My little ball of clay

My little ball of clay
I take it everywhere I go
The shape can change. The substance is the same

No matter what I do
It somehow always knows
Chameleon-like, it adapts to the game.

There was a time before
When all I wanted was to show
My clay ball in its most familiar state

But no matter what I tried
I always gave in to the flow
So no one else has seen the cleanest slate.

iPod poetry

My mobile device, which responds to my touch
It is no surprise why I like you
My big bulky laptop is sometimes too much
When I just want to stay connected.
But I fear all these apps have created addiction
The words and the birds and the Facebook
For now I can access them with less restriction
At least now I'm more entertained.

My story. I found it!

I wondered where this had gone to. Apparently it got dumped to "Draft" status for some reason. I would like to continue working on it though, so expect another installment at some point in the future.

---

The first time I laid eyes on her, I knew I was done for. It wasn't that she was particularly beautiful, at least not the way you might think. She was kind of short, and her figure was not the type that you would see in a magazine, but she carried herself with a grace and poise that I hadn't ever seen before. It was amazing, the way she seemed to operate under complete control, while her eyes blazed with a fierceness and passion that showed a girl who saw what she wanted, and never had any trouble getting it. This was my first impression of Christina Rossi. Her first impression of me was nothing quite so remarkable. I had seen her come into the shop several times, and had seen the faces of every guy in the room change in an instant. One time I even saw Kevin, the assistant manager, leave a customer holding a case of printer paper and walk off mid-sentence to see what it was that she wanted.

Before I tell the story of the first time we met, you may want to know a little bit about me. I'm 25 years old and divorced. It's not like I meant to be a statistic. I fell in love, and thought that was the end of it. I wasn't one of those hopeless romantics thinking, "Love is all we need," or anything. I had a plan, and we were pretty well off. It had taken me a long time to fall in love with my ex, but once I was hooked, I was in it for the long haul. So obviously, I asked her to marry me, and she said yes. We never even made it to our first anniversary. She claimed she was too young to be married, and apparently found more excitement in sneaking around than in my arms. Five years later, I can shrug it off and say that it wasn't meant to be, but at the time I was devastated. I was never a big hit in the females 18-30 demographic in the first place, but this particular life experience certainly did not help. Anyway, back to my story.

It was a Thursday, which I usually liked to call "my Friday" since my schedule at work was somewhat non-traditional, and I had the next two days off. I was following my usual routine of kicking off my weekend with dinner for one at the diner. I had seen her as soon as I walked in, and had made a concerted effort not to stare. After all, she didn't even know I existed, and I certainly didn't want her first impression of me to be that of some creep staring at her from across an empty restaurant. I guess I was doing a good job, because I looked up from my plate and there she was, so close I could feel electricity in my hands, which now rested on the same table as her elbows, which were connected in turn to her hands, which now cupped her face, upon which those eyes danced with delight at my suddenly shaken state.

Her laugh was good natured, and did much to put me at ease as she said "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you. It's Mark, right?"

I had no idea what to say. I think I may have stared with my mouth open.

"I'm Chris. Well, it's Christina, but most people don't take the time to say the whole thing. What does that say about society, anyway? It is Mark, isn't it? I'll be so embarrassed if it isn't, but then again, maybe you're the one who should be embarrassed for wearing the wrong name tag all the time."

"Oh. Of course." I looked down at my shirt where there usually sat a blue piece of plastic with "OfficeTech" engraved in white, and my name and title printed on a slip of paper that slid perfectly into a groove at the bottom. I looked back up as if I were about to say something, but as usual, I was struck with the realization that I had nothing to say that this girl might find remotely interesting. My best tactic was to open my mouth as little as possible.

"Well aren't you wondering why I'm sitting here? I'm being terribly presumptuous. I can leave if you want."

"What? No," I responded, just a little bit too quickly. Stupid move. Way to make things awkward, Mark. Deep breath. "Well, what are you doing over here? Not that I mind the company."

"I was supposed to meet someone. Do you know Kevin?" My heart sank, which made me realize it had even risen at all. "Well, he's been asking me out almost non-stop for weeks now, and I finally relented and told him I'd meet him at some bar across town. I'm hoping this place is far enough away that he won't find me."

Again, that laugh broke some kind of barrier I had been hiding behind, and made the whole atmosphere seem more comfortable. I even joined in for a few awkward chuckles. "I'm sure I'll hear about that on Tuesday."

"Are you gay?" she asked.

"What? No." Again, a little too quickly. "Why would you think that?"

"Well every time I come into OfficeTech to pick up some staples or paperclips or whatever, you're the only guy in the whole building that doesn't turn into some kind of pathetic little lapdog trying to help me. I'm not trying to be conceited, but I would have to be blind not to notice. In fact, you've never helped me even once. Why is that?"

"Oh, um, well I guess I'm just really busy. I mean, with everyone else distracted, Rachel and I have to cover the whole store by ourselves." Brilliant, way to make her feel like a jerk. This is not going well.

"Oh," she said sort of sheepishly. "I was hoping you were just shy."

"Well, yeah, that might have something to do with it too."

"Oh good then. So you'd be willing to take me out to dinner? You pick the restaurant, but no peanuts. I'm allergic. Here's my number. It's a cell phone, so if you're too shy to call," her eyes sparkled playfully at this, "you can just text me. How does Saturday night sound?"

"What? I mean, yeah, sure. I mean, wait, I work Sunday morning."

"Hey now Mr. Presumptuous, it's only dinner."

"Oh. Oh! No, I didn't mean--"

"I was giving you a hard time," she laughed. "We can do Friday. That's tomorrow though, so you better get your ass in gear and find a restaurant. Oh, and one other thing: I'm paying. Don't get used to it, but I just sprung this on you, and I don't want you to think I'm just in it for a free meal."

With that, she left. I was so thrown by the whole conversation that I was half way home when I realized I had walked out on my check. Lucky for me I was a regular, and had a good relationship with the staff, or they told me they would have called the police. I doubt there's much the police would do about a $15 check, but Gerry still managed to guilt me into a 30% tip. She was good at that sort of thing. I made it home a little while later and didn't even take my shoes off before I sat down at my laptop to research restaurants. I knew I was out of my league with this one, but I managed to take a little comfort in the fact that she had approached me. I spent the rest of the night trying to figure out why.

A Toast To Love Never To Be (aka The Friend Zone)

I wrote a bunch of words.
They were jumbled and a mess,
The sentiment the same as when I saw you.
I tried to clean it up,
But the words refused to budge.
I'm thinking now, "At least I didn't call you."
If ever I could feel
Like I'd like myself to feel,
Perhaps I would be able to resist you.
But living like I do,
And as lonesome as I get,
I'm half amazed I've never tried to kiss you.
But still our lives go on;
Yours is bigger than my own.
My dreams will take me places you can't follow.
Your friendship is a gift
I will cherish 'til the end.
You make me feel a little bit less hollow.

Something between prose and poetry

Every word I speak is a whim these days. Nothing concrete holds me to the floor. I've thought so many times about just walking out that door, and never looking back. I'd make my way around this town, and when I'd had my fill I'd just keep moving on to face whatever God has in His will for me, and walk away the conqueror, and fill my bag with spoils, and my bed would be the soil underneath the willow tree. Its comfort now is that I don't have to weep alone. We sit in silence, but the tears roll down my cheeks, and like the falling rain they crash against the molehills' mighty peaks. I remember what she told me when she chose to say goodbye, "I've found myself another man. I'd like to tell you why. We're just too different, you and I," and at the time I disagreed, but two years later now and I still have the scars, but the wounds no longer bleed, and so with clearer head I think, "I was a fool caught up in love," but then I wonder if I'll ever be that boy again. If not, am I just waiting for the end?

A hush falls over the crowd, as the conductor takes his place on the podium. The tiny beads of sweat on his brow are only partly due to the hot lights focused on him from the unseen balcony. They join together into a single line down his cheek as he opens the score and takes up his baton, the eager crowd staring fixedly on his perfectly tailored tailcoat. They see the ripple of the cloth as he raises his arm, and with the most seemingly insignificant motion, he gestures to the orchestra, and the tension in the room becomes palpable. It only takes a few moments for the first long, solitary note of the viola to distinguish itself from the hum of the lights and the hushed whispers of the audience, but as soon as it does, another motion from the conductor, delivered with much more bravado than the one preceding it, breaks the tension and beautiful music bursts forth. With his arms he creates waves of melodies cascading over exciting counter-melodies, and with the frenetic bouncing of his knees he creates the deep undercurrent of the basses and bassoons which holds the piece together, and just when the audience is sure that he will pass out from exertion, he is suddenly motionless, as a new note rings out. This time it is a brash trumpeter who causes the sound, and while it is nothing like the subtle note that opened the piece, it is just as beautiful. It lasts only a moment though, and is replaced in turn by a series of notes that wrap themselves around the crowd like vines. He is quickly joined by the carefree flute, which dances through the air with laughter, and before the audience can fully grasp the idea, the room is almost literally alive with harmonies sweet as nectar. But the conductor cannot yet rest. There is one more trick up his sleeve, and so smooth is the next transition that it is almost fully formed before the quickest mind in the audience is even aware, and suddenly the conductor appears to be almost following his orchestra, but it is simply another trick, as the violins take up a sweet and slow aria, and some in the audience are moved to tears, while others are on the edge of their seats, so wrapped up in the sounds that they would later recall feeling as though they were the only one in the theater. Then, as subtly as it had begun, it is over. Several seconds of silence follow, as the conductor becomes a statue, arms posed just as they were before the unfolding of his fantasy. Then the illusion is broken as his arms fall to his sides. Every seat is immediately empty as the crowd rises and thunderous applause fills the room, bouncing from every wall and rising to deafening levels. It is only now that the conductor turns to the audience, takes a small bow, and gestures to his orchestra. He then makes his exit. The applause continues long after he has disappeared into the folds of the curtain at the edge of the stage.

"How can you read it so fast? You'll miss the details," she told me. I thought about it, but still finished the book later that night. I don't miss the details, though. That's for the second reading, or the third; each time, a new adventure wrapped in an old friend. I could try to explain to her how the experience grows richer with each reading, but I get the feeling from the look in her eye that she already understands.