Life, I guess

My posts have been sporadic, my internet presence considerably diminished by ever-engrossing schoolwork. I feel compelled to give a small update in the happenings of my life. I don't think anybody but Jason and a spare few random perusers ever see these things, but that won't stop me. This way, nobody can accuse me of withdrawing myself from your society, dear reader.

Life has reached an agreeable pitch. There's a girl now, and though the relationship is still very green and tender, I find her company deeply satisfying, and the element she adds to my day to day existence is a pleasing one.

I've taken up cursive again, with a conscious effort made toward neatness and legibility. I imagine style will evolve from there.

I've taken up writing with regular frequency, as handwriting practice would require. I think I understand what I need to do to be able to write stories. My original technique of sitting down at the keyboard and seeing what comes out isn't cutting it. Hopefully, I'll have one of these finished pieces posted here soon.

Orlando, the guy who was going to illustrate that graphic novel that fell by the wayside, might provide illustrations as part of his own exercise. That could be interesting.

I'm keeping up and starting to work ahead on my schoolwork, thanks to my (slowly) developing organization skills and the (sudden) desire to have weekends free. It makes class easier, and sometimes more enjoyable. I'm afraid my sense of practicality is still giving me crap about the study of English Literature, but I can cope. It does seem to sharpen a certain edge, though perhaps not an edge appreciated or required in many industries. In the end, I think I will be grateful for my college experience. For now, it's hard to keep from bitching.

My room is clean, my backyard stands poised for the wet season, and my bookshelf looks fantastic tucked away in my closet. My words are becoming easier, more sensible and stable, and I think I am ready to write something of length. I am dating a woman I admire, and find great pleasure in her company.

Life is good.

If you're still out there, reading, let me know. Oh, and read the poem that precedes this post. I'm rather fond of it.

The Fall

It was begun with glorious Sun
departing from Her lands,
And purchase won by Hateful One,
with death upon his hands.
She might have wept, but wisely kept
the Warm wet of her tears,
To be spent upon the rent
when come the kinder years.

His hiss and slither shook and shivered
Her heart with icy dread.
Thence and thither, wilted, withered
the leaves that crowned Her head,
Which facing blight did fast alight
to wreath of fiery red.
A helm of war She brightly bore,
but sadly soon would shed;
An angry mutter sent the clutter
clattering cold and dead.

And with a howl, a wintry cowl
he cast upon the wood,
But from Her breast he could not wrest
that Warmth that made her good
(though he detest, and best contest,
against him still it stood).
Then with a screaming icy stream
he blew a frozen cast,
And in his fury deeply buried
beneath the blizzard's blast.

Too old for cold to crumble,
She stood in silence fast,
Spent, he stumbled mumbling numbly,
"Next year, you will not last."

Without report, she gave retort,
by facing, smiling, East,
Whence came Her Sun, His freedom won,
His debt to South released.
Before His power, Cold flinched and cowered,
like lowliest of beasts.

With gasp and scurry he scampered, hurried,
'fore his Forever Foe,
whose lofty might would surely smite,
and lay old Winter low.

"I'm not done yet," he spat his threat,
frost frothing from his mouth.
"For while you're here with mummy dear,
I can keep the South."

The Poet and the Watchman

It has been so long, so long within the arms of this fortress, and I can shout no more over walls, or whisper through grated gate and portcullis. The only embrace afforded in such a place comes from cold stone; I could crumble for loneliness and weep with weariness, the echoes of my frantic pace the closest I could call company. I would rather fall, forgotten, and bleed my warmth into the earth than stay here and safe. If she be a wolf, let her devour me and be done.

A waste, Watchman? That I am already, and can only more become, if I heed your cold command.

Follow me, if you like, if you are even able to leave your high tower. I depart, to find what is beyond the walls, and you are welcome—Your advice is not unwanted, but you command no more.

Remember, precious, that when you hinge your happiness on another, that your tears are theirs to call, and when you hand out your heart, you offer something to destroy.

You have been flippant and free of late, and have, without right or worry, put us in danger’s way. I’ll not stand for it, precious. You act like a pup, and if it does not stop, I will leash you. No more wandering beyond the walls, with gates wide, waiting for your return. You will sit inside, and your friend can wait at the gate until we are sure she is not fanged.

Beware and Behave, precious, if you do not want to bleed.

(ellipsis) revisitted

I enjoyed the way the original segment came out, but never had the brains or balls to try expanding on it. I'm going to give it a shot. I'm at work now, so I can't do any more on it today.

The zeal of the morning shine struck and carried beneath the bloody clouds, tearing shadows across the whispered landscape. The sand shown orange as I slithered and slicked beside my towering shadow, and the waves sang watch and show. The girl slid from the salty lifeguard shack behind me, padding her way –surely, padding—across the pouring sand. The salt blew her hair into my face and my nose filled my head with the flowers growing in the sand as her hand pressed into mine, fingers binding and tangling there on the sand.

She said something then, notes lilting and tilting me into her, and she held me and I could only smile as I fell into her. More words, soft, soothing, lolling and lulling reverberating through me, wrapping around me and rolling with me, soft, warm. Perfect.

And somewhere in the distance a flag clanged against its pole as a breeze tugged it awake to stand and greet us. The click, sharp snap, crisp through the air as though the world was silent but for the pointed noise rising above the low rushing wash and the hissing retreating show that muffles the silence of every beach.

And her hand squeezed again like a click, like a tug away from the distance that had captured my eyes and her words rolled over me like a smile, like thunder or a heavy blanket that pushes down on the chest and arms. A sense. An overwhelming tide of gasping breath and pounding heart. An undercurrent towing me down and down and away with her winter-pond eyes rushing into my lungs, her fingers holding gentle, holding me in the tumble under her smile.

She looked away, her eyes breaking away, riding back along the horizon, drawn by something I could not see. I could breathe again, and the wind blew her hair back across her shoulders.

The cold of the vanquished night held refuge within the sand, and fastened to our feet as we stirred upon the roof of its abode. She shivered slightly, her skin tightening across her bare arms that lightly brushed like a winter breeze upon my own skin. I quivered, despite me, and I hid the delight as she grasped to the warmth of my core.

We stood a moment and gathered bodies with arms. I breathed warm life into her hair and held it against the Pacific chill. My neck pressed against hers, a warm tributary, passing and sharing with each pairing pulse. Blood surged and crashed in my ears, prelude, countermelody to the rhythmic roar of the sea, rising and pushing to a crescendo of sonic static, drowning deafening, fuzz thick and slow as sand.

I said something to her, and she looked into me. I doubt she heard, but it did not matter. She wrapped warm arms around my neck and burrowed fingers into my hair and I leaned in and kissed her and I felt her smile briefly against my lips before we mixed, gathered and twisted there on the sand

The sun did its work too slowly to save us that morning, and we were forced to gather and carry ourselves to her hulking old truck, conceding to the vestiges of ocean cold and beating a gritty retreat.

“You’re covered in sand,” I told her.

“Imagine that,” she said, brushing absently at the damp.

It was the first we’d spoken since arriving in the twilight and submerging ourselves in the ocean’s song. Her voice was smooth as a smile, hiding a laugh and singing the glint that lived in her eyes.