mirrored stone

unconditional, no exceptions, pre-determined, irreversible

forgiveness

there's nothing anyone could ever do

to get a cold shoulder 

personally, it's comforting

as unconditional love tends to be

but externally, infuriating

and I'm trying to find a loophole

maybe while you wait in line, 

it looks like a forked road

so while you're waiting

you think there's two options

and before John Quiñones descends 

and ushers you upward, 

you and everyone else in line is read aloud

a dramatic reading

of every single moment

you defined unconditional as reward or restrictive

then forged divine signature

and wore it like a crown 

so fragile and decorative it afforded you a wide girth around the wounded traveler

would that not burn greater than fire?

would you not be begging Lazarus for a drink?

an assurance of pardon?

an escape from your lived boomerang?

isn't the whole point that you won't have to?

that it's freely given?

it would be hell on its own

you can’t tell people they’re wrong

not really

they either already know

or don’t believe you

it has to come from them

but then it’s unbearable

the moment before we're aware, 

like Adam and Eve were 

of every gruesome, horrific, intolerable

thing inside us 

are we saved from devastating inner-exposure?

and reminded instead of our overwhelming light, our priceless, irreversible goodness?

clearly, I'm not there

were I in my twisted line today, 

I think they'd read this poem aloud

itself a realization of the target of its stones

the sound of strangers

there's a lot of things I don't understand about orange, ca

and the noise ordinance is no exception

my neighbors here in TN rent their house out to air b&b guests

often times these guests will take advantage of the house's modern pool, 

glowing hot-tub, or wide outdoor fireplace

usually starting around 9 or 10pm

and when they do I turn down my movie or music

and take my laptop into the room closest to their yard

so I can watch the reflection of their fireplace flicker in our window

and listen as they laugh and shout 

even as I start to get tired I don't want to leave the room, I don't want them to be out of earshot, or the soft, glimmering yard lights out of sight

my heart sinks when I hear them relocating inside for the night, their chatter dampening

I couldn't say why it's so deeply comforting to hear 

maybe because it means the night is young

or it lessens the loneliness of the dark 

electrically peaceful, maybe

when I was little I ate late with my family, around 9pm, when dad got off for dinner 

I always wanted the restaurants to be packed, and the lighting to be warm

restaurants right before closing felt off

I'd happily wait for a table if it meant the restaurant was so busy we had to

when people talked about NYC or Paris and said "the city that never sleeps"

my heart swelled

how whole it must feel there, I'd think 

freshman year I complained about the actors rehearsing boisterous scenes outside our door

but their yells and cries softened the dark night air of the building

sophomore year I complained of the guard talking loudly on his phone late one night in the courtyard

I even went outside to confront him

there were also the cabinet-closing enthusiasts who lived above us

but it made my nights up over books far more bearable

last year I lived on a quiet street

most weekend nights I had the house to myself

no one was outside my door screaming stage directions, talking on the phone, 

or gossiping in a hot tub or hall lounge 

It was luxurious, like such peace should be unattainable

there was no audible reason for me to believe I wasn't the only soul living on the street

perfectly, emptily, suffocatingly peaceful

sometimes as I was walking home I'd pass by a house with an open door and locked screen

and the sound of their living room TV would hit me like the warm, tingling burst of air when you open the door to a laundromat or a thick humid breeze that feels like a blanket

it's not extroversion 

it's that, while there's nothing so isolating as being alone among people you know, being alone among people you don't know feels almost as good as being at home among people you do

sometimes it hurts like a good stretch

tonight I'm listening to the muted sound of the neighbor's guests talking over each other

I haven't come within six feet of my friends in 4 months

it's lightly melancholic in a way that feels good

I hope I don't get so lucky with neighbors as I did last year,

hope I'm doomed to live forever next to or under or above or across from

party-throwing, nocturnal, families of eight

you can imagine my confusion at the conflict in Neighbors and Neighbors 2: Sorority Rising 

I can imagine myself filing a noise complaint, sure

but I can't imagine meaning it 

when I started writing this the guests next door were lively and laughing

now they've gone inside, their yard quiet and dark again

so I guess I'll retire to my room now,

now that I have some peace 

we're alone (for) now

    Since the initiation of this year's quarantine, the phrase "alone together" has worn to the point of over-use, so I think we should begin saying "we're alone" instead.

    There's a scene in the Netflix series Umbrella Academy in which five of the siblings that make up the main characters of the show have just reunited in their shared childhood home after years apart and have separated themselves around the expansive estate after an argument when Tiffany Darwish's I Think We're Alone Now starts playing throughout the house. Each of the five slowly begin dancing to themselves, gradually getting more free and uninhibited with their movement.

   That scene is perhaps the most striking of the consistently striking series, and is the ultimate voyeuristic experience of "looking through the keyhole", almost overwhelmingly intimate. 

    As a promo for the release date of  the series' upcoming second season, they've released an at-home remake of the scene, a remake made all the more poignant by the now-trite but true "alone together" nature of the quarantine. 

   In a series with gorgeously choreographed fight-scenes and enough explosions to rival Bond, this scene captures my attention more than any other, and induces my most emotional response. 

    Applying this song and scene to my circle of nearest-and-dearest feels about the same as overwhelming nostalgia to me. It's not original to be amazed by the fact that others exist just as we do, and are as real alone as they are when we're around and aware of them, not because we're all raging narcissists but because it's a truth we can't ever experience or observe, aside from stunning performances of unremarkable, intimate moments on stage or screen. But really considering that everyone, even as I type or you read, is independently doing something is somehow an overwhelming thought. 

    If someone cued up I Think We're Alone Now and zoomed out from my life to see my friends, scattered across the country and globe, all independently dancing or reading or scrolling or sleeping or typing or cooking or driving, would that viewer too be moved to tears?, rewatching the clip over and over? 

    Beyond my circle of friends and family, it's boggling to consider this concept of simultaneous existence continuing for everyone I've ever known, barring instances of death. Once-friends I haven't talked to since middle-school, everyone I've ever had an argument with or grown apart from, the people I resent and the people I idolize, the guys who changed my oil today. I trust you're capable of coming up with your own examples of "people I've seen at least once". 

    Earlier today something sparked the memory of a conversation I had with a cabin-mate at summer camp, probably around 2012, and I wondered if I could find her online. All I had to go by was a first name, and I only very vaguely remember what she looked like. Of course I couldn't find any profiles that were promisingly hers, her existence in my mind is limited to us sitting on a hill pulling weeds out of the dirt and discussing dinosaur armpits. But even she is (hopefully) somewhere performing her own moment of independent-existence. Just because I may not (knowingly) ever see her again doesn't mean she hasn't stopped existing as I do, and that gets me every time. Maybe I just struggle with object permanence. 

    Watching that scene was the first time I'd heard the Tiffany classic, and on its own it's a stellar composition, but I don't think I'd have the same appreciation for it away from the keyhole through which I first heard it played. There's just something more profound about two(+) people being simultaneously apart and alone than two people being alone together. Maybe it's that watching others perform solitude is such a salve, usually we only ever see ourselves alone. Or maybe it's just articulate. I'm not alone, but we're not "alone together", we're alone. 

master of things unseen

she's a master of things unseen

she knows them, some by name

in brief a time she knows them well 

each day they share a game

she watches, sings, and plays with them

she shares with them her heart 

they share their secret tales with her

and she shows them her art 

she is not a ruler, just good at making friends

and all their unseen masquerades she happily attends 

her near and dearest watch her,

while she sings and talks

but do not share her untrained eye 

and cannot walk her walk 

she's an expert in her field, 

a guru on such things

she's privy to the unseen worlds,

their castles and wise kings,

she knows of what they like to eat

and how they like their tea

but come moon-rise, her studies rest,

this master is but three 

the fae-folk would like you

you know, the fae-folk would like you

that glimmer in your eye

the way you chuckle needlessly

and wink to say goodbye

you know, the fae-folk would like you

they'd like the tunes you sing

they'd like the way you like to sneak

and question everything

you know, the fae-folk have watched you 

the way you play and jest 

the way you dance so late at night

and waltz before you rest 

you know, the fae-folk would like you

that fire in your feet

the way your stomach burns each night

when you lay down to sleep 

there's magic in your presence

a truth well understood 

and if you just believed a bit

you'd see that you are good 

The Moths

I spoke of the crickets in the kitchen

but limitless are the wonders of an old house

I speak now on the moths

Several weeks ago a study was released by NASA

then augmented and ornamented by tabloids

but my mother doesn’t need sensational claims of alternate dimensions

she’s known all along they were there

because of the moths in the kitchen

Try visually following the flight of a moth

You won’t be able to entirely, I assert

She’ll flicker in and out, disappearing and reappearing to your right or left

Attracted to electric light, all the more if it blinks like her wings

I’ve seen Stranger Things

Moths are creatures of night, of the lights made bright in the night

but moths are not 3D

Possessing abilities we’ve not yet attained despite all our effort

but ignored at best, resented at average, and despised at worst,

moths effortlessly hover in and out

revering their blinking light and subtle, velvety display

They fly from behind me, emerging, evidently, from the smooth plaster of my wall

Hiding their travels in plain sight

True masters of disguise and stealth, yet asking only for bread, maybe some fabric

Were we to share their ability, we would not airily glide among our worlds, taking only a bit of cake and cotton

We would revel in the warcraft of it

Far from the serene subtly she presents

We would instigate oppression with the careless manner of a moth floating breezily through a lamp-lit living room 

What is all this to say?

With the unhurried confidence of a showy fox or subtle moth

We have so much un-mastered

And even more unobserved

Purgatory

I've always found the word "purgatory" comforting

If "heaven" is predictable and trite, 

"purgatory" is fresh, 

secretly exciting. 

The word is funny

"purgatory"

even a protestant can spin it. 

I'm not Catholic, 

but if heaven is perfect and final, 

then purgatory is my paradise.

I've never not been in anticipation

I lay down with a knot in my stomach 

what's next? 

every night for 21 years

wonder keeps me rising

Stability means certainty

Certainty means....nothing

dull, monotony, purposeless, stuck 

being stuck in paradise is being stuck. 

The best I've ever been is in moments of utter suspension

anything could be next

the risk of catastrophe is worth the exhilarating possibility of....who knows?

It's not that I'm sure it'll work out

I'm not

In fact I know it won't

It's that I understand the double-sided sword of uncertainty, and I claim it 

I have said goodbye forever

I know people don't reanimate

There is no re-wind 

It's not even that the risk of hell is worth it for heaven, 

It's that the risk of hell is worth it for the thrill of not-knowing. 

It's a pity I'm a Presbyterian

In my theology not a soul escapes heaven, not even the worst

And here I am, saying an uncertain damnation 

is better than a certain salvation. 

So what have I to cling to but a mysterious, 

liminal,

purgatory?

The last post-mortem vestige of anticipation,

suspension,

and uncertainty.

There are a few certainties I hold dear,
certainties I would be wasted without,
but few in number compared to the limitless opportunities to not-know.

I can't imagine being old enough to know where I'll die

advanced enough to know who I'll be 12 months 

or even what I'll look like in two years.

I'll tell you the worst part of growing up.
The worst part is every year that passes leave's less time for mystery.
For example
I already found out where I go to college, what I major in, and what wonderful people I meet.
That's three surprises, already exposed.

It's going so fast, it feels like I fast-forwarded and accidentally saw spoilers.
I want to savor every moment of ambiguity.

Anyone could tell you what their heaven looks like

Pearly, iridescent, soft, clean

But I swoon at the silence produced when you ask of purgatory

Thresholds are my home. 

So I hope I'm pre-destined 

to never be sure.

Crickets in the Kitchen

There're crickets in your kitchen, probably

Who you'll only see at night

Late late, at maybe 2 or 3 

At first glance, they're large spiders

But they're not large spiders

They're crickets

Strong, quick, and scared

You likely won't hear them singing 

Not in the kitchen

It's rare in fact that you saw them at all

Now there's nothing wrong with crickets in the kitchen

(Aside from the fact that they're trapped) 

Though you'll think there is, even if you can't say why

You'll be uncomfortable with the crickets in the kitchen

Disturbed, somehow

But believe me, they're not thrilled either

You listen to their songs every night

You might say you're a pretty big fan

Were it not for their nightly sets, you'd be left with your own thoughts 

Dreary and dark

No, you appreciate their work

But not in your kitchen

Magic of Modern Family

Wednesday is....the third-coolest Addams, hump-day, not spelled like it sounds, and for eleven years, Modern Family day. April 8th marks the end of the yearly renewal, but not the legacy and lessons, of two legends of screen, both of which brought out my best by expecting my best.

Yesterday (April 8, 2020), the very last episode of Modern Family aired, bringing to a close a (little over a) decade-long narrative. Yesterday was also the eleven-year anniversary of the death of my father, who had been in my life for a decade. Modern Family ran for eleven years and it's been eleven years since that 'first' April 8. 

I started watching Modern Family every highly-anticipated Wednesday night not long after April 2008, and it's intro music still stirs up a stomach-deep kind of nostalgia. It's been a long time since I've watched it religiously, or watched anything on air, having since followed precedent to use streaming services. Even so, Modern Family is so familiar, that it seemed like a constant.

Throughout my elementary years, instances of elders treating me like I was smart and perceptive stuck with me. I still remember the gracious and impossibly cool adults from Circle Players with whom I felt like an equal, camp-counselors and teachers who spoke plainly and frankly with me, and Modern Family, which, despite my young age and incredible naïvety, never hit me over the head with a joke, but threw them aside like I was a young comic mastermind. Modern Family is smart, but even more impressively it makes its audience feel smart. 

Equally astounding and inspiring is its ability to comfortably position viewers in a world potentially out of their comfort zone without "othering" any one area. It establishes the familiarity required to allow openness for exploring unfamiliarity, and in doing so never admonishes us or suggests that it's making us face our ignorance. Each household is equally dysfunctional, equally wonderful, and equally featured. While viewers might first choose one to call home, after a few episodes the distinct households come to collectively represent the dysfunctional beauty of any one viewer's unique family and experience. 

Even beyond making me keener and kinder all while cackling, Modern Family showed me that a tv show can do that, a fictional story with which I've never directly interacted, can do that. It expected us to be perceptive and empathetic, and so we were. 

It was my plan to conclude this with a carefully fashioned connection between these two April 8ths, over a decade apart, but I'm avoiding finales, I haven't even watched it yet. It's over, but I don't want it to end.