Worn Down Frustration

It was as if her body was telling her "enough is enough". Her week had been spent writing papers and stories and poems and blogs and compiling portfolios. She was exhausted and had to take a day off of work just to be able to complete everything. She didn't even have time to work. Right when she needs to be most active, she wakes up feeling like crap and completely lacking ability to be productive. She knew that some things were not going to get done and she was ready to say forget it! She felt in over her head and frutrated because she felt she wasn't doing her best. "One more week" she thinks, then do it all again. Perhaps next time she'll do things differently, but then again she did say perhaps.

Sgt. Tater and the Griswald Chronicles

It's funny how holidays seem to take on the very livelihood of a Griswald Christmas.
We turned onto the annoyingly bumpy, gravel road, heads bobbing up and down through the tinted windows, like the Bash the Gopher game at flashy arcades. Slow and steady, the shell on wheels made a left into the packed driveway resembling Honesty Eddie's used car lot. The groaning minivan came to a stop, as the Smith's came pouring out of every door. The country wind sucked papers out of the vehicle and across the yard to the cornfield, leaving the agile children to dart frantically for retrieval.

"Grab the sweet potatoes!" ordered mom, the commander of this operation. "I'll get the cranberries. Can you reach the pies? I only have 2 hands!"
She prepares her troop with tough love and frustration.
"I had to make all of this! Can't you atleast help me carry it!?"

After everyone made good use of their hands, the mission was ready to commence.

"Oh, and don't forget to bring in the games!" she added while looking back at us.

We meticulously staggered up the front steps and put on our game faces, or in this case, our "Hi! How are you? So good to see you!" faces.

After much preparation and lots of waiting, anticipating stomachs finally gained gluttunous satisfaction in the form of slow cooked poultry. Mashed spud salvation!

After punishing my intestinal tract through seconds and pie, my weary chewing muscles told me it was time to sleep. Commander in Chief had another mission in mind.

"You're old enough now. Go help her with the dishes! She shouldn't have to do those," she said while elbowing.
M'am, Yes M'am!!

The real battle began when Grandma broke out the Scrabble game. After crazy letter assortments and made up words, Grandma was not messing around. She whipped out the big guns, the special Scrabble dictionary. I knew I was about to get massacred by her in all her senior glory.

It was my turn and my letters were not my salvation. Suddently, I spotted a lonely G, dropped double O's, yelled "Goo!" and seceded to my post on the couch. Grandma meant business and turkey made me sleepy.

She doesn't know

She met him in the most cliche of places, rolling her eyes at his approach. She didn't know they'd fit so well. She knew him for only a month before having to say goodbye. She didn't know they'd fit so well. He's been gone for longer than she ever knew him. She didn't know they'd fit so well. She continues to think about him and wonder if more time would have enabled or hindered. She didn't know they'd fit so well. She just learned she'll see him soon, but only for a couple of weeks and goodbye again she must say. She didn't know they'd fit so well. She thinks it may be easier to not see him at all than to have to say goodbye again. She didn't know they'd fit so well. Until those weeks of brevity, she must battle between will of logic and will of the heart. She didn't know they'd fit so well.

Brushstroke Landscape

She looked out her tinted window as the landscape smeared like massive, elongated brush strokes. Her eyes danced to keep up with the race of earth and the mechanical. For a moment she felt a strange comfort of knowing that the nation as a whole was engaging in the exact same thing, at the exact same time. For a day, we were all engaged in unity. She reached her arrival and as she took her first step, bracing cold alerted her to reality.

New Awakens Routine

This year's Thanksgiving was nice and quiet, but at times almost alarmingly quiet. In the yearly holiday rotation, this year yielded to her dad's side of the family. Dinner was gluttonously Thanksgiving-like and the game of Scrabble was fierce as ever, with dictionary in reach. She knew why things just didn't feel right. A particular aunt, uncle and set of cousins were not present this year. They were the ones who always kept the house loud, while leaving her wondering how one family could possibly be so loud and annoying. This year she noticed her lack of annoyance, while they sat in California awaiting the arrival of their oldest Marine son from Iraq. Their turkey sat waiting in the freezer for his arrival home. "He should be getting home anytime," we heard. Not even his family was allowed to know where he was and what day or time he would be coming home. Silence stomped through her attention span. Thanksgiving was new for her this year. Thanksgiving was new for them all this year.

Frustrations

She has such a desire within her to be actively successful that it burns a hole inside of her. Her intense desire, intent and planned out achievement gets clogged, stifling her potential. The extreme amount of creation and potential gets jammed when trying to attain the kinetic energy being reached for. Cyclic energy enjambent must suffice to frustration.

Aqueous Hymns

Liquid lullabies
sing me serenades
of aqueous hymns
that weave around
my quieting mind.

Pitter-patter tranquility
drips into my head
in drifts.

How I long
to hear you,
as your battle
between my
active mind
and weary body
enlivens me.

All the while,
my porcelain skin
hides, shrouded
in the night.

His liberation

Wind rushed through her open windows, seeming more eager to join her the faster she drove. This did not manage to aliven her weighted spirits. She glanced beyond her window after noticing a flash of movement out of her peripheral right, seeing a man on his accelerated bicycle. Just as she focused on him, remembering the past summer's ride down the mountainside and the fear coupled joy it brought her, the man let go of both handle bars while extending them in the air at his sides, as if embracing the world. Head facing the sky and alive, I longed for his liberation.

Transparent windshield

Obstructing her lead foot was the massive trash truck with green paint that flaked like diseased skin, exposing an interior of rust. Stopping just a tad too close to the truck at the annoyingly crimson light, she saw life inside those crushing jaws. Cups and crumbed wrappers that sustained the livelihood of bodies scuffling from cubicle jobs sprinkled with paper work, bodies in strive of the "happy". Letters whose secrets hide in tattered edges that long for their other half. Amputee teddy bears who attained affectioned wear in tear. The light matches the truck like an eager cameleon while a sheded green flake shakes loose from the accelerating,steel life-container and bounces off her transparent windshield.

Real Men Wear Kilts...?

She was driving hurriedly, scoping rear view mirrors for eager cops. She noticed a man walking down the sidewalk in a blue shirt and plain black kilt with many pleats. This kilt, however, did not look like a regular kilt. It looked more like her mother's knee length pleated skirt that's worn to Sunday morning church services and other important events. This ambiguously androgynous attire was an interesting sight to see. Without much searching, in fact her first try, she was able to find a whole website devoted to kilt wearing. Here she learned that the Official Kilt Day is tomorrow, October 5, 2007 and that in fact, "Real Men Wear Kilts".
Perhaps...

Make me alive

If I can see my breath
in a solid cloud that dances
through a wall of cold,
Does that make me more alive?

If I get caught in
the most brute of rains,
hair sopping, pant lapping wet,
Does that make me more alive?

If I close my eyes
and open the doors that
allow music to infiltrate,
Does that make me more alive?

If my mind churns
thoughts of cement that
weigh me down in scrutiny,
Does that make me more alive?

If I see in
hues of
multiple saturations,
Does that make me more alive?

If rays of moon
creep through my
dusty blinds,
Does that make me more alive?

If a snowy flock
flies as one across
murky sky,
Does that make me more alive?

If I lose myself
and liquid sadness crawls
down cheekbone slopes,
collecting in pools
at my feet,
Does that make me more alive?

Love me, Love me not

She's let herself become completely consumed with self doubt. She has become all that she cannot do. She cannot, therefore she is not. Where should she sink her heels? Is the chisel in hand carving the wrong path through the fortified? And why is it those empty holes can be filled so easily with all of the possible "nots" of the world?

Mocha Sea

Crisp air that stands supposed thermal hairs on end encapsulates. With each step, the water creeps up the back of pants, saturating heels and toes that 'flip, flop' in autumnal drops. Books hang heavy on shoulders that shiver in a gentle cold that snuck in on the back of thick sunlight while deceiving the senses. Chilled hands grasp the paper cup and absorb the single core that is liquid warmth. Dream of diving into the mocha sea and float on its frothy goodness.

Sequenced Liberation

It's funny how one of the things that you really enjoy in life does not even fit into your own schedule. An english major who longs to write about little daily occurances, hasn't the time. What a craft, to take experience of the littlest kind and turn it into something so big, that perhaps only the author will truly appreciate its meaning and depth. Until those sequenced moments of liberation, one must scratch down catalysts on stained napkins and folded receipts while driving.
Make time for what you enjoy... What a concept!

J'adore l'automn

Invisible kinetics, push to movement that gently grazes green-saturated tendrils, who uniformly sway with each worldly exhalation. Moon of the fullest, gracefully dance with the dainty beams that reach so far just to glide with you over atmospheric ballrooms. Rainy day drops drip on exhausted petals that fall to the ground with the weight of hydration. A single rusted leaf dances spirally into the arms of its mother. Welcome fall!

Is it ok if I miss you?

Slide out of bed like a sun soaked snake. Peel open sleep dewed eyes to see the mocking clock flash "5 til you're late". Quickly sifting through the minutes that have begun to pile up in heaps at anxious feet, the cerebral slate is wiped clean. Fifth year college mind gets engulfed with thoughts of refridgerator internals. In lieu of seeking out apple juice, the grammar book lies abandoned on the table, made bastard by a vaccant stomach. Climbing into the car parked inconveniently on the hill, bags and books of all sorts fall weighted into the seat. No need to shut the door as the incline decides to slam it shut on the exposed knee. Heated murmers soothe frustrations. Flying down asphalt that churns the mind with thoughts of you. Knowing it shouldn't but caring not, spin mind. Spin with thoughts of shoulds, should nots, and but what if I do's. Turning the corner to reach structure, distant brown eyes lock with those of a homeless man. Look back in the mirror and feel gulty driving by him and his matted grey beard. Tell a story dear sir. Snap back to reality and continue the drive. Is it ok if I still miss you?

Rewind, Repeat??

Days have now morphed into hurried rushes of determined winds. The pull of the day thrusts motion into a body that sticks like a magnet to a mattress and undone sheets. Rise and shine, liquid motivation consumption, plaster smile, patterned motion, rewind, repeat. Unable to have a moment of hesitation, the jumbled mind wonders if exterior eyes see the internal frantics. Roundabout chaos challenges progression with a two-sided "to do" list that blinds seeking eyes from headway. All the while, preschool children run hurriedly through sunbathed sand and ponderings of playmates, playtime and snack. The magnetized body yearns for their rewind...repeat.