Friday, January 14, 2005


It is the smell I miss the most.

Coming home to a sun-warmed, ceder house. The familiar presence of a home.

My cat trots up to met me and then protests my absence by switching her tail back and forth and walking of to find
another pool of light to lie in.

A bustling, metalic sound comes from the room that is almost too small to be called a kitchen. I imagine that it was the ironic wit of the architect to make it no larger than a hall, and then equip the living room with vaulted ceilings.

My mother is cooking my favorite foods. Aromas of beef stew, greenbeans and key lime pie mingle with the ceder. My father, happy to be home from work, is busy trying to distract my mother by flirting with her and telling bad jokes. He pulls at the strings of her apron and sneaks tidbits of food when she is not looking, or re-tying the her bow.

Sitting down at the table, my younger brother gives me a michevious look and belches a vibrato complant that he is hungry.

Napkins, forks, plates and spoons are all placed in an acceptable formation and glasses are filled with mom's home-brewed tea.

This is my family, and this is our home. It is in this place that I truely feel safe. The arms of my family are the walls that keep out the cold.

That is what I miss most of all.

His Eyes

I can tell me misses me
by the way he finds excuses to pull me close,
and bends down to smell my hair.

Sometimes when I open my arms to him
he grabs my waist
so hard
it hurts and I can't breath.

There is more behind his eyes
than I could hope to know.

And so much pain was never
given to me by any other person.

I feel that I hold his confused heart
in the deep resevoir of my hand.
And mine hides in fear.

Friday, January 07, 2005


I hate waiting. 

Sometimes I get the overwhelming feeling that I've been waiting all my life.  For a smile, a gesture, an answer.  And that I'm about to break out of my skin from frustration and anxiety.  Like a bullet out of a gun. 

Today I'm waiting for a person, a camera and a window of hope.  The metal monstrosity that my professor assures me is a light kit, is waiting too.  For someone to flip the switch and be amazed the intensity of its spectrum.  For the electricity to travel up its battered, steel spine and flood its receivers with volts with which it will send light out into the world.  Like a blinding, white eye.  I am that light. 

My switch is waiting to be triggered, except I don't know where it is.  I feel like I have been swimming underneath the service of the water all my life, anticipating when I will break free and see that sky for the first time.