29.0

I have this problem with books.

I love them. Oh, I love them so much. They sing me to sleep and they jolt me awake all in the same page. They are the vehicle with which authors can make the world fall in love with them 300+ times in a row. But I can't finish them.

The best feeling in the world is when you can snag a book from your bag and flip it to its middle section to begin reading. The middle section is always the best section of the book. It's the checkpoint in the relationship, it shows that you are past well acquainted and now having dinner conversations with the characters in your head when six o'clock rolls around and you happen to be eating alone. But getting to the middle section is hard, because you have to get past the first half of the book.
Now that's honestly no problem. Reading is reading. It just feels so strange to not get past the 20th page of a book after 1 week.

There are some answers to this phenomenon. One is that I've gotten to be a slower reader. I have, to some extent, changed the pace at which I eat books. I used to devour them. I'd be Swallowing 300+ pages without even chewing as opposed to munching on a word 10 times and letting the flavor coat my mouth before moving on to the next one. So yes, I have gotten slower. I'd like to say this is because of how insightful I've gotten over the years (2 1/2) during which this pace change took place, but honestly, I think it's because my IQ and attention span have deteriorated tremendously and I can no longer identify the flavor of prose if I don't read over it a couple of extra times.

However, I HAVE gotten more insightful. The realization of my actual IQ level proves it. To have access 300+ pages of someone's brain and then to greedily scarf it down without a pause for even a sip of water seems extremely insolent. Completely counter-productive, in fact. The whole point of books is communication, sending a message. And maybe the message will be something super simple like "Everybody makes mistakes", but the way Victor Hugo communicates that message is TOTALLY different from the way Miley Cyrus does. Les Miserables is not meant to be acknowledged only during the chorus. It is not meant to be over in 3 minutes. It's not meant to be scarfed down. It's not meant to be quick.

28.1

I’m a menace to poetry. I exploit it, I dement it, I ruin it. I shouldn’t call what I write “poetry”. I shouldn’t call it anything. But alas, I do. Because sometimes I’m a bitch. Especially to literature.

But I guess it doesn’t really matter since no one will ever read it and I won’t have any angry Robert Frost fanboys/girls engulfing me with silly critiques and rants. Though I wouldn’t blame them. Hell, I don’t even like Frost and I would do the same to someone like me.
You gotta love privacy.

Yet, most of the time we don’t. We hate privacy. We want—no, NEED – to make everything public. We feel naked if we’re not exposed. We clad our ostentation in Helvetica and a cool blog name. We’re all just little attention whores who inject ourselves with coffee and stay up late so we can be original. Or at least tell ourselves we are.

It’s ok, though. Who am I to bitch about my own people? Well… Nevermind. I’m allowed. Just like we’re all allowed to bitch about our family.

At the same time though, it’s like we’re the ultimate superheroes of our contemporary literary culture. The ubiquitous exploiting of poetry, burning out of free-verse, miming of thoughtfulness. We’re pop art but with words. A lot of people argue that Andy Warhol is the best thing that happened to art and a lot of people say he’s the stupidest thing that happened to art. That’s kind of like us. A precious few have a method to their madness, but most of the time none of us know what the hell we’re doing. We puke on the keyboard and call it art. Why? Where does that leave everyone else? With a bunch of mental bulimics who call themselves brilliant. We could always shoot us to the moon. I always liked that idea.

28.0

Sometimes I hate breaks. Gone is my motivation to do anything along with my social life. This is what I get for being a lazy butt with rich friends. Well, they're not rich, but they go skiing and snowboarding and crap during winter break leaving me at the foot of the mountain in a puff of my own exhales.

I literally can't be bothered to do anything during these times except for eat incessantly, watch movies or walk to nowhere and come back again. I always run into a problem with each of these things, and when I have a problem with all of them I end up sitting on my couch poking my belly.

I always resort to eating first. But even I have my limits. It's usually right after I've eaten my whole weight in raisins or pistachios when I realize that I'm doing something stupid. So I put away the munchies and decide to walk it all off. So I bundle up in every sweater and scarf that I own, warm my ears with my earbuds and head for somewhere while I thank Gosh for blessing me with a suburban home.

I could easily be running errands for my mom, but I don't because I usually don't tell her I'm going out until I'm already out and she texts me asking where I am. I'll head to the library and read a magazine, I'll head to the Smiths and not buy anything. Lately I visited Blockbuster for the first time since Netflix was born. Just another office space sparsely lined with "trendy" titles and overpriced movie theater candy. Two or three employees clad in blue, (both literally and figuratively)filling their remaining hours with heavy sighs. I shouldn't have gone, it was more depressing than the out of business sale at Borders. (Actually, scratch that. Borders was more depressing because it was as if the carcass belonged to the family dog and we turned into vultures regardless.)But when it finally does go under, I think I'll pay my respects.

I eventually have to come back. My mom isn't negligent, so she does call as soon as it gets dark asking me to come home so I don't get eaten. I obey because it's getting cold anyway, even though I know when I get home I'll gravitate towards the couch again.

And I do. With a movie. But I have a love-hate relationship with movies. I used to be able to watch 2 hour movies no sweat. I also used to be able to finish 300 page books (with normal spacing) in one day. I could focus like no one's business. Not anymore. I don't know what happened to me but it's stripped me of the little patience I had. I used to appreciate even bad movies, but I can't stand them anymore. I've ejected a DVD within the opening credits once. But in my defense, if I'm gonna devote 2 hours of my oh-so-busy life, I might as well devote it to something well done.

See, this is what the holiday break does to me. It turns me into an erratic vegetable that listens to bhangra while writing equally erratic blog posts.

27.0

Sit beside my bed

feed me nostalgia with a spoon

Let me drink your lullaby

laced with makeshift pantooms

you're caring for your cancer,

turn to yourself for blame

and all that time, love remains

fastened to my name

The sky's not as far as they say

and it's tempting just to leave you

regardless of the countless days

you made me pinky-swear not to.

you're caring for your cancer,

turn to yourself for blame

adhered to it is love,

unconditional, it will remain.

Never second-guess the sentiments

said as I look into your pupils.

You never have, but I know you keep

a pocket full of scruples.

Even in the dust,

I'll always see you clear as day

Even if you're on the outskirts of my mind

in my heart you'll always stay.

you've cared for me,

your cancer.

your nuisance.

your baby.

I've left you now,

but love isn't enough

to make me sorry.

26.0

I don't know why I do a majority of the things I do. But sometimes, those things make my innards curdle and my brain throw me a disciplinary finger wag along with a "tsk tsk tsk."

I'm so awkward. It's a curse. It's like I have turrets and my tick consists of every imaginable faux-pas. When all is said and done my eyebrows wrinkle and the only thing I have to say for myself is "what. the. hell?"

If I could, I'd stand on a mountain top and scream my apology to the whole world:

"I'M SORRY, DAMMIT, I DIDN'T MEAN TO!"

25.0

From my planner:

I wish I were artistic.

Sketching portraits in the sand, humming makeshift tunes during class, and scrawling stories on anything and everything that can be marked on.

But no.

I'm just left with my blog.

My thoughts are left to cyberspace.

Take good care of 'em, ya hear?

I've divorced paper, but only for a little while.

I'll come running back sooner or later

24.1

I feel like a bear in the mornings,

greeting the day with a lovely view of my cavernous mouth.

Feeling my weight lazily thump through the kitchen making the fridge and stove shake.

And the breath of the furnace lightly brushing my fur,

unkempt

and knotted

and coarse.

I mean business when I make breakfast.

I check the empty mailbox with purpose.

I feel powerful, ESPECIALLY when I yawn.

Being a bear is pretty sweet.

24.0

I've had the song "The Blower's Daughter" stuck in my head since it started to get cold. It's a good song.

It's funny though, because I've been listening to that song for a really long time now. I listen to it when I'm happy, I listen to it when I'm sad, I listen to it when I just want something else in my ears besides my own breathing. And yet, I still don't know all the words.

Regardless of the countless times that song has traveled through the squishy cracks of my brain, the only things I ever remember are the subtle strength of Damien's voice, the melody, and a few choice lines. I tend to find myself singing along to the first "And so it is..." and then trailing off into a faint hum. I'll meet back with Mr. Rice at the "can't take my eyes off of you" in the quasi-sobbed chorus.

The lyrics are usually the thing I admire most of a song. But sometimes, no matter how good the poetry is, you just don't want to fully absorb it. It'll sit flat on the surface, trying to marinate your thoughts but for some reason, your brain's wearing an umbrella.

It's never bothered me, though. Damien, just like any other artist, wrote that song in hopes of being able to speak to others through it. Every artist has a message they want to communicate. Whether that message be transmitted via words or the sound of words depends on the recipient.

Some people just don't understand that. Everything is meant to be acknowledged and payed attention to, and it's nice to poke and prod at the innards of someone else's psyche through their metaphors and flat-out hallucinations. You can unscrew anything. You can take it apart and put it back together. However, art is made to be appreciated, not to be burned out.

It's fine to read a story and not think about the religious undertow. It's fine to look at a painting and not notice the innuendo. It's fine to listen to a song and forget all the words. You're allowed to like something based on the sole reason that you like it.

Let the tale be spun for you, let your eye be transfixed by a single color, let music float in your head.