Best text message ever:
Yes. As a matter of fact, I am texting you again. I bet you never imagined 9 months ago how much work being my friend would turn out to be. Don't you think loving someone else really well makes life worth it? Even if they don't always love you back as well as you would like. Just wondering. I love love.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Memories...
So I'm listening to Sufjan Stevens. And it reminds me of a time when, working overnights at My Favourite Multi-national Corporation Ever, I said something about him (in conjunction with my love of banjo) and this girl who worked there laughed at me and told me, "It's pronounced Soof-YAWN."
Overall, she was an okay kid. But I couldn't help noticing what an elitist she was. And while noticing that, I couldn't help noticing that she still worked overnights at My Favourite Multi-national Corporation Ever. It just makes me wonder what she's gonna get out of life. Because no matter how great we are at superciliously pronouncing obscure musicians' names to undereducated peons such as myself, we're still both poor and tired and scanning in signs that over-zealously inform shoppers that, for a limited time only, they can save twelve cents on this unnecessary purchase!
Overall, she was an okay kid. But I couldn't help noticing what an elitist she was. And while noticing that, I couldn't help noticing that she still worked overnights at My Favourite Multi-national Corporation Ever. It just makes me wonder what she's gonna get out of life. Because no matter how great we are at superciliously pronouncing obscure musicians' names to undereducated peons such as myself, we're still both poor and tired and scanning in signs that over-zealously inform shoppers that, for a limited time only, they can save twelve cents on this unnecessary purchase!
Monday, September 29, 2008
ordinary
she empties her pockets after work
spare change falling into
collapsing hills on her desk
thinking that she should put something there
(a jar, or cup)
to collect the meandering mess
the handfuls of used presidents
and borrowed time
accumulated and dispersed
edges softened from years
of linty pockets and sweaty hands
maybe she could find something pretty
she thinks
maybe a little fishbowl
yes
that could be nice
a little fishbowl
she pictures it there
as she exchanges
one pair of pants for another
one crumpled shirt for another
pictures it as she contemplates taking a bath
(the warm water would be nice,
the bubbles,
maybe a scented candle)
she pictures it there
the roundly transparent host
to different versions of the same colors
little drops of metal that dully sparkle
in the tired yellow light
of bulbs which buzz a bereaved protest
before flickering into an begrudging glow
that subtly fades with the hours
peeking over its shoulder from time to time
to see if anyone has noticed its retreat
little drops of metal
touched thoughtlessly by thousands before her
to be touched by thousands more,
carelessly,
each so accustomed to the other's presence
that neither looks up from the paper
to say good morning
these things,
so ordinary,
to be dropped in a bowl made for fishes
and transformed, temporarily,
into something satisfyingly quaint
spare change falling into
collapsing hills on her desk
thinking that she should put something there
(a jar, or cup)
to collect the meandering mess
the handfuls of used presidents
and borrowed time
accumulated and dispersed
edges softened from years
of linty pockets and sweaty hands
maybe she could find something pretty
she thinks
maybe a little fishbowl
yes
that could be nice
a little fishbowl
she pictures it there
as she exchanges
one pair of pants for another
one crumpled shirt for another
pictures it as she contemplates taking a bath
(the warm water would be nice,
the bubbles,
maybe a scented candle)
she pictures it there
the roundly transparent host
to different versions of the same colors
little drops of metal that dully sparkle
in the tired yellow light
of bulbs which buzz a bereaved protest
before flickering into an begrudging glow
that subtly fades with the hours
peeking over its shoulder from time to time
to see if anyone has noticed its retreat
little drops of metal
touched thoughtlessly by thousands before her
to be touched by thousands more,
carelessly,
each so accustomed to the other's presence
that neither looks up from the paper
to say good morning
these things,
so ordinary,
to be dropped in a bowl made for fishes
and transformed, temporarily,
into something satisfyingly quaint
Monday, September 15, 2008
this one, too
what joy is there to be found
in this world?
what sorrow?
and yet here is something
that might be found.
this moment.
this
in this world?
what sorrow?
and yet here is something
that might be found.
this moment.
this
sigh
what sorry days, these,
which chatter endlessly on and on
yet say nothing.
cicadas singing in
the evening
tell me more
than do a day's worth
of garbled urban tasks
ticking past
with fastidious
disdain
even as i disdain them.
what discontent, this,
which demands that i should
seek the unfulfilled life
when i seek
to seek
nothing
and, so,
fail.
which chatter endlessly on and on
yet say nothing.
cicadas singing in
the evening
tell me more
than do a day's worth
of garbled urban tasks
ticking past
with fastidious
disdain
even as i disdain them.
what discontent, this,
which demands that i should
seek the unfulfilled life
when i seek
to seek
nothing
and, so,
fail.
Fast Car
Some songs are so intimate, so precise, so....
Some songs, rather than being a soundtrack to our lives, are our lives. We are the soundtrack.
It's amazing how my entire life can fit inside of a song, comfortably, nostagically, perfectly.
PS The idea of Tracy Chapman and Alice Walker being together is shatteringly beautiful and ridiculously hot.
Some songs, rather than being a soundtrack to our lives, are our lives. We are the soundtrack.
It's amazing how my entire life can fit inside of a song, comfortably, nostagically, perfectly.
PS The idea of Tracy Chapman and Alice Walker being together is shatteringly beautiful and ridiculously hot.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
A Dream of Trees
Here is your un-daily poem! Brought to you by Kate.
A Dream of Trees
There is a thing in me that dreamed of trees,
A quiet house, some green and modest acres
A little way from every troubling town,
A little way from factories, schools, laments,
I would have time, I thought, and time to spare,
With only streams and birds for company,
To build out of my life a few wild stanzas.
And then it came to me, that so was death,
A little way away from everywhere.
There is a thing in me still dreams of trees.
But let it go. Homesick for moderation,
Half the world's artists shrink or fall away.
If any find solution, let him tell it.
Meanwhile I bend my heart toward lamentation
Where, as the times implore our true involvement,
The blades of every crisis point the way.
I would it were not so, but so it is.
Who ever made music of a mild day?
--Mary Oliver
A Dream of Trees
There is a thing in me that dreamed of trees,
A quiet house, some green and modest acres
A little way from every troubling town,
A little way from factories, schools, laments,
I would have time, I thought, and time to spare,
With only streams and birds for company,
To build out of my life a few wild stanzas.
And then it came to me, that so was death,
A little way away from everywhere.
There is a thing in me still dreams of trees.
But let it go. Homesick for moderation,
Half the world's artists shrink or fall away.
If any find solution, let him tell it.
Meanwhile I bend my heart toward lamentation
Where, as the times implore our true involvement,
The blades of every crisis point the way.
I would it were not so, but so it is.
Who ever made music of a mild day?
--Mary Oliver
Unintentional Voyeurism
Today in the gym, I noticed how much I wasn't male. Every other person in there was a male, except for the occasional sorority girl who tore herself away from the ellipticals long enough to work her inner thighs, only to scurry back up the stairs on her way to a frighteningly low BMI.
Watching, for the first time, these men, I grew more and more nauseated--figuratively speaking. Watching the guys there work out felt like accidental voyeurism, as if I had drunkenly stumbled into the men's locker room after a football game and caught them in the middle of a circle jerk. Awkwardly, I could not look away. This narcissism was beyond masturbatory. It wasn't just that they were pleasuring themselves, it wasn't just a quick release in the bathroom, it was that they were actually having sex with themselves.
You should see these guys look in the mirrors as they pump their arms. They literally thrust after every motion. I am not kidding you. I saw this happen. Repeatedly. Invariably. Tragically.
And after the thrust they flex again!--expelling a digusting kind of grunting/straining noise that could have been recorded as audio for a cheap porno. I believe that any guy there had the power to replicate himself, he would do it just to watch himself give himself blow jobs. It would be the ultimate fantasy.
Oh, and has anyone else noticed that straight guys only care about their arm muscles? They move from arm machine to arm machine, thrusting, grunting, looking in the mirror and all, but never work anything else. I don't know about you, but that gorilla walk really does it for me....
Watching, for the first time, these men, I grew more and more nauseated--figuratively speaking. Watching the guys there work out felt like accidental voyeurism, as if I had drunkenly stumbled into the men's locker room after a football game and caught them in the middle of a circle jerk. Awkwardly, I could not look away. This narcissism was beyond masturbatory. It wasn't just that they were pleasuring themselves, it wasn't just a quick release in the bathroom, it was that they were actually having sex with themselves.
You should see these guys look in the mirrors as they pump their arms. They literally thrust after every motion. I am not kidding you. I saw this happen. Repeatedly. Invariably. Tragically.
And after the thrust they flex again!--expelling a digusting kind of grunting/straining noise that could have been recorded as audio for a cheap porno. I believe that any guy there had the power to replicate himself, he would do it just to watch himself give himself blow jobs. It would be the ultimate fantasy.
Oh, and has anyone else noticed that straight guys only care about their arm muscles? They move from arm machine to arm machine, thrusting, grunting, looking in the mirror and all, but never work anything else. I don't know about you, but that gorilla walk really does it for me....
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Un-escape
Today, for some reason, I mentioned to a group that I tutor what I want to do when I grow up.
"I want to be a campground host."
"...Why?"
"I want to be in the woods. I want to be a campground host. And just be."
"Then you don't even need to be in college."
"Yeah, it was probably a big mistake. Now I'll have to have a career to pay it off. But maybe then I can be a campground host."
"...Why?"
"Or live in a spiritual community. Like this Quaker commune in Maine that I read about. And just be."
At this point, they consider me legitimately crazy. But this is what I want. As I considered it, I wondered--am I pursuing some form of escapism? But honestly, I believe my desires to be the opposite of that.
I am.
That is my reality.
As such, why continue to operate under these rules? Why the car, the education, the computer, the blog? Rather than calm me, rather than help me to understand my inner self more fully, these keep me from myself. These distract me. These are the escape. To live solely for the purpose of being one with myself, to live in community with others, to be a part of all that I do--to grow my food, make my clothes, construct my shelter--is the un-escape. Not an escape from reality, but a recognition of reality. Of truth, perhaps.
All of this, this, this stressed me out. To be one with myself and others. To be one. To be. That is my desire.
No one.
Nothing.
No thing.
No.
"I want to be a campground host."
"...Why?"
"I want to be in the woods. I want to be a campground host. And just be."
"Then you don't even need to be in college."
"Yeah, it was probably a big mistake. Now I'll have to have a career to pay it off. But maybe then I can be a campground host."
"...Why?"
"Or live in a spiritual community. Like this Quaker commune in Maine that I read about. And just be."
At this point, they consider me legitimately crazy. But this is what I want. As I considered it, I wondered--am I pursuing some form of escapism? But honestly, I believe my desires to be the opposite of that.
I am.
That is my reality.
As such, why continue to operate under these rules? Why the car, the education, the computer, the blog? Rather than calm me, rather than help me to understand my inner self more fully, these keep me from myself. These distract me. These are the escape. To live solely for the purpose of being one with myself, to live in community with others, to be a part of all that I do--to grow my food, make my clothes, construct my shelter--is the un-escape. Not an escape from reality, but a recognition of reality. Of truth, perhaps.
All of this, this, this stressed me out. To be one with myself and others. To be one. To be. That is my desire.
No one.
Nothing.
No thing.
No.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
The poet will die. The visionary.
I still haven't thrown out the glass from my window. It's sitting in a little trash can in my room, weighing more than you might expect by looking at it. I feel like I should make something with it, something to remind me.
People Suck
More and more, I have been gradually abdicating my perspective that people are basically good. Actually, I never quite put it that way. I simply phrase it in terms of the idea that people are born innocent, as Sarah McLachlan informs us. Maybe we are innocent our entire lives, never understanding the effects of our cruelty. But that doesn't stand for much. Whether we're hard-wired as jerks or raised into that lifestyle doesn't really matter to me. What does matter to me is the responsibility that we do (not) take for that now.
People who are born into privilege should do their best to eliminate that privilege. To understand it, and to work against it. That is what I believe.
Honestly, I am not mad at whoever did this. Perhaps it was someone who thought it would be fun, but more than likely, it was someone who doesn't have any money and who doesn't have any access to money. Someone who would not be able to find a job outside of fast food chains and who doesn't want to stand for the humiliation of a lifetime of McDonald's. Who can blame them? They probably just want a fucking break.
Who I do blame, though, is people like McCain and Palin. People who mock the work of community organizers and activists. I blame the people like Ray Kroc, the founder of McDonald's, who believe that all you need to do is work hard and you'll be able to do anything. Because that's bullshit. Anyone who believes that is already rich, or well on their way. Probably from doing things like, I don't know, abusing the per diem system while you live in the capital.
And those people are probably white, too. I mention this not to bash white people, but to point out that there are privileges inherent in being white in this country that Kroc and Disney would never understand. They would never have become billionaires if they were people of color, because they would not have been respected. So don't tell the world that all you need to do is work hard, because what you mean is that all you need to do is be a hard-working white man. Things may be changing, but not very quickly. And while opinions on race and gender may be shifting, cultural values are not. To be "successful" in this society does not require, to the same extent as in previous years, a person to be a white male, but it does require a person to act like one. People of color must "act white," women must act like men (otherwise known as being a bitch). These standards alienate a person from their group of origin, and yet their status as "other" keeps them from fully integrating into that "success" culture.
Crimes like breaking into my car are republicans' favourite. First, they can point at poor people and say that they're bad, that high crime among poor people is a result of their inferior nature rather than a response to the impossibility of the "American Dream". Second, they keep poor people poor. People living paycheck to paycheck cannot handle this kind of thing. Instead of fixing the window and getting a new cd player, as most of the people in the next neighborhood would do, we duct tape plastic that we bummed off of a sympathetic Home Depot employee to the car door. Classy.
How much more likely is it that I'll be pulled over now? Poor people are targeted by most cops. Old cars are already high profile since they're more likely to be uninsured. Now tell me where it makes sense to punish poor people for being poor? First, we create poverty, and then we punish that poverty via monetary fees.
Today, I gave a panhandler two dollars. Just to try to believe that there was some decency in the world, even if it wouldn't make a goddamn difference. The weirdest thing happened after that, though--the Lexus behind me gave him a couple of bucks, too. It made me wonder if they would have done that either way, but I have to confess that I kind of hoped that I could maybe set off a chain reaction. Not the kind that inspires people to give twenty three cents to the homeless, but the kind that inspires people to counteract the forces that create homelessness, the forces in which we are undeniably complicit, whether unconsciously or consciously. I'd have to do way more than offer two dollars to a panhandler, but a dream's a dream.
Anyway, the light turned green while the Lexus was handing the guy money, and the person behind the Lexus honked their horn angrily, so probably not much will happen beyond what already did. But we need to find comfort where we can. Maybe the guy got a meal out of it. Maybe he got a bottle. Who cares. Maybe it gave him some hope.
This isn't very coherent due to the massive headache into which I've channeled my emotions, but I'm sure you get the basic idea....
Main points:
1. Republicans hate people.
2. Poor people should not steal from the poor, they should steal from the rich.
3. Rich people should not assume that poor people don't work.
4. Everyone should just be a little nicer.
People who are born into privilege should do their best to eliminate that privilege. To understand it, and to work against it. That is what I believe.
Honestly, I am not mad at whoever did this. Perhaps it was someone who thought it would be fun, but more than likely, it was someone who doesn't have any money and who doesn't have any access to money. Someone who would not be able to find a job outside of fast food chains and who doesn't want to stand for the humiliation of a lifetime of McDonald's. Who can blame them? They probably just want a fucking break.
Who I do blame, though, is people like McCain and Palin. People who mock the work of community organizers and activists. I blame the people like Ray Kroc, the founder of McDonald's, who believe that all you need to do is work hard and you'll be able to do anything. Because that's bullshit. Anyone who believes that is already rich, or well on their way. Probably from doing things like, I don't know, abusing the per diem system while you live in the capital.
And those people are probably white, too. I mention this not to bash white people, but to point out that there are privileges inherent in being white in this country that Kroc and Disney would never understand. They would never have become billionaires if they were people of color, because they would not have been respected. So don't tell the world that all you need to do is work hard, because what you mean is that all you need to do is be a hard-working white man. Things may be changing, but not very quickly. And while opinions on race and gender may be shifting, cultural values are not. To be "successful" in this society does not require, to the same extent as in previous years, a person to be a white male, but it does require a person to act like one. People of color must "act white," women must act like men (otherwise known as being a bitch). These standards alienate a person from their group of origin, and yet their status as "other" keeps them from fully integrating into that "success" culture.
Crimes like breaking into my car are republicans' favourite. First, they can point at poor people and say that they're bad, that high crime among poor people is a result of their inferior nature rather than a response to the impossibility of the "American Dream". Second, they keep poor people poor. People living paycheck to paycheck cannot handle this kind of thing. Instead of fixing the window and getting a new cd player, as most of the people in the next neighborhood would do, we duct tape plastic that we bummed off of a sympathetic Home Depot employee to the car door. Classy.
How much more likely is it that I'll be pulled over now? Poor people are targeted by most cops. Old cars are already high profile since they're more likely to be uninsured. Now tell me where it makes sense to punish poor people for being poor? First, we create poverty, and then we punish that poverty via monetary fees.
Today, I gave a panhandler two dollars. Just to try to believe that there was some decency in the world, even if it wouldn't make a goddamn difference. The weirdest thing happened after that, though--the Lexus behind me gave him a couple of bucks, too. It made me wonder if they would have done that either way, but I have to confess that I kind of hoped that I could maybe set off a chain reaction. Not the kind that inspires people to give twenty three cents to the homeless, but the kind that inspires people to counteract the forces that create homelessness, the forces in which we are undeniably complicit, whether unconsciously or consciously. I'd have to do way more than offer two dollars to a panhandler, but a dream's a dream.
Anyway, the light turned green while the Lexus was handing the guy money, and the person behind the Lexus honked their horn angrily, so probably not much will happen beyond what already did. But we need to find comfort where we can. Maybe the guy got a meal out of it. Maybe he got a bottle. Who cares. Maybe it gave him some hope.
This isn't very coherent due to the massive headache into which I've channeled my emotions, but I'm sure you get the basic idea....
Main points:
1. Republicans hate people.
2. Poor people should not steal from the poor, they should steal from the rich.
3. Rich people should not assume that poor people don't work.
4. Everyone should just be a little nicer.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Fair Warning
Recently, my roommate stepped out of the bathroom around the time that I was heading toward it.
"I... just did something very manly in there," she warned me.
Well-put, my friend. Delicate, yet clear.
"I... just did something very manly in there," she warned me.
Well-put, my friend. Delicate, yet clear.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Texas' Small Penis
You know what I hate?
Testicles.
You all know what I'm talking about. The sagging white scrotum found hanging on the back of every oversized truck in Texas. My roommate came up with a brilliant plan for these people: for every truck we find that has a nasty-ass ballsack dangling from its rear, we shall give away a radical feminist bumper sticker--free of charge! Best case scenario, one of their similarly ill-equipped comrades will notice it before they do and hold it against them for years. Worst case scenario they find out who did it and beat us with golf clubs.
In my past several years here in Texas, I have come to the gradual understanding that, collectively, Texas Has a Tiny Penis. Think about it. Think of the gross overexaggerations. Everything's bigger in Texas. Really, boys? Everything?
Big state. Big trucks that have never seen a day's work. Big guns (oh baby, oh baby). Big hats. Big game trophies. Big football stadiums.
Big testaments to the feeling of inadequacy that leads to overcompensation.
It wouldn't surprise me if not a single male in Texas has an average-sized member. If there is such a man, I'll know him when I see him. Because he won't be bragging to his friends about the titties that he almost touched last night sported by a girl that he almost talked to.
Testicles.
You all know what I'm talking about. The sagging white scrotum found hanging on the back of every oversized truck in Texas. My roommate came up with a brilliant plan for these people: for every truck we find that has a nasty-ass ballsack dangling from its rear, we shall give away a radical feminist bumper sticker--free of charge! Best case scenario, one of their similarly ill-equipped comrades will notice it before they do and hold it against them for years. Worst case scenario they find out who did it and beat us with golf clubs.
In my past several years here in Texas, I have come to the gradual understanding that, collectively, Texas Has a Tiny Penis. Think about it. Think of the gross overexaggerations. Everything's bigger in Texas. Really, boys? Everything?
Big state. Big trucks that have never seen a day's work. Big guns (oh baby, oh baby). Big hats. Big game trophies. Big football stadiums.
Big testaments to the feeling of inadequacy that leads to overcompensation.
It wouldn't surprise me if not a single male in Texas has an average-sized member. If there is such a man, I'll know him when I see him. Because he won't be bragging to his friends about the titties that he almost touched last night sported by a girl that he almost talked to.
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