Like a skein of loose silk blown against a wall
She walks by a railing of a path in Kensington Gardens,
And she is dying piece-meal
Of a sort of emotional anemia.
And round about the is a rabbel
Of the filthy, sturdy, unkillable infants of the poor.
They shall inherit the earth.
In her is the end of breeding.
Her boredom is exquisite and excessive.
She would like someone to speak to her,
And is almost afraid that I
Will commit that indiscretion.
-Ezra Pound
!!!
a compilation of things that make up an online sketchbook, and stuff.
11.16.2010
11.09.2010
how to go online and be someone you're not:
if the variables align, and the equation is formatted as such, then it should be completely illogical for any failure, and epic should be impossible: unless, of course, the word "result" despises me enough to become its own entity and alter the process of hard work= pay off.
11.05.2010
a despondent sigh for a distressed heart
it's staggering to find out you gave someone too much credit.
everything is average until something so feverishly ignorant is said, that you find it hard to believe you have to defend their honor thereafter:
my melancholy stems in balancing a conversation with manners, when the person is a stranger. you have to work to sympathize for them and on behalf of them, i have to ask less, "how has this individual been coming along in this world, when we see and hear the same things and yet their result is dramatically anchored to intellectually different principles." i have yet so much to learn. but i have even more to come to terms with--
everything is average until something so feverishly ignorant is said, that you find it hard to believe you have to defend their honor thereafter:
my melancholy stems in balancing a conversation with manners, when the person is a stranger. you have to work to sympathize for them and on behalf of them, i have to ask less, "how has this individual been coming along in this world, when we see and hear the same things and yet their result is dramatically anchored to intellectually different principles." i have yet so much to learn. but i have even more to come to terms with--
10.28.2010
10.19.2010
two things;
i saw a man whose age did not do his skin justice. the most beautiful elastic softness separated by gentle and wise and intentional roads all over his living self. i can't even begin to speak of his hands.
two men with rough demeanor, blatant work ethic (in the field of construction i am certain), ordered an espresso each, and i was overwhelmed with joy to hear their slavic tone. heritage is an odd string.
two men with rough demeanor, blatant work ethic (in the field of construction i am certain), ordered an espresso each, and i was overwhelmed with joy to hear their slavic tone. heritage is an odd string.
10.12.2010
people fall down all the time. every day some one falls down.
i left my favorite chapstick on the street which bruised my ankle, scraped my knee and dignity. as i laid there in disbelief, a complete triumph of embarrassment, colin's words echoed of the "absurdity." i had a conversation with myself: the reality of falling, and the absurdity of thinking/talking about it with red cheeks until the nighttime. i did fall, but made it to the bus.
10.05.2010
i traced my blog on myspace and this is what i found: "I can speak words faster than you can think them."
Sunday, March 29, 2009
"it isnt hard to be good"
hourglass weighs on me,
love lost her sister to time
and admittedly, a
a body. a curvy
wreck of wonder,
or lack/luster.
a child without
fingerprints to show
for it is not that easy,
be so easy.
if held still, the thump thump
of your
little pulse would
emerge from your skin, id
hum along to the (im) beat.
(for A.K)
Thursday May 21, 2009
current mood: cultured
"i hate it when you make me guess things while you laugh and i get angry over it being incorrect"
the kitchen is too small
for the baking is just enough
for my begging
i want to be so good
for the body
i want the earth
around me
late at night you found me
(or whats late to my taste)drunk
begging to be navigated
to our bed.
(for C.F.McK)
"it isnt hard to be good"
hourglass weighs on me,
love lost her sister to time
and admittedly, a
a body. a curvy
wreck of wonder,
or lack/luster.
a child without
fingerprints to show
for it is not that easy,
be so easy.
if held still, the thump thump
of your
little pulse would
emerge from your skin, id
hum along to the (im) beat.
(for A.K)
Thursday May 21, 2009
current mood: cultured
"i hate it when you make me guess things while you laugh and i get angry over it being incorrect"
the kitchen is too small
for the baking is just enough
for my begging
i want to be so good
for the body
i want the earth
around me
late at night you found me
(or whats late to my taste)drunk
begging to be navigated
to our bed.
(for C.F.McK)
10.03.2010
This time, she wasn't there.
Yesterday, after work, I ran to the Bart train. What propelled me to be so time aware is the schedule's fault, the next train headed in my direction was 14 minutes later and underground it gets so hot. While on the stairs, I saw the doors of the train open, I saw the shuffling of people, and I became brave! And just when I threw my arm out to allow my entrance, I found that the doors don't have a motion sensor and closed as my yelp desperately extracted my embarrassed arm out from the moving train. I was forced to stand for another 14 minutes underground with a station full of people who watched this occurrence.
When I was in 5th grade, I was an expert bus commuter. To walk to school was manageable, but undesirable and at 11, a sign that perhaps your parents had no money. Taking the bus was socially understood to be cool, because you could look like you just hated waiting for it and you didn't really give a shit about stuff. The older kids held cigarettes in their hand and carved graffiti in the walls, as I held my thumb, patiently waiting. I was always early (in part because I had severe trouble reading the time, even at 11 and even more so, calculating how long approximately 30 feet might take). The bus finally arrived and I approached the post where all the schedules were listed, adjusting my square backpack, maybe even my shirt.
Typically, when the doors opened, a whole bus full of 18 year old street kids would flood out, immediately lighting another cigarette or pouring beer over their spiked hair to freeze it into place right there on the street. So I learned to allow them ample time to get out of the bus, even though the front was reserved for paying customer's like me. But this time, as the rebels were coming out, so began the other kids' cattle-ing toward the bus. I waited my turn, hiked the two stairs, paid 1 German Mark and then experienced a nightmare. The abrasive shoving and pushing somehow forced me off of the bus. I knew I had to work for this ride, but all I could do was hold my composure as I felt myself nearing closer to the post. I shouted to the Bus driver that I paid my Mark and therefore had every right to ride (I also did not have a second Mark for the next Bus) unless he was prepared to return my money to me. I felt the laughter as I felt the shoving. The Driver said, "If you can get in, you can ride," and I took the invitation. I squeezed in, and there was sweat underneath my shirt. But, when the doors closed, they closed on my square backpack. Several times. I felt the thump rattle my books. People were aggravated with my menial cause which was the cause of their delay, and the driver instructed me to exit the Bus, there was no room. He did not apologize nor did he return my Mark.
I had lost the battle. I had felt the shame. I had no money. It would have been slightly o.k. if my P.E. bag didn't get shuffled between the knees of teenage angst and was sadly tied by a long string to my wrist. I didn't realize that we were separated by the door until the Bus started moving. My legs began jogging along with it, as I was frantically pulling the string of my bag, crying so quickly and hysterically, words failed me. The insider's enjoyed this show but I didn't care about my money or their laughter, I wanted my P.E. shoes and my wrist hurt.
The only thing I can remember at this point, is that my big sister came running, who was one of the cool kids attending a school designed to foster the nurses and other respectable careers of the German economy. She, perhaps, cried too. She, perhaps, felt the embarrassment as well. Her backpack flew off of her shoulders and it felt like instantly she was next to me, yanked on my wrist and cursed the entire bus. The bag rudely flew out from the knees and onto us, and I fell. Luckily, this is where the bus actually drove off. Harshly, this is where I wanted to melt into the concrete. Adnana picked me up. Held my hand with one and picked up her backpack with the other. I think I cried the whole way home.
When I was in 5th grade, I was an expert bus commuter. To walk to school was manageable, but undesirable and at 11, a sign that perhaps your parents had no money. Taking the bus was socially understood to be cool, because you could look like you just hated waiting for it and you didn't really give a shit about stuff. The older kids held cigarettes in their hand and carved graffiti in the walls, as I held my thumb, patiently waiting. I was always early (in part because I had severe trouble reading the time, even at 11 and even more so, calculating how long approximately 30 feet might take). The bus finally arrived and I approached the post where all the schedules were listed, adjusting my square backpack, maybe even my shirt.
Typically, when the doors opened, a whole bus full of 18 year old street kids would flood out, immediately lighting another cigarette or pouring beer over their spiked hair to freeze it into place right there on the street. So I learned to allow them ample time to get out of the bus, even though the front was reserved for paying customer's like me. But this time, as the rebels were coming out, so began the other kids' cattle-ing toward the bus. I waited my turn, hiked the two stairs, paid 1 German Mark and then experienced a nightmare. The abrasive shoving and pushing somehow forced me off of the bus. I knew I had to work for this ride, but all I could do was hold my composure as I felt myself nearing closer to the post. I shouted to the Bus driver that I paid my Mark and therefore had every right to ride (I also did not have a second Mark for the next Bus) unless he was prepared to return my money to me. I felt the laughter as I felt the shoving. The Driver said, "If you can get in, you can ride," and I took the invitation. I squeezed in, and there was sweat underneath my shirt. But, when the doors closed, they closed on my square backpack. Several times. I felt the thump rattle my books. People were aggravated with my menial cause which was the cause of their delay, and the driver instructed me to exit the Bus, there was no room. He did not apologize nor did he return my Mark.
I had lost the battle. I had felt the shame. I had no money. It would have been slightly o.k. if my P.E. bag didn't get shuffled between the knees of teenage angst and was sadly tied by a long string to my wrist. I didn't realize that we were separated by the door until the Bus started moving. My legs began jogging along with it, as I was frantically pulling the string of my bag, crying so quickly and hysterically, words failed me. The insider's enjoyed this show but I didn't care about my money or their laughter, I wanted my P.E. shoes and my wrist hurt.
The only thing I can remember at this point, is that my big sister came running, who was one of the cool kids attending a school designed to foster the nurses and other respectable careers of the German economy. She, perhaps, cried too. She, perhaps, felt the embarrassment as well. Her backpack flew off of her shoulders and it felt like instantly she was next to me, yanked on my wrist and cursed the entire bus. The bag rudely flew out from the knees and onto us, and I fell. Luckily, this is where the bus actually drove off. Harshly, this is where I wanted to melt into the concrete. Adnana picked me up. Held my hand with one and picked up her backpack with the other. I think I cried the whole way home.
So Far
When speaking to Winbo about the concept of his collection outside of class, I was shocked at the difficulty of his theme, responding with an "OH MY GOD!" to which he, in a very heavy accent, replied, "OH MAH GODS, TOO!"
During lunch, I asked Earnest about his life in Taiwan. I wanted to know the specifics: I asked him if he liked Tattoo's and what his mother thought of them. I could tell my question saddened him. Although his face did change in the smallest of form, but I believe that sadness is a hard mask to wear, and so, easily detectable, "...My mother gave me Poker face and said, 'Earnest, you can have tattoo. But you cannot have earring. earring are for girls." He has the most gentle approach. I forgot how I comforted him, but I recall an urgency inside to really wrap my arm around his shoulder right then.
Listening to Jaime last night, hearing her sing along to Calexico with such great enthusiasm made me appreciate everything there is to meet about people who are yet strangers. She has such eloquence in her that I quite possibly glow with nourishment after hearing her speak. I began to detect the meaning in "woman" and it is striking.
Arcade Fire was a childlike act, in shiny dresses or tights pants and visual poetry, marching around stage as if it were rather a fort; I think we beat our thighs numb with our palms to the energy. And then I noticed the pleasure in "girl" and found it universal.
During lunch, I asked Earnest about his life in Taiwan. I wanted to know the specifics: I asked him if he liked Tattoo's and what his mother thought of them. I could tell my question saddened him. Although his face did change in the smallest of form, but I believe that sadness is a hard mask to wear, and so, easily detectable, "...My mother gave me Poker face and said, 'Earnest, you can have tattoo. But you cannot have earring. earring are for girls." He has the most gentle approach. I forgot how I comforted him, but I recall an urgency inside to really wrap my arm around his shoulder right then.
Listening to Jaime last night, hearing her sing along to Calexico with such great enthusiasm made me appreciate everything there is to meet about people who are yet strangers. She has such eloquence in her that I quite possibly glow with nourishment after hearing her speak. I began to detect the meaning in "woman" and it is striking.
Arcade Fire was a childlike act, in shiny dresses or tights pants and visual poetry, marching around stage as if it were rather a fort; I think we beat our thighs numb with our palms to the energy. And then I noticed the pleasure in "girl" and found it universal.
9.30.2010
9.28.2010
darling;
where lies my admitting
when yours is sleeping,
on the very bed
that has divided our
together ness,
i watch your eyelids
closed and breathing,
and i noise the walls:
feet long for any association
of the familiarity of your skin
covering your bony ankles,
hands clumsily mismanage
the washing of the dishes,
i am bored
protesting your trance
with the sound of my own exhale
my own sighs, migrating murmurs,
deserted to plea with you:
please blanket my loneliness
when yours is sleeping,
on the very bed
that has divided our
together ness,
i watch your eyelids
closed and breathing,
and i noise the walls:
feet long for any association
of the familiarity of your skin
covering your bony ankles,
hands clumsily mismanage
the washing of the dishes,
i am bored
protesting your trance
with the sound of my own exhale
my own sighs, migrating murmurs,
deserted to plea with you:
please blanket my loneliness
9.25.2010
9.21.2010
9.19.2010
collected comrade
elizabeth guides hands
with words. soaks her senses
in honesty. grows anxious
like i, overconceptualization.
she allows herself to "feel at any given moment,"
i learned today
that meditating with your
former and future self
can beautifully replace any lack of spirituality
i feared
i encompassed. gratitude.
with words. soaks her senses
in honesty. grows anxious
like i, overconceptualization.
she allows herself to "feel at any given moment,"
i learned today
that meditating with your
former and future self
can beautifully replace any lack of spirituality
i feared
i encompassed. gratitude.
9.04.2010
the premature waking of eight small paws
chasing wind, and your beautiful hands
adjusting your tie, as you look at me,
"what were we thinking?"
love, we wanted life
to cover our floor (even/ly
when we could not).
the awaited opening of the welcoming door
(followed by a precise dance:
your legs are for their paws
a mere hug, a conversation
of meows)
finally returning, and your exhausted hands
removing your suit, as you look at me,
"this is our family."
9.02.2010
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