FROM B TO R

R,

What can I say about you that I haven’t already said? Mountains, evidently. I’ve been writing about you since the dawn of our whirlwind. Let me start this off by throwing you a simple "thanks." I appreciate the sensational timing of your arrival—not that there’s a poor time to have the very personification of breathlessness descend upon you. You’ve brought me so much joy in such a brief span... with this crazy, volatile chemistry neither of us can quite understand.

Last night, as I was thinking you— a daily thing— it dawned on me that I’d have to be mad to think myself capable of encapsulating the extent of your beauty with words. The time to question my sanity now, as I’m about to take a stab at said impossibility. I’d said to you, “You’re so amazing, I make a list of my favorite qualities.” The characteristics that contribute to your ravenousness are indeed innumerable; which is fine by me, as I’ve always shied away from numbers. Physical beauty is merely the crest of the crushing tsunami that’s flooding my mind with awe. Your golden, shining beacon of a heart permeates your entire being with a warm magnetism that pulls me ever closer by each passing day. External evidence of the radiance brimming inside you is best glimpsed through your gorgeous smile, eyes and actions. While one could scarcely imagine the two prior qualities--your beauty and heart--being trumped, your brilliant mind pushes them aside and stands tall— casting a formidable shadow that cloaks me in solace.

If that sounds a little overwhelming to you, congratulations! You now know what it feels like to be around you. As much of a champion of the English language as I am, I find myself seeking alternate languages to fully express the feelings you inspire. Vraiment... c'est incroyable. You make writing poetry as easy as blinking, and, at times, just as involuntary. Not that I would ever not volunteer to offer you a song of praise. Looking into your cedar gaze is frightening— the same fear one feels when peering down into the magnificent depths of the Grand Canyon. Fear and love go hand and hand. Nervousness. Butterflies. I feel these healthy doses of apprehension all the time with you. As you slide your hand into mine, bite your lip… or whisper into my ear. Ugh...

I’d continue on from here, but I’m afraid it only exacerbates the pain of missing you.

Know this…

Of all the words and all arrangements I could make with them, none could ever equate to the warmth and tenderness of us sitting on a couch together and sharing a simple kiss… then making out passionately and… uh, taking things elsewhere.

Basically? I miss you. Kudos on being thoroughly amazing. Can’t wait for all the inspiration I know you’ll be conjuring up in my heart soon.

-          - B        

"The Pull of Fate"

I feel the pull of fate, it's tugging in your direction. When I think of your eyes, suddenly green has meaning. Hair has a purpose, now. It's for stroking gently. Whispers, I dedicate them to your ears-- passing on near-silent profundities and ravishing truths that the world will never be ready to hear. This flutter in my stomach, it's never getting old, is it? Our bond is a glimpse at immortality-- undying, unrelenting. It's a hurricane of emotion that wraps me tightly in warm uncertainty. The only way I can convey my feelings is through a stream-- a beautiful babbling brook of poetry. I'm paddling passionately through these waters, seeking the source of this never-ending spring of glorious inspiration. My heart is a ship, and it's already passed through Theseus's conundrum. The tattered remains of what I once believed to be my definition of love has been systematically replaced, leaving only your fresh cedar timber. The current that I coast along now is the strongest pull of them all. It's the pull of fate, and you are my destination.    

"The Artist's Lament"

"Sometimes I wonder if my dreams are only just. Lately, I've started to look at those around me and feel like I've lost touch with reality somewhere along the way. My passion tells me otherwise, but when the world seems blind to your ambition...

Yes, it's one of those days.

You have to remember... those with the most confidence often have the most insecurities to hide. I'm not my brother; I'm a dreamer. The sting of reality is a pain known to all humanity, but it is felt the worst by those who live in a dream. I've come to terms with the fact that I cannot live a normal life. I'm not cut out for the world outside of my art. My false bravado can only compensate so much for the isolation and uncertainty. I want to shout in my native tongue and have someone understand me, but that's a wish without a chance for being granted.

I have an affliction that just so happens to be productive. But my affinity for art, is it an advantage? My passion boils, but it burns me. I'm a kettle filled with the finest tea sitting in a room of devout coffee drinkers. I can only make art, nothing else. Being normal is an impossibility. I'm not bragging, this is a lamentation! My hands are only meant for creation. Asking me to work a normal job... that's suicide."

How To Never Read Past How To

I question Mark.

I've never read anything past the words, "How to." Goals, like band-aids, are just something I bleed through. Dreams, a read-through, the before the after. Happily ever after seems a bit like lazy falling action. Why does the action have to fall anyway? "You're a writer, why are you bothering with gravity?" I guess I just try to stay grounded-- I'm too old to have my mother do it. I don't like thinking about my mother doing it. That's why I'm doing it my way. Technically that's Sinatra's way, but hey, life can't always take place at Burger King.

Life is like a passing thought. It's like an unfinished metaphor in that. Does the thought ever occur to you? No, I occur to it. My thoughts are sporadic and Socratic. They're dispersed questions, like a series of mosquitoes protesting malaria injections. They suck, they're full of blood, and they don't always make sense. But how do you make sense anyway? What's a rhetorical question with an answer? A paradox.

The point of prose is to substantiate poetic critique. It rhymes perfectly with morose, flows and even rose(poet's love that one.) What is a rose anyway, by any other name? Doth it not smell as sweet? Sure, unless you call it shit. What is the word shit, if not but a symbol for language itself? Poop, excrement, feces, defecate-- all sound far to delicate, silly and sophisticated for the crap they describe. Shit is curse, but it has the same amount of letters as poop. What makes one silly? What makes one inappropriate? I'd argue that shit is the most appropriate tag for a turd, yet such is its curse.

This Thing I Found

Recently, I've found something wonderful. It's awe inspiring, so much so I believe I'm at a loss for words -- an ailment that rarely befalls me. I won't say what this thing that I found is, but I will account all the feelings it has evoked in me. When I see this thing, I find myself relaxed and excited all at the same time. This thing makes me sing songs I never even heard. I hear birds chirping at night. When things are wrong I still feel alright. This thing is like a star in the sky seen at all hours. This thing is like rose in a world without flowers. Thing made me slip into poetry with a blog entry. And I find that strange-- so delightfully.

This thing is something that I cannot identify because I've never seen anything like it. It's like a UFO, and it's abducted my senses-- including my sense of direction. I'm lost in thoughts of this thing because with it came emotions I'd long shunned for reason. Why? Because it's beyond reason... and belief. It's like pulling up a rug and finding gold floors underneath. I'm inspired in a way that makes my mind melt. You think it'll be one thing but you'd never guess this.

This thing? I'll admit...

This thing is-



- B

My Most Magical Dreams

Today I awoke with this phrase dangling from the rafters of my dusty mind:

"Oh the things I see in dreams - the whimsy overwhelms and inspires. Yet the most beautiful ones are with you, when nothing transpires."

Of course that's the translated version for Twitter, within the dream world it went something like: "In dreams I see beautiful, convoluted nonsense like nothing I could ever imagine awake. Yet when you are in the dream and we do nothing but enjoy each other, I find those dreams to be the most magical." And I suppose it's true. Perhaps I am a romantic, and I've denied myself the ability to channel that nature for the sake of my art. There is indeed someone I love, and yet I refuse to act upon it... so uncharacteristically.

But this entry isn't about my personal affairs and the meaning of the dream itself-- I have a dream diary for that. No, this entry is about the strangeness of these simple, romantic dreams. How can an uneventful dream possibly trump the wild, reality distorting experiences? How can a mere person who exists within reality be more exciting than everything else in a world jammed with the impossible? In dreams, I can see colors beyond the rainbow. I can experience stories told by my mind firsthand without even making them. I can be heard. I can be microscopic.  I can be everything and anything... and yet I chose to be with you.

I suppose that's symptomatic of my cancer's stage. I'm a lover sans a lover, so my mind's malady pines for 'm'lady.' I slip into stupor and perhaps poetry. And for what? What can I express? Dreams exist to convey a message, and I hear it with the clarity of megaphone being shoved in my ear. The question then remains:

Does she dream of me, if she dreams at all?  Are they the most magical?


- B