The 3 p.m. sun trickled
gently through the windows,
filtered slightly through the abundant
trees outside-
your room was bright,
and the air from the ceiling fan
kissed my face gently-
I could have stayed there forever
next to you-
You-
strands of hair delicately
blown over your eyes-
eyes so peaceful, open or
closed-
your mind, a refuge,
a paradise,
an enclave that entices
me-
comforts me-
home, to me-
the 3 p.m. sun trickled through
gently,
and my head and heart filled with
the mystery of the unsaid-
those unspoken words
music to my ears, still*
I step into the open world this morning,
armed with intention,
the aura of improvement swirling
around me like the many motes of dust
that welcomed my homecoming-
the only way out is up…
to take a step backward in order to
learn how to take a step forward-
no mask,
no shield,
no armor,
as my armory is now empty-
love is my sword and shield….
it is all that remains of the mighty castle that stood
in the sand-
I set my dreams adrift on that ocean,
my note sealed tightly in a bottle-
help me to feel things the way they need to be
felt-
to hear things the way they need to be heard-
to see things the way they need to be seen-
to do things the way they deserve to be done*
Hopes and dreams, fed
into a canal like bits of paper tossed
against a fervent breeze,
tiny messages trapped within a bottle
crying out against their captors-
shrill voices echo off of the blackened glass
walls,
a broken record spinning violently off
course-
who we are, contained within the
folds of a sealed envelope-
who we are, words written blindly by
scattered grains of dust,
our fingerprints standing out
like beacons amid the brackish storm-
hands move quickly,
scrambling to collect the hopes and dreams
feeding the canal like bits of paper tossed
into the wind,
diving to the depths of the tarn to recover
the blackened bottles and the lost
voices within-
our favorite song plays beneath those waters*
Our story has not yet been written,
that tale of mystery strung like threads of
tinsel in the blue dusk of evening-
I cannot describe in words how the distant
hymn of the stars burrows into me like a nomadic
tremor-
I cannot begin to convey how the air drifts
against my lips and nose like the most fragrant
of all embraces,
like the most melodic strings stroked by
wisdom and beauty and some rush of passion
that strikes with the ferocity of a swollen wave-
I feel this when I see that brightly woven web
in the crisp of the midnight sky, strung together by
the many dreams,
beaming like crystal yarn amid the blue of the
day’s end,
thoughts of you billowing in my head like tufts of
fleece forever drenched in the warmth of summer-
my gospel,
my heady words-
our story has yet to be written,
yet our laughter can be traced in the stars
by a fingertip with eyes closed,
the most fragile of whispers that a pen could never
touch*
Our eyes were introduced at the pinnacle,
swirling love suspended within the palette of
an iris-
and there it stayed,
pending the brush of the infinite to scatter
those grains of color roughshod onto
a canvas made of distant stars,
long since decimated-
love smeared gingerly into the pores
of sleep, the seeds of expectation planted
firmly beneath its skin*
Shadows speak names like
a roll call spoken into the whispers
of the wind-
solemn worlds carried like bundled stowaways
upstream on a turgid current-
what soil awaits the seed, as it pitches
its sail
and dreams wearily of burrowing deep into the
sediment,
shadows swirling into the eddies like
stars into black holes-
the river bubbles as the names are spoken,
sputtering and mumbling and washing the
rock faces clean,
until all that remains are the bleached pebbles
of yesterday’s streams,
tiny fossils embedded in the shadows of
the afternoon sun*
In her arms he melted,
Hot like august sand-
She called to him in the rolling
Heather,
Yet he heard no words,
As her lips mouthed his name
In the silence of the woolen fog-
He treated every moment as if it were
The last-
Or the first*
We laughed under the starlit mists of summer’s
moonlit meadows-
far from the world though resting on its surface-
letters filled the air like dust motes in the afternoon,
words drifted through the grass like fingers through
strands of hair-
where were we,
I wondered-
where was it that love speckled the air like snowflakes-
where does the earth end,
and the world begin-
quiet-
silence fills the space as if the world has abandoned
itself-
as if the only voices heard are pounding within the walls of
our hearts,
and sleeping on our lips-
where was it that love speckled the air like snowflakes-
where was it that sunshine filled our lungs
and thunder rattled our bones-
we laughed under the starlit mists of summer’s
moonlit meadows-
far from the world, though resting on its surface-
where were we,
I often wondered*
There’s nothing quite like the feel of the early classics; the attention to sharp dialogue (even if it was laced with gooey mozzarella), the richly layered intensity of the orchestral scores, and the overly dramatic stage-esque acting style combined with a precision lacking in so many of today’s films. I set my sights on Hell’s Angels this morning, the 1930 Howard Hughes masterwork. Hughes, the notorious perfectionist and eccentric in later life, directed and produced the piece at a cost of nearly 4 million dollars, which was the most expensive film production ever made at the time. But I have to say that the money was well spent; the attention to detail and the immensity and daring creativity of the aerial combat shots made for an exhilarating viewing.
The story tells the tale of two brothers, Roy and Monte Rutledge, (James Hall and Ben Lyon respectively), and their high flying exploits as pilots in Britain’s Royal Flying Corp during WWI. Austere Roy contrasted with Monte, who was quite the lecher (Monte joined the corp just to get a kiss from a girl at the recruiting post), but the two went on to serve in the conflict. Roy is deeply in love with Helen (played by Jean Harlow), who isn’t quite who she appears to be, but his love for her plays a pivotal role in the story. The production was originally filmed as a silent picture, but the advent of sound technology led the crew to re-shoot most of the movie using this new technique. Nearly 100 WWI pilots were brought in to fly the planes, with three of them crashing and dying during the filming. The film makes use of groundbreaking aerial camera work and features some of the most thrilling scenes of mock aerial combat filmed; the extent of the scenes is truly remarkable for the era, as quality WWI dogfights are a rarity. Had the film been made today, 90% of it would have been done with CGI, so it’s great to watch a picture with real guts and mechanics. An exciting film done in the old, big Hollywood style, it’s definitely worth a watch even if you’re not a fan of old war movies. If you are, you’d better get on it ASAP.
musings at random. 