Monday, August 22, 2011

but i'll admit that i was glad it was over

Woke one morning, free. No thought how long the change went unnoticed. No scenes haunting or conversations echoing. No reverberating regrets. Just silence. 

But I'll admit that I was glad it was over. Now you're just somebody that I used to know.

And I hope I'm just somebody that you used to know.

Sunday, June 12, 2011

unintentional innuendo

work chat. brilliantly uncomfortable for all parties. all because i was sipping a coke.

male work-associate: is vanilla coke so much better than regular coke?
me: yes. 
so certain are you
well, i guess that settles it
it does. 
i guess me question is: i was never a coke guy, but does is the vanilla taste way different?
what do you usually drink?
because this is nectar. no lie. 
i tend to obey my thirst
lame joke?
to the drink AND the joke. 
yeah, i tried
sometime, you need to pour me a little drop of it into a cup
i want to sample your nectar
that sounded messed up
so sorry
whoa. that's actionable. 
did not mean it like that
coming attraction: sexual harassment seminar. 
next week. 
well, some time let me have some vanilla coke
that's all
nothing else implied
and that is the end of this ill-fated and somewhat ill-conceived conversation
fair enough. 


Wednesday, June 8, 2011

Saturday, May 7, 2011

one more word from gilda radner

I can always be distracted by love, but eventually I get horny for my creativity.

a word from gilda radner

I wanted a perfect ending. Now I've learned, the hard way, that some poems don't rhyme, and some stories don't have a clear beginning, middle, and end. Life is about not knowing, having to change, taking the moment and making the best of it, without knowing what's going to happen next. Delicious ambiguity.

to be a person is to have a story to tell.

I love stories. I love hearing the personalized, fractioned portions of human experience told with unfiltered honesty. I found these two stories tonight. Neither are particularly happy, per se, but both are honest. Both stories have been carried. Perhaps some fragmented peace comes by the telling.

danny and annie

germans in the woods

To be a person is to have a story to tell. Isak Dinesen.

Tuesday, March 22, 2011

slow art of decay

I was given a rose for valentine's day. typical. It is still in a vase on my nightstand. atypical.

The first thirty-six hours of my possession went well. Said rose was red. Said rose was sweet-smelling. Kind (albeit temporary) pleasures of my dismembered rose bush member. Decay was always inevitable.

Petals still intact. Wrinkled now, submissive. Stem half black half green, have resigned half mulish. I could throw rose away, but let's not rush this.  

forgotten untitled attempts

I watch mountains. Not close
where inconsistency suggests imperfection.
I watch mountains distantly.
Blue, illusively perfect.

You tore into me
              and left
leaving me to gather
what remains
of my guard.

the pull of entropy

I am a notoriously infrequent writer. Notorious to myself, if to no one else. I start writing creatively only to drop it. Or critique it into oblivion. Or forget about its existence full stop. Or in those rarest of instances where I finally write something I'm even marginally proud of, I hide it. I'm very crafty, you see. I have many hiding places. 

I didn't always hide; I was braver before. In my first year of middle school I would write poetry, often. I would dig into whatever recesses existed in my twelve-year-old mind and share my finding with full classrooms without the reserve and embarrassment I would somehow adopt a few months later. Confidence failed, typical of adolescence, I suppose, and poetry failed suit. 

Perhaps I should make amends with the past. 

In an uncharacteristic play on consistency, I intend to write more. Openly. What follows I expect will be both unique and quite mundane. My thoughts, attempts, frustrations, fragmented memoriesmy disorganized matter. I cannot promise art. I can hardly promise readability, coherency, or logic. I can only promise honesty. 

Monday, February 14, 2011

hated is blind, as well as love. thanks, oscar wilde.

Valentine's day must get picked on by all the other holidays. Or at least by half of them.

I have no qualms with valentine's day. I don't stomp around cursing old lovers or mow down passing couples with well-aimed death stares. I don't comfort-binge. I don't rant. But I don't bedazzle myself with v-day red and pink either.

I've never quite understood the divergent armies that seem to gather around mid-February. On one side of the holiday, an over-armed/under-dressed child-creature gains temporary deity status and love abounds. by law. On the other extreme, "love" becomes an expletive, a 24-hour dirty word that will ruin the party for any "singles awareness" participant.

I think extreme responses to one day is exhausting. Enjoy if you want, ignore, if you please.

Don't bury the world in conversation-heart romance.

Don't begrudge the love.


Thursday, January 27, 2011

the ten commandments of detective fiction

  1. The criminal must be someone mentioned in the early part of the story, but must not be anyone whose thoughts the reader has been allowed to follow.
  2. All supernatural or preternatural agencies are ruled out as a matter of course.
  3. Not more than one secret room or passage is allowable.
  4. No hitherto undiscovered poisons may be used, nor any appliance which will need a long scientific explanation at the end.
  5. No Chinaman must figure in the story.
  6. No accident must ever help the detective, nor must he ever have an unaccountable intuition which proves to be right.
  7. The detective must not himself commit the crime.
  8. The detective must not light on any clues which are not instantly produced for the inspection of the reader.
  9. The stupid friend of the detective, the Watson, must not conceal any thoughts which pass through his mind; his intelligence must be slightly, but very slightly, below that of the average reader.
  10. Twin brothers, and doubles generally, must not appear unless we have been duly prepared for them.
Thank you, Ronald Knox. Always a pleasure.