Hell Poem

It’s 7:16pm but it feels much later.  I’m standing in the kitchen with a slice of undercooked pizza in one hand, and a blank look on my face.

This is Hell.

I’ve got a beer and a day old shirt.  I commented on the cold and the delivery man made a snide remark.  He was late, and got the miniscule tip he deserved.  Angry thoughts continue to flow unchecked through my mind.  The pizza was cut unevenly, with some sliver-like pieces.  I’m not even enjoying the beer.

Upstairs is Heaven.

Literally.  Everything will fade: the economy, the cold, the uncertainty, the anger, all of it.  I will sit, breathe, and play the cello.  Handel’s Messiah.  The world will dissolve into nothing and sweet music will fill me in.

This is Hell by comparison, I’ve got heaven in strings just up the stairs.

© 2008

Obama

Wow, we WON!

On the End of Love

I came across a fascinating, thought provoking question yesterday: ‘You are on a plane that’s about to crash. You have time to make ONE phone call. Who do you call and what do you say?’

The simple answer is I would call my ex, B____, and tell her I love her no matter what.  That doesn’t explain why.  This does.  There’s no fiction in this creative work, it’s 100% true.

Epilogue

It started with that I had to overcome huge obstacles to make it happen, and she was heartbroken not to see me for Christmas. With two miracles and some grace, it happened. I left from New Hampshire in a blizzard, landed in Kansas in even more snow, and was carried by angels the whole way. She wasn’t expecting me, and when I came through the door she went catatonic, her breath caught. I flew half way across the country; I had roses. and cookies for the kids. and a gift.
and my heart, right there out in the open. I couldn’t hide it, it’s not like I can afford this kind of thing every day. week. year.

She was still not really herself when she started saying “hi” but somehow she managed to walk over and hug me, clumsily. It was like she was sleep walking, like it wasn’t real. she said “hi” again, and again, several times over, trying to make it sound different, sound right. she was so blown away, and I was so happy to see her. She didn’t believe I was there. I told her: “My love is not bound by time and space, it cannot be held back by thousands of miles or insurmountable obstacles. I’m here; I love you.”

We cuddled on the couch, in front of the fireplace. Nothing else, just holding eachother. We were so warm and so beautiful. Even when I left she found it hard to believe I’d ever been there. The roses were undeniable though.

And now it’s my heart breaking. All my patience and quiet acceptance and incredible struggle just to hold us together was not enough. She can’t be with me, and I will not suffer that rejection again. My love for her will always be there, smoldering quietly behind everything. Regardless of my desire for it to leave or to stay, it will always be there,
like a ghost.

I cannot hope for it to leave, but I can move on; I have moved on.

© 2008

Different Morning

Several strange things happened this morning.

• I woke up refreshed!  Not sloggy, slow, stupid, drowsy, or like a zombie back from the dead.  I can’t remember when this last happened, but I suspect it was a different decade.
• No Alarm.  There was no beeping alarm, no annoying buzzing, nothing but the soft patter of rain.  It’s 6am and I usually wake up at 5.
• Not starving.  I wasn’t ravished the way I usually am in the morning.  I wasn’t even hungry.  As a preemptive attack I had a piece of toast.
• Warm out!  The temperature this morning is 60ºF.

I would have biked in, but I woke up late and it was raining.  Oh well, that’s the only negative for this beautiful day!

—

This weekend was amazing!  The main events were the Mt. Auburn Cemetary, the Museum of Fine Arts, and Dinner at Mom’s.  My best friend is visiting from California, so it’s great to hang out with her.  She’s like a sister, parted at birth.

Cooks With Love: Why I’m spoiled

Pasta with Cherry Tomatoes

Spaghetti with Parsley Sauce

Mom’s food blog: Cooks With Love.

Amazing food like this is how I became a spoiled food-snob.  Just looking at the pesto pasta makes my mouth water… with fresh parsley from the garden and fresh grated Parmesan cheese, covered in red bell peppers.  The colors are enough to make me love it, but it’s the taste that keeps me coming back.

Thanks Mom!

On Road Rage

!#^%%!@##@!# ^@%^#&!#@$!@#@# !!@#$#$%@#$! ^#&(&^&*^*%  !@#$!##%& &*##$!#$~%! !#$@%^%^&*%@$%!#$% #& %^&%^&@#$% %& $%!#^!@#%1$ !@#$^%^ !#^@%&@$ ^13$^ %@$&%^&!!

I’d rather be riding my bike.

Sad day

My mom’s infant goddaughter, Violette, died today.

I really cannot even begin to imagine how tortured Tracy, Violette’s mother, must feel right now.

It would mean a lot to me if you could donate $1 so Violet’s godmother can be at the funeral. Donate here.

Any overflow will go to the medical expenses: hospital bills, etc., for little Violette.

Thank you.

—

I cannot describe my feelings in words, so I humbly tried to express them with my cello: For Tracey and Violette.