Diaspora South

A Fracture, a Flaw...

2010-09-09T17:13:00.000-07:00

There are things which must eventually go away from me,
And necessarily so: some things give us strength
In their leaving: the shadow that crept upon you in a fog
Evaporates into sunlight, and suddenly you know where you stand.
One by one, all my little fondnesses come crashing down around me
And I step gently over these shards
Which were my hope and my faith, and I find
That these two things were broken out of boys like that,
Out of men like you. I find you are not quite so essential
As you would like to believe yourself.
I find I could do better without you at all.
Now it doesn't matter that the dream will never be real,
Thank G-d! I should be grey by the time it was done.
No, I shall content myself with dreams of other things
Immeasurably more beautiful and more kind than you.
It would be too transparent of me to whisper
Of gold-headed idols whose feet were made of clay,
But there it is, a fraction too late to retract.

Copyright, Andrew Graf von Rothberg

Hangman

2010-08-08T14:07:00.000-07:00

How God, to re-open that door I believed I had sealed

All those many years ago when the tender snare beguiled me

And I believed that there was room for me to breathe within its ropes?

There upon the scaffold I have stood for two decades

And have lost count of the times in their multitude

When Eros, arrayed in the finery of a hangman, measured my neck

For "the perfect fit": the perfect one, the Beloved that I no longer believe in,

That I no longer believe is to be a part of my life.

Adam would lend credence when I say that the Fruit of Knowledge

Is a bitter fruit indeed, and hard to swallow,

Hard to stand here upon the stool with my hands bound behind me,

Forced even to eat the rancid core, and I realize

What wasted knowledge all of this has been, and if

I could erase these last twenty years I would do so gladly,

Spitting seeds from my mouth in disgust, admitting my heresy,

Given over at last to a new God which is not man,

Which is not passion, which suffers neither lust nor regret

But brings peace, a pardon, a reprieve;

And gently, so gently, Michael, Gabriel, Uriel, and Rafael

Surrounding me with their comfort, and leading me away

From the rope.

"Exit"

2010-07-04T22:36:00.000-07:00

Of all the smiles to behold, the safest one is at a distance,
Both of breadth and of time: far enough that you can see it,
Being not so near, or so soon, to wound, to destroy.
How easy it is to lie back on your pillows
And attempt to control it, the sheer forced tide of memory,
Realizing at last, reinforced a thousand--no, a million times
Of what it is to remember too much,
To have seen too many things, and to have loved
Too many times without return.
And so you close your eyes again and you remember his smile,
Or how he asked you to be exclusive, but then stood you up for another---
The car in his driveway that was not yours, the marks on his neck
And his casual indifference to it all;
And it wounds you to know that in his life
You will have no real share, that these things are not meant for you;
That in his world you are second place, there remaining only
A memory of that last smile and the ones before it and since,
Successively losing their warmth and becoming forced.
What a fool you have been, but wise enough now to see the writing on the wall
And so you heed the admonition to leave, the voice in your gut begging you to go now
At the height of the party, bowing out when there's so much noise
No one will notice when you whisper "goodbye".

A leap

2009-11-05T13:11:00.000-08:00

What is it that happens in a writer's life that causes him to stop writing? Aside from the posting of some of my older poems--and perhaps one or two new ones--I have done little in the exercise of putting my words to the page. I know to myself the universal truth that perhaps I should force myself to write, evoking in my mind the image of someone forcing themselves to jump off the parapet of a burning skyscraper knowing that there is the possibility of safety below--not a guarantee, mind you--just the possibility--but being therefore compelled to jump. The room is on fire behind me, but I hesitate. I am afraid to make that leap, but why?

I am hesitant now to give the gift of myself through my writing because it has been used against me. I think back through my many, many years of life and recall the procession of letters and notes and communiques from my pen whose intentions were pure, borne of an earnestness to let someone know how I was feeling or thinking, or perhaps pleas for help or assistance, and in some cases explanations of me: Andrew revealed, with the layers and masques stripped away, because it was asked of me to do so, and I obliged. "Let me know you better", said one to me, and I did, and he used it against me and tried to poison the minds of others with what he thought it revealed, or what he thought he understood and that wounded me, and for a time rendered me mute. Going back to an analogy I have used before, one that seems pervasive in my own life: writing is a light that we shine on ourselves or on others, and if we shine it on ourselves, it should be because we want to give a gift back to those who are reading our words; after all, time is a gift, and people are giving that back to me when they take the moments and put forth the effort necessary to comprehend me through my writing. When I write, I try to tell a story that will entertain or enlighten, and in some aspects, perhaps teach some lesson based on my life experiences or the experiences that others have shared with me...

...and with the abruptness that often causes the beginnings of great things, let it begin. One step, two steps, and I am off the ledge.

Note to Self: Pride remains a Sin.

2009-11-03T09:04:00.000-08:00

Pride, they say, goes before the fall
And I am a rumpled corpse
Lying at the foot of a grand staircase.
What right have I to assume this stance
Of arrogance, when I know
I have no call to preen and puff myself up
With a haughty sneer
And ill-formed indignation---
And at what?
Because someone did not like me
Or did not approve of me?
Because I am like an angry child
Indignant that I have not gotten my way?
Because thirty-seven years of living
Have taught me fewer lessons
Than I have troubled myself to learn?

My character is not unblemished,
My cotton strands stained dark and crimson,
Nothing on me white as wool.

No, 'tis better to remember one's place
In this world where the ignorant logic
Of the equally ridiculous vox populi veritas
Denies the sin of Pride,
A lesson I should not care to know,
A Flaw I must unlearn---
After all, what am I, who am I
But dust?
I should not care to emulate the Pharisee
Who vaunts himself and points out his own virtues
But rather the simpler man who says
"I am but a sinner"---
And I am. Heaven knows that truth remains a constant,
And knows too how grateful I am,
Despite my flowery and archaic speech
For this humbling exercise of Grace.

Little Ghosts

2009-10-25T21:18:00.000-07:00

With love could you encircle me, if I asked you to try;

Or would you be unable, unwilling as I am, to give this thing,

To enact the unnamable, swirling thoughts of repulsion

Somewhere in the depths of a torpid mind?

My memory is all I have now to console me; that once,

Once I felt it, and strode out upon the field with surety,

Breathing in the air of Autumn and the last cutting of the grass,

And hoped for one whom I could never keep, like three or four others

Whose faces still dance in my mind, my private ghosts.

How I love that they haunt me, and that this is what I am left with.

Too late now to go back,

Too late now to undo any of it;

And still, I can feel tangibly the emptiness which enveloped me when each had gone,

When each crossed the veil, the transparency of our lives.

And so I stand alone in the empty field, the stadium lights

Bright as day, shining upon me as I look up, the circlet

Probably rusting away somewhere forgotten, and I will not ask you anything anymore

Nor wait, nor wonder, but stride the track with my own strength,

With this emotion which has become my Substitute.

And so you see, there will be no more marches,

No views of cornfields from the passenger seat of my car,

No porches on Branson Street, no snatches of breathless conversations.

How long have I wished for this silence,

Wished the words and voices away from me, so that a quietness would reign?

Not in grandeur, but in something much less, stepping forth in ermine robes and coronet,

Enthroned at last is this Excellence, embodiment of words

Which will not be spoken, of indiscretions never executed,

And vain desires learned to bow down

And be subdued. This is the subjugation of want. This is what I've grown into,

Here at last is a man, for better or worse, with no greater claim to title than this.

Honi sont que mal y pense.

Words in the Rain, circa 1990.

2009-09-01T10:21:00.000-07:00

Lying here, there is only silence
Breached by the timpani-roll of thunder and chiming rain,
And it drives me somehow
Into the sodden state of wanting, though of what
I’ve no idea. Perhaps

It is the longing stemmed from so much emotion
And too few words, or that recumbent figures
Steal into my mind with faces only half familiar
That seem to erupt out of dreams:
And it is the drowning crash of the heavens that makes it ignite,
That makes this state so absurd, and when dialogue ensues as well—
“A dance?” the Pyrian figure inquires.
No. No dance, no dream,
But let me cast you away from this idyll
In which you’ve no right to live.

And now come the tears, each laying upon the other
Courses that surge and flow
And build to the maddening crescendo that is my grief:
Public, so that you know when you see me
That there is simply nothing left at all;
And the anguish is my characterization as well as the void
That nothing could possibly fill.
And you’ll see it when you look into my eyes
That shine only with the echo of what once was there,
Or you’ll hear it when my empty laughter flows,
But only with the understanding that it is the grandest spectacle
Contrived to fool,
For vanity is my highest art and deception my fondest game—
Only there are no winners
And the loser loses all.
Though I’ve played many times, I’ve not the strength
To try again.

So tell me then how to know when the game is done.
I wish I knew. I wish
You’d tell me how to stop the rain,
For the tears echo the words,
Testament to pain, flowing down endlessly
Until each is lost.

And this life must be lost,
This page crumpled away
By the pathless dance of time;
And words, my words, will be spoken but once
And left to echo down the halls of antiquity,
Passing to such, to what is dust,
Even as the pen forms them, even though
They are not yet complete;

And my works will go that way as well,
And all the intricacies of my life with them:
The struggles I thought were noble,
The desires I thought were love,
And all those little things
That I thought were important,
Yet they were not.
So the tears for them were meaningless,
Yet it doesn’t seem to matter,
Nor this time spent writing
So that something of me might live

Other than the emptiness, but separate from the grief as well,
Far detached from those who’ve wanted to take, take
And gave nothing but empty pledges for the prize.

And to you I must always be unattainable,
And the whispers not enrich
But take from you the part of me
That only gave, gave
And shared with you what was real,
All the while what was not
Was whispered through pretty teeth by the jealous
And those who simply couldn’t understand
That though some things are always bought,
What I gave was priceless but free—
The vital spark that charged and glimmered,
The core of me. Only not enough. It’s never enough.

Andrew, Graf von Rothberg

Luminescence (a reprised work, from February, 2006)

2009-08-27T07:22:00.000-07:00

If the world is such a dark place, as many people write, then how is it that we are ever able to see anything clearly? To see others? To see ourselves? Do we "wander through the shades" as the Greeks might say, blind to everything except the endless search, or do we adapt ourselves, become used to the darkness?

I am reminded of the property of bioluminescence, that which illuminates those strange organisms that thrive in the darkest depths of the sea, that through a chemical reaction or process, festoon themselves with lights so that in that darkness, in those murky depths, they might be seen. It is the same principle of the lightning bug, ambushed by children with murder in their hearts and mason jars in their hands, as it flickers on and off in the course of a summer’s night. Are we as humans much different? Of course, aside from the obvious things like being vertebrates and possessing consciousness, do we not do the same thing in essence?—illuminate ourselves in some manner so that where before invisible, we might not then be seen? And in the midst of that dark night, figuratively speaking, why is it that we shine lights on ourselves wishing to be seen to begin with at all? There is safety in obscurity. There is safety in reserve.

I flicker on and off. I talk a good game, but I am at heart reserved. I find I have great periods of productivity, such as my writing, that are akin to the attempt of kindling a lamp. The words illuminate me, and thereby I am seen. At other times, such as recently, I shade the lamp, and step further into the shadows by choice, by almost a tacit agreement between myself and the little ghosts that demand attention. Sometimes the past wants me all to itself, preferring to dream of what was and avoid life as it is now. Not that life is bad now, it is not, but there is no great struggle to it either, and out of consequence everything seems almost too easy, too stymied, too set on an inalterable course.

I was standing on my terrace last night, the lights behind me in the house turned off, the lights illuminating the grounds turned off as well, and all was dark. I was smoking a cigarette, only the lighter wouldn’t strike, so I had to keep trying it, little bursts of flame. We spend so much time trying to shed light on other things, we do not realize that in the night, casting the glow upon ourselves, we are seen also. A stray cat I have never seen announced itself with a meow, and crouched at my feet. It must have been in the woods or in my garden, and saw my flame, saw the light and came closer to it, hoping to find shelter. When you’re lost, you look to someone with that spark, that flame, that light. I gave him Fancy Feast and heavy cream. He devoured every bit.

Do not hide yourself away from the world. Others might need your light too.

**Author's note: The cat that I referenced coming out of the dark woods that night has remained my faithful companion--Mr. Grey, whose portraits can be seen in several of my Facebook albums.

The False Idol

2009-07-27T06:33:00.000-07:00

You'll listen to them once when they tell you a lie,
And the whisper is the sort you'd love to dream, love to believe
But cannot because it shines as vainly false as a golden calf,
Glittering and pure, yet impure at the same time.
Pearls will shine when they tell you that you're beautiful,
Or their tears will flow when they impart their love
And cry for a life to share,
Yet emptiness is the only creed for you to follow
When you turn away, for in the shadow of your back
(Not the blinding small, the shadow)
Their minds will change and you'll be left to wonder
What the lure was to make them bother at all.

You have no beauty of your own, save the gold dripping from your body,
A pretty garden
And your surgically altered face
Because your soul is empty and borrowed;
Grace within you is not inherent but purchased,
And you've sold yourself for everything that you have.

So small wonder that you sneer when they say "this is what I wanted to avoid"
Or that it wasn't just a one night thing.
Not so incredible that you've given up listening
When they tell you "I'm sorry" or ask to give it another go.
The only thing to make you smile is the calf
That you could hold in your arms and polish,
And it will lie and say "I need you", and that
And only that is what you'll believe,

Because somewhere, buried like an abscess in the hierarchy of your fears,
The need for something different, something other, unnamable, lunges upwards
And bares its empty face for a smile,
Luring you into the falsest of banalities,
But I suppose that's the lesser of two evils:

Better to love yourself with a lie than to know no love at all.

And it's sad, isn't it, that the enamor which held you
Was only golden to the sight;
For all preciousness is cold to the touch
And you have become the model of frigidity.
Sadder still all these nights when you'd grown nauseous from tears,
Screaming for the death of your heart--
Watching the saline wetness drench the falsest of idols,
Your little calf, who could never answer you,
Who would never even give a single word that might betray the truth
(If it could)

That the something you were looking for was always within reach,
Only it wasn't clothed in ropes of diamond-cut eternity
Or in rings and bracelets and watches that will outlast you,
But in flesh and spirit containing arms-
(the only thing to hold you of its own volition)
The only thing that could form words of its own accord and say
"I need you, I've always needed you, but you let the hurt turn you away".

And never having heard those words--that's where the folly of your life lies,
The knife pitched from the hoof of your idol
Which strikes the small of your back
And severs the cord of emotion, blinding you
To the vanity of your ways:

That you have shone falsely with no glimmer in your eyes at all,
Glittering only with golden wrists and hands
That no one will ever dare to touch-
Their beauty far too unique to hold,
The immensity of the preciousness too austere to caress;

With your chest heaving still, and pawing the ground,
You'll never believe it.

Andrew, Graf von Rothberg

Jardin en êté (The Summer Garden) for JMF

2009-05-26T18:56:00.000-07:00

circa June, 1995

There is this feeling I have within me of being inextricably trapped,
Where I know that I could be free
If only I opened a window or a door and stepped outside
Into the night, where the moon like a pale angel would greet me,
And the creatures that sing in the darkness
Would whisper to me "welcome":
Only where is that window? Where is the door?
Where is freedom to be found when I live every single day
Like this one: regimented, productive, stymied?
Nothing is new anymore; nothing seems to change for me
Day after listless day, passing so obliquely from one to another
Until I have no concept of what day it truly is at all.

Today is the day that I sat down and realized to myself
That I am alone, and whether or not I walk under the sky
Or kiss the flowers that close their faces to me
In my night-time garden, I am still such;
And whatever beauty I have is wasted, and whatever beauty
I have inside of me is wasted as well.
The moon sees nothing, trailing wings of clouds in her wake.
Crickets may sing, but their song is not meant for me,
And so I go on (as I always have)
Humming the words of a tune I should not know,
The one that only lovers may sing, the one thing
Which seems forbidden to me in this world.

This is no Eden, and I am not Adam,
Yet I have tasted of a fruit my lips should never have known.
I am aware of a window and a door
That by now I should have learned never to look out of,
Never to acknowledge, always to ignore
That I know what freedom is; and I can imagine it,
I can feel it the way I can feel you holding onto me

Then letting go and pushing me away

Leaving me to walk the night garden alone,
Trailing petals on worn brick paths in the darkness of spring
At four a.m..

Andrew, Graf von Rothberg

The Bonfire

2009-05-25T11:36:00.000-07:00

circa 1991

Quite a task, all the faces I have to remember:
Eyes and ears and throaty laughter from the hoard—
Suitors some, others only the ghosts I still carry 'round
Like Pop the Weasel springing up from the past,
Reminding me that what I am now I have been a million times before
And that all the reminiscing serves no real end.
We’ll not play that game. Yes, dear: I know the rules.

It’s just that I’m lying here, repetition of days that are like
The leaves of a majestic tree, too large to comprehend;
And though the tree is large and green, numbered still
With infinite foliage, there is a pile of them at its base,
And I am there, rummaging through it
Like a child trying to find a lost toy, a moment, a memory,
The exact instant when I looked and found and said
“Now I am a Man, now all these can go”;
Only they’re more than the corpses of springs gone by,
But the days of my life that at their end
Let loose of the branch and plunged suicidal
To the earth below that beckons of rest.
Funny that I count myself down here among them
Rather than above where the sap runs like blood
And whispers the vitality of life.
Strange that I hesitate to touch even one
And feel its life quiver in my hand,
Crumble it and smell chlorophyll on my fingers.
It’s the dead leaf that shows no pain,
The past crumbling just as easily in my hand.
No guilt. No recompense.
And rather than climb to the height of the boughs
And wave in the wind of living,
Too long I’ve looked here for the faces that jump and start
And mime off dead conversations, molded moments.
Too many gone, too much done.

And I realize it’s time, and gather bushel, bin, and rake
To build this fire and watch it go,
Glad that in it there is no struggle,
My own wills acquiescing as the hand shakes to strike a match,
And all bursting as in nova, and so it goes:
Only the whimper heard, the cry exclaimed,
The burned-out hull floating on unseen heat to what I’ve dreamt as heaven.

“And here”, said the phoenix, “is rebirth”.

I’d only love if you let me, raining the ashes of days past from the sky.

Andrew, Graf von Rothberg

Juvenilia: "Separation" for JMF

2009-05-25T11:07:00.000-07:00

29 August, 1997

My glass strikes a note as the pen strikes it:
Jewel-hued sangria floating in facets with a rim of gold
And a perfect resonance which echoes the sound
My heart would make if only it could sing.
And it touches me suddenly, instantly
As if I were a prophet and G-d spoke His word
Through me, this feeling of being a fragment
In a world of perfect circles, a piece of an arc
Forever reaching but never knowing completion.
Not knowing what to grasp towards,
It falls in upon itself.

And it strikes me as well that there are people
Who can drift through years and lives
And never stop to be affected by the ocean's swell.
There are those who never look up and are touched
By what pine needles look like outlined upon the southern sky;
Then I remember the people who are not like me,
That although my words will drift into obscurity somewhere far off
They contemplate only the horizon and miss the world
As it spins beneath their feet: all of this gone--
The wine that I am drinking,
These few silly tears, the smoke of my Dunhill
Dissipating in the wind, a lover's smile
And the explanation of what we are not.

I take the ring off.

Andrew, Graf von Rothberg

Being here

2009-05-20T09:15:00.000-07:00

I have been so occupied with the general business of living that I find I have not taken time to simply sit and reflect on life. Such reflection is, I think, necessary and beneficial: when we become too caught up in our days and the events, significant and seemingly insignificant, which comprise them perspective can become lost--we can become lost, or perhaps feel a sense of incompleteness, that we are not progressing as we ought. This is why we must have goals, or at least why I believe I must continually set, evaluate, and reset goals in my own life, because without the feeling that I am working towards something I am inclined to feel adrift, and such a feeling of existing without stasis or anchor is where in the past I have gotten myself into trouble. Could it be, miracle of miracles, that I am learning from my own mistakes?

I think too, in learning, in growing as a person and as an adult, that it is important for myself that I articulate a lesson learned: it is not enough to me that in some silent way I acknowledge progress as I have been apt to do in days now gone, but now to stop, to take a moment and say, quite literally "this is point 'A', this is point 'B'", or, "this is choice 'A', this is choice 'B'", and what course I have chosen. I find that when I do this, at least for myself, I then experience a sense of fulfillment, of completion, and am then justified in telling myself "well done, you", rather than existing in a state wherein no self-discipline exists. There is always work to be done.

And with that in mind, I turn my attention to the garden, my garden, where I spend the greatest amount of my time when I am not occupied with work or the day to day activities and obligations that keep us busy individuals: it is there that I go to work, hidden underneath a planter's hat and behind polarized sunglasses to protect against the harmful rays of the sun and with the earphones to my iPhone snugly in place, music playing. I'm able to lose myself in the work and in the music, and I wonder to myself how I spent my afternoons and evenings before I was so devoted to this art. The pressures of work go, the vagaries of events past diminish, and with the eye of a child in an adult's mind, I clip and prune and plan and plant and tend. I know who I am when I am in the garden.

A Dinner Conversation, for J.C.L.

2009-04-30T07:32:00.000-07:00

(From a decade ago: this was how I felt.)

Love is not to be consumed by you as if it were
a plate of large portions,
Set before you to devour: you do too many things this way
And with an appetite best described as "intense"
Make short work of any dish, any prize:
Whether pasta, chicken dijonaise with dill, or my light, my heart
They are all eaten, and the pasta goes
And the chicken diminishes, and my light
grows dim, perched over my head
like some telling star which does not bother to speak.

And so, without much ado, I push back my chair
and express the wish to be excused,
But you would have me sit and listen to your
muttering of things
That you honestly know mean nothing to me
and if I were to extol them to you in a similar way
would be silenced by your label "pretentious",
Neverminding that I am already called thief.
You do not say, but by tacit suggest.
And the light grows dimmer still, like lights
too low in a restaurant
while the bus-boys are hustling to clear the table and it has closed
and you, a late diner, should be gone.
But you, no monsieur!
You have not finished your plate!

And the tines of your fork cut into me,
And I am punctured in a million places
And if I could let pour out of me
Whatever venomous poison you have poured in
Would gladly figure into dust just to be
done with the damned thing altogether.

I fall apart like clay in front of you
And you barely look up while wiping the last
of the sauce from your chin, from your plate.
"Is there something we should talk about?"

De Profundis

2009-04-06T11:07:00.000-07:00

Viewed from the outside, the most extraordinary of circumstances can seem quite ordinary, even mundane--but when we are in them, when we lose the perspective of objectivity and are only subjective, rationality can flee and we can become caught up suddenly in a progression of events that seem utterly without reason, the sort that can change one forever, even when one believes, wrongly, that one is past the point of change.

I have met someone who has changed my life, as if I were progressing down a fixed path on a trajectory aligned with the rightness of a sure orbit, governed not by stars but by sense and sensibility. Perhaps I left myself open to it, to Change as it were--yes, with a capitol "C" and all the seriousness that distinction calls to mind. I met a young man and because of it I am altered. His orbit intersected mine and through gravity or attraction, or by repulsion, my path has now changed, and indeed, I'm certain his has as well: irrevocably it would seem.

What was my role in this, and why do I feel the need to write of it? Writing has always been my escape, my therapy, as if by putting the words down, figuratively speaking, with pen and paper they would no longer exist inside of my head where turning them over and over again in my mind would lead to nothing but anguish--mental torture, neverminding that I know better, that I know I should not torture myself with them.

He contacted me. We began a correspondence. We would chat in the evenings on IM's and speak on the telephone. We exchanged text messages. I was reserved, and he asked me, repeatedly, what I was holding back, why I was so reserved, what I was afraid of. I could not articulate it. I was, in fact afraid.

We spent an afternoon in each other's company. We went and looked at furniture, not really to look at it but to have somewhere to be. We ate mexican food in a common restaurant. He didn't eat much, neither did I. Other moments occurred, and I felt happy, I felt I was overcoming my fear because here was a pleasant and engaging young man, and he was intelligent and articulate, smart and witty, imaginative, urbane. He shared details of his life with me: he told me that he came from a very, very conservative Christian background, and that his parents would never approve of our friendship, would never approve of any of the things he did, and so he had to hide them, he had to lie.

He asked to meet my mother. He said it was important to him that he know her, so that he could better know me. He wanted me to meet his family too, and suggested that he come up with a story to tell them to explain how he knew me--that I could be his German tutor, neverminding that he was not taking any German courses at his school, a small but growing college in the University of North Carolina system, located in Pembroke, North Carolina. Thankfully, that plan never materialized. I can only imagine how that would have turned out.

We continued our talks, our late night chats, our jokes and laughter, flirtations. I felt myself becoming relaxed, I felt my guard coming down, and in a move designed to show this, to show this good will, this building of trust, I wrote him a letter, a long letter that took me hours to write, and I explained to him the events and the course of my life. I told him what it was to be harassed as a teenager for being different, what it was to be the object of derision and ceaseless taunting by my schoolmates, how coming out in the late 1980's and early 1990's had irrevocably changed me: that I was afraid, that as a young man I had seen a generation of men cut down and decimated by AIDS but that I had escaped it--I was terrified to even kiss another person, much less have sex with them out of fear--and so I became frigid--that love had been this tantalizing brass ring forever held out in front of me but never caught, never was a purchase gained of it, never having the ability or strength or luck to grab it and hold onto it, and what that did to me as a person.

I admitted to him that because of my life events, not as an excuse, but simply that it was, that it happened, that I became an alcoholic. I told him the truth about going to rehab and finding help for my problem. I was proud to tell him that I had, and still have, over a year of sobriety now, and that being free from alcohol is and I hope shall remain the greatest, greatest blessing in my life. I told him that I lost my license because I had a DUI charge in November of 2007, that I had broken the law and was punished for it. I told him how much I regretted these things but was glad for them, because I knew that they had changed me, and changed me for the better, that I knew finally that being open and honest about things in my life was the only way for me to live it. I hoped, and still hope, to be an example to others to that end.

Time passed. We were to spend another day together, a Saturday or a Sunday. His school work was certainly keeping him very busy. He commutes every day from his home to school, probably an hour's drive. We would talk on the telephone when he was on his way home in the evenings after working at a job on campus. I worried about him driving too fast--he would pass people on the road while talking to me, and laugh about it and call them silly names. I had a dread he would be in an accident. I approached my former employer, a retired District Court Judge who is partner in a local law firm to see if he might give this young man an afternoon job in the firm, perhaps helping with filing or odd errands. They keep that kind of staff there, young adults from high school or in their first years of college. I told him that I had done this, and he thanked me. The Saturday came, and he had to cancel. I understood because I had canceled once before myself because I had a migraine brought on by sinus trouble and allergies from our damnable southern pollen here in North Carolina. I understood his canceling, I had done the same. We agreed on a rain check.

The following Saturday, he told me his mother was going out of town, but that he could not see me because she had asked their neighbor to keep an eye on him and make sure that he did not go anywhere. He told me his mother was worried about him because he never got any rest. He told me that he met a young man involved in student government at his college, and that he was thinking of running for student office himself. He told me that he stayed at school and spoke to this young man for almost eight hours, and that it was the longest conversation he had ever had.

I felt jealous---a natural emotion I imagine. My feelings were hurt that he could spend so much time with this other fellow and not see me. At another time, we spoke one night at 2 o'clock in the morning. First he told me that he worked late, and then he told me that he had gone to the chapel on campus with that same young fellow and "messed around", and then he immediately took it back and said that he was joking. Why would he say something like that? What element of truth was there to it? I felt my heart clinch up, but I didn't pursue it because he had chided me already about not trusting him, about thinking the worst, and so I counseled myself to be patient, to be understanding. Perhaps he was joking. After all, I remember being young. I remember being exactly like him, about feeling the first flush of freedom being somewhat away from my own home and my own family and the stringent restrictions that governed my life when I was nineteen. I did not push any further, but I have to admit, it hurt. Of course it would hurt. Aren't I human too?

A rain check, another date canceled. We spoke on a Saturday and were to spend the following day together: it was all arranged. He would attend church services, I would attend my own church services, and then we would go see a movie, or have something to eat, maybe do a little shopping. Sunday came; I went to church and came home. I had no word from him. I sent him a text message: "canceling?". He did not reply. Later that evening I sent another, and I said in it that I understood that he had to cancel, perhaps something had come up, and that I understood if only he would tell me what it was. He did not reply.

On Monday I heard nothing. On Tuesday I heard nothing. On Wednesday, still nothing, and so I sent him the following text: "Are you okay? I'm concerned that I have not heard from you", and then, somewhat resigned that I would not hear from him, but not understanding why he could not at least tell me something, anything, or acknowledge my messages, I sent him this "Please at least let me know you are well and then I will not embarrass you or myself with further messages that meet only with your silence". I didn't want to hound him, I didn't want to become "that guy" who can't take a hint--but I thought he was different. I thought he was special--I knew he was special, I knew he was different. He was worth my trying, even if I did feel a little stupid making all this effort. Is it wrong to like another person? Is it selfish to enjoy their company, to like how they made you feel, to enjoy the sound of their laughter or the subtlety of sophisticated humor that is so often lacking in our semi-rural world that it is Fayetteville, North Carolina? Was I being unreasonable?

He responded to me, his text message read "I was raped around 2 a.m. sunday morn. Um so that is why I haven't replied. I fly from RDU friday to germany. I need to go away for a while".

I read his text message and felt the blood drain from my face, and then down my torso and into my toes, which began to tingle. I felt dizzy. I felt nauseous. I rushed into the bathroom and I threw up. I felt physically and spiritually ill. What monster could do this to this young man? What sick, twisted demon of a criminal would lay hands on this youth and rape him? I was molested when I was a child. I was raped when I was a young teenager. I never talk about it, but it ruined me--ruined me utterly and totally for more years than I care to admit, for more years than I ever was conscious of until I faced all of my demons and came to the place of peace and acceptance I exist in now. I cried for him, for his innocence lost, for this crime, this despicable, despicable crime.

Then I started to ask myself how this could have happened. Where was he, where had he been that would have given someone the opportunity to do this evil thing? Hadn't he told me that he had been at home, that he could not go out because his neighbor was supposed to be watching him while his mother was gone? But wait, when I talked to him that Saturday he told me his mother was home. The details did not add up.

Was he lying to me?

I began to examine the details of our correspondence, the things he told me about himself and his life. I remembered that there was a time in my own life when my own reality was so unpalatable that I invented things and lied to people because I thought if I could make them believe something, maybe it could be true. It made the tough times easier for me, it made the experience of my mother's divorce and our resultant reduction in circumstances easier to bear. Most people do not know that in those years I was poor, that my mother and I were poor. We kept up appearances. We soldiered through. Later on there was a little money when I finished my degree, the situation improved, but for that period of time we were broke: we lost our home, we lost many of our fine things, and we had to move into a small, small home in circumstances we had never been exposed to. If people asked me where I lived, I gave our old address, or told them we had moved. I understood why someone would make up a lie. But rape?

I wrote a poem based on the myth of Daedalus and Icarus. Daedalus' name is derived from the Greek "a cunning worker". He sent me the text message telling me that he had been raped on April 1st--April Fool's Day.

And so I was hurt. I felt wounded. Wasn't it natural to feel that way? After all of these events, which I present here in as unbiased a manner as I can, after all of these things, is it hard to believe that I would feel as if my heart had been broken, and cruelly too? If he had not wanted to see me, I could understand that. He could have said as much. How easy would it have been to say "I'm afraid, I'm confused, what I'm doing is not in accordance with my understanding of the Church, I have fears, I feel shame"? Not that I would expect him to articulate that in that way, but something, anything. "I met someone else" or "I'm young and you are not". Any number of these things I could have handled, any one of them I could have faced--and accepted, and that is the key term here: ACCEPTED them. I would have, I would have felt some loss, some rejection--who wouldn't? But at least I would have known then, and I could have moved on.

He would not let me move on, though. He sent me a note, the subject said "I won't back down". Did this mean he wanted to try?

"I refuse to let your sense of rejection ruin our friendship and potential relationship. I absolutely refuse. You Andrew are an amazing person with many marvelous things to offer someone, but you see the negative, always the negative. And I refuse to walk away from you with you thinking that all of the past few weeks have been me rejecting you and that you knew this was coming and didn’t want to accept it, what ever. The fact that you don’t put enough credit to me that you think I would fabricate being raped, of all things being raped? If I were going to cut you from my life I would meet you look you dead in the eye and tell you that I feel like it would be better if we went our separate ways. I would wish you well and leave. Not fabricate rape. You know what? If that is the best you think of me: that I would do something like that, then you are right you cant give me happiness and joy. Why would I waste my time talking with you and texting you if I was going to leave? What purpose would that serve? None!! I leave Friday I am going to our house in southern Germany I need to leave this behind till I can cope. I am aching. I will go into town to check my email, as is there is no Internet in the house. Whatever happens I hope you well. I hate this. I hate the doubting. I hate having to qualify everything. Andrew, I have not rejected you. "

And so rape? The magnitude of it. The magnitude of it. What woman can hear that word spoken and not think of the most mortal terror, the most heinous of crimes? What man of reason can think on that expression, ponder the act, and not know how evil it is, and what it does to the person who is the victim of that crime? A cunning worker indeed to have come up with this as an excuse for not making a telephone call. How could this be?

I was angry. I had been made to look like a fool. Poked and prodded, cajoled and asked to trust, I had trusted. I opened myself up and shared even the ugly bits because I felt that I was safe. That trust and that honesty was returned with a lie whose effect is more cruel than I am able to articulate myself--that is why I am writing about it, because I must put it down here so that it will not live inside of me ever, ever again. If I were a dog I would be howling right now. Now I understand what it means to want to howl. I never knew before. I know now.

"I was raped around 2 a.m. sunday morn. Um so that is why I haven't replied. I fly from RDU friday to germany. I need to go away for a while". It was Friday. I thought to myself, hope against hope, let this not be true, let this not be true, be wrong this time, your love was not in vain--perhaps this horrible thing happened and then wouldn't you be ashamed of yourself, shouldn't you be ashamed of yourself and rightly so? See? He even wrote you to tell you that you were wrong. He was telling the truth. A crime has been committed, and here you are, so petty, that you have a doubt in your heart and think this young man might have lied to you. He works after his classes in a coffee shop. I dialed the number and asked for him. I lied and said I was his father so they would put him on the phone. I overheard him in the background, his laughter and his conversation suddenly interrupted by the lady's voice telling him he had a call. He spoke to me. I wanted to be wrong. I wanted to be wrong. "What time is your flight?" I asked him. I will not say his name. "What time is your plane to Germany?, you said you were leaving today. I wanted to check on you." He told me the flight had been pushed back, and then asked, incredulously, "You told them you were my father?".

And then I knew. I understood, but I did not understand.

The old Andrew would probably have run to the nearest bar over a happenstance such as this, or ached for an anti-depressant, a sedative to sooth his jangled nerves. But I am sober now, I have been sober since January 10th, 2008, and even in the face of heartbreak, even in the face of this which has put me into a turmoil of such a nature that I have not experienced in years, even while trying to get sober, I did not feel a loss so great as this. Do we ever realize the effect we have on other people, do we not realize how our one word or cruel gesture can change a planet's path?

My world has been altered, and I am changed, again, because of it. I guess that is the marvelous and incredible thing about life and about God's plan for us, that we will be tossed and lost like a piece of glass in the sea ground down by breakers and tides and Time alike, then spit up on the shore one day smooth and beautiful: a jewel. I have heard it said, "God only reproves the ones He loves most", and taking that thought and running with it, in less fancy parlance, I ponder "why do bad things happen to good people?"--this is why, and there is a Lesson for me to be taken from this.

Still, I wanted to speak to him. I wanted to believe, somehow, someway, that maybe he could see the madness of the whole situation, and so I asked him to contact me. He sent me a text message that said "I cannot believe this is happening". I replied, "Why not? You did it. It's your handiwork and you've done a marvelous job". I sent another text message. I am a fool, a glutton for punishment: "Be honest with me, that's all. I don't care what you've done. I understand, but be honest with me. That's all." And he replied, "I need space". I thought I had given him plenty. I imagine that I was wrong.

And now, there is to be no further contact. Words, unspoken, ring in my ears. I understand that. It's better that there should not be. He will have to live with the knowledge of what he has done as much as I will have to live with the regret and blame for what I did not do--but have I done anything wrong? I examine my own heart. I examine my motives. I confess to it all. I am guiltless in my conduct of this affair, but somewhere I trod where I should not have, somewhere I took a turn onto a path I should not have ventured to explore.

I will close up again. I will withdraw and cinch in my circle of acquaintance like one cinches in the string on a pouch closure. I close my eyes and I see the image of night blooming flowers that fold their petals up and retreat into their dreams of hazy greenness when the sun exposes them. I think of plants on the sea floor that withdraw into their protective enclosures when a threat is near or perceived. I feel as though the planets have shifted, irrevocably, and I hope in time I will not feel this wound as keenly as I did this morning. That Hope is justified. The family motto of my mother's Clan Sandilands is "Spero Meliora", "I hope for better things", and I do. I do hope for better things. I trust that God's will be done, that it will be done, and is.

To him, I realize I must be a trifle, an irritation—just some person he met on the internet and flirted with and now casts away as carelessly as one brushes dust from off their shirtsleeves or their shoulder, and in my minds eye I see that action, the flicking of fingers off the shoulder in a gesture that signals dismissal, or whatever name can be put upon it. I can only imagine what he has told his parents, if he has told his parents, what he has told his mother, what they must think of me: any mind cunning enough to suggest what he has done will most certainly paint me and these constructions unfairly as something very different from what, in fact, I am, but I suppose I will never know the truth of it. He could not tell me the truth of anything. He could not bring himself to do it, and that is his Flaw. "Virtus junxit mors non separbit". At the end of it I just feel empty, like something inside of me has died, but I will work through it. I have endured much in my life and no doubt will endure more, so this will not be my undoing. I am not broken yet. I will not break.

A Cunning Worker, no April Fool for D.L.R.

2009-04-01T11:07:00.000-07:00

I wonder, with what indulgence did Icarus' father form
The feathers on those molded wings of wax which he constructed for his son?
How his hands moved over them, standing in a workshop as he must have done
With pots of wax and the remiges of eagles,
An eye, perhaps, fixed warily upon the distant sun?

You are Icarus to me, a young and sprightly man whom I shall call a boy,
With new peach skin and gangly limbs--
You fly and loop and circle back upon yourself, dancing in the sky
But soar too high, too near approach the sun.
A fabricated lie
With which to adorn yourself you now construct. I wish you Joy

And Happiness, I could provide you with neither of these things myself
But bid you travel safe. You've a long journey ahead of you yet.

Daedelus, did you just think that such an equippage for this youth
Was mete and fit? I feel as if I am writing letters in the sky
That will be pulled apart and haze themselves like cotton strands
Pulled apart and unmade in my hands imprinted there and hovering coronal
While patting something dry. "Out, out damn'd spot": I know those words,
I know the guilt Bard's Lady said,
To have thought these wings were strong enough to last and stretch and reach then fold.
She said "fie, my Lord, fie".
Who'd have thought the old man had so much blood, then,
Who'd have thought

That it would come flushing to my face at first in grief,
And then in anger, and then in shame
As one by one his words displayed
An explanation for his flight
And how a Sunday walk could wet
A librettist's appetite
For drama, and tragedy, some Great Loss we each must face
On the premise of which he builds his flight
On the premise of which this Hope should die
And fall, crashing from the Heavens?

You will want me when I'm gone
When you had the chance, when we shared, I thought
This lovely dream to chase
As did poor Daedelus and his son
To escape King Minos' place.

You play a cruel, cruel game with my heart, but I understand you more
Than you can understand at this moment, now.
A curtain falls, another stage set struck,
And this flight's done.

Go on lad
Take your bow.

Andrew Sandilands, Graf von Rothberg
1 April, 2009

Ein Stern, sobald gefallen, angehoben.

2009-03-17T10:33:00.000-07:00

(A star, once fallen, reborn)

My heart, so blue upon this day, Fortune smiling yet turning his face from mine
So that I am left as one without sight, beyond notice,
Falling and fading like a once bright star, now gone dim.
And dimmer still, the uncertainty of how I am living out my days
Underneath this weight, Sisyphus with his great stone
Amazed that I am not crushed by it, amazed that I am able to stand
And roll it again to the top of the pile.
How often have I cast myself as the phoenix, this marvelous creature
Burned again and again, rising from the ashes in a splendor of light?
Shall I emerge again? Shall this star find light anew, view the face of G-d
And have surety in my heart, security that my life will not be snatched from beneath me?
All my vanities fall at my feet. I stumble across them, more blind now
Then when I was in my eighteenth year, feeling no wiser than I did ten years ago.
Always with this the finale, explosions in the heavens, my own Götterdämmerung.
Andrew redux. Andrew revenant. Andrew unsure of what tomorrow holds.

Perhaps there is for me some wisdom to be gained from this, knowing as I do
The workings of the earth, and that those who toil for righteousness in the Garden of the Lord
Find fruit from their labours. Even seedlings spring from scotched earth.
Even flowers bloom in the ruins of Jerusalem. Children of Israel are never alone.
How then to renew faith? How then to reclaim trust, to know in one’s heart
That the strings of our lives inevitably form a cloth, a pattern discernible
From what was once a mere handful of thread?
I should recall these things. I should remember that I have burned, oh indeed I have burned—
But that I arose. Should the fire make its way to my feet I shall cling to that knowledge,
Shall not resent the martyrdom being forced upon me, but shall sing to it longingly
With the music of a flute.
G-d only reproves the ones He loves. Hold to that, believe in that,
Toss it to the heavens and view it blazing bright like a nova.
You shall be as Alcyone shining. You shall be forged a star.

Pembroke Pines, for D.L.R.

2009-03-14T20:38:00.000-07:00

What winds are blowing through the Pembroke pines today?
You have no word for me, have had none, for nigh on three days now
And I comprehend how fires start themselves up in silly little rushes of smoke and heat
But collapse back upon themselves in an instant just as quick,
No hot air of mine buoyant enough to inflate your hanging balloon.

A journey then, there in a basket of twisted hemp and twisted words,
Affection given first that made my breath stop in my throat
And reawakened the optimism of enormity that existed when I was young, as you are now.
I think of times in years now past, the white sand of the earth
On the campus by the walkways,
Brick buildings with pretty wooden floors and windows set in,
Pane upon pane.
I sat in one of those rooms a lifetime ago, with bad technique
Clumsily executing a Bach fugue upon a clavinova that made no sound.
I recall what I was wearing.
I remember how I felt.

And now, here am I a lifetime and a county removed from that same place
Which has changed so greatly
But probably little in the grander scheme of things,
My memory of the scent of dust in corners
And wooden floors that cracked with every footstep jarred upon their back
But did not break are still intact. Thank God for that.
I will not break.

I will not break.

There is in the air the smell of coffee, rich and roasting
Roasting like your rich voice and the bubbles of amused laughter
Which rise and fall like orbs in heaven particular to you,
Comprising a conversation of which I was not part,
Nor parcel, nor any mention sure I am of this.

So do I matter?

What luck to be an old man now with pretty skin and rich and heavy hair
Which has the sleek look of the well-oiled fur
Of a red fox draped over the arm of my window seat,
From which I peer into the cradle of branches
Of blooming Bradford pears, white and green, and white and green,
With drops of rain clinging to them like prisms
From the soft March rain that fell today
That came upon the winds
That blew my way from Pembroke, but did not carry you
And will not lift me any higher

I am afraid

And rest seems now like some cruel punishment,
That these hours will deny me this, and deny me you
To whom I haven't any claim at all.

I did not see this, I did not know
That cruel the winds of Pembroke blow
That stir the branches of barbed pine
And stab one's hands.
You are not mine,
Nor am I yours, these hours not mine, not ours to share.
I did not see you anywhere.

Rest now I shall, sleep here a little while
Then wake.

Every fancy passes. Why should I think that yours would linger on, would take?

Andrew, Graf von Rothberg
14 March, 2009

Juvenilia: "Mythos"

2009-01-25T21:39:00.000-08:00

September 8, 1996

"Mythos"

Actaeon viewed innocence by mistake, unable (or unwilling)
To unfix his stare, and for his pains was made a stag,
Was unmade by Melampus and finished
By his own friends, arrows piercing and teeth tearing:
How little different am I.
I should be ripped apart, I think, or at least
Torn away from my window as if it were the threshold
Of Diana's cave, looking as I do for things that I should not.
No form of innocence is to be found within
Or without, and my own Hylas is as empty as his cup.
Why should I want to drink of it at all?
If that is all life is, then I find I have lost my taste for it
And want no more. Here then, that thirst is quenched.
What sweeter wine could I drink, what purer ether to breathe
To cleanse myself and my soul?
Did Actaeon learn his lesson, suffering his sin to be torn out
As was that immortal spark? I should let mine go
Before I wander into the shades alone and accursed
For the span of eternity, for this one youth
Is not particularly innocent, nor profound, nor beautiful,
And not worth this cost. Even I
Am not truly worth my price.

Andrew, Graf von Rothberg

"Die Ewige Seele" (The Eternal Soul) for JMF

2009-01-23T11:36:00.000-08:00

16 November, 1996

Let me not close my eyes and rediscover thoughts I've lost
Along this way I've gone, for I have gone too far
And accomplished too much to lose myself within the darkness
Resultant from the idleness of fast-shut lids.
It's as if my soul should stay awake forever--
Be vigilant in the face of fatigue and all the querries it inspires.
I have no time for that.

Is it not better that my heart is now strong enough
To recognize weakness and will it away?
Easy enough to say that a fly has a thousand eyes
And still gets caught in webs. I shall not look
To the right, to the left, and certainly not behind me
To that place and to that direction which parallels regression,
For that is the greatest of evils, and I must be on my guard.
You would (not out of purpose or pursuit, but by nature)
Pin me down with your eight legs and wrap me up.
Your threads are silk the color of your hair
And my life would once more be drawn from me
Leaving only a shell behind. I was empty enough once.
I walked the darkness of my garden paths at four a.m.
In summer, choked by your venom, expressed in tears
But was lucky enough to escape, to recover.
You made dying a pleasure. You made,
By no fault of your own, my life a web
I was frantic to escape from.
I thought I could brush you from me
As one brushes cob-webs from their face.
I hoped I could tame you, tarantulla,
And let your softness crawl on my hands.
I believed in so many things and believed nothing all at once.
All the while, all the same
It did not want me. You did not believe in me.

The black widow with her blood red hour-glass
Makes me think of the time and life that I lost.
If bitten, my eyes would close and I would be forced to this
Forever: remembrance and remembrance and remembrance;
Regret, and more regret, and above all Loss--
That this is a world where Love's power
(Or at least my love's power) ist strenglos*,
And changes nothing.
Immune to this nectar, this venom,
I will never sleep again.

Andrew, Graf von Rothberg

* from the german, "is strengthless", or "is without strength".

Juvenilia: Untitled

2009-01-23T09:30:00.000-08:00

5 October, 1998

Night-time. Silence. There is a fog that comes upon my house,
Billowing cooly and bounced from the porch-light that I click off,
And I am in darkness. My clothes grow heavy from the mist,
Everything like weights, an endless fatigue that drags me down
And so I crouch, and then I kneel, and then
I find myself lying down in the wet grass,
My nose full of the scent of cold earth, and I sleep.

Andrew, Graf von Rothberg

Juvenilia: Untitled, for Mr. Pookie

2009-01-23T09:19:00.000-08:00

ca. August or September, 1998

*author's note: I no longer condone, at least for myself, the use of drugs or alcohol, but can make no apologies for the past. I used to smoke marijuana with my brother, and we had a habit of writing down outrageous things to see what we thought of them later. Eleven years after the fact, here is my ode to Pookie, my wonderful, wonderful cat, who was laying at the foot of the bed and purring. It is to be read mockingly in the voice and manner of Maya Angelou.

His distance does not diminish its volume,
This contented sound reverberating to a pattern,
An ancient language I do not know.
What cat-bliss you must be experiencing,
Your giddy purr filling the air like pot smoke
Fills my lungs. And I am

Stoned, a foundation of strength, the marble of my bowl
Makes a sepulcher, a shrine--and I kneel before it
Toking up smoking up my

SMOKE, like a brazier calling down the gods to me,
Reminding me of a sickening and nauseating
Maya Angelou poem.

Get me a bucket, please.

Andrew, Graf von Rothberg

Juvenilia "The Journey"

2009-01-23T08:56:00.000-08:00

August or September, 1998

How far I've come: I can see that now from my vantage point:
The distances spread out like the configuration of the planets
And so very neatly arranged beneath me.
There, far away
Fair, cold Pluto--blue embodiment of my own cold guilt
And of the distance I wish it to remain: light reflecting
And traveling back to me an eon later.
How I wish it to go.
I am not desirous of its return, and preferring the source to the imitation
Turn my back to it. In an instant, it is gone.

And what of the journey I have made, my life like a galaxy
Filled with darkness and with stars; of how I had reached the limit
And skirted the edge, confronting the abyss, turning from it
A fraction too soon to fall completely, realizing my error
And turning back towards the light?

This is the thing not to be forgotten, a constant reminder
That days must flow seamlessly together and not be separated
Into individual guilts, each moving orderly like the planets
And confirming that all is well in the heavens,
That it is well with my soul.

Andrew, Graf von Rothberg

Juvenilia

2009-01-22T11:04:00.000-08:00

December 14, 1998

Silence, silence. I could use a hundred words and never say anything to you
That would communicate what I am experiencing:
The cold thrill of exhaustion and the propensity to burst into tears
While walking across a cold parking lot
And hearing the plaintive cries of a stray kitten, grey and soft
Like my greatcoat, one who I will forget like a hundred others,
One of millions whose lives mean no more than my own.

And so here I stand, the struggle at last accomplished
And the discovery made that once you pass through the goal
There is nothing waiting for you on the other side,
No parade or flash of confetti falling, only
An empty parking lot and the echo of your shoes on paving stones,
The wind sneaking into your clothing to remind you
That summer is dead and winter has devoured it
And life will chew you up and spit you out if only you'd let it,
If only you'd stop believing

That in spite of old men who desire you, you are still desirable
Or that the momentary pain of death is preferable to that of life,
Or that love is unattainable, or that no one
Will ever read these words and understand
That I'm simply having a black moment,
And that that is all this really is.

Andrew, Graf von Rothberg

Contented in my gardens, I still exist.

2007-08-28T11:33:00.000-07:00

Thank you to those friends and readers who have left your kind remarks and good wishes. I will write again soon.

The Carolina Spring

2007-04-21T20:21:00.000-07:00

This is what mid-morning looked like today, a visual highlighted by the soft noise of red-winged cardinals alighting from an ancient azalea.

I love my home.

After a long absence, here I am

2007-04-15T18:13:00.000-07:00

Checking the damage to my azaelas after our recent cold snap.