Almost Like Wilderness / All He Asked For

Two short, boring, pretentious little things.

Almost Like Wilderness
___It was unseasonably warm that day; the ice had begun to melt where it lay exposed to the sun's abuse on the sandy shoreline. The melt-off created intricate branching streams in the fine earth, a microcosm for the larger ecosystem around him. His feet left their mark on the damp ground as he paced the water's edge, listening to the creak of the ice as it struggled to hold together in a solid mass amid the strain of its liquid progenitor shifting below. The wind howled over the peaks of the trees on the opposite shore, carrying the heavy scent of pine in the cool, crisp air. This was the kind of day that made him feel alive.
___A raven croaked from its perch at the apex of a dead tree, a gnarled spire of a thing, long struck dead by lightening but still very much a host to life. The clever bird regarded him with a wary eye, cautious enough to watch but not such a slave to instinct as to flee with no tangible threat like the ducks flushed from the reeds earlier by his presence. He raised his binoculars to his eyes to catch a better glimpse of the magnificent bird, black as the river styx yet untouched, in his mind, by any of the dark symbolism attributed to the species. He'd loved ravens since he was a young boy growing up in rural Canada, and seeing one here in New York was a rare treat.
___It was almost possible to believe, surrounded by forest and lake, nestled in winter's frigid embrace, that he was back home in those miles of untouched wilderness. Though he had a fine sense of hearing, he could not detect the busy rumble of cars on the freeway beyond. It was a time of year and state of economy where plane flights were rare, so the roar of jet engines did not damn the solitude. The only hint of humanity was the quiet crinkle of a discarded candy wrapper, half mired in mud, the rest flapping in the breeze. He plucked the trash from the earth, fancying himself an anthropologist studying the relics of a foreign culture in a moment of mirth before crumpling it into its pocket for later disposal.

All He Asked For
___ When he watched her, it was through the convex glass of an old computer monitor's screen, the glow emanating from the machine bright like her smile but colder, more distant. She had a Facebook page that unlike his had new comments from friends almost daily - real friends, not the near-strangers from high school added only for fear of looking rude declining. Those friends elicited a feeling in him somewhat akin to jealousy, though not the possessive sort of a boyfriend, nor the fear that someone else may snatch her up. His was the wistful type spawned from wishing he'd been cast as a more prominent character in the fantastic movie of her life, privy to each inside joke and shared memory.
___ South America, Japan, Oregon, Alaska - she flew free-spirited and uninhibited like a bird from continent to continent, chasing her dreams unbridled as a wild mustang. (She also made him think of stupid, flowery animal analogies). Unbound by the shackles of conformity and throwing all anxious, well-planned cautions to the wind, she did not work towards her goals, but lived towards them. He almost felt embarrassed when she asked how he enjoyed his regimental yearly trips to Florida; it was like God asking a scientist about his clumsy stabs at creation.
___ She asked these question on the same screen through which he observed her, for she rarely lingered for long in the state where they had met, his home and her launchpad. This year, she was attending college in Berlin, and as always he felt that same dull ache in his chest that accompanied the knowledge that he would spend time with her, at best, once annually. This suffering was endured in silence, of course; while other men might proclaim their love and insist she stay in their selfish company, his love was embodied through the simple joy he took in knowing that she was doing what made her happiest. Even if, by some disaster, she should elect to break ties, he knew he could be content with the mere thought that she was alive and in the world. This knowledge, and the rare glimpse of her smiling face through his computer screen, was all he asked for.

Sreya's Living Room

A fun little snippet from Raze. Enjoy.

___The walls were adventurous, a blue that suggested the sort of free-spirited joy symbolized by the sky it shared its color with. While my walls were naked and exposed, hers were dressed in ornate wooden wall hangings that smacked of tribalism, photos of smiling family members, even an artistic print by Sue Coe. On the mantle, arranged neatly but in no particular order, were little multi-colored clay statues from South America, exaggerated black and tank wood carvings from Africa, and stone fetishes reflecting the Native Americans. Centered on the coffee table, a very south-western terra cotta vase held unique bird feathers in place of flowers. Where one might expect a coaster on the end table, there was only the fossilized molar of some prehistoric behemoth, utterly unhelpful for the task of protecting finish and not particularly caring.
___Only the furniture was remotely tame, quality oak woodwork and plush tan couches that went nicely with the blue paint. She'd made these her own with quirky, flamboyant throw pillows from India, their festive colors and beadwork forcing the shy khaki hues behind them into submission. The centerpiece of most American living rooms was, however, absent: she had no television, only a well stocked book case cluttered with more volumes than the shelves were designed to support such that the overflow was heaped atop and alongside their more fortunate brethren. A spill of pothos grew wildly all over the shelf, like a fierce jungle vine cloaking ruins of a literary jungle. The room was schematically incoherent, aesthetically discordant, and utterly fantastic.

A Few Short, Atypical Pieces

Letter Unsent
I am "teh sucks" at writing anything romantic, but part of my novel demands it. This was tremendously uncomfortable to write, and a bit of a departure from my typical style, so I'm hoping that by pushing my limits as a writer, I captured a sense of love effectively.

___Heaven could be, for me, just another evening online, chatting about science or ethics or politics, feeling like you’re close even when you’re hundreds of miles away. Memories like swimming in the creek on hot summer days, building fires with sticks and tinder on cold winter nights, or flint napping in a gorge we're not even allowed in give me little glimpses of what happy might be. I fondly recall protest signs and leaflets, two twin thorns in the side of the circus, rodeo, war. Bushwhacking through brambles with a smile on your face, offering me first scavenge on a deer skeleton, or playing your didgeridoo - how could I not be dazzled? My undignified enthusiasm in a darkened bedroom while David Attenborough spoke of pelicans was shameless, I admit, but was elated to have your attention.
___I vividly recall the first weeks after I met you, fawning like a school girl for the first time in my life at your passion, your knowledge, and the free-spirited joy you exuded. That intensity of attraction hasn’t waned at all some eight years later, only growing despite all logic. I’ve never been one to indulge in those foolish feminine fantasies of things that will never be, yet I can imagine leaning close by your side, binoculars in hand, bird watching on the coast of Oregon. I fancy congratulating you about new grants and publications for years to come. I dare to think, despite myself, of licking vegan cake batter from your fingertips in the kind of home that has scores of books and not one television.
___But that is all I dare to pursue - the rare privilege of your company when circumstance permits and these silly fantasies that are, like so much else, unrealized and unrequited. For the one thing more terrifying than the realization that I can’t forever be the eager supporting cast in the play of your life is the thought of cutting short our precious friendship by pushing the issue. And so you remain my dear beloved friend.


Now - crappy AR poetry! (By poetry I mean lazy, pretentious crap that could be better conveyed in prose!)

The Greatest Show on Earth
How is it "family fun"
if our families were destroyed?
Can this be "conservation"
when they tore us from the wild?
How are we "educational"
in any lesson but callousness?
What is "humane training"
with whips and bullhooks in plain sight?
How can you marvel at our intelligence
but still treat us like "dumb animals?"
How are we not enslaved
when you call yourselves "masters?"
So
How is this justifiable?

Death of a Goldfish, Birth Of A Liberationist
Our neighbors had a tiny golden captive
in round glass confines on their patio.
The bright glow cooked him daily,
the dark chill froze him nightly.
Marinated in waste
he circled endlessly.

I watched his gasping, gulping breaths
with little else but empathy.
The glass reflected my inaction:
something hideous, something monstrous.

Pleather shoes and hemp purses,
tofu dinners and protest signs.
I talked a lot of "rights."
I made no "rights."

Every day the little fish suffered
until his belly greeted the sky.
"Free at last, free at last!"
And something deep inside me snapped.

In youth's protean morality
I rejected "theft" and "property;"
Inapplicable to sentient life
for they only lead to sentient death
My outrage spilled fourth like water
blooming 'round shards of broken glass
scattered across the patio floor.

A fledgling abolitionist
took wing liberationist.
I was my brother's keeper;
now I am his warrior.
I don't talk "rights."
I make rights.

Until every cage bowl is empty.