sandy sighs
griffin claws and upturned teeth
digging into bone and beach
sloping hills and sandy sighs
a soft and scraping lullaby
dusty daisy and yawning caves
thrashing just beyond the waves
save me a soul again,
if i can't find my own
leopard dreams and wasted eyes
flickering out like fireflies
ancient sun and newborn moon
grinning and then gone too soon
weeping shadows and sweet seafoam
intertwine to never be alone
To disappear
I fantasize about going off the grid. Leaving social media, society, and cities behind, choosing a life of tranquility. I fantasize being woken up by the Earth's clock, instead of being jolted out of bed by a soulless alarm, making every morning essentially a fire drill. No wonder I am stressed. I go about my days, dreading meetings at work and worrying about what people I do not even know (or truly care about) are posting on their social media accounts. In this world, I consume, I don't engage. I am isolated. The pandemic made it worse. I am no longer uncertain in just myself, I am uncertain in everything. How do I break out of this? I want to be set free. I want to feel whole and infinite. I want to internalize the balance that the universe is built upon. I am not a machine-robot-consumer role I am being forced into! I fantasize about nature, a landscape with mountains, and a garden by my home. Home. That is a fantasy in itself, considering I am still paying off my student loans and definitely cannot afford a down payment. Even if I could, I cannot even build a house by myself without having to pay someone for it. Every square foot on earth costs money. Who owns it? I dream off turning off my fancy iPhone. But, if I did that, I would miss that afternoon team meeting, and I need this job. So I go back to consuming, fantasizing about a simpler life, and tolerating the convenience of my existence.
Lakeside Days
Snow falls into the waves. By the thousands, flakes unify with the water while I sip coffee and watch, separated from the chill by my sweater, the fire I lit upon waking, the tall pane of glass that overlooks Keuka Lake.
I dream of winter because the lake is for summers. It’s not cheap at any time of year to rent a house on a shore: if you’re spending the money, you do it when you can kayak or swim or fish, or at least read a novel in the shade of a tree without the upstate January driving you indoors. My wife and I married within sight of our lake in July 2008; since then, her parents have rented a house on Keuka for a week every summer for us to gather. Those seven days are a highlight of the year because they exist outside of man-made time, without external demands or appointment calendars. There is food; there is love; there is the water. Two million years ago, glacial ice scraped out the valleys that would fill. Since then, the lake has been. Lakes invite being.
We have a couple kayaks and a canoe in our garage where we ought to park a car. Between May and October, I’ll hoist the boats atop our vehicles, lash them down and drive fifteen minutes to the public beach, solo or with the family. We admire the various lake houses as we paddle. Our favorites are not the new constructions, whose thousands of square feet dwarf the family cottages they replaced. We prefer the homes that have been here for at least the fifteen years we have, the old favorites.
“I wish we could live in that one,” my daughter said once as our canoe glided by.
“We could have owned a lake house,” I answered. “I started college as a business major on a finance track. Fund managers make a lot more money than teachers.”
“Why did you become a teacher?” she asked.
“People in finance told me to expect 80-hour work weeks, and I knew I wanted a family. A house on a lake is no good if you don’t have time to be with your family. And I wanted to teach,” I added. “I believe in it.”
My own father passed on lucrative promotions that would have uprooted us from our home and schools; he did, genuinely, attend every baseball game and concert. I understood then, as his son. I understand as a father now, and I hope my children will, too.
Regardless, I chose my path. As I told friends at the time I changed my major, I did not want to dedicate my life to earning more money for rich people—I wanted to teach; I wanted to have a family. These were the right choices. There are good days and bad days, but I do not pine for a road not taken. My hours are meaningful and good. The road ahead has unseen twists and turns, and there may be bridges out. Accidents. I feel optimistic, though, that I can continue to glance in the rearview mirror and see a life well-lived. Be a simple kind of man, Lynyrd Skynyrd sang. Be something you love and understand.
A teacher can live securely, not luxuriously. It is still possible my wife and I could someday retire to a lake house of our own through a combination of prudence and luck, but well-lived lives do not necessarily yield dollars. I am at peace with that truth. All the same, as my kayak cuts through Keuka’s waves, I dream sometimes of occupying one of those homes for decades rather than a rented week. I dream not just of summer but winter days, of that coffee and snow on the water. I dream of watching seasons pass over the water a morning at a time so I am part of the cycle of the lake. Of being there.
Until then
There's this perfect scenario in my head of the day we'd get to see each other again.
I'll be in a hurry to catch this new local romcom movie of that one actor you like so much and you will be there among other movie goers still lounging in bean bags. I would catch you staring at me from a distance and holding your gaze for what would be the longest three seconds of my life — but I would feel nothing. Then slowly, real slowly, just like in movies, I would turn to look at the face of an angel whose fingers mine are latched. I would smile the same way I did the first time you told me you love me and we'd walk away from you without ever looking back.
I want you to know that after all you've done, I am still capable to give the same extent of love I gave you once.
Although sometimes, I would picture something totally different. We would hold each other's gaze until a smile forms in our lips and our toes lead us to where our fingers could reunite. I missed you, you'd say. Then for what would feel like an eternity, I would bury my head in that familiar space between your shoulder and your chest.
What took you so long, I'd whisper.
A different world
Under the starry night, I dream of a different life. I am thinking of golden cities and exotic creatures. All the people wear vibrant clothes ,their earie smiles an antidote to the melancholy of the outer world.
I am watching them dancing and sweet talking to each other ,their towns filled of beautiful flowers and small animals running around. There is no pain here, no thoughts or feelings , only the hope of a brighter future.
Music
It's all because of you...
from the start
to the current
spreads,
to whatever
comes next.
The sour
fig
and the
best
bread.
The honey
drips
and the
fried eggs,
it's you
all the way.
You're the reason
that they're
here.
I can't
take credit
for what
I didn't
write.
Your heart
burn the
pages
wilder
than my
ink
steps.
You're
the engine
and the fuel
to my
limitless
fumes.
The aromatics
and stabilizer
to my
incessant
perfume.
I owe it
all to you...
My Muse-ic.
Rising
I never liked the heat
The feeling of suffocation that comes along with it
Yet, when your eyes meet mine
I can't help but feel the temperature rising
So obvious it is
The heat, annoying if anything
It doesn't reserve my secret
Instead it radiates from my face
At a certain level,
I have come to like the feeling
The rising temperature
Only ignited when with you
I can tell you see my reaction
With every rise
A smirk arises from you
Making the heat almost unbearable
Oh how I long for the feeling
Every time we meet
The unbearable, addicting heat.
