like a pair of old wedding gloves

I remember the summer days, sitting in my grandmother's pear tree, my feet languidly dangling like her pair of old wedding gloves. I would spend hours there, just hanging, reading the warm and worn pages of her grammar book. "A cake is done, a boy is finished," I would mouth as my fingers silently danced across the page.

I remember the summer days, lying in the grass, skirt as thin as a pair of old wedding gloves. "I can't wait until I'm finished with school," I whispered. He took another bite of the pear, eyes silently dancing around the thin line between my lips. "That way," I said, "we can be together all the time." The green fruit lazily dropped to the grass, and our hands linked easily like a pair of old wedding gloves.

Today, I ate a pear. Today, I finished and assignment. And today, I felt as empty as a pair of old wedding gloves.

I look to the moon as I walk. She hangs high and scared, like an old, white-haired woman teetering up to her attic to find her worn and mothballed wedding dress. With each step I take, the moon grows smaller and smaller until it drowns in the black pool. The woman slowly walks up to the dark and dusty armoir, and with a brittle yank, the over-sized doors creak open for a hollow embrace. It smells of ash and rose hips. She sees the pearly white dress; her wrinkled hands float lightly over the silk and caress the smooth beads. And then, she unbuttons her own dress and lets it fall quietly to the floor like loose feathers. She climbs into her gown once more, and closes the doors, never to be seen again.

As the moon dims and I cannot discern my own shrinking shadow any longer, I realized something: maybe the moon isn't shy and maybe we aren't all fated to fade; maybe we just put on a prettier dress.

little girl, please leave.

sometimes i think there's a little girl inside of me, jumping rope. and occasionally she jumps so fast and furiously that i can feel the vibrations bounce off my chest, propelling my nearly 20 year old body into a circular and rhythmic motion. and lots of times, when she whips the rope around her tiny frame, the tip of the pink ribbon that lays atop her head tickles my throat, causing me to laugh just as she does.

other times, when the balls of her feet grow tired, and her thin wrists become fatigued, she slows, and the vibrations become nothing more than a gentle murmur. and i wait. i wait for that gentle toe tapping hop to return, and that light smack of the rope on my pavement-esque tissues. i wait so i can move again.

lately, she's been inconsistent. occasional bursts of energy followed by excruciatingly painful and stagnant silences. sometimes, i want to reach inside of myself and pull this little jump roping girl out of my body so i can finally have some semblance of balance. so i can decide when i move and when i stand still. when i laugh and when i am silent. but, i can't. my arm is simply too big.

my bones are big now, and my thoughts have expanded. but why must a little girl and her erratic rope control my grown-up heart?

Dream: "The Shadowy Sun"

Last night I had a dream of epic proportions. Not only was it filled with a gaggle of handsome men, but I made a movie! I woke up immediately this morning, turned to my journal and pen (which always rest to my left, mind you) and began scribbling the bits and pieces I remembered. It was quite a colorful dream, and I can only thank the copious amounts of ice cream cake and pizza I consumed last night. Junk food always makes the best muse. I feel as if I'm not typing this quickly enough. I feel like a cup filled beyond the brim with inspiration, but with a thin viscose layer of PM clarity holding me back from carelessly spilling everything onto the table. Here are bits and pieces of my dream that I remember.

The Story
The title of the film will be "The Shadowy Sun." I don't understand its significance, perhaps there is none. Anyway, it tells the tale of two friends, Otto and Don (played by Robert Downey Jr and Adrien Brody, respectively) and their trip circumnavigating the globe in a rather dowdy vessel named Sylvia. They stop in various places, meet various people, but must always continue their travels. There will be no romances in this film, mainly because I grow quite tired of women only serving as these pretty little intermezzos between big action sequences. There will be women, however.
Anyway, on their journey they acquire several sought after artifacts (perhaps an urn from the underwater city, Atlantis, a sword of Kublai Khan?) and begin their latest conquest--to find ancient Mayan ruins in the month of November. During this time, Don has a troubling dream, figures it's just because of all of the Day of the Dead talk in the streets of Guadalajara, and thinks nothing of it.
However! Several days later, the two friends are about to sail to the Yucatan peninsula, when two modern day pirates, Francisco and Herman (ur-Mahn) (played by Daniel Day Lewis and Don Cheadle) seize the ship. They plunder, pillage, rape and do all of the things that pirates do except with a modern and sexy swag. Soon, the four meet and engage in a battle royale in the study of Sylvia's small interior. However, mother nature trumps all modern men and machinery and they drown to death. Fin.

A few excerpts:

DON'S DREAM

the coast of Mexico, in November. A few brittle calaveras flew into the sky, the salty wind knocking down a few gooey organs, and a few oozing eyeballs as they, like macabre hyenas, sang:

"Fear? I am not afraid of that!
I am fear and am falling to pieces!
It's here, our end is near!
Fear not me, but what is near!"

THE SEIZURE OF SYLVIA

"It's time, gentlemen. Time to meet your salty demise." He waved his shiny sword into the sky, reflecting an uneasy and insecure set of green eyes to his enemies. Otto and Don looked to each other, and smiled.

"Are you sure about that?" they asked.

He looked to his sword, and suddenly he could feel each wave lapping at the boat's underbelly. He waited a few moments too long before continuing. "Y, yes." And then he looked up, and they had vanished.

BATTLE ROYALE

"Quick, get the fuck out of there!" Otto cried to Don. He ran down the narrow and flooded hallway. "Into the study, get behind this desk!" He grabbed the sleeve of Don's shirt, and thrust him behind the secretary. Pulling a blowtorch from the bookcase, he threw it to Don.

He caught it with surprising alacrity. Then laughed. "A blowtorch? Really? From a bookcase?"

Otto shook his head in disdain. "Oh, shut it, Don. Haven't you read Fahrenheit 451?"

Don sighed. "Well, yeah, sorry RAY-" He was interrupted by the door slamming to the ground. Francisco and Herman entered the room, pistols first.

"Alright, come out from the paper, boys. We're here to punctuate your papers. Get out, let's put some periods on your sorry bodies," Francisco sneered.

At once, his curled mustache melted off. It was incinerated by the blowtorch. "Still feelin' strong now that you don't have your stache, partner?" Don laughed.

Francisco was still stroking his chin and hair, or lack thereof, when the boat rocked, knocking all of the men from their positions. "We've got one helluva storm, don't we mate," scowled Herman.

"I don't care," screamed Otto. "You sons of bitches are getting off this piece here and now--through water or through bullets. Your choice. Get out, or I'll leave it to technology."

Before he could put his sweaty finger on the trigger, Francisco shot Otto in the stomach, creating a massive period where his intestines should be. "Your story," he sneered, "has been told."

Otto's face was frozen in disbelief. Don was still fending off Herman when Sylvia's beady porthole shattered, and the Mexican waters metastasized onto the floor. When Don saw Otto crumple to the floor like a broken piece of origami, he dropped his blow torch and ran to his punctuated pal.

Francisco and Herman drew nearer. "Otto, if we go," Don chuckled, "we're going together." He turned to the pirates, who were now wading in the knee deep water. "You want us?" he cried, "And this drowning girl? Take us."

The water was rising exponentially, the salt causing Otto to cry out in pain. And soon enough, the four sorry souls were neck deep in a crimson tide. "Well," laughed Francisco as he spat salty red water, "it looks like the end of us won't be on our own terms, but water making its way into our black lungs. I'm not going to let it take me. Goodbye, gentlemen. I'll see you down the stream." And with that, he grabbed his nose, and dipped forever into the ever increasing deep. Herman, teeth clattering in the distance, swam off into Sylvia's sunken hall.

"Well," Otto laughed, "it looks like your dream was right."

"Except for one thing," Don smiled, water choking his would-be smile. "We're not scared, right?"

They laughed, lights flickering, and soon enough, their damp and dark hair was touching Sylvia's ceiling. "You know, Don, you're right." He gargled the water. "And I gotta say, I still love the ocean. And not from a plane, either. But from a boat. Where I can touch it and feel it and smell it and get hurt by it." He was now gasping for breath, arms pressed firm against her taut ceiling. "Yeah, just like a boat," a smile slowly grew on his face, "but with life rafts."

And then the lights blew, and the two friends sunk into the Mexican depths like a fallen empire.

for my friends

there were five of them, each with a slightly different piece of the world in their hands. the dreamer, the designer, the lover, the seer, and the thinker. they painted with similar strokes, but their brushes were unique: coarse, thin, rigid, thick, soft, but all perfect for their eventual masterpieces.

they would spend long languid days discussing their futures. and at night, when their lunar lady would illuminate the whites of their eyes and shiny teeth, they would reminisce about their pasts, occasionally shedding a single celestial tear.

not every night was spent this way, however. some nights, they took to the bubbly and warm cup, subsequently losing their nicely shaded lines and becoming lost in the blurry and spotted sky. and, when they were sick, they would grab their hair at the nape of their soft yet sinewy necks, and puke. and the remnants of a night lived in dionysus' honor would glisten on their chests like that of the most spectacular diamond-studded shield.

other nights, they would lay supine, thinking, sighing, and napping together, softly cooing like a group of owls. and in the morning, when the pale yellow sun found its way to the roots of their dark lashes, they would wake: warm, and with hair similar to the homes of their avian friends.

and with dirty hands full of life, they would eventually part: to dream, to design, to love, to think, and to see; but they would never forget those nights of glittery intoxication, of quiet and warm nests, and the soft days spent with dark coffee, conversation, and the toe curling joys of a sultry summer sunset. but most importantly, they would never forget each other.

they were strong and they were weak, but above all, they were friends.

musing: a few polaroids from the week (too lazy to capitalize)

"she's leaving home"
the door slowly melted open, and a few dry leaves blew inside. they always reminded her of the crispy feathers of the world's largest and most lush bird, the sky. her skirt tickled and teased her thin knees. two steps to the doorway, and crunch went the leaves. she turned behind once more, felt the wind whispering into her ears, smelled a familiar dinner being prepared in the kitchen. she closed her eyes, breathed in the wind, and the meal. like the door, she slowly parted her eyelashes. one more shaky step. leaving a sigh and a tear, the little girl twisted the doorknob, and woke up, her wide eyes reflecting the deep blue breast of her favorite bird. and then she was swept away under its windy wings.

"i don't know if you've ever fallen in love," she whispered. "i don't want to not know you, and i'm afraid that's going to happen when you leave."

"it won't, i promise. i just have to go. it's time."

used cars and preachers
the four of us were out to dinner at our favorite seafood place, chewing away at our calamari, talking about church. "how much does a pastor make a year?" i asked.

"well, it depends," said my aunt.

"sometimes," cooed my mother, "they live in mansions, like certain televangelists. i don't know how i feel about that."

my grandmother cut in. "i once knew a boy from west virginia who wanted to go to seminary school and be just like his daddy, but then he found out that preachers don't make a lot of money. so, he decided to go into selling used cars instead."

"well," i said, "either way, you're selling something that's not worth buying into."

the three methodist hens looked at me and shook their heads before continuing to peck away at their breaded squid parts. some things, i guess, will always be taboo.

"he doesn't look a thing like jesus"
"it's a handicap," she said. "that's what people don't tell you about it."

i looked to my friend as i was driving down the dark and damp road, and then to the rearview mirror. some asshole wouldn't turn off their brights. "yeah," i said, "people say you can fall in love, and it's great, but they don't say that it's hard to fall out of. it's not like some kind of light switch." as i said that, i looked in the rearview once more and shook my head. "i'm so sorry," i said. "but, you know, you learn about yourself. that's what's important."

she nodded, wiped her eyes, and turned up the song, as if those vibrations could fill the hollow space between our ribs and lungs.

and then i thought about it. sometimes to find your way out of it, you need to be an asshole. falling out of love and learning to, well, just stop, is as difficult as navigating yourself safely down a dark and winding road in the middle of the night. it's hard, and sometimes you have to make your own light in order to find it. and yeah, that may mean pissing off the retinas of a few passersby. but, you know, so be it.

maybe i should be more understanding of halogen bulbs.

A Change of Pace

The goal was to pick a section of a favorite song, and then write what it reminded me of, in real time. It was quite challenging, and my penmanship leaves much to be desired. But, here it is. The song is "Little Girl Blue," by the one and only Nina Simone. You should try it.
If you can't read it, my response was:

Sitting idly in the cold,
cinnamon, vanilla, peppermint
watch as snowflakes fall like
delicate eighth notes down ivory keys--to a familiar holiday tune
But I feel so alone!
Oh, poor little girl blue.
Why won't somebody send a tender blue boy?
Good King Wenceslas, where are you?

Musing: Descartes, Sahara Desert, and Palm Readings

Occasionally, well, often, I find myself in a rut. Tension and stress seep into my body much like dirty water does into the world's most squalid underbelly: the sewer system. And, before I know it, my mental cesspool overflows, and everything smells like shit.

But really, these past few nights have been spent tossing and turning in bed, fighting a losing battle against my sheets. If I feel cold, I grab a blanket and am too hot; my toes then become sweaty and even more tangled as I flail my body from side to side. If I am too hot, I take off the blanket and awake to the jackhammer that is my mouth, clattering incessantly in the dark. And, even when I finally reach that desirable lukewarm temperature, the pillow is always too warm. Consequently, I wake up in the mornings with hair matted to my face, and the casts of the beads on my pillows adorn my face like the dry, earthen cracks in the Sahara desert. I mean, Christ. My name is Savannah; shouldn't I wake up like my African namesake: lush, fertile, and crack-free?

Anyway, upon nourishing my face and making it more malleable, more putty like, I can arrange the pieces and decorate them in a way so it resembles less desert and more grassy plain: less Sahara, more Savannah. It works, and generally I'm happy with the result, but the ordurous odor still lingers in my nostrils. The cesspool still stinks.

And, like a fly latches on to an African elephant, I would stop at nothing until I reached the source and sucked out the stench. What was plaguing me, I wondered. For the first time in a while, I knew it wasn't my job, it wasn't my friends, and it wasn't a boy. Actually, I'm generally content with all aspects of my life at the moment. It's Nothing that bothers me. The fear of Nothing is what keeps me scowling, cursing, furrowed and, well, cracked. Not in the sense that I am fearless, mind you, but rather that I am afraid that the only thing that lays quite contently in my future is Nothing, the only thing of which my past is composed is noxious Nothing, and fear of the hopeless realization that Nothing is expanding its cozy nook in the corner of my mind and stretching its sharp claws, soon to establish dominion over the entirety of my current thoughts. Nothing will soon become my sour and stalemate, and there is not a thing that can be done about it.

So, to exterminate this parasitic Nothing, what did I do? No, I didn't read Nietzsche. No, I didn't listen to Radiohead. I saw a palm reader. I consider myself a rather well-adjusted individual, and I realize that these "clairvoyants" are quacks who happen to be good at judgments. And ambiguous statements are generally the most powerful and persuasive ones.

See?

But really, I do understand all of that. However, looking to my palms, I noticed that they are in fact the most akin to the desert with their indelible lines and cracks. So, I thought, if there was any way to figure out why I stink and if there was any way I could finally get that proverbial fly to shoo and stop bothering me, this would be the way to do it. I was curious.

I went on a Saturday with a friend. There was nothing particularly special about the day; both the wind and sun seemed to have tucked themselves away for a summertime siesta, so the weather, static and grey, captured my general demeanor quite well. I found that cute in a pessimistic sort of way.

While the idea of mingling with a medium for an afternoon sounded somewhat intriguing, the execution of it was not so. As we walked to the building (which was no more than a shabby house with a commercial license), I averted my eyes from passersby, hoping not to see anyone I recognized. To me, buying into astrology is about as stupid as listing a personal ad. At the end of the day, you're still single, and it's still a lie; you're just reading it or writing it.

Anyway, as we made our way to the entrance, we knocked on the door. No answer. To be honest, I was actually somewhat relieved, I thought that perhaps we could just go get coffee instead. Caffeine provides me just as much clarity as any kind of psychic reading. Alas, the worn door began to creak, and we were "greeted" by a stern brunette in dingy sweatpants. "Come in," she muttered.

The room wasn't nearly as exotic as I had hoped. The closest thing to any kind of Indian kitsch was a red lava lamp lackadaisically placed on the mantle of the fireplace. Maybe this woman didn't need a fancy atmosphere to prove the merit of her craft, I wondered. Nah, not really. We told her we wanted our palms read, however I felt like she already should have known that if she truly was one of those Chosen Ones. Regardless, she sat me down in the plastic upholstered dinette chair, and had me reach out my left hand.

A casual glance or three at my palm gave her enough information to tell me the following things:

I will write when I'm older (as will the majority of those with hands).
I've been disappointed by people lately (as most people have).
I have several negative influences in my life (they are called vices, and we have them because we are human).
I am about to "get with" someone and not even realize it.
I will have three children (do dogs count?).
I will be married once and live a long and happy life (post or pre- divorce?).
I have a good Chakra (Khan?).

Her words spewed out like a broken faucet, and I was left drenched in this newly found enlightenment. However, these words didn't quench my cracked hands' thirst, and certainly didn't flood my mind and drown Nothing. It still reigned supreme and dry as ever.

She then read my friend's palm. And, from her gleaning, she was able to tell her:
She needs to trust her instincts more (we all do).
She will not marry for some time (well, duh. She isn't even twenty).
She is artistic.
She will work with chemicals (I applauded my friend for this, she frowned and told the reader she hated that and would never consider it. To this, the reader had nothing to really say).

The reading lasted all of twenty minutes, and we were out $50 total. Highway robbery. Upon exiting, we were slightly amused and disappointed, which I must say is an odd and unhealthy combination. I felt similar to the night I mixed vodka and an energy drink: my heart was beating fast but my emotions faded faster.

So, to distract myself, I examined my hand. Lined and cracked like the various tributaries and streams that eventually lead to the ocean, there was no pattern to it. I looked at my friend's palm. Her lines were erratic as well; we only shared the single thick fjord-like line in the center of our palms, but that is just because we are human and are capable of balling our hands into tight fists. While sipping various caffeine laden beverages, we shared our disappointments and mutual wishes and fears. How funny, I thought, that although we share similar thoughts, this "psychic" was able to slice us apart and put us on two completely different paths, because of the way our palms wrinkled.

She was full of shit. I looked closer to my palm, and realized that Nothing didn't dwell in my mind, but rather on my palm. The lines on my hands mean absolutely nothing, the act of living put them there. My thoughts, however, mean everything. They give us purpose, they give us an artistic sensibility, they give us a good chakra and the ability to have a happy life. And, so long as we are thinking, Nothing simply cannot establish a permanent residence anywhere in our lives.

And so, as I was sitting there in the pinkish blue evening sky, the wind began to pick up, and dead leaves began to skim the concrete sidewalk and disappear into the dwindling sunlight. And with the leaves left the stench. I looked to my hands. Nothing about their physical appearance had changed. They were still reminiscent of an African desert: dry and cracked. However, I realized that no matter what damage time and Nothing may do to my body, my mind will always be lush and thriving. And so long as I think, I will always be Savannah.