She listens for a heart beat
Far in the distance,
The rhythmic regularity of existence -
A succession of consistence
Or resistance?
"I wanted this, " she said.
A kingdom for what is his.
Sunlight hits her eyes,
Shines on unseen places
She knows where to find
The white spaces
Life will go on -
Counterclockwise.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved.
Neverwhere
Between sunset and sunrise
Dipping your feet in the spaces
Between the written lines,
Resting in the cracks of moonlight
Just beyond the pines.
You would like to know
What goes on in my mind.
One step forward,
Two back,
Circling.
Crossing the lines,
Dotting the I's,
Let's not go there
If this is a game
All the same
Then you don't play fair.
You say you don't care
And we are neverwhere.
Ambiguity
It's a pity
Too much of this already
In this city.
There is a way out,
Right or wrong,
But you keep a checklist
And you think fate is a myth.
Tell me again,
What is all this about?
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved.
Dipping your feet in the spaces
Between the written lines,
Resting in the cracks of moonlight
Just beyond the pines.
You would like to know
What goes on in my mind.
One step forward,
Two back,
Circling.
Crossing the lines,
Dotting the I's,
Let's not go there
If this is a game
All the same
Then you don't play fair.
You say you don't care
And we are neverwhere.
Ambiguity
It's a pity
Too much of this already
In this city.
There is a way out,
Right or wrong,
But you keep a checklist
And you think fate is a myth.
Tell me again,
What is all this about?
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved.
The other End of the Line
You are a walking
contradiction
You say you don't mind
But you have me
On the other end of the line.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved.
You live life between truth
and fiction
You hide from the living
And go after the dead.
Black are your shades
White are your gates
Colorful your dates.
Your appetite is unsated
Your mind alveated
Your life unrated –
You tell me:
"It’s all the same,
Memories can be replaced."
Is it fate, or a terrible
mistake?
Your style more or less safe
Dancing shadows
Of highs and lows
To you
I am just another story
Lost in an echo.
A haunted heart
A bulldozed road
You are aloneYou say you don't mind
But you have me
On the other end of the line.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved.
Out of Africa
He leaves his house
In a gray suit.
Every Wednesday at high noon.
He is a lonely man
Without a plan.
He needs a week
To prepare for Wednesday
He tells me.
The post office is across the street.
He has a love.
She lives in Africa.
They met five decades ago.
In Capetown.
She was only 18.
With a heart of gold,
"I should have stayed."
He shakes his head dismayed.
"But I was young, cocky and proud.
I am 78 now.
Anyway, I need a week
To prepare for Wednesday."
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved.
In a gray suit.
Every Wednesday at high noon.
He is a lonely man
Without a plan.
He needs a week
To prepare for Wednesday
He tells me.
The post office is across the street.
He has a love.
She lives in Africa.
They met five decades ago.
In Capetown.
She was only 18.
With a heart of gold,
"I should have stayed."
He shakes his head dismayed.
"But I was young, cocky and proud.
I am 78 now.
Anyway, I need a week
To prepare for Wednesday."
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved.
The Answer Is In the Question
He asks too many questions.
He is good at asking questions.
Very good.
He wants to understand her mind.
He wants to know why
She thinks the way she does.
"If I keep asking,
You eventually will have an answer for me."
He gets close once or twice.
He is strong.
And very, very good
At what he touches.
She is overexposed, raw -
But she doesn't mind.
He is close, but not inside.
He could be though,
If he went back
To where it all began.
The answer is in the question.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved.
He is good at asking questions.
Very good.
He wants to understand her mind.
He wants to know why
She thinks the way she does.
"If I keep asking,
You eventually will have an answer for me."
He gets close once or twice.
He is strong.
And very, very good
At what he touches.
She is overexposed, raw -
But she doesn't mind.
He is close, but not inside.
He could be though,
If he went back
To where it all began.
The answer is in the question.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved.
Going Home
"I produced ten CDs of silence."
-"How unfortunate."
I should have left then.
But I didn't want to give up that easily,
Even though his hands were already walking
Over to the next appointment.
Paper after paper following
To a neat stack on his desk.
"It is silence of the special kind.
Dreamy, airly silence,
Threatening silence,
Harmonious
And disharmonious -
A piece for everyone
Who wants to return to music
And shut out the noise in their lives.
Don't you want to listen?"
- "Where are you going?"
His hands have finally stopped walking.
"I am going home,"
I replied.
Even silence does not free us
From being human.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved.
-"How unfortunate."
I should have left then.
But I didn't want to give up that easily,
Even though his hands were already walking
Over to the next appointment.
Paper after paper following
To a neat stack on his desk.
"It is silence of the special kind.
Dreamy, airly silence,
Threatening silence,
Harmonious
And disharmonious -
A piece for everyone
Who wants to return to music
And shut out the noise in their lives.
Don't you want to listen?"
- "Where are you going?"
His hands have finally stopped walking.
"I am going home,"
I replied.
Even silence does not free us
From being human.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved.
Vixen of the Night
Dark, beautiful, mysterious -
Melancholic and imperious
Well, people certainly were curious.
"Eine Fremde", some people would designate.
Une femme fatale, others would exclaim.
Vixen of the night
Big and dark her eyes
Raven black her hair.
I followed her everywhere.
I have been trying to meet her for years.
Softly she tiptoed into town.
Now she is here.
And then
The very next morning -
She disappears.
Melancholic and imperious
Well, people certainly were curious.
"Eine Fremde", some people would designate.
Une femme fatale, others would exclaim.
Vixen of the night
Big and dark her eyes
Raven black her hair.
I followed her everywhere.
I have been trying to meet her for years.
Softly she tiptoed into town.
Now she is here.
And then
The very next morning -
She disappears.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved.
Nika
Nika's natural hair color is hazelnut brown. She likes changing it. It is mahagony now. She was blond for awhile to see if guys liked her better. They did, but not the ones she wanted to talk to. So Nika went two shades darker. The first wardrobe change was a fiasko. A red stop sign paled compared to her bright new headdress.
Panicked she called me and her gay friend Paul, our fallback guy with all things relating men. Paul, a hair dresser in Beverly Hills, always had juicy stories about some Alpha personality who woke up one day and decided to change, starting with her hair. Two hours later she would be in his saloon, crying, asking him to fix the impossible.As Paul worked on Nika’s hair and I stood by for moral support, Nika began telling us about her dating experiences.
Nika succumbed to an online dating site a little over a year ago. At first she found it thrilling to meet men from all caliber from various neighborhoods in Los Angeles. A surgeon, a prosecutor, a professor, a writer, an aerospace scientist. She dated him for several months, before he decided to trade her in for a blond bank teller with a degree in Animal Sciences. We all received our personal share of Nika’s emotional Mount Everest. Back in the dating business, Nika is feeling a bit more pragmatic. She is open to dating older men now. "LA is full of interesting men, I should be able to meet one", she chirps in a good mood.
Paul is done: “There you are. Neither blond, nor brunette
nor redhead. Mahagony.” A flip of a hand-held mirror, Nika is examining Paul’s
work of art carefully, combing through every strand of her new persona. “Now I
will finally meet interesting and normal men. I mean mahagony isn't haha-cute blond nor do-not-touch-me brunette, it is keck." Paul, the honest good soul, and sometimes blind as a bat, feels he
needs to pass on some additional Marsian wisdom before I can stop him: “Actually, Nika, the interesting men you are
trying to meet work all day and go out at night to party hard. And they like blondes. Or girls with sleek black hair."
I shift my feet nervously. I am bracing for a familiar explosion. Nika is quiet. Awfully quiet. Then she straightens up and in voice allowing no further argument, she declares: “Trust me, I will find a partner. This is the hair, I know it.”
I look at her. I remember a teenager with purple hair, who - being assured of my absolute loyalty not to tell - confessed that the plumed hair was just the right color for a dance with a star athlete four years her senior, Spence. Yes. After decades of knowing Nika, one thing I know for sure: Life never gets boring with her.
I wonder what hair color she will go for next.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved.
I shift my feet nervously. I am bracing for a familiar explosion. Nika is quiet. Awfully quiet. Then she straightens up and in voice allowing no further argument, she declares: “Trust me, I will find a partner. This is the hair, I know it.”
I look at her. I remember a teenager with purple hair, who - being assured of my absolute loyalty not to tell - confessed that the plumed hair was just the right color for a dance with a star athlete four years her senior, Spence. Yes. After decades of knowing Nika, one thing I know for sure: Life never gets boring with her.
I wonder what hair color she will go for next.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved.
The Rush of Youth
A face full of wrinkles
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved.
She was young once.
Famous for her golden hair
And seven little black dresses
She liked to wear.
Dancing all night long.
Those years are long gone.
The rush of youth. And seven little black dresses
She liked to wear.
Dancing all night long.
Those years are long gone.
As a young woman
sailed past her,
A rapturous breeze lightly touched the older one.
A rapturous breeze lightly touched the older one.
Then as the young one was quite out of sight
A truck appeared.
A truck appeared.
The front-seat
passenger leaned out the cabin
And he shouted: “My god, are you beautiful!”,
And he shouted: “My god, are you beautiful!”,
In the
reflecting mirror she saw his smile.
A face so full of a lived life.
A face so full of a lived life.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved.
Full Circle
You're
such an inspiration for the ways.
A little less red,
A little less red,
More white,
Something growing inside.
Picket lines and picket
signs,
But you tell me it is alright.
We all have a choice
Except I had too much wine.
Seeing the unheard you know
Seeing the unheard you know
Tasting the truth, it's mild
Some things are best left
unspoken,
Afraid to be broken,
Afraid to be broken,
Twenty Timezones
Miles from everything they know,
With millions more to go.
Detours and mistakes,
Detours and mistakes,
All the times someone hits the brakes,
Hoping something would change.
It hardly slowed the pace.
Crossing tram lines,
Strangers holding hands at midnight,
She has been here since 1969.
Someone is always keeping time.
Blinked her eyes once or twice,
And they were gone.
She is only a clock,
16 tons of stone,
148 names,
Twenty time zones,
She has been here since 1969,
Amidst order and chaos,
Amidst the lost and the found,
Faithfully keeping everyone's time.
She has been here since 1969,
Amidst order and chaos,
Amidst the lost and the found,
Faithfully keeping everyone's time.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved.
Inside the Grey Zone
Somewhere outside black and white,
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved.
Hidden amidst the vast unknown
Lies the brink of the grey zone.
An incisive gaze,
Breaking and entering this forbidden
place
When there is still time to turn
around
Before it is too late
The eerily fog draws them in more,
Much deeper than before.
He knows
Somewhere outside black and white
She is in it now
With no other way out.
Ashes By Dawn
In quintillions of years
What mysteries are human tears.
The fires of a heart
Ashes by dawn.
A body at auction,
Whatever the bids of the bidders,
They cannot stack up high enough for this.
Underneath silk and cotton,
A kiwi with dark eyes and ticklish sides long
forgotten.
He goes on eating from paper plates.
He is in new company now.
Not less the soul, nor more—everything is in his place.
Not less the soul, nor more—everything is in his place.
The fires of a heart
Face of Agamemnon
Where the freeways fold
Over the glistening skylights
Dazzling stars of the night
And pockets of time
Buildings with a thousand floors,
Reflecting windows and even
More revolving doors.
In the same deep waters as you.
Somewhere amidst serendipity
And constant vacuums of relativity
A leap of faith, architecture of space.
Fate gives what Chance can not control
Abiding in mystery the lucidity of soul.
Gazing onto the face of Agamemnon
Leaving without a leg to stand upon
Coming home to look after my fences
Finding them missing
And again trusting my senses.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved.
Over the glistening skylights
Dazzling stars of the night
And pockets of time
Buildings with a thousand floors,
Reflecting windows and even
More revolving doors.
In the same deep waters as you.
Somewhere amidst serendipity
And constant vacuums of relativity
A leap of faith, architecture of space.
Fate gives what Chance can not control
Abiding in mystery the lucidity of soul.
Gazing onto the face of Agamemnon
Leaving without a leg to stand upon
Coming home to look after my fences
Finding them missing
And again trusting my senses.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved.
Crashing Illusion
The moment you push your fist through glass
And it shatters is the moment
You sober up.
There is nothing more refreshing
Than the bleeding reminder of
A crashing illusion.
And it shatters is the moment
You sober up.
There is nothing more refreshing
Than the bleeding reminder of
A crashing illusion.
© Colleen Yorke All rights reserved.
House of Mirrors
A leopard moving through
A house of glass.
A beautiful goddess surrounded by heat
Watching him pass.
Underneath everything
A bright pain.
She knows there are no answers – only beginnings.
He brings her shells, stones and oddly colored leaves
She packs and wraps them
Into many shapes.
She keeps rewriting her life.
Did you like me better as Snow White or Jezebel?
He is casual about preferences.
He moves through
The house of mirrors.
Is he indifferent?
She studies her face.
Tomorrow is already sleeping
Behind her eyes.
They both know the trick is
How long they can keep it going.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved.
A house of glass.
A beautiful goddess surrounded by heat
Watching him pass.
Underneath everything
A bright pain.
She knows there are no answers – only beginnings.
He brings her shells, stones and oddly colored leaves
She packs and wraps them
Into many shapes.
She keeps rewriting her life.
Did you like me better as Snow White or Jezebel?
He is casual about preferences.
He moves through
The house of mirrors.
Is he indifferent?
She studies her face.
Tomorrow is already sleeping
Behind her eyes.
They both know the trick is
How long they can keep it going.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved.
Loaded Guns
This too shall pass.
People will forget.
Trust me,
Moments like these don't last.
This is true,
Unless you happen to be
Stuck in between.
Here, in this time and this place,
Believe me,
The past ties a knot and hangs on.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved.
People will forget.
Trust me,
Moments like these don't last.
This is true,
Unless you happen to be
Stuck in between.
Here, in this time and this place,
Believe me,
The past ties a knot and hangs on.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved.
Transfers
Virtual reality
Communication by electrons
Science in place of life
Humans who are objects
Watched by thousands
Who don't bother to look from their own window.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved.
Communication by electrons
Science in place of life
Humans who are objects
Watched by thousands
Who don't bother to look from their own window.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved.
Outside Everything We Know
Lost and found souls
Drifting through the two faces of the city.
In transit,
The east and the west cross paths.
Between the here and the there,
Between the not yet and no more,
Strangers long for intimate islands of dialogue,
Hindered by a loss of translation.
In a world, outside everything we know,
These wanderers gave up a long time ago.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved.
Drifting through the two faces of the city.
In transit,
The east and the west cross paths.
Between the here and the there,
Between the not yet and no more,
Strangers long for intimate islands of dialogue,
Hindered by a loss of translation.
In a world, outside everything we know,
These wanderers gave up a long time ago.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved.
Little Girl
Earnest little face
Curly hair
Eyes of a teddy bear
Steady pace
Embracing a dream
On top of a balancing beam.
A heart soaring with all its might
Giggles full of delight.
A room holding its breath
To see how far she would get.
One last glide
Arms outstretched wide
She has nothing to fear here.
Two rings on the ceiling
Little did she pause
Fingers all set,
She left cartwheeling.
Motion in flight
Little did the girl know
How much she won that night.
© Colleen Yorke. All right reserved.
Curly hair
Eyes of a teddy bear
Steady pace
Embracing a dream
On top of a balancing beam.
A heart soaring with all its might
Giggles full of delight.
A room holding its breath
To see how far she would get.
One last glide
Arms outstretched wide
She has nothing to fear here.
Two rings on the ceiling
Little did she pause
Fingers all set,
She left cartwheeling.
Motion in flight
Little did the girl know
How much she won that night.
© Colleen Yorke. All right reserved.
Unfinished Business
Like flashing headlines,
Deadlines occupy our minds,
Keeping our reality in check.
Other tasks are dotted lines,
Allowing us to fill in whatever we like:
Unrelinquished promises,
Broken resolutions,
Unfulfilled propositions,
Taunting inflictions.
Unfinished business
Is coming back to haunt us yet.
We are separated by a few miles,
And you still have me on speed dial,
It has been awhile.
But, until one of us has a change of heart
We can't move forward.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved.
Deadlines occupy our minds,
Keeping our reality in check.
Other tasks are dotted lines,
Allowing us to fill in whatever we like:
Unrelinquished promises,
Broken resolutions,
Unfulfilled propositions,
Taunting inflictions.
Unfinished business
Is coming back to haunt us yet.
We are separated by a few miles,
And you still have me on speed dial,
It has been awhile.
But, until one of us has a change of heart
We can't move forward.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved.
Last Mohawk
Many legends and songs remember “the people who occupied the desert”.
Hank is one of the last of his generation, one of the last of the lines of chiefs. He lives on a reservation, on a piece of land that once whispered the voices of the free.
Our longing desire and passionate search for space dimensions bewilders him. How can we attempt to conquer the universe, if we have not yet understood the earth? How can we forget our mother and our fathers?
“I am old”, he says, “I am staying here.”
Soon the last ghosts of the past will pass through the mirror. Who will dance their songs and tell their stories?
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved.
Hank is one of the last of his generation, one of the last of the lines of chiefs. He lives on a reservation, on a piece of land that once whispered the voices of the free.
Our longing desire and passionate search for space dimensions bewilders him. How can we attempt to conquer the universe, if we have not yet understood the earth? How can we forget our mother and our fathers?
“I am old”, he says, “I am staying here.”
Soon the last ghosts of the past will pass through the mirror. Who will dance their songs and tell their stories?
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved.
Blowing Winds
Have you ever loved someone
That you are unsure
You will ever love again?
Have you ever watched
A boat sail?
The harder the wind blows,
The further is the distance.
But it is a chance too.
A chance to love again.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved.
That you are unsure
You will ever love again?
Have you ever watched
A boat sail?
The harder the wind blows,
The further is the distance.
But it is a chance too.
A chance to love again.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved.
Between the Lines
Playing strange mind games,
Quoting bands with bizarre names.
It is a punch show,
Of moments going by too slow.
I am trying to read between the lines;
Tell me, is he talking to me at all,
Or he is just setting me up for the next great fall?
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved.
Quoting bands with bizarre names.
It is a punch show,
Of moments going by too slow.
I am trying to read between the lines;
Tell me, is he talking to me at all,
Or he is just setting me up for the next great fall?
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved.
Art Nuevo
I turn a corner.
Ahead of me,
She disappears
Around the next.
I can't see her.
In a fleeting moment
I catch a glimpse
Of her dazzling gown.
But, the white material
Has been stinging my eyes
For years.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved.
Ahead of me,
She disappears
Around the next.
I can't see her.
In a fleeting moment
I catch a glimpse
Of her dazzling gown.
But, the white material
Has been stinging my eyes
For years.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved.
To stay or to go?
Maybe he stays.
Maybe he leaves.
It is more likely that he leaves
And less likely that he stays.
But the question whether he stays or leaves
Is after all only a question.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved.
Maybe he leaves.
It is more likely that he leaves
And less likely that he stays.
But the question whether he stays or leaves
Is after all only a question.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved.
Afterword
These years were a time of growing up and growing away, as she held on to the delicate, precious tether of the written word. Sitting cross-legged on her bed, with her journal on her lap, she spent afternoons writing and inking her memories.
There were stories about Minnie, the neighbor who played Bob Dylan loud enough that her sister could have polkaed to his music had she wanted to. There would be news about Jim and Eleanor and their relatives, who lived a long drive away on the West side. Of sunny days and heavy rainfalls. Of changing seasons, arriving and taking leave as quietly as a wind breeze. In her words she chiseled the shape of the days; sometimes as participant, sometimes as observer, she would reveal or conceal her own presence in the moment unfolding on the delicate paper. She attempted to explain the seductive quality of this inner space to other people, these endless years of self-imposed exile from life, wrestling with the feeling of being misunderstood and the havoc of letting go. They did not understand. Write, write, and write some more.
She drove out to Ventura very early this morning. As she stood on the cliffs of the State Beach, admiring the sunrise dipping the skies into a subtle rosé and breathing in the salty, crisp air, she finally made up her mind. Gently she placed her last journal on the edge separating rock and sea. Words were meant to be shared.
Life now was not about understanding herself as much as understanding the others.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved.
Burnt Words
'Blocking' real people for her shot and for the stage, knowing that how she places them manipulates how the viewer perceives them. While preserving an ember of emotion, empathy perhaps, feeling with strangers and their life stories intensely, realizing that she will always carry a part of them, of their "touch" with her, she accepts getting "hurt". The pain of someone else's pain, the scars that define and transform people through life, is what makes people what they are and what makes their never-wavering courage to "go on" breathtaking admirable.
He admires her for that; it is just not him. Living on a base, working with trauma patients every day, hardened him. An order is an order. There are no alternatives. Discipline and the perfection of skill are to be desired. Privately, he pleasures in testing his cavalier senses, setting ambitious goals and getting his kicks from the ultimate satisfaction. It takes patience and practice. Perhaps selfishness. And certainly cold detachment from any muddling emotions.
Meeting her was a direct and rude cross of his agenda. Their encounter was a dance, and how she waltzed through his life; not only could he no longer remember the steps, he was losing control. Their last conversation about the mysteries of the ‘soul’, the undefined, unshaped something making a person immortal, had been invigorating. Her remarks that in the end, it is all a "reflex" of a life and pictures lived...a person's life is flashing by, memories lived to scramble up in full color yet once more before they fade into nothingness as the event of death kicks in, befuddled him. “Did you come up with that,” he asked intrigued and somewhat stunned. Who was she to speak so extemporaneously? He was getting lured into a very dangerous game. A game that he foresaw himself losing, if he did not end things right there and then.
Final words of many many things left unsaid will leave them wondering for time to come. Moments people let slip through their hands to find something new, thinking it is better than what they have...Their story is one of many. As a writer and as a story-teller I can only watch, never interfere.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved.
The Scream
The festival is far off.
The light is a lie.
He is standing in the park, alone.
He wears white silk,
And he knows he is not awake.
So he flees terrified into the dream.
Cool and silent, the night wraps around him.
“Are you the night?, he asks in a timid voice.
She smiles.
How he wished that he was in shining armor.
In full armor.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved.
The light is a lie.
He is standing in the park, alone.
He wears white silk,
And he knows he is not awake.
So he flees terrified into the dream.
Cool and silent, the night wraps around him.
“Are you the night?, he asks in a timid voice.
She smiles.
How he wished that he was in shining armor.
In full armor.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved.
Minute Thought
What is a minute?
And how do we measure?
Do we watch the tick-tock of a clock?
Or do we calculate time by moments -
Such as the smile of a beautiful stranger?
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved.
And how do we measure?
Do we watch the tick-tock of a clock?
Or do we calculate time by moments -
Such as the smile of a beautiful stranger?
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved.
While You Were Sleeping
The past is asleep.
The present somewhere in between
And tomorrow is wide awake.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved.
The present somewhere in between
And tomorrow is wide awake.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved.
Faces of a City
I stood there and stared out at the city, lost among its incredibility. I watched the shadows of light in its midst thin to nothingness; this was the highest view in town. And if someday I have to hike up odd tweaked trails to get a murky, smog-ruined view of Los Angeles instead of this brilliantly defined closer look at a lower and far more pleasant city, then I would just rough it in.
Staring out from that smudged window, I remembered a painting hanging in the far east gallery of the Norton Simon Museum, the mural yellowing at the edges, its once vibrant colors faded with time. And now this picturesque setting so bright and alive in my memory, trailed to an ancient event, centuries old and long since forgotten. Strangers continued to walk in and out of my view.
There he stood. The smoke of his cigarette mingled with the thick vapor of his breath, and I realized that he was posing, offering a picture of a man at ease. And successfully so: His posture and slow walk, everything about him highlighted his relaxation and content, his face mirroring his inner beauty – he was glad to be just where he was, alive in that moment and place. Just by looking at him, I sensed he moved through his life in unquestioned certainty that there was a reason for being. And that is something worth having, and losing it... is to lose something vital.
Most of the faces do not have that look now today; when left alone, they are blank, expressionless, alien and separated from the city they live in, suspicious perhaps even of it. Even though I studied this man only a matter of minutes, retracing features marked by a time long vanished and yet frozen timeless in the making of a moment, I felt as if I read deeper bits of a life lived in a city hardly aged.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved.
Staring out from that smudged window, I remembered a painting hanging in the far east gallery of the Norton Simon Museum, the mural yellowing at the edges, its once vibrant colors faded with time. And now this picturesque setting so bright and alive in my memory, trailed to an ancient event, centuries old and long since forgotten. Strangers continued to walk in and out of my view.
There he stood. The smoke of his cigarette mingled with the thick vapor of his breath, and I realized that he was posing, offering a picture of a man at ease. And successfully so: His posture and slow walk, everything about him highlighted his relaxation and content, his face mirroring his inner beauty – he was glad to be just where he was, alive in that moment and place. Just by looking at him, I sensed he moved through his life in unquestioned certainty that there was a reason for being. And that is something worth having, and losing it... is to lose something vital.
Most of the faces do not have that look now today; when left alone, they are blank, expressionless, alien and separated from the city they live in, suspicious perhaps even of it. Even though I studied this man only a matter of minutes, retracing features marked by a time long vanished and yet frozen timeless in the making of a moment, I felt as if I read deeper bits of a life lived in a city hardly aged.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved.
Connecting dots to 9/11...
We all have our stories and memories of 9/11. Ask anyone anywhere in the world, and you will get a personal point of view of planes crashing into both towers of the World Trade Center ten years ago. Today, we all remember and reflect what we have seen, heard and felt and how 9/11 changed the course of our lives.
On September 11, 2001, I was in Rome with my mother.
We had been sightseeing all day, soaking up Italian impressions, capturing snapshots to take home and to collect in our keepsake albums. It was four o’clock in the afternoon, and we were looking for an authentic place to unwind and to discuss our day. Ahead of us, a crowded pub. It was happy hour time in Italy. An experience we were told not to miss.
As we walked into the door, we noticed the densely packed grapes of people in front of two television sets. For the size of the crowd in the room, it was awfully quiet. We combed through and found two stools at the bar to sit down. You could have heard a pin drop. My eyes wandered to the TV: Shaky footage of black smoke, red bold letters screaming: “Terrorist Attack on America”. Dear God, another catastrophe film made by Hollywood, I sighed, as I spotted a plane approaching the World Trade Center. The titles shifted to “LIVE REPORT”. A fireball, an unified gasp shook the room.
Suddenly it dawned on me. A tear silently streamed down my face, I had no words. “Are you American?”, an Italian woman asked, “I’m so sorry”, and she hugged me tightly. For the rest of the night we were glued to the TV set.
That day we were embraced by the world – what happened?
For the next ten days, Chasing Visions Films will cover a variety of voices looking at America ten years later... for today's promotional trailer, please click connecting dots.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved.
On September 11, 2001, I was in Rome with my mother.
We had been sightseeing all day, soaking up Italian impressions, capturing snapshots to take home and to collect in our keepsake albums. It was four o’clock in the afternoon, and we were looking for an authentic place to unwind and to discuss our day. Ahead of us, a crowded pub. It was happy hour time in Italy. An experience we were told not to miss.
As we walked into the door, we noticed the densely packed grapes of people in front of two television sets. For the size of the crowd in the room, it was awfully quiet. We combed through and found two stools at the bar to sit down. You could have heard a pin drop. My eyes wandered to the TV: Shaky footage of black smoke, red bold letters screaming: “Terrorist Attack on America”. Dear God, another catastrophe film made by Hollywood, I sighed, as I spotted a plane approaching the World Trade Center. The titles shifted to “LIVE REPORT”. A fireball, an unified gasp shook the room.
Suddenly it dawned on me. A tear silently streamed down my face, I had no words. “Are you American?”, an Italian woman asked, “I’m so sorry”, and she hugged me tightly. For the rest of the night we were glued to the TV set.
That day we were embraced by the world – what happened?
For the next ten days, Chasing Visions Films will cover a variety of voices looking at America ten years later... for today's promotional trailer, please click connecting dots.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved.
Project Me.
I
dread family reunions. Surrounded by children, the family dog, and the
smell of my cousin's apple cobbler still lingering in the air, I feel
oddly out of place. I spent half of my childhood in this house, and had
always felt it far removed from the life that I imagined. But now I
was comparing my life to that of my cousin's - married, two children, a
house, two cars, family trips to Mallorca - and I wondered if I had
really struck the better end of the deal. Compared to my cousin's life
accomplishments, I failed. I am over 30, a law student, single, and I
live with my parents.
Some
say that times have changed: Today the 40s are the new 30s, and the 30s
are the new 20s. My friend Tom, 43, a successful partner at Big Law,
never married, is unconcerned: "I haven't found the right woman yet.
But I'll have a family when I am 50." He once told me why his last
girlfriend left him: "She said that she
always had the feeling she was dating a single. Work was always more
important than she." - "And? Was she right? " I quizzed. "Of course, she
was right," Tom replied. "Work is very important to me. I worked long
and
hard to get where I am today."
To
work, for most of us means something different today than it did for
our parents or even grandparents decades ago, who for the most part had
a job and a life, and they were separate. At the end of a work day,
they tended to their private lives. Today, our private lives have
become inseparable from our work. Thanks to the
smart phone, we carry our office in our pockets and can respond to
clients' emails at Disneyland. A job is more than a job, a career is a
calling. Work has become a form of self-expression: Of our
personalities, our hopes and wishes, and our dreams. We cultivate our
passions, and continuously shape our working life towards the lifestyle
that resonates with us. Landing our dream job gives our lives meaning,
and we pin all our aspirations and ambitions to reaching that ultimate
platform of perfection.
The
center of our lives has become what we do. But, our biggest project is
"Project Me," work is just detail. Self-centered, we become our own
brand, we selfie ourselves on facebook, Twitter, and Instagram. We
model and profile our lives for befriended contacts, followers,
linkedins, and at the work place. We work on our career, our figure,
and finding our soul mate. We frame and arrange our lives, the correct,
updated version, and every detail is a statement of who we are: What
we wear, what music we like, what cities we live in, what we eat - and
consequently, what people we surround ourselves with. We live in an
instant, ever present status of self-optimization. We know that
everything can get better. Until it is perfect. The problem with
perfection, however, is that one can never quite attain it.
In
our never-ending quest to complete our Self, we search for another
human being that fits into the empty frame we have already built for
them. We cannot have distraction from "Project Me" and no compromises
or restrictions. A few months ago, one of my running buddies broke with
up with his girlfriend, telling her: "My career is taking off, and you
are not the right woman, you don't fit in." As brutal as the
self-serving observation sounds, it is not uncommon. When the Ego
expands in such a way it blends out our partner, we tend to forget that
relationships are about forming a picture together - that you and I
become "We." In a relationship, we learn about ourselves. We see
ourselves from a different perspective. Through the eyes of our
partner. Our partner is our mirror, and relationships provide
opportunities for us to improve ourselves. This process naturally leads
to conflicts, and many of us are less inclined to have them. Breaking
up seems much more feasible than a compromise that - God forbid! - may
hamper our Me development. But self-focus also blurs everything else.
As
I placed down my fork and pushed away my plate, I wondered if I should
tell my cousin that I am single again. She studied my face, and taking
my place, she said: "You are in law school, and you cannot have any
distractions. Besides, you wouldn't have time to fit in a relationship
with all that you do. You need to focus on yourself right now." I nod
hesitantly, maybe she is right. But deep down, I know if the right
person already walked into my life, then I want him to stay, and figure
out everything else together. Life is about progress, not perfection.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved.
Question With No Answer
Published in Celebrate! (Spring 2000):
Remember?!
Remember when you asked me,
What I loved the most?
Then I did not know.
I replied: „My life.“
You left irritated.
I thought about it
For a long time.
Now I know the answer.
I love the sun and the moon,
The happiness and the sadness.
I love everything around me.
In short, I love my life even
When it is sometimes difficult.
You are gone, I only wish
I could tell you that
You are my life.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved.
Remember?!
Remember when you asked me,
What I loved the most?
Then I did not know.
I replied: „My life.“
You left irritated.
I thought about it
For a long time.
Now I know the answer.
I love the sun and the moon,
The happiness and the sadness.
I love everything around me.
In short, I love my life even
When it is sometimes difficult.
You are gone, I only wish
I could tell you that
You are my life.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved.
Starcrossed
In the heat of the night,
Caught in a gleam of light,
She dances.
Her hair swirls around her face,
Taking part of the race.
She thrives on mistaken identity,
Her shadow, no longer fallow,
A Glasgow of her serenity.
Hope is what holds her onto rope,
To cope with her life,
Ask for help in overcoming strife,
And not to be caught by the knife of time.
She dances.
Her feet are not touching the ground,
There’s a heavenly, eerily glow around.
Bound to the stars, she watches the cars race by
Moving on, racing with the issue of time,
Fast, dry, vanishing.
In the heat of the night, in beats of drums,
Caught in a gleam of light,
She dances.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved.
Caught in a gleam of light,
She dances.
Her hair swirls around her face,
Taking part of the race.
She thrives on mistaken identity,
Her shadow, no longer fallow,
A Glasgow of her serenity.
Hope is what holds her onto rope,
To cope with her life,
Ask for help in overcoming strife,
And not to be caught by the knife of time.
She dances.
Her feet are not touching the ground,
There’s a heavenly, eerily glow around.
Bound to the stars, she watches the cars race by
Moving on, racing with the issue of time,
Fast, dry, vanishing.
In the heat of the night, in beats of drums,
Caught in a gleam of light,
She dances.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
All names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this blog are fictitious. No identification with actual persons, places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred. © All rights reserved.