PROSE
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/prəʊz/
noun
1.
written or spoken language in its ordinary form, without metrical structure.
There is a relief in the stream of consciousness, in the freeing of the mind, to wander, to explore the uncharted places and emotions. It is here that I begin to explore these recesses in my own experience. I remember once saying, I could never write prose. It's curious how we limit ourselves, and the stories we tell about what we are capable of. And so I begin, telling myself a story of what is possible, when I give myself, my mind, the room to wander.
Rainboots and Reverie
And again, I am reminded of that rainy Tuesday afternoon. I brought an umbrella with me that day, which will forever mean it’s really supposed to rain because I more often than not chance it. No need for rain boots or coat or umbrella. I remember when I first moved to New York City and I realized for the first time in my life why people really need these things. It’s only a city thing. It’s a i-walk-everywhere-i-go thing. I think I’ve worn my rain boots twice. They live amongst the other things that in four months’ time will be long gone. Will I ever remember all of these things? I remember many times thinking how daft it was of my mother to rid herself of all of the beautiful possessions she tells me she once owned. Then I think of my back and what I am willing to carry on it. So, it was a rainy Tuesday, and I walked from the subway station down 6th avenue towards him. I must have been glancing at something else, and perhaps have become accustomed to waiting for him, so I didn’t notice that he was already there. Watching me. And as we squared each other, we took note of the matching look. Navy blue trench coats, black shirts, black pants, and boots. Black umbrella. We kissed. The kind of distracted kiss when you first see someone you love, or someone you kiss. Maybe distracted isn’t it. It’s more, rushed and slow motioned all at once. Hi, hello, kissing, how are you, kiss again. None of it is anything. The kind of kiss that only occurs between people who expect to kiss for the rest of their lives. A couple days before we met at this same spot, except I was there first. I waited, 7 minutes perhaps, which by our standards it not long. He is late, always. Or maybe he is precisely on time. The time he showed up latest was about two hours. My patience dried up, and I walked around the corner. Bleeker. I stumbled upon a used book store that I’ve surely walked past over ten times, and I knelt down as one does at a dollar bookstand outside on New York streets. And I immediately found my fingers against the spine of Watership Down and Swann’s Way. Proust, and a book my father always told me I should read. Should. What else should I do?
Tigerlilies
You see, there is a sweet relief in the fading of the summer’s water, and the way it hangs upon us in the air. The city drenched in humidity, and the Indian Summer light’s sweet relief in October’s sweet afternoon air. There is a space created between air and skin with the seasons change. There is relief in the way cracked air brushes exposed skin, moist from summers attention. There is a word for the way light moves through trees, it is in Japanese, and I cannot recall it now, but I wonder if there is too a word for the sound leaves make when the light is hitting them just so and the breeze is blowing them, it is like the ocean opening itself upon the sky. There is relief in the hushed whisper of these still green Indian Summer leaves, and I wonder how it might feel to see leaves change colors for one final time. There is something morbid in this sentiment. I am not dying, but perhaps being born anew. The leaves begin to pick up again, like a slow trickle, and only once they have attempted to call you, and you ignore them, do they really begin their dance. Hair and leaves, and children screaming. Someone said that only when the playgrounds are silent will there be panic because heart beats of children are the antithesis of violence and perhaps women’s bodies become a battleground for the politics of old men and suddenly we will wake up and walk past playgrounds and there will be no more trees for the wind to blow and the idea of Indian Summers will be lost in some fateful forgotten poem and the laughter, now gone will haunt us like memory. It is all, after all, a memory. There is a good chance I will not remember this day, waiting in some forgotten courtyard on some forgotten street in some forgotten city waiting for someone, always waiting for someone, and I am writing, and I am sturdy and listening to the trees and that is how I know I have come home to myself. And it is in that that I find comfort because I know I never really need to wait for anyone, because this feeling wraps itself around my like silk, winding its way through me. I may live the rest of my life like this, catching slivers of light like memories and storing them in these pages for safe keeping, that one day I may turn back these papers and wonder in awe at these forgotten early Autumn afternoons. Perhaps I will remember, I may reminisce. But as time passes, we tend to leave by the wayside things in no particular order. I remember, of course, larger than life moments, and at the same time I recall the utterly mundane. I remember sitting next to the side of my house surrounded by tiger lilies. I remember eating flowers in my mother’s garden.