Leave Me
Dance with me to music that doesn't fit
your paws. Tell me stories with whines and barks
and the looks in your eyes. They glow with amber
and gris, the color of a fire in autumn. Chase me
down the driveway, all brown and red burning down
the street. You could always run like a greyhound,
a blur like a deer in summer forests. Rush out
the door when I'm not looking, force your way
between my legs. Keep me from taking life for granted.
Keep me from forgetting. Follow me. Move your
feet, we are waiting in the car outside, waiting
for you. To run around the car after high school days
and we pretending you are velociraptor, come to enrapture
us. You could always make me smile, a warm fuzzy
presence in a world of cold, blistering. How I
will miss you. Your nose on the back of my knee,
suddenly, spooking me. Climb into the bed
and comfort me when I am sobbing. Comfort me
now that you are gone. I want you to be stardust
spiraling through galaxies and forests, living
another life. Without want. I could see you running
through forests on another plane of existence, but I fear
that like the tigers burning in forests damp, you
are merely molecules spiraling into the soil. We each
build our fires high, and you have fallen.
Chase me down the driveway, out of your memory. Bark
at me as I am leaving, to remind me, to leave me.
Leave me loving you.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
A poem for Sebastion, who lived 14 years
There is no snow
Whenever it fell, gentle fireflies at midnight or graceful dander in midday, you were unhappy.
It was cold, perhaps. Or maybe the way that miniature ice particles feel on paws. Chill, resilient.
Leaves in the autumn, I still have pictures. We would run and jump, colliding with one another.
I always felt like we were stars in the night sky, orbiting some massive black whole superstructure.
Like brothers, our gravity wound fields between, connecting and flaring our fires brighter.
Do you remember the bonfire in the lowland that summer so long ago? My friends found you beautiful.
I realized through their eyes again, just how much I loved you. Staying up all night with us.
When even we were not so sure that we were awake, or wanted to continue to dance. To burn.
Gin and tonic and the suspended disbelief of believing in something. In the dark.
I should be grateful; we ran together for so long. Even across vast distances, continents of memory.
The air rushing past, the wind with grass scented, the flowers a splash of color in the arms of galaxies.
When I ran beside you, I could feel the earth beneath my feet. And the teeth in my mouth.
I could sense the wholeness of my being in a sunset. And the bright red burning of yours. All a wash
In the glow and background radiation of existence. Of starlight.
My breath comes uneven when I think of it. Your heart stopped, the precious quarks and blood cells
Ceased. The red fire turns grey. Were we ever stars, rushing through galactic lacunae? Pouring our life
Into the world, to watch it flow down mysterious paths, photon torpedoes of running and inaction.
Were we ever more than specks of snow, ice and light crystallized? Into something that believed
Itself to be a burning fire. Only ice within. Did my light ever reach you?
If I am a star, I feel the darkness pulling me. Phantom galaxies approach and I do not move away. If
I am ice, I feel the world emptied of your momentary refraction of light. Your bittersweet. You used
to stay up all hours of the night, growling at my treachery for never going to bed. My guardian, my
friend. And then it became a game, snarling at the shadows of raccoons and nameless things. All
meaning will be emptied. Every field of snow must melt. Each star a singularity transform.
I remember goading you into snow ball fights, pushing you onto sleds. You would
always fall.
And I would play again. But you could not be alone in the white, as though it would
swallow you whole.
Now, the night is much less brighter, the day little more than dew. Perhaps,
whatever
Molecule you’ve become, whatever weight you’ve ceased to make at least,
You will never fear the snow.
Whenever it fell, gentle fireflies at midnight or graceful dander in midday, you were unhappy.
It was cold, perhaps. Or maybe the way that miniature ice particles feel on paws. Chill, resilient.
Leaves in the autumn, I still have pictures. We would run and jump, colliding with one another.
I always felt like we were stars in the night sky, orbiting some massive black whole superstructure.
Like brothers, our gravity wound fields between, connecting and flaring our fires brighter.
Do you remember the bonfire in the lowland that summer so long ago? My friends found you beautiful.
I realized through their eyes again, just how much I loved you. Staying up all night with us.
When even we were not so sure that we were awake, or wanted to continue to dance. To burn.
Gin and tonic and the suspended disbelief of believing in something. In the dark.
I should be grateful; we ran together for so long. Even across vast distances, continents of memory.
The air rushing past, the wind with grass scented, the flowers a splash of color in the arms of galaxies.
When I ran beside you, I could feel the earth beneath my feet. And the teeth in my mouth.
I could sense the wholeness of my being in a sunset. And the bright red burning of yours. All a wash
In the glow and background radiation of existence. Of starlight.
My breath comes uneven when I think of it. Your heart stopped, the precious quarks and blood cells
Ceased. The red fire turns grey. Were we ever stars, rushing through galactic lacunae? Pouring our life
Into the world, to watch it flow down mysterious paths, photon torpedoes of running and inaction.
Were we ever more than specks of snow, ice and light crystallized? Into something that believed
Itself to be a burning fire. Only ice within. Did my light ever reach you?
If I am a star, I feel the darkness pulling me. Phantom galaxies approach and I do not move away. If
I am ice, I feel the world emptied of your momentary refraction of light. Your bittersweet. You used
to stay up all hours of the night, growling at my treachery for never going to bed. My guardian, my
friend. And then it became a game, snarling at the shadows of raccoons and nameless things. All
meaning will be emptied. Every field of snow must melt. Each star a singularity transform.
I remember goading you into snow ball fights, pushing you onto sleds. You would
always fall.
And I would play again. But you could not be alone in the white, as though it would
swallow you whole.
Now, the night is much less brighter, the day little more than dew. Perhaps,
whatever
Molecule you’ve become, whatever weight you’ve ceased to make at least,
You will never fear the snow.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Bindings and Bone Marrow
Preface: Don't read this if you're afraid of cheese. I will probably delete it soon cuz it's so cheesy, but I've been dealing with some shit lately that needed me to be fuzzyfeely.
My dad was in the hospital for a week and I didn't have time to cry about it. Not in a whole week. How fucked up is that? He's doing better now. It turns out that he had pneumonia, and that his lymphona is probably causing problems again. This after this summer, when he had a really bad, almost fatal, allergic reaction to his primary medication. You know, the pills keeping his tumors from developing, the ones that were not killing his immune system. Unlike the current treatment he's doing. Which leaves him achy, tired, and sorta sad most days, that some days makes his bones hurt because he has to regrow his bone marrow with pills.
I hate that I am not there with him. I hate that I am writing grant proposals and trying to write papers with theoretical BS because I have to tailor them to particular professors and classes. (For the record, I hate performance studies.) I hate that our medical system makes it difficult for him, that he feels unhuman in the hospital.
Why is it that we modern humans in American have no time to feel? To take care of our families? Why is it that these carcinogens remain in the environment when they are killing one in three of the people we each know in the Midwest? I know the answers. We're too busy. We have to keep in the rat race, keep making money. We have to take care of them by taking care of ourselves. You know what I think would take care of both me and my parents? How about jobs that actually matter, that have job security, that have healthcare, that are actually respectful of their employees? The deeper we get into information tech, the less we respect beings. Knowledge after all, is the be-all, end-all. Or more accurately, the commodity that is knowing stuff.
Or something. I'm testy, I know.
I do not think we should go through our lives without the connections that we each have made before. I do not think that friends should drift apart, as long as they continue to understand each other. I can meet up with so many people from so long ago and still have so much to say. Why drift? Because there's no time.
No time. No time. But there's so much time. We have infinity to live through, the dark masses of anti-matter at the core of our universe and not-so-subtly drifting through space slowly reaching for our tiny planet. We will be consumed, at our most basic molecular being. We will be destroyed. But there's so much time. Our planet is going through the pain of climate change. Of dying, bit by bit, and we seem unable to take action. But there's so much time.
There's each day. Each minute. Each hour. Each month. Each year. Each week. Why do we get trapped in the story that tells us that we cannot do anything about anything? Because it's a story. Which is why I'm in this situation. I need all this BS socio-cultural capital (like knowing what that word means) to reach across the distances, to try to help people understand that the story we tell ourselves everyday is one of millions. We are each living in alternate universes. That is why we drift. We each tell ourselves subtly different stories. And we could tell so many others. There could be so much more time.
But I'm trapped too. Trapped by my desire to have a job, to overcome the problems my father has faced. To not worry about finances. About insurance. About housing. About all the little shit that gets in the way but also makes up the world we live. Not trapped enough not to care, but trapped enough to not escape.
Or is it merely pragmatism? After all, next week is thanksgiving, and going to my parents right now would cause them more pain than not. (they spend so much time trying to make me happy when i visit that it would just be silly) Is it merely the world as it stands? Is it that we are each so small and unable to do anything?
I dunno. I don't know where I'm going with this. Maybe we're all bits of bone marrow in the body of the planet, and we are pushing and pulling, trying to grow and destroy all the other cells, all the plants, animals, and bacteria (according to some scientists, different microscopic organisms make up 2 of 3 main kinds of life, the other being everything else). Maybe we are an infection of reality, morphing it into something that it never was and never can be. Maybe the roots running beneath all this cement will find the air again someday, and we will all be turned to dust.
Or maybe we are each a molecule in this massive solar system, which is a molecule in the galaxy, which is only a molecule in the universe, which is only a molecule in the thing that is larger than that, which is only a molecule to something else, and so on. Maybe we are so small that what we do means nothing. Or maybe we are so small in this deep black void of space and antimatter that what we do is everything. Maybe the spirit that sparks our bodies to life is the reverse of the dark matter, is the anti to the centers of unviverses, is the other force. And our lives are just larger in a different way, in the hug from a friend, in the taste of a cherry in spicy curry, in the sensation of cool white snow on your skin. In the smile of someone you might love, in the taste of chocolate, in the memory of green grass growing beneath your bare feet. In the canoe my father made me once when I was small, in the look on his face when I do something awesome.
Maybe being able to tell my dad that I love him is a big thing. And all this shit I have to trudge through to do the things that I know are important is just the space dust rushing past, revealing my solar system to me as my life forms around the important parts. To reveal our place in the universe was always what I, what we, make of it.
My dad was in the hospital for a week and I didn't have time to cry about it. Not in a whole week. How fucked up is that? He's doing better now. It turns out that he had pneumonia, and that his lymphona is probably causing problems again. This after this summer, when he had a really bad, almost fatal, allergic reaction to his primary medication. You know, the pills keeping his tumors from developing, the ones that were not killing his immune system. Unlike the current treatment he's doing. Which leaves him achy, tired, and sorta sad most days, that some days makes his bones hurt because he has to regrow his bone marrow with pills.
I hate that I am not there with him. I hate that I am writing grant proposals and trying to write papers with theoretical BS because I have to tailor them to particular professors and classes. (For the record, I hate performance studies.) I hate that our medical system makes it difficult for him, that he feels unhuman in the hospital.
Why is it that we modern humans in American have no time to feel? To take care of our families? Why is it that these carcinogens remain in the environment when they are killing one in three of the people we each know in the Midwest? I know the answers. We're too busy. We have to keep in the rat race, keep making money. We have to take care of them by taking care of ourselves. You know what I think would take care of both me and my parents? How about jobs that actually matter, that have job security, that have healthcare, that are actually respectful of their employees? The deeper we get into information tech, the less we respect beings. Knowledge after all, is the be-all, end-all. Or more accurately, the commodity that is knowing stuff.
Or something. I'm testy, I know.
I do not think we should go through our lives without the connections that we each have made before. I do not think that friends should drift apart, as long as they continue to understand each other. I can meet up with so many people from so long ago and still have so much to say. Why drift? Because there's no time.
No time. No time. But there's so much time. We have infinity to live through, the dark masses of anti-matter at the core of our universe and not-so-subtly drifting through space slowly reaching for our tiny planet. We will be consumed, at our most basic molecular being. We will be destroyed. But there's so much time. Our planet is going through the pain of climate change. Of dying, bit by bit, and we seem unable to take action. But there's so much time.
There's each day. Each minute. Each hour. Each month. Each year. Each week. Why do we get trapped in the story that tells us that we cannot do anything about anything? Because it's a story. Which is why I'm in this situation. I need all this BS socio-cultural capital (like knowing what that word means) to reach across the distances, to try to help people understand that the story we tell ourselves everyday is one of millions. We are each living in alternate universes. That is why we drift. We each tell ourselves subtly different stories. And we could tell so many others. There could be so much more time.
But I'm trapped too. Trapped by my desire to have a job, to overcome the problems my father has faced. To not worry about finances. About insurance. About housing. About all the little shit that gets in the way but also makes up the world we live. Not trapped enough not to care, but trapped enough to not escape.
Or is it merely pragmatism? After all, next week is thanksgiving, and going to my parents right now would cause them more pain than not. (they spend so much time trying to make me happy when i visit that it would just be silly) Is it merely the world as it stands? Is it that we are each so small and unable to do anything?
I dunno. I don't know where I'm going with this. Maybe we're all bits of bone marrow in the body of the planet, and we are pushing and pulling, trying to grow and destroy all the other cells, all the plants, animals, and bacteria (according to some scientists, different microscopic organisms make up 2 of 3 main kinds of life, the other being everything else). Maybe we are an infection of reality, morphing it into something that it never was and never can be. Maybe the roots running beneath all this cement will find the air again someday, and we will all be turned to dust.
Or maybe we are each a molecule in this massive solar system, which is a molecule in the galaxy, which is only a molecule in the universe, which is only a molecule in the thing that is larger than that, which is only a molecule to something else, and so on. Maybe we are so small that what we do means nothing. Or maybe we are so small in this deep black void of space and antimatter that what we do is everything. Maybe the spirit that sparks our bodies to life is the reverse of the dark matter, is the anti to the centers of unviverses, is the other force. And our lives are just larger in a different way, in the hug from a friend, in the taste of a cherry in spicy curry, in the sensation of cool white snow on your skin. In the smile of someone you might love, in the taste of chocolate, in the memory of green grass growing beneath your bare feet. In the canoe my father made me once when I was small, in the look on his face when I do something awesome.
Maybe being able to tell my dad that I love him is a big thing. And all this shit I have to trudge through to do the things that I know are important is just the space dust rushing past, revealing my solar system to me as my life forms around the important parts. To reveal our place in the universe was always what I, what we, make of it.
Tuesday, November 03, 2009
This is a random poem. Also, weird.
I'd say we're through;
it's true that we never saw the leaves
fall. we built a cabin in the woods.
no trees. the dirt caked
mud upon our feet, mingled with our sweat,
left nothing clean. the world was
old. clean. it smelled of wintergreen and
river rushing over waterlogged cedar. the
smell of love. of stars that twinkle
above our roof unseen. at night
i wonder what made you come, what light.
it's true that we never heard the rain
rush. the wood was rotten before we got here.
the grubs and grackles were living here long
before our stars. our sweat and our feet. breath
mingles with the pine-soaked autumn wind. it chills
into a mist. i can see your soul, white hot and
strange. the burning crispness of nature, the stars
in the sky and earth. the earth is not balanced
on tortoises but on many-eyed black birds. shimmering
eyes poised to attack. love was our worm.
now that it's gone, i'd say we're through. it's true
we never heard the beams crack. thunder in the night.
we never felt the rain fall on our skin. still the sky
is open wide. no canopy of lights protects us. no haven
shall hold us. we are ourselves no more.
it's true that we never saw the leaves
fall. we built a cabin in the woods.
no trees. the dirt caked
mud upon our feet, mingled with our sweat,
left nothing clean. the world was
old. clean. it smelled of wintergreen and
river rushing over waterlogged cedar. the
smell of love. of stars that twinkle
above our roof unseen. at night
i wonder what made you come, what light.
it's true that we never heard the rain
rush. the wood was rotten before we got here.
the grubs and grackles were living here long
before our stars. our sweat and our feet. breath
mingles with the pine-soaked autumn wind. it chills
into a mist. i can see your soul, white hot and
strange. the burning crispness of nature, the stars
in the sky and earth. the earth is not balanced
on tortoises but on many-eyed black birds. shimmering
eyes poised to attack. love was our worm.
now that it's gone, i'd say we're through. it's true
we never heard the beams crack. thunder in the night.
we never felt the rain fall on our skin. still the sky
is open wide. no canopy of lights protects us. no haven
shall hold us. we are ourselves no more.
Saturday, October 03, 2009
Communication works better when there's no words.
I wish that everyone would speak very directly and bluntly about most things. But especially emotional states.
For instance, I am currently attracted to a person, and would really prefer going up to them and stating the following (as opposed to maintaining flirtation and friendliness over long periods, which leads to me being irritated):
"I am reasonably attracted to you and I get the sense that this is mutual. Let's go do something fun next week, potentially with some other friends to ensure a sense of 'if this sucks, we can still have fun,' and discover whether this attraction will lead to anything more than basic friendliness or potentially even disaster."
But unfortunately, social protocol makes this kind of directness impossible. In social interaction, people must exchange vapid greetings and stories that no one really wants to hear (well, only half the time) until the point at which the maximal amount of interaction has been reached. At which point, the conversation continues to the next level of intimacy (either more private stories or movement into a more private space where one can be more revealing of the self), or it ends. People break up or simply leave the circle to distribute sociality to other resources. This is to ensure a. satisfaction that one has talked to everyone and thus fulfilled social obligations, b. feel social in being social, c. avoid having put all your chickens in one basket (in case people turn out weird or just randomly leave town or die), and d. that no one and no conversation gets awkward.
Even worse, I am not comfortable at most parties. If I have a friend to talk to, I am fine, because I maintain my me-ness in the crowd since there is someone there that knows me and will leave if something goes awry. If not, I am performing a self that does not exist: smiling, awkward, social me trying to show everyone that he is cool but never wanting to reveal more than the superficial (tales of family members, accounts of various likes and dislikes, but never saying what I really want to say). Then, afterwards, I feel unfulfilled, pressured to hang out more and yet totally worn out and feeling entirely alienated since I am not like everyone else ( in that I prefer one-on-one or gatherings to parties).
For example, I spent my time at a party last night trying to become better friends with new people and gain more of a sense of belonging here, now that my best friend in town is gone and my other good friend is leaving. And instead, I felt like people were pitying, pretending that I was not strange, and humoring my stories, my changes of topic. Which is both a. a result of my not having common interests enough to really have fun with most people I know, and b. my overall social paranoia. Seriously, spending most of your time from 2 to 15 with your 5 close family members leads to social difficulties, or possibly just repeated blaming of social awkwardness on that experience.
The worst was that the person I feel attraction toward was there, but I only confirmed for myself that I am not entirely sure why I am attracted to them. Which I recognize is probably a further symptom of both a. falling hard for them despite a general lack of indication of interest, and b. my inability to not think, overthink, and bring rationality into emotional conflict.
But with direct communication, last night would have gone like so:
Me: "I am attracted to you...(see earlier comment)
Person: "Oh, let us go bowling or something and see if there is anything to this"
Me: "Okay, but is the potential benefits of this increased emotionality and general strengthening of ties between one another worth the likely and disastrous pain, anger, and other consequences that will inevitably result from increased intertwining of selves?"
Person: "Um, beer?" (hands bottle to me)
Me: "Got any mead? I need to get drunk, now, thank you, to prevent further consciousness of my continued awkwardness in your presence."
P: "Okay"
The sun will not go down.
For instance, I am currently attracted to a person, and would really prefer going up to them and stating the following (as opposed to maintaining flirtation and friendliness over long periods, which leads to me being irritated):
"I am reasonably attracted to you and I get the sense that this is mutual. Let's go do something fun next week, potentially with some other friends to ensure a sense of 'if this sucks, we can still have fun,' and discover whether this attraction will lead to anything more than basic friendliness or potentially even disaster."
But unfortunately, social protocol makes this kind of directness impossible. In social interaction, people must exchange vapid greetings and stories that no one really wants to hear (well, only half the time) until the point at which the maximal amount of interaction has been reached. At which point, the conversation continues to the next level of intimacy (either more private stories or movement into a more private space where one can be more revealing of the self), or it ends. People break up or simply leave the circle to distribute sociality to other resources. This is to ensure a. satisfaction that one has talked to everyone and thus fulfilled social obligations, b. feel social in being social, c. avoid having put all your chickens in one basket (in case people turn out weird or just randomly leave town or die), and d. that no one and no conversation gets awkward.
Even worse, I am not comfortable at most parties. If I have a friend to talk to, I am fine, because I maintain my me-ness in the crowd since there is someone there that knows me and will leave if something goes awry. If not, I am performing a self that does not exist: smiling, awkward, social me trying to show everyone that he is cool but never wanting to reveal more than the superficial (tales of family members, accounts of various likes and dislikes, but never saying what I really want to say). Then, afterwards, I feel unfulfilled, pressured to hang out more and yet totally worn out and feeling entirely alienated since I am not like everyone else ( in that I prefer one-on-one or gatherings to parties).
For example, I spent my time at a party last night trying to become better friends with new people and gain more of a sense of belonging here, now that my best friend in town is gone and my other good friend is leaving. And instead, I felt like people were pitying, pretending that I was not strange, and humoring my stories, my changes of topic. Which is both a. a result of my not having common interests enough to really have fun with most people I know, and b. my overall social paranoia. Seriously, spending most of your time from 2 to 15 with your 5 close family members leads to social difficulties, or possibly just repeated blaming of social awkwardness on that experience.
The worst was that the person I feel attraction toward was there, but I only confirmed for myself that I am not entirely sure why I am attracted to them. Which I recognize is probably a further symptom of both a. falling hard for them despite a general lack of indication of interest, and b. my inability to not think, overthink, and bring rationality into emotional conflict.
But with direct communication, last night would have gone like so:
Me: "I am attracted to you...(see earlier comment)
Person: "Oh, let us go bowling or something and see if there is anything to this"
Me: "Okay, but is the potential benefits of this increased emotionality and general strengthening of ties between one another worth the likely and disastrous pain, anger, and other consequences that will inevitably result from increased intertwining of selves?"
Person: "Um, beer?" (hands bottle to me)
Me: "Got any mead? I need to get drunk, now, thank you, to prevent further consciousness of my continued awkwardness in your presence."
P: "Okay"
The sun will not go down.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Get a life.
Why is it that I feel bad about staying in to watch TV and chill Friday night? I have been feeling severe pressure from invisible sources to stop hanging out at home on Friday nights. And it's pissing me off.
To be clear, I have never liked Friday nights. In high school, I avoided my friends and generally went to Ann Arbor with my dad or just hung out at home, often watching a video with my parents and then getting to bed after reading books or going for a hike. I did not like the pressure associated with it, and I still don't like the habits people think it requires.
Friday night. Let's go to the bar and talk a lot about the same things as always. Then, if people want to do stuff, be all crotchety and just keep b.s.-ing until it gets too late to do anything but laugh at stupid shit cuz you're so pissed-drunk. Or alternatively, go to a party and talk to people about nothing until a similar condition arises. It's like we all just want to run from reality, killing brain cells or silencing them long enough for the world around us to blur into our emotions and desire. That way, it's less painful.
But, "even in the darkness, all the colors can be found." All emotions are important, not just feeling good. I have spent a good share of Fridays just brooding over shit in cafes or in nature parks, letting my mind relax and restore itself in nature. I've also watched buckets of TV because it helps me excercise the fiction side of my mind. No bullshit, no feeling awkward in a large room full of people I don't even care enough to see through, no pretending that the alcohol blurs anything but chemicals in my mind.
I'd honestly rather be hiking in nature or reading a story than hanging out in bars/restuarants/clubs/etc. most nights, though from time to time, it is good to let reality blur. I guess the conclusion that I come to is this: everything in its own measure. Watch TV or read stories, go for hikes and enjoy nature, go to bars or parties and talk to friends, get shoe-gazey with yerself, but do it all in a balanced way. Or it gets out of balance and you're no longer connected to the world as it is, only as one might wish it were. So it's pissing me off that I cannot balance my own life without feeling bad about it, without thinking that I am uncool, without feeling as though I am making someone unhappy by not doing what they want.
Which just comes back to me needing not to try to make everyone happy. Duh. Knew that. Also, though, doing something different every chance you get to unwind is also essential to staying sane and connected with the flows of our vast ecosystem called Earth.
"I'm an animal. You're an animal, too."
To be clear, I have never liked Friday nights. In high school, I avoided my friends and generally went to Ann Arbor with my dad or just hung out at home, often watching a video with my parents and then getting to bed after reading books or going for a hike. I did not like the pressure associated with it, and I still don't like the habits people think it requires.
Friday night. Let's go to the bar and talk a lot about the same things as always. Then, if people want to do stuff, be all crotchety and just keep b.s.-ing until it gets too late to do anything but laugh at stupid shit cuz you're so pissed-drunk. Or alternatively, go to a party and talk to people about nothing until a similar condition arises. It's like we all just want to run from reality, killing brain cells or silencing them long enough for the world around us to blur into our emotions and desire. That way, it's less painful.
But, "even in the darkness, all the colors can be found." All emotions are important, not just feeling good. I have spent a good share of Fridays just brooding over shit in cafes or in nature parks, letting my mind relax and restore itself in nature. I've also watched buckets of TV because it helps me excercise the fiction side of my mind. No bullshit, no feeling awkward in a large room full of people I don't even care enough to see through, no pretending that the alcohol blurs anything but chemicals in my mind.
I'd honestly rather be hiking in nature or reading a story than hanging out in bars/restuarants/clubs/etc. most nights, though from time to time, it is good to let reality blur. I guess the conclusion that I come to is this: everything in its own measure. Watch TV or read stories, go for hikes and enjoy nature, go to bars or parties and talk to friends, get shoe-gazey with yerself, but do it all in a balanced way. Or it gets out of balance and you're no longer connected to the world as it is, only as one might wish it were. So it's pissing me off that I cannot balance my own life without feeling bad about it, without thinking that I am uncool, without feeling as though I am making someone unhappy by not doing what they want.
Which just comes back to me needing not to try to make everyone happy. Duh. Knew that. Also, though, doing something different every chance you get to unwind is also essential to staying sane and connected with the flows of our vast ecosystem called Earth.
"I'm an animal. You're an animal, too."
Monday, September 07, 2009
A Poem
You Can Take Me Anywhere
When I hold you in my mind, you are
in travel. Looking straight ahead, sometimes
fidgeting: two fingers squeezed round one nose, eyebrows
risen then not. Once or twice, you
turn to me, laugh and squint, like my words
cut through some silent barrier. The smell
of honeysuckle in spring time, sweet, seductive,
malevolent. Wind from in between
the underneath and above, or at least that space
not so far from one's heart. The skeleton
of interstate travel outside whatever window
we sit beside, I am calm. I could hold my
breath and lock my eyes shut, still walk down any street
without shouting, without Fall.
Yet the slumbering moments in my mind hold a dark temptation,
to fall into a night-time in-between
of losing and never lessened, of bones and
ribs and veins made of metal, of knowing, somehow
that tomorrow we will wake, and that today
will never come. With so many steps still past this tunnel
I think, in this lucid memory,
you are an exotic invasive to this self-system.
What blooms when the seeds of not-despair have spread?
When I hold you in my mind, you are
in travel. Looking straight ahead, sometimes
fidgeting: two fingers squeezed round one nose, eyebrows
risen then not. Once or twice, you
turn to me, laugh and squint, like my words
cut through some silent barrier. The smell
of honeysuckle in spring time, sweet, seductive,
malevolent. Wind from in between
the underneath and above, or at least that space
not so far from one's heart. The skeleton
of interstate travel outside whatever window
we sit beside, I am calm. I could hold my
breath and lock my eyes shut, still walk down any street
without shouting, without Fall.
Yet the slumbering moments in my mind hold a dark temptation,
to fall into a night-time in-between
of losing and never lessened, of bones and
ribs and veins made of metal, of knowing, somehow
that tomorrow we will wake, and that today
will never come. With so many steps still past this tunnel
I think, in this lucid memory,
you are an exotic invasive to this self-system.
What blooms when the seeds of not-despair have spread?
Sunday, September 06, 2009
I re-watched the film "The Invisible Circus" and it was good. This girl had a sister who died in Europe by jumping off a cliff. She was a beautiful, charismatic activist, so her sister goes to chase her down 7 years later (when she turns 19) and ends up falling for her ex. In the process, she gets to know herself and recognize that her sister was just a girl, lost and trying to find her way in the world. We are all just people trying to make things work.
And I asked myself, "who am I kidding?" Because not only am I just a guy trying to understand this world and make it better, like Robert Frost said, "having a lover's quarrel with the world" but I'm constantly supposed to make it look like that's not what I am. All these papers and classes and such are illusions, and the reality is that I'm terrified of falling off the bike that is living in this world, that one day I'll wake up in a coma (hah!) or lose everything in one go. I don't know why I'm studying India and I don't want to go there really, not that I wouldn't mind going somewhere (even anywhere), I don't really get this whole folklore thing, and academe, like most social structures, just creeps/pisses me off. I wish there were still ways to circumvent the system, like becoming a watchmaker or a baker's assistant or a tailor or something. Something where I could use my hands to create actual things, which, even if it didn't change the world, would help the world make much more sense for me. To have something to hold, to touch, to change, would just make more sense; I am very tactile and texture-focused.
So who am I fooling? Not me.
Everything we love fades away, yes, but when do we fight back?
And I asked myself, "who am I kidding?" Because not only am I just a guy trying to understand this world and make it better, like Robert Frost said, "having a lover's quarrel with the world" but I'm constantly supposed to make it look like that's not what I am. All these papers and classes and such are illusions, and the reality is that I'm terrified of falling off the bike that is living in this world, that one day I'll wake up in a coma (hah!) or lose everything in one go. I don't know why I'm studying India and I don't want to go there really, not that I wouldn't mind going somewhere (even anywhere), I don't really get this whole folklore thing, and academe, like most social structures, just creeps/pisses me off. I wish there were still ways to circumvent the system, like becoming a watchmaker or a baker's assistant or a tailor or something. Something where I could use my hands to create actual things, which, even if it didn't change the world, would help the world make much more sense for me. To have something to hold, to touch, to change, would just make more sense; I am very tactile and texture-focused.
So who am I fooling? Not me.
Everything we love fades away, yes, but when do we fight back?
Monday, August 31, 2009
Grant me this.
I am sitting in front of my computer and being almost on the verge of tears. But I'm not sure why I feel this wave of emotion.
I am working on this grant application, my first grant application, without any help from anyone. Until today, I had not even spoken with someone about it. I am simultaneously blocked as a writer and as a thinker. The thought of putting my plans and words down on paper is terrifying. What if I get it wrong? What if I get it right? Then, I think, I must actually finish this, which requires getting everything right in the end.
WHich I am no longer certain that I am capable of doing.
I have to defend myself and support myself and sell myself to these people I do not even know. And I am trying to get ready for a new semester. And deal with family problems (my dad is not doing great, though he is not doing terribly, both in terms of money and in terms of health. Meanwhile, my sister is moving and working insane hours). And accomplish ten to twenty other things. Wash the dishes. Send the check. Deliver the package. Cleanse my soul.
I have to sell myself and I cannot even defend myself from me, from these tiny criticisms.
"I'd wait somehow, if I thought this was something a little time would mend" - Sarah Harmer
I managed to eliminate this wave of terror from my life for a few hours this morning. Watching Dexter with my roommate, I was able to forget for a while how screwed I have made myself by being terrified into inaction. But this only terrifies me further into inaction. What if I continue to get it wrong? What if, by moving forward, everyone finds out that I am nothing, that I have learned nothing, that I know nothing?
And so I drink tea.
And think about the green of a field in spring.
And call people just to hear a voice that is not my own.
I want someone to tell me that I am smart. I have always wanted this. But even when people say the words, I do not believe them, not since I was a little kid and I could never win Jeopardy or Trivial Pursuit. I was once convinced of my overall inferiority and now I fear I will never be persuaded otherwise. Though I know that being smart, for me, would be to see a wide swath of the world and understand it, how it works at each level, without being overwhelmed by the vast huge-ness of it. To understand fully without losing sight of each person, each drop, and the miracle of each breath in our lungs.
I think that maybe I've gotten vaguely close to that, which is to say that I am less far than before. But I keep losing grasp of it. I have to find a way to explain what it is I plan to do though I know that what I plan to do will likely wash away in the face of what the world will lead me to do. And that is overwhelming, because I can imagine so many futures, but I cannot explain any of them, nor how they might all start from the same point(s). I can understand how the world works and what my plan consists of, but I cannot communicate it effectively. Like a robot expressing love.
To understand without being able to express hurts like permafrost in the face.
Gr, argh.
I am working on this grant application, my first grant application, without any help from anyone. Until today, I had not even spoken with someone about it. I am simultaneously blocked as a writer and as a thinker. The thought of putting my plans and words down on paper is terrifying. What if I get it wrong? What if I get it right? Then, I think, I must actually finish this, which requires getting everything right in the end.
WHich I am no longer certain that I am capable of doing.
I have to defend myself and support myself and sell myself to these people I do not even know. And I am trying to get ready for a new semester. And deal with family problems (my dad is not doing great, though he is not doing terribly, both in terms of money and in terms of health. Meanwhile, my sister is moving and working insane hours). And accomplish ten to twenty other things. Wash the dishes. Send the check. Deliver the package. Cleanse my soul.
I have to sell myself and I cannot even defend myself from me, from these tiny criticisms.
"I'd wait somehow, if I thought this was something a little time would mend" - Sarah Harmer
I managed to eliminate this wave of terror from my life for a few hours this morning. Watching Dexter with my roommate, I was able to forget for a while how screwed I have made myself by being terrified into inaction. But this only terrifies me further into inaction. What if I continue to get it wrong? What if, by moving forward, everyone finds out that I am nothing, that I have learned nothing, that I know nothing?
And so I drink tea.
And think about the green of a field in spring.
And call people just to hear a voice that is not my own.
I want someone to tell me that I am smart. I have always wanted this. But even when people say the words, I do not believe them, not since I was a little kid and I could never win Jeopardy or Trivial Pursuit. I was once convinced of my overall inferiority and now I fear I will never be persuaded otherwise. Though I know that being smart, for me, would be to see a wide swath of the world and understand it, how it works at each level, without being overwhelmed by the vast huge-ness of it. To understand fully without losing sight of each person, each drop, and the miracle of each breath in our lungs.
I think that maybe I've gotten vaguely close to that, which is to say that I am less far than before. But I keep losing grasp of it. I have to find a way to explain what it is I plan to do though I know that what I plan to do will likely wash away in the face of what the world will lead me to do. And that is overwhelming, because I can imagine so many futures, but I cannot explain any of them, nor how they might all start from the same point(s). I can understand how the world works and what my plan consists of, but I cannot communicate it effectively. Like a robot expressing love.
To understand without being able to express hurts like permafrost in the face.
Gr, argh.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Back-stabbing
I recently had a friend be a real ass to me. And I got upset because I never see it coming when people try to screw me over. This upsets me most because I do not trust people in the first place, so all that awful behavior does is push me farther from others and reaffirm my underlying assumptions about people's inherent jerk-ness.
But I remind myself, and others help, that this is one person, who maybe made some mistake, or maybe is an ass, but who does not stand in for the world. THey really, really don't.
I am sitting in a Madison cafe, listening to Amelie, Sufjan, Shins, and Radiohead play on the radio. I do not miss Soma. I do not miss home right now. I feel good, strong, and irritated by the notion that I have to be ready for class in 20 minutes. Irritated because this, here, now, feels good. Listening to music and reminding myself that I do not deserve to be treated like shit nor will most people I care about actually turn out not to be my friends.
A POEM:
TITLE: I am not so good at associating with you
People walk down city streets with their hair well-ordered and their shirts tucked
in.
Some have bright red hair, close to the orange of fire. I
Wish that I could be both of these, and understandingly brave
To boot. But here I sit, broken and hearted,
Isolated by inches of plate glass and several coffee shop tables.
Perhaps if I reached through the space that separates, our hands would touch, and
Miraculously, I would be understood. The man with orange hair and shimmery
Blue business might unbutton one white button of his shirt, might
Let down his elegant hair and give me some armor,
An equally shimmery shirt or more likely some kind words.
He speaks in my mind and all I can hear is static.
But I remind myself, and others help, that this is one person, who maybe made some mistake, or maybe is an ass, but who does not stand in for the world. THey really, really don't.
I am sitting in a Madison cafe, listening to Amelie, Sufjan, Shins, and Radiohead play on the radio. I do not miss Soma. I do not miss home right now. I feel good, strong, and irritated by the notion that I have to be ready for class in 20 minutes. Irritated because this, here, now, feels good. Listening to music and reminding myself that I do not deserve to be treated like shit nor will most people I care about actually turn out not to be my friends.
A POEM:
TITLE: I am not so good at associating with you
People walk down city streets with their hair well-ordered and their shirts tucked
in.
Some have bright red hair, close to the orange of fire. I
Wish that I could be both of these, and understandingly brave
To boot. But here I sit, broken and hearted,
Isolated by inches of plate glass and several coffee shop tables.
Perhaps if I reached through the space that separates, our hands would touch, and
Miraculously, I would be understood. The man with orange hair and shimmery
Blue business might unbutton one white button of his shirt, might
Let down his elegant hair and give me some armor,
An equally shimmery shirt or more likely some kind words.
He speaks in my mind and all I can hear is static.
Monday, May 18, 2009
Where did I go?
Upon returning to Michigan this summer, I had to have a surgery, which was pre-scheduled and all, to remove my gallbladder. It wasn't very painful, but I awoke after the fact terrified and I remember struggling with the sensation of not-knowing. Not understanding where I was. I think I may have hit someone; at the least, I remember thinking that I would do anything to get away from the pain in my side and the people touching me. The rest of that day is hazy. I was doped upon Vicadin and slept most of the day, hazily, happily, savoring the warmth of a freshly cleaned bed in my old bedroom.
After that day, though, I began to feel as out of place as I always do in the house I grew up in. There are pieces of me scattered throughout: a photograph of five year old me, bitter and mischeivious, a toy that I used to play with hidden under the couch for some reason, a box of old clothes, art lost on my father's desk, old homework, not to mention the buckets of nostalgia that fill my bedroom here. I know these people, these boys and men that I have been. I understand that they are what I have been, but I do not understand them. They are each foreign to me, like a skin that I have shed, something that I once loved but no longer need. Friends and enemies alike, I look into their eyes, but I do not relate.
Then, I began to have vivid dreams. First, I was dressed as Wolverine and holding a costume party, but I had real claws in my knuckles, and Apocalypse was really threatening to end the world. I was roommates with an old friend of mine, a beautiful, intelligent woman who I don't see very often now, and she told me to let go of my past and to make the people in my life now into people that I could love. My friends were at the party, and they were having fun, and I was happy. But my old friend's words and her sadness, they made me feel out of place. She disturbed me in this dream and for a moment, I considered giving in, and then I remembered that I am not the type of person to force things like that. I remembered that I had to stop Apocalypse and that my friend/roommate was probably under his sway. So we went into another room to start a new game while a thunderstorm brewed in the night outside.
The next night, I dreamt that I was running around a downtown European town, but I could not remember where. I was suddenly naked and realized quickly that this was a dream, so I tried to convince myself that I was not naked. (Someone recently commented that this probably had something to do with my recent surgery, and I think she was right.) But it did not work, so I convinced myself that there was a thrift store nearby, into which I wandered and found some random clothes. Then, a Russian character from a series of books turned movies walks in and tells me we have to hurry because the world is in danger. So he hands me a cowboy hat and goes to pay, while I try to figure out what he's talking about. At this point, I remember that we are saving the planet from destruction, so we rush to get into his car, only for us to arrive at my grade school reunion where I run into my friends SG and B, for soem strange reason, who save me from crowds of people I once knew but no longer care to know. Including several irritating teachers. We rushed out to B's car, where I almost got into the driver's seat. But I didn't, only to remember that I had Wolverine's claws. At which point, again, I remembered that I was dreaming, only to awaken.
Mostly, I just wanted to tell someone these dreams. But I also feel myself rushing through a series of identities lately, pouring over books and movies, trying to find someone that I can relate to. Someone that I can admire or look up to. I have never been able to find really strong role models, with a few exceptions. And lately, I don't know who I am trying to become, but I am terrified of becoming someone vapid, someone cruel, or someone soft. And I know that in a weird way, my mind is trying to remind me of a few things. That I am strong. That I am tough. That if I wanted to, I could get into the driver's seat, metaphorically, and take charge. But I keep deferring to others.
Top that metaphor off with the fact that my dad's health seems to be getting worse, and my parents want to buy me an electric or alternative car of some kind, and I guess it's time to get in the driver's seat, metaphorically and for real.
What happens when the rains come?
After that day, though, I began to feel as out of place as I always do in the house I grew up in. There are pieces of me scattered throughout: a photograph of five year old me, bitter and mischeivious, a toy that I used to play with hidden under the couch for some reason, a box of old clothes, art lost on my father's desk, old homework, not to mention the buckets of nostalgia that fill my bedroom here. I know these people, these boys and men that I have been. I understand that they are what I have been, but I do not understand them. They are each foreign to me, like a skin that I have shed, something that I once loved but no longer need. Friends and enemies alike, I look into their eyes, but I do not relate.
Then, I began to have vivid dreams. First, I was dressed as Wolverine and holding a costume party, but I had real claws in my knuckles, and Apocalypse was really threatening to end the world. I was roommates with an old friend of mine, a beautiful, intelligent woman who I don't see very often now, and she told me to let go of my past and to make the people in my life now into people that I could love. My friends were at the party, and they were having fun, and I was happy. But my old friend's words and her sadness, they made me feel out of place. She disturbed me in this dream and for a moment, I considered giving in, and then I remembered that I am not the type of person to force things like that. I remembered that I had to stop Apocalypse and that my friend/roommate was probably under his sway. So we went into another room to start a new game while a thunderstorm brewed in the night outside.
The next night, I dreamt that I was running around a downtown European town, but I could not remember where. I was suddenly naked and realized quickly that this was a dream, so I tried to convince myself that I was not naked. (Someone recently commented that this probably had something to do with my recent surgery, and I think she was right.) But it did not work, so I convinced myself that there was a thrift store nearby, into which I wandered and found some random clothes. Then, a Russian character from a series of books turned movies walks in and tells me we have to hurry because the world is in danger. So he hands me a cowboy hat and goes to pay, while I try to figure out what he's talking about. At this point, I remember that we are saving the planet from destruction, so we rush to get into his car, only for us to arrive at my grade school reunion where I run into my friends SG and B, for soem strange reason, who save me from crowds of people I once knew but no longer care to know. Including several irritating teachers. We rushed out to B's car, where I almost got into the driver's seat. But I didn't, only to remember that I had Wolverine's claws. At which point, again, I remembered that I was dreaming, only to awaken.
Mostly, I just wanted to tell someone these dreams. But I also feel myself rushing through a series of identities lately, pouring over books and movies, trying to find someone that I can relate to. Someone that I can admire or look up to. I have never been able to find really strong role models, with a few exceptions. And lately, I don't know who I am trying to become, but I am terrified of becoming someone vapid, someone cruel, or someone soft. And I know that in a weird way, my mind is trying to remind me of a few things. That I am strong. That I am tough. That if I wanted to, I could get into the driver's seat, metaphorically, and take charge. But I keep deferring to others.
Top that metaphor off with the fact that my dad's health seems to be getting worse, and my parents want to buy me an electric or alternative car of some kind, and I guess it's time to get in the driver's seat, metaphorically and for real.
What happens when the rains come?
Sunday, May 03, 2009
101: sorting through my thoughts again
Last night, while watching the new Wolverine film, I felt the weight of some incredible sadness. I don't know why.
Such a thing has happened a few other times in my life.
1. When I was in high school, I was watching a Halloween episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer where Xander, the comedic relief, friendly guy, felt invisible, and this feeling became manifest by a fear demon. His friends eventually reached out to him and all was well. I cried after watching this, and for an hour, I could not figure out why the fuck I would feel that touched by that particular plot. And then it hit me, I felt invisible in my own life. But no one was reaching out to me.
I wanted more than anything to be able to find comfort in friends or family, but I felt so distanced from them that I could not connect. And watching someone else go through the same thing, but with friends who were strong and aware enough to reach out, it hit me like a pound of bricks. Because I wanted more than anything to be living that character's life.
2. When I was in undergrad, I experimented with lucid dreaming during my worst year ever, when I lived with crazy roommate #1 in my sophomore year. I would constantly push my dreams so that I was living different people's lives, being Xander or Wolverine or anyone but me. It was a weird time and I was really disconnected from everyone around me because I became a bit possessed of trying to escape my life. I learned pretty quickly that lucid dreaming is fun, but no replacement for a social life. Still, I spent many an evening sad and mopey because I felt more connected to fictional characters than to my friend and family. I got over that, thank gods.
3. When I was watching a series of TV shows on end during my first year of graduate school, I had a bad night where I was both sick, really hot (because I was feverish in the summertime), depressed (from a year of feeling pretty much useless) and really mopey (because I did not have any friends in town). I ended up having a series of feverish dreams where I chased Veronica Mars and the kids from Roswell the tv show around several places, until finally I caught up to Veronica and we tried to solve some mystery. I woke up and watching some tv, then got real sad because again, I felt more connected to fiction than reality. I decided to leave the house, despite being sick and on vacation, and spent a few hours sitting by a field of grass reading a book of poetry about nature. That helped, but I had to avoid watching TV for a while, to keep myself from feeling that void where people should be.
4. I am sure there are other times I'm not remembering. But last night, I felt that same sadness, where I could understand the character in this film better than the people in my life, and I could not quite understand why. Why this character? Why this movie? Why did I feel this emptiness here and now?
And I realized it was because I wanted to be sitting there, with my sister Sara, because we grew up reading comics together, because we both liked Wolverine and knew the story and would be able to talk for hours about it. Because we would have gotten ice cream and lottery tickets and Vernor's gingerale. Because there are only a few people on this planet who understand me quite well, and I wanted very much to be with them, for this, to hear this story and understand that it was much more than what was on the screen.
In that moment, I kinda understood that all the other times had been the same. That it wasn't the story exactly, that it was me feeling through these characters, touching some vast emptiness between myself and those around me. I could taste the distance between myself and my sister, between myself and my friends sitting beside me. I could hear the sound of that silence, and I almost wanted it to swallow me whole. That's what I'd felt before. Not the lack of friends, but the emptiness of not-quite-reaching the other person(s). Not quite knowing one another well.
So afterwards, when they didn't like the film, it kinda hurt. But it was a hurt I understood and covered up, tried to avoid. And I remembered that a specific song had been in my head all week. "I've lost my way; that's what she said, 'back to the 101." I think I got so caught up with having friends and being social this semester, that I never connected dot to dot, never let myself be fully myself around these people. I worry that we're all strangers and that it's a dance I'll never know the steps to, never get quite right. I suppose everyone wonders that.
So I connect the dots: I lost my way, I got too caught up in having people around to think about who I was around them. Back to the 101, start to start over: be myself because this other person, the one so surface-y that a film can cut right through him, he is not who I want to be. Time to be myself because there's no one else.
I am not thinking of you.
Such a thing has happened a few other times in my life.
1. When I was in high school, I was watching a Halloween episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer where Xander, the comedic relief, friendly guy, felt invisible, and this feeling became manifest by a fear demon. His friends eventually reached out to him and all was well. I cried after watching this, and for an hour, I could not figure out why the fuck I would feel that touched by that particular plot. And then it hit me, I felt invisible in my own life. But no one was reaching out to me.
I wanted more than anything to be able to find comfort in friends or family, but I felt so distanced from them that I could not connect. And watching someone else go through the same thing, but with friends who were strong and aware enough to reach out, it hit me like a pound of bricks. Because I wanted more than anything to be living that character's life.
2. When I was in undergrad, I experimented with lucid dreaming during my worst year ever, when I lived with crazy roommate #1 in my sophomore year. I would constantly push my dreams so that I was living different people's lives, being Xander or Wolverine or anyone but me. It was a weird time and I was really disconnected from everyone around me because I became a bit possessed of trying to escape my life. I learned pretty quickly that lucid dreaming is fun, but no replacement for a social life. Still, I spent many an evening sad and mopey because I felt more connected to fictional characters than to my friend and family. I got over that, thank gods.
3. When I was watching a series of TV shows on end during my first year of graduate school, I had a bad night where I was both sick, really hot (because I was feverish in the summertime), depressed (from a year of feeling pretty much useless) and really mopey (because I did not have any friends in town). I ended up having a series of feverish dreams where I chased Veronica Mars and the kids from Roswell the tv show around several places, until finally I caught up to Veronica and we tried to solve some mystery. I woke up and watching some tv, then got real sad because again, I felt more connected to fiction than reality. I decided to leave the house, despite being sick and on vacation, and spent a few hours sitting by a field of grass reading a book of poetry about nature. That helped, but I had to avoid watching TV for a while, to keep myself from feeling that void where people should be.
4. I am sure there are other times I'm not remembering. But last night, I felt that same sadness, where I could understand the character in this film better than the people in my life, and I could not quite understand why. Why this character? Why this movie? Why did I feel this emptiness here and now?
And I realized it was because I wanted to be sitting there, with my sister Sara, because we grew up reading comics together, because we both liked Wolverine and knew the story and would be able to talk for hours about it. Because we would have gotten ice cream and lottery tickets and Vernor's gingerale. Because there are only a few people on this planet who understand me quite well, and I wanted very much to be with them, for this, to hear this story and understand that it was much more than what was on the screen.
In that moment, I kinda understood that all the other times had been the same. That it wasn't the story exactly, that it was me feeling through these characters, touching some vast emptiness between myself and those around me. I could taste the distance between myself and my sister, between myself and my friends sitting beside me. I could hear the sound of that silence, and I almost wanted it to swallow me whole. That's what I'd felt before. Not the lack of friends, but the emptiness of not-quite-reaching the other person(s). Not quite knowing one another well.
So afterwards, when they didn't like the film, it kinda hurt. But it was a hurt I understood and covered up, tried to avoid. And I remembered that a specific song had been in my head all week. "I've lost my way; that's what she said, 'back to the 101." I think I got so caught up with having friends and being social this semester, that I never connected dot to dot, never let myself be fully myself around these people. I worry that we're all strangers and that it's a dance I'll never know the steps to, never get quite right. I suppose everyone wonders that.
So I connect the dots: I lost my way, I got too caught up in having people around to think about who I was around them. Back to the 101, start to start over: be myself because this other person, the one so surface-y that a film can cut right through him, he is not who I want to be. Time to be myself because there's no one else.
I am not thinking of you.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
The Sidewinder Sleeps This Night
I spend most of my time trying to make things feel meaningful, probably like most people. I've planted vegetables in pots that I'm keeping on the front porch, and some evenings, when I have time to breathe, I sit on the porch swing and listen to the same bird who sits on the neighbor's rain gutter and calls for his mate. When she comes, she brings the sunset. I keep remembering, though, that I'll be in Madison this summer. Who will water my plants?
It often seems like life is a series of mis-steps that never lead anywhere. We are dancing with the mountains and the rivers and the winds that blow. And we barely even notice. I don't know that anything will ever stay besides the sense that nothing stays, not even the Earth's rotation around the sun. Not even our sun.
And this afternoon, between rushing from one thing to the next, I felt something. I looked up at the sky, bubbling with storm clouds that only drizzled water, rumbling with the sun slowly falling down the blue. It felt like the world was a massive lens, seeing through me, and I was only a speck of dust in that great eye. But then I felt my feet, and my footing, and the knowing that I had to be someplace. So I moved on.
I got home today and had some quiet. Then I made some noise. Remembering that, though everything falls apart, the temporary-ness is what makes words, phrases, voices, people, places, and lives.
"This here is the place I will be staying.
There isn't a number. you can call the pay phone.
Let it ring a long, long, long, long time.
If I don't pick up, hang up, call back, let it ring some more.
If I don't pick up, pick up... the sidewinder sleeps, sleeps, sleeps in a coil
Call me when you try to wake her up. call me when you try to wake her."
R.E.M. - The Sidewinder Sleeps Tonight
Listening to Automatic for the People makes me feel solid.
It often seems like life is a series of mis-steps that never lead anywhere. We are dancing with the mountains and the rivers and the winds that blow. And we barely even notice. I don't know that anything will ever stay besides the sense that nothing stays, not even the Earth's rotation around the sun. Not even our sun.
And this afternoon, between rushing from one thing to the next, I felt something. I looked up at the sky, bubbling with storm clouds that only drizzled water, rumbling with the sun slowly falling down the blue. It felt like the world was a massive lens, seeing through me, and I was only a speck of dust in that great eye. But then I felt my feet, and my footing, and the knowing that I had to be someplace. So I moved on.
I got home today and had some quiet. Then I made some noise. Remembering that, though everything falls apart, the temporary-ness is what makes words, phrases, voices, people, places, and lives.
"This here is the place I will be staying.
There isn't a number. you can call the pay phone.
Let it ring a long, long, long, long time.
If I don't pick up, hang up, call back, let it ring some more.
If I don't pick up, pick up... the sidewinder sleeps, sleeps, sleeps in a coil
Call me when you try to wake her up. call me when you try to wake her."
R.E.M. - The Sidewinder Sleeps Tonight
Listening to Automatic for the People makes me feel solid.
Friday, April 17, 2009
Am I Blue? Yep.
My uncle Mike died this morning from terminal cancer.
The Collapse of the Universe
When I was a child, lost
and numbed by holiday gatherings,
aunt agnes on the comfy couch, shouting,
I sought you out.
In the context of an arid field, my love
for you would be seeds and rain,
yo the unperturbed soil, grain
for grain mysterious and unknown.
your jokes a weightless break, a mist,
shattered the shadowy nighttime world
of my mother's family, gathered.
Gathering clouds threatened.
A car crash. A war. A brother without
a sense of stopping. Not my troubles, but
your own. A history I never knew.
You, an uncle, a friend. I wanted
to be like when I was smaller, my own
field yet wont to bloom, unable to know
itself without rooting through someone else.
And now, later in the seasons, the Earth
having turned its face away and
back again, my own life a mirror formed
of sand, always changing, ever fading.
A phone call and an email later. You
are gone. Clumsy words and clumsy letters. The dance
of grieving, of sowing seeds. We mourn
for ourselves because the land is gone.
And I am a farmer, by blood not
by right. My rough hands counting seeds and raindrop
flights. One for sorrow. Two for joy. Three
for you and me. Uncle and nephew,
the lost and the waiting to become, and
all the soil we've ever tasted, ever wasted
is stardust. We and all of the brilliant things
originally formed in the center of stars are
long division, slowly decaying into memory
and other intangible particles. Bits, bones, teeth,
and sinews, pearls and fingers and seeds, all these grains
we've been and come to be, even soil subdivides.
Standing in the kitchen of my grandma's house, watching
silently and waiting to be someone larger, someone
smarter, you looked me in the eye, you looked
and saw me as I was. A seedling rooted in the air.
The Collapse of the Universe
When I was a child, lost
and numbed by holiday gatherings,
aunt agnes on the comfy couch, shouting,
I sought you out.
In the context of an arid field, my love
for you would be seeds and rain,
yo the unperturbed soil, grain
for grain mysterious and unknown.
your jokes a weightless break, a mist,
shattered the shadowy nighttime world
of my mother's family, gathered.
Gathering clouds threatened.
A car crash. A war. A brother without
a sense of stopping. Not my troubles, but
your own. A history I never knew.
You, an uncle, a friend. I wanted
to be like when I was smaller, my own
field yet wont to bloom, unable to know
itself without rooting through someone else.
And now, later in the seasons, the Earth
having turned its face away and
back again, my own life a mirror formed
of sand, always changing, ever fading.
A phone call and an email later. You
are gone. Clumsy words and clumsy letters. The dance
of grieving, of sowing seeds. We mourn
for ourselves because the land is gone.
And I am a farmer, by blood not
by right. My rough hands counting seeds and raindrop
flights. One for sorrow. Two for joy. Three
for you and me. Uncle and nephew,
the lost and the waiting to become, and
all the soil we've ever tasted, ever wasted
is stardust. We and all of the brilliant things
originally formed in the center of stars are
long division, slowly decaying into memory
and other intangible particles. Bits, bones, teeth,
and sinews, pearls and fingers and seeds, all these grains
we've been and come to be, even soil subdivides.
Standing in the kitchen of my grandma's house, watching
silently and waiting to be someone larger, someone
smarter, you looked me in the eye, you looked
and saw me as I was. A seedling rooted in the air.
Monday, April 13, 2009
Sunday, April 05, 2009
web of lies: a temporary post
i feel like that guy in films...
the one that is friendly and talented, but somehow is unable to be fully there, unable to fully connect with the people or places around him
the awesome in absentia, who shows promise, potential to be cool, but who remains outside of his own life...alienated and alienating
(Stuff was here; now it is not)
i do wonder that so much of social interaction is an empty dance through weekend evenings, where secrets are revealed, gossip exchanged, opinions parried about. that so few really think about or reflect on these dances, so few contemplate the steps as they're made. much less realize the consequences. much less recognize the dancers, the people standing or sitting all around us. the broken beauty of almost-being ourselves. i wonder that we humans spend so much time pretending to be not-fragile when we are incredibly delicate. that harsh words can cut so deep. that i haven't learned yet when to hold myself in. and when to let go.
I cannot let go.
I'm a liar; I let you in.
the one that is friendly and talented, but somehow is unable to be fully there, unable to fully connect with the people or places around him
the awesome in absentia, who shows promise, potential to be cool, but who remains outside of his own life...alienated and alienating
(Stuff was here; now it is not)
i do wonder that so much of social interaction is an empty dance through weekend evenings, where secrets are revealed, gossip exchanged, opinions parried about. that so few really think about or reflect on these dances, so few contemplate the steps as they're made. much less realize the consequences. much less recognize the dancers, the people standing or sitting all around us. the broken beauty of almost-being ourselves. i wonder that we humans spend so much time pretending to be not-fragile when we are incredibly delicate. that harsh words can cut so deep. that i haven't learned yet when to hold myself in. and when to let go.
I cannot let go.
I'm a liar; I let you in.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Escape Velocity
Run fast enough and the world falls away. A lost
thought in between dreams and alarms turned to snooze.
A San Andreas fault in reality, but
I've watched the sands of my life falling through an hourglass
then turn back, a gravity and plate tectonic miracle.
The push and pull of taking action and receiving
no reaction; the land does not fade at the horizon
of each moment. I breathe and continue to exist.
So I'm rushing through the atmosphere, letting
the hourglass fall, forgetting time
and space. Gravity won't get my messages; maybe
I never called at all, never wrote a jot. Leave earth
to itself and its quaking tensions; was it a 2.1, an 8?
I'll never know, I'm in outer space.
Built a rocket and a shuttle. Used words and dreams and meta-
phors to fit the moldings, to mold a hinge. A door
into possibility is no door at all. Run fast enough
and the Earth falls away, her blue and green eye
sparkling in the black. The moon a mote of sand.
But it's not enough. Run fast enough and it's not
the correct application of pressure to the cornea, not
the right electric signal to the myocardium. Push
and pull, but the gravitational field of self
won't bend. I am alone in my house on a saturday morning,
listening to my heart beat. 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, and again.
Run fast enough, but I just got out of bed. I walk
into the kitchen, hold the hourglass; walk into the study, spin
the globe to find a future. Australia seems nice enough. But
my mind walks ahead, into the moment in the shower where
I cry because I'm missing. I turn my head to hear the sound.
The time it takes to leave the house and find myself again
is no velocity, but the speed of the sound
that rises over the songs of birds in the trees outside. If
I listen hard enough, the world falls away.
thought in between dreams and alarms turned to snooze.
A San Andreas fault in reality, but
I've watched the sands of my life falling through an hourglass
then turn back, a gravity and plate tectonic miracle.
The push and pull of taking action and receiving
no reaction; the land does not fade at the horizon
of each moment. I breathe and continue to exist.
So I'm rushing through the atmosphere, letting
the hourglass fall, forgetting time
and space. Gravity won't get my messages; maybe
I never called at all, never wrote a jot. Leave earth
to itself and its quaking tensions; was it a 2.1, an 8?
I'll never know, I'm in outer space.
Built a rocket and a shuttle. Used words and dreams and meta-
phors to fit the moldings, to mold a hinge. A door
into possibility is no door at all. Run fast enough
and the Earth falls away, her blue and green eye
sparkling in the black. The moon a mote of sand.
But it's not enough. Run fast enough and it's not
the correct application of pressure to the cornea, not
the right electric signal to the myocardium. Push
and pull, but the gravitational field of self
won't bend. I am alone in my house on a saturday morning,
listening to my heart beat. 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, and again.
Run fast enough, but I just got out of bed. I walk
into the kitchen, hold the hourglass; walk into the study, spin
the globe to find a future. Australia seems nice enough. But
my mind walks ahead, into the moment in the shower where
I cry because I'm missing. I turn my head to hear the sound.
The time it takes to leave the house and find myself again
is no velocity, but the speed of the sound
that rises over the songs of birds in the trees outside. If
I listen hard enough, the world falls away.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
chicadee in the airport
i walk out the gate, having landed safely. i call you on my phone and you answer. so reliable. i come down the escalator, sad that the stairs are blocked, and i cannot enter wildly, joyful. we hug and i know this is something that is important. i smile and see the same strange lightness that i feel in your expression, hear it in your voice. we leave the airport and listen to punk rock.
we stand on a mountain in the sky. inland empire, inbound lane. we sit on the warmth of your green car and i feel the steel beneath me, the warmth of you shivering beside me. i know you want to go, but i can see the stars. i can see the stars. i feel hope and firey enthusiasm to be breathing, to be here now. i can see the stars, and then we're in the car, leaving.
we are lying on the couch watching movies. we are wandering in a garden store, searching for plants. i want to leave you a garden to remember me by. to visit when you smoke, when you take the dog out, when you need to feel loved. we are sleeping in, and i am in love with the spare bed because it is twice the size of my bed at home, and it is spare. i am only a guest but i feel as large as life here. at home, i am only one of many, lost in the crowd.
we see a movie, we eat meals. i remember the warm conversations, i remember searching for thrift stores rabidly, as though i needed to buy souvenirs to stay breathing. we eat frozen yogurt at ridiculous hours; i always get fruit, sometimes with cookies. my favorite part is the meals where i make you food. i never realized that i love to cook for others, but only when they don't ask. i give with joyfulness, but only when it's unheeded.
i can't recount everything. memory bleeds and i see gray sweatshirted young men in the airport, traveling in gaggles of testosterone. opposite gender, just as jerseyed, sitting on the floor or in the plane. talking loudly, no sense of self, only a sense of selfish need. i see the bird in the airport for a moment; i want to get a blended coffee drink but i have to repack my luggage. i almost cry and then it is there.
it doesn't sing, doesn't look at anything. just sits on a ledge, sings a note, and flies on.
it was a song, this week. a song that will resonate in my head for months, for years. i have to remember what i said, to myself as i lay awake the nights when i thought, when i remembered, who i am in this place that i call my home. life is what you make of it. and i will make into a song.
what you got? i got my little black dog
we stand on a mountain in the sky. inland empire, inbound lane. we sit on the warmth of your green car and i feel the steel beneath me, the warmth of you shivering beside me. i know you want to go, but i can see the stars. i can see the stars. i feel hope and firey enthusiasm to be breathing, to be here now. i can see the stars, and then we're in the car, leaving.
we are lying on the couch watching movies. we are wandering in a garden store, searching for plants. i want to leave you a garden to remember me by. to visit when you smoke, when you take the dog out, when you need to feel loved. we are sleeping in, and i am in love with the spare bed because it is twice the size of my bed at home, and it is spare. i am only a guest but i feel as large as life here. at home, i am only one of many, lost in the crowd.
we see a movie, we eat meals. i remember the warm conversations, i remember searching for thrift stores rabidly, as though i needed to buy souvenirs to stay breathing. we eat frozen yogurt at ridiculous hours; i always get fruit, sometimes with cookies. my favorite part is the meals where i make you food. i never realized that i love to cook for others, but only when they don't ask. i give with joyfulness, but only when it's unheeded.
i can't recount everything. memory bleeds and i see gray sweatshirted young men in the airport, traveling in gaggles of testosterone. opposite gender, just as jerseyed, sitting on the floor or in the plane. talking loudly, no sense of self, only a sense of selfish need. i see the bird in the airport for a moment; i want to get a blended coffee drink but i have to repack my luggage. i almost cry and then it is there.
it doesn't sing, doesn't look at anything. just sits on a ledge, sings a note, and flies on.
it was a song, this week. a song that will resonate in my head for months, for years. i have to remember what i said, to myself as i lay awake the nights when i thought, when i remembered, who i am in this place that i call my home. life is what you make of it. and i will make into a song.
what you got? i got my little black dog
Thursday, March 05, 2009
We are all made of stars colliding
We are all moving so fast, so far away from one another.
This hit me today. I began the day trying to do 2 hours of work in one, skipping a class, and then colliding with a class that is trouble, precisely becuase they know they're smart. They're so smart, though, they don't know that they do not know everything; thus the problem. We dealt with things, and I moved on to more ridiculous amounts of work followed by class and then, a glorious break via food and a movie with friends. Only I had a headache and followed the movie up with a two hour nap with a heating pad on my face.
And when I woke up, my mind was clear for the first time in ages. I could remember waking up to my parents, my siblings, to various roommates. I very clearly tasted evenings that are long gone, moments of joy impossible to quanitify (root beer in iced mugs with bare feet and a summer sunset, fighting over movies with sisters, a friendly smile). And I longed to feel connected again, to my family, to my friends, or to anything more than this room with its collage of troubles and dreams. This room that I fill with my life to prevent it all from slipping away somehow.
We go through each day, just trying to get by. We promise ourselves that we'll buckle down, we'll fix things, we'll get everything done in time, albeit without the bows and silver lining. And while we're busying ourselves, the life we mean to lead drifts away: talking in cafes with people you love, having vivid conversations with strangers, meeting and getting to know each other, finding and working for what you believe, discovering something simple and beautiful, tasting the day passing by. We are all so isolated, in our lives with our days mapped out like accountant's records. But we are each a chemical process that cannot be stopped: the division of cells or the cohesion of gas into stars. We are always becoming. I am always becoming. And I cannot hold these webs of being back; I cannot stop living my life no matter how hard I try.
These are the ones you love.
This hit me today. I began the day trying to do 2 hours of work in one, skipping a class, and then colliding with a class that is trouble, precisely becuase they know they're smart. They're so smart, though, they don't know that they do not know everything; thus the problem. We dealt with things, and I moved on to more ridiculous amounts of work followed by class and then, a glorious break via food and a movie with friends. Only I had a headache and followed the movie up with a two hour nap with a heating pad on my face.
And when I woke up, my mind was clear for the first time in ages. I could remember waking up to my parents, my siblings, to various roommates. I very clearly tasted evenings that are long gone, moments of joy impossible to quanitify (root beer in iced mugs with bare feet and a summer sunset, fighting over movies with sisters, a friendly smile). And I longed to feel connected again, to my family, to my friends, or to anything more than this room with its collage of troubles and dreams. This room that I fill with my life to prevent it all from slipping away somehow.
We go through each day, just trying to get by. We promise ourselves that we'll buckle down, we'll fix things, we'll get everything done in time, albeit without the bows and silver lining. And while we're busying ourselves, the life we mean to lead drifts away: talking in cafes with people you love, having vivid conversations with strangers, meeting and getting to know each other, finding and working for what you believe, discovering something simple and beautiful, tasting the day passing by. We are all so isolated, in our lives with our days mapped out like accountant's records. But we are each a chemical process that cannot be stopped: the division of cells or the cohesion of gas into stars. We are always becoming. I am always becoming. And I cannot hold these webs of being back; I cannot stop living my life no matter how hard I try.
These are the ones you love.
Monday, February 23, 2009
mini-golf me!
Last summer, when I was in leelanau with ml and my dad, we woke up on our second day there, and we went swimming in Lake Michigan. After showering, we began the drive home, and I was sad because we had not done much of much amazing fun-ness on our trip, beyond simply catching a sunset and eating some tasty food.
I noticed a mini-golf place that ml said we'd gone to when we were younger, and I begged them to go. My dad, despite needing to get home, decided that we needed to play mini-golf, and so we did. We played 18 holes involving stupid pirates, water traps, several almost-lost golf balls in waterfalls that stank of chlorine. We played another 18, and then I was almost giddy with the mindless joy of it, though I was losing. At the end, I was sad to leave, sad to say goodbye to summer, to let another birthday-roadtrip go by. So Ml decided that we should get ice cream.
We went to the ice cream place attached to the golf place, and we had ridiculous dairy-ness. I don't even remember it, but it tasted like childhood and tennis in the summertime and random roadtrips in august when the air is thick, resistant. The whole few hours felt like an entire day of reminiscing, of feeling somehow more real than normal. After ice cream, we headed home, and I think I remember falling asleep beneath the sky, in the back of the car, with my ice cream and caramel mostly eaten.
It was perfect. And I am thinking of it now, longingly, thinking that maybe we can do it all over again this summer: me, my dad, my sister. I am thinking that no matter how many times I fall down and feel shitty (metaphorically), there is always one of those moments where the minutes pass like rain, illuminating the valley and waking me up to my own numbness.
THIS IS A PICTURE OF US GOLFING.
THIS IS A PICTURE OF US GOLFING
THIS IS A PICTURE OF US GOLFING.
THIS IS A PICTURE OF US GOLFING
THIS IS A PICTURE OF US GOLFING.
THIS IS A PICTURE OF US GOLFING
THIS IS A PICTURE OF US GOLFING.
THIS IS A PICTURE OF US GOLFING
THIS IS A PICTURE OF US GOLFING.
THIS IS A PICTURE OF US GOLFING
THIS IS A PICTURE OF US GOLFING.
THIS IS A PICTURE OF US GOLFING
THIS IS A PICTURE OF US GOLFING.
When you've run out of pictures, use words.
I noticed a mini-golf place that ml said we'd gone to when we were younger, and I begged them to go. My dad, despite needing to get home, decided that we needed to play mini-golf, and so we did. We played 18 holes involving stupid pirates, water traps, several almost-lost golf balls in waterfalls that stank of chlorine. We played another 18, and then I was almost giddy with the mindless joy of it, though I was losing. At the end, I was sad to leave, sad to say goodbye to summer, to let another birthday-roadtrip go by. So Ml decided that we should get ice cream.
We went to the ice cream place attached to the golf place, and we had ridiculous dairy-ness. I don't even remember it, but it tasted like childhood and tennis in the summertime and random roadtrips in august when the air is thick, resistant. The whole few hours felt like an entire day of reminiscing, of feeling somehow more real than normal. After ice cream, we headed home, and I think I remember falling asleep beneath the sky, in the back of the car, with my ice cream and caramel mostly eaten.
It was perfect. And I am thinking of it now, longingly, thinking that maybe we can do it all over again this summer: me, my dad, my sister. I am thinking that no matter how many times I fall down and feel shitty (metaphorically), there is always one of those moments where the minutes pass like rain, illuminating the valley and waking me up to my own numbness.
THIS IS A PICTURE OF US GOLFING.
THIS IS A PICTURE OF US GOLFING
THIS IS A PICTURE OF US GOLFING.
THIS IS A PICTURE OF US GOLFING
THIS IS A PICTURE OF US GOLFING.
THIS IS A PICTURE OF US GOLFING
THIS IS A PICTURE OF US GOLFING.
THIS IS A PICTURE OF US GOLFING
THIS IS A PICTURE OF US GOLFING.
THIS IS A PICTURE OF US GOLFING
THIS IS A PICTURE OF US GOLFING.
THIS IS A PICTURE OF US GOLFING
THIS IS A PICTURE OF US GOLFING.
When you've run out of pictures, use words.