Holey Words

In that, yeah, they have holes in them. Gaps. You know, the line-spacing is a little relaxed. I don't want anyone to conclude I've taken up Religion, 'cause God (ha ha, anyway,) knows there isn't that kind of order in me right now.

But the questions we say have no answers get asked, and not answering them is an answer.

And since so many of these questions raise themselves through the inconceivable (!) patterns in life, I'm always asking if the answers are written there as prominently, and simply are often ignored? We do all make a lot of the same mistakes, right?

And if I never asked what was the difference, or the sameness, or in whatever ways the mystery, between myself and That Other with the stare and the smiles and something, then I'd have never thought about what is myself. And I never know what that is more strongly than when I know there is a death ensured for me. That death doesn't scare me so much. Dying scares me, I don't cherish the thought of sickness and bodily decay, hell I don't even like feeling nauseous after a long race, and that's candy compared to some things.

But I feel like every passing way in which I live my life in some way right is an indefinable, lasting triumph over that death. I'm not talking about ascending to the heavens on a column of light so much as putting, or at least provoking, something good in the world.

This ain't really my sort of thing to write, you know. But I felt like it, dammit.

So where is this leading me? Is it worth asking? I know I'll have to find an answer somewhere, and, sometimes I hope, soon.


Edit: Kirsten, who incidentally has been arguing with christian wackos who say that oral sex is okay before marriage but condoms mark one for hell, just asked me if I was dying. Let me lapse from laughter to the sternest of eyes: haha, no. Holding off on that one for a while, you wouldn't want me dying without you knowing about it, right?

I want . . .

I'm tired.

My exams are done, a big   gap   in the school year waits for me
To fall in . . .

In winter I probably need the time off. I always hate the little fist my mind has tightened into by this part of the year. I'm work-minded. Winter's bad to me in other ways too: my hands freeze and dry up until little lines of blood appear on my knuckles and the ball of my wrist, making it hurt to type, or play piano, or do dishes. My lips crack. In fact every night I wake up with dust in my mouth and have to climb out of bed to get a drink of water.

And some spirit has carpeted my room in the finest grains of sand, that pack and screech minutely against each other when trod on.

The house seems a lot bigger, there is a taste of salinity in the air. Expansiveness too, as if the walls are backing away from something. A stalking hydrophage.

Outside my window a sucking wind howls through dessicated twigs of trees and soon will blast through huddling dunes of needles of snow, transforming them into hurricanes.

And the edge of my left eye thinks I see a flash of someone watching me from behind a curtain. And at the edge of my right ear, at the threshold of hearing, someone whispers:

"Did you see . . . ?"

And Then I Read the Poems, And Then I Felt Alright

current mood: feelin' alright
current music: this ain't livejournal

Just did my Big Poetry In-Class Essay Numbah 1, concerning a couple of sonnets by a certain Shakespeare I could name. Wanna know what of its I kicked? I'll give you a hint: it was the ass.

So yeah, if I used the phrase "slam dunk" for anything, and I think I should start,* it would be this.

Just in case it was too good, I entitled the essay Shakespeare: Melon Farmer or Echidna? That oughta keep success from going to my head.

------

* Scene: André is in the kitchen, playing Simon with Ray Charles. Enter Dave.

André: Hey Dave.

Dave: (hoisting bag o' bagels aloft) We have bagels!

André: Nice, how much were they?

Dave: Two dollars off!

André: (somewhat impressed) Slam dunk.

Ray Charles: Hell yeah! (Then he wins at Simon, while I'm not looking)

roll credits.

A Lie of Omission

Today a stranger emailed me to say she wished me good luck finding my friend. True Story.

Something Something

I want to be brushed by the breeze that can’t help feeling happier than sad.
I want negative entropy.
I want a smile like an open palm,
not unlike rain-soaked earth after a drought.
I want to dance wildly on rain-spattered earth after a drought.
I want dust to mud to earth to life.
I want the moral of the story, that, even when I can’t see it, always is there.
I want matter and antimatter and chaos and the beginning of the world.
And the World.
To feed pearls to black elephants.
Smoke to follow the extinguished candle’s gaze.
Fire.
I want to read that monologue I didn’t do in OAC - my fourth piece.
I want to be weak in the knees,
and to hear my heart.
I want to fly the world backwards, and around itself.
I want someone to call me crazy and mean it.
I want someone to call me out and mean it.
I want the vague suggestion of pairs to resolve itself and become real everywhere in me.