Musings of Hœnir

Let’s dream of the day when we woke up everyone

With our shouts and careless laughs, unrestrained in the October sunrise.

How it was early, and no one went back to sleep,

And they stayed up to watch us dance in the gambrel-roofed barn.

And we turned from the rest of the world,

For you and I were alive, and they were mannequins,

With needle-sculpted noses and mohair wigs.

Remember how our irises were stretched to thin rings,

As we collapsed under the pear tree, breathless?

And we passed the time in a way that transcended

Quartz watches and hourglasses.

And then we went into the whitewashed farmhouse to be together,

Until darkness fell and we went to bed,

Eyes shut, pretending to be asleep,

In hopes that the light-hearted morning would soon interrupt,

And we could start all over again.

Awake, my soul

Rise to meet the dawn

Rise to feel the Passion

Of an age long gone

And a people I’ve never met

Somehow, I long to see Your signs

In the curve of the tracing vine

As it climbs the trellis

In the faces waiting

At the bench for the bus

I know the splendor is there to see

If only my soul could sense

Could feel – But

You seem to be everywhere

I am not.

I live

in a house built of cigarettes,

                                       pencils,

                                            and pixie sticks.

It’s small and more than a little quaint.

But I’m alright with that.

It’s quiet there, like a button,

or the birds of paradise trapped in the iron-wrought form of finials,

               or the amethyst-tipped weathervane,

          or the air after the plate hits the wall and then the floor.

I have a beautiful cricket cage sitting on the mantle,

               but nothing’s in it. No point in ruining something

like that with crickets.

On the wall hangs a heavy sign, cast of iron, which says in somber letters, “Here, in 1891, nothing

                                                                                                                                                                 happened.”

In my room there’s a small “French, 18^th century, Regence period commode” that was passed down by                               

                                my mother.

Apparently it has nothing to do with relieving yourself.

It’s just a set of drawers with cabriole legs and scrolled feet.

                                          Ain’t that just like the French.

I have a corner for the amber bottles and oxygen barrier caps,

                             an altar to lonely.

But I’m alright with that.

In my foyer,

or the room I call my foyer,

hangs a grandfather clock

with cherry finish and olive ash burl.

It hasn’t worked in years,

ever since I lost the winding key.

They say I’ll die if I’m a poor housekeeper, but I’m still standing.

Well, unless I’m sitting.

                                           Or lying down.

But for now, I’m alive,

even if I’m not well.

But who among us can cast that stone?

And sure, the bed’s always a tumbled mess of polyester

          and cotton,

but that’s because I don’t have time                                                                                                                                                          to tuck hospital corners into my sheets.

             And the microwave might be a sight, with its stains and bits of burnt crust,

   but damn, you should see the basement.

             Well, I never have to clean for anyone but myself.

                             And I’m a pretty swell landlord.

But I don’t want it. I don’t want

that Palos Verdes dream house,

with expansive vistas of Catalina Island,

       L.A. Harbor and mountains from the kitchen.
I don’t want guard-houses and gates,

five-car garages and infinity pools,

or a kitchen with half a dozen ovens.

I live

in a house built of cigarettes,

                                       pencils,

                                            and pixie sticks.

It’s small and more than a little quaint.

But I’m alright with that.

 The click of soles

Raised and leather alike

On the cold sidewalk

Snap to unseen rhythms

Just syncopated enough

To be different

A chorus of brogues

And high heels

Filled with purposeful feet

Quick enough to have a place to be

But not so fast as to seem

In too much of a hurry to get there

The careful glance

The soft sigh

To avoid a conversation

The risky glimpse

So poorly planned

Is often such delay

Save it with a blink

Deliberate and pointed

Like wingtip shoes

That’s it

Here it is

The perfect pace

Good night.

I once had a dream.

It was a dark night in Russia,

bitter, reeking with moldy dreams

that hung like pasty tapestries from the surrounding trees.

I saw every one of them.

The air was so cold

that it froze the ash to dirt

before it could grow back into another life.

The sun was dead by noon.

You were looking towards the heavens,

A smile chiseled between pale marble cheeks.

I tried to get you to look at me,

but you kept on staring at god.

Come dance around the fire with me.

So I left and walked around the world,

until I could see the sun again.

And it was Sunday.

Oh, Henry’s losing his faith again.

I’ve never been fond of Time,

so I killed him while I was out.

The people clapped for me,

and then filed into a theater.

I saw every one of them.

I swear, sir, I had my ticket just a minute ago.

It was right here. Or there.

Somewhere, in any case.

The sun was dead by noon.

So I had to walk all the way back

and cross the street near my house,

only looking both ways afterwards.

There’s no place to die like home.

Come dance around the fire with me.

Now I’m back in my bed,

lighting an already-melted candle,

watching the match twist into one thick, black hair.

Oh, Henry’s losing his faith again.

If you could be anyone for one day

who would you not be?

I feel like wondering,

but then the rooster crows.

Good morning.

THE SUN LANCED over the steady horizon, basking the weary ship in its burning glow. Sea waves lapped coolly against the Hopeless’ sides, carrying it away as an injured man upon a gurney of ocean. Wind breezed gently along the vessel’s length, almost apologetically, still attempting to belie the furor of the previous night’s trials. Sailors milled about, carrying their duties out with skill born of fused repetition and necessity. They knew what needed to be done, and how to do it. It was their life here, at sea. The ship was their home, and they all had a part to play in keeping it ready.

Though ready for what many of them felt as if they might soon forget. The ship’s primary flag was currently resting in the captain’s quarters, still giving its toothy grin with the same complacent air as it always did, though no one was able to admire its jaunty demeanor. It had been some time since the pirate crew had participated in a raid, fight, hijacking, or chase. Times were lethargic, but the ocean took no notice. It gave the ship and its crew the fickle time that it was so well known for, ranging from tumultuous plights, one of which still echoed in the distance, to docile periods, such as the milieu now present. But still, the ship went on, its servants quietly willing their captain to action, and their stomachs to silence.

Within his cabin, intense and pensive, paced the ship’s captain, as his first mate stood to the side and watched silently. A plan of sorts had been forming in the captain’s mind for some time now, and all he needed to do was relay that vision to his men. That was where the difficulties were, though: outside his room, taking care of the ship. Men of the sea were renowned for the determination and their grit, but as for their brains, they had quite the opposite reputation. Unfortunately, that was typically true, even in the local population. However, the few that possessed the wits and mind power to lead were quickly moved to higher positions, and the rest refrained from whining. They knew their place. Just as the captain knew his. He directed the crew as the rudder directed the ship; gently and with care, but quickly if the need arose. That need was lacking, and had been lax in showing itself in the captain’s eyes and, thereby, his crew’s as well. Continue on a straight course long enough, and the ship tended to forget just how vital the rudder was. The captain’s eyes narrowed as he continued in thought, pulling himself back to planning. Soon he would reveal his thoughts to the men, but as of yet the timing was not appropriate.

Apart from the commotion, and the brooding captain, a lone figure sat on the prominent bowsprit, oblivious to the milling bodies behind him. The boy, or perhaps the young man, was swinging his legs, softly humming an old sea shanty as he allowed his body to sway with the rhythm of the ship. His eyes closed, he imagined it to be something akin to a dance. Not the kind of dance that occurred on a vessel at sea, or indeed even in the bars that the crew would frequent when at shore, but a mysterious sort of movement. Soft, gentle, yet full of passion and energy, both thickly veiled in the instant. This dance was one he frequently felt, but never experienced. He had long ago resigned to never seeing such a thing, but it was moments such as this that he felt closest to the dream. To the vision. To the mystery.

Moments such as this, when eternity sat with him, basking in the spray of the ocean.

plastic
as
my
placid
smile

I strain
to brush
the midnight
moon
with ivory
fingertips-

a light
too soft

to see

coaxes my
Soul

to wake
to breathe

to feel

to give up
once again

this humanity

a moment

echoes
echoes

echoes

on

and on

and on

this moment
is gone-

gone-

gone.

If you think about it, our lives all revolve around one thing: memories.

All of us hold that in common. We are preoccupied with memories. Our past consumes us, present and future all, and whether we like it or not, we are bound to it. Take this moment, for instance. But wait, that moment is already gone. How about this one? Oh, there it goes. Gone, spent, wasted, thrown away. Our life is composed of such moments, such reflections that we only examine once passed. Take any instance in your life, any one at all, and it is a memory already, pushed without thought into the Past by our greedy Present.

All is but a moment in Eternity - gone forever.

Those points, once passed, are but parts of our past, and of our memories. That is where our full consciousness lies. Buried deeply under the shards of our respective histories…

Isn’t it interesting how little we think of others?

I don’t mean the superficialities of manners and such, but how very infrequently we truly think about other people that are around us. That person that briefly glanced at you in the mall? That teenager nasally asking for your order? That mother carting her children through the same traffic jam that occupies yourself? That elderly man who sits on his porch and simply rocks back and forth in his chair all day long? Behind every face is a lifetime. But it’s amazing how little we think about that deceptively simple fact. Do we truly consider that?

No. But, you say, neither do they! Well, that might be true. After all, they’re a lot more like you than you would like to admit. And yet so very different, too.

Is everything all that subjective?

Is the world truly as relative as it would like us to think it?

… Well, that’s just your opinion.

Anyway, pardon me for distracting you from your life. Please, resume your previous activities and pretend you never read this…