all around amateur

AMATEUR: from French, from Italian (amatore), from Latin (amator, 'lover', from amare, 'to love')

random scenario

I’m heading out for a smoke. Just call me when we’re leaving.

I’ll join you.

It’s the first time we’ve managed to be alone all night. I’ve spoiled our coffee thing when I let it slip to our friends. We’re back to last year and the year before - pretending like there’s nothing there.

Over beer, we ignore our friends and just talk about the law. If only it were darker, we could pretend they weren’t really there. But it’s rude. We shift the conversation to less esoteric topics. The act goes on.

We’re heading home, you selflessly volunteer to drop everyone off. You save me for last.

We’re by ourselves. Lights turn red at every intersection, buying us precious extra seconds.

The world is conspiring against me - I almost say let’s try it again.

But I don’t.

Thank God.

Nothing will change. You’ll be you. I’ll be me. Our friends oblivious. 

I yearn to tear myself open,
to rip thru the flesh, muscle & bone,
bearing my beating heart.

I want to break myself open.

— Rose Cupin, random thought 2010.

Moth drawn to the radiant flame

Wings graze the burning licks - 

Incinerated.

I am on fire.

Ash - free of my body.

I love you.

I don’t need clarity, just a good buzz. 

I don’t need clarity, just a good buzz. 

Ember

My love is not a flame,
Spectacular to see,
Burning out too quickly.
It does not consume me.

My love is ash-coated embers,
Burning steadily under the gray.
Do not be fooled,
It is smoldering to the touch.

I last through the night.
In the early morn,
My love can still start a blaze.
It is quiet, but there with some prodding.

It’s an honest relief to be at a loss for words, a welcome challenge to write about happy things.

It’s easier to write about sad things because we love to dwell on them. Countless hours spent trying to understand the why’s, how’s and wherefore’s. Every detail meticulously analyzed in the hope of finding meaning in the tragedy.

But when we’re happy, we find no need to do this. We don’t need to understand, we just want to live it and be it. Perhaps if we spent more time thinking about why and how we are happy, we’ll actually learn something worthwhile.

freshman observations (originally from Multiply)

You’re sitting at your usual table in the coffee shop across the street. You’re bent over cramming the past month’s worth of lessons into a couple of hours. You’re minding your own business when a young couple walk in.

The guy is carrying about two thousand things in his right hand and just about as many bags hang from his right shoulder. He is struggling to carry it all, but he still keeps the left half of his appendages free to make room for his girlfriend’s hand. She’s carrying nothing except her purse and yet he’s still insisting on carrying that too. She humors him and hands him the bag. It’s admittedly stupid, but neither of them seem to care. All she notices is how great it feels to have his hand in hers and he feels just the same. 

They sit side by side at the table right across from yours. Their hands are momentarily free from each other as they unpack. When they commence their reading (or whatever else is it their supposed to be doing other than stare at each other), their hands automatically find each other and their fingers intertwine, each digit knowing its exact place.

It’s distracting how they both lean towards each other, her head on his shoulder, as the minutes and hours go by. As they read, they whisper into each other’s ear - a private joke or comment has been shared and soft laughter ensues. Aheir bodies are a decent few inches apart (with the exception of her head on his shoulder, of course), but they are constantly oriented towards each other.

As you continue to be distracted by the sickeningly sweet display before you - the couple remains oblivious to your subtle stares. The rest of the world doesn’t exist to them.

You’re still sitting, now utterly distracted with no hopes of picking up your book again for the night. You can hardly tear your thoughts from the tableaux in front of you. You can’t help but feel a little bit jealous of the intimacy they share. 

You can’t help but wish that that was you sitting there… 

For all their sweetness, stupidity and devotion - I toast to those who have found. Cheers!

longing slips into the shadows

carefully the subtexts they
took apart
the subtle interplay of
hands furtively signaling
desire into bloom
away from prying light

the faint strokes
brush into life
a silent portrait

—Steve Ladan, insomnia poetry

Affective Exercise #1

Pan is hot. Throw in the garlic and onions. Sear the meat. Oven preheated to 350, pop in the Pyrex. Twenty minutes and the table is set. Dinner is ready, the apartment smells like food, and so do I.

I sit and eat. The chop is a little tough. Maybe I should’ve taken it off the stove a minute sooner. The lasagna is too sweet. I should’ve gone easy on the cream. The water is bland. I should’ve opened the wine, no point in saving it.

Wash the dishes, take a shower.

Time to sit and read. A pile of papers on the floor growing with every new case list. By the end of the semester, it’ll probably stand as tall as my hip. My eyes are already strained. I really should’ve bought that bulb for my lamp. Another wrong decision.

My head’s pounding. Just one more cigarette and I’ll call it a night. My throat’s itchy from too much mentholated smoke. I should cut down.

Tomorrow, the food will be better. Tomorrow, I’ll get rid of all my backlog. Tomorrow, I’ll buy that damn bulb. Tomorrow, I’ll wash the taste of you out of my mouth.