An Open Letter to My Fall 2008 Finals

Dearest Finals,

Allow me to first clear the air by apologizing for recently saying that I detest your very existence, when in fact, detest is short of my exact feelings for you. I do not detest you; I do realize that you a necessity by someone labeled "The Powers That Be" and are indeed not to blame for the misery you cause so many people in a plight not unlike my own. I really gave you my all this week, Finals, and even a good portion of last week! All I wanted was to be merited for my efforts, and after completing your most recent task this morning for a class you jokingly refer to as "physics", I fear that your merits will fall short of my desires. Have you no idea how I stressed over you? My social life ceased to exist for nearly two weeks, Finals. That is quite a task for me! Have you no idea!? Sigh. I apologize for being angry at you, for belittling you to my companions and co-workers, to my family, and virtually anyone else who would listen. Dishonoring you and damning you eternally to hell was not my intention, it is however...just what happened.

So as I sit here with your burden FINALLY lifted off my shoulders, I must say to you Dear Finals...I'll see you in the late spring and fuck you.



Warmest Regards and Happy Holidays,

Crys Tidwell

I Think We Need A Song, Love

His lips parted as he mustered up the courage to speak his heart, sweat rising to the surface of his callused palms, his mouth not unlike a West Texas July. His brow creased by partial fear and partial anticipation. The laugh lines that furrowed near the edges of his eyes gave a James Dean-like mystery to his eyes, but they were somehow securely comforting - or so he thought. They were a green she had never seen, but she knew from the first time he looked into her that he would change her. She'd sooner be left alone than to look back into his eyes and surrender her life to his every desire. She knew it to be impossible to be in his presence and not fall for him. He spoke directly to her, never giving any room for innuendo and rightfully took his place as her Renaissance man, molded from his Mother's spirit, his Father's strength, his heart's passion, and his love's weakness. Again he inhaled. His lips parted. She knew the words to follow would forge their relationship one stone closer to down the road. The words came... I think we need a song, Love.

Tingles of relief and flattery flooded her every inch sending her into a quick shiver as though a cold breeze had blown on the nape of her neck. Intimidated by his every word, she knew he spoke with fortitude and intent. He had thought about every word of that short sentence; chose each word for some obscure reason, but he ended it with his adoring name for her- "Love". Her looks could build him up or break him down in a glance, the way his words did with the pause of an ellipses.

He once spoke of her to the clerk at the perfume counter, telling the dignified woman that he was looking for something that would draw nigh the feeling he got when they stood on the beach, toes in the sand, palms touching. The woman knew this moment he spoke of, for she'd had it thirty five years ago with her then college sweetheart which brought that loving smile one only sees from such a beautiful matriarchal woman.

After the shiver subsided, she smiled her secret smile nodded and spoke softly, "You are my song, Love".

Cosmo, Cover Girl, and Courage

If you've ever seen me eat anything off the bone, then you know I've a fairly decent metabolism. Much to the dismay of my friend Brandy, I can't help but tear up some chicken and or ribs when they're on the bone. In fact, I suppose if you've ever sat next to me at all when I'm eating, then you know I have Big Black's appetite and Rob's body. Indeed, it is that of an 11 year old boy.
So the other day I overheard a conversation between two women who were large women. By no means where they fat, but they were big. Both very attractive, well dressed, perfect hair, makeup, Gucci sunglasses, the nine yards...The conversation between these women, we'll call them Marissa and... hm... I don't know Constance. Both women were in their mid twenties to early thirties, professional, proper, but you could tell these two chicks could walk into any room and make it the place people want to be. Casually drinking their martinis with a twist of class and scene, they discussed ...in their words... "skinny bitches". Apparently, I fall under this particular sect of society. Regardless of the "inner fat kid" I affectionately refer to that lives within my dermis, the world sees a "skinny bitch". Marissa, Constance, I apologize for leaning in closer and taking eaves dropping one step further to listening. :) However, .... it seems to me that women that are not what Cosmo considers "ideal" weight and height proportions have a little bit of a chip on their shoulder. Granted, they have been self-conscious about their size for probably the better part of their lives. I'm sure when I was being heckled about the size of my breast, the shape of my apple bottom booty, and my ridiculously nappy hair that on a playground in a town or city across the US that these women were being heckled about that one solitary gene trait that is visible to the world upon introduction. I've a special place in my heart for anyone that struggles unhappily with weight. Trust. I'm very close to a lot of people that struggle with weight. I'm also very close to people that are big and completely happy with it. Look at Monique (sp?) and Queen Latifah. Both are incredibly beautiful, confident, and bigger. I've dated bigger women, and I've dated skinnier women. There is no difference in the beauty of a woman's heart. Her heart knows no size. Infact, if anything I would say that people that have those few extra pounds are generally nicer and more empathetic to the world around us. ... I didn't know for a long time that I fit into the class of "skinny bitch". I would see preppy little girls with their size one jeans and mini-skirts and Uggs (thank you baby Jesus for those), and inside would curse them or judge them. Eventually I came to realize that these women are just living their lives. It wasn't my place to judge them.
You didn't choose your genes. You didn't choose your hair, your eyes, your smile, your hands, your dimples, or your weight. Neither did I. I would never refer to anyone as a "fat bitch". Never. You and I live the same life. We eat the same portions. We eat the same restaurants and same food at home, we drink the same amount, and exercise to the most minimal amount possible, yet for some reason... my ancestory endowed me with a small frame. Please don't refer to us as "skinny bitches" any longer. We didn't do anything any differently than you've done, just got the long straw, so to speak. Refrain from comments like, "god, you make me sick! you're so skinny...", or "You can do that because you're skinny..." and all comments of the sort. Cut us a break! We're just livin our lives
That first stone is not for me to cast

The Most Important Moment

Lat in the night - or perhaps early in the morning, my pup heard a bump- or maybe she didn't, but the neighbor dog did and that triggered my little Jack Russell to suddenly experience a spurt of courage and growth and in an instant turn into the bull mastiff's twin. Her protective defenses went up and she was for the duration of maybe two muntes The Sandlot or Hooch or another protective dog with a name far more fierce that Scout. But my Scout was awakened from a quiet slumber deep beneath the quilts and sheets somewhere touching my feet. See, my Scout has a security complex and must alway be in the company of a human or her best friend and nemisis, Asmo. That's neither here nor there. From her slumber she chareged the window to size up the bump in the night. Much to her dismay-there was no one outside, but in that moment she first heard the Massive Mastiff next door there was nothing so important in all her little terrier life. Tearing through the sheets like a maniac, struggling to find the head of the bed as said maniac would battle out of a straight jacket until alas... free. Darting towards the window, ripping the curtains back pressing her face beyond the blinds electrified with adrenaline and ready for her protective heart to defend my sleeping one. There was nothing more important to Scout in that moment than being in that window. And so it is also me - This morning I had the tenacity of Scout when I woke. Our hearts both sizably measured up and our imaginations left unbridled. Whatever may be on the loom is for my wild pen to create.

A Notion of Importance

"I'll have a triple venti, half-caff, sugar-free, vanilla, skim latte". "You want a triple venti, half-caff, sugar-free vanilla, skim latte?" "Yeah", she mumbled as she dug deep into her Coach bag while quickly fetching her falling Dulce & Gabana glasses from her mound of perfectly highlighted hair. "That'll be 8.79. I NEED A TRIPLE VENTI, HALF-CAFF, SUGAR-FREE, VANILLA, SKIM LATTE!" I stood there, knowing I should have disregarded my desire to step out of my comfortable, non-conformist box by visiting this urbanized, over-priced, commercial deliverer of the Nectar of the Gods I commonly refer to as ..."coffee". Fact-of-the-matter is, I did not disregard such notion.

It all started three weeks ago at a fine dining restaurant in my quaint little town known locally to have the best wine selection to accommodate every plausible desire of dinner one may have. I had a fantastic (let me also mention that I only bring this up now, in the middle of my story only to express the fact that my mind quickly retreated back to this very evening as I stood behind Trista Trophywife) dinner of five courses with two appetizers, two entrees, and a wonderful creme brule. With the exception of the last mentioned, each course served with an astounding wine of baroque proportion from a far away land like... Portugal, Italy, and even Southern California, and Austin, Texas. The last of the courses brought out, being the desert, was recommended with either a rich Honduran coffee or a sweet Port from an undisclosed vineyard in Naples. Not having a fancy for Port and being an utter addict of coffee, I opted for the first recommendation from the waiter-by-day-theatre-actor-by-night server. Little did I know this moment was going to change my life and in fact one of my morals. I quickly drank the first of the series of three cups of warm, delicious, smooth... not-over-roasted, coffee with no cream, but a tad of raw turbine sugar. You see, I am somewhat of an activist of the Planet and try to consume less when given the utmost convenience provided, and this moment provided just such. The second was sipped down more slowly with a tad of cream and a slightly smaller than regular spoon-full of sugar. Having worked in the "food service industry" (in an effort to be politically correct) I know that the likely hood of getting a cup of decaf on request means little to nothing in the eyes of anyone paid an average of two dollars and thirteen cents in a job that pays the bills while he or she pursues a life of vibrancy through some other passion. Bottom line: I wasn't gettin' decaf. I couldn't help my new love for this exotic Honduran coffee! I thought perhaps I'd found a new bean! Something yet to hit the mass-supermarket aisles! Something so rare that my little locally owned corner-store coffee shop could not afford yet! Eureka! I've found the perfect coffee bean!! Somewhere near the end of my third cup, they are after all eight ounce cups and I'm used to at least twenty ounces each morning...I decided I had to know more of this romantically alluring steaming cup of goodness. I inquired of our ambiguously gay server for more information of my new Central American Amore. This is where my great revelation came. "Oh, it's just Starbucks." I blinked. I swallowed, quickly recanting on all my pleasure of my three oh-so-enticing cups of delicious hot blackness that the people of Honduras had hand-picked especially for my liking! I JUST ENJOYED STARBUCKS FAR MORE THAN I'VE EVER ENJOYED ANOTHER CUP OF COFFEE!!! Panic rushed through my veins, knowing I had just compromised my boycott, my largest and most staunch boycott I proudly boast of! GONE! I inhaled, swallowed again, smiled politely, and expressed my tribute to his returned civility.

Jump forward two and half weeks... here I am, behind Trista Trophywife, standing in line in my jeans, flip flops, and cap on a cool morning as the world quietly slumbers through the fog and drizzle. I thought I could sneak in and out before I noticed my own presence. Thank you, Trista; You are the single source behind my failure at this feeble attempt. Well, you and your triple venti, half-caff, sugar free, vanilla, skim latte of course, but I do not despise you for your absurd, insane, ridiculous, status-quo coffee order! No, it isn't you to blame.. it is The Man. The Man of delicious Honduran Coffee which created a mammoth desire upon my pallet for more! For The Man has made this accessible to you. I cannot hate you for that. I can however hate you for digging for change for approximately two minutes and thirty five seconds for seventy-nine cents rather than just getting twenty one in change.

This Could Be The Kiss That Counted

This brilliant one-liner from Catie Curtis rings true to my heart...
With each "first kiss" I've experienced, somewhere beyond the back of my mind further down than my heart-pumping ventricles to my core is my gut. This is where I've always known with each first kiss, that in fact... "this could could be the kiss that counted".

The Chance Family

There once was a chance I did not take. This chance came and blew by me with no regard to the fact that I, being the one to take said chance for granted, may have a second thought, my ambition or lack of luster there of, nor the hunger in mind to perhaps one day reflect back upon this chance, not unlike now... with regret. To you, Chance That Blew By Me, I say Shame! Shame on you, Chance! May I call you Chance? Why didn't you put me in contact with your cousin!? I assume he is your cousin due to the very name of which he is commonly referred by, "Second Chance". Perhaps he's closer than your second cousin. Are you not related to an entire brood of "chances"? I know you must be familiar with the stunning Missed Opportunity, who stands at the edge of the shadow and taunts those who have passed her by. Forgive my assumptions and arrogant ignorance, however... Occasion is your near twin! Nonetheless, why not contact him on my behalf? Why must you seal tightly the door and let my imagination run wild with fear, possibility, and curiosity without giving my eyes even but a glimer of what you may hold? Sigh..... screw you, Chance. Perhaps giving you a second thought is in vain at this point in our relationship. Do we even have a relationship now? You've moved on without me, and likely have fallen for another who just wooshed you away in your chancy little arms! HA! Take that, Chance! I hope your new owner uses you and takes you for granted for the very nature of which you are; A CHANCE!

Crackling Paint

I find myself standing entranced near the window sill. The paint has crackled from the slow leek of air brushing past for near eighty years. I can see the many layers of paint- layers upon layers. I wonder not if the woman that picked the ageing yellow to cover the red knew the effort she was to endure. My mind did not think of her husband sitting in his rocker, as I had imagined so many times before, reading his evening paper smoking his pipe by the low light from his lamp. No, this time my mind stands still as I face this paned window. Protected by the very thin glass, knowing at any moment it too can shatter like any other glass house.
I know you've come while I was away. I can smell your perfume in the air and hear your laughter filling the void of which once conversation stood tall. We made our own memories in this cottage. The wooden floors have scuffs and mars from our heels shuffling in the wee hours before dawn to the sound from the old wind up phonograph. Perhaps your timid energy lingers here in the silence of this now, every increasing empty silence.
Farewell, my Phantom Lover, Farewell

The Ever-Changing List Naive List

1) Learn to knit, so I can one day knit a blanket, scarf, or long chain for my grandchildren


2) Start and continue an exercise regime, even if it kills me


3) Do sit ups everyday for 3 months


4) Learn to accept my body and all it’s imperfections



5)Read novels I should have already read and classics I read a long time ago to see if my feelings have changed.



6) Kiss in Paris


7) Write a memoir in a villa near Tuscany


8) Buy furniture without anyone's approval


9) Take my children to a Broadway show.


10) Have children


11) Buy a Jeep


12) Spend a summer in New York



13) Finish writing a book


14) Buy something expensive for someone whom cannot afford it


15) Buy an old house and remodel it completely to my (our) likings


16) Have a date in a hot air balloon


17) Buy a 1963 VW Bug and restore as much as possible with my own hands.


18) Take my children to a Yankee's or Redsox game


19) Wear more organically produced clothing


20) Paint something I'm proud to hang in my home


21) Take a multi-vitamin every day until the bottle is gone.


22) Go through everything I own, in every room, and donate the things I do not use.


23) Build a deck out my back door.


24) Master a recipe and become well-known for it.


25) Have my Mother's "Mother's ring" fitted to my size


26) Master the guitar.


27) Get my cedar chest, Grandmother's China, and Grandmother's silverware from my parent's.


28) Get a box for my children's "keepsakes"


29) Become wildly active in a cause I believe in.


30) Visit Ireland and stand on the cliff in the pictures.


31) Visit South Africa


32) Get married!
33)
34)
35)
36)
37)
38) Adjust list regularly and always be mindful of it.
39) Visit Australia with the intention of never coming back.
40) Never be content with life. ALWAYS pursue passion for passion's sake

A Drifter's Barter

One last emeritus prayer
The familiar morning dew
I regretfully bid you adieu
I'm no longer content inhaling my native air

I'll soon be gone from these plains
Even now, I recall how the prairie raised me
I've traded the cottonwood and mesquite for the bluebonnets and heat
I look upon my youth with no disdain
"One ticket, please... for Southbound train"

Or Maybe You Do

You give your hand to me
Then you say hello
I can hardly speak
My heart is beating so
And anyone can tell
You think you know me well
But you don't know me
No, you don't know the one
Who dreams of you at night
And longs to kiss your lips
And longs to hold you tight
Oh I'm just a friend
That's all I've ever been
'Cause you don't know me
I never knew
The art of making love
Though my heart aches
With love for you
Afraid and shy
I've let my chance to go by
The chance that you might
Love me, too
You give your hand to me
And then you say good-bye
I watch you walk away
Beside the lucky guy
You'll never never know
The one who loves you so
Well, you don't know me
You give your hand to me,
baby Then you say good-bye
I watch you walk away
Beside the lucky guy
No, no, you'll never ever know
The one who loves you so
Well, you don't know me

The Wonder Years

We sit here in the still quiet of the Victorian decorated room
blankly starring at one another-
Two strangers intrigued and terrified.
What if she catches me?
What if she sees my interest?
Perhaps she was merely starring at the way my face blurred without her glasses
Perhaps she was afraid to look into my eyes.
I know I was intimidate by the depth I saw...
A lifetime worth of searching for someone to love her,
The One that would place their hands upon her skin and cause a fiery electric charge-
A life of walking cobblestone streets searching strangers' faces for intrigue
Only to turn up empty handed and met with curteous nods.
Growing up is never easy. On anyone.
Her hunger for life and zealous intention for love and passion made it more difficult than most
For she... she knew that her Someone was searching the indiscriminate places too

You have broken me all the way down,down upon my knees.And you have broken me all the way down,you'll be the last, you'll see.Some fight you gave,and I pushed you awayfrom me.And in the morning when you turn inI'll be far to sea.And you have broken me all the way down.You'll be the last, you'll see.And what chance have we gotwhen you've missed every shotfor me?And in the morning when you turn inI'll be out of reach.And in the darkness when you find thisI'll be far to sea.And you have broken me all the way down.You'll be the last, you'll see.

Things I Want to Write About, But Cannot.

Your eyes
Your smile
The feeling you make me feel.
The helplessness I feel when I think of you
The hunger I have
World Peace
Adoption
South Africa
Brown eyes
The satisfying feeling a Snickers and Coke makes me feel. ...
The questions I have in my head...
But most of all... was it real.

Concubine

Concubine...
Her eyes mysterious and dark like South African chocolate
Her lips full and round, flawlessly shaped and withholding a secret skeleton of which she'll never release even if given the key
Her body mimics a willow tree in the breeze swaying to and fro
Her drawn-out dark curls draped over her shoulders and down her back.
You can't help but watch Mona Lisa move about the room.
She knows everyone- calls them by "Baby", kisses their cheek and squeezes the lines right out of them.
The smooth are left rigid. The effortlessly gracious left to stumble over awkward moments even after her perfume is all that stays
I've watched her before, move about this crowd or that, always captivating every eye and curiosity- mine no exception.
She moves towards me, perched by the piano, cocktail in-hand. Her eyes light the way the do for everyone.
She greets me by wrapping her arms around me, pressing her body to mine, our cheeks touching and I dare whisper...
"I've never been a concubine".
I feel her full lips curl as her tongue makes its way along the lower of the two, sucking it in - takes my hand from my side, and leads me to the exit.

Summertime

On the far side of the sky is a rolling green field of which Ireland was patterned after. Erupting from this meadow stands a magnolia tree with a white blanket spread beneath it.

There on the blanket a meal has been placed; a meal of exotic fruits and from every corner of the world. Each hand picked and measured for its imperfect beauty, though ripened to distinction. A slight breeze comes from the west bringing with it the warm sun which beats down upon your smooth, freckled, perfect skin. A smile of calmness stretches across your face as your head rests gently upon my thigh. Though our bodies are perpendicular in this moment, our hearts have synchronized to one another's pace. I can feel your silken hair fall through my fingers as I hum our heart song.

Starlight Night

We lay hand in hand, head to head, eye to eye
The stars staring down, as if they were in envy
The moon radiating light upon us, as if it we were a showcase
The passion which was united, a passion of true love
Passion which wrote upon paper, can never portray my passion for you
True passion is like a song, A never ending list of cords and notes
An innovation of a creative mind, written from the soul and heart
A never ending canvas of joys and memories
True passion can never die, it can never fade away, for it lies deep down
You are my true passion, my true calling, my true love

- Michael James Kennedy Findlay

To The Women Who Were Ready...

You thought you could handle it - could somehow capture the very flame that it burned of.
Aroused and perhaps intimidated at times, you uttered the words far too soon hoping that the feeling was reciprocated.
The way you looked into my eyes when we laughed said you were capable of the passion - perhaps you mistook the joy in my eye for a flicker of adoration.
Then there was you... you were ready -so I thought. You wrapped me in your words and presence and reassured me that every idea I'd ever had about love was true. You restored my faith for a fleeing moment of course...till you were gone too.
When you weren't ready I intertwined our fingers and pressed our palms together hoping that the heat of our skin touching and the strength of my grasp would somehow warrant your security. I was wrong.
You... you make me smile when I think back on what your purpose was. I'll forever assume it was to amplify my zero tolerance rule. You were never intended to be my wife.
You came out of the proverbial left field. No one saw it coming. No one expected anything to come of it. But in the blink of a camera lens it came. I stretched so much in that short time. I never knew how I would feel nor did I know that it would expire just as quickly as it had transpired. You were my Chopin, inducing a changing tide within my being. I felt myself capsized by the surge of current.
La Curendura could have never have guessed that you were the one for me. Now I wait for her prophecy to befall on my quintessence.

Surely there will be another, and perhaps my covenant will be sealed ultimately.

Convenient Questions

The other day I was at the convenience store around the corner from my house. I live in a historical neighborhood and this little wonderful blemish is the only sight of any modern building having been built since circa 1940. Its a quiet neighborhood and not a lot of through traffic other than the college kids looking for parking spots in no parking zones. It was mid-afternoon, say around two, and I saw a local school bus parked along the curb. The bus was the smaller style commonly referred to as a "short bus". There were handicap kids in the store taking advantage of what seemed to be a promissory bet. You know the type, "if you're good all week, we can stop at the store..." kind of thing. There were about ten or twelve kids all in their early teens. Each of them was having a hard time deciding on what to purchase and the evidence to this was the back and forth from candy shelves and hotdog machine to the line. Each person got out of line approximately five times in the mere five minutes I was standing there. I apparently walked up at the wrong time. The kids were finishing up and finally everyone seemed to have settled on their sugar fix d'jour. ... Then I notice a man to my right somewhat hiding behind a kiosk. I wanted to allow him to go before me if he were with the group that was finishing up, however... I couldn't dare ask "Are you with them?" I swallowed my laughter, purchased my juice and drove home.

The Decline of Courtesy in American Society.

My part in this tragedy begins in the eighties. Not because I had not declined prior to then, but simply for the fact that I was a child. My siblings and I are the fifth generation to grew up in this town of fifteen thousand people. Barbara Mandrell was putting peanuts in her Coke, Eternal Flame was on the radio, I was on my bicycle roaming the streets of our small West Texas town. Cut off jeans, worn t-shirt, pony tail... I was a modern day Scout Fitch, following my older brother around as a lost duckling. There was no crime. Undoubtedly there was crime, but I was either too young to witness it or it was more minimal than anything that would later infiltrate my naive world. "The last town on the way out of the state", I pinpointed it to people later on after I had moved off to college in the city I could never dream of. Three major highways intersected at the hub of our town. I suppose if anyone ever got the notion to take me from the metal production I claimed as my own they would have been in one of the four neighboring states within hours.
We knew our neighbors, and their neighbors, and the people down the street. There were no strangers. Everyone waived at you on the highway, not just farmers and truck drivers. Slower traffic pulled to the shoulder so you could pass and be on your merry way. People in line let others cut if they hadn't many items or seemed hurried. My father shut our neighbors' door once when it blew open. My granddad and grandma would feed whomever was at their house at meal time and would always have enough. He sometimes would perform work for people and when they couldn't pay, he would accept payment in other forms. Sometimes services on his own land, sometimes sewing for my grandma... honesty was the best policy. It truly was a more simple time. There were no clerks that had to deal with people on cell phones. People held the door open and whomever was walking through would then say thank you. A man's word was his binding contract. No one was late. People weren't afraid to pick up hitchhikers and those broken down on the side of the road were only stranded till the next passerby came along. Who knew that the American culture would slowly slide?

Mu Muse's Ears part I

Recently, I have been asked why I like to write and what it is I like to write. Saying that I "like to write" is like saying that Eric Clapton plays the guitar. The way I lose myself in writing is amazing to even my own heart. My mind slows, my heart stills, and my worries melt. I think of my Muse and reading my words to her and the graceful smile that would likely broaden across her face as each breath dances from within my lungs, crossing my vocal chords, manipulating around my tongue like a slow steady waltz, and forcing a complicated culmination of breath, sound, pitch, and pallet past my lips to her ears. In the words of Capote... To me, the greatest pleasure of writing is not what it's about, but the inner music the words make. ~Truman Capote, McCall's, November 1967

a glimpse past the green

i am not my flesh.
i do not bow to temptation.
i do not bend to my sometimes broken will.
i will not succumb to my burdens or desires.
my heart beats not for the lesser things in life of fame and fortune.
in my silence i am not sophisticated and my possibility lies in my former errors.
i will not admonish my existence any longer.
the very beat of my heart acts as a spade when i hear a lone trumpeter.
feeling the solitude of my nature destroyed by own voice.
finding rest from my own challenge when i hear those first chords of a song like "Unforgettable"...
seeing the beauty of Love flowing from the Harmony.
the colors emerald and gold, indigo and bright.
i am no the Lyric.
i am not the Beat.
i am not the Rhythm.
...but I am the Music.

Sixteen Candles And A Decade

Today is the widely anticipated and potential angst causing 26th birthday. For many women my age this is merely a precursor to the dreaded by most, bucket-kicking 30th birthday. That's most. We all know I handle things differently than most women in general, so this to be an exception isn't likely.

This morning lying in bed I was trying to reflect on the last ten years, since my sixteenth birthday. The things I have learned... the women I have loved... the people, some very close to me, that I've lost... and of course my locale as well as goals achieved and abandoned. My mind took a trip back to my birthday that year ten years ago. My sister bought balloons and made my cake just like she does every year. My mom made breakfast, lunch, and dinner to my liking. I didn't get the world renowned Pancho right away, but was still alright with that. It was Easter weekend much like it is almost every other year, and the DMV was closed. Aside from that, who wants to spend their birthday dealing with that hateful lady at the DMV (if you're from Dumas, you know the one)?

My family has never really been about gift giving. Maybe we've inherited it from my parents or perhaps it was because we knew some years there just wasn't a way. But my Mom and Dad always managed something special. Going back even further I can remember one year, I guess around ten, that I had been struggling a lot with life. I met ever adversity a child can potentially meet within a twelve month period. In that short amount of time my nine year old judgement got the best of me. I experienced THE black eye, the house burning down, the scar on my leg from the almost 200 sutures, losing the tip of my thumb in my mom's Cadillac door, moving to a new school for the third time. My brother, four years my senior, was 13 and in junior high and I did what every little tomboy sister does and wanted to follow he and his friends everywhere. Much to my dismay, I didn't really get to as much I wanted. He had a new found liberty and friends in our new neighborhood and they were the boys that ran the block. Tagging along your nappy-headed little sister isn't going to increase your chances with the Winnie Cooper's of our neighborhood. After I caught the house on fire and we lost a lot of our material necessities if not from the fire, from the smoke my Mom in her infinite wisdom new that it was time for a Mother-daughter day. That year, I don't remember receiving a gift from them, that doesn't necessarily mean I didn't. It is possible that the gift, whatever toy or puzzle for my little geeky fingers to discover, may have just been overshadowed by the day. In fact, my sister and brother in law have got me something for my birthday every single year that I can remember, so I know that this particular year was no exception. What my Mom did was make a picnic basket full of this amazing food. If my Mom's incredible generosity is stripped away and all her talents and gifts, she'd still have more ability to cook in her little finger than most people do in their whole body. I remember sitting in that little park at the end of Twitchell and 1st street, back before they took out all the dangerous equipment, sitting in this gliding swing with her after we had eaten our food. With tears filling my eyes as my mind vacations there, I don't know how I knew at ten years old that her doing this was a big deal, but I knew. My mom and I bonded the way only daughters bond with their mothers in the still silence with just the two of them there. That was one of the most memorable birthdays so far...
I'd like to tell you that this morning I woke up with profound clarity about my mid-twenties, but I certainly can not. Maybe the libations from the weekend are still lingering around, but I doubt it. There are places I've wanted to visit, people I've wanted to know better, women I wish I would have never met, and degrees that I should have... all this according to my Perfect Little Plan. I mock the idea! I made this plan to be a doctor when I was 18 years old. I also began the list of 40 things to do before I'm 40 around the same time. That list is more appropriate than the Plan. After everything changed when I was 19 I realized that that "plan" was insignificant. All the sudden it was completely irrelevant if I continued on to be a doctor if I wasn't pursuing my passion. And it didn't matter any more that I moved to a far away city if I wasn't in love with the city and the people and perhaps the culture. Everything changed. My senses intensified. My heart softened. I became more passionate about life simply to live my Purpose and feel every emotion and every sense. I think that's when my awakening truly happened. I've thought over the past year or so that it was recently. And in some form, I did have an awakening- but the recent one was more centric towards what I want in a wife and partner. My great awakening happened a little over six years ago. I suppose that is the reason that I'm not worried about turning another year older this birthday. I see my mid-twenties as a stepping stone and want so badly to experience thirty. I will go against the grain of the American culture and embrace aging. :)

The next year will bring much change for me. Assuredly, I will meet many new people, gain new friends, get a new job, find a new home, a new school, a new coffee shop, and favorite restaurant and even a new home base. Hell, I might even buy a new home! I am anticipating the Migration and a little nervous but I am, more than anything, excited.

Thank you all for the last twelve months. God, its been fun. We've spent a lot of hours talking, laughing, eating, and drinking. This last year had some tough spots and I didn't see the other side of the bridge easily some days. But you guys held my head out of the water and encouraged me along the way. You have made this last year the best I've had. I can't think of a time when I've ever laughed more or trusted and loved with such a wholesome heart.

My birthday party was seven shades of ridiculous and an amazing time. I know I said hello to most people that were here, but I barely remember saying bye to anyone. I had a great time! The best birthday party in twenty six years! The drama quickly dissolved and we continued on with our fun throughout the night. If you were on the receiving end of any of that, I apologize on my own behalf as well as the other party's. The drinks flowing freely didn't make the birthday, you guys being there made it. I realize that people will come where the keg is but at one point I was standing out in my front yard, looking at the faces on the porch and looking through the house at the people in there and although, yes, we are in fact the type to follow a keg...I know it wasn't the beer that brought you. I know I must have had a big cheesy grin across my face looking at each of you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. And I love you. :)

And to the people that brought gifts... MUAH! Thank you. I drank a hefty portion of each of those bottles-which is why I was virtually dead to the world yesterday. Regardless, the exhaustion was worth every minute of it!

Love, Happiness, and Caviar Dreams~

Blew Me Away...

Her words begin, "this is how the story went/met someone by accident/ it blew me away...it was in the darkest of my days when you took my sorrow and you took my pain/and buried them away..." however where I deviate from the lyrics that emanate from her heart and strings is that I do not see myself as hiding my heart away any longer. I’ve sought solace in strangers and sought alleviation in friends. I’ve reached for the midnight bottle and the caffeine spurring early in the morn. I’ve accomplished little in my rendering of tears in my solitude. "..If I have all faith, so as to move mountains but don’t have love, I am nothing. I’ve sought laughter, company, solitude, and feeble causes...all the while my ailing soul longed for cool water as that of an oasis. I’ve given up, retracted, given up, and exiled that portion of my heart. I’ve gained many in the last year and lost few. All the while thinking that each was for a specified reason, but perhaps it was for a season. I’ve sang the One Hundred and Twentieth Psalm and have carefully seeded each tear as to mark the time and place the tear will bring forth my fruit of joy. My season of sorrow and tears is over. I must carefully count my paces and step lightly in my own footprints left behind as to avoid rendering harm to my new fruit that have come to me in this Spring of my life.

This written for those of you who were with me during the last year and more specifically the last six months. I didn’t see the light at the end of my proverbial tunnel...you did. There were those of you that stuck with me, holding my hands in yours telling me to be strong. There were those of you that gently pushed me from behind while whispering in my ear ever so softly that I would be delivered from this, patiently waiting on my exit from solitude. And there were those of you that quietly and peacefully walked away. For each of the roles executed during this time, I owe you benediction. You have each exploited great character and for that... you will not go unacknowledged

Music Is My Ancestry

Every great musician gets interviewed. Someone somewhere cares about the musician behind the music. Where their heart lies, what they feel when the crowd becomes alive with the words of a song that were once just a phrase that triggered and emotion and birthed a song, what they like to do while endlessly touring the region, country, or continent in a makeshift home/tour bus. ... We, music lovers, want to know the people behind the microphone.

Now, its no secret that I'm not a musician. At 25 I'm just now teaching myself to play the guitar. I've not mastered any of the instruments I play (djembe, congas, bongos, cajon, harmonica, trombone, etc) but can lose myself in any instrument just as easily as anyone traveling the highways and biways of America. I love acoustic music. The guitar solos, the melodies, the harmonies, the rawness, and especially the idea that most musicians are singer/songwriters. No one can sing your music and feel the emotions better than you, right? But when I think about why I love music so much, I must give homage to my parents's music and the way it set a permanent foundation of my love of music for a lifetime. A lifetime of music appreciation and diversity. Brenda Lee, Johnny Horton, Johnny Cash, Lefty Frizzell, Patsy Cline, Loretta Lynn, and even more modern "classic country" like the Judds, Chris LeDoux, old George Strait (1980s- mid 90s), and so the list goes on of my foundation. Perhaps my favorite thing about Classic Country (other than it giving me an instant 'happy place') is that when someone was raised on classic country and they sing...you can hear it. You can hear Patsy's "Sweeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeet dreams...of you" in a musician like Brandi Carlile. The haunting of decades fills the void of time.

I can remember my first record that I inherited (Roberta Flak), the first 8track (Conway Twitty), my first cassett tape (Ace of Base), and my first CD (Creedance Clearwater Revival). I remember moments of time captured by music that surrounded it. Dragging Main Street in my Dad's '84 Ford listening to Redneck Girl w/Karen and Ryan. Skipping school with Amanda to go lay out listening to Strawberry Wine and Shoop... my high school days are set in gold by the music we shared. I can remember the first song I heard after the biggest trajedy in my life, something sacred to me. And I can remember songs I've sang to each of my nieces and nephews, not different from those my Momma sang to Little Crystal that sat on the counter top watching her cook. "Mama's little baby, loves shortenin'...."

Its not irrational to make such a large statement as Music is a major part of my life. The world melts away when I hear certain songs and the world comes crashing down on me in a thundercloud of joy and happiness when I hear others.

Perhaps I'll never be able to describe exactly what it is that music quenches within my thirsty soul... or perhaps it satisfies my wonder-lust.

Shower My Ears

I can hear you. I can feel you. You move me. You are bigger than I know...than I can wrap my mediocre mind around. How can i withdraw you from the place you reside? My mind pauses when i think of you... i am so close to being able to just place my fingers on the frets and pick you out as though you are a new scarf that i know i love at first sight. it will be like that time i heard your sister song Killing Me Softly. Your soft acoustic sound, and rich Americana roots, a touch of classic country, a smidge of rhythm and blues, a hint of British pop here and there, a steady beat that makes my brain bounce and heart beat in syncopation, and tap my feet. Come to me. come to me in the night- in my dreams; in the day- when my mind floats as near you as possible; when i rest; when i work; when i rejoice; or when i mourn... come to me. i am calling upon you but you are trapped there in the wooden cell. the bars restraining you and the chords tying you down... you're stuck in my guitar.

Interpretations Of A Not Too Distant Dream

Late in the night my Father awakened me from a wondrous slumber, with a kiss to my forehead. Quietly whispering to me in His ever soft and gentle voice, "You are not wrong, My daughter." The remark of His dream interpretation is evident to me in the first moment I hear His words. Dreaming deeply of wonderful vibrant colors and sights and sounds to me that are unknown to my flesh, but my heart has seen. The ocean so blue, the the nectar of fruits so delicious and fresh and exploding upon my palette. The smell and taste of the salt in the air, the fresh breeze blowing through my skin to my core and filling it like a sail. I know this beach that I walk upon. This shell in my hand, it has a rightful place in my pocket. Allowing my eyes to trace down my own arm, as though I do not recognize it, to a hand that securely entwines with my five fragile fingers. This person is guiding me. Her hands soft and smooth, but give way to evidence that a stern person stakes claim to it. This is my Muse. I know this somehow without seeing her eyes, her smile, or any other characteristic in complete focus. I feel at peace walking hand in hand with my Muse. I know she will take my vulnerability and match it with her strength and allow my own steps to guide her when the time is right. The waves cascading at our feet as we walk along this beach one of us or perhaps both, know so well eludes to this being her time to step and I follow. I am at home in her comfort. I am...as the singer says, at ease in the arms of this woman. Words seem to fail me when I’m with her as I only see that we still’ve got time. I realize I am falling slowly no more... for I am there, where my Father has intended me to be. I know you -even if only in a dream

An Artisan War

There is a cadence in your rhythm-a beat to your speech
You seek a greater meaning- a prophetic word.
Perhaps you'll discover that the words of your heart are the very keys to your liberation.
You are your own shackles.
Your hyperbolies are cliche- your metaphors played out.
There is a creature waiting to take flight from within you...a world waiting to experience your gift.
Maybe one day you'll see that you are your own worst enemy----maybe.
I am certain that someday you will see that the sun rises for you.
The moon dances in your name.
The stars spell out your music...The world is waiting to know your name.Pick up your canvas.
Bare your cross for the very reason you've received it.
Your mind. Your voice. Your palet. --- Your passion.
This is your gift. Let it burn through your veins like wild fire.
Feel the warmth of it creep through your every cell.
Lift up your arms and surrender to what it is that dances inside your heart... this warrior's dance. Perfect rhythm. Perfect cadence. Perfect pitch. Perfect tone. Every stroke placed precisely. Every step exact. Explode...before you emplode

My Moon. My Muse

I don't know why I ever let anything put fear in my mind when I'm in the dark. The cover is so peaceful and private, so liberating and still. The moon is worthy of awe. The stars merit the simple fact of my mind completely incapable of comprehending how many people see that same star at that very moment. The idea of Mother Moon and Father Time bringing two people together from different worlds. I imagine there was a Woman about my age, standing before the moon questioning the very existence of each the stars and the moon at that same moment in time. I know I looked at every star in the sky wondering to myself "which one does She find solace in?" Realizing that in fact, it isn't Mother Moon nor is it Father Time that brings me peace, but this Woman…and the way thoughts of Her consume my days and dance across my mind in the night. I am certain, given the chance to stand before Her, my mind would take a peaceful halt and my heart would slow to a quiet stance. The two would no longer try to comprehend the many facets of this Woman the way the two battle over words in my mind and the way the two attempt to comprehend the Moon and the Stars. My mind would not stumble over the words that are inspired by the feelings in my heart. I would not need to articulate to this peace-bearing Woman, anything that my soul felt or my mind thought or even that my heart desired; for I am certain that as I stood captivated by Her, not unlike I was by the galaxy last night, She would understand. She would realize She brings me peace and hope the way my beautiful Nephew gave me the notion of a blank canvas and his life mapped out in brilliant shades and textures. Knowing that God has created this child and already picked out every color to be used in this beautiful Masterpiece that will someday be a Father, a Grandfather, a Brother, and an honorable man. I imagine that the colors that He has chosen are brilliant shades of bold. Red for His passion, Blue for His patience, Green for His serenity, and even a few dark shades to teach him His grace and empathy… I see the same canvas with my beautiful Nephew as I see in this woman that fills my thoughts. Every emotion, inspired by hope, not expectancy, but hope.