Wednesday, April 7, 2010

Something Old & Anonymous

The laziness has gone beyond funny, I've neglected this blog when the readers have shown love, its not my fault I can assure you. Nevertheless I'm back and ready to get this pen rolling. Before I start blogging I'll throw one more throwback piece I did with my friend Cella. Bored at work in 2007, Cella emailed me challenging me to do a poem off the top of the head with her. She emails some lines, then I email the next lines, and so on and so forth. We didnt know what each other were talking about but we tried to make sense out of it. Check it below.


My black ball point intimately kisses the page and I watch the ink flow.
From left to right my disgruntled face struggles to understand this rhythmic pattern that seems to be emerging of its own free will.
Perfection knows no boundaries as my mind dips deep into the thoughts and fears I feel yet never knew, Word by word, line by line, raw emotions materialize masking the confused appearance of my youthful face.
And so my heart beat and emotions race, and at an unparalleled pace they manifest.
My mind struggles to regulate itself, and signals seem blocked in a cross wired knot that seems to allow function only to my hands.
So I write, I write vigorously leaving no time behind, I write visually leaving each image defined. Dumbfounded whether these words are mine, hands too focused to read between the lines.

I travel back in time to the day you left me, exposed, alone, cold. Like a child, I relive every moment.
I repaint every picture, every character, every object. Each brushstroke fills a space that was once left dormant
Revealing a masterpiece of destruction; the vivid imagery left scarred by the simple context The dress and the suit, this ink to this pad, you and me….black and white
I wonder what the repercussions of revealing this may be, inevitably tears will be shed.
Yet as I weigh up the pros and cons on this scale of my life, I trust in the spirit to lead as he wishes. Knowing this was not prompted by my own vision.
But by something deeper, for in your mind was a mutual diversity that to you could never be The commitment too powerful for you to apprehend. Blinded by the element of love, I was unable to see.

Yet I am called to love? This same love that made me smile brought tears to my eyes an impaired vision.
This same love that picked me up pushed me down, broke me, left me in pieces.
I travel back in time to the day you left me, I stand in front of the one I love, I stand in front of the one I loved. One of them loving me through and through, the other one was you.
I stand in front of an incomplete image of someone who is almost unrecognizable,
Were it not for my heartbeat, the song that echoes in my head, the quivering of my hands, as I try to keep balance, were it not for the familiar look in your eyes you would
be a stranger. Ironic that in that precise moment you showed me the real you. The stage was set for the confrontation and you like so many wilted.

So round and around I go, confusion still reigns and emotions are still ablaze. I struggle to find meaning, to let go. I struggle not to regret, not to resent, I struggle not to love and not to hate.
My hand still in control and the ink continuously flows, while the other hand soothes the bulging belly below. You are the core of what I create and you don’t even know and though explicitly stated I know you’d never be able to comprehend this puppet show, this classic opera this thriller, this…. what is this? Though explicitly stated, I still can’t fully comprehend this. What is this? A question only you could answer. And as the ink runs dry and my hands tremble, my thoughts of you are only explained through the tear drops trickling along my ball point pen.
This tear stained log of my history now lies beneath a mounting pile and as I continue to cry, thoughts continue to run through my mind.
The vision begins an automatic reply.
With no delay I toss and turn and with my head buried in my pillow I scream out loud to vent. I hear the tick tocking of the clock and tip tapping of the rain against my window and as I find the strength to sit up, I hear a knock. I hear a whisper, a grunt, a cry.

Written by Cella Johnson & L.Mayne

We still dont know what it was about but somehow it made sense

1 comments so far....:

Anonymous said...

A tax gloves the mortal opus outside the concerto. Only one box destroyed a flaming cake. Jeremy Cushing A hand quickly cleaned a cloned gardener.

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