Cigar Box

It takes a long time to get used to living. I'm not sure we ever do. I think that's why we die, we just get tired of not getting living.

Cable Knit

End

I've always had a fascination with how words work together. But in the most literal way.

I love the idea of words that work literallytogether, hugging eachother forwarmth.

Or on the flip side, words that de test their com patriots and seek their own in depend ence.

It's disconcerting, but intriguing, a world disjointed . Would we read Shakespeare differently if the words "Romeo" and "Juliet" were several spaces apart, mirror ing their event ual and e ternal sep ara tion? Would their love have more meaning if their names werethrowntogether, aliteral expose onthe lovethattranscends death, thelove thatkeeps oneforeverin the other'sembrace? What about a blend of the two? to confu se, todiscon cert , makingus fi nd our ownpath, makingus search fortehid den meaning tuckedin the innoc oulousspace ingofharm less clauses. Whynot tcompound the entire ideawith the

lay out

it self

self

What

keeps me from expressing my

out of order?

Can my words n

ot

fal

l

off

the

pag

e?

am i to follow some preconceived notion of rules?

I want to read a book that challenges Me , notpress

my face

again

st

the glass

ofmorality. imdonesearching formoralityinwords, iwanttoseethemfor

whatthey really are

You think I'

m crazy?

be

May

But whosaidli fe was alwaysgovern ed by the spaceson

a page?

my

this is book.

Chapter one.

the

Tree Tops

Being alone is something I find myself preconditioned too. I am alone when I find the most inspiration, I am alone when I find nothing but myself, and I am alone as I walk these emerald hills. My burden is light, but my footsteps are heavy. My eyes look to the horizon, but my head hangs low. Nothing guides me but the speck of light in front of me. Where I am going I cannot say. Why I am going is a question my mind cannot see. My feet desperately churn back and forth, they are not savvy to my course, they are trying to escape. They seem foreign to me, hands searching for something, finding nothing. But I'm not searching, my eyes gave up on that a long time ago.

My course is straight, my destination just beyond this next hill. But the sun is setting, and the world has become a shifting mass of muted colors. The night has come - I tell myself the course is still straight. But as I shift my pack, I prepare for the jarring chicanes and the spartan switchbacks of twilight. My feet jig with excitement. They are in control now. My eyes can no longer find their way, the night is tied to my heart. The tide takes me in its embrace, I ebb with the grace of seaweed, my feet buoyed by the clear water. They are calm now, powerful in their control, precise in their kicks. I swim, drowning on the air in my lungs. But I am at peace, for I know the beach is just over this next wave. This next wave.

The sun rises, dawn tugs upon my mind. Cobwebs, strung across my conscience, evaporate into the fine mist of morning. The orb has not forsaken me for another, her voice reassures me - she was there through it all. Land returns to my feet, soil trickles through my toes. Hills climb before me, chasing the horizon. Eyes open, my blood flows, warmness a pinprick upon my stiff limbs. The new day has come, a blank canvas, anxious for brush of rebirth. Am I to be the artist? Is this what lies in my pack? I turn, meaning to open it. There is nothing there. But I can still feel it. It feels heavier. My feet kick, they seem more rebellious than before. My mind shifts, questions teetering on the edge. I shiver from the bite of morning. My feet churn forward; today will not be the day I stop, for I know my destination is just over the hill. I can make it.

An open sea is like an open door, both are limited by the threshold.

Cute Beanie

Metaphorically speaking, I like realism.

In reality, I like frankness.

Frankly, I quite like metaphors.

But that's just it isn't it? Everything falls back on itself. Everything comes back to you. There's nothing but you. Can you handle that? Or must your burden be on another's back? Mine is, but I lost them back at the fork in the road. Hopefully we meet up again soon, I'd really like my burden back. Woah, did you see that? Just now, it zoomed by. It was a double entendre. Wish you'd seen it. Oh hell, now I've lost my train of thought.. Oh yes, something about burdens. Ehh, too heavy of a subject. Look at that one! I swear this is a wit-shower, I just saw a pun-meteorite fly by. You saw it? What was your wish? Fine don't tell me, I don't want to know anyways.

The Founders met today - down in Ladera. Plans are going according to schedule. I can't wait for the towers to go up, they'll be such a nice addition to the landscape, and the people. I just hope it doesn't affect the piped-in frog noises, they help me sleep. At least when I'm sleeping in Ladera. Which is never. But you get what I mean right? Thank goodness you're so understanding.

Red Velvet Cake is good. And Chocolate. And Vanilla. All three for that matter, mixed of course. Where my Oreos at?

School wouldn't be the same without my power pole friends. They look so inviting and so protecting. Like two friends on night-watch at the campfire. Actually, I think I could watch fire forever, it's like looking into someone's soul. Flames lick the night sky, ashes curl lazily, embers glow contentedly, and the fire falls back on itself. But no matter what, there's always heat.

Actually, they're more like two English royal guards - minus the fuzzies.

Shadow Puppets

Stop saying you've changed. You never will. It's annoying - "New Resolutions" are the crutches and excuses of the lazy. You haven't changed at all, from what my records say you're still same ol' Mrs. P Sherman. So cut it and roll with the punches. Oh and by the way, I'm the only one allowed to quote lyrics, cause I wear cardigans.

Black and white, stream of consciousness writing, The Whitest Boy Alive. Logical fallacies, straw men and the TAR-21. Haircuts, Vans, triglycerides. Kafka, Steinbeck, Colin A. Adams, and Theodore Roosevelt. Chainsaws, email, other people's blogs, The Fundamental Theorem.

I can't be explicit with you, then I wouldn't have anything to hide behind. But I want to tell you everything.

Dancing is bliss, even with scuffed shoes.

It's currently 45° in Newark

*ring*

...

*ring*

-"Hullo?"

-"Mrs. Patterson?"

-"Speaking."

-"It's me. It's the cro-"

*click*

"Mrs. Patterson?"

"Mom?"

I knew you'd never pick up, you hate talking on the phone, specially to me. You say it's cause I mumble. I say it's cause you've got nothing to say. But then again, neither do I.

Why do I keep calling?

The bedtime stories are becoming real again. The crocodile won't stop smiling, his teeth are ever so big and his scales are ever so bright. Dr. Stanley isn't here to protect me and the crocodile won't stop smiling. He just won't.

Why do I keep calling?

Now he's moved, underneath the dresser. His eyes, two yellow orbs, just stare. And he won't stop smiling. I guess Dr. Stanley has gotten too old for this bedtime story. Crocodiles don't age, but I do. Does this mean I'm going to live with the crocodile forever? Will he ever stop smiling?

I know why I keep calling.

You know where Dr. Stanley is, don't you?

Why won't you tell me?

The crocodile won't stop smiling. Teeth, eyes, moon, sky - such a soothing lullaby.

I've fallen asleep now. Finally I'm safe - smiles don't exist in my dreams.

I remembered a poem I thought I had forgotten a long time ago - you used to tell it to me whenever I couldn't sleep:

Breath deep
The gathering gloom
Watch lights fade
From every room
Bedsitter people
Look back and lament
Another day's useless
energy spent

Impassioned lovers
Wrestle as one
Lonely man cries for love
And has none
New mother picks up
And suckles her son
Senior citizens
Wish they were young

Cold hearted orb
That rules the night
Remove the colours
From our sight
Red is gray and
Yellow white
But we decide
Which is right
And
Which is an Illusion

The crocodile always leaves in the morning.

I smile.

Good Morning George

It's been a while, that's for sure. I've been meaning to write to you, but it's been hard with everything happening around here, what with the Hydrangeas just coming into bloom and Ethan going back to school - it's as if life doesn't want this letter to be written. But Ethan's just gone down for his nap and Tito is out for the afternoon, so I've got plenty of time to write of the goings-on around the Kennan household.

Like I mentioned, Ethan's just gone back to school, with much gusto I might add, and comes home everyday with a head full of thoughts and eyes full of colors. He reminds me so much of you, right down to his wry smile and sandy hair. He's got Nana's eyes though, you can never quite pin down the color. Tito took him out to the coast the other day and when they came back, Ethan showed me all the things he had collected - abalones, crown snails, alabaster coral and a curious piece of sea-glass. I still have that necklace you know, it hangs from my dresser - it catches the light beautifully in the morning. Speaking of which, it's quite apparent Ethan's going to follow in his father's footsteps as a man of the sea - but hopefully he will lack the recklessness you seem to flaunt so well. But let's not talk of our problems, they seem so petty now that Ethan has been born.

I received your package just last week; it must've been a right horror trying to get such a large shell shipped all the way from the Seychelles. Ethan loves it, as do I - it now adorns the little coffee table in the east nook. I haven't had much time to read the manuscript that came with it though, mostly just the opening chapters, but I have made some sketches of the photos you've taken, and I asked Tito to take them to the publisher for approval.

I remember when you took me to the Seychelles - it was just yesterday wasn't it? I've never seen such clear water, such blue skies, God they're better than the weather here. Sometimes I just can't stand these Cape Cod winters, the sky is an eternal shade of grey and the wind howls through the bay windows most every night - Tito had to nail them shut last weekend, the latches wouldn't hold. But it's probably best I'm not there with you, there's too many memories. I still think about that summer you know. I try not to, but every once in a while I find some trinket we bought and those days just come back to life. Just writing this letter reminds me of our correspondence we had back then. But I didn't write this letter to reminisce, at least that's what I keep telling myself.

Oh, that's Ethan's waking up, he'll be calling for me in a moment. Time to end this letter - I hope this finds you and the crew in good health. I'd ask you to write back, but I doubt you'll have the time anytime soon. Sorry if I rambled, but that's the status quo with me isn't it?

Goodbye George,

Jess