White Russian (Random)

Another day, another drink on this mahogany bar I've grown so used to.  The same scratch marks, the same glasses, hell even the teasing percussion on the back of my ears felt familiar from times past.  I'm sure if I had given it my audience I would have found it to be unrecognized.

I lifted my glass and finished the first drink of the night, my beloved white russian.  I gestured the bartender who gave me his nod, the same one he's given me since my first night here.  Seems like centuries since then.  "Another white russian please" his nod I'd grown so fond of gave segue to the birth of my next glass of the night.  Vodka and coffee liqueur danced together in a spiral towards the stage of shimmering glass, flowing with the grace that is appreciated by so few as it settled around the seats of ice.  Curtain call came with the cream, a billowing conclusion to my drink of choice.  The bartender settled the drink and placed his signature nod.  I drew the glass in, admiring the scent.

I felt so at peace in this moment, the constant pace of work gave little retreat into moments like this, it would be safer to say it was void of any silent happiness to the core.  The constant rearranging of rare, exotic machinery across the country was no easy task.

Enough of that, I'm in my world now.  Here to stay as long as I need.

"So, come here often?" I heard from behind me, a smooth and majestic query settled in the seat beside me, almost as if it were a light gust flowing by.  I looked, a slight turn of the head presented a figure of which I have never seen in person.  My attention ensnared I took a full view of the intensity that has taken interest in me.  Pearl skin wrapped in a silk of red I couldn't take my eyes off.  The one thing that was more breathtaking than the deep red were the eyes.  Eyes of glistening amethyst  framed in locks darker than the grim reapers cloak.  She was unlike anything I've ever seen before, I found it hard to even think that her upward inflected statement was directed at me, if her sight wasn't latched onto me I would have never answered her.

"Often? sometimes it feels like I never leave" after I said it, I wished I hadn't.  What a stupid thing to say.

"That sounds nice" velvet letters across my ears.  Did I say something right?

"It seems like I'm burdened to never see the same faces, feel the same familiar scratches in the bar.  The glasses, the crystal on the shelves.  I envy that" her fingernail played at the scars in the mahogany, scars I was familiar with.  Memory's prodded at the back of my mind.

"So, what are you having this go'round?" She gestured at my drink with a finger.  What did I get? How stupid am I.  Getting so lost like that, I must have looked ridiculous.  I made slow retreat to a more proper, upright posture.

"White russian, my usual" A smile sailed around her porcelain skin.  She leaned in, showing her interest.

"My personal favorite" her fingers interlaced "My personal sanctuary in a world of noise" She snapped her fingers, the bartender nodded.

"A white russian please, and put his on my check if you would" The bartender nodded, did she just pay for my drink? Confusion started to make root.  I'm nobody, a regular, a head in the clouds.  Yet, somehow this, which is something that could very well be from my wildest dreams is conversing with me.  I feel frustration blooming.

Am I dreaming? Or could it be that I've dipped into a dementia like state? I feel numb, but a wave of warmth overwhelms the back of my hand.  She touched me, her thumb massaging my knuckles, one after another.  She smiled at me.  A smile so comforting, so welcoming I couldn't help but crack a smile of my own. A genuine smile, not the kind I masquerade with.  She brought her drink up to view.

"A toast, to the drink of peace and solitude in a world of ambient noise and distraction" A toast.  Well, if this is in fact a dream or a joyful moment of dementia, I have no reason not to indulge in it.  I raise my glass, give it a gentle knock against hers, and we trade another smile.  Bigger than the last.

I feel again, the faded shirt on my back, the weight of the coat behind it.  The percussion teased my ears again, the radiating warmth of her hand still holding mine.  The pulsating healing warmth drew me out of the near dead state I had occupied for years now, a state of cynicism and reality I had grown used to seemed further away for a moment.

Please, stop time.  Even just for this moment.

Formal poems (Homework)

Rose of war (revision


Here I am standing in the center
Standing between lovers of combat and war
The tools of men’s hate that beg for no more
Than to make rupture that my heart cannot render
For in this place I am not a contender
Their armor and weapons that beg for much more
The blood in their hands is beginning to pour
Here I am standing in the center
The armor behind me is ready to fight
To take on the soldiers of hate
Thick armor plating to protect her today
The woman ahead is off in mid flight
To reel in the opposing forces like bait
Her weapon like body protects her this day

Madness

What is this thing we call madness really

Is it a thing for us to fear or to avoid hastily

What if its related to another of strong choice

A word with such immense power and poise

That its capable of corrupting almost equally

The word I’m talking about is of course is bravery

don’t you think it’s a close resemblance anyway

They both dig in and move you with choice

Madness is a choice of anger and hostility

Bravery is a decision of strength and sincerity

One of hate one of love such influencing voice

Warmth of blood or lovers hand it is your choice

Madness and bravery are one in the same equally

A waste of time and money?

So if you didn't know from my recent posts, I've been in a writing class.  Intro to creative writing 2250.  This class, is something that I've been trying to get into for the past 2+ years of school.  Its only a single class so it fills up really quick when registration comes around.  I was lucky to get a seat, or so I thought.

I just had mid-terms last week and at this point in the class, I don't like it.  Its not the classmates, most of them are tolerable.  The issue I'm having here is the content being taught and the teacher.  I'm going to say it, I don't like the teacher.  From the get-go I didn't.  In all the time I've had in the class she has not left a good impression on me.  But the biggest deal in the class for me is the content we're dealing with. Its a creative writing class and all the homework is disgustingly specific.  Homework A has to be done in this format and style or else its not acceptable.  Homework U must be completely broken down and rewritten in a format ranging from 1-5. Homework L has to be a formal poem down to the umpteenth degree.

Now I understand its important to see and try various forms of writing but I feel the class is limiting.  When everything has to be done in a specific way the creativity falls into a bottleneck.  Not a single piece of writing I've done for the class has had my full heart into it (exclude one or two maybe) I haven't been inspired at all in this class and my lack of interest is starting to impact my grade.  I took mid-term and didn't do so well, and I don't care that much.

I keep telling myself that this isn't something in my major (which is still undeclared) and that just makes me daydream the class away "Ok, a formal poem and last weeks assignment must be redone in a new style... great..." The teacher throws out the names of other writers and I'm sitting here thinking 'who the hell is that?'

Since starting college I haven't felt this frustrated with a class in a LONG time.  Pretty much my first batch of classes were a waste of my time and money as I took other classes I started to get better rounded in how the college life works, I've found teachers I like (one I hope to get into next semester for another round of psychology) teachers I hate (most of my auto shop teachers) and teachers that didn't wow me (intro to English)

Is this class a waste of time? maybe, maybe not.  Have I learned anything? not much that feels can improve me as a writer (a writer of fiction to be specific) cause thats what I wanted from this class.  Improvement, the ability to write something I have heart in, let my classmates tell me how it was and let me revise it.

I don't like this class.  I worked hard to get the seat I have and I no longer want it.  I had high expectations for this class, just to have it become a disappointment.