I'll believe you when everything you say don't turn out wrong. ♪♫♩
--Matchbox Twenty
Tuesday, July 7
Saturday, April 18
I'm ranting while I'm raving: "There's nothing here worth saving!"
So tell me now what more do you need?
Miguelos, I've lost the will for fighting over everything.
and there's a few things I gotta say... make no mistake I'm mad.
Cause every good thing I had abandoned me.
Oh sad and lonesome me
I'm the walking wounded
Did I say it to your face?
No? I guess I just can't find my place
Why can't you just tell me what more do you need?
Monday, February 23
Thursday, January 22
Friday, January 9
Monday, November 24
Wednesday, November 19
Kryptonite
I definitely feel older. Not just in the physical sense (yesterday I went running and the pain in my knees was horrible) but also mentally. The things that used to interest me don't. The food that I used to like, now inspires not even a second look. Someone asked me the other day what my hobbies are and I couldn't think of any. Yeah, I get it. I am in law school. My life consists of studying, sleeping, studying, eating, studying, listening, and studying. I have no hobbies except those which keep me sane (working out about 4 days a week and watching my weekly sitcoms spread out one night each).
I used to write (this doesn't really count because i have the distinct feeling my style is lacking).
I used to draw and paint (my painting was never that great but my pen and ink work was making strides)
I used to read the newspaper every morning over breakfast (now I don't read anything that doesn't come in textbook form)
Growing up it always seemed that we could retain those things that made us different if we simply tried enough but now I am starting to wonder. It's more than law school, this has been a shift that began slowly, imperceptibly, and now has made my life something I don't recognize.
You think I'm so relaxed, nothing ever bothers me. Now, I realize it may just be apathy. I've been through some shit; some unexpected and a lot of my own making but I still lived it and all this....this is boring. This is simple. All of the possibilities laid before me make me feel
indestructible
Whatever happens, it is all livable. They're all swimming against the current as I sit on the shore.
Invincible
Like Superman right before the kryptonite.
Saturday, October 25
Thursday, October 16
Changing Facebook
Q: And What are your religious views?
A: Religious views? Ha, do you have enough time? I suppose my answer is…that…I don’t have answer.
Q: you think you’re smart don’t you?
A: Generally speaking, yes. Maybe you’re just mad that I didn’t give you a canned answer- a quick response. Shouting from the rooftops with all assuredness that I have the answer the world is looking for…. I can tell you’re not amused. Well, I’m not a Christian. I know that.
Q: Well then what are you?
A: What am I? A Human? A person without a clue? Why do I have to prescribe to some set of beliefs? Sure, I know people who claim to not be Christian anymore. They feel like they don’t deserve the title. Like they aren’t good enough because they don’t actively participate. See, I’m not a Christian because, well, I’m not. It’s about identity [coughs]. Let me tell you something. I was a vegetarian for three years. One day I just decided that meat might not be that bad and I started eating chicken, then pork, and lastly beef. Now, that was two years ago and for a while I still called myself a vegetarian but I wasn’t. That’s the key [pause]. It was one of the identities I gave myself. It was one of the boxes I felt I fit into. Religion is just another box.
Q: Religion is a box?
A: YES! It’s all a box. Democrat, Republican, Christian, Atheist, Aggie, Longhorn, Right, Wrong. What does it matter? I write; does that make me a writer? It’s all a box. Life is a box! Life is the ultimate box because it confines our every action. People see the face of God when they look at people; I just see dignity. The atheists I know are the most moral people you’ll ever meet. You wanna know why? Because they don’t live for anything other than what each person knows is right or wrong. When you are looking to yourself to see the answer, then the answer is much more beautiful than anything I could read out of some book…I mean…
Q: Excuse me. I would actually just like to go ahead and get your answer so we can move on.
A: oh…right, of course.
Q: What are your religious views?
A: Can I check “other”?
Thursday, September 25
Wednesday, July 16
KILL ALL OPTIMISTS
Every short intake surely precedes while in turn succeeding its equal return. The air flows in and out again...Again; I am found breathing without even realizing. It’s been four years of continuous continuing, a fact that is nothing close to living. My best friend is an objectivist and he explains that objectivists believe that there is no perception: there is an ultimate answer to every question. I want to understand his simplistic stylings but I am left looking at life like a modern art painting- always seeing something different with each glance. My own personal mosaic of moments has added up to twenty-two years of life and still has yet to make a rhyming sequence of scheme. Like the bride on her wedding day, I am struck by the realization that I never planned for the after- the aftermath of growing up. Graduate. Get a job. Get Married. Have Kids. I am twenty-two and have nothing to look forward to but a fifty year march to the grave; the day when the breathing stops and my body finally catches up to my brain.
I’ll stop before you begin to think this will end in suicide. It won’t. I can say no to life but I can’t say yes to that…that dirty word that creeps up behind us until we are so disgusted with the everyday that we turn and find it staring us straight in the face. Shocking us with its unearthly grin, we forget the careful tedium of balancing the positives and negatives of one more day of living. I am the heart patient on table feeling the shocks of electricity race through me once again. Yes!! Today I will love living!! Yet the heart knows its own security and falls back into the slow pattern I have crafted these past years.
I’ll do you one better, you believe I need the Lord. Glory Hallelujah, May Christ be praised!!! The religious always believe that their faith will save you from despair, make you believe in living again yet they fail to see the great irony. Christianity is a religion obsessed with death. You talk of our Heavenly Reward and the Judgment of the Wicked. When will these things occur? Today? On this earth? No. They are tasks assigned solely to the creator who we might get the chance to meet after we are dead (if we do everything right first). Have you ever played a game with all rules and no result? If I were a Christian, I would want to die everyday just so I could see if I guessed it right. In this light, martyrdom is not such a sacrifice after all. Surely this is a waste, just as my friend fails to understand. We are standing in front of that great painting and the religious man is shouting that the painting is so obviously a dog…. Really? Cause I just saw life pissing on a fire hydrant.
I am breathing again but this time there is something I must explain. It’s called perception. Every hurt, each affliction, is filtered through it and it is that which measures our level of tolerance and pain. You call me a pessimist. I call myself a realist. Either way, I say we kill all the optimists. Ah, finally a smile from your lips and I know my rant as found its mark. Tonight I will wrap my arms around this grown up life and remember what it felt like to have that swift bolt of electricity race through me once more. Today I say Yes.
Thursday, June 5
Pieces (peace is) Broken Again
Black and white stress unnecessary words….words whose power lie in their being. An email again, fuck, why do we always have to be a world apart? Words stress and I’ve been here before. Cold sanitary rooms stretch unending. Hear the IV drip as nurses slip through quiet corridors. Who was here before…she….who? Here before, I lost myself somewhere along the way. A little piece….a little peace….it’s what you gave me then yet here we are again. I walk to quiet places and scream.
FUCK
YOU
ASSHOLE!!!!!!!!!!
God….God?
Goddamn
Black and white, did you have to do it again?
Monday, April 28
Monday, April 21
That country mouth so plain...
Well I looked my demons in the eyes, laid bare my chest; said, "Do your best to destroy me".
You see, I've been to hell and back so many times I must admit: you kinda bore me.
There's a lot of things that can kill a man.
There's a lot of ways to die.
Yes, and some already did that walk beside me.
There's a lot of things I don't understand.
Why so many people lie.
It's hurt I hide that fuels the fire inside me
Will I always feel this way?
So empty
So estranged
Empty, Ray LaMontagne
Well I looked my demons in the eyes, laid bare my chest; said, "Do your best to destroy me".
You see, I've been to hell and back so many times I must admit: you kinda bore me.
There's a lot of things that can kill a man.
There's a lot of ways to die.
Yes, and some already did that walk beside me.
There's a lot of things I don't understand.
Why so many people lie.
It's hurt I hide that fuels the fire inside me
Will I always feel this way?
So empty
So estranged
Empty, Ray LaMontagne
Monday, April 14
An Autobiography of Sorts
She preferred to tell people that she was named after a George O’Sullivan song. It seemed like a much more interesting tale then the truth of her life, her namesake being a distant relative who had been a hero in the Second World War. No, she simply did not find this truth to be convenient enough for her personality: a free-flowing spirit much more attuned to a generation of love then one of hate. The spelling always presented an issue to her contemporaries as well and she had since devised a perfectly good explanation. Her name was the Irish spelling thank-you-very-much and not as she had been unfortunately told years later by her mother, a simple result of convenience and style. Her name was Clare- a source of pride and anguish for her soul and the focal point of her very existence in this world.
She was an odd girl of sorts with unbridled curls and a quick smile that had bewitched many a stranger. She might have won over the hearts of a millions if she had not been a little too introspective and calculating at times, the result of a brain that worked endlessly behind resilient green eyes. Clare; the name fit her like no other ever could and she was not of the persuasion of girls who fancied what their names could have been if only their parents had had an ounce of originality. Clare: it was simple yet unconventional, concise yet mysterious.
She spent her days away with the two great loves of her life: books and poetry. She could read books end to end, an odd quality that spoke more to her slightly obsessive nature then her lack of social life. To her, books provided the perfect social mechanisms: a world of ready made friends that would last with her as long as she might desire. The pure perfection was met by an equally concise conclusion: the sad endings to her friendships. Each time she would bemoan silently as she carefully read the last page of a particular novel and felt the onset of the melancholy loss envelop her being. It would be simple to begin another sordid affair with a new protagonist but she endured this sadness stoically as though it were her lot in life to bear. To have the joy one must accept the pain.
Though you might be beginning to think that our heroine was a bookworm of sorts, this was simply not the case. She lived fiercely. Her life had been the inspiration of a near-death experience that did not come close to killing her but had left its mark like a brand on her chest. Existing was not an option for Clare and though her obsessive love for the literary was ever present, you could find her indulging in her passions in the various countries of the world. She had read Hemingway in Spain and Rand in England. She had written verses whilst perched on a seat in the middle of Oslo and once by the light of a torch on a train ride to Milan. She rarely wrote of her near-death experience that did not come close to killing her yet it was a constant theme in her work. An homage of sorts that she hoped would one day be sorted by some brilliant mind at Harvard or Cambridge many years after her death. She believed it to be a tragedy and sometimes a comedy though certainly on the darker side if any at all and if it were to be a tragedy then it would be the best kind: the tragedy of a life well lived. This was her story and though she had never once considered writing an autobiography she could not think of a more clever mind to begin the tale. Yes, a tragedy and the beginning of a tragedy is always the most important line of all. How hers would begin remained a mystery yet not a hopeless one because she had believed since she was a little girl that the best answer, the truest art, is never created but discovered. So how would it begin?
“The girl who lived.” Eh, too Rowlings and entirely too contemporary.
‘The worst of times…” Respectable but recognizable.
“a ruin so strange it must have never happened.” Poetic and her absolute favorite but Kingsolver was far too honorary for her to plagiarize.
She could set her mind to discover this simple line if she could find a moment to think. It was hard to sum up ones life and package it in such a way to make it both appealing and compelling. The line was almost there, she could feel it in the marrow of her bones.
Voila!
“She preferred to tell people that she was named after a George O’Sullivan song.”
She preferred to tell people that she was named after a George O’Sullivan song. It seemed like a much more interesting tale then the truth of her life, her namesake being a distant relative who had been a hero in the Second World War. No, she simply did not find this truth to be convenient enough for her personality: a free-flowing spirit much more attuned to a generation of love then one of hate. The spelling always presented an issue to her contemporaries as well and she had since devised a perfectly good explanation. Her name was the Irish spelling thank-you-very-much and not as she had been unfortunately told years later by her mother, a simple result of convenience and style. Her name was Clare- a source of pride and anguish for her soul and the focal point of her very existence in this world.
She was an odd girl of sorts with unbridled curls and a quick smile that had bewitched many a stranger. She might have won over the hearts of a millions if she had not been a little too introspective and calculating at times, the result of a brain that worked endlessly behind resilient green eyes. Clare; the name fit her like no other ever could and she was not of the persuasion of girls who fancied what their names could have been if only their parents had had an ounce of originality. Clare: it was simple yet unconventional, concise yet mysterious.
She spent her days away with the two great loves of her life: books and poetry. She could read books end to end, an odd quality that spoke more to her slightly obsessive nature then her lack of social life. To her, books provided the perfect social mechanisms: a world of ready made friends that would last with her as long as she might desire. The pure perfection was met by an equally concise conclusion: the sad endings to her friendships. Each time she would bemoan silently as she carefully read the last page of a particular novel and felt the onset of the melancholy loss envelop her being. It would be simple to begin another sordid affair with a new protagonist but she endured this sadness stoically as though it were her lot in life to bear. To have the joy one must accept the pain.
Though you might be beginning to think that our heroine was a bookworm of sorts, this was simply not the case. She lived fiercely. Her life had been the inspiration of a near-death experience that did not come close to killing her but had left its mark like a brand on her chest. Existing was not an option for Clare and though her obsessive love for the literary was ever present, you could find her indulging in her passions in the various countries of the world. She had read Hemingway in Spain and Rand in England. She had written verses whilst perched on a seat in the middle of Oslo and once by the light of a torch on a train ride to Milan. She rarely wrote of her near-death experience that did not come close to killing her yet it was a constant theme in her work. An homage of sorts that she hoped would one day be sorted by some brilliant mind at Harvard or Cambridge many years after her death. She believed it to be a tragedy and sometimes a comedy though certainly on the darker side if any at all and if it were to be a tragedy then it would be the best kind: the tragedy of a life well lived. This was her story and though she had never once considered writing an autobiography she could not think of a more clever mind to begin the tale. Yes, a tragedy and the beginning of a tragedy is always the most important line of all. How hers would begin remained a mystery yet not a hopeless one because she had believed since she was a little girl that the best answer, the truest art, is never created but discovered. So how would it begin?
“The girl who lived.” Eh, too Rowlings and entirely too contemporary.
‘The worst of times…” Respectable but recognizable.
“a ruin so strange it must have never happened.” Poetic and her absolute favorite but Kingsolver was far too honorary for her to plagiarize.
She could set her mind to discover this simple line if she could find a moment to think. It was hard to sum up ones life and package it in such a way to make it both appealing and compelling. The line was almost there, she could feel it in the marrow of her bones.
Voila!
“She preferred to tell people that she was named after a George O’Sullivan song.”
Saturday, April 12
The Song You Pen
We watched night come familiar sun two wishing to be one
Hearts sweat between eyes set two plus one made three devise
Split to break minutes to seconds serving only this memory to reckon
That maybe time changes time flying then pausing for moments of rhyme
We watched night come familiar sun two wishing to be one
Hearts sweat between eyes set two plus one made three devise
Split to break minutes to seconds serving only this memory to reckon
That maybe time changes time flying then pausing for moments of rhyme
Words to lyrics the song you pen painting the melody you find me in
Dancing slow and breathing free forgetting oceans to finally see
Dancing slow and breathing free forgetting oceans to finally see
What surely was must have been the best night without end
Friday, April 4
Monday, March 31
words made pretty by dedication, slant of hand and careful dictation
a flower of lines drawn with skill, curving the twist of fluff and frill
extract each single you i miss, I want nothing more than this
but each grows more short, now in need of a line plus fort*
what counts six just one, more than I could have done
can flowers finally last, can words color our past
punctuation is close,so I'm switching to prose
I will not be afraid of what lies ahead. à la passé, j'ai dit c'est ça. je ne peux pas changer elle donc je reste et crois. de temps en temps, mon mots est française mais mon coeur est vrai...vrai à la pensée de toi*. My heart is true...true to the thought of you.
*stronger
* to the past, I said things are as they are. I cannot change it so I remain and believe. from time to time my words are french but my heart is true...true to the thought of you.
a flower of lines drawn with skill, curving the twist of fluff and frill
extract each single you i miss, I want nothing more than this
but each grows more short, now in need of a line plus fort*
what counts six just one, more than I could have done
can flowers finally last, can words color our past
punctuation is close,so I'm switching to prose
I will not be afraid of what lies ahead. à la passé, j'ai dit c'est ça. je ne peux pas changer elle donc je reste et crois. de temps en temps, mon mots est française mais mon coeur est vrai...vrai à la pensée de toi*. My heart is true...true to the thought of you.
*stronger
* to the past, I said things are as they are. I cannot change it so I remain and believe. from time to time my words are french but my heart is true...true to the thought of you.
Monday, March 17
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