Dancing in the Dark

Right now, I am swimming in the sounds of John Coltrane's saxophone and Miles Davis' trumpet....oh, how I love jazz.

[I am always perplexed when people say that they hate jazz music.
"How can you hate it!?!? It's so FREE!!"
But everyone's entitled to their own opinion.....some people just don't have the ear for it.]

I've often thought about why I so strongly migrate towards jazz music. The best reason I've come up with is that it is the music of my soul (and even that doesn't make much sense...). It is music birthed out of freedom; it contains, within itself, its own movement. So...jazzy haha.

I also love watching jazz bands play live, simply because I enjoy watching people do something they truly love and become a part of. Jazz players are great musicians to watch because they become so engrossed with the music, they become uninhibited (then they make all those funny faces and tap their feet, etc).

"Many colors, swirling
Eyes closed, jazzing
It's all inside my head."

Like it or not.

I love Madonna.





That is all.

Stirrings

Moves like
ice across the tabletop
melted trails left
smooth like
cream in my coffee
stirred, looking lighter
brighter on this side
and greener too

Colors dancing
'round to the tune
ever-present, never-ending
impressed foot-walkings
indicating movements
in the right direction

Where the sky
bleeds blue-er
and breathes
in time with
the entirety.
It lives.

Drawing the tower.

Today in art class, we made (very rough) ink pens out of bamboo reeds. We had to use little razor blades to sharpen the reeds and whatnot...it made me a bit nervous.
[Just picture a big class of art students, who are not experienced in razor-wielding, chopping and slicing away at small bamboo reeds......uh huh, a bit nerve-wracking]
SO once we finished hacking away at our bamboo, we broke out our India Ink and started drawing. India Ink is really cool. It dries very quickly (on paper and on my hands).

Another successful day in art class.
I really want to do gesture drawing again....that was the most fun I have ever had in art class. Charcoal was EVERYWHERE.

I still have India Ink all over my hands....oh well.

Thank you Mrs. President.

“In the long run, we shape our lives, and we shape ourselves. The process never ends until we die. And the choices we make are ultimately our own responsibility.”
-Eleanor Roosevelt

Currently (yes, as I am writing this), I am watching a biography about Mrs. Roosevelt. Quite a remarkable woman. I am adding her Autobiography to my list of books to read.

And as for the quote at the beginning of this post:
After many years and many, many, musings upon the subject, I came to the same conclusion that Eleanor did.
Who I am is not a constant. Who I am is based upon every second that slips by. All my morals, all my ideas about life, and the way people perceive me is based upon that fact that I continually make the choice to remain "me". In the next second, I could decide to completely reinvent who I am. All I have to do is make one split-second choice to be changed.
But why would I want to do that? Haha, I don't want to. All I'm saying is that it really is that easy.

"Life is a progress, not a station." So true, Mr. Emerson, so true. It is a comfort to know that life is a movement. Change, like death, is inevitable. It occurs every second. I have learned to place my expectations, on this earth, not on others but on movement...progression...change. Therefore, I am never disappointed.
Of course, the way I survive the unpredictable ways of life is because of God. But that's another musing for another day.

Toss it around.

The question is: what is peace?

"Peace. It does not mean to be in a place where there is no noise, trouble, or hard work. It means to be in the midst of those things and still be calm in your heart."

Hm.

In the end: A thought on the subject of solitary.

When I was young, I used to sit in the car on rainy days and watch the raindrops hit my window. I was fascinated by the way one droplet would travel down the window; connecting with other droplets and becoming so much bigger than it had been when it started its strange journey down. I always felt this odd sense of sadness, loss, when the droplet would roll to the bottom of the window and disappear, its journey ending. They (the droplets) seemed, with the help of my active imagination, alive, to me. What amazed me, the most, was the way a droplet would roll close to another droplet and, suddenly, they would become one. Now, of course, I know that it's just a chemical bonding thing, but back then, it was like...two people becoming one. Or like a group of children linking arms in a field, preparing to stand strong against the running opponent in a game of red rover. It was unity, oneness, wholeness, something to that effect. It was a visual example of how I thought the world should work - we journey through life, linking arms with certain individuals, and we all connect and carry one another to the end.

But at the very end, it was still one droplet.

---------------------

It seems humanity will always question the meaning.

We search, here and there, we experiment, we get curious.
We dumb ourselves down, chemically impaired and theologically un-sound, we discuss philosophies, speculations, while our memories melt away. Our tongues moving like snakes in the dark - fear sways the animals.
Eat, sleep, reproduce...it's enough for them, not enough for us.
As if the reflection in the mirror hides some truth behind it, we break each other, we bend and stretch the glass until it splits into a web; it all comes crashing down.
We.want.more. We want it all.
And we cannot give it to each other. The hardest part is accepting that single truth.

The answer is not out there. But it's in there.

Ok. So. Yes.

Lately, I've had a small obsession with mini cinnamon bagels. They are so tiny...so delicious...so cinnamony (it's a word in my vocabulary).
They are exceptionally delicious with honey on top and I've also discovered that butter and honey is an even better combination. All hail the petite cinnamon bagels!

SO, for my Brit. Lit. class I am reading Charles Dickens' "Bleak House". It is an extremely long novel (about 900 pages) and I wasn't sure if I was going to enjoy it. Surprisingly enough, I am enjoying it quite thoroughly.
[Which makes sense considering I have an obsession (slightly greater then my vanilla scone obsession) with London and British culture, in general.]
Dickens is a great writer. Poetic, in a way. He has a pretty firm grasp on how society "works" and on how humans interact with one another. Reading "Bleak House" is much like tuning into your favorite television show every week, hungry for the next big plot twist.

I'll make it to the moon if I have to crawl.

A note I left for my brother. And then the note he left for me.

This morning, I woke up before my brother and left him a note telling him to join me at Starbucks when he awoke from his slumber. The note read like this:
Dutch Spindle-links,
I am at Starbucks studying and whatnot. You should join me.
Sincerely,
Edelweiss Starship

He joined me at Starbucks and brought with him a note replying to mine.
It read as follows:
Merchant Toille Node,
I am exceedingly pleased with your Matilda-flavored invitation, as you can see by my aloysius presence. Lands of chrandrome should not meet with mitochondria stipends, as you know they are disillusioned by their megaphone slaptastics.
Amen + 98% - 6QTRL,
Ian

My brother and I are very strange. Very, very, very strange.

Explorations of the day

Alright. I've just been posting poetry on here but I feel like I should break out of the routine and post something different [AAAAAH, DIFFERENCE]. Yes. Different.

Today, my friend and I decided to take a trip to the Modern Art Museum in Fort Worth. Upon deciding to travel to Fort Worth, we came to the conclusion that we wished to ride the DART train there.
We missed the 12:30 train. No problem. We got on the 12:45 train.
We arrived at our transfer station (at 1:30) and were unpleasantly surprised by the departure time of the next train...3 o clock. This news was very upsetting.
I suddenly felt a strong desire to kick an ugly pigeon, but then I remembered the story about the man who went to jail for stomping a pigeon to death...so I resisted the urge.
(I'm not really a violent person, weird ideas just pop into my head at random times)
Ergo, exploring ensued. We scuffled around downtown Dallas and ate some BBQ and watched some college students interview and film the regulars in West End.
We hopped onto our 3 o clock train and sat across from a somewhat crazy woman.

[It was quite sad, actually. She was apparently homeless and alone and not completely sane. She told us a lot of different stories and, eventually, I stopped listening and started looking, watching.
Her eyes spoke of unrest and of loneliness and of pain. No peace. No love.
Sitting there, listening to her, made me realize (even more then I already had realized) how comfortable I was. I have a home and a job and I go to school....hell, receiving a low grade on a paper is a bad day for me. Not being able to eat is a bad day for her.
It was one of those moments where reality is suspended and the picture suddenly gets bigger, the screen widening and the vision focusing.
I learned something today that no professor could ever teach me.]

After getting off the train, we attempted to speed-walk to the museum but could not make it there in time.
SO we hopped back onto the returning train and made our way back to Dallas.

I was a bit sad that I did not get to wonder at the paintings of Lichtenstein, Rothko, Warhol, Pollock, etc. BUT it was a very interesting and eye-opening (and random) day.

I love exploring (especially exploring the city of London...but that's another story)

Crimson

A strange mystery
it is tugging at
this very heart

blood is flowing
through fingertips
it is dripping
onto the dirt

where it began
I cannot say
why
this red equals
both love and hate

Pulsing through
these fingertips
moves the power
to create

To love or hate

© 2008 Alex Stageman

Trip

First
fall hard
on the pavement
carved initials
from long ago
faded by
repetition

I am not
the first
nor shall I be

the last
to leave a mark

here,
I etch
who I was

I dust myself off
I limp away

© 2008 Alex Stageman