It's Been a Year, Now

So this is it.

I was running downtown. Tripping on a crack in the sidewalk, I almost fell flat onto some punk's graffitti scrawled in white spray-paint. "We are the real terrorists." It stood out against that overgrown grass and a plank-board bench. I couldn't help but smile at this personal truth. A fifteen year old has said more than some middle-agers have in their entire life. Declaration.

This is the part of the story where I, like that kid who was probably angry about the state of something a lot less consequential than terrorism, break out of everyday life syntax and puncuation rules. This is that segment where I do something stupid like smoke three cigarettes or lay out on my deck naked or down a third of a bottle of Jose. I like feeling trashy (read: badass) every now and then. So, why am I suddenly censoring my life? I'm trying so very hard to fold my quirks back into a box for the summer. Clean-pressed John is not yet back from the cleaners, so which personality should assume for the time being?

I have several options. I'm trying on my chef-hat and my motorcycle jacket and my dewrag and my gucci sunglasses and I just can't decide what make of it all. Should I arm myself with a cane or a cigarette or an umbrella-ella-ella? I don't know and I hate rihanna for ruining that word for the next few months. I haven't been able to arm myself with this keyboard for so.very.long.

I am where I am, and sometimes I forget that. Where are you?

May Day with Tulips, Two Lips?

Happy May Day!

Of course it would be beautiful out all week. If you get a chance today, you need to stand in the Mall at least for a few minutes. These are my favorite days: when the grass is so green that the munchkins would be impressed, and the sky bows to shake the horizon's hands. The 20-somethings pretend not to notice, but I like to think it makes their day, too.

The crazy man outside of Smith Hall makes me smile. Even though he's crazy, his conviction is admirable. He is standing on a garbage can wearing a boa and camo pants: shouting.shouting.shouting. Does he know that we're not listening as we mosey-on-by? I hope not.

Yesterday, the rain was a refreshing break. It was the kind of rain that they use for kisses in movies. We almost braved it; armed with only an umbrella. In the end, though, we ducked into something silver. (Liz Phair hops to my mind again: we're already wet, and we're gonna go swimming). That rain is what has done me in for the week. It is the rain's fault that my world it bursting with color (I wore grey to counteract my distracting delight, but it's not working as well as I had hoped).

I can not focus on focusing. I can, however, talk for hours and avoid all forms of productivity and drink coffee like it's more important than air and write blogs like it's nobody's business... when in fact I'm making it their business.

Summer is approaching at a gallop, and I can't say I'm entirely ready for Rochester again. Two weeks ago, I could have left in 20 seconds, but there are always complications: some are delightful and others are awful. I can't wait to leave every weekend... just for the weekend.

I will now return to the physics hole that I have dug for myself. Promise me you will stop and admire a flower just for me?

Step by step, we make our way
walking through a crowded place.
The shining streets soak my feet.
You push the doors, I'll buy the drinks.