Strangers behind a train

It was another long day at the office. How many mornings had she gotten in before it was light outside? She could not remember. Life had turned into a cycle of getting up obscenely early, working longer and longer shifts, and getting home, just to eat something before she crashed, only to repeat the process the next day and the next and the next...

She was glad to get out early. The weather that morning had been indeterminate, but she braved it anyway, wearing only a hoodie on a day that it may rain (is that not every day in Seattle, after all?). Of course it rained. A lot. It was coming down lightly as she started out from the office toward the bus stop, but by the time she reached the train tracks it was coming down pretty hard. Within a few minutes her shoulders and head were completely wet. She doffed her hood and let the rain fall on her head, reveling in the rare heavy rain that her city gave to her.

The barriers dropped as she approached the tracks from the west, and she looked down to see if the oncoming train were visible. She sighed as she saw the freight engines in the distance to the south. She counted three engines--a long train, then. The train came in slowly from the south, blowing its whistle loud and long as it approached the street crossing. Then something odd happened. The train started to slow when it was about halfway across the roadway, and came to a complete stop in the middle of the tracks that cut through the road. By now a small crowd of commuters had gathered behind the stopped train.

She glanced around. There was an assortment of persons waiting, in various states of agitation, staring at the stopped train. After a minute or two, one of the men let out a grunt of frustration and started across the train tracks. He climbed over the links that connected two of the boxcars and continued down the street. A couple of younger 20-somethings, obviously coworkers based on the snatches of conversation she heard from them, speculated whether they should do the same. The girl pointed out she would have trouble climbing over the connectors in the shoes she was wearing, and the guy conceded and they continued to mill around the barrier's flashing lights.

As the crowd waited, a taller figure approached the train tracks from the west. She watched the figure approach with mild curiosity. Most of the people waiting for the stopped train were standing stoicly in the rain, not looking at one another, waiting in the Seattle standard-issue awkward silence. Something about the fae creature pacing closer toward the stopped train made her think this one would not wait so passively as the rest. The stranger took in the sight as they got the spot where most of the persons stood and a mad Cheshire Cat grin split their face.

'I'm sorry,' they said. 'This is probably my fault, for all the trains I tagged in the past.'

She looked up at the sound of the voice, a pitch and timbre that struck her as both foreign and familiar. Their eyes met and she grinned back at the stranger at the crossroads.

'I knew there had to be a reason for this,' she said.

A few people looked at the two of them as they laughed, and a train whistle blew in the distance. She looked north and saw the lights of a second train. The train heading south approached slowly, and she counted the engines on this one. Only two engines this time. A shorter train.

She was soaked through. Her hair was dripping down the back of her neck and her feet felt damp in her Chucks. The stranger who apologised continued to smile at her, and she could not help but smile back. The Cheshire Cat smile was so genuine and infectious.

Well, now, this is going to be interesting, she thought.

Logic in the Passenger Seat

There are moments in my life where I have stood on the brink and looked over the edge and ...hesitated. Opportunities swirled around my ankles like an outgoing tide. They ebb and flow, and of course, new opportunities will come in again; that is the nature of the universe. As I watch them slip away, finite and unique, I sigh, assure myself it was for the best, I need to make sound, logical decisions.

Last night was not one of those moments. Last night, I came up to the precipitous perch on the edge of new experience, and instead of hesitating, over-thinking, and fretting away the minutes, hours, days, until the decision was made for me, I jumped in with both feet. There are a few moments in my life when I can pinpoint this precise position, and I want to keep pushing myself past the point of comfort and security.

Feel your way through things. My therapist keeps giving me this advice. I'm a thinker. A ponderer, a puzzler, a real and rigorous ruminator. (Or would it be ruminatrix? I think I like that one better.) Last night, I leapt. I tumbled headlong into sensation, not sense.

I knew from the moment I met her, there was something different about the fae creature I saw last night. I do not know what it was, specifically, in that moment when our eyes first met and our grins reflected one another. The only two talking caught behind a freight train in the rain. A pleasant conversation, a gleam of something more interesting, and it seemed to be nothing more than an incidental encounter. A single-serving friend. (She kept using that phrase last night. This morning. Whatever. I had to look it up because I couldn't remember the reference. (In my defence the only time I've seen Fight Club was back in high school and most of the film was spent wrestling RJ and Scottie for the best spot on the couch.)) Much to my surprise (which the hyperlogical side of me wants to qualify and quantify, to weigh and winnow through, to understand the WHY) despite our not exchanging good contact information (I had a business card with a website and generic email address to go on; she only had a name, and not a given name), she found me and decided that we would be friends.

I tend to look at myself and ask, Why me? Why do remarkable, curious, awesome people want to know me? Why did my wife text me when I missed my first practice? How can a line of poetry and a quote from a tv programme cement a relationship? What is it about me that made her seek me out? I told this one I felt so commonplace next to her. I heard her stories and felt, this is a person I would create in fiction, not a person whom I would meet, flesh and bone, blood and soul, on the street, and hear their stories. I don't understand what it is about me that people seek me out, it is strange, novel, foreign, and daunting, but last night I realised I should not worry about it so much. I should just accept it, graciously.

It turns out, it's hard not be graciously accepting of people insisting they want to be around you when one is wrapped up in the most magnificent cuddle puddle imaginable. With people who accepted me as a stranger in their midst, who were ostensibly all strangers to me, where despite being in a place I'd never been with persons I never met, I felt completely, totally, beautifully safe. And I trusted just a little bit. It's been so long since I did that.

I made my choice. I took that chance. I jumped off the ledge. I plunged into feeling. And it was wonderful.

Faceless Woman

I apologise. Not because
I wronged you personally,
except in the privacy
of my mind for things
you will never know, things
that will never cross your path,
at least, not at my hands. But
even if you never once feel
the whiplash of
the towering hurricane
of my anger and resentment,
of my bitterness and contempt,
I owe you an apology
nevertheless. I refuse
to give you a face; in my mind
I try very hard to blur
it out, to make it nothing
more than vague shape
and colour. I refuse
to think of you
by name—not because
I dislike you, (I do not
even know you) or because
I seek to deny you any
humanity or dignity that
a proper name lends. The truth
of the matter is, by keeping
you as remote and distant
as I can, by keeping you
an Other, I seek to do
the exact opposite. I fear
I am not strong enough
to think of you as real,
as flesh and bone and blood,
without wanting to strip
one or both of us down to bloody
tatters. Because that is
the world we live in, and
I am not strong enough,
as a woman, to be able
to look at you as anything
but the Other Woman without
wanting to place all the blame
squarely at your feet, exactly
for being the Other Woman. Instead,
I want to place that blame
where it belongs, with the
one who tore my heart to pieces,
rather than take an innocent
face and make the worst things
people say about my sex
the only truth the world can see.

A Second Coming of a God

Thor: The Dark World was worth the money paid to see it in cinemas (albeit in 2-D; 3-D gives me a headache). It was a disappointment that the first one, even with a brilliant director and mostly a great cast, was such a let down. This one, directed by someone whose career I knew nothing about until I checked out his IMDB page (credits include mostly TV, but some v. good TV: Game of Thrones, Mad Men, Boardwalk Empire, and The Sopranos, among other titles), was a much more satisfying adventure.

I would like to start out by saying that I am definitely a Tom Hiddleston fangirl. I'm very much a fan of most of the casting in Thor (with the exception of Natalie Portman, who really just gets under my skin), with actors like Hemsworth, Russo, Hopkins, and Dennings bringing wonderful performances to the screen. But Hiddleston steals the show, with a subtlety and finesse that made me giddy. Loki is the ultimate anti-hero, and Hiddleston's performance brings a depth to his struggle between revenge and redemption that is not often seen in comic book films.

Overall, T:TDW is a better film than its predecessor. The story is more interesting, the characters' development is more solid and coherent, and the action was well-paced and enjoyable. There are fewer gaping holes in the plot and while it is no necessarily as visually stunning as the first film, it is a solid piece. (We're no talking Nolan-esque Academy Award-winning calibre here, but that's okay.)

Loki is easily the best part of the film. As I said, Hiddleston steals the show without even meaning to do. There is just something about his presence on screen that draws attention away from everything else in the scene. The dynamic between Loki and Thor is interesting, because there is a tension that is built from what feels like genuine family dysfunction. On the surface they are, at best, wary allies, but there is a much deeper current to their relationship than the ostensible need of Thor to use Loki's scheming in order to defeat the film's baddie. (Who, by the way, is played wonderfully by Christopher Eccleston, who manages to turn a rather filler-fluff role into something sinister and lingering.) The brotherly affection and antagonism feels true, not just staged for effect. It helps, perhaps, that Hiddleston and Hemsworth seem to get along quite well, and play off one another equally well. There is definitely a true bromance brewing between the two of them (as is evidenced in any interviews with the two of them), and it serves them well in the story, because there is deep affection between the characters, tempered by exasperation, disappointment, and a need for each to be in the right. (Or rather, for Thor to be in the right, and for Loki to be in control, respectively.)

I have no idea whether the physics of the film is accurate, but I do love the blending of magic and science. That is an element that will always captivate me. I like how Thor (and most of the characters who aren't from Earth) just accept that magic and science are the same thing, and it doesn't matter what something is called as long as it functions the way it ought to, and as long as they know how to use the tools they have.

There is one thing that has me curious, and to satisfy my curiosity will take a few (or several) more viewings no only of Thor: The Dark World, but also the first Thor film, and the Avengers film. I'm curious whether there is any significance in Thor's costuming, and why in certain scenes he wears full sleeves, in certain scenes, he's bare to the shoulder, and sometimes he does not have his cape.

But fangirl moments and idle curiosity aside, Thor: The Dark World is a rollicking good time, and Kat Dennings as the primary comic relief is charming to the nines. It is definitely worth seeing in cinemas if one gets the chance.

Bereft

You called me your selkie
Who stayed of her own free will.
How bitterly ironic
That you were the one who left.

New dreams

[edited]

She said to him:
Go and make
your dreams come true.
She wiped her eyes
and held her ground.
But you must
do so without me.
She sighed and turned away.
I must dream
new dreams to chase,
for in all the dreams I had
once upon a time,
you were by my side.
I am learning to live
without you; to dream
without you; to love
without you.
She whispered to herself,
That is the lesson
I learnt, hard and well,
When he closed the door
between us.
She took a deep breath.
He closed the door.
I simply locked it.

Musings under the full moon

When I was out of my mind (and
I admit I often was not myself
no matter how much I wanted
to be, and not matter how hard

I tried) you told me often that
my actions were what mattered—not
the sincere apologies I offered
when I came back to myself. Yet now

when I am faced with your actions,
you ask me to accept your
words. Ask me to understand
your suffering. Do I know how

much you wanted to call? How many
things you wanted to share? How can
you ask such things? Why
am I expected simply to accept

your words as truth and give
them credence when the message from
your own mouth was actions are what
matter, even when we were together

and when we were in love? Not being
in my right mind never once
changed my love; but not being myself
made me incapable of stopping myself

hurting the one I cherished more
than my own life. Let me pose
my own questions, if I may.
Do you know how hard I tried to be

worthy of your love? How hard
I tried to earn your trust back?
How desperately I tried to keep
that madness at bay? Do you

understand I still wake from
nightmares and reach for you
only to remember I am all
alone with my terror and guilt?

Do you know how often I see
things that make me cry because
they remind me of you—of
the life I wanted to build,

of the future I finally felt
safe enough to start planning?
Do you understand I lost
the person I trusted more than

any other—the one man who
made me feel safe, the man
to whom I confided my deepest
secrets and darkest fears?

My dreams have been snatched
from me, one by one. And then
to experience the galling,
humiliating shame of realising

it all means nothing, because
in fact, I am replaceable.
You do not need me. Maybe you
want me, but your actions

reveal a truth different than
your words. You left. You
moved on. You have someone
new in your life, in your

heart, in your bed. If I were
worth being loved, should I not
have been worth staying for,
worth fighting for, worth the vows

I thought we would say
to one another when
we were hand-fasted—vows I will never
now hear from the only man

I ever truly wanted, the only
one I ever thought found me
worthy of swearing to me:
even though I am flawed,

I am small and plain and broken
sometimes completely, that he
loved me enough to stand by me,
to lend me his strength

and his heart when my own
faltered. For better or for worse.
Because with you, I could have been
more better than worse.

But now, I cannot have
my heart's desire, and I do not want
the consolation prize. There is
nothing consoling about losing

my heart, my dignity, my world
and having to stomach seeing the one
who gets to have the only thing
I wanted, that I never thought

I could have, but for one brief
moment. It will not keep me
warm at night. It will not
keep the monsters at bay.

It will not help put back together
the shattered shards and dust
that was my heart of fire:
once, whole and beating.

Not a love letter

(Written Friday 13 September 2013)

Yesterday was another
anniversary.
Do you remember?
Not that one.
The other one.
Just two years ago.
I was 25. You were 34.
We tried
with all our will
to move slowly
to step softly
to touch lightly
Desperate to convince
ourselves we could
let go.

Six months—that was
our limit, our shelf-life.
Until, 3 weeks
after the day
we met, 2 weeks
after that night
under the street lights

you touched my bare
skin in the darkness
of my bedroom.
As your fingertips traced
my curves in the dim light
shining through the window
you talked of how
you had new feeling
for the first time
since the accident.
A part of me
broke loose, and that small
fragment I entrusted
to you. Despite
the fact we tried
to cling to the idea
of casual,

in that moment
when all the barriers
were lowered—
when our truer selves
were laid bare
I knew we were taking
that first step down
a path neither of us
believed was
short term.

In that moment
we chose to laugh
in the face
of the odds stacked
against us.
We let ourselves
be consumed
and fire blazed
between us from
the spark we lit
in the moment
we first kissed.

And the reality—
sealed merest days later
when I stood
facing you with my back
to the kitchen sink.

Shattered

My heart broke once
and you were there
to hold me. You
took me by the hand
and told me I was
strong enough to
survive. But now
my heart broke twice
and you were the one
who broke it. This
time there was no
one to hold me
when I cried myself
to sleep at night.
How can I survive
when those who broke
my heart were the ones
who were supposed to
care for me when
my heart was broken?

Heart of Fire

Listen to the MUSTN'Ts, child, listen to the DON'Ts.
Listen to the SHOULDN'Ts, the IMPOSSIBLEs, the WON'Ts.
Listen to the NEVER HAVEs, then listen close to me:
ANYTHING can happen, child, ANYTHING can be.

The old woman sat in a chair with a blanket over her lap. She stared into the fire and did not move when the girl walked through the door, setting the bell tinkling. The girl approached the old woman, her footsteps muffled by the dusty carpet. She knelt beside the chair and clutched at the woman's thin arm. Her skin was papery and soft, and the girl could feel the warmth that emanated from the crone. She looked up at the wrinkled face, cast in inconstant shadows from the flickering light of the fire in the hearth. Saying nothing, the girl just waited for the old woman to acknowledge her. They sat in silence that stretched longer than the girl thought she could bear. A single tear ran its course down her pale cheek and dripped off her chin. The tiny droplet landed on the arm of the woman, between the girl's fingers. As if a spell were broken, the old woman turned sharply and looked down at the girl, her eyes flashing red in the firelight.

She stared at the girl, her red eyes boring into the green ones that looked up at her with such pleading, such pain. Then she lifted her other hand and traced the track the tear made on the pale skin. ‘So you have come,’ she said in a voice that sounded as dusty as her carpet, ‘At last, when there was nowhere else to go.’ She continued to penetrate the girl with her gaze, cutting through her defences as with a knife, and seeing into the heart of the matter. ‘It hurts, doesn't it?’ she whispered. The girl dipped her chin in mute assent, and the woman nodded as well, turning back to the fire.

‘It will lessen,’ the woman said, her eyes mirroring the dancing flames, ‘but it will not go away. You have a heart of fire, child, and that is a terrible burden and a great gift. Do not be discouraged, though. You must try a little harder than others, and it will take you longer to get there. That is part of the price of fire. We who are gifted with fire burn hotter than the rest, but it happens in its own time. The world will heave and turn, spinning on its axis, spinning through space, and the years will pass, but that means little to the Fire. The Fire comes when it will, as it will, and does not take notice of such trifles as time.’ The old woman closed her eyes and breathed deeply. She could have been asleep, or dead, but for the warmth of her skin and the very slight sound of her breath. Then she continued.

‘Your heart is young, child, and it is still kindling. The pain you feel is it coming alive. Life is pain, child, and we come to this world in pain, and we live all our lives in pain, and someday we escape that pain, but only in death. Those with the gift of Fire feel more than any other. Pain is ours to bear, and ours to cherish. It is our life that we feel pulsing within us, and the way we know we are still moving forward. I will not lie, child, it is a terrible, wonderful thing to have a heart of fire. But you must accept that it is your lot in life. You must accept the gift.’ She paused as the girl gave a barely audible sniff. ‘But pain is not all we are gifted with, child.’ She lifted the girl's chin so she could look her in the eye. The old woman's gaze softened, and the light that gleamed in her eyes blazed forward with warmth and comfort. ‘Pain is what keeps us grounded, but that does not mean it is all we have. We also have greatness. You must seek out what your fire wants to give you, and you must pursue it with all your heart. You will be rewarded for that, and well. It is only when we understand great suffering that we can truly appreciate the world; it is only when we make great sacrifice that we can truly treasure that which is good. It is not an easy path, child, but it is yours to take. And if you do, I promise, it will be worth it in the end. I know you cannot see it now, you can feel nothing but the pain of the new fire inside you. But fire is cleansing. It is pure. And it will never lead you wrong.’ The old woman let go of the girl's chin and turned to the fire once more. When she spoke again, her voice was thin and distant, like it came from very far away.

‘If you accept your heart of fire, it will serve you well, child. But it must be accepted freely, without reservation. Otherwise the fire will die. The pain will leave, if that happens, but everything else will leave you as well. Your life will turn to embers and ashes as the fire in your heart dwindles, until one day it is snuffed out completely. Your body will still live, your mind will still function, blood will still pump through your veins and breath fill your lungs, but you will love none of it. You will feel none of it. So you must ask yourself if you can accept the gift and the burden that have been given to you. They are yours alone to bear, but if you accept them, you will not be alone. Fire gives life even as it consumes. If you accept your heart, you will find greatness. I cannot tell you more, for I do not know your path. But the reward always surpasses the sacrifice, and you, child, will burn brighter than any I have ever seen.’

The woman stopped speaking and grew very still. The girl stared at her, watching her pulse flutter in her throat. After what seemed an eternity, she rose from where she knelt by the chair. She stared into the fire and saw shapes appear in the flames, dancing and whirling. Pressing a hand to her chest, she felt the warmth radiating from her, calling to its own. She took one last deep breath, then turned and left the room. The door tinkled again as it swung open and she was blasted with a gust of cold air from the street. She squared her shoulders and pressed her hands together, as if in prayer. And in the moment of acceptance, she felt the warm glow in her chest spread throughout her entire body. She sighed, and began to walk down the street.

Listen to the Mustn'ts © Shel Silverstein

Better Stories

Her body tells many stories
To those with eyes to see

Every scar tells a story
This one of the time she fell

off her bike. That one of
a fence on a playground and a

gate not quite open. There are
other scars as well, stories

that go deeper than childhood
trifles. The thin line along

Her right wrist. The burn
between her toes. There are

stories that not all eyes
can see. How she turns her back

in a crowd, or how she freezes
just for an instant when

approached on her blind side
by an unfamiliar man. These stories

are told by scars. Scars she
can trace with her fingers.

Her being tells many stories
To those with hearts to know.

Not every story is told
by a scar. Not every story

catalogues a hurt done to her
or a wound that healed. There

are other stories told of
happiness, of closeness, of time

spent breathing in life. The beat
between words that lasts a fraction

of a second longer than it
used to last. The turn of phrase

said in a fit of laughter. Her secret
smile when someone touches her face.

These stories are wrapped up inside
her heart and her head, clasped

close to her, cherished. But only
seen by those who look for the signs

of being loved. Of loving
freely, openly. And truly.

Not every story is told
by a scar. Some are more

subtle. But she is made
of all of her stories.

And those who can see
beyond all her scars

will see that she loved once,
and well. And was loved in return.

Safe

I have hidden our secrets
In a box on the back shelf
Of the closet, where I cannot
Reach without standing on something.

All of our secrets are wrapped
Very simply, plainly, in fact
And packed up with care.
They are safe on that shelf
From prying eyes who might
By accident spill their contents
To the world.

We do not have a ‘we’
Anymore that means both of us
Now are two separate ‘I’s
Bound with thread of memory

What is on that shelf
In the back of my closet
Is locked up in my heart
Where no one else can come close
To touching the places
Our secrets are resting
They remain undisturbed
And my lips remain closed.

Someday that dial may be turned
By an expert hand that will know
The numbers and codes
Our secrets will then see the light
Of the world, but only in halves.

Remember

Remember the night spent
Under the streetlight
Clinging to you
Like I was drowning
Touching your mouth
And your chest and your hands
My head filled with doubts
That made me reluctant
To want to go on
Because running is easier

I am not running now
Just walking, and slowly
My heart in my hands
And my chin to my chest
Wanting is not
Enough of a reason
To stay, or go back
When the world crashes down

Again I am drowning
But not with desire
Or fear of a monster
Lurking just out of sight
But with pain and regret
And a sense of foreboding
A wish I could change things
Go back to the start

I do not for a second
Apologise for
That moment our lips met
Under the street lights
Saying yes to my heart
Has never been easy
Taking what I want
Has never felt right
I did not fall
But rather I jumped
Into love with you
On that wonderful night

It is over for now
And I must continue
Forward despite wanting
What I can't have
My heart aches and my mind
Is weary with wishing
If only I could
Stop feeling so deep

The marks that our love left
Are still open wounds
But the scars that I sport
Show I am tough enough
To wait out the healing
Though it may feel like forever
What we started that night
Was the greatest adventure
I have ever been on
And I would not exchange
All the moments we shared
Just to end this pain.

Mending—Metamorphosis?

I fear, she said,
That broken
hearts may mend
like broken bones.
That, when
broken
they mend
stronger.

Which means,
she mused,
That the act
that breaks this
heart anew
must be
correspondingly
more terrible than
each act
that broke this heart
before.

But, would that
also mean
a heart re-broken
may harden
to stone?

Un-made

Today was meant to be
An Anniversary.

I took what I wanted

While I walked
In that terrible Valley

Two years ago.
I said, Yes,

In a place
where the only
thing I heard was
No.

But today is not joyful.
There is nothing to celebrate.
Today
Is a day
Of mourning.
A day for grief.

I pierced my skin.
I cut off my hair.
I seek to drown
In smoke and vapor.

Today I allow the part of me that said Yes to die.

I do not walk the same barren path
That lay before me two years syne.

This is a new waste,

Here after climbing
The Mountains of Maybe
And, foolishly,
Keeping my sights

On the summit,

Tumbling headlong into
The Desert of Never.

I want to turn my back on this journey

That has tried me
Judged me,
And found me lacking.

But to leave,
I must bury
The remains of my heart
At the base of the Tree

That marks the entrance

To Beyond.