can't
be longing
broken
nekorb
b k
e o n
r
canned
boiled
dec red
=I < / 3 :
selfish, desired, c
a
s
c
a
d
i
n
g
sdrawkcab
in my < / 3
to want want want! ::scream::
his ______ .
Can I
?
For me?
Not love
in
want... ?
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Good Morning Loss
It's like pictures in non-sequential order blurring together in a slideshow. Some of them make sense: friends moving slowly in rhythmic motion, a black straw leading to a glass filled with ice, flashing lights, the white urinal and washing my hands, stumbling down stairs on the way to the mini-van. I wish I could put them all together, figure out exactly what happened on my own, realize how spectacular the night was (even though I know it was provocatively entertaining).
But even more bizarre than the still frames skimming through my mind is the clarity of the touches, the textures, the fell of the night. I remember the way he felt... I remember his touch on my back, his pull on my hand, the way he moved against me on the dance floor. But I don't remember much of our words, much of his face, much of the aftermath of such intoxicating interactions. I wish I did, not for fear of what happened but because I want to completely integrate the experience into memory. I want to asses the mood of our glances, to predict the movements of our subsequent thoughts, the possibilities that might have arisen in such a short time.
Then there's the complete extreme: I don't want anything to come of it. It wouldn't feel right to start with such a hazy night, to build from such a tragic reverie, broken and dark, and make some fascinating mural of physicality. Thus, I don't care to analyze our gravity. Just knowing its beauty is enough. Just remembering the feel is enough. Just knowing that the possibility of such exchanges is enough.
Knowing, understanding, comprehending these thoughts makes me feel complete. It makes the lost bearable, acceptable, enjoyable. Even in the haze of a hang-over, I'm smiling and enjoying the feel of this consequence, eagerly anticipating the next.
But even more bizarre than the still frames skimming through my mind is the clarity of the touches, the textures, the fell of the night. I remember the way he felt... I remember his touch on my back, his pull on my hand, the way he moved against me on the dance floor. But I don't remember much of our words, much of his face, much of the aftermath of such intoxicating interactions. I wish I did, not for fear of what happened but because I want to completely integrate the experience into memory. I want to asses the mood of our glances, to predict the movements of our subsequent thoughts, the possibilities that might have arisen in such a short time.
Then there's the complete extreme: I don't want anything to come of it. It wouldn't feel right to start with such a hazy night, to build from such a tragic reverie, broken and dark, and make some fascinating mural of physicality. Thus, I don't care to analyze our gravity. Just knowing its beauty is enough. Just remembering the feel is enough. Just knowing that the possibility of such exchanges is enough.
Knowing, understanding, comprehending these thoughts makes me feel complete. It makes the lost bearable, acceptable, enjoyable. Even in the haze of a hang-over, I'm smiling and enjoying the feel of this consequence, eagerly anticipating the next.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Chad
Chastised words pour in
Hot waves of friendly banter,
Always revealing deeper levels
Daring the bounds of this ship,
Even when I push at distances
Like a fearful, broken belief.
Eavesdropping on my own inability to open,
How could I have been so closed?
Hot waves of friendly banter,
Always revealing deeper levels
Daring the bounds of this ship,
Even when I push at distances
Like a fearful, broken belief.
Eavesdropping on my own inability to open,
How could I have been so closed?
Nick
Never had I felt that way:
Isolated from my desires, stopping myself from knowing you by
Carnivorously biting my tongue when all I wanted was to
Know, and let you know, the truth of our infatuation.
Isolated from my desires, stopping myself from knowing you by
Carnivorously biting my tongue when all I wanted was to
Know, and let you know, the truth of our infatuation.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Chris
Can't you see me, remember
How we use to know each other?
Right before lost times
Imbalanced for lack of freedom.
Syncopated are our steps...
How we use to know each other?
Right before lost times
Imbalanced for lack of freedom.
Syncopated are our steps...
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Star (Abstract Poetry)
Star are you
far barring horrible
star far by near
aren't we barred by car
But star, star of far
to heart, blar blar blar
to hark harolds waking
farts, belong so far
to start start start
Oh! are we Star
in harken heart belonging
refusely to bar's hearts so far?
sky lit star barring the
far tragic longing far
to far. Starry harlequin
tiny farting kin
don't lie so close
to star blar clark
Drive car drive to distant
far
apart tiny lick fling
away that sheltered slur
a star
STAR YOU!
Swaggerous insolent backstabbing
Star.
Go far, blar blar you
jealous star.
Wink no more. No more
so far.
far barring horrible
star far by near
aren't we barred by car
But star, star of far
to heart, blar blar blar
to hark harolds waking
farts, belong so far
to start start start
Oh! are we Star
in harken heart belonging
refusely to bar's hearts so far?
sky lit star barring the
far tragic longing far
to far. Starry harlequin
tiny farting kin
don't lie so close
to star blar clark
Drive car drive to distant
far
apart tiny lick fling
away that sheltered slur
a star
STAR YOU!
Swaggerous insolent backstabbing
Star.
Go far, blar blar you
jealous star.
Wink no more. No more
so far.
On "Jennifer K. Dick and Laura Mullen in Conversation"
What is this?
You tell me that influence is a disease that strengthens the very ground of poetry and writing; that teaches us to believe in the words, if stollen or borrowed or used in conjunction with influenza? And here I worry that words are lost because they've been stollen away from me!
Such a strange thought...
But your wisdoms and influence are so boundless in such short conversation, so profound in deep introspection, so continuous in jealous understanding. How can I dare to reiterate what you have just delivered with clarity and profundity? The harshest and most truthful is the influence, the disease, of teachers inspiring and molding and manipulating youthful, ambitious, creative writers to relinquish individuality in favor of understanding the 'Greats' of any era!
I shall say 'NO!' as you tell me. I will not change my letters to better help your comprehension of something I don't even understand properly (BECAUSE IT CAME IN FREE, doubtless as my fingers fly across the keyboard creating something my mind wants to reveal for myself). And then the critic appears jealously, attempting to find some semblance of flow in the very digital codes so clearly distinguished on the screen (YOU'RE READING THEM!) and tells us of what he doesn't understand. That's the danger, allowing him to sneer down his fingers at the texts of our minds.
But then the influence comes full circle. Can we ever escape it? And should we ever try? Influence is a barrage of symbols piercing the veil we hold over our minds like an iron chest-plate. It doesn't fit, and the holes show more brightly when continuously jilted by critics saying "Tolkien was his only influence, and he falls short of that brilliance."
And thus we let the influence in, because we can't avoid it. It is truth, and should be treated as treasures, however used!
You tell me that influence is a disease that strengthens the very ground of poetry and writing; that teaches us to believe in the words, if stollen or borrowed or used in conjunction with influenza? And here I worry that words are lost because they've been stollen away from me!
Such a strange thought...
But your wisdoms and influence are so boundless in such short conversation, so profound in deep introspection, so continuous in jealous understanding. How can I dare to reiterate what you have just delivered with clarity and profundity? The harshest and most truthful is the influence, the disease, of teachers inspiring and molding and manipulating youthful, ambitious, creative writers to relinquish individuality in favor of understanding the 'Greats' of any era!
I shall say 'NO!' as you tell me. I will not change my letters to better help your comprehension of something I don't even understand properly (BECAUSE IT CAME IN FREE, doubtless as my fingers fly across the keyboard creating something my mind wants to reveal for myself). And then the critic appears jealously, attempting to find some semblance of flow in the very digital codes so clearly distinguished on the screen (YOU'RE READING THEM!) and tells us of what he doesn't understand. That's the danger, allowing him to sneer down his fingers at the texts of our minds.
But then the influence comes full circle. Can we ever escape it? And should we ever try? Influence is a barrage of symbols piercing the veil we hold over our minds like an iron chest-plate. It doesn't fit, and the holes show more brightly when continuously jilted by critics saying "Tolkien was his only influence, and he falls short of that brilliance."
And thus we let the influence in, because we can't avoid it. It is truth, and should be treated as treasures, however used!
Alone (Abstract Poetry)
Own alone
heaping-heaping cyclone
one bone clack fish
spite in cherished ire
One!
Gun Fun dumbing none
the Great on hill farther gone
wolfing air: babble brook beating bales -
hornblow like lady Bourgogne -
Alone own allure
airless candle flame
one -- breathless
coward only gurggle gasssp
shuddering howl harolding
loneliness - yellow.
Alone
it falls, rain; crackling dish
Define: all one own none --
sunflower eye surrounding bright
the pit of dusk
Alone.
heaping-heaping cyclone
one bone clack fish
spite in cherished ire
One!
Gun Fun dumbing none
the Great on hill farther gone
wolfing air: babble brook beating bales -
hornblow like lady Bourgogne -
Alone own allure
airless candle flame
one -- breathless
coward only gurggle gasssp
shuddering howl harolding
loneliness - yellow.
Alone
it falls, rain; crackling dish
Define: all one own none --
sunflower eye surrounding bright
the pit of dusk
Alone.
'1'
Wrong. It feels wrong and unknown. The primary constant bleeding into every aspect of life: 1. Proof instantaneously shadowed with fallacy, contrary to the natural philosophy defining structure from a basis. It all starts from 1, not none.
We start from 1, alone, ourselves, and struggle to add another; however, wherever, whenever possible. We try to prove 1=1=2 in a system of emotional equations. We derive 2 from examples around us, viewing integrals without seeing the complex variables churning tired days. Suddenly we find it, the one equation to put 'x' and 'y' together - and somehow it works. The contours mesh beautifully, dividing 2 from the pool and calculating life at the speed of life, diving up, shooting down, spiraling in sinusoidal curves form 1 to 1 with the frequency of 2 heartbeats.
Light eventually penetrates the constants and reveals the imperfection; but it can work. To be as 2 when 1=1=2 creates life for others, blooms hope in the eyes, shatters mountain at the climax. Don't we want it? Don't we crave it? Don't we see imagination driving pictures down the spine to groins where that god walks ahead of us? Or when they spread their legs to access passion, to feel again, to scratch the humdrum and fire explosions into a starry night?
Wrong. What happens when the functions degrade? Hope tells us to work, to dig deeper, push harder, cry less; and then we'll find the top, screaming with victory for killing darkness. The speed of light equals the wavelength times the frequency. Love equals the brightness of truth times the extremes of sine. Truth is directly proportional to the limits, growing exponentially or diminishing with experience.
My world fell to the weight of that exponent. The dip fell, the high disappeared, the slope was too cracked. I was wrong, and now its 1 is truth in lonesome valleys where cries echo between the stark boulders of reality plummeting to a shaded river leading to infinity. The curves of my graph, explained on the dimensions of 1=1=2 has ceased on that plane and shifted to 1=1 without coordinates with the other. 1 feels wrong.
But 1 is properly illuminated as necessary in life. We start at 1, born to find an other somewhere with likeness. Uncertainty is bleak, but the river goes on to the ocean in the end, leading to white shores with magical reverie. Bounds breathe heavily, when opposing the norm, and embrace 1 as fact if ever fallacy were right. Singularity is enigma, and defines the inner beauty sought within duality.
We start from 1, alone, ourselves, and struggle to add another; however, wherever, whenever possible. We try to prove 1=1=2 in a system of emotional equations. We derive 2 from examples around us, viewing integrals without seeing the complex variables churning tired days. Suddenly we find it, the one equation to put 'x' and 'y' together - and somehow it works. The contours mesh beautifully, dividing 2 from the pool and calculating life at the speed of life, diving up, shooting down, spiraling in sinusoidal curves form 1 to 1 with the frequency of 2 heartbeats.
Light eventually penetrates the constants and reveals the imperfection; but it can work. To be as 2 when 1=1=2 creates life for others, blooms hope in the eyes, shatters mountain at the climax. Don't we want it? Don't we crave it? Don't we see imagination driving pictures down the spine to groins where that god walks ahead of us? Or when they spread their legs to access passion, to feel again, to scratch the humdrum and fire explosions into a starry night?
Wrong. What happens when the functions degrade? Hope tells us to work, to dig deeper, push harder, cry less; and then we'll find the top, screaming with victory for killing darkness. The speed of light equals the wavelength times the frequency. Love equals the brightness of truth times the extremes of sine. Truth is directly proportional to the limits, growing exponentially or diminishing with experience.
My world fell to the weight of that exponent. The dip fell, the high disappeared, the slope was too cracked. I was wrong, and now its 1 is truth in lonesome valleys where cries echo between the stark boulders of reality plummeting to a shaded river leading to infinity. The curves of my graph, explained on the dimensions of 1=1=2 has ceased on that plane and shifted to 1=1 without coordinates with the other. 1 feels wrong.
But 1 is properly illuminated as necessary in life. We start at 1, born to find an other somewhere with likeness. Uncertainty is bleak, but the river goes on to the ocean in the end, leading to white shores with magical reverie. Bounds breathe heavily, when opposing the norm, and embrace 1 as fact if ever fallacy were right. Singularity is enigma, and defines the inner beauty sought within duality.
Sunday, January 23, 2011
We Wait in Patient Circumstance
we wait in patient circumstance
listen to clouds falling
white over brown a masking
brushes overlaying imperfection
willingness to speak passes
voids accentuate delicate vibrations
wanting fearing needing to say more
the silence tears through snow
words churn deep into the woods
roots run backward solutions obscure
what trees know over eons
patiently being unknown of continuums
without once speaking to ears
dig deep reveal gold audible truth
wretched doubts transform
footing weakens in the snow
while verity soddens eyes with time
the phone goes to sleep
wearing a lie of contentment
resolutions are known of the future
where impossible heaps will blow to peace
and we will know each other below
wet snow muddy earth hidden forests
into the heart of our world
listen to clouds falling
white over brown a masking
brushes overlaying imperfection
willingness to speak passes
voids accentuate delicate vibrations
wanting fearing needing to say more
the silence tears through snow
words churn deep into the woods
roots run backward solutions obscure
what trees know over eons
patiently being unknown of continuums
without once speaking to ears
dig deep reveal gold audible truth
wretched doubts transform
footing weakens in the snow
while verity soddens eyes with time
the phone goes to sleep
wearing a lie of contentment
resolutions are known of the future
where impossible heaps will blow to peace
and we will know each other below
wet snow muddy earth hidden forests
into the heart of our world
Colors
Do colors change?
shifting
sliding
insinuating something more?
My door seems more brown,
as if honest
validating
seen for the first time.
Light pierces the bluish window.
It pushes
shoves
clings to its yellow-whiteness.
Flames consume behind my eyelids
flushing raindrops
cascading
fuming my gasps with iridescence.
And me... What color am I?
burning
shuttered
clinging to something known.
shifting
sliding
insinuating something more?
My door seems more brown,
as if honest
validating
seen for the first time.
Light pierces the bluish window.
It pushes
shoves
clings to its yellow-whiteness.
Flames consume behind my eyelids
flushing raindrops
cascading
fuming my gasps with iridescence.
And me... What color am I?
burning
shuttered
clinging to something known.
Friday, January 21, 2011
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Really?
"No Food.
"No Drink.
"No Smoking."
When did Food and Drink become as undesirable as smoking? Fortunately, no one agreed. Drink is bountiful.
"No Drink.
"No Smoking."
When did Food and Drink become as undesirable as smoking? Fortunately, no one agreed. Drink is bountiful.
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Anniversary!
One year ago my life changed. My perspective about writing shifted so dramatically that, for a moment, I believed I would never accomplish my dreams and feared the inevitable rejections that are sure to come from many agents and publication houses. I am, perhaps, still afraid of the unknown responses I will receive from sending out my manuscript, but that's not what my focus has been over the past year.
Aside from the necessities of life (school, work, relationships, etc.), I have been primarily focused on A Writer's Landscape. A year ago today, I posted my first blog and began an interesting journey of self-realization. Looking back over these many posts, I've noticed several things:
~ I really do enjoy writing poetry (which is a good thing because I'm not in a poetry class!)
~ When life is strenuous, I lay off my writing. This is an unfortunate side effect of stressful schedules and hardships.
~ I dive into something so intensely for a while, and then abandon it quite abruptly. Examples are my Haiku and "The Changed Earth." I can't decide if this is a good thing or if I need to focus more. On one hand, I get to experience and work with many different genres. On the other hand, I might leave things unfinished.
~ I am writing more now than I ever have in my life.
Lets see... Shall we analyze the statistics of my blog? The easiest one to show is what I've actually written. I made a commitment (several times) to write a blog for every day of the year. This would accumulate to 365 blogs. Unfortunately I didn't quite make it to this beautiful number. However, I did write 249 blogs in 1 year, bringing my 'grade' to a 68.2%. Is this good or bad? I feel like it's an accomplishment for me! This year, perhaps, I can break 70% and hit at least 75% of my goal (which still stands at 1 a day for a year since I didn't really manage to complete this commitment).
On another front, my Facebook fan-page currently has 251 fans. This is about half of the number I want before I start courting an agent. Of these 251 fans, approximately 120 of them are 'active users' of my fan-page, which I believe means they at least read my posts and/or look at my fan-page. The only saddening thing about my fan-page is how little anyone uses the discussion boards. I think one of my new goals is to refocus the discussions and get my fans to be more active on them! I want to discuss my work. I want to dive into what I write (cause sometime's my words are very subconscious and I don't really know what's going on in the verse).
Finally, my statcounter, which is clever and creepy, informs me that the average time spent on my blog is approximately 2:31 minutes (given the last six months worth of data). I've watched this number rise and fall and stabilize. At one point, I was down to 1 minute. I felt tragically demoralized; but I figured there are a lot of look-i-loos who just happen to stumble upon my blog and aren't looking for literature. I hope the time starts to rise again. Six months ago the average was 8 minutes. That was a beautiful number! The longest stay on my blog, which I think I have to thank Chad for, was 45 minutes (according to my stat-websites). WOOHOO! I like the look of that. (LOVE YOU). And the spread of the viewers has diversified greatly. I don't think there's a region in the United States that doesn't have someone looking at my blog occasionally. Then there are the foreigners as well: Australia, Russia (oddly), Denmark, Canada, Japan, South Korea, and Brazil. I would say this is a good spread, though I'm not sure how they came upon my blog, or whether they stayed for any duration. C'est la vie.
I guess the question before me is: "Where do I want to go from here?"
The answer is a little more complex than I anticipated months ago (when contemplating my blog's big birthday). I want to interact more with you, my readers. I want to know what you want to see. I want to know what you enjoy, what you don't like, what could be improved. I want to talk with you all, and have those conversations be available for others who may stumble upon my creations here. I want to see more active users on my Fan-Page who have questions or want to have discussions about things. I want to write more, and I want to know what you want to read.
However, for myself: I will keep on writing. Seeing as I'm in a poetry class at the moment, I'll be putting up a vast array of poems that we'll be working on. There will also be a lot more critiques of what I'm reading for that class. And as I'm going through a major life change right now, there will be a lot of deep, symbolic things to come (which I know are harder to understand, but that's how I deal with things).
I'm honored and thankful that you're joined me on my journey over the past year! I hope you stick around and continue to find enjoyment in the words I'm writing.
Aside from the necessities of life (school, work, relationships, etc.), I have been primarily focused on A Writer's Landscape. A year ago today, I posted my first blog and began an interesting journey of self-realization. Looking back over these many posts, I've noticed several things:
~ I really do enjoy writing poetry (which is a good thing because I'm not in a poetry class!)
~ When life is strenuous, I lay off my writing. This is an unfortunate side effect of stressful schedules and hardships.
~ I dive into something so intensely for a while, and then abandon it quite abruptly. Examples are my Haiku and "The Changed Earth." I can't decide if this is a good thing or if I need to focus more. On one hand, I get to experience and work with many different genres. On the other hand, I might leave things unfinished.
~ I am writing more now than I ever have in my life.
Lets see... Shall we analyze the statistics of my blog? The easiest one to show is what I've actually written. I made a commitment (several times) to write a blog for every day of the year. This would accumulate to 365 blogs. Unfortunately I didn't quite make it to this beautiful number. However, I did write 249 blogs in 1 year, bringing my 'grade' to a 68.2%. Is this good or bad? I feel like it's an accomplishment for me! This year, perhaps, I can break 70% and hit at least 75% of my goal (which still stands at 1 a day for a year since I didn't really manage to complete this commitment).
On another front, my Facebook fan-page currently has 251 fans. This is about half of the number I want before I start courting an agent. Of these 251 fans, approximately 120 of them are 'active users' of my fan-page, which I believe means they at least read my posts and/or look at my fan-page. The only saddening thing about my fan-page is how little anyone uses the discussion boards. I think one of my new goals is to refocus the discussions and get my fans to be more active on them! I want to discuss my work. I want to dive into what I write (cause sometime's my words are very subconscious and I don't really know what's going on in the verse).
Finally, my statcounter, which is clever and creepy, informs me that the average time spent on my blog is approximately 2:31 minutes (given the last six months worth of data). I've watched this number rise and fall and stabilize. At one point, I was down to 1 minute. I felt tragically demoralized; but I figured there are a lot of look-i-loos who just happen to stumble upon my blog and aren't looking for literature. I hope the time starts to rise again. Six months ago the average was 8 minutes. That was a beautiful number! The longest stay on my blog, which I think I have to thank Chad for, was 45 minutes (according to my stat-websites). WOOHOO! I like the look of that. (LOVE YOU). And the spread of the viewers has diversified greatly. I don't think there's a region in the United States that doesn't have someone looking at my blog occasionally. Then there are the foreigners as well: Australia, Russia (oddly), Denmark, Canada, Japan, South Korea, and Brazil. I would say this is a good spread, though I'm not sure how they came upon my blog, or whether they stayed for any duration. C'est la vie.
I guess the question before me is: "Where do I want to go from here?"
The answer is a little more complex than I anticipated months ago (when contemplating my blog's big birthday). I want to interact more with you, my readers. I want to know what you want to see. I want to know what you enjoy, what you don't like, what could be improved. I want to talk with you all, and have those conversations be available for others who may stumble upon my creations here. I want to see more active users on my Fan-Page who have questions or want to have discussions about things. I want to write more, and I want to know what you want to read.
However, for myself: I will keep on writing. Seeing as I'm in a poetry class at the moment, I'll be putting up a vast array of poems that we'll be working on. There will also be a lot more critiques of what I'm reading for that class. And as I'm going through a major life change right now, there will be a lot of deep, symbolic things to come (which I know are harder to understand, but that's how I deal with things).
I'm honored and thankful that you're joined me on my journey over the past year! I hope you stick around and continue to find enjoyment in the words I'm writing.
With Much Love and Happiness,
J Hart F
Saturday, January 15, 2011
Desire to Walk in the Sun
I wanted to take the bus today; to write and be alone with my music and walk in the sun.
The sun wasn't out. It's not cold, per-se, but the clouds make the air breathe ominously and chillingly. I wanted to take the bus. Winds blew down the mountain. Now I'm happy I didn't, but the emptiness remains.
I stayed in comfort, and drove as always. No music accompanied my way. The thrust of the air tickled my car to the right. Vibrations conjured music from my CD cases shuffling about in the door-wells. Though I knew the route, I still didn't want to take it. I wanted to take the bus, and feel differently along the road.
Now I'm home. The sun peaks between the clouds for a moment. The moon has risen. Writing drives my mind into itself, dancing leaves in whirls of structured vortexes. I see the structure, I predict its direction. Luster and Shadow ignite along the veins of the leaves laughing in the wind. Falling to the ground, they rest in final resolution. My thoughts lie with dune grasses, awaiting springtime innocence to flourish once more.
I wanted to take the bus, so my mind could relax with the sky.
The sun wasn't out. It's not cold, per-se, but the clouds make the air breathe ominously and chillingly. I wanted to take the bus. Winds blew down the mountain. Now I'm happy I didn't, but the emptiness remains.
I stayed in comfort, and drove as always. No music accompanied my way. The thrust of the air tickled my car to the right. Vibrations conjured music from my CD cases shuffling about in the door-wells. Though I knew the route, I still didn't want to take it. I wanted to take the bus, and feel differently along the road.
Now I'm home. The sun peaks between the clouds for a moment. The moon has risen. Writing drives my mind into itself, dancing leaves in whirls of structured vortexes. I see the structure, I predict its direction. Luster and Shadow ignite along the veins of the leaves laughing in the wind. Falling to the ground, they rest in final resolution. My thoughts lie with dune grasses, awaiting springtime innocence to flourish once more.
I wanted to take the bus, so my mind could relax with the sky.
Friday, January 14, 2011
The Idea of Immortality
I've always thought I'd like to live forever. Immortality, I was informed in a textbook years ago, is one of the irrational desires of being human. Recently, however, my mother told me of a short story wherein a guy was truly immortal. He lived past the implosion of the Universe and continued existing (in thought or spirit) in a vacuum of nothingness. He hated his life.
Initially I thought: "Well that's not very Buddhist of him," using my mother's practices as a filter to her story. However, it made me think.
What would I feel if I lived through the violent gravitational fluctuations of a collapsing universe?
What would I think if I were the only thing in known existence? Without any physical means of verification?
Would my very consciousness or spirit be able to create my own Universe in thought, thus introducing a new reality from fantasy and creating a Big Bang.
Could we not be doing this very thing now, given enough thought, focus, and belief? And then we wouldn't be alone, ever; even after the end of known existence. Which brings me to my writing. Logic dictates (ha!) that my imagination is not reality and therefore does not exist in the Universe beyond the impulses in my brain and the words written on paper. I accept that the laws of this Universe are finite given the expectations of existence within the sphere of acceptable standards; but I believe my characters are real whether in my head or the imagination of my readers, or in an alternate Universe spawned simply because I thought it.
This is my first step toward enlightenment, which the character in the aforementioned short story couldn't see: vacuums are defined only by our universe. He couldn't know about everything, lest he be God, and should not doubt his future. Change is a constant. A change would undoubtedly appear for him, and he'll be all the wiser for it.
As for immortality, I now have conditions:
~If I could choose to die at anytime,
~And if I could stay beautiful and fit!
Initially I thought: "Well that's not very Buddhist of him," using my mother's practices as a filter to her story. However, it made me think.
What would I feel if I lived through the violent gravitational fluctuations of a collapsing universe?
What would I think if I were the only thing in known existence? Without any physical means of verification?
Would my very consciousness or spirit be able to create my own Universe in thought, thus introducing a new reality from fantasy and creating a Big Bang.
Could we not be doing this very thing now, given enough thought, focus, and belief? And then we wouldn't be alone, ever; even after the end of known existence. Which brings me to my writing. Logic dictates (ha!) that my imagination is not reality and therefore does not exist in the Universe beyond the impulses in my brain and the words written on paper. I accept that the laws of this Universe are finite given the expectations of existence within the sphere of acceptable standards; but I believe my characters are real whether in my head or the imagination of my readers, or in an alternate Universe spawned simply because I thought it.
This is my first step toward enlightenment, which the character in the aforementioned short story couldn't see: vacuums are defined only by our universe. He couldn't know about everything, lest he be God, and should not doubt his future. Change is a constant. A change would undoubtedly appear for him, and he'll be all the wiser for it.
As for immortality, I now have conditions:
~If I could choose to die at anytime,
~And if I could stay beautiful and fit!
"I was told"
I was told I get noticed whenever I enter a room.
I don't want to be in the room.
The auditorium stands perfectly symmetrical,
its windows transmitting yellow sunlight.
The shadows obscure the edges, making it beautiful.
It's not symmetrical.
I don't want to be in the room.
The auditorium stands perfectly symmetrical,
its windows transmitting yellow sunlight.
The shadows obscure the edges, making it beautiful.
It's not symmetrical.
Integrand
You are the Integrand of which we regard,
a description only, but unknown without
precision and bounds.
We can derive your many facets
understanding minute details of your whole
with even less certainty;
Unless you let us in, give us thoughts
And guide us along your curves.
I took your hand, bewildered and cold
and took you inside my warmth.
We've shared velocity in space time,
Rooting life to find the base of love;
Though I know where we stand,
You're not the one to know.
a description only, but unknown without
precision and bounds.
We can derive your many facets
understanding minute details of your whole
with even less certainty;
Unless you let us in, give us thoughts
And guide us along your curves.
I took your hand, bewildered and cold
and took you inside my warmth.
We've shared velocity in space time,
Rooting life to find the base of love;
Though I know where we stand,
You're not the one to know.
"7"
The horoscope tells me to take advantage of the Day.
It's a 7 after all...
I'm 'powerful, inventive and can heal old wounds.
If it were the end,
old stuff wouldn't matter.'
7 be Damned.
My wounds must hurt more, like a bullet buried in the bone.
Emotional surgery can sever the tie.
Without drugs.
The pain is so much more when hearts are out of tune.
It's a 7 after all...
I'm 'powerful, inventive and can heal old wounds.
If it were the end,
old stuff wouldn't matter.'
7 be Damned.
My wounds must hurt more, like a bullet buried in the bone.
Emotional surgery can sever the tie.
Without drugs.
The pain is so much more when hearts are out of tune.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
My First Sonnet
I stepped onto the bus, unnoticed
as throngs of goers freely step without
worry. He sits like every other.
I notice the unforgiving beauty:
brown displaced hair, angular eyes piercing the air,
slender cheeks so defined, and lips permanently
smiling.
He leaves and I follow.
Surpassing in strides as my heart beats faster
with vigorous footfalls.
He follows...not noticing,
'til I've found my chai, warm and spicy.
We sit across from each other. He reads.
I watch as he leaves. Hopeless.
as throngs of goers freely step without
worry. He sits like every other.
I notice the unforgiving beauty:
brown displaced hair, angular eyes piercing the air,
slender cheeks so defined, and lips permanently
smiling.
He leaves and I follow.
Surpassing in strides as my heart beats faster
with vigorous footfalls.
He follows...not noticing,
'til I've found my chai, warm and spicy.
We sit across from each other. He reads.
I watch as he leaves. Hopeless.
Structured Poem
For my Introductory Poetry Workshop on campus, my teacher, who I'll have to describe another time because he'll simply take up a whole blog of his own, has started the class off with a structured poem. It has very strict guidelines, which you would think would make the poem even harder to write. I found that it was much easier to write given the formula.
Here are the requirements (so you can see what I had to work with, and so you can make one of your own):
Write an 11 line poem.
Line 1: A narrative action that includes an image or two.
Line 2: Ask a question without using 'I'.
Line 3: Make a statement without using 'I'.
Line 4: Now say 'I' in another statement.
Line 5: Use a fragment.
Line 6: Narrative action again with one of the same images from line 1.
Line 7: Ask a question using 'I'.
Line 8: Use a fragment.
Line 9: Now say I and include one of the same images from line 1 or line 6.
Line 10: Answer your first question (question from line 2) but with fragment.
Line 11: Answer your second question (question from line 7) with a statement but don't reiterate the language of the question.
With these requirements, I wrote this poem in about thirty minutes. I'm sorry if the formatting on blogger makes it look like there are more lines. Punctuation actually ends the lines.
The heart beats tremulously, as if breaking under reality.
Is desire the driving force behind the past's decisions at present?
Carefully chosen pretexts mask the pounding mallet;
I hold that mallet and attempt softening the blows
timid strokes, even with unending love --
But reality can be hidden, even from the heart for comfort's sake.
Am I so broken that moratorium fractures a strong personality?
fantasy like rose thorns, tarnished blood; fear --
Honest thoughts tremble my heart and I cannot yet speak:
Only the forgotten desires;
Only decisions for the self can cause such standstills, and can release them.
In a way having such a strict structure to follow made it infinitely easier to write the poem. Is that strange? I dunno... You all should try to write a poem given these guidelines and share it with the world. And then let me know how you felt about the focused writing!
Here are the requirements (so you can see what I had to work with, and so you can make one of your own):
Write an 11 line poem.
Line 1: A narrative action that includes an image or two.
Line 2: Ask a question without using 'I'.
Line 3: Make a statement without using 'I'.
Line 4: Now say 'I' in another statement.
Line 5: Use a fragment.
Line 6: Narrative action again with one of the same images from line 1.
Line 7: Ask a question using 'I'.
Line 8: Use a fragment.
Line 9: Now say I and include one of the same images from line 1 or line 6.
Line 10: Answer your first question (question from line 2) but with fragment.
Line 11: Answer your second question (question from line 7) with a statement but don't reiterate the language of the question.
With these requirements, I wrote this poem in about thirty minutes. I'm sorry if the formatting on blogger makes it look like there are more lines. Punctuation actually ends the lines.
The heart beats tremulously, as if breaking under reality.
Is desire the driving force behind the past's decisions at present?
Carefully chosen pretexts mask the pounding mallet;
I hold that mallet and attempt softening the blows
timid strokes, even with unending love --
But reality can be hidden, even from the heart for comfort's sake.
Am I so broken that moratorium fractures a strong personality?
fantasy like rose thorns, tarnished blood; fear --
Honest thoughts tremble my heart and I cannot yet speak:
Only the forgotten desires;
Only decisions for the self can cause such standstills, and can release them.
In a way having such a strict structure to follow made it infinitely easier to write the poem. Is that strange? I dunno... You all should try to write a poem given these guidelines and share it with the world. And then let me know how you felt about the focused writing!
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Sunrise
I watched the sunrise on the mountains.
The frost-blue snow of the night awoke:
First the peaks bloomed in roses, soft
petals drifting with the rotation down
jagged Irons stil veiled in white
until just before the Life Bringer crests.
The pink skinned barrier of the West,
bearded in laden pine, premiered
Dawn's echoing shout as its resonance shadowed
twilight's armamants. A beacon crests
the highest peak, safely hearkening timid
sights beginning new impossible heaps.
Moments pass unhindered by the cold.
The night hides behind rock and wood,
stealing treasured vestiges of its obstreperous quiet
from snow and air; the Sun prevails in reflection:
red begets gold, gold reveals white, white is circular.
I watched the sunrise on the mountain.
The frost-blue snow of the night awoke:
First the peaks bloomed in roses, soft
petals drifting with the rotation down
jagged Irons stil veiled in white
until just before the Life Bringer crests.
The pink skinned barrier of the West,
bearded in laden pine, premiered
Dawn's echoing shout as its resonance shadowed
twilight's armamants. A beacon crests
the highest peak, safely hearkening timid
sights beginning new impossible heaps.
Moments pass unhindered by the cold.
The night hides behind rock and wood,
stealing treasured vestiges of its obstreperous quiet
from snow and air; the Sun prevails in reflection:
red begets gold, gold reveals white, white is circular.
I watched the sunrise on the mountain.
Alone in the Museum on Campus
The voice echos from beyond the wall.
"They use the cowpies, which they saved through the summer, to fuel the fire to heat the kiln."
A dead anthropologist works with the oldest living civilization. He attempts mastering an ancient art form; but they don't make art...
"They use the cowpies, which they saved through the summer, to fuel the fire to heat the kiln."
A dead anthropologist works with the oldest living civilization. He attempts mastering an ancient art form; but they don't make art...
Timing.
We are only ever looking into the past, however recent, with our eyes.
Light travels.
It is not instantaneous.
Only the blind see the Now.
Light travels.
It is not instantaneous.
Only the blind see the Now.
Me.
I=EF , assuming general laws apply everywhere in the Verse: atoms behave the same everywhere, gravity acts everywhere, and the Verse exists.
Sorry
"I'm Sorry!!" he shouts,
waving an arm faster than humming birds' wings,
eyes white as the sky, cheeks taut,
legs flying across the snow with gusts of wind.
"I'm sorry," I've whispered,
clinging to the tiniest bridge as it crumbles underfoot,
eyes sodden with words, cheeks blanched,
legs numbing from reverent pleas to a love.
"I'm sorry," she states,
clawing her respectless daughter's arm like a black hole,
eyes reaching for help, cheeks red,
legs storming with fiery passion to flee.
waving an arm faster than humming birds' wings,
eyes white as the sky, cheeks taut,
legs flying across the snow with gusts of wind.
"I'm sorry," I've whispered,
clinging to the tiniest bridge as it crumbles underfoot,
eyes sodden with words, cheeks blanched,
legs numbing from reverent pleas to a love.
"I'm sorry," she states,
clawing her respectless daughter's arm like a black hole,
eyes reaching for help, cheeks red,
legs storming with fiery passion to flee.
Friday, January 7, 2011
Keep an Open Mind
After a long night amongst strangers speaking a foreign tongue, my brain feels a little rattled. For claiming to understand French, which I do understand it quite well, I can no longer say I'm near fluent. Let's face it: after seven years of disuse, my foreign vocal skills have become stale. Dealing with this realization won't be hard, but it does make me desire to take up French once more!
This eve started with a long drive to the middle of nowhere. Carpooling made it far less fearful to adventure down the darkened outskirts of the Denver Metro Area, but the three of us were all a little apprehensive of the route, I could tell. The women in the car laid their confidence in my abilities of direction and memory to get us to our destination. Luckily technology has come quite a long way. The darkness allowed a sense of self-reflection as I drove, while my 'passengers' practiced their skills with each other. I wandered the musty corridors of my French comprehension and imagined the multitude of French books accumulating in my room. I was pleased with my accomplishments: five years of high school French, the entire Harry Potter series in French, two French poetry books, a French sci-fi novella, the Larousse French Dictionary, and my many French textbooks, not to mention my tourist guides to France. Even with the preparedness I felt, nerves rose slightly as we neared the unknown turns to get to the house. I should have been paying better attention to the two women speaking French in the car.
We arrived at the quaint contemporary house in a village that sprung up during the economic and housing boom several years ago. The complex showed the signs of the recession as it was surrounded by undeveloped fields near a highway connecting more populated portions of the Metro Area. Silence permeated the cool, clear night and our feet hurried toward the door. Once inside, the atmosphere of friendly banter and enthusiastic anticipation flowed through the house. Everyone was in the kitchen, eagerly waiting for the food to be served and the comfortable, leisurely conversations to begin. As soon as people started introducing themselves to me, I suddenly understood how deficient I truly am.
Hi. It's a pleasure to meet you. What do you do?
I clearly understood the question. Answering, however, turned out to be the more difficult task. Franglais... here we go!
Even with my halted French and obvious minimal vocabulary, the faces of the men and women with whom I conversed waited patiently for my tale, prompting me with proper forms of speech and continuing on with the conversation as if my deficiency was either normal or unnoticed. They all understood and seemed appreciative of my willingness and desire to speak with them and be a part of their group. Dinner was served nonchalantly and consumed with high praise. We fawned over the stewed pork and mushrooms, salivated over the exotic French cheeses, devoured warm polenta, and died with chocolate mousse and swiss cookies. While we consumed the delectable delicacies, my brain syphoned through the words spoken so naturally, so quickly, so fluently. I started to feel stretched like too little l'Epoisses over too much bread. It was fantastic and tiring all at the same time; however usual the feeling tends to be.
And then the night ended, rather abruptly but not unexpectedly. After all, there might have only been two or three people under thirty years old, myself included. As we left, one of my passengers asked me, in the car about to turn onto the long, dark road back home, "I noticed you were listening a lot; and did you understand? Did you comprehend what was said?"
"Yes. I understood a lot more than what I could say," I stumble, trying to think about what I was saying and therefore translate it in my head for next time. The translating wasn't going so well.
"Ah, yes. Well, soon you will find yourself speaking. It takes a lot of passive listening, and a lot of work; but if you keep an open mind you will get it faster!"
The rest of my journey home recycled her words over and over again. Perhaps it's truly time to pick up my books, go online and watch French movies, turn on TV5 Monde and listen to the pure French, and pick up my old textbooks and start revisiting the unfamiliar. Essentially, feeling like a fool, though not completely unintelligent, ignited the passion for linguistics and foreign languages.
Je parlerai français bien la prochaine fois que je vais au dîner français.
This eve started with a long drive to the middle of nowhere. Carpooling made it far less fearful to adventure down the darkened outskirts of the Denver Metro Area, but the three of us were all a little apprehensive of the route, I could tell. The women in the car laid their confidence in my abilities of direction and memory to get us to our destination. Luckily technology has come quite a long way. The darkness allowed a sense of self-reflection as I drove, while my 'passengers' practiced their skills with each other. I wandered the musty corridors of my French comprehension and imagined the multitude of French books accumulating in my room. I was pleased with my accomplishments: five years of high school French, the entire Harry Potter series in French, two French poetry books, a French sci-fi novella, the Larousse French Dictionary, and my many French textbooks, not to mention my tourist guides to France. Even with the preparedness I felt, nerves rose slightly as we neared the unknown turns to get to the house. I should have been paying better attention to the two women speaking French in the car.
We arrived at the quaint contemporary house in a village that sprung up during the economic and housing boom several years ago. The complex showed the signs of the recession as it was surrounded by undeveloped fields near a highway connecting more populated portions of the Metro Area. Silence permeated the cool, clear night and our feet hurried toward the door. Once inside, the atmosphere of friendly banter and enthusiastic anticipation flowed through the house. Everyone was in the kitchen, eagerly waiting for the food to be served and the comfortable, leisurely conversations to begin. As soon as people started introducing themselves to me, I suddenly understood how deficient I truly am.
Hi. It's a pleasure to meet you. What do you do?
I clearly understood the question. Answering, however, turned out to be the more difficult task. Franglais... here we go!
Even with my halted French and obvious minimal vocabulary, the faces of the men and women with whom I conversed waited patiently for my tale, prompting me with proper forms of speech and continuing on with the conversation as if my deficiency was either normal or unnoticed. They all understood and seemed appreciative of my willingness and desire to speak with them and be a part of their group. Dinner was served nonchalantly and consumed with high praise. We fawned over the stewed pork and mushrooms, salivated over the exotic French cheeses, devoured warm polenta, and died with chocolate mousse and swiss cookies. While we consumed the delectable delicacies, my brain syphoned through the words spoken so naturally, so quickly, so fluently. I started to feel stretched like too little l'Epoisses over too much bread. It was fantastic and tiring all at the same time; however usual the feeling tends to be.
And then the night ended, rather abruptly but not unexpectedly. After all, there might have only been two or three people under thirty years old, myself included. As we left, one of my passengers asked me, in the car about to turn onto the long, dark road back home, "I noticed you were listening a lot; and did you understand? Did you comprehend what was said?"
"Yes. I understood a lot more than what I could say," I stumble, trying to think about what I was saying and therefore translate it in my head for next time. The translating wasn't going so well.
"Ah, yes. Well, soon you will find yourself speaking. It takes a lot of passive listening, and a lot of work; but if you keep an open mind you will get it faster!"
The rest of my journey home recycled her words over and over again. Perhaps it's truly time to pick up my books, go online and watch French movies, turn on TV5 Monde and listen to the pure French, and pick up my old textbooks and start revisiting the unfamiliar. Essentially, feeling like a fool, though not completely unintelligent, ignited the passion for linguistics and foreign languages.
Je parlerai français bien la prochaine fois que je vais au dîner français.
Response to Nocuous Accusations
Hurtful.
Me? Backpedal over a compliment. It's not my fault the perceptions of the aforementioned, once viewed through a lens built of obvious preconceived notions, appear to be a stabbing pain of traumatic juxtaposed images. Perhaps I should simply desist from giving compliments. Forget reading about how to give a decent compliment; if you don't like them, forget them as soon as they leave my mouth.
Let me rewind.
I love Bones. It's an amazing movie based (however loosely) on the life of Kathy Reichs. The characters on Bones are beautifully played and wonderfully written to emphasize the dynamics of the relationships within a work place where everyone has a different field (personality wise and career wise). It's truly amazing.
Now... one of my favorite characters, though not my favorite overall, is Jack Hodgins (the bug and slime guy). To me, he's attractive, smart, charming, funny, and a little broken (which is explained throughout the series). I compared a great friend of mine to this lovely character, because my friend is a very lovely person as well and deserves the compliment of being compared to a one Jack Hodgins. Apparently, this came off as being quite insulting. I do not apologize for giving this compliment of juxtaposition. It just happens that the comparison was thus marked because both Hodgins and my friend work in very similar fields which made the leap that much easier; and perhaps a little bit of his attitude is easily compared as well. This isn't to say that my friend has an anger management problem and has trouble dealing with stupidity around him, but to me they are both very witty and fun!
With this all said... I do happen to remember a little conversation in which the badgering of a certain aspect of my soccer attire convulsed into a verbal bashing which ended with declaring my appearing overweight. Yes... I said that in a very convoluted way... TO EMPHASIZE! I know I'm not fat... but my yellow (yes yellow) soccer cleats do NOT make my legs look fat... If anything does, it's my shin guards, which are required... and that's a good thing too. Hurt, right here, in my heart. (Perhaps I'm fishing for a compliment here myself). And this paining transpired on the same day as the aforementioned compliment. (Which is funny that my other friend, who also committed the atrocious accolade, was not mentioned)
As I have stated clearly in a few posts back my New Years Resolution of highest priority is to be completely honest with everything in my life. Here I work forward from there: I stand by my compliment. There is no need to backpedal because where the compliment comes from is a sincere, genuine, and loving place. To be compared to a beloved icon is an honor. I seem to remember a sincere comparison of me to a psychopathic, transgendered murderer... repeatedly compared... as a compliment... And I took little offense, though I found it strange; but have since embraced it.
Anywho... I think I've said my share... Love you C!
Me? Backpedal over a compliment. It's not my fault the perceptions of the aforementioned, once viewed through a lens built of obvious preconceived notions, appear to be a stabbing pain of traumatic juxtaposed images. Perhaps I should simply desist from giving compliments. Forget reading about how to give a decent compliment; if you don't like them, forget them as soon as they leave my mouth.
Let me rewind.
I love Bones. It's an amazing movie based (however loosely) on the life of Kathy Reichs. The characters on Bones are beautifully played and wonderfully written to emphasize the dynamics of the relationships within a work place where everyone has a different field (personality wise and career wise). It's truly amazing.
Now... one of my favorite characters, though not my favorite overall, is Jack Hodgins (the bug and slime guy). To me, he's attractive, smart, charming, funny, and a little broken (which is explained throughout the series). I compared a great friend of mine to this lovely character, because my friend is a very lovely person as well and deserves the compliment of being compared to a one Jack Hodgins. Apparently, this came off as being quite insulting. I do not apologize for giving this compliment of juxtaposition. It just happens that the comparison was thus marked because both Hodgins and my friend work in very similar fields which made the leap that much easier; and perhaps a little bit of his attitude is easily compared as well. This isn't to say that my friend has an anger management problem and has trouble dealing with stupidity around him, but to me they are both very witty and fun!
With this all said... I do happen to remember a little conversation in which the badgering of a certain aspect of my soccer attire convulsed into a verbal bashing which ended with declaring my appearing overweight. Yes... I said that in a very convoluted way... TO EMPHASIZE! I know I'm not fat... but my yellow (yes yellow) soccer cleats do NOT make my legs look fat... If anything does, it's my shin guards, which are required... and that's a good thing too. Hurt, right here, in my heart. (Perhaps I'm fishing for a compliment here myself). And this paining transpired on the same day as the aforementioned compliment. (Which is funny that my other friend, who also committed the atrocious accolade, was not mentioned)
As I have stated clearly in a few posts back my New Years Resolution of highest priority is to be completely honest with everything in my life. Here I work forward from there: I stand by my compliment. There is no need to backpedal because where the compliment comes from is a sincere, genuine, and loving place. To be compared to a beloved icon is an honor. I seem to remember a sincere comparison of me to a psychopathic, transgendered murderer... repeatedly compared... as a compliment... And I took little offense, though I found it strange; but have since embraced it.
Anywho... I think I've said my share... Love you C!
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
My Own Heart-to-Heart
I spoke with myself today.
The words were strange, the intercourse was abstract; but the ideas were simple and pure.
Perhaps the voice I heard wasn't my own. It might have belonged to the crazed; or my loneliness got the better of me. However bizarre the situation appeared from outside it felt completely normal to me. I know everyone talks to themselves in one fashion or another. Mine happens to remain inside my head, though my eyes certainly showed the expressiveness of my queries in my head. I think, loudly, and pursue the harsh subjects I dare not discuss with the world.
One significant discussion circled the status of love and its forebears: lust, admiration, respect, obsession, etc. What interested me most of this dialogue with myself (perhaps a monologue though I would very much like to think of the other voice as Reason, Logic, Honesty... as apposed to my emotion filled diagnosis of many situations at hand) concerned the appearance of the downfall of the many faces of love. Where the words took me startled even my most logical progression of thoughts: do I love anything right now? My answer was yes (as it remains yes even now) but it was a struggle to admit that the 'yes' was a sound and secure foundation to go up from.
I started with: "What do I love?"
Many things... Life, and more specifically My Life. Words, Language, and Conversation. Inspiration, Creativity, and Imagination. My Friends and Family. My Abilities. My Spirituality.
I wanted to get more specific, but my heart told me not to. This was when I shuttered, and I knew a truth was on the brink of existence. It's such a truth that even I could not readily admit it, nor could my body, my mind, or my heart. Several Loves in my life have fallen. Several places I held dear have waned. One, in particular, has shifted so dramatically that action must be taken to properly address the new understanding. However... the action contradicts the emotion. The action belies the truth. The action isn't what belongs.
And thus I'm left in moratorium. This has surprisingly worked out well because the surrounding circumstances have left me with little time for action; and the comfort of my darkened home, the beautiful lights of the television and computer, and the warmth of my bed have all held me close while I reassess... and reassess... and reassess the same thoughts again and again. They all reveal the same solutions, unfortunately. With much luck, moratorium remains.
But the dialogue tells me of the woe of this state. Reason shows me the detrimental outcomes of inaction, even if comfort and joy can be wrought from its presence. My feet desire to move. My voice desires to speak. My head desires release from this tormenting cage it built for itself with bars of comforting deceit and quiet truths.
Light spills from the balcony on high: virtuous, bright, painful. No fallacy can shadow that which comes from a deeper sense of honesty. Perhaps this intercourse has led me back to myself, where the world has led me away. Now is the time for my words to revel in glorious revelations, and those who love shall understand (we hope) of the courses I take.
But first... Outward words must draw together the forces of love, admiration, respect, and truth, and the world must come asunder and be fastened back together again.
The words were strange, the intercourse was abstract; but the ideas were simple and pure.
Perhaps the voice I heard wasn't my own. It might have belonged to the crazed; or my loneliness got the better of me. However bizarre the situation appeared from outside it felt completely normal to me. I know everyone talks to themselves in one fashion or another. Mine happens to remain inside my head, though my eyes certainly showed the expressiveness of my queries in my head. I think, loudly, and pursue the harsh subjects I dare not discuss with the world.
One significant discussion circled the status of love and its forebears: lust, admiration, respect, obsession, etc. What interested me most of this dialogue with myself (perhaps a monologue though I would very much like to think of the other voice as Reason, Logic, Honesty... as apposed to my emotion filled diagnosis of many situations at hand) concerned the appearance of the downfall of the many faces of love. Where the words took me startled even my most logical progression of thoughts: do I love anything right now? My answer was yes (as it remains yes even now) but it was a struggle to admit that the 'yes' was a sound and secure foundation to go up from.
I started with: "What do I love?"
Many things... Life, and more specifically My Life. Words, Language, and Conversation. Inspiration, Creativity, and Imagination. My Friends and Family. My Abilities. My Spirituality.
I wanted to get more specific, but my heart told me not to. This was when I shuttered, and I knew a truth was on the brink of existence. It's such a truth that even I could not readily admit it, nor could my body, my mind, or my heart. Several Loves in my life have fallen. Several places I held dear have waned. One, in particular, has shifted so dramatically that action must be taken to properly address the new understanding. However... the action contradicts the emotion. The action belies the truth. The action isn't what belongs.
And thus I'm left in moratorium. This has surprisingly worked out well because the surrounding circumstances have left me with little time for action; and the comfort of my darkened home, the beautiful lights of the television and computer, and the warmth of my bed have all held me close while I reassess... and reassess... and reassess the same thoughts again and again. They all reveal the same solutions, unfortunately. With much luck, moratorium remains.
But the dialogue tells me of the woe of this state. Reason shows me the detrimental outcomes of inaction, even if comfort and joy can be wrought from its presence. My feet desire to move. My voice desires to speak. My head desires release from this tormenting cage it built for itself with bars of comforting deceit and quiet truths.
Light spills from the balcony on high: virtuous, bright, painful. No fallacy can shadow that which comes from a deeper sense of honesty. Perhaps this intercourse has led me back to myself, where the world has led me away. Now is the time for my words to revel in glorious revelations, and those who love shall understand (we hope) of the courses I take.
But first... Outward words must draw together the forces of love, admiration, respect, and truth, and the world must come asunder and be fastened back together again.
Silence of the Dying
Silence.
Endeavor the wake.
Believe in shoulders carrying the undeniable.
It’s a new space, time, continuum
where Jealous thoughts
Underlie the casual.
Herein.
Speak truth of the self.
Ignore the biting beat of tremulous courage.
No time exists without bearing
some Honorable exercise
Breaking down walls.
Twilight.
Both mourns and sets.
Moving from East to West distinctly.
Covering enigmatic distances
like Scavengers of reliable
Words echoing inside.
Phoenix.
Release into virtue.
Dawning at night without reason.
Continuing with righteous
Understanding of love
Even in death.
Endeavor the wake.
Believe in shoulders carrying the undeniable.
It’s a new space, time, continuum
where Jealous thoughts
Underlie the casual.
Herein.
Speak truth of the self.
Ignore the biting beat of tremulous courage.
No time exists without bearing
some Honorable exercise
Breaking down walls.
Twilight.
Both mourns and sets.
Moving from East to West distinctly.
Covering enigmatic distances
like Scavengers of reliable
Words echoing inside.
Phoenix.
Release into virtue.
Dawning at night without reason.
Continuing with righteous
Understanding of love
Even in death.
To Lots of Ladybugs (2011)
It’s a simple phrase from a beautiful movie which resonates so intensely with my life. This saying comes from Under the Tuscan Sun (which I haven’t read yet... but apparently it’s a fairly good book as well). Let me explain the meaning quickly and then I’ll show you how it relates to my life. Ladybugs, in the movie, represents a desire, a want, an aspiration which seemed extremely unattainable. Several ladies in the movie were in pursuit of ‘ladybugs,’ which seemed to be progressively avoiding their eager aims. Once these ladies simply stopped trying to acquire their ‘ladybugs,’ they came in plentiful droves.
Alright... it seems fairly easy to equate this to my life. For the past two years, my New Years Resolution has always been “To Lots of Ladybugs,” and this year is no different. However, there has been a shift in my understanding of what this means. I have always taken this saying as a motivator toward inaction, in a way. This isn’t to say that I didn’t do anything toward getting what I wanted. I’ve taken many actions; however, they were minor steps in a grand scheme. So this year, I’m addressing my outlook towards “Lots of Ladybugs” and assessing the effectiveness of the laid back tendencies I’ve gone towards. Thus, here are my resolutions for 2011 (though I'd rather call them commitments because resolutions, though it stands as a firm decision, still has a connotation of being a little wishy-washy).
1) Be completely honest. We can all thank Temperance Brennan from the show Bones for this commitment. Her attitude toward complete honesty without judgement has inspired me to do the same... well, to do similarly. I still don't think I have it in me to be so brutally honest without some sort of filter; but the intent remains that my honesty will be without reservation. Most of all... I have to be honest with myself. I've been denying the essence of honesty for myself for a very long time: happiness, desires, spirituality, etc. So many barriers have been built to deny me true happiness, all built because society instructed me to have these restraints.
2) To write more. Though I have successfully filled this blog with posts ranging from abstract poetry to an intense short story (which turned into a serial), including some poetic prose and existential thought processes, I feel I can do more. I want to finish a second book. And that shall be my ultimate goal this year.
3) To edit. This includes many facets of my life. I was told that editing is a very spiritual experience. Why shouldn't I then admit this adventure to my life, first in my writing and then letting it expand to other areas.
4) To be myself. I want to be a relaxed and fun individual. Unfortunately, I've felt very uptight and serious this past year. This is mostly due to the intense drive I had to get my Associate of Arts from Front Range Community College and transfer schools; but now I'm committing to enjoying my time at my new college, with my new friends, at my new job, and with my new goals! Life is suppose to be fun, right? Then why shouldn't I get to partake?
5) To strive for the appearance I've longed for. This includes every aspect I've mentioned so far and goes so far as to declare that I will be exercising a lot more. I've already joined a gym. I'm on a soccer team now. I'm not sitting at my computer nearly as much as I was before (though a long for a bit of World of Warcraft every once in a while). This year, so far, has already shifted my expectations for fun-time and I'm enjoying it!
This all seems appropriate to share on the first new moon of the year. It's a new beginning, the new cycle. Today is the first day of change. From here, we shall see the difference in my writing. Just wait! You will all experience my resolution to experiencing "Lots of Ladybugs"!
Alright... it seems fairly easy to equate this to my life. For the past two years, my New Years Resolution has always been “To Lots of Ladybugs,” and this year is no different. However, there has been a shift in my understanding of what this means. I have always taken this saying as a motivator toward inaction, in a way. This isn’t to say that I didn’t do anything toward getting what I wanted. I’ve taken many actions; however, they were minor steps in a grand scheme. So this year, I’m addressing my outlook towards “Lots of Ladybugs” and assessing the effectiveness of the laid back tendencies I’ve gone towards. Thus, here are my resolutions for 2011 (though I'd rather call them commitments because resolutions, though it stands as a firm decision, still has a connotation of being a little wishy-washy).
1) Be completely honest. We can all thank Temperance Brennan from the show Bones for this commitment. Her attitude toward complete honesty without judgement has inspired me to do the same... well, to do similarly. I still don't think I have it in me to be so brutally honest without some sort of filter; but the intent remains that my honesty will be without reservation. Most of all... I have to be honest with myself. I've been denying the essence of honesty for myself for a very long time: happiness, desires, spirituality, etc. So many barriers have been built to deny me true happiness, all built because society instructed me to have these restraints.
2) To write more. Though I have successfully filled this blog with posts ranging from abstract poetry to an intense short story (which turned into a serial), including some poetic prose and existential thought processes, I feel I can do more. I want to finish a second book. And that shall be my ultimate goal this year.
3) To edit. This includes many facets of my life. I was told that editing is a very spiritual experience. Why shouldn't I then admit this adventure to my life, first in my writing and then letting it expand to other areas.
4) To be myself. I want to be a relaxed and fun individual. Unfortunately, I've felt very uptight and serious this past year. This is mostly due to the intense drive I had to get my Associate of Arts from Front Range Community College and transfer schools; but now I'm committing to enjoying my time at my new college, with my new friends, at my new job, and with my new goals! Life is suppose to be fun, right? Then why shouldn't I get to partake?
5) To strive for the appearance I've longed for. This includes every aspect I've mentioned so far and goes so far as to declare that I will be exercising a lot more. I've already joined a gym. I'm on a soccer team now. I'm not sitting at my computer nearly as much as I was before (though a long for a bit of World of Warcraft every once in a while). This year, so far, has already shifted my expectations for fun-time and I'm enjoying it!
This all seems appropriate to share on the first new moon of the year. It's a new beginning, the new cycle. Today is the first day of change. From here, we shall see the difference in my writing. Just wait! You will all experience my resolution to experiencing "Lots of Ladybugs"!
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