he’ll be home before we know it, but under the covers you’ll be safe-and-warm.

the covers are our only hope. don’t trust anyone else. keep them tucked-tight.

your old four-post bed used to mock me.
tossled sheets and hand-beaten-pillows screamed their curses my way.

curse/scream/curse

i miss them.

from the kitchen to the bathroom, i would pass by and  to this day, i can remember light that illuminated that damn-dungeon-room.

i tried to stare it into submission; it was relentless. who knew one room could be so possessed?

we were always most comfortable on your smoke-friendly-porch.

the corners were our best-friend. pillars of smoke by day, pillars of fire by night.

in retrospect we were hiding and shadows were our solace.

darkness was no place for the waking life; today we’re happy and flourishing in the brilliant-light-of-day.

5 years passed–5 years wiser–5 years awake.

thank you, mystery.

“she’s a rebel, she’s a saint, she’s the salt of the earth and she’s dangerous.”

each of these was a welcome addition to a night of squalor, and for a moment, the ground felt like heaven.

the repeating patterns of the faux flooring was like a warm blanket. desperately, her mind tried to reconcile the squares and diamonds that she had overlooked for years.

at first glance they appeared three-dimensional, but with a second-glance, they were simply a pattern of the boring life that had become her norm.

tonight this was her refuge…
her tent on a warm summer evening.
her parents’ bed after a bad dream.
her emptiness at the end of a dialtone.

in the morning the dirt and grime of a bathroom floor would seem repulsive, but tonight they were all together allies…best friends and compadres in the war against the bullshit.

never take for granted your bathroom floor.

tonight mystery was happy to be with her new friend; she would let the morning deal with itself.

an old billy idol song plays across the radio. “…a nice day for a white wedding…” and then you remember to take a breath. “…a nice day to start again…”

sometimes you can feel so much, that you begin to feel numb and other times you find yourself acutely aware of everything around you. the hard plastic chair you’re sitting on. the soft cotton sweatshirt against your skin. your hair shifting in the wind. the cheap round pen in your hand. and you remember that you are alive and that you are awake.

everything is moving in concert with one another and what once appeared completely random now seems beautifully in sync.

it held its branches high in a testament to a lifetime of faithful service.

as the winter breeze blew bitterly against his face, the leaves rustled ever so slightly.

he would sit for hours and admire it for its persistance and dedication.

it had been here as long as anyone could remember and never failed to follow through with its appointed task.

in the fall its leaves faded, fell to the ground, and gave way to the season.

winter had brought the cold and the rain, but it was unphased.

springtime would be here soon and the warm sun would bring new life and soon it would flourish again and this gave him hope.

he often wished he could have been this tree.
never waivering.
never offending.
never crying.
never making others cry.
surviving all of life’s trials.

he wished he could recreate himself in the springtime, shed his skin and be alive again.

as he sat staring, he glanced over and saw mystery standing in the shadows.

he tried to speak, but she was gone and he was alone again…wishing he was his dreaming tree.

those kids really are alright. we enjoyed some mirassou and rented “ghost world”. i’d never seen ghost world, but knew that i couldnt go wrong with a scarlet johansson flick.

wasnt disappointed at all with the film and the whole “not fitting in” theme really hit home for a couple of us in the crowd…and scarlet’s voice is still incredible.

tonight im putting the finishing touches/revisions on a paper that im submitting this week for publication. writing up a science paper is so different that any other kind of writing.

understand that science progresses because of peer-reviewed literature and retains its objectivity by stripping out any emotion or subjectivity from the author. while this lends itself beautifully to science it personally kills every creative bone in my body. when im working on this kind of material i just cant seem to switch gears back into the kind of writing that frees my mind.

luckily, i have an incredible side-project going on right now that will be unveiled in the next couple of days. ive been working with an artist/friend who has given me a mental escape from science, the lab and life.

i cant imagine a healthier way to balance out my time.

while others wore their masks, her smile was genuine.

often she felt cheated because her life was so good, so happy.
there wasnt any torment in her world today or in her past.
her life was beautiful and she found it hard to relate to those who had experienced pain and sadness.

her direction was sure, but soon she would meet him and he would show her things she had only seen in the movies or read in books.

he would take her away from this town and from her peaceful life.

he would show her how unfair life could be by destroying her preconceived notions.

he would wake her up to the moment.

she was waiting for her stranger, when he walked into the bar.

smoke was hanging effortlessly against the harsh porch light.

it was getting colder–and she was right–he should have brought his jacket.

but when he walked in, the air was warm and inviting as Mystery pulled up her chair.

“dont make fun,” he insisted. and she smiled back at him…completely in the moment.

colors were meshed together in a disharmonious testimony to her passion.

her sleeveless shirt crumpled against her thinning body.

she hummed a familiar song about life and loneliness as she saw him through the window.

“i missed you today” he said as he walked through the door.

his cologne filled the room and another night was about to begin.

fans set to medium spin too quickly.

little lights twinkle through paper lanterns as gold tassles sway.

the chirping is in unison now, the sacred song of the sleeping.

peaceful and still.

it’s strange how smoothly it enters.
one deep breath followed by a slow exhale.

again in unison. chirp. chirp. chirp.

i’m trying to make tonight about everyone else.

the natural/unnatural brunette, the crystal-eyed girl down the street, it’s all about HER.
capital letters add so much, don’t they?

now i’ve caught a chill. these things never leave…so instead, i’ll remember them.

Part I: The Glorious Distraction (or so they say)