Fortune. Good luck or bad. Real or perceived?

I've never seen a lottery winner, during an interview, pleading WHY?" But when a tornado blows through town, everyone's looking for answers.

It's human nature, I suppose - this need to make sense of whatever scares us, hurts us, cheats us. They call it "closure." The peace is in the knowing, apparently. And I suppose it can help. But for me, the real closure is accepting that, sometimes, it just is what it is. Random, awful, wonderful, glorious things can, and do, happen for no reason. Trying to sort it all out comes from a need for control. That's what makes no sense, if you ask me. Let me give you a perfect example:

It was early afternoon, on October 29, 2012. You may not remember the date, but I assure you, you remember the storm: Hurricane Sandy (or Frankenstorm, or Superstorm, or whatever you want to call it). While the rest of us were battening down the hatches, securing patio furniture, and getting in one last walk of the dog...my neighbor ("Jorge") was in his driveway using his leaf blower. Huh?

I though to myself, "Helloooo? Hurricane a comin'!" "He's daft," I said to my friend, Donato. "Crazy!"

Donato, a psychologist, had a more eloquent explanation: when fear strikes (or anxiety or uncertainty), some people act out by trying to control their environment.

How do you control a hurricane? You don't. With winds up to 115 mph, and 233 fatalities, it's pretty clear that some things happen for no reason at all and there's not a damn thing you can do about them. And they'll never make sense.

And just in case you had any doubt, that leaf blowing turned out to be a fool's errand, indeed. Trees fell all over our neighborhood. One of them landed smack in the middle of Jorge's driveway.

Don’t be afraid of your dark thoughts

but don’t give them absolute power either.

Put those dark thoughts in a well-lit room close by

and listen to them from a place of authority and calm.

When they are hungry, give your dark thoughts food grown in clean soil

and water from the clearest streams

because dark thoughts are really just ideas that are afraid.

Treat your dark thoughts like children who need care to become healthy.

Guide them into your art and let the art speak those fears

And when your thoughts are ill, let your art be the medicine and the hospital bed.

You are the doctor and the nurse and the midwife and the priest to them.

Let your art heal those dark thoughts so that they can become

what they are meant to be in the wholeness of you

as an artist

and a friend

and a human

living and breathing and growing all the time.

Don’t be afraid of dark thoughts.

And the only fire I'm feeling

Is the heat of this rum down my throat

For there is no heart beating

Inside these broken bones

And the only kisses I'm savoring

Are those of a cold empty mug on rainy morning

For there is no Sun

In this gray world of mine

And all these poems have no purpose

For they don't fill up

All those empty hearts who make these poems

Come to life

And the only air I'm breathing

Are all those blizzards

From the hearts I've tried to conquer

But all of a sudden sealed leaving me outside

And all that remains is ink

Forgotten.

Written in old papers

All full of purpose

Ignored by all of them.

DA 2015

Heart's shattered

everytime I think of you

You left me abruptly

Now i'm sad and blue

Wofieividkzocjwicurjvobiejxyw

I am seriously annoyed i can't think of anything to write!!!!!!!!

Sorry that was random..

In the quiet

velvet black of slow purchased night,

the daylight climbing,

clawing

like a cat stretch,

piercing the fabric of the growing

dark,

I sit in that solid back chair

waiting.

In the rush

pull, push, panic

the air drains,

lungs empty

heart pounds

sobs catch, there, in the throat

behind the pain

behind the eyes closing

I wish you had not given up.

Do you remember when we lost time...time had no hands, time had no eyes...The noise was gone, and a look between us communicated more...the words between us were few, and between the space was air, no doubts, and the distance to get to the truth did not involve betrayal or shaming the other one...and words between us never learned to walk, those words stayed where they were spoken... Our bodies finally broken in, no more proving ground... and our kisses were not on Broadway, holding hands did not feel like a cliche...and it didn't matter where we were or who was watching... I remember how laughing together built a bridge... I remembered when it no longer was

One scenario of life is standing behind an abusive customer who has no respect for the employee. They're loud, attention-seeking children in adult bodies. They haven't grasped the art of communication competency...the art of politeness and saving face. There will be many more lines in our lifetime. Migraine lines, sexual assault lines, do as I say lines, squat and cough lines...and yet the trick is to not be beaten down by one person's act of stupidity. And, there was a brief mention of a wallet left behind after the enraged coffee-oholic stormed out.... But, in this case scenario (for some universal reason) there is no wallet to be found.

wooziness fading

eyes blink

and I curse my foolishness

Zendia's Dimensional Teashop

full of delightful garden fountains

is nowhere in sight.

was it one slight curvature more

or simply the unpredictability of

attempting to curve space?

I should have studied harder.

now alone

smack dab

on an abandoned mattress

without even a single cricket song

I examine my exit point.

the buildings are decaying

with dust in the windows,

aging signs,

all looks deserted.

deserted...

...such a minor error.

checking for radiation

I recall the oft repeated phrases

"Concentration

should always be

on destination.

Considering current

complications

lead to complications."

-Basics of Spatial Construction

the meter is clean

it's simply a ghost town

it seems the gardens will wait

as I walk to the nearest payphone

and take time to phone home.

I kept a small iron candle holder on my windowsill. It was bronze, flower like, sharp edges jutted from the base like petals, curved and ragged. I ran my fingers along those edges.

The candle itself was a mere stub jammed into the base. I was too young to light candles. I might have left it burning all night, too near the curtains. It wasn't the heat I wanted as much as it was the light.

I did light it once though, briefly, when everyone was asleep. I inhaled the smell of the match and subtle rebellion, watched the flame ignite my trapped spirit, felt the heat on my face and fingers, until at last the wick burned down, leaving, finally, a trail of wax I would travel again and again for years to come.

We are all statues, figurines beaten and broken and worn.

We start off tall and confident and perfect.

Then storms and winds bear down on us.

Acid falls from the clouds in rain and withers us away.

Our beauty is lost.

Eyes are no longer fixated upon us.

Yet when it comes to this, there is a special elegance to be found.

The broken statue is the one that possesses a simple magnificence.