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.

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)