Warm Days Are Near!

I’m on your futon with my green eyes budding dreams like leaves.

I’m serious. Last night you and I were willow trees at dusk on the brim of an overfull lagoon. I was drawing from some scene on Pocahontas, I believe. Our slender arms bent from lack of energy, and the sun had long since set. All the while you leaned toward me, and the wind pushed me away. My leaves whispered. “It must be!”

Here, I am a seventeen-year-old Czech girl flirting with the Russian soldiers: short skirts and heels. I am pointing something much worse than a gun at these celibate fools. In short, I am declaring my victory and freedom over the mundane norms. I am walking barefoot in the hallway. I am living on caffeine. I am coloring outside of the lines and drawing tattoos with magic marker and lying in the quad with my shirt off. No one is leering.

=== === === ===

the colorless rain
slowly titrates the grey earth…
Equilibrium!

=== === === ===

From the mattress, I am budding like a sugar maple: stretching limbs in all direction. My pale, peach leaves grasp for oxygen with the intensity of new life. I wake each morning refreshed and vivid. With every active moment, I grow grey and wilted: waiting for the youth to creep into my veins in sleep.

And so on. And so forth. You know I’m illustrating these vibrant metaphors in varicose mediums. April showers bring May flowers, and Mayflowers bring Pilgrims. To whom do we owe the credit for the April showers? Let us trace the train of events.

Unknown.Source: April.showers: May.flowers: Pilgrims: Is it November already?

=== === === ===

rain.storm.eruption
of grass bouquets and yellow
dandelions for Mom.

=== === === ===

I am a Spring.motif waiting to happen!

Only Hearing Negative

You said that I was naive,
and I thought that I was strong.

I must graciously express my gratitude to the sky today for it's compliance. Many days, it tries to fight my mood, but this greyness suits me very well, thank you very much.

Of course, there are specks of color impading upon this grey matter like a magnificent song implanted in your eternal consciousness. So, you are stuck playing this song again and again through your words and tempo of step and that way you gesture with your palm facing upward.

These colors are infinitely penetrating: red rainboots, blue raincoats, the yellow lines painted upon the curb. However, this brightness only exists in relativity to the drab rain. On an exemplary spring day, the yellow lines pale in comparison to the sun. And so, due to their complete subjectivity, we can dismiss the colored flecks invading our navy canvas. We can fully regard them as sharp flecks of white noise trouncing upon our "perfect" silence of being.

A man in the Northrop Mall stands on his garbage can pedestal reading a newspaper satire, and so illustrating his own satirical nature. He condemns the rain with a newspaper, and thereby offers himself to the eternal consumption of everything grey and khaki and suburban. I truly hope he can feel the electric regret charging in the air like I can.

"We can never know what to want, because living one life, we can neither compare it with our previous lives, nor perfect it in our lives to come... If we only have on life to live, we might as well not have lived at all."
- The Unbearable Lightness of Being

Acorn to Oak

and.now I am an oak tree in centralPark.
my roots are pushing.pushing into spring soil.
Now,you may ask me:
'to what purpose do you grow?'

halted, i am pondering the question.
i have grown without remorse
and budded and sprouted and rooted and wilted
for nineteen years over.

never have i asked the Question: "Why?"

'i suppose,' beginning steadily,
'that I must live to grow.'
'that the sun coaxes only me from slumber.'
'that there is space to become larger, so larger I will.become.'

'For God himself has ringed me in an azure sky
(like some stately king),
and all remaining for me to do
is grow.and.grow.and.grow.'

==== ==== ====

My spring break is coming to a close so very quickly. At this point, I had hoped that all snow would be completely eradicated. I am so very ready for spring and robins and pastel colors (actually, ew) and bunnies and daffodils and daisies. I am ready to wake up from Black&WhiteMinneapolis with its black snow in the gutter like homeless men and silt on the sidwalks.

Technicolor Explosion of grass so green it looks fake and squirrels everywhere and bright-colored-rainboots and hooded sweatshirts and walking outside and spring.Gel.Gems and boy bands in my iPod on the way to class!

Building Houses Out Of Matchsticks

Fact #1: If you are left with terrible coffee (aka "Eight O'Clock Coffee" from Target Boutique), if you heat it up enough, your taste buds can't tell how terrible it really is! Beware though, because as it cools off, the bitterness creeps back in.

Fact #2: It works just as well with terrible people! Heat it up until you can't tell the difference.

So I'm in Walter Library as I am apt to be on a Wednesday afternoon. I am fed, caffienated, slightly motivated, and ready to begin some serious homeworking. On today's agenda: Chemistry. I wish I could just take alchemy instead. Since it isn't true, you can just make it up as you go!

My legs are already taking revenge on me for this morning's workout. Even when I used to work out, I rarely ran for long periods of time because my knees give me shit for the next two weeks. Well, I have ran for the past four days and them knees are giving me hell.

Oh you're everything I'm wanting... come to think of it, I'm aching.
On account of my transgression, will you welcome this confession?

Yesterday, I had two 1/2 pieces of cheesecake at the same restaurant with two different people. Cafe Latte is possibly the best cafe in the entire world (obviously, I'm still in the honeymoon stage). Let's just say today I am ninety-six pounds heavier due to the cookies-and-cream-cheesecake and turtle-cheesecake oozing from my pores (now there's an excellent visual!).

I can't write today.
I think I'll try again later.

If they say "nothing is forever", what makes love the exception?

You Can Hide Quiet As A Mouse

There is a big block of cheese in the way of my writing, and I have been gnawing for the entire past month. I have hardly made a dent. I can not climb over it. Instead, I will begin a long journey around it. Sit tight, folks. It might be a while.

It is 12:26 on the first Saturday of Spring Break. I am in bed right now. I know, I should be somewhere in Mexico doing illegal drugs and taking tequila shots. Instead, I am in Rochester, Minnesota between my navy blue comforter and forest green sheets (and the cotton is pilled from overuse the last few years).

I need Sufjan Stevens to come sing me to sleep.
Casimir Pulaski Day is seamless and perfect on repeat.

For a while I wished that I would get insomnia when something was really bothering me. That way, I always had some sort of excuse for when I sucked at everything all day. Instead, I get eight hours like clockwork, and I am forced to face the day with an optimistic attitude. (Sometimes, I just hate those!)

I want money right now, but not because I want to impress anyone. I want to reinvent myself. I want a new me clothed in something interesting and powerful and ME. I know that I could probably do it without money, but that would take more work. Abercrombie really was the downfall of me... because all I have to show for last year’s work is a closet full of clothes that someone told me to like. Later, I can count on fingers and toes how many things from there I want to keep.

This next week will enforce all of my awkwardness and tiredness. I swear… I could dye my hair a million different colors and never find anything I like. I could read The Fountainhead for the rest of my life. I am trying to compile a mental list of things to do while I am in Territorial for a week. Laura told me to find a story. I would very much like to do so.

I want perfectionism and materialism and God and dark chocolate to meld into a single, technocratic structure to support me in my endeavor to find out what is making me tick like that fucking alligator in Peter Pan.

"Oh, the glory that the Lord has made and the complications you could do without (when I kissed you on the mouth). Tuesday night, at the bible study, we lift our hands and pray over your body, but nothing ever happens..."

And I Won't Even Know What To Say...

I will walk barefoot in the dirty dorm hallways if I want, because barefoot is only a stone's throw from flip flops. I will dance in the social service building elevator. I will write Johanna love letters even though I've only just met her. I will listen to angry girl music, even though I am not a girl. I will be angry when I want. I will dye my hair three times in a month. I will whisper Ani Difranco lyrics when I'm on the bus sitting behind you.

"I think I'm going for a walk now. I feel a little unsteady. I don't want nobody to follow me, except maybe you. I could make you happy if you weren't already."

I will watch you sleep, and accidentally wake you up (so sorry, I had to pee!). I will write lyrics on your spine (methodically, like some web I'm weaving). You will be the secret I keep, and when someone asks about you I will say "fine" and think "fantastic". I will trace your freckles. I will forget what you told me. Twice. Three times. Sorry, could you repeat that? I swear I was listening, you just mumbled!

I have just erased a page of something you'll never see. I can't write. I wrote about adultery and contagious smiles like HPV and thank-you notes and the angry March temperature and sarcasm. Those things are not cohesive. They do not blend to form a tasty, Vitamin C-filled smoothie. It's chunky and grey-ish... like the metal frame of an airplane.

Will you be happy on Saturday?

I fear you will.