Late Nights & Early Mornings
Sep. 27th, 2004 10:49 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
xaaraIt's strange how ideas presented at two o'clock in the morning make so much sense. It's as if the darkness cloaks all the less feasible aspects of crazy suggestions and leaves only their core beauty.
So of course, when he says, "Let's go to Hollywood and become screenwriters," it's not only possible, it's also a good idea, and in ten minutes we're online finding cheap air fares to L.A. We set a date - a week from Thursday - and decide to meet at the little hole-in-the-wall café we both adore. We'll take it from there. Our lives are ahead of us, and the velvet dark is all around, and it seems like we're the only two people awake in the entire world.
Our conversation moves on to other topics, like the felonies either of us would commit for a mocha frapuccino, the fact that neither of us liked Hero, the colors we're considering for our rooms. I'm writing and need an adjective that begins with "B;" he supplies a whole slew of candidates.
Just before I sign off so I can hope to sleep for more than three hours, he mentions Hollywood again. "We could so do this American Dream thing," he says.
And in the middle of the night, under a cloudy autumn sky, I close my eyes and believe him.
<<<<>>>><<<<>>>><<<<>>>><<<<>>>>
Assignment: Take some prose you've written before and incorporate it into a list poem.
Snippets of Heaven
No one ever asked me
what my heaven would look like.
They just assumed I would embrace the standards:
angels and harps and unrelenting peace,
Raphael's cherubim dancing between clouds,
shining golden light, and a
perpetual seventy-five degree spring.
But my heaven? Athens
at night – when the slow smoldering
light from the cafés and street vendors blends
into the deepest shadows, faces and voices blur,
and I close my eyes to feel the air crackle around me,
full of the promise of the dark.
Is it strange that my heaven
comes with cigarette smoke, the scents
of fresh squid and bad wine, of
old leather, incense and oranges?
Strange that I would happily spend eternity with
the roughness of warm sandstone,
coffee so strong it's barely a mouthful of sugar and caffeine,
marketplaces packed, tight, musky,
ice cream in little paper bowls,
sidewalk tables with plastic tablecloths,
cheap jewelry and tacky souvenirs?
I suppose the promised tranquility of
the afterlife might appeal to some.
Me, I want the noise, the light, the sound.
I want to skate that hazy line where
fantasy chances upon reality.
I want to immerse myself in another language,
buy a red rose from a ruggedly beautiful girl,
and walk the Acropolis, stopping at the temples to
tilt my face to the sun and watch how the columns hold up the sky.
<<<<>>>><<<<>>>><<<<>>>><<<<>>>>
Assignment: Take a noun and define it in an unconventional way.
A/N: The first three lines of this poem are lifted directly from the sign above the priority seating on the Washington DC Metro.
Priority Seating
Priority seating
for senior citizens and
persons with disabilities.
For starving artists,
bloated office workers,
imminent bearers of new life.
For losing pitchers,
nimblefingered pickpockets,
weary teachers whose
paychecks will not stretch to meet next week.
For bowed travelers whose
voyages are far from over,
belligerent Gypsies whose caravans
have floundered in the desert,
bewildered pilgrims whose Hajj
somehow led them away from Mecca.
For Atlas and Mary
and those who only think they know
the weight and promise of the world.
Would you like my seat?
You ride to the end of the line, but
this is where I get off.
So of course, when he says, "Let's go to Hollywood and become screenwriters," it's not only possible, it's also a good idea, and in ten minutes we're online finding cheap air fares to L.A. We set a date - a week from Thursday - and decide to meet at the little hole-in-the-wall café we both adore. We'll take it from there. Our lives are ahead of us, and the velvet dark is all around, and it seems like we're the only two people awake in the entire world.
Our conversation moves on to other topics, like the felonies either of us would commit for a mocha frapuccino, the fact that neither of us liked Hero, the colors we're considering for our rooms. I'm writing and need an adjective that begins with "B;" he supplies a whole slew of candidates.
Just before I sign off so I can hope to sleep for more than three hours, he mentions Hollywood again. "We could so do this American Dream thing," he says.
And in the middle of the night, under a cloudy autumn sky, I close my eyes and believe him.
<<<<>>>><<<<>>>><<<<>>>><<<<>>>>
Assignment: Take some prose you've written before and incorporate it into a list poem.
Snippets of Heaven
No one ever asked me
what my heaven would look like.
They just assumed I would embrace the standards:
angels and harps and unrelenting peace,
Raphael's cherubim dancing between clouds,
shining golden light, and a
perpetual seventy-five degree spring.
But my heaven? Athens
at night – when the slow smoldering
light from the cafés and street vendors blends
into the deepest shadows, faces and voices blur,
and I close my eyes to feel the air crackle around me,
full of the promise of the dark.
Is it strange that my heaven
comes with cigarette smoke, the scents
of fresh squid and bad wine, of
old leather, incense and oranges?
Strange that I would happily spend eternity with
the roughness of warm sandstone,
coffee so strong it's barely a mouthful of sugar and caffeine,
marketplaces packed, tight, musky,
ice cream in little paper bowls,
sidewalk tables with plastic tablecloths,
cheap jewelry and tacky souvenirs?
I suppose the promised tranquility of
the afterlife might appeal to some.
Me, I want the noise, the light, the sound.
I want to skate that hazy line where
fantasy chances upon reality.
I want to immerse myself in another language,
buy a red rose from a ruggedly beautiful girl,
and walk the Acropolis, stopping at the temples to
tilt my face to the sun and watch how the columns hold up the sky.
<<<<>>>><<<<>>>><<<<>>>><<<<>>>>
Assignment: Take a noun and define it in an unconventional way.
A/N: The first three lines of this poem are lifted directly from the sign above the priority seating on the Washington DC Metro.
Priority Seating
Priority seating
for senior citizens and
persons with disabilities.
For starving artists,
bloated office workers,
imminent bearers of new life.
For losing pitchers,
nimblefingered pickpockets,
weary teachers whose
paychecks will not stretch to meet next week.
For bowed travelers whose
voyages are far from over,
belligerent Gypsies whose caravans
have floundered in the desert,
bewildered pilgrims whose Hajj
somehow led them away from Mecca.
For Atlas and Mary
and those who only think they know
the weight and promise of the world.
Would you like my seat?
You ride to the end of the line, but
this is where I get off.
