Eyes closed, jazzing.

I have been gone for SO long.

2008-06-16T23:37:00.002-05:00

It's June already. Wow. I haven't been on here since May....I feel like an absentee parent, lol.

Summer is busy. Summer is relaxing. And stressful, too. And fun. And HOT (stupid Texas weather). It is good :)

We are all drowning. The key is to float.
Floatin' along.

Freedoooom.

2008-05-06T00:57:00.003-05:00

Hooray!
My sophomore year of college is officially over.

And so begins the summer...

Anyone have interesting plans for the summer?
My plans include: working, spending lots of time with my closest friends, (maybe) doing a concentrated study on the meaning/purpose of companionship, and setting up my study abroad trip.

Tangible

2008-04-29T14:51:00.004-05:00

Sometimes I tap my foot to reassure myself I'm still here.
For, my reality does not exist here; it exists within.

Procrastination....I'm good at it.

2008-04-23T21:21:00.003-05:00

I love thunderstorms.

The lightning, the thunder, the immense amount of rain.....aah, all of it is so wonderful. Thunderstorms are even BETTER when they are at night. I'm not sure why. They just are.

Truthfully, I should be writing a 5 page paper (double-spaced) on Mary Shelley's "The Last Man" and Dickens' "Bleak House" right now...obviously, that's not happening. I love writing papers....but I hate starting a paper; the introduction is the toughest part of the paper for me, it marks the beginning of my stream of creativity (too bad the stream usually starts out as a small trickle).

So here I sit. Eating Quaker Oatmeal Squares (mmmm) and listening to the thunder.

Time to turn on the jazz music and get the stream flowin'.

Blue.

2008-04-19T23:31:00.000-05:00

I am at peace, here in this ocean-blue embrace
A medley of colors swirling all around me
Colors of happiness, sadness, fear, and love
But none quite compare to blue, to you
A walk in the park, I wear my tinted glasses
Colors changing when my eyes pass over them
Black is no longer fearful, nor white so empty
Red, now purple, is passion with a twist, of you
Yellow, what we now call green, is true happiness
The gray skies which hung low over my head
Are now streaked with color, vibrant color
This is peace, true blue, true you

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

On a side note, school is consuming my life right now.

My bookcase is getting full.

2008-04-17T00:04:00.003-05:00

We just finished reading Oscar Wilde's "The Picture of Dorian Gray" in my Brit Lit class.
I really enjoyed reading it. The ending was quite dramatic but very appropriate. I recommend zee book.

We are now starting our last book of the semester: H.G. Wells' "Time Machine". I'm excited to read it....my professor picks wonderful books for us to read. I have loved every one of them.

Oh my, I love the smell of books.........and the smell of books AND coffee (together). I usually always smell the book I am reading....am I the only one who does that?

I want to write a book, someday.

A bit of poetry.

2008-04-13T23:35:00.002-05:00

I love Rainer Maria Rilke.

The Second Elegy

Any angel is frightening.
Yet, because I know of you,
I invoke you in spite of myself,
you lethal birds of soul.

Were the archangel, the dangerous one
beyond the stars, to move down now
one step closer to us, we would die
from the fear in our own hearts.

Who are you?

Fated to be happy from the beginning of time,
creation's spoiled immortal darlings,
summits of the cosmos shining at dawn,
pollen from heavenly blossoms, limbs of light,
hallways, stairs, thrones carved from existence,
shields of ecstasy, shrines for delight -
and suddenly, each one, mirror:
where our own evanescent beauty
is gathered into an enduring countenance.

But we, when we feel, evaporate.
We breathe ourselves out and gone.
Like the glow of an ember,
the fragrance we give off grows weaker.
One could well say to us,
"You have entered my blood,
this room, this springtime is full of you..."
What use is that when he cannot hold us
and we disappear into him and around him?

And those who are beautiful -
who can keep them as they are?
Unceasingly in their faces
the life in them arises and goes forth.
Like dew from morning grass,
like steam from a plate of food,
what is ours goes out from us.

Where does a smile go, or the upward glance,
the sudden warm movement of the heart?
Yet that is what we are. Does the universe
we dissolve into
taste of us a little?
Do the angels radiate only their own
outflowing essence,
or is there sometimes, by some oversight,
a bit of ours in it as well?
Are we mixed into their features,
even if only vaguely
as the openness in the faces
of pregnant women?
The angels themselves
don't notice. How could they?

Lovers, if they understood this,
could say wonderful things to each other
in the night. But it seems
our own impermanence is concealed from us.
The trees stand firm, the houses we live in
are still there. We alone
flow past it all, an exchange of air.

Everything conspires to silence us,
partly with shame,
partly with unspeakable hope.

Lovers, you who are for a while
sufficient to each other,
help me understand who we are.
You hold each other. Have you proof?
See, my hands hold each other too.
I put my used-up face in them.
It helps me feel known.
Just from that, can we believe we endure?
You, however, who increase
through each other's delight,
you who ripen in each other's hands
like grapes in a vintage year:
I'm asking you
who we are.

You touch one another so reverently;
as though your caresses
could keep each place they cover
from disappearing. As though, underneath, you could sense
that which will always exist.
So, as you embrace, you promise each other eternity.

And yet, when that first look
struck terror in you,
and you stood at the window, longing,
and you walked together, just once,
through the garden: Lovers,
are you still who you were then?
When you lift the other to your mouth
to drink each other - drink to drink:
ah, how strangely the drinker fades from the act.

Haven't you been moved, in those early Greek carvings,
by the care you see in human gesture?
Weren't love and loss so gently laid upon the shoulders
that people seemed made of different stuff
than in our day?

Think of the hands, how they touch without pressure,
although there is strength in the torso.
These figures seem to know,
"We have come this far.
This is given to us, to touch
each other this way.
The gods may lean on us more strongly,
but that is their nature."

We may yearn to come to rest
in some small piece of pure humanity,
a strip of orchard between river and rock.
But our own heart is too vast to be contained there.
We can no longer seek it in a place
or even in the image of a god or an angel.

(the inability to create an interesting title)

2008-04-12T00:53:00.003-05:00

Remember that game Frogger?
Ya know, you are a little frog who has to hop across the highway and then across some logs in a river to get to the colorful bugs....and then, later on, you hop around on clouds or on ice.....
I wasted some valuable time on that game.
Damn Kermit.

Which reminds me...

I love the muppets. Beaker is definitely the coolest of them all (although I cannot choose my favorite book, I can choose my favorite muppet). I used to have this Beaker pencil topper.....I wonder where that went....

Rhyme or reason? Neither rhyme nor reason? Rhyme AND reason?!
I've had too much coffee today.

The Sky Clears

2008-04-09T12:18:00.001-05:00

And
with the night
comes moonlight

Promise of
a new day.

Artistic endeavors.

2008-04-07T14:30:00.004-05:00

In response to Pixie's latest post:

“The whole difference between construction and creation is exactly this: that a thing constructed can only be loved after it is constructed; but a thing created is loved before it exists.” - Charles Dickens

(In the art world) This, to me, is what separates those who sit, stiffly, inside of the box and those who have been daring enough to step outside of it.

The problem with thinking too much.

2008-04-05T02:05:00.003-05:00

I always seem to come up with the greatest ideas for poems or for books while I am driving in the car. Now, this would not be an issue if I could simultaneously write and drive...but I am not that talented (or stupid).
So I usually end up losing the great idea by the time I pull into the driveway. This is due to the fact that I move through ideas quickly, without realizing it.
And that frustrates me greatly because, not only do I lose the idea, I can rarely retrieve the great idea. I usually just retrieve the semi-good idea or I retrieve some random idea about how to make my peanut butter and honey sandwich taste even better.

Mmm, peanut butter and honey sandwiches. Bet you didn't think peanut butter and honey would be FANTASTIC together. Well, they are quite a pair.

Just some nonsense.

2008-04-02T23:28:00.002-05:00

So I finished Charles Dickens' "Bleak House".
It is a wonderful book. A long, foggy, intertwining, poetically written, WONDERFUL book.
In other words...it's a good book. Haha.

My professor proudly declared that "Dickens...is....GOD!!" I laughed hysterically.

Now I am reading (for my Brit Lit class) "Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde".
For my Brit Lit paper I am reading Mary Shelley's "The Last Man".
AND, for my own enjoyment, I am reading Mr. Salinger's "The Catcher in the Rye". (I have been wanting to read this book for so long)
So...many....books...oh my.

Have you ever thought about how difficult it is to pick a favorite book? I cannot pick just one. It's absolutely impossible. I can pick a favorite author (Ernest Hemingway) but I cannot pick a favorite book. Oh well, every book that I love has served a different purpose in my life and has taught me a different lesson.

Dancing in the Dark

2008-03-30T22:27:00.002-05:00

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.

2008-03-29T22:39:00.000-05:00

I love Madonna.

That is all.

Stirrings

2008-03-25T23:51:00.003-05:00

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.

2008-03-24T16:07:00.002-05:00

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.

2008-03-22T15:35:00.002-05:00

“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.

2008-03-20T01:13:00.002-05:00

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.

2008-03-17T16:27:00.003-05:00

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.

2008-03-16T12:16:00.002-05:00

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.

2008-03-13T15:47:00.002-05:00

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

2008-03-11T23:40:00.003-05:00

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)

Tap tap.

2008-02-15T16:24:00.004-06:00

Straining and sweating
we push
against each other
we grow old
in hatred and
in despair

Echoes insufficient
except to remind us
that nothing exists
but our very
own breaths

Moving in and
moving out –
side are the
sounds of chaos
or of freedom

From this prison
made of
words formed by
an attempt to
touch the gates
of heaven, itself

Dark wall-tappings
in quick succession
make morse code
a message of
ess, oh, ess

Save our souls.

Crimson

2008-03-06T23:29:00.004-06:00

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

Trip

2008-03-06T23:27:00.003-06:00

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