Oh How I Love My Jeans

Dress shopping, as it turns out, is fun in theory. However. When searching for THE band banquet dress, the outing is a dreaded one. Today's was fairly harmless; our first stop was our only stop. Filene's Basement had a cheap, decent selection. After a few amusing, floor length try-ons, I settled (lovingly chose, really) on a light blue and dark brown, flowered, strapless piece. The size is a bit off, but the tailor is my friend, the price was right, and I really wanted to go home.

I had enough budget space to purchase a huge pair of "pearls", a plate of chinese buffet, a pink lemonade, and a cinnamon sugar pretzel.

Alas, I forgot my camera. And believe me -- the people watching has never been better. Really interesting people like to hang at the mall, it seems.

Banquet is Friday, and I promise: pictures will be taken.

Understanding

slowly i set myself apart
my lack of social competence
spurring walled introspection
i search within
to brace myself from without

my mother says she doesn't get people
their children would be no different
agreeably, she says this will never change
a specified crowd
provides momentary comfort

this is unsettling, but i understand
who could get me
other than who made me
is every interaction blissfully satisfying
ignorance is bliss



there is nothing more complex
than the pairing of people
or a friendship's niche
love is a recipe
for lack of a better metaphor

perhaps in the end
where my understanding stops
another's will begin
and comfort will be found
in their neverending questions


for another's doubt
invites the integration of mine
i tear down the walls
attempting answers
in hopes of finding my own

Window to Babyhood

So, finally, I converted this picture to the right file. I'm sure it wasn't difficult to do, but my technological skills stop at "Create Post". Without further ado:



Well look at that. I was a rather happy baby. Here, I believe, I am learning to walk at a parent's friend's house. So smiley.

Recharge

"they don't know my head is a mess"

Writer's block is a mean thing, simply put. So many thoughts running around but no way to set them free. My thoughts run away from me. They offer seconds of solace and move on. I am not at a loss for words, but ideas.

I need a mental revolution. A recharge. I need to stray from the norm. Did you know the people I see every day blend together? Everything does. Did you know I cry every day? Neither did I. Did you know I haven't written a poem in weeks?

Believe it or not, I am spiritually strong. Unusually so. Spiritual strength can cause both of these: a newfound look at life, and a sadness for what we come back to. That's a sad thing. Oh well. I know how to be sad.

Today I wished it would rain. There's a good thing..it did rain. Rain is sweetly depressing. It can be gentle or strong, always cleaning, always gray, always wet. Yes. Rain is always wet. I can lean on that.

It stopped too soon. I wanted to jump up and down in the rain, in the horrendous rain. It reminds me of myself. I wanted to soak in silence.

I need to sleep. I need to read. I need a hug, probably. I don't want one. I want to shiver, to burn. I want to smile. Please don't tell me to smile.

I'm sorry, I'm going nowhere with this. Go and read something happy.

Sing Me a Song

I got to thinking about my love for good music recommendations...

A favorite song of mine is Hide and Seek: Imogen Heap. The album, Speak For Yourself, is fantastic. That song is one of the best musical experiences I have ever beheld in four and a half minutes. It is one of the only songs I own that can be looped for hours and still loved.

So. What is your favorite song? Either currently or of all time, it doesn't matter. Leave what it means to you -- its significance, if any. Blogless friends: comment using "other". You can leave your name and input. I'd appreciate it... I really am curious.

I Didn't Really Want That...

I find it interesting, the things I convince myself I need...be it an object or person.

And when that/they are taken away, I am able to live without them, only by convincing myself that I can't have it. I can't be with them/own that object; I am not allowed.

This is a tough mindset to put myself in. I have focused so much energy on needing it, desiring it, only to find the energy wasted. The rebuilding of my desires is no easy task...but I hate wasting time on undeserving people. I don't deem them undeserving, they do. The worst part follows: my slight (or not-so-slight) obsession with "what's not good for me" affects the judgement of my character. Perhaps that is why my thoughts are so closed off.

So. All of a sudden, this thing is no longer forbidden. And I have no concrete reason to put it in the back of my mind...it floats right to the top. Now deserving, now accesible. Though that is what I knew I needed, I was mistaken. The rebuilding of desires begins yet again. And I didn't really want that. I'm back where I started.

Age of Maturity?

I've been thinking...while wisdom may increase with years, maturity eventually reaches a standstill save the initial years of mental and social progression. I know many immature adults: in their lives, kids and friends. I'm sure you do too. So, then, through parental influence, environment, and the genes themselves, maturity in the end is all it will be.

This explains how little difference in age affects friendship. Twenty year old women will fall in love with thirty-seven year old men, sisters become best friends despite their ten year age difference, it just doesn't matter. The most productive conversations I've had have been with parents' friends. The older we get the less the difference seems. Ten and fifteen? Iffy. But twenty and twenty-five...no problem.

I wonder if I am trapped in my age. I'm just a little guy, but I have my own share of wonderments and observations...some of which develop into worthwhile posts. Once my lack of years is realized, opinions will become what they must. I don't forsee a change in my level of thought in the next ten years. Twenty, even. I understand changing views through years of experience, but not in acuteness or profoundness. I learn wonderful new things about people and places every day and approach them with the same earnestness, openness, keenness, and depth.

This here thought stemmed from my observations of the world: teens beyond their years and adults behind them.

The Thunder Spoke

lush leaves
bellies up
moving as one
with their wind
a storm is coming

stay inside
near the shuddering panes
tight in an old quilt
favorite brew in hand
the best ones last all night

sometimes sprinkles begin
and like a concerto's crescendo
fat drops make their way
to the relentless pavement
always bouncing back

to some a storm begins
at the first lightning's pierce
jagged in the clear sky
signaling the thunder
to steal the show

every strike strikes someplace
seldom does one find a life
but if it did, this quilted body,
a jumpstart would find solace
in the cozy veins, open wide

it is grade school
when one learns
lightning's gap
shows the way
to thunder's power

counting the seconds between
is it nearing?
is it fading?
a picture worth a thousand words
a second worth one mile

every slow rumble
leads to a crash
jaws clench, joints tighten
in anticipation
nothing is as empowering

as that boom
that shakes the house
rattles the salt shaker
lets us know
we are not alone

thunder passes
lightning dies
rain reduces
to a conclusive
pitter-patter

the mug is empty
the window foggy with breath
the rain cleansed
the lightning warned
the thunder spoke

I wish I could help you

I don't know what to do anymore.
When reasons for living are slim
Talk to me
I will tell you I would never be the same
Would you leave
If you knew I would forever cry myself to sleep
Would you leave
If you knew I would blame myself
Would you leave
If you knew that I was always here
Would you leave
If you knew you make my life better
Did you know you make lives better?

Don't leave.
The world will miss you.
I could help you
Let me help you.

Mood Swings of My Own

On occasion (not-so-rare depending on the week), a person's look or response will send me in a downward spiral. I become insecure and doubtful of everything I know. It goes away eventually; I am generally a happy person.

I would like to make this disclaimer now: any pathetically depressing post I write is of the moment. By the next happy day it will sicken me, and I will remove it. If you read the last one and noticed that it is no longer here, you are my audience. I post them in the first place because I think in knowing me, one should know all sides. Good and bad. Just not the really really bad. What seems to be so is a temporary part of me.

The usual mindset change occurs during the discovery of a new favorite song or a really great acoustic performance... like tonight. The Josh Irby Band, a local act, sings every song meaningfully, and I agree with them all. That's a good feeling. My first poetry reading at the open mic segment that preceded it doubled that feeling. I read Music to Me, Edges of Love, Here I Am, and Feed The Shredder. Perhaps I will post them soon since readers only know the last.

So I will leave you tonight with good feeling on my part. I hope you are doing well, too.

We Miss You Both

Philip Silverman, a member of our senior class, died this morning. At around 3:00 A.M. his friend fell asleep at the wheel. The driver and a third friend have been in intensive care.

The student body seemed in a daze. At some point I stopped asking the tear-stained faces if they knew Philip. Does it really matter? I didn't know him. It is so upsetting how many people a person can meet posthumously.

How many times the story of the accident was retold, I can't count. "A.J. was driving, Jimmy was in the back. Philip's dead." Dead. Dead? Really? He's eighteen. He knew people I know! He's not ever coming back? They won't ever be the same? They will have to live without him for the rest of their lives...

This is the problem death presents to me. Dr. House, my reigning favorite on-air diagnostician, stated that everyone would cry like a baby when told of their imminent death. I am not afraid to die. I will admit I am afraid of some routes that could take me there, but I am not afraid of being dead. I am afraid of who will live without me. I am terrified of living my life without those people. I want to outlive everyone I love.

I hate impossible needs.

The cynical side of me, or the realist, finds this and wonders who it will be. Who will die in my graduating class? Whose death will shake the school, as well as my life? I don't want to think about it. I can't help it. I have felt as if tragedy is impending for some time now. I am hoping to train myself to cope with it, when it comes. How ignorant is that? I can't ever know. I just can't ever know. I would rather not ever know. But...see above.

I apologize for my rambling, and the unoriginality of this topic. It's been a long, hard day.

Rest in peace, Philip. Not to mention Kurt Vonnegut... We miss you both.

The Effects of Mood Swings

Emotions are an attempt to find one's self. Some practice being sad. Happy, because it looks good. Scared, because comfort follows. Confident, because followers listen. True, because credibility is desirable. False, because liars are the center of any problem they create; attention loves problems. I don't think we practice being unprepared, humiliated, or broken.

We are creatures of habit, and habits are fueled by short-term consequences. Any far off outcome isn't incentive enough, though outcomes essentially define one's self. Emotions, then, determine character.

What one portrays forms the world's opinion. The world consists of people we love -- or at least they live here. Those people's thoughts regularly surpass our own in importance.

What one feels is seldom what they portray. Are the aforementioned impressions false? Does the practice of dishonesty not only avoid reality, but alter it? Does the practice of truth lead to happiness. Does happiness create confidence. Is confidence scary.

Oh, what a tangled web we weave.

Heart In Progress

I have a heart-shaped box
not Cobain's but mine
it is blank and empty
waiting patiently

I tell myself I'll paint it
plaster it, polish it
but the bare wood is reassurring
it is mine to change

the edges are curved
it's pretty to look at
if potential is beautiful
step by step I fill it to the brim

with pictures
with words
with rhythm
with melodies

there will always be room for you
in the midst of the mess
I wait patiently for you to peel back the lid
tell me what you see

This picture, of this girl, what do you think of? Looks like me, huh? Hah. No. It doesn't look like me at all. Yet when I see her, I imagine who I could be. I love her hair. If I wasn't blonde, I would try it today. I still might. Her Converse are broken in, and her bicycle is worthy of a second look. It'd better be, right? It's an ad for the thing. Don't forget the helmet. Safety first.

She looks strong, like she's been through a lot. I want to hear those stories. Why isn't she reading the magazine? Who distracted her? She doesn't look pleased... Apathetic, perturbed, even. But that's okay. She's earned it. I don't know how, and neither does she. She just showed up at the photo shoot, never expecting that I would flip through the latest issue of Ready Made and wish I was her.