Journals

              I s it true Idol soles beget other ones only spelled a different way?            Is there any doubt the great and greater low lengths at which we would rise for the chance alone to kneel and kiss the very place rumor held our favorite Idol’s sole once touched? Of such blindly leading adoration she too was guilty, but only guilty depending on your point of view. When she was younger not so long ago, she would lay in bed and out of it dream of a voice as deep as an ocean singing touch me, she full of empty innocence and bashful purity while his dripped with experience and soulful knowing. Knowing well the chasms of lust and charms of love, the uncomfortable peace that resides somewhere between like a list-full walk on the beach earnestly trying to prevent skin and the many tiny pieces of sand from becoming one. Too many times she’d been spurned, written off just as simply as another loose page in her skattered skeleton of a notebook. Her thoughts hard to trace were only now at 23 years beginning to fully arrive, coming to the point where that blinking yellow light signaling lack of faith in anything or anyone she crossed, or for that matter the other way around, was showing.  To think the beast inside squirming for escape would ever rest. Every-day she would play to divert the mule, stubbornly stoic, only whipped the hand feeding her fool-fed heart.  Other girls were the same, once lured in by their winged wishful boy-friends floating in from nowhere fast - soon after they were gone, left for good with the mark, and the hurt, of their teeth. They were never quite the same after that.            See, in retrospect we can see the “error” of our ways, or what older, wiser souls would label errant behavior but what we realize is really part of a cycle, driving us to the point where we are able, some sooner than others, to take comfort in our youth and know we are better because of it.           During her school days she gladly slipped into a different college of thought, one that led her to a strange but somehow familiar room where her real thoughts came flowing from the grip of her hand and the tip of her pen.  “The less it is sustained the more the self is gained, but creatures of habit we perfect the routine.”  Growing smooth as passion her thoughts formed ideas and found their way into her body, weaving a stable nest tucked safely in her mind, which was now the same as her heart and where surely no soul could penetrate.  But even so, she could never find another one quite like him.  From the first time she saw him playing the part of the sad outcast genius artist she fell in love.  Sure enough though, there were thousands of others who felt just like her, madly in love with a character they knew only through the prism of a screen.  And she and they would keep coming back to that place where he could be seen in other roles, keep coming back to find their love hadn’t changed although his appearance had, the lines on his face now starting to show.  Her journal spoke of the feelings she kept to herself, “The left hand where my attention burns, not the one writing this little page, will it stay the same as the years turn, or grow grey as it wrinkles with age.”          She felt herself changing and becoming more at peace with the person she was, the person she was becoming, no longer looking out through a veiled smile of contentment, a faking tenant of her skin and bones. No, now she was beginning to understand what priviledge meant, truly grateful for the eyes of green infused brown and pretty pale skin she’d been given.  Like the girls she noticed who talked like those she saw on TV, she never wanted to be indebted to false pleasures where the words “I swear” meant something absolutely different than what she so desired them to be.                (A work in progress, more to come)