Past Month's Art

Hey Everyone...

I know I've been out this past month...here's a sneak peak at what I've been working on!

Word-tastic blog entry coming up soooooon...stay tuned!

The Old and the Young

The American society today is obsessed with youth.

Everywhere you look, it's another advertisement for a product to make you look younger.  The anti-aging creams, the wrinkle-smoother, stay fit to look younger, botox, Demi Moore - at 40 (or is it 50 now?) and still looking good!  We shuffle our elderly into special homes, where they stay out of sight, in their own communities.  We are losing the wisdom of the years, and we are that much more afraid of old age and death because it is much easier to lock them in the hospital bed, the old folk's home, the closed casket. 

Now we are a society obsessed with youth.  We compliment those celebrities who have managed to fight the look of age for the longest - who's still 50 and looking fabulous in their 20-year-old body, achieved through surgery, chemicals, and loads and loads of money.

This is the age of the youth industry.

Of course, youth has also been the highest indication of beauty.  Even the plainest woman, with her smooth skin and bright eyes, can attract the eye.  What does it say about our society then - are we obsessed with beauty, and so obsessed with youth?  Or is it really death which we fear?

As a child, my family briefly lived in Lafayette, California.  I remember, just behind the house of a close friend of mine, was a giant cemetery.  I remember peering out from her bedroom window and staring at the rows and rows of white and grey tombstones spread over that hill.  They looked like little signs in the ground, there to remind the living that they, too, once walked their dreams upon this earth.

Here lies Johnny, father, son, and brother. 

Here lies Meredith, the kindest of souls and a loving wife.

Rest in peace, dear Paul.
You will be missed, my Adrienne.

Such dull, empty words.  In the end, everyone is loved, kind, missed, in peace.  An expensive casket to seal a rotting body, hiding its stench and the feast of maggots and worms.  We need our painted wood, our marble.

Where is the beauty of life, returning to the earth from which we were first nourished?  From the earth grew the plants our mothers consumed, bringing it to the womb in which we were parasites, taking.  taking.  taking.  We all forget that it is the necessary balance, for us to someday feed back all we have taken from.  Our earth and our mothers.  Instead, we stave off death.  We fight off age.  We are living longer and enjoying life more, and it seems the longer we are alive, the more daunting death can become.

So now, where does that leave us?  I grew up in a Chinese family, and like many Chinese families I know, my grandparents stayed with their children and raised their grandchildren.  They've been an integral part of my life, living in my parents' and my aunt's house since I was a little tyke.  They walked my cousin and me to preschool every day, cooked the meals, and carried me everywhere.  How many children, now, grow up with barely any contact with grandma and grandpa? 

They are too much a reminder of what is coming.  We aren't giving back our bodies.  We want to stay alive, we want to keep taking.

Death scares me, until I remember that there is nothing to be feared.  We did not feel pain and hunger when we did not exist.  We did not feel joy, achievement, or love.  We are participating in the ultimate cycle and balance of our universe.

Sometimes that isn't enough.  I wonder about me, how I would be in old age. 

Will I, too, begin to panic when old age begins to settle in?

A muse, a muse, I muse

Sometimes, words flow.

Precise.  Unyielding.  Capturing the essence of the mind and the beliefs of the heart.  

Other times, speech fills up space, taking up space, a mess of sounds, sewage clogging the pipes and drains.  Unyielding.

What fantasies do our minds create, for ourselves, for our lives?  Is my fear of being captured and bound by the pen and paper, the sounds and notes which draw me?  Or are my mind and talents nothing, afraid that upon capture I would be deemed unworthy and released, to forever stare longingly at the star which has moved on, tossed away by its gravity.  Do I stay unreachable because the answer may be too painful to hear?

Coward.

I did not know yet that these signs which I ignored were the truths I already knew.

This is a narrow train of thought, a structure I can’t break down

Will I only know where to go when you are gone?

Long ago I lost myself, and now I’m Frankenstein

The compilations of everyone else’s desire and design

A poor imitation and a wretched mask

The glitter and the music, cheap and brass

You see behind my pomp and dance

Just a vacant lot hidden behind the shiny fence

Pussy Power

Why is it that when we tell someone to get tough, or just deal with something, we tell them to "grow some balls", or "grow a pair"?  I understand that the innuendo means they should be a man, but seriously, the last thing I want are two fragile pieces of flesh dangling between my legs. 

When we tell someone they need to toughen up, or just deal with something, we also use the phrase "don't be a pussy".  In my experience, pussies are tough.  I'd like to see a man's balls and penis deal with bleeding out once a month for 30-40 years out of their life.  Also, I understand that it hurts when those balls get kicked, beaten, crushed, etc. but seriously...have you seen a woman give labor?  And let's not forget 9 months carrying a baby plus placenta. 

Ah...Patriarchy. 

This is not just a rant about men.  I don't see women complaining when they're the first ones to be let off a sinking ship, as is tradition.  Nor do they seem to mind when a man pays for their dinner on dates every...single...time. 

Ah...human beans.  

Another Life

When she sat down in the cushioned seats, adjusted the mirrors and stuck the key in the ignition, she imagined freedom.  This could become freedom.  Just a small suitcase, filled with clothes she'd never wear at home, and the warmth and comfort of confidence seeping down into her bones.

The engine didn't start the first time, but the second turn of the key started the car shaking.  Two quick looks down each side of the street, and a smooth pull-out later she was on her way. 

She drove quickly.  By the time the sun started dipping, she saw the rise of buildings, the girth of the city bloated around her.  It didn't take long to find the center, people rushing in and out of bars and restaurants, the steady aroma of delicate dishes and hearty meats, chattering and hissing engines all busily unaware of her presence.  It didn't take long to find a cheap hotel.  A quick change of clothes later, and she strolled out the door, barely aware of the lock clicking into place.

She strode into a bar and took a stool.  She had barely shifted into a comfortable stance before the bartender stood before her, tired eyes and exaggerated curve of the lips begging her to make her order - fast.

Two shots of whiskey later, and she was already deep in conversation with the man next to her.  When he got called to dance by his girlfriend, another man quickly took his spot.  Then a woman, then an old man whose white hair seemed translucent under the bar's dim light.  Deep conversations, intense and honest.


She was anonymous, and no one recognized her.  She could be confident.  She could be anyone.  She will never see anyone she meets at this bar ever again.

And then she goes home.  Unsatisfied.  She thinks, and can't let go.  She thinks, but is afraid.  Mind reeling, until it becomes like the screech of nails across a chalkboard, unbearable and impossible to block. 

The only place for solace, a crowded room anonymous. 

Insanity

Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again, and expecting a different result.

Human instinct is to turn to what's easier, even when the difficult path is best for us.  I wake up each day from a dream I don't want to leave.  Even though my head is clear and my body is light, every nerve refuses to get up.  There are no more highs, and no more lows.  There's just silence.

Get up, shower, pick something to wear.  I dress each day just for me, because the few people I see each day probably wouldn't give a shit how I dressed. 

Bike.  Refreshing, no matter how many layers I"m wearing.  I'm usually the first one at the office.  I enjoy the silence of the morning, and watch as people get in.  I wonder what it'd be like to go to the office knowing someone'll be there already...every day.  Almost every day. 

Work.  Work relationships.  Friendship, yes.

Home.  Inspiration is work, but when attained it works for you.  He said the struggle is to learn how to grasp it at your will.  When you sit and there's nothing.  Silence.

The world brings inspiration, but sometimes the world is scary.  What you know about yourself, what you think you know about yourself.  What you don't want to find out.  Every day the same, but expecting the next day to be different.  To find yourself to be a higher authority, after spending your life pushed by "higher authority". 

Fear and self awareness.  Self awareness is not peace of mind.  Self awareness does not let the world rush in.  When you can only sense yourself you turn your senses from the entire world around you.  That sounds like something from Eat, Pray, Love. 

Sometimes the barrier is broken, and the inspiration hits.  But I can be lazy as fuck.  It's always easier to think about doing something than actually doing it.  But I do suck at following my own advice. 

Inspiration is good.  Inspiration is strong.  Inspiration dies.  Sometimes to come back, and sometimes to not. 

Words rush in, rush out.  Don't stop, breathe. 

I choose the same, tomorrow will come.  And tomorrow does come again.  Waiting, waiting, waiting. 

Insanity. 

Hunt to the Death

Today my cat caught a bird and brought it into my room to play.  The first thought that came to mind, as she started batting it around with her paw, was "I hope she isn't going to bring that onto my bed". 

Sometimes, we meet a darker part of ourselves, one who we don't often think of.

Seeing my cat pounce on that bird, tossing it up in the air sometimes before swiping it up again, my head switched between "oh my baby kitty is so awesome!" and "damn there's feathers all over my floor now".  Soon, the bird only had one tail feather left, and it twitched on the ground when it wasn't trying to run, batting its wings, or getting shuffled around.  Finally, my cat seemed to lose a bit of interest in it, and I stooped down over the bird and grasped a leg with my fingers.  I dropped it, feet down, onto a finger to see if it could stand.  The thin claws lightly grasped my finger, and the bird shook on my finger.  A few moments later my cat stuck its nose up and grabbed the bird back. 

I grabbed my camera, snapped a few action shots.  It was like watching a cheetah take down a gazelle.  Although, I'm not sure if cheetahs play with the gazelle after it is helpless but alive.  Or do cheetahs kill so quickly because the gazelle is never really helpless while alive?  Or are they just that hungry?

Play, and honing our best skills, are what people do when their primal needs (namely, need for food and shelter) are met.  People create music, people draw, people build computers, design games, practice a sport. 

A cat's best skill is hunting.  My cat is fed well and has a warm bed and lap to return to.  She catches mice and birds. 

The bird seemed still on the floor, and I picked it up and put it in my palm.  That's when I saw the shaking.  Two puncture wounds, a patch of feathers gone on the back.  I took the bird up to the house to see if my housemate had any advice.  She said that she'd either give it back to the cat, or kill it.  She didn't think she could kill it.  I said I could detach myself equally from either bashing its head with a rock so it dies quickly, or giving it back to the cat.  I didn't say that I didn't really need to detach, I didn't think I'd feel much about either decision.  Killing it would mean it suffered less, giving it to the cat means I won't have its death on my hands, but it'll die slower, in much pain. 

She said it was too much excitement for her, so I took the bird downstairs to the yard.  My cat meowed at my door, wanting me to let her into my room.  I knelt down but she had no interest in the bird; she just wanted to go inside.  I took a rock and held it in my hands.  I put the bird down on the concrete.  I raised my hand, rock in fist, and I saw it heaving, bleeding.  I put the rock back and picked it up, putting it back on my palm.  I put the bird on a corner of our garden, on soft ground.  Silence. 

Suddenly my cat ran in and snatched it back up. 

We both went back to my room.  She played, and I lost interest soon.  Feathers littered the air and ground.

If I killed the bird, I would have taken a life.  If I gave it back to the cat, or hid it, or put it somewhere the cat wouldn't get it, it would have suffered a slow painful death.  I could selfishly refuse to bloody my hands and let the bird heave and shake for another hour or two, or I could immorally end a life. 

Frankly, I was just a bit irritated that I would have to clean up all the feathers from a floor I just scrubbed two days ago.

As I write, the bird is in the trash and my hands have been scrubbed clean. 

A Word with Which We Speak

Many things are learned once we are able to turn our "self" off and place our focus on another person.  And I don't mean romance, although romantics do it.  When I am able to listen, it's always extraordinary how much I learn.  How much I observe.  How much I can activate.  How much someone else knows, how much you know.  Everyone speaks truths in everyday life, and if you listen, inhale, osmosis. 

To be, I must do.

____________________________________________________________________________


The cultured mind.  Faulted. 
               The intelligent.  Insightful.
      Footsteps tread lightly when egos are born. 
Noise finds me clear-headed. 
                                               Clear-headedness finds me confusion.  Confusion, I
              understand. 
             Understanding is successful navigation.  But do I stand under or
                                                                                                             over? 
        I think I am clever, but my cleverness is wry, and the clever are cleft by
                      their wit and
                          their pride. 
That rhymed.
          Sometimes we are right, and sometimes we are wrong. 
             Sometimes we are wrong, but still right. 
          Sometimes we are right but it's wrong. 
                              The wrong right makes a wrong right
                      and righted wrongs are still wronged rights. 
                                                                                                     Confused?  I am.


 ___________________________________________________________________________


Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha.

I understand now.  I have made an adoption.  Experiments. 
              And I can't stop.
         A bite now.  A bit.  A thought.  A?  A can't stop.
                                                              Well, while it flows, flow it shall do.  Bad grammar?
               Laugh.
                  The page will inundate with words.  But space is where words exist.  And from space words. 
   From nothing. 
            Regurgitating.  Morphing.  Growing.  New power. 
          Words a visual art.  A picture on a page. 
                                              Beautiful. Ugly.  Meaningful?
                                 Full of meaning?.
                  Nah, maybe.  Is it maybe or nah? 
            It's easy to be the wild child, if everyone's a wild child.  It's not so weird to be weird, when everyone's weird.  I'm losing it.
A paragraph of sorts. beginning again, maybe the writing and the art are no longer eclipsing.  Prose is beautiful, and more beautiful when they are full of space.



 ___________________________________________________________________________



I think people would become more confident if they become more humble.  If they are humble, they are open to their own mistakes and open to absorbing thoughts and perspectives from other people.  They continue to learn and grow.  Thus they learn that if they learn to work within their own faults, they can also learn to work within their own talents.  

People hate admitting they're wrong.  Especially when they're REALLY wrong.  Maybe I'm wrong.

Oh well, sleep time.

Inspired by Professor Titty

       In terms that are alien to most, it begins:
green men with black eyes. or is it yellow?
            bananas are yellow: but then they are black.
             the night is black but they blues have more meaning
  the poetry is in the green. green grass grows
                 a message of colors
                         from a mess of styles. naked is how we are born
    but i prefer to wear whispers.  a hum of smog and trucks
           on a block of concrete
                       carrying concret.
       she smiles. i laugh. he cries.
                 she laughs too, but no one cares.except nobody.
               aliens may care
                           aliens are foolish. but they like to enter you train
                  of thought. they train your thought. 
                      they say everything always comes full circle, but what
                 if it's actually an egg.  or a hamster. what if they just
                  don't like hamsters?

                     light and sound. boring. boring, to bore into you, how can
                     it be anything but boring? but if it bores into you, is it now
boring
                    because it has come too close? gone too deep? gnawed on your
                           flesh and bones, nom nom nom?  or meow?

I suck at titles so...Miscellaneous drawing + relationship

 

New drawing during a creative exchange session with Mateo

There are some people who always seem to be in a relationship, or have other people constantly vying to be in a relationship with them.  I am NOT one of those people.

So now that I'm in a relationship (well, as close as I've ever been), I'm learning a lot of new things about what it really takes to be close to someone and invite them into your life (and we're not even "officially bf/gf"). 

The first time I spent the night was also the first time I met the "morning grumpy" version of the guy who's usually incredibly sweet and caring.  He did not want to cuddle, did not want to talk, and could barely muster a grin, let alone a real smile.  I woke up that morning and turned to him, hoping to see his cute smiling face and snuggle up close, and instead I turned to him getting out of bed and pulling on his bathrobe with barely a glance at me.  I lay there in silence as I listened to him shuffling around in the kitchen, shoes sanding the floor.  Then the door opened and he handed me a plate (toast with butter & raspberry jam) and a mug of coffee.  Still no words.

He picked up the remote and turned on the TV to the news, and we started breakfast in relative silence.  Maybe a gruff comment or two from him at what was happening, but not much more.  The toast was delicious, and the coffee had the perfect amount of milk, but the silence sure was awkward.  Exactly how much did I snore and drool the night before?

As I got up to get ready for work, getting dressed while he took the dishes and washed them in the kitchen, I couldn't help wondering, for the first time, who exactly I was getting myself into.  As I gathered my things, he came in the door and watched me as I zipped up my jacket, checked my purse, and pulled on my converse.  I went in for a hug, kissed him on the cheek, and lingered waiting for the expected kiss back.  It wasn't until he drew away that I realized I wasn't getting my kiss back.  Now I was pissed.  Work was spent with a lot of bursts of angry text messages half-written (but never sent), and blasts of Rage Against the Machine. 

Looking back now, it seems a bit silly to me how badly I took it all, although at the time I was seriously thinking of ending our relationship before it went any further (easier to stop dating some guy than to break up with a boyfriend).  I later found out that he has a difficult time sharing his bed due to back problems which usually require him to stretch out in order to sleep, and that he had gotten pretty used to waking up alone, and not with someone around.  I had also neglected to notice that he had prepared breakfast and brought it to bed for me.  Breakfast in bed, without even needing to ask...

I guess it seems obvious, but being in an intimate relationship with someone means caring for the person even when they're grumpy, upset, angry, stupid, and all those other qualities which people try to avoid.  It was always easy for me to imagine being around a crush when he/she was upset or angry, but grumpy people are much more difficult to deal with than imagine.  I think back to our year-and-a-half of dating, and a total of four years as friends, and we've sure given each other a whole Titanic-full load of shit. 

He was also the one who took care of me when I was sick, who cooks me food and listens to my whining and worrying and bitching and laughing, who holds me close even when sometimes it hurts (damn back problems!). 

I think of him now, the gentle press of his lips on mine as he kisses me good-bye, the delicious mushroom salmon soup we share (and he cooked), the warmth of his hands as he wraps them around mine, the look of concern and worry I woke up to when I fainted at his feet once, and I forget about the grumpiness, the rare inconsiderate remark, the times he doesn't text me back within two minutes (I do have my petty insecurities).  We have a weird psychotic relationship, but people sure are weird and psychotic. 

A walk

We sat at the bench facing the green grass before us, a dog chasing after a pink-and-green frisbee.  The wind was chilly against my skin, but I didn't mind.  I had spent many of the last few days so hot with fever, a cold whip of wind felt alright.  I could feel my hair flow in the wind, but it was up in a ponytail so it didn't go wild like it usually likes to do.  I had to move.  I picked at the seat, I shuffled my feet around, knees up, knees down, legs crossed, straight, my ass couldn't sit still. 

The dog jumped and grabbed the frisbee from the air, teeth sinking into the hot pink mesh.  It landed and bolted back to its owner, black splotches flying, skinny legs almost a blur.  I could feel him next to me, also watching the dog.  I knew if I looked over, I would see his hair waving in the air like grass in the meadow.  His eyes would be squinted against the bright afternoon light. 

I look anyway.

When we walk back, I think about the feeling of my feet on the ground, my legs reveling in movement after days of being in bed.  My hands were deep in my pockets, my fingers in a tight fist.  I was a bit stiff; the wind had cooled a warm day, and although the sun felt good there was just enough chill to make my muscles seize.  The air occasionally contained the sharp smell of gasoline, but when we walked into less-populated areas the air instantly become light and sweet, like a cool drink of water. 

I think back to the night before.  I had seen Dengue Fever once before, two years ago at Bimbo's.  They had been pretty good then.  Last night their sound echoed through the Fillmore, the girl's voice shaking the air, the guitar, bass, drums, saxophone, keyboard, all melding and meshing together.  I love their songs recorded, but when they're live it expands.  I lost my body into the music, the scent of sweet smoke lingering in the air, the lights bright and ever-changing. 

I speak.  He responds.  I nod.  I listen.  I remind myself to listen (stop just thinking about what you'll say next!).  I say something back.  Maybe a lot of somethings.  He talks. 

In the midst of what we said, I lost consciousness of the cool air.  Then I looked up and raised my eyes up the stairs to our front door. 

A nice walk with a good friend is wonderful. 

Passover

My supervisor is Jewish, and while she is a self-proclaimed "ambivalent Jew" she does enjoy many aspects of being Jewish.  We have a lot of interesting conversations together about her Jewishness, and how Jewish people are.  One day, she was telling me about something her daughter, Lena, said.  She pointed out that many Christians, in general, more comfortable with the idea of lying.  Santa Clause exists.  Instead, as a Jew, she is taught to ask questions, and the most important thing to the Jews is truth.  As my supervisor said, "You may do something bad, but if you lie to me about it that's worse", referring to her kids.

It seems that Christians are taught to just accept things, whatever is told to them, while Jews are taught to question everything.  In my brief involvement with Christianity (went to church, youth group, hung out with tons of church kids), and my experiences with my (now) very Christian mother, I have never felt like I was really taught to question anything about the bible, about the religion, what the pastor says.  I was taught to reflect on it, but never to question it.  According to my supervisor, though, Jews believe there are five kinds of children, and the worst one is the one who doesn't ask questions.  Jews, she said, are taught to sought out the truth and question everything they're told.  As Lena says, "I can't help asking questions, I'm too Jewish".

If Christians ever decided to really think about some of their "sins", like homosexuality, they will find there is absolutely no real justification for their belief.  Now I'm not saying every Christian doesn't question what they're told, or that every Christian is against homosexuality, but let's take a deep look at, for example, my mom's argument on why homosexuality is a sin.  I asked her why it was a sin.  She said, because God says so.  Now, why would God make it a sin?  Homosexuality is not only something hard-wired in the brain and, ultimately, unchangeable (science articles, experiments, brain scans, etc. say so!), it occurs in every species of animal known to man (well, I guess would hermaphroditic or one-celled dividing animals count...).  Now is every species on Earth ultimately sinning?  And is it really a sin if it's as natural as your gender identity or drive for food?

To happier things, I attended my first Seder today, presided over by two of my housemates, an Israelian Jew and an American Jew (crazy wicked bass player + drummer/guitarist/singer).   Also in attendance were most of my other housemates, plus our friends and, for many, family members.  It was fun, spiritual, delicious, and a great mind-opener.  Great night...

Good night.

Some New Writing

Come darling boy
There’s a lake by the forest
With stars on the surface
Where my heart made its nest

We met here once
Before we were grown
We can meet here again
Seeds have been sown

You’ll walk beside me
And I’ll skip beside you
You’ll play the king
And I’ll play the fool

There is no path
To choose or to stumble
Just endless direction
For the rich and the humble

Come darling boy
There’s a lake by the forest
The stars are still watching
My heart is at rest

Musings, Mutterings, and whole lotta nothing

I've come to realize as I've gotten older that it is extremely difficult to stick to something.  For example, this blog.  After three posts (two published, one given up on), I took a 4-month-long hiatus and have just come back to it.  The inspiration for my first post was politics, for my second was reflection, and for my third was guilt (I mean, I gotta keep writing!  I just started a blog for f&#k's sake!).  And, as you can see (4 months later) guilt is probably not the best motive to keep writing.

I've always been hesitant to share my writing and my thoughts to the world.  There was always an excuse - it isn't good, it isn't worth showing to the world, people will laugh, people will tease, blah blah blah.

A lot of interesting things have happened in the past few months which I could never have conceived of.  It started with an eviction, and ended in self discovery (or, more accurately, self re-discovery).

The first month in my new house was probably one of the periods I've been most socially anxious in my life.  I was moving into a house where everyone knew each other, were best friends, and were talented artists and musicians.  Not only that, I lived in a room separate from the house, an easy excuse to escape from everyone else, a safe haven where I could just disappear.  I could hide my music, my art, my personality, my being.  I just left what I thought was the most satisfying living situation I'd ever had, and I never hoped to match.  Change, change, change, was coming on too fast, too hard, and I wanted to scream and run away.  My cat adjusted better than I did (and we all know how finicky cats can be). 

I wonder now if my housemates are reading this.  Did they know?  They must have suspected at least a little, and they were so welcoming, so kind.  Was I just the crazy cat lady in the backyard dreaming of owning 30 cats (disclaimer: I do not want 30 cats worth of cat hair in any house I live in.  Only 10 ;)  )

Then I started going to my housemates' shows.  I started meeting new people.  I started having conversations with my housemates.  I came to realize that yes, I lived in a house of talented artists and musicians, and that I had talent too.  The real difference between us, really, was that these guys (and gals) spent their time honing and exploring their talent, while I spent my time wondering if I'd ever be good enough.

It started with a combined art piece I did with my housemate, Mateo, at a party in a warehouse apartment.  I was drunk, I don't know if he was too, and we were sitting in some guy's room.  He handed me a sharpie, set a notebook between us, and we started drawing.  I fed off him and he off me, an artistic vampiric experience (not as creepy as it sounds) which brought me back to my childhood, before the academic days, when I would spend hours and hours just drawing and drawing until my pens ran out of ink and my house ran out of paper.  We didn't take the drawing with us that day, but I couldn't forget it.  The cancer spread, I ached and ached to draw, to paint, to play, to create.  For a moment I'd felt at peace. 

It's impossible for me to put into words how many changes have taken place, but as the wise know not all change is bad, and change is inevitable.  My life has taken turns I could not even imagine.  My courage is shaky, but what better place to delve into art and music than a house of artists and musicians?  I've come full circle back to where I always knew I needed to be.

So I leave you all with a bit of other writing I did, now that I'm done with my (feverish) musings. 

The silence is deafening, the quiet so loud

I can see your lips moving

The words not for me

A tremble, a beat, I shudder, so shaken
Hands turning the glass
Under blue-green lights
...Your eyes scan the room
But no longer meet mine