Ode to Young Philosopher.

You say truth's like clockwork,
and all we need to do to achieve this
human efficiency is
put aside all our emotions, our personal drives.

I can't do that.
And I know you can't do that.
In a perfect world, we would all be
pieces of a beautiful machine, but
I know no one can ever be perfect.

We have greed.
We have lust.
We can't achieve this communal beauty-
we're too flawed.

Your level of consciousness far exceeds mine,
but I've experienced more.
We can't find truth.
Love will always get in the way.

Teenage Dream

Your skin-tight jeans, Darren?
I wouldn't mind.

Rome.

The USA has fallen like Rome.

Enjoy your greed, your wealth disparity,
your immobile, blind religiosity.

In 1500 years, all that will be left of you
will be a language, a religion, and a
model for how to kill an empire.

If I believed in God, I'd pray to love again.
As it is, I'm happy that you found someone.

DADT.

Gays shouldn't be allowed to serve in the military. I mean, Greece made that mistake. Look at what a mess they made. Widespread trade? Tolerance? Literacy? God dammit, if Phillip had just kept his son in the closet, none of this Hellenism stuff would have ever happened.

College. I can't wait.

Please, shower me with your labels.
Heaven knows I can't decide who I
am for myself. Your labels are really
helping me find an identity. There's
no way I could do it without you.

It can't be love
for there is no true love.

$10 Bildungsroman.

The flashing lights did nothing to the mood. She was a ghost. The kids bumped, grinded, and she no longer belonged. She never belonged at these gatherings- they were a waste if money and an evening. Her temperament was much better suited for a movie or game of cards. Yet here she was.

Her emotions for him, of course were animalistic. She found his form appealing, and, as a way to release stress, hoped for the chance to ride it. The only reason she came.

Once, she knew love. He was two hundred miles away, enjoying the rapture of college life. She was his ghost. His class had been her class, for a time. For a time, they had told each other everything, done everything with and to each other. Maybe she was romanticizing, but what she felt for him was deep- more than angry lust and possessiveness over a completely unrealistic, incompatable boy. But he was the closest thing she knew to the man she once had.

In pursuit of the ecstasy he had left her with on their last night together, she was in a dirty gym, adorned with Christmas lights and Top 40 hits. The kids were grinding, searching for the same thing she was. Only they had never known it. She did. She wanted it again, she needed her fix. Her cocaine was gone, she'd have to chew cocoa leaves. Anything.

It was to no avail. Her substitute was indifferent towards her, he had his own cocaine to chase. Besides that he was being chased by two other girls, closer to him in age and experience. She was too old for this scene. She graduated when he graduated, this endless year was her purgatory for following a man she knew she couldn't have.

Meat.

Just because we can don't mean that we should.

Us

Our paths have gone different ways.
You'll travel yours at full speed,
I'll do my best to stay on the road.
Someday,
maybe,
we'll meet again.

Our time

together had to end.

But that finite time meant the world to me.

You may never come back,

but I will always have your memory:

the ghost of you, running down the street with me at midnight;

our figures, making compromises under the gazebo that night;

your scent, and how that room will hereafter be "your room";

the books you left, the movies we watched, the songs that you'd play.

I can clean up your clothes,

and throw out your crap;

I can readjust my rearview mirror,

but I can't remove the memories.

No poem I write, no matter how shitty or eloquent

will express my feelings:

no longer hysteria, but a deep sadness, a knowledge that it won't

work out after we both have our degrees.

A realization that this is the end, beautiful friend.

I'll never look into your eyes again, not as I once did.

Your love was fleeting.

Mine was like continental terrain:

rising from nothing, sometimes falling, sometimes plateauing,

but nonetheless rising, until the summit,

where the only thing to do is

enjoy the fleeting view,

claim ownership, if only for a minute,

and make the long, hard trek down

out of your arms.

In Reply to I Wrote This for You, my favorite minimalist poet:

I'm straddling all three emotions like

the borders of countries.

I want

to be at "I love you", but I'll be alone.

"I hate you"

is only a mask, a veil

over my true feelings.

"I don't love you anymore"-

that's somewhere between

my present loss and

future liberation,

blocked by memories

and hopes

and unrequited pleas.

Why did you come into my life?

Why'd you have to leave?

Will you ever enter again?

Three more warring countries;

three more borders I straddle.

My brain is ready

to make the intelligent choice.

My heart urges me to make

that four hour drive to rejection.

Musings

Do I feel emotions stronger than others?

Is my elation more soaring

my depression deeper,

the walls of sorrow larger,

the isolation further?

Do I have a more intense love?

Am I more heartbroken after it ends?

Is this an insecurity, as the deep emotions I

tend to feel collect more on the darker side

of the affective spectrum, or is it

an artistic depth?

Moreover, am I the only one who

feels this way?

Does everyone think their emotions are deeper,

more valid that others'?

Are these musings a common part of maturing?

Or am I uncommon?

The hysteria following our goodbye;

The ecstasy of unexpected nocturnal adrenaline;

The deep ennui of late winter, after a season indoors,

does everyone feel this as I do?

Do they feel as if they live in a book,

a movie,

as if life plays before them like a story,

and they're a preconcieved character,

whose actions are planned and

scrutinized by a pannel of judges called

consciousness?

Or is it just me?

Innertia.

I am crippled with insecurity.

Living in the same house with someone has made me feel like

everything I do is quirky, like I have a failure to function properly

as a human.

I feel like a freak,

an idiot.

Like everything I think of has been thought of,

and doesn't matter much, anyway.

This isn't how we're supposed to feel.

Like you're a holding cell for greater things.

Like every day in your presence is a bit closer to

what hell feels like.

My own mind has become like a useless TV tchotchke.

Can anyone appreciate my musings?

Will I be a rarity my whole life?

Can I find someone who will muse with me?

Are my realizations postmature?

Has the whole world already figured out that

power does not feel so good when reached in increments,

and power thrust upon someone will overwhelm?

Has everyone but me known that the only ones who truly

feel the force of power are those without it?

Am I blind?

Am I

at all

tolerable?

Just leave my house.

I want my mind back.

Feelings: Solitary.

We spooned last night, and, in my state

I was able to feel what I hadn't let myself feel

in a while:

touch.

touch devoid of feeling,

touch straight from the nerves

to the libido,

not nearing the heart whatsoever

just touch.

I realized that I may have loved you

once

but anything I've felt for the last few months has been

less love and more dependence:

I depended on your friendship, your touch-

you have been the only one to touch me in months.

I thought I loved you, I was wrong.

This feeling was a deep friendship,

a plato of emotions.

We can touch, I realized, without a need for love:

we can kiss with empty lips; it will not spell the end of the world.

The only intimacy I feel for you is my desire to keep

your friendship,

this hollow love was the only way I knew to express it.

Until now.

Mon amie, je ne t'aime plus.

No comme ca.

Et rien ne pourrait me rendre plus heureux.

Goodbye, old flame,

you have washed yourself out.

My heart: your mess.

You say you want to protect me,

to protect us,

that none of this could ever work out.

It can't

but not for the reasons you give.

Your imminent departure is less of an issue

than your absence, is what I mean.

Ithaca means nothing when your heart isn't in it,

and yours isn't.

Has never been.

Will never be.

You kiss me without feeling,

you're Louis XVI to my Marie.

You hold me, your grasp is tight but the connection weak.

I'm trying to stick a magnet to paper.

The motions have been gone through,

will be gone through again.

When you brush your lips against mine, our mouths will be

the only things that touch.

You say you feel for me,

I can't help but read into your words.

You don't feel romantic,

you can't say you care.

You feel pity, for the poor girl with her heart in the place where

her sleeve should be,

clinging to a time, a touch,

that was, like a mirage,

never there.

Happiness is a mirage.

Or so one may think, upon viewing my parents.
My mom has succumbed to the mentality of a woman with a shot metabolism and bad knees: eat whatever you feel like, because the weight will come on, anyway. This is a terrible model for an impressive youth, like myself. 4,000 calories a day (or so I have come to assume after the second evening bowl of ice cream and the third helping of a side-salad) is not okay. I replicate your behaviors, don't you see?! I want to grow old and healthy, and be an elegant, athletic older woman! Your surrender to poor health at fifty years old is like handing me an insulin pump and saying, "Here. You'll need this." Every ounce of fat on me, my ankles, the backs of my knees, my stomach, underarms, it all screams at me to run. You think I do this to myself for vanity, I do it out of fear. I can't become you! I love you, but I won't have a husband who refuses to caress me, who sleeps in a separate room because my snoring is too loud. I will stay young, stay healthy, but, as your daughter, seeing how you managed to gain one hundred forty pounds over the course of thirty years, I'm scared. I look like you looked, at my age. Will I look like you look, at your age? Will my class scream to the world via the amplifiers on my double-chin? Will dessert at a restaurant be a mandate, not an option? Will my beauty become masked by the stifled problems of adulthood in the way of fat, of cake, of utter gluttony?
I fight this. Every day, I fight this. I fight becoming you, as much as I love you, lean on you. I fight the lethargy, the lax vocabulary, the once-starved inner curiosity, now lounging comfortably on an easy chair, lemonade in hand. I pride myself on my curiosity, if nothing else, my hunger for knowledge, for words. I quail the day that I begin to consume more food than fact, that I turn into you. More than this, I fear its inevitability.

This, mom, is why I restrict.

Basal Psyche.

The pianist pounds on the low keys,
each new chord pounding into my heart like a punch,
a low, hard, blow.

The music, whatever it may be,
is all that know who I truly am.
It sees me at my weakest,
crunching down the pain,
sopping up tears with bread,
praying,
masturbating,
for some sanity.

The smile, the confidence, it's all a lie,
feigned to protect my true self,
the heart that is weakened with each kiss,
each secret, each party I didn't attend,
couldn't attend, and, even if I had,
would have watched from behind glass,
the laughter hitting my ears, bouncing off,
falling to the floor.

They think my conversations are rarities,
philosophical deviations from the gossip of the
typical high school mind.
That they may be, but the reason is not some
desire to be esoteric, not some urge to push people's minds
beyond their comfort-
but a shield, a blanket to keep them from seeing the innards
of my own mind- the sick thoughts of loathing, the obsessions,
the deep depression- since I can remember.

Thornton Wilder thinks that people are meant to travel
through life in pairs- I've tried to be his person.
My whole life, seeking for my pair, only to
be rejected- by them, by myself, by circumstances.
People may travel through life in pairs,
and I commend them.
I lack the nerve to look for my yang.

I've become too comfortable in this amoeba,
this dark blob one half short of a circle.

Down Again.

Life's an open-heart surgery, and
I'm the guy who hands implements to the doctor.
I'm acted upon,
and when I try to act,
to be proactive,
more often than not,
I get shut down.

I seek a life of power,
of prestige, of meaning something
because in this existence,
I mean nothing.

I went to my old middle school-
they couldn't remember my name.
Fuck you. When I discover some new
theory of society or human relationships,
and you don't even remember that I attended
your school, it'll be your loss.

I'm shouting, but, even in a silent room, unheard.
I fight, yet my sword is soft and surrender swift.
I love, or would like to, if I could take my feet off
the ground and my hands from my pockets.

I preach about living life, being free, chainless.
I'm no Rousseau. These chains? I made them, each
time I neglected to speak my mind or embrace my heart.
I'm sinking in my own insecurities. It's pathetic.

Ridiculous.
This is MY roller coaster,
MY molehill zeniths and hellish pits.
MY fucking life.
I say I will, but never do.
WHY CAN'T I LIVE IT?

A Los Hermanos Gibb

Well, you can tell by the way I use my walk that I'm a woman's man- no time to talk. The music's loud and the women warm (I've been kicked around since I was born). Now, it's all right. It's okay. You may look the other way. We can try to understand this "New-York-Times-Effect-On-Man."

Whether you're a brother, or whether you're a mother, you're staying alive. Staying ALIVE! Feel the city breaking? And everybody shaking? Well, we're staying alive, staying alive. Hahaha! "Stayin alive." "Staying alive!" Hah. Staying alive.

Well now, I get low (and I get high). If I can't get either, I really try. Got the wings of heaven on my shoes- I'm a dancin man. I just can't lose. You know, it's all right. Its okay. I'll live to see another day. We can try to understand the "New-York-Times-Effect" on man.

Whether you're a brother, or whether you're a mother, you're staying alive. Staying alive. You feel the city breaking- and everybody shaking, but you're staying alive... staying alive.

Man, life's going nowhere. Somebody help me. Somebody help me! Life's going nowhere! Somebody help me, yeah?


I'm staying alive.

Bliss/Love

I've had an epiphany. I recently defined epiphany as something that you have known, and always will know, but was only recently presented in an intelligible way. So, here it is.

To achieve bliss, your actions must fulfill your mind, body, and soul, the mind being the most important. If certain actions continue to fulfill these needs, or a certain person does, you are endeared to them. If you are willing to withstand blows to the mind, soul, and body in hopes of preserving the feeling of euphoria, or the thing that brings you euphoria, it must be love.

Love, of course, is not always romantic, like I don't love my paints the way I'd love a guy. That'd be gross. But love is love nonetheless, whether it is love for an activity, or romantic love, or familial love, or love for a friend. The type of love is totally up to the lover to decide. I'm just defining what I feel is "love", in a blanket term.

As a proud member of the female sex,

I will admit to thinking an awful lot about my one-day wedding with my one-day bridegroom. I want my ladies and I to wear beautifully tailored dresses, so, to save some dinero, I shall have this wedding in a field somewhere, be it a state park or my parents' yard. As far as china is concerned, I would go around to thrift stores, yard sales, and antique shops, picking up floral or sophisticated plates, intentionally mismatching. The cups would all be glass, of varying shapes. When the ceremony commenced, the plates would be gifts (why the hell not?). The tablecloths would be lace and cotton, collected from relatives and yard sales, on tables moved into said field from people's houses (the ceremony would be smaller, so we would only need ten to fifteen tables. I may be able to borrow some, you never know).

As far as centerpieces, I'd have seasonal flowers in red, yellow, and white, picked by myself and friends, arranged by the aforementioned, in vases and small wicker baskets. The food would be pot-luck, but I'd specify people bring this or that (quiche, asparagus, ham). The cake would be buttercreme, none of that fondant shit.
For the bouquet, it'd be the same deal: some baby's breath, daisies possibly, some damask roses, and maybe black-eyed Susans, maybe. All from my mom's garden. Ideally, it'd be as local-or-organic as possible.

Clearly, I would have spent very little. Thus, I can afford this $2,000 masterpiece:

It's bloody gorgeous. Lace, train, an Edwardian throwback worth every fucking cent. Actually, it's the reason I'm writing this blog.
Anyway, in order to complement this monster, I'd need some godly, but not overly-snazzy dresses for my ladies.
Thus:

Legit, I love the color of the dress and shoes. No one would see my shoes, so they may as well see my bridesmaid's.
For the music, I'd hire a local band to play, have them bring some amps, and go to town. None of that DJ crap.
Oh, and I'd put up white Christmas lights wherever conceivable.

Yeeeah. That sounds like my perfect wedding.

And we're the people that we wanted to know...

And we're the places that we wanted to go.

Here's where I'd go, if I could.


BARCELONNNA! (And I plan to go there, on my semi-obligatory middle class American college student year abroad. Quiero conocer Espana!)


Tambien quiero ir a Mallorca. Se dice que los Baleares son increibles.


Cyprus.


Alexandria.



Addis Ababa.


Istanbuuul!


Pwague.


Terebovlya (city/region in Ukraine where my dad's family hails from).

I'm moving on from you, sir.

I've wasted two years in mindless infatuation. Should've known never to trust a man who plays guitar, huh?

Typical

It's 11 pm.
My father is in the living room,
sipping beer and watching the Olympics.
I'm upstairs, listening to Twee and
taking internet quizzes and
working out.
An average winter evening.

You

Outside it's a mass of low-hanging clouds and falling snow
I'm here by the fire, staring at the screen.
Your name pops up
on my facebook chat.
Do I innitiate conversation, do I hang back?
My mouse hovers over your icon for some time,
quezas,
quezas no.
Why don't I wait for you
to innitiate?
I do.
And you don't.
Soon your icon is gone, you're offline.
I stare out my window once again.

Melancholy Temperment

You are a deep ocean and just as violent. Oh, how poetic. I like. You are emotional and thoughtful, artistic and musical. Si, es la verdad. Even if you don't draw or play an instrument, art and music play a big part in your life. You are talented and creative. You are philosophical and poetic. YES! I love writing poetry and ideas, philosophies rule my lifee. Sometimes that means you create a piece of art or poetry, and sometimes it means you have a new idea or a new way of approaching something. You are always an original. Oh, well. I try. You underestimate yourself and are sensitive. My downfall. You put others before yourself. You feel their pain. Very often. When someone has a problem, they come to you. Not to solve it, but to cry with them. You are analytical and conscientious. Even with all this analysis you are idealistic. Haha, Ethan always tells me I'm too idealistic. You appreciate beauty. In shiny store windows or in dank alleyways, it's everywhere. Life is like a feast for the eyes.You see things others miss, and can feel a problem coming like a chill before the rain. Well put. You are orderly and organized and strive for perfection in everything you do. You value things, people, resources. You are very focused on the details. Mmhm. You make friends cautiously and the friends you have are few and very close to you. You are very faithful and devoted. Don't agree on this one. You value loyalty and can become resentful if betrayed. Oooh yeah. That's the truth. You seek out special people who see your depth and beauty and they travel with you for long friendships. You have a deep concern for other people and will listen to their complaints. If they have the time to tell me, I have all the time to listen. People rely on you. Introvert: The Resident Genius. Gracias.

Ski Shoppin'.

K2: Sweet Luv: cap skis (light + durable). Ungroomed trails 20%, groomed 80% (ratio off a tad, but I'll take it).
Free Luv: cap skis. Ungroomed 40%, groomed 60%. 76 mm waist. ski has forgiveness, responsiveness.
Lotta Luv: cap. Ski has construction to go on crud, packed, and powder. 50% ungroomed, 50% groomed. High performance.
True Luv: cap. High forgiveness. stability. Ungroomed 40%, groomed 60%.

Salomon: Origins Diamond + Z10TI: good in crud + other types. strong edge grip. Ungroomed 40%, groomed 60%. V. comfortable. V. good in speed (meh?)