Water

    Water rushes throughout your entire being like anguish up against itself. Your mind reels, wondering about your reactions, wondering why you are so eager to please and so prone to tears. How painful it is to say goodbye; you would almost rather not say hello at all because you cannot fathom how you were looked up after so much time in the first place. What is the meaning of your existence in the eyes of one too many someone elses, and why does it matter anyways what others think about you? They’re generally wrong, and such criticisms are a toxic fertilizer deceiving your heart into breathing deeply only to cough out the heart-ache a few miles down the boulevard. And you don’t know what is worse, the deception, the attempt to recover from the blow, or the tangle of emotions that tear you apart from the inside out. You wonder what it is inside of you that spills so easily and how shall you clean up the mess, each and every time? Is it a horrible mistake to allow a stranger to view your depths and what does it mean when someone known becomes a mere stranger? Ghosts take over the lives of those you resist loving and haunt you like the residue of carelessly applied glue. Some will eat glue in early school years; a sticky attempt to remain faithful to the self. Others manage to spill the glue all over so as to secure lingering deadweights and the guarantee of stagnancy galore. Lack of movement is the cluster of hallucinations that come into effect when view is limited to one wall lacking shape, lacking color. No memory or desire can beat the feeling of importance, of knowing that one fits and is rooted. Landslides crash down the hillside with you as the target, adding fuel to the fire of hypocrisy when what you say is what you veer clear away from doing. There is nothing more harmful than feasting upon self and forgetting the rest of the world. But what is there to do besides worry about the rest of the world, its tastes and reactions, and the complexity of each individual? Each and every one of us creates reactions by way of choice and then we in turn stand back to admire the results that may either implode or expire. The best of times are when absence blossoms and a silent moment grows slick with idea. Time alone burrows away from the dry and greedy sun, requesting two waters instead of one. And even while one voice so close and full of insistent claim drops monotonic through a floorless floor, closer echoes bear witness to appreciation, clasping honor head-on. Number one on any list is trust, for a series of taut backs are oft to be seen fading into a grey horizon that is neither dawn nor dusk. Lies are the juicy middle of endless dream worlds; without beginning or end. Arching into submission, a beam of light twists around to face the enemy of its nonexistent head; the false curl of its sadly unborn tail. No introduction or familiarity is necessary when all that you mean is goodness; rounded like a song in mid-air stretching across an expanse of liquid so dense it makes earth look drinkable. A smile stretched across the pupils consoles the soul by way of closure. Yet, trying too hard is sheer method for transparency, the kind that does not lead to intimacy, but strips away thick bark to reveal deadly mites with needle-point teeth etching away your life story across the back of a towering and yet strangely timid tree. You cease to fight because you come to fear joy itself, sidling over to the companionship of book ends, hollow at center but still standing. To exist as the substance for the support of a structure long since dismissed reminds you of how the familiar becomes so vague in the blind eyes of the weary. A good ways down the road you will encounter a lady on her porch rocking to the rhythm of life itself and rolling with the punches. Resistance feeds the black and blue like how the fight within yourself over yes or no seems to rip out your throat and feed it to the masses. Far better it is to meander apart from the others and trace shadows with your mind’s fingertips. Better to feel nothing at all; to save it all for later when more is safe. Sometimes the enemy has not the right to know or the ability to understand that the pieces of a heart while shattered will always remain close at hand to ride the waves of sweet and delectable pain each time they, together or unescorted, cross one kind of threshold or another. 

    Senses or not, it is kind to be aware. Slowly tasting the heat of a day, you savor and ponder experience before releasing it into the space of pure absence. It is good to keep in mind that most things make no sense whatsoever, especially concerning themes of love (which are all of what makes anything worth-while, either savored for the flicker or the flight). Sentences blend in this night of clashing and clanging and no one beat can agree to link or unlink, to defile or decorate where ground grows soft and water hard on the hair in the green of a day after plenty of words unsaid create stories in your head molding form into fiction and loss into delight...Yesterday you lost something that for someone else was a blessing and the only disguise worn was the cold lack of dismay. Still, two sweets tickled a fancy so in tune with reluctance the warm air bore down and you couldn’t make up your mind, so you merely sat and stared at them as if you were one of them churning with the wind against traffic and shortly prior to the click of a hang-up call. Certain people feel as if they are the hang-up call; that they have been put out like a match in a damp cave. Conversation continues on in your head and that is the most dangerous thing of all. Imagination chases away adoration with a cleaver and mocks all forms of amusement like reading backwards and upside-down in order to open a drawer in the subconscious mind that long ago stuck shut and rusted over. As of yet there exist no handles, and while bare in appearance and completely lacking any apparent function, the wooden contraption has lasted beyond the harsh words and farewells. Your latest lesson in life, whatever it may be, is something to practice frequently and with utter sincerity, as you plough forth into the land of ever-evolving enchantment.

Jennifer Burnside

Insomnia

    Sometimes the songs of birds sound mechanical, like a buzzer or some kind of alarm whining to itself in solitary desperation. At central depth of night, our surroundings ring like ancient neon lights, crying with mournful triple-strength at the brink of death. Random people, invisible behind the evergreens, associate coquettishly, blind under the impression that minus the sun, they are together alone. Triumphant carriages launch into departure, with full orchestras resounding from their famished bellies and bottomless urges. And despite the low gurgle of bass and bulbous tuba, the music shines classy under the witnessing stars. The blue gloss of daytime falsehood lies as a sheer coating, smudged but transparent still. And the devious undertakings of one too many hours ago point their minute hands at the fateful hour. Thus, night’s chalky skeleton can be seen through the thin skin of the day.

    There is a cricket who resides directly outside our bedroom window. He loves to fiddle away throughout the darkest hours until the break of dawn. When light begins to creep woozily over the rumps of the hills, he puts away his coarse instrument and falls into a pleasant slumber. What a royal life the cricket lives. He is our closest neighbor and alternates between serenading us into a state of utter bliss, and driving us slowly insane. It is a day in the night of Insomnia!


Jennifer Burnside

Clarity

    The morning is clear and crisp and blue. The planets hide safely behind thick atmosphere of light, but I can sense their presence lingering with concern. The trees stand still in awe as beauty saunters by. And shadows paint perfect contrast across the surface of visible day. Looking for illusions today, seeing past sight and hearing genuine sound is choice meal on the menu. Don’t believe that the energy with which the birds use to sing and soar can drain the bones right out of your feet in milkshake fashion. Just breathe and smile, listen and learn, for truth is a camouflage. It is the texture of the forest through which pure waters flow with the shimmering iridescence of moonstone. All will be well, the waters whisper.


Jennifer Montemayor

Colliding into Death

    We visited the site of the accident yesterday. Pulling over onto the road’s soft shoulder, other vehicles flashed by with threatening gushes of hot air. The car’s hazard lights pumped our hearts into a frenzy of drumbeats. We found the path, the toppled branches snapped and raw, the trunks of strong trees missing chunks like a juicy apple that’s been bitten in to by a hungry mouth. The atmosphere hummed with emotion. Rusty blood marks shared clues of a story without a beginning or a definite end. We crouched to sort through the rubble, handling broken remnants with pensive caution. The tragedy is air-borne; it is contagious and stains the soul with sorrow. We are helpless and this feels horrible. Living through vague snatches of a nightmare, we faced sharp reality: the rearview mirror around which loops an ancient wooden rosary missing its cross-beam, a shattered window, shards of reflection, shiny discs of music speckled with life’s elixir spilled, pieces of a life lost, objects that once accompanied a young man through his daily life….We left a slice of our hearts by the side of the road at the scene of a loss.

Jennifer Burnside

Clutching Survival

    Somehow we exploded to a halt; lurching in agony and disappointment, our shiny sage dolphin gasped his final breath for the evening. A long sturdy whale saved the day in all his foul odor and glory, while the hot gusty winds heaved with aggression. Outside passed the waters and hairy hills, itching to shed their skin without shame. And we plowed forward with a vengeance.

Jennifer Burnside

Wolf's Cousins

    Naughty little creatures associate with one another in a fashion more complex than what meets the eye. Sauntering, circling, pawing at the other’s face with unrestrained envy, the tightly muscled canine believes she has willed her foe to retreat. She is hungry, greedy, and rules the roost. But he cares little for her superiority complex and high demeanor. Without a care, the licorice hound wanders off in search of more amusing diversions.

Jennifer Montemayor

The Game

    The air holds its breath in expectation. And a stern icy exhalation from distant coastal mountains cleanses life of its noon-time sweat. Excitement escalates and voices in chorus bustle like fast-talking sea-gulls. Everywhere there is movement and yet one moment in time seems frozen like the small turtle in a stagnant pond of a water-color painting. Frame by frame, the day passes in flickers like a cartoon court-jester playing hide-and-seek with his own shadow. And then, quite suddenly, the game is over and a multitude of neatly lined-up players clap hands with jolly satisfaction.

Jennifer Burnside

Passion Aroused

    Rippling down the drain, shards of old broken dreams collide in to one-another, causing a new form of music to transpire. Crystalline harmonies charm into existence the faintest and most obscure buds of new hope, who in turn, blossom into unexpected desires. Not all dreams can be retained in the thick scheme of things. Even as perception writhes and molds itself into fresh forms, the subconscious mind gazes keenly at itself in the mirror, pantomiming recognition. Expectations make a U-turn and soon become lost amidst a tangle of arteries and half-truths. Wandering lost between countless pools of softly drowned yesterdays, one comes to realize how soggy is life without the sun. How dull are windows without the light. How dismal grows the day that lacks a song. And so we cartwheel across the field, swim across the river, and claim the only heart we were ever truly meant to love—one mate of the soul, pure and constant, deliciously divine, yours and mine.

Jennifer Burnside

The Hideous Cow

    There was a hideous cow in all her glory, shrieking at the top of her despicable lungs. She painted a pretty picture, all red in the face on a pleasant afternoon. Like an uncapped fire hydrant she gushed forth curses galore as if they were loose turds being flung at an innocent wall. Imagine that such a wall could step to the side just in the nick of time to miss a splattering of filthy humiliation…but walls don’t swerve- they stand strong- until it’s time to amble away and reinvent the meaning of boundaries...With udders swinging haphazardly beneath a clashing blur of cheap tie-dye, the bloated cow bellowed miserably for all to hear, unaware of how ugly she appeared swathed in sheer anger. She chewed and spit her slimy cud with an undeniable vengeance that ate away deep holes in the paved sidewalk as only the most caustic of acids can. Her filthy attitude polluted the air with a sinister smog that grew so thick she could no longer see. After the exit door scooted closed with firm confidence, the hideous bovine made her way back to the toxic swamp from whence she came. And although she was quite fortunately never heard from again, we still catch a whiff of her stench on the breeze.

Jennifer Burnside

Looking Back Fondly- Living Now Strongly

    With “The Cure” lighting the morning’s path, I remembered our life in the woods, the mysterious world that was our future gaping at us with possibility…everything glowed with enchantment even when sorrow rained upon our souls. I still have the blue bottle of 1 dram Frankincense from “The Perfumed Dragon” of The Renaissance Faire. Smelling that sweet earthen scent, I am transported to dusty paths and beaming faces of actors full of energy and humor. We spoke in poetry and felt art and music with our sixth senses. Now we keep those memories closed up tight within intricate treasure boxes. Time passes and we forget what is contained inside these precious faded parcels. So much has happened, changed, and grown, and we have flown off to our own mountains. We gaze at the sea; in the eyes of our minds the tides charm with moon’s sacred rhythm. Looking back fondly- living now strongly…

    Here the birds sing as if in harmony. They represent an array of colors and moods, yet beckon the sunrise each morning in their own unique way. We went to the maze on Sunday and discovered a Hawaiian carving that appears to be a totem. It guards over our dreams with focused clarity…

    Or perhaps it draws the subconscious mind out of its clam-shell to reveal pearls of well-ripened wisdom…

    I hear cars rushing like a waterfall, somewhere gliding along softly in the distance. These metallic dolphins gleefully race one another in the night. They create waves with their movement.

    An energy paces through my system and I can hear new path-ways being formed. Perhaps I am bursting with sheer delight for there is a small creature, assembled by pure passion that bats at invisible flies inside of my belly. We saw the truth with our very own eyes and like for a cartoon in black and white, the soundtrack must be spicy…for the blessed star is jitterbugging away!

Jennifer Burnside

Dream's Many Voices

    I was deceived, but the deception faded into oblivion. And thus from the murky gloom sprouted understanding. Dreaming awake, such a horror spread like spilled ink across the page of my day and cast an ominous shape that to my mind’s eye equaled ruination. Despair; what to do with feelings that sting like a pepper-mouthed snake covered in quills. And how to roll with the rhythm as if somehow the suns’ lies were only a matter of deciphering shadows from light… It’s not that simple, really, when blame wrings her small jaws tight like damp cloth. The soil is nurturing and a cool brook soothes as she flows over raw cheekbones, rough with heat. Fault is a matter of back-and-forth, like an old-fashioned game of tennis in the lawn at dawn. Players’ mouths stretch tight against disapproving faces hiding truths and re-inventing circumstances. And vows pertaining to truth mean little when spoken between two adversaries, whose minds are each incased in a balm of waxy perception, and beneath all the layers remain far too slippery to grasp. Riding the hurricane, words work to destroy every last ounce of sanity, tipping the chairs and shattering dishware within the haphazard structure of the sinister moment-to-be. Sick, so very sick is the train of thought which chugs down the tracks of doubt, happy as a star-thistle. The smoke is thick, concealing the sky and the ground all at once. A spiky flower is the heart, cold and sharp when it all comes crashing down. We will wheedle the arrows out of the flesh with reckless abandon, to avoid the torture that unabashed pondering brings.

    In the dream there was a girl draped in a sunset gown, trapped within a block of ice and floating in the sea. The water was briny as ocean water is, and I swam out to her with my condolences strapped across my shoulders like a satchel. She was sad and from another world and we spoke briefly until a pair of sharks approached. It was important to note that the sharks were crossing each-other, which meant that their fins were facing opposite directions making an x. I knew they would dance forth to devour me ankle-first, so bade the sunset farewell and swam desperately to shore. There was a tall building on the main-land and I entered through the front door. Gaieties were in order; party people and somber folk mixed together as if they in combination were the absolute norm. I sifted through the blend and crossed the theatre stage, passed classroom doorways, and even entered the never-ending attic which has existed in countless dreams past. This old cavernous storage space boasts canned goods, clothing, boxes and so forth, but with each step, the objects within appear ever more colorful and fascinating. And as you delve deeper into its dark bowels, the attic seems to tip, and you slide in further without exerting any force whatsoever. In the attic, you move forward without taking a step, and spiders weave their webs behind you at a shockingly rapid pace. Once out of the attic (somehow), wonderful things began to take place incorporating tones of lush greens and royal purples, but my conscious mind cannot register or recollect such beauty at this time.

    Back to the present, consider the voice- how it curves and trembles magically- or so it seems. Can the voice be drawn back as if it were on a yo-yo string? Can it retract like a tape-measure after hitting the wrong pitch or transmitting the wrong words? While it moves across space and even sometimes across time, the voice carries so many meanings in its delicate net. Draping sound across the temporal abyss that is the melody between each heart-beat, the voice brings truth and illusion to the table. And there are no chairs, few reservations, and never is a guest for want of breath.

January 30, 2012

Jennifer Montemayor

By the Lagoon

    Do you remember how to tell a scary story? Yesterday deep in the night, a young man recalled his youthful nightmares which have transformed into sentimental thrills of an old boy’s waking moments.

    Once long ago in the very high mountains, an elf-child clambered up mighty rocks, in pursuit of intrigue. Up ahead, laden with numerous satchels, the leanly muscled healer embraced his envious pursuers despite the dry heat. In the distance, an abandoned mine yawned with its first breaths of awakening, as strange organic chemicals leaked with a vengeance out of his gaggle-toothed chasm. The adventurers approached as dusk set in, and an icy metal tank encased their weary bodies as they with rest renewed themselves for the unpredictable excitement that lay ahead. For a span of days, they strove to discover magic and wealth. They worked as a team, sweating and swearing for success’ sake. But rewards were few, and the grand treasure proved a fair illusion, far more transparent than the silk of a skillful moth. There was a curse on the head of the temptress, who chanted her melodies of shiny gold and diamonds. Her voice was a double-edged sword, and her promises of fine winnings led more than a few fervent travelers into the quickest of sand. Fortunate for the child and his loving guides, the fresh waters of a sweet-flowing river shone brighter in the morning than all the stars in the skies of their wildest dreams. Thus, a refreshing swim pelted all senses to a pulp of utter contentment, and the grateful men of the white lagoon lingered until mid-day together in the lap of nature. So, while spirits still swim through the water-ways under the floor-boards and murmurs divide sane minds in two jagged halves night after urban night, all is well in the mountains. The clouds rest assured of this uncanny peace and link arms with chubby hearts brimming over and over again with grandfatherly love.

January 21. 2012

Jennifer Montemayor

Relief's Wool Cloak

    When the small lithe branches twist carefully around warm paths of leaf-life, the sun shakes her head with a sigh. Plastered to the ground like a patch-work quilt, autumn colors hum low beneath the surface, taunting out of tune despite their studies. Delving deep into the fish-filled divide, the villager’s nets came up straining full of leather boots and tic-tac-toes, but the rain enriched the day despite the downpour. What little do we know of circuitries and web-weavers, and yet we attempt to define time and splice life. Moments tip forward like a bottle at the brink, and every stick of candy lies cloaked on the edge of the sink, expressing itself with one line or another. When all else fails, we have chinks of the moon to gather and sort. Such busy-work leads the way to brighter days. And while the listless clouds release their inner hosts, tear-drops tattle on the dancer as if there were two tomorrows, one kiss, and no more room for excuses.

January 21, 2012

Jennifer Montemayor

The Drought of Sensation

    Where is the rain at this time of year? We are thirsty and dry, but feel fulfilled by our journey to the hills and the high that consumed us when we ran around curves and deep into tall grasses. Ferns and the scent of eucalyptus are ever welcome and soothingly warm. Today was precious on the edge of the forest, and returning through the small town of mineral-etched fang-bearers, we lounge in complete contentment on the soft wolf blanket.

    Remember the mountains and breathe to the rhythm of loving thoughts.

January 8, 2012

Jennifer Montemayor

As If a Stage

    Lining a long rectangular table, 8 paired birds and I dined together as a kind of farewell. The girl with the old-fashioned smile was joined by her sweetheart whose yellow tendrils of hair lay fine like the fibers flowered tight within an artichoke heart. We spoke of spirits and how the city is too loud for certain sensory perceptions. The innocent open nature of children, the frame of certain bicycles, and undetected tastes in clothing were other topics of the eve, and laughter rolled down the lane free as a gander. Joy was in the air, but my significant darling worked in the dark, distant across town, and I could feel the separation physically but smiled nonetheless. Discussing the cards of the animals, all was made clear with glasses raised, and the musty oil was presented to the traveler who fears the unknown even as she yearns for adventure with utmost passion.

    Returning to the nest, we two shadows curled in bed like the packages of small dogs napping in the park on an autumn afternoon.

                                                                                                                                   

January 7, 2012

Jennifer Montemayor

Insect at Dawn

We awoke; two generations, six arms, and so late in the day he declared!

                

December 2, 2012

Jennifer Montemayor

Where the Mountain Meets the Sea

    We trailed along the mountainside, echoing greetings to passerby in such a joyful fashion that sensation nearly overdosed on endless bottles of sheer delight. Descending upon the curved valley of stone couches, we imagined what kinds of fascinating shows might have played themselves out upon a dry dirt stage. The voices of actors-past wisped past our hungry ears like breath from the pottery kiln. And the view, hazy but shining bright, lingered bashfully in the distance. We moved around corners and stepped gingerly over funky rocks, smiling at exposed roots and hovering branches which had become densely greened by humidity’s caress (deep in the night). The lines of fellow journeyers continued like dedicated ants, and our mutual salutes became a kind of game. We reached the fortress, a structure lined with wood and open like the mind’s-eye during a rapid dream. All was well and many forms of humanity perched together in small clusters, tasting the crisp air together as though it were exotic syrup from some mystical tree. But we did not linger. We plunged forward with determination, for the hope of ocean tides churned consistently against the near future. After a small series of leaps, flashes and slow luxurious sips, we three made our way to the bottom of the mountain and trudged through the sand to the lip of the sea. And all was well.

    Much later, music came by to syncopate the evening with its generous presence. Strings tightened, releasing such unpredictable vibrations, and laughter braced against the rough barrier of words left untouched like a forgotten meal. But we consumed every morsel with a passion, and sat back to observe the evidence of our verbal rampage. Time crept behind our backs and took us by surprise, in the dark, in the house, in the middle of the night…There is never a bad time for a good story!

January 1, 2012

Jennifer Montemayor

Hawk's Eye

Where did the time go this year, and how exactly did it pass? From where I stand spiritually between the crevice dividing feeling and sentiment, the dust indeed falls softly on this fine conclusion to what must have been a year. At least according to the division of days and hours, which in this society we must follow increment-upon-notion in order to collide into one another in perfectly unreliable rhythm. 

A specific measured year has come to its sunset settlement. While the movement of time has led within me to spaces unknown and haunts surfacing magically from the fog of the unforgotten, words are scarce and I fear must be hunted down and bound to the tracks for safe-keeping. 

We walked as the orange fire bled across a sky, complete with ribcage gash and all, feeling the wind raw against cool ears, communicating despite language. The view was enough, as the pleasure of nature snapped for us endless frames content to reside in the picture-postcard-pockets of our minds’ eyes and familial heart-motions. The trees swept audio inklings to the side like a waterfall in reverse, as waves of motion scooted across our path like playful squirrels formed by the substance of comprehension alone. 

Looping about the layered valley as dark approached, we rode the evening with delight, content with the walk and the sparkling of lights. Tree-shadows, our somber living audience, absorbed all shine from the moon, and yet the inverted creature, smooth and crescent, beamed bright enough to leave its kindness glowing upon the ground. 

Even after we had walked away to climb the final hill, that sweet space glowed with enchantment as only memories can, and the interaction of story-telling will be etched in my mind forevermore. So many things to learn from, but never fear, for lessons are painful, but awakening is the most beautiful state after the sort of deep sleep that is troubled by change. 

I am the hawk, and will be observing keenly with discernment, taking each detail into question and seeking answers within myself rather than attempting to interpret other people. 

They will do as they please, but blending of kind souls is ever more delicious as love grows and the heart knows…Music is the key and life is the rhythm: I will play the strings in harmony and find my melody again and again, defining space with each sigh.

December 31, 2011

Jennifer Montemayor