t.

I loved the idea of you and hate the reality of you.

letter: re: memories in a box

C: Tonight, I find myself quite drunk (a current character flaw that I reckon you, of all my contemporaries, will find most forgivable) and reminiscing through a box of artifacts--letters, notes, print-out, leaves, pineneedles, poems, pens, maps,--a box of things I could not bare to explore till now (drunk, distant, or otherwise). While smoking a bummed Pall Mall (another character flaw you and the economy will hopefully, forgive), it occurs to me that there is nothing like listening to you play music or enjoying our quite conversations in the dark under a gazebo in the landscape of a Lake we surely both love, "under a sky strewn with stars," as Mark Strand would describe, or in the atmosphere of an anticipated summer storm like the one that marked one of those last nights we all shared.

Stars or storms, I hope that this note finds you well and happy or as near to it as any of us dream.

v.

you would think, by evidential lack of blogging, that i have nothing to say and that nothing is going on in my life. that is only partially true.

somedays

I am unsure whether I am Livor dead. 

the fury

v. is casket at both ends burning. 

restless

v. is sleepy but full of nightmares, still awake, restless for the storms and the end of waiting. 

for what it is

 

I’m becoming a statistic. AquaNet is the glue holding it all together.  I miss listening to MTVJams in the morning, first thing when I wake up.  I look at the coffee pot on the counter and wonder how many days old it is.  I decide to drink it right from the pot. 

 I’ve always been the kind of person who sees the world for what it is rather than what it can be.  Dreamers help balance me out.

summer 2006

I’m not a fucking nun; I happen to like kool-aid flavored chapstick; ordering “the vegetable flavored thing”  on Main St. with 2 of my favs; "that shirt reminds me of a funeral..."; like bananas in the fridge, I’m learning, red, white, yellow, “be my inverse,” every 7 seconds btwn lightning and thunder equals 1 mile, light travels faster than sound; "how long can you tread water?"; GW's first first call, having "terrible chest pains," crying wolf, going vert, RIP.   

poem perceptive on pressure, perfection & parents

How my mind works:

Overwhelming contemplations and concerns over the future recently,
anxiety over present perfection to prepare for future legacy:
I’ve got some big shoes waiting in my closet (amongst the skeleton collection),
for that earth shattering day or night
when I become an orphan,
when I become the legacy,
when I become the only.

Tonight, reading an old New York Times article:
A statistic startled me,
the number required me to first check the calendar,
then forced some quick math,
a subtraction reveled the difference,
the difference took my breath away.

U.S.:
Annual Deaths:
Will reach 3 million between the years 2010 & 2040,
when Baby Boomers are expected to take their last breaths.

And in my mind:
(F***).
Today is already 2009.
(we’re all running out of time)
My parents.
(are they Boomers?)
I don’t know.
Dad’s 50^th this year.
add another 50,
(please, god),
year 2059.

No, not Boomers, I guess.
but still, it’s 2009..the time…

The future feels as close as it ever has,
perfection is nevermore near.
pressure builds
until the big boom.

perfection always sounds better before procrastination

I'm writing a 30 page research essay on the currently perceived professional status of funeral directors.

Why is it I always tackle topics of this nature: all real ideas and opinions so few facts and proof.

I must choose these topics because I am trying to prove something.  

Time is running out (a terminal condition) but I'm paralyzed somewhere between perfection and procrastination.   

Maybe this wouldn't be so hard if I were already perfect; perhaps the struggle stems from trying to be something I'm not: perfect. 

endless house

quick found poem, inspired by the title, 

"the endless house"

Is it the house or the home that is endless? 

which seems to go on forever.

House stays put and

home continues on forever even without,

you might be away on an epic journey, 

a coming of age spending spree,

what was the previous generation's road trip, 

is our generation's backpacking through Europe:  everything you think you need on your back,

everything you think you want obtainable with American cash and credit.

Planes & trains, Amsterdam & Rome, hostels and strangers, and you only return when you've run out of funds, 

and upon your return you're expected to be 

less hostile, more worldly, and

totally accepting of your fate: 

you'll work to live to earn and save, 

save for the chance to end the race, 

yearn for an end to the chase, 

an end that looks less like death and 

more like the open road

you once knew that led to this endless house of your dreams. 

Fiction comes calling; tomorrow I answer in poetry

Yesterday I was overcome with this urge to start some fiction of my own. As a rule, I am seriously invested in reality and gravity; perhaps my existential coming-of-age and my vocation of obsequies serve as the pre-requisites for my "serious as a heart attack" tendencies. Within the past few days, I've been tempted to entertain some escapism from my non-fiction life. These temptations have come from two notable sources.

Firstly, Annie Kerr, author of the blog Ink haven, left a comment in which she suggested the development of a story from a line from the posted conversation, "Altered." Annie made no mention of fiction, non- or otherwise, but my mind naturally craved the opportunity to create fiction out of a real-time conversation. Thanks for the comment, Annie. I'll keep it in mind as inspiration for future posts.

Secondly, I came across the New York Times: Paper Cuts article titled "Stray Questions for Thomas Lynch." In this article, Lynch, who has usually produced works of poetry and non-fiction, discusses his recent affair with fiction. Of it, Lynch divulges: "Living in fiction is very seductive—the creation and destruction of characters, the hoops we make to make them jump through en route to their little dénouements—a fetching and terrible enterprise." I think I find this notion particularly intriguing because I am, after all, looking to be seduced. Fictional escapism sounds quite lovely.

Lynch acknowledges his true love: "Poems are the necessary counterbalance: all metaphor and formal language intrigues—the art of subtraction and careful counting—the reading and writing of them are essential practices." He believes in the seduction of fiction and the sobering by poetry. And so I want also to believe.

seeking

I'm looking for inspiration, for audience, for feedback, for purpose. 

I'm looking for followers who will lead my inspirations.

Please consider "following" my blog. Look right.

v.

Altered

: (adj) to have been placed on an alter; the state of existance after having been changed. 

v. wanna go out to the gazebo?

c.are you drunk or something? that's 1.  2. got any jokes?

v. 1. i wish i were drunk or something  2. i heard that Darwin wasn't always an evolutionist......he just slowly became one.

--

v. how are you getting on? living the dream?

 c. I'm decent

I am by no means living the dream, but preparing to do so, I predict my lifes goal to be accomplished within 5 years. I am moving to paris.  thanks for the joke, you are well?

v. wow, dreams in paris. amazing. i'm guessing there's a dreamgirl there, or at least a dream?

I'm altered..?

c. no no no. you are not altered. But, no dreamgirls. I'm just ready to shed my midwestern chains. I will die in paris. that's what I've decided

v. No time soon I hope.  but I like the idea of shedding (and sheds, and cutting wood, etc).

c. probably after a masters in poetry (so like 4 years {with touring etc})

v. You're planning on dying after a masters in poetry? In Paris? Oh, c...

...

v. I'm ready for a big dose of the real life and some personal exploration. school is such a bad place for both

c. no shit

v. When you get to Paris, go to the Catacombs. It is one of the most beautiful and amazing places I have ever, ever been.

c.  I will. and I will probably do nothing else that day. I can't wait

v. I'm excited for you. Though I selfishly hope to see you again someday

c. you probably will. Oh, you moved? holy shit. whats it like living in the city?  is everyone sad all the time... but in like a justified sort of way?

v. it is a totally weird experience. it is this hipster-paradise, the kids who live here, like i do, are chasing this romantic dream that they dreamt while growing up in the suburbs

c. heavy. I mean. I dig the city.  but I have to be honest, it fucking bums me out 

v. I've done a lot of observing on the kind of kids who come to the city to live and love--i was/am one of them--the whole obama campaign was a great time to watch

c. I feel like Its the deep black heart of the midwest/ as if, it is the source of suffering/hell on earth/ a place where mediocre people go to die 

v. the city here is a fallen dream, and we are young and hopeful that we can change it. so we came. to do that. and even in being here, we fail. it's horrible.

c. (as in artistically). it's where the last vintage store will be. and the last customer will be a techno freak

v. you're so right on. and you should  see these heartbreaker/carebears in action. i hang with a lot of 'activists' and they cry on my shoulder. they like the comfort of kleenex and a girl who knows grief

c. whoa. so, how old are you... can you feel times cold grip on your vessel of being?

v. i'm 22 and i have the pleasure of reminding myself to breathe--daily, in front of those who no longer can. i forget to breathe. it's beautiful to be able to remind myself

--

v. chasing any ghost these days?  ghost(s)?

c. just girls in nyc. that's about as close as I get. u?

v. I'm not doing any chasing of ghosts anymore, but they still find me sometimes

c. yea? in interesting ways even?

v. only interesting for the ways i let them chase. otherwise, i'm drinking french-press-coffee out of a wine glass at nearly midnight, smoking cigs in my city apartment pretending i'm talking to c. in the zeeb. and remembering that these are the things i want to remember and really be there for. 

be there, be here, see, the same old chase

v. btw, girls and ghosts in NYC will always be girls and ghosts

c. no shit. you'd think I'd know better

v. broken hearts feel the same whether it's love or loss.

c. ghosts dont have hearts

v. mm. but you do.

c. I, am not yet a ghost, true

v. so don't live like one. don't love like one.

c. no shit

v. the beauty of things like this--this conversation, this ghost chase you're on--they come full circle. Emerson would be proud. Listen, c., we evolve. slowly and surely.

c. ha, true

v. and somewhere in evolution is love.

list of maybes

I'm looking for something but I don't know what. 

Maybe: adventure, excitement, peace, happiness, smiles, companionship, stability, predictability, freedom, mountains, trees, poetry, completion. 

Conversation with a widow

w.  "Are you married?"

v.  "No, no, I'm not. Not yet."

w.  "Well, when the right one comes along... Just, just love him to death. Pun intended. Just love him. Love him so much."

A Journey to Oklahoma

He said he wanted to see me but then he didn’t show up. Finally he called to say he had something to say. He’s moving west and will be gone by the end of the month. I knew there was a reason he had been maintaining, then creating distance.

Is it profound, or just silly, that ‘our song’ was Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin’”?

Small town girl, city boy, goin’ anywhere, “living just to find emotion/ hiding, somewhere in the night” “Working hard to get my fill,/ Everybody wants a thrill” “Don’t stop believin’/ Hold on to the feelin’” even the feelings weren’t that real. (But maybe I do now know what it feels like to try???).

I don’t even know how much I care. We would have been terrible for each other in the future. We were okay together in the now. But the now doesn’t last that long. We couldn’t have been more different. But that wasn’t the problem.

Not even from him, or from just anyone, but from the world:

I think all I wanted was the opportunity to prove to myself that I can love, that I can make a relationship work. A relationship would be evidence that I am capable; that I am not totally without. I just want to know that I can love and that I will risk everything for the possibility, because some day, it will be the right guy, and I don’t want fear to stop me.

"Have enough courage to trust love one more time. And always one more time." -- Maya Angelou

(from Stephanie, thank you.)

To think, I’ve done this all before—I spent most all of last year learning that I had loved, and that I had been in love, and that maybe I still was. Perhaps, I thought being with T. could show that I no longer was in love with the other.

Sometimes you cannot think your way out of problems that you created by thinking; this whole ordeal with T. was my way of trying to feel my way out of it.

Maybe I need more practice. Maybe I need a more worthy subject/object.

without hope you might as well be blind

I’m beginning to feel the beginning of the end of what was once a great potential. I’ve been entertaining flirtations with a guy since late December and when we’re together we’re great and when we’re not it is what it is. He doesn’t want to get serious unless he’s drunk in which case he’s proposing. And for a week now he has been without his usual swagger and communicating poorly. All my friends want me to run as far from him as I can because he doesn’t treat me as I deserve.

And I didn’t expect it to hurt so bad. This ending. This burial of a future that I didn’t even know if I wanted. If this is something I wanted, someone I knew I wanted, will I regret not having put more of myself into it? Would he have been worth the risk? I think I know in my heart of hearts that he wasn’t right for me, and that, among other reasons, is why I held back. But he was holding back too. And it is what it is. It was what it was. Past tense now? What worries me is what I think I learned about myself: am I even able to love again? Will I keep making the same mistakes over and over?

learning to beam

My friend posted this the other day: "There are some people in my life that I will never stop loving and sometimes that hurts like hell."  I told him that the only thing I would add to that to make it true for me was this:  “And I’m okay with that.”  It’s a pain I will take.  Because no investment of love is without loss.  

I was at a writing program this past spring and there (my life &) my writing was critiqued by several people who had come to respect and who had learned to love me.  One of the critiques of (my life &) my writing that I found most difficult to swallow had to do with the fact that it seems as though I lack depth because I rarely take a thought, idea, piece, sentence, etc. to the next level.  It seemed from the outside that I refused to be bothered to dig deeper.  Not that the thought was shallow to begin with, but rather I was too comfortable where I started and didn't chose to do the work to get somewhere further. Like I would give up on myself. I’ll never forget this because the observation came so sincerely from someone who I fully respect as a writer, a musician, and a friend. I had known of him before I knew him; I was a fan of his music and my heart had once burned with infatuation for this lyrical poet with a mandolin.  In those seven weeks, I learned to respect and to love the real him.  I was blessed to have been a part of the surroundings and a part of the atmosphere that created his quiet experience. He was unusually silent; I was usually guarded.  But when we spoke to each other, we were brilliant. The night he shared this with me, the fact he felt I was holding back, the moon was bright in a clear, black sky. We were gathered with a few friends around an outdoor campfire pit built into the exterior of a chimney.  We had pulled rickety chairs and rocking chairs from the meeting hall Timahia and circled what we were all staring into: a bed of mesmerizing, dynamic embers, the orange light and warmth of which undulated like the beautiful Lake Sebago that was almost in reach.

He said, he watches me refuse to commit to the greatness of my potential. I stall before I start. I was taken aback and insulted by this.  But now, I know exactly what he meant, because now I watch myself do it too. I may not have overcome that, but what I have learned is this: sometimes, most the times in fact, in the end, the result is worth the struggle. A great conversation or thought or essay or poem is worth all the frustrating attempts at meaning that go into its creation. And that struggle is just part of what we have to do to get there.    

I miss Chris and I miss Steph and I miss having people who love me observe my behaviors and gently critique my life through my writing.  Because I need that in my life. 

I forced this tangent of writing out of myself (out of my heart, not my mind). Because, as I was about to post only the first paragraph (re: no investment of love..), I recognized in myself exactly what Chris was trying to show me. That post would have only hinted cryptically at a complex and defining aspect of who I am today. And if I want to truly acknowledge that significance in my life, I must be willing to explore that complexity in my thought, through my writing, and with my communications with the world.

And I know that is exactly why this blog has been such a disaster. 

Because I’m not saying anything.

Because I am afraid to.

But I’ve got to find ways to overcome my fears. 

just a dream to have something to post

We were having a great time, rekindling our friendships, flirtations included this time.  Maybe my sister was there?  Unrecognizable location.  Kind of like a woodsy video game scene. Sheets hanging to divide rooms, dark, brown and neutral tones, sepia-like lighting all over.  He invited me to stay over, though I don’t think he knew his brother was there, and I don’t think he meant for me to lie in his bed.  Things were going really well, a true relationship starting again, but in the end, he told me that right now only seemed nice because he had taken the blue pill.  And he didn’t take it often because he didn’t like to take the blue pill.  What he meant was that we could only be friends when/if he took the blue pill.  I got the sense it was an anti-depressant. Again I felt totally shafted.  Again.  But it was more of an explanation than I can remember receiving.  Previously, what he mentioned was that he wasn’t in a good place in his life to make friends or have relationships.