I have decided to create a new blog. The name, 'Dust and Nations,' is from a song by Thrice, and is intended to provide a little bit of the mood you might get in the blog, though I don't want to restrict it too much. This blog is intended to be 'free form' and I hope to see a little bit of everything here: poetry, editorial, prose, photography, artwork (if any of my writers feel so inclined - I am not a good visual artist).
So, just to get things started, I've chosen a favourite post of mine from a blog that I used to post on. You can check it out at jorbrugund.blogspot.com. I intend to write new material, of course, but the inspiration has not yet come and I want to get this blog off the ground. So, without further ado...
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I'm not feeling my usual bout of ingenuity tonight. Something's keeping my thoughts to myself but I still need that connection. Her eyes meet mine but all I can think of is to let my sight travel down to her waist and back. Oh well, it seems to work. She turns toward me.
All around us the chatter is going on; people are prattling perpetually about people's shirts, people's problems, poetry and popping pills, practically anything and everything you can think of; It's just a din, though. Like an amplified chatter of crickets shaping around vague renditions of words. There's constant sounds of the house creaking as too many people with nowhere else to go course through it. Every straight line between two doors consists of a two way river of people, every one of them jerking and twisting their head around, trying to assess people to go associate with for a few minutes before they most tactfully move on. People are filling their drinks every time they pass the fridge. There always seems to be someone emptying their drink so that they can go grab another one. Someone keeps changing the song.
She takes a few steps toward me, still locked in eye contact. I take a sip of beer, and it's so cold and refreshing tonight. I can't help but smile; mind so simple. I take advantage of the natural grin and throw in a small nod over at the party idiot, trying to bong five drinks or something silly like that. Everyone watches the first few seconds and cheers him on, but they quickly move back to their all-encompassing conversations. The house groans again, like it's complaining about all the people moving through it like ants. She doesn't break eye contact, but she returns my smile. She's suggestive.
Today I was sitting alone in my basement. It was snowing outside for a bit, then the sun came out. The snow turned to ice rain turned to rain turned to hail returned to snow. It was a strange day. A song plays through my head; one I'd heard tonight, before the party, that had pumped me up for it. I mouth the words a bit to myself and take another sip of beer. I'm starting to lose my sense of taste; I lean on the couch leg behind me.
A few more steps toward me and I glance over at a girl close to me. She is laughing so hard her face is red and she splashes her drink onto her shirt. Her friend fell; but she gets up and moves on with the partying, using the small incident as an ice breaker and a boast. I sigh, roll my eyes, and look back to the beauty approaching me, she's noticed my observative, reflective daze and the party goes silent. It's that kind of constand noise that drowns out all other sound and leaves you alone.
Our lips meet before we do.
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