To the yellows, pinks and oranges...
by disillusioned
(Deep Thoughts, 1346 views) - 12/1/04
(recorded 12/1/04 @ 3:49:15 AM)
It's the way she stared at me, for just a couple of seconds. I caught her eyes, and she bared her soul, and it was this gorgeous cacophony of every color, texture, taste, smell- the darkest blues, purples and even blacks, and the brightest pinks, yellows, oranges... you get the idea.

"Don't hold yourself like that...you'll hurt your knees"

One of those images that could only show itself- that could only be described in a dream state. There's no sense trying to decipher the petals with their dew drops and the clouds of swampy dust, (if there could be such a thing) the storm clouds whose lightning makes you do more than just gasp, the violent blue on the crest of each wave, slicing into you...

truly, one can't know
revealed to them, oneiric
thoughts will never be...


Knobs twist on the old transistor radio. It's bright green, peculiar the way it still manages to glow after all these years. And I see your hand... her hand... my hand? twisting the dial...

Familiar, crinkles of static- like sand caught between toes- and then a breakthrough: an image forms.

It's fleeting, but I'm five. Or six. The paint's peeling, even though we had aluminum siding. I'm smiling, and wearing a hat for an occasion. It's my special day, but that doesn't keep your scarlet sighs from reaching me. My day is ruined, if only for its last few.

More static, but placing you becomes easier. It must be... Well, the dial points to... I can't tell. It must be third grade. Whatever it was about you, it caught my eye. I think it must have been the way you loved to read poetry. And how you made the very best fingerpaints in the class. And how you could read before all the others. And how your hair flew in your face when you bounded onto the swings.
But that's silly, really. You must have simply been cute.

My black and white composition notebook has most of those cracks filled in. It's nice that it doesn't matter whether you stay in the lines or not. I use only blue ink inside its pages, because, well, I only have a blue pen. You stole my 10-color super cool pen, but I let you win that tug-of-war because you always followed my lead. Dominoes? Tinker Toys? Dominoes that cross desks with rulers?!? Games of cards, with only 51? It's worth a pen, that much I've decided. Maybe not that cool pencil I have; the one that changes colors when your fingers touch it. You'll have to prove to me that you're pencil-worthy. But don't think the pen was a simple prop to me- it meant something.

Many a spirograph, I scrawled in a veritable rainbow; now yours.

The death of you will be when you first make your introduction at 2 in the morning, in the form of a simple confession. We don't confess like that anymore. No, I take that back. I confessed. And it had to be just about 2:06. Confession: Such confessions are never simple.

"Here" is unfurled
Votre côté est vide
Such simple absence...


When will I see you again? You weren't last in my notebook, the one with the half-filled-in cover. You were... where did I put you?

More static...

Were you ever more than a page, pulled carefully from its binding, then?

To twist burns my hand now, a lump of heated coal. Have those scars ever stopped me before? More, to the right.

"How's it look," you ask.
"It's crooked."
"*You're* crooked."
Cue fits of laughter. Van Gogh wouldn't be proud, but we're not living to impress him. Who do you think wins?


I spend another $4.00 on a latte. Is there such thing as taste, to frustration? Bitter, perhaps? Sweet, underneath? Does it burn your tongue, or just your heart? How do you take yours?

"Black."

"So why do you fill my sorrow / With the words you've borrowed"
My fingers trace the lines, but the pages are old. This is obviously a First Edition; carelessness is unacceptable. That's okay. I turn to the first dog-ear. Someone's taken the time to paint that corner red, a fiery one at that. I'm guessing it's you. No, I *know* it was you.

There it is, spelled out beautifully in ink and paint and pigment (and I think I see a tiny leaf or some such, buried under it all). I had no idea~ apparently, the medium holds perfectly. That way, that gasp- the quickened pace your chest makes, from such a simple touch. The blue corner has the map, but I don't need that anymore.

Have I ever?

"What happened, my fragile dream has left me?"
"Is that a question? It almost sounds poetic."
"No... Yes."
"You almost look at faith as a weakness, don't you?"

Someone should tell me if this volume is my own. At the library, you can't check out the BIG reference books, right? Well, you know at the New York Public Library, you can't check out *any* of the books. Wait, when was the last time you stood in the middle of it all, a literal million heartbeats accompanying you in their percussive chorus? Close your eyes and tell me who's standing next to you.

"I remember december... I wanna hear..."

This is obviously not as simple as an eskimo kiss from an eskimo friend. And it'd be foolish to think that butterfly kisses are much better. Sixteen blankets. Maybe fifty. A cotton forest, I swear.

Maybe I'll see your notebook someday. It has to be prettier; you wouldn't let stale handwriting infect its pages. How many check marks do I draw- do *you* draw, next to my name? Which column, pray tell? Maybe that's the most important consideration- how much ink is won my way. There's enough that it's bled through the pages, though, hasn't it?

I'm sorry I've ruined those pages of yours, then. Truly, I am.
If anyone is worth the ink bleeding its way through...

And if not, I'll buy you a new notebook. You might have run out of room for other names; maybe that's more important to you now. Just know those pages bled for a reason... A few choice words, we'd both recall, together, I'm sure.

The fireplace casts its glow, brilliantly the shadows flicker on your face. This is exactly what you want, and I'm more than happy not to doubt that. It's not speculation, with the dark quips dancing on your nose- it's the fact of the matter.

"The snow's turned into a light drizzle."
"Really? I hadn't noticed."
"You must control the weather, with your..."

More static, but not enough for italics.

This has taken more of my time than I anticipated. And I suppose that it's caused me more pain than I would have expected. But turning the knob, advancing the picture; it'll always hurt more than just listening to static.

More eager than anything, you should know, to see those colors pour again. They were the best thing to *ever* happen to me- a spot on the dial I keep coming back to. They were yellows and pinks and oranges and even blues and purples and blacks.

Brighter than, I swear, the sun.
Previous musing: Sometimes.
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