Real-ization

The theory of relativity applies here (and everywhere). I can only know myself in relation to everything that is not me....

So no spokes, no wheel...

Resolve

Words fall to the floor
with a thud.
You pick them up
just shy of too late.
my fragility is impermanent

To my new friend

"I tell you this: There is no coincidence, and nothing happens by accident."

and

"The outcome is guaranteed."
(Neale Donald Walsch, Conversations with God, book 1)

If the purpose of life is to find and experience joy, how can one give up something that brings them to it?

Though I might not take my own advice in the same situation, it is my true opinion that it is not time for you to give up riding. This coincidence might just mean something else. Concern for "safety" is just a translucent mask for fear.

Confidence

I am gleeful to see the number on the scale decrease each morning.
I almost obsessively check, naked of course, with dry hair.
I artfully apply makeup to look "my best."
I only buy clothing I look skinny in.
Yet I know it makes no difference at all.

The List

Now that I have amused you all (all 2 of you) with my teenage ramblings, let's get to why I'm really here. I'm imitating my friends who all have "blogs," ahem, Online Journals, and I want to be as cool as they are.

But the true reason is that I think writing simply clarifies thought. So it's time to clarify. What do I want to do? Who shall I be? I'm trying to define myself better, not just in relation to all of my attachments. Imagine I am the center of a bicycle wheel, and the spokes are my attachments, activities, family, etc. Well, if we remove them all, what's there? Or does that even matter? Maybe it's the spokes that define us.

First up, work. Here's the list:

What I prefer:
Social, but not too social
Compensation for work-results, not time served
Creativity
Empowering other's creativity
Food
Reading
Collaborative decisions, inclusive environment
Help/Service to others
Travel
Play
Maybe a gathering place

What I do NOT Prefer:
Chasing people down
Pointless data collection
Tedium
Products/things
Sales, Hard persuasion
Children
Reliance on the irresponsible/incompetent
Conflict
Competition
Clock-punching
Endless phone calls

How can I move from more B to more A?

Untitled-10/3/96

Sitting here, on this lonely bed,
in your old pajamas,
top button missing,
spot of jelly still near the hem,
a tiny trace of my lips left on the collar.
The waist still too big for me,
legs way too long, dangling threads from the cuffs.
They still smell faintly
of your aftershave, my perfume - I can't bear to wash out.

I remember the first time I saw you
wearing these old pajamas.
Coffee at 3 am,
sitting indian-style on the floor.
We were giddy with laughter, like children,
with our discoveries of each other,
with discoveries of ourselves.

Many a night spent the same,
taking turns wearing those old pajamas,
our scents meshing,
in symbolic worship of our union,
so we could call something ours.

Well, this is pretty stinky. I don't even know who I was talking about. It sounds, simultaneously, like I'm talking about a father, an adulterous lover, or a new love. I think I made up the whole thing, anyway. I do like this line: "in symbolic worship of our union."

Summer - 12/95

That beach-night late in May,
friendly touches caught fire,
as if they'd been doused with kerosene
and touched by a flame.

Mid-June, that same shore,
the night air clung to my belly,
my ribs, as you raised my arms up over my head.
The wave of a chill traveled the length of my spine
as you bent to gently kiss the curve of my neck.

Through August, we continued the dance,
a ballet that moves so slowly,
yet ends so quickly,
to the dancers.

All I have now is your smiling, picture face
that my hands cannot touch
to remove from the night-table
next to my half-vacant bed,
your eyes still burning through me each night.

I wrote this to put a final stamp on getting over someone who really did a number on me. I actually think it was not too bad, for me. I wish I had used another word for "touched" in the last line of the first stanza. "The night air clung to my belly" is one of my favorite lines I've written. I love the word belly, actually, and the irony of using it in a more adult, sensuous way. The last line of this is really generic and cliche, though.

Dead Rhythm - 11/95

My dearest Shakespeare, you've been dead so long.
And though Othello does astonish me,
I wish that it was dead too, and I wish
your sonnets weren't quite so prevalent
among my English teachers in high school.
If I'd been taught about John Keats instead,
perhaps these lines could be free, not blank verse.

I don't mean to be rude, for I enjoy
your work a lot. I simply mean that I
cannot believe your popularity,
for all this time has passed, and still you're taught.
The language of Macbeth so out of date,
we need a translator, and now they can't
be sure that it was even your own work.

This was an assignment as well, but I always liked the joke involved. I really do like Shakespeare, but what is it that makes him so important?

The Obsession- 11/95

Tuesday night, I wash my jeans in the laundry room
on the ground floor of my dorm.
I knew before I came down that he'd be here,
as he is every first Tuesday night of the month,
sitting between the Coke machine and the dryers, reading a book.

I sit across the small room, on an empty table near the window.
He doesn't look up.
I try to study psychological addictions for an exam Wednesday,
but I find myself glancing up,
trying to catch his eye.

I start to swing my foot, back and forth, back and forth,
hoping he'll raise his eyes from behind his glasses.
He still doesn't look up.
I drop my keys on the floor, and they make a small clank.
Still, nothing. The dryers are too loud.

He's wearing his Braves cap backwards again.
I don't recall ever seeing the top of his head.
Maybe he even sleeps in that cap.
I can see a lock of his dark brown hair,
escaping from the confines of the rim, close to his neck.

Finally, my washer stops. I jump down.
He is really engrossed in that book.
As I put my jeans in the dryer, I steal a glimpse of the cover.
It's The Fountainhead, by Ayn Rand.
And now, he looks up.

"I think your clothes are dry." I say.
He stands. "Thanks."
"Uh, interesting book?" I ask.
"It's for my Architecture class." He answers.
I smile. "So, is that you major?"

I actually did know the boy in question, but he didn't know I had a huge crush on him. I created the scenario, of course. He later told me that he had planned to ask me out near when we had first met, but he thought I was dating someone, which, of course, I wasn't.

Procrastination-10/12/95

I believe it was on Wednesday, or maybe
it was Monday, around one o'clock.
Sitting in the grass, under a tree, waiting.
Waiting and watching the squirrels at play,
chasing each other through the trees, up, down, up,
as I try to focus on writing.

The squirrels are distracting, every time I'm there.
And yet I come, because I find
the squirrels amusing, like little children that
run around carefree, full of laughter.
In the spring, I have been told, they run rampant
on the campus, a frenzied uproar.

I glanced at my watch, at my nearly blank page.
I'd spent a whole hour watching squirrels.
I gathered my books, getting ready to go,
thinking of those carefree squirrels, playing
and I smiled, knowing they're where they want to be,
as I was, scampering off to class.

This one was for a class, I'm sure the assignment was "procrastination" as a title. I'm sure I didn't actually ever spend an hour watching those crazy rodents. One once did try to steal a sandwich from me.

An Attempt to Rhyme- 3/6/95

I have here a few minutes to spare.
What shall I fill them with?
I could read a book,
write a letter,
dinner cook,
or knit a sweater.
Fly a kite, fly a plane,
or just for spite,
make it rain.
To make it rain,
watch the droplets plop
plop plop plop,
making a puddle on the ground.
plink plink plink
the falling rain's sound.
That must be why it does rain.
God never gets bored watching his creatures
open their umbrellas.

I was worse at rhyming poems than ones that just read like paragraphs. This really speaks for itself, doesn't it?

Poems from "back in the day"

I used to write stuff. Note I don't say that I used to "be a writer." That implies some degree of talent, which I am not so confident of. Still, I have been looking back at myself and for some reason, due to special request?, I now wish to share old, mostly crappy, work.

To Lawrence- 11/1/94

Right now, when I think of you,
I think of someone I knew
before
a long time ago.
I see you never.
We speak on occasion.
I loved you.
It's sad,what happens over time.
At least we were friends once.
That's not what I remember,
when I think of you.
I think of flowers,
carnations...for my birthday
and Christmas kisses, the only thing I miss.
I only wish
you still thought of me once
in a while.

Most of what I wrote reads like broken up paragraphs, not actual poetry. This one was about my very first boyfriend, who I had intense feelings for (as a 14 year old), and still have a fond memory of. He came back around a few months after I wrote this, proving that he did think of me still. I was a little too smart to get reattached though (after a little "reminiscing"), thankfully. I think he's married and living in Miami somewhere.