iffageek falls

(**Posted in haste, this morning. Aplogies for any errors.)

I

Fifty and some-odd years ago, it was,
when my grandparents –
three of them younger than my own twenty-four years –
Had to choose the parts of their lives
important enough (and small enough)
to fit in a single suitcase.

It was going to be almost three years,
but who could have known that at the time?
How do you pack for a trip like that?
Their homes, their livelihoods, everything,
taken away with a single, swift stroke
of a presidential pen.

And though it may be their right,
(or at least it would be understandable)
they are not bitter, or angry –
At least not that they have let us see.
Perhaps a little sad –
regretting a family interrupted, a lifestyle uprooted;
but even that was not shared with us until
we could understand the difference.
There was no subtle indoctrination of resentment,
no protests against what was done to those
holding congenital citizenship,
all in the name of safety, and security.





II

I didn't really know anything unusual happened
until we studied it in grade school. First, it was an
autobiography I had to write, when a gap in
residency had to be explained. I had dates,
and the names Tule Lake and Minidoka;
That was all.

Then, a year or two later, a book,
about a girl named Jeanne, and a place called
Manzanar, raised more questions.
The discussions about the book, and the
outraged protests against injustice
that my classmates put forward
filled me with a similar outrage
on behalf of the people I loved.
So I went to them, asking to hear
the truth about what had happened. I heard
about belongings now cherished only in memory.
I heard about intramural sports events and
races and wrestling matches, barefoot in the dust.
I heard touching stories, and funny ones,
I had a few more dates, a few more names.
That was all.

Seven years later, if I listened long enough,
I heard some of the sadness as they discussed things with friends:
Hard work for little or no pay.
Too many people crammed into tiny spaces.
People who never saw freedom, people dying unnecessarily.
(I remember that people were never killed, they merely died.)
But even then, the stories would quickly turn
to other things: small moments of pride,
first meetings, exploits of friends.
If I tried to ask questions, most of the time
I would be diverted by stories of graduations,
by family anecdotes of people I knew as
grandparents, acting like the young people
they were then. Every once in a while, I might get
a few more dates, a few more names.
But that was all.

Now, when I visit home, if I listen long enough
to the stories and the memories that come out once in a while,
I can hear empty spaces where anger might once have been.
The anger of the young people they were
never really allowed to be, but only because I know them,
and only because they permit me to.
But the anger that might once have been is gone, and in its place,
acceptance, and maybe a little sadness, and touchingly funny stories.
And that is all.

And so, instead of anger, and resentment, and outrage,
I learned honor, and pride, and courage --
things better shown by example, not taught by words.
And once in a while, when I read a new book,
or hear a new statistic, I feel a bit of outrage,
but that is my conclusion, not somebody else's.
If my grandparents have taught me anything,
it is a desire to succeed, to quietly prove my worth
and my strength to myself.
And that is all.




mm
07/23/00

Bleak despair -- circling, circling above my head --
waiting for me to realize that the
struggle is no longer worthwhile, that it is
easier just to give in to the
lethargy, to allow black-plumaged
melancholy to sink its hooked beak deep into my
soul, ripping and tearing
cruelly at something that once was
Alive, and human, and childishly hopeful.
But Still I Go On.
Yea, though I stagger through the
shadow of the Vulture of Doom, still
I go on -- hands and knees now bruised, now
bleeding from being scraped against and
sliced across the shale of my
discontent; still I go on -- there, but for the
folly of Pride, go I, refusing yet to
soar and swoop in the belly of my own
misery.

10/1999

One year passes, and the pain is less, but the

     Emptiness, the loss, the void remains.

What is a year, in a life that should have spanned decades?

     Only hundreds of days, instead of tens of thousands.

Two years could pass and still your

     Absence would be (will yet be) felt.

Where is the reason, the sense in the world

     Where such things are allowed to happen?

Why must the word ‘tragedy’ exist

     Once these events are needed to define it?

Three times three years form now, still we will turn at

     Fragments of voice, glimpses of motion, and expect to see

Whom we thought we would never see again. For when you

     Brightened our lives even a little while,

How deeply you touched us, How much light you brought to the

     Darkness we all carry deep within.

When we are young, we think that the pale horseman – Huntsman

     Sinister – will never draw rein nearby. Ah, that it were true!

Yet even as the words on this page fade,
but continue to linger and Echo in memory,
So too, do you still haunt the edges of thought,
bidding us be joyful
Even in our bitterest sorrow.

11/96 – in memory of S. S.

Heh. I've been slacking lately (and all of you that know me are going, "well, DUH!"). Seriously (and thanks, btw) -- other than my progress on ye olde screenplay (with which I am very happy) -- I have done very little with my writing since I got home last month. I suppose that I could try to claim that the holidays and family kept me very busy, which is true, but I have also spent a lot of time sitting around at home doing one thing or another which didn't really require doing.

I think I'm going to "publish" (heh. i love the way that sounds) some of my older poetry here. If anyone's actually reading this, comments and suggestions would be nice. I'll try to mix it up and post both some things which I think need a little polishing and some things with which I am already well pleased. Just to make it more interesting, I'm not gonna tell you which are which. Criticism is good for the soul!

Hopefully, even if nobody has anything to say, just looking at them in a different format (and the act of putting them up there and proofreading) will allow me to see them in a different way than usual.

The other night, my friend, as you walked from my door,

Did you wonder why I didn’t bid you good night?

Did you hear me say “goodbye” to you instead?

Did you pause to wonder why the words sounded

So final?

           As they fell, hopeless, to shatter on the

Cold sidewalk, did you wonder at their appearance, so

Puzzling in the knowledge that we had already made plans for

Tomorrow?

          If you did stop, when you turned back toward

Your car, did you hear the terrible sound that I heard?

                                                        And did you

Know, as I knew, what part of me made that anguished cry

As I stomped it into oblivion?

                               And did you turn again to check if

I was still fine?

                  Were you reassured then by my broad grin,

Or did you walk away from me so quickly because you didn’t

Want to see my blind smile glistening damp in the porch light?

I still don’t know why I did it.

                                 Did you wonder, as you

Fall asleep cradled in his arms, what I really wanted to say?

Would you have had an answer different than the one I

Convinced myself I would hear?

                                I thought I was being

Noble, and brave, and sensible.

                                 Now, I think I maybe it was

Foolish to let go without ever saying anything to you, to

Assume that I knew what giving in to selfishness would bring.

But that is who I am.

                       And the other night, part of me

Chose to die so that we might continue to be together, at least

One of us pretending that things are as they always were.

I have chosen.

                I may never know the truth.

                                            So be it.

 

01/2001
(Posted for those who might understand)

Posted by: mm / 13:11 0 comments

As promised, some musings on mortality, and accomplishment. A tad morbid, horrifyingly rough, but eh... Whaddayagonnado? I'm pretty sure that the reunion was last month, but it could have been longer. It took this long for even this to come out. I'm sure that there's a lot more lurking, but hopefully it'll grow and shape itself a little better than this one did before oozing out over a page.

=======

The mingled dread and horror grows as I slowly fail to not realize that no matter how much I wish it otherwise, I will soon have been out of High School for ten long years.

Undoubtedly, I am not who (or what) I envisioned myself growing up to be at the time. Thank goodness for small miracles, I suppose. Things that I thought were important then, aren’t now, and there are many things that I wish I had looked for along the way.

I can’t say that I’m not happy, because in many ways (and as difficult as some of the last few years have been), I am. Am I satisfied with what I have accomplished? Of course not. I know that I probably won’t be satisfied ten or even twenty years from now, no matter what I accomplish in the mean time, simply because it is my nature to constantly question. I suppose that I probably am less sure now than I was ten years ago exactly what I want out of life.

What can I say about the intervening years? I certainly enjoyed myself immensely at times. I also made some pretty poor choices, based on completely arbitrary reasons – or so it seems now, looking back. I’ve heard so many people say, “I had some rough times, but I wouldn’t change them if I could, because they made me what I am today.” I call bull. Well, I suppose some of those people are sincere, but looking back, I am constantly struck by how blind I often was to the opportunities and choices that were always around, and I am constantly amazed that I made it this far by seeming chance alone, as it certainly wasn’t the result of intelligent decision making.

What would have happened? What should I have done differently? Dear God, WHY did I choose to say that? All good, yet ultimately meaningless questions. So why do I ask them again and again, torturing myself with repeated viewings of some of the most painful moments of my life? (See preceding statement…)

I realize, as I sit at a crossroads of my own making (but not, perhaps in a manner I would have chosen, had I thought about it first), that despite all of my questions, all of my vaunted insight, I have no real answers.

Having pushed myself away from something which has yet to prove empty, meaningless calories or intriguing, nutritious snack, I have at least managed to stumble out of the Food Court and on with life. Sort of…. While I can vaguely see the large flashing sign with the words “You Are Here” printed on it, waving precariously above my head, I’m still frantically searching the directory for the “Ultimate HappyFun Destination-Place.” Would that be under “Department Store” or “Specialty Boutique”? Wait a minute! K334? The map only shows letters up to E. There’s no G, or H, much less K, or even WTF!!!

So, staggering in random directions, caroming off of disgusted people with direction, with purpose in their tile-gobbling strides, I try to ignore the fact that I have no idea where I’m going and hope that one of the stores I aimlessly limp past will have a two-for-one special on “life changing epiphanies.”

What have I learned in the ten long years since high school? I know that given the smallest chance, I’ll make a HUGE fool out of myself. I know that I like to write, but that I’ll make excuses to avoid the chance of failure. I have learned that the more I learn, the less I KNOW.

I have, at most, a year to find my ultimate job, my one true answer to life’s eternal question, “What have you done with the chances I have given you?” …or I have to come up with a really great lie, that sounds convincing when yelled over music I didn’t even like THEN, to someone I vaguely remember, as we both try to juggle some celery sticks and chicken on a paper plate in one hand, a wineglass just waiting for a conversational lull in the other, while trying not to forget that punch line just waiting for the carefully orchestrated setup to pay off.

~m, 10/2004

just so everybody knows...
i've actually been doing a LOT of creative writing on my own, which this blog was originally intended to stimulate. since i've been motivating myself, i haven't felt the need to blog much. i may post some of the stuff i've written at some point in the near future. for sillier, life-oriented posts, check out my LJ.

Dreams.

Why is it that the dreams I most
want to remember are the ones that left me
shaken, uneasy, glad to find out that
"it was just a dream," after all?

Not the screaming, flesh-creeping
nightmares, ...

.. but the dreams where
everything is subtly wrong, where bad
things happen to everybody for no reason,
where sometimes, I have a feeling that
I could change things if I wanted to,
but I strain to make things right, and
still fail, or worse, I don't even try...

.. but the times where I'm working against a
deadline, trying to save the world, or a friend,
or just my sanity, where everyone knows
this and has "just one more thing" for
me to do before I can go, one more thing
I didn't get quite right and am
obligated to fix for them...

.. but the dreams where everybody I know
acts exactly as I want them to...

..And I wake up exhausted, unsettled,
relieved ... and vaguely disappointed.

Some people might ask why their subconscious
hates them so much, why they are
tortured regularly with such terrible accuracy, by
the only thing that knows them better than they know
themselves.

Personally, I never ask. Why ask
questions when I know that the
answer will just upset me? Besides,
I don't have time for silliness.

For as the wisps of dream quickly
evaporate in the morning sun, they
are slipping through grasping fingers,
ignoring all pleas to hold still just long enough
to be captured, framed, and hung on the wall of
expression, or at least snapped up by the
Polaroid of memory, to await future inspiration.

No. I don't need to ask why my subconscious
hates me. I'm too busy trying to recall as many
disturbing elements as I can, but also trying to
hold on to the hazy limbo of half-awake.

Even here, I work against myself, for
memory only works when awake,
and the visions flee at the cold
touch of reality.

I weep.

mm
06/12/04