Oswaldo

Suddenly Joyous

There are precious few moments in life that can be classified as "sublime".
For a moment to be sublime it must inherently be ephemeral, fleeting.
Fading even as it rushes past you, through you.
I had no reason to feel inexplicably happy this afternoon, and yet I was, suddenly joyous.
I couldn't contain it; a smile spread across my lips and I laughed out loud, a soft, melodious sound that reverberated off the windshield back into my face.
A warmth filled my chest cavity, an inner glow that no earthly thing can replicate, it spread to my extremities, peace, an invigorated serenity.

When you watch cars drive through an intersection, everyone has the same look. It's a look of focused concentration, a non-expression, really. I wonder if the cars at the red light thought I was touched as I crossed Ella today. I was beaming, and I still to this minute have no idea why.

But that's okay. I accept the gift.

I am Who I am.

Realizing truth about yourself is liberating. It's like shaking hands with someone new, and seeing in their eyes an understanding, an acceptance, and a genuine love.

I met myself today.

The introduction was brief, but heartfelt. Reviewing my past can be painful. There are many memories that weigh me down like a fetter. Looking back on these memories makes me dizzy. My equilibrium is skewed, and I feel upside-down in a white void, with a black vignette haze around the edges of my mind. I feel alone, confused, and burdened.

The way she spoke to me, I know in my heart she was just worried about me, about my future and probably rightfully so. But the way she spoke to me, I know in my heart left a lasting scar--a tattoo of the words, "stupid," "naive" and "incompetent" in thick black script on the left side of my chest. My choices were causing her pain, and so she felt the need to share it?

And he. He was a beacon to me. A light on a pillar I could always look up to for guidance. He called her evil, said she was trying to control me. He was right, she was trying to direct me and mold me, but then again so was he.

He too, left a scar.

A different tattoo, but very near to the other one. The words in this one formed a circle, as if they never ended, and the message burned my skin. Whether he said my upbringing held me back, or my habits held him back, or my needs were suffocating him, or I had such potential, or would I just leave him alone! I only heard one thing: "You're never good enough. You never were and you never will be."

So where was I during all this, you may ask? While I was being drawn in two different directions, I was drowning in the sea of self-doubt, trying to please everyone--treading water but still choking on the choppy waves.

I didn't exist. I couldn't find myself. Like Plato's shadows, I was only a reflection. There was a faint outline of me when the light hit just right on the side of the buildings. I was a stocky wavy image in the puddles after rain. I was distorted by the ripple in the glass, shattered by the cracks, and I disappeared in the steam of hot water. I was insubstantial. I scrambled to reflect everything I thought the viewer would want to see. I only existed as I was seen, lost in the negative space behind the mirrored lead.

Enough time has passed, enough water has tumbled on under the bridge that is my existence. I've grown up. I've begun to see life differently. Sometimes, life can feel like a carnival Funhouse. The mirrors are wacky, you are different in every one, there are myriad sides to you, and everyone else. You can see yourself in every one around you, but it's all disorienting and all untrue. It's insubstantial reflections, and not who you are, or who anyone really is.

I like to think of life as more of a museum. A grand hall where countless masterpieces are hung, each lit to perfection by overhead track lighting. Each of us is an artist, and we work our whole lives on one painting. Our blood, our tears, our memories, our dreams, and our desires all become the medium to create the master work. Only we can paint our own work, we have no worldly help. At times the colors may be brilliant, and in places we may have the muted shades that convey depth and pain, but in the end the work will be magnificent.

Someday, I will find that person, that quiet thoughtful man who sits on the bench in front of my masterpiece and sighs with contentment, who weeps a single tear when he sees the dark parts, who is enthralled and overwhelmed by my work and says nothing but "thank you for painting this."

I am not a mere reflection; I am who I am.
I met myself today,
and I'm a beautiful piece of art.

Welcome Home

There's a place for you. A little house on the tree-lined avenue inside my heart. It's brick, painted white, and quaint. The street numbers stand out in a black art-deco font. They were affixed at a slant, because the previous owner was careless. I know you'll fix it though; you're handy like that. Plus you have an impeccable attention to detail. You call it a compulsion, I call it useful.

I just had the floors redone. Some genius thirty years ago had thought it would be refreshing to install a thick, hide-like shag carpet in the most appealing shade of avocado green. I'm certain the orange fleur de lis that no doubt littered the aged wall-paper complemented the rug in a most fashionable way. Last year I painted, and this year it was the floors. Under the offensive yarned vegetation rested oak planks in decent condition. I had them stripped and refinished. Now they gleam--you can practically see your face in the wood.

How did I know? When you walked in you went straight for the bookcase. Yes, of course they're all there. I couldn't part with any of them. I double up my books on the shelf, but they're back there, behind the Austens and Brontes. I guess I always knew you'd come back for them.

The Lamb

This is the song that I sang in a quartet today at Erin's summer musicale. I sang with Erin Duerichen, Shane Ragsdale, and Daniel Robertson. We will be making a recording in a couple of weeks and when we do I'll put that up here. For now, the boys' choir will have to suffice.

The Goat is on a Pole!!

http://www.goatonapole.com

I think I may be changing religions...
Michael, this may be a religion won't "get your goat," if you will... :D

February

I threw your keys in the water
I looked back, they'd frozen halfway down in the ice

They froze up so quickly, the keys and their owners
Even after the anger, it all turned silent and
The every day turned solitary; so we came to February

First we forgot where we planted those bulbs last year
And then we forgot that we'd planted at all
Then we forgot what plants are altogether
And I blamed you for my freezing and forgetting and
The nights were long and cold and scary; can we live through February?

You know, I think Christmas was a long red glare
Shot up like a warning we gave presents without cards
And then the snow, and then the snow came, we were always out shoveling
And we'd drop to sleep exhausted, and we'd wake up and it's snowing

And February was so long that it lasted into March
Found us walking a path alone together
You stopped and pointed and you said, "That's a crocus,"
And I said, "What's a crocus?" And you said, "It's a flower."
I tried to remember, but I said, "What's a flower?"
You said, "I still love you."

The leaves were turning as we drove to the hardware store
My new lover made me keys to the house
And when we got home, well, we just started chopping wood
Because you never know how next year will be
And we'll gather all our arms can carry; I have lost to February.

-Dar Williams