A stolen kiss
sheltered by the shedding trees
hidden by the passing clouds
and forgotten
tucked into my back pocket
where i keep a crumpled
picture of you and i
and all the things i
wished i'd said
before we said goodbye
our lips parted
not to meet again
an unspoken promise
sealed by broken promises of
phone calls and late night meetings
where we'd hold each other close again
seconds less each time
my arms growing heavier
with each moment that
you are not in them
and colder with the weight
until you melt me again.

looking through old stuff today

i've though of lots of words, phrases and lyrics
to sum up the feeling in the pit of my stomach
that is you
and i didnt want to make up my own
because you're too new
and i know i'll regret it later
but i know that you're not a you
anymore than he was a he
just an abstract idea
a face to place the butterflies on
to dream about in place of a pillow or teddy bear
and ive thought about how i could be a better you
a salt to your pepper
sugar to your cinnamon
and in a short time youve helped me to
develop more into
the me i want to be
and for that i cannot regret
your face on my butterflies

hardwood floors

My last four apartments had these beautiful hardwood floors in all of the bedrooms and living/dining rooms. As much as I love my new apartment, there is this sterile, hotel like feeling about it that the wall to wall carpeting really contributes to. I remember, the first time I went to New York City on my own was right after I moved into my first apartment, and while I was there I bought an old Josephine Baker record, some Duke Ellington, Count Basie, the Manhattan Soundtrack, and Cheap Thrills by Big Brother and the Holding Company. I kept my record player on the floor then. When I got home, I put on Joplin's Summertime, and laid down on the hardwood floor. It was November and freezing, since we hadn't put plastic on the windows yet, but there is something really nice about that memory, about being 19 and letting the little things be the big things. That was my favorite bedroom. I painted it bright orange and sponged a darker carrot color over it. I had a postcard collection that I hung with clothespins on a line i ran around the room off of the drop ceiling. I didn't have a closet, but a clothes rack that I covered with a shower curtain, and I had this huge queen/twin bunk bed that I hung curtains from, and my bed was like a little cave. I remember the day that I painted it, I was going to a concert with a boy that I liked, who was coming fro out of town, and he wanted to see my new place. So even though the walls weren't done drying yet, and he had to wait a half an hour for me to get ready since I was still covered in paint when he showed up, I made sure the walls were all painted, and that my bed was put together and made when he showed up. The livingroom was still covered in boxes, but my room was perfect. I even set up the ball pit that I had then. I do not remember now, what led me to buy a ball pit, especially one built for toddlers. I guess I've always enjoyed novelty. I also don't know why I woke up this morning thinking about all of this stuff, but I did.

Cara Comma

Looking around my room after my eyes adjust to the dim light provided by the pink-orange streetlights, I find my mind wandering more than my weary eyes. With much of my time consumed by the monotony of day to day life, this is the little bit of time I have to myself. Here, in the dark room with shadows as my only company, is where I am myself with no context. The rest of the time I am Cara comma. At work I am Cara, the girl from the coffee shop. Sometimes, even after a year I am still the girl from the video store. At school, the WheatBread girl or "that writer." In social situations: Katie's friend, Nicole's roommate or "wasn't she with that guy?". Once, asked 'what I did' (and isn't that a funny question, as though there were a one word answer that could stuff my whole life into a tiny little nutshell), I responded "I wear many hats... that's all I do."
Sometimes it seems that way, as the time flies by and I morph seamlessly from coffee girl to student to mentor to basketcase, it seems there isn't enough time to be any one thing well. It is this rapid passage of time that takes the joy away from the little things, that turns you into one of them: the whiny unsatisfied worker ants. Worse yet, turns you into a drone, a going through the motions machine. I decided a long time ago that I refuse to let that happen to me. I decided more recently that it had.
Sitting down to write out something important to me, I found myself grasping at straws, being afraid to attach that much importance to any one thing. Somewhere in that battle with myself, I found that I wasn't sure what was important to me anymore. In fact, I wasn't sure that anything was. To have lost all optimism at 21, what a thought. In realizing this, that the jaded cynicism of a 17-year-old had my mind in its clutch and I was just too busy to notice it, I decided to make a concerted effort to remember when I had last let myself dwell in a moment of simple, unadulterated pleasure. It is, after all, those moments that make the tedium of necessity worth the hassle. As Ethan Hawke says, in Reality Bites, "so I take pleasure in the little things."
The little things... I began to ponder what my little things were. As Mr. and Mrs. Poulain in Jeunet's Amelie, I very much enjoy the art of reorganization. The hours that follow a good room cleaning are always among my most productive. These every day occurances, seemingly mundane, should be taken for what they are. For that little bit of magic that makes you say "so what" to not knowing what it's all about.
It is always amazing how much the sting of a hot coffee at six-thirty in the morning can take the edge of off pre-dawn wake up calls. I sometimes have the opportunity, just as the sun is beginning its ascent from horizon to horizon, to step outside and take in a bit of the morning air. My fingers, stinging from the cold in the early morning breeze, are unable to grasp anything for a few moments. It is the kind pain that, as a child would have brought me to the fetal position, but that now is strangely comforting—a reminder that feelings can be felt. Taking a drag of my freshly lit cigarette, the hot coffee coats my throat, and the smoke slithers easily in and then out of my lungs. There are no hurried phone calls or demanding customers and I am able to indulge in my own self-destruction.
It is easy, in routine, to forget the good things. For eight hours the same faces pass by: The woman who is always late, but is picky anyway: bucket of French Roast, double cupped (make sure the seams line up). Then there’s the guy who will be back in an hour for another coffee, at which point it will be waiting for him on the counter, motivated slightly by the consistent dollar tip he leaves, but also by the amusement we get from his love of AC/DC, and his insistence that headphones are an efficient weather-proofing device; The acquaintance I don’t remember who swears we were at the same party last weekend (the details of his face escape me now), the dark eyed young man who, despite his love of flavored coffee with lots of cream makes at least an hour of my shift worth the two minute casual exchange that he supplies to pepper my day with aesthetic pleasure. In this haze, the only way I can tell apart one day from the other is the amount of time that can be spent looking longingly at my bed as I gather my things to make the trip to class. My only escape is those infrequent moments that punctuate my day. In these moments I ignore the passing people and the pressure of daily life. Inhaling, I feel my tense arms loosen at my sides, as though the smoke is spreading to the very tips of my body.
Walking through the park on a misty day, pausing atop the bridge and watching the ducks swim below, I take a pause. The sky is a thinly grayed blue and the chill in the air is easily thwarted by a sweatshirt. The center of the park is far enough from the street that there is an illusion of aloneness from the civilized world of streetlights and honking horns. I can hear myself think, and though the words I sketch out onto the blank sheet in the back of my mind will invariably disappear regardless of how many times I repeat them, there is a comfort to be felt in being alone with those words. In these moments- the little things that I so take pleasure in- it is hard to understand how I ever get frustrated with life. I kick myself for ever letting a sleepless night, or a boring class curse the human condition. For what beauty there is around us, just waiting to be gobbled up by all of our senses.
No museum, coffeehouse, studio, or theatre need bring us these things, either. Easily, we romanticize things found in these packages. I, myself am eternally guilty of this. When I hold a martini glass I think of Dorothy Parker and New York City literary roundtables. I think of a time when celebrity was sometimes the same as intellectual, but not a replacement for it. When I enter a dark smoky bar, I picture Bob Dylan in the corner repairing a snapped e-string. These are the images that haunt my mind's landscape. These are interchangeable though, and sometimes it is Joey Ramone or Janis Joplin and a bottle of whiskey.
This is historical envy, a decision made by society long ago that flowers in poetry are prettier than flowers in gardens. It is the sensibility that tells us that no film can ever be as good as Citizen Kane, no symphony like a Mozart. This sensibility freezes us in our tracks, makes us give up hope of any lasting achievement, has created generations of cynics. It has made us forget that these little things can be anything, anywhere. They can be the things that punctuate our mundanity with elation. A good song that can steal part of your soul, sometimes just for a moment. The same way that a good movie can, at its credits leave you feeling exhausted and exhilarated all at the same time; like an adventure, a new home, or great sex. When it fits just right, someone else's words and voice can capture exactly what you're feeling, thinking, and not being able to say on your own. Sitting stocking-footed on the hardwood floor of an apartment cluttered with artifacts from busier days and taking in a lazy breath of fresh air. Waking up in the morning and finding the coffee pot recently filled with hot coffee, reading a book you loved as a child, remembering a good dream that felt so real it stays with you all day. Little things like these are often overlooked, tossed over the shoulder or stomped on in favor of dwelling on a parking ticket or a long day at work.
Gliding down a road with no one on it and nothing but blinking lights from here to your destination. Being alone with nothing but your thoughts to occupy you, some revolutionary at the moment, others that will fade away by the end of your journey, or shower, or workout, or period between awake and asleep. These alone moments, these me without a context, within myself moments are the ones in which I am most able to decode where my true nature lies. That is when it becomes clear to me what I am at my core. I am a writer. I am an observer, a regurgitator, a craftsman. Rainer Maria Rilke said, in his Letters to a Young Poet "This most of all: ask yourself, in the most silent hour of your night: must I write? And if this answer rings out in asent, if you meet this solemn question with a strong, simple "I must," then build your life in accordance with this necessity." If I were forbidden to write, could I live? If by taking away writing, not only is my pen, paper, keyboard taken away, but also those idle moments in which I am able to scribble on the blank sheet of the back of my mind, then yes is the only answer with which I can reply.
Later in his Letters Rilke says, "If your daily life seems poor, do not blame it; blame yourself that you are not poet enough to call forth its riches; for the Creator, there is not poverty." Often times, when I have heard enough lament about a city without a culture, of greener grass abroad, I think of this. What right do I have to blame others for what I cannot find in my own life? If ever there is a time when I cannot find a spotting point, a place to focus in order to prevent dizziness, then I have lost my skill.
When the little bile-invoking troubles of the day come up it is the hardest to stay objective. It is in these moments though, that it is most important to reflect on the good little things. It is in those moments before I slip off to sleep that I feel the most alive, the most aware that anything can happen, and the most willing to believe that that is true. Of course we all falter, it is hard not to think about the end of the night, when the morning is broken not by light through the shade, but by the monotone mechanical notes produced by my cell phone. Eventually I am able to move my wandering mind toward happier thoughts, though, and with my handmade heating pad in hand, I settle into the cavernous wonder that is my bed. Surrounded on all sides by pillows, a failing attempt at producing the illusion that I am not alone, I melt into the familiar groove where my body has miraculously left its impression, despite seemingly infrequent visits to the spot. Stretching my feet, and wrapping them by the ankles around the pillow that shortens the length of my bed to better suit my five-foot frame, I edge closer to the pillow that rests against my back. Finally, I pull my teddy bear close to me and rest below it the velvety purple heating pad that, in the months after I made it, exuded the smell of jasmine. With this, and the haunting lull of the subway train, reproduced by my windowsill white noise machine, I pass quietly into the realm within my head. The realm where there is nothing but Cara, and not the anticipation of a box to climb into or a name tag to be worn.

Deep Thoughts not by Jack Handey

Cara Lisa Powers
Assignment #2

Fumbling with keys, my icy fingers have trouble finding the lock. Open. Close. A plastic runner under the door sometimes gets stuck, but not today. Closing the wind behind me, I start the car. Elvis Costello croons to me from an aging tape deck that needs to be cleaned and glows the time. Ten minutes fast for my own good, it pierces the dark car with the digits: 6:03. As the car warms up, and the night street becomes more clear, I buckle my seatbelt and stuff my hands under my legs, in between the cold seats and my cold jeans, hoping some reaction will warm something.
My fingers, stinging from the cold, are unable to grasp anything for a few moments. It is the kind pain that, as a child would have brought me to the fetal position, but that now is strangely comforting—a reminder that feelings can be felt. As my fingers dull to a comfortable numb, I reach for the manual window crank and roll the window down enough to fit my hand through comfortably. Lighting up a cigarette, I take a sip of my scalding hot coffee before pulling out on to the street. This is the moment I wait for all day. Knowing my house and all of the lack of obligation that it represents are only five streetlights away, the hot coffee coats my throat, and the smoke slithers easily in and then out of my lungs. There are no hurried phone calls or frustrated car honking to occupy my non-steering hand, and I am able to indulge in my own self-destruction.
I glide easily down Park Avenue in the post rush-hour lull, an even marker of dinnertime siesta. Immediately following this, the happy time, is the sad time, the title that myself and my roommate have given to the time of day at which we set our cell phone alarms to 5:30 and 6:30 AM, respectively. The time when I shut off the car, and Elvis Costello, Frank Zappa, and Bob Dylan disappear with the haze of the headlights, into the black of the night, and I trudge up the fire escape to the world outside my head. I will in the next two hours eat, shower, discuss my day with my roommates, whom I see far too infrequently, leave a message for my best friend who I see even more infrequently, and give the dog a cookie, so it still loves me and remembers me when I get home tomorrow. Then something will most likely distract me, something that pushes my bedtime back into the vicinity of midnight.
When that magical moment finally happens it is hard not to think about the end of the night, when the morning is broken not by light through the shade, but by the monotone mechanical notes produced by my cell phone. Eventually I am able to move my wandering mind toward happier thoughts, though, and with my handmade heating pad in hand, I settle into the cavernous wonder that is my bed. Surrounded on all sides by pillows, a failing attempt at producing the illusion that I am not alone, I melt into the familiar groove where my body has miraculously left its impression, despite seemingly infrequent visits to the spot. Stretching my feet, and wrapping them by the ankles around the pillow that shortens the length of my bed to better suit my five-foot frame, I edge closer to the pillow that rests against my back. Finally, I pull my teddy bear close to me and rest below it the velvety purple heating pad that, in the months after I made it, exuded the smell of jasmine. With this, and the haunting lull of the subway train, reproduced by my windowsill white noise machine, I pass quietly into the realm within my head.
Regardless though, 530am always comes too quickly, and whether I fall into my bed at 8pm or 2am, the alarm always sounds next to my head just early enough to be jarring. I bundle myself like a kindergartner no matter what the weather report, preparing for the frigid wind of the predawn walk to work. By the time I arrive at work, I am slightly more awake, thanks to my friend nicotine, but the half hour it takes for the espresso machine to heat up is always discouraging. The whirring of the coffeemakers and the loud hum of the oven makes it necessary to turn the music up so loud that my co-worker and I often wait until we’re already open to discuss our weekends.
For eight hours the same faces pass by: The woman who is always late, but is picky anyway: bucket of French Roast, double cupped (make sure the seams line up). Then there’s the guy who will be back in an hour for another coffee, at which point it will be waiting for him on the counter, motivated slightly by the consistent dollar tip he leaves, but also by the amusement we get from his love of AC/DC; The acquaintance I don’t remember who swears we were at the same party last weekend (the details of his face escape me now), the dark eyed young man who, despite his love of flavored coffee with lots of cream makes at least an hour of my shift worth the two minute casual exchange that he supplies to pepper my day with aesthetic pleasure. In this haze, the only way I can tell apart one day from the other is the amount of time that can be spent looking longingly at my bed as I gather my things to make the trip to class. My only escape is those infrequent moments that count out my day into segments. In these moments I ignore the passing people and the pressure of daily like. Inhaling, I feel my tense arms loosen at my sides, as though the smoke is spreading to the very tips of my body. Then another three hours. No matter how excited I am about a class or an assignment, or a meeting, each moment is spent thinking about how many more moments are between me and my car, me and my bed, me and the weekend, me and May and freedom. At the end of that class, though, while I glide effortlessly down the five streetlights of Park Avenue, there is only that moment. There is only me, and Elvis Costello, and my coffee and my cigarette. That is my grounding moment. That is my Zen.

old poem (embarassingly cliche)

we lost our footing
but no one fell
this balancing act is tiresome

if i walk away will you fall
if i let go of your arm
will you fall
will you fall in love

because thats what ive been wanting
waiting craving
foolishly
im not a fool
im taking off this silly hat

under a clear cold night
half naked in a chill
i tripped into you
we kissed and more
and i knew then what i know now
that things would never be the same.

An Apothegm

I cried the last time I felt like this. I don’t like crying. I want you to go away before I want you to stay anymore than I already do. I want to hold your hand and kiss you. I am a slave to my wants. I hate dependency. I want you. I don’t want to hate you. I want to be with you more than I want to be alone. I like being alone. I hate reading aloud. I want to read you poetry. I make myself up when I’m with you. I can be anyone. I like feeling invincible. I listen to songs and wish I’d written them about you. I listen to songs and wish you’d written them for me. I am messy, lazy, and unkempt. I want you to think I have everything figured out. I run away because I want you to chase me. I hate the way I think. I want to make a list of movies, books and albums for you. I want you to be an adventure. I dyed my hair an unnatural color. I thought, as the red went down the drain, that it was to be less invisible to you.