Cacoethes Scribendi

"the insatiable urge to write"

Friday, November 26, 2010

Drawing Lines


The dust unsettled; banners drawn.
Spaces taken; pace predicted -
Some may never make it past the start.


Hooves are stamping, aligning with the dawn.


Bridles clink as riders mount to check their tack;
Each stall is set and narrow,
Booths for bets and brawls.


Their movements swift,
Their breathing hard and hot.
He who comes last shall forever lose.


Anticipation is an open gate.


I am your rebellion:
A single step beyond the fence,
Two inches past the starting line
Is ample grounds for gunshot.




Friday, November 12, 2010

Someone Saved

A short story by Kimber London

     >for your reading enjoyment: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pDeCSIfW2TU

“LIKE Chuck Smith,” she had said to him earlier that
afternoon, smiling.

Though the downpour outside had caused him much
anxiety as he’d waited for the bus in the rain, upon arriving
to the restaurant he felt warm and collected – two words
which those who knew Lane Johnson would hardly use to
describe him.

Lane couldn’t remember who “Chuck” was, or what
they’d been talking about, but he remembered the way she
had smiled when she said it, which seemed vaguely out of
place in contrast to the other images which had filled his
mind since: the flashing lights of the aid car, the broken
glass on the asphalt, the blood stains on his newly-pressed
blouse. He held the shirt in his hands now as delicately as
he’d held his only child on the day of her birth.

Lane’s lips quivered and his eyes wandered about
the room, never really focusing on anything. He mumbled
when the nurse came by asking for photo identification and
a signature. After shuffling through his pockets, Lane
apologized that he’d left his wallet at home. Licking her
lower lip, the nurse shifted her weight from one stocky
ankle to the other. Could he call someone to retrieve it?
Yes, he probably could figure it out, but did it matter that
he himself was not family? After an almost unnoticeable
pause, the nurse pressed her lips into something like a
smile. She retrieved a small stack of paperwork
labeled “WITNESS” in bold letters at the top, proceeding
to instruct Lane in a robotic tone that non-family members
would have to wait for written consent from a blood
relative in order to interact with the patient or make any
medical decisions on their behalf. And he would still need
valid proof of identification for the witness forms to be
processed. Eyes blurry, Lane fumbled for his phone, which
clattered to the floor startling the two other people in the
waiting room who momentarily broke their gazes from the
outdated tabloids in their laps.

His wife did not pick up at work, and he was sure
she wouldn’t be home for at least a few hours since she
usually stayed late on Wednesdays. He didn’t bother
phoning his neighbor as the man had a strict policy of only
taking business calls on weekdays, and when he reached
his daughter’s voice mail Lane tossed the phone onto a
stack of crinkled newspapers on the table beside him.
Pressing his fingers through his thinning hair, he massaged
his temples. Just three hours ago he had been shaving his
overgrown shadow of a beard, and attempting to comb the
nearly gray tuft atop his head which he refused to cut
despite the many protests of his wife. He picked out a shirt
to match his tie, a custom on which he seldom spent any
extra effort. But today was different. Today he had felt like
a man escaping from a domestic cell, yearning to embrace
freedom from confinement with limbs lifted liberally like a
young school boy sledding down a hill when class has been
canceled due to an unexpected snowfall. Lane had even
taken care to polish his badly streaked loafers (he’d been
meaning to buy new pair for some while,) and so he had
left the house with little concern for anything, save the
time. As he passed through the front door, he’d
remembered to wipe off any traces of his muddy footprints
in the hallway. Lane made sure to place the spare key back
beneath its potted hiding place, and he took particular
concern to put it exactly in the same position which had
marked its spot over the years in dirt. He checked his watch
again – 4:00pm sharp – and, pulling his coat collar up to his
chin he had braced himself against the tempestuous
weather and jogged to the bus stop. Catching his breath on
board, he had felt for the small parcel in his breast pocket,
eager to reassure himself of its presence.

As the florescent light bulbs flickered overhead,
Lane could feel the weight of the thing pressing against his
chest. He stuffed it into the front pocket of his pants where
it knocked against his loose wedding ring. Lane tapped the
small parcel back and forth repeatedly on the surface of his
thigh. Twisting it around in his hands, he wished he’d
never bought the damn thing. He wished that he hadn’t left
work early, or bothered about the neck tie which now held
him together like a man waiting for the gallows. Lane
scratched at his neck, pulling the tie in violent tugs away
from his throat. A button from his collar dropped to the
floor and as he reached to pick it up, he met the gaze of a
man seated across from him. Lane hadn’t noticed him
before and wondered how long the man had been staring at
him. However, instead of turning away, Lane stared back
and, in barely a depictable moment, the two shared a
second of humanity. The stranger’s eyes were gray and
watery; the rims of his red eyelids contrasted the olive hues
of his skin. Beneath the eyes were signs of exhaustion,
fatigue, and depression, yet in them Lane could see
something like the twinkling of empathy. It was as if the
man knew him, and in knowing, was not afraid.
Breaking eye contact, Lane quickly looked down
as if to check his watch. He had spent nearly two hours
waiting and there was still no word from anyone. The
vibration of his phone on the table may as well have been
the shock of a defibrillator paddle for the start it gave him.

Looking at the picture of his wife smiling which glowed on
the phone’s face, Lane picked it up as one would a ticking
detonator.

“Honey, where are you?” came the frantic voice. “I
left my phone at the house today so when I got home
early and you weren’t here and I saw the missed calls, I
panicked. Are you okay?”

Lane’s fingers slipped as he transferred the phone to
his other ear. “Yeah, yeah, everything’s okay. Hey, listen,
do you think you could pick me up at the hospital when you
get the chance?”

“Oh, my god, Lane, what’s going on? Are you
hurt?”

Lane glanced down at his left shoe which was
slashed open at the toe. The sole was beginning to peel
away from the cheap leather and he scuffed it against the
dirty tile floor. “No, I’m fine,” he said.

Saturday, October 23, 2010

s  t  a  m  p  e  d

THROUGHOUT THE FULLNESS OF THE DAY I QUESTION YOUR GOODNESS. THE WORDS AND WAYS OF MAN EASILY PERSUADE ME, NEARLY SWAY MY EVER WANDERING HEART.

WITH MY EYES I SEE THE EVIDENCE OF YOUR EXISTENCE, YET WITH MY HEART I SEE NOR HEAR ANYTHING...IT IS JUST AN ORGAN WHICH IS FIT TO PUMP BLOOD.

IN THESE WAKEFUL MOMENTS I HAVE ELEVATED MYSELF ABOVE THEE, FORGETTING ALL YOUR MAGNIFICENT WAYS.

YET, AT THE DARKEST HOUR OF THE NIGHT, ASSURANCE TAKES HOLD OF ME.

I FEEL DEEP DOWN IN THE TRENCHES OF MY BEING A HEART

I NEVER KNEW I HAD

ONE WITH YOUR FINGERPRINTS INSIDE.

AND I CAN FEEL YOU MOVE IN ME.

When in England

Blog entry #2, reporting from Greatham, England

Living in a manor house reminiscent of Professor Kirke's in The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe is just as enchanting as it sounds. There are towering staircases, secret passageways, and fireplaces in nearly every room. Outside, we are surrounded by 3 small gardens, an ancient cemetery, a courtyard, and luscious green pastures stretching for miles. The house itself is brick, complete with ivy entangling the windows and lattices.


There are so many people from all over the world here, it is really diverse. From Germany to Sweden, to Florida to Michigan, to Scotland and Ireland, it has been a great experience making cross cultural connections, and of course, my accent is getting quite good.

The rest of England is just as, if not more, beautiful than I imagined. Took a lovely day trip to Brighton (Capitol Hill meets England) where I pierced my nose and saw actor Jonathon Groff outside a vintage mall and briefly talked to him! (Jesse, from Glee!) In London I saw Les Miserables, which was brilliant, as to be expected. Buckingham Palace may have been the biggest let down as it is situated right next to a large traffic circle and Stone Henge is just as stony and a little more hengy than I expected, it rocks.

The English pubs are wonderful and as romantic as you would expect. I learned the embarrassing way that you do not tip the bartenders here...I must say that the English lads are rather enamored with the young American girl smoking her pipe though. Keepin' it real, Seattle.

I miss you all dearly, and I wish that each of you could be here to enjoy this time with me. It is truly wonderful to be here and I have lots of time and space to think about life and to reflect and ponder its mysteries.

(if you want to check out some of the things I am working on in my spare time, I will be posting creative writing pieces as usual. Thanks to each of my faithful readers, you know who you are, mom and dad. haha. Off to kiss some English men, after all, I'm Irish. signing off....)

Thursday, October 14, 2010

When in England

Blog Entry #1 reporting from Greatham, England

As soon as the plane touched English earth, my heart began to race in a way it never has before. I am in London and despite how displaced I am, something feels right here....An air of excitement seems to surround me, and as the passengers grab their luggage, I can feel the anticipation binding us all together. My feet and hands are nicely swollen from the 12 hours of air travel and I hear a young child behind me tell his mother that his hand is tired of being alive. I chuckle to myself at his lovely little British accent.

An hour later I leave baggage claim and step out onto the airport drive. A smile breaks my face like a pebble tossed into a pool of water as I marvel at the cars traveling along the opposite side of the road I am used to. One short bus ride and I am on the train to Woking Station, my first stop before reaching Greatham where I will be spending the next few months in the South of England. I feel totally adventurous and totally alone. It is odd to be in a different time and place, completely unknown by anyone around. I am invisible, just another face in the crowd. It seems as if it is not until someone calls me by name, I am no more than a backdrop for someone else's story.

Upon arriving at the Manor House, I am aghast at the Victorian architecture which adorns this place. I feel like Peter, Susan, Edmond, and Lucy in The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, mystified by grandeur. It is near 4pm and I am invited to tea where I meet a few other students who I will be staying with this term.

(For continued reading...see blog post #2 @ http://kimberlondon.blogspot.com/2010/10/when-in-england_23.html)

Wednesday, September 1, 2010

hide-and-seek

it is as though a catastrophic game of "hide-and-seek" is afoot. i have been running away from you like a naughty little girl wondering if her parents will really notice that she is gone. yet the game has gone on far longer than i had ever expected. it appears that somehow in hiding i actually became lost. i cannot seem to find my way back to you. though your voice is calling to me, is ever as familiar, i cannot find you where you are. thus i run, i tremble, and i hide again, for i know not what else to do. it is at the moment of complete displacement and fear when i am screaming out your name in the darkness that i light a match - only to discover that you are right beside me. but my flame flickers out and fear creeps in, haunting.
yes, this game of hiding is more dangerous than first it seemed, i guess i just couldn't take adam and eve at their word.

Tuesday, August 10, 2010

Shadowlander

Beyond the shadow of a doubt -
        into the realm of gray.
The fears that cloud me here have passed away.

Between the illuminated
         and the left unseen,
Beyond the shadow of a doubt, I dream.

Beneath, but not beyond, I know.
        into the dark again I go.
Under the earthen waves and rolling sky,

Beneath the shadow of your wings I lie.

Monday, July 26, 2010

Offering

I have bowed down, I have stooped low.

The idol that I carry is enough to crush me: it is my weight in gold.
A burden to the weary beast I have laid upon myself, atop my breast -

I've taken no relief or rest from this bondage.


"Listen to me," a stranger calls from not so far away.
"I will pay you for the load you bear, you need only give it up to me."
Laughing, I despise the offer, though sweat drips down my face.
Were I to relinquish this prized possession, I would lose what I hold most dear.
I fear what there could be to gain, and so I polish my idol again.


I speak to it, caress its face.
It knows no cares, nor feels disgrace.
Even though I receive no voice or touch in return,
I'll hold it like some weight of gold I earned.


In dreams at night I sometimes hear that stranger's voice,
Whispering softly to the essence of my heart.
The offer that I feel I only can refuse.
The offer of a choice - yet I can't choose
Save choose to cling to this terrestrial form.


Yet still the stranger watches, not so far from where I lie.
Salvation lingers and so do I.






Sunday, July 4, 2010

Change

What a loaded word; and i don't mean the kind you keep in your pockets..Change is a volatile thing, it cannot be commanded or controlled..it threatens to break things, to shatter them to pieces, alterring so you could never recognize..
But sometimes, if Change feels generous, it might promise to restore and revive..it is this kind of change that many in this world are afraid of..so comfortable with their ordinary lives..if Change moved in to stay, to reform their living liberality, they might themselves be moved..
Others oppose Change..set all odds against it, praying to detain it, hoping to restrain it..but these prayers are in vain, and there is change - standing in the doorway..
"How rude you are not to let us know that you have come, a simple knock would suffice," but Change locks the door, dismissing their advice..
The winds of Change have a motive all their own..each from his perspective thinks he knows it..but the mind of the wind cannot be known, cannot be thrown around or pinned to the floor..Change is coming sooner than you think..
Will you open your heart or will Change knock down your door?
IGNORE (it)

There's a troublesome cry in the dead of night
Yet, helplessly, I wait despite it all - despite it all.
In my dreams I hear the awful sound,
But other noises help to drown it out so I can sleep.

To think that I could not wake up at all
To ever see what isn't in my way.
Ignorance is ludicrous, yet wonderful;
'Cause I don't have to know.

(I don't want to know.)

The other day I saw a girl with a cardboard sign beside the road:
"Anything helps"
Do I look or do I turn away?
Do I hand her change and wish her on her way?
What do I say?

I don't want to know what's going on outside my comfort zone.
Oh no, don't tell me, 'cause I don't want to feel that I should help
Someone but myself.

Tuesday, May 11, 2010

The Diamonds [ Revised ]



My face looks much paler now, and more strongly resembles my mother’s features.  Her hollow cheeks and sunken eye sockets have become increasingly familiar to me each day I see my own reflection.  Pushing back a few strands of loose hair, I stroke my eyebrows and wet my finger in attempt to tame the bushy mass – the only evidence of my father in my complexion.  My hair is a mess of tangles, and I have given up trying to remedy what cannot be fixed. As I pull it back into a somewhat tidy bun, my phone rings.  Stepping over the various pizza boxes and rubbish which clutter the floor, I reach to pick it up off the dresser. It is my mother, and she will want to know why I have not been returning her calls but I am not ready to talk.  Tossing the phone onto a pile of clean clothes, I go back to playing with my feisty hair. A vibration from the laundry reminds me of my mother’s anxious condition and so I take a short moment to listen to her latest apologetic voicemail.  My hands feel dry and I rub balm on my lips to prevent them from splitting anymore. 
 The morning lingers like a low fog before midday. My baggy sweater hangs off of my shoulders and I grasp a warm cup of steamed milk in my hands. Foam rests on the tiny hairs above my lips and I wipe away the liquid mustache with my index finger. Steamed milk swirls in my cup, and I attempt to detect the designs rippling on its surface with eyes burning from lack of sleep. Clenching my fists, the coolness drifts from my veins and I reach again for the white mug before me on this worn table, clasping both hands around it tightly. The warmth returns and slowly begins to burn my palms. Walking over to the four-paned window, which guards me from all that is unknown, I stand just behind the red velvet curtains I made when I was sixteen years old and stare for awhile into the street below. I squint at the small man and woman next door who are weeding in their garden.  There is something peaceful about their work but also something very disturbing. The days have grown much colder and I cannot understand their persistence for such a mundane task. There seems to be much more use for the world than to spend one’s life toiling in the same spot. 
The languid afternoon glow of the sun casts shapes across my unmade mattress. I fall back and sink into a mass of sheets and blankets which entangle me with the promise of security. Above my head the patterns on the ceiling twirl, a collection of drywall constellations. My eyes fall closed and I drift off into my habitual afternoon stupor. My skin tingles with each passing second as though time were crawling over my body and into my sluggish bloodstream.
When I awake, the sky seems slightly sorrowful, as am I. Thoughts of loneliness swallow any joy my slumber might have brought. A migraine has settled in the back of my head and I pick up one of the bottles of pills which have scattered on the floor.  My foot crushes a few of the spilled tablets as I walk to the kitchen for a glass of water. Dust accumulates on the doorframes and the blinds, both places my mother always scolded me if I forgot to clean growing up. As soon as I moved into my own space, I quickly forgot all the advice she had been so willing to force on me.  For the first few months after I left, my mother wrote me dozens of letters. They are packed away in some shoe box now, every one of them still sealed. Then she quit writing all together and I quit caring. Dirty piles of laundry on my dresser and dishes stacked in the sink help to distance me from the sterile life I once knew in a small town back East. It has been nearly eight years since I have seen my parents, an occasion only permitted because they came to a funeral they knew I would attend. I knew my mother was still hurt from when I first ran away from home, but if my father was at all he didn’t let his guard down for a moment. He was the same hard, passive man whose shadow I knew better than his face. My mother called me for the next few days and then gave up trying once again. I thought I had severed any final ties which remained from my youth, yet the pain continued to manifest, and I continued to cope somehow. My life became defined by restless nights with vivid dreams and days in which I lost all momentum to strive. I saw various counselors and dropped all of them by the second week, their analysis of me was all the same: unwanted advice on how to deal with a past which they believed was detrimental. I had several psychiatric prescriptions filled during that time, my body willing to receive any substance to numb my senses. One therapist told me that death is like lightning in a thunder storm. We know it is coming and yet it still frightens us. I took a handful of pain pills into the rain with me the next time there was a lightning storm, and waited beneath the tumultuous sky for the whole night, a process I considered to be highly therapeutic.
            Work drags on and weighs me down like a millstone tied to my legs. From a young age I have had to learn to keep a job since neither of my parents was responsible with finances. From age fifteen on I learned to bus and wait tables at restaurants all over town. I liked the work at first, the people, the buzz, the environment, but after awhile I began to lose touch with everything. I lost interest in the customers and had no desire for the food or for the restaurant camaraderie. I needed the money to pay rent and my bosses kept me on because I was the best waitress they had. Now, my job is more routine than ever, and though I have considered starting something new, I continue to work full time.
After a few weeks of dealing with the repercussions of a new drug prescribed by yet another therapist, I am ready to quit the industry for good.  I grab my apron off the wall in the back room slinging my sweater (complete with formal two week’s notice in the pocket) onto the empty hook. I am assigned to a table at the very back of the room, to cover for one of the pregnant waitresses who apparently needed to leave work early. The family of five I will be serving is significantly far away from all the other tables in my section. As soon as I approach them however, my feelings of irritation are replaced by fascination. The similar smiles between them, the playfulness of the children, and the love apparent between the adults baffles me like never before. Mother and daughter giggle as they peruse the menu while the father and his young boys talk about splitting a steak. The siblings appear to be within the ages of ten and fifteen though I cannot exactly tell. I try to busy myself with their orders so as not to let my eyes dwell too long on each of them. The daughter’s brown, curly hair is styled just like her mother’s with the exception of side swept bangs. As I leave to prepare their order they are in the midst of a happy conversation about the baseball game they went to earlier that day. When I bring the order to the chef I am surprised to find that I have not recorded the women’s requests. Going back to the table I spend a few minutes apologizing to the family and admiring the sincerity of these people before me. Families don’t usually phase me in this business. They are no different from any other customers excepting the occasional booster seat. Yet for an unexpected reason, this particular family catches my indifferent eye tonight, and I have to remember to not forget my other guests at the opposite side of the restaurant. 
The drive home is a blur as thoughts flash through my mind like the rain on the windshield. At home, I begin to search for an old shoebox I hid years ago. Though my closet is a whirlwind of chaos, the search is not in vain. Pulling the first few letters out of the box I begin to open them, attempting to decipher my mother’s faint hand. Her words are kind and simple and in every single one she is begging me to come home again. After reading through what seems like a dozen, I shove the letters back into place and the memories along with them. I scratch a short note for myself which I leave on my table. The closet is much higher than I recall, and so in the attempt to put away the rest of the shoeboxes, the shelf collapses and everything topples onto the floor adding to the overall pig sty look of my apartment. My hands and neck feel sweaty after stacking everything back onto the shelf and I collapse, exhausted, on top of my rain jacket and hiking boots. Beside me is a box I missed. It is pink and some of the glitter has worn off the edges.  I pick it up slowly and read my own scribbled name across the top, right next to another’s I haven’t seen written in years.  My hands tremble as I trace the lid with my fingertips.  I sit in the dim closet for a few minutes, listening to the sound of my own breath before I let myself open the box.  Inside there are several birthday cards, movie tickets, ice cream coupons, and candy bracelets.  Colorful strings of beads line the sides of the box and there are perhaps a hundred notes packed on top of one another, all in the same hand. My fingers sift through the contents one by one, until they come upon a small, silver tiara resting on the bottom.  I clench my teeth as the tears fill my eyes.  Tied with black ribbon is a single flower stem. A few dry rose petals lie crushed beneath it.  It has been years since I last cried in a closet.
The next morning I wake up with a shoe next to my face and my raincoat wrapped around my torso. Dialing my mother’s phone, I hang up just before the voicemail. But after a few more attempts I leave a pathetic message, half-hoping she will not return my call. My eyes are bloodshot from another sleepless night and the dark blue flesh below them contrasts the paleness of my face. Several wadded up tissues lie just outside the closet door, and I throw them away, trying to forget the pain which threatens to pull me apart. In less than a few hours my mother has called and responded to my message. She has already bought her plane ticket.
It is now 2pm, and I hasten around my room scooping up loose clothing, sweeping, and hiding the pill bottles which litter the floor and window sills. Hesitating with one container of pain medication, I slip it into my pocket believing my mother might understand. Yet all this work and hustle seems like a futile attempt to hide the same lifestyle my mother knew quite well, the one that drove me to leave home in the first place. Kicking the refrigerator door shut, I stare into empty space. I spend the next hour drinking old wine and filling out crossword puzzles from the back of the newspaper.
At seven o’clock sharp someone knocks at my door. Knowing it is my mother, I take time with each step toward the entryway.  Mother seems the same as always, a whirlwind of stress and emotions trapped in a quiet frame.  Her brown hair has turned gray since the last time I saw her. She smiles at me now as I gaze upon her fragile body. I have not grown accustomed to seeing my mother smile but when she does it is as if a thousand years have passed between us.  When I let her through the door we both stare at each other awhile. It is my mother who speaks first.
“You look – beautiful, sweetheart.”
But I no longer believe that I am beautiful or sweet at heart so I do not answer her intended compliment.
“You’re early, mother.”
She looks around my apartment for a few moments and mentions something about a reckless taxi driver, but I am not listening. Instead, I notice the absence of my father’s ring upon her left hand.
“I see you’ve stopped wearing it.” I say, gesturing to her hand.
My mother crosses her arms.  She sighs, looking around once more at my cluttered living space.
“Yes,” she says glancing downward. “I realized it is time to let go.”
“Fifteen years ago wasn’t soon enough?” My mother looks at me quickly before glancing away again.
“I am sorry that I didn’t abandon your father or padlock you to the house if that’s what you want to hear,” she says in a soft, yet defiant voice.
“You sure as hell didn’t” I respond, stepping forward. “You were too busy locking yourself in the bathroom all the time to notice!” I begin to shift my weight back and forth, biting my cheek a little. My mother is silent. “And Dad wasn’t exactly present either.”
 “Those were troublesome years for us, yes, but I won’t stand here and pretend that I didn’t try to protect you. I wasn’t the one you wanted to be with – ”
“That’s enough, Mom, he’s dead.” I interrupt her and turn towards the window. After a few seconds of silence I speak again. “I think you should go,” I whisper. In the next moment, I feel her hands on my shoulders and I flinch, but do not move away. Her touch is light and gentle, yet her grip is firm.
“My darling,” she whispers back, “why did you run away with him?” Tears fall silently down my face, leaving marks on my already stained t-shirt. I shake my head trying to remember to breathe. My mother holds me tightly, and I sob softly in her embrace. “It is time to let go,” she says.
A few weeks later I am moved into my mother’s house and have transferred restaurants. It is my first week on the new job and I have started working morning shifts. The customers are usually more laid back and the general environment is a lot less chaotic. I am a half hour away from finishing my shift when I notice a man sitting at a table near the back of my section, waiting to be waited on. From far away the resemblance is uncanny.  I approach him and although he only orders an omelet and a black coffee, I stay chatting with him for the amount of time it takes to order for a whole family.  His laugh is light and his eyes display years of smiles.  When I bring the check, he writes a number on the receipt at which I am invited to call him. He grins as he leaves, his smooth, grey hair combed back loosely.
My hands shake when I try to put on lipstick, though I have never been very good at making myself look attractive. I used to never worry about superficial things because I once believed I didn’t have to. I close my eyes and spin slowly in circles, and for a few seconds I pretend I am a princess. But he is here now, at my door and there is no more time to wait, only to risk.  My hair and makeup are in a somewhat satisfactory state and as for the dress I am wearing, I was once told I looked good in pink, though I haven’t worn the color in ages. The quivering of my hands ceases as I let him into the apartment. He stands still and calm while I grab my coat, and soon we are through the hallway. His hand feels warm resting on my lower back, and I start to remember what a gentleman is. He opens car doors, makes easy conversation, and laughs like there is nothing to be afraid of.  At dinner he orders a moderate dish and I tell the waiter I would like the same.
Although two hours is usually my limit for a first date, his enthusiasm and playful banter push the evening along pleasantly.  I laugh like I have not laughed in years, and when he compliments the diamond earrings I am wearing, I smile.
CONTINUED>>>http://kimberlondon.blogspot.com/2010/05/diamonds-revised-continued-uncle.html







The Diamonds [ Revised ] CONTINUED>>>


Uncle Raymond loved me very much.  And I loved him very much.  He would tell me I was his little princess, and I loved him for saying that because I always wanted to be a princess. I was once in a play about a princess and a pea, and since I was the princess I got to wear a tiara for the whole day at school. So, Uncle Raymond took me shopping, and he bought me the prettiest sparkly tiara I have ever seen. I looked so beautiful that Mama even put up a few pictures of me on the refrigerator in all my jewels and high heels. But the other day in class, my teacher had each of us draw pictures of what we wanted to be when we grow up, and when I turned in a drawing of myself in a pink dress and a purple crown, she told me that I could not be a princess if I was not born one. I cried and gave my picture to Uncle Raymond the next day, and he said he thought it belonged in a story book. He had me put my tiara back on as he told me a wonderful story about a princess who didn’t know she was a princess.  Then he said that for all we knew maybe I really was a princess, just waiting to be discovered. I wore my tiara for a whole week after that.
I always believed that Uncle Raymond saw things in a different way than most people did.  Like the time he convinced my parents to let me go to the rodeo.  He told them it was going to be a grand time for the two of us and that they didn’t need to worry a bit. Although Papa didn’t need much convincing, Mama wasn’t so sure about letting me go watch “such wild and reckless foolishness.” Raymond assured her with his sweet smile and big white teeth that it was a great sporting event and also an educational experience.  He said he would be right by my side the whole time. And he was, and that was one of the best days I ever had. We laughed at the clowns and their silly movements, we cheered for our favorite cowboy, and I stuffed myself with enough cotton candy to “turn my brain into sugar,” Raymond said as he bought me another one.  But the next week when Raymond offered to take me to the movies, my Mama protested saying she didn’t think the one he’d chosen was appropriate for my age. Yet, once again Uncle Raymond was able to convince her that although the film was about war, it was also an enchanting love story. Mama finally gave in, telling us that she was too tired to say no. So we went to see it and although there were a few times he had to cover up my eyes, I felt like a real grownup cause I didn’t see any other children in the theater. 
Uncle Raymond was always doing things like that for me, but for some reason Mama didn’t approve of him very much. She said that his smile could tame a stallion. When I looked up that word (stallion) in the dictionary I decided it made sense since Raymond sometimes played horse and pony with me. Raymond and I liked to play together a lot because Mama didn’t let me have fun in the house ever.  Some days I would watch her at her desk below the window in the front room, and I could see her staring but could never tell what she was looking at. The view from our street was rather dull and the houses all looked the same.  Every once in awhile I would see our neighbors walk by, but they never waved hello even when my mother was sitting at her desk. Mama never went out except maybe once a month for church on Sundays, so I invited her to come along with me and Raymond on an adventure. She said that she wasn’t feeling well and that I might be sick too so I should stay home but I didn’t have a cough or anything.  Mama was sick most of the time so I stopped asking her to play with me. I never saw Papa take care of her and whenever I tried to help she wouldn’t let me. When I asked Raymond if I ever made him sad he said that that was impossible because princesses always made princes happy. I was very glad to make somebody happy.
Mama kept staring for the next few months, and I started to notice wrinkles beneath her eyes. There were some special vitamins in her bathroom cabinet and one morning I tried to eat them. She got very upset at me and told me I was too little to be taking vitamins. Sometimes I would see small bottles of them in her purse and would wonder what they tasted like. Mama never went anywhere without them, so they must have been good. She didn’t smile very much anymore, and I wondered if she missed me when I was with Raymond. There seemed to always be something she was trying to say before he came to take me away. Papa never minded when I left the house, but then again he was rarely ever home to miss me.  I never heard Papa speak of Raymond even though they were twin brothers, and Raymond didn’t say hello anymore when he picked me up at the house. My Papa was gone most of the time “on business” Mama said. When Papa wasn’t away, he stayed in his office for long periods of time. I sometimes tried to listen at his door but could never hear anything. Some days it was the closest I could ever get to him.
Papa was a “working man” as Mama called it.  She said that Papa didn’t have time for trifles and though I didn’t know what a trifle was, I knew that it had something to do with me and that Papa wanted nothing to do with me.  He didn’t usually speak to me or Mama – just a few words here or there, when he needed something from us. Mama said that he had a lot on his plate and that he needed space, but I figured our house was big enough for the three of us and that it wasn’t the space that Papa needed. 
The summer after I went into fourth grade marked a change in Papa. It was late August and he stormed into the house on one of those nights that was really dark and wet. He didn’t look at me or Mama when he walked through the door, he just threw his raincoat onto the couch and then shut himself in his office.  I was frightened because I hadn’t heard any doors slammed in our house before.  The book I was reading was on the couch, and Mama had gone upstairs to her bedroom when I heard the door to the office open. Looking up, I saw Papa walking towards me, a piece of his hair hanging down over his eyebrow. Yelling, he asked about some envelope he had left by the door earlier that day, and when I didn’t answer right away he grabbed me by my shirt, which pinched the back of my neck. I didn’t look at him when he screamed in my face, all I could think about was the bitter breath that I smelled.  Then he started to curse and swing his arms around. After he had thrown me to the floor, that’s when Mama came downstairs and Papa went away again. My face stung as Mama wiped away my tears. She said Papa was probably just tired, but he had never hit me before when he was tired. There was something wrong with Papa and it wasn’t the fact that he had slapped me across the face, but rather the look in his eyes that terrified me.  I hid in my closet for awhile with the telephone from the basement and dialed Uncle Raymond’s number which I had memorized.  His voice was sweet and tender, the same as it always was – and for a moment I forgot about my angry father.  After a few seconds, Raymond asked if I had been crying, and then I really couldn’t stop. As I told him what had happened I heard shouting in the kitchen and then footsteps on the stairs. Covering the receiver, I sobbed into the phone and Raymond sang to me.
            I didn’t see Papa for the rest of the night, partly because he never came out of his office and partly because I was rescued. Slipping downstairs with my pillow and pajamas, I told Mama that I was spending the night at my best friend Sophie’s house, even though she was out of town.  I ran out to meet the headlights of the car which was so familiar, and Raymond met me with a big hug and a warm kiss. The next weekend I called him again and I didn’t see Papa for three whole days after. On these “Rescue Knights,” as we began to call them, Uncle Raymond and I made up a game where I was the damsel in distress and he was my knight in shining armor.  I always felt safe in his arms. Mama didn’t really know where I disappeared to most of the time because Raymond said it was our little secret. She thought that I was at Sophie’s house, though I barely talked to Sophie anymore.
            There was a place in my heart that felt sorry for Raymond. After all, he and my father were twin brothers, though for me that was hard to believe. I had never known two people to be such opposites. It seemed unfair that Papa got what Raymond wanted: a good job, a wife, and a child, while Raymond had no family of his own and has been a 3rd grade teacher ever since he graduated from college. And yet, I was not sure that Papa wanted what he had anymore. Raymond said he wished they could trade places sometimes and I wished that too. Whenever I tried to speak to Papa, I always felt like there was something behind me, or around me that caused his eyes to wander all about, though I never saw anything. On the day before my birthday I asked Papa if he knew what kind of surprise I was going to get. He told me he had forgotten it was my birthday and that I shouldn’t expect more than I deserved. The next day he left for a business trip and didn’t even leave a card or call, but Raymond did. Uncle Raymond spent the whole day with me. He bought me the prettiest pink dress, and we went out to town together. Raymond called it a date, like what mamas and papas were supposed to go on except I’d never seen my papa take my mama out before. I’d never seen Papa touch Mama like Raymond touched me. The simplest touch from Papa is now painful to me, but Raymond’s simplest gesture is gentle, his arms held me tight and when we hugged I like to smell the extra cologne he put on his shirt just for me.
When I turned eleven, Mama said we had to have a conversation together.  It was a Sunday afternoon, and she was wearing that same light blue dress with the ribbons at the back that she wore every time she went to church. She sat me down in the sitting room, which seemed appropriate with all those chairs in there and nobody ever sitting. Then she told me things about myself that I never knew before, things that were going to happen to my body and what might start going through my head.  She said I wasn’t allowed to spend any more time with Raymond. She told me that Raymond and I were very different and that it wasn’t appropriate for me to be around him anymore. I listened to as much as I could bear and nodded when I felt she needed me to, but I called Raymond after that talk with mama. When I thought she was napping, I sneaked out my bedroom window and ran down the street to meet him so he could take me out to ice cream. We both loved ice cream and always got the same flavor: Chocolate chip cookie dough, and we always let each other have a lick because one scoop might taste different, Raymond said – even though they were the same every time.
            It wasn’t until my thirteenth birthday, when Raymond bought me a diamond necklace and the most beautiful ring to go along with it, that my mama tried to end things for good.  I heard them fighting on the phone for a long time and although Mama went outside I could still hear her yelling. I sat at the table, admiring the sparkling flecks of light reflecting off my first diamond ring. I put it on the same finger Mama wore hers but I was only able to wear it for one day. When  Mama got off the phone she took it away from me, and she took the necklace too. She told me I wasn’t going to be allowed to see Uncle Raymond ever again and I was very upset that she could ruin something so beautiful. I didn’t speak to her for almost a week, until I couldn’t find the bleach for the load of whites I wanted to wash and had to ask her where it was. Mama and I didn’t talk about anything special or important together for a long time.  She had once given me life and now she was a destroyer of life, or what happiness there was to be had in it.  Sometimes I would search her room for my jewelry while she was away, but I never found anything. Though I gave up the search, I was still desperate for some communication with the only person who really loved me.
            Papa still ignored me, and I think Mama was afraid of me. I am their only daughter and yet I never was their daughter. I was only ever Raymond’s daughter, his friend, and his little lover bug as he once called me.  I tried not to forget the way he used to look at me. I tried not to forget the soft features of his face, or the way his rough and calloused hands always felt on my skin. Mama didn’t notice the broken latch on my window sill and she never found the last letter Raymond wrote to me or his last gift; she didn’t know that the earrings I wore on special occasions were real diamonds.

Saturday, January 30, 2010

On the go...

I wrote this poem as I was listening to John Mayer's song Friends, Lovers or Nothing and the following line: "Anything other than stay is go" got me thinking. I looked down at the current poetry definition I was recording for my midterm coming up next week and it was RHYTHM: a measured movement. But how could I attempt to "define," [literally from Latin finire-to limit,] or even remotely restrict such a thing as rhythm? The whole exercize in itself seemed futile.


Thus, I began to sketch a short poem about rhythm and try to work with how rhythm plays out in everday life. This is the result:


"3. measured movement"
Roads entwining, winding, binding.
Hoof beats swiftly grinding, grinding.
Your voice lifting, laughing, lulling.
Tantrums often pushing, pulling.
Hurry, for we must get going!
Moving, moving, never slowing/

Rivers flowing, raging, roaring.
Herons watching, sometimes soaring.
Youthful chanting, singing, songing.
Tiptoe whispers, sleepers yawning.
Hear, Oh Israel, your longing:
Moving, moving every morning/

Rest, ye weary on-the-goers,
Healing for you harvest sowers.
You will find your peace beside me.
Thirst no more, for I will guide thee.
Hearts once pounding, always racing.
Moving...moving...now embracing/







Wednesday, January 27, 2010

THE DESOLATION


Dream invades my mind like a shadow
                               
                *

The hunt for hungry hearts foretells my gift:
                A vision learned deep inside my skull.
The dusting and defining of a wish –
                A warped imagination I forego.
A hundred heads of hell betray my lust
As I arise from ashes, then to dust.
Yet now I choose to focus on the grip
Which bids this solitary soul to Rest In Peace.

I am Mary crouching as I weep beside a bed of wondrous promise.
Fulfillment ravished me – yet somehow I am chaste;
Of bile and of blood I taste.
This holy thing I bear will give me life,
Though doubt again imprisons me like the empty words I whisper to myself.
Here am I, your servant, trembling  
Not so much a victim as a virgin.


                  *

Alone I listen for some evidence of truth
As I stamp out the last trace of light
which lingers on my cigarette.

Tuesday, January 19, 2010

Look

Oh Learner, to the leaves in the road.


Look to the tree that is resting above.


Look from the branches, which lead to the sky.


Look high, oh learner, look high.


Look to the birds which rest in the tree.


Look to their nests which rest within.


Look at the leaves they have left in their nest,


The leaves from the tree they are resting in.


Look to the sky which captures the scene,


Look at the blue which beams from above.


Look to the lake which points back to the sky.


Look high, oh Learner, look high.


Thursday, January 7, 2010



The Man with the Purple Heart


     A pair of off-white Reeboks rest beneath an antique bench that he bought at a garage sale in the sixties. The tapestry which drapes over the bench is faded and smells of dust and pine needles. His wife made it for their first anniversary and it has rested there ever since their last together. Her ashes lie above the fireplace in the front room in a Grecian vase that his mother-in-law purchased for their wedding. Beside the vase, a crinkled paper drawing of three stick figures holding hands is framed with a wood that doesn’t match any surrounding furniture in the room. Floral printed couches encircle the fireplace, an ideal setting for a story teller complete with a wooden rocking chair in the corner. But the rocking chair does not face into the room; its back is turned away from the central living space and positioned towards the west window of the house.


     Bill Arkmeyer sits in that chair every evening around 7:00pm in the winter time and nine or ten o’clock in the summer. Each night he wears the blue bomber jacket they issued him in the air force. He never fails to watch the sun disappear behind the skyscrapers that didn’t used to be there ten years ago.  A knotted, wool blanket covers his lap and some nights the cat curls itself between his bony knees, falling asleep on its back. Bill remembers bringing Lily home from the hospital and sitting right there with her bundled in his lap looking up at him for the first time with those deep questioning eyes, the eyes everyone said were his. A few tears descend onto his cheeks as he struggles to remember the things she used to say and her favorite outfits.


     A plane makes its way across the sky, silhouetted against the deepening violet horizon. He sees the cockpit and imagines himself looking out across a grey sea; the temperature is below zero and his wingman is running low on fuel. The aircraft carrier is located almost one hundred and fifty miles away. He looks back at the lagging jet behind him, calling in on the radio for a status report. His wingman mumbles, talking rapidly. Panic. His heart pounds like some living thing dying to break free. Slowing his own aircraft, he responds over radio signaling the fellow pilot to follow his descent into the foreboding mist ahead.
              
     The winter sun is shy, abandoning the earth like some stranger at a holiday party, the same parties he, himself no longer attends. Bill’s eyes water and the salty drips fill the creases which line his lids, trickling down his face like a meandering stream into a delta of wrinkles. A few joints crack as he props his arms and lifts himself from the unsteady chair. The scene before him is now black, save the dim glow of a street lamp at the end of the block. The lamp beside him glares in the window and he folds the blanket, turning away from his solitary reflection. Standing before the fireplace he slips his hand into the breast of his jacket, where his gnarled fingers clench a small war medal. Around his neck hangs a gold chain and a locket, inside of which is a picture of two women: one with brown eyes, and one with dark blue ones. Closing his own dark blue eyes, Bill smiles and looks at the crinkled drawing again.