Chris Wood

She is the one person I don’t want to be protected from, the one closest to me. That is why I keep her close. I am safe in her honesty. I trust her to tell me herself as she changes. I trust her to tell me when the rumors are false and even when the rumors are true. If I am to be hurt, it should be by her hand, the one that holds my heart for the world to see. She knows best how to heal the wound she’s created. How then to heal when the wound is opened by another. A rumor, perhaps, but rumors become their own truth after a while. People believe what they want, what they see, what they hear. The name is familiar, perhaps from her own lips. But I don’t remember it echoing there. Not when it mattered most. Not when I stood bare before her, offering myself, the whole of my future, in exchange for an end of it all. Willing to sacrifice what I could not bear to lose after all. I left the power in her. Asked her to battle away the demons with me, and still she withheld. I know what happened was not right. No one should have to watch their love fall in love with another. It burns through flesh and bone.

I would walk through fire for her, destroy myself for her to know that she will scoop up my ashes and I am reborn with her. Like the phoenix. All I ask is everything. An equal exchange. I give the whole of myself, is it so much to ask in return? My ashes, my failures, for yours? Life offers little perfection- the snowflake, the blade of grass, the grain of salt. I don’t seek perfection, I seek it’s opposite. “I am flawed, flayed open for you. My bloodied hand reaches for you, take it, if you will, despite its stain. Show me where I can rest and be safe. Bear my burden and I will bear yours.” It is easiest that way. What is the proverb? ‘Misery loves company?’ No, not that. ‘Many hands make light work’. I feel like Atlas, alone with the sky on my shoulders. I am broken. I am dust. Then the wind comes and there is nothing left. Nothing but memory of once great empires, built in the clouds.

Carpe Diem

You should not ask- it is Evil to know-

What to me, What to you

What end the gods will give

Nor to Leveeornoes

nor to the Baby Ionians who divine the numbers.

It is better, whatever will be, I will endure.

But whether many Winters, or if the last is given by Jupiter,

which now beats the stones by the Tyrrhenian Sea,

be sensible, drink wine and think less on long flung hopes in this brief space

While we speak, envious time flees; seize the day, trust as little as possible to the Future

I'll sort references out later, but this was allegedly written to try and get some woman into the sack. Brilliant.

words

Actions speak louder than words. A picture is worth 1000 words.... I think that's why words can be so fascinating. You can hide details in them. You can speak whisper and subvert. There is a beauty in the written word that is not there in the spoken word, but the spoken has charms uniquely it's own. Reading, listening are incomplete. There are always gaps to fill in. Conclusions to be drawn, meanings to be found out.

Writing is self gratification in someways. Teasing individual words to wrap around an image, a pure though or emotion and illuminate it. The light cast by words distorts the view. We see what we want, despite the solidity of what's underneath. I can prattle on for pages and ages, each time adding another light, but there will still be shadows. To write, my inflection is lost, sarcasm is transparent, my words are left to your mercy. To read, I imprint myself onto the words. my desires, hopes and dreams taint the purity of the image you try to create for me, for someone, to discover lurking beneath the surface. I can twist things on the page screen into whatever I want them to be. Words of hate become words of honesty. Words of kindness become words of lust. Words to find yourself find me instead. They are out there, in the unreachable, floating on the surface. Meaning ripples back to shore distorted marring my reflection.

Speaking hides. Words dance around one another, distracting me even as I try to focus on them. Like a boxer's feint. I listen to one hand and hear the other. Then the wind is knocked out of me. Chosen carefully, sliding like oil to lubricate the machine of chance, change. I duck but it is too late, your true meaning is through and I am on my back, looking up in awe. When did you come into the ring? Wasn't I alone a moment ago? I use my words to lull you, to wash over you like sweet spring rain bringing up the flowers. They smell so sweet, but they are muddy. Fragrance intoxicates. But the bee hides amongst the stamens. He would sting your nose if you close your eyes and get too close. Better to smell the bouquet of this wine. Drink my voice in... let it warm your soul, you are drunk before you know it. And then you are on your back instead. With me lying beside you.

Get in the kitchen and make me some....

I should mention that I am an American currently living in Cambridge, England. I don't generally notice the cultural differences after 3 years, but occasionally there's a breach. Brits don't get the joy of peanut butter. Recently I had a friend ask me about the American obsession with pie. Not all Americans are fascinated with pie... but I love Pie. I have a passion for food, and it got me thinking about pie... and I started ranting in my head. It amused me, so I've kept ranting until I'm satisfied. Then I will have some pie....

Pie is good. the simple, existential existence of pie is good. One does not need to know what is in the pie to determine the black and white goodness of that which is pie. Quality of pie is another matter. Making a horrible pie does less toward making the pie bad, than it does toward making you a bad person. "Why would you do that to a dear and innocent thing like pie?!?" Pie are not squared. pie are round.... unless you bake them in a not-round dish.... Meat pie occasionally happens in a square dish, but that doesn't change the fact that it is pie.

Pie can be sweet or savoury. Pie can be like quiche or like tart. Or like a more traditional, British meat based pie. You could feasibly have pie for starters, mains and pudding and have them all be different except for the shape. you could eat pie every meal for a week or even a month, and still not have the same pie twice. This is the versatility of pie.

If you spoke to an American about pie, you would have them thinking of something sweet- apple pie or cherry pie. But say "pot pie" and you will have eyes light up and chickens dancing in people's minds. Beef is less common in American pot pie. That said, it's not unheard of. Fish pie, on the other hand, is completely foreign. I do mean what I say about dancing chickens. little cartoon ones, wings and drumsticks all jumping into a pie shell with veg and sauce. yum.

Pizza is pie. This makes dessert pizza acceptable, but still odd. Pizza, at least deep dish pizza, is pie largely because it is round and baked in a dish that looks astonishingly like a pie tin. Deep dish pizza is not something you see that often in the UK unless you go to a Pizza Hut, i would imagine. Cheese on toast becomes pie when you make savory bread pudding, with cheese, and bake it in a pie shell. But, is this quality pie? I wouldn't say without having made one myself, but it could be interesting. I can see cheese on toast pie being like white pizza... but then, it could be absolutely disgusting. I'm not in a hurry to try out this recipe.

To sum up, pie starts out good, by virtue of being pie. The chef has the power to ruin the pie, and the chef will go to hell for it. Not the pie. I love pie. yum.

Cleaning house.

I've been going through all the stuff at my parents house over the past few days, trying to figure out what to keep and what I should get rid of. If I haven't needed it in the last 4 to 8 years, might be time to get rid of it. I came across my first diary in all of this. It's from seventh grade, and I spend a lot of time talking about one of my teachers who I remember I had a crush on. I think it might explain why I find glasses intriguing, if not downright sexy. Imprinted at a young age.... though not that young.

there are two things that really intrigue me though.

The first: I wrote my New Years resolutions on the inside cover, but only managed to do it for 1996. It was "learn to cook".

The second: I'll just rewrite the first few sentences...

8-26-92
Life has led me to realize that every day could be my last! To "celebrate", I'm trying to improve my handwriting and become more child-like....

So, on some level, even at 13, I recognised the need for a sense of wonder. I never developed good penmanship though.