Sometimes little people use big words.
Sometimes big words mask little problems.
Sometimes little problems stem from big voids.
Sometimes big voids create little comfort.
Then, one day, someone spelled god backwards.
Sometimes great love needs no words.
Sometimes no words complement great walks.
Sometimes great walks follow unusual paths.
Sometimes unusual paths lead to great friends.
Zahir happily danced across the apartment when she heard the phone ring.
“Hello, this is Zahir.”
“Hi Zahir, it’s Nancy.”
“Oh hey Nancy, how are you?”
“I’m fine. What are you up to?”
“I was just having a highly intellectual conversation with the two cats that live here.”
“With who?”
“The cats. Danielson and Sophie. Although Danielson was carrying most of the conversation. Sophie’s not much of a talker. She brings up some good points occasionally. It gets Danielson all riled up.”
“Where are you?”
“At home.”
“I see.”
“Yeah I was having trouble with my internet connection and Danielson made a very suggestive comment about how it’s useless to try and conquer the damn thing seeing as it is becoming obsolete.”
“The internet?”
“Yeah, that’s exactly what I said. So I turned to him and said, ‘what the hell are you talking about?’ And he tells me that our system of world wide communication is such a mess and that we should take a few lessons from the cats.”
“Lessons on … the internet?
“Lessons on more capable internet programs that are less focused on technological gadgetry and more focused on magnetic energy vibrations. Apparently the cats have some sort of internal communication system that is functional around the world. He referred to it as the ‘intercat’ system.
“Daniel?”
“Danielson, his name is Danielson. It’s Ukranian… I think.”
“Danielson talks to you?”
“Yeah! The cat won’t shut up. He’s always going on and on about how cats just do everything better. I would try to argue with him but since I can’t get the damn internet to work I can’t really back up my own arguments. He just likes to debate.
“And Sophie?”
“Sophie’s cool. I mean she shuts him down every once in a while. Like he’ll get on his big soap box about what’s wrong with the human sewage system and how we should all just really explore using a litter box because it’s far more biodegradable for the amount of waste we create and Sophie will just walk by and swat him on the nose and he just shuts up.”
“She hits him?”
“I wouldn’t say hit. More like a lite slap. But it’ll get him to quiet down, even though I can hear him grumbling as he walks out the door. Sophie can’t really hear his grumbling anymore because she’s loosing her hearing. But I know she gets just as sick of his pretentious babbling as I do. Sophie’s pretty cool.”
“Oh.”
“So…what’s up Nancy. It’s a rare pleasure to receive a call from you. How are you?”
“Oh, just blowing up like a balloon.”
“Is it kicking yet?”
“Yes. A lot.”
“Hold on a sec…. hey Nancy?”
“Yes?”
“Danielson said if it’s a boy you should name him Danielson.”
It’s a pity to turn a page and not see the words
the mind has put to paper.
Oh, but to spend my time reading.
It’s a shame to turn a shoulder and not see the smiles
the heart has drawn to laughter.
Oh, but to spend my time observing.
It’s a burden to turn a back and not see the love
the arms have held so bravely.
Oh, but to spend my time embracing.
TAKING THE “BIG JUMP”
INTO THE UNKNOWN
It’s official! Hugi The Great Productions is having its first show at the 2008 San Francisco Fringe Festival.
theatre that Moves
Written and Directed by Mercedes Segesvary
Starring Dalia Vidor
Stay tuned for more information about the show and check the link to the right to read more about the SF Fringe.
Yay!!!!
In the morning
Trying not to wake you
Just in case
You are dreaming
In the morning
We sat in the car well past midnight in a dimly lit alley around the corner from the intending hotel. That was where the conversation took place; an empty alley except for one little black car containing two passengers avoiding the obvious. The two of us: just sitting, conversing, in a car. The engine was off.
I pulled the knife from my heart. It was too difficult to continue the conversation with such an intrusive object in a place where it no longer needed to be. I pulled the knife and set it aside. I placed the knife on the dash board of the little black car in the dimly lit alley and that’s where I left it throughout my domination of the conversation.
My domination of the conversation included a progression of adjectives describing a necessary liberation from the present connection. I wanted out. I wanted to run like Hell and never look back. I yelled and screamed at the top of my lungs in that little black car parked in the alley with the engine off. But none of that was heard.
The knife was retrieved from the dashboard. Not by me.
I was told, by the other, to return the knife to its sheath. I was told, by the other, that if the knife were un-returned it would need a new home. I was told, by the other, that the knife’s new home would be in someone’s back.
That someone was not me.
I protested the request in that dimly lit alley.
The knife was placed in my hand. Not by me.
The other asked, “Please return the knife.”
I responded, “I don’t want to.”
The other said, “You have to return the knife.”
I contended, “I can’t.”
The other pleaded, “This night will never end unless you return this knife.”
But I resisted.
I could not return the knife to its original location. The knife’s sheath was gone from my heart and the hole had already begun closing. In that short amount of time spent in the little black car in the dimly lit alley the original wound, wreaked by the knife, was healing; culminating.
But the knife was still in my hand and the other, turning a back to me, argued that no exit would be made unless I returned the knife.
I looked down at the knife in my hand. It was a rather beautiful knife: Silver blade. Intricate gold hilt garnished with rubies and gems. Subtle curved criss-cross engravings. I clasped it with both hands. It was still warm.
The other still had a back turned to me, quietly sobbing.
I did what only I could do. I raised the blade. I raised it high over my head and with a gut wrenching force I used the knife to cut through the anguish and pain. I cut through the stifled, emotional polluted air. I cut through the layers of despair so that I could see clearly.
The other was gone.
In that little black car in the dimly lit alley with the engine off sat a single passenger with empty hands. Smiling.
Little Fire Dancer
How you command
The brilliant light
To dance across your body
In the obscuring night
With a delicate spin
Across the dark black sky
Your precious flames
Illuminate my eye
Hours do pass
As I watch you move
In gentle cohesion
With an animated groove
But the aphotic night grows old
In a lightening way
While you spiritedly dance
The tiring night in to day
And as the morning sun
Must pragmatically rise
For you, my little fire dancer
Some rest I do advise
Green Candidatesand Spam
I will not vote for Huckabee.
I would not, could not
Choose one not right for me.
I will not vote for J. McCain.
I would not, could not
Endorse a presidential pain.
I will not vote for Mitt Romney.
I would not, could not
Give him a White House key
I will not vote for Giuliani.
I would not, could not
He does not represent me.
I will not vote for Hillary.
I would not, could not
Just because she’s a she.
I will not vote for Jon Edwards.
I would not could not
Agree with his words.
I might vote for Barack O.
I would try, could try
He’s in the know.
“The big red building is blocking my view.” That’s about all she had to say 5 hours into her 9 hour work day.
“What are you doing to pass the time?” My question falls upon an intriguing soul.
“What do you mean?”
“Do you you just sit there all day staring at a building?”
“No.”
“So how do you make the day go by?”
“I don’t make the day go by. It goes by on its own accord.”
“Oh.” And that’s about all the converstaion I can handle with her in a day. I don’t have her patience. I can’t sit for hours staring at a building.
“Sometimes I wish the building would stare back at me.” She startles me enough to ask, “What?”
“Sometimes I stare, I just stare at the building—”
“The building blocking your view?”
“Yes. I stare so hard at it and ask it over and over ‘Why do you block my view?’”
I take a moment to debate if I should even ask. “What would you presume the building to say? I mean, of course, if the building could talk.”
The silence on her end is expected. With her patience, she could spend an eternity thinking of an answer to my question. I imagine putting the phone down, going for a walk through Golden Gate Park, eating an ice cream, returning home to clean the dirty dishes from last night’s dinner party and retrieving the phone only to find she is still pondering her answer.
“I think the building would say, ‘I was here first. You’re blocking my view.’”
“I suppose that is a very symbolic thing for the building to say.”
“Yes. Yes it is.”
