playin’ a holiday tune

I’m walkin’ down the hall and playin’ a holiday tune on my gut (rapuh, pum, pum, reverberatin’ like a finely crafted drum) when Laurie says “hello,” to which I reply “sup.” Laurie’s nice, kind of mousy and quiet. She’s a kind spirit most def.

In the kitchen, grabbin’ some of that fruity chamomile tea, and Mike says “sup” (he knows sup), adding “man, that beard is getting savage.” Sorta, but not really. It’s still too much face and not enough beard.

Headed to the end.

Back asswards and drunk in 2 days. Them’s the bday breaks. On to next year.

Mud Brown Eyes

They don’t shine, or glow
No one falls into them
They call them chestnut and
that’s very nice of you, thanks

Some have jewels as dreamerous as the ocean
Where sailors perish
In quests for the gift of the radiance
And just a moment alone
with Goddesses whose eyes pierce through souls

They are the lucky few

No, these are more like gloopy balls of dirt
Resting in hollowed, tired heads
Like everyone and so plain
ugly

She thinks these things and can’t see
That her eyes, her mud brown eyes
Have me vexed
I want to kiss her and show her my
eyes, like hers
But I am just her lover, after all
And not some stranger on the street

memory

Memory is a means by which humans are able to remember and recall events, situations, requirements, or tasks. However, memory does not always transcribe the billowy poet bog that the ancient lords bestowed upon the subjects of the Corinthian lands beyond the wretched sea. Is there a haven; a fallen godman wishes solace. Such strange things and graceful muses in this place. How they dance and glide about the place. Silken gloves and stretched leather of fine Parisian shoes. A hard month’s salary is such a tiny thing. Things… all of them things. Her hair, a stream of sea across a woeful face; me. It is late by the witching hour and early by the Maynard’s carriage strum. Little children made of cheese do squander their talents in wasted endeavors. Jeweled farmers? Pompous fools, there is not a means of obtaining such things. Things… I remember things, strewn about. They were left there by the jealous man inside. She did not pick them up, not Evaline. She just sat upon a throne of tears. How quaint… perhaps droll. The dross of deathly diamonds does dock at Demon Diocese. I believe the dowager decked the drop of delicate dales at Drunken Dromer’s old destiny doomed to dwell in delicious domes. They glided to the mine of mine and his old horse said, “No.” “No?” I asked of it, and “no” it said again.

Wait, this place. Have you seen it before? I believe I have. Meadows have witnessed villages spring from the roots of dormant people, never knowing, never remembering. I finally found a garden in which the gels say, “howdy punk,” only I don’t understand the context of memorial randomosity. It’s in the ocean. Jump in and swim and I promise the mermen will help you along. If the mermaids (maids of the mar, el mer mio tan amable y agradable; yo quiero nadar) find you, well, hell, you best run. I seen the bravest soldiers tell me they ain’t stickin’ to no broad abroad, but they’s just plain unthinkin’. They ain’t rememberin’ what it’s like, up there ‘round them trees. It’s like, a memory. A forgotten rememberance of a past, of a reason to. What, then, are we doing? Ah, yes, we are remembering. Remembering things, which aptly applied, apply to the subject of memories.

A memory… what is it? I forgot!

In waves of incense, godless gold

In waves of incense, godless gold:
Crosses beared by lovers’ hold.
A nail does trail along dewed skin;
Shiver now, ignore the sin.

As bodies tire–beg to sleep.
The mind, dogged, counts no sheep.
Dreamscapes sprawl ‘cross the blessed shrine;
Young ones meet for taunting rhyme:

“Hi boy!” she says, “you smell of fish!
Filthiness seems your sad wish.
You chase the others ’round the school;
Never will you touch me, ghoul!”

“Oh no?” says boy, “why, I’m the best!
I shall search the sandy crests!
Along the halls and on the slide,
The girl hunter comes to ride!”

They follow high, and hop on low
’til a recess whistle blows.
Giggles, snorts, and scuffing soles:
Children trained to seek their goals.

Remember, then, that stories aim
To teach lessons (or seek blame).
If man or woman wish to learn,
Find out when the plot did turn:

Bodies form, and mature to grow;
Love’s true form begins to show.
Alas, young minds seek but one thing;
A warm caress, and awkward fling.

The playing ends and fun begins.
Hair as silk and goosebump skin.
A day in the fields; night in lust.
Declarations of deep trust.

By and by, as the fates decree
(With logic none can appease),
The view of him or her does change.
Experience shows them the way:

“Remember how we used to be?
Wild, loving, full of glee?
We conquered nights, and danced much then.
Can we do those things again?”

“I am not free, can you not see?
Work and school; you leave me be!
I will find time just not right now.
Give me space and quiet down.”

The hardest lesson lies in wait
As star-crossed paths separate.
A tale as cyclic as old lore
Of night’s plutonian shore.

The raven startles; back to bed!
Thoughts and wonderings in the head.
The room returns, and memories fade.
Recalling where it is they laid…

A satin stocking strewn below–
The open window’s breeze does flow.
And when nights be remembered hence,
Spirit rises, not the flesh.

why does a man

Why does a man choose to sit next to the airhead? Look, the one I should be with is sitting over there. Over there is the smart, cynical one who would provide scintillating conversation. Over here is the airhead who doesn’t get poetry and nearly falls asleep during readings.

Why would he want a writer when he could have a dancer?

What is this beautiful, beautiful woman settling for?

ocean

I need the ocean. Too many years here have tied me to the waves, to the sound, to the lull. I’ll never be able to leave, not for good. The things I’ll miss out in the inlands I’ll never know.

The boy sees darkness, endless and all-encompassing. The old man sees a sea of lights, stretching to the faintly lit mountains beyond.

The corner girls.

The faces reside in the corners where I put away things that I’ve long since left behind. Like ghosts, or wilted flowers, or some other whimsical cliché. I put them there and there they remain, because I don’t have the guts to open the window and let them out. They can’t leave those corners, because I like to remember they’re there, but they also can’t fly away and for that I am truly sorry. It’s just the hand dealt to me by the universe and there are much worse deals to be had so I always take what I can get. What I get just happens to be quite beautiful and thus quite cruel when it goes away, so I hold on, if only in the hollows of the attic.

They are a varied bunch, my corner girls; exuberant, caramel-coated sweetcheeks; thin eyebrows penciled in for extra expressive oomph; narrow nose accentuating the kind of striking profile that makes a girl look nosy but exotic; wide, hollow eyes that melt a man’s will like so much salt over a fresh snowfall. They are the features of many lost loves. I think they still look out from the corners, but while I keep them there I can’t allow myself to glance in their direction. Too risky, you understand. My corner girls would tear me to shreds.

Foresight I lack, but forethought is plentiful, and I’ve had much time to contemplate matters. I know how it ends. I’m going to die in the corner grasping a wall or a lamp or anything within reach, and my corner girls will leap out of their corners and break all the windows as they feel the rush of the wind for the first time. The ones I acted cruelly towards will scratch at my face and stomp on my skull, and I can’t fault them for seeking revenge before they flee for freedom.

God, I hope they make it.

sponge

3.

Fig.: One who lives upon others; a pertinaceous and indolent dependent; a parasite; a sponger.

Thank ye kindly, Webster_1913.

The properties of a sponge, by A. Spuunj.

The mask, it clings. Years upon years of falsehood and pleasantries pleasantly packaged for mass consumption. I am the genuine one; the sincere, helpful voice. You will listen because I am honest; you will trust because I am worthy of it. You will expose yourself and I will absorb all that you release, bouncing back very little but enough for you to believe I am here. I thrive on you and your misguided faith.

I spin lies and twist the truth. Genuine? What do you see that is genuine? Stare into my eyes, talk to me, listen, and tell me you believe what I say. I am a lie, your dream lie, because the world wants the lie, and they allow me to be the lie, the lie I choose to be. I am nothing but the lie. The truth I present is, in truth, a lie.

You, your beauty and the love you wish to share, are misguided. Turn away. Find yourself some truth, something real in the world, something genuine. Find someone. I will smile my false smile and weep inside where weeping is meant to remain. You will probably find your truth as seekers of truth find it, sooner or later. I have never been in search of truth, and only seek what it takes to get by.

Oh, and Web? You missed one:

7. a. Informal A glutton. b. Slang A drunkard.

Living the Lie in Ibsen’s “A Doll House”

Henrik
Ibsen’s “A Doll House” presents a woman, Nora, who has been
under the proverbial thumb her entire life; that of her father’s
and then later when she comes to marry Torvald Helmer, a man who
comes to take the place of the paternal authority figure in her life.
Both are men who did not truly love her but were only in love with
the idea of a beautiful girl or woman that belonged to them.  And
likewise Nora is not in love with the man she married, but with the
idea of pleasing a man who held such control over her.  She does not
immediately recognize this since she is filling the role of
submissive housewife that is expected of her.  In a sense all
characters in “A Doll House,” not just Nora and Torvald, are
living lies whether they realize it or not.

Nora’s
love for Torvald, or what she perceives to be love for him, is the
overwhelming element throughout the play.  From the beginning Nora is
presented as a subservient and submissive person who caters to her
husband’s every whim and allows him to treat her as a child, or
pet.  The names he uses, such as “little lark” and “little
squirrel,” are pet names, typically used when one speaks to a child
or someone who does not command respect equal to that of an adult.
Nora however never displays any resentment towards this behavior and
in fact seems to take joy when Torvald refers to her with those
terms.  They can certainly be terms of endearment, however the
connotation they carry are not meant to be viewed in a positive
light.  This can be viewed as Nora’s oblivious view of her
relationship to Torvald, which she comes to realize at the end of Act
III when she says “You don’t understand me, and I have never
understood you either–before tonight” (Ibsen III).  Nora’s
“happiness” in her marriage, then, is more like blissful
ignorance as she does all she can to please her husband but does not
stop to take stock of herself and what matters to her.

Later,
Nora lies not once but twice about her eating macaroons, which
Torvald does not like as he believes it harms her teeth.  She lies to
him when he directly asks her if she has been eating macaroons, then
the second time to Doctor Rank when he asks her where she got them,
telling him Kristine brought them.  Ibsen shows that Nora’s
relationship with Torvald is in such a bad state that she resorts to
covering up even the most innocent lies.  These are only the tip of
the iceberg as Nora then reveals to Kristine, in a fit of defensive
pride against Kristine’s accusation that Nora is a child, that Nora
was in fact responsible for saving her husband’s life when she
borrowed money to take him on a recuperative trip to Italy.  She
declines to tell Torvald and instead pays the debt in secret from her
allowance.  As she says, “how painful and humiliating it
would be for Torvald, with his manly independence, to know that he
owed me anything!” (Ibsen I).  It is her fear of hurting Torvald’s
pride and not love that prevents her from telling him the truth about
the loan.  Ibsen’s belief was that women, as
people, should be treated equally, and if they are not treated
equally then there can be no love, at least not the romantic love a
man and woman feel for one another (Freedman 92).

Nora
initially believes she loves Torvald the way he is, along with the
lifestyle he has practically chosen for her.  Torvald likewise feels
that he loves Nora for who she is and that the love is genuine and
pure, when he in fact loves her for the part she plays for his
benefit (“Torvald Helmer”).  He does not realize that the love he
feels is false as we come to realize in the play’s course of
events.  Torvald is following the typical male gender role of the
time as a controlling husband.  At the mid point of Act I, Nora asks
Torvald if he would consider giving a job to Kristine.  He is
hesitant, since he believes that a woman’s place is in the home.
Later, after Krogstad has paid Nora a visit in Act I, Torvald
comments on his belief regarding forgery and how it affects the home:
“Almost everyone who has gone to the bad early in life has
had a deceitful mother.”  Nora asks him why he says only the mother
is responsible, clearly shaken by Krogstad’s threat to reveal her
own lie regarding the loan and forgery, and he responds: “It seems
most commonly to be the mother’s influence, though naturally a bad
father’s would have the same result” (Ibsen Act I), the latter part
meant to apply to Krogstad to whom he was referring.  Although
Torvald appears to be a good and honest man it is revealed that he in
fact harbors his own secrets and denials regarding his wife, and in
fact his very view on his own life.  Further into Act II Doctor Rank
comments on Torvald’s ability to handle serious news: “Helmer
with his sensitivity has such a sharp distaste for anything ugly”
(Ibsen).  It is almost as if Torvald is unable to handle life as a
serious matter outside of his own selfish ambitions.  He simply
desires beauty and wealth and a happy home, as he tells Nora on
numerous occasions.  Torvald is perhaps the one character that does
not fully learn what it means to be truthful and therefore more
satisfied with one’s life as he is left alone in his house at the
end of the play.

Although
Nora and Torvald’s relationship is the key display of living in a
marital lie, there are other examples to be found.  During Kristine
and Nora’s initial conversation upon Kristine’s arrival, she
explains to Nora that she married not out of love but out of
necessity, as she “was justified in refusing his offer”
(Ibsen I).  Her mother was ill and two younger brothers needed to be
cared for, and so she married a man she did not love.  In the end she
was left alone with no children and penniless when her husband’s
business went under, forced to work various odd jobs in order to
support her brothers and mother for three more years.  The irony is
that Kristine was in love with Krogstad before she married Mr. Linde,
and only now after returning to the town does she admit to him that
she loves him and wants to marry him.  When he questions her
intentions and wonders if she is doing it to help Nora, Kristine
tells him, “when you’ve sold yourself once for someone else, you
never do it again” (Ibsen I).  She sold herself into a lie, a sham
marriage, once, and now she is hoping to Krogstad in the hopes of
finding something real.  

Hidden
desire is also revealed as Nora attempts to coyly entice Doctor Rank
to convince Torvald to keep Krogstad in his position at the bank.
After he has revealed that he will die soon, a fact he wants kept
from Torvald until after his death, Nora speaks playfully with Doctor
Rank, using deception and feminine wiles to subtly get her way with
Doctor Rank.  Even as she faces certain doom (doom to her in any
case), Nora continues to use the only skills available to her which
are lies and deception.  After speaking with him and showing the
doctor the stockings she had purchased, Doctor Rank is unable to
contain himself.  He admits, truthfully, to Nora that he loves her
and has been in love with her for a long while, and only because of
the friendship with Torvald has he been unable to admit the truth to
her.  When faced with this truth Nora recoils and decides she wants
nothing to do with Doctor Rank.  Although it is an unpleasant
experience for Nora she is once again faced with another instance of
hidden secrets and lies.  It is around this time that she begins to
feel overwhelmed by the weight of the secret loan she borrowed in
order to pay for her family’s trip to Italy, Krogstad’s threat to
blackmail her in order to secure his position at the bank, and the
ongoing doubt in her mind about whether or not she should even remain
in the household; perhaps, she believes, it would be best to kill
herself to spare her husband the shame and trouble of dealing with
all of the lies.  When faced with such hidden secrets Nora can only
think of her husband who she believes is a good and honorable man.

In
the cavalcade of deeply personal and selfish lies that are presented
throughout the play is the foremost among them and the critical
problem for Nora as the play’s protagonist: Krogstad’s threat to
blackmail her if she does not help him secure her position in the
bank.  Krogstad reveals through this threat that he initially lost
his reputation in the community when he became a forger several years
before the play takes place, and Torvald himself calls out Torvald’s
rather unsavory reputation as a valid reason not to allow the man to
remain in his position at the bank (although he later reveals the
truth that he felt Krogstad was simply not showing him enough
respect).  As a result it becomes very difficult for Krogstad to
maintain his position at the bank which he needs in order to maintain
his family, although as he states in Act II that for the last year
and a half he has “not had a hand in anything dishonourable, amid
all the time I have been struggling in most restricted circumstances”
(Ibsen II).  He uses his past when he appeals to Nora, who herself
was guilty of forgery when she signed her father’s name to get the
loan, and although he is attempting to live as an honest man he still
not above blackmailing someone to retain his livelihood.

With
all this lying and deception present throughout the first two acts we
learn that all of the characters are in a sense miserable though it
does not appear so on the surface.  Nora is in a sham marriage which
she is blissfully unaware of; Torvald treats his wife as a doll,
treating her as a helpless child that needs his constant attention
when she is more than capable of taking care of herself as a grown
human being; Kristine reveals that she lived a lie in order to marry
for money, albeit with questionably good reason, then was forced to
work difficult jobs to sustain herself and family when the man she
married died and left her with nothing; Krogstad is still suffering
from his forgery accusation years before and uses blackmail to
attempt to keep his job; and even the poorly Doctor Rank who is great
friends with Torvald and Nora reveals that he is sick with a disease
that he prefers to keep secret from Torvald and has been harboring a
deep desire for Nora that he decides to reveal before his death.  In
Act III all the characters come to a type of acceptance about the
truth of things (either true love such as with Krogstad and Kristine,
or death with no secrets as with Doctor Rank), but no one more so
than Nora.  All these characters are meant to be compared and
contrasted to Nora’s own struggle with the truth behind the lies
because out of all the characters in the play she is the one who
learns the most about the nature of truth and what it means to be
true not only with everyone around her but with herself as well.
Although she departs from Torvald’s household with a door slam and
on serious terms Nora takes a vital step towards her emotional growth
and ultimate happiness as a human being.

Works Cited

Fjelde, Rolf.  Ibsen:
Four Major Plays Volume I.  New
York: New American Library, 2006.  vvii-xxxiii.

Freedman, Estelle.  The
Essential Feminist Reader.  New
York: Modern Library, 2007.  92-98.

Ibsen, Henrik.  “A Doll House.”  Living
Literature: An Introduction to Fiction, Poetry, and Drama.
Ed. John C. Brereton.  New York: Longman, 2007.  1562-1611.

Jackson, Stevi.  Women’s
Studies: Essential Readings.  New
York: New York University Press, 1993.

“Torvald Helmer.”  SparkNotes: A Doll’s House: Henrik
Ibsen.  New York: Spark Publishing, 2002.
10.

Yalom, Marian.  A
History of the Wife.  New York:
HarperCollins Publishers, 2002.