while i mean to write more often (if only for myself, if no one else), i don't.
i can try to impose as many deadlines and as much meaning into arbitrary things like journals, websites, and various forms of "inspiration" but ultimately, i cannot build a scaffold around the imaginary. there is so much left to do at the end of the day; i could stay awake all night thinking about the introspection i haven't gotten around to. i am cobbling together a life composed of the unstudied, unwritten, unsaid, and unexplored.
is this writer's block? most days, i think it is more than that. language block? cognition block? this morning i read an article on the air attacks on gaza. is there a word or phrase for the feeling of swallowing hard and having my heart sit at the bottom of my throat? how do i express not crying but wanting to? is the term "dry-heaving tears" appropriate?
there must be more eloquence in the world than this--reserved, buried somewhere in the loam where its seed can sprout undisturbed. there must be more eloquence in the world for the dead--those who once woke in the mornings for work, who knew the familial comforts and distresses of routine, who breathed the same particles of life and grit that i still do. the unexpected dead who float weightlessly upon life until the undertow pulls them in.
none of this is right. none of this is what i mean or is enough, for this situation or anything else. there was a time when my first response to anything would be to eke out the terrible. after so many years, i've burnt myself out on the miserable. but happy is harder to stretch out or even to find. i am looking for some semblance of reality, something to remind me that i am human, something i can put on a page and extend to someone and say "you are human too." but it never gets any easier, and most days, i can't...
and that's why i don't write.
Saturday, December 27, 2008
Saturday, August 30, 2008
coney island
went to see the last fireworks of the season at coney island last night.
sound, sand, salt, and light; it's not hard to make me happy.
this was the best way the summer could have ended.
sometimes, life feels right.
sound, sand, salt, and light; it's not hard to make me happy.
this was the best way the summer could have ended.
sometimes, life feels right.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
"you can lead a horticulture but you can't make her think"
coming back to my apartment yesterday, i noticed that the bamboo that i've been keeping is starting to yellow and curl at the leaf. inevitably, these stalks will die. when they do, the grand total of plant casualties in my room will be 5 stalks of bamboo and two houseplants.
this is slightly upsetting because bamboo is supposed to be one of the most resilient plants out there. it is also one of those plants that the environmentalists are constantly lauding for being a renewable resource. all you really need to do is give it some water every couple of weeks and watch it grow.
but they're dying again. the last set of bamboo i had, i had kept for a few years before the inner core of the body began to dry out. the pale green bamboo turned a sallow yellow but not before the trabecular mesh in the stalks began to hollow and chip off.
my mom tried to salvage that last set. she took three sad-looking plants back home to brooklyn with her and made sure they received just enough water, not too much and not too little. she dropped little pellets of plant food to where their roots were. she put them out in the sun but not for too long or if it was too bright. the secret, she says, to keeping bamboo beautiful is to give just enough of everything but never too much.
but they died too. the old roots were dying too fast and the new rootlets that sprouted became tangled and instead, strangled each other to death. the bamboo could not sustain itself and dried into very pale, fibrous husks. maybe, my mom told me, if the roots had not become so damaged it might have been better. but i killed from the root; i have never been able to say if i gave too much or too little.
and now my plants are probably going to die again. when my semester starts and i find myself studying at my desk for long stretches of time, i will have the added pleasure of watching and waiting for the bamboo's end. they will become brittle and lifeless and it will be my fault.
if they do die (which they probably will), i don't think i'll get any more plants. not for awhile at least.
this is slightly upsetting because bamboo is supposed to be one of the most resilient plants out there. it is also one of those plants that the environmentalists are constantly lauding for being a renewable resource. all you really need to do is give it some water every couple of weeks and watch it grow.
but they're dying again. the last set of bamboo i had, i had kept for a few years before the inner core of the body began to dry out. the pale green bamboo turned a sallow yellow but not before the trabecular mesh in the stalks began to hollow and chip off.
my mom tried to salvage that last set. she took three sad-looking plants back home to brooklyn with her and made sure they received just enough water, not too much and not too little. she dropped little pellets of plant food to where their roots were. she put them out in the sun but not for too long or if it was too bright. the secret, she says, to keeping bamboo beautiful is to give just enough of everything but never too much.
but they died too. the old roots were dying too fast and the new rootlets that sprouted became tangled and instead, strangled each other to death. the bamboo could not sustain itself and dried into very pale, fibrous husks. maybe, my mom told me, if the roots had not become so damaged it might have been better. but i killed from the root; i have never been able to say if i gave too much or too little.
and now my plants are probably going to die again. when my semester starts and i find myself studying at my desk for long stretches of time, i will have the added pleasure of watching and waiting for the bamboo's end. they will become brittle and lifeless and it will be my fault.
if they do die (which they probably will), i don't think i'll get any more plants. not for awhile at least.
Friday, August 1, 2008
huge lapses in memory
okay, so i made this thing nearly a year ago, which reflects really poorly on me because it slipped through the cracks of my memory completely. but hey! i remembered today. props to me right?
so i figured since it already exists, i will use it and sporadically update with happenings and interesting minutiae. also expect some poorly edited cryptic writing, fiction or otherwise. maybe some pictures of shiny things every now and again too.
now to see if i will remember this website exists tomorrow.
so i figured since it already exists, i will use it and sporadically update with happenings and interesting minutiae. also expect some poorly edited cryptic writing, fiction or otherwise. maybe some pictures of shiny things every now and again too.
now to see if i will remember this website exists tomorrow.
Bitch Please
Maybe she had brown eyes.
Most do: brunette hair, brown eyes. But it’s hard to say, really. Memory is autumnal; it changes like hair, eyes. Like noses and mouths, like the way they snap their chewing gum and bite their lower lips. The way they fidget when touched. They are ephemeral like leaves.
I always come when the lights are out. I call for them, I ask them to. When I am there I always ask if I can tell them I love you. Each she is the same; they always say yes. I fall asleep cradled in their electric warmth, their secret down. When I go or she goes or they go, they take with them an irretrievable part of me. I don’t know what to say. When they are gone, there is lightness. There is no high or low; just quantity. It is not scalar: just settled light.
When I was young, I used to dig tunnels and fill them with water to turn them into canals. I dug trenches and pools. Ants never swum in them, they chose instead to drown. I collected details like I do now: white, stem, light, leaves, narrow or crooked faces. A thorn inserted itself in my palm once; I carry it with me still.
Once upon a time, I found a little bird on the side of the road. Its wingspan was stretched against the dirt. Its down was the color of dirt. Its eyes stared out from the side of its head. Words like frailty failed because it was dead; it was heartless. I could see the red trail where it left. If it were alive, it would have come when called and carried stems and berries in its beak. Instead, its head came off when I kicked its body aside. It rolled into a pile of swept-up leaves. Things could have been so different, I know, but I don’t know what to say. There is a spectrum of things I don’t have the right words for. But all those winged creatures fleeing south for the winter. They all look the same in mid-air.
Most do: brunette hair, brown eyes. But it’s hard to say, really. Memory is autumnal; it changes like hair, eyes. Like noses and mouths, like the way they snap their chewing gum and bite their lower lips. The way they fidget when touched. They are ephemeral like leaves.
I always come when the lights are out. I call for them, I ask them to. When I am there I always ask if I can tell them I love you. Each she is the same; they always say yes. I fall asleep cradled in their electric warmth, their secret down. When I go or she goes or they go, they take with them an irretrievable part of me. I don’t know what to say. When they are gone, there is lightness. There is no high or low; just quantity. It is not scalar: just settled light.
When I was young, I used to dig tunnels and fill them with water to turn them into canals. I dug trenches and pools. Ants never swum in them, they chose instead to drown. I collected details like I do now: white, stem, light, leaves, narrow or crooked faces. A thorn inserted itself in my palm once; I carry it with me still.
Once upon a time, I found a little bird on the side of the road. Its wingspan was stretched against the dirt. Its down was the color of dirt. Its eyes stared out from the side of its head. Words like frailty failed because it was dead; it was heartless. I could see the red trail where it left. If it were alive, it would have come when called and carried stems and berries in its beak. Instead, its head came off when I kicked its body aside. It rolled into a pile of swept-up leaves. Things could have been so different, I know, but I don’t know what to say. There is a spectrum of things I don’t have the right words for. But all those winged creatures fleeing south for the winter. They all look the same in mid-air.
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