We're Busy Still Saying Please

So. Thirty minutes until accounting.

My 'karma for the day' was simply "play."

I wrote and re-wrote this twice, but syllables are failing me. I am overwhelmingly happy and sad and not even sure that's possible, but I'm ready to take on the world's problems and remain tranquil and spread more happiness than sadness and bake more and hug more and smile more and shrug less.

Oh, how I would love to shrug less and speak more.

Today, I will dress for success.
Today, I will get involved.
Today, I will give a damn about something

(or nothing as long as it's something).

In other news, I don't like being twenty.
It is pretentious and pompous and makes me feel the same.
I'm already ready for Botox and collagen injections, but barely out of diapers.

All You Need is Uggs.

This wind and my resume and the way
you look at me on Nicollet mall
and in your mirror

(my shirt is still on)

are pins
on ties
on shirts
on chests.

This button?
Unbutton!!button.button.

You are argyle
and I am plaid
and together we are adventurous
like high fashion magazines

and those boys in the cafe
pressing fingers on knees
pressing eyes into eyes
and thighs into thighs.

Those boys were youandi
who just happen to match
without planning.

like salesmen and workers at Williams-Sonoma.

Mood Rings, Bracelets, Beads

I've been reading back through a few of the letters that I wrote last summer, and while I'm so different I'm totally and completely the same. It's like no matter how much I grow up, I'm just a grown up version of my younger self. If that sounds confusing, it is. I am ready to be someone new.

Autumn.Autumn.Fall.Fall.
F-A-L-L

I'm READY for fall and different colored leaves and different colo[[red]] hair and windy Washington smoke-filled Avenue air. I'm ready for coffee shops and listening to my iPod too loud and not remembering everything and waking up backwards on my bed. I'm ready for Williams Sonoma and Pottery Barn and TJ Maxx and Salvation Army and Everyday People and Paper Denim and True Religion and Cole Haan and Nicollet. I'm ready for Stone Arch and the Format and the number twenty and Christmas music and kisses whenever I want them and As and Cs and forgetting to do assignments. I'm ready for writing things like this twice a week and getting text messages and dressing up to go out and staying in to watch Mean Girls.

I'm ready for dates and italian restaurants and chopsticks and Burberry keychains and Jonathan Adler and Michelle's bangs and orange and black 'I.D' cupcakes and buying shoes at thrift shops and wholesale and less pipetting and more latte-making. I'm ready for matchy-matchy and full-size beds and striped sheets and making you pancakes in the morning.

I'm ready for fitting rooms and rooftops and backseats of cars and golf courses and your bathroom and my shower and your roommate's bed and the balcony of every hotel and apartment in the tri-state area. I'm ready for nicotine and caffeine and angsty music and coffee with my wife and sugar-free vanilla lattes and being able to say "grande" and "venti" on a regular basis.

I'm ready... I'm READY[exclamat!!on po!!nt] . YdAeR m'I. I'm RE(a)Dy[insert question mark here] Yes, I think so.

And with three days to go I've got lists of things to pack and things to buy and things to miss and things to sing out loud and things to look forward to and things to make lists of.

*** {asterisk}{asterisk}{asterisk} ***

"So, whatever, I'm spilling my guts as usual. Uninvited, but it's like therapy for me... In a weird, let's-talk-about-our-feelings sort of way. So, you don't have to listen or try to understand. It's really disjointed, because I keep thinking of points I want to add, so I just go back and stick them in randomly, hoping it will sound smooth (it doesn't)." [[07.24.06]]

Lilies and Such

Things that make me happy ::
Getting pictures in the mail, voicemails from someone I love in New Zealand, running in the rain, resurrecting near-death flowers, lists of unparallel items, matching fish, driving for three hours to see someone for two, laying around on gloomy days when you never have to feel bad about being unproductive, kissing quickly and checking to see if anyone saw, laughing to yourself, getting flowers, giving flowers, growing flowers, singing lyrics that don't make you sound ridiculous, one-hour road-trips, cobra lilies and jack johnson (preferably in conjunction with one another), wovens for nineteen-ninety, leaving the fitch on august 17th, etc.

There are so very few things that can make me feel as perfect as I do when I'm peeling off wet clothes after a run in the rain.

Things that make me feel like crying ::
The number thirty five and the letter double you.
Em. Eye. Ess. Ess. Eye. Ess. Ess. Eye. Pea. Pea. Eye.
Seventy hour work weeks.

So, when the things that make me happy grossly outweigh the things that make me sad, why do I still feel a little sick to my stomach?

The Story So Far

There are a few seconds every day when any work is too much work.

The summer so far has been an emotional bungee jump, and I'm waiting for the cord to tighten and August to wheel me back into the city. I am ready for everything new: new apartments and new jobs and new classes and bus routes and pencils on new pads of paper and new hair colors and shoes and birthday presents and new boys with nothing to lose but lung-space and youth. I have so much to lose, but I'm wagering it all on September.

I am so ready for that perfect summer-lighting-sunset on Washington Avenue. The one that only lasts those perfect first few weeks of fall until the Earth, tired from it's straight salute all summer, slouches into winter and the sunset crawls North into downtown.

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

I was asked the weirdest (read:best) question in the longest time a few days ago:

"Are you happy, John?"
"With what?"
"Are you happy with... everything?"

It was in reference to a more specific 'everything', but for a few seconds I was completely stunned by the thought that anyone has felt happy with the greater everything. So often, I feel like I'm only happy when I have something tangible to be unhappy about. Those drab, lingering feelings of undirected happiness are frightening, and they suggest that there is more to be upset about than a missed call on the other end or a particularly bad hair day.

All I want is everything.

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.

Don't Bring Pajamas

Let me just pre-empt' this one by saying that I wrote it on Thursday in the computer lounge at coffman. When the computer spontaneously shut down, I didn't even think that this would be saved. I was frustrated to say the least.

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

I haven't written anything in over a week.

I guess "anything" isn't true. I have written two papers and somewhere close to one hundred wall posts. I am not able to indulge in that exhibitionist poetic fetish I have, though. There is no ink pouring from my ears or spouting from my fingertips. Instead, I'll just paint you a picture of my current life. It, as usual will be black and white with the occasional splash of green. I try so very hard to appear abstract and modern.

I was going to meet with my cultural studies professor. Actually, I would be on my way there right now if I wasn't a chicken shit. In general, I feel that I usually need to have some sort of presentation prepared for when I go meet with him (or any sort of authority figure). There is absolutely nothing intimidating about him except his exceptional knowledge of gay, French philosophers. I mean, I could easily beat this guy up (and everyone knows I'm not exactly the hulk... I do consider myself pretty feisty though, haha).

One thing that possibly made me afraid to write is the fact that I am actually starting a paper on the medium typically noted as "journal" or "memoir", and how it can and can't be considered literature. The readings from class were written, obviously, by gay Frenchmen, and so I question their applicability to the more general form of culture (however, not to myself... not that I speak French). I don't want to be psychoanalyzed. I just want to expel some of this built up energy and maybe entertain someone else once in a while.

Anyway, I made my schedule for next semester. I should say re-made, because I've had this done basically since the course schedules came out for fall 2007. I dropped Medical Terminology to take Intro to Drawing. I figure that if I don't start taking classes I want to take, I might never know what I want to do with my life (not that it would be all-to-surprising if I never really figured that out). I see Erika working and I would love to be a design major, and then I sit down and write something I really like and I want to transfer and major in Creative Writing, and then I think about all the possibilities of medical school or pharmacy school or opening up a bakery or a coffee shop or a shoe store or cineplex etc. (Update: I'm not doing drawing, because it fit really poorly into my schedule).

More than a week ago, Megan told me something so true. I suffer from restless John syndrome. It is because of this that I'm nearly certain I may never find something that I enjoy doing for the rest of my life or someone that I enjoy being with for an extended period of time. At this moment, I think I could totally handle being a temp. I would change jobs every few weeks and write a book about it and suddenly be thrown into fame and fortune. It would be like a really crappy lifetime movie. The love of my life (possibly/probably my Alaskan Husky/Collie) would get cancer and I would have to make it through the days of eating only jars of peanut butter and chocolate frosting and into a new light where I could appreciate the "little" things in life. Ah, if only I were a director of crappy lifetime movies... I wouldn't know what to do with myself.

It should be noted that this is being written to stall. Everything I do is just to stall until I figure this crap all out. I just hope I figure out what I want to do before I stall my way into medicine.

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

Saturday Morning and who's gonna play with me?

I got a little more than five hours of sleep last night. The sad thing is, it was voluntary. Everyone else is asleep and I’m awake pounding on the keyboard as quietly as I can. I haven’t been sleeping very much lately. This may be attributed to the fact that I'm not getting enough done, and so I can't go to sleep and it wakes me up in the morning.

Honestly, I don't enjoy being so nerdy that my school work is one of the first things on my mind at all time. I would rather have other things on my mind, like william carlos williams, margaret atwood, or ayn rand.

This string of gorgeous days is determined to ruin my GPA, and it might just succeed in doing so. I lay out in the mall for a couple of hours doing nothing... more than once a week. Yesterday, I indulged in a little more of The Fountainhead, which apparently no one has heard of. That damn perfect sun lulls me into complacency and all I can do is use my chemistry book for a pillow and smile excessively.

I would write more, because this is effectively two entries, but I feel that everyone might need a little break. I promise I won't wait two weeks until the next one!

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

Liz Phair knows what I'm thinking.

Americana? Tropicana.

I'm waiting for my own personal exodus, deliverance, transcendence, exposition, exhibition, social liberty, reality show, sherlock holmes, paparazzi, perfected defense mechanism, etc. I'm not equipped with the gloves to take my life into my own hands. (It's prickly and entoxicating!)

Karma-of-the-Day:
"Recognize ordinary, everyday activities as opportunities to awaken."

It's Tuesday (Twos-day), which means that I will be drinking more than two cups of coffee, taking four classes in two subjects, standing on my own two feet, staying up until two in the morning, and putting in my two cents everywhere possible.

Restore my faith in the human race and tell someone 'thank you for being' today.

That Melody I Love

Sunny South Dakota. Other than the fact that I'm near death due to the pending sore throat and possile ear infection, I am wonderful! Let's have some fun, shall we?

I like writing for myself. I can write about whatever I want: angst and sunflowers and jose cuervo and car dancing and regular dancing and south dakota and spring and truffles and even dirty socks. I can write haikus if the wind blows me that way:

.that wind, you know, is
tired of howling away.
sleep, Tempest, and dream.

I can write IN ALL CAPS or forget tousespaces. I can etirw sdrawkcab. I can write you love songs and doodle lyrics and scribble down chem.notes. You can use words and words and swords and hoards of words and herds of birds or chords and curds.

If you stare at a page for long enough you can melt the letters into lines like ice into water. No, no, that's not right, is it? I must rearrange. Rearrange. If you melt at ice enough you can stare into a water lines the long letters into page. There, much better.

Sorandom.edu What can you do with words?