False Memory
The wafel vendor doesn’t recognize me when I pay, but why should he? The park glows with the memory of you for me and no one else. I trace our route, under red leaves that are about to fall. I find the railing and look over the water. Last time, the leaves were green, and there were a handful of paddleboats scudding over the rippling lake. There were dozens of people leaning over this same railing talking, laughing, taking pictures. Today is a still, chilly day. The swans seem to sit stationary on its surface. I can almost believe that I imagined that day, that I never met you.
The Red Carpet
Central Park smells better in the fall. That doesn't say too much, but if you've ever had the displeasure of taking a walk through in the heat of summer, you'd know what I mean. It smells like dirt, rot, and earth. I feel uncomfortable watching her undress bit by bit. I have trouble not being unnerved by the leaves I step on as I trample her youth and virility bit by bit. Soon she'll die.
A glance around the park shows the birds, the people, the animals, and insects that enjoy what she offers. The shade, the fields, the flowers, the walkways, and the water-features. Sometimes I wonder if Shel Silverstein walked the same path I do. Did he try to pick around the yellow and orange leaves plastered to the asphalt?
Too often, I hear people speak about phases of life like the changing of the seasons. If this is it, I don't want it. She buds every spring like a little baby. She opens her eyes and learns and grows. She sprouts into a full woman. Fertile with life of every species, she offers everything to them. We don't even thank her.
We marvel at the colors in the fall. They are the last markers of her beauty. Some travel a hundred miles to catch the foliage. But she's dying. We all sigh and simply wait for the birth of a new year, a new season. Will next year bless us more? We don't even thank her. Have we ever thanked her? Rather, we toss silver cans in her bushes and cigarette butts on her trails.
When the leaves drop and turn brown, we wait and wait and wait for spring. What about the old crone that waits, gnarled and bare? Some admire her pretty white hair on the tree branches and bushes, but we simply wait for her to die, so we may enjoy her daughter's benefits.
She gives, and gives, and gives. We take, and take, and take. When there is nothing left, we sit back and wait until she's dead. Then, we may enjoy ourselves once more. For what is fall but the reminder that she's dying and with patience, we may help ourselves to her fruits.
Central Park is abuzz with activity. People take photos of the leaves. The birds perch in the branches. The path is covered and I have no choice but to walk the red carpet that fall has laid out.
Shifting Leaves
"C'mon, little guy," I whisper to the pigeon as it waddles closer to my outstretched arm. The other pigeons quickly tore through the little trail of bread crumbs which I made, this one's the only one brave enough to get close enough to eat the large chunk of bread that I pulled from my sandwich. He bobs his head a bit, deciding whether to take it or not.
"I won't hurt you." I say softly, looking up at the beautiful reds and oranges of fall as the golden sun slants through the painted trees.
The pigeon's iridescent plumage catches the light, gleaming and reminding me of the glorious summer that melted into this buttery autumn. I take a deep breath in, savoring the delicious smell of earthy petrichor that accompanies the leaf-strewn ground.
People stroll by, walking dogs or with small children running around their legs. The park has some sort of innate calm to it, like a drug that makes everything feel warm, nice, pleasant, perfect, and insanely happy. Here I can even drone out the noises of gunfire, traffic, and screams that permeate regular New Yorker life. I feel so peaceful, from the deepest corners of my soul.
Tentatively, the pigeon reaches it's beak out and nimbly plucks the crumb from my fingers, it flies away and eats it, leaving behind only a single purple feather and a few shifting leaves.
Change
I used to walk the streets of New York City holding your hand. My memories were focused on the feel of your hand on mine, the jacket I stole from your closet sitting on my shoulders, and the sixteen minutes of conversation that existed between my front door and yours.
We were freshmen in college, unencumbered by the world. Everything was beautiful. We fell in love alongside the falling leaves, our lives changing alongside the seasons. But fall only lasted so long, and as winter approached, so too did the end of our relationship.
A year later, I walk alone. The streets of New York City are different now, the autumn colors and leaves mean different things. My memories are of the sidewalk crack at the corner, which almost looks like it could be a bird. They are of the park bench with the chipped green paint, where a couple sits every Saturday afternoon, falling in love like I used to. They are of my own hands, in a pair of gray woolen gloves, because while I still remember the feel of your hands, I think I know mine better now.
Some things have stayed the same. The seasons still change, the leaves still fall, and the wind still blows. But you and I walk separately, and the leaves no longer fall for us- but for you, and me, and change.
I have changed, and I think the leaves will celebrate that too.
Accidental infringement on other’s sensitivities
I acknowledge gratitude at your acceptance that an artist's creation loses punch if forced to modify his/her creation, whether that constitutes a poem, piece of music, painting, et cetera unless the literary, lyrical, brush stroke, et cetera endeavor violates infringement on other's sensitivities.
Gratitude at communiqué enlightening me how I unintentionally, unquestionably, and unwittingly impacted your steadfast ideological bedrock geology courtesy mine igneous poetic posting(s).
impossible mission to gauge whenever your sensitivities ruffled, cuz blatant, crass, damnable, execrable... meanness absent within me when attempting to express emotions, ideas, opinions, et cetera, and share with others sense and sensibility without pride nor prejudice my perception, which admission invites the notion regarding accidentally, inadvertently, unknowingly, et cetera trespassing and violating the virtual boundaries of another minus of course blatant hate speech, which yours truly (me) abhors.
puzzlement thus arises when written endeavors (mine) finds a reader (especially the administrator/facilitator of website) who gets cross and tetchy when their sacred tenets, precepts, beliefs, et cetera infringed upon prompting me to contemplate how does one exercise freedom of communication cultivating mutual (of omaha - ha) understanding.
one or many people no doubt take objection when perusing stances on various matters I espouse, particularly propensity against or in favor of controversial issue such as politics. rules and regulations rather ambiguous linkedin to verboten matters. rather than modify the heft of some self satisfactory scribbled specimen, I opt to find a more receptive party.
As a former country bumpkin (boot yours truly - me ain't no city slicker), I awkwardly, ineptly, and submissively fumbled thru life..., whereat purposefulness rarely gained traction as das scribe sets forth when orbitz around Earth just a fraction of three score plus five years.
Fatherhood (half my life time ago) bolstered reasonable rhyme manifesting itself before these myopic bespectacled eyes.
Infancy, babyhood, and childhood evidenced, noticed, and witnessed adequate basic provisions, and no shortage of food engendered dynamic cohesion allowed, enabled, and provided "mama's boy" imbued, and attempted to compensate being socially withdrawn posting and answering personal classified advertisements, (while marital vows long since pledged), now in hindsight such risqué communiqués juvenile and lewd sense and sensibility of healthy emotional, mental and physical natural maturation social withdrawal did occlude invariably classmates found lack of responsiveness rude.
Additionally, yours truly never field tested self reliance skill sets, but rather overstayed his welcome livingsocial with parents at 324 Level Road, whose patience he sorely tested ofttimes giving rise since hashtagged as dad's infamous midnight lectures heavily referencing laced expletives, which vituperative ultimatums extemporaneously delivered courtesy paternal linkedin progenitor of mine when the doomsday clock struck twelve allowing, enabling, providing standing room only promising colorful denunciatory epithets assaulting, cannonading, firing... exploding character assassination verbal thermonuclear bombs squarely lobbed at unemployed sole son, his/him offspring afflicted then (three plus decades ago and now) with debilitating anxiety/ social panic, palmar hyperhidrosis, body dysmorphia, and irritable bowel for starters.
I (a rather meek as a mouse individual) stood still as a statue silently weathering such blistering, calumniating, excoriating, fulminating, haranguing, infuriating, et cetera brickbats upon a rather docile doodler with words, who essentially internalized torturous barrage vacuous warnings to shape up or ship out, which mother and father dearest doled out their version of abusive traumatic boot camp survival mode qualified as invisible contusions, fractures, infarctions, lesions, obstructions and ruinations upon psyche.
Less so these days than during mine half life ago throbbing sentimental pangs triggered nostalgic memories of yesteryear (amusing, kibitizing, playfully ribbing older and younger sister), before mine emotionally, mentally, socially, et cetera fraught days of yore spilt presentiment witnessed tinged blood weathering sucker punched blows that wrought battle fatigued figurative war weary civilian.
He (yours truly) doth presently ramble, scrabble, and trundle across gutted landscape strewn with psychological potsherds.
Oppressive alienation hashtags me as outcast, where new born babes technical abilities surpassed scant infantile savviness (mine) spurring notion, whereby yours truly lived ages ago, when pedestrian pace of life (again mine) sedate compared and contrasted with present.
Impossible mission to side step cratered pock marked cerebral terrain punctuating terra incognita courtesy disequilibrium severely disrupting ability to function, especially distractions issued out radio waves regarding same Christmas songs playing every hour during holidays.
I can't shake loose being metaphorically entangled cumulative detritus analogous geologic,
chronologic, and audiologic tracks laid down since conception wrought indelible grooves within noggin.
Risk averse demeanor kept me hermetically sealed against positive growth experiences and (bully me) not sequestered nor singled out as token scapegoat, whereby (wherein) psyche
relentlessly, quintessentially, and painfully assaulted.
I too unwittingly, guiltily, approvingly and willingly allowed, enabled, and provided unrepentant thugs to unleash rocketing brickbats sticks and stones (also Daily family hurled heavy objects at Georgie, a Boxer/Dalmatian mix breed), when our family Audubon, Pennsylvania.
Nevertheless, despite experiencing horrendous childhood grievances, I revere boyhood good times a painfully shy, (albeit rather socially withdrawn) kid with a severe nasal twang courtesy submucous cleft palate, nevertheless oblivious to danger fields safely and securely affixed to mother's apron strings.
Yepper, yours truly a bonafide mama's boy severing figurative umbilical cord I could not deploy even now as an aging baby boomer, viz yule eyes long hair pencil necked geek,
I still experience social anxiety, when feigning hobnobbing amidst hoi polloi.
Now at an advanced crotchety age namely lxv Earth orbitz rome'n around the nearest star, yours truly revisits poignant episodes foisting, launching, snapchatting one after another crisis sidelining ability to cope pursuing life, liberty and pursuit of happiness whiz hard by at light speed.
Though just a snot nosed kid during third industrial revolution, I remember feeling lost in space (age) and agog at being on the cusp, when infrastructure (regarding blueprint describing information superhighway, technological/computer transformation would when soon after graduating Methacton high school (mine alma mater) quickly usher The Fourth Industrial Revolution a way of describing the blurring of boundaries between the physical, digital, and biological worlds, a fusion of advances in artificial intelligence (AI), robotics, the Internet of Things (IoT), 3D printing, genetic engineering, quantum computing, and other technologies constituting Meta sphere.
Dinosaur Chickens
Seasons change,
much how
eyes cannot stay open
forever—
it’s science really,
life happening
between the blinks,
like the dinosaurs.
One day
they’re schlepping
across the same land
you’re now
comfortably standing curbside,
sipping on that Frappuccino,
and worrying about
what some nameless bitch said online
three days ago,
while waiting for your rideshare
just around the corner,
and one day,
they’re gone.
Much like that free pile
melting beneath a ghetto streetlight,
where trash is treasure,
it’s between the flicker
of that short-circuited amber-glow
when you too
will disappear.
Seasons change,
grey skies brighten blue,
months turn to years,
as unprocessed rage boils over,
and love floats away with the clouds
to far-off places
only to become a storm
where others
must learn to take shelter
like you did,
and to them, you bid,
Godspeed,
or farewell.
But as another season approaches
with it comes fresh moisture
to collect in the skies above
so, you can live in the clouds once more
tracing your fingers across
impossible shapes
only to fall in love again,
only to loathe again
like you did the last time
when you begin drowning under
an inescapable typhoon.
Seasons Change.
Lizards the size of busses
devolved to the height of chickens
to simply lay our eggs.
And much like them,
mankind will regress.
In fact,
we’ll likely drive ourselves
to extinction
using our own
world ending “asteroids”
and perhaps,
like the dinosaurs,
devolve into chickens too
so, the next intelligible species
can come along to farm breakfast
out of our asses.
At least we’d be worth something then,
even if it is just nutrients.
Maybe that’s how they feel.
Maybe we should ask one.
Don’t fret though.
Knowing this
shouldn’t discourage you,
but instead
empower you to prioritize
living your life
to the fullest every day
while never giving a fuck
about a million years from now.
because hey,
seasons change.
©2023 Chris Sadhill
The Led Zeppelin Shirt that Stopped a Heart
Everyone seems to have a first love story, some are comical, others romantic, most leave behind emotional pain the likes of which makes you want to rip your own still-beating heart out of your ribcage and smash it on the concrete with a ten pound sledge hammer just so that you can make the pain stop. What makes my first love story interesting is that I wasn't able to tell her how I felt when we inhabited the same space. Nope. It would take a 1 am phone call years later for the truth to come out. Every time I tried to confess my love for Sarah (not her real name, of course) it felt like someone shoved an entire bag of marshmallows in my mouth, rendering 16-year-old me completely mute while simultaneously allowing just a little bit of drool to escape the imperfect seal formed by the marshmallow's plastic bag and my paralyzed lips. Ultimately, I guess it took the last bit of dust of my adolescence to finally settle for me to come fully and completely clean to Sarah as an adult.
It was the first day of sophomore year and I sitting in my Algebra II class. Thanks to the teacher's mandatory alphabetical seating chart and possessing a last name starting with, "U" I was just where I wanted to be, at the back of the room in the far-right corner where I could sit unobserved. Sitting there waiting for class to start while breathing in the smell of pencil shavings, possible asbestos fibers, and teenage angst I was somewhat underwhelmed with sophomore year to that point.
Then she walked in the door wearing tight jeans, a Led Zeppelin t-shirt, and that mushroom cloud of bangs that girls drained an entire can of hairspray to create in the early nineties. She was everything I dreamed of in a girl at that point. I watched her approach the seating chart, and once her assigned seat was identified, SHE MADE HER WAY TOWARDS ME! Turns out, her last name started with a, "T" so she sat right in front of me. She didn't look familiar so she was either new or a freshman, either way, I was thrilled. So, Sarah sat down, turned to me and said, "How ya doin! Cool Megadeth shirt." After those six words I knew that I would happily swallow a sword wrapped in barbed wire and lubricated with sulfuric acid to see her smile and the light that danced in her brown eyes whenever she was happy.
"Wow." This girl is fucking perfect," I thought. I was right as the days passed, Sarah and I became friends, and pretty much ignored the teacher in Algebra II (I still got an A thank you very much). Sarah was a freshman, loved metal, and hated all the things I hated, which was pretty much every aspect of high school and our vapid, Vanilla Ice loving, and approaching maturation, middle-class maggot classmates. Later, I introduced her to my two closest friends, and she was absorbed immediately. Although Doug (not his real name) immediately put her in his sights for the next girl to test the tolerances of the springs in the backseat of his car, Doug picked up on my vibe and backed off like any good friend would.
Well, Sarah and I rarely had classes together after Algebra, but we talked on the phone, hung out with Doug and our other friend, Jared (once again not his real name) whenever we could, and went through the diarrhea cramp-like throes of high school together. Now, Doug and Jared were aware of my feelings for Sarah and regularly told me I should make a move. In here lies the problem. I was a buck-toothed, physically disabled, pimple faced, greasy haired loser who's single mom was content to live on the dole. I couldn't afford to take her anywhere, didn't have a car, and in terms of physical attractiveness I rated myself somewhere between the Elephant Man and Quasimodo. Fuck, at least Quasimodo had a cool bachelor pad of his own near Notre Dame's bell tower. As far as I was concerned, I had ZERO to offer the angel in blue jeans and Converse All-Stars.
By the time I was a senior, I had watched Sarah go through a couple of boyfriends, but still, I couldn't bring myself to say anything. Finally, Doug's girlfriend, Melanie (not her real name and who later became his wife from what I've heard) had grown tired of seeing my puppy dog eyes and hearing my unrequited love filled sighs. So, as a friend of Sarah and mine she was (DOM-DOM-DOM) going to tell Sarah how I felt. I begged her to remain silent and promised I'd try to tell her. I lucked out because Melanie foolishly didn't require a timeline and I was quick to write mental fine print that read, "I will tell Sarah how I feel...Someday." Besides, I really had tried a couple of times and on each attempt the cat not only got my tongue, but it managed to snag my brain as well because my feeling revealing attempts made me look like I was a post-operative lobotomy patient.
High school ended and I remained silent. I was moving to Florida for college (BIGGEST FUCKING MISTAKE EVER). Sarah had to finish high school and had a serious boyfriend by then. Well, neither of us could afford long distance phone charges, but stamps were cheap, so we regularly wrote letters. Sarah would finish high school and move to Oregon with her boyfriend. Still, I held the torch for her and would regularly wail along to Nazareth's, Love Hurts every time it was on the radio. God, I was pathetic!
Eventually, I moved back to California and Sarah broke up with her boyfriend, but stayed in Oregon. Then one night around 1:00 am I received a phone call. It was Sarah and she was hammered, three sheets to the wind, she'd tied one on, and got herself well and truly blitzed. Of course, I was happy to hear from her and realizing that she was inebriated, I wanted to make sure that she was okay. Up to that point the letters had continued, but hearing someone's voice after a couple of years is amazing. So, we talked for hours. Sarah was feeling nostalgic so a lot of the conversation centered on high school.
Now, I'm not sure how it happened, maybe it was the fact that I was exhausted and on the phone for 3 hours, but eventually during that call I told Sarah that I had been crazy about her for years and was too shy and full of self-hatred to say anything. I wasn't really sure if she'd heard me, but we got off the phone shortly after that.
A couple of w
of anxiety filled weeks would pass and I received a letter from Sarah. I actually threw up and couldn't open it for hours. Maybe she hadn't heard or it got lost in the tequila haze. I stared at that envelope wondering if she had heard my confession and if I had killed a friendship by telling her. When I finally gathered the courage to open the letter, Sarah simply asked why had I never said anything. She didn't admit one way or another how she felt, but I could tell that she was shocked. My response back was apologetic and I attempted to explain how unworthy I felt for anyone or anything. So, I never felt that admitting my feelings would lead to anything good. I asked that she forgive me for making things weird and that I knew that things were what they were.
Sarah wrote me back and we never mentioned my confession again. Eventually, I would fall into a very dark place and mental illness would take the reigns of my life, leading me towards the cliff of self-obliteration at full speed. Sarah would move again, this time to Iowa. Our letters would continue, not as frequently, but we still wrote. Sarah met a great guy who was a high school teacher and they married and had 2 kiddos. After a few years and a FUCK LOAD OF MEDICATION and THERAPY I would get better, meet a great girl, get married, and bring our three little demon-spawn (and fourth little imp via CPS and family court) into the world.
The letters have since stopped coming or going. Such is life. We get stuck in our own little orbits and stop looking outward. I think fondly of Sarah and I have to credit her for being my friend. She, Doug, Jared, and Melanie made me feel something strange. They made me feel like I mattered somehow to someone. I think that this carried me through the darkness and is a big a huge part of me still being here. To my friends, wherever they are, and whatever they're doing, let me just say for the record that, "Our other classmates probably still suck, Vanilla Ice has been replaced by Taylor Swift (an even blander flavor of vanilla), and I'm still FUCKING PISSED we couldn't get tickets to see Megadeth."
In the Moment
when we come back
into focus
and it's a number
of years in
doing time
like it's a red light
and we've got
a long way forward
and behind
on our mind
like a bubble
the wind
is swiftly
blowing
caught in the hand
and we're looking in
all the colors swirling
blending us, in
to the moment
03/27/2024
Nonfiction challenge @Prose
A First...
I grew up in a small neighborhood. My two brothers, three sisters, and my mom lived in a housing project in the middle of Denver, CO. Some of the other kids were cool, but most of them were trouble so I stayed away and read books in my room.
Deep into our 10 year residence there, we played sports, went to church, started backyard dance groups. It was a real groove even though in all ten years, I hadn't a single girlfriend.
Then one of my sister's friends started whispering in my ear while we all hung out.
I didn't know how to respond but it was... well, hot.
She would say two sweet words, and then linger there.
"Meet me."
This went on for a week or so. I finally asked here "where" one day.
She told me how to find her bedroom window.
The night I arrived, a caller was already present. I still climbed up.
When she saw me, the previous fellah was dismissed promptly. I later learned he had never actually had the pleasure.
With anyone. To this day.
But I digress.
She told me to stay quite, that sge had to keep her door open. Mother's rules.
I saw her rummage through her closet and she returned with a condom.
Her mouth helped it on.
Then I was to lie back.
There are no words to describe the first caress of a naked girl's thighs. Especially as her hips grinded and melted onto yours.
But we were cut short at the sound of mummy headed upstairs.
I had to leave.
But left my virginity behind.
fin
Sneha.
The hefty odor of coconut with subtle hints of tea tree floated through the room as I sat dutifully on the living room floor. My mom sat on the sofa behind me, holding a faded yellow comb with one too many bristles missing in one hand, and balancing an aromatic elixir of oils in the other, the scent of which permeated the room. Without much warning, her cold hand pulled against my forehead, painfully craning my neck back.
My mom’s fingers, intentional and trained by preceding generations, massaged my scalp, the warm coconut oil seeping into my hair, washing away the burdens of the week. Even the slight tugging of the comb on my scalp felt like a release, a cathartic experience. When I saw the metallic cup of oil depleted, I knew every strand of my hair was meticulously drenched. She concluded by carefully folding her work into two braids on either side of my head.
Every day until the end of fifth grade, my scalp was well-cared for, my braids bore an uncanny resemblance to Wednesday Addams, and coconut became my signature scent as I pranced through the halls of my elementary school. Little did I know at the time that I carried my culture with the oil in my hair and the braids resting on my shoulders.
But as I entered middle school, these parts of me began to wash away. I grew distant from my culture in an attempt to satisfy the norms I saw around me. A circular oil stain and a bottle of heat protectant replaced the shelf space that once had been filled with a Tupperware container of oil. The sharp scent of coconut no longer trailed me; instead, I conformed with straightened strands. I spent Monday and Thursday nights alone in the bathroom, burning my hair into society’s mold.
Until one day in tenth grade, my mom arrived home carrying a mammoth-sized white jar. Unscrewing its lid, the soft scent of coconut slid through me. A sense of euphoria seeped into my body in unison with the memories of those weekday nights with my mom.
“You know, I’m not just pulling strands, Riya,” she said, and explained that in Sanskrit, the word “sneha” translated to “to oil” as well as “to love.” What I had once simplified to be a method to improve my hair health, was truly a labor of love that had been handed down, generation to generation.
I came to realize that abandoning this tradition had led me to rinse my culture away. And so, I began to gradually re-oil these gaps I had created. That night, I asked my mom to oil my hair once again. I sat in the same spot I had those many years ago, with her steady presence behind me. Her slow process felt soothing and tender, linking our generations. My mom’s hands on my scalp restored my appreciation for the tradition she was continuing through it. Through her, I’ve learned the significance of treasuring tradition and I’ve found compassion in even the most mundane rituals in my life- at school and at home.
Mondays and Thursdays, once demoted to ordinary days, are now treasured occasions for introspection and connection. On the days following, I proudly wear my hair, coconut-infused and all, with the braids cascading over my shoulders as symbols of my identity. They remind me of the ties that bind me to generations past. Through hair oiling, I honor and embrace my authentic self, weaving my story into the traditions that shape it. These days have a special place in my heart, reminding me that, despite the tangles along the way, I am capable of appreciating the profound beauty of the people and traditions that complete me.