I remember this time, when I was overwhelmed with emotion (who knows why), and my grandmother grabbed my shoulders using all the kindness she could muster, saying: "You shouldn't keep all that bottled in, you need to open up, talk to people."
Obviously I listened. I can't shut up. I've seriously considered piercing my tongue just to remind me to keep my mouth shut.
Similarly, she forced me to cry as a child. Not to say I didn't cry when I was being beat, but other than that, I guess I had hardened myself somewhere along the line. There was this time, I feel it makes a mockery of love and endearment, when my grandmother acted out some historic legend. Some king, or emperor, known to be a hardened veteran, cried as his city burned. His aide grabbed a glass tube and kindly scooped the tears off his leaders cheek, and saved them as a memento of the overwhelming emotion of the situation.
As a single, hot tear traced down my cheek, she told me this, scooping my tear into a glass.
I regained my emotions over time. Only to lose them again with the toilings of marriage. I don't cry for serious things. I don't cry for my dead (save for my friend Larry). I do cry at the end of many movies. And touching commercials.
The Beating...
The speeding feet in the pounding rain. The perpetual beat of a heart. Pounding blood. There is a cave in my heart.
Stepping out of the rain, into the shadows, the noise transitions from the wash of the cloudburst to the flow of your anxious blood. Then to the pounding of your heart. It's so loud. Terrifying, yet trusted.
The roar is overwhelmed by the beating. The beating of dark membranes. You have disturbed them. You are enveloped by their plethora of leather-silk wings. Neither bird nor beast, the ostracized. Bats. After they have settled, you see the moonlight reflected in two tapetums. The truth in those eyes, is it familiar to you? Or should you be frightened? How many lives has this creature lived?
Come in, friend. Step closer, enemy. You were washed by the rain, rinsed by the darkness, dried by the wings, and clothed. By a purpose.
Am I a panther? Am I the dusk?
Stepping out of the rain, into the shadows, the noise transitions from the wash of the cloudburst to the flow of your anxious blood. Then to the pounding of your heart. It's so loud. Terrifying, yet trusted.
The roar is overwhelmed by the beating. The beating of dark membranes. You have disturbed them. You are enveloped by their plethora of leather-silk wings. Neither bird nor beast, the ostracized. Bats. After they have settled, you see the moonlight reflected in two tapetums. The truth in those eyes, is it familiar to you? Or should you be frightened? How many lives has this creature lived?
Come in, friend. Step closer, enemy. You were washed by the rain, rinsed by the darkness, dried by the wings, and clothed. By a purpose.
Am I a panther? Am I the dusk?
THE PLAN for Labels
CHARACTERS are influential people in my tales.
BROWN is tales from a span of ages.
WHITE is tales from age 0-7.
RED is tales from age 8-14.
ORANGE is tales from age 14-21.
YELLOW is tales from age 22-28.
GREEN is tales from age 29-35.
BLUE is tales from age 36-42.
INDIGO is tales from age 43-49.
PURPLE is tales from age 50-56.
BLACK is tales from age 57-63.
Grey is an insight into how these tales may be affecting me.
BROWN is tales from a span of ages.
WHITE is tales from age 0-7.
RED is tales from age 8-14.
ORANGE is tales from age 14-21.
YELLOW is tales from age 22-28.
GREEN is tales from age 29-35.
BLUE is tales from age 36-42.
INDIGO is tales from age 43-49.
PURPLE is tales from age 50-56.
BLACK is tales from age 57-63.
Grey is an insight into how these tales may be affecting me.
Friday, August 1, 2008
Open Up
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