Thursday, January 27, 2011

Depressing, isn't it?

A terribly depressing scenario for you here. Not sure where it came from. I was going to write a love story, sad, isn't it? Apparently, I wasn't feeling the bonbons and sugarplum fairies.

"Goldilocks Never Found What She Was Looking For"

      I never understood what loss would feel like until I felt it. I assumed, that loss like other emotions, would eventually pass away with time; assumed it would become a memory in the corners of my mind.
      Then, I lost you.
      I had built up this world for you and I, complete with fairytale dreams of a home in the woods with a fence around the yard and three children perfectly spaced apart running through the trees. Little beds all done with matching quilts and perfectly spaced trinkets between the books on the shelves. There were shutters and a charming chimney in this imaginary future, and of course, there was you.
      I never expected to be in this cold apartment in this noisy city where the clouds hang low, grey, sad and clinging to the feeling of those below trudging along. I never expected to sit in the living room with one worn sofa, a thrown out coffe table, and a bookshelf with all of four books: an unused cookbook, your old favorite book of poems, my mother's copy of Gone with the Wind and a very worn Bible I almost chucked from my fourth story window the day before.
      I never expected the white walls would feel so bland, the floors so cold, the kitchen so abysmal, or that my bed would resemble a matress with a pile of bedding, like an angry giant rat disrupted the pile into a nesting place.
      The bottle in my hands is not enough to chase the pain away, and never strong enough to send me into oblivion as long as I'd like to remain there.
      I've thrown away the mirrors and hid the photos in a box under the sink with the cleaning supplies I never use.
      My mother calls still, twice a week to see how I am, to see if I'm eating, if I'm alive, if I haven't jumped.
      I only tried once.
      The bridge was too cliche, the apartment not quite high enough, but the warehouse down the corner was so welcoming, it seemed just right in my head; imagining leaping as the pidgeons took flight seemed like a macabre painting taking life; muted greys and browns, my golden hair the only pop of color against the old industrial background of a forgotten time. It's a shame they wouldn't let me climb to the roof.
      I suppose you would have thanked those men.
      You wouldn't have wanted me to go on like this, would you have?
      I guess you should have thought of this before you decided to take your life over something so trivial. We would have made it, could have made it, it would have been fine.
      I never blamed you.
      If that top step hadn't been so small and maybe if I weren't so clumsy, but none of it matters now. I really did love you more than her.
      I never liked that staircase, anyway. It was too many steps, too curved, and the the wood was too light a color. Not that it matters, really.
      I guess, in the end, you loved her more than you loved me.
      Sad, though, we could have tried again, you and I. I would have liked that.
      It never was your fault I fell, it never was your fault the ambulance couldn't get there in time, or save her. I never realized how hard it would be to convince you, but never, ever, ever, did I think you would end it all like that.
     I guess we all hate mirrors because they show us what we don't want to see.
     I wish they taught us in school how our actions leave such an impact on everyone, especially those we leave behind. I wish they prepared us for how we would come to hate the world. I wish we weren't raised on fairytales with "happily ever afters" and endings all tied neatly when the story comes to a close.
     I never understood what loss would do to me.
     Now I do.

By Elizabeth Azpurua

Tuesday, January 25, 2011

There's Was Something About Mountains Then

…it’s like a mountain of memories you’d have to climb through. You’d have to sort the good and bad, happy, sad, angry, feverish and focused, confused, dazed, torn and bridged, splattered and static, grateful and selfish and used, morose and forlorn, giddy, high, joyous, sinful and insane, forgotten, missing and longing; you’d never sort through it all. You’d never see the top. The fog. The mist. Those clouds. You’d have to pull me off the rocks, the ground, the dirt, soil, pebble - like rubble. I’m rubble. You’d have to remove me from that mountain. I’m inside like tree roots. I’m the leaves. I’m the cliffs. I’m the noise. I’m the moss, the bark, the grass, the subtle lights inside the trees; I’m in every place of that mountain. You’d never be rid of me. You’ll never climb through that mountain. Or fly over it. I’m the storm. The rain. The snow. I’m the avalance in winter and the ligntning strikes in summer. I’m never letting you scale this mountain. Never. Not the top. Not the middle. You won’t like the foot of the mountain. The roots, the shrubs, the rocks, the trees - they are the foundation. The meeting, the youthful fun, the learning, the growth - they are the beginning of the memories. The top? Who knows. You won’t. Sort the mess blown over, the mess grown over, the end of over is at the top and no, you’ll never know. You’ll never sort through it all. It’s mine. His. Ours. And you’re nowhere in this mountain. It’s all us. Moss, tree, root, cliff, rock, bark, grass, sky, storm, clouds, rain - fly; you can’t fly. Or climb. Walk away now. Farewell…and leave us be.

by: Elizabeth Azpurua (me)

Sunday, January 23, 2011


I don’t think we can fully understand joy without going through sorrow - it’s different from happiness because it’s deeper and more appreciated. With joy, we finally appreciate what matters the most; love cannot be found without first learning sorrow, the difference of joy and happiness and the strength that comes from experiencing both. Happiness is the flower coming forth from the seed; joy is when it blooms, and love is when someone picks that flower from the garden.  - Elizabeth Azpurua

Saturday, January 22, 2011

From Last Summer

Friday:   “And no, I’m not immovable; hard mayhap to move, but the carpet of my existance can be pulled from beneath me. Swift. Swiftly. So, there. Now you know.” She said. Silence the response, followed by the sound of the air conditioning kicking on, whirling, cool air filling the void of where a voice should have said “I’ll never move you, you know, I won’t. I’d never try” but there never came that reply. And so the void lives still.
Saturday:   “If I can’t hold onto the water in my hands I’m just gonna stay out of this well. I’ll stay away from the sea. I’ll move so it seperates you from me, and me from this, and who knows? Maybe I’ll cup sand.” She said. There was music filtering through another room, through the walls, but still the reply never came. The reply not even voiced by phantoms. “Don’t go so far. You never liked sand. I’ll bring a bucket for this water and it’ll all work out. It will. Keep my well…” never came from the void about the lonely room.
Sunday:   “I never knew. I knew, yes…but not really. I thought…I thought, but I wasn’t. No. And who is to say tomorrow won’t rain down eyelashes and this stupid clock will get stuck at one second after 11:10? It won’t of course.” She didn’t even bother waiting to hear a response. She turned the light off. Let cobwebs in the corners be her solace and crickets the music of her masquerade ball. There’s no train coming tonight and no voice saying goodbye.
Monday:   “Life is like a box of chocolates you find in the back of your closet. You know, the one from that ex boyfriend so and so, yeah, that one. And you open it and you think it’ll be pay day and discover that they’ve turned to powder. Taste like cardboard. The centers are all dried up. Did you know that? That’s kinda’ like you. Yeah, you. But you’re not listening are you?” She asked. It’s all cars speeding by and useless noise she hears. No replies. The sun will rise and set on endless voids until she hears “I always knew, but what was I supposed to do?” and she chokes back “I don’t know” and the dance starts all over again for life is really like a ferris wheel. One large repeating sphere.
by Elizabeth Azpurua


Thursday, January 20, 2011

If ever I could explain life....

times you laugh about. days you number. people you scream at. flowers you pick. balloons you let go. stars you never can count. stuff you write about. books you love. books you hate. friends you adore. memories you collect. windows you breathe on to draw pictures. stamps you lick. cars you wash. roses you smell. mistakes you make. titles you get. names you give. signs you ignore. rules you break. girls you love. girls you hate. puddles you leap into. wishes you throw away. things you number. glances you get. roads you run down. maps you follow. maps you ignore. collections you collect. people you see. places you wish you could see. music you heard. life you shouted about. songs you learned. times you remember. places you photograph. little things you count. moments you let pass by. kisses you steal. phone calls you never return. bubblegum you swallow by accident. stairs you trip on. pages you color out of the lines. boys you love. boys you hate. hours you waste. speeding down streets. rain you danced in. tickle fights you lost. promises you break. promises you kept. living, laughing, loving, crying, wanting, needing, leaving, losing, letting go, treasuring, capturing life. days of asking when. staying up late. early mornings. days you hate work. times you forgot. family vacations. clouds you count. trees you climb. weekends you spend playing. magazines you cut picutres out of. cupcakes you only ate for the icing. lollipops that fell on the ground. races back home. sand in your toes. playing tag in the dark. hating the clock. wishes you keep forever. names you’ll never remember. letters you save. that woman you love. lies you told. shoes you borrow. slides you slid down. asking too much. asking too little. playing in mud. flowers you give. forgetting to call. remembering too late. jumping waves. staying up all night. catching fireflies. that man you love. crying during movies. saying goodbye. asking why. hurting someone. being hurt. laughing until you cry. crying until you laugh. jumping into the deep end. looking through the crack in the door. high fives. hand shakes. bear hugs. whispering too loud. answering too softly. learning, growing, praying, hoping, fighting, trying, winning, holding, seeking, breathing, living life.

Wednesday, January 19, 2011

Girl With the Pearl Earing

I was carrying the bucket of shells when I spotted you. Brazen. Golden. Your arms had the look to them that told me you could whisk me off my feet in a moment.
I hated that.
My chest hurt. It wasn't your fault you looked like him.
I knew the gulls were weary of the change in my mood; perhaps they sensed inside me a raging storm was building to drown out the hurt. Perhaps, perhaps they had feared what would come next.
But oh how I hated the waves and the salty smell. I especially hated your hair, how it moved in the breeze. Like his.
Pain is no friend of mine, but a shadow that follows me.
I could have been a mother.
A lover.
A wife.
Then the sea claimed him. I don't even know why I stayed so long by the sea.
That day, I remember it well, etched inside that place behind my eyes. I just walked up to you, all sunlit coated and fierce in your grace.
I walked up and told you to move.
You seemed surprised.
"Move?" You'd said all perplexed, and I told you again to move, to get off the beach, to leave here, and your voice was so unsure when you spoke the word, "Why?"
I had asked myself that moment why it was I hated you so. Why I needed you to get off my beach. I didn't have a good answer and I know I looked like a fool standing there with a bucket of shells.
You peered in and asked, "Searching for pearls?"
"No." I looked across the waves, "Just trying to hold onto something that means nothing anymore."
"I liked my suggestion better." You'd said. I think I glared at you then and the gulls swirled above us and the waves still rolled in.
I never liked someone who would disagree.
But he did.
And I hated you more.
But that day changed it all, didn't it? I'd walked off and thrown the bucket, shells and all into the waves where it rolled into the sand. I stomped as much as sand allowed and headed the opposite direction and never wanted to see you there again.
Funny, how you'd shown up at my door. I could have killed you then, I think. Could have stuck you with the poker from the fireplace. Nearly, did, too.
I often reflect on why you brought the bucket back filled with only clam shells that day. I reflect on why you shoved it into my arms and told me to find the pearls.
I had screamed that there are never pearls. And that the sea claims it all.
And then, then you took the air from my lungs.
"My brother was on the boat, too."
It all came back like a wet blanket on my shoulders. The light seeking the edge of the water, the boat never coming into sight, the lightening, the wind, the stinging rain and my hoarse voice begging the sea to bring him home.
I'd looked at you then. Really looked at you.
Your eyes were green, not blue.
And your lips had a pout that his never did.
I took the bucket and set it on the small table in the kitchen right by the dead flowers in the center. At the time I couldn't bear to throw them away, so they had sat there, dead, forlorn, and a horrible reminder.
The rusted bucket looked right next to the jar. But the giver of the gift was wrong.
You'd left then, of course.
And you stayed away.
I fretted about three days later when I still hadn't run into you.
I'll never know why I kept going back, not for him, but for you.
I finally emptied the bucket, and sure enough, I'd found one pearl in all the clams. It was such a sad little thing, but it was something.
I'll never forget that morning I took it into the jewelers and told them to make it into something beautiful. I didn't care what. They gave it a sad look, but I came back to one earring. Just one.
The jeweler said he'd make another if I brought one more. I remember walking into the cloudy afternoon with one pearl in my ear when I spotted you.
The bench you sat on was such an old thing, all faded, battered and worn, but you made it beautiful.
I'd walked right up to you and said the first word I could think of, "Sorry."
"For what?" You'd asked, and I told you for the way I acted and I'll never forget the look on your face when you spotted my earlobe and the earring.
"You found one."
"Just one."
You had smiled then, "Guess the sea gave you something back."
And I had replied, "The sea had help. Thank you."
I wonder at times what would have happened if you hadn't gone through all that trouble. I wonder where I'd be. I might have let the sea claim me.
The pain is still there at times, but I'm ok now, thanks to you.
Your arms still wrap around me each night, and when I see you standing on the beach, I think of a pearl.



I’m not much anymore. A memory. A Thought. Maybe just a concept now. Something vague. I was something important once. Something treasured, sought after, wanted, revered and desired. I was like a crown. A halo. Something clean, pure, unblemished. I was what they all wanted. Now, if they even recall my definition I shall be proud. If they have even heard of me I shall be surprised. Moreover, if they possess me I shall be astounded.  - Virtue

Extra Words Are Here

Post #1 Here..... Not sure that anyone will bother reading most of this, but I felt like sharing more than just poems. More than just songs. I wanted to share my random thoughts, feelings, short stories. Humor.
Take a peek at how I think.
Darting to and fro and back and forth and inbetween.
I'd rather like some hot cocoa now.