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 memories—my disorganized matter. I cannot promise art. I can hardly promise readability, coherency, or logic. I can only promise honesty. 

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.

Truce?

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. 

sometimes bulimia is the healthiest option

I am regretting the night's activities. Harmless movie followed by harmful consumption.

Fast food always seems like such a good idea at the time, but regret almost always follows. (Why do I forget that regret almost always follows?) Poor decisions put me in a slightly urgent state of moral dilemma: Do I complacently allow my body digest the large side of cow and harvest of potatoes I was too foolish to deny--resulting in a drastically reduced lifespan filled with obesity, heart disease, and self-loathing? Or do I just have up with it all?

It's an interesting evening when you realize that developing an eating disorder may be a strategic advancement up the rungs of the health ladder.

i still need you but i don't want you now

The video? Disregard.

The music? Embrace.