Always One Foot On The Ground

Today is a double latte sort of day. It's a double latte, Gucci glasses, Newport Lite sort of day. I haven't been very artistic lately, but today I have until 1:25 to be artistic, so I think I can cough up some enjoyment of life.

Yesterday, I went to Ash Wednesday mass at Grace Lutheran Church. I've got to say that Protestant mass is so completely altered and sometimes it makes me a little uncomfortable. I don't mean that in a superiorism sort-of-way. I was slightly uneasy because it wasn't what I was used to, and church has always been one of those places that I can count on to change so so slowly.

I have been to Ash Wednesday mass once a year for the past nineteen years, and I don't know if I've ever really understood it all completely (and I don't know if I ever will). It (as many other churchly things) remains a mystery. I really can't explain how good it felt to go after staying away from church for so very long. I am not religious, but I can find things in every mass that makes me feel a little better for a couple of days.

I can't sing. I don't sing anywhere but alone in my room (and sometimes you can hear me, but I pretend like you can't). I sing in my car. I don't sing at church or on the street or in the hallway or the shared bathroom. I don't sing at the airport or on the bus or when I'm listening to music in my headphones. I can't sing. You won't see me sing often, but I do sing, because there is no such thing as "being unable to sing." If you can talk you can sing. I can sing, but I can't sing.

Also, I am enjoying playing with matches. I think that if everyone knew anything I thought, they would just giggle to themselves and carry on with their life. I am not as smart or stupid or shallow or deep as everyone seems to claim I am. The only surprising thing would be how apathetic I really am.

"Must have been kind to kittens and birds in a previous life. I must have thought happy thoughts in a previous life."

People Are Just People Like You.

I've always felt like the meaning of life is like the definition of a difficult word. You can look it up in dictionaries, read about it on wikipedia, and ask everyone you know, but you don't really understand until you can use it in a sentence.

Today is a good day already. I had a minor revelation on the campus connector (where my minor revelations so often place themselves). I know why I'm going into medicine, though I'm not sure what exactly I'll be doing. I feel this growing sense that when you have the ability to make the world brighter, it is your duty to do so. How do we define "good people"? Those are the people who are able to open up oppurtunities for others and place smiles where they weren't before. "Bad people" are those who take advantage of chances to make the world darker, to build walls and create corners and sections and stratification.

If I have the ability and desire to lighten lives, how can I justify stifling it?

The two saving graces of the living human race are service to others and art (all forms: visual, verbal, and spiritual). When you have the oppurtunity to create either, you should always always always take it.

What's Written in Braille

I am lighting Washington Avenue
with white sunglasses and my newest assumed attitude.
I'm so enamoured with those looks of disgust and glances
((trying.not.to.be.obvious))
while
waiting
waiting
waiting
[[for that luminescent man calling 'walk']]

For $ 1.50 I am
riding[read:writing] the 16 to Nicollet Avenue
where there is a man requesting thirty cents for bus fare.
I can see the bulging plastic.bottled.vodka in his pocket,
but I smile and offer a quarter (he could use some change)
wishing he had somewhere to go besides the bar.
Across the street, a woman tightens her scarf
and for a brief second her lips are revealed
like red flags flapping a foreign language.
She is approached but cannot find the words.
(denial? yes, please.)

There is no hair risen on your ice-cold body
that I will not trace like braille engraved on your back.
I would not waste deciphering
the frozen peaks,

because now I am melting ice from my eyelashes in a cafe.town
warmed by burning lastyear's yule logs.

and there are girls giving life to the breathless
phenomena of life lurking behind their mascara
{ and I only have kissed three girls
and my favorite coffee is dark roast
and I have a plant named Olivia
}
and the boys are wearing wax ears and smiling
to pass the time while tracing lips
{ and which base will this lead to?
and can I keep the lights on?
and there will be no trace of me tomorrow
}

And shall we ask the man on Nicollet what he thinks of Olivia?
Here, we can't ask the woman if she'll leave the lights on:
indecipherable.
(denial? no, thank you.)

And all the while I am losing contact with your skin
because the braille is melting into tired canvas.
I am not an artist.
I am not an evangelist.
I am not an interpreter.

I am illustrious.

They Don't Laugh At Jokes. They Laugh At Tragedies.

I am more out of place at this point in time than my sunglasses on the city bus. I am more out of place than a sarcastic comment at a funeral. I can't wear my heart on my sleeve, because, for once, I've got function on my mind.

The backs of my eyelids should be coloring books instead of words and syllables and letters. I have been trying to write for weeks, but (as I'm sure you noticed) I have been blocked and blocked. All I can do with my vocabulary is reverse words and find out how it looks.

What would you do if you answered the door and there was a gangster holding a gun?
What would you do if you answered the door and there was a gun holding a gangster?
What would you do if you answered the gangster and there was a door holding a gun?
What would you do if you answered the gun and there was a gangster holding a door?
Which one is most likely? Do you care? Do I?

I could be a walking thesaurus and correct you when you say ripe in the wrong context (or wrong in the ripe context). I could be a hangnail that makes you bleed in the most boring sort of way. I could be an mad cow who yells angry things without anyone to direct anger at. I could be an alcoholic who drinks wine from a box on a Wednesday night and watches Top Design. I could call you nine times and text you over and over. You don't need to answer. You don't need to call me back, because my phone is dead. My dead is phone.

I cannot be an honest man who makes promises. I could be an honest man. I could be one who makes promises. Don't ask for more. I am not divine. I am not royal. My name is not Elvis.

Words are just words are just letters out of order.

Once again my life is breaking into fragments, and I should have accepted all invitations. I told Steve that everything sounds Spanish if you add an "aciones" on the end, and only a few of the words you make will be real, but you will have invented the rest, and those are the ones that you'll forget, and those are the ones that matter. Matteraciones, I guess.

Now, please please let me sleep. Please let me breathe. Please let me make a scene. The camera's rolling, annnd...

Cut.

The Dissolution of History into Universalism.

Yes, that is the topic of my paper for "The Rhetoric of Everyday Life", and after trying to force intellectualism out of every pore in my body, I think that I'll take a break to write the way that I want... for who I want (you).

I have been on the brink of bright.and.shiny, lately.

All I can really do is brace for hell as school closes in on me like a trash compressor (at least it's not the on-switch of a garbage disposal, I guess). My life is only one anticlimax after another. Rising action, rising action, rision action, anti-climax. I can make new year's resolutions, but the thematic resolutions really never take any physical form.

I am home again. I came home to surprise my family, and my sisters knew (because I told them). My sisters knew that I wanted to take them to a movie, but they went to the basketball game anyway. Of course, I was told that I would have ditched them anyway, so I shouldn't be upset. I am disappointed to say the least.

There are certain things that I just really don't need. I don't need any more shorts for spring, or any t-shirts (as my mom likes to remind me), or new shoes, or another coat. I don't need grey snow or wind. I don't need a pat on the back of confirmation or motivation. I don't need to know that anyone cares about my GPA. I need to know that people care about my sore throat. I need to hear something positive. I don't need cookies to help me gain weight, because I am very capable on my own. I don't need to hear that 19 credits is too much or that I'm being hard on myself or that I should take a break. I need a break. I need a theme song. I need a night where I can have fun without worrying about getting caught or vomit or school or a test tomorrow or how much I should really be doing. I don't need skepticism.

All I can do is take a deep breath, put on some Regina, and keep on trucking.
(t.r.u.ck. keep on trucking all the way)