if you forget me

i want you to know
one thing.

you know how this is:
if i look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if i touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
i shall stop loving you little by little.

if suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for i shall already have forgotten you.

if you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where i have roots,
remember
that on that day
at that hour
i shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.

but
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine

-pablo neruda

awaiting resurrection in rain

I was reminded tonight of how driving in a snowstorm on a pitch black night down a street with no lights and your high-beams on can make you feel like you're falling. Is it a latent suicidal urge that keeps you from pulling over? Like how Milan Kundera suggests vertigo is not the fear of falling, but rather jumping? You can only see a few feet ahead of you, the illuminated flakes whipping towards you is enough to prompt an epileptic fit, but you persist. I'm always amazed that I continue to drive when I feel so unsafe, but even more so, I am amazed at the assholes who come blazing up behind you going 20 over the speed limit, and then ride your ass like there's something wrong with you. I want bad things to happen to these people.

I mean, I suppose I don't actually want bad things to happen to these people, but in the moment I get mad enough to wish it upon them, usually taking the form of a few mumbled curse words and a good old fashioned tap of the breaks.

I don't get angry very often, but I will admit I am prone to some serious road rage (what did George Carlin say about anyone going slower than you is an idiot, and anyone going faster is a maniac... smart man; RIP). I learned the virtue of patience by necessity at an early age. And since then I have learned that patience and kindness are some of the more important things in life. It can be all you have to offer anybody that truly means anything it all.

I fear that these qualities are too often mistaken for naivete.

Take elementary school; how the quiet, nice kid was the easiest target, and therefore the one facing the most shit. I felt for those kids in school... it didn't stop me from teasing along, I'm sorry to say, but I've remembered those moments heading into adulthood. And now, I see the same game, it's not as transparent as it was in grade school, but it's there in essence. The weak-hearted being strong-willed (to steal a phrase from Ani Difranco). And the strong-hearted seeming weak. It's all backwards. What does It say about the meek inheriting the kingdom of God? I guess that bit is glazed over by the fist-pounders.

And here's where it really get's tricky. Because, like the maniac driver, I would love to give these people a piece of my mind. But would I then be abandoning something imperative? Where's the line of righteous indignation?

I don't have an answer for that. It's a line I've never been able to make out. Most of the time I continue to smile, and stare in bewilderment.

There are people out there who are going to make you feel like shit for trying to be good. The easy ones to deal with are the ones who are blatant in their methods. These are the ones that you can see coming a mile away. Their transgressions don't hurt too much. Astounding in their ignorance, but otherwise negligible. But there are other ones; ones that will smile to your face, who will wear the guise so well that it takes you a while to see them for who they are. These are the worst kind. Those who save their enmity for private ears.

I just hope they know that kindness is not the same as naivete, that they aren't fooling anyone, except maybe themselves, and maybe not even then.

I'd love to come right out and tell these kinds of people to fuck off. Sometimes I slip up and I do. But, really, when it comes down to it, it's much easier to do that. It is so much easier to hate than it is to love.

So where is the line of righteous indignation? Maybe it's a private place. Maybe it's something internal, where you have to realize that you'll be damned if anybody ever makes you feel stupid for loving. (see: You are what you love, not what loves you)

And in the end, I believe, that's the only thing that is ever going to make you feel good. I was furious with the maniac behind me tonight. Furious as I pulled over to the side of the road at too-high a speed and nearly slid off the road completely because he/she was riding too close. Furious as their horn rang out as they sped by. Furious as I turned around on the dark road and headed back. Furious up until I got out and asked that guy sitting by his car on the side of the road with his hood up and hazard lights on if he needed any help.

I'm not suggesting I'm some sort of saint for stopping to lend somebody jumper cables in the middle of the night. But that simple act of kindness brought things back into balance for me. I realized that this is the kind of person I want to be. And so I just shook his hand, and sort of smiled when he said "you wouldn't believe how many assholes have just driven by."

it is at moments after i have dreamed
of the rare entertainment of your eyes,
when (being fool to fancy) i have deemed

with your peculiar mouth my heart made wise;
at moments when the glassy darkness holds
the genuine apparition of your smile
(it was through tears always)and silence moulds
such strangeness as was mine a little while;

moments when my once more illustrious arms
are filled with fascination, when my breast
wears the intolerant brightness of your charms:

one pierced moment whiter than the rest

-turning from the tremendous lie of sleep
i watch the roses of the day grow deep.

-ee cummings

shut softly your watery eyes

I was fourteen and fifteen when I worked for two summers in a nursing home. I worked in the activities department, and so my job was to entertain. We threw birthday parties, held bingo afternoons, movie nights, etc. There were three separate buildings, at least four floors in each building, about fifty residents on each floor. There was an "activities director" assigned to each floor, and I would take turns assisting different directors every day. Every floor had three planned activities for the day posted on a dry erase board:
9:30: Bingo
12:30: Movie: Once Upon a Time (starring Cary Grant)
3:30: Arts and Crafts.
Between these planned activities I would just walk around and spend time with people, wheel them around the courtyard, read them the paper, help them try and chew their food, anything, anything to brighten those dingy walls that surrounded them.

The buildings and floors were organized by the tenants' abilities, or, in so many words, their life expectancy. I mean that in the most literal sense (expectancy - the state of thinking or hoping that something, esp. something pleasant will happen or be the case). And so some floors were much sadder than others.

A good majority of the people were completely non-responsive. There were younger, severely disabled people, who were unable to speak, or move - I remember one man, he was probably about 35, was in a car accident at some point, paralyzed; he sat reclined in a chair, always covered by dozens of white towels, situated to collect the constant flood of saliva that fell from his twisted mouth like a leaky faucet. I remember the smell of him, and feel embarrassed that at first I had a hard time sitting near to him; I imagine the shit and piss in his pants was much more uncomfortable to him than it was to me. But I also remember his eyes, and the way he would smile somewhere in them when you came near and asked him how he was. He couldn't speak, but would sort of grunt and gargle responses. And his one hand, that permanently rested upright, his elbow wedged to his hip and bent upwards, fingers clenched tight, thumb inside barely jutting out between his middle and ring finger, when you would gently close your hand around it, saying, "give me a high five, Ed" his gargling would come in great, loud spurts, and his head would slightly rock back and fourth. This was the only way he could laugh.

Sometimes some of the older women thought I was their grandson, or some long-lost family friend, or even, sometimes, their husband. I learned early on it was better to allow them the delusion. "Yes, Martha, I'm still in the Navy. No we haven't set a date yet. Yes, Martha, I'm happy as well. She certainly is a wonderful gal."

I spent a lot of my free time with this one woman, Grace. She was, quite simply, adorable. She sat hunched over in her wheelchair, the brightly colored afghan wrapped under her frail legs. Though her face was textured and worn, and her eyes sunk behind large, thick glasses, you could tell she once possessed stunning beauty. Her smile was mischievous and enigmatic. She was a great conversationalist. Her mind was sharp. I would often take her outside and wheel her around the grounds, maybe stopping to sit on a bench and read the paper. And sometimes when I wheeled her into the elevator, and stepped back around her to press the button, a wrinkled brown hand would come out from under the afghan and two shaky fingers would reach out and lightly pinch my bottom, and when I would turn around in feigned offense, she would quietly laugh to herself. This was how it was on the good days. But for as many good days as Grace and I had over those two summers, there were just as many bad days. Sometimes you would find her wheeled into a corner, and she would be crying. I had never seen this kind of crying before, and perhaps never have seen since. It was unintelligible that such a feeble, and ordinarily lighthearted creature, could produce such deep and immutable sobbing. Any inquisition to the source would invariably fail. She would not, or perhaps, more likely, could not, reply. The tears would stream, and her lungs would lunge in dissonance, her head hanging to her breast, rising and falling with each pang.

When I mention good days and bad days, I am not being figurative. The days she would cry, she would cry all day. And the days that she laughed, and talked, and coyly smiled, she laughed, and talked, and coyly smiled all day. There was no overlap.

I never found out what caused that pain in her, and I never figured out how to bring her out of that dark prison she would find herself locked into. I could only occasionally reach out and wipe away a few tears with the side of my thumb, stretching out her furrowed cheeks, softly whispering apologies... or I could exaggerate how long it took to press the button in the elevator, giving her enough time to struggle her hand from her lap.

just delightful

I just finished watching Away We Go, and man, it was fantastic. You can tell it was written by Dave Eggers, the man has such a unique voice. I feel like it's been too long since I've seen a film that has moved me. This one did. I'm always impressed when a film can make you laugh and cry. In the wise words of Joni Mitchell "laughing and crying, you know it's the same release." Oh and the Alexi Murdoch songs laced throughout was pretty rad too.

I just found out Is Anybody There? was playing at the Polk this weekend, and I'm really bummed I missed it... that's another one I desperately want to see.

stuck inside of mobile with the memphis blues again

It looks as if I'll be in Florida a little bit longer than expected. Due to an evening of revelry with several friends under the guise of a going-away get together at DC's sports bar, and, more specifically, the afterparty at Benji's with George and Austin, coupled with their fairly-convincing, provocative, albeit outlandish attempts at convincing me to move back, I entirely missed my flight. I didn't really miss it, as such - I didn't have a McCallister-family style run through the Tampa airport - I just slept through my alarm (which, in hindsight, I should have seen coming since me and Austin's 5 o'clock-in-the-morning bike-peddling adventure doesn't bode well for an early departure, especially since when I collapsed on my friends futon at roughly 5:30 my bags were still scattered all over the floor). So that 8am alarm went unheard, and a grumbly voice informed my ride, when he arrived, that there was simply no way this thing was going to happen.

[A brief aside/admission: I'm glad my father is technologically impaired and cannot read this, because I told him that my ride's car broke down... a small lie, one I don't feel entirely absolved of, but one worth not having to endure that prolonged sigh/grunt of disapproval ordinarily laced with "oh boy's" and "straighten your act out's" - to him any deviation from a plan, unless entirely outside of one's hands, is nothing short of extreme negligence and immaturity, age and parental independence notwithstanding. Though, I will say, the old man isn't all that gullible; he half-jokingly accused me of lying, saying, "I bet this is all one big scam, and it has something to do with a girl." Oh, Dad.]

Unfortunately, Southwest isn't really sympathetic to my plight of flight (ooooh... clever? ... probably not), and insists that another ticket be purchased. They will, however, put the cost of my empty seat toward the new ticket... which doesn't really amount to much unless you purchase in advance. So, looks like I'm here another two weeks. I will be missing out on a few additional weeks of my beloved autumn, but I suppose it's not all bad, there are things about Lakeland I've become quite fond of on this trip.

The only real downside is that I have already blown through all the books I brought on the trip... I do have my collection here in town, and there is probably one or two in there I haven't read yet... still, I knew I should have packed a few more.

And let it be noted: On Thursday Oct 23rd I will NOT be bamboozled into a late evening

... probably.

curb

My best friend's wife, Rachel, when we first met, told me that I looked like Tom Yorke. It's been a long-standing joke between us (one that I mentioned during their wedding toast). It was a compliment in her mind, and I didn't really take offense at the time, but still, I always give her shit about telling me I looked, essentially, like a lazy-eyed-homeless-looking man. But tonight, since I have been vehement through the course of their relationship that they both watch 'Curb Your Enthusiasm' in it's entirety and embrace the hilarity, she told me that every time she watches that show she thinks of me. She said that, in almost every way, I remind her of Larry David - the mannerisms, the way I walk, everything. And while I don't really see it at all... I'll actually accept this one as a huge compliment, because, seriously, he's awesome. I wish I had HBO... this new season is going to be great... I mean, how can it not be?

good god almighty that stuff 'aint real

This is how I spent my evening:

and it was just lovely. I'm halfway through the first season (thanks netflix insta-queue! - which I have used way more than the traditional netflix mainly because I'm too lazy to put the dvds in the mailbox which, I realize, is absolutely rediculous) and it's a great show so far. And the wine was pretty good too... I won't lie, the first time I bought this was a few years ago, and I bought it because I liked the label... I just can't help myself when it comes to aesthetics.

I received a few calls to go out tonight, but I'm glad I didn't. It's been really nice to just sit around, watching Dexter and taking periodic musical interludes. Speaking of which, I am completely obsessed with Sea Wolf's Leaves in the River right now. It's my song of the month.

My last day of work was yesterday, and already I'm reverting back to my habit of staying up way too late (having to wake up at 6am everyday really puts a damper on the whole staying-up-till-4am-writing-listening-and-reading thing that has been my life since I was in highschool). I have no clue where I'm going to go from here... and maybe I should be stressed about that. But I'm not. I just can't be. The air is too nice, the music too moving, the possibilities too endless, and the time way too short.

I went out to dinner with my mother the other day, who is going to Portland for a month-long visit, and she was so stressed out, like she so often is. And when I told her that she needn't worry so much, she got upset, like she always does at first when this recurrent conversation pops up. Sometimes she sees me as someone who never really worries about anything. I've heard this from people a few times actually. And I guess I can see where it comes from. Ammi used to get so mad at me in school because I never really worked at anything... or at least never worked at anything I didn't feel like working at, and she couldn't understand my ambivalence about academic pursuit. And I get it, I mean we are embedded with this notion that you need to do well in school and make a lot of money to be happy. But that is complete bullshit. It really is. It's not that I don't worry, or stress. It's quite the opposite actually. I freak the f out a lot of the time. But, in the end, and somewhere deep inside, I just realize... what is the point? You can stress about something until you are crippled by worry, and you can take all that stress and kill yourself to meet some standard that was placed in you, and you can hop from stone to stone with that weight on you, and that's fine, because you end up hopping from stone to stone anyway, but why consciously carry the weight? What I explained to my mother, and what I explained to Ammi about my academic attitude, is that I'm not immune to the pressure. I'm the guy who always says, don't worry so much, quoting Matthew 6:27 out of context; not because I'm actually indifferent to these very real circumstances, but because I've wasted way too much of my life worrying, and because it's what I'd want to hear, what I've so rarely heard, and because I think you just miss so much of the great stuff when you put so much energy into fighting the bad stuff.

I did not intend to get into all of this. It's much too big a concept to tackle here, one that I actually haven't ever really tried to put down in words before. But I'll say (or, rather, Bob Dylan will say) this in closing:

"When your head gets twisted and your mind grows numb
When you think you're too old, too young, too smart or too dumb
When you're lagging behind and losing your pace
In a slow-motion crawl of life's busy race
No matter what you're doing if you start giving up
If the wine don't come to the top of your cup
If the wind's got you sideways with with one hand holding on
And the other starts slipping and the feeling is gone
And your train engine fire needs a new spark to catch it
And the wood's easy finding but you're lazy to fetch it
And your sidewalk starts curling and the street gets too long
And you start walking backwards though you know its wrong
And lonesome comes up as down goes the day
And tomorrow's morning seems so far away
And you feel the reins from your pony are slipping
And your rope is a-sliding 'cause your hands are a-dripping
And your sun-decked desert and evergreen valleys
Turn to broken down slums and trash-can alleys
And your sky cries water and your drain pipe's a-pouring
And the lightning's a-flashing and the thunder's a-crashing
And the windows are rattling and breaking and the roof tops a-shaking
And your whole world's a-slamming and banging
And your minutes of sun turn to hours of storm

And to yourself you sometimes say
"I never knew it was gonna be this way
Why didn't they tell me the day I was born"
And you start getting chills and your jumping from sweat
And you're looking for something you ain't quite found yet
And you're knee-deep in the dark water with your hands in the air
And the whole world's a-watching with a window peek stare
And your good gal leaves and she's long gone a-flying
And your heart feels sick like fish when they're frying
And your jackhammer falls from your hand to your feet
And you need it badly but it lays on the street
And your bell's banging loudly but you can't hear its beat

And you think your ears might a been hurt
Or your eyes've turned filthy from the sight-blinding dirt
And you figured you failed in yesterdays rush
When you were faked out an' fooled while facing a four flush
And all the time you were holding three queens
And it's making you mad, it's making you mean
Like in the middle of Life magazine
Bouncing around a pinball machine

And there's something on your mind you wanna be saying
That somebody someplace oughta be hearing
But it's trapped on your tongue and sealed in your head
And it bothers you badly when you're laying in bed
And no matter how you try you just can't say it
And you're scared to your soul you just might forget it
And your eyes get swimmy from the tears in your head
And your pillows of feathers turn to blankets of lead
And the lion's mouth opens and your staring at his teeth
And his jaws start closing with you underneath
And you're flat on your belly with your hands tied behind
And you wish you'd never taken that last detour sign

And you say to yourself, just what am I doing
On this road I'm walking, on this trail I'm turning
On this curve I'm hanging
On this pathway I'm strolling, in the space I'm taking
In this air I'm inhaling

Am I mixed up too much, am I mixed up too hard

Why am I walking, where am I running
What am I saying, what am I knowing
On this guitar I'm playing, on this banjo I'm frailing
On this mandolin I'm strumming, in the song I'm singing
In the tune I'm humming, in the words I'm writing
In the words that I'm thinking
In this ocean of hours I'm all the time drinking
Who am I helping, what am I breaking
What am I giving, what am I taking

But you try with your whole soul best
Never to think these thoughts and never to let
Them kind of thoughts gain ground
Or make your heart pound

But then again you know when they're around
Just waiting for a chance to slip and drop down
Cause sometimes you hear 'em when the night times comes creeping
And you fear that they might catch you a-sleeping
And you jump from your bed, from your last chapter of dreaming
And you can't remember for the best of your thinking
If that was you in the dream that was screaming

And you know that it's something special you're needing
And you know that there's no drug that'll do for the healing
And no liquor in the land to stop your brain from bleeding

And you need something special
Yeah, you need something special all right
You need a fast flying train on a tornado track
To shoot you someplace and shoot you back
You need a cyclone wind on a stream engine howler
That's been banging and booming and blowing forever
That knows your troubles a hundred times over
You need a Greyhound bus that don't bar no race
That won't laugh at your looks
Your voice or your face
And by any number of bets in the book
Will be rolling long after the bubblegum craze

You need something to open up a new door
To show you something you seen before
But overlooked a hundred times or more
You need something to open your eyes
You need something to make it known
That it's you and no one else that owns
That spot that you're standing, that space that you're sitting
That the world ain't got you beat
That it ain't got you licked
It can't get you crazy no matter how many
Times you might get kicked

You need something special all right
You need something special to give you hope
But hope's just a word
That maybe you said or maybe you heard
On some windy corner 'round a wide-angled curve

But that's what you need man, and you need it bad
And your trouble is you know it too good
Cause you look and you start getting the chills

Cause you can't find it on a dollar bill
And it ain't on Macy's window sill
And it ain't on no rich kid's road map
And it ain't in no fat kid's fraternity house
And it ain't made in no Hollywood wheat germ
And it ain't on that dimlit stage
With that half-wit comedian on it
Ranting and raving and taking yer money
And you thinks it's funny

No you can't find it in no night club or no yacht club
And it ain't in the seats of a supper club
And sure as hell you're bound to tell
That no matter how hard you rub
You just ain't a-gonna find it on your ticket stub
No, and it ain't in the rumors people're telling you
And it ain't in the pimple-lotion people are selling you
And it ain't in no cardboard-box house
Or down any movie star's blouse
And you can't find it on the golf course
And Uncle Remus can't tell you and neither can Santa Claus

And it ain't in the cream puff hair-do or cotton candy clothes
And it ain't in the dime store dummies or bubblegum goons
And it ain't in the marshmallow noises of the chocolate cake voices
That come knocking and tapping in Christmas wrapping
Saying 'ain't I pretty and ain't I cute and look at my skin
Look at my skin shine, look at my skin glow
Look at my skin laugh, look at my skin cry'
When you can't even sense if they got any insides
These people so pretty in their ribbons and bows

No you'll not now or no other day
Find it on the doorsteps made out-a paper mache
And inside the people made of molasses
That every other day buy a new pair of sunglasses
And it ain't in the fifty-star generals and flipped-out phonies
Who'd turn you in for a tenth of a penny
Who breathe and burp and bend and crack
And before you can count from one to ten
Do it all over again but this time behind yer back
My friend
The ones that wheel and deal and whirl and twirl
And play games with each other in their sand-box world
And you can't find it either in the no-talent fools
That run around gallant
And make all rules for the ones that got talent
And it ain't in the ones that ain't got any talent but think they do
And think they're foolig' you
The ones who jump on the wagon
Just for a while 'cause they know it's in style
To get their kicks, get out of it quick
And make all kinds of money and chicks

And you yell to yourself and you throw down your hat
Saying, 'Christ do I gotta be like that?
Ain't there no one here that knows where I'm at
Ain't there no one here that knows how I feel
Good God Almighty
THAT STUFF AIN'T REAL'

No but that ain't your game, it ain't even your race
You can't hear your name, you can't see your face
You gotta look some other place

And where do you look for this hope that you're seeking?
Where do you look for this lamp that's a-burning?
Where do you look for this oil well gushing?
Where do you look for this candle that's glowing?
Where do you look for this hope that you know is there
And out there somewhere?

And your feet can only walk down two kinds of roads
Your eyes can only look through two kinds of windows
Your nose can only smell two kinds of hallways
You can touch and twist
And turn two kinds of doorknobs
You can either go to the church of your choice
Or you can go to Brooklyn State Hospital
You'll find God in the church of your choice
You'll find Woody Guthrie in Brooklyn State Hospital

And though it's only my opinion
I may be right or wrong
You'll find them both
In the Grand Canyon
at sundown

-Bob Dylan

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

If you've been generous enough to read through all of this, I'll leave you with a few tunes that have been good to me in this beautiful season.

i let my music take me where my heart wants to go

I've been feeling very restless lately, but not at all in a way that makes me weary or overtly anxious. I think I'm beginning to shed this notion of waiting. For so long now I've been waiting... waiting for some opportunity, or some change, or someone, or... I don't even know... But I'm done with that. I was listening to some music and reading some poetry this evening and I had this intense feeling of excitement, not for things that I've been waiting for, or hoping for over the last year or two, but for an entirely new set of circumstances that don't have the rigid outlines my previous dreams have had (have you ever wished for something for so long that you've imagined every possible scenario that it could play itself out? You dream it to death and then it ceases to excite you anymore, you just anticipate, in vain most likely) in fact there were no outlines at all. It was simply a feeling of excitement, and wandering images of beauty.





"Compliment"
-Rives

I remember the first time
you named me “Good morning.”

And how, the night before,
you considered my ceiling,
where the passing cars outside
the passing cars outside
the passing cars outside
cast their shadows and liquid lights
through the slats of my blinds.

You said: “Hey Romeo--
your CD player is skipping again...
but your ceiling’s like fireworks for poor folks!”
And I liked that.

I like the tall pauses you take
when you tell your nephews knock-knock jokes.
And I like your theory
that men and women’s shirts button on opposite sides
so that couples can get dressed facing each other
after making love.

You seem to season your seasons,
your days, your time
with rhyme, not reason,
I’ve seen you. Daily. Nightly.
I’ve watched you housebreak a puppy
just by asking politely.

And your remedy for insomnia?
Is to pile every pillow and blanket into the tub
and you nap there like you’re taking
a patchwork bath,
and I said once: “Oh--I wish I had a PICTURE!”
and you said: “Oh--I wish you and I had HOT SEX,
YOU gave ME a PEDICURE,
and then ELVES showed up at our doorstep,
with a PIZZA, to tell us JESUS just built a TREEHOUSE
in the backyard, and he’d like to meet us both,
so HOP IN HOTSHOT!”

You’re weird,
with a capital “WE.”
And I’m grateful, I marvel,
you’ve helped me hammer
some of my worst manners into manhood,
but I still admit--I like the way your shorts fit,
and how, overall, you’d call me “smart,”
even though sometimes
I do really stupid shit.

And I like how you giggle with your lips closed
like you’ve got a secret little moon in your mouth.

But I’m not insisting you’re some kind of goddess,
(I know you’re suspicious of unspecific love poems).
You’re more like a sunflower,
growing in the courtyard of an old folks home--
you mean things to people on a daily basis,
and this petty poem won’t explain
just how “my favorite” your face is,
(but I wish I’d been your bathroom mirror
the day they took off your braces).

You’re so pretty.

You’re like a vivid video game
and I’m the idiot kid
just trying to get to your next level--
I like your right-shoulder angel,
Hell, I like your left-shoulder devil.
I admire the lively deeds you do.
So if you come through a doorway again,
in a thrift store poncho,
or a drop-dead evening gown,
twirling and asking:
“Well, whaddya think?”
I’m gonna tell you:

“Shit howdy, Sunshine,
sit your fine self down!
If you’re looking for a compliment--

I think you’ve come
to the right place.”

release me

"Oh dear God, can you see this now?
I am myself like you somehow.
I wait up in the dark for you to speak to me.
I'm opened up...
Release me... release me."



I've been listening to this song for over 10 years now and it still gets to me every time, and always for a different reason. There's something now I want to be released from, but I won't get into that.

They've got a new album coming at the end of the month, and hopefully some nearer tour dates will be added. Can't wait.

mr. t poetry

Today, my brother-in-law invited me to a facebook group he created - Mr. T Poetry.

I don't know where he comes up with this stuff, but it cracks me up.

His contributions:

"Fools"
Mr.T, Mr.T
why me Mr. T
is this some sort of conspiracy?
Mr.T are those kittens free cus
I'm so hungry Mr.T
-------------------------
"Chumps"
Mr.T, Mr.T
grab a forty will watch you on T.V.
MrT. could you defeat Bruce Lee without the use of heavy machinery? Mr.T
-------------------------
"Suckas"
Mr.T, Mr.T
I bet that you could beat up gravity
Mr.T you should have been in E.T.
Mr.T with your mohawk and goatee
Mr.T it's fools that you pity Mr.T

When I joined in I was under the impression we were making up poems that might have been written by Mr. T himself, so here's my contributions:

"Pity"
by Mr. T

I
yes
I
pity the fool

commiseration for the cretin
sorrow for the sap
empathy for the empty-headed

but can I
can I not

also love?
-------------------------
"Gold"
by Mr. T

the weight around my neck
the weight on my soul

it glimmers in the sun

and all you better quit your jibber-jabber
-------------------------
"Walt"
by Mr. T

"I believe a leaf of grass is no less than the journey-work of the stars."
- Walt Whitman

Shut up, fool.
I'm gonna bust you up Whitman!

-------------------------

I could probably spend hours doing this.

productivity

I noted in my last post that my current job consists of at least twelve hour shifts, and that is accurate, but, I should also say that the majority of those hours are spent doing absolutely nothing, as will be proven in this post. I mean, most of the time, there really is simply nothing to do. I'm a manager, so I do very little work myself, I just tell people what to do, and, really, at this point, I don't even do that because all my workers do what they're supposed to by now.

So anyways. I was sitting around today in my "office" - it's not really an office, just a storage area adjacent to one of my bars which I have adorned with a few chairs and a fan - with Shane, a very old dear friend of mine who works as a porter for the company. Shane and I grew up down the street from one another and have been best friends since midnight hide-and-go-seek was the most fun a kid could have. While sitting there and talking about how bored we were, Shane suddenly said, "you want to make some mazes?"

Now, in 9th grade Shane and I had this one math teacher, Mr. Forgette, the man was crazy (somehow Shane and I always had classes together with the oddest teachers... don't even get me started on our English teacher that year, Mr. Spira, who one time walked into class, looked around, and said "I'm not happy with this class today" and proceeded to hop out the first story window and walk off not coming back until 2 minutes before the class got out...). But Mr. Forgette was just hilarious. It was an AP math class, so he didn't really care too much about the curriculum, and any time you didn't want to listen to his lecture all you had to do was raise your hand and say "Mr. Forgette, I don't understand Cold Fusion" and the man would immediately turn off the overhead projector and ramble on and on about cold fusion (we pulled this trick in excess of twenty times that year and it ALWAYS worked). To this day I have no idea what cold fusion is, or really anything he said - one time I had a question about a test, and I went up to his desk and stated my question, and he just said "ah, well... you ever been to dunkin donuts?" I just stared at him for a while, and he stared back for a while, and after a while I said "um...yye, yes" and he said "alright then" and so I stared at him, and he stared back, and I slowly backed up and went back to my desk more confused than I started out. I think it was probably some mnemonic device he said over and over in class, that I might have picked up had it not been, coming back to the point, for the mazes.

The mojority of that AP math class was spent by Shane and I, sitting in the back row, creating elaborate mazes for each other to solve. We'd spend the first 30 minutes or so creating, and the last 20 trying to solve.

We were a bit rusty today, Shane apparently being a wee bit rustier on his maze skills then me because here's what he came up with:



and here's what I came up with:



Shane's took me roughly 20 seconds to solve.

When Shane saw mine he said, "Jesus man! I said let's start out basic and work our way up! What the fuck is this.. a teleport??"

Yes, there were teleports in my maze. One of them with an out of order sign on it, just to keep him on his toes.

It took him about 15 minutes to solve.

And I get paid for this shit.

sort of pointless entry

Let me just say that Tuesdays come and go far too quickly. Tuesdays have been my only day off for the past few months, the other six days consisting of at least 12 hour shifts, and let me tell you, one day off a week is not enough to do all the things you want to do. The first half of my day sucked, because it's also the first of September (crazy) which meant bill paying time, which meant hair pulling time, which meant insatiable need to get in the car and drive time. Which is precisely what I did... after fixing my car (I thought it was broken badly, and it was a huge relief to only need a jump). I drove to Albany to go see 500 Days of Summer, which was really good. I've always loved the combination of driving and listening to music... sometimes to a fault because I often would rather just listen than talk when in the presence of company, which seems rude, I know, I know, sue me... but this combination has become especially poignant since it really is the only time I am able to listen to music because of my work schedule (aside from Billy Joel's NY State of Mind that plays every day after the last race. I used to love that song, now I feel like vomiting every time I hear it). Now I feel like a drug addict getting a fix whenever the windows go down and the volume goes up.

So anyway, 500 Days of Summer was great. Though (spoiler alert), I really did want things to work out between them, probably because I identified with Tom so much (if I met a beautiful girl in an elevator who said she loved The Smiths I'd be done for too). It's also possible I don't like the idea that you can love so much about a certain person and not be "right" about them... Eh. But the thing with the girl at the end, her name being Autumn, was clever enough to make everything alright. And the coming attractions were awesome... aside from the one for Gamer, which looks like Michael Bay throwing up... the rest looked amazing though... check it:







I started out this post with ambitions of writing something meaningful, but I've lost it. I'll leave you with this, which is probably nearer to something I wanted to say, my favorite short in Paris, Je Taime - in honor of the little french film scene in 500 Days of Summer, which might have been my favorite part, and also in honor of the upcoming New York, I Love You, which I'm kind of worried will fail miserably in comparison to it's french counterpart.

The Heart Under Your Heart
by Craig Arnold

The heart under your heart

is not the one you share
so readily
so full of pleasantry
& tenderness

it is a single blackberry
at the heart of a bramble
or else some larger fruit
heavy
the size of a fist

it is full of things
you have never shared with me
broken engagements
bruises
& baking dishes

the scars on top of scars
of sixteen thousand pinpricks
the melody you want so much to carry
& always fear
black fear

or so I imagine
you have never shown me
& how could I expect you to
I also have a heart beneath my heart
perhaps you have seen
or guessed

it is a beach at night
where the waves lap & the wind hisses
over a bank of thin
translucent orange & yellow jingle shells

on the far side of the harbor
the lighthouse beacon
shivers across the black water
& someone stands there
waiting

i'm a little pea, i love the sky and the trees

I really don't understand the desire some individuals have to fight, without provocation or reasoning of any kind. I've been fairly immobile for the past two days, because some macho douchebag decided to throw me into a railing for no reason.

Let's back up.

I was out with my buddy Charlie, sitting on a street corner trying to call another friend when some (I was going to say 'guy' but that implies a level of basic humanity this thing lacked, so just insert the expletive of your choice) walked by, and looking down at Charlie, said, "nice pants, faggot." So Charlie, being slightly intoxicated and astounded, and, more to the point, being classic Charlie - turned around and said, "wait, dude... what? I mean, thanks, I love these pants, but... I don't get it, how do my pants make me a homosexual?" A reasonable question, but apparently when you approach someone like this with reason, their tiny little brain cannot fathom such a thing and they respond with sheer anger. After a few voilent words, Charlie continued, "no man, I don't want to fight you, I just was wondering what my pants have to do with my sexuality."

Now granted, this entire situation would not have ever came to pass had Charlie just ignored it, but... I can't say I blame him; in the face of such sheer ignorance I think he had every right to tactfully stand up for himself. Unfortunately this other thing had no understanding of tact. I stood by Charlie, trying to diffuse the situation; the other party, apparently having no problem with my pants whatsoever, mainly ignored me and tried his hardest to get Charlie to fight him. But after a few minutes of Charlie's rather humorous, though misguided, attempts at logical banter and peacetalks, the guy did the only thing he could do when affronted with someone who did not wish to engage in a metaphorical dick-measuring-contest, he took off his shirt.

It's hilarious, really, and had he just stood there Charlie and I might very well have just laughed off into the sunset (or, sunrise, really, as it was the wee hours of the morning). But he immediately started shoving Charlie across the street. So, I followed, saying "cool it, man" and other things like that, but he continued shoving all the way across and began down the other sidewalk, so at one point I got in between them and put my hands on his shoulders, and appealed for him to let it go, at which point he threw me aside, right into a large steel railing. After regaining my breath, which was instantly knocked out of me, I started toward them again, Charlie still backing up with his hands out telling the guy to relax. Luckilly, some police officers happened to be passing by. In the end Charlie and I walked away, with the guy continuing to rack up evidence of his stupidity by engaging in a shouting match with five police officers. We didn't stick around to see if he got arrested.

So, here I am, two days later, still icing and Ace-bandaging my rib cage, and not moving or breathing deeply a whole lot. I'm foregoing the x-rays, mainly due to lack of medical insurance, but also because you can't do much about a few cracked ribs, they just have to heal on their own. I'm also trying my hardest not to remember many of the idiots comments, or replay the scene where he took off his shirt, because that shit makes me laugh, and laughing hurts.

But, on a MUCH lighter note about my rib cage: I went over to my brother's for dinner tonight. My niece Karissa is 2 and 1/2 now, and so stinkin cute. Not being in NY very much these past few years she hasn't really ever adjusted to me, not like Londyn, her sister, who always came running whenever I stopped by (and who called me five times yesterday morning within two hours, and left basically the same adorable message every time - I wasn't ignoring... I just couldn't reach for my phone) At any rate, Karissa is finally warming up to me. We were playing in the back yard and she ran around showing me all the things she could do. And I felt like an old man, I really did. I couldn't move very well, I was slow, and every time I had to bend down to get something for her, or pull her in her cart, it was such an effort, and laced with old man groans. But it was worth it, I didn't even care about the pain, I just had to work around it. The best part was that whenever I wasn't looking at her, she'd call out "uunnca 'teve!" So cute.

So anyway, at one point she was sitting on the step, and I was talking to my sister-in-law, and Karissa called out "uunnca 'teve!" so I looked over, she smirked, and I said, "what are you doing, sitting?"
She said, "ssittin" and she stood up.
So I said, "what are you doing now, standing?" she laughed hard, for some reason this was hilarious to her.
She said, "'tandin" then sat.
I said, "what are you doing now, sitting again?"
She laughed, said "ssittin" as she stood, and so on.
This cycle repeated several times, each time apparently getting funnier and funnier to her.

So then later we are tossing a ball back and forth and she sat down on the porch, now just rolling the ball to me. Then she told me I have to sit, it was more like "ouu 'af t' ssit" so, with great effort I did. Then she told me "no, ouu 'af t'and." And so, again, with great effort, I did. And she just laughed her head off. Apparently repeatedly standing and sitting was a top notch comedy routine to this kid. I could only excruciatingly stand and sit so many times before resigning to ruffling her hair and suggesting a different game, but, it was lovely, it really was.

All my anger and frustrations that were brooding over this simple-minded idiot as I layed on an icepack yesterday vanished in the face of purity and love. And I am again reminded of what Ghandi said, "when I despair, I remember that all throughout history the way of truth and love has always won. There have been tyrants and murderers and for a time they seem invincible, but in the end, they always fall - think of it... always."

I don't know what makes human beings become so violent and cruel, and I don't know how to deal with it sometimes, but people I love help, and the fact that love and kindness is a far greater force helps, and today, these pictures of my nieces, and being "uncle Steve" to someone, helps.







It felt good to write here again, it's been a while.

endearing

I never watch tv when it's actually tv (except LOST, because, well, because its LOST). I generally don't see a show until I can rent or download entire seasons and then watch them all in one go. I'm doing this currently with How I Met Your Mother. Not the greatest show ever made (the laugh track in sitcoms feels akward to me after watching so many great comedies that don't have it, like Arrested Development or The Office), but it has its moments. The plot is often better than the jokes, and the little mystery surrounding the ultimate romance keeps you coming back. At any rate, I just watched this, and had one of those heart-lurches that seem so infrequent these days.

it's beautiful, and so are you

I found this really amazing site that I think everyone should join in on.

http://8tracks.com

Basically it's an online community where people create playlists (you can chose from a network of songs, or upload any that aren't already there).

And that's it.

You can follow people, like twitter (except it's not pointless, trivial, and narcissistic), share, and comment on each other's creations. Pretty sweet, if you ask me. I just wish there were more of my friends on this site. So anyone who reads this should join, right now. It is time consuming, since you cannot see what is coming next until it is playing, and they only allow you to skip a few tracks in a certain time frame, but it's still so worth it.

I made this mix tonight because, for some reason, I was thinking about one night in San Francisco, sitting in Cory's dorm room, the lights were out and we were all lying around in the candlelight, doing nothing, barely even speaking, just listening. There were many tunes played that night, but I remember one in particular: Led Zeppelin's That's The Way. It had probably been a solid thirty minutes since any of the half-a-dozen-or-so people strewn about the room had said anything, but during that song Cory sort of softly muttered, "I cried my eyes out the first time I heard this song." This comment received a few muffled sighs and "yeah, I know's" and the music continued, each of us feeling a little bit closer to one another.

Cory has always been my numero-uno compadre (a little tribute to cinco de Mayo there) when it comes to sharing music. And it's been a slew of moments exacly like that one that have made me understand Cory as much as I do, and have given weight to the friendship I will always share with him; we've spent hours and hours staring off into itunes visualizers, going back and fourth chosing songs, or driving around aimlessly in the middle of the night repeatedly entering and ejecting CD's, or leaving the bars on Caroline Street to head over to his parked car, throwing the windows down, and having parking lot dance parties, or, like now, sadly, phone conversations consisting of "Hey, have you heard this?'s". And all of those small moments absorbed in someone else's art has created something of unparallelled understanding and compassion.

Case in point: music is communal, and divine, and... oh goodness, so much more.

i'll see you soon

I've made up my mind, it's done. I'll be moving to Portland, OR in the next few months. And I can't wait.

It's an amazing city, it really is - amazing music and art scene, amazing people, thirty-minute drive to some of the most amazing scenery in the world... ideal, really.

I've been flirting with the notion since graduating high school; my sister Jen writing me long letters about the merits of the place, about how much she loves it, and then going to visit and seeing what she meant.

I will miss the people I've met in Florida, I really will. But it's time to move on.

The move will happen in July, possibly August, and will consist of a several-week-long road trip across the country, one which, I hope, will be in the presence of a dear friend or two (Cory, if you're reading this, you should be receiving a letter in the mail soon requesting your presence on this journey, a response and a solution to your letter's mention of an "Odyssey - A sojourn through this land...mile by mile under our own power and of our own volition." And Charlie Charbonneau might be on the road with us as well. Consider it, and say yes, and then convince Sara to come as well).

I'm anticipating the feeling of, as Kerouac wrote, driving away from people, and them receding on the plain till you see their specks dispersing.

I'll understand that it's the too-huge world vaulting me, and that it's goodbye, but I will lean forward to the next crazy venture beneath the skies.

And, in a bullet-proof vest with the windows all closed, I'll hope to see you all soon.

as you, my soul, are holy

It's 6:10am, six eleven now... six twelve in a moment... I haven't written anything meaningful here for weeks, months... time means less and less.

I feel compelled to write, but am too far from my trustful, confident, paper-bound friend to make the four-step journey across the carpet I only tell myself is vast to reconcile my laziness with my urgency. And the pen might be lost after all.

This screen is close, these keys familiar, so I will lay the way I am; numb, staring, moving only my fingers and a little bit around the wrists, the syntax in my brain moving less even than that.

But I will stare, and type, and purge - ha! Yes, I'll call it purging; to rid - that's what it means, right? Sure, let's call it that, though it will never be.

Writing there - the paper-bound confidant, whose pages receive without hesitation or judgment is like speaking in a confessional as a child who has no understanding of the shadow through the screen, believing that he is speaking to a ghost, one that is holy, or so he's told: "I stole." "I lied." "I made my sister cry." "I watched a friend stare absently at a bird who struggled, ridden with BB-gun pellets, whose wings flapped helplessly against the cold ground spattered with odd-colored fluid, moving slower and slower, the shriek and scraping caused fear to rise in my spine, but I watched... I watched... his absent stare pulling me in... I watched; if a hand wanted to carry that bird back to the sky it made no such resistance.. I watched... how and for what should I ask forgiveness?"

Writing here is as if scrawling on a bathroom wall.

I'm not sure which is truer.

so freaking awesome

Trailers aren't always the best indicators of a movie's worth, but if this is half as good as the trailer, I'll be a happy man. Spike Jonze, Dave Eggers, Catherine Keener, The Arcade Fire, and good ol' fashioned childhood nostalgia... I mean, come on, this is gonna rock.

I'll be there opening night, who wants to come with?

i'm just a little person, and you're the one i like the best

Upon my third viewing, which took place this afternoon, I've decided that I have a new favorite film. I've considered Magnolia my favorite film for a very, very long time, but it was bumped today. I've given this a lot of thought, because I take these things very seriously, so this is a big deal. Hence the blog about it.

The first time I saw it I was overwhelmed, and confused, but entirely moved. It was... startling... I guess, something more, really. I'm still piecing it all together, but there is beauty there... so much beauty.

This is a quote, which should be a poem, so I have broken it up as one.

"What was once before you - an exciting, mysterious future -
is now behind you.
Lived; understood; disappointing.
You realize you are not special.
You have struggled into existence, and are now slipping silently out of it.
This is everyone's experience.

Every single one.

The specifics hardly matter.
Everyone's everyone. So you are Adele, Hazel, Claire, Olive.

You are Ellen.

All her meager sadnesses are yours;
all her loneliness;
the gray, straw-like hair;
her red raw hands.
It's yours.
It is time for you to understand this.

Walk.

As the people who adore you stop adoring you;
as they die; as they move on;
as you shed them; as you shed your beauty;
your youth; as the world forgets you;
as you recognize your transience;
as you begin to lose your characteristics one by one;
as you learn there is no-one watching you, and there never was,
you think only about driving - not coming from any place;
not arriving any place. Just driving,
counting off time.

Now you are here, at 7:43.
Now you are here, at 7:44.
Now you are...
Gone."

a vision softly creeping

I received a letter from my mother yesterday. I will keep most of its contents to myself, but feel the desire to share a line that I found tragically poignant and exceptionally beautiful all at once. It read: "Please be gentle when you evaluate my life, for life has had many different seasons."

Although the full weight of that statement may not be understood to anyone but her and I, I think it is nevertheless something worth sharing here - if only because we could all use a reminder to be gentle with others.

Because I know you read this, because you will see this before I am able to return a letter, and because it needs to be said; I love you. The pieces of me that come from you are not, as I fear you believe them to be, weaknesses, but unbelievable strengths. When I evaluate your life I see at once a mother and a woman, both of whom inspire me beyond words. It is because of your life that I am able to be gentle, it is because of you that I am anything at all.

My niece just emailed me an invitation to her 16th birthday party... in August 2017. I RSVP'd yes, and smiled. Which was something I needed today.

I'll be there, Londyn. I promise.

the answer lies within

Something about the air this morning sparked in me an extreme desire to read Walden in its entirety, (something I have never done before. I have only thumbed its entrancing pages). Not able to find the tattered copy I once owned, I made a trip to Books a Million and ended up spending $70.

I wish I could be in the park right now, guarding the light pages of this huge, beautiful Oxford Book of American Poetry from the wind, but I have to do laundry before work. Instead I have thrown open every window. It will have to do for today.

--------------

But I Can't

Time will say nothing but I told you so,
Time only knows the price we have to pay;
If I could tell you I would let you know.

If we should weep when clowns put on their show,
If we should stumble when musicians play,
Time will say nothing but I told you so.

There are no fortunes to be told, although,
Because I love you more than I can say,
If I could tell you I would let you know.

The winds must come from somewhere when they blow,
There must be reasons why the leaves decay;
Time will say nothing but I told you so.

Perhaps the roses really do want to grow,
The vision seriously intends to stay;
If I could tell you I would let you know.

Suppose the lions all get up and go,
And all the brooks and soldiers run away;
Will Time say nothing but I told you so?
If I could tell you I would let you know.

-W.H Auden, 1940.

dreaming of your enumerations

This last time coming back to Florida felt different. It felt like coming home. And it's never been that way before. I don't know what that means, but I'm not trying to figure it out either.

I have been rather blissful lately for reasons that I cannot understand nor even attempt to communicate. Admittedly, the past month or two have been a bit of a blue period for me, again for reasons that I cannot touch or see. The weight came and left without a greeting or farewell. It laid still at night, silent but looming. During the day it made itself known only by casting everything in translucent light. And then it parted, and left in it's wake the visibility of thousands of reasons to smile.

It's something simple, whatever it is.

The simplicity of God. His Love.
The simplicity of breathing, of music, of words.
Of life.

I'm aware of the complications of all these things, especially the first and last, but I'm not thinking about them for a change. That's one reason to smile.

I'm reminded of something Kurt Vonnegut's uncle told him: "I urge you to please notice when you are happy, and exclaim, or murmur, or think at some point: 'if this isn't nice, I don't know what is."

I've found myself thinking that about a lot of things lately.

I'm finding myself wanting to say I Love You to so many people and things.

I love you.

a poem and some cuteness

My mother recently gave me a book of poetry by Pablo Neruda called Winter Garden. It was an unpublished collection found on his desk after his death. I was thumbing through it on the plane ride home, and must have read this one four or five times before turning the page. I love it, though have no words to say why...

The Egoist

Nobody is missing from the garden. Nobody is here:
only the green and black winter, the day
waking from sleep like a ghost,
a white phantom in cold garments
climbing the steps of a castle. It's an hour
when no one should arrive. Just a few drops
of chilly dew keep falling
from the bare branches of winter
and you and I in this circle of solitude,
invincible and alone, waiting
for no one to arrive, no, nobody will come
with a smile or a medal or a budget
to make us an offer or ask us anything.

This is the hour
of fallen leaves, their dust
scattered over the earth, when
they return to the depths of being and not being
and abandon the gold and the greenery,
until they are roots again,
and again, torn down and being born,
they rise up to know the spring.

Oh heart lost
inside me, in this man's essence,
what bountiful change inhabits you!
I am not the culprit
who has fled or turned himself in:
misery could not exhaust me!
Your own happiness can grow bitter
if you kiss it every day,
and there is no way of freeing oneself
from the sunlight except to die.

What can I do if the star chose me
to flash with lightning, and if the thorn
guided me to the pain of so many others?
What can I do if every movement
of my hand brought me closer to the rose?
Should I beg forgiveness for this winter,
the most distant, the most unattainable
for that man who used to seek out the chill
without anyone suffering because of his happiness?

And if somewhere on those roads
--distant France, numerals of fog--
I return to the extent of my life:
a lonely garden, a poor district,
and suddenly this day equal to all others
descends the stairs that do not exist
dressed in irresistible purity,
and there is the odor of sharp solitude,
of humidity, of water, of being born again:
what can I do if I breathe my own air,
why will I feel wounded to death?


Being home has been wonderful. My sister Colleen also flew in from Portland, so there has been lots of much needed quality family time. Tonight I was able to hang out with all three of my nieces, and my sisters new puppy. The cuteness of it all was almost unbearable.








I already know I'm going to be one of those dads who carries pictures of his kids with him and shows them to everyone he knows, all the time.

illegal cinema

Florida's crappy movie scene has caused me to resort to illegal downloads. I cannot tell you how many films that I've been dying to see have not been playing around here... not even in Tampa or Orlando! Crazy. So I pirated a copy of The Wrestler, and am about to pop it in. My first movie-going experience of 2009 was Doubt, which, honestly, might already have earned its right as the best of the year, it was that good. But I've been hearing a great deal of wonderful things about Aronofsky's latest, so I'll hold off on that judgment for the next two hours or so.

To any of you who have some moral discrepancy with such downloads: I sympathize, and will make up for it by paying to see it again in theaters next week when I make my way back up to my beloved northern State, where you never have to worry about whether or not a movie will be playing.

writers block

It's been a really long time since I've written anything on here - over a month actually. I could list off a million reasons why I have taken this intermission, but I'll dispense with the pretense: I've simply been uninspired. I could also list off a million reasons why I've been uninspired, but I won't.

I think it's mainly because there is so much I want to say, but have no means by which to say any of it. And... I guess I'm not exactly sure what it is that I have to say. I've undergone a recluse from emotional expression, possibly from some sort of overload. It is as if for the past few months I've felt everything so acutely that my brain has taken refuge in numbness.

So I do not know what to say... but for some reason i miss you comes to mind.

That phrase fits like a jigsaw in the scattered pieces of my mind, but it doesn't complete the picture. It just rests atop the wreckage, and makes sense.