Chiaroscuro And Cats

I see his shadow as he walks around the house, playing in the sunshine pouring through the open windows. He throws diffused light from his sandy fur, alternately brightening and darkening the ivory walls and honeyed hardwood floor. His footsteps, inaudible in the grass and sand of the outdoors, ring out here, reminding of his presence with a comforting rhythm. He knows just when to jump up next to me for a gentle smoothing of his fur, just how to turn so I will pet him at just the right angle, and how to bite gently enough so that I know he is not truly angry. He watches the sunrise each morning, and always greets me cheerfully with a chirp I am always pleasantly surprised to hear. He purrs for no reason: well, for no reason other than that he is perfectly content. He needs only food, water, space to hunt, and human interaction…anything else is wonderful and extraneous. A true minimalist, he can amuse himself with nothing more than light and the quiet noise of his own movement. Perhaps, though, he perceives more than I, myself, do: perhaps he sees further than the light show to the heart of not just this chiaroscuro, but to the heart of chiaroscuro, the true nature of light and shadow. And yet, how can a simple cat see to the heart of shadow and light? Perhaps, then, it is merely my imagination, placing human traits into the actions of a friendly, familiar cat, comforting myself in my lonely nature by granting him, in my mind, a nature similar to my own. As his head bumps my hand, though, I am reminded of a simple fact. As I gently scratch behind his ears and he stretches luxuriously, I remind him, “You are, indeed, still a cat, capable of anything a cat is capable of: but I am not sure of everything a cat is capable of, and therefore must continue to wonder.”

 A purr is my only response. 

Drives

(This was a prototype, so to speak, of a new way of finding inspiration and honing my writing skills. Just so you know.) 

I thought at first he bribed me with the food. He would take me on long drives to the city and take me to exotic restaurants, foreign cafes. Sometimes, it was just cheap fast food, but usually whatever he could afford. I used to think that he bribed me with the food until one day I realized: it wasn’t these far-off places that excited him. He wanted to show me the drive, he wanted to share it with me. As soon as I realized this, but more importantly, as soon as he knew that I had realized it, he began taking me on just drives. We would pack up sack lunches and go to the country for a change. It was different from the city air: it was lighter, and more free. The sky was bigger, and on those rare occasions when we went out at night, we would stare up at the stars, and they would shine brighter, and fill up more of the sky. They would be more filling, somehow, than those small, distant planets we would see in the city at night. Sometimes we drove through the trees, and in the early spring, we watched the trees bloom. The leaves were at first like a green mist on the brown branches, but not even a week passed before they had grown. Now, when we drove through these backroads, it was almost like looking through a green cathedral, the branches and new leaves forming beautiful gothic arched naves. We would see everything for what it was: the stars, the trees, the birds, the sky, and the clouds. For us, it was enough. 

Paper and Ink

(Try reading this one while listening to 'Gone So Long' by Breathe Carolina.) 

Empty coffee cups, pads of paper bleeding my ink. Stories swirl around me, pulled by the gravity of my imagination. Take what you will, and take what you need: I have enough for everyone. What you see is a smile, and what lurks beneath the surface of my thoughts is a river, wide and deep, strong enough to drown you, gentle enough to refresh you. Skin like eggshells, so delicate and beautiful, protected by the armor no one sees. Read my lips, guess my mind. Blankets and warm fires, strong sunlight and warm water, I will keep you content and give you a place to grow. Gently, I spread my wings and feel the ripples around me, life like drops of water in a lake. Stories are all around us, new and beautiful. Words live within us, powerful and nurturing. Some cannot see, some close their eyes, and others leave what they cannot understand for the closeness of their own worlds. Strong hands shall cradle your dreams, saving them like fireflies in beautiful mosaic jars. Leaving the nest, forgetting the rest, passing the test: strive for my understanding. Close your eyes and breathe in, feel the black and white march across the white waters of the world. Breathe out, and spread your paper wings across the calico skies. Maybe you will shrink away, afraid of the vast emptiness beyond your comprehension. Maybe you will fill it with your ideas, words, stories, drawings, and all your creations. But maybe, just maybe, as you look out to the void, you will understand that there must always be a small corner, an escape from the bustling of today and the rustling of paper, that can never be filled. Curl up, and go to sleep here, with open hands and a peaceful mind. Come out when you are ready, and begin again. 

On the Wing

Soundtrack: On The Wing by Owl City

Wide-eyed, feel the slow rhythm pulse in time with your breathing. In, out, in, out, as deep as the tide and as wide as your soul. Deep blue, beating heart. Oceans fill you with the waves, even as you walked on the paved roads of the city’s center. Walk in the woods, smell the pines around you. Walk, run, and then glide over the fallen leaves, the wood loam, the sea foam, the firm and soft sands, the asphalt, the colored glass. Stand apart, look over the balcony and see beyond. Neon dreams and flashing signs neither distract nor detract, not so far down under the surface. Curl up in your apartment bed, and wake to find yourself in the mountains. Follow the soft, swelling tide all the way to the center of yourself. Reach out and stretch, never lose your starry gaze as you see past the mass of humanity that neither adds nor takes away, but simply is. Rise up, and feel the sky scrape your back as you fly. No, not fly: that is no way to describe this. You float over the earth, neither judge nor creator, but simply a watcher. See every vein in every leaf, every grain of sand, every drop in the ocean, every pane of stained glass, and yet, still take in the forest, the beach, the great, seething sea, and the cathedrals standing as sentinels against the night. The pearls that shine in the sea, deep in their protected shells, have nothing against you. They wait, watch against their time. They know they will one day leave, to grace the old arcades and grand old avenues. So too the gems in the mountains, hidden and sleeping. Float above all this, do not take part, until you are as a star in the sky to the people watching below. The words that will never echo from your mouth again sound forth in the deepest tiers of your soul. “Are you there?” Once again, become aware of the rhythm and pull of the sea, the oceans, and the moon. “Are you there?” Breathe in the sand, the pine needles, the stones of the mountains, the grains of the beach, the feathers of all the birds, the clouds in the sky, and the water on the face of the Earth. It is enough. “Or are you just a decoy dream, in my head?”

It is enough. 

She Has A Way With Words

“She has a way with words.”

She cast her spells as casually as she threw aside her cloak in the springtime, weaving intricate stories where there was no visible loom. Like ripples in a pond, her words and feats of mouth spread, reaching everyone in her small worlds and beyond. Count her as a friend, and you will never die. Make her your enemy, and she shall smite you down with power you never knew could be housed in her stately frame. And yet, most only see the effects of her words, the symptoms of her greatness. They never know, never will find out what really transpires, behind the scenes as it were, in her mind. They hear her words and look to her lips: a wonderful, lucky few see her stories play out behind their eyelids, and then look to her mind. She is free. She is a princess in her tower, a passenger on a mysterious ship, a warrior resting before battle, a weary soul laying down to rest, a young girl finding love, a star in the endless night sky. If only there was a lens through which you could see her lives, her stories, her imagination, you would never take it off, never leave her side. Her words, her words! They worry and tease, they sting and bite, they soothe and heal, they rip and tear, they rise and fall with the cadence of her every mood. If only there was a way to share intimately this great mind, to touch thoughts, to let her fill you, make you overflow with the wonderful things she has to show! In comparison, you feel your own words fall flat. Nonetheless, you must try and that statement that emerges becomes such a complement, and yet, it is hard to ignore how small and inconsequential it is before the great sky of her stories.

“She has a way with words.” 

Viewpoints

Let the city fill you up, let it overwhelm you. You can drown in the noise, burn yourself with the movements, and immerse your mind in the rhythms, take your pictures and then follow me out to the desert. Breathe in the smell of the creosote after the afternoon rain, feel your heart beat even faster as you race above the sand on two to four wheels, and laugh with delight as you find a relic of Indian life. Come down to the valley, nestled in the shade of pine and pecan trees, and sip on sweet tea as you watch alfalfa ripple like water in the wind. Hear the guitars strum and soft voices harmonize against a blazing sunset, and later, take a walk under a sky overflowing with stars. You may go back to your city, with its mindless rhythms and thoughtless days, but remember how you felt here in the desert you may prefer your city, but I belong to the desert. 

Dancing With Strangers

Stepping out of the carriage, I take a moment to stare at this grand palace, but only a moment. It would not be seemly to appear late, or to hold up the next arriving guest. I sweep up the stairs, and find my way through the palace to the grand hall, already filled with wonderful music and dancing couples. The footmen announce my arrival as soon as the song is over, and everyone takes a moment to bow to me, the guest of honor, as I carefully make my way over to the dance floor. Every young man my age is expected to take a dance with me, and I am soon swinging from arm to arm, dancing gracefully, sweeping around the room in my beautiful ball gown, seemingly made of leaves and vines. The great crystal chandelier floats above us in a sky made of gold and pink clouds. Everything here is perfect, and the music is simply grand. It is easy to dance to such tunes, my body easily swaying and molding to the shapes the sounds dictate to me. How beautiful this evening is, surrounded by friends, meeting beautiful strangers, and taking part in the festivities. But yet, something seems to flicker at the edges of my vision. Something is changing, something important. For a while, I cannot remember, but then, I glance at the ceiling. It is changing. The wonder sky painted upon it is fading, is changing. No longer the marvelous colors of the sunset sky, it is fading into greys and dark blues. As soon as I realize this, everything else starts to change as well. The guests take their leave, and fade into the air. The footmen announce the next song, but all I hear is a light breeze, rustling through the trees. I stand, and slowly turn, surveying my new surroundings. I am merely standing in an orchard, the dead leaves rustling under my feet. The sun has just set, and in the twilight, I can see my plain brown and green dress. Maybe I was never in a ballroom, maybe I never danced with those people, and maybe I never heard that glorious music: but in my mind, I hold those memories, memories of a dance that had never truly happened.