A Drum, Beat by the Universe

And standing there in that concert hall, I fell in love with a new sensation.  I was not a woman, not a girl.  I was no longer just a numbered student in a clockwork world.  I was a drum, beaten by the universe.  The vibrations racing up through the soles of my feet and into my hands then out the tips of my hair.  I was a wild child, something unique and beautiful.  I was free.

The Writer

Smoke drifted lazily in the room, winding up to the ceiling.  He stood in front of the crowd, eyes cast downwards at his paper.  his head was balding, despite his youth.  The room was silent. 
He began to speak, slowly at first, then quickly.  His voice was crisp and clear.
"You all have a misguided opinion of me.  You seem to think that I am some kind of genius, an artist, an intellectual.  I'm not."  He stared at the men in the front row, at their suits and their ties.  He glanced back down at his paper and continued: "I am nothing but a collection, an emporium of all the things I've ever read.  I've never said anything that wasn't a quote from somewhere or other.  I have no opinions but the ones I've read in books and in papers.  I am completely unoriginal- a kaleidoscope image of all the people I've known.  I don't truly exist.  You've said many times that I'd be missed, but I would not be.  You would miss only the convenience of me.  The convenience of having a walking, talking museum of all mankind's lesser traits.  You don't believe me, I see that.  You can't accept that I am merely a plagiarizer of all the things you've said.  That all I am is a menagerie of words and books."  He looked out at their faces, at the murmurs spreading in their throats. "But thank you for your support.  I accept this trophy with pride."
The crowd surged forward, to hug him, to assure him they loved him.  And they did.  They loved him because he was nothing, a reflection of themselves.  They loved him because at his core there was nothing but words.  He was their soundless gong, their broken window.  He was their empty bottle, their blank masterpiece.  He was their tuneless hum and their sorry reflection.  And the writer watched them with sad eyes, he watched their angry-sad mouths and their hurt-hungry arms and he was saddened.  Because in the end, they defined him too.

52nd Street

She walks down the street, smiling, oddly happy.  Her legs are long and her hair is short.  She's not thin, but she isn't fat- there's nothing particularly noticible about her, though she is impeccably dressed.  In wedge heels and black shorts, a striped shirt and a large brown leather purse, she looks young- but fashionably so.  She walks down the street, nodding at passers-by and smiling at mothers pushing wailing infants in cutesy prams.  Occasionally she stoops down in front of dog walkers, looking upwards and requesting to pet their dogs.  They always say yes.  She's charming and she's mysterious- aluring in every way.  She's the picture-perfect image of the enlightened twenty-first century woman.
We move through different districts, passing homeless men and mangy dogs.  She continues walking, her shoulders back and her gaze cast forward.  She fascinates the world.  We pass train stations and strip malls.  She smiles at commuters and children on their way to school.  A cellphone begins to ring, and she draws it from her purse, quickly settling into a discussion about two mutual friends of the caller and hers who happen to be 'seeing each other.'  As she talks I realize just how much I hate that phrase and the utter mundanity it conveys; the confusion presented by the notion that two people only begin to 'see each other' once they start dating.  As I turn away from this lady I will never meet, I sigh, realizing that I lost interest in this woman long before discovering that someone so mysterious could be so saddly stereotypical.  I realize as I return to the train station where I first saw her that I lost all interest when she failed to notice the man begging for coins on the corner of 52nd street.

All in Favour of a Gay French Moon

I'm not going to lie, my sense of humour is bad. I can tell jokes that will make people laugh for days, but I always seem to have the misfortune of telling them to the wrong people at the wrong point in time. I'm the one joking about zombies canines to the grieving owner. I'm the person who jokes about necrophilia at a morgue. I laugh at stories of mice in restaurants told by waiters, and inevitably rattle one off about falling from the top of the CN tower while in the presence of an acrophobian. My timing is infamously bad.
Don't get me wrong. I love a good joke. And I'm in favour of a gay french moon. It just turns out that the lady to whom I told the joke about french gender naming being ridiculous is a lesbian francophile.

An apology to my perhaps non-existent readers

An apology I feel is in order, said the spider to the fly.
For all the changes that occur as life spins and passes by
I'm sorry for all the times I've done it, killed thy kinsmen and now you
But you see, this insensitive deed must take place, for I need to eat too.


Alright. There you have it, your poorly written poetry fix of the day.
And now on more serious terms, I would like to apologize for all the crazy changes that have come to my blog over the past while. I went from having a blog with a dark blue background to one with a rather interesting burst of pink and green lights, then for awhile my blog sported a pretty picture of an airplane, which in turn was followed by the rather short lived image of a coffee mug. And now, I have a rather exciting image of some birds taking flight. I think it will stay this way for a very long time.
I quite like this image, you see. So I suppose I will stick with it for as long as possible.

Thank you for caring, and for reading my pathetic piece of poetry for the day.

May.

An alert to the powers that be.

My name is May, and I do not believe in love.
That's right. I don't believe in love. It's not logical and it can't be logically explained, so I for one do not believe in love.
I know. I know. It's crazy not to believe in something that every other god-forsaken individual in this god-forsaken city on this god-forsaken planet believes in, but I am (or so it would seem that I am), one of those queer (and I mean that in the most un-gay way possible), individuals who is referred to as a non-conformist.
So deal with it.
I know. I know. I'm a bit of a self-described hippie (albeit I don't smoke pot), and hippies are supposed to believe that all you need is love so it must subsequently be simultaneously impossible to be a hippie and not believe in love. But I am and I do. Or rather, I am and I don't. Don't believe in love, that is.
Allow me to explain this by delving into the language unified universe commonly referred to as Greek.

I don't believe in altruism and I don't think God, if he exists, really bothers too much with humans in our day to day lives: therefore, I don't believe in Agape, a general affection or deeper sense of "true love," a love also described as complete, reverent and all-encompasing love. Love that is non-conditional. I don't believe it logically exists in humans, and I'm not so sure about God either.

I don't believe in loyalty. I don't think friendship is about love, I think it's about having enough in common with a person to the point that they no longer drive you insane. Loyalty is more fragile than the breeze that blows through my window- if I shut my window, it dissappears. I don't believe in Philia.

I don't know how I feel about family. I certainly appreciate them. But love has no meaning in the western world today. Love is too weak a word to describe my feelings for my family. But weak as it is, love is too strong a word to describe the feelings many have for their families. Adultery, abuse, hatred, fighting- is this your "love." No. I do not believe in Storge.

The only love of the Greeks that I come close to believing in is Eros, love of one's partner in life. But is this kind of "love" truly what it pertains to be, or is it merely the companionship of friendship intertwined with the feeling of carnal desire. I believe that it is the latter. Eros to put it simply, is naught but sexual desire combined with acceptance of the emotional identity of another individual.

To conclude exactly as I introduced, I do not believe in the existence of love. And despite the unhealthy nature many assume this alludes to, I believe myself to be in greater health than any human that deludes himself, telling himself that something which clearly does not exist, does.

It's that time of year again.

Everyone's spirits are running high and low. One minute you're up and the next you're not. Hormones are raging, and I swear to God someone is going to get pregnant. Exams. For a five letter word it begins to sound like one very powerful expletive. They're the be-all-end-all of tests. Literally. And they're going to kill us all.
The feeling of freedom- so elusive and yet so pervaisive is becoming increasingly evident. It's here! The murmur runs up and down the hallways like Speedy Gonzales. Summer! But it's not here. It's prancing and dancing, just beyond our reach. It's prancing and dancing, just after exams. I'd capitalize that word, but it wouldn't be grammatically correct. And grammar is insanely important when you're writing an essay.
People are skipping- the teachers are both incredibly annoyed and remarkably nonchalant about it. It's a time of great paradoxes. Freedom and misery, annoyance and nonchalance, up and down, round and around.
Everyone is making up and breaking up. Getting it off and getting it on. We're all making rash, life-impacting decisions that will haunt us forever. Like getting tongue piercings, naval rings, tattoos and new boyfriends.
Exams. They should be illegal. They do more dammage to the teenage mentality than drinking and smoking pot. And you can't even blame it all on peer pressure.

Well, the experiment hath failed.

I've realized that I simply don't have the energy to write about my life. I don't enjoy it. Emotions are fine, poetic musing about my situation is fine. Writing about where I am and what I'm doing- not so fine. I'm just not cut out to be an autobiographer and that's the long and short of it.
I think I'll stick to poetry from here on out. Poetry and prose.
But that means limiting myself.
Never mind then, I won't limit myself. But I won't force myself either. There will be no more posts that I do not wish to write. I will post only what I feel is necessary to post about, only what comes naturally the moment I sit down.
Forget trying to let people know where I am and what I'm doing. If my mind doesn't pull it out of thin air, I'm not going to write it. I won't write to keep other's happy. I'm doing this for me and no one else.
So there.

These Few Days

Well, it's been a few days since my last post, a few days containing a whirlwind of long bus rides, singing toilet seats, public baths, bright neon signs, bullet trains, lush green mountains, Okonomiyaki, Shinto shrines, tatami mat hotels, vending machines that cater to every needimaginable and more porn than I have seen in my life thus far. It's been a few days of drama, a few days of sickness, and a few days of rather insane R rated jokes. Japan is amazing.
Yes I meant that about the singing toilet seats. Oftentimes we think that Japan is oh-so-much more technologically superior to us, in reality they just have a lot of really useless technology. Like toilet seats that sing when you sit down on them. It's actually really disturbing.
I honestly had no clue that lit up signs came in some of the colours I've seen here. I also wasn't aware that these signs could cover fifty metre walls. It's rather surprising to note that despite the mass production and powered up use of all this bizarre technology, Japan is still as vibrantly green as it is. And when I say vibrantly, I mean vibrantly. The mountains here put the North shore to shame.
The vending machines here have been a bit of a shock. You can buy everything in a vending machine. Ipods, disposable cameras, paint, drinks, ice cream, makeup, tampons, and yes, even porn. I think Japanese society today might just revolve around pornography. I wish I was joking, but I`m not. They sell it everywhere. In bookstores, on the street, in tourist stands and in seven-elevens. Nudity is a big ticket item here. So is alcohol. In Canada, you have to go to a liquor store to buy alcohol. Here you can just go to the nearest vending machine. You want some harder liquers? Just visit the nearest convenience store. You don't even need ID.
It's a different world over here. There is no crime, I swear it. No petty theft, no underage drinking, not even litter on the streets. The people around here are so aware of society's panoptic nature that they never do anything wrong. It's amazing.

And that's about all that I have to say for now. I'm so tired that I'm losing my vision, and my email isn't working so I can't contact my parents. I have an incredibly long bus ride to live through tomorrow, and it is so hot that I am sweating through my clothes so fast that I'm running out of things to wear. I want to stay here forever, or better yet, I want the whole world to be just like this.

Praise and the Praiseworthy

Today I was thinking about praise and the praiseworthy. Or rather, I was failing at trying not to. Sometimes, one wants so much to be something that one is not. I myself am entirely and irremediably nervous. I want people to love me. I want people to think that I am praiseworthy. Yet somehow I can't see myself the way I want to be seen.

Sometimes we cannot believe that we deserve the praise we wish to earn, and yet we cannot quite believe that we do not deserve it. It's pretty crazy how I find myself chasing my own tail, wanting to be praiseworthy, yet not believing that I am at the same time.

But I guess life is like that. We are not afraid of our own inadequacy, instead we are afraid of our own beauty, of our talents. In the end, aren't we all sure of our own praiseworthiness? Are we only denying that we do not believe ourselves to be praiseworthy in the first place? What is modesty anyways?

Perhaps we'll never know.

Imagine:

You are running through a forest. Surrounding you are lush green trees with branches that extend well above the clouds. The trees obstruct your view of the sky, but you know from the fast fading light that the sun is setting. The night air is cool and crisp. The only sound is the dull thud of your feet on the soft forest floor, pounding out a steady beat as you whisk pass the trees around you. You are sweating profusely and your breath comes in short, shallow gasps; you need a rest badly, yet you do not stop running. Why? Perhaps it's the rain, from which you seek shelter. Or maybe it's the pack of growling wolves nipping at your heels. Now that you've noticed them, you can feel their breath on your neck and can hear the menace in their growls; if you make one false move, you slow down or you trip and fall the wolves will eat you alive.
But maybe it isn't even the wolves. Maybe it's the unbearable heat. You need to find water soon, or you may die of heat stroke. Wait a moment, heat? The evening which was once cool and soothing is now a hellish inferno, looking ahead you notice a bright, orange light. A warm gust of wind hits you full in the face and suddenly every tree near by is on fire, the flames jumping high into the air. The rain is still falling, but it isn't putting out the flames. You feel itchy, and uncomfortable, your skin feels raw. You scratch at your arm and as you do, skin starts to peel off. You stare now at the back of your hand where a rain drop has fallen. With a sinking feeling you notice the skin turning red and peeling away from your flesh. Acid rain.
Why are you even in this forest in the first place, you wonder? And then you remember. You're looking for the clift at the end of the woods. The one which you were planning to throw yourself off of. You were hoping for an easy, controlled death. You would have held the reins for once. People would remember you as the person who killed themself. In death you would be both less boring and less bored than you were in life.
But now, you're going to die. In the moment in which you considered the rain and the fire, the wolves have caught up to you. The fire has spread to every nearby tree, and the rain is still coming down hard. It won't be the easy, controlled death you were planning on. You're going to die, alone and in pain. No one will remember you and no one will be interested in your story. But that's nothing new, because no one ever cared.

The neighbor's girl.

Every day she walks to school. She crosses a bridge to get over the pond by her house. Half way across she stops, and drops a stick into the water. Then she turns around and looks over the other side of the bridge, waiting to see her stick floating away.
Sometimes I wonder what she is doing. Sometimes I tell myself I should go outside to ask her. But most days I stay in my room, gazing out my window and feeling sorry for her.
She looks tired. I can't imagine she gets much sleep. Her parents are up late into the night, yelling at one another. You could hear them from miles away. The neighbors talk about her, they say that someone should take her away from her parents and put her into a loving home. But no one has.
I've never seen her smile or heard her laugh. She doesn't play with other children and she has never had a birthday party. None of the things that so often grace a child's life are present in hers. I wonder how she does it. How she gets up in the morning, day after day, knowing that she'll be facing the same things she went through the day before. The same things she has gone through for as long as she can remember.
It must be hard.
But I guess that's how life is.

People

are like presents on Christmas day. Some of them are beautiful: all sparkly and shiny with bows on top. Sometimes when you find out more about them, they're every bit as beautiful on the inside as they are on the outside. But other times these presents can be the most disappointing, pretty wrapping doesn't necessitate a worthwhile present.
Some of the presents have boring wrapping in dull or faded colors. Yet often you find that the wrapping conceals one of the most amazing presents you could dream of receiving.
Some people like to collect others like bright, shiny packages that they will never unwrap. But what's the point of an unopened present? I like to unwrap the people around me; to remove the useless poise and outer calm. Because presents aren't about the wrapping, the giver or even the gifted; presents are about the gift itself. And what good is a gift that you don't appreciate for what it really is?

A Morning on the Moon

walking on the moon one day, I saw you standing alone. your hands were shoved into your pockets and your feathery hair fell to your shoulders; I had never seen anything so beautiful. you looked up at me and I glanced away. with two long strides you reached my side, your invisible fingers brushed my cheek. I saw a tear slide down your face, and I nearly said something but then you were gone. when I got home that morning, I found a flower on my table.
two days earlier, you returned. I was the only person who didn't welcome you. you probably thought that I was being rude, but I simply didn't know what to say. I spoke to every butterfly that passed on my way home, but they all just flew away, whispering to one another. when I reached home, I found a flower on my bed.
I woke up the next night and I knew I had to get out of there. I ran until I could fly and I flew as far as the sun, I left a piece of my heart there, wishing on a shooting star that no one would ever find it. I held the world up in the palm of my hand and I searched for a single person who didn't have anyone to love, but none seemed to share my fate. no one was alone, except for me. even in my loneliness I was alone.
sitting on my roof that night, my mind left me to drink from the milky way. when it returned, it found you sitting beside me on the rooftop, holding my blue hands in your invisible grip.
you traced something onto my back and asked me if I knew what it was. when I told you I did not, you laughed and leaped up off my roof, walking away into the night. I watched you leave, and my heart cried out- don't leave me. but you never heard.
the next day you returned, holding in your hand something that glowed as bright as the sun, that shone with a light like the rings of saturn. it was the piece of my heart that I had left for dead, a part of me that I had only recently forgotten.
and you took my heart and stitched it back together, then taking my hand you led me to the land at the end of the rainbow. and though we never found a pot of gold, nor any leprechauns, I was never disappointed because I found something better. I found you.

It is time

for us to take a step back from the mirror, if only long enough for us to glimpse the damage we have done. As a society, as a nation, as a culture, we are entirely too vain. We care not for others, not for the people we love, but only for ourselves. We live our lives looking out for number one. Science tells us that the world revolves around the sun and in return we shake our heads and click our tongues, we tell science that while the world may revolve around the sun, the universe revolves around us.
We take what we want, we leave no survivors. We strip trees bare of bark and mountains bare of trees. We fish until no fish are left and we wage war until the children's cries can be heard light-years away.
We beat the weary and we steal from the poor. We take food from the hands of beggars, forcing them to watch us eat. We tell ourselves that it is all for the best. We teach our children that we are doing what is right. We lie.
Quite regularly we shake our heads at stories of murderers on the news. We sit back and relax, wearing clothes which were produced by hands much smaller than our own. We tell ourselves that we are not murderers, that we are better than those who kill. We say that we would never stoop that low. But there is blood on our clothes. Blood shed by tiny laborers, underfed and under paid. Small children who work shifts that are illegal in our countries.
But it is time for us to take a step away from our own vanity. It is time for us to take a moment to tell ourselves that we are not the best. A moment to recognize that the world does not revolve around us.
We are not gods.
We are not infallible.
We have no right to force others to do our will.
We are human just like the rest of the world.
The only difference is that the rest of the world isn't living in a fairy tale. The rest of the world knows that they are human. The rest of the world is grateful for each minute of sleep, for each morsel of food, for each gentle touch and for each chance to learn.
Why are we, who have everything, so vainly ungrateful?

Love

is like an umbrella. It can keep the rain off your back, and the sun off your face. It can protect you, but you won't always need it's protection. You can hold it close, you can hold it at arms length- it's entirely up to you.
You can put love away, or you can carry it with you wherever you go. It can beome a fashion statement. But be warned, there are some places you can't go with it, small doors it won't fit through.
You can walk with it, dance with it, sing with it, but you can never run with love.

Then again, who needs to run when one can fly?

Umbrellas come in many shapes and sizes, so does love. Sometimes an umbrella can stop you from seeing which way you are going, so can love. Sometimes umbrellas get ruined on stormy days, love is fagile also. You can't hold many umbrellas at the same time, in the same way it can be tiring to love many people.

There are only a few ways in which love and umbrellas are different. For instance, not many people have more than three umbrellas, but we all have love in spades. And you have to buy an umbrella, while you really can't buy someone's love. But love still has a price. Everything has a price.

And sometimes, umbrellas break.

Love does too.

Blue Moon Jazz-dancer

A solitary figure walked down the street. In one hand he held a large black case, in the other, a cigar. He walked with a spring in has step, his head held high, whistling a jaunty tune. The man's fedora cast a shadow on his face, ensuring that none of his features were visible. Had anyone been able to see past the brim of his hat, they would have seen a flawless, symetrical face, with sharp, observant eyes. The face of a wanted man. Jerry Jones.
Jones raised his cigar to his mouth and took a long drag, blowing the smoke away into the night. As he did this, his sleeve fell back, revealing a golden watch, striking in comparison to his jet black skin. As the sleeve slid further, a scar appeared. Rounded and crossed, one could just faintly make out the letters BJ. A slave branding.
Jerry Jones walked down the street and out of sight. The blue moon watched him go.

------

At precisely three A.M. Mary Malone awoke to the sound of rocks hitting her window.
"What do you want?" She yelled out, peering into the darkness. A pause. "Jerry?"
And then, "Come on Mary, you know you want to."
"You're a crazy man Jones, they're offering nearly four hundred dollars for you now, you hear? I can't be seen with you."
"Aw, come on Mary, don't be like that. Come on out. We got some fiddles and my sax, all we need is a dancer."
"I told you Jones, not any more. If my mama knew what I was up to....." Mary's voice trailed off. She'd go and die all over again, that's what.
"Your mama's gone, girl." Jones whispered, "And she'd want you to have a little fun. I knew her better than you did. let's go."
Mary frowned. Nothing was clear any more. But she wanted to go. So bad. "Hang on a moment, I'll be down."
"That's my girl."

------

An hour later, with her lipstic done and a dress on, Mary Malone walked into the Blue Moon Cafe, Jerry Jones was at her side. Beside him walked a tall man, he carried a violin case.

"Relax Mary, none of the guys here would turn me in. We're all friends."

"There's a price on your head Jones, a bigger one than any. Men kill for money like that."

"True, but they won't turn me in. I'm too good for that."

Applause sounded as the trio walked up to the stage. The announcer called their names, and cheers errupted from the audience. Everyone loved Jones, he was a favorite, a hero. Mary sighed, Jerry was right. No one would ever turn him in.

Letting the crowd's enthusiasm swell within her, Mary bannished her fears to the back corner of her mind. Tommorow she would worry, tonight she would dance.

Buffalo gals won't ya come out to-night, come out to-night, come out to-night

Buffalo gals won't you come out to-night and we'll dance by the light of the moon

I danced with a gal with a hole in her stocking

And her knees was a-knockin'

and her shoes was a'rockin'

I danced with a gal with a hole in her stocking

And we danced by the light of the moon.

Time To Go

"You can't make me go Mama, you just can't." Cindy yells as she walks out the door. "I don't want to go. All the other girls hate me, you should see them Mama! They're beautiful and smart and skinny, rich and white. Everything we're not. Everything I'll never be. I'm not going!"
"Oh yes you are." Mama says, "I saved up to send you to a respectable school with good teachers who will teach you what you need to know. No child of mine refuses a good education. Don't you do this to me, not now, not after..." Mama's voice trails of, as if she can't say what she needs to. She pushes Cindy's lunchbox into her hands and lifts her onto the bus. "Now go, have a nice day."
Mama should be smiling, like she does when she takes me to school, but she isn't. Tears are shining in her eyes. She turns to look at me, but it's like her eyes don't see anything, like she's looking through me. Then she walks into the house.
Mama doesn't hold the door open for me. She just walks inside and sits down at the table. Then she holds her head in her hands and cries, the tears splashing onto the table cloth.
'Mama,' I say 'Mama, don't cry, you'll ruin your best table cloth. The one that daddy gave to you.'
But she doesn't hear me. So I walk over to where she is sitting. I put one of my small, dark hands on her hair.
'Mama,' I whisper, stroking her hair, 'Mama, don't cry, you don't need to cry anymore. I'm here for you.'
But she doesn't pull me up onto her lap the way she normally would, she doesn't even look at me with her warm brown eyes. She just turns the other way. She walks to the small medicine cabinet and pulls out a cigar. Once it is lit, I try to talk to her again. Mama is always more happy when she has a cigar.
'Mama.' I whisper, 'Mama, what's wrong?'
I walk to her and reach up to put my arms around her. They still don't wrap all the way round her tummy. She doesn't hug me back.
I stroke her arms, and reach up to touch her cheek, but Mama looks the other way, out the window and at the gray rain. She walks to the rocking chair and sits down. Rocking back and forth, back and forth singing a song that she sings when she tucks me in at night.
'Mama,' I say softly, 'When I'm old enough to go to school, I'll go wherever you tell me to. And I won't get mad at you. I'll be a good son. I'll make you happy, Mama, I promise I will.'
But Mama doesn't stop singing. She just closes her eyes and rocks back and forth back and forth. When the song ends, another tear rolls down her cheek.
"My baby," she whispers, "Oh my Antony, my sweet, precious child. What will I do without you?"
'Mama?' I cry, 'Mama, what do you mean 'without me?' Mama, I'm right here, I'll never leave you! Never!'
"But you're not here." A rich voice says from behind me. A tall man is standing there, his arms are open wide. He smiles at me. "It's time to go Antony, it's time for you to leave. This isn't the place for you anymore."
'Then where is the place for me mister?' I ask. 'Where are you taking me, I want to stay with my Mama. I have to protect her, see?'
"I'll make you a deal," The man says, smiling. "I'll stay here to protect your mama, and you can go on ahead of me. And when the time comes for her to join us. I'll bring her safely to you."
'But where am I going?' I say, 'I can't go somewhere I don't know.'
"But you do know Antony." The man smiles again, his smile is comforting, "everybody knows. It's time Antony. Time for you to go to Jesus."
'Can I say goodbye?'
"Take your time."
I walk over to Mama, and reach my hands up to give her one last hug. My arms still don't wrap all the way round her tummy, and now, they never will.