink sky, and as she cradled her head against his neck, the green flash of sunset burst out for a moment, lighting their face in glint and shadow - and the promise of a new day. He felt a calmness he had not felt for twenty years, surging through him, like an elixir.
He bent against her, breathing in Time with the rise and fall of her breasts, which he laid his face upon, gently, as, staring into the sky, he was suddenly awestruck at the diamonds which had suddenly shown themselves, whirling and still, in the pale, glowing sky.
Her hands instinctively flew up to her cheeks, hiding the lines that time and pain had etched there. He stepped towards her, gently grasping her hands in his, and raised them to touch both hands, fingertips all, to his lips. His voice was low, and quiet.
"You have life, and the passage of time, in your eyes, to mix with the fire there". He pressed one of her hands to his chest, and raised the other to his cheek, laying it gently there, like a bandage. She stroked his face gently, spreading the fusings of time and agony away, like a brushstroke on canvas.
"Ah, Mishka mine." Her laugh hovered in her throat, like a piece of toffee, savoured and tasted, like the fire of a sip of brandy, on a freezing winter night - just enough tremble and sizzle to make him breathe in, tingling, and exhale....and, in doing so, recognize the thrill of being alive.
She bent her head, and pressed her lips to his cheek, and then drew back, smiling at him.
"I can feel the air, coursing through here". She touched his throat, gently, with her index finger, where the pulse was beating like a slow, methodical drum.
Then she threw back her head, and laughed, the wildness not yet extingished, despite the years.
He smiled, stroking the cap of hair, which made her look like some strange elf, or a wild Inuit woman, loping along in the gathering gloom, devoid of pelts. He rather liked her without the tresses...or with them; it just made her fiercer, somehow. The Roma in her made him twinge....and trod gently. He knew that glint.
"Can you imagine?", she murmured, leaning in against his lips, speaking against them, with hers, while conspiratorially, rubbing his nose with hers, and murmuring....."that some poor chit told someone else that I was a LESBIAN?'' The sudden, spontaneous grin split his face in two, with her glinting hazel orbs two inches from his face....he couldn't help it: he burst out laughing. It rumbled in his chest, comfortably.
Then he swung her around, roaring, until they both tumbled into the sand, and lay there, laughing; too old to care; and too young to stop from clinging to each other. The urgency, after this time, was touching.
He pressed her face against his neck, and spoke to the top of her head.
"Clearly a manic woman, Contessa Fireball....or maybe just jealous, I think." He said the last somewhat softly, and kissed the top of her head. "Are you still mad at me for leaving?" They were locked in an embrace somewhat startling to him, if only for its fierceness.
"Everyone leaves me", she said, quietly."Except the ones who cling to me until I can't move, or breathe...." she sighed, moving her head back , to look him full in the face, softly, and smiled at him. He held his arms in the air, exaggeratedly, wide-eyed, and she gave him a soft punch in the arm.
"Life gave me a moment of fire so sweet that it burned itself into my life, and my heart, forever....." She spoke the words with a nostalgic reverence, savouring them, quietly.
She continued. "Some might call me old, my darling, and I never was any kind of testament to physical perfection or beauty, but the lines are a different, wild testament - to fierceness, and feeling. Did you expect anything else from me, at the last, then?"
Her voice was soft, but her eyes were green flecks of steel, nestled amongst the grey. This was a woman who had made it her business to drag men bigger than him back into wanting to live. Beneath every other conflicting emotion coursing through him, there was immediately, there, along with what had been present the day he met her: unspoken, implicit respect.
He ran his finger along her lips, and kissed them. They were soft, and firm, and gentle rock, just as he remembered.
Age had made her interesting, concerned, compassionate, fierce, and complicated: gone was the girl. The wild rock woman in her place pressed her fingers into the side of his head, laid her cheek along the side of his face, and said,
"Time has flown away, along with all of the things I might have asked you, as far as what you might have expected of yourself, my Soul. There is only today."
They lay back, wild and calm, peering at the stars peeking out into the blanket of ink sky, and as she cradled her head against his neck, the green flash of sunset burst out for a moment, lighting their face in glint and shadow - and the promise of a new day. He felt a calmness he had not felt for twenty years, surging through him, like an elixir.
He bent against her, breathing in Time with the rise and fall of her breasts, which he laid his face upon, gently, as, staring into the sky, he was suddenly awestruck at the diamonds which had suddenly shown themselves, whirling and still, in the pale, glowing sky.
Sunday, May 27, 2012
Towards Expression, Impression, and Growth!
The artistic impulse is instinctively towards healing and creation, through expression of some sort. If you look at a DaVinci, or modern visual art, or think about music or sculpture, the idea of "being touched, moved, and inspired, somehow" - the "pointer finger connecting to pointer finger" as one little girl said, perfectly - is its Essence.
Saturday, May 19, 2012
Search for Air - A Discussion of Process
He was slightly bent over, one hand on his hip, breathing in and out laboriously. Spittle was hanging from the end of his nose. He turned his head rapidly, sideways, to peer up at her, through one open eye, pirate-like. The other one was squinted shut. A glob of the nose spittle flew up and hit her in the eye. She smiled, unfazed, like a surgeon.
"What was THAT?" he whispered, weakly.
"Eight solid hours of induced laugh therapy", she intoned. She wiped the nose spittle glob out of her eye with her shirt, sighing with satisfaction. "I learned it from a slightly odd Indian man who most people thought was just psychotic. He turned out to be a genius, therapy-wise, despite being alone a lot." She smiled at him again, watching him anxiously, like a bug.
"I may have overdone it a bit, but I didn't want you to think I had been neglecting you. I just get very focused." He was coughing, and gripping his side.
"Is it supposed to result in this much sharp, stabbing pain?" he answered between coughs.
There was a little spittle lodged in the corner of his mouth, foam-like, which he couldn't quite manage to wrap his tongue around. The tongue itself was hanging out of his mouth, dog-like, fighting for cooling air, like a lizard - and, really, to shepherd more of the air stuff into his lungs. The resulting intake of breath was interspersed with a strange moaning sound. He was terrified he'd have to urinate next, and destroy the whole carefully orchestrated process of bodily functions he was still, at the moment, mastering. He could only imagine what he might have looked like, to someone passing by....
"Stop, oh stop", he gasped.
"Are you sure?" she said. "We want to try and push this to your burn limit, if we can. The effects last longer." She was squinting, as if she had a tic, where the spittle had flown into her eye, as the cool air hit the wet surface. A mad image of Groucho Marx flew into and out of his head, briefly, standing there. He felt lightheaded.
He was staring at her face, helplessly, gagging at the tic. He thought he might die at any moment.
"Can't you just stop all movement briefly?", he moaned, finally. The tears had slipped out of his left eye, and were pouring down his face. The body was showing its rebellion against stroke.
"Liquid release!" she blurted out. "Usually it's the other end! You're really worked on the control focus exercise, haven't you? Good for you!!!!" She was relentless. He thought she might end with "my little elf man", or something equally impossible. He was allowing himself the moan sound mixed with air, generously.
"Ahhhhhaaaahhhhhh errrr mroooow, " he said. He crossed his legs, still bent over, and fell over, at last.
"I'll be right back", she said. "The phone's ringing....."She trotted off, like a pole vaulter. He noted, absently, that although the rest of her body moved - including her breasts, which jiggled slightly above the underwire bra beneath her shirt - her head, like a bobbling dashboard doll, remained unflinching, like a strange orb eye, or a rock, with hair on it. The sound of his moans bounced off it, echoing slightly in the afternoon sunshine, as she retreated.
He lay there, silent in his sudden private moment, looking at the dark stain on his trousers, and sighed. He was her slave, he knew, happily. He felt wonderful, despite the nasty smell. He barked out loud, suddenly, for no apparent reason that he could understand, feeling free at last. Martin Luther King Jr., he knew, would have understood. He looked upwards, slowly: the dark cloud had lifted.
Never again would he refer to himself as Schleprock. She had won.
"What was THAT?" he whispered, weakly.
"Eight solid hours of induced laugh therapy", she intoned. She wiped the nose spittle glob out of her eye with her shirt, sighing with satisfaction. "I learned it from a slightly odd Indian man who most people thought was just psychotic. He turned out to be a genius, therapy-wise, despite being alone a lot." She smiled at him again, watching him anxiously, like a bug.
"I may have overdone it a bit, but I didn't want you to think I had been neglecting you. I just get very focused." He was coughing, and gripping his side.
"Is it supposed to result in this much sharp, stabbing pain?" he answered between coughs.
There was a little spittle lodged in the corner of his mouth, foam-like, which he couldn't quite manage to wrap his tongue around. The tongue itself was hanging out of his mouth, dog-like, fighting for cooling air, like a lizard - and, really, to shepherd more of the air stuff into his lungs. The resulting intake of breath was interspersed with a strange moaning sound. He was terrified he'd have to urinate next, and destroy the whole carefully orchestrated process of bodily functions he was still, at the moment, mastering. He could only imagine what he might have looked like, to someone passing by....
"Stop, oh stop", he gasped.
"Are you sure?" she said. "We want to try and push this to your burn limit, if we can. The effects last longer." She was squinting, as if she had a tic, where the spittle had flown into her eye, as the cool air hit the wet surface. A mad image of Groucho Marx flew into and out of his head, briefly, standing there. He felt lightheaded.
He was staring at her face, helplessly, gagging at the tic. He thought he might die at any moment.
"Can't you just stop all movement briefly?", he moaned, finally. The tears had slipped out of his left eye, and were pouring down his face. The body was showing its rebellion against stroke.
"Liquid release!" she blurted out. "Usually it's the other end! You're really worked on the control focus exercise, haven't you? Good for you!!!!" She was relentless. He thought she might end with "my little elf man", or something equally impossible. He was allowing himself the moan sound mixed with air, generously.
"Ahhhhhaaaahhhhhh errrr mroooow, " he said. He crossed his legs, still bent over, and fell over, at last.
"I'll be right back", she said. "The phone's ringing....."She trotted off, like a pole vaulter. He noted, absently, that although the rest of her body moved - including her breasts, which jiggled slightly above the underwire bra beneath her shirt - her head, like a bobbling dashboard doll, remained unflinching, like a strange orb eye, or a rock, with hair on it. The sound of his moans bounced off it, echoing slightly in the afternoon sunshine, as she retreated.
He lay there, silent in his sudden private moment, looking at the dark stain on his trousers, and sighed. He was her slave, he knew, happily. He felt wonderful, despite the nasty smell. He barked out loud, suddenly, for no apparent reason that he could understand, feeling free at last. Martin Luther King Jr., he knew, would have understood. He looked upwards, slowly: the dark cloud had lifted.
Never again would he refer to himself as Schleprock. She had won.
Monday, May 14, 2012
Happy Mother's Day, 2012
Sunday May 13, 2012
One of my fondest memories was of my mother and I going on a hike together, one Good Friday, down
Red Hill Creek Valley.
When we found our destination, and after looking at various small animals, including birds, squirrels, and the occasional rabbit or two, the best lunch ever got cooked over an open fire: wieners and beans.
The smell of the open can of beans, roasting over our little fire, while we roasted wienies and then mixed them in the beans, was out of this world, and seemed a rare feast to a little girl with a smudged nose, and a canvas cap. All I knew was that I had the coolest mom, ever.....still do, in fact: an adventurous spirit still wending her way, with my dear Dad at her side, through the highs and lows of life. My life has been blessed, as a result.
For everyone lucky enough to have a mother in their lives - or a woman dear to them, who tried to fill in for her, as best they could - here's to remembering, celebrating, and letting them know how grateful you are for those moments.
Happy Mother's Day, Mom! I love you!
One of my fondest memories was of my mother and I going on a hike together, one Good Friday, down
Red Hill Creek Valley.
When we found our destination, and after looking at various small animals, including birds, squirrels, and the occasional rabbit or two, the best lunch ever got cooked over an open fire: wieners and beans.
The smell of the open can of beans, roasting over our little fire, while we roasted wienies and then mixed them in the beans, was out of this world, and seemed a rare feast to a little girl with a smudged nose, and a canvas cap. All I knew was that I had the coolest mom, ever.....still do, in fact: an adventurous spirit still wending her way, with my dear Dad at her side, through the highs and lows of life. My life has been blessed, as a result.
For everyone lucky enough to have a mother in their lives - or a woman dear to them, who tried to fill in for her, as best they could - here's to remembering, celebrating, and letting them know how grateful you are for those moments.
Happy Mother's Day, Mom! I love you!
Monday, April 16, 2012
Intelligent Design
Each image is pressed upon my brain, like Darwin's silhouetted imprint:
Curve of jutting bone; high flush of cheek - and warm beneath my trembling fingers,
Pulse beating frantically, quietly, defiantly in a surge of
Tintern Abbey's all-encompassing Dance:
Ages and Sages tell of these etchings, eked out upon our lifelines,
But not
The glint in two other worlds,
As they stare into Sudden Speechless Mindlessness
Developing into Happenstance and Hinterland, in an instant of
Flame and Reason.
Curve of jutting bone; high flush of cheek - and warm beneath my trembling fingers,
Pulse beating frantically, quietly, defiantly in a surge of
Tintern Abbey's all-encompassing Dance:
Ages and Sages tell of these etchings, eked out upon our lifelines,
But not
The glint in two other worlds,
As they stare into Sudden Speechless Mindlessness
Developing into Happenstance and Hinterland, in an instant of
Flame and Reason.
Saturday, March 31, 2012
Freezing Spray and Lemon Torte
The whoosh of wind had whipped the waves into neat froths, like a meringue torte amidst an ice of freezing gelati. She turned her collar up, shrugging her shoulders against the buffeting, as the spray and freezing mist bit into her face, and stung her ears.
She was not sure what made her look up at that instant. Until then she had been sauntering along the beach, unrestrained and unknown, really, aside from the haunting of the gulls, and the slight awkwardness to her gait, as the boots cut into the sand, making her "walk wobble plonk", in little indents, as she plodded along.
She did, now, though, stopping dead in her tracks.
He was standing about twenty feet away, hands jammed deep into his jacket, a wild flush high on his cheeks; the hair flopped about his head in an impossible shock of newly clipped and failed decorum.
"You're late", he growled at her, from somewhere very strange, deep within his chest cavity.
"I can't possibly be late; we haven't actually met yet", she shot back, setting her lips, and narrowing her eyes at him. She cocked her head to one side, giving him her twinkly cheeky look. When in doubt, go for the injured supervisor look. Supervisor of someone else, obviously, she thought resolutely.
"Besides; you're much too nasty." She stood there, trying to decide if she might have to drop kick him.
"You look like a mad elf", he said, relenting. She looked like a human cactus. He was suddenly unsure of himself for the first time in his life. This was definitely NOT the reaction he had expected.
"I am a mad elf", she said, simply. "It was very rude to sub in a dwarf, you know." He coughed, trying not to laugh. "Look at you!" she trilled, sarcastically. She didn't hold out her arms.
"Come here,' he said, quietly, with exasperation.
"I'm not a dog", she said, sticking out her chin and glaring at him. And then, "You're quite cheeky for such a large, slightly bossy man. It's not very attractive".
He could see she had absolutely no fear of him at all, and blew out his breath, exasperatedly.
"I was thinking it needed a towel," he said, quietly. He closed his eyes, sucking in his breath forlornly, realizing the continued, unfortunate, dog reference.
She sighed. He walked towards her, slowly.
"You're shorter than I thought", he said, stopping two feet away. She looked up at him, hands still jammed into her pockets. She could probably take him out at the knees without too much trouble.
"You look very aggravated. Are you annoyed with me?" She said the last part very softly. She hadn't moved an inch. It was worrying, he decided, that she sounded so hopeful.
"No", he said. "Yes", he said. He put his hands around her face, stepping towards her, and moved his hand around her back, pulling her gently against him, as her hands came out of her pockets, and up and around his neck.
"You have to decide which one", she said, against his mouth, finally, and staring into his face, sternly.
He kissed her then.
She was not sure what made her look up at that instant. Until then she had been sauntering along the beach, unrestrained and unknown, really, aside from the haunting of the gulls, and the slight awkwardness to her gait, as the boots cut into the sand, making her "walk wobble plonk", in little indents, as she plodded along.
She did, now, though, stopping dead in her tracks.
He was standing about twenty feet away, hands jammed deep into his jacket, a wild flush high on his cheeks; the hair flopped about his head in an impossible shock of newly clipped and failed decorum.
"You're late", he growled at her, from somewhere very strange, deep within his chest cavity.
"I can't possibly be late; we haven't actually met yet", she shot back, setting her lips, and narrowing her eyes at him. She cocked her head to one side, giving him her twinkly cheeky look. When in doubt, go for the injured supervisor look. Supervisor of someone else, obviously, she thought resolutely.
"Besides; you're much too nasty." She stood there, trying to decide if she might have to drop kick him.
"You look like a mad elf", he said, relenting. She looked like a human cactus. He was suddenly unsure of himself for the first time in his life. This was definitely NOT the reaction he had expected.
"I am a mad elf", she said, simply. "It was very rude to sub in a dwarf, you know." He coughed, trying not to laugh. "Look at you!" she trilled, sarcastically. She didn't hold out her arms.
"Come here,' he said, quietly, with exasperation.
"I'm not a dog", she said, sticking out her chin and glaring at him. And then, "You're quite cheeky for such a large, slightly bossy man. It's not very attractive".
He could see she had absolutely no fear of him at all, and blew out his breath, exasperatedly.
"Especially since I made a point of shocking you back to yourself, after you were done acting like a total asshole."
She jammed her hands into her jacket pockets, her cropped head
poking out of her turtleneck and canvas coat with a windswept defiance. "Mr. Snarky."
He did laugh, then, standing there, twenty feet away from her, feet planted in the sand, on a freezing Saturday afternoon of a New England beach - facing off against each other, really, both of them with their hands jammed into their pockets, like two very strange Marines.
"We're quite far away from each other, still", she blurted out, unnecessarily. "It's slightly awkward."
He was coughing, and trying to breathe. He wiped his eyes with one of his hands, and jammed it back into his pocket. "Shit", he said, hating his own guts and then feeling ridiculous, since he really wasn't, he decided objectively, an asshole at all.
"Also" she continued, "then you CALLED me, like a DOG. You're a rather odd man, aren't you, as far as first meetings go.....?" He was quite perplexed as to what to say next. "In this part of the planet human beings do not salivate and come running up to be led about with a leash. Got it?"
"Not until now", he blurted out, exasperated with his own reply. His face went beet red.
"I have that effect sometimes; sorry", she said, cocking her head to the other side, and staring at him, relenting slightly. "I took assertiveness training. You look cold."
"I hadn't really planned on a walk on a freezing beach, pre-tornado", he said, drily.
"It's rather nice, isn't it?', she sighed, cheerily. "Invigorating." Her hair was stuck to her head, like a sort of flat brillo pad of wet growth. "I think my hair is stuck to my head", she said, describing what he was looking at, matter-of-factly.
She jammed her hands into her jacket pockets, her cropped head
poking out of her turtleneck and canvas coat with a windswept defiance. "Mr. Snarky."
He did laugh, then, standing there, twenty feet away from her, feet planted in the sand, on a freezing Saturday afternoon of a New England beach - facing off against each other, really, both of them with their hands jammed into their pockets, like two very strange Marines.
"We're quite far away from each other, still", she blurted out, unnecessarily. "It's slightly awkward."
He was coughing, and trying to breathe. He wiped his eyes with one of his hands, and jammed it back into his pocket. "Shit", he said, hating his own guts and then feeling ridiculous, since he really wasn't, he decided objectively, an asshole at all.
"Also" she continued, "then you CALLED me, like a DOG. You're a rather odd man, aren't you, as far as first meetings go.....?" He was quite perplexed as to what to say next. "In this part of the planet human beings do not salivate and come running up to be led about with a leash. Got it?"
"Not until now", he blurted out, exasperated with his own reply. His face went beet red.
"I have that effect sometimes; sorry", she said, cocking her head to the other side, and staring at him, relenting slightly. "I took assertiveness training. You look cold."
"I hadn't really planned on a walk on a freezing beach, pre-tornado", he said, drily.
"It's rather nice, isn't it?', she sighed, cheerily. "Invigorating." Her hair was stuck to her head, like a sort of flat brillo pad of wet growth. "I think my hair is stuck to my head", she said, describing what he was looking at, matter-of-factly.
"I was thinking it needed a towel," he said, quietly. He closed his eyes, sucking in his breath forlornly, realizing the continued, unfortunate, dog reference.
She sighed. He walked towards her, slowly.
"You're shorter than I thought", he said, stopping two feet away. She looked up at him, hands still jammed into her pockets. She could probably take him out at the knees without too much trouble.
"You look very aggravated. Are you annoyed with me?" She said the last part very softly. She hadn't moved an inch. It was worrying, he decided, that she sounded so hopeful.
"No", he said. "Yes", he said. He put his hands around her face, stepping towards her, and moved his hand around her back, pulling her gently against him, as her hands came out of her pockets, and up and around his neck.
"You have to decide which one", she said, against his mouth, finally, and staring into his face, sternly.
He kissed her then.
Spring Save
The sunshine splash of sleeping bloom that is daft, and dill sill,
Waves, and the late spring frost is but a twinkle of surprised season, stalled
Yet awhile, in the twixt and tween of morning, and bloom.
Ah! It droops with sleep, but creeping lighted tendrils, coaxing
All the while, and...
Heads up!
Petals throw back their leaves, shaking encased cocoon away,
Admitting
Light and Thee
Into the frond fond, and embrace, of
New
Grace.
Waves, and the late spring frost is but a twinkle of surprised season, stalled
Yet awhile, in the twixt and tween of morning, and bloom.
Ah! It droops with sleep, but creeping lighted tendrils, coaxing
All the while, and...
Heads up!
Petals throw back their leaves, shaking encased cocoon away,
Admitting
Light and Thee
Into the frond fond, and embrace, of
New
Grace.
Sunday, March 25, 2012
Sunday, March 18, 2012
Watching the Clock for St. Patrick
"Hi there, beautiful." He sidled up to her. The band was playing the nearing end of night songs, and the music had slowed down some.
There was a tired sway to the quiet dancers on the floor.
There was a curious detachment which drew him to her. She turned to him, and their eyes locked for an instant of electric current. He stepped back, a half step. The green flashed out of them, just before he smiled, and he cleared his throat.
"Ah, the sweetness of a hopeful liar." Her eyes were kind, and so was her voice, which sounded like a curious kind of honey in the dark. They smiled at each other.
"The thought of a smile so real made me sad to think that the body attached to it was not dancing," he said, smoothly, in a voice that did not belong to his heart. He felt both a liar, and an alien. She was quite disconcerting.
She laughed a low purr, with her head tilted back to stare up at him, unafraid. He had better not step on her foot, he thought, rapidly, not used to an absence of being impressed with stature. She stood her ground, cocking her head to one side.
Then she winked.
"A dance, Oh Tall One?", she said, quietly, the grin flashing out beyond the removed quietness he had seen in a private space, just a moment ago, as she sat silently, listening to the music. What an unusal woman: he had better not blow this.
"Ah, of course." He held out his hands, smoothly, grinning a boyish grin which he had not expected from himself. He had been about to buy her a drink. They stepped out on to the floor.
As the music began, he drew her towards him. She seemed a comfortable warmth, there, keeping step with him, leaning against him gently in the darkness. Her hair smelled of freesia, cropped close against her head in a kind of curling cap defying both tomboyishness and enforced girliness. She did not force banal conversation; just glided around the floor with him, breathing...comfortable.
He rested his mouth against her temple, and felt the pulse beating there, steadily, as if they had done it for years.
"You smell lovely", he said against her temple, ridiculously.
"Freesia", she said, quietly. "Quite out of date." She chuckled, not moving her head. She liked the way his voice made her ear buzz. She sighed, unapologetically.
He smiled, breathing in her hair. He had not stepped on her foot, as they twirled that last bit, despite talking to him at the same time. He found that rather attractive, in an oddly provocative way, and he was proud of himself for not trodding upon her instep, despite feeling very silly, all of a sudden.
She began to hum to the music. It was quite endearing, since he knew she wasn't hammered. Always so nice when someone knew the actual song, and didn't ruin it by yowling drunkenly, while cavorting about the floor like an idiot. She just hummed, and swirled, like rum.
He breathed, relaxed. They moved about the floor, silently. He raised her palm in his hand, moving his head back to look down at her face. She met his gaze, tilting her head back, and gave a laugh, stepping back, so he had to follow her. She took a quick step to one side, and then the other, not letting go of his hand.
She smiled at him.
"Happy St. Patrick's Day", she said, gently, swaying and stepping gently, as the music crooned quietly around them. " I got my wish."
"And what was that?" he said, gently.
"I wanted to dance with Love", she said, quietly. She touched the side of his face, stepped forward, kissed his nose, laughed.....
and walked briskly from the room.
There were, thankfully, still some women who knew that Time was Precious.
There was a tired sway to the quiet dancers on the floor.
There was a curious detachment which drew him to her. She turned to him, and their eyes locked for an instant of electric current. He stepped back, a half step. The green flashed out of them, just before he smiled, and he cleared his throat.
"Ah, the sweetness of a hopeful liar." Her eyes were kind, and so was her voice, which sounded like a curious kind of honey in the dark. They smiled at each other.
"The thought of a smile so real made me sad to think that the body attached to it was not dancing," he said, smoothly, in a voice that did not belong to his heart. He felt both a liar, and an alien. She was quite disconcerting.
She laughed a low purr, with her head tilted back to stare up at him, unafraid. He had better not step on her foot, he thought, rapidly, not used to an absence of being impressed with stature. She stood her ground, cocking her head to one side.
Then she winked.
"A dance, Oh Tall One?", she said, quietly, the grin flashing out beyond the removed quietness he had seen in a private space, just a moment ago, as she sat silently, listening to the music. What an unusal woman: he had better not blow this.
"Ah, of course." He held out his hands, smoothly, grinning a boyish grin which he had not expected from himself. He had been about to buy her a drink. They stepped out on to the floor.
As the music began, he drew her towards him. She seemed a comfortable warmth, there, keeping step with him, leaning against him gently in the darkness. Her hair smelled of freesia, cropped close against her head in a kind of curling cap defying both tomboyishness and enforced girliness. She did not force banal conversation; just glided around the floor with him, breathing...comfortable.
He rested his mouth against her temple, and felt the pulse beating there, steadily, as if they had done it for years.
"You smell lovely", he said against her temple, ridiculously.
"Freesia", she said, quietly. "Quite out of date." She chuckled, not moving her head. She liked the way his voice made her ear buzz. She sighed, unapologetically.
He smiled, breathing in her hair. He had not stepped on her foot, as they twirled that last bit, despite talking to him at the same time. He found that rather attractive, in an oddly provocative way, and he was proud of himself for not trodding upon her instep, despite feeling very silly, all of a sudden.
She began to hum to the music. It was quite endearing, since he knew she wasn't hammered. Always so nice when someone knew the actual song, and didn't ruin it by yowling drunkenly, while cavorting about the floor like an idiot. She just hummed, and swirled, like rum.
He breathed, relaxed. They moved about the floor, silently. He raised her palm in his hand, moving his head back to look down at her face. She met his gaze, tilting her head back, and gave a laugh, stepping back, so he had to follow her. She took a quick step to one side, and then the other, not letting go of his hand.
She smiled at him.
"Happy St. Patrick's Day", she said, gently, swaying and stepping gently, as the music crooned quietly around them. " I got my wish."
"And what was that?" he said, gently.
"I wanted to dance with Love", she said, quietly. She touched the side of his face, stepped forward, kissed his nose, laughed.....
and walked briskly from the room.
There were, thankfully, still some women who knew that Time was Precious.
Saturday, March 17, 2012
Zorb and Onk on St. Patrick's Day
An observatory conversation between Zorb and Onk, from the planet Abconchcall, on St. Patrick's Day. Unfortunately, they have focused their observations on a bar.
-------------------------------------------------------
Onk: Observe, Zorb, the strange gyrations of this humanoid. I feel deep empathy for their illness, and wish to intervene. Pehaps if I stroke him out, he can be still, and at peace.
Zorb: No, Onk. This is forbidden. Besides, based on his diet, this is certainly imminent anyway. Besides, if you are careful, in your caring observation, you will note that this provides probably the only exercise that this human unit gets, in addition to the pleasurable feeling which he receives, as he moves with the count of the beats coming from the sustained sound of that piece of wood in the mouth of the nearby humanoid. This is a "pan pipe." Do you see it, Onk? It is not an unpleasant sound - although the pattern need not be repeated again, and again, as if we would forget it, without constant drilling. Perhaps they are stupid, and this instrument holder knows of this weakness, and seeks to address it by means of gyration pattern installation in its listener. I must observe more closely.
Also, this, I have noted, is sometimes a mating ritual. Why have you not noted this in your log?
Onk: Zorb, forgive my laziness. I am weak with respect to sustained focus. It requires such patience, I fear I fail repeatedly at this task. Might I sigh with resignation, with your permission?
Zorb: Must you, Onk? This is rather selfindulgent. Have you tried the gyrations yourself? We might learn from these Beings.
Onk: I prefer to run repeatedly on this metal device, with no real destination in mind, Zorb. In harnessing the energy it creates, I have contributed to the Greater Good, and I will provide energy for our sustenance garden. This illogical pan pipe gyration movement seems much like a kind of liquid, and I am uncomfortable with the elemental comparison, with respect to my outer shell. Cannot you compare me to barium? It, at least, has a clearer purpose.
Zorb: As you wish, Onk. This is not openminded, for an explorer. You are closeminded. This is often unhelpful, as far as being judgemental, and Superior.
Onk: Zorb, I feel you are drawing away from me, speaking as your completion unit, and this scares me. You are too influenced beyond our insular circle of completeness. I protest that I wish you to return and meld with me, immediately, as a comfort and assurance.
It is because I am insecure. However, this is required.
Zorb: I will not, Onk. This is most inconvenient timing for your personal needs. You are here for a greater mission than your own reassurance. Prostrate yourself among the flowers of the space garden immediately, and contemplate your place in the Greater Nature. I am ashamed of you. I will continue this affectionate and nonjudgemental support of this strange, yet loving, and seriously retarded, species.
Please go to our growing area. I do not wish to view you or engage in discourse any longer.
---------------------------------------------------------
-------------------------------------------------------
Onk: Observe, Zorb, the strange gyrations of this humanoid. I feel deep empathy for their illness, and wish to intervene. Pehaps if I stroke him out, he can be still, and at peace.
Zorb: No, Onk. This is forbidden. Besides, based on his diet, this is certainly imminent anyway. Besides, if you are careful, in your caring observation, you will note that this provides probably the only exercise that this human unit gets, in addition to the pleasurable feeling which he receives, as he moves with the count of the beats coming from the sustained sound of that piece of wood in the mouth of the nearby humanoid. This is a "pan pipe." Do you see it, Onk? It is not an unpleasant sound - although the pattern need not be repeated again, and again, as if we would forget it, without constant drilling. Perhaps they are stupid, and this instrument holder knows of this weakness, and seeks to address it by means of gyration pattern installation in its listener. I must observe more closely.
Also, this, I have noted, is sometimes a mating ritual. Why have you not noted this in your log?
Onk: Zorb, forgive my laziness. I am weak with respect to sustained focus. It requires such patience, I fear I fail repeatedly at this task. Might I sigh with resignation, with your permission?
Zorb: Must you, Onk? This is rather selfindulgent. Have you tried the gyrations yourself? We might learn from these Beings.
Onk: I prefer to run repeatedly on this metal device, with no real destination in mind, Zorb. In harnessing the energy it creates, I have contributed to the Greater Good, and I will provide energy for our sustenance garden. This illogical pan pipe gyration movement seems much like a kind of liquid, and I am uncomfortable with the elemental comparison, with respect to my outer shell. Cannot you compare me to barium? It, at least, has a clearer purpose.
Zorb: As you wish, Onk. This is not openminded, for an explorer. You are closeminded. This is often unhelpful, as far as being judgemental, and Superior.
Onk: Zorb, I feel you are drawing away from me, speaking as your completion unit, and this scares me. You are too influenced beyond our insular circle of completeness. I protest that I wish you to return and meld with me, immediately, as a comfort and assurance.
It is because I am insecure. However, this is required.
Zorb: I will not, Onk. This is most inconvenient timing for your personal needs. You are here for a greater mission than your own reassurance. Prostrate yourself among the flowers of the space garden immediately, and contemplate your place in the Greater Nature. I am ashamed of you. I will continue this affectionate and nonjudgemental support of this strange, yet loving, and seriously retarded, species.
Please go to our growing area. I do not wish to view you or engage in discourse any longer.
---------------------------------------------------------
St. Patrick's Day
In honour of St. Patrick's Day, I have prepared the following pieces, for my own sanity (since I need a break from considering the project in which I am currently embroiled), and also because I think it's necessary. Each will be prefaced by a creative explanation.
-----------------------
Grouping One: Hitler's letters to his mistress, Eva Braun.
(Only two have been discovered, and many say that that is really enough to understand the man. Many then say they now know, for certain, why they wouldn't want to, anyway.)
---------------------------
Letter 1
Mein liebchien, I wish you were a man....I am so passionate, I am venting inappropriately, and feel ashamed of my urges. Please don't poison me. I'll take it out on everyone else, instead, since I also just suck as an administrator. No one listens to me, poopsikins. I will steal from them.
Love, your Rolfie.
----------------------
Letter 2
Eva, I have made them salute your sacrifice my darling, by showing me their clean hand. If I was weak, they could lower it to work, before they experienced massive pain in their shoulder area, but I will not: your love is tantamount, and I am a horse to your love. They must jump this high.
That you love me, I know, now. I am sorry I am such an asshole that I cannot give you my name, but you are still imperfect. That I am weak in this way means I must screw you repeatedly. We must tell no one, however. You may dream of me, though, if you wish. You must tell me if you do, however, so I may absolve you of these illusions you have about me, so that I remain pure.
If you continue to pleasure me, I will torment you lovingly with my love stache. In later years, imperfect men who grow things will mistakenly interpret this gift I make to you, and grow noxious substances out of various leaves, which they will, (because they're lazy and unclean), make you smoke, so that you can only envision these experiences in history between us.
They will envy us, my darling snowshoot, but simply sink into a chasm of sleep and then experience ravenous hunger which will then revolt them later, like a bird discovering how it has fed its young. They will never experience our purity, my love chub.
This is not to be mistaken for Peyote, which is different. Those guys are just crazy motherfuckers.
I have taken aspirin, again. I am weak.
Forgive me.
The headache of your love is a testament to the concussion of our minds, being one within the Greater Reality which I will create in my own artificial image. I must hurry and repeatedly continue to smash my head against the wall for inspiration....perhaps, until I am dead.
Oh!
-----------------------
Grouping One: Hitler's letters to his mistress, Eva Braun.
(Only two have been discovered, and many say that that is really enough to understand the man. Many then say they now know, for certain, why they wouldn't want to, anyway.)
---------------------------
Letter 1
Mein liebchien, I wish you were a man....I am so passionate, I am venting inappropriately, and feel ashamed of my urges. Please don't poison me. I'll take it out on everyone else, instead, since I also just suck as an administrator. No one listens to me, poopsikins. I will steal from them.
Love, your Rolfie.
----------------------
Letter 2
Eva, I have made them salute your sacrifice my darling, by showing me their clean hand. If I was weak, they could lower it to work, before they experienced massive pain in their shoulder area, but I will not: your love is tantamount, and I am a horse to your love. They must jump this high.
That you love me, I know, now. I am sorry I am such an asshole that I cannot give you my name, but you are still imperfect. That I am weak in this way means I must screw you repeatedly. We must tell no one, however. You may dream of me, though, if you wish. You must tell me if you do, however, so I may absolve you of these illusions you have about me, so that I remain pure.
If you continue to pleasure me, I will torment you lovingly with my love stache. In later years, imperfect men who grow things will mistakenly interpret this gift I make to you, and grow noxious substances out of various leaves, which they will, (because they're lazy and unclean), make you smoke, so that you can only envision these experiences in history between us.
They will envy us, my darling snowshoot, but simply sink into a chasm of sleep and then experience ravenous hunger which will then revolt them later, like a bird discovering how it has fed its young. They will never experience our purity, my love chub.
This is not to be mistaken for Peyote, which is different. Those guys are just crazy motherfuckers.
I have taken aspirin, again. I am weak.
Forgive me.
The headache of your love is a testament to the concussion of our minds, being one within the Greater Reality which I will create in my own artificial image. I must hurry and repeatedly continue to smash my head against the wall for inspiration....perhaps, until I am dead.
Oh!
Thursday, March 15, 2012
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