Archives for February 2005

The Culture of Roomates

Okay, I am trying to get a handle on room mates. They are starting to feel like family, so they are a social institution much like school, government, or the Mafia. So far, I enjoy the room mates, but the disagreements grow deeper. The key is silence, and learning to listen to them when they talk.

For my Cultural Anthropogy class, I am supposed to do field work. I’ve been eyeing the social interaction of my room mates. How do other room mates interact with each other?

Crazy Jane

She will confuse her companion,
test his might, and his will.
Her insecurity kills dreams.
She’s clouded, worried, and faithless.
Then she stops, and changes course.
All is happy again.
Everything is without manipulation.
A few days go by,
and then she’s worried and judgmental.
Then, she’s happy again,
and becomes afraid.
She washes the dishes
with deep sorrows.
The husband watches her
from the kitchen table.
He’s uncertain.
His muscles are sulking,
his feet feel heavy on the linoleum.
The woman is quiet.
Her conspiracy is planted.
There’s an escape,
and she will vanish.
He cannot place a finger on her sorrows,
or the grief on the dishes.
All he can hear
is her footsteps moving restlessly
through the corridors
of the noisy farm house.
Later, he’s sitting in his study,
reading the latest in world affairs.
While sipping on hot coffee,
and eating Swedish Fish.
The television is buzzing
in the background.
The tree outside, is violent with
wind from the desert.
It’s clashing the chimes,
and rapping the unpainted picket fence.
Off in the distance
a windmill swiftly turns
in the face of the oncoming storm.
He hears a sudden noise.
The wife has vanished.
He walks slowly upstairs.
He knew she struggled,
and wanted someone new.
She wanted to twist
his feelings into a tight ball,
that she could knit.
Her misery belonged to him.
It was his fault.
He was the villain.

I usually don’t write fictional story poems like this. I was also challenged to write something a bit more dark.

Untitled

The clouds are like monsters descending upon the plateau, with shadows that blanket the landscape. The rain comes in February, in place of snow. When the desert is sweet, and quiet, nothing moves but the occasional wind. The sweet smell of rain mixes with fresh smells of Juniper, sage, and even the aromatic sand. I can feel spring coming, on the horizon; coming like a cloud shadow, to greet me. Spring comes to my window, song birds come to the trees.

On another note, I keep thinking of myself as an old man. I fear the thought of being prepared by some mortuary. To my future children, please don’t let these villians do this to me! I want you to haul me out into the middle of nowhere, and let the coyotes fill their stomachs. Let the hungry raptors feed their young. I don’t want to be stuck into one of those airtight coffins.