Bus Boy #1

Written on the bus today. Protagonist= a stranger. Subject= connection (in the spirit of Whitman). Enjoy! 

I can tell just by looking at him,

And-- God-- I love musicians. 

I can hear the music in his head--

I don't like it much, but I understand: 

Right now the entire world is moving to one beat--

Everything is in agreement

A commonality completely compatible to him. 

I don't like the music much, but I nod my head with his

For camaraderie. 

Leaves fall with us.

Lights blink with us.

Clouds form and fragment, and sunlight hits our cheeks

And the spots in our eyes move in rhythm. 

The man taps his foot with us.

The bus stops and goes with us. 

The big houses that we can't fit into blur around us.

Even the unexcitable, chemically-sprayed hair extensions of the girls we don't like

Curl with the sound waves,

And the hard-set jaws of the masculine pretty-boys we don't like-- unclench.

The fearless/fearful eyes of the people we are too afraid to talk to-- close, 

So that we can see what they're truly thinking. 

And the second-hands on the watches of the corporate bores we keep away from

Tick in time with us. 

The interlacing of life is nice,

But its nothing new. 

I am only made to realize it through the brief companionship of my musician,

But it has alway been here.

Life forever mingles, but we have not matured;

We have not learned to make eye contact as we give out handshakes 

I Have No Answers

What I want is to make all this shit sound eloquent. I've been told not to value my negativity too much, but if I can't make something beautiful out of all this pain then I don't think I'll be able to live through it. So I'll try not to get stuck in this place. I'll try to balance these deadening days with poems about life and that dependent-less love I was obsessed with. But for now I'm in limbo; some awkward transitional stage. I'm seeing things a little more clearly, but I don't necessarily like what I see. I'm making resolutions to find something internal and positive, but I haven't taken the actual steps yet. 

So! Here's a poem- was written on the bus home today: 

When I get angry

I feel fists knocking on the backside of my eyeballs,

And when I analyze-- the feeling--

It proves to be Hectic and Beautiful and Exciting.

But I don't want to step outside myself this time

To rationalize this insanity into art.

I feel angry all the time now.

My feelings fist into my vision.

I don't think I can see you clearly anymore.

So this is where I'm at present. Would you like some context?: 

I had been priding myself on my ability to deal. Really I was just lacking issues. 

I am as unstable as ever. I still cling to delusional hopes. I am happy for as long as those hopes are standing, and when reality causes them to collapse I claim that life is unfair. I guess self-pity is easier than acceptance. But it is so unsustainable, and this way of "living" has finally guided me to the point where I see that I can't continue on this way. 

The metaphor of a pile-up seems to fit: first came my hopes, then disappointment, then resentment, guilt, anger, general cynicism. I never let go of any of it, and now its too heavy for me to hold onto. 

But I'm not really sure how to let go. Maybe just realizing it, and writing it down, is the process. But I am pretty certain it is more complicated than that. 

Furthermore-- there seem to be certain things I could do that would force me to let go. For instance: I could bask in my anger, abandon the people I can place blame on... but then I am still holding fast to a portion of my load. I don't think this can be forced. 

Anyway. I'm starting here. I'm beginning with the thinking and realizing and writing. And I'm feeling good here. 

Concluding Poem

This is the concluding poem of my final. I think it's content my be heightened if read with the first poem of the post before this one. 

Such a finalizing tool I live by.

Constructed to rationalize--

To document the indefinite

That from thought to thought is debated,

But with this weapon is dictated

On a page--

My intent is contradicted.

Purpose is not in striving or struggle--

Not in these books or poems.

Purpose is in the nature of finding and losing--

Instantaneously;

The empowerment to write and keep writing--

To read, to see and feel-- to live--

To be and keep being. 

This is a product and an attempt of thought--

Of understanding,

And to connect!

Yet-- often what the poet needs is just to lose the pen. 

Yummm. Dickinson-inspired Poetry

The following poetry is part of  my English (American Romanticsm) Final Project... Eek! What a scary concept! Anyway- Enjoy:

First-- from the womb-- I realized I could move my mouth

To make such piercing sounds, 

And then-- could stretch my fingers

With which to grasp this pen.

But, with familiarity-- capabilities spoil.

I know my clutching and grasping at purpose is a child's tantrum.

Sometimes-- while my face is wet with tears and sweat--

I forget what my struggle is for.

In a lapse of consciousness I hear the calm hum of the universe,

And the excitement of my heartbeat as it drums with life's symphony. 

In this state-- My mind's metaphorical pot of gold is not at the end of a rainbow, 

But the gold is within the rainbow-- uncontained.

I may reach it-- not to grab it-- but to join it

For no reason-- beyond Reason. 

When I rest I think of thesis

On why my life begins--

When it ends,

And what plans to make for the middle,

But in a dream is when I learn why I'm alive. 

Occurring as naturally as sleep-- I need no magician or pendulum to lead my hypnosis.

I am selfless, but self-guided.

I will rise and sink with the sun--

Following the ellipse around heaven. 

you've read poem #1- here is #2... A little more imitative of Dickinson, I'd say: 

The moon revolves around the earth,

The fly-- around my head.

Yet my own path-- I never follow--

The gleaming suns'-- instead.

Am I blinded by my course?

Have I a mind to See? 

Or does my state of trudging

Prove incapacity? 

Or maybe mine's a broader path--

Far beyond the sky--

Unpaved, but for a purpose--

To constantly ask: Why? 

Essay on Whitman's "Song of Myself"

Integrating with the Grasses

 

“I am not an earth nor an adjunct of an earth”

(31)

 

            Cultivated by the pressure to succeed, produce, and strive is the need to differentiate one’s self from the rest of the world. From this need comes a fear of being lost in the universe. That if we allow ourselves to be incorporated with everything, we lose our identity, and our capacity to greatness; we become an indistinguishable fraction. This is a misconception that Whitman attends to in Song of Myself. While portraying the beauty and complexity that encompasses everything in this world, he asks, “Who need be afraid of the merge?” (31) Our egotism is a curse, the self-importance it lends– a folly. However, through discarding this fear of the merge, it is possible to tap into the greatness of the universe.

Distinctiveness depends on comparisons, yet comparisons are judgments placed on importance, value and success and lead to feelings of inadequacy. Whitman states, “I exist as I am, that is enough” (44), discontinuing the need for comparisons, both within himself and of things around him. For example, he does not “call the tortoise unworthy because she is not something else” (36); everything is innately sufficient. The dismissal of inadequacy enables the recognition of greatness. This greatness goes beyond authority, education, etc. It is the inexpressible wonder of existence. Whitman emphasizes the importance of the distinction between the inherent greatness of existence and greatness that one must strive for. He says “not words, not music or rhyme I want…. Not custom or lecture, not even the best,/ Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice” (28). He is not impressed by achievements, but rather by the fundamental greatness that connects every earthly thing. Therefore, a human being is as great as a blade of grass, and each are a miracle– an essential part of the vast wonder of life.

            Whitman’s Song of Myself emphasizes the complexity of the universe and every one of its pieces. The language and content of the poem is bursting with an appreciation of existence that inspires me to discard preoccupations with feelings of inadequacy, egotism, and, most importantly, fear of integrating with the universe. Song of Myself is “less the reminder of property or qualities, and more the reminder of life” (47), beckoning me to feel my importance as both a wondrous individual, and component of the great universe. The poem has instated within me the excitement to use all of my senses to connect with the world around me; to live without striving, learn, love and be for no pretentious reasons, but only because I am able to. Most importantly, I take up Whitman’s words and “celebrate myself” fully and truly (25). I do not celebrate my achievements or goals, nor my retained knowledge, but rather the miracle and mystery of existence. 

Sometimes I Can't Breathe With Love

I know that lately I can't stop talking about this, and I know that normally it is a cliché, dull, and predictable topic. So it is a little scary to see myself constantly propelled to such a subject. However, I feel confident that I am approaching it in an unconventional way, and- more importantly- this is honesty that I am expressing; this is that inexpressible part of me (my core, soul, or what you will) that I am trying to write down. It's a frustrating process, but I can't help but try. 

To my point:

I am in Love. 

I am so deeply in love- all the time, and inexpressibly in love with senses, feelings and spirits. 

And I know they are not real, that they are limited to pages from books, and to my mind's definitions. But then- that is as real as anything else, for what is anything we know but our personal definitions? 

I feel this love-- it takes me over in swift moments-- and I am left with a small smile on my face, heart beating fast, light with joy, warm as though embraced

After the kiss of its presence. 

Alright... I didn't mean to break out in poem. But I decided to go with it. I like that poem, actually, I'm glad it had the opportunity to be created. Maybe I'll add more to it later.

Anyway... 

I am in Love. 

And it is an amazing love because it seems to be the first love I have ever encountered that can be nothing else but love. I am not disregarding other loves as not being "true", etc. What I am saying is that, often, when I love someone or something there are other factors playing into that love-- such as dependancy or excitement or curiosity. Whereas, the love that I am writing about now is nothing else. 

Now, I hope you are excited. I hope you are very curious to know what I love. I hope you are already very expectant on a certain thing I am going to say, and I hope I will prove your expectations wrong. 

Today I recognized my love for artists. Not anyone I've met... although I am not saying that I don't love the artists I've met-- it just is not the same kind of love. See- this particular love is... it is... not missing any pieces. It can only be defined as love and nothing else. It is inexpressible, and not lacking from its inexpressibility because there is no need for it to be expressed. However- I am so full of it right now- of love I mean- that I feel like all I want to do is talk about it, and write about it, and think about it. This particular love is unlike the love for anyone/thing I know, for- because I do not actually know who/what I love (have never met, talked to, etc.) I am able to feel an emotion that I strongly feel is love in essence. 

Is this making sense? Shall I provide examples?: 

I love Emily Dickenson: that she didn't care about publishing her poems, that she was the only person who continued to sit for her opinions in the lecture hall, that she stood/stands out without seeming to try, that she wrote for herself, that she wrote to understand something, that she failed in understanding what she was writing for/why she was writing, that she continued... 

I love Walt Whitman: that he wrote about contentedness, that his poems are heavy with meaning without necessarily being weighted with troubles, that he strongly stated his convictions, that he strongly stated that his convictions were only convictions, that he admitted to his contradictions, that he was human in every definition of the word... 

I love Vincent van Gough: that he made (fatal) mistakes, that through his art he appears to make no mistakes, that his name is Vincent, that he used colors, that he didn't understand his value... 

I love Jack Kerouac: that he succeeded in expressing something inexpressible, that he never expressed what was inexpressible, that the words he wrote on paper seemed to line my life after I read them, and that that line was inexpressible in brilliance... 

I love Conor Oberst: that he is the most modern artist I will speak of, that some people would not consider him an artist, that he is concealed by stereotypes, that I sat in my closet and cried to his songs, that I have grown out of him... 

There are others I love too, but these are the ones I am feeling at the moment. 

But the purest thing about this love is that it is not the artist him/herself that I love. It is my definition of them that I love, and because I never met them and never will- it is completely acceptable for me to love them this way.

 I love what I take from them. I love that they existed and what they made exist to me.

On Whitman's 5th Canto

[5]

I believe in you my soul.... the other I am must not abase itself to you,

And you must not be abased to the other. 

Loafe with me on the grass.... loose the stop from your throat, 

Not words, not music or rhyme I want.... not custom or lecture, not even the best,

Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice.

I mind how we lay in June, such a transparent summer morning;

You settled your head athwart my hips and gently turned upon me, 

And parted the shirt from my bosom-bone, and plunged your tongue to my barestript heart,

And reached till you felt my beard, and reached till you held my feet.

Swiftly arose and spread around me the peace and joy and knowledge that pass all the art and argument of the earth;

And I know that the hand of God is the elderhand of my own,

And I know that the spirit of God is the eldest brother of my own,

And that all men ever born are also brothers.... and the women my sisters and lovers,

And the kelson of the creation is love;

And limitless are leaves stiff or drooping in the fields,

And brown ants in the little wells beneath them,

And mossy scabs of the wormfence, and heaped stones, and elder and mullen and pokeweed. 

- by Walt Whitman

Can I express how much I want this?-- Whitman's limitless love: a love for creation, for all things created; no exceptions. 

Because I know I have had it before. Because I know there is such a feeling, but I can't articulate it. I can see it's memory, but I can't sense it. Because I hope that I can still obtain it-- I pursue it, and I kill it. 

Yes- I recognize that I disable myself from this love.

I realize that he does not hold the key.

I remember that I had loved myself, and now all the self-loathing I feel for loathing my loathing is a vicious cycle that won't end until I stop it, 

But I can't stop it because my inherent reaction is to hate myself,

And to rely on him,

And to disregard everything else between me and him

Keeping myself from the pure love-- the actual, honest, true love-- that I know exists, not because I read Whitman's words, but because I felt it once;

Once when I didn't know about it

Once when I could see it written, and not read it because I didn't know it existed.

Now that I know it exists everywhere, can I come by it again?

Now I read the words that articulate it, and can see the words and the memory, but I can't sense it. 

Still the sight makes my brain shut down, and my heart takes over--

Pumping so hard, there is no place for the excess blood that floods into my stomach until I am near bursting;

Bursting with blood, though some seem to think bursting with love,

And I wish they were right, but I know they are not because

Love exists everywhere.... it's not a feeling in my stomach.

No- this feeling is love's gravity pushing against me from all sides; outside of me. 

This feeling is love attempting to flood through my body, but I am a closed capsule 

And I am sealed off from it. 

Soap and the half-full glass that it is Not In

Right now I am not talking about the soap that we use to wash our hands, clothes and dishes with, but a metaphorical soap: the soap that cleanses our consciouses. The soap that enables us to use the phrase "washing our hands clean of a situation"-- Get me? 

Has it always been the case that we feel the need to disregard- to clean up- all the negativities of our lives? I thought the "Pleasantville" mannerisms had passed away a couple decades ago, but apparently I was wrong. I see it in myself and the people around me; we come across an ounce of depression in our lives and we feel the need to wash it out. 

We don't want to deal with sadness, personally. 

The people around us don't want to see us sad.

There may be more causes, but I think the above two statements are the main reasons we denounce grief. And the sad thing is that our attempts to live lives of near-constant happiness is impossible. And the sadder thing is that the expectation that our lives should consist of near-constant happiness only depresses us. Do you see how unproductive this is?! 

We see sorrow as a germ- an invader, and we cleanse our minds of it just as we cleanse our houses. Our minds become as superficially white as a suburban countertop, and when guests come to visit they're impressed with our cleanliness- they can eat off our windexed linoleum, but watch them get sick later (no really- my friend had a cat that died from licking their chemically "cleansed" kitchen floors). What I am trying to get across here is that a mind washed of sorrow is false, unsustainable and unhealthy: it is lying to itself and everyone around them. 

To add to the metaphore-- as society "progresses", we have invented new ways to avoid sorrow-- soaps of higher potencies. For instance, anti-bacterial soap. It's a nice idea; we can completely sterilize ourselves, at the same time we weaken our immune system and disable ourselves from naturally protecting ourselves from bacteria. What is an anti-depressant but a sort of acti-bacterial soap. It is supposed to psychologically sterilize us of depression, but we loose our natural ability to deal with life. Yes- life, of which depression is involved! 

I AM SO TIRED of simplifying existence to keep things light and positive. Of being so unambitious in understanding my emotions that I limit myself to believing that "happy"=good! and "sad"=baaaaad. How immature! I am sick of not expressing myself because when I start a sentence with "I'm depressed..." I am told to see a doctor. Why is the average emotion contentedness? I am never content. 

I felt terrible for a while- thinking that the everyone around me woke up in the morning and felt happy. And the more I attempted to be happy, the more depressing life got. 

My advice to (firstly) myself and (secondly) the world is: never tell yourself to think positively. I could say that life oscillates through emotions, but even that is superficial. The fact is that I feel what I feel. I don't attempt to alter the weather, so why alter my mind? 

Those Who Seem To Know (Me)

5 o'clock on friday night and the weatherman is making predictions.

Statements of, "You can count on a sunny day!", or, 

with a corny smile, "I'm sure everyone'll be out and about this weekend!" 

Are directed at me,

And I am... impressed- or even envious. 

Their conviction is convincing.

I dress in shorts on saturday morning.

While the sky is clear, and the sun is shining

I am freezing.

Was I fooled?

They had me believing that the world was packing a picnic today--

Setting up beach chairs, and swimming in the ocean.

I tested the water, and turned blue.

I feel so alone.

The fact is alienating-- that the 2% chance of rain chose to pour on my doorstep. 

Is there something wrong with me?

My circulation must be poor; I'm not pumping enough blood to stay warm,

So I take medication to keep my heart going--

Prescribed by doctors.

With their PHDs, they declare to understand me.

Then why do my symptoms persist?

Now I'm incompetent--

Unable to independently get my own organs to function!

Last night I left my bottle of pills outside.

You claimed it would be a starry-clear night,

But I woke to find the tablets dissolved in rain water.

Seems you- weatherman- can't predict the weather of my life any better than I can. 

MOBY DICK ESSAY

I apologize for this disclaimer, but I must say that the depth in the philosophies of Moby Dick are not done justice through this essay.

Still, I hope you can enjoy it:

Search for the Source

Moby Dick is Ishmael’s retold story of a variety of ways people around him seek in order to connect with and understand the source of existence. Ishmael is an ideal narrator, for he never attaches to or identifies with any of the opinions or philosophies that he describes throughout his story. He contains a “Catskill eagle in [his soul] that can alike dive down into the blackest gorges, and soar out of them again and become invisible in the sunny spaces” (543). This capability enables him to survive his journeys, to recognize multiple quests towards one goal, and to simultaneously experience indisputable truths that only appear when unsought. With similar detachment to Ishmael, I follow the journeys described in Moby Dick as an outsider, and question the value of the quests he describes. 

The Pequod, chasing after Moby Dick, is seeking the supernatural. Taking up the idea that “in landlessness alone resides the highest truth” (149), the ship isolates itself at sea. But rather than find truth, the journey takes the ship further away from it. The leader of the voyage, Captain Ahab, nails a doubloon to the mast of the ship. It is described as the “ship’s navel”, symbolizing a severed connection from the source of origin (556). This doubloon becomes the pursued goal of the voyage. Ahab states that “fate reserved the doubloon for [him]” (688), signifying that the actual conclusion to his journey would not be a connection to the source, but a disconnection. This detachment becomes increasingly relevant, for, as the voyage continues, Ahab and the crew are often described as mechanical. The dehumanization of the people on the Pequod is a direct portrayal of their disconnection from the source, and their human origins. Ahab is unable to find what he set out for, for the truth does not reside in the places he looks. The “strife of the chase” is a result of the inability to find what is sought after (684), and that strife is the fundamental doom of the Pequod. 

After escaping the wreckage of the Pequod, Ishmael is rescued by another ship: the Rachael. The Rachael contrasts the Pequod, for the ship’s voyage is a “retracing search after her missing children” (724), an attempt to retain, rather than loose, human connections. However this search, this attempt to reconnect child to parent– the source– is unsuccessful, for the ship “only [finds] another orphan” (724). The Captain of the Rachael’s name, Gardiner, is significant to the ship’s quest. Although Captain Gardiner cultivates relationships, they are not restoring the severed bonds of the natural source, for the “secret of [their] paternity lies in [their parent’s] grave, and [they] must there to learn it” (624). While Gardiner’s objective may provide comfort to lost souls, it does not relieve the aching questions that it intends to. 

Ishmael reveals an approach to the source that contrasts the frantic hunts of the Pequod and the Rachael. Being unattached to any of the monomaniacal voyages he describes, Ishmael is able to truly experience the sea without looking for anything. He discovers a connection to the source when simply observing the sea; his “spirit ebbs away to whence it came; becomes diffused through time and space” (214). During these experiences Ishmael unconsciously connects with the entirety of the universe, but when his consciousness returns “identity comes back in horror” (214). Although only for a fleeting moment, Ishmael is able to feel the powerful connection that people are searching for when he separates from his identity. Ishmael’s experience proves that the source can be apparent in everything when nothing particular is being sought. Those who seek a definable thing cannot appreciate the simplicity of where the source truly is, nor the complexity of what it is. 

When I began to read Moby Dick I simultaneously embarked on a voyage in search of definitions. However Moby Dick is a seven hundred paged description on why no book, person, or quest can provide answers. Although answers and definitions cease relentless curiosity and questioning, they do not provide the truth. The peace of mind that is desired by myself, and by many characters in Moby Dick, can only be experienced when searches are concluded, and identities are cast aside. Moby Dick offers no key to peace or happiness, for peace and happiness can only be attained momentarily. However, the book provided me with the realization that what I search for is unreachable, and so I may let go of the strife that accompanies my seeking. Realizing the wisdom that the less one seeks, the more one finds, I conclude my journey. 

The Grim Look May Grin

I'm sorry if you disagree, but I have come to a certain controversial conclusion that I contend to: Most of what we say is bullshit. This blog, for example-- although it is attempting to reach out and grasp something important, much of the time it gets no where, and, unfortunately i must confess, is only an excuse to make noise with large words and disagreeable whining. And no one else is any better. We are preoccupied with complaints about the way we are living our lives; complaints we only have because we have layered purpose onto our lives to keep us going, and the purpose doesn't actually exist so the complaints are not actually relevant. In essence we are preoccupied with nothing, but we can't let it go. We have conversations that are built up by these preoccupations. Well, they aren't actually conversations, for we only react to one another-- reactions that do not even speak to what the conversation is actually about, that speak only to our useless complaints. 

I realized that many of my conversations are formatted in this way, and I was overwhelmed with frustration that, even with my closest friends, often nothing is said. I then realized that what separates my close friends from all my acquaintances is a portion of time that we actually do say things. Although 95% of the time we spew crap from our mouths, attempt at humor, create inside jokes that are never funny but create a false sense of a close relationship, and hardly listen to one another; although so much time is taken up with us pretending to connect, there is still a portion of time that is truly meaningful. 5% of the time we have conversations that give us energy , we laugh-- not because we are trying to find something funny, but because we are both appreciating a natural humor, and we express ourselves in ways that don't make us depend on one another so that we have an ear to listen to our noise, but make us sincerely appreciate one another. 

You might take what I said above as cynical or depressing, but- actually- when I realized this I felt relieved. Because relationships are not pointless. Because it is possible to simply love someone without needing them or owning them. Because life sometimes feels enjoyable rather than productive, I am alright with it often being shallow. Maybe it is even necessary for us to not really get one another all the time, for friends to feel disconnected, and for individuals to feel alienated. Maybe we need the contrast in order to appreciate what we have. (that was not at all cliché)

I don't know if you have noticed what I have written about above in your life, or if you even agree, but I really think that every individual who makes up humanity need to step back at times and:

1.  question the importance of the aspects of their life that they obsess over.
   
2.  notice whether or not they actually know themselves
   
3.  notice whether or not the people close to them actually knows who they are (deeply) 
   
4.  attempt to create deeper relationships, and, for at least 5% of the time they spend with the people they consider to be close to, stop pretending. don't try to be funny, or interesting, or serious, or smart,and don't whine. Only be expressive, and intake what is expressed; get energy from this, this is psychological sustainment. Enjoy it! I really don't think there is anything more important in our lives then that. 
   

Introduction

Dear Reader,

This is my attempt to connect with you. If we were meeting face-to-face I would shake your hand, give you a hug, or kiss you (depending on who you are...). But, then again, if we were meeting face-to-face you would be saying a lot more, and I, obviously, would be saying a lot less. I would be feeling a lot less egocentric, and perhaps blogging just really isn't my thing because I have the constant insecurity that no one gives a fuck what I have to say... ok, and now i'm whining [sorry]. Anyway, I believe an important factor to this blog is that we are eliminating physicality-- simplifying speech, which often confuses the intent of the words spoken, and attempting to reach a higher form of expression through writing (and reading). 

I don't really know what I'll be doing with this blog. I guess I'll post some poems, analyze some literature and philosophies, attempt to sound intelligent, try to crack a few jokes here and there, and- hopefully- be able to reveal many things that make life bearable and beautiful. (This is supposed to be a letter, but so far it sounds like a syllabus.)

Now to pose a question: 

Yesterday- courtesy of my school's English department- I was able to take a trip to Kirby Cove with fellow Moby Dick-reading english classmates, and spend the evening finishing the final 4 chapters of that epic book. It was a surreal experience. All the discomforts that I would commonly expect from reality (i.e: cold weather, smoky air from the campfire, lack of light to read, etc.) were not applicable. It felt entirely dream-like; not only was I engulfed in the fiction of Moby Dick, but my life felt like something written in one of those obnoxiously optimistic teen fantasy novels. The surrealism led it to be a seemingly life-altering experience for me. I am curious to know if other's have had such an experience. Anyway- I raise this question: Is our perception of reality so negative that we cannot grasp that it can be magical? If we discarded the notion that perfection comes only in fiction and fantasy, [how] would we change? 

I don't know how relevant anything I say is to you, but as I said before: I am trying to connect. I have recently decided that relationships with humanity is a very valid step towards understanding one's self. I am testing that former notion with this blog, and I hope you are interested in helping me in this test. 

In conclusion; I think this poem fits the moment: 

Jam

  Our love is not the short

courtly kind but

upstream, down, 

long inside-- enjambed,

enjoined, conjoined, and 

jammed, it's you, enkindler, 

enlarger, jampacked man of many

stanzas, my enheartener-- love

runs on from line to

you, from line to me and me

to you, from river to sea and sea to 

land, hits a careless coast, meanders

way across the globe- land

ahoy! water ahoy!-- love

with no end, my waters go 

wherever you are, my stream

of consciousness. 

- by Karen Chase

Poem from the Open Mic

I had a dream that I woke up, and

in an oversized T-shirt 

jumped out my open window.

He told me the T-shirt was his. I replied:

it doesn't matter cause this dream is mine. 

I took notes at school on black paper, and wrote upside down

from right to left. 

It was exquisite nonsense--

nonsense (as it always was), but made exquisite by honesty 

never before revealed through note-taking. 

I had a dream that I could hum monotones, and you understood their meaning;

so we would hum endlessly, never loosing interest. 

I would tell you that I wrote five pages about

one sentence you spoke. 

That you are my muse, 

my poet, 

my musical genius who composes my monotones into symphonies. 

I had this dream, and we met in the back of a small room-- as storage space.

With complete understanding of what you wanted from me, 

and I from you,

we finally concluded what we wanted from one another.

For an endless moment we found breathless contentment;

literally holding each other's air in our own lungs. 

Holding each other just to let go. 

In this dream, among miscellaneous objects and unconventional lights

we did those things that I now cannot explain because

I am not dreaming when I tell you about this dream-- which I won't, 

but if I did-- you will frown... 

avert your gaze. 

You will not look at me the same way, and 

you will fear giving me the "wrong idea". 

In reality I don't hum monotones. 

I butcher thoughts with language; I extinguish truths with definitions. 

I write closet-essays about something you said once, but you will never know. 

In reality I write notes from left to right (on white paper),

and I read them from top to bottom,

and I take the test one question at a time-- in numerical order.