Thursday, March 17, 2016

To pose the question, another way

spearmint green
and frosted black.
the pavement,
chipped up against the boot.

"lost?"

"no...no...i think I know where I am now"

where were you?

months,
minutes...
uncomfortable in the skin we borrowed.
set aside time for television,
it's something that always feels cheap and easy.
the phone sat motionless for
the better part of the
time I could remember.
violet light,
cast across the bed as night
slowly fed upon day.

"the pills help"

"why...why?"

"i suppose, i guess it hurts less and less each time till one day...it just becomes...you"

there was nothing left
to swallow
in the glass. stammered, she
started a bit uncomfortable.
I had nothing left to say.

"Remember",

I whispered.

"i don't write love songs"

The Giving Tree

Read Maxie Shel Silverstein's "The Giving Tree" before bed tonite. What an incredibly moving story, how the world needs someone like Shel again.

 It's funny, I just read critiques that some people believe that story enables materialism and narcissism, others believe it's about co-dependence, others think its a happy story about giving. But can't it just be a portrait of how life can just be. Not good or bad, but painful and true with good and bad and love and loss. That some times people don't realize what they are taking from you no matter how much you give, and that you love them so maybe, sometimes you accept that, even though in the end there isn't a happy ending. I don't understand why everything has to be so black and white. Art can be grey, uncomfortable, and honest. I don't know truly what Uncle Shelby's motivations were, but I always thought he was a master at storytelling that often found truths without being preachy. It's so exhausting how compartmentalized everything has become.

 As for Max, he thought it was a nice tree. I guess maybe that's a bad lesson. I trust one day he will learn to see that maybe the boy wasn't so kind, but that comes with time and I'll let him learn that.