December 2010
24 posts
I might not believe in God, but I really do believe in people. And there's something really touching about a congregation coming together to bless someone who is ill or alone or otherwise in need. Call me a sap, but that's what I really love about the holidays.
Play
I am so happy that question was from you.
I thought it was from someone I knew, who was aware of when I used the catchphrase "I like your beard, but I mustache you as question" as means for a date to Sadie's.
But you, me, mustaches. We've goatee be friends. :)
this is so perfect I can barely handle(bar) it :)
I’ll stache this away, somewhere near to my heart.
and in the end, we all want the same things: to eat, sleep, and be loved.
sapiosexual (n.) — a person who is sexually attracted to intelligence in others.
you remind me of someone.
its not the laugh or the smile or the dust you hide beneath your fingernails
its not even the aura or the vibe or the chi, soul mate shit they talk about sometimes.
but I can sense it
And when I look at you I see half empty coke bottles
and Jesus’ face in a foam latte
and the morning when we made poptarts and you gave me the one with more frosting on it
I see us laughing about the specks on tile that make you forget the difference between dirt and design
I see you crying and screaming over a broken figurine you never liked but hated to see broken
I see you singing Queen songs backwards in commemoration of having “mercury blood”
and I hear you wondering about why some people get the luxury of love while others get cats and scrapbooks
So I’ll bury it:
you’ll become that room so loud that you forget
all of that buzzing used to be voices—
not a dull hum of small talk and black noise.
and you’ll be that crowd of illness in a waiting room—
their faces hidden in magazines they would never read, circumstances permitting,
waiting to be diagnosed or diseased or saved
and you’ll be hospital air,
humid and sterile,
more pure in the sense that
air isn’t really like that.
You’ll become my memory.
and its not your fault
and I am sorry
You, just,
remind me of someone.
if you have a free second, you should send Ms. Kat Lukes a spontaneous happy birthday message at:
she’s 18 today
and she’s brilliant <3
three haikus
things would be simpler
in black and white; for color
detracts from substance.
but there’s a reason
you never see photos of
sunsets in grayscale
some distractions are
too beautiful to remove
out of convenience
If you can afford to sip four dollar coffees at Borders, rather than go to a library, you can afford to give a dollar to the woman outside in the parka, hoping to buy presents for needy children on the holidays. Thankyouverymuch.
so I don't quite know if I'm at liberty to ask this
but I’d kind of sort of love you forever if you’d maybe reccomendmeplease? :D
http://www.tumblr.com/directory/recommend/creative%20writing/wonder-why
“At the heart of all beauty lies something inhuman.”
—Albert Camus
so as I’m getting ready to hear back from colleges, with their fancy inkjet brochures, plastered in pseudo-intellectualism and pre-professionalism, I’m starting to wonder a bit about my future.
and when it became naive to believe you could change the world.
I've been thinking about the span of my memory. The first thing I remember was being stung by a bee, playing musical chairs, when I was two. But I, for the life of me, cannot remember what the first thing I thought was. I can't even guess the first significant thing I remember thinking. So tumblr, how about you? What was the first significant thought you can remember?
Sirens
Yesterday I asked some of my friends to give me 5 words, which I would base a story off of. My friend Eric gave me these:
Superfluous
Dead
Blonde
Neitzche
Mine
And this is what I came up with.
“Be careful, she’s a parasite,” James warned him. “Pretty women in your dreams are always parasites.”
“She’s not.”
“Did you dream her in color?”
“No, black and white. What of it?”
“Yes, definitely a parasite. You see that’s how it always begins. Things seem clearer in black and white. You can’t see the blood stains seeped into the red satin.”
“How do you know that it’s red?”
“Trust me Alex, its red.”
And so it was. He dreamed her again. Tonight in full color. It was unmistakable.
Her hair was a celestial blonde. The surrounded sun spoke and settled in her curls tinted with silver wings and planetary rings that framed her like a meteorite—divine in her capability for destruction. Her dress was floor length, silky, sleeveless. She was enchanting, but she was not beautiful.
Alex did not understand why he dreamt of this jazz singer. He didn’t know the first thing about jazz. He never even liked jazz. He did not desire her. He did not admire her. He was drawn to her—the lightning bug circling an oil-wick lamp. Desperate to be near the thing shining brighter than himself.
And she did radiate. Her voice held the power of a million trumpets that trilled above the rumble of thunder. But the sound was subdued, as if all of that power was trapped into a cardboard, microwave box—muffled in contained mellifluousness. It swallowed the band. It swallowed the room. All was engulfed in this chorus like brigade that dragged him from his seat at the bar to her spotlight.
But as he reached out to her, she turned away. Singing all the time. He was on a patio, or a balcony, without recognizing how he got there. She sat on the outskirts of a rather un-ornate fountain. He sat beside her, without recognizing how he got there. She kept singing.
She leaned back. He laid down. His head on her lap. Without recognizing how it got there. She stroked his hair, he admired her dress. He saw the bloodstained satin, without recognizing how it got there.
“She’s viral” James warned him. “Pretty women in your dreams are always viral.”
“She’s not.”
“Did she touch you?”
“Yes, she touched my hair. What of it?”
“Yes, definitely viral. You see that’s how it always begins. Things seem harmless when they stroke your hair. Maternal even. You’re soothed. You can’t see the edge you’re walking toward until you’re feet can’t feel anything but fog.”
“How do you know it will be foggy?”
“Trust me, Alex. It will be foggy.”
And so it was. He dreamed her again. Tonight it was foggy. It was unmistakable.
The fog was so thick he couldn’t spot her. Just that drab looking fountain in the middle of a cloud garden. But he heard her voice. And he ended up exactly in the position he was in before. Head on her lap. Awake and asleep. Convinced that her song could turn Freud into a romantic, Keats into a skeptic, and Nietzsche into a servant of the gods.
Every time he woke up, he had forgot the words that she had sung. This time he couldn’t even hear them. How superfluous, they seemed! Dripping from the tongues of such a spirit.
He began to hum along. Without recognizing how he’d gotten to that point. And she began to walk away. He felt his head hit hot cement. The air was cool. He followed her. Without really knowing where he was getting to. Humming against the fog. She stopped. She turned.
Her celestial blonde hair turned a burnt black. Her eyes we’re wrinkled and wrought with ash. Her skin was the fog, her dress was the fog, her figure was smoke and silhouette.
The song stopped. She glared at him, crouching. She was enchanting. She was haunting. She was not beautiful.
Her voice was raspy.
“Mine”
And the ground dissolved beneath her as she flew off on the wings of Demeter.
He felt himself grow lighter, suspended in smoke shackles. He began to cough on the fog above him as the haze beneath him hurried away.
And then he closed his eyes, and saw with sound. Any sound other than hers seemed foreign. This seemed to be the first sound he’d ever heard.
There was a lyre.
His eyes open. He woke up. He stood upon a rooftop. A cross behind him, a cemetery beneath. The night was clear.
There was a lyre.
His eyes wandered the church grounds. Without knowing how he had gotten there.
There was a lyre.
His feet stood on warm concrete. The air was cool.
There was a lyre.
He turned around. And he saw James. Saw with sound. Each string held the power of two million trumpets, trilling in harmony with the rumble of thunder and the calamity of cool rain. The power of the lyre could not be cardboard boxed.
“You should’ve been dead,” James said. “Not many are spared by their sirens.”
“I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn’t quite make out. I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn’t make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.”
—Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar, Chapter 7
