Breaststroke

I still remember the first time I held your hand. It was a Sunday. Dawn. We had just met at the harbor. The waves were crashing against the jetty and the air was thick with spray and salt. It was bitterly cold, it had been a very cold December. But you hadn't even brought a coat. So I gave you my flannel. I remember letting you wear even when I had goosebumps from head to toe. To this day my clothes look better on you. We both stood there quiet and together while the sea churned below us. Standing in that morning mist, I found the boundary between myself and the world. I turned to look at you, eager to tell you of my revelations, I had just seen the world. I looked to you and it was lost. The wind snatched it from my arms, for I had stolen what was not mine. But suddenly, I had more than ever before. You were there and everywhere, a shape unknown. I looked into your eyes, brown, green, blue. Just like the sea. Just like the sea. I had always been afraid of the ocean. I still am. I told you something I don't remember even now. It didn't matter. The sun had risen, the first leg of its swim begun. We were together standing with the wind in our eyes and the sun on our ears. I knew I had found you, my flannel flapped in the breeze. I asked if you were cold. The sea thundered, then splashed, clapped, then receded. I don't think you ever replied, but I knew. The world was in front of us, dawn a feeling. I counted - one, two, three. I grabbed your hand. Spray clipped the sky. I held you for a moment, fingers traced lives. I didn't need my flannel anymore, I wasn't cold anymore. I wasn't alone anymore. I jumped.

Wandering

I feel like I should be writing something. Something with words that expresses something I feel. Something with something so that something is something.

Something. A loaded word, something. Endlessly changing to fit the situation. But something must live a lonely life. Something never has a residence besides someplace. Or a love for that matter, just someone. Someone. I think someone is worse than something, they're just a blank canvas that no one can appreciate. Everybody just loves that damn artist though. Hey someone, I like you. I think you're beautiful just as a placeholder and not with paint all over you. Would you like to talk about something someone? Or if you're tired of something, we could talk about everything. When? I don't know sometime? Yes that sounds nice. Let's go someplace sometime somewhere and talk of something. Or everything.

Everything. Does everything exist? That's a lot of things - too much for me. Well, now that I think about it, I guess I could get used to everything, but I'd need everywhere to store it. But everything everywhere wouldn't fit well - there'd be no room for me. Everywhere by itself sounds nice though, excluding everywhere that's not nice. So scratch everything and keep everywhere. What about everyone? Oh God no, everyone? That would be horrible, I think I like someone more than everyone. Everyone is loud. Someone is nice in a nice way. Someone everywhere sometime. Maybe I'll write about that. So what's missing? I'll check.

Who: Someone

What:

Where: Everywhere (excluding everywhere I don't like)

When: Sometime

Ah, What. I've got nothing for What. Hold on. Nothing. That's another one. Nothing just might be the weirdest one too. How can nothing exist if its nothing? Define nothing and I'll find something in it. Maybe nothing can exist nowhere never. Yes I think that's right. But nothing somewhere? Sometime? Every time? That's absurd. Nothing and nowhere and no one and never all need each other to exist. Kinda romantic in a ironic way. No one is never lonely because he has nothing never to keep him company. The nothings keep to themselves. If they even exist that is. All oblivion and nothing. But I guess nothing can be something can't it? Like talking about nothing? Hey, I like talking about nothing sometimes. And on top of that, I like talking about nothing with someone because talking about nothing with myself gets redundant. Oh and I can talk about nothing everywhe... hold on a second. Eureka! I've got it!

Who: Someone

What: Nothing

Where: Everywhere (see above)

When: Sometime

Well, problem solved. I've got my topics. Time to write about someone sometime everywhere with nothing! Sounds about write. I mean right.

Right. Funny word.

Where was I?

Old Time's Sake

My drink's empty again. Damn, what time is it?

"Only the lonely,

know the way I feel tonight..."

I should be going, why did I even come? Pat and her pity-invite. Why the Hell did I think I'd enjoy this, I haven't talked to anyone all night - I've just stood here totally disengaged. But it's not like I've had the best company. Haha. Look at them, everyone an idiot, talking, laughing, living. They don't know anything about any of that - I'm the only one who knows what it's really like. "Tonight on National Geographic, David Attenborough examines the social habits of the modern human." Haha, what a bunch of losers.

"Only the lonely,

know this feeling ain't right..."

Shit, it's Rob. Please don't walk ove-

"Oh hey Rob."

"Preston man, what's up?"

"Oh y'know usual shit. Something cliche like that."

"Tell me about it."

Tell you about it? Pfft. You don't know the first thing about "it" asshole.

"How are you and Patricia?"

"Broke up last week."

"Aw, shit man, I'm sorry"

No you're not. I watched you flirt with her at every bloody party.

"Well, me and the boys are going bowling tomorrow, you should come with. Guys night."

I'll keep out of your man-love club, prick. Thanks. Now go get another drink.

"Sorry Rob, I gotta work late."

"Haha, alright Preston. Hit up the cell if you wanna hang man. Later."

God I need a drink.

"There goes my baby.

There goes my heart..."

Man, what's wrong with me? Do I really hate all these people? Shit am I depressed. I can't even relate to normal people. I'm leaving. Can't stand another minute of this. Car keys, phone, watch. Check. Alright. Here's to you, you happy people, I'm off to sit home alone with another record on. Just like every Saturday night.

"They're gone forever,

so far apart..."

8:00AM. Damn I'm late. Oh shit. I knew I drank too much. Goddamn-it, I can't go to work like this. Might as well sleep it off, Patricia's party is tonight. I need to be on my game. I need to win her back.

"But only the lonely,

know why I cry..."

God, my drink's empty again. What time is it?

"Only the lonely..."

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

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What

keeps me from expressing my

out of order?

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ot

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am i to follow some preconceived notion of rules?

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ofmorality. imdonesearching formoralityinwords, iwanttoseethemfor

whatthey really are

You think I'

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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.