Rhye - “Open”
This is me. I am blogging. I exist. I need a hug.
ode to coniferous trees and coastal mountains.
You say you wish you were younger
So you could make mistakes again
"Around midnight, the train rolls to a slow stop and the voice of the conductor announces that you have arrived in Spokane, that the train will stop for two hours and that people may disembark if they “wannasmoke”. The crowd in car number two erupts into cheering, and ninety-five percent of the passengers file off the train to go stand in the snow and light up. You watch them from your window as they huddle in clusters and flicker flame into the darkness. And now, without the rocking of the car or the turning of the wheels, you notice that the night is silent and still, except for: the rhythmic and contented sleep sighs of an elderly fellow two seats ahead; the open mouth snoring of the man across the aisle (whose head is tilted back at a painfully awkward angle); and the droplet sounds from the galaxy notebook of the girl in front of you (you wonder if she is texting or just erasing pictures off her phone). As you listen to the passengers coughing, sneezing and breathing around all you, you suddenly feel wide awake and mildly anxious. By the time you manage to find a comfortable position with your loaf-of-bread-sized amtrak pillow, wedging your head in-between the seat and the sweating window, you feel the conductor shaking your shoulder with urgency in order to alert you that the Empire Builder has arrived at its destination. He tells you that Idaho time is 2:37 am, and that the forecast says snow. With a smile, he hands you a brown plastic Amtrak pin, and waves goodbye from the open door of the moving train. And as you are standing alone in the freezing night, watching the train continue on down the line, feeling the winter air on your face and listening to the sound of snowflakes fall from the purple-white sky, you pull out your Amtrak badge and pin it like a medal on your jacket, because its been a long night and riding the railway is a bohemian adventure. ”
"The faculty of wonder tires easily… Madder music and stronger wine pay diminishing returns"
A man slouches before a uni-colored canvas
with the perplexity of a stumped technician
gaping at the unremittingly blank screen
of a television. He adjusts his stance,
a double antenna, in search for reception.
Its artist has spread the blackest paint—probably
in fistfuls with her bare hands—until every inch
was filled, or emptied, with dark. “A negation
of art,” spouts a museum curator, but by now our guy
has stopped listening. Maybe the artist felt a wound
deserves a close-up. The threaded color
of sutures—dark stitches laid down like train tracks
across a forehead. Maybe she wants answers
but isn’t getting any. She’s in the tomb on Good Friday, before
the stone’s rolled back. Or maybe it’s feminine—
like pantyhose, or the womb. Something about birth.
Or death—that dark hound curled up at her feet.
Could be she has a black lab, and just really likes
her dog. Or it’s the view from inside a chamber
of the heart that has sealed itself off. Or it’s cancer.
Maybe she’s ruptured, and knows first hand
what a rip looks like, having watched the hole of herself
stretching even wider. It’s possible she’s been jilted
and has an axe to grind, and that this is a portrait
of her ex, that anatomical hole, himself.
Perhaps it’s a memory of being kissed—kissed well.
The lashes on a smolder-eyed man. Maybe it’s motherhood:
the charred casserole, smudges across the leather
in the back seat of her car, a sugary space a first-lost
tooth creates. Maybe the money’s gone
and she’s got kids in college. Maybe she’s divorced
and this is the hue of lost custody. Maybe it’s the bald-spot
in the ozone, and she wants her climate back. What if
she’s painted sacrifice: the gap plowed into Adam’s side
to create a second life; the rib removed from a girl named Eve
to create a wasp-like waist. Maybe it’s an un-filled cavity,
or the huge, open pores on her dentist’s nose.
Perhaps something very personal occurred here.
Steam-rolled asphalt. A star-scrubbed sky.
Either she wants to say nothing, or say too much.
Either her world keeps ending, or it’s always beginning.
Whatever it is, the man’s face awakens with what looks like an answer.
Taking two steps back in his trainers, he reaches
into his jeans for a ballpoint pen—a moment of light
before this work?—and inks onto his hand: