The Remodeled Blog

100 Word Challenge

A spark is something that I had. You have that spark, that something special. It is that jump-start that gets you moving with enthusiasm. It is that drive. It is the sex that you want to constantly have. It is that blind ambition that others envy. It’s fearlessly moving forward and being able to say FUCK IT I DON’T CARE, and really meaning it. It is having a little “Fuck You” in your soul. I had that spark. It is still there, deep inside buried by frustration and perceived struggle. My spark is emerging with the arrival of the future.

Lightning over the Sandia Mountains in Albuquerque, NM.

Quid Pro Poetry

A friend recently asked me why I was posting my poetry on the sidebar, where people would not be aware of a new poem v. posting in a blog. So I posted one in a blog. I have thought about this question. I guess the reason is because I no longer consider myself a poet. I write when I feel the urge to write.  I no longer desire people to read it or not read it. I like making them available, but that is all.  I think part  of  it is also not wanting to answer questions.  This does not mean that I am adverse to answering, but the poems always provide an insight into me and that is an insight that I do not necessarily want to clarify.

I had said in an earlier  post about poetry that writing poetry gives you a way to be completely open and honest while simultaneously hiding behind your own words. I am extremely open in my poetry. I don’t particularly feel that I hid very well either.  I have generally found that if the poem is  about you, you will read it and know. Sometimes people have been wrong, but that never seems to make them completely wrong. If they know me and the poem strikes them a personal, then maybe some part of me was writing to them and I just didn’t know it.  Then again, maybe I wrote it before I even knew that person, but some feelings cross over issues such as time and circumstance.

The problem I have with answering questions about my poetry is that I  often feel as though I am being asked to open up and be vulnerable without that person offering the same thing. Sometimes I wonder, why should I confide in you any more than I have if you aren’t going to make yourself as vulnerable.  It is poetic Quid-pro-quo.

Like any confident writer, I enjoy hearing other peoples perceptions of my poetry. What did you get out of it? What do you think it means?  Telling me that it is good or nice is relatively meaningless. I would actually prefer to hear that you didn’t like it and why than, it is nice.  Regardless, discuss amongst yourselves but if you want to ask me, well, Quid Pro Quo Clarice.

100 Words- Precisly

I have again risen to the 100 word challenge from Velvet Verbosity. This weeks word is Precise. So here is what I wrote…precisely.

Precise asks too much. It wants perfection. It is that moment you miss when you blink. It is the emotion that poets capture and is then lost in interpretation. It is a time that you don’t realize until later. It is a moment that never seems to happen if you wait. Precision is an expectation, a skill set, a commodity, and a criticism. It is a demand that cannot be met. It is a destiny of falling short. It is an interpretation of perfection expressed in philosophical poetry. Precise is the simplicity of the indescribable feeling of me touching you.

Requiem for a Cigarette

Again I dreamt that I was smoking.

I was sitting in the sunroom, though it is night, so there is no sunlight. I was half sitting, half lying on the bed, propped up by my elbow. A beautiful woman was lying in the same position, facing me. Dave was sitting on the chair next to the desk, facing us. The beautiful woman’s hair kept changing from brunette to blond and back again. Though her real self was hiding somewhere in between. She was smoking elegant cigarettes. They were long with gold filters and paper the color of coffee with a splash of Baileys.

Every time, before she lit the cigarette, you could see the rich brown tobacco hidden inside. It looked like dark chocolate and had a rich aroma of a humidor. I was transfixed as she lit her cigarette, watching the flame go into it, then seeing the rich brown of the tobacco turn into a bright orange red ember.

She had a small mouth with pouty lips. When she inhaled it was like she was giving a kiss. When she exhaled the smoke curled out of her lips.

She was elegant, beautiful and poised. I wanted to feel connected to her. I wanted to cross the chasm that separated us. I made the first move.

I reached out to her, but stopped just shy of her hands. She looked at me, intrigued, and slipped the cigarette between my fingers. The whole time she was staring deeply into my eyes. She never broke eye contact; neither did I.

I leaned forward and cocked my head. Bringing the cigarette to my lips, I opened them just enough to hold the gold filter. I closed my eyes and inhaled. I felt the warm smoke fill my lungs. For a moment it was satisfying, fulfilling, embodying and then it wasn’t. Then it was burning and choking. My heart was racing, and not because she was reaching out for me. I gave the cigarette back to her, trying not to let my eye’s show what my body was experiencing. I didn’t want her to go. She smiled with half her mouth and took another drag.

Now Dave came over and sat by her legs, running his hand up the side of her leg, in an obvious familiarity. I was not upset, I wanted to be included. He took the cigarette from her hand and took a drag while winking at her. There was something shared between them that I did not yet know. I wanted to know.

He looked at me, with the same penetrating eyes, and held the cigarette to my mouth. I leaned forward and took a drag while he held onto it. My heart began to palpitate and I felt sick.

I realized that with every drag I could feel less and less of what was going on. I wanted to kiss her. I wanted to kiss him. I wanted to be enveloped by them, but knew that I would not be able to feel it. I wondered if they could feel anything. Maybe that was their intimacy, a drugged numbness.

When I woke up, I felt strange. My body felt strange. I had to question myself, did I smoke? No, I did not. But my body was mad at me none the less. What I did realize is how contradictory are my perceptions of smoking. On one side I am extremely glad I quit, but on the other I still see it as elegant and sexy. It is somehow a club that I use to be a part of and no longer am. Interestingly though, I am a month non-smoker, and I no longer have cravings at all.

I am glad that I have nightmares about smoking, it reaffirms my desire and resolve to be free of the drug.

In the list below I can attest to increased lung function, ability to walk easier, coughing decreases, mucus production decreases. I have not experienced an increase in taste or smell, but maybe I didn’t smoke enough for that. My skin has cleared up. My sex drive has increased. My enjoyment of sex has increased. In general, I find that I am more tactically aware. I just feel more things.

This is what happens to your body when you stop smoking

20 Minutes

Blood Pressure drops to normal.
Body temperature of hands and feet increases to normal.
Pulse rate drops to normal.

8 hours

Carbon monoxide level in blood drops to normal.
Oxygen level in blood increases to normal.

24 Hours

Chances of a heart attack decreases.

48 Hours

Nerve endings start regrowing.
Ability to smell and taste is enhanced.

2 Weeks to 3 Months

Circulation improves.
Walking becomes easier.
Lung function increases up to 30%.

1 to 9 Months

Coughing, sinus congestion, fatigue, shortness of breath decreases.
Cilia regrows in your lungs, increasing your ability to handle
mucus to clean the lungs, and reduce infection.
Body’s overall energy increases.

1 Year

Excess risk of heart disease is half that of a smoker.

5 Years

Lung cancer death rate for the average smoker
(one pack per day) decreases by almost half.
Stroke risk is reduced to that of a non-smoker 5-15 years after stopping.
Risk of cancer of the mouth, throat and esophagus is half that of a non-smoker’s.

10 Years

Lung cancer death rate similar to that of a nonsmoker.
Precancerous cells are replaced.
Risk of cancer of the mouth, throat and
esophagus, bladder, kidney and pancreas decreases.

15 Years

Risk of coronary heart disease is that of a nonsmoker.

Poetic Remission

Roca has inspired me to write poetry again. Well, I never truly stopped writing poetry. But writing his 100 Word Challenge in prose felt really good. It has been a while since I have written poetry. I got so disheartened by the poetic world (more literally than metaphorically) that I just stopped. The words would flow in and out of my head and I would sometimes think, that would be nice to write down. But so rarely did I stop to take the time to write it down. For me writing poetry is a place where I can be emotionally open and vulnerable. I find safety in being able to hide behind the words. I do love the irony of being open and hiding simultaneously. Everyone takes their own meaning, which even if you knew what I was writing about, you would still take your own meaning.

So from now on, I am going to post poems that I write. Read them or don’t. Comment or don’t. I am not trying to put it out there that I am a good poet or have ambitions of becoming a professional poet. I have gone down that road and the path is not as pretty as the writing that is littered on the shoulder.

My poetry will be posted  on the shoulder as well, look to your right.