Yesterday morning, I had my favorite bowl and my favorite spoon and I was so ready for Honey Cheerios, it was gonna be awesome. However, to my great distress, there were no Cheerios to brighten my day with their toroidal delight. Settling for Lucky Charms, I decided they were still a way to bring happy nostalgia to my morning. They were stale, and I was saddened.
On the bus, past Bethel Springs, the sunrise over purple New Jersey was splendidly orange. Steve and I discussed some notion not particularly relevant to anything, but that made me laugh. English class was a similar source of irrelevant humor, as we continued acting out Hamlet. This time, my role was that of "GHOST." I do not believe I was terribly frightening in the role, but no matter. Art lacked the holiday songs we'd been so long enjoying, and in Psych we had a pop test. There were some nefarious going ons, but we shall see how that works out. Math was full of stories and a few bad puns, but otherwise the same as any other positive day.
After school, my mom picked up Jack and me for our Christmas portraits and some Christmas shopping. I did not find a cheap gift for dirty dirty pollyanna, but I did resolve my need for a psych pollyanna gift. She dropped me back at my dad's. I fell asleep. Jeff came over. He brought me a bag full of bags of M&Ms and retaught me how to solve a Rubix cube, but I've since forgotten again. We shared stories and a little music on guitar that I recognized, but could not name. I played Hallelujah, a hesitant bit of Lizzy, and the intro and chorus of Brick. Later, we ran out to try to find milk, because the 202 Wawa was out of everything, including gas. After he left, I went to bed in a very warm and contented affection. I woke up very early to a bright room lit by snow's reflection. Merry Snow.
Saturday, December 19, 2009
Read is a Homophone
Budding time for liveliness
And growth to all things new,
She shot up like a creeping vine
Desiring to do.
Her bright face flushed by summer's sun,
She read stained sheets of paper.
Making out the meaningful
Wherever she was able.
Still the tired sun sank down
An ode to autumn skies.
Little girls must go to sleep,
As will to nature lies.
Empyreal in blanket snow
The moon reflects on time,
On wasted beauty, summer sun,
And youth that passed her by.
And growth to all things new,
She shot up like a creeping vine
Desiring to do.
Her bright face flushed by summer's sun,
She read stained sheets of paper.
Making out the meaningful
Wherever she was able.
Still the tired sun sank down
An ode to autumn skies.
Little girls must go to sleep,
As will to nature lies.
Empyreal in blanket snow
The moon reflects on time,
On wasted beauty, summer sun,
And youth that passed her by.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Poems and Prose
Suddenly I realize
That if I stepped out of my body I would break
Into blossom.
It is a sad thing, a goodbye long coming and too soon met.
Autumn frosts have slain July...
I seem to cycle through beautiful bursts of obsession, musing through poetry, aliveness, philosophy, all mighty knowledge, prose, and art. Currently, I am enamored with poetry.
Dreaming as the days go by,
Dreaming as the summers die:
"My favorite gift was..." Both an English prompt and freedom. I wrote about my first set of wheels, an open top Jeep, that fire engine red adventure-mobile exactly my size circa 1998. It got horrible grass mileage, but was endless on sidewalks. Too bad there were no sidewalks. I read my prompt like Cheryl Trykv in Teen Getaway, pregnant with dramatic pause and that cool, indifferent whine. It got a few laughs, some snaps. Even as I write, my thoughts pause unnecessarily for effect. It's very- me.
In mercy lift your drooping wings and go.
Langston Hughes' poem "Harlem" contains the line "...a raisin the sun," from which Lorraine Hansberry titled her play. One of the girls in my class read the novel, and related that this particular allusion implies "one should not let their dreams shrivel like that eponymous line." This is not, I think, the intent of choosing those words. Hughes does not declare statements on the nature of dreams, only questions it. He merely suggests that perhaps shriveling is a fate of dreams deferred, or maybe "they explode?"
We warned ourselves. That you might despise
Me—hate all we both loved best—
None of us ever guessed.
Being in Lit. Mag. brings an incredible appreciation for talented authors, namely because most people aren't. The exposure to all writing styles clarifies how to improve my own ability. Whereas I formerly assumed that my writing was disconnected and abrupt beyond comprehension, I realize that, relatively, this is not the case. Beyond the syntactical improvement, I've grown to discriminate on the basis of substance. A number of poems dwell on themes I would have written in the past. Now, I see them as trite adolescence. Still, I am unable to create my own original expressions. Still, I try.
As far as I am aware, I have never met a prostitute. Its criminalization is, I think, an atrocious manipulation by males of morals and the female body. It is not desperate women who drive the streets at night looking to satiate their desires; men, no matter how powerful, will always be subject to their irresistible needs. Because of this, lady of the night sounds classy, but is as in opposition to class as day is to night.
So let us melt, and make no noise
"After working sixty hours again for what reason" stirs my fancy and notions of bureaucracy.
"Amor Mundi" is a another good poem.
Oh, I have picked up magic in her nearness
In context of the rest of the poem, I perceived the above line in reference to myself. However, as an independent sentiment, I thought of Viv and Molly. Viv, and the idea of her, has nutured a restlessness in me and an awesome appreciation for blue M&Ms. Molly, fantastic resident of the written world, has a penumbra of life, even when I am not near her.
I wrote some poetry tonight.
That if I stepped out of my body I would break
Into blossom.
It is a sad thing, a goodbye long coming and too soon met.
Autumn frosts have slain July...
I seem to cycle through beautiful bursts of obsession, musing through poetry, aliveness, philosophy, all mighty knowledge, prose, and art. Currently, I am enamored with poetry.
Dreaming as the days go by,
Dreaming as the summers die:
"My favorite gift was..." Both an English prompt and freedom. I wrote about my first set of wheels, an open top Jeep, that fire engine red adventure-mobile exactly my size circa 1998. It got horrible grass mileage, but was endless on sidewalks. Too bad there were no sidewalks. I read my prompt like Cheryl Trykv in Teen Getaway, pregnant with dramatic pause and that cool, indifferent whine. It got a few laughs, some snaps. Even as I write, my thoughts pause unnecessarily for effect. It's very- me.
In mercy lift your drooping wings and go.
Langston Hughes' poem "Harlem" contains the line "...a raisin the sun," from which Lorraine Hansberry titled her play. One of the girls in my class read the novel, and related that this particular allusion implies "one should not let their dreams shrivel like that eponymous line." This is not, I think, the intent of choosing those words. Hughes does not declare statements on the nature of dreams, only questions it. He merely suggests that perhaps shriveling is a fate of dreams deferred, or maybe "they explode?"
We warned ourselves. That you might despise
Me—hate all we both loved best—
None of us ever guessed.
Being in Lit. Mag. brings an incredible appreciation for talented authors, namely because most people aren't. The exposure to all writing styles clarifies how to improve my own ability. Whereas I formerly assumed that my writing was disconnected and abrupt beyond comprehension, I realize that, relatively, this is not the case. Beyond the syntactical improvement, I've grown to discriminate on the basis of substance. A number of poems dwell on themes I would have written in the past. Now, I see them as trite adolescence. Still, I am unable to create my own original expressions. Still, I try.
But I say it’s fine. Honest, I do.
And I’d like to be a bad woman, too,
And wear the brave stockings of night-black lace
And strut down the streets with paint on my face.
As far as I am aware, I have never met a prostitute. Its criminalization is, I think, an atrocious manipulation by males of morals and the female body. It is not desperate women who drive the streets at night looking to satiate their desires; men, no matter how powerful, will always be subject to their irresistible needs. Because of this, lady of the night sounds classy, but is as in opposition to class as day is to night.
So let us melt, and make no noise
"After working sixty hours again for what reason" stirs my fancy and notions of bureaucracy.
"Amor Mundi" is a another good poem.
Oh, I have picked up magic in her nearness
In context of the rest of the poem, I perceived the above line in reference to myself. However, as an independent sentiment, I thought of Viv and Molly. Viv, and the idea of her, has nutured a restlessness in me and an awesome appreciation for blue M&Ms. Molly, fantastic resident of the written world, has a penumbra of life, even when I am not near her.
I wrote some poetry tonight.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
One-Twelfth Dozen Is too many Words
I've been dreaming about Dave again, even in fantastic ones. Previously, these phantasms were confined to cold encounters in hallowed halls of dream school, roughly equivalent to reality. While real life proximity is acceptable, dreams are unsettling to me. I am not indifferent towards him, but I cannot clarify my thoughts. Nostalgia is the closest defined expression. I feel like I'm not allowed to think about him.
My mama thinks I'm grown, but I'm really just little.
Someday, I will remember.
Someday, I will remember.
Someday, I will remember.
If, as the naughtiest pit girl, I were to get coal in my stocking, I would set it on fire. Today marks a little under halfway through December, and I've begun reflecting on the year. This was the fastest year on record, and certainly not deserving of the nice list. In one year, I have acted the Sodomite, disregarding my notions of sexual exclusivity and emotional commitment. I have sneered at the high and mighty from my ivory tower, locked up all alone with the occasional visitor.
If, as a nicer pit girl, I were to receive a book of poetry, I would already be familiar with the verse. Today marks a little under halfway through December, and I've begun reflecting on the year. This was the fastest year on record, and certainly deserving of the nice list. In one year, I have opened a parallel world of enjoyment, frowned upon by my mother and the status quo. I have loved the bodies of those longing for touch and loved the lives of those who do not need to love me in return for my own selfish satisfaction. I have rediscovered a community that I was formerly barred from, a community of stories and the "new."
My mama thinks I'm grown, but I'm really just little.
Someday, I will remember.
Someday, I will remember.
Someday, I will remember.
If, as the naughtiest pit girl, I were to get coal in my stocking, I would set it on fire. Today marks a little under halfway through December, and I've begun reflecting on the year. This was the fastest year on record, and certainly not deserving of the nice list. In one year, I have acted the Sodomite, disregarding my notions of sexual exclusivity and emotional commitment. I have sneered at the high and mighty from my ivory tower, locked up all alone with the occasional visitor.
If, as a nicer pit girl, I were to receive a book of poetry, I would already be familiar with the verse. Today marks a little under halfway through December, and I've begun reflecting on the year. This was the fastest year on record, and certainly deserving of the nice list. In one year, I have opened a parallel world of enjoyment, frowned upon by my mother and the status quo. I have loved the bodies of those longing for touch and loved the lives of those who do not need to love me in return for my own selfish satisfaction. I have rediscovered a community that I was formerly barred from, a community of stories and the "new."
Monday, December 14, 2009
"'I'm significant,' dreamed the dust speck"
In psych class, I feel like the presumption is "sex, drugs, and rock 'n' roll," when really there's only rock and some bjs and mild, mild narcotics. O my.
My brother was an effing angel. All of his pictures from childhood are super adorable, with super hilarious faces. I wish I could've gone through these pictures with someone. My mom gets sad seeing all of the family she doesn't have. My dad is indifferent. My brother has better things to do. I think I need to track down Kristin R. and give her the duplicate pictures I've had for so long.
I identify with Ophelia, frail, insensible, goes crazy and suffers a tragic fate at some point in the future.
I've made some rockin' stuff. A few shirts, a few songs, a few paintings, a couple beautiful letters with a few lines of prose I especially liked. I recently stumbled onto excellent poetry that I've been savoring as well.
Gitanjali 35
To the Desert (this poem is soooo sexy)
To His Coy Mistress (this poem is even sexier)
Romance
Bilingual/Bilingue
anyone lived in a pretty how town (okay, so I already liked this one and forgot)
Black Boys Play the Classics
The More Loving One
Love Armed
Danse Russe (which I've lived)
I roll the volume on the cylindrical knob and throw my body to gyrating behind closed doors to opening Doors. It sounds hideous, the movement of imperfect flesh to imperfect sound on desecrated disc. It is, but no one seethes.
Usher is a very attractive man. I do not understand why he should take off two different shirts in "My Confessions pt. 2," but it's the sort of thing I'm okay not questioning. If I got more benefit from religion, it would be a good analogy.
HiQ meet tomorrow. Bring it on. I feel smart this year and weirdly older, especially in a sense I wish somewhat to be ignorant and passionate again. There is a certain joy to being alive. I'm going to climb a tree right now.
My brother was an effing angel. All of his pictures from childhood are super adorable, with super hilarious faces. I wish I could've gone through these pictures with someone. My mom gets sad seeing all of the family she doesn't have. My dad is indifferent. My brother has better things to do. I think I need to track down Kristin R. and give her the duplicate pictures I've had for so long.
I identify with Ophelia, frail, insensible, goes crazy and suffers a tragic fate at some point in the future.
I've made some rockin' stuff. A few shirts, a few songs, a few paintings, a couple beautiful letters with a few lines of prose I especially liked. I recently stumbled onto excellent poetry that I've been savoring as well.
Gitanjali 35
To the Desert (this poem is soooo sexy)
To His Coy Mistress (this poem is even sexier)
Romance
Bilingual/Bilingue
anyone lived in a pretty how town (okay, so I already liked this one and forgot)
Black Boys Play the Classics
The More Loving One
Love Armed
Danse Russe (which I've lived)
I roll the volume on the cylindrical knob and throw my body to gyrating behind closed doors to opening Doors. It sounds hideous, the movement of imperfect flesh to imperfect sound on desecrated disc. It is, but no one seethes.
Usher is a very attractive man. I do not understand why he should take off two different shirts in "My Confessions pt. 2," but it's the sort of thing I'm okay not questioning. If I got more benefit from religion, it would be a good analogy.
HiQ meet tomorrow. Bring it on. I feel smart this year and weirdly older, especially in a sense I wish somewhat to be ignorant and passionate again. There is a certain joy to being alive. I'm going to climb a tree right now.
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