there's something about the u.s. postal service that reminds me of wal-mart. go at the wrong time, and you'll wish you had brought a bagged lunch while standing in line.

charlie and i did some recording a few days ago: www.myspace.com/rubbermulletmusic. enjoy. :)

in my right hand, spoon river anthology. in my left hand, the motorcycle diaries.

Any minute now my ship is coming in
I'll keep checking the horizon
And I'll stand on the bow
And feel the waves come crashing
Come crashing down, down, down on me

And you said,"Be still, my love
Open up your heart
Let the light shine in"
Don't you understand?
I already have a plan
I'm waiting for my real life to begin

i feel that way today.

it's going to be amazing ((the leaves will droop with rain or the wind will dry it all)) the sky is not going to fall; i think. it's going to be: a scene out of spoon river [e.l.m.]. now all we need is a kickstand for this old-machine. all we need is a real freewheeler. all that, without saying anything (at all).

t.r., how are the florentine grapes this season? how are the shelves of souvenirs? do you remember or forget it yet? we were going to plan a trip to come see you and then we remembered that we are victims of the recession.

bottleneck effect, love builds up until everyone is loved equally before anyone is even met first.

this is life's sorrow:
that one can be happy only where two are;
and that our hearts are drawn to stars
which want us not.

i feel like i have so much to write, and so little access to the internet.

alas.

things are sitting in my [understanding of the metaphysical location of my] heart.

i u-turned in kinston because i figured it out and settled things in my mind. there was no point in driving on into the night, seeking a moonlit cigarillo beach walk. i had a long self-talk, the lunatic rantings that are needed once in a while to stay sane. the storm to restore the calm. i was running away, and i knew it. i need this, i said, as i drove. i started at the beginning of everything i could remember. the humming highway stretched out like a listening ear: you can scatter your burdens here. i spared no details and i told myself the truth. this happened and this happened and that. this may have been why, this could have been why, this could have been and yet is irrelevant now. and by kinston i knew what i needed to know and i knew it.

a friend proposed in rome this past week. i got a picture mail of the coliseum. the old thing standing there, an ancient structure. some people are still living dreams, and that is comforting.

you wonder what it all really means
you wonder if you'll ever find your dreams
and i wonder
if you know
what it means


i am hesitating in singleness. this may be a concept that only i understand and can fully appreciate. not the concept, but my understanding and experience of it. there is a craving inside me. it's not good for man to be alone. but womankind, you are confusing. there is a unique freedom and simplicity in singleness. but, there is also a uniqueness in a relationship with the right person. i hesitate to give up either. i don't know everything--and i may not know much--but i've learned that i can't always make people happy. sometimes it is my failing. sometimes it is not my business or responsibility to make them happy. i do my best, i succeed, i fail, i am exactly human.

come on, get higher
loosen my lips
faith and desire
and the swing of your hips
just pull me down hard
and drown me in love

my friend soumya from india is possibly the most unique person i've ever met.

my proposing friend texts me:

In a bar. Lauras sleep. Live band. Old negro spirituals. English. England never enhlish like america made english. I'm very alone in the bar. I saw where keats died.

never think

3.1 miles (5k). 27 minutes. i'm getting closer to my goal every time i run. and this is my goal: to beat my best 5k time that i ran in high school: 21 minutes. to do this, i'll have to run about 6min 45sec miles. that's over 8.5mph. which is doable, eventually. right now, i'm running between 6.5 and 7.5mph, depending on the tempo of my music.

but this is just the beginning of my new list of goals. the section of this list devoted to running goes something like: run a 5k, a 10k, a half marathon. i don't know if i'll ever get to a full marathon because of my knees, but i'll try it if i get to that point.

i feel the running addiction building. the physical and mental demand of distance running is tiring, but the way i feel afterwards is unique. it's a feeling of physical and mental success, as far as determination goes. usually around mile one i hit a wall. after that, i get a little tired around 2.5 miles. these are the points i have to make the decision to keep going. when i do, i feel a lot stronger mentally than physically.

i have other goals now, too. a few things i'm not going to write about here. i will keep them to myself and let them be mine. that way i own them. one that i will share is that i'm keeping my eyes open for a self-respecting girl with similar interests. in the past, i wasted years on what ifs and if onlys. i was faithful to the love i recently lost. i did everything i could do, and so i don't feel guilty about moving on with my life and feeling free to find someone who will love me for who i am. it's probably obvious that could say a lot about this, but my other goal is to let it go, starting now.

i've been writing more music lately. it seems to happen a lot that by the time i get songs written, my life has changed dramatically and they no longer apply, if that makes sense. and so they become milestones. reminders of another life. maybe they served a purpose at one time. maybe they still can. but i usually create new songs/paintings/poems at a faster pace than what i can keep up with on the editing/meditating end of it. like there is a lure in the potential of the unwritten, undrawn, unpainted. what is is and has its meaning and attached contexts. what can be is elusive, but has a sweeter smile. a mirage effect, i guess.

i finished reading revelation. it made a lot of sense to me this time. maybe it was the king james formal english, the repetition in wordings. there were a few parts where i knew i wasn't understanding the symbolism, but for the most part it makes sense. what stands out to me the most is that there is a plan, a schedule, a procession already determined, like an intricate play. and clearly there is a group of people that it will be good to be among, and a group of people that it will not be good to be among. it's very though-provoking to read something that spins the gears of your understanding of reality, what reality is, etc.

oops, time to run wild.

each day feels like a new shock of reality. each day another layer is peeled away and i see a brighter sun, a clearer sky. a warmer beam of light shines in on me in through the blinds. are my clothes any cleaner, crisper, smoother? i'm not sure. is the coffee any fresher, and more real than yesterday?

layers are being pulled away, non-realities are shed, the truth of things is rising to the surface. each day i feel a deeper understanding of it all; the 'what' and 'why' are being defined. it is a mercy that mercy and mistakes work to the same end. the grace of avoidance and choices in ignorance both reveal to the willing what is rising up and being uncovered.

today i read jude and the first 8 chapters of revelation from a kjv bible. i picked it up for free from a thrift store in burlington. (the lady said "in my mind, if anyone wants to read it, it's theirs to have.) in jude, i found a line from a song my ex used to listen to while painting:

wandering stars, to whom is reserved the blackness of darkness for ever.

i was surprised to find out that it was a biblical quote. i started thinking about why portishead would put it in the song. do they have a religious background? is it taken out of context? is it used mockingly, ironically, dramatically?

it was a bittersweet reminder, the kind that has been happening for a few months now. but i'm not fighting these reminders. i let them happen as they will. in a way, there is happiness in them, and there is also a necessary pain. it is like some natural healing process that happens to purge the heart. doing the emotional laundry.

i know i have buried a lot of emotion and thought and such the past couple of months. it will all rise in its good time. a lot of things i was too hurt or sad to do anything about except hunker down and bear through it (maybe my most common reaction to the unpleasant). the loss and hurt and misunderstandings and longings and confusion and regret were compressed. but there is love and mercy for me still; i know this, and i feel it more clearly every day.

i heard that one of my friends has been in contact with my ex-best friend. apparently some things were explained or clarified. my friend said that if i wanted, he might be able to arrange some sort of contact between me and my ex-best friend.

when i heard all this, i exploded inside. i could feel opposing feelings pulling me apart. i thought to myself "what am i supposed to do?" i told him that i wasn't sure if contact would be a good thing. it's not that i don't want it. in a way, i desperately want it. but what i really want is for my ex-best friend to be happy and not hate me, to understand me and accept me as i am. what i'm scared to death of is ever doing anything that would make her dislike me again. when you truly love someone, i think that is the most painful thing to have happen. whether it's a look in their eye or a tone of voice, to feel them being disgusted or angry at you is overwhelming.

stand still
i won't take one more step towards you or away from you.
you say i just won't do. there's nothing i can do.
so i stand still.
i told you i have problems, trouble with the letting go.
you let me go long ago, but i'm still holding on.
so i stand still.
i say i just won't do. i know i just won't do.
you need someone like you...
so i stand still.

'at first my heart thought you could break this jinx for me,
that love would turn a trick to end despair'
-chet baker, everything happens to me

this song is one of my favorites of all time. the lyrics are solid. the music is the definition of 'melancholy relaxation'. sweet, smooth, soft jazz. i listen to chet sing, and i know that he's thinking in his head to sing notes like he would play them on his trumpet.

'i fell in love just once, and then it had to be with you.
everything happens to me.'

to a happy person, this will probably come across as a mopey, woe-is-me song. but to those who have be through some hard times, it's an understanding susura.

i had never gone on a date with someone i didn't know at all.

had. :)

it was enjoyable. i didn't feel nervous. i didn't feel uncomfortable at all. i think i approached the situation with a sense of adventure. trying something new. listening. learning. telling. explaining. i had a good time.

i think i have a new understanding of who i am and where i am in life. i go into situations feeling calm. job interviews. meeting people. despite what position others might be in, i know that we are all the same. you might be a manager, but you are a person too. you might be a cool girl, but you are a person too.

i suppose the dust has settled.

i ran 5k on monday. 29 minutes. not a great time, really, but i did it. it's the time i started at when i started cross country in high school. i should be able to knock 8 minutes off the time in about a month.

i keep thinking about the half marathon at the outer banks this fall. it's my siren song.

today at starbucks my manager, matt, mentioned the possibility of me stepping up to be a shift manager. my first reaction was a feeling of doubt about whether i could take on that responsibility, to be the one that baristas look to for needs and answers and help. i'm not sure i have it in me.

but i know i do. it's just like anything else. you learn the ropes, you put your back into it.

but as a career path? with not much turning up on the job search (at all), i sit here wondering if maybe a life of simplicity, though accompanied by the stress and poverty of being a shift, might be a good change for a while. if i could cut out costs, live simply, frugally, maybe it could work.

but there are so many costs i just can't cut out. rent, car, student loans, insurance, food, gas, phone.

but it's got me thinking again about where i'm going and what i'm doing in life. why should i try to squeeze my way back into the rat race? some would say 'to have a steady income for a wife and kids.' some might say 'to be able to do the things you want.'

and so the simple mention of a promotion spurs an afternoon of reanalyzing myself, what i want out of life, and where i want to go. i've been having so many 'where do i go from here?' moments lately, you'd think i'd be good at this by now. but every day seems so new and full of potential that it's sometimes hard to unite myself into one being. maybe that doesn't make sense.

i've avoided being a shift since i started working at starbucks in 2005. is it time?

i went running last night, and halfway through the run it got dark. as i was running down the moderately country road, i heard a rustling in the bushes. it caught my attention because it wasn't a small-animal rustle. it was a big animal rustle. chances are, it was a deer being disturbed from its nap. but as i was running by that area, i thought "please don't be a mountain lion or a wolf or a bear."

today, roomie told me that a friend of his went running at falls lake a while ago. out on the trail alone, she came across a black bear. she stopped dead in her tracks, turned around, and then simultaneously ran the fastest she had ever run before and peed herself.

as roomie was telling this story, i thought to myself, "what if it had been some fierce animal last night?"

i'm pretty sure i would have been eaten. here's why.

i've read two conflicting theories about how to deal with an encounter with a bear, not to mention other wild animals, such as large cats. one theory states that you should run away in zigzag patterns. maybe climb a tree, too. the other theory not only says that bears can climb trees, but also that you shouldn't run from them because they can outrun you. instead, you should either stand tall and make loud noises, or play dead.

i guess it all depends on the size and type of animal and how hungry the animal is. but my point is, if i'm out for a run, i'm in the running "zone". my brain has shut off. all i know is foot steps and breathing patterns.

this is not the state of mind to be in when facing life or death situations. i don't know. i guess i would just keep running, and fight if necessary.

it's strange how large, aggressive wild animals don't have the concept of what is and is not acceptable to eat. bears, wolves, tigers, sharks, colossal squids. they eat what they can catch when they are hungry. that's it. if runner is present at the time, runner is dinner. it's insanity.

i think wild animals are insane.

morrisville to 40 west to efland to 70 west to mebane to burlington to greensboro to 40 east to 220 to asheboro to rockingham to sc, u-turn, hwy 1 to southern pines to sanford (nothing much going on in sanford but memories floating) to apex. thoughts were thought. issues were clarified.

i'm ready for this.

tuesdays are not nothing days. every new day is a blank piece of paper. i'm still not sure why i have such a hard time letting go of the past, but today i learned about potential.

mis queridos lectores,

i remember the winding road that smells of saltwater marshes, and how it curves its way to your parents' house. i remember the red bicycles we rode soon after the rain before we grew up. i remember you driving me to all the houses you ever lived in. i remember the nighttime clouds glowing red above us. i remember the chill of air conditioning as we sat at an abandoned piano. i remember learning samurai techniques outside and facts of war inside. i remember not liking the smell of your cigarettes. i remember liking the taste of butter rum tobacco at 2am on a beach in morehead city. i remember losing trains of thought. i remember the passage from boy toy to punching bag in six autumn months. i remember your name. i remember not remembering your name. i remember guessing at the spelling of your name. i remember baking you cakes. i remember the smell of your kitchen: bacon and coffee. i remember one branch in the tree being lower than all the others. i remember the smell of the detergent you use. i remember your birthday, finally. i remember flying in an airplane with you. i remember your footprint in the sand in charleston. i remember sitting speechless before you, ashamed and tongue-tied. i remember telling God what i thought about it all. i remember sitting in a car with you the day we met. i remember why i wanted to leave college and die instead. i remember summer thunderstorms happening while i played guitar on a porch swing. i remember the first time i ever ran 5k. i remember what it was like in the beginning and how the wind blew. i remember changing the bedsheets. i remember following you to the waterfall. i remember your stories about being enlisted. i remember that you work at a jewelry store. i remember that you are from san francisco and are a better writer. i remember translating your poem to read aloud in class. i remember digging holes in the dirt with you. i remember a candy store in town. i remember walking lockered hallways unauthorized and unnoticed. i remember leaning on a fence on top of a mountain. i remember snakes in rivers, pools, and aquariums. i remember your favorite foods. i remember the blue shirt you wore when you told me you were going to australia for a year. i remember submitting payments and checking the mail. i remember the world's fattest raccoons standing on their hind legs, begging for food. i remember fields of grass and corn. i remember never seeing seattle. i remember fearing heights and murky water. i remember sand as cold as snow. i remember waiting for you to answer the phone. i remember sunlight fading a thousand times. i remember so much time spent in a body that i can't draw. i remember the first line to your song. i remember that we played ping pong to pass time and not for score. i remember the way they remodeled the tunnel. i remember you waiting for my reply in spanish. i remember walking with you along fort fisher. i remember the fire ants at fort caswell. i remember the archways at fort sumter. i remember loving you for your taste in music. i remember walking on dry leaves near the lake. i remember drinking more coffee than i can remember. i remember the streets of my hometown. i remember being completely lost in your hometown. i remember watering down wine for communion. i remember being told not to fall in love and falling in love anyway. i remember writing letters to you in spanish and eventually losing all contact with you. i remember glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling. i remember seafood in baskets along the street. i remember singing songs with you. i remember believing you. i remember reading peter pan out loud. i remember washing the same clothes over and over again. i remember petting stingrays. i remember accepting me as i was and then hating myself and then accepting me as i am. i remember the things i regret. i remember showing you the abandoned piano. i remember loving you the most. i remember moving heavy furniture in the summer heat. i remember the house your parents built. i remember liking cake and then not liking cake any more. i remember you in coffee shops, reading things you wrote and hoping for approval. i remember asking you what a verse meant. i remember the smell of mexico. i remember fishing in a pond with a hook and string. i remember slurping jell-o. i remember doctors with needles. i remember a december field at night. i remember a mud fight in the river. i remember swapping secrets. i remember soy milk and cereal. i remember trying to figure it all out and falling asleep in a fury of tears instead. i remember reading words you had read before. i remember following you in through the back door. i remember dorm room conversations until dawn. i remember being a passenger in a hundred cars. i remember the general idea of scattered conversations. i remember the pain in your eyes on a wednesday. i remember ordering veggie burgers and eating tomatoes. i remember melodies. i remember sunshine through the blinds blinding me. i remember watching you on stage. i remember your face in the crowd. i remember the way you shave your face. i remember your words of advice. i remember it all.

con cariño,
tomas

rustico. rustic. dust. iconic.

there is sand in my soul. some is dry, blowing here and there, covering broken shells and things. some is wet, slurring beneath the waves as they tumble in.

i drew a picture of me in straight lines. all straight lines. i drew until i was sick. i drew something sad on accident. it was me, accidentally. i drew an icon of myself, something sandy, sad, and rusticonic. i went to bed with a headache. i woke up with a headache, sweating. i didn't mean to draw it so sad.

today, roommate moves in. what does this mean for me? the dry sand part of my soul feels the freedom that this change brings. while the slurring wet sand of my soul churns memories and emotions beneath the surface, i lift my feet. paddle hard. kick hard. catch this wave at just the right moment. there is both joy and pain in experience. but awaiting me on the dry sandy beach is...

a brown bird is sitting on a branch outside. through the window, i see it's yellow-orange beak opening. who is it calling to? other birds? worms ("here, wormy, wormy")? i could see birds having a sense of humor. cats, no. but birds, sure. or is it just sounding off into the day? it appears to have intentions; it must have a motive. i can barely hear the noises it makes because of this glass barrier. i see its mouth opening, it's head turning anxiously. after staring at it for a few minutes, i get it. the meaning sets in, and i understand.

you are a sad little thing. so fragile, yet so capable and amazing in a thousand ways. i know what you are saying. you are speaking in generalities and stereotypes, proclaiming condemnation on the world you don't understand. you are an unfair little creature, bold in discharging your claims in the gibberish language you speak. you see the world through tiny eyes. you think that because you can fly the world is below you.

then you stare at me, stare through the window into my eyes, and deliver your claim of entrapment. foolish bird. my heart breaks for you, but i do not care where you fly to next.
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'for this is so because'

there is something under the surface of this. there is a hidden attempt to say what i want to say without actually saying it. it is something best left unsaid. after all, it's 2009. soon it will be 2010. soon it will be 20__. where will it get me to express this? it's almost comical that i feel the need to even hint at it. so, i wonder why this is so. it is a desire for the truth to be known. but, it is a truth that is better unknown.
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i know, i know, i let you down
fifty more years and i'll be underground
i know, i know, i know

a glass that recently held water sits nearby on the bookshelf. this is another failure of language, as the glass does not sit. but you should see it trying the best it can. it's very touching.

no one remembers you, glass. no one but me. i brought you here one night, in a box with others like you. then, you were a mirror image of a mirror image. tonight, you sit nearby, resting your clarity and translucence. tonight, you are form and entity. though all others on this planet--whether bustling, still, or lifeless--are unaware of you and unconcerned with your existence, i know you; i can make a measure of your value. you are not lost.
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a friend commented on the fulfillment of being listened to and is precisely right. it is nights like tonight with bad weather threatening and few friends and those few friends sick and chet baker crooning apathetically that mi alma gathers in a desperate, anxious 'oh, someone to listen to me...' It is no small thing. it is immediately a telling spiritual issue. it could be an evening discussion between those who would do the issue justice. but here it is, 10:32pm; the evening is fizzling out.
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i haven't forgotten you, glass, and yes, you are very good and patient. i'll fill you with the clearest, coldest water i can find. we'll share this evening, just you and i. you're not alone.
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i don't believe in circles of friends. this terminology suggests that between one friend and another is a perfectly arched relationship. not only is there no such thing as a perfect human relationship, there is no such thing as an arched relationship.
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the central heating system turns on and runs and almost blends in with but overcomes the sound of rain outside and jazz inside. about once every five years i meet someone who mentions how (s)he talks to her/himself when (s)he is alone. i have become one of those people, and it is a tiny bit (but is it really?) strange, weird, funny, frightening. i don't buy those scenarios where the stranded/isolated sailor/astronaut loses the ability to speak a coherent language. it's too familiar. it's too comforting. there is a fulfillment in being listened to; there is also a comfort in hearing speech. the stranded and isolated among us will not relinquish these benefits, even if it is their own mouth speaking, their own ears hearing, their own minds splitting into speaker and listener/audience.
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glass, you sit too still; you listen too intently. you are a poor audience. your clarity absorbs none of my meanings. glass, you have fallen from your pedestal.
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the music is on repeat; the music is on repeat. the night tells a joke that is not funny after all and saunters away to the squinting fields and woods and flooded ditches. all the evening heroes have missed their cues or thrown the game. all the raindrops are making their way inch by inch. i lay here, feet beneath orchestrated cotton blankets, imagining documenting each and every raindrop's location of origin, volume, shape, spacial relation to other raindrops, altitude, temperature, value of increase in velocity, change in shape (they become aquadonuts), change in volume, path of descent, alterations in path of descent due to wind, collisions, conglomerations of multiple raindrops, expected point of impact, actual point of impact, measure of divergence between expected and actual points of impact...

for each and every drop. all night long. i think about these sorts of things because for some reason it matters to me if these details are being recorded. i want all the insignificances of life and existence and happening to be on file. i'm sure it is selfishness pulsing through my blood--this desire to spend day 1,276,298,323 in heaven talking to God about how the wind blew outside my window on march 1st, 2009. 'you thought that i was altogether like you.' i, of course, know that the concept of days will evaporate in infinite glory. it is just that, on nights like tonight, if all the insignificant and unimportant things were being tracked and filed, i wouldn't feel so insignificant and unimportant myself. see, i told you it was selfishness.
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time to fill you, glass, with stone-cold water. oh! would it kill you to pretend some excitement?

news news i finally saw la bamba .i think. for the first time. found out i'm going to be an uncle times two. great news :) congrats Chris and Emily!

put some new scratch song ideas up on my myspace. tried to do it on facebook like desiree said, but couldn't get it to work. eh. i'm really excited about music lately. it is becoming my obsession like stroik said it should be. it is one of the very very few things that i cannot ignore, that i have to face on a daily basis. it always seems to be with me, this question of what i am capable of musically. a constant companion like t.h. sings. a dare, almost. 'betcha can't think of something better. betcha can't improve your voice.' who is this whispering inside me? is this me?

the job front has been silent this week. applied at a few places, but it's mentally and emotionally exhausting. i told jessica today that i now understand why people go into business for themselves. it's not the work that people dread. work is enjoyable. it makes the day feel...used well. the problem is putting yourself into the whole system of a job. the fall-in-lineness.

corolla, nc, has wild horses. these horses can be seen north of where hwy 12 deadends in a roundabout at the beach. i've been to that roundabout twice, but i've never gone out on the beach to see the horses. there isn't really anywhere to park near there. someday i'm going to go back to see the horses. 'wild horses, man. wild horses.' as charlie and i say. wild horses don't fall in line.

lately i've been wondering what animals do when it gets cold. driving home from closing at starbucks, i usually see groups of deer on the side of the road, and i wonder how they survive nights when it gets really cold. i guess the fur helps. or do they have hair? on cold nights when i see them running away into the trees and tall grass, i feel so bad for them. i picture walking through the woods, feeling the cold dampness of dew on my skin and clothes, shivering. poor deer.

i just realized that it's friday night and it's been a long time since i've felt that there is something special about friday nights. "it's friday night, we should do something." the days are running into each other (por qué un día se junta con un día?). like harmony and melody.

i can imagine brandi carlile and chet baker sitting together on a park bench in chicago. i can imagine a log cabin constructed entirely of redwoods. i can imagine 100,000 airplanes flying across the sky. i can imagine holding my breath for 26 seconds. i can imagine someone else imagining something else.

i hear c.b. singing 'my funny valentine' and fill with aspiration. a thousand passions at once one note at a time. almost no nuances. to sing so singfully as though not singing at all but only breathing a long exhale below a london fog. to sound so absolutely unconcerned.

wednesday morning before the imaginary line of day vs. night was crossed i laid quite unconcerned as c.b. may have once lain upon a bed in a darkened room. he of course would have been wide awake humming a tune just above a whisper. there would have been the background sound of the street below. i imagine chet never strayed very far from that sound.

i can imagine but most likely not what you can imagine. what can you imagine?

this afternoon, i reclaimed my apartment. took out the garbage and things now considered garbage. a matter-of-fact day. like stepping outside and accepting that the temperature will be what it will be. dress accordingly.

all morning long, i let the sunlight set the pace, however it wanted to fall in through the blinds, draw lines on me as i slept. no records were kept. no one will ever know the speed of this light, the paths of those shadows. this is just to show the so-many happenings that only God knows. leaves in China flittered somewhere. saltwater molecules changed degrees in sunlight, while stars exploded in places that are beyond our understanding of "where". who is keeping track of everything? infinity. infinite factors while i sleep. who is keeping track of me.

i continue to dress myself in wrinkled lines. my socks are thicker than they need to be, but my feet turn cold regardless. i'm balding, i think. my friend watches sports instead of seeking adventures. i watch seinfeld instead of sleeping. i wonder if joe purdy is glancing at my soul and taking notes. i wonder why i am so uneducated. half of the music i like doesn't sound as good when others are listening to it with me. no one is documenting. no one is planning. no one knows the right questions to ask. no one's ears are soft enough.

i'm sure there must be something in me. a little meaning, maybe, but some definition. probably not a way to define the world, not so much influence as that, but an additive. i love the smell of pepper. i lost my voice the day i was born and have been searching for it ever since. my ears are big and i listen to everything around me. i put in my headphones and block out the sounds with sounds. i guess it is the "ancient heavenly connection" that i'm looking for after all. that which inspires me to remove the headphones.

i can write forever that which my mouth looks at sideways, and begs for a teleprompter. i know that i am different, i work differently than everyone else. i am unique, not smarter or better or different. i am the same as everyone else, but an exception, i think. mostly, i don't seem to care about things that most people care about, or think or talk the way others talk. my speech is short and my tongue knows its limits, but my brain and fingers will always have their way with this keyboard. no one is taking notes, so i type myself away.

this is brain on paper. what is this? this is pasttime. this is ego. this is obsession beginning. this is the start of something.

today is not a poetic day. today is normal. today is drifting, but not like a leaf on a river. more like seaweed in the surf. back and forth, with an indiscernible path of motion. today is saturday, the pause between two separate weeks. a lull in time. i did my taxes. i thought about the past. i made some decisions.

i find it interesting how serious relationships can be or feel, and if the the world explodes and the dust settles, we can shake it off and try again with someone new. it almost makes me a little skeptical about love, what love is, what it means. as if love is something that means only as much as you let it mean. a currency of sorts, that holds the value we say it holds. i want to be with you because i have this many love units for you. investments are made, accounts grow and merge. maybe it ends well, maybe someone makes the big withdrawal. eh, just start saving again.

and so the saving begins again. i'm not sure why, yet, but i'll find out some day. i've beat myself up for a couple months, wondering what's wrong with me, why i wasn't good enough, smart enough, aware enough, mature enough. i made plans to rearrange everything to be who i thought i needed to be. i hated myself for losing the account. everywhere i went, i was thinking about it. searching through old receipts, recalculating, totaling it all again and again. love is a maddening business if you don't realize that the saving can begin again. accounts may close, but funds are transferable.

and so it is saturday and the saving begins again. "sometimes nothing can be done."

a small room with mustard-brown walls and fake hardwood floors tells me how big i may be. it is something of a nook, the way most people would think of a nook. and i am in it. i suppose that i am nooked. the windows are old and leak in the cold air that drifts about in the woods outside. the window panes were painted white, once, but have since changed their minds and are stripping and flaking their way back to their natural color.

greg is singing about seas and gamblers. i would sing along, but this room tells me how loud i may be. also, i know nothing of seas and gamblers. i would say that i have seen two seas, but that is not quite true. i have seen the edges of two seas. i have seen two shores. i certainly know little about the sea, and most of me believes that if gamblers, in the truest sense of the word, still exist, they probably spend most of their time at sea. what better thing to gamble with than the dangers of the sea.

what sort of gambles do i find in concreteness of suburbia? "will my five alarms wake me up on time?" "is this milk expired?" "do i really need to separate dark and light laundry?" these constitute my realm of adventure. 178,786 days ago, magellan led five ships west from seville, searching for the east. 75,406 days ago, lewis and clark set out on their expedition across uncharted land. 14,457 days ago, neil and buzz speckled the moon with their footprints. 2 days ago, i considered taking a different way home from work.

so, is the world shrinking? our sense of a place to go, a tangle of woods to explore, a distance or height or depth to chart--shrinking, or changing somehow? or the ability to be bigger than a room says we may be? david sings "busco el raro encantamiento". i am searching for the rare enchantment. the one-of-a-kind something-special. the know-it-when-you-see-it "Of course!"

i am no sea captain. i sail no seas. i hoist no sails. i know people do these things still, but...the digital radios and satellite tracking. i would bet a ship could steer itself around the world these days. sorry magellan. maybe today's great adventure is learning to exist and coexist on this shrunken planet.

digame. mira.

honestly, i feel like i'm living in an alternate universe here. i see human beings driving their cars, buying groceries, buying coffee, working in their stores.

working.

and i float through it all like a shadow of a being. a forgotten word. a vehicle abandoned to rust. does anyone see this? maybe just briefly mentioned on tv, but the papers are full of it--joblessness, everywhere, rising, rioting, strikes, recession depression.

cesantia es humillacion en santiago, chile.

firey protests in reykjavik, iceland.

job fairs packed like sardines in china.

it's just a news story for the employed. an 'oh my' moment like '5 die in university shooting'. just a mere economic shrink. a contraction. all just percentages and taglines.

unless.

you're the one facing the oblivion. unless you have been laid off. unless you sit at home wondering why you have to whore yourself to a hundred interviewers, what good it will do, and who is doing work and where, and are they really any more qualified, or did they just get a chance. unless you spend your days thinking 'if i buy what i need now, eventually i won't be able to', and eventually gets closer every day. cesantia es humillacion. unemployment is humiliation. needing a job is a weakness, a reason for employers to doubt you from the beginning to the end of the interview. a bargaining piece always in their favor.

prove yourself to me. what can you do? prove it, prove it, prove it. speak clearly. quickly! i'm about to take my 90 minute lunch. oh dear, another one. fine fine we'll let you know.

i suppose it's not their fault. so many workers, so few opportunities.

each day the corolla looks more like a converted Hudson truck. i stare at it, wondering how many possessions it could hold, and which ones i would choose. i hear there are fruits to be picked in california.

sooner surrender

secret genius of these poems. stones. is the perfect image a fading wedding dress or a sunset? cobblestones, millstones, pebbles & portraits. i wonder why radin would say such a thing as "as we drank our wine and let the world fade away." all these moonrises and how the morning searches. how the morning birds whistle until noon. i am not afraid of cold nights or living alone. what bumps my gooses is without you. a pile of stones i would dare to move. it is not the way i tire myself dancing in the mirror for no one to see. it is not the paint i spread in wide brush strokes for no reason. it is not the unvaccuumed carpet. "that is not what i meant at all--that is not it at all."

suddenly the lamplight blinks, asking who has turned the key. it's me. always only me. shhh. go back to sleep. i'll find my way, i know these carpeted floors, the touch of darkened walls. there is no adventure left here. i hear "weequashing" drip from the kitchen sink. susura. yo se, yo se. it will be alright.

the moon oh so thousands of miles above us. it is a wonder, isn't it? so often written about, so often taken for granted. suppose a meteor... eh. it would all be speculation, but not so impossible as we may think (hope?). improbable, yes. unlikely, yes. synonym, yes.

but thank you, moon, and forgive me for speaking so directly to you. oh, but you don't mind, of course--all rock and dust and who-knows-what within. but again, you drip light in through my windows sans cuenta, gratis. it could be thought a magical deal, and i have thought a good deal about you, though you spin and orbit without gnosis, without senses, without neurological processes; without so much, and yet, what do you lack?

the cooling process of coffee is predictable. it is an exponential regression. isaac newton knew this. differences in temperatures. air. container. coffee. transfer of energy from one to the other through the other. T=a(b)^t. isaac newton knew this.

wrap your arms around me. wrap something around me. let us sit together, thinking of beachfront roads conservatively covered by windblown sand. let us think of lighthouses. vaya al sueno sin dormirse.

1 hour 32 minutes on hold. my phone died.

let me tell you a little something about how america works. america loves you. america wants you healthy. america wants you to work.

for as long as it is beneficial to america.

so get your degree. study something. learn something. find a job, sell your soul. work work work.

while you can.

your days of value are limited. there are people in positions who judge your value. there is a spreadsheet on you somewhere. how much you benefit the company. how much you are paid.

someday a decision will be made. america is the decider. america is the higher cause. the engine. the machine.

for a while, you are the oil. the spark plug. the cables. for a while you are valuable.

so get your degree. be valuable for a while. be happy for a while.

i've been on hold with the unemployment office for 51 minutes and 21 seconds.

22

23

24
25
2627
282930

metaphor: my battery is low.
reality: my battery is low.

una paz que nos encuentra

y un dia la tempestad termina, y hay nueva paz. the air is warm with mist: the already-started evaporation of recent rain.

y otra vez veo que soy, que soy yo, y que vivo. nada mas estare raiz en las tinieblas.

y aqui estoy.

hola, mundo.

last night i stayed in.
the birthday night of my friend.
i stayed in.
last night i push-pinned
postal paper to the wall,
and with markers started writing all
the lines that lay me open.
last night i stayed in.

hay en mi corazon furias y penas.

last night i went out.
the walls of my fridge shone white.
i went out last night.
last night i strolled the aisles,
picking this, choosing that,
planning future dinners
among aisles and aisles of food.
last night i went out.

i saw the greatest minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked...

i think i might have landed a job that actually pays a little more than my old job. if i can get an interview next week, and i don't get so nervous that i break almost every interview taboo. not that that happened recently.

so things may be getting better. i at least have something to keep me hopeful this weekend.

what i really wanted to describe here, though, is a feeling i get on days that i have to work at starbucks. it's something that i have only felt during these past couple weeks of unemployment.

about an hour or so before i have to go into work, i feel a very strong feeling of denial. no matter where i am or what i'm doing, it suddenly because very enjoyable, and i can no longer believe that in an hour or two i'll be serving up coffee.

i don't know why this happens or what it means. it's not that i dread going to work at starbucks. i enjoy it in a lot of ways. i get to DO something, i get to interact with people. i find satisfaction in working and customer service.

but still.

it's like that feeling that used to come the night before a new semester of school started. a "what can i do to make the most of the time i have left" feeling. again, not a dread. just a strange source of excitement. that's all.

[i drew a shape in the sand.
my heart made a promise that
it will always keep.]

a book of quotations sits on my kitchen table.
i read it while i eat, i keeps me
company. i read:
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
in this house with starry dome,
floored with gemlike plains and seas,
shall i never feel at home,
never wholly be at ease?

on from room to room i stray,
yet mine host can ne'er espy,
and i know not to this day
whether guest or captive i.
- sir william watson (1858-1936)
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
and
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
why is this thus? what is the reason of this thusness?
- charles farrar browne
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
i think bill and chuck are on to something, here.

i just realized today that i've almost survived the winter. it has been a cold, ugly winter.

in the days of westward expansion, i'm sure what i've been through wouldn't be considered so bad. at least i have a warm place to sleep every night. i have an automobile that carries me effortlessly where i need to go. for the most part, i have food whenever i need it.

i don't have to fear natives retaliating against me in anger for driving across their farmland. there are roads for me to drive on. and, it is almost unheard of that someone is eaten by any sort of wild animal these days. that is a plus. a big plus.

and the earth continues its orbit, spinning, spinning, spinning. always spinning. it's a wonder, with all this constant spinning, we can manage to hold onto our worries.

spring left me a voicemail:

"hey, tom. i'm on my way over. i thought maybe you'd be interested in getting out, seeing the world. there are still adventures to be had. let me know if you're free."
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

in a book i recently finished reading, the author warns against isolation. he spent nearly 6 years alone, i think, and ended up falling in love with emily dickinson. i think he saw an apparition of her, and thought she was pretty. well, i don't know about her physical appearance, but i'm starting to understand his other points a little better.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

i hold these things, random things,
in my hands, in my arms.

you only know how difficult it is
to hesitate when the decision is yours.

these things could be lost, tossed, sold,
or packed away, preserved.

these things are porcelain.
these things are wood.

these things are almost forgotten.
these things are cotton.

these things hang by a thread
above a fire.

you only know how difficult it is
to hesitate when the decision is yours.

i have an interview tomorrow. if i get the job, i'll be taking a substantial pay cut. from what i've read in the papers lately, that's what people are doing to find work. ex-corporate execs finding temp-to-hire jobs.

i used to worry about my credit getting wrecked because of unemployment and everything. but now i don't think i'm so alone in it. maybe most people still have jobs and great credit. but the recession is not my fault. i was doing all i could to carry my weight in life. i am responsible for paying the bills i have. i am not responsible for the fact that i was laid off.

anyway.

time to throw on some led zeppelin and get this done.

it's been a long time since i rock and rolled.

most creative music video i've ever seen:

last night, i had another disturbing dream. i was with a friend, a girl, who was apparently a close friend, but no one specific. we were talking and she began telling me that my teeth were horribly crooked and rotten. i sat down in a dentist's chair, and, feeling the side of my face, felt that she was right. several teeth fell out, and then i pulled out several more. my friend began to prepare me for oral surgery, filling syringes with novocaine and gathering tools on a tray.

i started realizing that i was going to lose a lot of teeth, and have to go through life without them. i asked her if there was some sort of bridge or dental plate that i could have put in to help me chew. maybe, she said.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
i have this sort of dream when i am stressed about life. always about my teeth falling out. i don't know why that seems to be the most stressful thing my mind can think to dream when i'm stressed. but it always freaks me out. the feeling of loose teeth.... makes me sick... like pulling the legs off of shrimp.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
at this point in life, i'm standing before a flaming hoop. i know that my life will go on, and i will be perfectly fine in time. i'm willing and capable of earning my daily bread. i'll suffer through whatever it takes, and then i'll go on living the life i want to live. like ray sings, "lesson learned". time to be happy again. too much beauty in the world, too much to do and see and create. i believe there are people who will agree with me.

while shaving today, i was thinking about the idea of knocking (on doors, etc.), and the more i thought about it, i started thinking that maybe there is a code or pattern in it all. Consider this:

1 knock: no one knocks just once. if you hear this, don't open the door.
2 knocks: someone nearby is knocking on wood for good luck.
3 knocks: someone is at the door. go see who it is.
4 knocks: a variation of 3 knocks.
5 knocks: your neighbor wants you to turn down your music. usually conveyed through the ceiling or floor.
6 knocks: depending on the speed and rhythm, this could be a friend or a salesman.
7 knocks: possibly a religious representative.
8 knocks: your landlord is at the door.
9 knocks: your landlord is at the door with police.
10 knocks: someone is being chased and your apartment was the closest refuge.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
these are the types of thoughts i have. i can offer no explanation why.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
in other news, i believe i'm officially poor. poor to the point of eviction. i did my best. i'm sorry for anyone who may be getting a letter in the mail demanding payment. i did my best. i can't do it anymore. sorry. i guess it's my turn to cut and run.

"wallow a little more and then no mas. get a tattoo to notch this years doorframe and then go make your mark. DO something. don't stand it. ok?" a friend says to me.

the keyboard is pressing against my fingers, begging me for something.

[the thing is, i could sit here, stagnating, if i wanted. that's not what i'm doing and that's not what's happening. but it could.]

my friend understands me, not because he knows everything about me, but because he knows my heart. or, more specifically, the kinds of things that affect my passions.

new cities. being alone. music. foreign poetry. quotations. the basic simple real things of life, the beautiful things as they are, rugged, true, inspiring, and full of coffee. a language stretched and broken. a splattering of words to express and understand what is around us and why it is around us. to be somebody to someone. faith. instants. explorations. living with doubts and faults. living unmasked among the unmasked.

i have many friends in all sorts of senses of the word. but in the smallest, most specific sense of the word, my how that list dwindles.

so yes, replace wallow soon with marshmallow or coffee swallow or paint walls or walk streets. something more pleasant.

i think i'll pass on the tattoo though, for a couple reasons. i'll leave tattoos for the others who will get them soon. if i'm going to be chasing marshmallows or coffee or walking streets, why should i paint myself a lifetime reminder? why should i be the one lingering. it doesn't seem fair that i have to try to keep track of the value of the past. maybe it's my job, if i'm the only one who values certain things in the past, but i've been there before. it takes a lot of cursive scribbling in notebooks. it takes a lot of sleepless nights. it takes listening to certain songs and thumbing through scribblings and pictures.

why should i become a museum?

i am a life. a breathing, thinking, moving life. even if i can be thrown away by someone else, i retain my original value. i am still a life.

[the thing is, am i a life, or just alive?]

to take a | step | forward, to gain momentum. i suppose it is a decision. but the difficulty is the details.

the details are: love lost. hope remains. keep hope. release hope for love.

it must just be a process that happens. if you can't say "fall in love," you can't say "get over love." they are partial decisions, maybe. they are partial responses. reactions. reflexes, maybe.

it's just when stand-stills depend on other stand-stills. but i don't want to be a gridlock. i don't mind traffic, that's not my point. my point is that sitting in traffic alone is an example. an analogy, even.

a part of me desperately needs highway 264 east.
a part of me stands back and sees how lonely that road can be.

i have absolutely nobody telling me who to be. i believe that's the way it should be. we should all have our passions, our hearts, knowledge of truth guiding us on our own.

i'm not talking about being isolationists. i'm not talking about universalism. i'm talking about individual experience of the universe. i'm talking about individual emergence from isolation.

this is where i am, then. deciding which hopes get to remain (love past vs. love future). finding out if i am a life or only alive. finding out if it matters if a specific reconciliation ever occurs.

i try to see my decisions from everyone else's point of view. from certain people's point of view, i see that it should be a simple decision. drop the past. find something else. something better. even from her perspective, i don't imagine much interest in remembering the value of past things. and maybe that should be the deal breaker. why should i be lovesick for a ghost?

i guess i was just hoping for something bigger than the way this world functions. a love that overruns quotas. a love that perseveres through it's own weaknesses. a love that is bigger than two people. a love that tastes like foreign coffee on a weekend. a love that absolutely sings.

today is my dad's birthday.

happy birthday, dad!
i'm sorry i couldn't make it over to see you.

i was busy working at starbucks.

while at work, my friend, who works at another starbucks, texted me. his text was:

"some lady just came in and ordered a decaf raspberry squirt."

perhaps you have to work at starbucks to understand just how funny that is.
but here's a clue.

we have never had a drink called a "squirt". i hope we never will. i just might have to quit at that point.

we get these customers all day long. they are the bane (and entertainment) of our existence as baristas. these are the customers we talk about for days and weeks and months.

some days i don't have the motivation to do a lot of things that i know i want to do. it's like that feeling that you know you want to go to the beach, if only it were summer, and warm. the beach is still there. the waves have been rolling in all winter long. but the desire to be there is in some sort of coma. i know i want to do things, but something is weak. something is not full enough.

my heart, i think. perhaps my heart is weak, or running low. maybe this explains it. but honestly, this is a metaphysical question that i'm not sure can be answered.

show me where my heart is.

point to it.

the best i could do to locate it is to point to a map of the world. point to the east coast, somewhere between virginia and south carolina. but even then, i'm sure i'll end up pointing to five or six other places.

here's my heart. and here.

it's there, too.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
is this a symptom of insecurity? i see it in my own efforts to write, and think. i would like to think that i merely want exact clarity. but i hear a whisper of 'for now we see through a glass, darkly..."

it's all very confusing, i suppose.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
to examine yourself. to stare into a bright mirror. glance into your own eyes. trace the lines across your face. to wonder what it is about yourself that accomplishes the things you have possibly never noticed. how you appear when you make fast looks. how your heart manages to exist in your grin, your squints, your sniffles. how it manages to show itself at all.

but it must, right?

the question remains for everyone to think about.

the question is a what and why question, and everyone must face the mirror.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
when i try to lay out my metaphysical self, i always here paul simon, singing:

'when i left my home and family, i was no more than a boy...'

honest truth. yes, it's a general statement that is true of half the world, maybe even more true of others than me.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
my heart is inconsistent, ready and willing to defend and reach out in the same moment. a metaphysical eddy. an updraft/downdraft. standing and running, stomping like a horse, probably.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
i know it is strange. and this is the mirror i face. this is the notebook of unconnected, pasted little selves in me. i relate to Paul in these moments.

thank goodness i live in america, right?
thank goodness i can go to work and forget all this.

what can we get for you, sir?

what size, sir?
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
i should love her less by now, but i don't.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
it's a very strange world we live in.

some musical artists you should know about and listen to:

-iron & wine
-stacy clark
-sanders bohlke
-james morrison
-robert pattinson
-madjo
-now, now every children
-david aguilar
-pictures and sound
-gregory alan isakov
-kings of leon
-andrew bird
-erin mckeown
-marry a thief
-aesop rock
-ingrid michaelson
-peter bradley adams
-trevor hall
-jolie holland

enjoy.

when someone wants to be a storm, you cannot stop them, the way you might imagine stopping the wind or the rain, and when someone wants to be a child you had better give up. by waving and flapping, you do not lessen the wind, but contribute to it. and when someone wants to be a wild, adventurous tornado, your life is just debris. it is possible to be completely wrong about someone. it is possible to hope for improbable things. it is possible to hope that the wind will stop. it is also possible to simply let the wind blow where it will. it is possible to accept that no one owns the wind, and that the wind does not care about this fact.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------

more specifically, some people are just not ready for the things you may be ready for. how will you respond to these people? will you love them? will you break your own heart a thousand times trying to let them be a wild wind? when these tornadoes roll through you, will you gather yourself up and chase after the air? when you realize that it cares nothing for you, will you change?
--------------------------------------------------------------------------

more specifically, 'We are creatures of the wind./ Wild is the wind.' when lips that whispered i love yous vanish like smoke in the air, how will you respond? when once-loving lips refuse to offer any sort of kindness, will you keep breathing, unaffected? these are the emotions to be gathered from the debris.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------

more specifically, i remember the good things and moments when love was evident. though they now seem like lies, i hear the i love yous, feel the soft hands. though i am despised, rejected, forgotten, i hang these things on the walls and stare at them until dawn. i will hold these memories in my hands until i lay down in the dust.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------

more specifically, i was in love with the wind.

my application for departure

i'm sitting in a chair.

i'm staring across the room.

over there i see myself.

somewhere. peacecorping.

learning spanish.

drinking foreign coffee.

watching rain fall on cobblestones.

feeling being someplace.

a friend sings "stop suburbia".

it's the placelessness that hurts.

stop suburbia. stop noplaceness.

start foreign coffee and new knowledge.

knowledge of other tongues. other.

places.

"He that would learn to fly must be brought up to the constant practice of it from his youth, trying first only to use his wings as a tame goose will do, so by degrees learning to rise higher till he attain unto skill and confidence."

That sounds so nice.

Some days it feels like things could possibly turn around. Like something good could happen, if only something would set it all in motion.

It is an almost feeling.

That's how it can be explained. Maybe a feeling of almost, or an actuality just shy of reality. My problem with language is that I can never quite say what I mean, exactly, or that I never quite exactly mean what I say.

Fine tune this into a specific, even this *vaguery*. Yes, perhaps it comes down to inventing terms. But "on my own terms" always carried such a negativity. A negativeness.

But I'm back to finding exactly me. Just myself. Myself on a cold Monday that, they say, is threatened by snow. Just me, listening to pictures and sound. A round table in the corner of somewhere.

Why is it that when I go to find myself I always find myself looking for someone else? I whisper Neruda in my head, and hope to find someone who will speak it out loud.

I realized today that I have a habit of shortcutting on life. This is not a pride-inducing realization. Well, maybe it *could* be.

I'm growing a beard. I'll be twenty-seven years old in August. I'm tired of fighting the facial hair. It will never end. The trimming and shaving and grooming. All one has to do is get past the itchy stage. And the desire to not look older.

I know this was a Monday. I know it.

Just for the record.

Don't believe anyone who tells you that Linux is an easy operating system to use.

There is nothing easy about typing codes for everything you want to run or install.

Windows may freeze and crash a lot.

But, with Windows, you can click a button and install a program.

Beware the "apt-get". You will not like it.

Not that anyone I know uses Linux.

But still.

truth is.
i thought i could save you.
not save you.
but show you something.
you worth saving.

how awful of me.

now i read my failures.
written. i read.

i must
stop. because

it is so sad of me.

i wish i could
succeed.
how naive of me.

your choices now
mock my hope.
i must stop.

i love you.
i must stop.
it is the saddest thing.

Seven-word stories

]If only the train had arrived earlier.[

]The door opened, revealing only the night.[

]This was his cobblestone, on his street.[

]The sea had no lack of waves.[

]She could just barely reach the window.[

]It was only an elevator bell, though.[

]Every generation sees men of his kind.[

not so the same the sit,
sidewalks lie silent in the cold.
where have the backyards gone?
where has the passion him gone?

it could this thing be articulate
-ed. if all the worlds, the world's words
mispelled, still shine there, thank
-ing the streets, holding hands.

or have him at last lost it all,
or at all, care of et al. sweep
-ing the streets, bent, with rags.
streets that cradle shuttled dreams.

go tell your secrets on a mountain,
bury them there in the troposphere,
dig heaving a hollow hole, intend
-ing all along to climb back down.

either that or i just don't understand her at all. she says she still considers me her friend even if i don't consider her my friend. i can't figure out why she seems so inconsistent to me.

i sit here thinking about all the bills i have to pay. there's no way to do it. if i take the severance pay from my old job, i can't file for unemployment for almost a month. if i don't file for unemployment, i can't pay all my bills. actually, even if i do file for unemployment, i can't pay all my bills. if i work more hours at starbucks, i might not be able to get unemployment. even if i worked 40+ hours a week at starbucks, i can't afford my bills.

everyone can give advice, and no one can really help. eh, maybe some advice is helpful. it just makes you feel like an invalid. you need to call this number. you need to send this form. you need to talk to this person. you need to fax this. you need to do this now. you have to wait to do this. you should pay this. don't forget to eat healthy.

it's either humbling. or depressing. depending on how you look at it. personally, it just makes me feel low. i'm trying not to let 'i don't care' slip from my mouth. it's hard.

it's all on me now, i guess.

this life thing, well, it's amazing. one season you can have everything you think you need and want, and the next season, it's all gone. i'm sure there's endless lessons in that.

what makes it hard is that when someone you used to be in love with turns on you. losing a job, eh. worrying about your credit, eh. trying to pay bills, eh. but having someone you cared about so much call you their "personal hater," it just does. not. compute. this is how it has been for me. i lost the girl i loved. she packed up. moved across the country. stopped paying her share of the rent. misunderstood just about everything i wrote or said to her. over-analyzed things. real communication breakdown. now all my emails are "hate mails" because i'm sticking up for myself.

on top of that, there's the fact that she's already interested in other guys. as in "i can't be with you because i need to be on my own and independent and not held back" to "i really dig this guy" a month later.

whatever.

i'm just so sick of being treated like the bad guy. i tried to avoid her, because i saw that it was just causing us both stress. that got me accused of all kinds of stuff.

apparently nothing i do is good enough for this girl. not being there for her. not avoiding her. she's pegged me as her "personal hater" and i guess that's all she can see me as now.

how do you go about wishing someone well who has been all these things to you? your friend, your love, your loss, your pain. it's all so ludicrous.

but i know who i am. i'm nobody's "personal hater". i don't hate anyone, not even her. i'm a good guy. i care about other people more than myself. i have way too much stress in my life right now to deal with someone treating me that way. if i'm wrong, i'm willing to be corrected. but i see girl who is running after what she thinks she wants, leaving a mess in her path.

this was me venting. i really don't want advice. thanks.

i've been laid off...

:|

this new

your sadness, your needs were the heart of me,
i always tried to solve them
frantically.
as fast as a smile can form,
make smile-stoppers insignificanceness.

and there is on and on.
it feels eternal, not that
i necessarily know what that means.
i can gamble a guess, turn
a phrase from works to an
old-fashioned maybe.

the problem is that i feel.
or is what i feel.

something so big i just word and word.
like i'll ever someday find it.
an end.
the end.
a meaning.
the meaning.

i assume there is one. both.
i try to generalize this to simplify this.
i know it doesn't help, and actually hurts.
clarity.

i honestly want to say exactly it,
but only you know what it is.

if you said it, it would be instantly clear.
simple.

what i try and try and on.
it's always so normal, predictable,
what i need to say. a raindrop
a billion times fallen.

the feelings everyone feels,
in my situation. the guilt
of feeling so cliche.
needing soap opera advice.
this is the way she left:

me.

as in, oh i don't care about
the apartment, it's not about
anything else but us.

i hide in the be there on times.
shelter: stay busy.
comfort: chasing anything else.
feeling: what do i expect, or you?

i growl with dying love.
you have no idea.

i suppose spring will help.

ok, so running a mile or more every day isn't practical with two jobs, and doesn't really feel healthy on the knees. so i've revised my running resolution to 2+ miles every other day, with some other physical activity in between.

*****
Update: running two straight miles today felt g.o.o.d. i think i'm off to a good start.

resolutions:

1. no haircut until i'm in good shape.
2. run at least 1 mile every day, but probably more
3. write something every day, even if only a sentence.
4. sing correctly. sing more often.
5. buy musical instruments.
6. write music, and record it.
7. read more.
8. travel, possibly to the following places: charleston, new york city, montreal, riverside, great britain, italy.
9. start a musical group/band.
10. be happy being the best me that i have to offer this world.

To start it off, I ran two miles and walked a mile today. It was cold and now my lungs hurt. And my knees...they hurt too. I'm afraid of getting older. Have I wasted 26 years?

what i've learned, like falling apart, like falling, a part of me is unstable. it is a wondering all about everything. now i feel frigid reality asking me questions at night. is it alright? do you think you will be alright? it is a constant vibration, a shaking of me inside of me. this is the truth as it seems. wondering oh and all and this. blankets keep me warm enough, yes. but in the morning i wake up warm and think, for what? is today going to explain it all? is today alright? is the answer waiting on the dashboard? is the answer somewhere in a pocket? because i hope to see her clothes hanging in the closet. because i hope to hear the sound of her breathing.

never again is unbearably cruel. over is a heartless word that knows not what it does. yes, i am seriously unhappy. when the time to grow has run out, when the answer is no, this is how you feel. luckily for me, so they say. luckily for me time goes on. it makes things done, changes how things appear. years make it all alright. and every time it all comes to an end again, it's alright. this is the truth as it seems. something and another thing will just come along, distractions. band-aids.

these are the feelings. these days i'm feeling shaken. hung high. steady. worried. working but about to be nonfunctional. feeling like a poor translation. that no one knows what this is like and means. i don't even know, myself. feeling like a leaf on the wind, long dead. who knows how deep solitude can be? i always knew that giving up is not a verb. it is a cooling of the heart, and it is usually a lie. giving up is promising to never let you know that i love you again. it is replying to "what does it all mean?" with a sigh. it is dying before dying. it is pouring concrete on a pile of broken glass.

"mueve." she said to me.
"sientate alli."
subway D. New York
city.

it snowed and it was enough.

i love this guy

leaving seattle

terminal S9, red-eye from seattle-tacoma
to detroit to memphis to raleigh-durham
to empty apartment to no love to no warmth.
this is the way it will be.

i can already feel the key turning
the deadbolt lock.

i sit here wondering why you don't
come running to me, as in
the movies and stories.
you were supposed to.
it was somewhere in the script,
i'm sure of it.

but this is the way it will be.
i'll go home. i'm going home.
i'm already here at the terminal.
i feel terminal.

somebody fire the guy who named it terminal.
fire him for having no mercy.

mercy and compassion.
Oh holy God.
“do you think mercy will save you?”
she said once. I hope it will.
I hope it saves us all.

even her.

there is not much more to say now.
there will be more to say later,
when the world stops ending
and starts not ending.

i'm not writing this to bring you down.
i'm writing this because all the people
at terminal S9 are wondering why
i'm crying.

st. petersburg and i are tired, as
are all the rest and pittsburgh. cities.
sitting in our places, unmovable as
locations are where they are located.

too much wind to see the snow, or
too few windows to let it in. ventanas.
i ask myself to prove the need to make
the temperature inside the walls different
from the temperature outside the walls.

remember: it's only seven hundred square feet
on a oblate spheroid spinning round and round
around the sun, sol, estrella proxima.
so go crack the window if you wish.

to be movable is not to move. what i desire
is movement. a motion measurable in

location, which is relative,
speed, which is least important,
and experience, which

turns, forms, explains, and questions
the heart, and is the heart of the motion.

i grant myself permission to move.

i hear the turbines spinning jetly,
as they should. sirens--calling me.

destinations are what you make of them,
and can be reached at any speed you like.

experience is a cat-and-mouse chase
that stands there, grinning.

I think I might have posted this video before a while back, but I was listening to the song on my iPod, and...well...it's just the greatest music video ever.

Fiona Apple - Not About Love

the earth, for example, is a place.
you whisper secrets that earthlings conceal
from the darkness, the vastness of other
places and not-places. we are real.
i turn off the beeping coffee pot
that knows not how to hide terminus and
the void.

you wrapped yourself in steel, streamlined
among anti-gravitational technicalities, stole
away into the dawn. i looked upon the void,
i felt my voice give way. and we know
the cuando and the por que.
these lines could be an introduction that
fails to introduce. fails to close the void.

today, i will explain that our table
has managed to remain a table, that our
cabinets have misplaced the food, that
the doors yet open and close. the floors
tolerate their coverings of tile and carpet,
the windows admit
the sunlight apathetically, and
the pillows guard the bed.

as for me, i mix myself among these things--
wander from room to room, a caged bird
fluttering from floor to waterspout,
perch to floor, perch to waterspout.
these are only poor metaphors. i am
fine, and waiting to wrap myself in steel.
the hope of fluttering to you keeps
me sane, keeps me singing.

i sing late into the night. the
neighbors, if there are any, or
if they are any,
do not seem to mind.

these places we call home are momentary
borrowings, "stays against the madness".
ours remains a simple place, a speck
among the limited locations that would
sustain us, suspend us in the void.
what i mean is that space has a lot of space.
you and i will call any place home,
adjust the blinds and pay the bills.

ad infinitum.

shiny things, where will we find them? but
why most of all must we find them. i suppose
that is a question. i worry sometimes.

beds and endless thoughts they all want to
oppose the sailor and his shore. this is
more or less nothing much at all.

sand let fall will fall and hands
let sand fall this fall. and after it
all we worry about the questions, the

sailors are sure. the sea gulls call.
this is not a question at all.

what's new, what's new. what's up. with you
i feel a black and white picture coming on.
with you it's always waterfalls in the background.
singing in the background. singing new songs.

with you 'd' is for distance. but what is distance
for? what conversations do miles support?

mount st. helens. hello. help.
ashes covering the park, the conversation.
you are with me in a pulsing telephone wire.
together there we clear the air.

The swift poise of a head, a flutter of laughter--
And love flows in on him, its vastness pent
Within his narrow life: the pain it brings,
Boundless; for love is infinite discontent
With the poor lonely life of transient things.

-A.H.
--------------------------------------------------

what is life before you know
this infinite discontent?

an afternoon transformation of
roses, hair, and laughter--
shadowed then unshadowed by a cloud.

dimming the brilliance of these things.

a revival of these sensory dazzlings.

y sigue esta perspectiva del amor,
the infinite contained by corporal time:

stretched into and made to hold.
so tight and bursting.
full and still searching.

the source is endless
and when it flows in
you will know this.

a child stares over his mother's shoulder. at me.
this cuteness doesn't last long is what you said.

yes it lasts at least until he lies down
in his father's arms, still as moonlight.

and then he's up again to stare again.
they don't know he wants to talk to me.

he knows no words, so he varies the openness of his eyes.
they don't notice he stretches a hand towards me.

time management is an interesting concept.
it is impossible to manage priorities
within a given amount of time.

now picture workers overcrowded on a train.

priorities existed prior to this.
priorities do not give in, they exist,
and overcrowd a given amount of time.

time management is not interesting at all.

friction not time stops a train.
time is not a train but causes friction
within priorities as they exist.

now picture yourself.

prior to this it all existed, though
you may say this train never arrived here
now as it did just now. stop crowding.

time management is a train with no station.

interests existed prior to time management,
which itself was managed prior to the arrival
and helps us picture the overcrowding.

picture luggage left on a train platform.

i heard you sing busco un raro encantamiento,
and i know what that means over strummed strings,

quizas.

que significa a mi es una gloriosa mañana,
y busco tambien,

quizas.

a painting where the light exists stratified
high above, glows in tones of foreign words.

busco cuando el sol es recibido
por un patio de cemento,

quizas.

the narrow city road is really a walkway,
though it has not always been and may
not always be. the stones hide their limits,
but have them.

the windows all along the buildings hold true
to their temporary shape, though temporary
here is undefined, or indefinite.

sunlight falls down through the valley-like space
between the mountains, which are only man-made
buildings. the light falls as it likes.

this is only a picture on the wall.
this is not a real observation, but
a description of a temporary/captured moment.

this took me two minute's time, and i
wonder what you could write
in a similar amount of time.

these words have already begun to cease
to exist.

this may be called an attempt to find a nontexture.

writing is a struggle to cover plagiarism, as all
writing is recycling what has been, as all
fresh dirt on the shovel is
old dirt on the shovel.

I could think about this all afternoon.
But what I need to do is

find you, take you to the store,
buy you things --
you don't like things so much,
so what I need to do is

find a store that sells nonthings,
things with nontextures,
nondescriptions.

A store that sells nonthings does not yet exist.
I spend all afternoon trying to figure you out.

nessun dorma (no sleep)

i've been missing sleep lately. maybe lucianno will help...

linux (abandoned) as a metaphor

/home/user/mmc-sdd/partion1/> cd

/home/user/> linux as a metaphor

Partition is easy to understand. Divide the whole to organize the whole. Partition East from West Germany, but Mr. Gorb., tear down that wall. Partition the East from the West Bank. Partition the rich from the rest. Partition my heart from my chest. Partition my hair from my head as I read the New York Times. They'll raise the prices still, they think. The supply, the supply, they say. Shove that 'per barrel' up into the stratosphere. The space-o-sphere. The universe-o-sphere. Oh sure. The price will rise to beat the Nile. They slip in from the bank, those crocodiles.

This was supposed to be about Linux. This was supposed to be about me. Installing and running so far is complex. Lines of coded language where simple icons should be. I click the |X| to live in simplicity. Files lost and errors. I suppose this is Linux. Maybe this is me.

I read the paper and I see the crocodiles swimming. Crookodiles swaggering there tails in stuff we live in.

Some King hospital in NYC. Some psychiatric ward with, often, a 24-hour wait to get a bed. Security cameras record a woman sitting for hours. She blacks out – falls down dead. Over an hour later, a hospital worker nudges the dead woman with a neglectful foot. Autopsy shows sitting so long made blood clots in her legs. Deep-veined thrombosis, I think, is the term. People can get it on long car drives or flights. Stretch your legs every once in a while. The clots moved to the womans lungs. The waiting killed her.

Same page. Man and wife have decided their too-many-thousand-foot home is too big for them. Eight-car garage, movie theater, indoor pool. Everything. It's too much. She only wants 3,000 square feet. He needs 7,000, he says. For 31 million, the house won't sell. Economy's falling and real estate has the shimmies. For 200+ thousand and the right standing, you can bid on their house. Bidding will last a month and start at 19 million dollars.

Million dollars.
19.
1 or 19 or any million dollars... Same page: a woman dies waiting for a hospital bed. The hospital will be revamped and hopefully the wait time will be reduced to just 12 hours, a spokesman says.

Is it too much to evaluate myself as a metaphoree of Linux? Linux, an operating system I don't understand in a world I don't understand in a self I don't always understand. Where do I draw the line and say, 'This is how far I'll extend my heart. This is what I will understand'? To the universe-o-sphere? To my fingertips?

Same paper. More middle-eastern villages reduced to rubble. More politics in a bind in Africa. Zimbabwe has it worse than women in some King hospital in NYC.

Maybe.

Maybe it's easier to focus on fingertips. Maybe my hands are complex enough to fill my spare time. It's unlikely that the Crookodiles will ever come snapping at my hands. I know this is because they don't need to. They have already carved their initials into my wallet.

Partition my wallet from my pants. Subdivide and budget and understand this river we're swimming in.

i owe it to myself
i suppose,
in the way we all owe it
to ourselves...
all of us alike in this;

i also owe it to a
wandering star from
middle california
who owes it to
a famous wanderer
who once owed it to
roads and angels,

which were created
at some time or another.

tbcc

i believe in you only on the exhale;
you move out and up, apparently.

dissipate yourself into your true self;
stretch your shape into something more you.

you give your response because
the question no longer applies:

your taste is in the afterthought,
in the search lights of your escape.

east

hold not energy against
Mangala, over early to eat.

these things are happening
to everyone else as well. rice, fish,

roughage as a point which blends, in
Hong Kong as in Nepal; wash your face

and while handfuls of knives prepare,
and while footprints on the river dock --

freshly walked upon
to bring this naked meal

of rice in functionally sewn sacks --
evaporate into the dimming daylight,

and while you mill in the quay of the river
it is all the same. you will not

disrespect his state of mind,
nor your sense of self, nor i.

04.06.08 connection

connection is an assumption
.sometimes there are kisses.
or well it means some dear thing
.kisses are real connections.

solitude is real and solitude is not

solitude is a real loss of connections
.sometimes there are not kisses.
or will there be a meaning found
.solitude is not just no kisses.

connections are real and connections are not

hands are sometimes held
.sometimes there are hands held.
Sundays give no care whether this is so
.hands sometimes make connections.

Sundays are real and Sundays are not


belief

belief might be found inside
who knows
a yellow-flower petal
fallen upon Tuesday's grass
and dew-soaked

her face, her face
yes
it is that sort of day

belief might have dug
its way into a corridor,
or
decided to be no more

don't
you just sit there wondering
where this might be,
believing it is

something and somewhere

sestinka

A man on the corner cracks open an ice-cold Bud;
the summer air is stagnant outside his fixed-rent efficiency.
So, he thinks, this must be the city,
where the people are fragile and the minutes are agile.
This is where subterranean sewers collect
the run-off streams of runaways' dreams – possibly

mixing them with silt and rusty needles; 'possibly'
being a polite mask for 'certainly'; few dreams bud
and bloom here – the rain falls only to collect
in puddles with motor oil and antifreeze; the efficiency
with which it creates toxic sidestreet rainbows and agile
pools of pollution tells him this must be the city.

Hoodie and jeans: his haz-mat suit for the city.
Some tenants are moving out – going nowhere – but possibly
that kind of aimlessness is what keeps us all agile;
so, when the trees down the block decide to bud,
we load a U-haul on a whim, with reckless efficiency,
quit our jobs by calling in late, sick, dead, etc. Calling collect.

High above, evaporated ideals and dreams collect
in crooked clouds above the disappointing city,
ready to purge the polluted hearts below with brimstone efficiency.
"Another place; a suburb; another country, possibly;
but not this city, where my flowers won't bud,"
says some she to some he, with a face purely agile.

In a blink, she turns fragile: less agile
than she needed to be, she stoops to collect
pieces of porcelain, dirt, a flower that wouldn't bud,
the shattered remains of the smallest city
dream ever dreamed by some she, possibly
the perfect epitome of this city's efficiency

to flash dreams in pulsing neon lights, its efficiency
to purge hope from a heart once agile.
Maybe she'll leave her dream where it dropped; possibly
crack a weary smile at it all; collect
the few things that do not and never will belong in the city;
set out towards nowhere with some he – her old bud.

The truck rumbles inefficiently downstreet, past where the trees bud,
over broken pavement where the agile youth play the games of the city.
A rain begins – possibly the best city memory some she and some he will collect.

opera

lately, i have been interested in opera music. i bought luciano pavarotti's greatest hits from starbucks, and i'm diggin' it. the reason i like it so much is that it's something i can't do, and probably never will be able to. well, i found a couple videos of another opera singer, juan diego florez, singing a song i really like from the pavarotti collection, and i thought i'd share them.

i asked to taste the kisses you give
and you walked away through
the falling leaves of the night.
i'll stand and wait on your reply.

i want to hear the world in all
its many-flavored languages,
all the tongues speaking words
to symbolize ideas and thoughts.

now where did you go walking off to?
i hear leaves crackling beneath
your feet and the weight of your heart.

you are a thought and a language,
a symbol of a glimmering feeling,
walking clumsily on leaves and sticks--
these noises are a new language.

i hear you speaking it fluently,
perfectly, as if it were the sound of
"Let there be light," or "I name you 'tiger.'"

i stand still, listening to you speak
through this walk-away, crackling leaves.
you are a beautiful thought drifting to me
through the night and the leaves and
the air that i breathe.