Unintentionally Unnecessary Identity

i know about me

and the things i do but i

dont know who i am

Memory

How can I dream? And if I dream, who gets to say that I'll remember it? I wish that music were enough to let me feel everything again, to let me refresh myself with with things dead, but it can't. No combination of wordly goods can piece together the puzzle of the past. Can reach down with slender milky fingers and manipulate the emotions, and the laughter, and the nonchalance of the things I've already done, pulling them out to look at each glowing piece, and always making sure to put it back in just the right spot. Within that enigmatic drawer, skewed half-open at the back of my mind.

I found myself standing, alive and seeing, in the vastness. It was grey, yet everything could still be seen easily. I squinted into the fog and the twilight, and my eyes picked out the dresser that always appeared in my dreams. No matter what events happened in my fantasies, the dresser never opened. It seemed locked, from the inside certainly. 

Coming closer, I felt the edges of the place stretch out beside me. Straining to make forward motion, everything else around me lengthened and distorted, to the effect that I began running, panting, breathing eagerly, and the dresser with it's laminated, mysterious innards remained just as distant.

The light above me, a little to the left, brightened. I shut my eyes tight, whispered an assurance to nobody, and breathily looked around once more. And I was at the dresser. Its surface seemed to shimmer in the fog.

Not in a state of lucidity to think about the repercussions, I knelt and clasped the flowing handle of the second drawer from the bottom. Mildly surprised, I noted that the wood seemed uniquely formed to bear my fingers. The carpentry relented benevolently, and the drawer creaked forward, sending an echo out into the mist, reflecting off boundaries that weren't there.

I glanced down. The drawer was full of puzzle pieces. Some were worn and dull, others glistened with colour, some even seemed to glow. At first glance I already began to identify pieces that might fit together. But there were so, so many. 

Sitting down, I poured the pieces out onto the ground. I took a few long, thoughtful breaths. And began to put the pieces back together.

Acacia

Those days. When you look out your window, trying to find an emotion that you only recognize through its breathy sigh, leading you by that same murmuring feeling to see differently. 

Grass, churning, organic swaths of it. In beautiful hues, competing with the sun to see which is most complementary to the scenery. But more importantly, the acacia tree. Umbrella shaped, idyllic, grown carefully on its own to uniquely suit only those mammals who proudly boast uniquely appropriate long necks. Imagine, a living organism, complete in its purpose, crafted to serve. Not to survive. But to infuse, and blend into the form of its allotted division of time. 

How can we see beauty? What are my senses actually telling me? I hear the tree whisper to me. But it's not a whisper, because that would make me feel welcomed, and attracted. A whisper would be too certain. But it greets me, and lets me in. I can be a part of a different view for a while. Forced to ignore the motives inside the window, I willingly engage outside of it instead.

I've left the things behind the window. Not because they're inherently limiting, but rather because they're neutral. And the opportunity to sit by the tree is... pleasant. Assuredly measurable, and guaranteed to end, I nonetheless know that this is the better option. Maybe I'll pass by this way again. I want to engage, and admire, and stretch out to compete with my heroes for an allocation of meaning, a resource that is unfairly limited by both birth and death. 

It's really hard to make out what I should communicate. I'm accepted, but I don't know if that will continue. Should I make an effort to return to the tree? I know the mystery would fade if I were to engage a second time. I don't want to ruin the mystery of a tree without detail, or a woman without a context. But I can smile, knowing this tree is in my future. I will know. Inside the window again, I will go about life, and sooner or later, a whisper of emotion will let me know whether or not the tree remains satisfied as part of the glorious background, or whether I might be allowed to again diversify the scenery.  

To the Writing on my Wall

Goodbye,

You were amusing for a while.

For about a week.

But I gotta erase my immaturity because I don't want to grow up.

It'll still say you anyway.

In a nice blue.

That wasn't planned, believe me.

But I still need to finish this, so I guess it's ok.

And I tell you this lying down, and my writing's going.

We'll see.

You were never important, and it took too long to get rid of you.

Sincerely,

Joshua

Awaiting

The hall wasn't really that big. Compared to the hangers of the great fragrance barges, or the vast distance covered by the glossy Eastern Sea, the hall was hardly worth any notice. But the barges and the Eastern Sea didn't watch you. 

Lisa pondered the six different walls, untraditionally angled in asymmetric positions by a contractor who was clearly precise, but oblivious to the desired cliches of hospitality. The room certainly had six walls, but they broke off at inconsistent angles and never seemed to agree on which length they should extend to. Lisa thought about this, just as one being told a very dramatic tale of intercultural politics thinks about such news; this is all very interesting and I am entirely capable of dissecting such information further, but I am utterly apathetic when it comes to such a prospect.

She wanted to admire herself. It was an accomplishment all on its own that she had made the journey here with minimal trauma and moral redirection along the way, and she felt that it would do her some good to reflect on how much she still appreciated herself. She wanted to stand and flourish, to wave her arms and present herself to the foreign floor tiles, which would undoubtably applaud her conformity and congratulate her on who she was. But the walls seemed like they were watching. 

It was all very silly, but Lisa refrained from any sort of display. Though she knew, logically, that she must be alone in this big, angular home, she could not bring herself to mentally break into the part of her impulsivity that would allow her to prance and sway and make up catchy songs no one had ever heard before.

How massively inconvenient that the universe did not allocate certain times and places to be designated free ranges for creativity. Why couldn't someone tell Lisa when it was that she was allowed to be optimistic and goofy? Then she could plan her life around these instances and not feel inaccurate and confused when they didn't proceed like they were expected to. 

She knew she wasn't going to cry. Whether this was because nothing had sunk in yet or because she was actually as full of indifference as she felt, Lisa couldn't tell. The conjoined band of brass and bull leather on her wrist reminded her that times and places existed where the walls didn't watch you, and where resentment and complacency weren't the only possible resolutions to an argument.

She hoped her family would find her. Deliberately positioning herself to face away from hope, she couldn't help but hope anyway.

The Feast

The fire is what catches your eye. Its roaring, aggressive girth dwarfs anything inside or outside the hall. During the blustery winter months, men only dream of having a blaze that provides the same sense of assurance and safety. It took hours to fuel, and now spits and fumes determinedly,contented in its maturity.

The eve has been glorious. Song broke out even before the spindly trees had swallowed up the falling sun, and I remain unaware of how long we've hunkered around this great fire, yelling, chanting, and consuming.

I can see the storyteller is still enjoying himself. It matters not one way or the other whether he stays that way. I'm sure the crowd will listen to his story as long as he tells it, and not hesitate to beat a better story out of him if the current one should become lacking. In his fortunate case, the threat of death is out of the question. The Chief might not be able to take the stress of having to find another replacement storyman.

Chief is older. Still competent, though. Still enthusiastically stabbing and ripping through the deer meat with his fantastic dagger. I doubt any of us will ever learn how he came by that particular utensil. Capable braggart as he is, the Chief somehow forgot to ever reveal the origins of the ancient, jewelled knife that spends most of its time strapped conveniently to his thigh.

I'm not that drunk. Yet. As far as I can tell, thinking is still as effortless as I like it. After all, the longer one stays sober, the more enjoyment one can glean from the tussling of the warriors lacking similar restraint. Hmm, it seems that the grimy Easterner is engaged. Forget the bards, there's no better accompaniment to such things than the voracious brutes that surround them and cheer them on.

Ahh, good hit.

Sophie's Ode

Alas, poor cat!
Your life was grand!
You would have made a wonderful hat
I like sand

When thence you shuffled off thine mortal coil
My lifelong dreams of friendship were foiled
One tends to plant daisies in the soil
And robots work better when fuelled by oil

Ahem! *tear*

Fabulous feline, awash with poise
Your farts make far too much noise
You look like an idiot when you play with your toys
Constantly pursuing them hot feline boys
Oh, joys!

How now shall I function, deprived of my pet?
Bottomless, teary waves my glands do beget
And so I write this poem so I will not forget
That most glorious of eves on which we first met

*more tears*

I recall those days when you and your bro
Would frolic and leap and play in the snow
Forever I'll be jealous of yo' crazy sweet flow
Your litterbox will stay dirty foreva mo

Fin

-----

A silly poem written on a Thursday afternoon
Coauthored by Marsha Marzouca