BAMboozled » cassandra

Ode to a Rainy Day

cassandra — Thu, 23 Aug 2007 01:00:00 +0000

I wander and meander
toward the next place to loiter
the quarter in my pocket heavy like wet tennis shoes tied together
Pregnant clouds gray pray to break their water
asphalt opens its arms, be it a son or a daughter
First drops strike my face
my tongue tastes like smoke laced
with the blackberries in the bowl on my counter
And the flowers open their mouths wide
to invite the life into their veins
and it rains, unapologetically
puddles stare right back at me
my mouth quivers, full of potential energy
but to hush and listen
skin glistens, mouth closed or you’ll miss them
you might notice that clamor fades as the droplets paint the houses gray
or how the trees bow their heads and pray,
dreads shake and hips sway
time takes all day, slows
things are exposed in honesty you can drink
I lean back into my brain and think,
of cold, wet freshness, with lips of ink
tattooing each inch of my skin, up against the kitchen sink
I think
of valleys filled with crawling fog
breaths in my body deep and long
all smells of the world upon me
unfurled like clean laundry, then slept on
soft, white sheets in slate afternoon light
staccato on the roof pound the tin till twilight
I might take flight
seek memories down drainpipes
or surrender once again to the yellow stripes
running mile after mile and all the while
the wet asphalt sings
come home, swish swish, that’s the way,
ever closer, let me wrap you in my arms
be you a free bird or a poser
cause nature don’t distinguish between
social complications
just supercharged droplets in this storm cloud of a nation
so feel it on your face, let it cleanse down to your creases, expectations, information
let it all just fall to pieces
head out the window
headed to who knows where
follow the gray skies, close your eyes, and say a prayer
that your winds are strong enough to take you there.

The case against iPods

cassandra — Thu, 09 Aug 2007 01:00:00 +0000

The iPod has become practically a staple for today’s youth, and even a good number of adults. I am an exception. They’re everywhere now, the little white buds pumping an entire media universe straight to your senses. Now for a mere few hundred dollars, you can tune out anytime to anything you want. With your entire musical and video library just a wheel click away, why even pay attention to anything else? After all, your music library says so much about you that you would surely be lost without constant access to it, since if it’s not measured in gigabytes, it’s not worth your attention.

I do not want to fall victim to the convenience an iPod offers for several reasons, the least being that I need that $350 dollars for sustenance and mobility. Apple has done a fabulous job marketing their revolutionary new product, penetrating into our lives so thoroughly that this luxury item is now a necessity. On the surface, an iPod sounds like the perfect package: put all the things that make you feel good in one place, and have a pick-me-up anytime. I won’t pretend to be a complete purist; I steal my brother’s for long car rides or workouts, but I guarantee you’ll never see me violently head banging in the crosswalk. Being a clueless pedestrian is not on my to-do list, simply because I don’t enjoy wrestling SUVs, even when that same Escalade pulls out into oncoming traffic because the driver is too busy poppin’ and lockin’ to the new Fergie release.

Even if one were somehow capable of operating a vehicle or navigating busy streets with earbuds bumping, one is still emotionally handicapped when in public. Say I am walking down the sidewalk in Chinatown with my earbuds pulsing with the latest buzz. Assailing my eardrums with whatever noise I desire, I am depriving myself of a rich sensory experience waiting in the periphery. The sounds of traffic, the hollering of stall owners, the hiss of steam escaping from the grates, snatches of a pedestrian’s scandalous private conversation: all of this is lost, a unique experience ignored, all for a song that isn’t going anywhere. IPods kill organic experience, and whatever I have to learn from recorded material, I can absorb when I get home.

Also, I see what happens as more and more of my contemporaries find friends in their sleek, white escape mechanisms. Conversation dwindles as we sit in our separate worlds, though mine’s the only one that’s actually passing them by. I am not going to buy an iPod simply because I don’t need it to be happy, and I don’t need it to be whole. I will resist seeing our culture identify more with a reflection of emotion than its expression in the present. I will also fight against a need we have created for ourselves, one that values efficiency and customizability over a moment that is quickly fading into the background and can never be recreated. This is why you won’t see me with an iPod. It’s not the money I would miss; it’s the reality.

Imaginary Secrets

cassandra — Thu, 26 Jul 2007 01:00:00 +0000

There is little to distinguish
blinks from winks
I try, I do
because across the room
little things can mean
sweeter secrets than text can testify.
It’s beauteous not knowing everything
or anything, really,
so why the heap of pretending
not to mention, furtive mending
of popped seams and deflated dreams
ringing ears and silent screams?
Last time I checked the whine
of rubber bones creaking through days
bending to the will of my worries,
scurrying in crevices of this mental maze,
I sat for months and prayed
to imagination, a fictitious fabrication
that tore my feet from the dirt
in liberating solicitation.
I spend seconds in creation
cosmos behind my eyelids,
worlds of honey smoke and little kids
where there’s more green than gray,
my jeans are frayed, and I can stick my toes in the sand every day.
Hills are for rolling down, laughing,
heads are for scratching,
beds weren’t meant to be made,
and socks are for mixing and matching.
Expect nothing!
Put your hands in the dirt and grow something:
May it be green, teal, aquamarine…
or lay on your back and scream
and when you’re spent, lie silent and remember:
it’s all just a dream.