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Cercis canadensis

When we had tried
putting ourselves together again
we’d used the wrong parts,
made effigies of ourselves
with the piles of distorted junk,
left behind scraps of a once-full life.
We went through the motions of people
spoke like them, practicing their accents,
but did not understand our own words.
We got the phrases wrong,
the tones, the memories.
Periodically, we’d erupt into full color
flowers growing from every part
and our days seemed alive with joy.
But we would catch ourselves lost in time,
eyes fixed on a long-abandoned walker,
a long-absent bed,
a long-neglected garden,
at the things we find so important now
and the flowers would fall from our bodies.
I gave up on trying to find the parts
of myself I missed most,
stopped looking for who I had been before. I’ve been more comfortable with discomfort,
waiting for others to finally leave the safety
of their beds, the safety of their tears.
And we’ve started to share ourselves again,
imagining Spring, redbuds flushed fuchsia,
grief removed from our shoulders,
sadness washed from our faces
by the showers of April and storms of May.
We will remember how to be happy
and how to be sad and how to be,
and we’ll see the long-forgotten remnants
and we will understand who we are.

Notes

Written 19 April 2019 in Payne County, Oklahoma. Rewritten 5 September 2019 in Payne County, Oklahoma.

Brian Fuchs, “Cercis canadensis” from Okie Dokie (Scissortail Press, 2019)

 

Cercis canadensis

When we had tried
putting ourselves together again
we’d used the wrong parts,
made effigies of ourselves
with the piles of distorted junk,
left behind scraps of a once-full life.
We went through the motions of people
spoke like them, practicing their accents,
but did not understand our own words.
We got the phrases wrong,
the tones, the memories.
Periodically, we’d erupt into full color
flowers growing from every part
and our days seemed alive with joy.
But we would catch ourselves lost in time,
eyes fixed on a long-abandoned walker,
a long-absent bed,
a long-neglected garden,
at the things we find so important now
and the flowers would fall from our bodies.
I gave up on trying to find the parts
of myself I missed most,
stopped looking for who I had been before.
I’ve been more comfortable with discomfort,
waiting for others to finally leave the safety
of their beds, the safety of their tears.
And we’ve started to share ourselves again,
imagining Spring, redbuds flushed fuchsia,
grief removed from our shoulders,
sadness washed from our faces
by the showers of April and storms of May.
We will remember how to be happy
and how to be sad and how to be,
and we’ll see the long-forgotten remnants
and we will understand who we are.

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David Eugene, look at me when I’m thinking about you!

I’m a disciple, a child of your narcissism.
an inadequate acolyte of your worst impulses,
treasonous and suspicious, even in my reverence.
Love is wrapped in sarcasm, in mocking and making-fun.
I pray these are truths, and that you are as transparent as you seem.

I only see the Davids for who they are,
blind to who they want me to see, who they wish they were.
I only see you for who you are,
but I feel the person you want me to be
growing cynically inside.
Oh David, do you not recognize the idolatry in my loyalty?
Does my face not give away my desire to be looking at my own face
when I am looking at you?

The tears stay close, pooling in eyelids, fighting their impulse
to race down my cheek toward knowing I am fully myself,
and not who I am trying to be.
I am trying to be bold in the ways you expect,
no longer cowering in the corners where you found me.
I remember the safety of home, and the emptiness.
I felt safe in my denial, but I am liberated by your sacred teachings.

I grovel, prostrate myself before you,
foolishly and joyously feeding your need for attention.
David, you have shown me that you are more important than I am.
You are more than I am. You are existence.
I meant to steal the hearts of those around you,
meant to show them how much I had learned at your feet.
They exist, you exist, and I have revealed myself to be fragments.
You have reassured me, patted my head like a Lhasa apso,
my head cocked to one side as I attentively await praise.

Oh David, I have not been enough!
The fragments have betrayed me and revealed that I am not whole.
I’ve tried holding them together with glues and tape,
but the picture never seems real;
the other congregants have moved on, my failings insurmountable.
They have found me lacking and are uncomfortable in my presence.
Selfishness is a difficult lesson to learn; I am trying.

I’m still dwelling on my heartache, trying to release it,
unchaining my tongue and allowing bravery to escape,
to become the person I see in you, David,
or to at least to become someone whole, beautiful and brazen,
someone rewarded with love, sex, warmth.
I humbly bow, giving thanks for even a chance
to be blessed by your acceptance.

Notes

Brian Fuchs, “David Eugene, look at me when I’m thinking about you” from Okie Dokie (Scissortail Press, 2019)

Written 17 March 2008 in Anchorage, Alaska & 7 September 2018 in Payne County, Oklahoma.

 

Original version posted 17 March 2008

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My week was pretty much defined by allergies, which is a little frustrating.  The pollen levels were very high, so I was trying to get through with puffy eyes and a scratchy throat all week.  I used to take a ton of allergy medicine to get through a day, and I guess it is a positive thing that I actually take none now.  This was probably the worst allergy week of the year, and honestly it wasn’t as bad as I’ve experienced in the past.  I’ve had allergies for a long time, but they seemed particularly pronounced when I moved to Oklahoma from Alaska.  I was spending my spring and summer months feeling just terrible, and taking a daily regimen of allergy pills, as I said.  The pills would make me very sleepy, as most medications do.  My allergies really changed for the better when I became vegan, which was curious to me at the time.  Apparently, the science looks like it backs that up.  Several studies suggest that those who eat a vegan diet are less likely to report having environmental allergies (as well as chemical, food, drug, and bee-sting).  I’ve heard anecdotally from other vegans that their allergy symptoms were also improved when they switch to a vegan diet.  It’s so interesting to explore the links between food and health.  Don’t get me wrong, I am not saying that a vegan diet cured me of allergies — clearly not.  This has been a bit of a rough week; however, since they aren’t so bad I don’t have to deal with the side effects of allergy meds.

I’m pretty happy with my yard this week.  Unfortunately, due to the unusually wet August we had, I have black spot on many of the trees, and on one of my roses.  The problem is too widespread to completely correct, and I hope that everything is able to put on some stronger growth next year, as there are so many trees losing leaves.  The rose just needs to dry out, which will help.  Right now, about 20% of it is infected, but it’s a very tall climber and it isn’t possible for me to remove all of the infected canes.  I’m just going to treat it and hope for the best.  I’ll treat it next spring as well, and hopefully the problem will correct.  My Fourth of July rose had black spot earlier this year, and will some TLC it is now disease-free.  I think the Golden Shower rose is healthy enough that it will be okay, but it’ll be a bit ugly for the rest of this year.

The upcoming week looks like it’s going to be a wet one again!!  I’m amazed at the number of rainy days we’ve had.  I love those days, but it is so unusual and not great for my plants apparently.  It also really can help with my pollen allergies, but of course then the mold allergies increase with the moisture, so you never really totally win that fight.

I’ve been editing and rewriting, trying to put together collections of poetry for the books I have planned.  I’m really happy with the direction I’m going with them at the moment, and some of my rewrites make me very happy.  I think I am much more honest with myself now than I was in my twenties.  Maybe that is just an obvious statement.  I have such a lot of poetry from that decade of my life that is really great and requires no work to be exactly what I wanted it to be, and then there are others that almost certainly didn’t work at the time.  If I could have seen that then, or if I had been willing to say that to myself at the time, those poems could have been greatly improved and would not need my rewrites so many years later.  It’s been interesting to see my style over periods of time.  I tend to write in two or three different styles, and I can go months or years focused on just one of them.  At the moment, the poems seem to be naturally dividing themselves into four themes, which will be the books.  The fourth category is one that isn’t fully realized, so that one will need more time to fully develop, but the other three I do really understand well.

I need a schedule!  I am so bad about following a set schedule, but when I don’t have one I tend to forget certain tasks, or get into situations where I am spending far too much time on one thing and not enough on another thing.  So, for the millionth time, I am working on making myself a schedule.  I have too many different things to accomplish to just play it by ear at this point, and I need to make sure nobody feels like things are being neglected.  Some things are, but more importantly there are times when it probably feels like I am not focused on tasks around the property that need to be done, when in reality I am aware of them and not making any show of it.  Sometimes people need to see your work to believe you are doing it.  I hope that goes well.  I really want to get these books done and I think this helps with that goal, while ensuring that everything is still running smoothly.

The “update” category blog posts seem to be posting a day later than they should.  I’m trying to resolve this, but I’m not entirely sure what the problem is.  It’s almost certainly something I am doing wrong.  Bleh.

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Next week is International Postcard Week.  Check out the website for info.  It’s a bit late, but it’s good info if you are interested in doing it in the future.  In March there is a “National Postcard Week” as well, so get your designs ready!

So, I haven’t been very quick to join these sorts of events, but I don’t have a good excuse.  This time I did join, along with my mom, LaDonna Fuchs, and friend Justin Ward.  Here are our cards for this year.  Once the event is over, I will have the cards available from here to send for free.  Stay tuned….

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Dale

I sought the council of trees, Dale’s name lingering in my head,
hoping to glean wisdom from the aged assembly,
hoping to hear God through the woody branches.
I studied the structure of oak leaves, how each attached to a branch;
watched sunlight fall through the new growth on cedars;
made note of the greenbriar’s leafy fingers wrapping around the trunks of pecans.
The world was still and hot and dotted with tiny white butterflies
emerging from the thickets to enjoy a field of nectar-filled flowers in the afternoon sun.
My mind had been typically cluttered, with family dramas,
thirteen years of grief, first loves, comedy routines,
and parts of a jingle from a TV commercial I remembered from childhood.
Sitting in the surrounding quiet, I waited for the ancient botanical knowledge,
letting those thoughts drop away, heavy and viscous,
and leaving behind a calm in which I could almost hear the butterflies landing on petals.
The wind came gently then, in small bursts that the oaks seem to enjoy,
allowing the trees to flit thousands of leaves about merrily.
A rustle, a calm and relaxing rustle accompanied by silent mimics,
of a host of lesser plants vying for the favor of the post oaks,
standing as the monarchs of this dry woodland.
A slightly stronger breeze, a creaking sound as older specimens swayed,
some long dead, the bony outer branches moaning hauntingly in the current.
The tranquility was broken, butterflies scattered unceremoniously into the air,
having been blown off their perches by a strong wind that moved through the grasses,
flattening it in waves as it moved across the expanses.
When the wind reached the sentinels of trees standing bravely against it,
they found themselves unprepared and leaves and branches erupted into chaos.
Dale had died.
He had been my namesake, the hero and villain of his own stories,
his name lingered, attached to mine as a reminder of who he no longer was
and as a reminder of who he had been capable of being,
a reminder of who we all had been, of what we wanted to say we had been.
And now he was gone. As the gust moved on in the distance,
stillness returned to the trees and I still faced them, waiting for answers.
We were all there, waiting for different pieces, prostrating ourselves before them.
The instructions were lost, the knowledge never passed on,
the person whose position had been placed so highly seeming to fade
with great distances, separated by different trees, grasses, weeds.
His name lingered, attached to mine as a reminder that we should hold on,
hold him up as he fell, his wings revealed to be a mirage.
It was not always enough, we were not always enough,
and we allowed Dale to slip into humanness.
The trees had again become silent. The distances now as close as they would ever be,
as far somehow as they had felt before when inscribed books would
arrive by mail, wrapped in symbols of birthdays or holidays or plainly
when a book had piqued Dale’s desire to share it with me,
a boy he barely knew, but to whom his name was attached.
And there were songs and great conversations, which are things
of which plants know little. And things that had defined him
so importantly that it felt proper to discuss them now, with God or the trees.
The heat had started to intensify; beads of sweat formed on my neck and face.
Still I waited, knowing that lives had become altered, knowing that we had reached
both the beginning and the end of everything.
And I thought about whittled walking sticks, carefully crafted from the new growth.
His name lingered in my mind, attached to the trees, I now realized, a part of it.
The presence of butterflies had increased in my focused state;
they now seemed to be everywhere, clustered on flowers
and dancing through the space between the trees.
I turned and went back to the house, knowing and not knowing,
melding now with the air and grass, with the trees.
And I thought about Dale, his name lingering there, attached to mine,
attached to the moment and those memories,
attached to the wings of hundreds of tiny butterflies
And I smiled because I had known him.

Notes

Brian Fuchs, “Dale” from Okie Dokie (Scissortail Press, 2019)

Written 25 July 2015 in Payne County, Oklahoma.

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Meeting Skylar & Wesleyan at the Grey Gardens Disco

Secrets feel more like friends than flesh,

written on the tightly rolled scrolls and tied loosely with a scrap of string.
These are the days when life is slipping past so quickly that I cannot seem to find a way back to it, a way to engage. I want to write my own secrets on tiny scrolls, but their contents would drive away even those I’m barely clinging to and they’d slip further into the torrent
away from me.

Time has been cruel, much more than I could have expected.

Mine will be the story that goes untold, unrecorded, unremembered.
Inaction fuels inaction and so I do not move, do not move, do not move. There are lives happening, I’ve been told, beyond the threshold I’m so afraid to cross. The moments I should’ve had hold me back, keep me wondering, force me into the safety of my empty bed
where the quiet loneliness can comfort me.

After the house has filled with leaves and dust and snow,

beyond the carefully orchestrated solitude, celebrations go on without me.
The most beautiful hear the music within themselves, gaily swinging auburn hair and laughing at their own unfunny puns. Merriment and giddiness come on like migraines and I find myself waving a flag and dancing joyously, still unable to coax myself from my home.
Happiness feels so foreign.

Ugliness greets me in every mirror, an old addictive friend

and the voids I’ve created have grown to feel comfortable on my miserable soul.
I’ve failed to learn the steps, and I am terrified that the dance will go on with out me. I look at the hollowness of the collected things around me, dismayed that I’ve become this me. This is the me that will keep happiness in its place
far away.

Nothing excuses knowing about leopard print,

a secret that seems to have allowed me to let go of ill-advised longings.
How incredibly sad it is to not find me so alluring that you can see past my plentiful flaws. I have known for quite some time that if I live my life alone, dying before I know love, that it is not me who is to blame, although I understand the temptation. It is others
who fail to see how happy I would make them.

Could these children have caused my empty world’s destruction?

set in motion events that will cause this tomb around me to collapse.
It’s too soon to know, but I welcome the crumbling. My stacks of nonsense are poised to fall into a blissful abyss. Oh, what exquisite joy I know I will feel when the rooms are all empty and there is just me to fill the space.
And someone to help me fill it, I hope.

Hope, indeed. It is all that keeps me from dropping into the crevasse myself,

cementing my loneliness forever with my inability to change.
I’ve begun to remember who I used to be and have found people who make me hate myself less and less every moment. But not even their patience can be endless, so if I am not to miss out on the Brian I’ve been trying to become again, I need to ask fast
and meet my friends for a drink.

Notes

Written 2 December 2012 in Anchorage, Alaska.

Brian Fuchs, “Meeting Skylar & Wesleyan at the Grey Gardens Disco” from Okie Dokie (Scissortail Press, 2019)

Formatting on WordPress ended up looking a little off, but this was as close as I could get it.  The first lines of the stanzas shouldn’t be separated, but indenting a line requires making a new paragraph.  If I figure out how to change that, I will.

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I’ve decided to challenge myself by participating in National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo). The goal is 50K words in 30 days. I’ve had several books on my mind, but have gone with the one I feel is the most developed of those. While it isn’t the fantastic story I want to work with my friend Daniel on, I think it will be great to finally get it out. I have to keep reminding myself that I can develop some of the story as I write and I can do fine-tuning when I edit. I have a lot of questions about the direction the novel will take and I look forward to seeing where these characters end up. I’m spending this week on my main characters, writing back stories and descriptions that will help me understand them as I go along. I personally find it helpful to name my characters first, but I often change that in the end. Naming them just allows me to start ‘talking to them’ and getting into who they are. If this goes well, I feel like I could be finally headed in the right direction.

I’ve also revisited an idea I’ve had for a long time of creating a book of short stories, poems, artwork, etc. I’d collect submissions from current of past booksellers, likely those I’ve worked with… or those people who exist on the periphery of the bookselling world. I just have to get through to those who find the idea dumb.

Lastly, while looking through my notes concerning the novel I’ll be working on in November I came across a poem I had written in 2008. It needed a little work, so I’ve polished it a bit. Enjoy!

Daniel Naranjo
a platonic love poem

I itch for the subtle way joy emerges
from your face – overcome with yourself,
with yourself.
It’s lovely. You’re lovely.
You aren’t so familiar, aren’t so unfamiliar.
In the long months between,
everything misses you.
My senses feel achy and empty without
your enchanting aura of smoke and wine.
I smile, thinking of that laugh,
you know the one,
that erupts accidentally when you’ve
amused yourself.
God, I love that laugh.
You blew in on winds you could’ve
ridden forever, resigned to not settle,
loving the feel of the dust
whipping through your pores,
hair, teeth.
You seem reluctant,
you seem reluctant,
reluctant.
Or is that me?
I decided to write you a poem,
a poem of you, the you I know of,
the you who is only a slight version of you.
It took four years to say
things about your loveliness,
about the smoke and the wine,
about Oregon and Alaska,
about loving your laugh.
It wasn’t just joy, was it?
I detected some shame,
loved that shame, if that’s what it was,
wanted to live in that feeling.
I’ll remember that face,
remembering how much I love you,
and I’ll exist for a few seconds
in that moment, that feeling,
inside a space you created.
I believe in horses and you,
I believe in me and you,
I believe in you
and you.

10.25.2011

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Seahorses

We struggle for life, gasp for water
and we die, wriggling and contorting into position.
Our dried carcasses serve as amusement.
Fifty years we’ve been on display,
dust gathering in our rigid and bony structures,
souvenirs for those whose lives were more exciting.
They pull us out to reminisce about their wild youth,
our magic now stripped by time,
and they talk to each other about us and how they miss us.

Some of them forget about us,
about how we thrived in the waters before being rescued,
collected as memorials.
They don’t know about the vibrant reefs like we do,
about the others who didn’t make it or we carried back
to other grey places where they too would be forgotten.
Many of us are labeled for easy identification,
classified and sorted so onlookers can gaze at our husks
in wonderment or disgust… or a bit of both.
Our tiny bodies have become too numerous,
too many have been broken or discarded,
but most of us will fade into the dark obscurity, lost.

The new fashion has been to provide a tank,
to adopt a bit of our habitat and collect several specimens,
lives lived with names and memorialized
as members of families, temporary and disposable.
We exist as novelty, and still a part of their youth,
a part of that colorful past they will talk about one day,
sharing the photos with their children and grandchildren.
They’ll talk about us, about how much they love us,
pulling us from the drawers and boxes to prove themselves,
they’ll show videos they took of the tanks filled with water,
convinced that they are showing great love for us.
But when they are no longer beings asked to show off
their specimens, their carefully curated collections,
they’ll put us away again and go back to their real lives.

We will keep wishing that our dried bodies would stop
finding their way into souvenir shops of those who
do not want to dip into the water and experience our lives.
We don’t want to live in tanks either, playthings of people
who do not understand that our beauty has not been for them,
that our magic was meant for ourselves.

The sun is coming up on the horizon,
Christopher Street is quieter than it used to be,
and I wonder if a generation is coming
who will realize the world that was fought for,
and I wonder if they will long for the days
when they were precious trinkets of other people’s youth.

Notes

Written 1 July 2009 in Anchorage, Alaska & 5 September 2019 in Payne County, Oklahoma.

Brian Fuchs, “Seahorses” from Okie Dokie (Scissortail Press, 2019)

Original version

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Literary Debris

The deities are losing cellular cohesion, gasping desperately for breaths as they become liquid and evaporate.
The poets have been usurped by melancholy memoirists,
aching to have original lives.
Every story seems to be told, despite repetition
despite repetition
despite repetition,
despite…
repetition.
I keep sweeping up the dried remnants of fallen giants:
Thoreau, Dickinson, Whitman, O’Hara;
I even find Baum and Steinbeck and Spyri in the wreckage.
I collect the bits I can in a beautiful vessel where they remain safe, more pieces having been spared than expected.
Few search for the treasures, worried they’ll cut themselves on the old words of masters.
Picking through the pieces still brings me joy
even if I’ve no one to share them with;
I wish I could be as beautiful whole as they are in shards & residue.

Notes

Written 16 February 2009 in Anchorage, Alaska.

Brian Fuchs, “Literary Debris” from Okie Dokie (Scissortail Press, 2019)

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Open your arms (and welcome Love)

A fervent plea to those people I’ve seen my Church family morphing into, slipping away from me, from Love. A prayer for the many who’ve seen the backs of their loved ones too often, shivering alone because they were misunderstood or openly judged for being human.

My neighbors turned towards themselves
and forgot my face.
Backs towards me with multitudes of assumptions.
My heart feels the hymns,
feels the joy still.
I’m unchanged.
My image fails me; refuses to take the shape of the mold
[the idyllic life]
the person I was supposed to be.
I’m neither broken nor lost.
I’m Love’s child, regardless of whispers and raised eyebrows.
My home,
our home.
I never felt so unwelcome from a family, silently, passively.
Judgments. Silence.
Silence.
From my perch high above the elders,
the deacons, the little old ladies
who wait for death on the third pew from the back,
my mind stretches, finding thoughts far from my body,
dreamily.
I welcome judgment.
Don’t pray for me in anger
or sorrow
or disappointment.
Don’t welcome be back from depravity.
Be family; be true to Love.
Love. Love.
Open your arms — not only to me,
not to selfish or petty concerns of mine,
open your arms because they should be open.
Because they are there for welcoming,
uncrossed and warm,
welcome the children, your family,
forgotten innocents,
the joyful, the content,
the exuberantly happy,
the depressed, and the angry.
Keep you arms open to those whose lives you don’t understand,
whose lives are full of light and laughter,
but cannot find comfort in rigid conformity.
I’ll join them too — march with them
into the auditoriums across distances,
across situational divides.
Be Love.
Kiss your neighbor on the forehead and have them over for dinner.
There is nothing important like Love.
There is nothing but Love.
There is Love.
Love.
And Love will take our hands — yours, mine,
the multitudes huddled in the rain.
We’ll find ourselves then.
We’ll free ourselves and be family again.
And selfish concerns and trivial differences will never be able to keep us apart.

8.21.2008

Featured Image Art: Michelangelo, “The Creation of Adam”

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Notes

Written 22 July 2008 in Anchorage, Alaska.

Brian Fuchs, “Meeting with Tlāloc” from Okie Dokie (Scissortail Press, 2019)

__________

Original Version

untitled

Life’s all pauses and breaks;
my feet don’t seem so eager anymore to get to those places
I’ve always kept close to my heart and deep in my dreams.
There’s something soothing about stasis,
something unnerving as well.
I’m peering through cracks and holes of a life that is always shifting,
searching for someone who might be peering back at me
from the other side… of what?
The winds are picking up and I can feel change creeping over the horizon.
Storm’s comin’ and I’ve not gotten ready for it this time,
thought I’d enjoy more of this part of life,
thought there’d be more,
thought I could find comfort in being alone.
Blow me into bits; create something new and magical,
something more than I’ve ever been.
Grasping for hands to hold, I realize that there is only me.

7.22.2008

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10th & Cordova

I’m working on feeling unconventional
in a world of unconventional people.
I’m melding with others,
with those whose lives barely cross mine,
I am again like a loose bit
dangling from a ragged tree branch.
And I feel love. Love.
Quantified love. Finite and sequenced love.
Quantified?
I know I’m last. The love left is different,
the love is coated with a sticky doubt.
Denis is made up in shades of green,
needlessly feeding himself pain, gorging himself on his own thoughts.
His love is ranked, ordered, defined by hierarchy.
Denis uses his love to feel closeness,
and he wraps that love in money. Family.
Quantified? Finite?
David makes diplomatic concessions,
talks in circles and understanding tones, tries to hold together
things that aren’t in danger of slipping away.
He spends his time adding on to the structures, stroking egos,
helping Denis find even brighter green vestments.
I can’t even seem to get attention from myself.
Love? Love. It’s possible.
Expanding, filling the room, I feel uncomfortable
and take up too much space. How can I be ignored?
Sometimes I deflate the elephant and shrink to almost nothing,
transparent.
I shrink into a corner and watch my family below grow ever closer
without me, saddened by my own inability to include myself.
Daniel has come in, found David, taken him down a path I cannot see.
The fields of sweetly scented flowers cover the trail.
There is an increased interest in green.
I try to figure out how to be seen,
how to understand quantified love.
Denis longs to not be green, but I only know about this too late,
after I have purchased green tinted glasses that I wear when I look at him.
David and Daniel playing in the flowers makes me
simultaneously happy and enraged.
Enraged at me, at my ignorance, at how insufferable I’ve become.
Daniel brings back flowers and shares them with me,
and I am happy enough. Family.
Quantified? No.
David keeps tabs on the situation, sometimes,
very occasionally checking to see how I’m doing.
It’s easiest when he speaks about Daniel, about secrets and sex,
about the fields of flowers down the path.
I feel happy when he mentions Daniel, free.
The cracks are forming, and we are all distracted with our efforts.
I’ll soon need to purchase another pair of glasses, this time in rose.

Notes

Written 14 June 2008 in McCarthy, Alaska. Revised 1 October 2018 in Payne County, Oklahoma.

Brian Fuchs, “10th & Cordova” from Okie Dokie (Scissortail Press, 2019)

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It seems like life is rushing by and not much is happening. I feel that way a lot; I’ve likely communicated that before. It is again true. And I am tired. All of the not doing anything makes me very tired. I always have more energy while I am doing more than I should, going daily to the gym and running all over God’s very white and grey Anchorage to drive friends to and from work. Those days lend life to the duller moments, creating pockets of creativity at home. Those are the days I long for.

I suspect that my readership is perhaps at a total of four people, all not-so-eagerly waiting to see what I will post next, but even so, those who look at this site will notice the dramatic change recently. I don’t think I like it nearly as much as I set out to, but it will work until I find a WordPress theme that is absolutely perfect for me. Honestly, I’ve found a number of perfect themes, but they are broken in some way or they are outdated and no longer customizable with newer versions of WordPress. That is all very unfortunate and has lead me to this ill-fitting theme, which is quite beautiful and dark, but does not exude Brian-ness. The lack of April postings is due to the repeated death of the site over March and April, but that problem has now been corrected. I am able to do more of what I want and the site has been upgraded to decrease the chances of a repeat explosion. For those of you who are unable or unwilling to look at the right side of your screen, I’ve included the picture I have used for this theme.

It is certainly clear that I have been busily writing. I’ve posted only a handful of the poems on here, as many of them are a bit more risque and I have chosen to not alienate those who have been previously offended by the things I post. There may soon appear a small section on this site labeled appropriately to keep innocent eyes away; their decision to investigate will not be my fault and they will only answer to themselves and me to myself for the outrage caused by what seem to me pure thoughts. Oh, the scandal you may be foreseeing!

I’ve come to a decision about my writing. I was simply keeping in practice with no clearly defined goal before. I would like to write a novel. I’ve been plotting it out and am looking forward to seeing what comes of this. It is a great undertaking for everyone who attempts it and I hope I can live up to my own expectations. While I will certainly continue posting poems and other writings here, I do not currently have any intention of offering up snippets of the novel for previewing. I will share in parts privately with a couple of people for specific reasons, but should I ever finish it, I will gladly share it with the world.

I suppose there is little more to say than that. A poem, which may erroneously sound like I have given up vegetarianism. I have not.

Ham

If I had liked ham
maybe I wouldn’t have
disappointed at least one person.
She’d reveal the surprise,
glazed with honey and smelling sweetly,
the scent lingering from outside.
But it wasn’t me and I’d wrinkle
my forehead, politely thank her,
and eat my turkey, the ham meeting
with praise from enough
for my neglect to not seem to matter.
She’d notice, apologize, and make
a mental note that Brian doesn’t like ham,
a mental note she’d promptly lose.
And for the next gathering
requiring food preparation,
we’d repeat the game.
I still don’t like ham,
but nobody makes it for me anymore.

4.26.2008

current version of “Ham”

Featured Image Art: photo by Christopher Michel (via Wikimedia Commons)

 

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{{first, let me just say thanks to Jennie. You are awesome. I am so glad you humored me in this weird request. I so wish our paths wouldn’t keep wandering off from one another.}}

Story: Cappuccino

“I don’t usually read those “I saw you” personals. I’ve always thought they were a little creepy. No offense.” Sam nods, indicating that no offense has been taken. “But I decided to scan through them for fun the other day, and there you were… looking for me.”

After a long pause, the two smile slowly at one another.

“I’m glad I found you,” Sam says. The waiters in the closed restaurant mill about, acting like they have more to do than they actually do. They are trying to make Chris & Sam aware that they closed almost an hour ago, which is finally dawning on the two. They have been gazing at one another, trying to recapture the magic of their chance encounter in the café. They aren’t finding exactly the same thing, but neither is particularly disappointed in this date. It has been going quite well in fact.

Chris has said all the right things, complementing when necessary and laughing at the right parts of the jokes. Sam has been attentive and doting, stressing the many excellent qualities that are so obvious. They are completely captivated by each other in this one amazing evening. Everything between these two seems perfect.

The attempts to usher the two lovers from the restaurant are becoming less subtle. There is increased urgency. The gazing soon moves out to the parking lot, where only two cars remain. The cars are next to one another in a strange coincidence. The two had met up inside, having come separately and not knowing what the other was driving. But there they were, side-by-side sedans. This makes both of them smirk a little.

“Would you like to grab a cup of coffee?” Sam asks hopefully.

“Yeah.”

The café where they had met is less than a quarter mile away and they decide to walk. They do this without much conversation, each analyzing the other’s mannerisms and imagining themselves happily married.

In the café, they both order a cappuccino. Sam’s heart races. The cappuccino started this love affair last Tuesday evening. It seems oddly important that the same drink has been ordered.

The two sit in a quiet corner. The café is relatively empty; it is late in the evening and the overnight crowd hasn’t started to show up yet. Both Chris and Sam are relieved that it isn’t as crowded as it can get. They want to talk.

Chris, being a little more talkative, nervously chatters about nothing in particular before deciding to share some background story. Sam learns about sisters and aunts and holidays at “Gram’s.” There is a mutual vision of sharing these things, even though the two have only recently met. Still listening intently to Sam, a smile slowly creeps across Sam’s face.

Sam prefers to not talk about family, as there is not much to tell. Having been alone for the majority of adult life, Sam has been searching for a family. Hopefully, Chris will satisfy this need. Instead of a family story, Sam talks about work. Chris is fascinated by the nuances of life in retail.

{okay, I created these characters and I just can’t get into them right now. I will update this one later. I also haven’t been able to determine the gender of either character. Perhaps it is better that they don’t have a specific one. It is more interesting to me that they could be either.}

Featured Image Art: AI Image (created using Wonder AI)

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First, I hope everyone had a nice Easter weekend. I wish I had a sense of tradition for holidays. Not that my family doesn’t do holidays — we do. But I still don’t mind not having a celebration to attend or having family around. I’d much rather have my family around on a random Tuesday… we’d have dinner and talk late into the night about nothing in particular. I miss that.

“The man who doesn’t relax and hoot a few hoots voluntarily, now and then, is in great danger of hooting hoots and standing on his head for the edification of the pathologist and trained nurse, a little later on.”
–Elbert Hubbard

I have a headache. I’ve had it for about a week now. It is worse when I am at work or thinking about work. When I am at home, not thinking about it, I hardly notice it. I am extremely frustrated with the direction of my job and can’t seem to find a solution at the moment. Maybe there is no solution, but I am certainly not happy. It all feels so petty when I have to analyze it. Somehow, the concerns that drive me to tears while I am at the store seem so trivial when I am not there.

These are my complaints:
•Those hierarchically above me feeling entitled to whatever they want.
•Those same people complaining about having to work certain shifts, knowing that I write the schedules.
•All questions and concerns about the way the schedule is written requiring an impromptu meeting.
•Full-time employees planning work around their social lives instead of the other way around.
•Having more work to do than I can finish and receiving no help when I need it, even after requesting it.
•Bending the rules because certain employees are more “valuable” than others.
•Not having an outlet for venting frustrations.
•The things I do affecting people’s lives and others not understanding that.
•Having a supervisor who gives orders rather than working with me to get everything done.

I love my job. I really do. I like being entrusted with responsibility and am honored to be the person who makes so many decisions about the store. I feel perfect for the job, as I tend to have more patience than most and I am trustworthy. I know that my job will never be done; not only do I have to complete the same tasks every two weeks, but I also want to learn new things all the time and challenge myself to grow as a part of the company. That is difficult at the moment though. I feel like I can barely catch up enough to just get by.

I wanted to be a writer. I still do. But I feel like that is slipping further and further away, as I am in a line of work that requires a lot of work all day. Much of what I do is mental work, but that is just as taxing and I end up exhausted and disinterested by the time I get home. To calm down and resume the love of things I forget to enjoy requires me to spend a few hours with David or Heather just so I can collect my thoughts. Is my job getting in the way of my goals? I don’t want to believe that it is, but I am obviously not doing what I love to do as a result of what I need to do to pay the bills. And it barely does that.

Where am I going with this? I don’t really know. I don’t have a solution, as I have said. I don’t know if relieving some of the stress will fix the problem or not. I need the money I earn from working, but I need my dreams to be realized. How can I have both?

[Did I take a break from this blog? Not exactly. I have been so stressed out that I have been unable to focus on anything. I have done a lot of sleeping. I have done a little crying. I have been at David’s and at Heather’s. I have been escaping from my life through events rather than through the computer. It may be a loophole, but I am still using it Travis. Plus, I’ve been updating & adding poetry pages.]

Images: Paul Klee – Die Zwitscher-Maschine (Twittering Machine) (1922); photo by Eugene Chystiakov (via Unsplash)

Featured Image Art: photo by John (via Unsplash)