A look

They say the eyes are the windows to the soul, and that is all too true. The eyes communicate great depth of emotion. They betray the looker and divulge infinitely more than words could speak. A single look can impart extreme love or extreme hatred and every extreme in between. A glance of indifference can send an anxious lover to the grave. A judgemental eye can pierce the heart of a friend and wound the soul beyond repair. There is a great deal encompassed within a mere look, the scars of which are not easily erased...a look is worth a thousand words.

Associations

All things have associations. You associate being sick with that Chinese food which induced two days of vomiting. You associate that tattered grey T-shirt of yours with your best friend who selflessly gave it to you despite its importance to her. You associate the smell of pine needles with Christmas and cold weather. Everything possesses some sort of an association. I place keen associations on many things, but two things specifically--music and clothing. I strongly mark the periods or eras in my life by my clothing and the music connected with that time--and it is always progressive--it is always moving forward, never backward--that's the rule. I tend to buy, wear, grow and discard. My growth as a person, as an individual prevents me from retaining the clothes of a "former era" due to the fact that it has been "tainted" by my past and equally so by my former-self. I grow and I must change--literally. Making sense? No matter...it stands thus. Music, in my mind, possesses a similar quality of association. I am, however, slowly learning to overcome this neuroticism regarding music. Driving for me and listening to music formally "tainted" by past experiences, relationships, has become a very cleansing experience--clearing my palate if you will--allowing the music to exist new and unmolested by the past. All things possess associations, some normal, some not.

Being sick...

Being sick is a funny thing--sometimes. I am not very sick at present, only a little sick, but still sick. Nonetheless, this "being sick" creates a mindset which permits people certain freedoms that they would otherwise not allow themselves--it's true. We think, "I can eat that" or "I can sleep as long as I want" or perhaps "I don't have to go to work today--because gosh darn it--I'm sick." As we walk along the grocery store aisles looking for medicine, throat mildly sore and body feeling weak, we spot chocolates, sweets--things we would not consider if we were not, well--sick. "Being sick" somehow creates this pathetic sorrow for oneself--because, we say, "I'm sick. I deserve it." It's not true...

The Sleeping Monster

They are odd things--insecurities. They lie dormant and silent, but lethal and waiting. They are tricky in that they often make you believe you have bested them, subdued their ferocity, but you are sadly deceived. They have only lulled you into a false sense of security, when truly they are growing in power, might and intensity while you function and live unawares. Then, one day, they arise more tenacious and ugly than you ever could have expected and crush what you believed were strong spirits. They can arrive with a new person, a new place or a new swim suit--doesn't matter--they will take what they can get...

The Lady in Red

She hobbles along the side of the road, her small frame bent with age. Her lower jaw is set out and forward, determined yet patient in her course. Her face is a weathered brown, decorated by deep set wrinkles about her eyes and mouth. Her gait is painful; she seems to be favoring her right leg. She is wearing red. Everyday she wears red: a red skirt, or red blouse, or red shoes, or jewelry--everyday something is always red. Each morning I observe this her tranquil journey past the streets of downtown San Antonio and I wonder, who is the lady in red...?

Nose rings and dreadlocks

She stooped down on her hams, balancing expertly on her toes. She was speaking to a young man with chocolate hair, who wore a mint green shirt and tattered jeans. I attempted to walk casually up towards the body wash and soap section of the health food store and catch bits of their conversation. She was calmly, yet enthusiastically speaking of her favorite all-purpose oil cleanser. Her voice rose and fell with intention, energy and force. She loved this stuff--all of it. She spoke of its many all-natural purposes and the attractive features of its fair trade quality. She was the epitome of the nineteen-sixties hippie embodied in real flesh. Her many dreadlocks were swept up into a neat bundled heap atop her head by means of a decorative scarf--blue and white I think it was. She wore white linen pants that swayed and gave with her graceful movements. A small, golden nose ring shone in her right nostril. She also wore a large jade pendant around her weather-worn neck--complete with an old hemp band. Her multiple earring holes bore dangling bits and pieces--a small golden cross hung from her left earlobe. Her bare, beautiful face wore little if any makeup, perhaps a dash of eyeliner. Her slightly yellowed teeth peeped through the lips that seemed to be continually playing at a smile. She smelled of lavender, oatmeal and body order. Her unpainted nails and general appearance testified to her natural philosophy about life...her name was Melanie

Lies...

Ugly bits of distorted truth,
Shrouded in a guise of mock reality
They speak to the innermost--the scared...
Resonate they do within the mind--poison
Echoing, echoing, echoing their bitter refrains...