Tuesday, August 16, 2005

memories of them bad days

$50.50 will buy you:

Tickets to the Shanghai Ballet's performance of "Coppelia," the Venice Baroque Orchestra, the Baltimore Symphony Orchestra, the London City Opera's "Madame Butterfly," and the Annapolis Symphony Orchestra.

I don't think I could have spent a better $50. Maybe on charity, I suppose, but... sometimes, you have to buy roses with the bread.

Today, with 9/11 coming up, I've been thinking about the one aspect that I've never been able to handle.

The people jumping. When I first heard about it, it was literally too big a concept to comprehend. Into thin air, you place your foot because the other alternative is to burn or be forever vaporized in the New York skyline. You place your foot in the air, hold someone's hand, and try to fly for a moment.

I heard once that chances are, you'd be dead before you hit the ground due to the shock of the descent.

I heard that people were holding hands on the way down.

I heard that jumping is actually the healthiest psychological response to the situation. The people who jumped knew their options, weighed their options, and decided that they wanted to leave a recognizable body for their families. (Strangely enough, this has happened before, and sometimes, they survive.)

They were holding hands. They must have been scared, and still they were trying to do what they could for each other.

Wednesday, February 16, 2005

coming clean

So I came clean and told Duffy about yesterday's little emotional heroin.

It's not that I'm lonely, far from it. It's not that I'm isolated. Far from it, or should I say... we're close?

But rather, oh rather, say that I get itchy when faced with the hunt. Not for the sake of enduring love and companionship, but rather the addiction of synchronicity.

I'm sorry. I won't make excuses, and I won't fidget away from it. I gamble with myself and others. That has to stop now. At least the others part. I cheerfully wager my flesh, as it is after all, just flesh. A chain of molecules, with a burning point.

Everyone asks me how I am, and the sad and awful truth is... I could not say. I march, I breathe, I study, I wear my uniforms and make my rack... yet on a foundational level, no one is home. Behind my eyes, behind my jokes, lies emptied cities and unraveling skies. It's always midnight here, and only the lost walk in these rain-slicked streets.

(Note, gentle reader. I'm not depressed, alright? Honest. I do just like it when it rains. And my natural mood is always serious. So don't be alarmed. I still love blue skies, crisp sails, violin sonatas, caramel coffee, and a good book. I say again, I am just prone to thinking grey thoughts.)