The old house

Fall

Every year at the end of August, as I anticipate the fall, I wonder if summer might go on forever. It seems impossible that it could end. The world is so green and so alive, and I can remember so many summers. It seems like all of my life has been summer. But here we are at the end of September, and the leaves have started to change. I can smell the familiar approaching chilly days. Without realizing it, I'm leaving the house wearing sweaters.

The beginning of any season brings with it confidence. I have plans, however indistinct, for the coming months. I know what to expect. I know the pattern. Fall is especially invigorating because of the cool and comfortable weather. I no longer have to dress with the aim of achieving maximum airflow to my skin.

This is the first fall I haven't been in school since I was four. Sure, I started classes in August, but I'd dropped them all by early September, and when I left I was still wearing short shorts and sweating on the walk home. The beginning of the season has always been closely tied to the beginning of school for me, and it's nice to drop all of those distractions and look at the season a little more closely. From now on, my life is a circle. School creates a pattern of starting and stopping lines--fall is the beginning of one year, spring is the end, and summer is the space in between. Then a new line starts. Now, I'm just moving through the seasons, never really stopping or starting. It feels nice.

I'm going to start using this blog more, hopefully. I'm going to try to post at least every two or three days, whether or not I feel like what I have is good enough to share. It'll keep me working while I'm not in school, and keep me thinking creatively. I'll be posting music, art, poetry, and whatever I'm working on. So be aware that none of it is finished work, and try not to think too poorly of me, but constructive criticism is still totally welcome!

Tim

The Chinese are always very frightened of the drowned one, whose weeping ghost, wet hair hanging and skin bloated, waits silently by the water to pull down a substitue.

—Maxine Hong Kingston

My uncle haunts me
stands on the toilet while I shower
eyes ringed with shadow
looks down over the curtain.

Fog clears on the mirror
reveals his bloated face
skin tight and shiny
jaw slack, pale open
lips with turned up corners
his eyes follow me as I
dry my hair, but he
can’t blink.

When I lay in bed at night
his knock is hollow on my door
mom said not to answer
not to let him in.

They never speak his name aloud
a ghost; it lingers on the edge of lips
unsaid. I break the silence
whisper Tim
turn the doorknob,
let him in.

The Fairy Ring

This cassette tape celebrated my birth
has played as many years
its gentle whisper of piano
synth and strings the Fairy Ring
as I read myself to sleep
in the darkest hours it keeps me under
one side crawls to its end I rise
eject and turn the tape
then back again to listen
moonlight moves across the floor

Now I see where fingers eroded
text on either side the composer faded
sings unsteady the sound
it aches my lungs and wavers
weakened short of breath
magnetic tape worn thin
wails hollow loss pitch warped
my voice is hoarse

I listen but can do nothing
sleep or turn back time
eject and turn the tape
at night I can do nothing
but hold the ruined song
hum what I remember

Clancey

This is just a first draft--let me know how I can improve it.

I’m worried, but I’m stuck inside all night
behind the counter serving those who can
take off as soon as they receive a call
from sobbing mothers asking for them there.
And yet the phone that rings is mine, it hounds
me, shaking with a nagging urgency
it rings, it’s mimicking the shaking of
her shoulders when I don’t respond. My phone
is silent now although I still can feel
the ringing on my skin, the cold vibration.

But later when I’m driving to her house
through empty streets in Omaha, the phone
is farthest from my mind. I only drive.
The streetlight streaming in illuminates
the faces of my friends; of those who know
the tragedy and feel the need to see
it for themselves. They knew him too, and we
cannot console each other, only share
this silence.      If he is dead when we
arrive we will return the way we came.