Bubbles like Ice

Walkin' down that old sidewalk, Washington Street.  Ann Arbor.  Slippin' and slidin' on my way to the YMCA.  So cold that clouds connect to chimneys and the purples and reds in the sky seem painted behind panes of glass.  Brrrrrrrrrrrrriiiiiiiittooo.  I blow some soap bubbles into the air and they fly...despite the coldest temperatures in a long while (-36 degrees f, too cold c) they raise and the pine needles tear the skin of the bubble like plastic.  Oh, and there was a bubble that survived and it floated into the nearby snow patch.  Frozen.  I picked it up...it looked like a solid marble and woah....it melted when I touched it.

Twitches in the Dark

Who knew there would be twitches in the dark?  Quick sudden movements, muscles contracting for a second, like lightning in the veins, sweet and scary.  A tremor in the finger, a tap of the wrist, a one-two shake of the left foot and a twitch.

I hold her firmly as we lie in bed.  Her twitching stops and the room is quiet as air - whispers won't wake her now. It's a safe place to be - the place of twitching - not a place of concern, or nerves before a graduation speech, but a deeper thing - a place of comfort, home, safety, an "I'm here - no need to worry" followed by an "I know.  Goodnight, babe."

I don't respond to her nighttime twitches with a shake or a shout louder than a drum.  All that is felt is warmth in the heart as her hair falls beneath my chin.  Her hair brings smells of home that fill me with joy and I'm reminded that in these moments I love everything about now - the quiet of the room turning into the tick-tock of the clock and a buzzing furnace - even that my lips feel chapped and my back isn't perfectly aligned.  I won't feel afraid, not once, when her twitching stops - just feelings of home, chapped lips and the cotton sheets I feel against my skin.

A jolt - no stammering, muscles slackened.  Shhh...she's sleeping and the moon is out.  I'm taken by the darkness of the room, not a shine in front or a spark in back, quiet and still and shhh...she's sleeping now.  Just a moment ago, we were whispering the day's events...a lost patient, the weather, "feeling sick?" "Nah.  You?"  Deep breaths...slower heart pulses...head to chest (she can hear the heart best).

The temperature feels right.  The bed is warm and our bodies are at rest.  A slight tremor in the finger...a tap of the wrist...a one-two shake of the left foot...and a twitch.

Ann Arbor, folks!

Remember me?

I've made it to the Midwest and, boy, life is grand!  Eh?  I'm married and with marriage and commitment comes moves and new beginnings and faith that everything will be fuller.  Adrienne is my partner and she makes everything like lightning.  Decisions will be made here, the future has its 'start' button here. I'm thinking a lot and discovering new things about me while being reminded about the great sense of splendor I have when arriving to a new place!
The sights!  The sounds!  The intrigue!
It reminds me of the days in just finishing undergraduate school, not sure where I'll end up but knowing the adventure will be great.

Things to do in AA:

• Find a job that suits me well.  Wish for something in int'l ed.
• Heed the advice of others and listen to their guidance in all things.
• Learn a language and use it!
• Learn a recreational skill or activity and practice
• learn how to play the piano
• Keep surprising Adrienne
• Cooking skills refined
• Meet a butcher, baker and farmer
• Continue education - Masters?!?

What a beginning!

Ford Lake, MI

Cycling ride over planks and under bridges. Huron River close (you can hear the rushing of water and kayak paddles stroking the surface!) and the kids laugh and laugh and the birds fly on by. Looking left, then right, there's green all around; the willows, firs and maples swaying to and fro, saying their "goodbyes" as I say my "hellos".

A Sky Story

The colour seemed loudest at night and the red rock bloomed like honey trees and I'm here and I'm now and there is nothing the world can say.  The man is too little to know of his wrongdoing, much like the long-haired stallion is too keen for his own good.  It's a type of give, a give and a take, but mostly a take.

"Owwwwwwwwwiiii" the man cried and all that heard it floated to the tip-tops of the heavens above.  Like a great big shadow in the sky, with cotton candy stripes and big yellow sunbeams!  You're flying and you don't even know it.  Flying and yelling and screaming at the top of your lungs for all to hear, but no one is there to listen any more.  Their eardrums aren't developed and they have plugs in their ears anyway.

Too much sound.  Too much hot hot fever.  The boy can only handle so much before he is pained and dying inside.  He asks if it's real and if it's real if he can hold it.  "No" is the answer, "and you can be quiet about it too".  Silence.

"Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, you'll wake the neighbors".

One. Two. There is no sign of the here and now, there is just the then and later.  Once the sky falls and the people float to the ends of the earth, the world rewinds and all becomes still, as if it were just the beginning.  Then the typewriters begins buzzing and clickity clack of the keys are writing the story and pretending they know what's good for them.  The story begins within the story, an utmost lie if I ever heard one.  The story never ends, just goes and goes and type type type type ype ype ype pe pe e ...

Keeps on and keeps on and rewind.  Buzz.  The sound is deafening if you get too close and you'll go blind within a minute if you let your retina focus too much on the moving parts.  You'll believe it when you see it.  You'll be promised if you don't cross your toes and your teeth are straight.  The sky is only so far up and the moon ain't no picnic either.  

You'll get there someday so don't worry.  They all get there someday.

The song sings and the birds fly. (Is that right?)

The way the cacophony of daffodils encapsulates my very specie. I'm alive, they call out and I'm flying with them. (What are you talking about?) It's everything you'd expect from a land that was wet and crawling and full of life. A place unfamiliar but yet, totally understandable. The way the light shines on the moon but it looks like the nails I bite off when the nobility is wearing off. (Where can I go after the moon falls to bits?) I can see the sun, I know it's still shining. And everything feels like it was going to be that way all along. The stars and the way the curled up man lays next to his pregnant wife. It's love that happens and the world lets out a large exhale. (But what's love?)

This is where things get difficult. The land masses up and the wind starts flying into your ear and making the noises, tiny holes in cinder-blocks. There is kindness there and stories to tell. There could be a big boom if you're lucky or you could be distracted all along. Distracted by the little stuff that doesn't matter once you think about it long enough. The smell that gets you down or that damn Langston Hughes novel that's stuck in your head all the time. What does it even matter? What is the matter? (I'm sad. I'm exhausted.) You're weak and only think of yourself. You're distracted. Not the sun on the moon or the shimmer of the stars can help, you think too much as the sap collects on the inner most crevice of your fingers. (The stuff gets in there.) Snow melting on the tip-toppity of your head and dripping down until the coldness stops feeling cold, a shudder to help it all release down, down to your temples and another shiver-shake gets you by. (The shakes have got to stop.) And the trembles too. Those are the worst.

The mountains can scream only so loud and the children on the swings still won't hear them. (You're crazy.) Stand there by yourself and make yourself hurt. Trapped against something hard and digging at your skin. Now run towards what's making you feel sane again, run faster than you thought possible. Cross that ocean you were afraid of. Cross it twice. Make drowning noises until you actually see bubbles caught between your lacrimal sac and eye-socket. Focus on the light shining from above the surface of the sea. See it? (No.)

Maybe I'm too much. The ducks seem to always be quacking for more bread but i have no more to give, well, none without mold on it anyways. I still eat the crust and all. The ducks can come back and I'll be willing to give. (They come back every spring.) My clasping back is done for and I hurt still, but I'm fine, I can tell because the mountains are still calling and the children are still swinging and the ducks still quack. (For now.) The moon reflects back the light of the sun and I know it exists somewhere. I've made it out of the ocean and I'm on land again. Maybe I'll learn how to fly.

(Are you still there?)

Penguin's Favorite Holiday

Ugh! I’m sitting here on the I-00, that’s the highway North Pole for all those out-of-towners, I’m looking at you Rudolph! Little do most people know that Rudolph spends his summers on the islands of the Bahamas doing nothing but sipping from coconut shells and eating lots of gourmet pineapple-glazed hay. You see, every December, it’s nothing but crowds on this ice block, hoards to get to that Santa appearance (the santarazzi is absolutely insane!), lines upon lines of elves playing catch-up for all the procrastination they produced all year long. The Twitter feeds are constantly updated by all the walruses that have no time to do anything besides sit on their lazy tusks, gossiping about who’s been naughty and who’s been nice. It gives me a headache.

My life partner and I have had our second egg hatch last week. I had to run to the ocean to digest enough food for us and our family. Talk about internal food storage! I’m just ready to get home and relax. I just barely put up the lights on our nest and the whole cul-de-sac is about to traverse into our annual lets-get-so-close-together-that-one-of-us-is-sure-to-barf fest. I like snuggling and all, but come on, The Wilsons always snuggle a little too close, if you know what I mean.

I’m about home. I smell my favorite, rotten kelp, on my breath. That must mean its supper time. And look at my wife’s beak shine from across the iceberg. Snow’s slowly falling, the lights glowing underneath, she must be floating. And the two newest additions are nuzzled beneath her belly. I guess this holiday isn’t so bad.