Night

I, like many a human before me, am fascinated by the night.

I don't know why, but I'm easily transfixed by a clear night sky.


I was thinking about this love for the night when I came upon a great poem, which then reminded me of a great song. It's a pretty popular poem, but for me it was like going through a chest in the attic and being gratified by sudden elation which is then suddenly washed away by the ever stronger current that is melancholy. I hope you enjoy it, be it your first or fifth reading:


Do Not Go Gently Into That Good Night

Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night. Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, And learn, too late, they grieve it on its way, Do not go gentle into that good night. Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. And you, my father, there on the sad height, Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray. Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And for the song, it's something I would listen to on drives home in the fall or winter at night, maybe after dropping friends off at home and I was alone in the car.

It also reminds me of one time during a drive down to the beach at night, I was with my friends Justin and Jordan, and the song came on. It was one of those moments where you felt you were looking into the rest of your life, and you think about each and every passing second as hard as you can so as not to let go of it and in doing so, you burn that seven minutes into your memory.

Here that is:

Sorry Ted

I have a confession to make.


I've hated Ted Hughes for the longest time. Since Freshman year of High School at least. Ever since I found out what he did to Sylvia Plath.

To me, Sylvia Plath was one of the most beautiful people in the world. I'll even admit...

...I had a crush on her.

How could someone hurt so badly someone so beautiful?
Every time I think about the pain she must have gone through (she wrote a sequel to the Bell Jar for Ted's birthday, and then burned it when she found out about his affair. The pain she must have felt to have burned over 200 pages of her life...) because of him bile raises to tickle the back of my throat.

I know this is all pretty harsh and probably really annoying to read through. But there's a point. I'll start speaking in short sentences:

Ted's a poet. I refused to read his poetry. I happened upon one of his poems. It was this one:

Lovesong by Ted Hughes

He loved her and she loved him
His kisses sucked out her whole past and future or tried to
He had no other appetite
She bit him she gnawed him she sucked
She wanted him complete inside her
Safe and Sure forever and ever
Their little cries fluttered into the curtains

Her eyes wanted nothing to get away
Her looks nailed down his hands his wrists his elbows
He gripped her hard so that life
Should not drag her from that moment
He wanted all future to cease
He wanted to topple with his arms round her
Or everlasting or whatever there was
Her embrace was an immense press
To print him into her bones
His smiles were the garrets of a fairy place
Where the real world would never come
Her smiles were spider bites
So he would lie still till she felt hungry
His word were occupying armies
Her laughs were an assasin's attempts
His looks were bullets daggers of revenge
Her glances were ghosts in the corner with horrible secrets
His whispers were whips and jackboots
Her kisses were lawyers steadily writing
His caresses were the last hooks of a castaway
Her love-tricks were the grinding of locks
And their deep cries crawled over the floors
Like an animal dragging a great trap
His promises were the surgeon's gag
Her promises took the top off his skull
She would get a brooch made of it
His vows pulled out all her sinews
He showed her how to make a love-knot
At the back of her secret drawer
Their screams stuck in the wall
Their heads fell apart into sleep like the two halves
Of a lopped melon, but love is hard to stop

In their entwined sleep they exchanged arms and legs
In their dreams their brains took each other hostage

In the morning they wore each other's face



...After reading this...a hot feeling came over my face. I was really embarrassed for hating a man who wrote such beautiful words.


Sorry, Ted.

Gray Street

Kind of long...but I hope it's worth it.



Thomas Mueller stood outside under the green , tarp like overhang of the entrance to his hotel in a peacoat, with an umbrella in hand. It was raining, and the big city looked gray. He noticed this as he was about to step through the curtain of rain to his meeting. He noticed that the rain had a way of sucking the color out of buildings, cars, even trees and people. Even the green overhang above him was now gray.
This observation had stopped him from going to his meeting momentarily. Then, as he was about to continue, a man named Bill, holding a newspaper above his head, ran under the overhang and smiled at Thomas.
“Nice day, huh?” Bill said to Thomas.
“No. It’s raining. And everything looks gray.”
Bill took a quick look around before he shook his head, “No it doesn’t. It all looks-“
At that moment, a man sprinting down the street in jeans and a T-shirt slammed into Bill’s shoulder, knocking him almost completely off balance. Thomas reached out with his free hand and grabbed Bill before he could fall.
“Are you OK?” Thomas asked.
“Yeah. Fine. Don’t worry about it.”
“What’s your name?”
“Bill. And yours?”
“Thomas. Are you staying here at this hotel, Bill?”
“Yes. I just got back from the park.”
“In the rain?”
“What is it that you have against the rain?”
“Nothing. It’s just…why not go when the sun’s out, in a T-shirt, get an ice cream…”
“That guy was in a T-shirt. You let the rain dictate what you wear?”
“That guy was an ass hole.”
“Or in a rush.”
“I don’t know.”
“All about perspective.”
“I suppose. Listen, Bill, I’m actually on my way to a meeting. When I get back, maybe we can continue this conversation. What’s your room number?”
“346.”
“OK. Maybe I’ll ring up to you.”
“See you then.”
Thomas wasn’t sure if he’d actually ring up or if he used that moment as a way to get out of the conversation with the man he just met. What he did know was that he would probably be late to his meeting.


Mark crumpled up the paper and tossed it over his shoulder. This had become a tradition when he was designing buildings. He would sit at his desk for hours and crumple up countless sheets of paper and just throw them behind him and his apartment floor would be littered with balls of white paper.
Sometimes, if there was part of a design that he liked for his current failure, he would get up and sift through the curled up pieces of paper until he found the right one. Over time, it became easy to detect which one he needed. Through years of this process, the discarded paper became his companions in rejection and in sympathy, they tried to make his job a little easier by pointing the way to the discarded design he was looking for.
When he was younger, back in college, he had always dreamed of designing famous structures. He knew that his ideas would be used to house celebrities and their cocaine habits, ruthless business men, and just useless people of a higher class in general. His magnificent drawings would be of overpriced hotels, fortune 500 companies’ office buildings, but they would each be a pillar of man’s ambition and dominance over this world.
Today, instead, he was working on a simple Victorian home for a complex of houses of a retirement community. Every house a copy of a copy of a copy. But he was not one to be choosy when he couldn’t afford cable television, internet, or even the morning paper. Becoming an architect was a harder occupation than he had imagined.
He got up and walked less than ten feet to his kitchenette to get another cup of coffee. He needed to keep working if he was to meet his deadline. He put off projects until the last minute every time. Though he knew he needed the money, a part of him hated himself for accepting such useless jobs. He walked to the window which had been incessantly tapped on by the rain. It was begging him to come take a look and finally he succumbed to it. Directly outside his apartment was the hotel which he had first been commissioned to design before the owners decided to go with a more commercial group. He sipped his coffee and looked down at the part of the hotel he hated most: the green overhang. Outside such a place of wealth and high standards (it was five stars) green tarp only served one purpose: To keep people out of the rain. It wasn’t majestic, or breath taking. It was just an extension of the building that had been thrown on last minute for lack of inspiration.
Currently, there were two men under it taking refuge from the rain. One of those two men could have been him, having a conversation as he waited for his limo to pull up for him to get in, so it could take him to a presentation for the next five star hotel. He returned to his desk. To make the few scraps of money he needed to pay his rent, he had to keep his dreaming to a minimum.

“I really think you’re making a mistake here, Bill.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean…that green, tarp overhang gets the job done.”
“Yes. It merely gets the job done. This isn’t a two and a half star hotel on some forgotten highway. This is the Milton. Five stars. I don’t want something that gets the job done. I want something to look at. Something nice. Something more than nice. ”
“So you want to hire that guy that lives across the street from the hotel?”
“Yeah.”
“The same guy you said was too much of a dreamer, and all his designs were fantasies before you decided to go with Simmons & Hartley, the most respected architectural firm in America?”
“Yes. Him.”
“What’s gotten into you?”
“Just send him the letter.”

Thomas was speed-walking when he was making his way back to the hotel. It had stopped raining, but the skies were far from clearing up. How could he have known that earlier he was having a conversation with one of the most famous hotel tycoons in the world? The man came across as crazy. Going to the park in the rain wasn’t a thing for someone worth millions, if not billions, of dollars to do. And having fallen out of the public’s eye for unknown reasons, it was easy not to recognize him. But now he knew.
He pushed through the golden revolving doors of the hotel in a hurry and got to the concierge’s desk, where he was greeted by a young man with a smile.
“Can I help you, sir?” the young man asked.
“Yeah. I was wondering if uh…Bill was in?”
“Your name?”
“Thomas Mueller.”
“Do you know the room number?”
“Yeah, 346.”
The concierge picked up the phone and started dialing the digits.

As soon as the meeting was over, Thomas got up from the conference table and walked over to his new client to thank him.
“Mr. Hartley, thank you so much for this opportunity to help your company advertise. I think together we can make Simmons & Hartley the most well known architectural firm in the world.”
“I sure hope so,” At that moment, his phone rang, “Hold on, could you give me one sec?”
“Of course.”
“Hello? Yes, Margaret? Yes, I remember. He decided to what? Can he even do that? That man…he has literally gone off his rocker. Call one of our lawyers; we will go see him first thing in the morning.”
“Everything OK?”
“Bill Milton. The man has gone crazy. He’s going to reconstruct this overhang we put up for The Milton with a new architect. Some loser amateur. This is ridiculous.”
“Ah. That’s actually where I’m staying.”
“Oh yeah? You’ve probably seen that nut case around then. He stays in the hotel. Ever since his wife and kids picked up and left, he went from organized, precise, and meticulous to absolute insanity. He’s lucky the people he hires are under contract not to talk about him with anyone, or else he’d be bankrupt in a month.”
“He stays in the hotel?”
“Yeah. Room 346.”

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Fuck this guy. All I want to do is go home, and he comes in right as I’m leaving? I fucking hate working hotels. Concierge at The Milton. Fuck this shit. I’m quitting tomorrow.

“Hello?”
“Mr. Milton, there’s a man here to see you. His name is Thomas Mueller.”
“Ah, yes. Send him up please.”
“Of course.”

When Thomas knocked on the door, Bill answered immediately.
“Come on in, Thomas.”
Thomas stepped into the modestly furnished hotel room and opened his mouth to say something, but then closed it right away, a motion that didn’t go unnoticed.
“What is it?” Bill asked.
“Nothing. I just expected…more,” Thomas responded.
“Ah, yes, I suppose you would. Have a seat.”
They both sat down. Both were silent for a little.
Thomas broke the silence with “Why do you live here?”
Bill smiled, looking Thomas directly in the eyes “This hotel is all I have.”
“Your family left you?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Don’t you think this conversation is a little personal for someone you just met?”
“Yeah. I guess you’re right…I’m sorry.”
“It’s OK.”
“Simmons & Hartley plans on suing you.”
“You’re just full of good news, huh, Tom?”
“…I’m sorry. But why do you want to reconstruct that overhang? Is it worth getting sued?”
“I’ll just settle with them. And yes, it is worth it. I’d be giving a little known architect a chance. Designing even a small part of a famous hotel can be really amazing for an unknown architect’s career.”
“Why didn’t you give him the job in the first place?”
“I was a different man. I saw things differently.”
“What do you mean?”
Bill looked at Thomas hard. He mulled over the question for a moment, then answered “Well…let’s put it this way…rain is my sunshine now.”

No no no no. Please let her be OK. Please please let her be OK. That was all I could think about as I ran down the street. In a T-shirt and jeans while it rained, the thought of a cold or flu didn’t even enter my mind. All I wanted was to get to where I needed to be.
Be OK. Please be OK, Baby. As I thought it, I shoulder barged into a man standing outside one of the most expensive hotels. The name escaped me. I nearly fell, but regained my balance and kept moving. There was no time for apologies, I was so close.
Be OK baby girl. There was a crowd of people around her as I reached the spot where she was laying. I had to yell to be heard.
“Let me through! Move! I’m her father! Let me through!”
Finally, I reached her, but her body was already lifeless, a pool of blood haloed her head. I dropped to my knees and cradled my baby girl in my arms and rocked her back and forth like she was still four-years-old. For a moment, I thought I felt her move. I thought she would finish college and go on to play first chair violin like she always dreamed. But then I saw the fatal bullet hole. Enter and exit wounds through her temple.
Everything looked gray.

Mark re-entered the apartment. He had left to submit the designs for what he had begun to refer to as Clonesville. On his way back he had picked up the mail and things he needed from the hardware store, which were in a brown paper bag. He glanced through the mail and saw the usual things. Bills, bills, bills, bills, bills. At the back of the pile there was a slightly larger, cream colored envelope. New bills. He dropped the bag and the mail on his kitchen table.
Mark let out a deep, exhausted exhale. He rubbed the inside of his eye for a moment, as he moved to the window, staring out of it, watching people move about living their lives, not aware of the man in the 4th floor window. He wanted just one face to look at him.
After a few minutes, he turned around, giving up on his hope of making eye contact. He walked by the kitchen table, picking up the paper bag and walking into the bathroom.
He took the rope out from the brown bag, tying it around a fixture in the ceiling. Then, he stood on the toilet with the noose around his neck.
His last thought was: It would have been made of marble.




Dear Mr. Mark H. Albright,

You have been commissioned to design the new overhang of the Milton Hotel. Mr. Milton himself would like to have a meeting with you as soon as possible to discuss the new plans. Please call the number 202-346-4808 to set up an appointment. Congratulations on your new position.

Sincerely,
Jason Friedman
Public Relations for the Milton Group

Hey, Bud.

First slam poet I ever listened to. This isn't the poem though. The first poem I heard was "Human the Death Dance"