Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Written by the combined forces of Paul Adolphsen, Brenda Buchanan and Laura Grafham
L: Belinda was agitated beyond reason. The meeting with her grandfather had not gone as planned, and her birthday dress--the one with the white flounce--had been dirtied by her dog Jackie. Yes, a damper had been put upon the day.
B: What a quandary to find oneself in. The matter at hand was of utmost importance to her, but as to how to approach her grandfather in a way that would garnish positive results, she had no idea. Every time an opportune moment came she took it, but always ended up being brushed away with a slighting wave of the hand.
P: If only her dear mother were still alive--her mother whose hands were always soft. Belinda walked from her grandfather's room and haughtily slumped on the setee in her family's drawing room. Biting her lip and tapping her toe she thought about what to do next...
L: She hated when other people pouted, yet it was the only thing she could think to do next. So pout she did. Looking out the window at the landscape--the sweeping cityscape of Boston would soon give way to the pastoral fences and fjords of Maine. She didn't know why the Penberly School for Girls had chosen to expel her; the mystery remained unsolved. Nevertheless, she was being sent away against her will. There was nothing she could do about it now.
B: She was afraid of grandfather. Not in the sort of way that one is afraid of the dark or of the sea, but she was afraid of his disapproval. Belinda craved her grandfather's approval; she always tried to be an object of pride to him and the thought of his disapproval was enough to keep her in her chair. She pouted because it was unfair, unfair that she was expelled. She was tense because she was frozen with anticipation, awaiting her grandfather's sentence to come down with distressing finality.
P: "Fire!" The frantic screams of Belinda's grandfather jolted her from her deep sleep. She sat up in bed, startled. Jackie, who usually slept with her, was nowhere to be seen. It was a feeling of absolute terror that she became aware of before she smelled the smoke and felt the oppressive heat rising from downstairs. Coughing, she leapt from her bed and stumbled into the smoke-filled hallway. She peered down the stairs and saw the hunched and shadowy silhouette of her grandfather making its way up the stairs.
wooden mountains confined
to square footage.
Two stories high.
Yards that fit snugly
into my back pocket.
and tied to a string
and one wishing
to be free from everything.
Someone else's drooling canine,
leads and pulls me
where I can hope to
pay the bills.
Where I can make bread
and wait for the yeast
Where you can afford
a pair of red wool socks
to replace the hole-y ones
your mother made for you
Turn up the heat;
the temperature of our house
the temperature of our hearts.
Drywalled beams and nails
and happy slapping dog tails
while the house is dark
save the spark
from something in your eyes
that has never known sleep
but does its burning
amidst churning shadows
and still air
and peaceful breathing.
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
made a hit-and-run
encountering a seagull
Birds could just as well be people,
climbing the air like stairs
of air currents.
and tried to
but I'm afraid it was too late.
And from my mirror rear view
the bird's head spun around
cocked to the side
in gruesome twist.
Tendons, veins, yes.
Feathers of course.
And as its little body lurched to live
with its flea-ridden
seagull head snapped
by a well-made Swedish sedan
weighing over a ton
I ruefully drove on
thinking of how many other beings
I would wound unintentionally during my lifetime.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Spells the T R U T H as he
whittles the wood
till it forms the curves of individual letters
bending the linear to fit personal ideals.
His own sprouting human.
He can level you with his eyes
and with a whisper
fell the largest strongest tree in the forest
but he doesn't know it yet.
He has made me feel the guilt of ten thousand felonies
with the best of intentions.
My brother is made of magic.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
One day, Francis got on the bus to find his usual seat occupied by an elderly man in a pork pie hat and blazer.
"Pardon me," the man said, "I seem to be taking your seat. Would you care to sit?" The frustration Francis had felt melted away with the man's words; they were quaint and old world. "That's alright," Francis replied, his shoulders loosening. He grabbed hold of the overhead bar. I quite like standing."
The man smiled. "Suit yourself," he replied, as he tipped his hat. Suddenly, without warning, the bus lurched forward and Francis was thrown to the floor. The bus driver yelled at the car that had pulled in front of her. "Damn drivers taking up the entire bloody road! Look where you're going!" Francis picked up his false teeth--fallen on the floor--and put them back in his mouth. He turned to the seat of the elderly gentleman and asked, "you alright?" But he realized that the old man was nowhere to be seen.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
your body throbs and your muscles quake and you are twenty, barely shy of twenty one. Your face is paile and you kannot sea wear ewe goh. Fever en sues. Wat iz diss iey stumble to dee bahthrume. The inhilations do not come and go with ease. Blood fights its way to your fingertips with rapiers, arguing through arteries ohh noh. Not thaat. pleas kno.
Cigarette poisoning. Carbon monoxide asphyxiation. Eventual death. Fetus complications. Lack of circulation. The surgeon general does not recommend my stupidity.
As I bow to the porcelain god I begin to understand.
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Out of a desire to eventually make my own brew for a self-made local coffee shop, I made the best batch of home brewed chai today. It will get tweaked many more times before it is finished, yet here it is.
Around 12 cups of water
1/4 cup cardamom seeds, crushed
2 tsp coriander seeds, crushed
2 tbsp whole cloves
3 sticks of cinnamon
10 fresh ginger shavings
1 tsp peppercorns, freshly ground
4 black tea bags of good quality tea (I use PG Tips or a loose leaf assam)
Sweetener to taste (honey or brown sugar tend to be ideal flavors)
-Boil ingredients and 2 of the tea bags in water until the spices and tea have been at a rolling boil for a good ten minutes.
-Reduce heat to a low simmer for at least 3 hours (increase the amount of time for a stronger brew).
-When your desired strength is reached, add sweetener and the other two tea bags. Bring to a boil once more.
Either serve or store refrigerated.
Friday, November 20, 2009
how can I say
a little bit odd if not
more than that by
a million; she hates babies
and flowers but
brown is her
couleur favorit. neat
but the color is shit smear brown
you can nit pick spit in spite of it
without a purpose
or a porpoise full of doubt if you have
never seen a porpoise doubt you've
doubtfully never tried to see much of anything
as we all descend from porpoises
Our preachers professors and teachers
become speecheaters wanting the lingua franca
to be preserved like the french clause cause
ce n'est pas "un e-mèl" mais un courrier électronique, enfin these
frog eaters and shirt steamers stair climbers train prend-ers these
Keep us from writing with ease our thèse-issssshhhhhh
you may not know what you are talking about it
I do not misuse abbrevs what are you talking about?
If we read the chaucerdonneshakespearedickensdickinsonwoolfejoyceliot of the world
can the renovation take place-//summinor altrashuns hear an their.
Nuthin u cant handle.
But ill save that 4l8r.
The situation is this. The time is now. The location of the occurence exists everywhere but happens to find itself here, says Quantum Mechanics. So now that your attention may have been grabbed after such a dichotomy of linguistic shifts, might I now propose that this language experiment has meant entirely
Thursday, November 19, 2009
it is cooled by the deep breaths
and inhalations of its people.
till the rapid firing of neurons
heat up my cranial insides once more.
Hacksaw and peer inside.
Something is hiding but can
no longer and is on
It doesn't want to play,
but it se cache behind
my frontal cortex
kicking the gray matter until
it behaves again.
I name body parts
so I treat them better.
Oh behave, Charlie,
Sally and Donna.
Don't be children.
Line up in a queue
like you're supposed to
you hear? There...
Names personalize objects and people
in a way that makes it frightening
the point when you realize
we are all fragility in a frame
hoping not to knock too hard
into furniture and sharp edges.
Internal bleeding is more
damaging than bleeding externally
and it's much much harder to diagnose.
My hearing hasn't been what it once was lately.
I can't hear the wind that would come to tea
and would knock on my window.
I would let him in
and we'd have a chat.
How are you doing and how's your mother
and he'd go his merry way to the neighbor's house next door.
But they weren't as polite to him as I was, so he'd always stay longer at my house.
There are people who hate their hands
because they are too knobby or skinny or fat
people who chew their nails out
of nervousness or habit.
Nuns aren't supposed to have any bad
habits yet they wear one
on their head every day.
I wonder if nuns wear lacy underwear
or if not, if they have ever wanted to.
Nuns are people, too.
I take a dear deep breath
cherishing the air that
relaxes the tight muscles
and rigidity knots
that govern and hold
where they aren't wanted.
It is possible to asphyxiate oneself
and I have almost done so
but on accident.
I have to remind myself to breathe.
In and out
veiny currents shift and change and how
beautiful I feel them run
coursing through arterial paths
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Looking more and more into it, artists like Jerry Garcia and Bob Dylan have covered a bunch of the songs. "Handsome Molly" and "Dreadful Wind and Rain" are a couple of them, making me more and more curious about the influence this group of people have on our culture now. What is lost, and what have we kept? From the mid to late 1910's, British folklorist Cecil Sharp collected about 200 songs, but it's impossible that everything has been saved.
Ballads tell a story, generally a love story. This tradition has been passed down through years of immigration from Europe--primarily the British Isles. Some of the people of Appalachia intermarried with the Cherokee and other Native tribes. No doubt this affected the music as well, perhaps creates the interesting keys these songs are sung in. The music is weird, warped and beautiful.
Listen to "Pretty Saro" on YouTube. This performance of Iris DeMent gives me chills every time.
Saturday, November 7, 2009
If ever there were a spring day so perfect,
so uplifted by a warm intermittent breeze
that it made you want to throw
open all the windows in the house
and unlatch the door to the canary's cage,
indeed, rip the little door from its jamb,
a day when the cool brick paths
and the garden bursting with peonies
seemed so etched in sunlight
that you felt like taking
a hammer to the glass paperweight
on the living room end table,
releasing the inhabitants
from their snow-covered cottage
so they could walk out,
holding hands and squinting
into this larger dome of blue and white,
well, today is just that kind of day.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
So many of you.
Lips in a row waiting to be picked.
Hearts waiting to be pricked
waiting for fire and candles
like a late night vigil
or a Christmas Eve service.
Someone has died and
from their mother's chest
and thrown onto the grave
chest of another's.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Every man that walked by, he saluted them and said "good evening, Mr. President"...then he leaned over to me and said, "there's lots of unknown presidents wandering around."
His friend named Bob sat down on the bench parallel to me. He wore a highlighter green suit jacket and a purple button-up. Reaching into his bag, Bob pulls out a Barbie doll and a stuffed blue crayon. "Part of my act sometimes," he mumbled. Seconds later he held up a red tie, also hidden in his bag. "Too much?" he asks, leaning over to me, wondering if he should wear it. "Never," I said. "You're wearing that beautiful jacket, so anything after that is a home run." He nodded and fumbled the tie into submission around his neck.
More should be written about these people. I don't quite know what yet. But until then, I should finish my actual paper that is due tomorrow.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Saturday, October 10, 2009
My cat, Oscar of the Wild, has a tapeworm. He is very cute, but has had a difficult life thus far. He was born in a badger hole in Baker City, Oregon, kicked out by his mom, and taken in by me--who gave him a traumatic plane ride to Seattle. He now lives quite happily. Even more so after the worm is kicked out of his intestine.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
What do you want to write, the professors ask me.
Do you want to tell me about your childhood
and the way you dug up worms
named them one by one
and buried them back again?
Worms were friends.
So were potato bugs
and bees and ants.
In your swimsuit and young distended belly,
did you wade in mud holes
wondering what was to become of you?
Yes. Of course you did.
We are the children of boomers
born from concrete cul-de-sacs
and houses too big for us.
With tricycle wheels
as big as our eyes
spinning our poor heads around,
we are only now
managing to screw our heads on straight.
Our identity is not lost
as the existentialists claim.
They want to sound intelligent.
There’s not even space
left for an abyss
in this world.
Instead, I fancy us
a giant ant farm
deeper and deeper
till we hit rock bottom.
Only to go up again.
Monday, July 27, 2009
Friday, July 24, 2009
“I have something I need to tell you,” she said.
Oh no. Not one of these conversations, he thought. There was something slightly rumpled-looking about her today, and this was unlike her. I should have known.
This here was the woman who cut the crusts off sandwiches, followed by cutting them in diagonals. She liked making food with right angles in it. She liked A-seam skirts rummaged about for in the 1980s clothing piles found in basements and at estate sales. He had never even been to an estate sale. There was something so straight and so upright about her. So to have the same woman appear before him, flushed red in the face, hair done up in a ponytail stuck straight on top of her head—he didn’t know what to do with her. She even looked sweaty, wearing an oversized sweatshirt and black leggings..
I really want to bat at her ponytail, he secretly wished. It was the kind of ponytail that belongs to a two-year old girl with thin hair, scraped up by her hopeful mother and put in a scrunchie. The rest of the body did not belong to a little girl, Janie with her curvy figure standing barely below his height. But Peter decided that now would not be the time to joke around with Janie, or play with her hair. Instead he began to do the dishes; scrub, rinse, dry. Repeat.
In between the time when a bomb is dropped, there is a grand pause. There is a breath that is taken, sucked in, and held. Blood vessels begin to pulse and ears ring. Because it was far easier to feel nothing at all, Peter coped with the bombs that Janie dropped on him by keeping his thoughts to himself. He preferred a surprise attack. That way, when it came time for war, he couldn’t feel the anticipatory stress that came along with it. Janie was hot or cold, black or white, sobbing or ecstatic. And because of this, Peter remained an ever-constant, ever-steady lukewarm human being.
Saturday, July 18, 2009
Sunday, July 12, 2009
This is some of what I've been thinking about.
Monday, July 6, 2009
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
I am no rock
I am more like water that changes
with the pull of the moon
becoming currents of hot and cold
rivers rippling through the open ocean.
Where do you make your home?
Do you avoid becoming the foreigner
because it makes you squirm
shifting in your skin,
in your mind the center of attention
but for all the wrong reasons?
I am a stranger at home in a strange land.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Monday, June 22, 2009
Sitting down to write about what happened the past 4 days, 35 hours of work, I realize that I've erased all memory of the past work week.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Monday, June 1, 2009
Friday, May 22, 2009
My body’s been everywhere I have—
when I ate worms when I was 8
My body witnessed it, shouted NO DON’T DO IT!
Last summer brother John and I cleared the yard of its dead weeds
My spine bent over the dirt and shovel.
We radiated heat and red—
we were dry sponges.
These cracked lips need water.
The shriveling process has started
inside I’ve become an old woman
as my skin tries to catch up with its
lungs and liver blackening
skin shrinking to surround my heart and eye sockets.
They are most tender.
But I am not old yet.
When we are golden old
I will make us scrambled eggs
and thick black coffee
that makes our chest hair grow.
I will listen to public radio
Dancing in the fresh cut grass
till my skin falls from my frame.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Once in the Jurassic about 150 million years ago,
the Great Sun Buddha in this corner of the Infinite
Void gave a Discourse to all the assembled elements
and energies: to the standing beings, the walking beings,
the flying beings, and the sitting beings -- even grasses,
to the number of thirteen billion, each one born from a
seed, assembled there: a Discourse concerning
Enlightenment on the planet Earth.
"In some future time, there will be a continent called
America. It will have great centers of power called
such as Pyramid Lake, Walden Pond, Mt. Rainier, Big Sur,
Everglades, and so forth; and powerful nerves and channels
such as Columbia River, Mississippi River, and Grand Canyon
The human race in that era will get into troubles all over
its head, and practically wreck everything in spite of
its own strong intelligent Buddha-nature."
"The twisting strata of the great mountains and the pulsings
of volcanoes are my love burning deep in the earth.
My obstinate compassion is schist and basalt and
granite, to be mountains, to bring down the rain. In that
future American Era I shall enter a new form; to cure
the world of loveless knowledge that seeks with blind hunger:
and mindless rage eating food that will not fill it."
And he showed himself in his true form of
SMOKEY THE BEAR
A handsome smokey-colored brown bear standing on his hind legs, showing that he is aroused and
Bearing in his right paw the Shovel that digs to the truth beneath appearances; cuts the roots of useless
attachments, and flings damp sand on the fires of greed and war;
His left paw in the Mudra of Comradely Display -- indicating that all creatures have the full right to live to their limits and that deer, rabbits, chipmunks, snakes, dandelions, and lizards all grow in the realm of the Dharma;
Wearing the blue work overalls symbolic of slaves and laborers, the countless men oppressed by a
civilization that claims to save but often destroys;
Wearing the broad-brimmed hat of the West, symbolic of the forces that guard the Wilderness, which is the Natural State of the Dharma and the True Path of man on earth: all true paths lead through mountains --
With a halo of smoke and flame behind, the forest fires of the kali-yuga, fires caused by the stupidity of
those who think things can be gained and lost whereas in truth all is contained vast and free in the Blue Sky and Green Earth of One Mind;
Round-bellied to show his kind nature and that the great earth has food enough for everyone who loves her and trusts her;
Trampling underfoot wasteful freeways and needless suburbs; smashing the worms of capitalism and
Indicating the Task: his followers, becoming free of cars, houses, canned foods, universities, and shoes;
master the Three Mysteries of their own Body, Speech, and Mind; and fearlessly chop down the rotten
trees and prune out the sick limbs of this country America and then burn the leftover trash.
Wrathful but Calm. Austere but Comic. Smokey the Bear will
Illuminate those who would help him; but for those who would hinder or
HE WILL PUT THEM OUT.
Thus his great Mantra:
Namah samanta vajranam chanda maharoshana
Sphataya hum traka ham nam
"I DEDICATE MYSELF TO THE UNIVERSAL DIAMOND
BE THIS RAGING FURY DESTROYED"
And he will protect those who love woods and rivers,
Gods and animals, hobos and madmen, prisoners and sick
people, musicians, playful women, and hopeful children:
And if anyone is threatened by advertising, air pollution, television,
or the police, they should chant SMOKEY THE BEAR'S WAR SPELL:
DROWN THEIR BUTTS
CRUSH THEIR BUTTS
DROWN THEIR BUTTS
CRUSH THEIR BUTTS
And SMOKEY THE BEAR will surely appear to put the enemy out
with his vajra-shovel.
Now those who recite this Sutra and then try to put it in practice will accumulate merit as countless as the sands of Arizona and Nevada.
Will help save the planet Earth from total oil slick.
Will enter the age of harmony of man and nature.
Will win the tender love and caresses of men, women, and beasts.
Will always have ripe blackberries to eat and a sunny spot under a pine tree to sit at.
AND IN THE END WILL WIN HIGHEST PERFECT ENLIGHTENMENT.
thus have we heard.
(may be reproduced free forever)
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Monday, May 4, 2009
Today I took the 13 with a friend, which never fails to surprise me with its encounters. There was a man reeking of booze at the bus stop. My friend and I were sharing his bag of licorice between the two of us. Rain came down on the clear awning, the wind swirling over his feet and sweeping up my jackets around me.
Monday, April 27, 2009
Contemporary Country Music.
Burnt drip coffee.
The idea of Guilt.
The idea of Money.
Pro-abstinence sex-ed classes.
The idea of Structure.
The idea of Rednecks.
Cowboy boots worn for a purpose.
Poor Education Systems.
Going to Mexico for Spring Break.
People who tan.
Friday, April 24, 2009
Ice queen of my tribe
Like a dream
you float around the room
care so cooped up
exploding from your pores
in concerned gasps of laughter.
There's little else you can do.
We don't know where you've been
what you've seen or
what you've done
outside of what you've shared.
It must be grand and large
for there is no disputing the fact that
you are the grandest of them all.
You are free
like the white flounce shirt you wear
that has seen sandstorms.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
She told me everything I didn't want to hear. But it needed to be said.
Practice radical inefficiency.
Take a pen everywhere.
Fail at something you like to do. Don't worry about perfection.
Ask for help.
God's not looking for anything big; you could give someone a glass of water. That's enough.
Below the surface of everything I want to be (funky, calm, intelligent, yogi-like, dreadlocked) was this woman with a core just as shaky as the rest of us. The way she voices doubt just sounds better than the average jane.
Read Bird by Bird.
Saturday, March 21, 2009
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Everything changes when you take that first step on a bus. Wheels get you places. Wheels can change your scenery. They did for me yesterday.
A 50-year-old couple argued while the flustered, pudgy wife wrote out their budget on a piece of newspaper. The husband's face was scarred with white pieces of bandage attached. "Roy!", she raised her voice at him. A man who looked like a combination of an ancient Samurai and Hawaiian wrestler made his way onto the bus at Lower Queen Anne, and silently sat himself and his handlebar mustache down. Getting off the bus, we were badgered by a man handing out tracts proclaiming the "good news". My friend took one as a courtesy, throwing it out once we reached the other side of the street.
I do not need to ask the question: The world around me is so wildly different from the college I attend. Asking "why" would be ridiculous. Once I get out of this bubble I feel less paranoid, feel less self-righteous, feel like everyone is in the same boat as me. We are all confused and don't claim to have the answers.
I had a really excellent conversation with another friend of mine on a walk not too long ago, and I want to say thank you. Thank you to people who are not afraid of being at a loss for words. For people who take the leap off the edge, even though they are terrified. Here's to us all being scared shitless at the not-knowing-times while we try to figure out why we're here in the first place.
Saturday, March 7, 2009
The New York Times (left), Going West (right). Few things I like more than art. I've been getting a museum craving lately, so I thought I'd share a couple of my favorites: Jacob Lawrence, Dorothea Lange, and Diego Rivera. The top two are by Jacob Lawrence, and the mural is by Diego Rivera. In the West it seems to me that there is less of an appreciation for public art. For a large part of Rivera's life, all he did were murals, and he took them damn seriously. Why do the great painters of America want their pieces behind closed doors or framed on walls? I hope someone finds an example where I can be refuted.
It is crazy to me how images can be created by nothing but colors.
Friday, February 27, 2009
Today I visited the best second-hand bookstore in the world. Powell's is a close second. But Powell's don't have no cats. Anyways, there was this ridiculously fantastic book that had historically important cat lovers compared to dog lovers, advice on beard cultivation (very important to me as a female), and hobo written symbols.
For example, a diagonal line (bottom left to top right) with three vertical lines through it means "people here won't like you and will tell you to go to hell". Three small circles in a horizontal row means "hobo coin taken here". Just in case you need to communicate with the hobos.
There are hands
My mother's have always been harsh with water and soap
cleaning grease from our family pots and pans.
But it's not her fault.
I write words nothing like iambs.
I'm not like that.
i will write you songs
perfect, ordered, green and growing.
But this is life
and it is not
perfect as I hoped it to be.
I weave stories and imposters
waiting for them to unravel later.
They waited till hatching season came
There are hands
Monday, February 16, 2009
There is this empty space that is waiting for someone but hasn't found what it is looking for. We all want a home. What happens when we can't find it? My home is rarely made up of concrete or beams, but by the people that build me up or tear me down. People appear to hold you in place. But even at age 20 I have learned, perhaps early, that they don't. Something more has to hold me strong.
My reason for not placing my faith in people? The faces they all share with me when they are disappointed in someone. Hurt felt, hurt returned. By someONE.
The very boy that can make me feel as though I'm high as a kite during the summer can make my kite crash down the very next day when fall arrives. This is why I appear to be a ball-buster. I only wish the men I feel contempt for had the vulnerability that would do them good.
But this is my hope for the future...
I dream on. To days spent
days where you and I, we wake up on a boat
shaken up gently
with the rocking motion.
yawn, with seagulls yelling at us to get up
scramble an egg or two
and start the coffee
We'd share a smoke
and I would tell you the dream I had the night before
We would race to shore
jumping in the cold water with no hesitation
beatnik and beatnik-ess
there is food and work and fire
and books and trees and
I dream because I dare
and hope that they do not let me down.
Monday, February 9, 2009
...and after a time I began to feel like I was yelling at myself. She and I need people. Need men. Need to feel cared about, need excitement in life. This book, scarily, hit home. I wish it didn't.
Will be there when I need it...or the next...or the next? Does this mean that I've let other people down as well? Statistics would say yes. Definitely. Oh. no.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
What I don't know won't kill me
but it won't help me.
Spears and feathers
of the modern stone age
we fight the nemesis
in the closets
under the rugs
and behind the shower curtains.
Our hidden enemies.
Place a crown on my head
dub me a knight of your court
or a court jester.
But I still don't know how to juggle.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
through the air.
keeping the unshaven
from coming into harbor.
The captain gripes and lights his pipe:
Curse the pirates and the fog
keeping me from sea.
I'm bound for Egypt
and South Africa
but Somalians are after me.
Captain John has been long gone
For weeks at a time
His ship's been on
the salty brine
near the cape of hope.
Sing a tune for luck
Sing a tune for me
I've got a plan to sail away
and fly free.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Sunday, January 11, 2009
But rather than New Year's RESolutions, I've decided to call mine New Year's REVolutions. Nice ring to it, eh? Yet I'm not attempting to do all of this in one year, mind you. It's more of a benchmark for the rest of life. I'm not that much of an overachiever.
-See a meteor shower (another one)
-Jump off a bridge or cliff(and live)
-Be in a band
-Watch a sunrise and sunset in one sitting
-Own a cat
-See a volcano
-Take a train that's crowded and smelly
-Sail a sailboat
-Go to Africa
-Live on a sailboat
-Backpack for two weeks straight
-Learn mandolin or fiddle
-Be a bartender
-Go to a Japanese tea ceremony
-Own a record player
-Go to a protest
-Shoot a gun
-Crash a party
-Rope swing into freezing water
-Be a writer
-Read a bunch
-Build a treehouse
-Plant a vegetable garden
-Do an eskimo roll
-Climb a legit mountain
This list will be revised in the future, I'm sure. Posterity, this is for you.
I have so much anticipation for life, and college can be really frustrating because in a way, it's a frozen state of being. As my eloquent roommate puts it, we're living in a glorified day camp where people make meals for us, we live in bunk beds, and we "play" with our friends at night.
Eventually we're thrown up into the real world, our eventual reality. Fresh and clean. But there's nothing I can do about it now, making the future even more anticipatory and alluring. So I'm sitting here on my hands, trying with everything I have to make the most of this final sheltered period of life.
And drinking me some rooibos tea.