Asparagus

This afternoon a man leans over
the hard rolls and the curled
butter, and tells me everything: two
women love him, he loves them, what
should he do?

The sun
sifts down through the imperceptibly
brownish urban air. I'm going to
suffer for this: turn red, get
blisters or else cancer. I eat
asparagus with my fingers, he
plunges into description.
He's as his wit's end, sewed
up in his own frenzy. He has
breadcrumbs in his beard.
I wonder
if I should let my hair go grey
so my advice would be better.
I could wrinkle up my eyelids,
look wise. I could get a pet lizard.
You're not crazy, I tell him.
Others have done this. Me too.
Messy love is better than none,
I guess. I'm no authority
on sane living.

Which is all true
and no help at all, because
this form of love is like the pain
of childbirth: so intense
it's hard to remember afterwards,
or what kind of screams and grimaces
it pushed you into.

The shrimp arrive on their skewers,
the courtyard trees unroll
their yellowy caterpillars,
pollen powders our shoulders.
He wants them both, he relates
tortures, the coffee
arrives, and altogether I am amazed
at his stupidities.

I sit looking at him
with a sort of wonder
or is it envy?

Listen, I say to him,
you're very lucky.

Margaret Atwood

her vital mistake

she says a word after a word after a word is power.


not poison
not corrosive
not hopeless


just power.


what a vague and innocent lie!
what a fool's dream!
what vanity!


is she not aware of the finiteness of our lexicon?
does she now know about predestination-
that we were given a set amount of keystrokes
before our fingers dissolve,
so every wasted word
is a step towards death?


every hypothetical you pour your brainjuice into
makes you less yourself, less alive,
erodes your essence.


you see,
a word after a word after a word is excessive
a word is cowardly
a word is arrogant
a word is time that could have been spent in love
with purpose
together.

browsing for beach reads in Alexandria

by the delving light of an ancient wonder
i amble through waves of papyri.
the forged words and stolen histories
squish between my toes
along the fabled shore.

a snug spot manifests between two proud stones,
so I slide into the sandy shelf
for a short rest and a fast read:
2000 years and 7000 miles away
and still, all I want is escapism.

but there are no best sellers in the Hellenistic world
no Pattersons or Browns
only the dense propaganda of Herodotus and Plutarch,
the dull Greek lies of kings and victories
that retire my eyes.

and in that bored torpor
i envisage the apocalypse of proof-
all the wisdom of all the ages
enflamed from folly or foe;
the light makes ash of legend.

soon my copperstone skin strikes midnight
with the embers of Alexander
still torrid from conquest.
frightened, I beckon the forgiving tide
to wash me of the burden of knowledge.

tomorrow is thick and daunting
but all i want to do is document every moment
with a mix tape

the rehearsal

I knew that this was the story I'd tell at our impossible wedding. That my favorite movie was playing, and you watched it, smiling, and I watched you, equally and irrationally gleeful. That "forever" popped into my head, and I didn't swat it away. That, for the first time, I was content with the idea of love the way that everyone else talked about it. That it seemed so enduring.

And of course I wouldn't address how less than an hour later, I was rolling my eyes and shaking my head and trying to separate the futile from the hopeful. I would not speak of how fresh faces pervaded my vision like pennies gorging a wishing well, how the hypotheticals glistened in the sunlight.

And i'd never speak of how some sideways comment from a roadside bomber made me doubt the sincerity of everything. How I questioned my capacity to love and if it was my job to stop until i knew every connotation and consequence.

No, instead, I'd put on my finest virgin white and my coyest smile and take faith in some new beginning. I would shed the scales from other fingers and burn each tawdry bit of fiction; i would stop substituting in random personalities for variables, and i would love with every fervent good intention.

Because sometimes self-deception is the only way to discover the selfless truth:

love has no definition
love has only its reality

the night the tide stayed in

... and well, you start to question the relevance of your existence when you can invest the whole week hoping for a simple fucking text message (from anyone)to remind you that it's okay to be still sometimes.

and when it doesn't come (and it doesn't), you start to see the pimply bareass truth of things.

at first you said, "i'm growing into life"
then you thought, "na, i'm growing out of it"
and now you see it's growing out of you.

all the confidence you once had in your place in that reality erodes and you are left a ? in an imperative sentence.

i should have taken the change of pace when i had the chance. i should have lapped up liminality while it laid out, lascivious before me.

because now i see the people turning away as their path floods with better prospects
and there's nowhere left for me to stand
on the bridge we thought we built
to that there in the distance.

because for all the limelight i've stolen
i never had the presence
for you to look at me

and for all the metaphors i mix
you never understood that
i was anything

a martry for your science

as you tell ghost stories
i become fiction.

you speak life into worn names
and i find myself transcendental
(i am
the notion of molecules
the taste of water
the embryonic recall
the color of night)

without blink or breath or bleed i believe in that existence
and you, likewise, take faith
(in some overwrought theory)
(in some underread text)
that permits such conviction in absence,
such obsession with the blurred

strange how we should worship the absurdities that haunt us
but earnestly neglect the evident

flesh

with the fidelity of a heretic
embraced by blazing stake
still fuming about orbits and
waves of light

allow me to illusrate the irony of my blog name

i do not pray.
i have not prayed in some time.
but maybe, i'm ready to repent.
hands folded
in a requiem
for all the things that consume you.

cause folks, it's time to let go.
of people who exist.
of people who do not.
of habits we can kick.
of curses we can not.

"let us bow and pray"
let our heads fall to our feet
our every everything prostrate
and demons of our egos and vices
will become banshees of the room
until the heart of error ceases
to beat.

but this is NOT the time for an exorcism.
this is not the time to merely evict and goodbye
kill the night's fixation and neurosis
let no breath of beguilement remain
that we can live.

that we can remember.

that you can be.

the revelation

why has it taken me so long to accept that you're an asshole?

that one with the boy with the words

and in my mind, we are always having an argument out of context. it's rude, really, to passersby, who must catch snippets of scathe after scathe and have no idea what it means. i imagine us firing semantic bullets for little to no reason, inflicting pain for the mere reality that we are humans. and by the end, we find that we have strangled each other to the point of white lights and lives in minutes moments. the inspiration? i burnt the burgers or you lost my book or it was tuesday.

and when i do slip into these "fantasies," i am astounded by man's unexplainable capacity to hurt and be hurt.

Re: A Secular Kiss

a raisin is not a grape.
your eye is not a universe.
and i--
well
i am the absence
of God.

a plea of ignorance

i don't know what i want.
i don't know what i'm capable of.
i don't know what i'm allowed.
i don't know that i can do this anymore.

masochism

whenever i read the right book, catch the right movie, see the right show,
i am plagued by the reality of all the thoughts i'm not having, lives i'm not leading, the places i'm not.

god, i love the arts.

not a poem about a rose

the summer had not even begun to speak, and there i was, brimming with every intention to write a poem about the rose you should not have offered me. at once, i knew the notion was self-deprecating, which meant within the hour i was observing how walmart merlot slid through my hourglass throat. "how strange a metaphor for time!" i noted. crushed grapes are minutes. our bodies are the mechanism with which we calculate the hours. i supposed that meant that crushed grape flies and throat enthralls with the sensual curve of a woman. that wine must be fleeting. that there must never be enough merlot. alcohol is money! race the throat as it tick-tocks away to the end of liquid decadence!

clearly, i was not going to be writing a poem about a rose (the one that should not have seduced me).

i quickly thought about all of the not roses i could write about. a giraffe would suffice. or lust. or eternity. or a prayer. or a tastebud. or a lie. and as i wrote about an elegant long necked mammal who worshiped the salty fuck of dishonesty (a metaphor i could not unravel), i thought about what my poem would say if i had been writing a poem about a rose (the one i'm so grateful you painted for me)

i realized that i would have focused on its scent
and how i now noticed that aroma in the grocery aisle
at the movie show
on the bus
(in places where one does not think to stop and smell roses)
and i would have noted how the scent was not of a rose at all
but that of sweat. aftershave. cigarette. night.
and the rose perfumed with not a rose, which i smelled where one does not think to smell roses, was not from your garden at all but from a foreign (and most unexpected) bush that did not speak of roses but of not-a-ones instead.

"the fragrance of not a rose is delicious."- that i, suppose, would have sufficed, had i written a poem about a rose. but i didn't.

home for purim (well, more like hannukah)

With my current roommate studying abroad, I will have this big, charming apartment all to my lonesome in the Spring, and well, my wallet doesn't like the sound of that. So, for the Spring, I'm either looking for another person interested in moving in, or I'm trying to find someone else with an empty room that I can sublease.

While my apartment is anything but "swanky," it's got character and convenience for days (ignore earlier comments on this blog about it being the "dustbunny where dreams go to die"). It has a great location (just off the square, above the Manhattan, across from the Dukum), it's huge!, it has roof access, a washer and dryer, hardwood floors, a fresh coat of perty paint, lots of personality, very affordable (for 2 people, rent would be 200 per person), and it features me!

So if you or someone you know need(s) a place to live next semester, let me know. If you or someone you know has a place for me to live next semester, let me know! I'll live with boys, girls, goats, circus folk- it don't matter.

Thanks!

Adam

P.S. i'm smart and i'm cute and i do dishes; i'm totally worth it. also, pets are allowed. and pet names. i'm flexible.

elsewhere

Last year I took a mythology course. I hated it. The professor, while brilliant, accepted that he had chosen a subject and a class size well beyond his scope, and he allowed Gods to become equations. We analyzed Ragnarok the way you might observe moldy bread, noting it's shape and color, but not eager to put it in any universal context.

There was one day, however, where the discussion struck me as worth my time. We had just read some obtuse analysis of the paths myths seem to take, and we stopped and shared how college was, itself, a liminal experience. We are thrust into a transitional dimension where ideas are radical, experiences are delicious, and the rules of the world don't always apply; at the same time, we are expected to be preparing ourselves to serve reality once we return to it. Jesus want AWOL for 21 years; I'm expecting 4-5 for myself. Still, I can't help but bitch about how ready I am for my life to begin.

It's not Truman that dissatisfies me; it's not the shitstain of a town I grew up in, or the Midwest mindset that will never mesh with me. It's just me, ready to be making changes and terrified it will stay the same. I have an ambitious (albeit, disoriented) heart, and she's ready to start fixing things. But there's always the chance that I won't end up anywhere but here, treading water.

I love so many of the aspects of my life in this moment. I have encountered so many pure ideas and beautiful people and known so much love that to negate it would be as false as it would be cruel. But goodamnit, give me a paintbrush or a pistol or something so I can stop waiting to return to the world; I'm ready, honest, to be a part and be a change.

This is, of course, related to another anxiety- that I am somehow incompatible with what I want. There is a part of me that clings to films, literature, theater, ideas, and all things delicious. There is a part of me that dares to notice what has been written off as the dirt beneath the fingernails of society, and I long to know it, love it, work with it, help it... to make justice out of randomness. Can I be both people? If I fulfill one desire, do I destroy another? And if I don't answer that question, will I, just as a fear, stay this way forever?

-------------------------------------------------------------------------
On a completely unrelated note, I love the rush of finding your power chord when your laptop battery is on the verge of death. Grey's Anatomy ain't got nothin' on this shit. Solid gold drama.

P.S. I have called/texted a few of you this afternoon/evening for perspective; thank you all for your help. It meant a lot!

lies your teacher told you

In 5th Century B.C. Athens, they hypothesized the atom, birthed democracy, got shwasted on Dionysus's birthday, had oracles who habitually downed hallucinogens, and accepted and expected homosexuality.

And here I was, thinking we'd come so far. Sounds to me like it's time to return to a little thing I like to call civilization.

Apparently Ancient Greece was the birth place of rock and roll; who knew?

undressed to impress

this week, i was naked for the first time.

sure, i've found myself unclad before, for, ya know, amusement. hygiene. voracity.

but i think i might have finally stripped off every last article. and it felt like october evenings and fresh socks and the truth.

in short, expect to see a lot more of me from now on, especially when he's around, the warm embrace of over-priced cotton that i'll never need to wear again.

calendar boys

i composed this stream rather quickly, foolishy, and tiredly. i'll improve and update later.

Lustra (and that which makes the world go 'round)

i had never watched another man cry before.

i thought myself quite the voyeur as he stripped off the spotty veneer he called armor, revealing a boy who dreamed small, was small, and loved without hesitation. he was a memory i could carry (could crush) in my hand, in my pocket, with my eyes.

the sirens' cry is a melody. a cadence to seek and expect and grow lost in. his tears, however, were the sound of your knees buckling on stage, your milk spilling at lunch. an amateur's tragedy that was so plain and pitiful that it shook you. his was not the wail of a fresh widow, the unassuming gaze of a starving child refugee. i knew his pain because i'd felt it before, 15 years ago, when i stubbed my toe, scraped my knee. those naive moments where your nerves are set aflame because a bandaid level scrape masquerades as the deepest pain you might ever subject yourself to.

i thought, for a second, this must be some larger issue: stress. his friends. me. all the years of his life.
i asked.
he replied.
"no, it's nothing else. i'm just so embarrassed that i had to ask you."
and he was.
i believed him.
and i broke at the simplicity with which he wept, desired him more than ever for his purity, but couldn't help but wonder if such a white light could ever penetrate the likes of me.

"it's okay, baby. you work on it... we work on it... and it will better in time."
*sigh* "i don't know that i can afford time."

me neither, dear. me neither.
i suppose i keep my head afloat and you do the same. you survive the rat race. i'll run the prelim. and please, love, please, let our paths keep crossing.

How to Peel Labels

it would be hypocritical of me to not consider my own tears, the pioneers of my morning. they were, i think, more the product of shock than pain, but i mustn't ignore the fact that a boy made me cry for the first time in recent memory. no doubt in my memoirs i will claim his words were the ink of my own blood, that he laced his lines with arsenic. in truth, i imagine that letter was more akin to a frustrated, incredulous glare or a judgmental "hmph." but when i read those words the way i'd read so many of his before, my eyes flared, and my tastebuds noted that sadness is less salty than books lead you to expect.

and i did question, for a while, if two boys who love to shine could be friends without blinding each other. and the answer that half-satisfies me is "i don't care." piss me off. make me cry. ignore me. make me jealous. because i find myself captivated (i find myself trapped) by you and the possibility of you knowing me. so i mean to keep trying until you run out of tolerance or i run out of sanity.

of course, i did leave you with all my ammunition, and you have still resolved, mostly, to leave all quiet on the western front. which is fine. no rush. no necessity. but i encourage you to cross the netherworldiness of no man's land, cause i'll still be here, shining, ready to be your friend.

Atlas Shrugged

i've been reading a lot about the final years of FDR. it's tragic, really. a diplomat to a point of reckless inactivity with a messianic complex to keep the world afloat. "just give it time; i can hold it together; i got this, guys. i got this. no seriously, i don't need your help." and he waited. and he held. and he died. leaving Truman to take over with his acerbic personality and cluelessness as to how to balance the world.

i guess i can't save everyone, either. i can't count on my own personableness, my own genius, my own heart, to fix people. sometimes war happens, but if you're willing to shoulder the quest for peace with others, your world need not need slip from your grasp.

Why Things Fall Apart

it wasn't supposed to be like this.

it was just dinner, true, but I could see it was also the drawing of lines, the restructuring of alliances. we were never going to be as we were before. we were not inseparable. we did not "just click." we were growing up, apart, across, and alone. and while we will still have each other, we will never again have each other the way friends do.

it was sad, at first.

then i drank.
and i thought
about what i wanted
about how it would be
about growing up.

and in the haze on a boy who is 21 and green, I dreamed on weeds, dandelions, loosing themselves in the wind only to become more and more and more. and i thought i'd hop on with a few rogue seeds and we could go spread ourselves across new fields until it was time to divide and move on.


Bedside Manner

the more and more flaws he found in the boy's face, the more endearing he became to him.
no more embellishments.
no more touch-ups.
a patch of dry skin on his forehead.
a mouth that was constantly perched, pouty or questioning.
how refreshing it was to find he was no longer an ideal, but a person.
with scars and rough patches and truths to hide.

and from that moment, that epiphany, he could not help but approach the boy from every angle.

as a boy who could love.
as a boy who could not.
as desire.
as fear.
as a sexual dilettante.
as the air.

he could no longer remember what it was like to not envelop the boy, and he hoped he would keep on forgetting.

The I of the Beholder

it was never your job to make me feel beautiful.

besides, i'm sure i never told you how i have, for as long as i can remember, been obsessed with being smaller. how my mom would find me curled up in closets, sitting under chairs, refusing to sleep in a bed as i thought lying on the floor would make me shorter.

when you're big as i am, it's so easy for someone to see you that they never really have to look at you. i just thought if i could be 10 pounds skinnier, 2 inches shorter, you might have to look at me to see me and that you might like the view.

the truth is i want to lose more weight, but i don't think i can handle the damning looks people give me when they see i've grown smaller. i guess i've forgotten the standard for beauty. i don't know how to look like you need to look at me. but i DO know it's not you're problem, so stop trying to ease me of my burdens, and please, please, please don't cry.

The Seven-Week Itch

i've been itching all over for the past couple months. i can't help but think that God is one of those screenwriters who would sneak in such an itch for the illusion of a deeper meaning. Perhaps it embodies my discontentedness. or perhaps i'm being punished for less than God-fearing appetites. either way, it amuses me just about as much as it annoys the shit out of my skin.

A Touch of Class

The optimist in me dubs this semester rewarding.
The pessimist, hell.
The realist, survivable.

Span 201- I have a great teacher, but I'm the only upperclassmen, I find the work tedious, and I wholeheartedly believe that all foreign language courses should land you 5 credit hours.

Hist 365 (The Hellenistic Age)- No evaluation yet as this course doesn't start til next week.

Post World War II America- I am one of 4 people in this course, so skipping it really isn't an option. We plow through 300-350 pages a week and have 6 essays to write, but this is definitely my subject, and I can tell I'm going to learn a lot with Zoumaras.

JINS- Public Issues and Political Rhetoric- The text, thus far, has been a little sophomoric, but the class discussion is great, the writing assignments appear fun and easy, and my professor is fabulous.

Social Stratification- As always, sociology courses are rewarding if you ignore the professor and read between the lines of the text. Lots of service opportunities for this class though, lots of class discussion, and some good friends of mine are in this one with me.

Other than that, I'm working for Dr. Ling, working for the International Student Office, attempting to keep a boyfriend, volunteering for United Way by interviewing, evaluating, and assessing community needs, looking for time to read for pleasure, half-heartedly looking for time to exercise, getting involved in Half-Full Players, College Democrats, Amnesty International, Prism, and Safe Zone. I plan to stay busy this semester!

the realm of (im)possibility

"I fancied in a moment I would be standing on nothing at all, and for the first time in my life, i needed the wings none of us has."

I would love to write more. loads more. but probably won't have the time until the late hours of Wednesday.

oh, the places you'll stay

(warning: this is not a decision, just a thought. a whim, really)

"Let us stifle under mud at the pond's edge and affirm that it is fitting and delicious to lose everything."

don't tell mama

i suppose there's potentially something very wrong.

it's friday night (well, saturday morning). the night beyond these walls is alive with possibilities. the shake-that-ass pulsations of diluted rap. the textured stench of natty light and shwag. the promise of a tomorrow that will taste like piss and mistakes and almost memories.

and me? i'm sitting alone in my apartment, barely clad in wal-mart boxers, watching Mulan bonus features and consoling the void of conversation with my roommate's timid light beer.

the "potentially something very wrong" is how okay i am with this entire situation. i am, by many definitions, avoiding life, and i'm beyond content with it. in the saddest way i can think of, i'm the happiest i've been in a while.

that is not to say i've been a homebody all night. i spent the evening with Miguel, partaking in the heavy sauces and lifetime supply of sodium that pseudo-Chinese buffets have to offer, exchanging ineloquent pick-up lines that somehow work on this wordsmith (never underestimate the power of the right person telling you "aw, you're cute," even if it's said too often to be convincing), and mischievously opening the birthday package my mother sent too early. I got a regifted garlic press (which i'm surprisingly excited about) and the Mulan 2-Disc Special Edition. Apparently the only thing that makes this Mulan copy a "special edition" is its music video with Jackie Chan... which is totally enough to make any movie worthy of being dubbed "special."

Afterwards, I even "went out" for a spell. I hit up both Club Baby Seals and Emily Temple's abode and saw a lot of great people at both, but the truth is, I just wasn't up for the meet-and-greet-and-mingle game. the performance of interaction which is pre-scripted and fucking horribly written. i saw the probability of being nakedly sincere at either of these locations this evening very slim, so I decided to jet. I had the chance to see other people, to gain a lot of ground in the battle to not be forgotten, and i opted to spend the evening alone with no longer American beer and disneyfied feminism. some might see this is a slide into reclusion, but i celebrate it as a victory in growing up. no longer do i have to please everyone! no longer do i have to charm the pants off of people so that the people i love and the people i "love" aren't tempted to leave me. instead, i can spend some evenings at home digesting battle scenes, love stories, and historical inaccuracies.

i guess what i'm saying is i'm becoming more secure (in some aspects). i'm understanding more and more that i don't have to (and can't) please everyone, and I'm even okay disappointing and pissing off my friends every now and then. i do stand by sir Einstein's gem that "only a life lived for others is a life worthwhile," but you can't completely sacrifice yourself in the process. generosity is noble and necessary, but no one can really love a person who spreads himself so wide that he ceases to be a person. Expect a still thoughtful, still people-pleasing me, but one who is, hopefully, more confident, consistent, and himself.

My anxiety of the week, however, completely undermines every conclusion I've just drawn. I have a 21st birthday coming up on Tuesday, and I'd like to celebrate it with people. As I mostly find the party scene exhausting and shallow, a small dinner with friends sounds lovely. But I do not have the heart to narrow down the list to a few close friends; i'll leave people off the list who would expect to be on it, and they'll mildly resent me for it. This is the kind of bullshit that I stress out about. Not tests. Not major life choices. Pissing off the people who are supposed to love me.

The idea came to me of inviting not my closest Kirksville friends, but Kirksville people I know who intrigue me, who have great chemistry (either with me or another member of the party), and who could keep me engaged and amused through an evening of wine and spirits. I actually went so far as to construct this limited fantasy list of the ideal dinner party guests. It included:

Joanna Bess
Elaine Sokolowski
Julie Pincus
Jason Qualls
Grant Berry
Miguel Aguilar (to hold my hand and keep me safe through the sonant tempest, he and I offering a warm and tacit contrast)

Convince my friends Luke and Samantha from Columbia to go, and that’s one hell of a dinner party, stuffed with folks equipped to talk about anything for hours.

But that’s unrealistic. And it’s leaving out a lot of people who are terribly close to me (namely Molly and Matt) and others who I would love to see on such a day (namely all of you who read this blog). So, I have resolved to figure this out by Saturday night, or simply not celebrate my birthday at all. My prediction is, however, it will end up being a dinner out with 20 of my closest friends. I’ll get so busy playing host that I’ll stress myself out and need that steady stream of liquor to stay relaxed and jovial through the evening. And then I’ll still feel like I left somebody off the list and the familiar face of guilt will glare back at me, distorted, as moonlight on rippling lake.

I should go out tomorrow. Shake hands. See smiling faces. Love people I love. It’s not that I’m worried about them running away from me; I sincerely want to know them. And maybe it will make me less cynical/nervous about spending an evening with those I adore.

But for now, back to Jackie Chan.

the reminder

let even the buried alive stay buried that we above might enjoy what it is to breathe.

megara's lament

life has a way of happening at the most inconvenient times. you're leaving (running from) one idea; you stop briefly at (you flee to) another. then something like the truth manifests through your pores, beneath your finger nails, in the unreachable crevices of your mouth. what might be reality engulfs you and stays a while, and regardless of its intentions and its value, it becomes your reason to crack a joke, go on a walk, not sleep.

oh, but this makes it sound like a parasite, a metaphor in poor lighting. i suppose a simple approach is to view it like faith (the kind i used to have in God and country). i cannot sift it through my fingers and i doubt and question it constantly, but ultimately, i cannot deny its existence nor its consequence. the answer is the one to all of our futile questions, our excessive and selfish wonderings (the meaning of life): "it just is." The words itch like bugs across skin, unsatisfying, irritating, and undeniable. I can't really accept this answer, but I do. I can't really be feeling this, but I am. This can't really be practical, and it's not... it just is.

I'm not talking permanence, per se, but evenings that stretch on into red letter summers until time slows and i think about something else.

aw, time. that bitch. staying when she's never wanted; gone when you require her. lately, there hasn't been enough. and there will be even less time, soon. because "things" will get in the way. adult things. real things. things people do for a living. things that aren't the words megara used to sing before her children were slain and her heart sold and betrayed. i only hope that i, too, am not believing in the wrong heroes, deluding myself with the wrong myths.

still, perhaps even more frustrating than time is history. how we can't compete with it. i can know you for 4 more years; you will have existed for 24. I can run my hands through your hair 1,000 times; someone will have done it 1,001. Which is why you've seen me running so much, trying to catch up, spending every night sweaty and breathless so I don't have to realize that all this running has left me sweaty and breathless. I cannot compete with a world that existed before me, but I also can't help but envy it. I will never have you the way the world has; I will never know you the way those before me do. That I am so limited by time, so lacking in history, makes me wonder how I can ever allow it to be as it is with you or with anyone.

but it just is.

it's not what you think (it never is)

I would like to be the air
that inhabits you for a moment
only. I would like to be that unnoticed
& that necessary
-Margaret Atwood

getting by in the beaver state

my father has a way of planning family vacations so that relaxation is impossible. everyday has an itinerary which begins no later than 8 am. we are required to spend 1/2 of the day in the backseat of the car, 1/4 of the day in some sort of brewery, and the other 1/4 is reserved for a hike/sight-seeing. i have seen some pretty country while being dragged across the pacific northwest, but my stomach is upset, my face is zitted, and my back has more knots than a bored sailor. oy!

the trip began friday at 5 am, a time which grew 10 times more frustrating when we realized our plane had been delayed by 2 hours and we didn't have to leave Boonville til closer to 8. i got some good reading in (Murakami is one hell of a storyteller), but it didn't calm me enough to get my past my fear of bombs on planes. no, i don't mean actual explosives, but the looming, destructive threats people seem to become on planes. an old lady could die at any minute. a fat man sitting near you could smell. a baby could cry. a 12-year-old girl could talk to you. anyone and everything around you on a plane is suspect, and there's no escaping it til you land. and the snacks weren't even that good.

oregon, thank god, is gorgeous. a very foresty ireland, imo. since our arrival, we've gone to the coast (where i fell in love with an indian woman and a 6-year-old boy), seen too many waterfalls, and essentially lived in a car. lots of fresh seafood has been had, which is a treat, but free, delicious food seems like a fair trade for putting up with the Conway sense of humor. at least i got a legitimate escape when I met up with Tony Lam and his (*cough cough*) friend Nick. Tony was, as always, a doll, and Nick also works with international students, so I got to meet up with some of his (who were deliciously plucky women in their 40s). We ate great food, drank wine, and learned/caught up.

much more has happened, but i find myself growing too tired to continue. perhaps it's the 7 ams and the driving and the hiking. catch up with you lovelies later.

lunch break laughage

i just finished reading tons of reccommendation letters for international students; here's a brief excerpt from one of my favorites. I tell you this now (at the noon hour) because all of the best stories are told over soup and salad.

"What first attracted me to my student, Tanika*, was her grotesque curly top and her man style of dress. I feel despite her undesirable hair and mannish apperance, you will enjoy her strong personality."

I also got an email from one of our propsective students saying "While the committee is deciding who they will and will not admit, I thought it may be important to inform them that I'm not a nerd, nor am I a lesbian. I hope this makes me a more favorable candidate. Sincerely, Chelsea*"

*Names changed to protect the innocent

and in a sudden turn of events

i'm fine.

it's almost 7 am, and i feel alive, confident, healthy.

i wish i didn't blog on a whim; you kiddos probably think papa has a disease.

i did, however, make the decision to cut back on a few things until i feel securely fastened into my skin.

let's hope this works.

today's headline: "Weekend Breaks Compass"

i'm slipping.

i'm not talking about anyone or anything in particular.

i have just been.. off.. the past 5ish days.
drastic mood swings.
euphoria followed by nausea followed by emptiness.

this is completely unjustified.
my life, both at surface and below, is going excellently.
work is stressful but enjoyable.
friendships and relationships seem mostly healthy.
i'm eating well and exercising.

yet, i'm a yin-yang yo-yo passing through the entire spectrum of human emotion in hour long spurts.

right now i just want to take a few tylenol and sleep through the night's needless confusion.

but rest is not an option, and not just because i need to be prepping for stats.
because there's a gnawing. a parasite that says "you- yes you!- you've failed to find the thing that could fix you."

vodka inspires

i enjoy you; it's true. but let's stop acting like you're out of my league.
cause the one thing i've become increasingly aware of is that i'm worth anyone's time.

let's just say we're both lucky.

goddamnit, i'm gonna have a baby!

and with one phone call, my stupid anxieties are not even footnotes to my morning. meagan just called; her water broke! Kielann is on her way:)!!!!

God bless the promise of life.

our fingers set to point

damn you for having the power to disappoint me.
and damn me for letting this happen again, for turning silence into shrapnel.
you know there's always a right thing to say
and i know that i'm being ridiculous.

the simple thing is to chock it up to your misunderstanding, my (occasional) low self-esteem
but it didn't help me close my eyes any easier last night

oh
how frustrating it is to find myself in such a limbo,
where i expect nothing, but desire much.

words that won't run through your fingers

it has been over a month since i've written in a way that wasn't a poem or a puzzle; i thought we'd celebrate the morning with a glorious throwback to the traditional blogs of yesteryear... ones with names, events, cold, hard spoonfuls of facts with explanations that have definite bounds. So, to all you diehards out there, this one's for you.

Despite those charming June moments when I found myself cripplingly torn and uncertain, this has easily been my best summer in memory. I cannot recall a longer period of general contentedness or a time in my life when i was more excited about waking up in the morning. This is an extra welcome phenomenon after the emotional whirlwind that was last year (more on that in a subsequent blog, perhaps... no, it has very little to do with anything you might be thinking it does). So, God, if you're out there, please kindly accept my "fuck yes!"

School and work- two areas that are often a source of stress and general suckage- have gone down surprisingly smooth this summer. Although I am getting tired of the frequentness and monotony that Statistics has to offer, I do find the subject matter refreshingly fascinating and sensible. Something clicks in my head about viewing the world as a series of possibilities, and the fact that these possibilities can be so easily misinterpreted or manipulated if not viewed through the proper equation... well, that just makes my little "probably-should-have-been-an-English-major" heart sing. As for work, I can't begin to describe how pleasant it is to have a job you don't dread going to every morning. Work has been getting increasingly hectic as deadlines approach, coworkers go missing, and foreign voices blur and rage, but I love working with the people I work with, I love seeing the consequences of my efforts amount to more than a slice of pizza, and I am fulfilled in knowing I have helped a student 3,000 miles away to get an education and have the best American experience possible.

But it is my summer social life that's giving the Gods something to talk about. While tragically, I have had to miss out on a lot of amazing Boonville friends and suffer that terrible void of having no Molly or Steve til mid August, the boys and girls of summer have found 50 ways to make my heart flutter. Joanna has been the ideal roommate: considerate, clean, low-maintenance, available to talk, around to hang out often but busy and social enough herself that we don't bore each other. Emily and Maggie have been wonderfully amusing girls to get more familiar with over the summer, even if I haven't seen them in over a week!:( Jeni has reappeared in my life in living color, making sure this boyo gathers no moss. And Mal and Miguel (and Katherine, when I get to see her) have become a few of my very best friends with their immense sweetness and ungraspable randomness. This is not to mention all my ATO and Dukum friends... god, it has just all been voonderbar!

As for the dating game, it entered my summer a tempest and has dissolved into an evening at the beach. 99 awful choices and 2 or 3 right ones have momentarily lent me to a boy who is good-hearted, strong-willed, and quite complimentary to me. It would seem in a lot of the places where the lord was zigging me he zagged this guy, and the result has been a rush of 360 clarity when we are together. More simply, we mesh. Now I'm not one to wager whether or not we'll ever be more than boys of summer, but I know, in the moment, I adore sharing hands with him and finding/wanting new possibilities in his eyes. I am quite thankful to find myself blanketed in such a calming and encouraging force.

It has been a summer of red letter dates, but the kinds you mention in memoirs, not calendars. I feel this is not the appropriate forum (if there is one) to discuss most of my sunsoaked happenings in a concrete fashion, but i have no problem grocery listing the past few months.
*The week I was in Boonville after interim was dangerously close to perfect. Haley's wedding was beautiful, and honestly a tad awe-inspiring when one considered they were about to partake in the fulfilled promise of love. Plus, I got to spend a lot of time with Maggie and Johnny, two of my favorite cats, and get to know Kurtis for the first time, who is truly an outstanding young man and I'm thrilled that he will be in Kirksville this semester.
* My first date with him couldn't have gone any more flawlessly. Everyone deserves an evening where you do nothing but get to know another person and let them show you how they know the world.
*Luke's birthday party was the perfect summer escape. Too much booze + old friends= the summer magic Haley Mills was talking about.
*My Warrensburg/KC weekend with Katherine was the best weekend I've ever had. I was in constant proximity to amazing people, I got to experience the Augusten Burroughs women in Katherine's life, I saw a great musical with KC Comeaux!, saw my gal pal Sam, and took in art through my eyes and skin.

This weekend is another one for my scrapbook. Nicholas and Matt have been up, and while we haven't gone on any crazy adventures, they've been two great friends to talk about life with. We've been nakedly honest in some respects, catty Sex and the City clones at times, making new friends with pretty French girls, and swapping hilarious personal stories. Matt and I have come up with a new euphemism: "I just shredded her wheat." We've yet to decide what it means exactly, but we're certain it's sexual, a little violent, and really gross. This is to be coupled with Val's "Yeah, I'd fig your newton." Plus, tonight, we get to make dinner for Jo! Three cheers:)!

It's odd to feel like summer is already coming to a close when I still have a quality month ahead. School's almost finished. Work will be ungodly stressful as we prepare for students to arrive. But I have a Boonville weekend to look forward to next week, followed next week by Maggie's birthday party con Steven and Sam!, and then a wonderful week in Oregon where I get to see my aunt and the delicious Tony Lam. Between all this, I get to hang out with Miguel, Mal, Jo, Jeni, Emily, Maggie, and a bunch of other crazy cats.

So, in conclusion: best. summer. ever.

an instant approaches

in which your silhouette will come into focus and you will remain on my tongue, crisp as laughter, defined and tangible.
in which i will realize that i'm happier when i'm with you than when i'm not.
in which blitzkriegs and guerrilla flirt tactics come to an end.
in which ambivalence dissolves and we are forced to face the reality of the moment, the consequences of the decisions we don't make.
in which we do this thing or walk away with as few ripples as possible.
in which i can't pretend like i know what i'm doing.
in which we are enough.

i hope that instant is unlike the others i've stubbed my toes on in the past.

Benigni knows

la vita è bella

what becomes of the things we say

they're never tasted the toxic comfort of a cigarette. they've never known her body. but those lips of yours, they've said those words before. i could tell by the way they escaped: bubbles, i guess, is the most accurate metaphor. bursting out in scores and drifting skywards into afterthoughts. i've never actually seen them pop (soap shrapnels on asphalt), but i'm certain they do. regardless, they don't stay. they never stay.

my lips, well, we're pretty well-versed, but when it comes to embellishing the curve of your back, they're in virgin territory. in fact, when it comes to being sincere about the places i find myself near and away from you, it's all still uncharted. so i wonder, what would happen if i put your words in my mouth and blew a kiss of them back into yours. would they pierce your skin? would they assimilate into the air, dissolving and bathing you in truth and oxygen? or would they hang like rocks around my neck, a trophy burden that i couldn't shake?

perhaps they'd crack every code in you brain, unravel every gene in your body
or perhaps they'd do nothing. maybe my mouth fires blanks... big empty rhetoric that makes a loud noise but has zero consequence, zero reward.

and what of my own words? what of the things i'd say? well, they'd be flattering, no doubt. but seeking too. craving a definition... some sort of perspective. and maybe a shot at permanence? you know, not forever, but an extended moment where it's us and we both know that's all it is.

and they would be curious to know if i was wearing the right underwear today. naming the rights songs. drinking the right juice. they would want to know if you could ever want to keep them, for a spell.

and the things you say would say yes. but what would you say if your words were new? if your words were you?

and what will happen to my words when they sound like
"stay."
"mix."
"breathe with me."
"have me."
"become something beyond yourself."

perhaps they will build like bricks that make you impossible.
perhaps they will build like bricks that bridge you to me.
or perhaps they will crackle on our tongues, forming into a sludge that burns and chokes.
just like the things we don't say.

atonement (sans James and Keira)

i wake up each morning and remind myself that i will not make the same mistake twice. while caution may not be much of a verb in my life, it has succeeded as a slow-leaking dam, waiting. waiting. waiting. until eventually, i may be permitted to flood without consequence. but i knew, no more blitzkreig kisses, no more spitfire sharing or too soon questions, and no more deciding to let myself like until i can do so with confidence and security.

but, in my self-protective efforts, in my steadfastness with which i avoided attachment, i have made new mistakes. worse ones, in my opinion, as they haven't hurt me, but others. too much laying and lying. too much embellishment of words and bodies. the things people thought i gave them i truly had never let go of, and the consequences are... well, they're shitty. and for that, those i've stepped on, i'm deeply sorry. please know that i'm not malicious; i'm just a fool at times.

as of last night, i have put an end to my new mistakes. nothing is healed, mind you, but at least we have accurately labeled wounds as wounds. they will scab and assimilate in time.

which, frighteningly enough, leaves me open to that old mistake- willingly untethering myself and walking into the vortex. opting to plunge. in less colorful language, putting myself in a position of maximum vulnerability before i'm sure it's worth it and when i doubt it's safe. but the truth is, this is how i live my life (and my like), and I will just have to get better at super-gluing broken vases and applying makeup to scars. because kiddos, i never looked good in yellow; green is my signature hue, and I'm heading forward til we run out of road, run out of gas, or i drift into the other lane.

i'm up for the gamble; i'm ready for the liberation that comes from potential pain. well, i'm not ready, but i'm doing it. and it'll either build me or break me, but either way, i'll handle it.

therein lies the problem

i have yet to meet a person who can keep up with me

i just thought you should know

this morning, my radio conspired to keep us together. i just brushed the edge of my neck as broken jazz filled the car, and I made that same incredulous-but-pleased face you see every time you stare at me.

soon and very soon (i hope), you will see that my mind's made up. the words escape, and eyes like verbs, and hands that know and must keep knowing. all it takes is a few almost impossibilities. but we breathe each morning against all odds. why should attraction not know the same rules?

maybe it's not impossible. maybe it's inevitable. maybe the only force between us is gravity, but it's certain, and it seems to get the job done.

a dream to build a kiss on

you make me want to say the right thing

sometimes they come back (for more)

it took brian mcknight christmas covers blasting out my car windows through a crowded downtown day for me to realize that i am in love with the land of my childhood. i miss the farm. i want to be back in Saints Peter and Paul. I shed a flattering light on the layout of things, the maps of them.

the terrain is me (here and in boonville) and it's very reassuring.

vortexes, barrel rolls, and you (x 2.75): potentially destructive forces that spin me right round

While emo never became me, I have always been ample evidence that white boys sing the blues; in fact, we can even channel the foreign howl that comes with brokenness if lungs and throats and stinging eyes are pushed out of bed harshly enough. However, the past month has been the victim of such constant forward motion that these lips only had time for toe-tappers and show-stoppers.

But a boy falling through time eventually hits the bottom (or at least a branch), and my slap-of-arbor to the face happened last night. My first instance of sincere sadness/hollowness since my pride was shaken and my value tested 2 months ago. I understand the act of blogging in itself is detestably self-important, but there's something particularly selfless and shallow about this post as several of you have no doubt been "depressed" several times in the past month, and here I am, bitching about a rare instance. Ay, indulge me, lovelies.

I have been proactive about my life lately to the extent of dehumanizing it, removing the subjectivity of these baby blues, and leaving myself vulnerable to exhaustion and to the inability to appreciate all this green that burns around me. I have consciously framed my day-to-day in metaphor of "running the race"/ "playing the game." I have seen things as having rules neither divine nor scientific, and I have made competitions of kisses and words and the curves of backs. I thought this was a surefire plan to avoiding stagnancy, to avoid attachment (and thus pain), and to guarantee progress. But it is possible to do nothing but move and still do everything but get anywhere. This is the place in which I find myself- nauseatingly twirling in a swivel chair amidst a self-made tempest of vapid phonetics. I'm still just as insatiable as ever, only now I'm hopelessly confused, and I've thrown other sets of eyes into the mix. Need the path of a pioneer be so destructive? Isn't there a coast in which we stop and settle and make the world inhabitable again?

And will anyone else ever be enough or will I always resort to multiplying fractions of people?
And will I ever be enough, or will always I need to travel beyond the shores of my own body to find a place worth settling?

For now, I'm a wandering heathen, a hopeless Israelite in search of a Canaan that may just be story. But must I stop and rest for a spell in the sand while I deliberate north and south? Should I halt the caravan until I'm certain? Or do I follow an indecisive compass in hopes that one direction will outshine the rest, that West will be warm and forgiving?

Perhaps I should return to the yellow light, but the evening looks so green, and my fingertips feel so go.

Ack! Why must there be so many good people and right decisions?

Sluts of the 17th and 18th Century

Inconstancy in Love by Robert Burns

Let not Women e’er complain

Of inconstancy in love;

Let not Women e’er complain

Fickle man is apt to rove:

Look abroad thro’ Nature’s range,

Nature’s mighty Law is change,

Ladies, would it not seem stranger

Man should then a monster prove!

Mark the winds, and mark the skies,

Ocean’s ebb, and ocean’s flow,

Sun and moon but set to rise,

Round and round the seasons go.

Why then ask of silly Man

To oppose great Nature’s plan?

We’ll be constant while we can-

You can be no more, you know.

“O Blush Not So” by John Keats

O blush not so! O blush not so!

Or I shall think you knowing;

And if you smile the blushing while,

Then maidenheads are going.

There’s blush for want, and a blush for shan’t,

And a blush for having done it;

There’s a blush for thought, and a blush for nought,

And a blush for just begun it.

O sight not so! O sigh not so!

For it sounds of Eve’s sweet pippin;

By those loosened lips that you have tasted the pips

And fought in an amorous nipping.

Will you play once more at nice-cut-core,

For it will last our youth out,

And we have the prime of the kissing time,

We have not one sweet tooth out.

There’s a sigh for aye, and a sigh for nay,

And sigh for “I can’t bear it!”

O what can be done, shall we stay or run?

O cut the sweet apple and share it!

A Sense of Constellations

the evening began on a shelf
(a bookend cage, really)
a hardback from last garage sale
to never consider again
with its dust-laden title,
with its coffee stain script.

but chapters of breaths (in time) accumulate,
form Nimbus ideas
that will green the grass and puddle the streets
for yellow boots and almost sleep
until synapses crack the sky
and we can read (finally) by splintered dusk.

one translator, one cartographer
observing the transient pride of fireflies,
inhaling the nuances of peering stardust
to make lunar lexis into something tangible,
to capture celestial directions
for the day (far from now) we may need them.

“teach me to speak”
words fall soft and forgiving
making skeleton keys of taste buds.
the not-so-darkness has a voice
(the churning sea of Neptune/ the craving eyes of Venus)
to be found in brink-of-night lips

“teach me to find”
Apollo fingers depart the edge of here-on-earth eyes
tracing the scenic course from now to someday, maybe-
a zodiac path bent on telling old stories,
on making poems of our bodies,
on embellishing the truth about night.

You Can('t) Count on Me

I've always abhorred the static tendency of things, but I wasn't counting on retribution 100 times over. Life has been little more than an ongoing revolution these past few weeks, and it's left fingers green with naivety and my mind scattered across countless possible pavements. I have before, I believe, alluded to Plath's idea that when we think we want everything, it is perhaps because we are dangerously close to wanting nothing. That doesn't seem to align with my current situation; rather, I find myself thinking I want everything because I don't believe what I really want exists (in life, in a relationship, in my fucking salad dressing). No one and nothing can walk the fine line if you narrow it to the point it doesn't exist. So perhaps, I shall take the evening to reconsider what I value, in hopes that the day will bring the 3rd act epiphany that probably never comes to those who live on earth. Or perhaps, I'll wander from one town to the next (metaphorically speaking, of course) until I find the clearing (correction: a clearing) that satisfies.

Greetings from my Kelly Green Shoes!

After reading Emily Bergenzer's about me section on facebook, I felt the need to update. However, I can't say that I have any direction in what I'm about to say.

Well, for one thing, last night was Haley's wedding rehearsal, and she looked absolutely amazing. She had told me she'd be wearing gold(!?) so I almost vomited, but as it turns out, "gold" means somewhere between an auburn and a bronze, and it looked great on her (she's a red head). I was also the 2nd-3rd hottest guy there out of the wedding party and family members, so that was a pleasant boost of confidence:). And, completely out of character, I did actually start crying when they practiced exchanging their vows (not as much as the bride was crying, mind you, but still getting misty over having observed true love). Then, a past her prime soprano took the mic and started singing the world's longest song9, so I continued crying, but for a different reason. The rehearsal itself was continued by 3 hours of decorating for the reception as Haley decided she wanted to cater and decorate for her own wedding (she crazy!), but it wasn't so terrible as I got to do it with 2 old and 1 new lovelies.

I'm very excited about coming back to Kirksville tomorrow morning! Between Joanna and Jeni coming back, Maggie, Miguel, Theo, and Emily already being there, and loads of new friends to make at karaoke, I'm hoping this summer will be a blasty-blast (despite taking smelly statistics:(. Lets do dinners and braid each others hair!

Now, onto the slightly probing, but still fairly superficial closing of my post- wtf, mr. attraction? Why must you be so blitzkreig? Perhaps since I've been so repressed and dormant in the realms of crush for so long, he's coming back with a vengeance, striking me over and over and much more intensely than is necessary. In the past 2 weeks, I've grown quite strongly attracted to 4 guys (attracted to the extent that i would think about them before i went to bed, biting my lip and giggling..and playing with my neck, I surefire sign!). However, the 2 I actually went out with this week have proven to be little more than a pretty face. This just leaves 2, which is still one too many for this boy to handle. Perhaps there's some sort of homegrown squash shake i can take to lessen the intensity in which I experience things, that would make life a lot easier. Or perhaps I can just stop bitching over being mutually attracted to 2 decent people and figure this shit out the hard way.

I've got a room to clean, a car to pack, and a wedding to be in before I come back tomorrow morning. I'd better head. Lata playas!

Plagarized Before My Time

More and More

More and more frequently the edges of me dissolve and I become a wish to assimilate the world, including you, if possible through the skin like a cool plant's tricks with oxygen and live by a harmless green burning. I would not consume you or ever finish, you would still be there surrounding me, complete as the air. Unfortunately I don't have leaves. Instead I have eyes and teeth and other non-green things which rule out osmosis. So be careful, I mean it, I give you fair warning: This kind of hunger draws everything into its own space; nor can we talk it all over, have a calm rational discussion. There is no reason for this, only a starved dog's logic about bones. Margaret Atwood

The King and I (and other such mishmash)

Having gone to church today for the first time since Christmas (which had been the first time since summer), I have a new theory on how Mass should be approached: let's all do it the way the 2-year-olds do. That is, bring snacks, and scream in anguish all throughout the sermon.

Today was Corups Christi Sunday, so the priest devoted his entire discussion to transubstantiation. For those of you not in the Catechismic know, transubstantiation is the Catholic belief that the bread and wine taken at communion literally is Jesus's body and blood. The priest acknowledged that most Catholics don't actually believe it, but proceeded to make terribly awkward attempts to prove it. He nonsensically compared transubstantiation to the National Enquirer and the strange circumstances in which the church office had been robbed last week. He ended his sermon with (and I quote) "It's just so crazy, how could we make it up?" That, apparently, is supposed to be the basis of Catholic faith. I respect any of you who adhere to such beliefs, but I must fully acknowledge that the Catholic Church and I have officially parted ways as of this morning.

I spent 150 dollars on clothes today, and I did it terribly. I hate buying things, so trying on jeans at Pac Sun was like tearing out fresh sutures. Then, after my purchases, I freaked out over being a consumer whore. How the fuck am I supposed to afford my rock-and-roll lifestyle? Worst Marxist ever; also, the worst shopper.

Victoria and I saw Indy Jones IV today. I will not reveals any spoilers, but I must say it was the most absurd thing I've ever seen in a mainstream theatre. I like to assume that Spieldberg is just well-versed in camp and irony and that he did not TRULY see this as an iconic throwback or a satisfactory recessitation of an old series. He probably should have tried to make a new Indiana Jones for a new generation, but instead he poorly remade the old ones with more excessive violence, more xenophobia, and a slight new age twist (just enough to make you uncomfortable). But Cate and Shia were both pretty!

Had my first hit of Indian food since August; best dinner ever.

Lastly, I miss Kville. See some of you soon, I hope.

Applying blush

Could I be more transparent?
Could I be more inconsistent?
Could I get more excited?
Could I be more impulsive?
Could I play more the fool?
Could I....

Livin' Life with Ben Kweller

I've been doing this shit Paul Simon style, leaving you lovelies in the sound of silence. I know you must be concerned... nay, DESPERATE to hear about what's going on in my exciting life. Well, I'm tired, so I'll tease you adoring fans with a little vagueness.

Basically, this silence has been golden- it's cause the past few days have been really great (and, in their own way, busy).

A few things:

1. Not going to friend mixer= worst mistake ever.
2. Jersey Boys was such a comforting little jukebox musical. If it hadn't been staged the way it was (and with the budget it was), it would have been just some hoaky concert (that is, the content of the show itself is lackluster). But a little nostalgia for the old folk and lots of energy for me and well, I was just smitten. I then went out to a Scottish Pub after seeing the show and accidentally ate lamb; I feel terrible.
3. I'm making new friends! (Not replacement friends but new friends). They're quite cute, funny, and nice. One of them reminds me of my brother John (in his proud humility), except for the fact that we have things in common. So that's cool.

Work. Lots of work. And delicious food! Katherine came over last night and made me the world's best pasta. Then we had a make-or-break conversation that definitely did some makage; it's safe to say that friendship is solidified in the book of fuck-yesness.

Time to finish an essay. More to come later? We'll see.

Wanted: Companion with French Accent

Once again, I accomplished much less than I needed to. This means tomorrow will be 12 hours straight of studying, but no worries: it just made for a chill evening. I hung out with my friend Theo (who always makes me realize how uninteresting I am and how much I have left to learn... but in an entirely good way!) We watched the least mainstream film I've ever seen, "The Raspberry Reich." It's set up as a socialist propaganda film about a modern terrorist cult, exploring cult dynamics through homosexual revolution. The blurring of sex, politics, and violence was alarming, but certainly very interesting. Great ideas; extremely quotable slogans ("Heterosexuality is the opiate of the masses" and "Masturbation is counter revolutionary"... solid gold shit like that); horrendously bad acting, but I can't expect much out of propaganda porn.

I just got back to my own abode, and I'm watching La Vie en Rose (which is absolutely FABULOUS- check it out. Rarely will you get to see such an emotionally resonant performance) and unwinding for bed.

I almost forgot! This afternoon, I took a nap, and somehow slept through my landlord and roommate knocking all the woodwork and plaster off our living room walls. Everything in the building is now caked in plaster dust, and there are pieces of wall everywhere: Bohemian or War Zone? Glorious, either way.

Love some of you. Like you all. Good night!

Greetings from Honshu, c. 1900

Instead of eating lunch over my lunch break, I'm blogging: has the internet taken over my life THAT completely? Furthermore, I'm a really that concerned with actively shaping my identity (or so self-important to think getting my perspective out there to my 2 or 3 adoring fans is more important than food)? Oh, well!

Yesterday, after some intense Japanage and 4 hours of revising International Student Orientation schedules and presentations, good times began rolling. I opted to only do 1/3 of my reading assignment, so I had a couple extra hours to spare on cleaning up my patch of linoleum (i.e.- my bed room.... slash laundry room). Part of this consisted of Austin and I experimenting with our dysfunctional washing machine. Our clothes are clean and no flooding occurred (despite warnings of our former tenant)... however, the washing machine still hasn't drained. we're going to have to get on that.

So, after general cleanage and fuckingaroundness, Nikki, the latest sweetheart to find her way into my life, came over and made us Chicken Parmasean Pasta (Ruby Tuesday's Recipe!). On top of being the only "real" food (i.e. not bagel or fruit) that I'd had in days, it was absolutely delicious, and her company was much appreciated. Our delicious dinner (wineless, as finished off our 2 almost empty bottles a few hours prior), Austin and I serenaded his laptop until Emily and the lovely and amazing KELLY came over for Karaoke.

Karaoke at the Dukum on Tuesday Night's= a blast! I couldn't bring myself to sing, but I did bust a few moves, and had a genuinely great time. Met some new people; perhaps planted the seeds for new friendship with a couple folk. And didn't go to bed til 3. A huge mistake as I had to get up at 6 for classes and I am, naturally, exhausted. I've got a few more hours of work to put in, then 150ish pages of reading, and then it's nap time lovelies.

I think a summer in Kirksville is going to work out just fine; no more concerns about another summer wasting.

Dreamin' of a Fortnight

Today's reading assignment consisted of 200 pages. I accomplished all but 30. And the 30 I ignored were about women. And I'm a feminist. Clearly, something is wrong in the state of Japan(ese assignments), Dr. Ling! 200 pages and a 15 minute presentation struck me as a little heavy for the first day, but what do I know, I'm just a guy with a job who is still trying to move into his apartment- what could I need free time for? Needless to say, I can't wait for my interim to be over, even if I'm deeply, deeply in love with the subject (omg... I'm turning into Jordan Conrad. shoot me!)

Half-starvation is still the watch-word, but it did improve some today. I got 3 meals in, even if 2 of them consisted of only juice, a bagel, and yogurt. Good news though- when I have the time, I CAN make dinner.. turns out our oven isn't on the verge of exploding. That gassy aroma is just part of its charm, Polina informs.

I've got some room cleaning/setting-up to do, and perhaps, but unlikely, some Pink Fox to attend to.

Tomorrow night, however- it's on like donkey kong, friends. Karaoke summons my ladies and I, and we will not be cruel to her.

Quick P.S.'s: I love my job planning Orientation even if I don't have time for it right now.
PPS- I almost forgot how to ride my bike today, which is supposed to be impossible unless you have Parkinson's or something.
PPPS- I didn't even have time to imagine myself a silver-screen starlet today; que tragic!

EDIT:
That charming Foxy-Sweetness is in my belly, thanks to Austin Underhill. We didn't have a real corkscrew, so he used his remaining Hulkness to bust out the cork- in 3 pieces. This was after we hauled Justin's 10 ton entertainment center up the stairs (something I never want to go through again). Now, I've got some bleedings fingers, sore toes, and 6 hours til I have to wake up and finish my group project. Wish me luck, kiddies!

EDIT 2:
No sleep yet- we just pulled an entire patio set onto our roof with some twine. Officially the coolest thing I've ever done. I'll drink to that, lovelies.

Sunday, Bloody Sunday

I'm not sure that I've ever done so much while accomplishing so little. We've been moving and cleaning all day, but my room still looks like a storage unit and the staircase I spent 1.5 hours vacuuming is still grody by most people's standards. But I have to be up in 7.5 hours for class, so don't expect me to get anything else accomplished.

I hung out with Emily and Lady Chambers tonight, and had myself a bit of a blasty-blast. "Made of Honor" was very run-of-the mill but offered some sexcellent Dempsey diversion and general life-affirming comfort. Then the lasses and I swapped awful roommate experiences, shared horror stories about puberty, and dissected the on-screen boyfriends of Anne Hathaway. A good night, I must say.

General concern: Malnourishment. I'm confident I consumed no more than 1,000 calories today. I refuse to buy any food, I will not eat junk food, and I haven't had time or a clean enough kitchen to cook. The only solution is moderate starvation, apparently. Right now I'm running off coffee; tomorrow (once I'm done with 5 hours of class, 4 hours of work, and 4 hours of reading) I'll console myself with some Pink Fox.

I feel like I'm living someone else's life while at this loft. I forget about my life back ,and my life in the dorms (2 days freshly buried) doesn't seem real. I even forget that Austin, Justin, and I have a history- we seem to be new friends, liking each other greatly but still getting acquainted. I hope that as the loft becomes real, so will my past, and so will I.

I'm going to tackle my bookshelf tonight, my fridge tomorrow, a closet on Tuesday, and adorning my walls on Wednesday. Wish me luck, lovelies!

no lies, just loft

The long day is over and the stretch of night awaits as I write from the world's least comfortable desk chair (via DukumInn Wireless... cause that's necessary). My feet, they are le-tired. My back, she is a sore. But my heart pumps possibility and my mind asks me to forget a night I cannot remember.

You see, last night, I learned my first real college lesson:
Do not get the most trashed you've ever been in your entire life (i'm not sensationalizing- this shit's legit)the night before your parents are coming up at 9am to help you move.

I painted the town red (and, later, a puke green) with Jeni as I chased vodka with rum (straight, as i was feeling masculine). I made lots of friends, apparently. And other things also apparently happened which I cannot remember and do not wish to talk about (but will tantalizingly allude to, especially since I don't believe anyone reads my blog).

Needless to say, today has been awful. I've been running around, shoving 3-peoples-worth of shit into one room until the current tenant moves out, entertaining my parents, and being outrageously ill and hung-over.

A quick unrelated note:
I had to say goodbye to my international students last night; i took them to the train station, got misty as they rode away, and they gave me the cutest present. I'm going to miss those kids dearly.

EDIT:
The cleaning and moving brigade has desisted. The four of us (Austin, Justin, Nikki, and myself) are now huddled in a frat boy junkyard of our own creation, drinking lime beer and red wine, watching Calendar Girls and Indiana Jones (the awful, awful 2nd one- my favorite!), and trying to ignore the leak that is pitter-pattering into our trash can. Not the summer vacation of my fantasies, but a pretty okay Saturday night before the 2 weeks of hell that await me. But for now I'm content, hanging with my boys, dreaming about what our home will become.

My Left Foot and other Disconnected Tales

I was walking to Hyvee a few days ago when my 3-year-old $5 Walmart sandals were punctured by something unforgiving. God bless tetanus shots! The relentless pain, however, has not stopped me from wearing said sandals; these bitches are staying on until I can get to Old Navy in a few weeks and take advantage of their cheap, cheap flip-flops.

Last night was a thousand chips delicious. Steve, Sam, and I went out to Ruby Tues and made fun of each other relentlessly- tres cute and enjoyable. Then I worked on a huge cultural history final I had no idea I had to do. And then I internally mourned the end of dorm life and a summer without constant Molly, Jo, and Steveness. The sadness was, fortunately, counteracted by double stuft oreos.

I had lunch with my friend Manisha today and we eavesdropped on a table full of obese gamers swapping cyber sex stories. I only threw up once, but that was probably just because of the Sodexho.

Steve Kainz's vacuum is the greatest thing since sliced bread... or, to keep with things that clean, the Swiffer? Idk... I want to do an infomercial about it. It's light; it's maneuverable; it sucks hard. It made vacuuming fun, and I feel that everyone should experience it.

Have you been keeping up with this crazy incest case in Austria (yes, I'm allowed to follow sensationalized and pointless news)? Granted, this guy sounds like bad news, locking up his daughter for 19 years and everything, but it got me thinking- will incest always be the scum-of-the-earth thing to do? Will society ever be in a place where it accepts consensual incestuous relationships between consenting adults, or is it just to foreign and taboo to ever be possible? Random and strange, I know.

I feel like doing a lot of things- saying a few goodbyes to those leaving, making friends with those staying, taking shots of whiskey and washing it down with Pink Fox, cuddling, doing the Freddy... too much, no? But there's something satisfying in wanting everything, even if you get none of it. The desire for something, the idea of it, is sometimes enough to sustain us a lifetime.

Time for a walk, I think. My legs are something I know I have control over, and a little exercise and a little ipod action sounds like the perfect beginning to a nostalgic evening.

Move-in Day: The Moments in which I question my Corie Bratter-ness

There is something poetic about potential, about an empty canvas, about a cry for transformation.

There is nothing poetic about a bathroom that floods, about a ceiling that falls, about the ever-present odor of wet dog and tavern. Well, poetic, perhaps, but not romantic and certainly not beautiful.

Months ago I got goosebumps (the good kind) at the thought of living in a drafty loft above a bakery that required a few coats of paint and the occasional mantwist of a wrench. It struck me as an environment of infinite possibilities in which I could play out my delusions of being insatiable or impossible, of having moxy. But every time I set my director's chair in the audience and sit back with a microphone in one hand and a box of popcorn in the other, reality rears its ugly head (which looks much more like Bette Davis on her deathbed than anything ever should). Today, I moved 3/4 of my life (that is, all of me that fits into a car) into the dust bunny where dreams go to die. A brief conversation with hell's current tenant, and I realize this picture will be less Neil Simon and more David Lynch. I can't say I'm really up for taking the time to relay the dirty laundry list, but I will tell you it ends with a door to the street that locks its tenants in rather than keeping strangers out.

So, with my new home, I'm compromising, much like I have been trying to do this past month. Ms. Plath's sentiment that "you cannot regard your own life with objective curiosity all the time" could never ring truer. I am trying to accept that fact that I am not writing myself onto any stage or into any classic. Someone out there is making a documentary, and it's cold and honest and I don't have as much say in it as I'd like to; the best I can do is remember that other people are just as real as I am and that I am just as real as everyone else. No more trying new things just because they're interesting (that is, they must also be in my best interest); no more picking fights with my friends just because it amuses me.* Most people take life seriously and personally; perhaps I should join the human race.

This is not to say that I'm giving up on cinema or denying myself the pleasure of fantasy and escapism. I'm just going to recognize that the consequences of my decisions and my actions aren't the 2nd act of some awfully-written play; they affect me and others, flesh-and-blood folk, deeply and truly. And the next time I start playing some game with my friends, I'll make sure that we all understand its a game that we're playing.

I've been working on reality a lot lately., accepting that this summer might mean more sweat and discomfort than amusement and transformation and that not everyone sees most human interaction through the same scope I do. It's so strange that I'm willing to fight and work against the wicked "reality" that I see those being deprived of human rights are facing, but when it comes to my friends, I sometimes fail to forget they're not viewing life through my silver-screen eyes..that they think there's more to life than being captivated and captivating.

Ay- I bet Jane Fonda didn't have to deal with this shit.

*It's not just that arguing amuses me, but I feel that one must be in good practice in case they should ever find themselves in a "real" argument. Plus, I've watched people fight my whole life and never gotten much of a chance to do it myself. Now, since I've finally accepted my identity as one who breaks social norms, I feel like I need to make up for lost time and get my in-your-face-ness on.... I suppose I have a tendency to get over zealous. So Jo and Molly- I know this often amounts to me being needlessly catty with you some times. I'm very sorry! Love you dears:)

summer sounds like

hot asphalt cheap wine b-movies and few faces.

The night before I left for Truman this year, I sat on the porch through the most unexpected and liberating storm of my life. As I believe in omens, I knew that this would be a year of trial and change but that it would ultimately leave me very much alive. And I was right- this year has been nothing but a string of red letter dates from my coming outs to my poor choices in the drug-and-alcohol department to various other mistakes I've made and people I've hurt as I tred new waters. My friend dynamic has been revolutionized; my classes have doubled in workload and difficulty. And I've left a lot of the past behind. But I'm here, I'm happy, and I'm ready for more challenges and more change.

Which is why I fear the summer so greatly. Few familiar faces will be around, and I'm worried about slipping into some old, bad habits. I cannot afford to spend another summer wasting, but I'm not sure if I'm strong enough to avoid that if left alone. Oh well - I'll have Jo for 6 weeks, and I know Katherine and Maggie are going to be around for a while. Perhaps I will grow this summer much more than I expect; perhaps these next few months will be anything but reckless regressions.

For now, I'll just have to hold on to the amazingness that has been the past few weeks. True, they've been stressful as hell, but more than manageable with all my new and old friends. Thanks, lovelies:)