the way

hey ya'll
so this is how it's gonna be: i'm quittin' this hoo-ha good time of a blog-cry in favour of makin' meself a new one's that aint as popular, dig? with e'reone a-followin' i can't justly say what's on my noggin, the old dome, see? relatives a snoopin, old aquaintances a judgin, i reckon i'll make a new one, post the real goods, the poetry and the spite and the beauty in between and if you have a hankerin' to sniff it out, just lemme know and i'll link you up.
i just read jack kerouac's on the road, please excuse the language. thanks for all the support! love!

"I had traveled eight thousand miles around the American continent and I was back on Times Square; and right in the middle of a rush hour, too, seeing with my innocent road-eyes the absolute madness and fantastic hoorair of New York with its millions and millions hustling forever for a buck among themselves, the mad dream - grabbing, taking, giving, sighing, dying, just so they could be buried in those awful cemetery cities beyong Long Island City. The high towers of the land - the other end of the land, the place were Paper America is born."
Jack Kerouac's On the Road

re:stacks

this my excavation and today is Qumran
everything that happens is from now on
this is pouring rain
this is paralyzed

i keep throwing it down two-hundred at a time
it's hard to find it when you knew it
when your money's gone
and you're drunk as hell

on your back with your racks as the stacks as your load
in the back and the racks and the stacks are your load
in the back with your racks and you're un-stacking your load

i've twisting to the sun I needed to replace
the fountain in the front yard is rusted out
all my love was down
in a frozen ground

there's a black crow sitting across from me; his wiry legs are crossed
and he's dangling my keys he even fakes a toss
whatever could it be
that has brought me to this loss?

on your back with your racks as the stacks as your load
in the back and the racks and the stacks of your load
in the back with your racks and you're un-stacking your load

this is not the sound of a new man or crispy realization
it's the sound of the unlocking and the lift away
your love will be
safe with me

reacquaintance

november 09 09 -
if you're still with me - wow. with this blog i feel like i'm fruitlessly reciting into a deep dark crevasse and listening to my echo, but in case there are people reading this, i'll extend a formal apology for my lack of (public) writing. i've taken to writing solely in my private journal for the past few months. although i have my reservations, i've decided to make an online catalogue for myself of snippets or half-thoughts for easy reference in the future. i'm attempting to compile a book of poetry, a reflection on the past year of my life. most of the poems aren't fully formed and are certainly not final draft. i feel like i'm at a very healthy, able point where i can resurrect memories properly while maintaining a sobriety and distance from the events themselves. a warning - by no means do i promise these poems or exerpts be good or profound writing. you have been warned.
i erv youuu.

into thin air

"i lay naked across the bed and listened to the sounds of the night drift through the open window. the jingle of ricksha bells blended with car horns, the come-ons of street peddlers, a woman's laughter, music from a nearby bar. flat on my back, too high to move, i closed my eyes and let the glutinous premonsoon heat cover me like a balm; i felt as though i were melting into the mattress. a procession of intricately etched pinwheels and big-nosed cartoon figures floated across the back of my eyelids in neon hues.
as i turned my head to the side, my ear brushed against a wet spot;tears, i realized, were running down my face and soaking the sheets. i felt a gurgling, swelling bubble of hurt and shame roll up my spine from somewhere deep inside. erupting out of my nose and mouth in a flood of snot, the first sob was followed by another, then another and another"

-excerpt from jon krakauer's into thin air, an account on survivors guilt after the 1996 Everest disaster. the book severely disturbed me, and in doing so secured a position as one of the best non-fiction pieces i've ever read.

electric feel

i've come to a few realizations lately.
1. i can't write when i'm this stable. i guess most of my writing previously amounted to bitching...a catharsis of frustration. loneliness, jealousy, depression, illness - every vice was temporarily numbed and liberated through writing. now that i'm happy, it feels so much more difficult to communicate what i'm feeling. i stumble, smile and blush a lot more when people ask how i'm doing. on paper though, i'm an idiot. a very happy idiot.
2. i always considered myself inherently vocal. whether i'm writing or not, just a glance at my face can usually betray exactly how i'm feeling. right now though, my life feels peaceful and private. this is necessary for a lot of different reasons, not the least of which is self-preservation. vague, i know. i thought this would be more difficult, but so far it's only proven to be artistically inhibiting. i don't mind pressing my eyelids tight and quietly letting the corners of my lips ache with a smile.
3. i couldn't possibly do any of this justice. but i'll try. later.

bwhap bwhap! lataz.

sweaty palms

sorry for the lackage of posts. been too busy living vicariously through myself.

FUN FACT:

i realized i have a hangover toothbrush. usually i invade my mouth with a battery-powered brush that makes my lips tingle. however, after a long night of drinking, i prefer to manually clean my teeth with an oral b in a sober shade of blue with soft bristles. i take care to floss hard, as if i want my gums to be the only voluntary swollen part of my body.

in other news
i'm totally smitten. i'm at that unbearably sweet stage of a potential relationship where you realize how incredibly vulnerable, and stupid you are. awkward, too. it's difficult to sound eloquent when i'm this ecstatic. it leads to uncomfortable moments that sting like denim on a sunburn. all of my senses are heightened, and i likely have a skewed perception of reality. yesterday i was prepping smoothies at work. this involves the inattentive process of chucking fresh fruit onto a scale. 4oz of ice, 4oz watermelon, 2oz mango. repeat. one of my coworkers then noticed that i had an impossibly large smile on my face. "why are you smiling?", she sounded aghast, and rightly so. "i'm sorry. i really don't know", i lied. "well you don't have to apologize...", but it was clear that i did. no one has any business being that blissful with latex gloves on.
yeah. i really wouldn't trade it for anything.

fun fun fun

my friend kristina is the best host i know. upon entering her esoteric apartment, one feels comfortable and dopey. eyelids drop a few millimetres. when scott and i arrive, kristina is not yet ready (apparently). her short hair is wet and piecey and although she looks perfect, i'm informed that she was naked not 13 seconds before we hopped over her balcony and through her screen door. sighing, we tumble and perch upon the various pillows adorning the floor. a love nest, if you will. before she continues to get ready, kristina hands us big books to occupy our attention.
this is one of the many reasons i adore her. every time i come over, she hands me a different book. you can expect a "would you rather..." book (“would you rather your genitalia glowed red when you became aroused...or have the faint sound of playground chatter perpetually emanating from your crotch?”...i consider my options seriously), or a book on sculptures that you rotate around, pretending it makes sense to you.
today she handed me a giant volume titled THE BIG PENIS BOOK. i laughed at the cover, a thinly veiled erection curving across the cover like a shallow rainbow. i opened the book naively, thinking that it might entail comics, or artwork hinting at genitalia. nope. straight up cocks.
the men's faces were the best part: some of them were coy, some of them smirked, some of them were serious, as if their penis was their career; and a man who was unmistakably a redneck gave an enthusiastic look like "you should see my pick-up".
as i squirm, squeal and squint at the pictures, kristina laughs at me from the next room, and calls me a perv. she's probably right, but if that's true - i wonder what that makes her? anyways, we have fun.

april twenty one

a couple weeks ago, i was living on the island with practically no agenda. sure, i had an exam or two, but they were for english courses - thus my relative passivity. the weather was absolutely flawless, the cherry blossoms were in bloom, and i felt dopey as i'd wake up at 11am and slide on some rose-coloured shades. these sunglasses threw everything in a muted, attractive light - like a photograph you might see from the seventies, where everything is a warmer tone. i went to meet a friend for lunch at my favourite haunt, lady marmalade. no rush, no reservations, no agenda. i sat on the bus, and the usual loopy regulars seemed endearing. a girl sat crouched with her legs up on the seat, and she picked coral nail polish off her toenails, flaking onto her tanned skin. a black man with dark sunglasses was listening on his cell phone, biting his plum coloured lip with striking white teeth, smirking and obviously liking very much what he was hearing on the receiver. i sat back and enjoyed the bus ride - possibly the first time i had done so that year. usually i'm standing, holding a starbucks medium roast with no sleeve, and weighing the option between surfing the incessant turns and tilts, or touching the grimy metal poles for balance.
but not this day.
when i reached my destination, a crowded douglas street, i bellowed thanks! to the driver, and pranced off the bus. just as my feet padded the ground, i stood, frozen with shock. i witnessed an ancient man fall. this wasn't just any fall, though. the word "fall" is usually accompanied by the word "catch", or "land". this was not the case. this man's feet both fled the ground and came out from beneath him with astonishing speed. his head was the first to "catch". the unforgiving pavement caught his skull with a sickening crack, and then rest of his body "landed".
i have this unabashed feeling of respect for those individuals who, when faced with something sinister or frightening, can keep cool. i cannot.
one time, a roommate of mine was baking bread in the oven on a very low temperature. she placed a canary yellow cloth over top a bowl which contained the bread. the oven began seeping with smoke, and someone commented on it. when the oven was opened, a barrage of flames leapt out and licked the air. i was paralyzed. even if i could move, i think, somehow, that my reaction would be to move away from the fire, instead of toward it. a friend, brie, stepped forth calmly and grabbed with towel, threw it in the sink and doused it with water. everyone laughed, sighed, chuckled with relief, but i just stood motionless, in the exact same spot.
anyways, this poor old man.
people all around him stepped up, took charge, dialed paramedics, everything. i just stood there, shamefully. i watched some blood pool near the back of his head and his eyelids flutter. then, becoming removed by the masses of people stopping to watch, i turned my back and walked away. i stared at the cracked pavement, and i took off my stupid, tinted sunglasses.

fire

yesterday, my father, brother and i had a giant fire near the back of our property. all of remnants of hard work over the past few months - raked leaves, spiraling branches, thick blackberry bush - all of winter's carnage - set on fire.
after five hours of work, we huddled. overturned flower pots, dry mounds of dirt, crouching, we sat and watched the bed of ashes. pulsing glow. my limbs felt satisfied. scratched adorned my arms where the branches or thorns tried to avenge their fate.
i felt so far removed from real life. from civilization. the fire, one of the most ancient rituals. it has old power. i felt dirty, swollen and happy.

resurrection

i climb the most beautiful trees,
trees with such rotten limbs.