What happened to my bubble?
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I assure you this won't end well for me.
For years I have pondered how to define love; there was even a point in my life in which I felt as if its ineffable mysteries were but a mere heartbeat away. Alas I was yet again deceived.
To this point I am still to unravel its tangled webs, yet feel as if I grow ever-nearer only to have it painstakingly jerked awry.
Moments have passed as of late that work to convince me of love's ardor through time spent with another who seems to be rather significant, yet such moments defy the inner workings of time for they flee vivaciously when our hearts are in close proximity, and drag by relative to the distance we are apart.
And so I question my knowledge of what love has become to me, for all prior workings seem dated and irrelevant.
Love, as it seems, is no more than a virus - forever in flux and always one wily step ahead of the cure. But perhaps its desire to maintain is the key to its cunning. Perhaps it is I who holds the key.
Despite its innate resolution to bring misery to its faithful, therein lies a silver lining. For you see the tragedy of love is that for it to be truly cherished, one must be fully willing to see it on its way.
Perhaps though love is not to be defined, for defining it would cause its irreverence. Perhaps its purpose is to be soaked in, such as does a leaf soak in the sunlight that surrounds it, the nutrients pushing it onward and upward. Love, in its essence, forever driving, pulling and tearing at my heart.
And so it seems as if love is not as tangible as I once had hoped, but rather a series of moments to be soaked in, so be it like a leaf in autumn's eve. Her smile; Her laugh; Her breath on my neck, driving me along the edge of [in]sanity.
And when I wilt and fall to the ground, one day again, I too shall rise to the glorious warmth that love has unscrupulously bestowed upon me.
This isn't ending well for me.
I dig old chicks.
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Eh, maybe I should clarify. I dig oldER chicks.
Still not good enough you say? Fine.
I have a strong affinity for women who are older than I am. Whether it be by one year or by twenty, there is undeniably something about them that drives me absolutely insane.
Perhaps it's me growing older and maturing my taste in women, or perhaps it's the old tale that women who have had more opportunity to experience life tend to know what they want, how they want it, and are certainly not afraid to go after it; and whatever it is, it's incredibly sexy.
And so today I was reminded of what some would surely call my perversion when I met the beautiful and talented Sarah McLachlan. I would like to note that I am not one who is starstruck by celebrities or musicians. I've met my fair share and none have fazed me to this point, but when it comes to physical attraction, it becomes a whole new ballgame.
So as I spent the morning photographing Sarah as she performed an acoustic set at my day job, I felt a strong infatuation festering within. Each striking note of "Angel" tugged at my heart, and in more than one way. It could have simply been because I was watching a legendary musician perform one of her greatest hits five feet from where I was sitting, or it could have been the blossoming of a true love; far be it for me to say which it was, as I fear I'll never know.
Just know this, at 42 years young, she is a woman that I wouldn't be afraid to call my love.
I feel like I'm coming out of some sort of proverbial closet here. Whatever. Cougars, take your best shot. I'm officially game.
Pictures from Sarah McLachlan's Acoustic Performance
Can you guess which picture is my favorite? Hint: I'm not in it.
Comment below!
TV killed objectivity. Or was it The Buggles?
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'Twas a long time ago in a mindset far, far away in which I began to discover a self that was unlike any other self I had up until that point known. It was an angry and demented demeanor that had unleashed itself after a decade of frustration. I was mad at what only my previously written words can tell you, and I was Hellbent on changing the world, one blog post at a time.
With this, a new me was born. This was a me who was wise enough to know that the world around him would grant him no favors yet naive enough to think that it was only he and no one else that the world was after. I truly became an enraged, angry and mad wordsmith. Words became my vice, and they were all I had.
I mention this today, because today is truly a monumental day, for this very blog post makes TreyKauffman.com my most active blog of all time! With a mind-blowing nine whole posts to boast about, I have no intention of discontinuing my good word. This is a feat that is unprecedented, and for someone who fancies himself a writer, it is one that really, truly should not be bragged about.
Perhaps I just get bored with the same-old same-old, or perhaps it's due to personal growth like the above suggests, but regardless, up until now my old outlet housed my personal record of eight blog entries on a single domain. To celebrate the legacy of my previous love, I'd like to [re]share with you my most cherished and under-appreciated posting from MadWordsmith.com.
Objectivity is Dead
This is a post that was inspired by a dream and a dream girl. The day leading up to the dream, a dream that I won't likely forget in this lifetime, I had auditioned a most fantastic female singer to play the role of Cadence in a film that I wrote titled LUCKY.
Needless to say, I wanted no one else for this role, or for my love.
[Chapter 6] Dreaming.
To dream is to bestow obscurity, for dreaming is not intended to exuviate perspective. Dreams encrypt our psyche while unequivocally embellishing our deepest reveries. The primer, hidden deep within our subconscious, is the quintessential missing link.
.:.
My gaze is transfixed. Paralysis has clinched victory over myself and my body reeks of insecurity and unease. I try to look away, to look away before she senses my ineptitude. Staples clasp my eyelids to my brow. A droplet of blood trickles down the posterior of my nostril, crying freedom as it drops into a blissful oblivion.
I’m elevated, not floating, merely elevated. My stomach wrenches, either infinitely or finitely, I’m unable to tell as I prepare to become one with the earth. The earth rudely evades me. A lonely gray surrounds me; #999999 in its consummate essence. I’m only able to sense the earth floating below me as vertigo waits to settle in for the evening.
What a treat it is to see that Death has come rapping upon my chamber door, only to dash my pessimistic hopes and prayers once more.
“But why not me?” I implore.
“After you I am not, it is Her you are for.” Death responds as the shrouded black hole sanctimoniously diverts its stare thievishly upward.
Her chestnut locks compliment Her hazel eyes. Floating graciously above me, she stares ostentatiously through me. I want to look away, to close my eyes; crimson tints my vision.
Her mouth opens as if to scream, but instead a stereo of heavenly melodies is exuberated into the air about me. She sings. Oh does she sing! To say that Her aria brings warmth to my soul would be to belittle each striking note. My pain is diminished and my gray incubus gives way to a blessing dressed in the bluest of skies.
As swiftly as bliss rises, bliss sets.
Men from all angles are drawn. They are drawn from thin air, from above, and from sides all around. Doctors, lawyers, architects, and stockbrokers; they surround Her. They approach from above me. I try to fly but I am grounded. I outstretch my arms, but the length of my reach falls short by a distance that would otherwise be deemed negligible.
Silence.
She stares at me. I stare at Her. A moment of understanding. Is this emotion that she bequeaths? Longing? For fear I will never know, as she is engulfed by the offspring of everlasting dreams.
I’m falling; Death has granted my wish. Whether ‘twas a moment or an eternity, ‘tis not for me to know. Purgatory has relinquished my soul.
My blue is trumped by my gray which gives way to my familiar black. Hope of waking is confused with that of dying.
---
Trey -AKA- The Mad Wordsmith
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