December 2008
2 posts
I can’t wait for spring semester.
ARH 141: Western Art to 1400 (M, W, F 10:20am-11:20am)
ENG 105: Critical Reading and Writing Req. (M, T, W, Th 12:40pm-1:30pm)
HUM 272: Foundations of Art and Religion (T, Th 2:20pm-3:35pm)
HUM 291: American Multicultural Ideas and Values (M, W, F 11:30am-12:20pm)
HUM 370: The Popular Arts (W 5:00pm-7:45pm)
HUM 373: Nature and Values (T, Th...
“the afternoon knows what the morning never suspected”
– swedish proverb
November 2008
3 posts
i love
early-morning essays.
they always seem so much more inspired.
October 2008
2 posts
ten o'clock knock
we stayed up for the sun to rise
clouds passing at the speed of night
orange light through 6 am rain, pink fog
forcing their way through morning blinds
i’m blind to the intricasies of these hours
ignoring a ten o’clock knock at the door
in bitter wind my eyes finally close
this night/morning
can’t last long enough.
September 2008
3 posts
last november.
i’m recycling your sunlight
holding it between my thumb and forefinger
letting it dangle as i walk
i’m filled with lavender sort-of restlessness
trembling with that morning—this morning
tumbling through the minutes in my marrow
untrusting of our place in tomorrow.
you on my right arm and straight through its bones—
smelling just like last november.
“There will be time to murder and create.”
– T.S. Eliot—The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
I am.
“Humanity I love you because you are perpetually putting the secret of life in your pants and forgetting its there and sitting down on it”
-e. e. cummings
And I am. I keep putting the wonders and intricacies of everything and everywhere and everyone I am at this very moment in my back pocket and forgetting that they’re even there, forgetting that I can pull them out at any time and...
August 2008
20 posts
placing its hand.
yesterday trusts its still pause in time
placing its hand in the hand of a static that lasted
longer than the blades of grass shadowing
calloused toes and a violent windlessness.
my fingertips still smell like smoke as
I turn pages of lined paper across a wooden
landscape—desk—
I can’t help but be distracted by windowpanes
and reminded of a raven who
just this morning
...
life is youth and i am.
incompetence is
elegance
an ornamented riddle—like thunder understood
all agreed, yes? on this oldest of summers—
i’m uncomfortably yours and
yours, walking louder
than unaccostomed breath
reborn this first night of
life.
life is youth and i am
it's here.
It’s such a strange feeling when one of those huge turning points in your life that you’ve been waiting for for so long is just hours away from fulfillment. I feel like so much of what I’ve done over the last couple years has been leading up to this moment—this spectacularily but understated-feeling moment of college. It’s here—it’s not years or months or...
3 days..
..worry with haste!
"Mr. Rhymer, will you be good enough to tell me...
Went to town today (yes—I left this house!!) to finish up the last of my college shopping, which included all those silly-but-entirely-necessary trifles like safety pins, vitamin C, a mattress pad, a surge protector, a french dictionary, and chapstick. A Target, a Whole Foods, a Borders, a semi-celebratory lunch with my parents at a seafood restaurant, and $20 worth of gas later, it was...
“my vagina keeps trying to press the emergency eject button.”
– the ever-classy Barbara Gao
little bits of tape.
I’m not sure when
exactly
I stopped remembering the tones
of your voices.
I’m not sure when the yards
of speech had
reached the end this roll of Scotch.
I’m folding over little bits of tape
and wrapping them around those things
which never had a chance
to be broken.
And in all my low-
spirited confidence, I daresay dance on
time.
with my boxes.
Despite the utter uneventful-ness of this summer, it certainly has had its ups and downs. I think it’s because I’ve had so much time to..think. Not that I usually don’t think, but one must admit that a busy life leaves little time for contemplation of it, and in the best sense of such a life, ignorance is bliss.
But while spending hours on a patio staring at dirt and clouds,...
escaped from atlanta.
“Two years he walks the earth. No phone, no pool, no pets, no cigarettes. Ultimate freedom. An extremist. An aesthetic voyager whose home is the road. Escaped from Atlanta. Thou shalt not return, ‘cause “the West is the best.” And now after two rambling years comes the final and greatest adventure. The climactic battle to kill the false being within and victoriously...
16
pencil ridges unlocking
with violent room changes,
our shrinking years are winking back
at us—
i kind of hate and love.
I kind of hate and love when you’re just about to drift to sleep late at night when suddenly you’re bombarded with all this anxious, crazy energy. And you can’t just lie there without tossing and turning furiously, so I always have to get up and actually do something. Like clean, or organize ridiculously. Or finish the second half of a novel. Or study french. Or paint. Or glue...
July 2008
28 posts
real life?
I hate when you wake up from a dream so dissappointed in the things you actually have.
“expect nothing—live frugally on surprise.”
– alice walker
http:// vince's ear [dot] com →
forgetful as clementines.
mine
i’m sorry for your unsleeping directions
to whom letters go shifting bright, insecure,
we’re telling ourselves heartsick ways sure
writing—unliving—our double youths
yours
your words usually hate their choking distractions
meanwhile, all the while, neglectful inquired
using unfolded pages in your own defense
deferred, inferred, forgetful as clementines
ours
...
north korea and why we don't feel pretty without...
me: hmm
me: well im off to read
me: i just got my feminist philosophies book for school in the mail today
kris: books are taboo right now
me: haha
me: but its feminist philosophies
kris: if i pick one up my phone'll start chirping in that sad, ominous way
me: so im making an exception
kris: i'll permit a feminist philosophies pamphlet if i had one
kris: but no bigs
kris: er, books
me: instead i'll just tell you about what i read
me: and that will be enough
kris: so it'll be like most of our conversations
me: exactly
kris: and i presume, half of your blog
me: haha
me: my blog isnt meant to be interesting
me: its meant to take up my time
me: my infinate time.
kris: the other half consisting of your art, photos, wispy whispers and concerns for the well being of depression as an entity.
me: exactly.
me: and now, my musings on feminism.
kris: see: wispy whispers and concerns for the well being of depression as an entity
me: mixed in with my readings for my two political science classes
me: so it'll be like...north korea, and why we dont feel pretty without lipstick.
kris: poli sci is an art.
me: it's perfect.
kris: you don't feel pretty without lipstick?
me: haha not me
kris: what about the gloss and balm movement
me: people in general
me: i hate both
me: i like chapstick
me: some glosses are ok, but most are too sticky
kris: i forgot that i have to separate balm and stick with you
kris: why don't you feel pretty without lipstick
me: i was kidding!
kris: just plop it here and post it later.
me: haha
kris: i thought you were kidding about north korea
me: no, no, im really serious about north korea.
poured.
i wondered under wind pieces
while thought was fortunately attended
by priests and begetters, repeated and ordered—
my wind pieces wounding repenting
their wonderful, wonderless, scrambling ways
cut bright into the side of this
night’s lighthearted ignoble
and poured their torn upstairs.
stand-still.
I feel amazing this morning.
I’m not sure exactly why—I’ve usually been getting out of bed begrudgingly, getting my breakfast, spending the first half of the day on the computer, spending the second half of my day painting or making jewelry, ending the day off with some TV and some reading, and going to bed wishing I was somewhere else, with everyone else, spending my summer...
ice-cube trays, please.
Things I still need to find/buy to take to college with me…
alarm clock
sticky-hooks
address book
tupperware
dish soap
milk crates
socks
floor pillows (make some)
ice-cube trays
laundry basket
money
can opener
safety pins
a place to put my underwear
new watercolors
self-assurance.
the girl in the box is not me.
It was a strange feeling the other night when I was unpacking (still—i know, i know) and I came across a box full of old-boyfriend things.
Mostly why it’s been taking me so long to unpack is because of how much time I spend thinking about everything I take out of those boxes. When I packed them, of course, I didn’t pay much attention, just stacking things into boxes knowing that...
in a water-vase.
i’m a starlet in a water-vase
divisible by charcoal pencils.
cautious—
in case it rains,
don’t forget to hang me dry.
a liquid ache.
“Occasionally, when Ammu listened to songs that she loved on the radio, something stirred inside her. A liquid ache spread under her skin, and she walked out of the world like a witch, to a better, happier place. On days like this there was something restless and untamed about her. She wore flowers in her hair and carried magic secrets in her eyes. She spoke to no one. She spent hours on the...