| I know I haven't written here since the pre-Oxford era, but here's a bunch of writing I've done for class, and others that I've done just for myself.
the beacon
Took toddler steps in vain, a stumble, bruised
convictions, bruis’ed elbows, bruis’ed pride
(the blood drips down the cracking concrete, used
to whet the with’ring weeds) while hands, so tried
from futile flailing, fall to ground so pale.
My mettle, legs, may lack integrity
to stand upright, to stand alone—too frail
to waddle towards the gleaming light ahead.
A reconstructed Union, cheering crowds below
in January frost, is not that beacon—
but only certain comfort knowing that
the Union’s preservation (that smile) was worth
the slaughter, that the sections saw its meaning
(though vanished) even while seceding—but
the glow ahead is calling forth—so stand,
and know the many (fear-gripped) need your hand.
a raging orange sunset
A raging orange sunset burns across
the sky, the Christmas lights below flash fire
like raindrops falling on the midnight moss.
Why must I leave this place I so desire?
Wore beach clothes, shorts in mid-November air,
the humming, streaming, Four-Oh-Five blew past
as ninety thousand boldly beat with flair
their cardinal and gold ribbons—at last!
But now a scarf does wrap my neck—
a dull, dim yellow street light blinds my eyes—
the fog rolls in, bitter Bay breeze, the wrecks
of glowing dreams fuel my incessant sighs.
Although my heart may yearn for orange sands,
my refuge here: warmth of our clasping hands.
thick portfolios of fake black leather
Although I understand the need to make
a living—thick portfolios of fake
black leather—make, you will indeed, a deal
like Faust, surrendering what makes you real
in search of one more line on your CV
for that elusive job security.
The planes set off, New York and Washington
five star hotels, the promise of just one
more round of interviews, before you will
consult Google with their engines, or fill
spreadsheets with lines of data, leave for home,
the rising sun your sole companion. Roam
the land without a purpose, then embrace
the place or person—that amazing grace—
which makes life worth the pain and strife. Go write.
Play catch. Read Joyce. Swim in the surf. Tonight
go tell her of your love before you fold,
reduced into a set of options, sold
and bought out on the market. Stand up. Leave
the desk and your Windows machine. Conceive
a world where all that counts is how her hand
just fits yours while her stretched leg strokes the sand.
Bobby's Laguna
The merciless sun beat down on Bobby’s already sun-worn face.
Drops of sweat gathered and collected themselves on the rims of his
glasses. He removed them, took his service cap in hand, and wiped his
forehead dry.
He leaned against his Chevy truck and stared out at Pacific Coast
Highway. Cars with faded paint and still rumbled down the road, their
sand-covered wheels making a grating noise on the warm asphalt beneath
them. Some of the cars he recognized—many of them were parked in the
same place they had been in when he left for Harvard to study English
six years earlier—but the newer models, the ones with the shiny chrome
and glossy black paint, were unfamiliar to him.
The old drug store he would terrorize with friends was still there. The
red and blue “Liquor and Drugs” sign was inactive because of the time
of day, but he still remembered its glowing luminescence in his
childhood. The owner, an older man named Wilson, had a love-hate
relationship with the boys. They were his best customers. They could
always be counted to walk into the store the same time everyday and
order their respective usuals; for Bobby, it was a chocolate malt with
just a bit of whipped cream. Despite their dependability, Wilson
thought that the boys were trouble, that they were always causing a
ruckus somewhere on the boardwalk. It was always a crapshoot about
which Wilson would greet the boys at the door—the welcoming old
gentleman with a thinning hairline, or the paranoid, yelling man with
the red face and popping veins.
Despite the familiarity of it all, the place still seemed strange. It
was fundamentally different from the Laguna Beach of his memories. He
remembered clutching his rifle in a foxhole in the Ardennes Forest. The
position was being shelled from the town below, and all around him
trees were exploding, raining shards of wood down on the snow-covered
ground below. He held his helmet onto his head, and laughed. He laughed
like a little boy. He was in California, jumping and skipping on the
sands of Main Beach. It was the Fourth of July. He and his little
sister were lighting fireworks and bottle rockets with a match and then
running away from them as fast as possible. Mom and Dad told him to be
careful, that if he wasn’t he could lose a finger or even an entire
hand. Their warning couldn’t hold him back. He felt a real sense of
power in the ringing explosions. He was the creator and the destroyer.
He chose which firecracker would burst in a blaze of blue light, which
bottle rocket would shatter.
But no longer. That sense of control was gone. He was home, and home
looked much like it did before, but something felt wrong. He felt
helpless. Again he was in the snow, laughing at the bursting tree line
above him. Through the sounds of the shells came an agonized call for a
medic, and the humor was gone. He remembered where he was and what he
was doing, and screamed.
Laguna
You can always tell the tourists from the locals by the way they refer
to the place. Tourists have a formal relationship with it; they dust
off their lapels, firmly shake its hand, and use its formal name:
“Laguna Beach.” To us locals, it is simply “Laguna.” The use of its
Christian name may seem a bit strange considering there are other
places in the area that use “laguna” in their names—I live in Laguna
Niguel, for instance—but alone, it could only refer to one place.
One of my favorite things to do—one of the things I insist on doing
when returning home after a long stretch away—is to drive down Pacific
Coast Highway on the way to Laguna. The road is winding and hilly, but
it is accompanied by an overwhelming view of the ocean that envelops
you even inside the confines your car. It is at that moment when that
aqua-blue hue embraces me that I feel like everything is in its right
place.
The problem with Laguna is the parking. Main Beach is far from a
well-kept secret, so finding a place to slot a car can be troublesome.
Looking for one on Pacific Coast Highway is a waste of time. On a sunny
day, the string of cars along the road will sparkle like a jeweled
necklace, each diamond worth a year’s tuition at an Ivy. There’s a
public parking lot just off the road behind the Mobil station we refer
to as the “usual place.” It is clearly visible, but difficult to get
to; the only entrance is unmarked and off of the always-busy Broadway
Avenue. Many a person has tried to enter it through the parking lot for
Diedrich’s, which is next door but separated by a concrete divider.
I had my Harvard interview at that coffee shop. I chose to sit outside
with my back to the water. I didn’t want to be distracted by the
rolling waves or the people walking along the boardwalk. I tried to
impress my interviewer, a Japanese-American woman, but my jokes about
wanting to acquire the Boston accent fell flat amongst the rhythmic
crashing of the sea.
The boardwalk along the sand snakes and stretches for two blocks; the
other side of Pacific Coast Highway is lined by eccentric shops and art
galleries.
I remember sitting on the boardwalk, her feet stroking the sand, as I nervously put my arm around her that August afternoon.
At night, the homeless find shelter beneath it. It may sound callous,
but at times I envy them. I imagine having nothing at all, drifting
from place to place, and I wonder if being able to sleep by the sea is
any consolation. On nights when the blooming algae glow bright red as
the waves reach their peak, it must sublime be to watch the lights
awhile before drifting away once again.
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