A fire burns in the Boulder hills. I can watch it burn from the porch I am perched on. The angry winds propel the flames and I am sitting enveloped in the motion, trying to embrace its fury. It sways the swing I am curled up on, rocking me from front to back, reassuring me to remain calm amongst the chaos. My lips are dry, I lick them to restore moisture but the wind robs them of their temporary relief far too quickly. I should go inside and find lip balm, but I am captivated by the howling and the sun has just reached up over the top of the conifer trees and is warming me into submission. So I will remain, watching as the dying ladybugs make their final traverses across the banister and leaves slam helplessly against the screen. Birds battle against the wind, some look desperate to continue south, while others give in and let themselves be carried effortlessly north. My eyes burn, my entire body is dry – damn arid climate – can never seem to be able to drink enough water to remain sufficiently lubricated in this state!
I am trying to learn to appreciate the wind and all its power - it does after all signify change - and change is what I claim to embrace... so am focusing on the embracement of the wind. Easier said than done, but I am trying to take the violence out it and look at it only as pure movement of air... rapid, destructive movement of air... but... oh christ, it's violent, there is no way around it! So perhaps I will search for the calm within the storm, the peace that can be found in the swirling of energy that brings down branches and spreads forest fire ragingly across the brittlely dry foothills. Yes, there is peace to be found here, I am sure of it. The simple fact that I am not crawling out of skin as I sit out here is reassurance enough for me.
It is the end of October, and Halloween quickly approaches. I've been here longer than anticipated and the wind becomes symbolic of the emotions that begin to pick up force if I am here too long, and trying to find 'peace' in the cluster of downed trees and charred forests becomes more and more of a challenge. I cherish my homeland and all of the beautiful contrasts of the chaos and calm. I came here to rejoice in glory of autumn, to sit engrossed in chatter with my family for cocktail hour and perhaps leave them with a greater understanding of who I am... and while not all can be accomplished, I rest content in the acceptance of humble human-ness and take another step forward... ever cautious of the dying ladybugs and those pesky rotting grapes.
Friday, October 29, 2010
Monday, October 18, 2010
Iced Coffee and the Penetrating Colorado Sunshine
I was recently asked by a curious new acquaintance; when I am writing, who do I write for? Who do I write for? Good question, was my response. Perhaps for my suffering ego which sits ever so pretty up on her tin box– looking down upon me with her unsavory grin, the occasional sneer waxing prophetic across her unapologetic face - or for that boy sipping an espresso and playing guitar in the corner – the one I have yet to meet, yet earn for ever so righteously, as if I am owed his eventual presence in my convoluted world – or for them – in hopes of some skewed sense of understanding of a life purpose I can only even convey to myself in twisted dreams and brief striking moments of self-realization ... Really? Do I have to write for anyone? To my adoring public which encompasses all of... four perhaps? Some of my closest friends and the random slew of drop-ins who are captivated by comings and goings – waiting on edge (I am sure) to see what I will come up with next - if I will fall or press on, ever diligent and determined in this ever-more-complex web of whispers and shouts in which I weave. Honestly, I think I write to amuse myself – to keep me occupied (or out of trouble) as I find myself having far too much free-time.
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
"Be free"... says the brown grasshopper to the Canadian goose
24 September 2010
Westward bound, I rest temporarily in an unfamiliar homeland. Not much remains constant in this ever-changing, urban-sprawling landscape. Where there is no 'sprawl' there are old buildings torn down, and streamlined, more efficient ones quickly erected in their place. I find myself getting lost in the towns I grew up in, not due to my loyalty to my Boulder pot smoking heritage, but because the streets get changed around, diverted or simply disappear.
People here have such a relaxed, nonchalantness about them that I always seem to forget about while I am away. The at-home-comfort that people seem to posses as they lounge around a coffee shop with legs kicked up, shoes off, guzzling down their large double mochachinos is only found here in America. The overly friendly customer service, sometimes heartfelt, sometimes painfully forced is hard to get accustomed to again, but those toothy grins are contagious and it's hard to resist them for long.
I sit in the Denver coffee shop next to the apartment I lived in 10 years ago. I listen to mundane conversations; a couple preparing a fall Ayurvedic diet, a little girl reciting the ABC's to her young mother, an old man swatting flies and commiserating with the slender woman diligently pounding away at an email on her laptop, a serious debate about who to vote for in November... the garage-style, glass door opens and welcomes in the late September breeze, providing relief from the hot Colorado sun that pounds through the glass. An older black man with a marvelous gray speckled beard saunters across the street, leaning on his cane and sporting a charming 'I love you dad' t-shirt. Cute couples pull at my heart strings – with their not so in-your-face affection that often makes me want to vomit on their shoes as they shove tongues down one another's throats. Their relaxed demeanor reeks of a sincerity I am unsure of, but a tinge of jealousy creeps into my being nonetheless. I push it away, along with the remnants of a blueberry scone which is too big for anyone to really consider as a breakfast option.
Being here in the autumn is definitely the way to go, as the unbearable heaviness of a winter visit is lifted and I am free to lie weightless amongst the falling leaves. It becomes easier and easier for me to embrace the cultural bubble of this dry, mountainous state and as I come to terms with the seeming unlikeliness that I will ever 'really' return, I begin to love it for all its peculiar oddities which I now realize make it so great.
Westward bound, I rest temporarily in an unfamiliar homeland. Not much remains constant in this ever-changing, urban-sprawling landscape. Where there is no 'sprawl' there are old buildings torn down, and streamlined, more efficient ones quickly erected in their place. I find myself getting lost in the towns I grew up in, not due to my loyalty to my Boulder pot smoking heritage, but because the streets get changed around, diverted or simply disappear.
People here have such a relaxed, nonchalantness about them that I always seem to forget about while I am away. The at-home-comfort that people seem to posses as they lounge around a coffee shop with legs kicked up, shoes off, guzzling down their large double mochachinos is only found here in America. The overly friendly customer service, sometimes heartfelt, sometimes painfully forced is hard to get accustomed to again, but those toothy grins are contagious and it's hard to resist them for long.
I sit in the Denver coffee shop next to the apartment I lived in 10 years ago. I listen to mundane conversations; a couple preparing a fall Ayurvedic diet, a little girl reciting the ABC's to her young mother, an old man swatting flies and commiserating with the slender woman diligently pounding away at an email on her laptop, a serious debate about who to vote for in November... the garage-style, glass door opens and welcomes in the late September breeze, providing relief from the hot Colorado sun that pounds through the glass. An older black man with a marvelous gray speckled beard saunters across the street, leaning on his cane and sporting a charming 'I love you dad' t-shirt. Cute couples pull at my heart strings – with their not so in-your-face affection that often makes me want to vomit on their shoes as they shove tongues down one another's throats. Their relaxed demeanor reeks of a sincerity I am unsure of, but a tinge of jealousy creeps into my being nonetheless. I push it away, along with the remnants of a blueberry scone which is too big for anyone to really consider as a breakfast option.
Being here in the autumn is definitely the way to go, as the unbearable heaviness of a winter visit is lifted and I am free to lie weightless amongst the falling leaves. It becomes easier and easier for me to embrace the cultural bubble of this dry, mountainous state and as I come to terms with the seeming unlikeliness that I will ever 'really' return, I begin to love it for all its peculiar oddities which I now realize make it so great.
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