I Cannot Tell You Stories
If you ask me, I cannot tell you
whose face peeks behind those sepia-soaked
bushes, although I seem to have his same nose
and shape, but five inches smaller.
I also cannot tell you who is settled
by his side, with hands as slender and
delicate as my own, with the same smile
lines and shifting eyes that I scrutinize
each morning from the silver looking glass.
I cannot tell you stories because they,
they never told me stories, but I can tell you
their ages, approximate weights, heights and
perhaps even medical conditions, and maybe, if
I'm lucky, I could guess their favorite colors, too.
Blue, red, or brown for the man,
and I can deduce that the woman
would choose purple in a blink, but I cannot tell
you the former and the latter from memory,
much less entertain your simple question.
I do know for a fact that they do not
believe in anything, especially vows,
and although they might stand side-by-side
in a beige and chestnut candid, their eyes
no longer meet nor do their voices
croon the lyrics to my nightly lullaby.
And I do not know whether to blame love
or responsibility; to claim that she had it all
planned, or to know if he thought the
spooning of her belly three-and-a-half
years in was headline news. I do not even
know if they ever read the newspaper,
in which case I do not know who planted
this fondness for words and confession.
And when my children point and ask who
are those figures standing in the khaki-colored
thicket, I will tell them what I see and think,
and maybe I will pretend to know the truth.
I only hope that they may turn to another bookshelf,
and see albums upon albums filled with multi-
colored pigments, and I will smile as they smile
at their Father's stories, and savor the atonement.
Monday, November 24, 2008
A Herbaceous Memory-Producing Plant of the Genus Musa; or My Running Commentary is an Overripe Banana, Solid on the Outside, Squishy on the Inside
It started with the peeling of a banana, and
friends telling me it was upside down, and I said
No, it wasn't, Inebriates, That's how bananas look in
all the pictures in all the magazines I've ever seen.
And then out of no where there was you, in my brain.
There you were, sitting in the driver's seat, that damn
Oldsmobile, with the windows down and the sub woofer
booming so loud it shook my seat, my hand, my heart.
Turn it down I'm scared shitless, and feeling the
cold wind streaming all around me like pouring rain,
I lift my leg from the sticky leather seats, my hair's a
mess, and I think of the supposed to's and should of's,
and the Chinese fire-drills and crusin' The Ave, and
what it would mean to see the pyramids. I thought
of the last time I saw you, which will always be
the last, and it is this last one that reminds me
of the peeling of a banana, and how it is not upside
down, and how it looks in all the pictures I've seen.
Like the picture on the 99 bananas bottle. I know once
I take that first bite, once I focus on its subtle-sweet,
then your memory will be lost, and everything will
be the same as before, no sub woofer booming or cold
air around my face, and it will not matter which end
of the banana I've pried open, or what my fellow sots
think of the proper form for decorticating. Because
either way, I know the bananas will taste delicious.
This is correct:
No, it wasn't, Inebriates, That's how bananas look in
all the pictures in all the magazines I've ever seen.
And then out of no where there was you, in my brain.
There you were, sitting in the driver's seat, that damn
Oldsmobile, with the windows down and the sub woofer
booming so loud it shook my seat, my hand, my heart.
Turn it down I'm scared shitless, and feeling the
cold wind streaming all around me like pouring rain,
I lift my leg from the sticky leather seats, my hair's a
mess, and I think of the supposed to's and should of's,
and the Chinese fire-drills and crusin' The Ave, and
what it would mean to see the pyramids. I thought
of the last time I saw you, which will always be
the last, and it is this last one that reminds me
of the peeling of a banana, and how it is not upside
down, and how it looks in all the pictures I've seen.
Like the picture on the 99 bananas bottle. I know once
I take that first bite, once I focus on its subtle-sweet,
then your memory will be lost, and everything will
be the same as before, no sub woofer booming or cold
air around my face, and it will not matter which end
of the banana I've pried open, or what my fellow sots
think of the proper form for decorticating. Because
either way, I know the bananas will taste delicious.
This is correct:
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
The Time I Kidnapped My Friends And Put Them in Phrases and Meter; or, How to Party Like Edgar Allen Poe
A Young Lady Spied Upon the Sea Shore
White by the moon, the seething shores rise--
shifting stars for two eyes of blue.
Ocean in motion, mirroring night skies,
as a Lady enters Babe's view.
The moon lingers, black and blank above--
midst click-clanking of good -night shoes.
Eyes tinkling tired, thinking thereof,
as Lady bequeaths parting dues.
White by the moon, babe hides in a blink;
To the shore, the Lady does fly.
Cold and brisk winds shade the Babe's ears pink.
Lo' the Autumn frosts of July!
Lady then leans before white water--
supplying her face a wet wash.
Not a Mother, surely a Daughter,
the Lady, now one with sea-slosh.
The ocean that--though in sky--reflects,
a picture for the Babe to see,
shows expression and facial effects--
rolling eyes 'long side angered plea.
Then Lady adjusts her composure--
stomach constricted and tightened.
Readying wits to face exposure,
her stance is forcibly lightened.
As Lady treads away from the shore--
a child's mind is left to thrive.
Shown, she was, how to cope from one's core,
to react else feel half-alive.
A Boat, a Boat, a Lonely Boat
Far far away, see the torrent wave--
a fretted wall of silver concave.
Crash crash with wild weed overgrown
upon shooting cliff and crumbled stone.
But right to the right, see the ripples still.
In waste wood, a boat; by its own free will.
The loneliest lonely, a boat afloat.
In water of wild, a boat remote.
No mast, no sails, and nothing atop--
not even a paddle or oar.
Seemingly anchored beneath water's top;
no one and nothing to explore.
A boat, a boat, a lonely boat,
it moves but it can never moveth on.
It welters like a human thing--
wants to sail, but is still in the dawn.
A Warning For You Who Will
Shh! Listen carefully, you who will.
The cold wind blows like wolves on a hill.
See there! Look carefully, you who will.
The ivory trees have been frozen still.
Ahh-hah! Yell carefully, you who will.
Snow leopards listen for their next kill.
Brr-brr! Touch carefully, you who will.
Glistening ice will give you a chill.
Beware of the Winter, you who will.
It brings discontent and makes one ill.
The Picture of An Hour, Fixed In A Frame
A single grain, fixed in a frame, falls though the hourglass--
Till by a billion others it is swallowed.
Grain by grain, the sand shimmers and shines as it makes its pass;
picture of an hour, no others followed.
About The Poems:
A Young Lady Spied Upon the Sea Shore, A Boat, a Boat, a Lonely Boat, A Warning For You Who Will, and The Picture of An Hour, Fixed in A Frame are all original compositions of mine written during the my Spring 2008 semester of my senior year at Truman State University.
A Young Lady Spied Upon the Sea Shore is a poem that was inspired by the unfettered spirit of a near-and-dear friend of mine at Truman State University. In fact, I'm sure that her shrewd understanding of civility coupled with her passion for theatrics is something will continue to delight and inspire me for years to come. The setting for the poem is a place from my childhood; a vast ocean-like shore on the banks of Lake Rhinelander in Wisconsin.
A Boat, a Boat, a Lonely Boat is a somber poem about depression, loneliness, and apathy. I was inspired to write it after failing desperately to help a friend of mine through his or her healing process with depression, using knowledge from my own experience. The ship bobbing on the water is representative of the human heart beat, and the poem suggests that one must look to their own heart in order to brave life's turbulent waters.
A Warning For You Who Will is simply a whimsical poem that I wrote in an attempt to author my dislike of the winter season using various senses.
The Picture of An Hour, Fixed in A Frame is a poem that I started when I was in high school, but didn't finish until college. I have a natural curiosity about physics and time, and as such, own a small collection of odd time-measuring devices. I would give myself exactly one hour of free time each day in high school to do whatever I wanted. Most of the time this was writing, reading, or drawing. I used an antique hour glass that my father gave me to keep me on time. One day I decided to write a poem about the object that I spent an hour with each afternoon.
White by the moon, the seething shores rise--
shifting stars for two eyes of blue.
Ocean in motion, mirroring night skies,
as a Lady enters Babe's view.
The moon lingers, black and blank above--
midst click-clanking of good -night shoes.
Eyes tinkling tired, thinking thereof,
as Lady bequeaths parting dues.
White by the moon, babe hides in a blink;
To the shore, the Lady does fly.
Cold and brisk winds shade the Babe's ears pink.
Lo' the Autumn frosts of July!
Lady then leans before white water--
supplying her face a wet wash.
Not a Mother, surely a Daughter,
the Lady, now one with sea-slosh.
The ocean that--though in sky--reflects,
a picture for the Babe to see,
shows expression and facial effects--
rolling eyes 'long side angered plea.
Then Lady adjusts her composure--
stomach constricted and tightened.
Readying wits to face exposure,
her stance is forcibly lightened.
As Lady treads away from the shore--
a child's mind is left to thrive.
Shown, she was, how to cope from one's core,
to react else feel half-alive.
A Boat, a Boat, a Lonely Boat
Far far away, see the torrent wave--
a fretted wall of silver concave.
Crash crash with wild weed overgrown
upon shooting cliff and crumbled stone.
But right to the right, see the ripples still.
In waste wood, a boat; by its own free will.
The loneliest lonely, a boat afloat.
In water of wild, a boat remote.
No mast, no sails, and nothing atop--
not even a paddle or oar.
Seemingly anchored beneath water's top;
no one and nothing to explore.
A boat, a boat, a lonely boat,
it moves but it can never moveth on.
It welters like a human thing--
wants to sail, but is still in the dawn.
A Warning For You Who Will
Shh! Listen carefully, you who will.
The cold wind blows like wolves on a hill.
See there! Look carefully, you who will.
The ivory trees have been frozen still.
Ahh-hah! Yell carefully, you who will.
Snow leopards listen for their next kill.
Brr-brr! Touch carefully, you who will.
Glistening ice will give you a chill.
Beware of the Winter, you who will.
It brings discontent and makes one ill.
The Picture of An Hour, Fixed In A Frame
A single grain, fixed in a frame, falls though the hourglass--
Till by a billion others it is swallowed.
Grain by grain, the sand shimmers and shines as it makes its pass;
picture of an hour, no others followed.
About The Poems:
A Young Lady Spied Upon the Sea Shore, A Boat, a Boat, a Lonely Boat, A Warning For You Who Will, and The Picture of An Hour, Fixed in A Frame are all original compositions of mine written during the my Spring 2008 semester of my senior year at Truman State University.
A Young Lady Spied Upon the Sea Shore is a poem that was inspired by the unfettered spirit of a near-and-dear friend of mine at Truman State University. In fact, I'm sure that her shrewd understanding of civility coupled with her passion for theatrics is something will continue to delight and inspire me for years to come. The setting for the poem is a place from my childhood; a vast ocean-like shore on the banks of Lake Rhinelander in Wisconsin.
A Boat, a Boat, a Lonely Boat is a somber poem about depression, loneliness, and apathy. I was inspired to write it after failing desperately to help a friend of mine through his or her healing process with depression, using knowledge from my own experience. The ship bobbing on the water is representative of the human heart beat, and the poem suggests that one must look to their own heart in order to brave life's turbulent waters.
A Warning For You Who Will is simply a whimsical poem that I wrote in an attempt to author my dislike of the winter season using various senses.
The Picture of An Hour, Fixed in A Frame is a poem that I started when I was in high school, but didn't finish until college. I have a natural curiosity about physics and time, and as such, own a small collection of odd time-measuring devices. I would give myself exactly one hour of free time each day in high school to do whatever I wanted. Most of the time this was writing, reading, or drawing. I used an antique hour glass that my father gave me to keep me on time. One day I decided to write a poem about the object that I spent an hour with each afternoon.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
"Intellectual purging" according to Elaine; Hybrow Syndrome according to Dove.
Some spur-of-the-moment free-writing because I need to update my blog:
Today it was suggested--for the second time this semester--that I have the tendency to "care too much about what people think."
I am aware of the caprices and idiosyncrasies that I maintain which advocate for what others may see as over-sensitivity (although if they believe this, they obviously subscribe to superficial postulations.)
I've ruminated about this coping mechanism of mine (because of its resurfacing in my social circle,) and I remain firm in my original assertion. After reflecting, I still deduce that that my desire to understand the motives of others (via the means of showing my genuine care and concern for their likes and dislikes) is a positive attribute.
Not to sound bull-headed about the matter, but I honestly believe that self-actualized individuals are nourished from the roots of objectivity in one's perception.
I've spent many years attempting to improve my emotional intelligence; it has, in fact, been one of my life's greatest struggles. I think that I was born with a brain that has a tendency to rely heavily upon intellect and logic rather than instinct and feeling. I, like most humans, have a sense for both, but I sometimes don't trust my instincts and feelings because I can understand their flaws. Ergo, increasing the breadth of my emotional intelligence has been a goal which I have exercised a great amount of effort towards. I truly believe it has been instrumental to my growth and maturity.
The older I become, the more I realize the whole spectrum of objectivity. By attempting to eliminate my individual perceptive observability (or by playing "Devil's Advocate" in my mind, if you will) my cognitive processes certainly uphold a great deal of indecision and changeability at times (which could undoubtedly be considered by society as two personal vices.) And when I'm not making a concerted effort to be more balanced I certainly fall prey to the consequences of these negative extremes. Despite this, I am firm in my advocation for objectivity, because it serves as a check when one's emotions and instincts threaten to lure his or her rationale and intellect into a bear-trap of ignorant subjectivity (which inherently masks one's personal desires as fundamental needs rather than personal wants.) Sure, one must understand when and where to trust their instincts. But I think, in general, that the rationalization of feelings is a worthy path to tread. Besides, I would rather have a balanced critical faculty and possess the ability to stand back and look impartially upon matters which call for impartial judgment than torture myself all the time with subjective guilt and/or criticism.
Thus, I postulate that "caring about what people think of me" isn't really a negative attribute, but rather, a stepping-stone on the path to progressivism (which is a historically positive ideology--despite its synonimity to political liberalism.) It's the catalyst for self-improvement, which is the ideology behind self-sustainability and societal evolution. And I don't feel silly arguing this, either, as I believe the world to be fundamentally dynamic; a versatile, breathable, permanently elastic fabric in the tapestry of human existence.
I would go as far to say that I regard my sensitivity in a positive light. I tend to think it more of a gift than a curse. It is, after all, what allows me to meet the needs of my companions with my own type of innate optimism. And who doesn't deserve to feel good about themselves?
^I really do believe that.
As such: I can deal with having my personal wants put on hold for the greater good. I don't mind exercising patience in that way. In fact, I actively do my best to cooperate and compromise with all that I encounter for that purpose. I can tolerate interpersonal failings... to a fault, actually. In fact I sometimes struggle rhetorically with how to be assertive with my personal views while still remaining mannerly. I am the type of person that despises cruelty, viciousness, and vulgarity. And I detest conflict between people (because I actively try to objectify my perception and hence enhance my abilities to empathize with other's pain. So, for lack of a more humble phrase, I feel your pain.) Subjective afflictions in abundance are no good, I do declare!
I realize that this post makes me come across as a self-important perfectionist who is more-than-a-little insecure. And maybe I even look perpetually bull-headed, for I can see how it might appear to readers that I am hasty with my conclusions and tend to see them as self-evident... (And sometimes this is true-- in fact it is the cause for my impatience with people. Sigh.) Please forgive me if these assertions come across that way. Alas, perhaps I lack the eloquence to author my inner monologue effectively? But at least I am satisfied in my knowledge that if I do come across this way, it is a superficial quality produced by my ego that is correctable with time. And it comforts me to know that the people worth knowing won't care about those things. To quote a friend, the people who you want to know "look past people's veneers."
These thoughts make me wonder if perhaps my cast of mind is actually more artistic than logical? Or maybe I'm just a walking contradiction; a teeter-totter of emotions and intellect...
But then again I'm too moderate to be considered avante garde in any artist endeavor (much to my disdain!) and too chaotic in my thought process to be considered analytical. Sigh. At least I've got integrity-- that's the result of being able to rationalize my subjective perceptions and compare them with the efforts of others. And because of this, I can certainly say that my close friendships are unions of true minds and true hearts.
I personally think empathy mollifies hurt and smooths over tiffs. And that, folks, is one of the many values of compassion and Truth that has to be experienced to understand. Well, what I mean by that is that experience leads to knowledge. And knowledge is power, they always say. Lest we not forget the old proverb that compassion (and therefore, empathy,) is a worthy endeavor.
I've just re-read this and I think that perhaps I tend to over-think things. Yes, that is certainly an honest justification for all of this loquacious mumbo-jumbo.
That reminds me. The other day I received the best advice of my life. It was from a Dove chocolate wrapper. It said, "don't think about it too much."
Point taken. I'm going to go ahead and check the la tee dah now.
...Hail the profound wisdom of the Chocolate-Sage.
Today it was suggested--for the second time this semester--that I have the tendency to "care too much about what people think."
I am aware of the caprices and idiosyncrasies that I maintain which advocate for what others may see as over-sensitivity (although if they believe this, they obviously subscribe to superficial postulations.)
I've ruminated about this coping mechanism of mine (because of its resurfacing in my social circle,) and I remain firm in my original assertion. After reflecting, I still deduce that that my desire to understand the motives of others (via the means of showing my genuine care and concern for their likes and dislikes) is a positive attribute.
Not to sound bull-headed about the matter, but I honestly believe that self-actualized individuals are nourished from the roots of objectivity in one's perception.
I've spent many years attempting to improve my emotional intelligence; it has, in fact, been one of my life's greatest struggles. I think that I was born with a brain that has a tendency to rely heavily upon intellect and logic rather than instinct and feeling. I, like most humans, have a sense for both, but I sometimes don't trust my instincts and feelings because I can understand their flaws. Ergo, increasing the breadth of my emotional intelligence has been a goal which I have exercised a great amount of effort towards. I truly believe it has been instrumental to my growth and maturity.
The older I become, the more I realize the whole spectrum of objectivity. By attempting to eliminate my individual perceptive observability (or by playing "Devil's Advocate" in my mind, if you will) my cognitive processes certainly uphold a great deal of indecision and changeability at times (which could undoubtedly be considered by society as two personal vices.) And when I'm not making a concerted effort to be more balanced I certainly fall prey to the consequences of these negative extremes. Despite this, I am firm in my advocation for objectivity, because it serves as a check when one's emotions and instincts threaten to lure his or her rationale and intellect into a bear-trap of ignorant subjectivity (which inherently masks one's personal desires as fundamental needs rather than personal wants.) Sure, one must understand when and where to trust their instincts. But I think, in general, that the rationalization of feelings is a worthy path to tread. Besides, I would rather have a balanced critical faculty and possess the ability to stand back and look impartially upon matters which call for impartial judgment than torture myself all the time with subjective guilt and/or criticism.
Thus, I postulate that "caring about what people think of me" isn't really a negative attribute, but rather, a stepping-stone on the path to progressivism (which is a historically positive ideology--despite its synonimity to political liberalism.) It's the catalyst for self-improvement, which is the ideology behind self-sustainability and societal evolution. And I don't feel silly arguing this, either, as I believe the world to be fundamentally dynamic; a versatile, breathable, permanently elastic fabric in the tapestry of human existence.
I would go as far to say that I regard my sensitivity in a positive light. I tend to think it more of a gift than a curse. It is, after all, what allows me to meet the needs of my companions with my own type of innate optimism. And who doesn't deserve to feel good about themselves?
^I really do believe that.
As such: I can deal with having my personal wants put on hold for the greater good. I don't mind exercising patience in that way. In fact, I actively do my best to cooperate and compromise with all that I encounter for that purpose. I can tolerate interpersonal failings... to a fault, actually. In fact I sometimes struggle rhetorically with how to be assertive with my personal views while still remaining mannerly. I am the type of person that despises cruelty, viciousness, and vulgarity. And I detest conflict between people (because I actively try to objectify my perception and hence enhance my abilities to empathize with other's pain. So, for lack of a more humble phrase, I feel your pain.) Subjective afflictions in abundance are no good, I do declare!
I realize that this post makes me come across as a self-important perfectionist who is more-than-a-little insecure. And maybe I even look perpetually bull-headed, for I can see how it might appear to readers that I am hasty with my conclusions and tend to see them as self-evident... (And sometimes this is true-- in fact it is the cause for my impatience with people. Sigh.) Please forgive me if these assertions come across that way. Alas, perhaps I lack the eloquence to author my inner monologue effectively? But at least I am satisfied in my knowledge that if I do come across this way, it is a superficial quality produced by my ego that is correctable with time. And it comforts me to know that the people worth knowing won't care about those things. To quote a friend, the people who you want to know "look past people's veneers."
These thoughts make me wonder if perhaps my cast of mind is actually more artistic than logical? Or maybe I'm just a walking contradiction; a teeter-totter of emotions and intellect...
But then again I'm too moderate to be considered avante garde in any artist endeavor (much to my disdain!) and too chaotic in my thought process to be considered analytical. Sigh. At least I've got integrity-- that's the result of being able to rationalize my subjective perceptions and compare them with the efforts of others. And because of this, I can certainly say that my close friendships are unions of true minds and true hearts.
I personally think empathy mollifies hurt and smooths over tiffs. And that, folks, is one of the many values of compassion and Truth that has to be experienced to understand. Well, what I mean by that is that experience leads to knowledge. And knowledge is power, they always say. Lest we not forget the old proverb that compassion (and therefore, empathy,) is a worthy endeavor.
I've just re-read this and I think that perhaps I tend to over-think things. Yes, that is certainly an honest justification for all of this loquacious mumbo-jumbo.
That reminds me. The other day I received the best advice of my life. It was from a Dove chocolate wrapper. It said, "don't think about it too much."
Point taken. I'm going to go ahead and check the la tee dah now.
...Hail the profound wisdom of the Chocolate-Sage.
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
Mini-Markers of Adulthood
Today's big plan, besides procrastinating on a short story for creative writing, was to correct my credit report with Transunion and fix the tabs option on my US Bank online account. Prompted by the advice of a close older friend, the moment that I became eligible for free annual credit reports, I set up an schedule to check out all three. And not just check them but check them carefully, one report at a time, spread out at four-month intervals.
Dang. I was on top of things. I was focused. I was proud.
But chaos theory has, once again, conquered my personage, and when I went to check my meticulously-planned credit report last night, I found out that Transunion has me living in my home town, going to school in Chicago, and working in Kirksville. And to top it off they have my birth year wrong, which means I'm younger in some circles. It also means that I can't simply file the corrected information online; I have to fill out forms and send hard copies of vital documents.
Well.
I am resolved to be optimistic- so I've done some contemplation on the matter, and I think that I've managed to find the humanity of it all. I postulate that this experience is one of those weird little markers of adulthood.
I know it seems silly, but prior to this realization, this incident really did affect me. What can I say, I'm impressionable sometimes.
Anyways, these "markers" always catch me by surprise because I like to consider myself a perpetually free-spirited adolescent-- someone who would never take pleasure in possessions over feeling. Or pay attention to FICO scores, for that matter.
All I'm saying is that these little experiences that used to remind me of what I consider adult and inhumane (and therefore alien) have now become part of, well, who I am.
Are these little moments true epiphanies? That seems to be such a self-important word for such small pauses of adjustment.
Let's hope not. Goodness knows I'd much rather concern myself with the likes of more Bohemian-centered ideals when considering life-changing forces.
I suspect, though, that everyone at this age is starting to have these small, idiosyncratic moments that prompt thoughts such as:"huh, that was a very adult thing to do" or "wonder what that means?" And in some ways, I can see how these realizations might be considered supremely important because they help us define our adulthood, our individual goals and values, and how they differ from what we've been told adulthood should be.
Interesting.
Ergo, rather than pay attention in class today (because I felt like I've been told and retold the same academic material for the past four years of my life) I scribbled a list of idiosyncrasies.
So, without further ado, I present:
Mini-Markers of Adulthood
--I realized today that I can't remember the last time I ran out of toilet paper (or hand soap, for that matter.)
--I took my first "vacation" alone this summer. And by vacation I mean my first solo trip (a preliminary interview with F&H in Chicago) -solely for business- and not pleasure. I did not go see the Field Museum. This was the first time that have ever consciously allowed that to happen.
--During a recent fight in a friendship that was going really badly, I said "No, I don't think we should be friends," rather than over-analyzing, torturing myself, and going through the expected social script of forgiveness and redemption.
--I wrote down questions for my doctor and chose my own treatment for scar tissue in my colon, rather than letting the doctor dominate. That also had to do with the fact that I was being treated in Kirksville. But still.
--Every day I'm closer to paying off all my credit-card debt. Albeit by working in a bar. But hey- money's money.
--I've downloaded and re-watched the first five seasons of Dr. Quinn Medicine Woman. For pleasure. And I usually knit when doing so.
--Yesterday I chose one piece of Vosges chocolate over a big bag of M&Ms.
--I've become a CNN junkie rather than a MTV/VH1 junkie. And not just because of the election.
--I called in sick to work two weeks ago because I was actually sick. And then I preceded to soak my feet in a milk bath and eat chicken soup offered by a good friend.
--I paid for a pet-sitter. By choice. And Viola was groomed. I'm sure she liked it, too.
--In Chicago, while eating by myself at a fancy restaurant this summer, I tactfully sent back food without regret and without feeling a need to over-tip the wait staff.
--On Friday I scrubbed the floors of my bathroom on my hands & knees, and yes, used a toothbrush.
I'm not bitter about any of these, par say. "Out to sea" is a better way of putting it.
I'm sure that there will be many more to come as the year progresses.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Obligatory and Long-Winded Back-In-Kirksville Update
Here it is, approaching the twelfth hour of my return to Kirksville, and things aren't settling like I want and/or need them to. Not to be ungrateful, but I returned home yesterday, changed from the experience of profound loss, with a semblance of hope that perhaps those who had regarded me with suspicion because of my lack of self-disclosure before leaving would perhaps be different after several days of reflection and contemplation about the matter.
Wrong.
In fact, way wrong. Those few relationships that were left here, in shambles and frustration, have, to my dismay, remained the same completely. I (for lack of a modern term) bite my thumb at people and their subjectivism! Nay to their selfish attitudes and paths! What's the point?
I'm suppose I'm losing my patience with people. Don't get me wrong, I've met my fair share of Cool Cats at Truman- but for the most part I've found the majority of Truman students to be a critical, harsh, and unforgiving breed. Perhaps my perception is tainted because I'm a transfer student. That's distinctly possible. Reasoning aside, I have to face facts that I am sick to the point of severe anger of having to "explain myself" to them to avoid being judged. Not only that, but the depth of conversation I find myself being thrown into with most of them is shallow at best, on good days. Recent events have opened my mind to a world of new thought, and the obsequious banter about who had sex with whom and who's doing pot now seems to be a waste of my time.
Perhaps I'm on a pretension kick- I don't know. All I know is that when I try to chime in with a new idea that I find interesting, the theme of the conversation always turns to something gossipy and tacky; pointless chitter-chatter in all respects. I'm sick of it all now. I want more than what I personally perceive as a one-dimensional existence.
In recent news: I'm sure everyone knows by this point that my Grandmother passed away on Wednesday. Goodness knows word spread like wildfire at Truman. I went back home on Sunday for the wake, and the funeral was on Monday. I really don't want to talk much about the past few days specifically (for I've decided that those memories are mine to cherish), suffice to say that the whole experience has helped to better define my philosophy and outlook on life.
Example: A few relatives back home told me that they read my blog. Talking with them about some of my poetry, at least for me, helped to strengthen my goal of communicating what I believe; I told them that I believe frank honesty in written form can help everyone to put things into a clearer perspective. They mostly agreed. And most of them at least seemed interested by what I had to say. Except Aunt Jane. "At the very least your blog keeps me entertained," she chimed. Yippie skippy.
^And she can read that too, I don't care anymore.
I'm at a point now where I understand things better than I used to. Death, however, still frustrates me. But only because I don't understand it as much as I'd like to. I know that earthbound personality and ego might bring about the usual problems that we all face on a day to day basis, but just recently I've learned of the higher self which is the storehouse, synthesizer, and guiding light of our being; a beacon, if you will. It decides, within certain universal laws humans have not yet deciphered, what experiences are needed in order to achieve a level of self-actualization. I want to know its role in death.
My grandmother's death also helped me to put things into perspective. I am an optimist, and I believe that we all live a hedonistic path of evolution that we want to make positive. We don't always succeed, though. Those are the moments when life slides backwards, when all hope can seem lost. Case-and-point the last few weeks of my life. But I recognize that the experiences we need, no matter how difficult, are those that will move us along our path. Sometimes we slip, sometimes we fly, right?
Personally, I think that guilt, fear, repressed anger (and all other vices) are the forces that keep us from soaring. That's why, for me, writing about self-knowledge is so important. It's a personal barometer for the flowing, flexible style of my growth.
It's taken me a while, but I am getting better at recognizing that life is not the meaningless, chaotic thing it may seem when I am confused, angry, or depressed. I'm learning to confront my anger and depression, and what's more- I'm building upon knowledge gleaned from these episodes. Life might be a constant challenge- but I understand it to be a gift, none-the-less. Albert Einstein had it right when he said that "God does not play with dice."
I don't mean to say that life is predetermined- au contraire- I believe it is prong on a latter towards something which my feeble brain is unable to comprehend at this time. All I know as of this point is what I have learned (which really isn't much in the scheme of things.)
A most important reflection:
The experience of my Grandmother's death has taught me that love of another consists not of finding the right person, but in becoming the right person.
How profound. And lovely.
Thanks, Grandma.
Sigh. There's still so much I need to get off my chest.
Ah well, I have more time for that.
Wrong.
In fact, way wrong. Those few relationships that were left here, in shambles and frustration, have, to my dismay, remained the same completely. I (for lack of a modern term) bite my thumb at people and their subjectivism! Nay to their selfish attitudes and paths! What's the point?
I'm suppose I'm losing my patience with people. Don't get me wrong, I've met my fair share of Cool Cats at Truman- but for the most part I've found the majority of Truman students to be a critical, harsh, and unforgiving breed. Perhaps my perception is tainted because I'm a transfer student. That's distinctly possible. Reasoning aside, I have to face facts that I am sick to the point of severe anger of having to "explain myself" to them to avoid being judged. Not only that, but the depth of conversation I find myself being thrown into with most of them is shallow at best, on good days. Recent events have opened my mind to a world of new thought, and the obsequious banter about who had sex with whom and who's doing pot now seems to be a waste of my time.
Perhaps I'm on a pretension kick- I don't know. All I know is that when I try to chime in with a new idea that I find interesting, the theme of the conversation always turns to something gossipy and tacky; pointless chitter-chatter in all respects. I'm sick of it all now. I want more than what I personally perceive as a one-dimensional existence.
In recent news: I'm sure everyone knows by this point that my Grandmother passed away on Wednesday. Goodness knows word spread like wildfire at Truman. I went back home on Sunday for the wake, and the funeral was on Monday. I really don't want to talk much about the past few days specifically (for I've decided that those memories are mine to cherish), suffice to say that the whole experience has helped to better define my philosophy and outlook on life.
Example: A few relatives back home told me that they read my blog. Talking with them about some of my poetry, at least for me, helped to strengthen my goal of communicating what I believe; I told them that I believe frank honesty in written form can help everyone to put things into a clearer perspective. They mostly agreed. And most of them at least seemed interested by what I had to say. Except Aunt Jane. "At the very least your blog keeps me entertained," she chimed. Yippie skippy.
^And she can read that too, I don't care anymore.
I'm at a point now where I understand things better than I used to. Death, however, still frustrates me. But only because I don't understand it as much as I'd like to. I know that earthbound personality and ego might bring about the usual problems that we all face on a day to day basis, but just recently I've learned of the higher self which is the storehouse, synthesizer, and guiding light of our being; a beacon, if you will. It decides, within certain universal laws humans have not yet deciphered, what experiences are needed in order to achieve a level of self-actualization. I want to know its role in death.
My grandmother's death also helped me to put things into perspective. I am an optimist, and I believe that we all live a hedonistic path of evolution that we want to make positive. We don't always succeed, though. Those are the moments when life slides backwards, when all hope can seem lost. Case-and-point the last few weeks of my life. But I recognize that the experiences we need, no matter how difficult, are those that will move us along our path. Sometimes we slip, sometimes we fly, right?
Personally, I think that guilt, fear, repressed anger (and all other vices) are the forces that keep us from soaring. That's why, for me, writing about self-knowledge is so important. It's a personal barometer for the flowing, flexible style of my growth.
It's taken me a while, but I am getting better at recognizing that life is not the meaningless, chaotic thing it may seem when I am confused, angry, or depressed. I'm learning to confront my anger and depression, and what's more- I'm building upon knowledge gleaned from these episodes. Life might be a constant challenge- but I understand it to be a gift, none-the-less. Albert Einstein had it right when he said that "God does not play with dice."
I don't mean to say that life is predetermined- au contraire- I believe it is prong on a latter towards something which my feeble brain is unable to comprehend at this time. All I know as of this point is what I have learned (which really isn't much in the scheme of things.)
A most important reflection:
The experience of my Grandmother's death has taught me that love of another consists not of finding the right person, but in becoming the right person.
How profound. And lovely.
Thanks, Grandma.
Sigh. There's still so much I need to get off my chest.
Ah well, I have more time for that.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
A Series Of Poems For My Dead Grandmother
Gone Back
By E.
Awakened
On a muggy mid-September night
Awakened
by the on-rush of white light
Light bright in a world of black!
There it called-out in agony:
The moon, lifeless now, spoke
As it reached-out through the oak
That extended a hand mournfully-
It called me from black-rose dreams,
Called for time, called for prayers-
The moon held-hands, white beams
Mirrored in mortal eyes: it cried on pained ears
Awakened
On a muggy mid-September night
Awakened
by the on-rush of white light
Light bright in a world of black!
Then Moon and Daughter touched:
But the Moon is not comforted by it!
Then Moon and Sea embrace:
And life flows-out for roses that sit
Upon the cold tombs
For which grandchildren go back-
Gone back, but not for Holiday;
Gone back to be awakened
By a mid-September's moonrise,
Upon Illinois' black-body sky:
Gone back to be fulfilled
By a mid-September's sunrise.
The Final Act
By E.
From the first slap upon my buttocks,
I started toward death.
A series of stages:
Infancy.
Childhood.
Adolescence.
And then, when the maturation process
has been completed,
I am returned to the soil and, in essence, to
the dust
whence I came.
Throughout these stages we are conscious
of the Final Act.
And the Final Act is conscious of us.
Then the strings are played and the puppets move
back and forth
across these earthen planks.
Bravo,
Bravo.
But no encore.
The Old Oleander
By E.
O Flower, though art wilting!
The invisible aphid
That lurks on slipp'ry earth,
Smelling smoking wind- Earth's rolling pin,
In the fragrant lies of springtime,
Has found out thy sleeping-place
Upon man-trod green grass,
With pearl and crimson finish:
And with stained limbs of bed's departing life
Doth allow your petals to knowingly diminish.
By E.
Awakened
On a muggy mid-September night
Awakened
by the on-rush of white light
Light bright in a world of black!
There it called-out in agony:
The moon, lifeless now, spoke
As it reached-out through the oak
That extended a hand mournfully-
It called me from black-rose dreams,
Called for time, called for prayers-
The moon held-hands, white beams
Mirrored in mortal eyes: it cried on pained ears
Awakened
On a muggy mid-September night
Awakened
by the on-rush of white light
Light bright in a world of black!
Then Moon and Daughter touched:
But the Moon is not comforted by it!
Then Moon and Sea embrace:
And life flows-out for roses that sit
Upon the cold tombs
For which grandchildren go back-
Gone back, but not for Holiday;
Gone back to be awakened
By a mid-September's moonrise,
Upon Illinois' black-body sky:
Gone back to be fulfilled
By a mid-September's sunrise.
The Final Act
By E.
From the first slap upon my buttocks,
I started toward death.
A series of stages:
Infancy.
Childhood.
Adolescence.
And then, when the maturation process
has been completed,
I am returned to the soil and, in essence, to
the dust
whence I came.
Throughout these stages we are conscious
of the Final Act.
And the Final Act is conscious of us.
Then the strings are played and the puppets move
back and forth
across these earthen planks.
Bravo,
Bravo.
But no encore.
The Old Oleander
By E.
O Flower, though art wilting!
The invisible aphid
That lurks on slipp'ry earth,
Smelling smoking wind- Earth's rolling pin,
In the fragrant lies of springtime,
Has found out thy sleeping-place
Upon man-trod green grass,
With pearl and crimson finish:
And with stained limbs of bed's departing life
Doth allow your petals to knowingly diminish.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
