Letter to My Unborn Daughter, Pt. 1

Dear ____________ :

May you grow up to have all the abundant gifts a girl should possess, and none of these I mean materially. May you spend more time in the library than in the nail shop and more days dining on incredible conversation than on Ben & Jerry's (my own waistline's demise- well that, and you of course ; ).

I hope that you spend your days seeking opportunities to explore the world and its mysteries, and truths, and stories. I hope you choose to challenge others through your discoveries, share the insights you have both stumbled upon and sought. May you value each for their inherent worth- the lessons life teaches in addition to the ones you, yourself, seek. May you seek them. Apply them. Share them. And, repeat as necessary throughout your entire life.

Know that you are deserving and wanted at all times, especially know this when you are faced with the inevitable doubt in those close to you and in those you feel abandoned by. You do not need to ever convince someone of your worth- you are my daughter, you are incredible. Your worth transcends words and no language of man or woman, mother or father, could succeed in its articulation. So, I will not try only to fail- but allow my presence in your life to always be a testament to it. Your value is within you, please don't seek out others to show you what you are already in possession of. This is another one of your mother's blunders- may you make your own.

Your family is readying itself for your arrival, may you come in peace.

Love,

Mom.

The Room I've Since Been Searching For

The bed is unmade,

and those memories, they are worn,

But there is a thought of you

So long ago

that testifies warmth;

When we woke to the light,

It was splintered up through your blinds

and in the dark of your room

a new world dawned and we,

we were alive;

But they all continue to say

that nothing good can ever remain,

And that everything that is beautiful

well it is destined to fade,

'cause nothing that feels perfect

is actually what stays;

The coffee is cold,

and those stores are all past closed,

but there is a life with you

so long ago that I long to restore;

And, now I'm in

In the dark of your hall,

Reaching out for that handle on on the door,

to that room that we shared,

The space I have since been searching for;

But they all continue to say

that nothing good can ever remain,

And that everything that is beautiful,

well it is destined to fade,

'cause nothing that feels perfect

is actually what stays;

Here's to Mr. So-and-So.

preface: this piece was written when I was a senior in college. I included it because at the time, it was Rita's favorite piece of my writing, which was set to music, so yeah, it's a song. After I graduated, Rita had me come and open for her "open mic" night at UCLA, the good ol' Eclectic days. Of course, I was supposed to make a few bucks 'cause Rita always got her friends paid gigs. So, here's to you, Rita. RIP.

Now before you leave,

finally this chance, it's on me,

there are words that I need to speak,

but only to diffuse all of their power in meaning;

There must have been a time,

But I cannot recall,

When the love that you gave to me

Was nothing short of magical;

And those colors that you said

I brought to your life

Were like none that you'd ever known,

But that there would always be something

that you,

you would love more;

So, at dawn, I finally fall asleep,

And, I am kept awake all night in dreams;

'Cause the hardest hope to know,

is the hope that you,

you will not ever be able to let me go;

But one day, you started to prefer,

Black and White,

and you didn't need any colors in your life

'Cause you painted them yourself in all your pride;

And you taught me that magic,

Well, it's only composed of tricks,

And, that truest love and deception,

They can never coexist;

So, now before I leave,

Finally, this chance, it's on me;

And, the hardest hope that I know,

it's the hope that you will not ever

be able to let me go.

Golden Days of Yore

for grandma.

Twist Roman shades back

Reveal days of youth

before trepidation gave treaty to

Sister Apathy;

Draw up the Shutter latch

Watch the driveway of olden days

(past the intersection of the Golden Days)

from the padded kitchen chair on the

beige stained linoleum stage;

Turn on the Tiffany

Illuminate secrets

of life's mysteries composed from

Circumstance' score;

Unbolt the top lock of the security door

Just in case of emergency or another fall

(not this time for a man, but for God)

and make your way by your slow shuffle walk

down the burnt-orange carpeted hall,

past the fortieth anniversary portrait,

past the towel closet,

past the outdated pictures of your grandkids on the wall;

"Are you the love of my life . . . "

"Well you say that I treat you like a book on the shelf,

I don't take you out that often

because I know that I completed you."

-Conner Oberst of Bright Eyes

All in Moderation

Taking the recycling out with the trash,

Since they are received by two different, although adjacent, bins,

They are taken out in the same trip;

So, with a bag in the left and another in the right,

climb down the steps to the garage where the cans are kept;

Thinking sometimes I mix them up,

Because too often the things intended to be disposed of, return,

And, the things I meant to revisit, discarded;

So, with both free hands now idle,

climb up the steps to the place above where the original mistake is made;

Keep 'em Cummings

Wanted to post this, obviously, this brilliant piece is not mine . . . although, in some sense, I have claimed it, since I find that it and my heart are speaking the same language. RIP Rita.

Lost in prose.

i carry your heart with me

I carry your heart with me(i carry it in

my heart)i am never without it(anywhere

i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done

by only me is your doing,my darling)

i fear

no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want

no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)

and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant

and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows

(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud

and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows

higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)

and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

ee cummings

eternal return

In a maze of tangential truths,

a thought exposed continuum

And all these paths,

they bring me back to you;

Romanticize through your memories,

the still-prints of our history,

forgotten are the 'negatives'

of the in between;

And, I am hopeless,

And, I am faithless.

'Cause, I would rather be blind

than shed the denial from my eyes

and wait and watch

until you fade in the periphery;

And, I would rather live a thousand lies

than have to face this truth's demise

and be without you for the rest of my life;

It's through the luxury of history,

that we prison our reality,

Letting a contrition of faith,

define our state;

In a matrimony of moments,

Is born our conception of time,

As you slip from our awareness,

Into the margins of the Single Mind.

And, I am hopeless,

And, I am faithless.

And, I would rather be blind

than shed the denial from my eyes

and wait and watch

until you fade in the periphery;

And, I would rather live a thousand lies

than have to face this truth's demise

and be without you for the rest of my life;

From the patterns between you and me,

let's project a new transparency

Onto the wall

of our possibility;

We could make nil our mistakes

Let forgiveness abstract away

the beauty of intention,

from the quality of what was made;

And I am hopeless,

And I faithless.

And, I would rather be blind

than shed the denial from my eyes

and wait and watch

until you fade in the periphery;

And I would rather live a thousand lies

than have to face this truth's demise

and be without you for the rest of my life;

Good Mourning

Until this moment,

I haven't written a word down,

scared to articulate my pain.

Somehow, writing of the event

cements its permanence,

like I am taking some metaphysical account of the members of the world,

and you now,

by my pen,

are admittedly

Not here.

And, in this account,

I must divorce myself from guilt perceptions

and the continual replays of you and I in my mind.

But, even in modest objectivity-

The news: presented pictures

that I have since projected

onto my movie screen of memory:

you: hanging.

A single light illuminating-

something not unlike film noir,

so said your sister upon finding you.

The consequential effect,

your pain's undoing-

my sweetest girl,

the most muted human shade of blue.

You: the girl that was on the phone with me,

minutes prior, crying.

Crying out,

Talked over.

You: the woman who I told was "facing death"--

accurate or encouraging?

How much power did you burden me with?

How much power you did burden me with.

Day Dreams

Day dreams are those ideas that seem to be some sort of synthesis between what we will and what we dare not admit. Being that they are intangible in all respects, Day dreams are the unmasking of circumstance, the dethroning of longing, the protest of hope.

What can come of ideas that seek to negate and derail? To overwhelm and prevail still, despite repeated reprimands from the understudies to the roles in the life we should have partaken of.

Day dreams are the stories of opportunities lost, when choices were made without concern for the peripheral. Manipulated outcomes driven through tunnel visioned motives. How did this come to pass even, you asked. By denying access. By shutting down. By instilling fear through my having none. By letting go too easily. By my forgetting to think of whatever it was I needed, in order to see beyond the horizon of permanence that was upon me. For a time, I lost myself. And, I have now opened up only this moment to the life that will ensue. The life that will take place and pass too quickly. The weight of time, lifted. The gravity, unbearable. The silence to come, deafening.

Day dreams are those reminders of all those experiences you wanted that didn't come to pass. The shadows on doors we closed of selves we were too long ago. The knocks on windows late at night by children we could've been together. The late night regrets from dreams we ought not have and dare not share. Not to them. Not to each other. And eventually, like all things beautiful, the anticipation of reconciliation will soon become realized to be irreconcilable.

Day dreams are pain transferred from the unconscious and projected onto to the screen of the movie starring you and not me.

Dreaming in Technicolor

Waking dreams. Ambitions. With hope externalized onto the canvas of what is current, we commit ourselves to their actualization through their verbal expression. All the while, our esteem and self-doubt boldly state their rebuttal. Riding on follow through and chance and perceived ability. Through waking dreams, we challenge what is with what could be.

Night dreams. Interpreted. Internally scrawled messages in the margins of thoughts. We dance around in details and subtle suggestions of possibilities. And, the modal consequences bearing no weight. Weightless. Regretless. Limitless. Choices are endless and behavior no boundaries. Pure Id. Through night dreams, we create and play within our own alternate reality, apart from what is; apart from what could be.

And, what of Day dreams?