There's a Few Things I'd Like to Say

1. This is the 3rd time I've started this post over. Sometimes it's hard to ice a cake. You keep smoothing it over and over again, and it only makes it less smooth. At which point you should just start eating it, and say, "Fuck you, cake."

2. Today, when I was waiting for the very friendly Starbucks employee in Adam's Morgan to retrieve my lostandfound cell phone from the vault, I picked up the Sunday edition of The New York Times. Which costs $6 apparently. And I responded to the news articles with a feeling of dread and horror and the feeling that I will not be able to survive much longer without finding a consistent creative outlet for dealing with the tiny and massive tragedies that announce themselves to me on a daily basis. I actually love the ritual of a daily gratitude journal, but I think it needs a shadowy counterpart where I can store and alchemize the horrors. I'm thinking a scrapbook kind of sketchbook, but it just makes me disappointed I don't have the basic skills of an artist. Then I could sketch the sadness instead of just farting it awkwardly onto the page. Or maybe poetry would be better. Or a combination of both.

3. Sometimes I forget who I am, and today I remembered that I am very little when I am not a creator. Not writing is like forgetting to eat or sleep. I lose my functionality in other realms - like relating and socializing, doing constructive work in the office, having good judgement about food and cleanliness. Writing makes the wheels stop turning too fast, and reminds me that I exist, the world exists, and I can be in it.

Wine.

Sniff. Sip. Swish. Swallow.

The burst of flavor reminds me why I spent fifteen dollars on one beverage. Complexity. Body. The thought of an Italian curating grape juice into the experience that is Barbera D'Asti. The slow, steady relaxation.

Sniff. Sip. Swish. Bite of Drunken Goat on Ritz.

There are 5 bottles next to my recycling can. Five. Yes, I'm bad at remembering to take out the trash, but this means more than that. This means missing Joe in the inconsolable pit of my stomach; this means stressing over that one key source for my thesis documentary; this means school hanging over my head like a boulder; this means worry about the next career move.

"What will you do when you graduate?"

Umm, exactly what I'm doing now. Maybe. If they hire me. But maybe not. What if I don't want to stay? Geez, it's not like it's undergrad where your whole life changes when you graduate and you leave most of your friends behind, and you leave the ease of walking to Common Grounds or sitting at the Fleur Fountain and seeing 16 people you love to chat with while neglecting your homework.

Sniff. Sip. Swish.

Wine is just my hobby. Right? It's not like I get drunk or drink the whole bottle in one day (unless I have Heidi to help me).

I flip on Ruko or Hulu and watch The Office or Family Guy.

Stewie to Brian: "If I choose to make stool in my pants right now, you're the only one here to change me. What do you think of that? Hmm?"

Laugh. Sniff. Sip. Swish.

What was I complaining about again? School is now over; just need to defend my thesis and shake hands with my dean and take that diploma. Joe's traveling work project ends soon; he'll be home to me in June.

Summer is coming. Winter will end.

Sniff. Sip. Swish. Ahhh.

Just an idea

So, as I'm peeking my head up out of the sand I've been buried in the past two years (I graduate in 2 weeks--you may now call me "master"), I'm ready to revisit writing for enjoyment and fulfillment again (i.e. creative writing rather than news). So... I have an idea. I'm not sure anyone looks at this anymore; I believe Tasha must every now and again. But: We should do writing prompts to get this blog heated back up. Yea? Nay?

I'm going to write about wine because I see a wine glass on my coffee table (no--not from this morning, silly! From like 2 days ago!). But I will start a new post.

Fictional Apocalyptic Poetry Series - Part 1

With the wisdom of a toddler who
imagines the world is and isn't
when his eyes open and shut,
I imagine - I've been ready for this,
and the timing is good... As if my proclivities pertain
to this matter. Matters of this sort.
A Sun Turned Black. A Sea Made Blood. A Sky Run Dry.

I'd considered these matters in depth
in ninth grade, when I was looking for distraction
from my changing body and my shy lust. Ran my fingers
across the spines of books that worked my nerves.
Whispered my eyes across titles so
charged I could almost feel electricity pumping my heart.
Whore of Babylon. A Holy Remnant. The Beast and the Lamb.

Synthesizing theologies, scanning news for false prophets,
searching myself for certainty; I spun my theories and I spun
my wheels with no where to go - never buying books,
but reading them in store. Five hundred dollars
wouldn't have paid for the volumes my appetite lavished
on me, cross-legged and curious on the carpet.
Postmillenialist. The Thousand Year Reign. Iron Scepter of
the Antichrist.

The Antichrist.

The Antichrist.

In the corner of the Family Bookstore
I trained my mind, refining my ability to recognize
this man (?) who would conduct a symphony
of slaughter while the world shattered, sure I would be sentient
to his origin before his first appearance onscreen.
It's not as clear as I hoped it would be, though. If this is really the first of the last days.
The Great Tribulation. The Last Battle. God's Wrath.

But I'm ready to figure this thing out. I have to believe
the year I spent in the stacks will count for something. I'm ready
for tomorrow to be worse than today. And the next
seven years to kill me and mine more likely than not. Because after -
AFTER the wounds of heaven mar the Earth to its core -
I will hear what "sounds like a great multitude,
like the roar of rushing waters and like loud
peals of thunder, shouting: Hallelujah!
For our Lord God Almighty reigns.
Let us rejoice and be glad and give him glory!
For the wedding of the Lamb has come, and his bride has made herself ready."

Well, I'm finally in a situation again in which my bloodline as a Procrasi-national is threatening to ruin me.

Three projects need finishing: A lit review, a revised manuscript, and a cover letter + resume.

Today I am trying to avoid my social nature and hide under a blanket and learn. The sunshine outside is like nails on a chalkboard, and "meeting his sister" like a light at the end of the tunnel. But right now, making tiny bits of progress. Egh.