Over the Ocean and Through the Woods

I've always been jealous of the trips the cool kids on certain sites I frequent take. Even though I've taken some cool trips myself. Well, that's about to change: now you can be jealous of me, cool kids, as I'm taking a pretty awesome cool trip myself. To meet a fellow OKCupider, maihong, even. Tomorrow I hare off to Vietnam. Yep. Vietnam. To a city once called Saigon famous in the U.S. primarily for unscheduled helicopter flights, but in fact larger than Chicago and cooler than L.A.

(Well, maybe and maybe not on that second one. Cool is in the eye of the beholder, after all, but I'm excited about it.)

Much to see and do. Families to meet. Coffee to drink. A lovely woman to woo. Good times.

So wish me luck in my great quest. I shall endeavor to post pictures this time. (Kind of failed to do that when I went to meet wichzenka, soulofsolitude, and mplsindygirl. Oops. Will have to redo that trip one day soon just to prove it really happened.)

So anyway, thank you for your patience and well wishes.

Sincerely,

The Composer

I told my love I love her

One day in the late summer
I told my love I love her.
“How much?” she asked.
“I love you so much it hurts that
You're not here,” I replied.
I long for the day we touch.
The day our
Bodies mingle as our thoughts do.
I want our senses to stand
Even underneath the sun,
Smell and taste on
Equal footing to sight and hearing.
I long to feel you beside me,
To smell the fragrence of your hair, of your sweat, of
You.
To feel the rough strength of your feet, the
Smooth grace of your neck.
I long to be with you, my love.
To be you.
To be
We.

6 September 2011

To Luong Thi Mai Hong

East and West

Electrons colide at speeds once beyond immagination.
Eyes touch with glints of
Fire
Smiles, one subtle almost invisible, and another
Flashing with the power of a
Sudden storm.
Winds blow across an ocean
Tearing at the seals of
Fate
Set at times beginning.
Desire gives thought wings and
Hands meet
Slowly with the
Strength of continents adrift.
And where they touch
A bowl of rice sits steaming.

11 December 2010

To Luong Thi Mai Hong

Haiku

Wood knows the truth of
Growing strong to be bent and
Shaped to other use

1-24-2011

To Luong Thi Mai Hong

She smiled at me, bright
Summer sun poured from her eyes.
I knew myself whole.

2-11-2011

Probability Curves

The probabilities collapse when observed,
But when you see them from the corner of your
Eye, like stars, they’re bright
Burning points of

Light.
One function in
Two places.
Two states
Omnipresent only when unseen like some
Forgotten deity.

The bright eyes and freckles of a
Smiling god are scattered like those
Stars.
Intelligent in an
Empty universe.

8 January 2011

To Luong Thi Mai Hong

Fierce winter wind

Mist and snow, driven on parallel winds,
Swirl in front of me.
Like frozen
Fire the delicate white tendrils
Twist around my
Feet, bright in the headlights of
Oncoming cars.
Dark against the grey road. Lost in their own
Terrifying midnight shadow when the impromptu
Caravan has passed.

They burn with their intensity, these
Greedy jewels that glitter in the dim grey
Light of porches and parking lots.
They are chips of the
Eternal, shattered in some
Medieval examination and found
Wanting.

And I wander among them, one more
Fragment blown on the
Fierce winter wind.

11 December 2010

Am I gay?

I'm sitting in my car crying to the end of the first act of Nutcracker. And I come in the door spinning like some kind of freak. If I didn't like girls so much I'd question my own sexuality. No wonder all the kids at my middle school were so darn certain I was gay.

On the other hand . . . Tchaikovsky did write some very good music. Maybe if I were gay I'd also be rich and famous. (And somewhat more talented than I presently am.)

Yeah, it's been an emotional and goofy year. But I' do like Pyotr Illyitch. And all those folks that insist that Brahms is salvation and Tchaikovsky (or Wagner) an untalented hack can go suck it. Don't get me wrong, I like Brahms too, but I'll tell you what, I'd much rather play (or listen to) Tchaikovsky. Which means half my professors will now officially hate me.

And oh yes, there is a point to Christmas. It's not Christmas without mice and little girls having whacked out acid trips. And I officially like cultures where fairy tales are for grown ups. (For the curious, Russian opera is also replete with fairy tales. Fairy tales with big hairy men that sing really low and gardens full of lithe exotic princesses . . . And dwarves who keep their magic in their beards. It's just that kinky.)

But then Russia always did fairy tales better than Disney. Better music, better stories. Just . . . better.

Ladies and gentlemen, it's the holidays, so go out and crack some nuts. And dance!