New Smell
Eight or ten times
I looked over my shoulder
at emptiness glinting
back at me,
a teasing cacophony
of almost-mirrors,
the bottles dancing
reflections
across their curvatures
an amplification of motion
when a tissue flutters
a hundred-fold
in the prismatic grasp
of glass.
Eight or ten times
I realized the scent
triggering my turn
did not herald the approach
of a new conquerer
or concubine,
but rather a small change
in identity,
for adjustment is slow
where scent is concerned;
the nose is last to let go.
Long after faces fade
lilac will conjure tears
in the crow's-foot crevices
as the sun-filled yard
hedged with purple
yields to a curtained,
perfumed interior
on the day of the last
"I love you."
The silent sense sliding
up the nostril to the brain
slinking from fold to fleshy fold
and striking when least expected
to summon an image,
a sight forgotten
by all but the nose.
So when I glance
that eighth or tenth time
expecting someone
other than me
it's only because I'm unused
to this scent that isn't mine.
Poem:
I went to Walmart to buy more deodorant and they were out of the stuff I always get. I didn't think it would matter, so I just got something else, and then spent the next couple of DAYS trying to figure out why I kept expecting to see people around me. Turns out I just needed to acclimate or something, but it was weird. I could have sworn people were walking up behind me at work all day, and every time: nothing.
Observation:
I saw this while reading about Magic: the Gathering and thought it was too true to not include in my blog:
http://www.quietspeculation.com/2011/08/motivation-cycles/
I find myself trapped somewhere between the steps of reality and reaction all too frequently. Ideas for writing, ideas for careers, ideas for dinner all fall prey to the devious ways of my brain. See, I'm plenty good at coming up with raw ideas, but I'm even better at instantly finding the flaws that prevent them from being realized. It's bridging from the second step to the third step that gets me every time. Or maybe this falls under the "resistance" category described in the article. Maybe I've realized it's just not worth it to keep trying to overcome obstacles. Either way, I guess I'm stuck hoping that this is indeed a cycle and not just a dead end. It would be great to be at the renewal stage again. I feel like I haven't been there with respect to my writing in years. Probably the last time was my junior year of college when I was in Benjamen Percy's class on writing creative nonfiction. Something about that guy just makes me feel constantly renewed. I guess the trick to being a writer is finding that within yourself. The oft-talked-about muse, as it were.
The cycle applies quite aptly to this blog, as you may or may not have noticed. I put a lot of time and effort into it initially, grew to realize it was taking up rather more time than I had thought initially, and thought I had better things to do. So I guess I underwent renewal at some point according to the steps in the article, but it really just felt like when I had more free time I went back to doing something that I knew filled it. I guess the obstacle was eliminated for me, so I effectively skipped some steps. Doubtless I will grow less enthusiastic again in the future, either as my time fills up or I grow weary of relating what seems to be trending toward a mundane existence.
Another poem:
Nightmares
I miss your nightmares.
The tossing panicked fears,
the wide-eyed waking,
the gasp for air
as you find the surface
having dug for days
through the dirt
after the world's collapse.
I miss the jerking awake,
the kicking,
the murmured explanations
of impending doom
unremembered.
I miss the realization,
that moment when the riptide
releases, the drowning ceases,
the quicksand relents
to a tightened squeeze,
almost-clenching
where you fit, unthreatened,
and the tension leaves in waves
a brief sidling
a sigh
and sleep again.
Poem:
No explanation required?
No comments:
Post a Comment