Web

A translucent web of complex connections and centrifugal notions exists between my own brain, and those other minds I have grappled with. Professors, bosses, speakers, lovers—those I've had live conversations with, but those minds, also, that have lived on, long after the decay of their actual matter. Emerson. Thoreau. Fuller. Blake. I stumbled—-mostly blind—-through the tangle of English courses and was surprised to find myself inhaling the sticky philosophy of the “Over-Soul” and spiritual manifestation in the material. Trapped in the glistening fibers of long woven articulation, I fought arduously to understand the fashion of my binds, to discover from whence it came, where it was going, and the figuring in between. (The figuring, of course, is easier to speculate at, then to actually chew. The dizzying illumination of metaphor and allusion helps to taste transcendental thought, but can also intimidate, with the overwhelming saturation of syntax).
I have learned that there is much to learn—from both minds past and present. I can remember an instance when I was 6 years old. I struggled to make light of the cryptic words on a VHS tape. I brought it to my Abuelo, who did not speak English with ease. With heavy Cuban pronunciation, he read “Charlotte's Web,” but I failed to grasp the meaning of his words. Despite our closeness in relation, our minds were separated by a stretch of sixty years and blocked by the barrier of language and a fading culture. I understand, now, the necessity of branching one's web to include the wider array of human thought and understanding, as there is an infinity of human spiritual growth. The interconnectedness of minds and relations, when knit together, may bind all of humanity into a great unification of understanding.

I'd never do elementary school over.

The lunchroom was an echoing chamber of dread. By the time the bell buzzed and my rattling nerves acknowledged the lunch hour, I experienced a mixed sensation of relief and tension. Relief because my stomach felt pangs of hunger (and had begun making those funny dinosaur roars) and tension because I recognized the tyranny of the social hierarchy—of which I was quite near the bottom. Walking into the gymnasium-like cafeteria was like a different kind of dodge ball. Rather than actual lumps of rubber pelting my bony 8-year old flesh, the battery of snooty glances, cutting statements, and cold indifference razed my sensitivity. A cacophony of voices bounced off the cement-block walls and square-grid floor—a mixture of varying levels of high pitched voices, laughter and random bellows. The social pressure smushed me like play-dough into a cowering bunny-rabbit. Clattering trays were background noises as I shrunk onto a yellow circle seat on the very end of a deserted rectangle table. Eyes glued to my squishy lunch box, I hoped that no one would see me. If nobody saw me, they might accidentally sit by me, and other people wouldn't think I'm a loser. Inside my pony lunch pail was a mixture of scents—plastic, peanut butter, cookies, and milk. Relief. No tangy whiff of egg-salad sandwich. If I had an egg salad sandwich I would zip it back up and banish it to the garbage when no one was looking. Egg-salad sandwiches meant scathing shame. Freakishness. Smelliness. Nobody—nobody­--ate egg-salad sandwiches or even knew what one was. Egg-salad sandwiches tasted good when Mommy made them at home but tasted like humiliation at school.
I felt a tug from the table signifying the weight of another human being upon a circle seat. More tugs. More kids. I felt the warmth of a body next to me. Braving a glance, I saw that it was a boy. Suddenly, I didn't want to eat my peanut butter and jelly sandwich any more. I peeled off the crust and nibbled my cookies, instead.

Some love will always be unrequited.

CLARA
I can't take it anymore. I won't take it any more. I've waited so long—I think I'm going to die. Yes, I will die if I don't do it now.
(Pause while she gathers courage and takes a deep breath)
Jeff! JEFF HARTKISS!

Jeff realizes he is being addressed. He moves away from his group of friends and tentatively approaches Clara.

CLARA
(with passion)
Jeff—Jeff Heartkiss—I love you. I love you most ardently—passionately, irrationally, and quite obsessively. I've loved you for three weeks and my heart is yours forever.

JEFF, stunned, has no idea how to react.

CLARA
I first realized it in our Environmental Earth Science class. You sit two rows behind me and three seats to the left of me. That's why I always have my mirror out—so I can watch you. I watch you all the time and I've fallen in love with the way you chew on the end of your pencil when you're thinking and the way you lean your cheek against your clenched fist when you're dozing. So many times have I desired to stroke that cheek. You have no idea how difficult it is for me to stay focused in that class when I have your god-like reflection in the palm of my hands...
(Breathing deeply, CLARA is momentarily too distracted to continue)
Until six days ago I deemed our love to be unrequited, but then, while you were walking to the garbage can to spit out your gum, you brushed up against me...you must know what that touch did to me...you must! You felt it too! I see that blush bepainted upon your cheek! You can't deny the sexual tension fizzling between us.
(Dropping to her knee, CLARA belts)
WE SHOULD BE LOVERS!
(Speaking with reckless abandon)
I want to have your babies. I have never wanted to have a baby before—you are the first man to make me feel like this. For you, I would endure the freakish process of childbirth. I see that you are blushing even more now. Don't worry, I understand, darling. I blush, too, when I think about us together...having—picnics. And feeding ducks together.
(Laughing nervously)
You are feeling so much passion right now, you almost appear to be furious. That gleam behind your eye. How peculiar. It almost seems sharp and spiteful.
(Pause as CLARA bores her stair into JEFF's eyes)
Oh my gosh...you hate me.
(Jerking with the realization)
YOU HATE ME. Jeff Heartkiss, you were supposed to return my love—by every fricking rule of romance—I was so vulnerable.

JEFF, mortified, glances about to see which of his friends were eaves dropping. He shoots CLARA a gaze of disgust and revolt. CLARA slaps JEFF across the face.

CLARA
(Struggles to understand)
Why would you not love me after all I said? I offered to have your babies. I just don't...understand.
(With strength)
You are a jerk. Your heart is stone and you are an obtusely self-centered dumb-ass if you think you can do better than Clara Casmen.
(Suddenly nauseated by his mere sight)
Get your ugly mug away from me and sulk some place else, you infectious knave.

Isn't it ironic?

The philosopher may not be paid for his education, after the degree has been granted, but at least he can watch with curiosity and fascination as the sophism of the materialistic world inbues upon his reality and collapses his availability of food and shelter, thusly proving man kind's inability to create a utopia and progressive future.

I didn't proof read this because I almost passed out.

I'm here to give blood. Aren't I brave? Ha ha, here is my arm and here is my vein! Oh, not yet? I see there are many people here...lying on their backs...with their feet elevated. Isn't this fun? It--kinda smells like blood in here. There are bags...full of blood...over there. Oh wow, isn't that nice? Ha ha, I haven't had a piercing or a tattoo in the past year and I don't think I'm anemic but go a head and prick my finger if you want to--it's just a tiny little prick, after all...Ouch...oh...wow, that uh, that hurt more than I thought it would...

Pause.

No, I'm..fine...I'm just great...I'm going to give b-blood today and get one of those delicious oatmeal chip cookies...-So, how big is the uh the needle that you are going to stick in me? Stick in my arm...in my arm...? Ha ha, I'm just curious? Shouldn't be much bigger than the needle they used to check my iron at the family doctor, eh? (This is so cool, I'm so glad I can help save lives, you know?) Oh, it's bigger? The needle is? A lot bigger? Huh. Well, isn't that...spiffy. And you're going to stick it into my skin..? And, uh, into my vain, and I'm going to squeeze this foam ball over and over again so my heart will pump my..blood faster, while the needle wiggles in my flesh and my blood gets sucked out--warm and salty from inside my body--through this needle and into this jelly looking bag and I'll see it--I'll see my own blood in that bag in front of my eyes when it should be inside me where I can't see it, and I'll be able to smell it and feel it being sucked out of me and even if I want to run away from this place where I can smell the blood and feel the needle suck I won't be able to because I'll be connected to that thing and it will rip me open if I try and even more blood will spill, this-------------

The Sacrimental Mystery of Defrosting One's Freezer

There is so much I need to learn about being an adult. For instance, the term "defrosting one's freezer" completely mystifies me. Why would you ever need to do that? Wouldn't it be a bit counter-productive?

I suppose freezers are like human beings in the sense that they can't take too much of the same thing for too long. Being set at 28 degrees 24 hours a day, 7 days a week can be exhausting, or at least subliming.

Maybe an interval of time in which the freezer is able to melt and purge its crystallized insides (which hasn't seen the light of day in God-knows-how-long) is somewhat like the sacrament of reconciliation for Catholics. After mindlessly accepting the neatly packaged stimuli of the world for weeks at a time, I, personally, come to realize that what I've internalized might be no good. And furthermore, what I've taken in may be taking up unnecessary space, becoming sticky from sublimation or grotesquely disfigured from the crystallization of my frozen world. I realize, every now and then, that I seriously need to defrost the personal freezer of my soul.

My father once showed me a popsicle that he found in the back of our freezer in the garage. It had been in there for four years. By this point, it ceased to be a popsicle and was, rather, a freakish puddle of solid syrup, which had bleed into the fabric of its unopened wrapper and encased the wooden stick in a cryogenic state.

Once it had been cherry flavored. Now, it was just disturbing.

I don't want my soul to become like that popsicle. That popsicle was scary and very sticky.

I want my soul to be fresh--like locally grown veggies lightly glimmering with the morning dew, and kissed by the warmth of the sun.

Perhaps, one day, I will learn to defrost my freezer. Clean out all the stuff I don't need, allow the space to air out in a comfortable temperature to prevent that gross "freezer smell" and to make room for the important things--like ice cream--without it being tainted.

I need to ask my self what's important to me. What do I have room for? And what can I reject that might be holding me back...

Adoration

There is a room
that exists.
It is filled with love.

It glows
Its light is soft as fire
Its flame as light as air

The flame
it dances silently
inside its frosted shrine

Satin shadows flicker bright
between the glimmering strands of light
And then stand still
and do not move
suspended golden light.

Please rest a while.
And do not move
While rapped up in this love.
Your broken heart
Your aching flesh
Are welcomed here to heal.

It is too much
to bear the rest
without rest and peace

A piece of peace
a shred of light
amid the outside's tear

A tear or two
A drink or two
Both comforts--but which is truth?

Truth is which
is here - exists
Invisible and seen
The seam that holds
this world in full
Connected souls though scarce

Please don't be scared
I know it hurts
You're broken but you're here

You've come to Me
this room of love
It's here that you can be.