My older brother was born in the early 80’s like the guy who invented Facebook. The tail end of the grunge era, we’ll call this Generation Y.
I was born in the later part of the mid eighties. My generation gave Facebook our stamp of approval – we dictated how to use the internet; we are responsible for the evolution of cellular phones. So we’re Generation Z.
My little brother was born in 1990. He probably doesn’t even remember a time without the internet or cell phones. His generation invented texting while driving and cyber bullying and all-caps abbreviations of the English language.
At a loss for letters, how about we call him Generation Question Mark.
Showing posts with label prose. Show all posts
Showing posts with label prose. Show all posts
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
Thursday, February 10, 2011
the modern feminist
Young girls are socio-culturally predestined to rebel. So oppressed and protected and restricted -- by the time we blossom as young women and learn the infinite power of femininity, we cannot wait to exercise it, to abuse it even. Once out from under the thumb of naivety, we are hungry for liberation.
And we all rebel, every last one of us. We like the feeling of our breasts as currency. It's no big deal to us at all -- our breasts are perhaps our freedom, and we've been waiting to be free for much longer than we've been aware of independence's existence.
Yet perhaps this too is part of society's plot to turn us into the ideal counterpart for male, according to his preferences and alleged convenience. We are led to believe that our breasts, uninhibited from the naked eye, are the key to our salvation from the global tradition of misogyny; but thinking back, now on the other side of the teenage trenches, I suppose we did not expose them because we were intoxicated and frivolous, we did it because we thought we could control him. We were not free at all, but grasping at straws of power to no avail. It was all a false inkling -- we were playing right in to society's clutches all along, figuratively lying on our backs without even knowing it. Perhaps we will always be prisoners of man's desire, so innately tickled by the audacity of his roving eye. Maybe we were indeed made secondary and for that very purpose.
The sociocultural weaponry is revealed in the fact that I even have to wonder.
And we all rebel, every last one of us. We like the feeling of our breasts as currency. It's no big deal to us at all -- our breasts are perhaps our freedom, and we've been waiting to be free for much longer than we've been aware of independence's existence.
Yet perhaps this too is part of society's plot to turn us into the ideal counterpart for male, according to his preferences and alleged convenience. We are led to believe that our breasts, uninhibited from the naked eye, are the key to our salvation from the global tradition of misogyny; but thinking back, now on the other side of the teenage trenches, I suppose we did not expose them because we were intoxicated and frivolous, we did it because we thought we could control him. We were not free at all, but grasping at straws of power to no avail. It was all a false inkling -- we were playing right in to society's clutches all along, figuratively lying on our backs without even knowing it. Perhaps we will always be prisoners of man's desire, so innately tickled by the audacity of his roving eye. Maybe we were indeed made secondary and for that very purpose.
The sociocultural weaponry is revealed in the fact that I even have to wonder.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
the verduous hours - pt1
Green was not just the color of home. Green was everything.
There were plenty of shades to choose from, with the monotonous hum-whir of the commercial airplane beneath her feet; the center of the spectrum had been poured in neat little squares all over the landscape. Each shade had a different meaning, as if Bird’s-Eye Iowa was a photo album of her past based solely on the memories of frolicking with nature as her backyard.
Yes. Green was the color of home.
But it was more than that:
Green was church every Sunday since she could remember. It was the white slip she wore under a layer of tulle, then the stiff cotton of a periwinkle dress on Easter. It was the same families —- they all referred to one another as neighbor, although all of their houses were separated by several acres of farmland.
In the summertime, her parents would sit in the cab of her father’s beloved pick-up truck, and her two older sisters would sit with their baby brother in the backseat. She would climb into the flatbed with her two older brothers, settling within the canyon between two pairs of broad shoulders that jostled her as the truck galloped over the dirt roads leading to town.
The town was at the center of everything, and the different patches of farmland lined the dirt-veins that branched out from City Hall. Everyone attended the Lutheran church that was adjacent —- Green was the same Sunday faces that she recognized since she had a memory; and the Sunday-morning versions of the youth-filled faces she saw every day of the week in school.
Green was the color of the fields in the periphery of her scenic bike-ride to school every morning. And in the afternoons, on her way home, she would abandon her bicycle at the edge of road and take off through those fields of leaning grass. Green was the stalks of the dandelions that covered the hill at the furthest edge of her family’s farm. It was the husks in the cornfields that were her backyard -— at dinner time, she would sit on a stool in the corner of the kitchen with her sisters, and they would peel these husks away to brown in crispy, straw-like piles on the floor.
She loved to peel corn like she loved peeling the rogue rubber cement from her hands after hours spent pasting collages all over her personal corner of the bedroom she shared with her sisters. She used mostly pictures from the discarded magazines that piled up in the garage: images of flowers and trees, some pilfered from the out-dated encyclopedia set on the top shelf in the study.
Green was her favorite color. She spent most of her time immersed in it, even during the winter when it may have deigned to lightly snow. It was mint green then; it tasted mint green, and she made mint green snow angels right beside her back porch.
Green was her sanctuary, whether she was playing outdoor games and trying to keep up with her brothers, wandering the loess hills just beyond her family’s property, or exploring the creeks even further into the horizon from her back porch… And green was in the sunset too -— she had spent plenty of her days watching the sun fall from the sky at its ever-lax pace. With perfect timing, perhaps when the first fireflies decided to glow, she could find the rainbow that haloed the neon fireball to the west. Just at the edges, where the night’s indigo with its many stars began to creep upon the dissipating day, there was the faint rim of green, then the brilliant pinks and oranges that would bleed away with the sun until tomorrow.
Yes. Green was everything. Every memory she had, every good and every bad, could be found within the patches that were beginning to disappear under the cover of white clouds, like winter making an early appearance.
She turned away from the window, her breath leaving a circle of steam near where her lips had been. She was leaving it all behind again, but even so, green would always be green. There were some pieces she would never be able to escape.
What about the color of his tee shirt from the first time she had met him?
It had been a dark, rich green -— like the forest. She had first seen it hanging limply from the fence that outlined her mother’s garden. She had mistaken it for a rag, with its many rips and the darkened sweat stains. Pieces of twisted metal from that old, rusty fence seemed to have punctured even more holes in the cotton that was worn to its most weary.
She approached, cautious. She did not recognize this tee-shirt as belonging to one of her brothers.
“Abigail!”
Her mother’s voice came sharp from the back porch.
But she did not turn back. She looked forward, towards the collection of voices connected to no entity, but buried within the many rows of corn behind her house.
It had to have been late in the summer because the field had been a behemoth wall. At age eleven, she could be completely concealed within the stalks that rose beyond even her father’s height.
Her older brother Walker was the first to appear; he came bursting from between a row of stalks now disrupted, and leaves of green husk flew upwards in his wake. He was shirtless, his skin baked golden from all summer spent outside. Eighteen years of age at the time, that was the last summer she could remember him with long hair. The unruly curls pasted themselves to his forehead with sweat adhesive, interrupting the flawless amber of his bright eyes in thick, dark locks.
Jameson was seventeen, and he had the same curly hair in a raven brown that bordered dangerously on black, but he had their mother’s hazel eyes -— amber with a green marbling. He was right upon Walker’s heels from the field, shirtless and drenched in sweat; there were smears of dirt across his shoulder blades that had become stripes of mud.
“Abby!” he shouted when he spotted her standing beside the fence with one hand on its tattered metal.
She was startled by the sudden attention, and her smile in his direction was fleeting before she returned her gaze to the green tee shirt that was emitting a scent she could not seem to place, even after all of her play amongst nature’s many flora.
She knew every tree and flower that God had ever had the mercy to bestow upon the earth —- she was sure of it at eleven years old. Some of the encyclopedias in her father’s study only contained half of their pages by then, as diligently as she had ripped the others out for her artwork. She could have been a perfumer from how many different colored roses and daisies and lilies and carnations and violets she had sampled from her mother’s garden alone… but none of them smelled like this.
And just as her innocent fingers greedily gripped the gauzy fabric so that she may press this garment to her face for a real assessment of the rich green that was surely the source of that glorious scent, there was suddenly a shadow settling over her own so that the two were joined as one.
Her hands came up empty, and she spun around, jamming them behind her back and guilty.
He was not green. In fact, the sun had rendered him such a dark shade of gold, she immediately knew it was not one of her brothers who was suddenly just inches in front of her. He blocked the sun from her view, but she could not think far enough to search for it behind his pillaring figure. Slowly, she adjusted her line of sight so that she may see what was above the center of this broad chest blocking everything else.
The second telltale factor separating him from anyone that could have possibly been an extension of her family, from anyone she could have possibly ever seen before in her life, was a pair of the clearest grey eyes. Up until that point, she did not even know that eyes came in that color, and swore that he must have been someone very special. Surely his eyes were the color of diamonds, but she did not know -— she had never really seen one.
She felt small in his presence. But it was not just his towering stature making her feel this way; it was his large stare.
She cowered inside herself, inching backwards towards the fence as his arm extended towards her in a shelf of sinuous flesh. And just when something was about to happen, as her heart pounded in anticipation of his skin making contact with her own; just as she realized that the scent she was looking to place could not be found in nature because it was the scent of a man; her brother’s voice startled her.
“Abby, this is Sebastian,” Jameson provided, already working his white tee-shirt from the inside-out ball of cotton that had been discarded a few feet before the wall of corn.
That shelf of taught muscle was no longer obstructing her view, but a large hand was extended towards her face. She stared at it for a moment as Jameson was explaining something in the background: “college…” “father has a farm… two miles west…” “family business…” it was all just white noise.
His eyes were so startling in his face… like wintertime must have looked like in places where it really snowed. They were so cold compared to his warm complexion, and the dark mop of curls atop his head that were even more unruly than her brothers’.
Abigail said nothing, suddenly feeling cold in the shade between the three boys before her. They exchanged words that echoed when falling down to her ears, the same jovial banter that she was used to hearing when it was only Walker and Jameson and she was just tagging along. And then they were gone; she watched Sebastian’s tanned back disappear behind the side of the house, dirt streaked across his shoulder blades like angel’s wings.
“Abigail!” her mother shouted again, but this time there was only sheer exasperation in her tone.
She turned and ran towards the back porch, where her sisters looked out at her from behind her mother’s shoulders. Finding her place on a stool between them in the kitchen, she peeled husks from the cylindrical mosaics of yellow tiles that felt smooth and pebbled in the palm of her hand. And while Jenny and Diana discussed another year in high school, impending as the air grew crisp to make way for fall, Abigail surreptitiously brought a strip of husk to her face, inhaling deeply but inaudibly, to see if perhaps she could find his scent on the moist inside of the leaf.
There were plenty of shades to choose from, with the monotonous hum-whir of the commercial airplane beneath her feet; the center of the spectrum had been poured in neat little squares all over the landscape. Each shade had a different meaning, as if Bird’s-Eye Iowa was a photo album of her past based solely on the memories of frolicking with nature as her backyard.
Yes. Green was the color of home.
But it was more than that:
Green was church every Sunday since she could remember. It was the white slip she wore under a layer of tulle, then the stiff cotton of a periwinkle dress on Easter. It was the same families —- they all referred to one another as neighbor, although all of their houses were separated by several acres of farmland.
In the summertime, her parents would sit in the cab of her father’s beloved pick-up truck, and her two older sisters would sit with their baby brother in the backseat. She would climb into the flatbed with her two older brothers, settling within the canyon between two pairs of broad shoulders that jostled her as the truck galloped over the dirt roads leading to town.
The town was at the center of everything, and the different patches of farmland lined the dirt-veins that branched out from City Hall. Everyone attended the Lutheran church that was adjacent —- Green was the same Sunday faces that she recognized since she had a memory; and the Sunday-morning versions of the youth-filled faces she saw every day of the week in school.
Green was the color of the fields in the periphery of her scenic bike-ride to school every morning. And in the afternoons, on her way home, she would abandon her bicycle at the edge of road and take off through those fields of leaning grass. Green was the stalks of the dandelions that covered the hill at the furthest edge of her family’s farm. It was the husks in the cornfields that were her backyard -— at dinner time, she would sit on a stool in the corner of the kitchen with her sisters, and they would peel these husks away to brown in crispy, straw-like piles on the floor.
She loved to peel corn like she loved peeling the rogue rubber cement from her hands after hours spent pasting collages all over her personal corner of the bedroom she shared with her sisters. She used mostly pictures from the discarded magazines that piled up in the garage: images of flowers and trees, some pilfered from the out-dated encyclopedia set on the top shelf in the study.
Green was her favorite color. She spent most of her time immersed in it, even during the winter when it may have deigned to lightly snow. It was mint green then; it tasted mint green, and she made mint green snow angels right beside her back porch.
Green was her sanctuary, whether she was playing outdoor games and trying to keep up with her brothers, wandering the loess hills just beyond her family’s property, or exploring the creeks even further into the horizon from her back porch… And green was in the sunset too -— she had spent plenty of her days watching the sun fall from the sky at its ever-lax pace. With perfect timing, perhaps when the first fireflies decided to glow, she could find the rainbow that haloed the neon fireball to the west. Just at the edges, where the night’s indigo with its many stars began to creep upon the dissipating day, there was the faint rim of green, then the brilliant pinks and oranges that would bleed away with the sun until tomorrow.
Yes. Green was everything. Every memory she had, every good and every bad, could be found within the patches that were beginning to disappear under the cover of white clouds, like winter making an early appearance.
She turned away from the window, her breath leaving a circle of steam near where her lips had been. She was leaving it all behind again, but even so, green would always be green. There were some pieces she would never be able to escape.
What about the color of his tee shirt from the first time she had met him?
It had been a dark, rich green -— like the forest. She had first seen it hanging limply from the fence that outlined her mother’s garden. She had mistaken it for a rag, with its many rips and the darkened sweat stains. Pieces of twisted metal from that old, rusty fence seemed to have punctured even more holes in the cotton that was worn to its most weary.
She approached, cautious. She did not recognize this tee-shirt as belonging to one of her brothers.
“Abigail!”
Her mother’s voice came sharp from the back porch.
But she did not turn back. She looked forward, towards the collection of voices connected to no entity, but buried within the many rows of corn behind her house.
It had to have been late in the summer because the field had been a behemoth wall. At age eleven, she could be completely concealed within the stalks that rose beyond even her father’s height.
Her older brother Walker was the first to appear; he came bursting from between a row of stalks now disrupted, and leaves of green husk flew upwards in his wake. He was shirtless, his skin baked golden from all summer spent outside. Eighteen years of age at the time, that was the last summer she could remember him with long hair. The unruly curls pasted themselves to his forehead with sweat adhesive, interrupting the flawless amber of his bright eyes in thick, dark locks.
Jameson was seventeen, and he had the same curly hair in a raven brown that bordered dangerously on black, but he had their mother’s hazel eyes -— amber with a green marbling. He was right upon Walker’s heels from the field, shirtless and drenched in sweat; there were smears of dirt across his shoulder blades that had become stripes of mud.
“Abby!” he shouted when he spotted her standing beside the fence with one hand on its tattered metal.
She was startled by the sudden attention, and her smile in his direction was fleeting before she returned her gaze to the green tee shirt that was emitting a scent she could not seem to place, even after all of her play amongst nature’s many flora.
She knew every tree and flower that God had ever had the mercy to bestow upon the earth —- she was sure of it at eleven years old. Some of the encyclopedias in her father’s study only contained half of their pages by then, as diligently as she had ripped the others out for her artwork. She could have been a perfumer from how many different colored roses and daisies and lilies and carnations and violets she had sampled from her mother’s garden alone… but none of them smelled like this.
And just as her innocent fingers greedily gripped the gauzy fabric so that she may press this garment to her face for a real assessment of the rich green that was surely the source of that glorious scent, there was suddenly a shadow settling over her own so that the two were joined as one.
Her hands came up empty, and she spun around, jamming them behind her back and guilty.
He was not green. In fact, the sun had rendered him such a dark shade of gold, she immediately knew it was not one of her brothers who was suddenly just inches in front of her. He blocked the sun from her view, but she could not think far enough to search for it behind his pillaring figure. Slowly, she adjusted her line of sight so that she may see what was above the center of this broad chest blocking everything else.
The second telltale factor separating him from anyone that could have possibly been an extension of her family, from anyone she could have possibly ever seen before in her life, was a pair of the clearest grey eyes. Up until that point, she did not even know that eyes came in that color, and swore that he must have been someone very special. Surely his eyes were the color of diamonds, but she did not know -— she had never really seen one.
She felt small in his presence. But it was not just his towering stature making her feel this way; it was his large stare.
She cowered inside herself, inching backwards towards the fence as his arm extended towards her in a shelf of sinuous flesh. And just when something was about to happen, as her heart pounded in anticipation of his skin making contact with her own; just as she realized that the scent she was looking to place could not be found in nature because it was the scent of a man; her brother’s voice startled her.
“Abby, this is Sebastian,” Jameson provided, already working his white tee-shirt from the inside-out ball of cotton that had been discarded a few feet before the wall of corn.
That shelf of taught muscle was no longer obstructing her view, but a large hand was extended towards her face. She stared at it for a moment as Jameson was explaining something in the background: “college…” “father has a farm… two miles west…” “family business…” it was all just white noise.
His eyes were so startling in his face… like wintertime must have looked like in places where it really snowed. They were so cold compared to his warm complexion, and the dark mop of curls atop his head that were even more unruly than her brothers’.
Abigail said nothing, suddenly feeling cold in the shade between the three boys before her. They exchanged words that echoed when falling down to her ears, the same jovial banter that she was used to hearing when it was only Walker and Jameson and she was just tagging along. And then they were gone; she watched Sebastian’s tanned back disappear behind the side of the house, dirt streaked across his shoulder blades like angel’s wings.
“Abigail!” her mother shouted again, but this time there was only sheer exasperation in her tone.
She turned and ran towards the back porch, where her sisters looked out at her from behind her mother’s shoulders. Finding her place on a stool between them in the kitchen, she peeled husks from the cylindrical mosaics of yellow tiles that felt smooth and pebbled in the palm of her hand. And while Jenny and Diana discussed another year in high school, impending as the air grew crisp to make way for fall, Abigail surreptitiously brought a strip of husk to her face, inhaling deeply but inaudibly, to see if perhaps she could find his scent on the moist inside of the leaf.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Summer of Interlochen
We were confined to four invisible walls: nature, creativity, nurturance of ability, and mandatory knee socks. These walls were called Interlochen, Center for the Arts, and within resided a cornucopia of culture, passion, and imagination. We came from all over the world: from Namibia to Iceland, California, Australia... yet despite the differences - as a cabin-mate from Poland turns to me, eyebrow raised, and inquires: "What means pee-pee?" - we shared a common goal. We all possessed a certain drive toward cultivating talent, whether we worked with our hands, our bodies, or our minds. Despite four walls confining us, we gamboled from hall to hall, through the forest, by the lakes, searching for a sense of self, for meaning in our art, for perfection in our work. We had dreams. Big dreams. In a place where everyone was so different, where there existed abound individualism, we were uninhibited. We all possessed that same passion.
Music wafts through the air from morning until night, as if an opus has replaced the singing of the birds. On my way to class, my shoulder bag beats out time against my hip. There are watercolor paints in the grass, and at lunchtime, the musical theatre majors burst into an impromptu performance of Orphan Annie’s "Hard Knock Life." I lie supine in the grass, laptop propped on my stomach. A Macedonian cellist croons in a language that I do not understand. I stare directly into the sun and listen. I am inspired.
Music wafts through the air from morning until night, as if an opus has replaced the singing of the birds. On my way to class, my shoulder bag beats out time against my hip. There are watercolor paints in the grass, and at lunchtime, the musical theatre majors burst into an impromptu performance of Orphan Annie’s "Hard Knock Life." I lie supine in the grass, laptop propped on my stomach. A Macedonian cellist croons in a language that I do not understand. I stare directly into the sun and listen. I am inspired.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
the warrior and the snake
There was a serpent that hissed and danced as the warrior struck him to the earth. Thumbs poised upon his weapon, his feet were parted and planted on the ground as he watched the asp trickle to the grass in fragments that were like droplets of dawn. He smirked as the sensation of victory and relief flooded over him, inhaling the stench of death suspended in the air.
The strands of gold fell cater-corner into the crabgrass blooming at the edge of the lot where litter decayed to dirt. The warrior did not qualm about the murder he was so carelessly committing; he did not think about those who may have watched him in the midst of battle -- he maintained his focus, watching this beast crumble with the majesty of all other myths that had transpired epochs ago. In his awe, the warrior cocked his head to a slight angle as if to cogitate the meaning of his life and other such questions that asked more of him than knew he had to muster.
Then, in a display of sunset perhaps, the serpent released a final whisper of defeat and was gone, leaving behind only the stench of his demise. The warrior bucked his hips with finality, hands trembling over his weapon as he replaced it behind the button and zipper along the front of his jeans. He looked to her where she sat watching all of this occur, her legs sprawled in a drug-crash around her and her eyes gaping at where his sword of flesh once hung from his grip.
"Wanted to see the show?" he asked, perking just one eyebrow as his zipper whined into place. He smirked then turned and walked away, leaving her there to question the phenomenon she had just witnessed.
The strands of gold fell cater-corner into the crabgrass blooming at the edge of the lot where litter decayed to dirt. The warrior did not qualm about the murder he was so carelessly committing; he did not think about those who may have watched him in the midst of battle -- he maintained his focus, watching this beast crumble with the majesty of all other myths that had transpired epochs ago. In his awe, the warrior cocked his head to a slight angle as if to cogitate the meaning of his life and other such questions that asked more of him than knew he had to muster.
Then, in a display of sunset perhaps, the serpent released a final whisper of defeat and was gone, leaving behind only the stench of his demise. The warrior bucked his hips with finality, hands trembling over his weapon as he replaced it behind the button and zipper along the front of his jeans. He looked to her where she sat watching all of this occur, her legs sprawled in a drug-crash around her and her eyes gaping at where his sword of flesh once hung from his grip.
"Wanted to see the show?" he asked, perking just one eyebrow as his zipper whined into place. He smirked then turned and walked away, leaving her there to question the phenomenon she had just witnessed.
Friday, February 12, 2010
alter ego
I searched for the diction, the exact words to convey the dynamic in my head:
I turned to him and said: "There's another person who lives inside of me. Those words -- those words I used to think were from God -- are hers, not mine. She's the one who writes..."
My brow involuntarily chased the other one for comfort in the face of this conundrum.
"... And I think that she's the one who cries too."
I turned to him and said: "There's another person who lives inside of me. Those words -- those words I used to think were from God -- are hers, not mine. She's the one who writes..."
My brow involuntarily chased the other one for comfort in the face of this conundrum.
"... And I think that she's the one who cries too."
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
life advice to my junior cousin begets a quarter life crisis
I am NOT getting old Missy -- your early to mid-20's are where it's at.
you finally shed the highschool bullshit that inevitably follows you halfway through college... and you start hitting those milestones like buying alcohol legally, choosing a spouse, starting to make real money, and tossing around baby names to entertain yourself in traffic.
Then again, I'm 23 - i just finished college and am taking a year off to "find myself"... old will be when I look back on this year of my life and shake my head at my naively idealistic and overly capricious attempts to change the world. Either that, or old will be when I have changed the world and am laughing about my yuppie years all the way to the bank.
Is my present youth exemplified by the fact that I still believe in the "OR" part of the scenario? Or by the palpable truth that I wax existentially philosophical about everything?
you finally shed the highschool bullshit that inevitably follows you halfway through college... and you start hitting those milestones like buying alcohol legally, choosing a spouse, starting to make real money, and tossing around baby names to entertain yourself in traffic.
Then again, I'm 23 - i just finished college and am taking a year off to "find myself"... old will be when I look back on this year of my life and shake my head at my naively idealistic and overly capricious attempts to change the world. Either that, or old will be when I have changed the world and am laughing about my yuppie years all the way to the bank.
Is my present youth exemplified by the fact that I still believe in the "OR" part of the scenario? Or by the palpable truth that I wax existentially philosophical about everything?
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
walk like you mean it
walk like you mean it.
legs first, use your core to bring the rest along,
your arms the counterbalance hinged upon
two level and regally pinned back shoulders.
slink.
you are a lioness on the prowl.
commandeer the operation.
feel your spine arch like a bow
prepared to shoot the arrow that is your chin
aimed toward the sun.
pull your abdominal muscles so taut
they vibrate in the ecstasy of purposeful motion
like the strings of a viola.
roll your hips in their sockets with each stride,
your thighs burning in anticipation
of getting somewhere.
Go.
your knees are well-oiled,
self assuredly thrusting forth.
let your ankles leverage
the power-stroke of your step,
each toe lifting off the ground in turn.
Feel your breath catch in your throat
because you are walking too fast.
too fast is for the passionate.
You are passionate.
You do not walk,
you chase.
legs first, use your core to bring the rest along,
your arms the counterbalance hinged upon
two level and regally pinned back shoulders.
slink.
you are a lioness on the prowl.
commandeer the operation.
feel your spine arch like a bow
prepared to shoot the arrow that is your chin
aimed toward the sun.
pull your abdominal muscles so taut
they vibrate in the ecstasy of purposeful motion
like the strings of a viola.
roll your hips in their sockets with each stride,
your thighs burning in anticipation
of getting somewhere.
Go.
your knees are well-oiled,
self assuredly thrusting forth.
let your ankles leverage
the power-stroke of your step,
each toe lifting off the ground in turn.
Feel your breath catch in your throat
because you are walking too fast.
too fast is for the passionate.
You are passionate.
You do not walk,
you chase.
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