https://soundcloud.com/williamrwight/o-holy-night

Taking a couple of days off for the holidays. Enjoy this Christmas song I recorded in the meantime.

(It's not about cereal)

I often find that my first sentence has nothing to do with the main point of my daily writing. It's really just a tool to get me started. A week ago, I was walking through the cereal aisle at the Albertsons down the street, doing my usual grocery shopping routine. I would pick up a box of one cereal that I liked, hold it in one hand as I used the other to push my cart along, browsing the rest of the cereals. Then, I would see another box that I liked, or perhaps one that I hadn't tried yet, and I would leave my cart for a moment, scurry back to where I had picked up the first box, place it just so, as if I had never picked it up in the first place, and scurry back to get my new flavor of the week. Sometimes I would do this two or three times before making a final decision, and even then, after I was home, I would think, "Did I make the right choice? Would the other have been better for me?"

So, I missed yesterday due to being on date. I consider this an acceptable excuse. Now, we resume:

"Was I wrong to call him shallow? I mean, he was trying to help. It's just, you know?"
I honestly didn't know what to say, because any answer I gave would inevitably be the wrong one. If I called him shallow, she would just tell me I'm jealous. If I disagreed, she would get mad at me for that, too. I decided to dodge the question entirely.
"Well at least you got what you wanted in the end."
She always did. It was kind of amazing how often everyone and everything in Evelyn's world just sort of came together. Maybe that was what I found so maddening about her. Maybe it's what I fell in love with. Unfortunately, I couldn't have her, and I couldn't leave, so I just had to deal with it. "Things could always be worse," I would tell myself, or, "At least you didn't ruin the friendship."
That last one is a lie, but I haven't admitted it to myself yet. I can tell you all day about how my profession of love for her completely shattered our friendship, but in the back of my mind I still somehow feel like this is better than nothing. Hopefully one day I'll let go of that, but that day isn't coming any time soon. So here I am, avoiding any kind of real conversation, just hoping I can find a valid reason to leave, and go home, and wonder why I put myself through this. I already know what she's going to say when I finally do tell her I'm leaving.
"So when are we hanging out next?"
She asks me this so that when we don't hang out for two weeks until she needs a ride or someone to pay for her drinks, she can say, "Well I was the one who asked you first. It's not my fault we never see each other."
I guess it isn't so bad, really. I mean, without her, I would just be sitting at home, staring at my computer screen, hitting refresh about every 45 seconds or so, waiting for something new to pop up. My mom thinks it's great that I have a friend, and my dad thinks it's great that she's a girl. My brother's jealous because she's attractive. Maybe we really will get together soon. I mean, she seemed sincere about it when I left. Maybe it's not as bad as I think it is. Maybe all that was just me getting into my own head too much. I guess we'll just have to see.

First Date Sonnet

In anticipation of my first first date in quite some time, I offer you this (wish me luck!):

If someone were to calculate my life,
And lay it all on paper for to see
In plain black ink my joy as well as strife;
To calculate the sum of what is me
I hope that he's an algebraic whiz
For variables aplenty he would find.
And central to the answer of this quiz
Is the girl who still exists inside my mind.
I haven't met the one to say forever;
At least the one to mean it, anyway.
He'd have to be astonishingly clever
To solve it, but perhaps she's on her way
Essentially, the thing it's building to:
There is a chance I'm searching here for you.

"Remember: Withholding information makes you just as liable as he is. Are you sure that's your whole story, miss?"

The words resonated in my mind. It wasn't easy, playing at hints, and telling half-truths just to get what I wanted. He knew what I was onto, but he just didn't know how to be sure. He kept leading me along, and I kept backing off. This almost playful game of cat and mouse went on for several hours, as we sat across from each other in the dim light, each with a cup of what may have been the worst tasting coffee I've ever had. I couldn't just give it away though. That would be too easy, and if I did, he wouldn't believe me anyway. No one just comes out with the truth like that, not about something like this. No, this was the only way it could work, and I thought for sure I had him, and then just like that he was leaving. What a perfect end to a terrible day. First I got questioned about that crime I witnessed, and now this. Relationships are hard.

The Song of Freedom

Without a thought we watched it go, and never realized how easily the thing we love the most could slip right through our fingers.

Understanding came upon us like the morning. Slowly at first, but then all at once, blinding in its clarity.

Once we realized what we had, and what we lost, the choice was simple: There was no choice.

The plan was perfect. Beauty masked by simplicity, in a robe of ease that could only succeed.

We attacked, but our enemy was prepared for us. Alerted by one from within.

Without trust, we were on the brink of falling apart, centimeters from failure.

Finally, we broke. When a group of rebels breaks, it isn't hugs and handshakes. Many of my closest friends died that day, some by my hand.

Now, I hear the sound of footsteps, heavy on the stone floor outside, echoing through the chambers, both real and in my mind.

The darkness is interrupted only by the stars I see when he hits me. I can never see him, but I can feel his warmth when he draws near, and I know it will come soon.

It wasn't enough to break us as a group. They want to break us individually as well. I would rather die.

They granted my wish, for seventy-three seconds today. I'll need a new wish.

They told me I can go, a free man. They think they changed me, but I'll show them. This time though, I'll do it from within the system.

This is the last time you'll ever hear from me. I've included excerpts from my diary over the last five years that can only prove that I've become a failure. Heaven forgive me. I'll be there soon.

A tidal wave is forming, with the power of a hundred thousand voices pushing forward, screaming endlessly, rejecting simple choices they've been given, racing onward to the shoreline to embrace new a day coming, when the status quo is washed away. They dream about a better day, when power falls to better hands. No longer can their small demands be silenced. A dream of calmer waters, after blood gets washed away. A dream that won't come true unless their voices remain loud and strong, the crowd moves on, but soon they're dashed upon the shore. They cause destruction in their wake, but they're gone, and in their place is just a bigger wreck than what they started shouting to correct, but the worst of all that happened were the few who were the loudest. Suddenly they changed their voices, redirected all their prowess to become what they once hated, and the people call it progress. They oppress. They distress. They transgress. They confess. The cycle starts anew but with a different set of voices. The only ones who really hurt are the voiceless.

Time stood still. I realize that it was really just a trick of my mind, my memory going into overdrive, storing every little detail of that moment, but realizing that doesn't make it feel any different. So much happens in a moment, and most of the time we don't even realize it. This moment was different though. This was the moment right before I kissed you for the first time. I wish I could tell a magical story about a perfect evening that culminated in one of those first kisses that they write stories about, but we both know it wasn't like that at all. It was just a normal day like any other. We were just sitting there on the couch, watching TV. My mom was in the other room (remember how she walked in and made that noise? I still have no idea what that was supposed to mean. It was even better when she tried to "sneak out" as if we hadn't heard her already), and you had just said something about how these commercial breaks lasted entirely too long, and you were getting tired of waiting. I made an awkward joke about how the time would go by quicker if you were kissing me. Neither of us laughed though. And then there we were, in that moment. It was at the same time the most agonizingly painful moment, and the most amazing one. You probably want to slap me right now for that first part, but give me a second. This was the moment before we kissed. I knew it was going to happen, but before I could get there, the whole time stopping thing happened. I remember your eyes. They were closed, but I still remember exactly how they looked. Your nose, pretty much the same as it had been. Your lips, and my fear of missing them on this first attempt. Your feet, that you had tucked under you Indian-style on the couch, which kind of made the whole leaning in part a bit awkward. Those were the good parts. But beyond that, I remember the guy on the TV set out of the corner of my eye, in swimming trunks, throwing a Frisbee to promote whatever new drug had just gone on the market (I don't remember the drug, because the name wasn't on the screen at this point). I remember the brightness of the late afternoon sun as it came in through the window, and the speck within that brightness that was most likely a housefly, trapped from flying straight into the sun by a clear pane of glass. I remember all of these things, and more. It was agony getting to that first kiss. Then once it happened, it was over. Luckily, it was followed very shortly by a second, and a third. And for those, time was just right.

There was a time when he would have done anything for her. She would watch some Hollywood tale about the boy whose persistence paid off in the end, and when it was over, she would look at him, and ask, "Why can't real boys be like that?" Now, when he thinks of those times, his smile is etched with pain. He remembers the day he filled her car up with her favorite flower, and she told him her dad was going to be furious, and drove off without even saying goodbye. He remembers the night he threw pebbles at her window until she opened it. She looked so cute in her flannel PJs, still half asleep. She asked if he knew what time it was, then shut the window, and told all her friends how weird he was the next day. He remembers thinking, "This is how it always starts out. She'll come around." Then they would go to the movies again. She would sigh and ask him one more time, "Where are the boys like that in real life?" He remembers the last time she spoke to him. It had been the night before graduation. They were lying on the hood of his car, looking at the sky, just like in the movies. He said sweet things, like he always did, and like always, she just looked away. He put his arm around her and pulled her close, and the words just started pouring out of him. He confessed what they both already knew, and she just stared at him as if he were speaking a different language. It wasn't just right, but he didn't know what to do next, so he leaned in to kiss her. That was when she pushed away, and said something about some boy she had been trying to get to notice her, and how this was so wrong. He said he understood, though he really didn't. Not knowing what else to do, he took her home, then stayed up all night in his room, watching those old movies, wondering what he did wrong.

I watched the sun set over the Pacific Ocean, and thought about you. It had been a long year for both of us. You never let on about how my constant professions of love bothered you, but I knew they must. Still, there must have been something you liked. I don't know if it was control, or just simply that you wanted to be wanted, but every time I tried to pull away, you refused to let me, and knowing how I felt, it was easy for you to rope me back in. There were many times when I thought things would go one way or the other, but they never did. Even now I wonder if the reprieve I've gained will fall away the next time you're lonely. I watched the sun as it set over the Pacific Ocean, and thought about how 93 million miles couldn't keep its warmth from me. I let that warmth wash over me and prayed for a gentle night, and a new beginning with the coming dawn.

Sometimes when you smile, it's like a secret
And words could never tell it quite as sweet
It's not the world that fades away to silence
It's not a love song ringing in my ears
It's just a simple feeling that you give me
That keeps me warm as I walk through the night

Sometimes when you smile, it's contagious
And I can't help but join in with my own
It's like it's just for me, and just between us
It's not so very often that I see it

Sometimes when you smile, I think I love you
But I could never tell you that out loud.

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.

More prose

"Meet me at the horizon," she told me, as we watched the sun rise over the lake. I liked to imagine the water belonged to the ocean, and I could lose myself in the vast expanse of it all. The sand we were sitting on probably got here in a dump truck, and was only seven inches deep, covering the hard brown clay and dirt underneath, but it completed the illusion. She completed the illusion. We lay there until I felt her drift away into unconsciousness. I think I could have stared at her forever. Instead, I gathered her in my arms and reassured her as I took her back to the car, drove her home, and left her in her bed, alone. Maybe there existed a world where we could be together. Maybe one day I would find the spot where the earth meets the sky, and in that place we could exist. Maybe one day I would stop searching for that place. Maybe I never will.