Whisper in the wind

My office is the world and in it I sleep and wake, I watch and wonder. Perched on my small desk chair-- often a splintered park bench, a sagging coffee shop sofa, or a sticky metro seat-- I dream.

I dream of flying over infinitely lush meadows sprinkled with dandelions that glow light baby suns and of sailing in between gigantic clouds that tower over me like a tidal wave.

All I want in life is to be a writer, but I am so afraid, because I always feel I have noting to write. I have nothing to say. My simple words and mediocre thoughts are meaningless in the great span of things. What could I contribute to a world that exists perfectly without the neutrons and protons that huddle together to form the nucleus that makes the atom that clings to other atoms to make the beautifully tragic cells that have grown my body.

Even I do not belong to myself, but to the earth. To the systems that created where we live, that caused Pangea to evolve so that landmasses would spread to the ends of the planet, bold-bellied oceans would form, and caustic mountains would rise. I belong to some God that I have never intimately known. I am a product of nature, a child of the twilight sky and the twinkling stars and the twirling raindrops that dance across my face.

Without air I could not breathe. Without the sun I could not see. Without love I could not be.

A weathered farmer with wrinkles as deep as canyons plant corn seed expecting it to grow into a field of maze, and if it does not, he blames the earth, the natural inclination of passing space and time. He blames Nature herself.

But when I fail to produce the fruits of my labor, when I fall short and I am on my knees in front of my shadow I cannot blame the way the moon rises and drifts across the sky and falls into the horizon as dawn nears. It is my own doing. My own selfish accomplishment, or lack thereof.

Am I a writer if I have no good words. In order to write I must have something important to say. What do I have to say that has not been said before. What words can I whisper that have not already been caught up in the wind, to be scattered among the languages of the people of the earth. I cannot keep seeking and relying on others for inspiration. Fake words and incomplete actions do not produce greatness. I need natural inspiration.

Trees tall enough to reach to heaven so I can climb up and touch my maker's lips with the tips of my fingers. Oceans longer that the horizon is wide so I can feel all that the world experiences float past me with the pulling and dragging of the twice daily tide. I must leave this closet of suppression and allow myself to really lie. I must break out of the confines of my cubicle, as grand as my office may be with its clear glass walls and high lofty ceilings, the boundaries are still here. It must be just me and the world.

"I get a kick out of you"

What a shame that so few in our generation still hold on to an appreciation of and a fascination with those things that our grandparents and greatgrandparents held so dear in their lives. The classic books, the great romantic films, the extremely talented singers, the flashy classic clothes: to most now-a-days it seems so ancient, but in fact these vintage ideas, talents and dreams are what shaped and created the culture that we love so much today.

I'm re-reading The Great Gatsby, one of my all-time favorites. The way F.S. Fitzgerald created a classic jazz-age world for readers is amazing. And I just love holding his words in my hands and pretending like I'm sitting there in Gatsby's glowing, heat-stricken parlor on Long Island in the middle of the summer during the Roaring Twenties, drinking with Daisy and Jordan, and just passing the summer by, until the season changes and "life starts all over again when it gets crisp in the fall" (ch VII).

And I've been listening to Frank Sinatra and some of his peers recently. The way Louis Armstrong and Ella Fitzgerald can make you want to get up and boogy is completely beyond me. The sound of that type of music is so rich, so bold, so CLASSIC. It almost takes me back in time. Check out this tune by Frank for a good 'ol classic:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vRi7gKTNpEY

So I'm raising my plastic wine glass of Merlot (one of these days I'll buy some real wine glasses...) to those of you who still do take part in the vintage, the wisened, the cultured features left for us to enjoy by past generations. Here's to Gatsby and Nick Carraway, to Sinatra and Bill Holiday, and to the old, lone souls that are still holding out today to tell their charming and classy stories of their times during the Twenties.

Untitled Poem

With a few miles behind my tires
we tread on.
We’ve many more highways and bi-ways to travel.
The flashing lights signal me to slow down;
the speed limit signs entice me to go faster.
I watch the needle on the dash edge toward the red,
and I close my eyes and clasp my hands
and pray to avoid disaster.
The road signs teach me that these are the days
to make mistakes;
that these are the ways
to keep my soul awake;
that I am young and have the luxury of time.
But what is time when it’s wasted inside lonely cubicles
or with your nose hidden inside dusty books,
while your real desires gather dust in your mind’s crannies and nooks.
I drink cup after cup of coffee,
draining my veins of blood and injecting them with syringes of caffeine,
but that only works for the body,
and only until we become immune to the sleeplessness of in between.
So how do I keep my life from drifting off into a deep sleep?
We try to smile often; we rarely weep.
We figure that just one more heavy paycheck could get us through this week.
But our bodies grow restless and our minds become bleak,
windswept expanses of shadowy dreams.

In heaven

I hope heaven is something like the Jersey Shore.
The Jersey Shore that’s like Long Beach Island
with the surfboards and the seagulls
and with the little curly-haired kids in their tiny swimsuits running with excited fear from the shore break;
but not the Jersey Shore that is like Seaside with the greasy fries and drunken parties.
I have nothing against Seaside though, don't think that.
Watching Ferris wheels and half naked girls and guys stroll down the boardwalk is hilarious.

I hope heaven is like a cool breeze on a hot summer’s day
that sends chills down your spine when you’ve been sweating for the past three hours.
And I hope there will be soft-serve chocolate ice cream in heaven. And I better be able to get extra chocolate sprinkles
every
single
time.

I hope Jesus likes me in heaven,
that all my selfish desires and pride can finally disappear when I am standing my his side
so close
that I can see the wrinkles in his forehead from years of worrying about me
and the crows feet at the corners of his eyes from years of laughing at all the stupid things I’ve done.
I hope that when I stand in front of Jesus I can
for the first time
be confident that he loves me
all of me.
I can see in the reflection of his wide pupils that he cares more for me than I can imagine.
And that it’s real.
That it’s always been real.
And he will just smile
and listen
when I tell him how sorry I am for having doubted so often and for so long.

I hope in heaven I get to have dance parties with Jesus.
I’ll do the Twist and he’ll do the Macarena and we’ll laugh for hours at how horribly our dance moves are.
And we’ll have tears in our eyes that glisten in the golden sun
for all eternity.