"Don't screw with poetry."

^My writing teacher said that. Ha!

Thoughts I've had today:

I wish I had a tea kettle, a bagel slicer, a pizza slicer, and a 2 tbsp scoop.

Kitchen scissors cut pizza?! Say whaaaa

How did I make it this far without a single silly band? (trademark symbol ftw)

I'd like to go to Israel.

I don't need to put sugar in my coffee anymore! But I still like it sometimes.

Coffee is delish.

College still feels like a summer camp.

I have no idea what's going on in the world outside of New York City, which is sad and somewhat ironic.

I'd really like to make room for a time in my life without a job, significant other, or classes. I have no idea where that would fit, and I'm not even sure I would like it as much I imagine I would.

I am very sleepy.

Getting outside of Midtown gives me hope for life in the city after graduation. I'm not even sure I'd still want to be here, but it's nice to know that there are areas where, if it made sense to be here, I'd enjoy myself.

Trusting God is really really really refreshing.

Peace.

(Connection Crisis)

"The man who is contented to be only himself, and therefore less a self, is in prison. My own eyes are not enough for me, I will see through those of others. Reality, even seen through the eyes of many, is not enough. I will see what others have invented. Even the eyes of all humanity are not enough. I regret that the brutes cannot write books. Very gladly would I learn what face things present to a mouse or a bee; more gladly still would I perceive the olfactory worls charged with all the information and emotion it carries for a dog.

Literary experience heals the wound, without undermining the privilege, of individuality. There are mass emotions which heal the wound; but they destroy the privilege. In them our separate selves are pooled and we sing back into sub-individuality. But in reading great literature I become a thousand men and yet remain myself. Like the night sky in the Greek poem, I see with a myriad eyes, but it is still I who see. Here, as in worship, in love, in moral action, and in knowing, I transcend myself; and am never more myself than when I do."

- C.S. Lewis, an excerpt from "An Experiment in Criticism"

Silence and Sirens: A Slant Rhyme

Poetry is sensory. I pull phrases together from what I feel, what I imagine those around me feel. I pull phrases from what I wish I knew how to feel. Curiously enough, sensory overload represses the phrases and pulls me only to feel.

I'm not sure why I thought that a divine calling required a skill. Or why I thought senses to be overrated; I wished they would fall away, pave the way--get out the way!--of the truth. I expected the truth to end profoundly, to comfort me, to push me, to call me to thrive. I expected a truth to list the steps to discovering truth. And no, I didn't/still don't care that truth is objective, subjective, vague, and up to interpretation. Its ability to be interpreted is only your interpretation of it.

Sorry. I sound like a philosopher.

What I'm getting at is a discovery. I discovered, while pushing to listen past the sirens for something profound, something supernatural to guide my feet, that the sirens are profound. My ability to pull them apart from each other, to try and transform them, X-men style, into the sound of falling rain, is a calling in itself. I am called as a follower of Jesus Christ, submerged in the center of the world, to sense.

Because, friends, those who say (while I see what they're getting at) "love is senseless..." are choosing to take love's kaleidoscope and peer through a single facet. I'm striving to go beyond the direct, past the peripheral. The warrior I am for Christ sees supernaturally, and I realize now that while writing about what I see naturally--and sometimes supernaturally--brings what I see as my God-given influence to those around me, I can't prioritize it over simply soaking in what God puts in front of me. Poetry is sensory, love is sensory, God is love. Love is good. God is good!

We good?

Hibye

3 days left. That's not a ton of days.

I'm excited to write posts featuring pictures of New York City that didn't involve Google Image searches.

I'm moving into the middle one. :)

Good Riddance

Okay here's the deal. It's not that I was ever in denial about how fast time goes by. I just didn't like to hear people who felt they knew better tell me that that is the case.

Now it's all I can do to stop myself from shouting to children waiting at bus stops: YOU DON'T CARE NOW, BUT YOU'LL NEVER GET THIS TIME BACK! DON'T WASTE IT!

This is how I feel: :(( :O :D :/ :* :?@#$^!($@)#%$($%(@ughhhhh

I don't know what time I wasted, but it had to have been somewhere. I rely on time's consistency, but good riddance, folks. Why do last weeks in town fly as swiftly as lunch breaks?

And you know, I don't expect this to be the most intense transition I will make. It's the first wave of depressedexcitement, and I'm holding on for dear life. Dear, dear life.

W 34th St, New York, NY, 10001

Hi there! Sorry I've been MIA. I work a lot and I sleep a lot and I think a lot about how I have to pack no more than one fits in one third of a 500 square foot apartment. I leave for New York City two weeks from yesterday, but hey. Blogs are interstates of their own. Information interstates. Oooooh.

For the readers who don't know, I'm going to The King's College in Manhattan. Wikipedia it; the article's nice :)

I promise I will semi-regularly enter my thoughts in this forum. I might even start a new one about Starbucks work experiences. What do you think?

Peace,

lucy

Supraconscious

summer means love and falling in love while being in love, love, and wondering which way the love falls. lower case letters and mix CDs, Julie's 80s Mix in the drive thru trash, a stack of cassettes tattooed on a hip. the empire state building, ESB to you, drawn smaller than life up the bones where you breathe. JET, LCD, ESB, ATL, NYC, life is so acronymical. sound out each letter, baby Lucy, C-A-T. don't say the whole word, blue collar worker, you'll run out of time. syllables correlate with inefficiency, Mr., you'd best spit it out. they'll know what you mean.

what do you mean? to whom do you trust your future? your safety, your security blanket, your excursion into post-curfew hours, your Excursion in the fast lane. Life in the Fast Lane? move over, Sparky. my radar detector detects no such thing. no lights, no sirens. no brakes, no fakes. the only siren I know boasts a cup of Anniversary Blend, spins around a lightning rod, spins around my 401K. and 401 K to go before you sleep. and 401 K to go before you sleep.

take a deep breath in, out. in, out. see? piece of cake. it heals in time. the number one rule?

exactly! I see you've been paying attention.