somniare.

sometimes, my head explodes

resolve simply December 31, 2008

Filed under: almost poetic,my evolution — somniare @ 12:21 pm

I’ll throw antidotes at the sun and I will lay beneath, hypaethral. I will swallow the mutated light viruses and feel my cells singe in the most delicate of deaths.

Pages torn to pieces and thrown against the wind… they find me now, open to the sky.

 

motionblur November 23, 2008

Filed under: Uncategorized — somniare @ 11:07 pm

I stared at her lips for hours and realized that a photo is nothing without motion. Even with the hints of a stop-motion smile pushing skin into the crevice dimples lining the sides of her mouth, the fact that I couldn’t see her teeth made me anxious. The emotion was there in the unnatural state of frozen posing.

Most portraiture feels like a lie. I find myself feeling as if I am looking into the future… seeing a glimpse of the lifeless serenity that is found only after the careful hands of a delicate mortician have molded the features to appease the fragile viewers. There is an element of detachment I get, as if the subject is no longer of my time and space.

Less and less am I finding my inner voyeur satisfied by perusing aimlessly through photographs. Instead, I am left discomfited, like an awkward coroner; unsure and not quite numb to the job. Or else, faced with the conflicts of dysthanasia and questioning whether or not the subject is being kept alive by the existence of the photo in and of itself… nothing else.

What is lacking is the genuine spontaneity that is found in every unique face. When all else has failed and fallen directly into the predictability trap, an expressive face can change my whole mood. I don’t care if it’s pretty or symmetrical or tonally aesthetic… a photograph should be honest.

As I sat here writing of my discontent on the subject, I remembered my trademark blank stare. The one that washes over my face the second I sense a lens pointed in my general direction.

Hypocrisy… I has it.

 

dreamscapes November 18, 2008

Filed under: my evolution — somniare @ 12:47 am

I titled this with only the thought of a premise, curled up and small, like the damaged bastard fetus in a drug addicts womb.

And there it was, my color. Something dark and unnamed. Something vivid and sometimes shocking. My color soothes and abrades depending on the bend of light. I am the product of opal and onyx.

Our colors can be touched. Today I am a tired polyester. Vintage and consigned many times over the years. I am threadbare where I’ve been well worn and repaired one too many times.

I imagine that if you take a color and fold it on itself, it might make a sound. Today my hue sounds like cellos from a distance, an ebb and flow of three timeless notes conversing with each other about quantum physics. There chances of reaching crescendo are a mystery, much like their subject matter. This song is without colloquialisms and platitudes. Slow, soft, and rich.

In my fantasy, my world is an origami crane of color and fabric and song. It’s thrown into space where we’ll live there staring at the stars and loving our dimensions.

 

today’s obscurities November 4, 2008

Filed under: almost poetic — somniare @ 2:30 pm

Today I am:

the silk strands between broken halves of lotus root

sonoluminescence to the rhythm of hard bass and a soft hat

hazy coffee colored skies with a milky sun spot

the dancing twin in an underwater circus

receiving a postcard from an unnamed flower in cement

an unauthorized dream crossing boundaries and clinging to you

 

decomposition October 26, 2008

Filed under: Uncategorized — somniare @ 9:27 pm

As I showered and redressed into a different pair of Halloween pajamas, it occurred to me that my day was reminiscent of much simpler times.

I buried myself in childhood card games with my daughter as the day outside pummeled the windows with rain soaked fallen leaves. I made the kids lunch and cleaned the house at a quiet pace while they contentedly ate their sandwiches in front of Halloween specials. I took a break from the cleaning to play one last game of Uno with my daughter, who had conveniently shuffled and dealt the cards for us. After playing nearly all of the draw four wild cards on her first turn, I knew I had to throw down my mental No Mercy hand. Despite her meticulous measures taken to slaughter me, it was my parental duty to teach her “cheaters never win”. In that moment I felt guilty. I wonder if it is this early installment of simple morals that make us so vulnerable later in life. Many of us discover that it is often the cheaters that win in the greater scheme of things while the morally sound end up on the lower rungs getting trampled by the less savory characters in the world. Those contemplations are for another time though.

My day ended with a glorious sunset, bedtime stories, followed by movies in silence while I practiced knitting because I’m absolutely terrible at it. As I laid on the couch with my kids in my arms, my daughter whispered, “You’re the best mommy ever.” My son leaned over and pleaded for the packaged deal of “hugs, kisses, and I love you.” For the day, I wasn’t in hell. All of the decisions that were made for me, the missed opportunities, the failures, the betrayals, the heartaches… all of the times I’ve suffered so badly that all I could do was cry and hope that I didn’t have to wake up the next day… all of that was a memory and I wasn’t sad. I wasn’t sad.

I stripped out of the pajamas I had only worn for a few hours and crawled into bed naked. Alone in the great expanse of fleece and down, I ran my legs along the fabric and smiled to myself at the softness. As my senses powered down for the day, I faded into the memory of love and laughter and light. I held dearly because the day was dying fast.

Morning came. It came as it has a thousand times over. I rolled into the vacant space beside me… like a frozen void in my bed… and the muted babbling of my children playing in the next room somehow seemed discordant. It was a new day.

Despite the mellifluous awakening, I managed to hold it together. I went through the normal routines and took a break to sit at the table with the two of them for a special project. We opened a brand new package of glitter glue and tore pages from coloring books. I taught them moderation in how to spread the globs across the paper and still maintain the proper amount of color. They made me pictures and had a wonderful time while being extremely well behaved. All the while I wanted to scream, “CAN’T YOU SEE I’M NOT OKAY?! Don’t you know that this laughter will end??” Of course what good would it do to traumatize them.

I knew it would only get worse when I got them into the car. It stalled. It started again. It’s only 5 years old… and glaring on the dashboard… “SERVICE ENGINE SOON”. As if adding the word ‘soon’ is going to soften the screams of mass capital letters in neon orange. As if ‘soon’ is any real definition of time. In fact, ‘soon’ makes me think that my car wants me to die in a fire when the engine decides to explode while I’m driving it because our definitions of such an ambiguous term didn’t quite match up.

Needless to say, we didn’t explode. Nor did we crash due to my spending the entire 45 minute drive staring at those three words as if by looking away, I would be sealing our molten fate. No. I arrived home alone and safe. Safe, ha ha. Alone, boo hoo.

 

hallucination theory October 23, 2008

Filed under: theory — somniare @ 4:38 pm

On behalf of my shriveled sense of optimism, I feel it necessary to serve it justice by saying simply: It’s not all bad.

Today I laughed quietly behind my hand as my insane patient had his phone confiscated from security after repeatedly calling 911 to inform them that the hospital was launching people off of the roof. Part of me wondered if that wasn’t the insanity speaking and more a display of a sixth sense as he received the subliminal messages sent from the staff in moments of debilitating stress. I can imagine many of us working in the hospital have had moments were we’ve desperately wished to either launch people out or throw ourselves through the transparent barriers to an ultimate freedom. Perhaps this man picked up one too many stray wishes seeping from the pores of our overworked staff and was able to manifest them into a literal depiction of bodies raining from the sky. At least the poor guy had something to look at from his padded, over medicated prison.

This led me to wonder about hallucinations in general and whether or not they are truly “figments our imagination”. What is it that people are really seeing? I can make the garden variety speculation that they may be a window to another dimension full of alternate realities that this person happens to be privy to in their current mental state, but I find it more interesting to contemplate the possibility that they could have some sort of warped telepathy going where they are actually seeing the figments of someone else’s imagination. I wonder what an amazing skill that would be to harness the images held in a strangers head and bring a visual into our own. The standard view of telepathy in general comes at a horrific cost as is and it would seem that if a theory such as the aforementioned was true, the price would appear to be much higher without the comprehension of what was happening.

All theorizing aside, I had a bright spot in the bleakness. All is not lost.

 

a day in the sky

Filed under: from the mute to the deaf — somniare @ 12:35 am

I wonder about our designated roles in life. The lots we put ourselves in and then struggle so hard to escape from. We put bars around our lot… call them psychoses, neuroses, bad luck… we medicate… we run… we give in… we die inside that space. I’ve seen people slip through those cracks… I’ve done it myself before. It would seem that for me, it’s a short lived victory.

The moment I find myself outside of one terrifying reality, I realize that I’ve run straight into a new and much more frightening temporary land.

The truth about me though… I am destined. I am meant to be a memory. A moment. There are times when I feel as if my entire being is constructed of evaporated tears that have condensed into a form merely baring semblance to a person but having no real substance for which anyone would ever try to hold. It is sad to be a cloud.

Most days, the best I can hope for is to be a happy moment. Remembered fondly like a day spent on the grass staring at those shape shifters in the sky.