Clap ON, Clap OFF

OFF:

Stubed toes, dropped dishes, too much sleep, not enough sleep, lack of purpose, silent phones, empty mailboxes, slowly growing apart, monotony, forgetting names, rude waiters, hot weather, paper cuts, bicycles and those who ride them recklessly, ignorant expectations, narrow minded opinions and those who have them, shoes I can't afford, chemistry and those who understand and enjoy it, writer's block, canvas anxiety, fruity teas, off-beat clapping, out-of-key singing, big dogs and small children who slobber, small dogs and small children who make too much noise, walking barefoot in wet grass, conflict, twisted sock seams, complacency, the expected.

ON:

New haircuts, curtain calls, the last page of a great book, captivating first sentences, old bookstore smell, working under pressure, the perfect cappucino, colorful art on white gallery walls, scarves, boots, friendships that never change despite distance and time, ordering without a menu, self-expressive fashion, wit, exchanging eyes with handsome strangers, cleaning and organizing to my favorite soundtrack, arguing a point I don't really care about because I'm bored, winning those arguments, foreign accents, crosswalk kisses, seeming impossibilities, scandalous insinuations, original metaphors, truth, obvious exaggeration, spontaneous literary references.

Midnight, April 23, 2008

Life just shifted.

I felt it in my deepest deep.

I know it in my fingers and bones and throat and chest.

What was life before Stoppard?

One day I  will direct Arcadia.

I was born to play Hannah.

I was made for theater.

Reading, acting, directing, analyzing, critiquing...

Also, junior year RA???

Maybe.

Goodnight

Ode to Insomnia

To be the only open-eyed creature 

in a world of heavy-breathers

is a new kind of dreaming.

Silence thick lays itself heavy-warm on my

chest,

breathing stale air.

I am forced to seek inanimate companionship

in the love letters

of dead or distant poets

who were once too alone to be alone too.

Muscle-twitching,

eyelid-fluttering,

nasal-breathing

silence.

No good reason,

just another manifestation of a restless heart.

Oak

If I ever chose to permanently mark this, my fleshly temple, my most personal canvas, with a permanent piece of art, it would have to be relevant and important for all my time from the Great Now until the Great Next.  But how do I squeeze, condense my life, being dreams and hopes; all the lessons I have learned and am learning and have yet to learn; all 138 pounds of substance and essence into a pocket sized picture frame?  Am I so simply captured?  This is no Polaroid Soul.

No, I am complex, shifting, moving, never settling, never stagnant.  Bending but not breaking, my many branches withstand the stormy winds of change.  Moreso, delight!  Riding the great gusts with greatest gusto--hear me shriek and laugh and moan and call in harmony with that which moves me.  Free to dance on curling currents without fear or hesitation only because my roots run deep.  Only because my trunk, my core, is steady and immovable--grounded in the only way that matters.  

My rings are not many, but I bear fruit.

I am not the giant of the woods, but I grow a little every day.

I am not always strong, but I am supple.

I am the tree you lose the forest for.

Roadtrip

This search for self-enlightenment is giving me some sort of zen-headache.

So I deal by morphing--

can't keep up with me (.)(?)

can't keep up with you.

Who am I, me, me in reference to we?

Who is we?  Have we met?

I'm sure it was a pleasure.

And what are we, me, I doing here?

Drowning in debt to pay our bills?

to have some thrills while we are still young enough to forget regret?

to meet the one? no, not that one.  or that one.  or that one.  

one day.

Paying 120K to learn that we/I don't know sh--

Shhhh.

Stop talking, please. Please stop doing.

Running around like the decapitated chickens they feed us every night.

What's with all the meetings just to prove our hearts are beating

Ba-bum, ba-bum, ba-bum--can you hear the love?

Yessir, loud and clear!

No sir, those aren't tears, just sweat,

Aren't I a hard little worker?

I should join this club and that club,

a fit club and a fat club,

I would too....

if they had a club for people who have no idea what club to join.

Where's the club for the emotionally conservative academic liberal?

The forgetful environmentalist and the carnivorous animal-rights activist?

Point me to the biased-even-though-I-really-try-not-to-but-just-can't-help-it-so-good-thing-I-can-fake-it club.

Where do the universal Christians, moral rebels, truthful liars, and single lovers meet?

And the pro-life choosers and the pro-death livers--is there a place for us?

For the we's with all the ambition and no clear direction,

all fuel and no car,

all road and no map.

Here we go.

Remember Me as a Time of Day

A friend once told me, after prompted, that he will remember me as 4:30pm.  Tea time.  I didn't ask him to defend his answer because I feared the explanation would be either dreadfully shallow or simply that he knows I like tea.  Besides, I would rather brood over possible, romanticized explanations myself.  

It is true that I have a strong affection for tea, especially in the early evening.  I also used to frequent his room each night around that time.  In that way, tea time and I are both monotonously predictable.  My life is mostly dictated by routine, as is tea's.  Perhaps I sometimes brought him comfort and a sense of warmth.  And when free associating with tea time Britain often comes to mind, we will be traveling there together next fall.  

Yet for all of tea's virtues it is not everyone's (please pardon this painfully obvious pun) cup of tea.  Or perhaps they tolerate tea, but prefer coffee.  Is tea time so expected it lacks the intrigue of more spontaneous dining experiences?  Tea requires some patience, like any good relationship, as nothing is more unpleasant than a scalded tongue from a too-hastily sipped cup.  After burning your mouth, nothing quite tastes the same.  Be careful not to leave the tea alone for too long as it grows bitter and sharp with over-seeping, over-exposure, over-trying.  And must we always tone it down with biscuits, milk and sugar?  Such distractions, one lump or two?

You must grant kudos for its ability to make the best of a bad situation though.  No one handles being thrown into hot water quite as resourcefully as a tea bag, except for maybe me.