Ramblings

Grandpa

2012-01-20T21:05:00.000-08:00

(Found on a scrap of paper while cleaning my room)

I chased letters after my name and smiles of she and she again.

I begged for wisdom but not for its silence.

Me, I thought, Me, I, Me, I.

But the pews beckoned their hardwood embrace,

Mother crying why now why now.

And I remembered Grandpa, ninety seven to my three times ten.

Old wrinkled loved by me and a few.

And we cry for he or she who could have been.

At twenty so close, at thirty there and just getting started.

Forty a man in the midst.

At seventy friends die to sorrow and grace.

Ninety ancient, loved by me and a few.

Who is left for Grandpa?

Some sit today in pews again,

Remembering tears of what could have been.

We sit remembering the child with more,

The boy with wide eyes destined for the horizon.

But rather let us remember the boy at ninety,

Who gave a boy again, wide eyes again,

And a boy again, wide eyes again.

Let us remember as we do at twenty or ten, at thirty or forty, ninety.

Nyamata: Laundry

2011-10-24T12:39:00.000-07:00

Written in my travel journal on 10/24/2011

She stood belly bump
Before laundry heaps pew upon pew
I'm here to answer your questions, she said, your first is how many
Over ten-thousand died laundry cyan, pew upon pew
Baby he or she, I asked
Will he know if Hutu or Tusi?
This I cannot answer

Josephine stood next, a girl on the bus, just three back then
Here they bring a traveler to the doorstep no less
But my welcome mat was a scar of bombs bursting in church
Poor Josephine wanted to see with me
And we walked on the dusty street, silent
I am not okay, she said
My mother won't tell me if I'm Hutu or Tutsi, she said
And we walked on the dusty street, silent

Lake Bunyoni: Candle Light

2011-10-24T12:32:00.000-07:00

Written in my travel journal on 10/20/2011

Another night, candle light
Stars too many for Manhattan boy
I'm old he said, greet people that way
Talk like an old man, my face too
Twenty-four becomes ten more, and old we are
These girls over beers are girls now
Us the wise, the experienced, the irrelevant
Nine now candle light glow
Stars too many for Manhattan boy
Bed sheets and humble reads rather than twenty-four

Happy

2011-08-09T23:51:00.000-07:00

Remember the days of summer long sweet breeze

Freckles kissed by nighttime sun

I wished away the winter snow cold gale

And smiled June to all hallows' eve

Mother's lips boo boo goodbye

Tears twist my frown to play again

'till scrape sniffles return

Remember pain and sorrow moments lost

Moments only periods in the gleeful novel of sand and clouds

Now periods are smiles as she awakens past nine

And sentences drone in a tome of whoa

Obaasan

2011-07-30T09:13:00.000-07:00

There were bombs bursting in air but rice more than flames tore a country.

Obaasan couldn't wait for farmer's son to save farmer's daughter.

Bugs bugged her more than the horrors laid before, schoolmates gone so I go

Through the mud and the bamboo rice more than napalm to school nurses dream farmer's daughter tho it may seem.

Bugs no more bombs soon.

Dream the city dream erasure marks now burn marks now.

Bombs bursting in air through the mud rice bamboo back farmer's daughter almost never.

Never.

Lullaby

2011-06-23T22:21:00.001-07:00

Quiet and pink, sleeping always.

Soft cheeks, he looks down on white sheets and clears his throat at so small and mine.

Life ahead, where will it lead, what will you see?

Life ahead hush now, who will you be?

Anyone and anything. Just try.

Anyone sweet lullaby, just try.

There will be days when smarts stop you dead, when a smile or a laugh seem like a distant memory of things past.

Your heart only peanut now will break in bulbous lumps, thumps upon the floor.

But try, sweet lullaby, just try.

Harder faster later longer, there are others.

Burn oil after midnight and there's none, none taller none stronger.

Push harder faster later longer and you can be anyone anything sweet lullaby, soft cheeks, hush now.

It was his first lie.

Never end

2011-04-10T20:35:00.000-07:00

The rain falls and we run inside, cozy with tap tap, synthetic, safe, serene life goes on.

Flutter snow and we turn up the heat in electric glow, there's a paper on the way with my name maybe first.

Baking sun cry the birds ayecee cool now in my tie and shirt, back to work.

The rain falls and I listened with Dad in the hot summer night, crackle drip hiss flash.

Flutter snow, school no, there's a man to be made, hard to walk but the hill awaits.

Baking sun fill the field the grass holds the sky days past the night never end, please,

never end.

A good man

2011-01-06T00:15:00.000-08:00

He's a good man, 'cause he walks when nothing bids him to,
when nothing wonders where he'll be tomorrow or the day aft.

He's a good man, not for dollars or smiles at a poor wishing for more, one more.
'cause he asked, and he needs one who doesn't wish for another smile or quarterthereof.

'cause he loves to love, not for a quarter or a smile, not for hiss of stadium glow,
'cause he loves to live, in want in thanks in the brilliance of a smile, the fluoride glow.

If I die.

2010-11-08T20:30:00.000-08:00

If I die, drink my wine.

How many

2010-03-01T01:49:00.000-08:00

How many thick from crumbling brick,
A language not their own, no.
How many through the neon or starlight howl.
How many howl did you save, did you save.

How many boys and men, wondering when.
How many, how many, too many gone.

How many did you save as the waters raised.
How many when I worried about who is me and who am I.

The flames and the smoke billow, billow, and the ashes fall upon our noses, our brows.
And how many sprinkle in the starlight.
How many wonder when.

When the quiver leaves

2010-02-13T02:36:00.000-08:00

I had dark hair and eyes.
I smiled and you back, melting oh so.

I had dark jet-black, a smile for miles, cheer forever.
You back, we swam and danced in love and passion, in a dream but awake.

Today turns jet to gray, turns melting to I see you, yes you are there.

Today turns a quiver to the soft sheets of nothing more than you that I want.

The flutter no, but I love you, so the quiver leaves, and I want you stays.

Flutter bye

2010-01-22T22:45:00.001-08:00

None of us knew what we'd be, but we all knew it would be grand.
A doctor, a lawyer, ballerina or ball player.
President of the you essof aye.

None of us knew, but we knew better.
And like leaves fluttering in the wind, one by one, we fell.
Famous musicians now sales representatives, flutter.
Rocket scientist, counting down, now business analyst, counting up.

Sternos cooked in the winter cold, as calcium carbide burned an acetylene flame.
Eight, ten maybe; Nobel was my goal, and I didn't know how, but I knew it would be grand.

Flutter, bye I said to he and she, she and another. Flutter they fell from the trees, it would be grand no more, for now there's a husband, a wife, a child to feed. Flutter they fell from the trees cause they learned of the simple life, of sales associate by day and cool cat by night. Flutter they fell from the trees, and I held strong, Nobel or hell.

Green was me as college began. Nobel stayed well through sunrise from the night before, the integral the same, staring cold. Green with brown highlights, 'cause late nights begin to wear when they pile so high.

Flutter, bye I said, to the valedictorians or salutes at least. I was too dumb for you, or not smart enough at least. Flutter they fell to the good life, the simple life, of home at five for the day awaits.

Green with nary a hint of winters past, I entered graduate school, Nobel or hell. Flutter bye, chuckle me, for check out the big brain on Brad.

Nobel or hell, as I shiver in the autumn air. Below is a pile brushing my feet, above is lush, basking in the sun. I see brown, and I hold, and I hold. Flutter not.

I will be something, I don't know, but it'll be grand.

Or maybe the simple is me.

Sip

2009-11-25T23:13:00.000-08:00

I look back upon those days with laughter about the tears.
I am stronger now, a deeper well.
The tossing and the turning, I'd sleep if I could, beer please.
Awake to the bright day, damp and dark.

I look back to the pain and suffering, and am proud, and am glad, for my well is deeper.

Sip sip. It is tomorrow, laughing, that brings me through today.

The rest

2009-10-10T19:52:00.001-07:00

Eric was clean-cut this time, invisible contacts no less, never before.
Eric was happy as always, talkative as always, friendly as always.

Happy birthday to her, we said, watching burly-esque in nowhere-else-but-SF.
Happy birthday to her, we said, before tubas and rum-diet, before dudes in heels, chicks with nets, and free peanuts.

How's life, I asked. How are you?
Good, he said, and finally I believed. I'm doing good.
Good, he said, and finally I saw: she was gone, never to return.
She is gone and he is good, I believe.

What's next, he asked. What's next?
I spend the days watching minds grow, watering intellect, thought, and knowledge. I spend the days with chalk and children, in love with inspiration or the quest thereof. I am an educator, happily, but now she's gone, none of mine in sight, and what's next?

I'm an educator, happily. I can spend the rest of my life so. But is this the rest of my life, he asked. Is this the rest of my life?

Black Belt (part two)

2009-09-29T22:35:00.001-07:00

A late night not in hour but in my mind no less.
I remember you, Corinne, nothing, far away.
I remember you even though you would never remember me, never yesterday, or two someodd years ago, when that car bashed your brains in.
A late night reading me, and I remember the black belt you got but never saw. I remember the black belt you never saw and wanted so, with focus and determination.
A late night and I look over to black, which I wanted, got, and saw. And now I have the luxury to take it for granted.

Now I take it for granted.

Overunderstay

2009-09-29T21:56:00.000-07:00

Too much, I thought. Too much.
You were here, and then here.
You were here, and here some more.
C'mon, I have work to do.
You were here, keeping me from business.
On the rooftop, on the patio, cold ones only.
On the rooftop, speaking what if, where to?
You were here, in my way. You were here, in the way.

And now you're gone, five minutes.
And now I'm busy in my business.
Now I'm working on my work. Pedaling my wares, worrying about today, tomorrow, none else.
On the laptop, tea maybe, speaking this and that, bit-by-bit.
Worrying about today, tomorrow, and all the others selfsame.

I miss you.

Where

2009-07-23T19:27:00.000-07:00

Where was I when you just wanted to talk, to say hello?
Where was I when I was doing better things, doing things better?
Where was I when you blew out the candles, when your day was hard?
Where was I when all you needed was a hug, a smile?
Where was I when I was there, and you were here, still?
Where was I when you needed a friend?

And where are you?

Bucharest: Banana (singular)

2009-06-11T09:32:00.001-07:00

All he could think of were bananas, they were his dream, he said, as we sipped beers on the terrace. They used to dice the banana, and eat it over days, for it was singular. All he could think of was swimming in them, eating them 'till his belly was full, he said in perfect English, Eastern European only in accent.

He hated candlelight, he said, sitting in the park by the fountain. He hated the flicker of atmosphere, the glow of fire, for it reminded him of the days when candles were all.

The streets were dirty. The lights didn't work. Everything was dirty. Everything didn't work.

But today we sit on the terrace, and he has eaten his fill; he sits in the electric night.

Imagine Bucharest, whithered, bloom.

The sun gives you cancer

2009-03-19T15:41:00.001-07:00

The sun gives you cancer, and what a shame.
If you live to ninety and die of a coronary artery, who to blame? Saturated is the most likely culprit.

The sun gives you cancer for loving the grass and the sky. For forty is not enough; we watch the screen and white tiles, black tie, for fear the trickling stream and biting mites. I watch the screen and tiles and wish for the trickling stream but also airline miles and those pushing pages to my face for a pen and a word.

The sun gives you cancer and we can't stand to think that forty or ninety is enough, so we stare at tiles and forgo the grass and the sky, the trickling stream for the screen and the tie.

Cliché

2009-01-20T11:19:00.000-08:00

It's cliché to love America, or the United States at least.
It's cliché to sing of thee, sweet land.
It's cliché to believe in the American spirit, the American worker.
It's cliché to love my nation, to trust it with the World, to trust it to be good, to be kind, to forward progress both domestic and abroad.

But today I do.

It's cliché to be proud again, to speak to old friends in Sri Lanka and Holland, in Colombia and China and say see, I told you so. I met so many of you under a cloud. I met so many of you with the feeling that I needed to prove myself, that I am an American but.

But today I am.

It's cliché to look to the future and see the struggles of the past.
It's cliché to look to the future and wonder if the sky is truly the limit.
It's cliché to look to the future and see nation working with nation, like children building castles on the shore, past grievances long since forgotten, aware of future tribulations, but working in good faith nonetheless.

But today I do.

It's cliché to wonder if he was not the only one.
It's cliché to wonder if he had really seen the promised land.

But today I do.

The day

2008-12-14T17:36:00.001-08:00

The birds sing songs of love, gliding through the warm air, streaked before the blue sky, below cotton, above the Earth.
You lay amongst the trees, or in the grass, or by the sea, and you let the sun massage your skin. You listen to the calls of crickets, and the leaves fluttering in the trees.
It is bright and hot, sweet and sunny, but his heart slowly, quietly, softly, stops. Beside him is they, crying for him, crying for themselves, for today is the day.

You can see the streetlight glare in the streets, feel the wind sting your nose.
You can hear the leaves blow, scattering across the sidewalk, scraping their way to nowhere, skipping to nothing.
It is damp and cold, dark and dank, but from her belly came life, and she lays crying with joy, sobbing from her big heart, pounding and pulsing with glee. Beside her is he, crying as well, wailing on the floor for today is the day.

Before I knew it

2008-11-13T23:08:00.000-08:00

Before I knew it I was here and wanted to be nowhere else. Before I knew it I missed your laugh before it was gone. Before I knew it you were close but not enough.

I started solo and staying that way for ever. I started being as far away, exactly where I wanted to be. I started with freedom and courage, a man with none to answer to, a man with only his own steps, only his own path. I started by looking at the clouds and looking some more, not stopping to talk, not stopping to listen.

And before I knew it I became we, and we became a team, and your laugh lulls me to sleep at night and stirs me from my sleep in the morning. I am here and want to be nowhere else.

Start again

2008-11-04T20:56:00.000-08:00

Start again:

I look into your eyes and I see the smile of your lips. I have another, another day with you, another thought, another chance for you to see me with a smile.

Start again: you once loved me, admired me, laid next to me naked. You once loved me, you once wanted me so, wanted to be me so. But I left you there, swimming in the sheets, dreaming then wishing then praying for my return.

Start again for today is new, and I look into your eyes to see your smile. I once left you naked but that was not me, and I hoped I would return. I begged and prayed for my return.

And today I have returned. I see the smile in your eyes, but you stand before my bed, willing but unable. I return with a promise, but these are words not actions. I return with a hundred million strong, shouting my name and drinking champagne. Only tomorrow will tell, only tomorrow and four more.

But today I return, after too long, to you, as the waves slowly melt into the shore.

Now I know

2008-11-01T01:26:00.000-07:00

I was twelve or thirteen looking to forever more.
I was eighteen or nine and nothing more, always.

But I am twenty and nine, ten, and now I know the eighteen or nine.
The eighteen or nine should know of the twenty and eight or nine, but they don't, and how could we expect them to?

I am twenty and nine and I remember ten and nine, looking to ten more, knowing not but today, not but tomorrow and an infinite more.

I am twenty and nine and I see ten more and now I know that he is me soon to be. He is me, looking back upon silvered glass with gray and deep deep creases. He is not possibly me but definitely me. He is me, in ten, short ten.

I am twenty and nine and yesterday I was ten and nine, the day before just thirteen, just twelve. I am twenty and nine and tomorrow I'll be another of the others, forty minus a few, and counting. But now I know, now I know the stark reality of it all, for it is coming, and it is here. And he who rises with caution and care, he who hobbles up the stairs, he who wanders his way through thoughts, is me almost. Now I know.

To yearn

2008-10-09T00:10:00.000-07:00

We are Jews wondering who will be November.
We are Jews watching dollars fall to the penny.
We are Jews surfing Hollywood or TriBeCa.
We are Jews playing he said or she, playing who kissed who, playing he started it, playing this land is my land.
We are Jews questioning physics, questioning math, questioning law, questioning history.

And today, we are Jews questioning ourselves.

As the hours get large then small, as we count to inscription and ask, nay beg for another moment more; as we prostrate ourselves in pity and remorse; as we swear never again, this time is different; as another glass of water is all, another bite, another burst of succulence, we remember: we remember to yearn.

We remember now -- beyond the he and she said, beyond another promotion and if not why not, beyond if only I had another -- to yearn.

We yearn for another morsel, another drop, another taste. Our lips are parched, our stomach growls, and we remember to yearn, and we remember what it is to yearn.

For there are those who yearn not for forgiveness, not for repentance. There are those who yearn not just for twenty-five, not just from sunset to another. There are those who listen to the screams of their children, and pray that they don't stop. There are those who know not a life without yearning, a life without hunger, a life without persecution.

But tomorrow, with our stomachs full in evening delight, apples and honey tickling our tongues, will we remember what it is to yearn? Will we fill the glass of he with cracked lips? Will we feed he whose stomach cries? Will we remember our yearning, and look upon those who still do with compassion and concern? Will we say to he in a desperate place -- with eyes like ours and skin as well -- I know your hunger but I can imagine it not? Will we watch as dust blows in barren fields, both domestic and abroad, and recall the pain of longing, though ours was only twenty-five?

Will we learn of he who is shackled by injustice, or raped by inequality, and stand upon the memory of our yearning to proclaim never again, this time is different?

The War

2008-09-18T23:04:00.000-07:00

"I think we're getting ninety percent of the story," you said before the dark backdrop of Zellerbach, and we laughed, and we snickered.

"Excuse me," you shot back, offended, "have you been there?"

No, Jackie Spinner of the Washington Post, no I have not, and that's the problem; that's what has me steaming 921 days hence.

No, I haven't been there. No I haven't seen the crumbled concrete and billowing smoke. No I haven't heard the crying babies or the crying mothers, no I haven't smelled burning flesh or a soldier coming back from a firefight.

No I haven't seen the dead bodies, no I haven't heard the mullahs or the jihadists, no I haven't listened to a kid praying for Jesus to bring him back alive and intact. No I don't know the Iraqi summer, or winter, or fall, or spring. No I don't know the color of the desert, or the sounds of the market.

No I don't know what they eat or how they eat it. No I don't know how a man greets his wife, a woman her husband, a daughter her father, a boy his teacher. No I don't know the taste of the tea, if they use mint or sugar.

No I don't know what the average person thinks about tomorrow, or today, or about America, or about Israel. No I don't know what a boy in school learns about the Holocaust, or the Protocols of the Elders of Zion, or Sadaam, or Mao.

No I don't know what lullabies they sing their children.

You tell me how they hate, but not how they love. You tell me how they die, but not how they live. You tell me of roadside bombs, but forget the sidewalk and the bazaar. You tell me of guns and rockets, and forget soccer balls and kites.

But you still get ninety percent.

I grabbed my armrests to hold me still, to stop me from rising in that darkened auditorium and screaming at the top of my lungs. But in this vast experiment we call the internet I finally have my chance. I scream in this darkened auditorium, unknowing if anyone is there to hear me, and I say to you: you should be ashamed of yourself.

The trees

2008-09-09T20:38:00.000-07:00

You stand in trees in the breeze, whispering whispering.
You stand holding bark crumbling between your fingers, and you love it, and you love the bark, and you love the trees, and you love the breeze.
You stand with the blue, in the blue, jutting up from the brown and rich Earth, jutting up to the blue in the trees, in the breeze.
You stand amongst green in the blue, fingers palms waving in the trees in the breeze.
You stand amongst the green breathing green and blue, amongst the trees in the breeze.

Dali: tongue

2008-09-09T20:33:00.001-07:00

(Originally written in my travel notebook on 27 August, 2008)

I hear your voice and yours as well,
Speaking gibber speaking nonsense, just glottal and stops.
I hear them high then low, and you respond,
Two actors on a stage before me, pretending to understand.
You speak but not for me.
It is your tongue, like mine, like mine.
So beautiful, so yafeifya, so piolia, so kawaii, so bonita.
You speak but not for me.

29

2008-09-04T19:59:00.000-07:00

(Originally written on a notepad in a Hong Kong nightclub on 1 September, 2008)

He lays upon white with beeps and blood pressure behind him. He sits and he knows. He sits, he lays and he knows.

Twenty-nine and I say to you, with the bass and snare pounding pounding my head and I love it but less than yesterday; twenty-nine and I tell you with song and dance 'till light blasts through the curtains; twenty-nine and strobe lights my pen and I tell you to live again and over. Study and hard, learn, live, and over.

Fraid not of five and in the library for that's where the unimaginable tomorrow lies. Fraid not of her and her, beats and glitter and glam and whatnot if that's your thing. Wail on the strings and things. Love and be loved and drink passion, suckle on potential. For twenty-nine is ten million or one km away, and you'll sit wondering what if and what will.

Forbidden City

2008-08-14T05:27:00.001-07:00

(Originally written in my travel journal on 13 August 2008)

I arrived in the square from where history flashed itself upon our screens so many years ago. A man stood before a hundred tons of steel and war and won, at least for the time being.

I arrived and knew the past, my past of Cistine and Angkor, with flash bulb please suh. So I turned right and walked past Mao and ten-thou: cameras, police, fat men, jade earrings. I sat in a forbidden city, alone amongst the masses, sipping tea and watching a country's pride twist and bounce its way to gold.

But like history itself, I forgot. I forgot myself and paid the fee to be Forbidden -- five hundred years separated from arches of gold and cursive, today "made possible by American Express."

Khar Zurk'anii Khukh Nuur: The Past

2008-08-09T03:17:00.000-07:00

(Originally written in my travel journal on 6 August 2008)

Yellow waves of wildflowers and a sky of blue and white.
The green of valleys dotted with the occasional hut and the occasional herd.
I trot or walk or cantor over ridges and onto plains amidst nothing but it all, and I fall through time, splashing into the 1800s in search of Destiny; into the 1200s, when an empire began and the land was this big, the sky as well.

I am Chinggis, I am a settler of the West, I am looking out upon history, I'm living in the past, verbatim.

Good time to take a picture, but my batteries are low.

Otgonbataar

2008-08-09T03:11:00.000-07:00

(Originally written in my travel journal on 6 August 2008)

"Can I ask you a personal question," he said.
"Sure."
"How much you spend this trip?"
"$1500."

With a pained stare he looked at me, then in my teacup to see it still half-empty.
So he took his, fully, turned it upside down, and looked at me with passion and anguish again.

"This is Mongolia," he said, pointing to the cup. "This is my thinking." Then he turned the cup on its side. "This is what I want."

It is the freest land of them all, where ownership is a foreign concept, where your home is this summer's only, and next is a field of wildflowers and a trickling stream anew. It is the land of the nomad, with frost biting his face and the summer sun stinging his lips.

But Otgonbaatar is a prisoner of ambition and poverty. He drinks from the stream next to his horses, he sleeps in the field with the mosquitoes and the dew and the stars, but his $12 per day salary, taking tourists with wallets over fields and through forests leaves him only with dreams of China and Tailand, dreams of school in the UK, dreams of Parliament, where he can change his country.

"Many Mongolians dream," he said, "but I will do."

New Yorker

2008-07-15T21:36:00.000-07:00

Oh the irony, oh the satire. To raise a looking glass to you, to see through spherical aberration, through caricature, to toast to your ridiculousness, your lies and deceit.

So why do we frown? Why do we scoff and poo-poo an image of the lies we have been told? Why do we smack our lips upon the taste of exposure -- taste-full, not less? It is a lime that has burned our eyes before, it is what we know but do not say, do not show, do not admit not even in bed below the sheets.

But instead we scowl. We talk of how could they, how could they show in details normally relegated to AM radio, that which many believe, that which many have been led -- purposefully and intentionally -- to believe?

How could we admit that there are those who believe in bigotry, who stand behind it, who protect themselves in it, who bathe in it? How could we be so brazen to put it on the cover, to take it from the shadows and into the fore? How could we allow the media to express opinions that make us uncomfortable? How could we let the media criticize itself, for isn't it the job of the media to glorify itself, to make things better when they are not, to make things true when they are not, to make Muhajadin out of molehills?

Oh the satire will be lost, the irony. Those who never read will not read, and those who do will. Oh the satire and the irony, lost in the discussion amongst the ivory tower liberals, the Park Avenue liberals, the New Yorkers.

Or we can descend ivory, we can take the ferry to Hoboken, we can talk in Texas. We can stand before those who dispense propaganda to achieve their personal ideologies at all costs, and demand fairness, balance, truth.

Pushing buttons

2008-06-17T00:35:00.000-07:00

It was spring, but chilly. It was morning and cold; dew laid upon petals, mist hung, waiting. It was spring and I had to go, I had to be, somewhere. It was spring, when nature she wakens, when we've not forgotten the slush of winter, when we can almost feel the burn of summer.

But I had to go, I had to be, somewhere.

I had to be somewhere further than here, and amidst the grumble of diesel, I let out one of my own, for the spring was lost on me, for I had to be, somewhere.

The spring was lost on me, I missed the mist, the dew, the daises, the grass. I missed the mist, and only heard the hiss, the grumble.

And I almost missed -- I shiver to think if I had -- I almost missed in my grumble and hiss, the eyes of a boy, small fingers curled around his mother's pant leg, fixated upon the red of a button. Upon the red plastic button with white letters "STOP" written across it.

And I almost missed what it was to wonder, what it was to want nothing more than to play, than to see. I almost missed that little boy, asking mommy please, please, can I push it now.

Above the grumble I swallowed, and smiled. It was a beauty that brought me near tears. I swallowed above the grumble, and I told that beautiful boy that he could push the button for me, for I had to be, somewhere.

That boy is grown now, maybe missing the mist, maybe blasting his ears on a bus ride to somewhere further than here. And he, like us, has forgotten the button. He, like us, knows only of pushing buttons in the negative. How dare we.

(Adapted from a story told to me by Jess so many years ago. Prompted by the anonymous comment on the previous entry.)

Just because

2008-05-08T17:01:00.000-07:00

I must remember to giggle. To talk nonsense just because. To be silly and fun.

I must remember to not remember times past, to not look back with fondness and yearning. I must remember that the future holds whatever, and it is vast, and it is what it will be.

I must remember to giggle, to jump just because. I must remember to look at a ball or a cup of soup with curiosity. I must remember to play with my food, to push buttons just because.

I must remember that the world is a miracle, that each electron and rubber ball is inconceivable. I must remember than I am still a child, and I will be for all my days. I must remember to be that child, to encourage that child, to let him play, to let him giggle, to let him jump just because.

Two by two

2008-05-03T20:20:00.001-07:00

They arrive two by two, as the night appears and the day gives thanks.
They arrive two by two, in love, hand around waist, smiling, bursting.

Two each made of ones, each different, each marred and blessed by the past, by a unique past, by insights and late nights, by pain and pleasure. By youth, by growth, by tragedy, by triumph.

But two together are the same as any in silhouette, as they arrive with the night, two by two.

Old

2008-04-26T03:16:00.000-07:00

Gray, yes gray.
Not white, yes gray.
Not completely, not totally, not stunning not deep nor tepid.
Gray, yes gray.

There is a day, yes gray, where whiteness turns.
There is a day, yes gray, where no more is skin elastic, no more is beauty and grace.

There is a day, shining back from gray, where it is all down hill, where it was before but not now.

And I look, and I see.

And I look, and I see, and I see, he, me looking back, looking back.

I look, and I see, that which I did not believe.
Of one more day and another more.
Of one more day of one and one more.

And I look and I see, between glass, between me
Is another, as before.
Is another, tomorrow once more.
Is another and I wish.
Is another and none less.

Another

2008-03-05T22:01:00.000-08:00

There always is another, another minute, another moment.

There always is another, another thing, another now, another later.

There always is another, one before, not this time, not ever, hopefully some day.

There always is another, and I wish for yet one more, hundreds and thousands more, never to be enough but more than another please.

I beg and I stammer through another, wishing hoping for more, never enough. I wail for another, scream for my mother to give me another, go to sleep after just one other, lift the sheets to a cold morning for another.

And in the still of the night, or in the cacophony of life, when another and another fly around me, tap me repeatedly on the shoulder asking for more of me, when my others and my anothers begin to own me, I think of nothing more. Of none other, of the quiet, of the still, of focus, of meditation.

A moment passes, and I dream of none other, but it is gone, and another awaits.

Is it harder?

2008-01-26T22:37:00.000-08:00

In a land with leaves and grass blowing barely in the wind, in a land with sand and blue, but black as well. In a land with red drip dripping into pools on the brownish dirt, in a land with drums or harae harae, in a land with beads and color, in a land of gunshot gunsmoke never know what the next meal is, if it is.

In a land with please and leave the toilet seat down, in a land of never would I do such a thing, repulsive, against our very grain. In a land of standing on the sidelines, watching the ball go to and fro, on the edges, watching bump and grind, wishing it was me.

In a land of never would I ever, where peace is the only way, where the seat should be down forfucksake, where never no never would I think of hitting a woman.

In a land of one more day is another of hunger. In a land of me and my brothers versus those cunts and the others. In a land of blood and battle, of bitches and stitches, where do we stand?

So I ask you, and I ask, and I purely, wholly, with no opinion on a way or the other, I ask you: is it harder to rape than to love? Is it harder to kill than to cherish? Is it harder to live than to die?

Focus

2008-01-23T22:46:00.001-08:00

Take me for example.

I once looked up to the sky wondering where the big beard was, which cloud he was atop. I once laid down each eve thanking him, begging for his forgiveness, but in a tongue I did not speak, in pig Latin though more kosher and less understood by me. I once and still make my annual trip to prostration, laying chincheststomachtoes on the floor of some room with more chairs than not, with more like me than not, begging for forgiveness in these last hours before Wednesday or whatever. I once and still do get oh so hungry, a twenty-five hour ascetic.

I once sat daily cross-legged in the sand or above city lights, on dorm-room mattresses or grass, breathing and concentrating so. Vacating or trying so. Letting go or trying so.

I once looked for the truth and thought I found it, I once looked for the truth and found I was lost -- that is the furthest truth I've found. I once looked and swore I would look further, forever.

But the late nights of vapors and the early mornings of productivity win another, staving off the hunger of depth and insight for another day.

----------------
Now playing: King Kooba - Foolin Myself
via FoxyTunes

Morning

2008-01-19T19:22:00.000-08:00

You float in a sea of down, swimming in the daze of midmorning, air cold and alive, daylight out on the street corner, begging for you to come, but you don't. You float in a sea, and smile another, and beg me to come back, to ignore the call of the daylight, to nestle in the warmth below water, to nestle in your breath and your love.

You smile and giggle. Morning has you still, and you swim but come up for me alone.

Ticks in the ratchet

2007-12-22T01:24:00.000-08:00

Another day more, he said, just one more and it will all be over. Another day or another week, a year or perhaps a few. Another day more and it will be all over, this all will be behind me, and I can start again, anew, with a blue sky above and nothing but waving grains, green and healthy, at my feet.

Another day, he said, but how many have passed? Another day before the beginning, before I start living. Another day to begin, but another to the end as well. These are not expanding horizons, he said, these are not blue skies and unending waving grain. These days are the walls closing in, these days are ticks in the ratchet.

He stood, silent, deflated, alone in a gray suit atop gray, amidst honking and steam rising from the pipes. These days are ticks in the ratchet.

That's not true

2007-12-09T23:15:00.000-08:00

There was a flicker -- flicker flicker, and shine -- starlight was long past, and the sky erupted from mere yellow and blue to a ball of purity, of magnificence and power. Flicker flicker and shine, as sand grains -- just a few -- over my feet, and the cold desert breeze shook me deep.

There was a flicker and I squinted, my eyes begging for another, but it was not to be. Shine, he said, light himself, heat and life. It was day, and the desert continued to flow, to crawl and stream its silky self, a nomad and home to those as well.

Flicker was over, probably to return but maybe no, and I tried to live each day as if, but that's not true.

Flicker was over, and twelve or whatever later came flicker again -- this time a goodbye. Flicker and goodbye, and I promised to live each day if, but that's not true; I can't remember the last, even in these days of five o'clock night.

Flicker and it was over, flicker to return but maybe never, and I promise I will tomorrow, but that's not true.

----------------
Now playing: David Holmes - Gone (Alter Ego Decoding Gone
via FoxyTunes

Eternal

2007-12-03T23:07:00.000-08:00

I knew your grandfather and his as well; I watched the coals snap and sizzle in the hearth of their youth. I watched deep embrace, prolonged and passionate, as grandmother and hers bid farewell to their kin. I watched father and his return, to coals snapping, to streamers of smoke and puffs of soot.

I watched pots boil over, and bread breath; I watched cloth and diapers, an old man and a young just the same, still.

I knew your grandfather and his, you and your son. I knew aunt and uncle alike, sister, brother, cousin.

I heard the songs of birds and the calls of cats, crickets and bees. I saw love in mongoose, rabbit, field-mouse, grandfather and his.

I felt the wind pound and pellet, hot and dry, icy cold. I felt the snow sting and the sand as well. I felt the dew of springtime, the kiss of sunshine, the miracle of rain. I stood the the darkness of yule and the glare of midsummer.

I stood tall in gales and the calm alike. I stood tall and firm, through screams and kisses, the slamming of doors, their gentle closing alike.

All have left, save I. All are fleeting, all are moments upon the backdrop of infinity, teardrops in the oceans of time, save I.

I knew your grandfather and his, I saw them swallowed by the Earth, now no more than a stone upon a mound. I know you and your son; I will know you the same -- you and yours, yours and further.

There was, there will

2007-11-19T22:10:00.000-08:00

There was a day of little more than tomorrows, when yesterdays were numerable and massive. There was a day, full of color and sun, warmth and water, when nothing mattered but potential, for it was vast and powerful. There was a day when each fact or concept, each letter or word, each equation or operation, was an investment in doubtless returns, bounties of future and life.

There will be a day of little more than yesterdays, when tomorrows are scarce and weak. There will be a day, gray and overcast, cool and dry, when nothing matters but the stories and ideas we've left behind. There will be a day when we stand in the lake-bed of potential, collecting balls of mud in our hands, squeezing for one last pint.

Today I wade in the pool, rain slowing to a mist.

Oh California

2007-11-10T01:47:00.000-08:00

West I went, west, west, to the cities of spangle and glitter, to warmth and beauty, to joy and sand. West I went, but north unlike south, where nose-rings not bleach-blond, and passion activism replace levity and calm.

California, I've felt you for five and more, but yet I find myself alone in the streets, late, wondering how I came to know you, and why I deserve the pleasure.

California with spiky plants and watered lawns, those fences around your twelve-square-foot garden hurt me, those dripping vines and exploding palms remind me that I am far from home, and lucky therefore. You are gorgeous, you are strange.

California, it is two or close to, and I sit with laptop glow and the sky as well. It is two and November, when three pm is too cold for New York, and two am is a chill that reminds me of life. California where the sun shines enough, and the heat holds you near, but never too close, and never distant.

California, I know you but don't, you are home but still away, joy, but bittersweet.

That day

2007-11-07T00:40:00.000-08:00

But there was a day when I awoke an it all was real, though I wished it not, though I wondered of past forks and choices. There was a day when I said oh my, what have I done, and why didn't I? Some live in fear of that day, some live in fear of another, or a third. Some never even notice that life doesn't always have to work out, some never notice that it can.

When the world ends

2007-10-18T00:50:00.000-07:00

When the world ends and fires light the blackened sky, turning night into day, turning winter into noontime Savannah heat; when rain and acid scrub your face and the Earth begins to swallow, swallow; when questions rise not of life after death, but rather death after death, not of legacy but of annihilation, not of a world to which I have left, but a world with nothing left; when the world ends and there is no more time, like a tree falling solitary amongst it peers, unheard, what will you say? When the world ends and all was for naught, mountains and castles, gold and child, love, spite, evil and spirit, what will you say? When the world ends and there is no new beginning, no new-born or big-bang, what will you say?

Was it all for naught? Were castles-mountains just those in the sand, unknowing of the crashing sea? Or is there another, a man with a beard of compassion and vengeance? Is there a life beyond piddly Earth, beyond chemistry and math?

Above to below

2007-10-12T22:08:00.000-07:00

Six and what comes to you, what enters your eyes ears brain? Six or seven, seven or eleven-maybe, and life is the wonder of the rainbow or freshly cut grass, blue sky or just another day alive. Sand sandpaper tree treetrunk. Six or seven, seven or eleven-maybe, and the worst is he who threw me to the sand sandbox, sticks and stones, words.

Six or seven, seven or eleven-maybe, when he said she said was just being a child, when feelings lept from sugar laden to downtrodden, from giggles and slurping to tears and belting. Six or seven, forever or never, but here we find today, twenty-eight or a bit late.

Here we find today, or yesterday, or many prior, where your words wound me where tears fall not, but insides fall so. You were wonderful, you were kind, you were above yet acted as one-of-the-, you were my hero, my friend, and now you've fallen to just another. To leave me alone to gettoutaherekid.

And I ramble without apology. You were above yet with me below, you were the same though different and wise. You were above yet now your the same, and those tears from the sandbox fall not.

A dime

2007-07-30T00:44:00.000-07:00

Here's a thought, just a thought. Not meant to impress, not meant to suggest. Not meant to make you shudder or quiver, not meant to make you wonder worry wake whimper wander.

Here's a thought that was brought to me through the wisdom of a night too late for today and to early for the morning, when darkness permeates not just the sky. As I slathered the words of excess, as I watched others share in the same, I found a thought, just a thought, and I look (now) upon them twinkling on my desk, ancient, historical silver gleaming in tradition and grace.

I'm a dime, Cake says, and I'm fine, and I shine I'm freshly minted. I am determined, not to be dented by a car or a plane or anything, not yet invented.

Twinkle dime, and teach me the gift of charity without sacrifice, of mitzvah, of grace and good fortune without the burning of loss, without the wondering of if only.

Today, I say, without reservation or remorse, I declare that I will carry with me the sacred dime, one tenth of worthless to me, but one twentieth of a coffee or breakfast to some. And I shall give freely and happily, with enthusiasm and glee, to all and any who ask, for it is you, number ten, not more than too much, no less than nothing, which holds a key -- yes a -- to solving the problems of evermore and always.

From this day forward, I will give a dime to all that ask, with a smile and with hope and care to its benefactor. I wish you all the best, the world, and its fortunes within. I wish you peace and tranquility, money and matrimony, silence and applause. And now I bestow upon you one tenth of nothing; do with it as you wish.

Religion is nurture

2007-07-26T00:26:00.000-07:00

Religion is nurture, not DNA or epigenetics, not pouring from above and tasting what you wish, not bubbling up from the ground, or running through your veins.

Passionate eyes banging on the lectern, or staring into aspherics, come from passionate eyes past, eyes of Mom or Dad, of uncles or others.

Closed eyelids, soft and modest, demure, delicate, asking-begging, wondering-questioning, with palms fingertips touching, with knees brushing felt -- it feels good, doesn't it, right, perfect positive. But knees brushing felt were once scabbed and small, palms touching were once dirty from summer oak and autumn mud. And eyelids were never closed, never soft, only modest, delicate and demure as they glanced upwards to the others, the elders, lacking scabs and dirt, certain.

And in a glance, an unsure, unknowing, innocent glance, we see that religion is nurture.

But our eyes close, and certainty, entitlement creeps.

Religion is not certain or sure, not here and not there. Religion is that of the last, that of before: nurture.

Round face

2007-07-24T01:00:00.000-07:00

She had a round face, not a circle, but if you drew one -- a large one, on maybe legal paper, or on the side of a cereal box -- forehead, cheeks and more would touch.

It was round, circular, and ugly. But who am I, with my chiseled-ness, blonde and blue, black not even? Who am I to speak of round and ugly?

I watched her tiny arm, thin and decorated, outstretched as she placed an IPA on the counter before me, taking care to wipe any previous customer's condensation away with a dirty rag. I stared at it, for it was blue and green, faded red, and only the occasional white. This little girl, with a little round face, had the arms of a biker, covered in ink, yet slim and feminine. I looked up at her, in the smallest bit of shock, then in the smallest bit of disgust, and she spoke:

"That'll be five dollars."

Three am, part one

2007-07-13T02:58:00.000-07:00

I read of takeovers and blaze, of candlelight and I believe and where will the next planet be. I read and heard, and listened and learned. I memorized, vocalized, told stories at kitchen counters and dining room halls. I learned with saliva dripping from my jowls, suckling on more and more, another and another, fact or tid, another to see the world again. More of you I asked, blessed giver of life, of love, of sustenance, of knowledge. More I begged, for tomorrow brings mountains, minions more. Tomorrow is a miracle anew, and I ask of you, for one more, a thousand more.

And I laid down to final rest, knowing all, but you.

Two am, part two

2007-07-07T02:00:00.000-07:00

Clickity-clack, I say, aloud, at the top of my lungs. Tic-tac, and tomorrow has come, yet it is dark, and my light is on, and she mumbles and whispers in her sleep detras.

Clickity-clack and others stare at screens afar, through selfsame electrons, emotions.

Clickity-clack and others die looking up at the burning sun, or the silent stars, or the sparks of bombs bursting in air.

Clickity-clack while girls cry and scream, for now they are two, and now they are Mom.

Click and lunch is served, or dinner, or a midnight snack above Pacific shores. Clack and eyes flutter, or shut, or open anew.

And the blackness fades to light, washing the streets clean of the night, waiting for today to arrive.

Her first

2007-07-01T01:37:00.001-07:00

It was the first, she said. The first of many, of few but more than one. It was the first, the first of July, three before. The first time I saw you and melted, wondered where I was going, when I would get there, and how I knew, without reserve, that I would.

There were coals and flesh, sizzle sizzle. It was three after, three after the first, when America drinks beer and makes love to itself.

I have gotten ahead of myself; it was her first, and she smiled and giggled, with dimples and innocence. Innocence that could bleach the blackened walls of he (me) who sat, alone, smoking a cigarette, wondering if tonight would be just another on the concrete, in a park for the people and named as such. She smiled and beamed light from dimples, across grass and "grass," a beam that would snuff out my cigarette, make me choke on possibility, and then remember, as if I could forget, that I was just a bum.

It was her first, three before America making love to itself, and she smiled for the first naked man she saw, naked for all of taboo and culture to see, lungs naked for tobacco and nicotine, face naked for the concrete, veins naked and undulating for another, eyes naked to any and all. She smiled with dimples -- her first -- and I could not believe, today was here. I was, now, as I had always reckoned, as I had shouted, naked, from rooftops and botanics, the Messiah.

She smiled first, three before, bleaching the blanket of fog and smog, and I saw now -- doubtless -- Gan Edan.

Where are you from, she said, and she was gorgeous, and innocent and clean. Where are you from, innocuous, naive and timid. It was beauty that brings tears to some, talons to others. Where are you from she asked, as I tried, in vain, to light another.

From a time before there was, I said, from a place of nowhere, with a name of blanks, and a mind likewise. I saw her smile, her first, and I knew now that this was true. I no longer, nor had I ever, existed. I was in-between, or throughout, or whatever you wish.

I was whatever you wished, I said, I am whatever you wish. I am Messiah, or the thunderous declarations of brilliance and passion. I am a pin-stripped suit, or flip-flops before the majesty of sunset. I am whatever you wish.

I am whatever you wish, with dimples and beams flowing, now fading, please don't leave. I am whatever you wish, but not that, no not that.

It was her first, of few but more than one. And on three before the fourth, I saw the end, where dimples fade, beams lay flat, and I, again, am just a bum.

Black belt

2007-06-27T14:02:00.000-07:00

It is a symbol of sweat past, kiyaps and thuds. It is a symbol of tomorrow, when life begins anew, when learning continues, where sweat, kiyaps, and thuds await. It is a symbol of valor, of distinction, of pride and accomplishment. It is a symbol handed by a master, standing tall, bowing in mutual respect, amidst applauds and cheers.

But tomorrow will never come, and today a master knelt, head down, full of sorrow and duty, amidst sobs and silence, and placed a black belt on your gurney.

Congratulations, Corinne. You deserve it.

May you rest in peace.

Invisible love

2007-06-21T17:44:00.000-07:00

(To be opened on 6/21/2020)

Dear son,

I write you from a battlefield afar, where red flows and shines in violence, where howls send shivers of delight and horror. I write you without knowing you, being half of you, missing you though I've never met you, and hoping, above all, to see the color of your eyes, your smile, to hear your cry, your laugh.

But the nights are long here, and death is easier than life, so I write you this letter from a battlefield afar, in longing, but heartened nonetheless that these words may someday bring you comfort and resolution.

Dare I ask, in a moment of utmost selfishness and greed, to watch you grow, to see fuzz on your chin or cigar smoke wafting from below your mortarboard? Dare I ask to hold your hand as I fall gently to sleep, wrinkled and content, loved and ancient? No, I do not dare, for there are others here -- at least as courageous and deserving as I -- who have watched their lives slip from them through the barrel of a gun, with a swoop of a machete, or through supersonic and therefore silent shrapnel. I ask only what I have already, to have you know me, and to know that your life will consist of nothing but joy and righteousness.

So today, on your thirteenth birthday, know that your father loved you, and that he still does love you. It is an invisible love -- a love not of kisses and hugs, but of missed ones, of teardrops and potential. It is a love that follows you everywhere, that envelops you in your times of desolation or sadness, that accompanies you in your times of majesty and pride, and guides you when you are lost.

Be good. Be very good. Strive for perfection, though be humbled by the notion that you will never achieve it. Learn from your mistakes -- meditate upon them -- and from your accomplishments. And most of all, take care of your mother, for she has sacrificed more than you or I; bathe her in visible love, as I will bathe her, too, in the invisible.

And live, son, live with a thirst for tomorrow, and with passion for today. Live not for the school bell or recess, vacation or retirement, Saturday or 5pm. Live as if each minute is a lesson, as if now is an awakening, and, dare I be so cliche, as if the next may never come. This, if little else, is the lesson war can teach a father.

Love,
Your Father

Guayaquil: out-of-tune guitar

2007-06-20T11:04:00.000-07:00

(Originally written in my journal, 6/16/07, ca. 4am)

Your notes were flat, not your voice, not your passion. And I sat in wonder, wondering what went wrong here. I sat smiling among G´s and A´s strum stum, in a foreign tongue, but flat alas. Thank you yellows and blues, sodium vapor and hot breeze. Thank you troubador, cantillating melodies with vigor and repose, melisma and refrain. You showed me there -- anywhere but here -- where melodies fall before one, and inspiration, enchantment, gives way to silence and peace. Now I know, another night more, that as far away is where I want to be.

Oh enemy

2007-05-31T01:54:00.000-07:00

Oh enemy, oh enemy, I walk the streets pondering thee, scheming, planning, hoping for your demise.

Oh enemy, oh enemy, I beg for a tomorrow without you, for further days with naught but companions, supporters.

Oh enemy, oh enemy, I wish not for your death, or injury, I wish no harm upon you; I only wish you'd disappear, and reappear, my friend, my friend.

Two am, part one (of many)

2007-05-26T01:58:00.000-07:00

It's two am and I'm surrounded by love an beauty. It's two am and I melt in your gaze, your smile, you laughter, your levity. It's two am and tomorrow I shall see you again, to bask in your greatness, your depth, your wisdom, and your humor.

It's two am and tomorrow brings delights anew, with pleasure, camaraderie and life.

You and you show me the days beyond the days of tomorrow, when grey and ache line my face, when inspiration is amongst the possible, when today is amongst the practical.

You and you show me the days of fine furnishing and glass, when children play on the carpet, and red wine is of the delights. When breast milk playschool whats the best diaper replace search and lust, it is you who I can recall recalling, patting on the shoulder, smiling that cutest of smiles, giggles, laughs, at yesterday and today, at tomorrow and forever.

Thank you and you -- and now I move from esoteric to specific -- thank you deep friends of South Asia, with sticks of ash in your hands, those cutest of smiles on your face, and nothing but the best -- within, throughout, upon. Thank you and you, with flutters and giggles, and shadows upon my eyelashes, singing into the night: thank you.

The life of a computer

2007-05-22T21:08:00.001-07:00

You sit and stare, electric glow shining off your face. Stare, stare, stare. You sit and stare, and leave, only to return, to return to the glow, to the glare, to the stare.

I meditate, and wait, and sweat, and pipet.

East-West

2007-05-19T15:25:00.000-07:00

There are stars in the country, and lights in the city. Trees sway and swagger in the breeze, our blankets ruffling. Lights twinkle, twinkle, little city. In the city, in the hills, the sky is black save the sliver of 1969, and perhaps feminine blaze. In the country, in the hills, the sky is alive, dancing and crying, fleeting, shooting, mesmerizing, and the Earth black save the hints of shadows, save the starlit grass or dirt or rocks.

This city is the West's city, where hills perch atop metropoli, where brown grass stands before front seat lovers, watching stars on the ground and ships on final approach. The East's cities are electric inside, on street-level; vast views await only tourists paying top dollar for skyscraper patios, or the occasional weekend shaman, breathing in Jersey air in a hiatus on the Palisades.

This country is the East's country, where the grass is wet in the summer -- its blades find their ways between your toes -- where trees are bushy and bright, happy and vibrant. This is the East, where nights make you sweat, or fear frostbite, or shout at you in baritone. In the West the grass holds on, waiting for winter to come, the night is January or September, and the parched Earth begs for mercy in a grovel.

Why start now?

2007-05-03T01:14:00.000-07:00

I emerge from the warm, simple womb of private writing, of late nights in front of the screen, pouring my heart to the invisible you, the impossible you, and I begin a journey anew. I write now to the you, the invisible but possible you, the improbable but inevitable you. I am nervous, for no one, not one, has seen the rough tidbits of midnight ramblings, laced with ethanol or emotion or both, or maybe just nothing, maybe sobriety and boredom (never!), maybe sobriety and procrastination (always!).

I emerge from isolation, quiet and calm, bathed in the light shining through my mother's belly, pacified by the constant thump, the palindrome of a heartbeat so close to mine. I emerge kicking and screaming, but aware nonetheless that today is a day I shall remember forever; today is my birthday.