DOORSTEP

NOTE:
I've decided to sync up with the folks at objectwriting.com by using their word of the day. this way i don'thave to think of a word, and i have something to compare to, other thoughts to chew on. i don't know how they choose their words, but i'm grateful to them! i'm too sleepy to come up with my own in the morning...

The hard wooden tread of the doorstep is numbing my backside. I'm sitting, legs drawn up so my chin is resting in the space between my knees, the light of day giving way to the watery fog of twilight. This is my favorite time of day—when all begins to quieten as if the scene in a movie were fading out, sound and sight becoming dim, the moment before death or sleep. I hear the rushing of cars like a whining surf washing over everything and wiping away thought. I lift the warm smooth mug of tea to my lips, the steam ticlkes my nostrils with its flowery aroma like a field in spring, taking me far from here for just a moment, leaving the soft taste of honey in my mouth. the warmth of the tea makes me realize my ass is getting cold and its certainly sore. but i stay, shifting to find a more comfortable position.

CLASSROOM

children lined up in their rows and columns, fidgeting, fighting the urge to explode, run, scream. Desks in a grid like a cage, control, order. each one bears the marks of the prisoner that came before, scratched into is worn and flaking wooden surface. this room, this...box in which the children sit for far far too long, these walls, splattered with information, numbers, letters, moral codes--still—these chaotic walls are solid. these windows are solid and the light they let in is attractive and bright but there is no breaking through that way either. that woman who looms tall at the front of the room, miss so-and-so, who smells of flowers or spice or something else that makes your nose itch—she's the mother here. she's the large voice that fills the room and you do what she says, not knowing that you can refuse. i had a teacher once—my mother said she was a sister. i told all the kids that she was my mom's sister, misunderstanding. things taught, told, shown, but sometimes not explained, in this room. other children, like you, unlike you. that like you, that don't like you. difficulty fitting in, for some, is the blanket under which they hide, in this room. the blank or unhappy face in the class photo. or half-hidden by someone in front.

the broad colorful flag and the songs that we sang as we stare at it blankly with our hands on our hearts, the scattered pictures, the dark dusty chalkboard. the sound of the chalk tap-scraping itssyncopated rhythm across the surface, like jazz drumming. language, writing, music—all one, i learn here, then i am taught to forget at home. for that is another classroom altogether.

MOUNTAIN

standing at the bottom of a mountain, any mountain, and looking up, or looking at the trail head, is among the most enjoyable moments possible. yes—reaching the top is like an orgasm, and the minutes spent panting afterwards are blissful relief like no other, save sex, perhaps, but really—think about it: you love climbing, you love the forest, the rocks, the wildlife, the streams, the mud—you love experiencing every detail as you walk steadily upward. you love looking to the side and seeing that special “woods perspective'” where you see trees layered in front of and behind other trees until you can see nothing else-- a wall of trees, all moving past as you walk, like a cartoon background, only real. choosing where to place each footfall, for balance, for propelling yourself to the next footfall, heaving your weight up a boulder. getting those occasional amazing and surprising views as you turn a corner and the trees open up like a stage curtain to show you an amazing vista. and the smell of the woods—leaves and pine needles crunching underfoot, each step releasing earthy aromas. mud, dirt, dust all over your legs, unless you're careful to stay clean, which you shouldn't be if you want the full mountain experience. and the summit is the goal. so they say. the summit—where, they also say, you stand when you have “conquered” the mountain. uh uh. i say you've made friends with it the whole way up—gotten to know it intimately, and finally—you climax. weird, i know, but hey—i love climbing mountains!

DOOR

closed, open. what's behind door number 3?!?! when the door is closed, is anything behind it really there anymore? Doors of possibility. Open one door and another closes. Knock and the door shall be opened for you. the mystery of what is behind the door. Front door. If i knock on your door, will you answer? I can see you peering stealthily through the translucent curtain at the window just next to the door, i see your shadow obscure the peep hole—spy! voyeur! why do you hide behind the door? I only want to talk. I only want to talk, to not be nervous, to connect with you. It's not like i'mI'm

There are many doors, each one has its own purpose and personality. The back door is for sneaking in and out of, the front door is for official, public concerns, sometimes just for show. The side door is, well, I'm not sure. The trap door, is for hiding, or, trapping? keeping something below, a prisoner, a jar of pickles.

Doors are the size of people, portal, passage, gate, entry, exit. Border between in and out, the thin line between accepted and rejected, included and excluded, guarded tightly, left unattended. the last obstacle to gaining entry. I remember whenever someone came to the door at my grandparent's house, grandpa's little dirty-eyed poodle would sprint hyper little circles on the carpet, yapping and panting wetly. never figured out why she would get so wound up—i imagine her little brain all twisted up in a messy corkscrew, all wrung out like a little wet sponge, inside her pathetically small skull cavity. that door. i knew it like a person, it had a voice. every time it opened and closed you heard the same thing, or slightly different for each person, so you could kinda tell who was coming in depending on how ti sounded.

LUNG 2

lungs come in pairs, right? so why wouldn't writings about lungs, eh? here's what i wrote at lunchtime today--giving myself exactly 10 minutes to write, just like i did this morning. i also used a pencil instead of the computer--i think that makes a difference--it's more, i dunno, natural--a better connection between my ideas and the outside world, maybe. have fun comparing this to the first LUNG post! (anything in parentheses has been added at the time of this posting)

iron lung. aqua lung. hold your breath. a tide of air, the rythm of nature, life--a cycle behind your mind. involuntarily (conscripted) enslaved to breathing.

breath, take a breath, breath of life, with one breath, with one lung. lung is breath tool.

tool for breathing, chest heaving rising falling---->essence of lung is air------->balloon pink and meaty.

or tortured by smoking, object and target of self loathing (suicidal activity on a geologic schedule) hidden and forgotten it blackens too slowly for notice--only after death and in cross sections does it show the damage (these x-sections look like art) when it rebells it does so audibly--it speaks, it screams, it wheezes and protests.

i noticed when the skinn is peeled back...

bodies surround the visitors at the Body Worlds exhibition. (bodies in various lifelike poses as if frozen in time doing ordinary things--only theses bodies are naked down to the muscle and organs--oh, shame!) people once, these plasticised cadavers look more like thanksgiving leftovers now. the living mingle casually with the dead--or not so casually--some show visible (and audible) signs of being disturbed to various degrees. tiny bits of people are displayed in plexiglass covered cases--dust thickening on their vast clear tops (as skin is the main component of dust--i wonder if this is where the cadaver's skin has gone...) lungs once nestled behind the protective safety of their ribcages now lay exposed and tender-looking (vulnerable)--or were they prisoners in their chests, enslaved to the cycle of breathing in and out (but not endlessly, as now they have been freed by death.) now all they exhale is the plastic stench that permeates this place (their final breath, it seems) oh the lovely lung--enslaved, abused, forgotten--until it protests...

they come in pairs (i forgot!) monogomous for life--one larger and one smaller, like the male and female of the species.

LUNG

he shovels air into the body, because oh he burns. burning but now filling, he heaves himself up larger, into a passageway, wind blowing through like a storm. he grows large, small, he rocks with the need. like wet meat he peels his insides apart to let it all in, as waves of air flood in as if filling a tidal cave. lung. lung. in. out. tension. release. filling. emptying. up. down. rising. falling. empires crawling and spreading like disease in a petridish.. cultures cultured, then, starved, they eat their young. tongues rising and falling, words clashing like swords. time's up. wow, didn't get much out.

i seriously think this sucks, and that writing in the morning, though i want to, is NOT the right time for me to be writing. maybe i'll write about LUNG later as an experiment and see if it goes any better. it really sucks because i used to be such a morning person, now i'm kinda dead in the morning. pity.

BRAIN

it smells like semen—like semen it tastes. it rises to the top and congeals, like cold fat. moving the head, displacing the bit above the neck, twisting, tilting, zenith, azimuth, jiggling jello momentum makes to move. cavity. liquid sloshing about in a spherical pool, but a sponge holding water floating in the midst. sometimes: flashing lights at the edges, curtain draws tight from the sides like a tilted eye closing, darkness, mist, a mirror melting like mercury running down glass and darkly the world looks back. peeling layers and digging trying to get out. brain, fog. some days are confusing like that. a corrugated landscape, a planet where impulses travel over hills and through valleys to grandmother's musty house, or a salty day at the beach, or a finger being cut by a piece of paper leaving a sting like fire that burns too too long. all roads lead to memory. brain is a metal suitcase stacked with crisp green bills, swimming in meninges. a fish in a bowl, a parrot in a cage, a trophy in a case, gleaming, precious, needing to be fed, repeating what is said.