Friday, May 3, 2013
Thursday, May 2, 2013
i've been thinking about a friend of Imrose's/Aaron's and it might be weird to admire her on a blog like this, but it shouldn't. It's just so cool how such a teeny tiny person could make a big impact. And I'm not talking numbers here, I'm talking people.
Real change happens one person at a time. It's great that she managed to accomplish real change. That...my fellow blog readers..is inspiring..is passion..is a genuine want for better.
I always thought she had a really lovely smile. It's just so big and present and self-assured/shameless.
I think when you try to solve something on a large scale, like in politics, you spread yourself too thin.
You begin saving the world by saving one man at a time; all else is grandiose romanticism or politics. - Charles Bukowski
I STILL HAVEN'T BOUGHT WOMAN.
that's okay. there are plenty of books I still need to get at.
I'm just going to throw this in here because I like it:
"I was in love again. I was in trouble."
-Bukowski
My absolute favorite poem by Bukowski is let it enfold you.
I can tell you my favorite lines by memory. When you love something, really love something, that's kind of what happens:
I no longer had to prove I was a man
I no longer had to prove anything...
I welcomed shots of peace..
tattered shards of happiness...
writers are temporary friends.
they're only your friends while you're reading their writing.
what's in that brain of yours?
edit: i've been re-reading my favorite lines and it's just this overwhelming sense of pleasure that rushes through my body...this feeling of not knowing what to do..what way to express this..release it..hug it...thank it..embed it into your soul..i guess i'll just read and read and feel and feel and think and think because that's all that's left to do..
Real change happens one person at a time. It's great that she managed to accomplish real change. That...my fellow blog readers..is inspiring..is passion..is a genuine want for better.
I always thought she had a really lovely smile. It's just so big and present and self-assured/shameless.
I think when you try to solve something on a large scale, like in politics, you spread yourself too thin.
You begin saving the world by saving one man at a time; all else is grandiose romanticism or politics. - Charles Bukowski
I STILL HAVEN'T BOUGHT WOMAN.
that's okay. there are plenty of books I still need to get at.
I'm just going to throw this in here because I like it:
"I was in love again. I was in trouble."
-Bukowski
My absolute favorite poem by Bukowski is let it enfold you.
I can tell you my favorite lines by memory. When you love something, really love something, that's kind of what happens:
I no longer had to prove I was a man
I no longer had to prove anything...
I welcomed shots of peace..
tattered shards of happiness...
writers are temporary friends.
they're only your friends while you're reading their writing.
what's in that brain of yours?
edit: i've been re-reading my favorite lines and it's just this overwhelming sense of pleasure that rushes through my body...this feeling of not knowing what to do..what way to express this..release it..hug it...thank it..embed it into your soul..i guess i'll just read and read and feel and feel and think and think because that's all that's left to do..
you can read a book, reject it's message, and still love it.
why is that so far-fetched?
ahhhh busy-ness reigns this weekend. I miss panda & aumi so much! I'll be at Tedx this saturday though, so I guess I shouldn't complain. Let the explosive crowd of high schoolers scouring for autographs from speakers they've never heard of begin. I just hope I learn something tomorrow.
I wonder what I'll e-mail that neuroscientist I met last year. We didn't talk about anything special, just the beatles and my life lol. I love what he had to say about me "You have a lovely way of expressing yourself." and then after all that he said..."you know elizabeth, I think you'll be okay." He liked my handwriting. I wonder what I'll email him. I want to say something nice. Maybe we'll go out for coffee.
everyone has something important to say. everyone.
and maybe even if they don't, you should still always listen.
I took a resume from a folder I found at santullos full of resumes. It's this guy that went to UPEN (why do we cap these things) and california institute of the arts and majored in film. He plays guitar, likes meditation, and is fluent in french lol. He's a tutor for the ACT/SAT now (it seems like he's just perpetuating what trapped him). Allyson got really upset because it didn't make sense for someone that followed their dream to end up at a place like that. I mean really upset.
"as the supermarket bag boy holds a college degree" - "born into this/bukowski"
we're going to write him a letter. i'm still trying to figure out what i want to say. i'm glad i kept that resume.
although he might not have pursued his dreams, i wonder what his college life was like. if the people he met and the things he did made everything worth it...edit: if his dream became secondary to his experiences.. if a job is just something used to get by and the real things that matter are what happens outside of it.
hmm..
edit:
new word to add to favorite word list: enticing
i dive head first into emotions. i really do.
why is that so far-fetched?
ahhhh busy-ness reigns this weekend. I miss panda & aumi so much! I'll be at Tedx this saturday though, so I guess I shouldn't complain. Let the explosive crowd of high schoolers scouring for autographs from speakers they've never heard of begin. I just hope I learn something tomorrow.
I wonder what I'll e-mail that neuroscientist I met last year. We didn't talk about anything special, just the beatles and my life lol. I love what he had to say about me "You have a lovely way of expressing yourself." and then after all that he said..."you know elizabeth, I think you'll be okay." He liked my handwriting. I wonder what I'll email him. I want to say something nice. Maybe we'll go out for coffee.
everyone has something important to say. everyone.
and maybe even if they don't, you should still always listen.
I took a resume from a folder I found at santullos full of resumes. It's this guy that went to UPEN (why do we cap these things) and california institute of the arts and majored in film. He plays guitar, likes meditation, and is fluent in french lol. He's a tutor for the ACT/SAT now (it seems like he's just perpetuating what trapped him). Allyson got really upset because it didn't make sense for someone that followed their dream to end up at a place like that. I mean really upset.
"as the supermarket bag boy holds a college degree" - "born into this/bukowski"
we're going to write him a letter. i'm still trying to figure out what i want to say. i'm glad i kept that resume.
although he might not have pursued his dreams, i wonder what his college life was like. if the people he met and the things he did made everything worth it...edit: if his dream became secondary to his experiences.. if a job is just something used to get by and the real things that matter are what happens outside of it.
hmm..
edit:
new word to add to favorite word list: enticing
i dive head first into emotions. i really do.
after sex, i start to wonder what my dad thinks of what I just did. If he thinks it's wrong, or that I deserve better, shouldn't be touched til I'm 40, or that I'm finally growing up. I wonder if he thinks my innocence has taken a new form or diminished completely.I wonder if he thinks about these things at all.
Sometimes, after, I feel empty. Other times I feel good. And sometimes, I just don't care.
"love your crooked neighbor
with your crooked heart."
-W.H Auden
Today has been great. I spent the whole day talking to Allyson, her reading to me, and me reading to her. There is no sense of jealously, no sense of competition, just pure enjoyment in the fact that someone out there loves these things as much as I do.
I feel like we keep each other in check, but not in an authoritarian way.
we are paul & john guys. libra and gemini. yes, i am lame.
paul: it's getting better all the time
john: couldn't get much worse...
:)
I'm going to find the only fiction piece I've written that I'm proud of. I'm going to share it with you guys. It's somewhere in my room/vortex. I'll find it.
I talked to allyson about this topic today: being self-conscious.
I used to be with my work. But if you don't like it. That's fine. Others will. I'll talk to them.
I'll talk to you anti-elyers too..but only if you're cool..
Jack Kerouac says in his piece "thoughts on writing" that writing is having no shame of your expierences, thoughts, and knowledge.
For now, at the very least, I am shame-less.
Allyson showed me this today:
A letter to my dead girlfriend - m4w
It has been a rough year darling. The ethereal power of Craig’s List will get this message to you
I am sure, like in some sort of cheesy 80s movie.
Well back to the last year, you of course died at the beginning of it which put things to a sour
start. I spent last night with your mum and dad, we went to that Italian place in Wicker Park, who
on the surface seem to be coping. I had everyone get together for my 25th which went well,
your ladies are on top form and I think some engagements are brewing. Ellen is turning up the
heat on Steve who will soon be forced down to one knee as you predicted.
Last weekend I finally took the step of cleaning out your clothes from the closet, which is very
barren now. I invited your friends over to take your what they liked, it was an awkward session.
I think they took them more as a favor to me than anything else. Liz cried when we pulled out
all of your shoes, Miranda joined in and then Catherine broke down. It was strange to stand in
our bedroom surrounded by three crying girls. I made a joke about them crying for joy at the
prospect of some free Manolo Balhniks which they didn’t seem to find very funny.
A few girls have put the moves on and as you know picking up women is not a forte of mine.
It seems the grieving boyfriend seems to be a good angle. Who knew! I went on one date and
spent it talking about you, the poor girl. You would have found it quite witty I think. No other
dates to report, I am going against your orders to move on for now.
I found one of those hair tie things that somehow managed to squeeze into every crevice in
the apartment. It was under the bed. I sat on the floor holding it and cried. Until then I had held
everything together but it just all came flooding out.
Every morning when I wake up I forget for a fraction of a second that you are gone and I reach
for you. All I ever find is the cold side of the bed. My eyes settle on the picture of us in Paris, on
the bedside table, and I am overjoyed that even though the time was brief I loved you and you
loved me.
Love,
P.
and this:
I'm happy.
Sometimes, after, I feel empty. Other times I feel good. And sometimes, I just don't care.
"love your crooked neighbor
with your crooked heart."
-W.H Auden
Today has been great. I spent the whole day talking to Allyson, her reading to me, and me reading to her. There is no sense of jealously, no sense of competition, just pure enjoyment in the fact that someone out there loves these things as much as I do.
I feel like we keep each other in check, but not in an authoritarian way.
we are paul & john guys. libra and gemini. yes, i am lame.
paul: it's getting better all the time
john: couldn't get much worse...
:)
I'm going to find the only fiction piece I've written that I'm proud of. I'm going to share it with you guys. It's somewhere in my room/vortex. I'll find it.
I talked to allyson about this topic today: being self-conscious.
I used to be with my work. But if you don't like it. That's fine. Others will. I'll talk to them.
I'll talk to you anti-elyers too..but only if you're cool..
Jack Kerouac says in his piece "thoughts on writing" that writing is having no shame of your expierences, thoughts, and knowledge.
For now, at the very least, I am shame-less.
Allyson showed me this today:
A letter to my dead girlfriend - m4w
It has been a rough year darling. The ethereal power of Craig’s List will get this message to you
I am sure, like in some sort of cheesy 80s movie.
Well back to the last year, you of course died at the beginning of it which put things to a sour
start. I spent last night with your mum and dad, we went to that Italian place in Wicker Park, who
on the surface seem to be coping. I had everyone get together for my 25th which went well,
your ladies are on top form and I think some engagements are brewing. Ellen is turning up the
heat on Steve who will soon be forced down to one knee as you predicted.
Last weekend I finally took the step of cleaning out your clothes from the closet, which is very
barren now. I invited your friends over to take your what they liked, it was an awkward session.
I think they took them more as a favor to me than anything else. Liz cried when we pulled out
all of your shoes, Miranda joined in and then Catherine broke down. It was strange to stand in
our bedroom surrounded by three crying girls. I made a joke about them crying for joy at the
prospect of some free Manolo Balhniks which they didn’t seem to find very funny.
A few girls have put the moves on and as you know picking up women is not a forte of mine.
It seems the grieving boyfriend seems to be a good angle. Who knew! I went on one date and
spent it talking about you, the poor girl. You would have found it quite witty I think. No other
dates to report, I am going against your orders to move on for now.
I found one of those hair tie things that somehow managed to squeeze into every crevice in
the apartment. It was under the bed. I sat on the floor holding it and cried. Until then I had held
everything together but it just all came flooding out.
Every morning when I wake up I forget for a fraction of a second that you are gone and I reach
for you. All I ever find is the cold side of the bed. My eyes settle on the picture of us in Paris, on
the bedside table, and I am overjoyed that even though the time was brief I loved you and you
loved me.
Love,
P.
and this:
Victor
Victor was a little baby,
Into this world he came;
His father took him on his knee and said:
'Don't dishonour the family name.'
Victor looked up at his father
Looked up with big round eyes:
His father said; 'Victor, my only son,
Don't you ever ever tell lies.'
Victor and his father went riding
Out in a little dog-cart;
His father took a Bible from his pocket and read;
'Blessed are the pure in heart.'
It was a frosty December
Victor was only eighteen,
But his figures were neat and his margins were straight
And his cuffs were always clean.
He took a room at the Peveril,
A respectable boarding-house;
And Time watched Victor day after day
As a cat will watch a mouse.
The clerks slapped Victor on the shoulder;
'Have you ever had woman?' they said,
'Come down town with us on Saturday night.'
Victor smiled and shook his head.
The manager sat in his office,
Smoked a Corona cigar:
Said; 'Victor's a decent fellow but
He's too mousy to go far.'
Victor went up the his bedroom,
Set the alarum bell;
Climbed into bed, took his Bible and read
Of what happened to Jezebel.
It was the First of April,
Anna to the Peveril came;
Her eyes, her lips, her breasts, her hips
And her smile set men aflame,
She looked as pure as a schoolgirl
On her First Communion day,
But her kisses were like the best champagne
When she gave herself away.
It was the Second of April.
She was wearing a coat of fur;
Victor met her upon the stair
And he fell in love with her.
The first time he made his proposal,
She laughed, said; 'I'll never wed;
The second time there was a pause;
Then she smiled and shook her head.
Anna looked into her mirror,
Pouted and gave a frown:
Said 'Victor's as dull as a wet afternoon
But I've got to settle down.'
The third time he made his proposal,
As they walked by the Reservoir:
She gave him a kiss like a blow on the head,
Said; 'You are my heart's desire.'
They were married early in August,
She said; 'Kiss me, you funny boy';
Victor took her in his arms and said;
'O my Helen of Troy.'
It was the middle of September,
Victor came to the office one day;
He was wearing a flower in his buttonhole,
He was late but he was gay.
The clerks were talking of Anna,
The door was just ajar:
One said, 'Poor old Victor, but where ignorance
Is bliss, et cetera.'
Victor stood still as a statue,
The door was just ajar:
One said, 'God, what fun I had with her
In that Baby Austin car.'
Victor walked out into the High Street,
He walked to the edge of town:
He came to the allotments and the rubbish heap
And his tears came tumbling down.
Victor looked up at the sunset
As he stood there all alone;
Cried; 'Are you in Heaven, Father?'
But the sky said 'Address not known'.
Victor looked at the mountains,
The mountains all covered in snow
Cried; 'Are you pleased with me, Father?'
And the answer came back, No.
Victor came to the forest,
Cried: 'Father, will she ever be true?'
And the oaks and the beeches shook their heads
And they answered: 'Not to you.'
Victor came to the meadow
Where the wind went sweeping by:
Cried; 'O Father, I love her so',
But the wind said, 'She must die'.
Victor came to the river
Running so deep and so still:
Crying; 'O Father, what shall I do?'
And the river answered, 'Kill'.
Anna was sitting at table,
Drawing cards from a pack;
Anna was sitting at table
Waiting for her husband to come back.
It wasn't the Jack of Diamonds
Nor the Joker she drew first;
It wasn't the King or the Queen of Hearts
But the Ace of Spades reversed.
Victor stood in the doorway,
He didn't utter a word:
She said; 'What's the matter, darling?'
He behaved as if he hadn't heard.
There was a voice in his left ear,
There was a voice in his right,
There was a voice at the base of his skull
Saying, 'She must die tonight.'
Victor picked up a carving-knife,
His features were set and drawn,
Said; 'Anna it would have been better for you
If you had not been born.'
Anna jumped up from the table,
Anna started to scream,
But Victor came slowly after her
Like a horror in a dream.
She dodged behind the sofa,
She tore down a curtain rod,
But Victor came slowly after her:
Said; 'Prepare to meet thy God.'
She managed to wrench the door open,
She ran and she didn't stop.
But Victor followed her up the stairs
And he caught her at the top.
He stood there above the body,
He stood there holding the knife;
And the blood ran down the stairs and sang,
'I'm the Resurrection and the Life'.
They tapped Victor on the shoulder,
They took him away in a van;
He sat as quiet as a lump of moss
Saying, 'I am the Son of Man'.
Victor sat in a corner
Making a woman of clay:
Saying; 'I am Alpha and Omega, I shall come
To judge the earth some day.'
Into this world he came;
His father took him on his knee and said:
'Don't dishonour the family name.'
Victor looked up at his father
Looked up with big round eyes:
His father said; 'Victor, my only son,
Don't you ever ever tell lies.'
Victor and his father went riding
Out in a little dog-cart;
His father took a Bible from his pocket and read;
'Blessed are the pure in heart.'
It was a frosty December
Victor was only eighteen,
But his figures were neat and his margins were straight
And his cuffs were always clean.
He took a room at the Peveril,
A respectable boarding-house;
And Time watched Victor day after day
As a cat will watch a mouse.
The clerks slapped Victor on the shoulder;
'Have you ever had woman?' they said,
'Come down town with us on Saturday night.'
Victor smiled and shook his head.
The manager sat in his office,
Smoked a Corona cigar:
Said; 'Victor's a decent fellow but
He's too mousy to go far.'
Victor went up the his bedroom,
Set the alarum bell;
Climbed into bed, took his Bible and read
Of what happened to Jezebel.
It was the First of April,
Anna to the Peveril came;
Her eyes, her lips, her breasts, her hips
And her smile set men aflame,
She looked as pure as a schoolgirl
On her First Communion day,
But her kisses were like the best champagne
When she gave herself away.
It was the Second of April.
She was wearing a coat of fur;
Victor met her upon the stair
And he fell in love with her.
The first time he made his proposal,
She laughed, said; 'I'll never wed;
The second time there was a pause;
Then she smiled and shook her head.
Anna looked into her mirror,
Pouted and gave a frown:
Said 'Victor's as dull as a wet afternoon
But I've got to settle down.'
The third time he made his proposal,
As they walked by the Reservoir:
She gave him a kiss like a blow on the head,
Said; 'You are my heart's desire.'
They were married early in August,
She said; 'Kiss me, you funny boy';
Victor took her in his arms and said;
'O my Helen of Troy.'
It was the middle of September,
Victor came to the office one day;
He was wearing a flower in his buttonhole,
He was late but he was gay.
The clerks were talking of Anna,
The door was just ajar:
One said, 'Poor old Victor, but where ignorance
Is bliss, et cetera.'
Victor stood still as a statue,
The door was just ajar:
One said, 'God, what fun I had with her
In that Baby Austin car.'
Victor walked out into the High Street,
He walked to the edge of town:
He came to the allotments and the rubbish heap
And his tears came tumbling down.
Victor looked up at the sunset
As he stood there all alone;
Cried; 'Are you in Heaven, Father?'
But the sky said 'Address not known'.
Victor looked at the mountains,
The mountains all covered in snow
Cried; 'Are you pleased with me, Father?'
And the answer came back, No.
Victor came to the forest,
Cried: 'Father, will she ever be true?'
And the oaks and the beeches shook their heads
And they answered: 'Not to you.'
Victor came to the meadow
Where the wind went sweeping by:
Cried; 'O Father, I love her so',
But the wind said, 'She must die'.
Victor came to the river
Running so deep and so still:
Crying; 'O Father, what shall I do?'
And the river answered, 'Kill'.
Anna was sitting at table,
Drawing cards from a pack;
Anna was sitting at table
Waiting for her husband to come back.
It wasn't the Jack of Diamonds
Nor the Joker she drew first;
It wasn't the King or the Queen of Hearts
But the Ace of Spades reversed.
Victor stood in the doorway,
He didn't utter a word:
She said; 'What's the matter, darling?'
He behaved as if he hadn't heard.
There was a voice in his left ear,
There was a voice in his right,
There was a voice at the base of his skull
Saying, 'She must die tonight.'
Victor picked up a carving-knife,
His features were set and drawn,
Said; 'Anna it would have been better for you
If you had not been born.'
Anna jumped up from the table,
Anna started to scream,
But Victor came slowly after her
Like a horror in a dream.
She dodged behind the sofa,
She tore down a curtain rod,
But Victor came slowly after her:
Said; 'Prepare to meet thy God.'
She managed to wrench the door open,
She ran and she didn't stop.
But Victor followed her up the stairs
And he caught her at the top.
He stood there above the body,
He stood there holding the knife;
And the blood ran down the stairs and sang,
'I'm the Resurrection and the Life'.
They tapped Victor on the shoulder,
They took him away in a van;
He sat as quiet as a lump of moss
Saying, 'I am the Son of Man'.
Victor sat in a corner
Making a woman of clay:
Saying; 'I am Alpha and Omega, I shall come
To judge the earth some day.'
WH Auden
I read to her today. I brought out something I've only showed Aaron and I want to show Brenda because I think she'll appreciate it. Aaron appreciates it, but in the way only Aaron can.
I'm happy.
advisory
mr. rychewlski doesn't inspire me. he motivates me. it's what he gives me that does all the inspiring. he has good taste.
is motivation built in inspring?
I don't know, but both are happening here.
mo·ti·va·tion
in·spired
i read this:
Born like this
Into this
As the chalk faces smile
As Mrs. Death laughs
As the elevators break
As political landscapes dissolve
As the supermarket bag boy holds a college degree
As the oily fish spit out their oily prey
As the sun is masked
We are
Born like this
Into this
Into these carefully mad wars
Into the sight of broken factory windows of emptiness
Into bars where people no longer speak to each other
Into fist fights that end as shootings and knifings
Born into this
Into hospitals which are so expensive that it’s cheaper to die
Into lawyers who charge so much it’s cheaper to plead guilty
Into a country where the jails are full and the madhouses closed
Into a place where the masses elevate fools into rich heroes
Born into this
Walking and living through this
Dying because of this
Muted because of this
Castrated
Debauched
Disinherited
Because of this
Fooled by this
Used by this
Pissed on by this
Made crazy and sick by this
Made violent
Made inhuman
By this
The heart is blackened
The fingers reach for the throat
The gun
The knife
The bomb
The fingers reach toward an unresponsive god
The fingers reach for the bottle
The pill
The powder
We are born into this sorrowful deadliness
We are born into a government 60 years in debt
That soon will be unable to even pay the interest on that debt
And the banks will burn
Money will be useless
There will be open and unpunished murder in the streets
It will be guns and roving mobs
Land will be useless
Food will become a diminishing return
Nuclear power will be taken over by the many
Explosions will continually shake the earth
Radiated robot men will stalk each other
The rich and the chosen will watch from space platforms
Dante’s Inferno will be made to look like a children’s playground
The sun will not be seen and it will always be night
Trees will die
All vegetation will die
Radiated men will eat the flesh of radiated men
The sea will be poisoned
The lakes and rivers will vanish
Rain will be the new gold
The rotting bodies of men and animals will stink in the dark wind
The last few survivors will be overtaken by new and hideous diseases
And the space platforms will be destroyed by attrition
The petering out of supplies
The natural effect of general decay
And there will be the most beautiful silence never heard
Born out of that.
The sun still hidden there
Awaiting the next chapter
note to self: follow psuedobukowski.blogspot.com
his response:
What Language Did
Eavan Boland
The evening was the same as any other.
I came out and stood on the step.
The suburb was closed in the weather
of an early spring and the shallow tips
of washed-out yellows of narcissi
resisted dusk. And crocuses and snowdrops.
I stood there and felt the melancholy
of growing older in such a season,
when all I could be certain of was simply
in this time of fragrance and refrain,
whatever else might flower before the fruit,
and be renewed, I would not. Not again.
A car splashed by in the twilight.
Peat smoke stayed in the windless
air overhead and I might have missed:
a presence. Suddenly. In the very place
where I would stand in other dusks, and look
to pick out my child from the distance,
was a shepherdess, her smile cracked,
her arm injured from the mantelpieces
and pastorals where she posed with her crook.
Then I turned and saw in the spaces
of the night sky constellations appear,
one by one, over roof-tops and houses,
and Cassiopeia trapped: stabbed where
her thigh met her groin and her hand
her glittering wrist, with the pin-point of a star.
And by the road where rain made standing
pools of water underneath cherry trees,
and blossoms swam on their images,
was a mermaid with invented tresses,
her breasts printed with the salt of it and all
the desolation of the North Sea in her face.
I went nearer. They were disappearing.
Dusk had turned to night but in the air -
did I imagine it? – a voice was saying:
This is what language did to us. Here
is the wound, the silence, the wretchedness
of tides and hillsides and stars where
we languish in a grammar of sighs,
in the high-minded search for euphony,
in the midnight rhetoric of poesie.
We cannot sweat here. Our skin is icy.
We cannot breed here. Our wombs are empty.
Help us to escape youth and beauty.
Write us out of the poem. Make us human
in cadences of change and mortal pain
and words we can grow old and die in.
Needless to say, I loved it. And I'm not the kind of person that loves poem just because its "the thing to do" or because it's "expected of me". If I don't like a poem you love, I will tell you. I really love this poem.
There are so many ways to say one thing. So many ways of bringing something to life.
Every time someone starts to read, I think of a painting being made. With each word, a brush stroke.
By the end of poem, someone has painted what they were feeling/what they see/what they know/anything. It's wonderful. It fills me with pleasure. When I read Bukowski, I feel like I'm taking a bite of gourmet food. Yum.
I'm going to accomplish something great guys. I'm taking the route with stickers plastered on the trees and where the cars walk on sidewalks and we skip and twirl for no reason other than we can on the streets.I don't know what I'll do yet, but I know when I do, I will immerse myself in that work whole-heartingly. I'm excited, even though I don't know exactly what I'm excited about.
I'm going to major in two things. Dual personality here. But trust me, they're going to compliment each other and ahhh ^-^.
I'm going to struggle, but it's going to be fun.
Bukowski can probably tell it before than I could:
Roll the Dice
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
by Charles Bukowski
is motivation built in inspring?
I don't know, but both are happening here.
mo·ti·va·tion
/ˌmōtəˈvāSHən/
Noun
| |
/inˈspī(ə)rd/
Adjective
|
i read this:
Born like this
Into this
As the chalk faces smile
As Mrs. Death laughs
As the elevators break
As political landscapes dissolve
As the supermarket bag boy holds a college degree
As the oily fish spit out their oily prey
As the sun is masked
We are
Born like this
Into this
Into these carefully mad wars
Into the sight of broken factory windows of emptiness
Into bars where people no longer speak to each other
Into fist fights that end as shootings and knifings
Born into this
Into hospitals which are so expensive that it’s cheaper to die
Into lawyers who charge so much it’s cheaper to plead guilty
Into a country where the jails are full and the madhouses closed
Into a place where the masses elevate fools into rich heroes
Born into this
Walking and living through this
Dying because of this
Muted because of this
Castrated
Debauched
Disinherited
Because of this
Fooled by this
Used by this
Pissed on by this
Made crazy and sick by this
Made violent
Made inhuman
By this
The heart is blackened
The fingers reach for the throat
The gun
The knife
The bomb
The fingers reach toward an unresponsive god
The fingers reach for the bottle
The pill
The powder
We are born into this sorrowful deadliness
We are born into a government 60 years in debt
That soon will be unable to even pay the interest on that debt
And the banks will burn
Money will be useless
There will be open and unpunished murder in the streets
It will be guns and roving mobs
Land will be useless
Food will become a diminishing return
Nuclear power will be taken over by the many
Explosions will continually shake the earth
Radiated robot men will stalk each other
The rich and the chosen will watch from space platforms
Dante’s Inferno will be made to look like a children’s playground
The sun will not be seen and it will always be night
Trees will die
All vegetation will die
Radiated men will eat the flesh of radiated men
The sea will be poisoned
The lakes and rivers will vanish
Rain will be the new gold
The rotting bodies of men and animals will stink in the dark wind
The last few survivors will be overtaken by new and hideous diseases
And the space platforms will be destroyed by attrition
The petering out of supplies
The natural effect of general decay
And there will be the most beautiful silence never heard
Born out of that.
The sun still hidden there
Awaiting the next chapter
note to self: follow psuedobukowski.blogspot.com
his response:
What Language Did
Eavan Boland
The evening was the same as any other.
I came out and stood on the step.
The suburb was closed in the weather
of an early spring and the shallow tips
of washed-out yellows of narcissi
resisted dusk. And crocuses and snowdrops.
I stood there and felt the melancholy
of growing older in such a season,
when all I could be certain of was simply
in this time of fragrance and refrain,
whatever else might flower before the fruit,
and be renewed, I would not. Not again.
A car splashed by in the twilight.
Peat smoke stayed in the windless
air overhead and I might have missed:
a presence. Suddenly. In the very place
where I would stand in other dusks, and look
to pick out my child from the distance,
was a shepherdess, her smile cracked,
her arm injured from the mantelpieces
and pastorals where she posed with her crook.
Then I turned and saw in the spaces
of the night sky constellations appear,
one by one, over roof-tops and houses,
and Cassiopeia trapped: stabbed where
her thigh met her groin and her hand
her glittering wrist, with the pin-point of a star.
And by the road where rain made standing
pools of water underneath cherry trees,
and blossoms swam on their images,
was a mermaid with invented tresses,
her breasts printed with the salt of it and all
the desolation of the North Sea in her face.
I went nearer. They were disappearing.
Dusk had turned to night but in the air -
did I imagine it? – a voice was saying:
This is what language did to us. Here
is the wound, the silence, the wretchedness
of tides and hillsides and stars where
we languish in a grammar of sighs,
in the high-minded search for euphony,
in the midnight rhetoric of poesie.
We cannot sweat here. Our skin is icy.
We cannot breed here. Our wombs are empty.
Help us to escape youth and beauty.
Write us out of the poem. Make us human
in cadences of change and mortal pain
and words we can grow old and die in.
Needless to say, I loved it. And I'm not the kind of person that loves poem just because its "the thing to do" or because it's "expected of me". If I don't like a poem you love, I will tell you. I really love this poem.
There are so many ways to say one thing. So many ways of bringing something to life.
Every time someone starts to read, I think of a painting being made. With each word, a brush stroke.
By the end of poem, someone has painted what they were feeling/what they see/what they know/anything. It's wonderful. It fills me with pleasure. When I read Bukowski, I feel like I'm taking a bite of gourmet food. Yum.
I'm going to accomplish something great guys. I'm taking the route with stickers plastered on the trees and where the cars walk on sidewalks and we skip and twirl for no reason other than we can on the streets.I don't know what I'll do yet, but I know when I do, I will immerse myself in that work whole-heartingly. I'm excited, even though I don't know exactly what I'm excited about.
I'm going to major in two things. Dual personality here. But trust me, they're going to compliment each other and ahhh ^-^.
I'm going to struggle, but it's going to be fun.
Bukowski can probably tell it before than I could:
Roll the Dice
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
by Charles Bukowski
if you’re going to try, go all the
way.
otherwise, don’t even start.
if you’re going to try, go all the
way.
this could mean losing girlfriends,
wives, relatives, jobs and
maybe your mind.
go all the way.
it could mean not eating for 3 or 4 days.
it could mean freezing on a
park bench.
it could mean jail,
it could mean derision,
mockery,
isolation.
isolation is the gift,
all the others are a test of your
endurance, of
how much you really want to
do it.
and you’ll do it
despite rejection and the worst odds
and it will be better than
anything else
you can imagine.
if you’re going to try,
go all the way.
there is no other feeling like
that.
you will be alone with the gods
and the nights will flame with
fire.
do it, do it, do it.
do it.
all the way
all the way.
you will ride life straight to
perfect laughter, its
the only good fight
there is.
way.
otherwise, don’t even start.
if you’re going to try, go all the
way.
this could mean losing girlfriends,
wives, relatives, jobs and
maybe your mind.
go all the way.
it could mean not eating for 3 or 4 days.
it could mean freezing on a
park bench.
it could mean jail,
it could mean derision,
mockery,
isolation.
isolation is the gift,
all the others are a test of your
endurance, of
how much you really want to
do it.
and you’ll do it
despite rejection and the worst odds
and it will be better than
anything else
you can imagine.
if you’re going to try,
go all the way.
there is no other feeling like
that.
you will be alone with the gods
and the nights will flame with
fire.
do it, do it, do it.
do it.
all the way
all the way.
you will ride life straight to
perfect laughter, its
the only good fight
there is.
I used to hate poetry. Now I love it.
Wednesday, May 1, 2013
england is mine and it owes me a living
I've been doing adult things lately so I guess things have been pretty boring. I'm not complaining though. It's nice when you can do things you don't want to do and not complain because you don't feel like it.
I'm at school right now and all I could think about is what Charlie said "I wonder who plans these things".
Reaching my full potential doesn't guarantee happiness. But neither does anything else.
whateva whateva i do wut i whant.
I rode the bus today and the bus driver had the ugliest eyes I've ever seen. They were hazel. And really stone cold. It made me uncomfortable.
He was mean. I talked to him.
The other driver seemed kind of fidgety. I guess the niceness made him uncomfortable. I've been there too.
I seen a girl with hair like autumn. You should have seen her smile when I told her how much I loved it.
Compliments. I like when people accept them. I hate when people get annoyed. It's like..why.
It's really not what you know, it's what you see.
I was asked an interesting question the other day. Would I showcase my art, if I do decide to take the colorful route..I guess it's something that must be done. I wish I could just give away all my art though you know? I don't think it should cost money. I think that's when art turns into something else.
That something else is both good and bad. I guess I'd just have to put in my all and hope that whoever buys anything I make feels a connection with whatever it is their purchasing. I hope it makes them ask questions. I think the best kind of art does. Or just makes you feel better in an instant eery way that sometimes you can't explain but other people expect you to or they'll believe you really aren't feeling what you're feeling but it's like dude fuck off this ain't skewwllllll and shouldn't it only matter that it does something not the why? I wish I could tell you the why, but I can't so stop being so fucking hostile.
I fucking hate when people get all pretentious. It's like..why.
"ask me why and I'll spit in your eye"
lol Morrissey <3
I'm at school right now and all I could think about is what Charlie said "I wonder who plans these things".
Reaching my full potential doesn't guarantee happiness. But neither does anything else.
whateva whateva i do wut i whant.
I rode the bus today and the bus driver had the ugliest eyes I've ever seen. They were hazel. And really stone cold. It made me uncomfortable.
He was mean. I talked to him.
The other driver seemed kind of fidgety. I guess the niceness made him uncomfortable. I've been there too.
I seen a girl with hair like autumn. You should have seen her smile when I told her how much I loved it.
Compliments. I like when people accept them. I hate when people get annoyed. It's like..why.
It's really not what you know, it's what you see.
I was asked an interesting question the other day. Would I showcase my art, if I do decide to take the colorful route..I guess it's something that must be done. I wish I could just give away all my art though you know? I don't think it should cost money. I think that's when art turns into something else.
That something else is both good and bad. I guess I'd just have to put in my all and hope that whoever buys anything I make feels a connection with whatever it is their purchasing. I hope it makes them ask questions. I think the best kind of art does. Or just makes you feel better in an instant eery way that sometimes you can't explain but other people expect you to or they'll believe you really aren't feeling what you're feeling but it's like dude fuck off this ain't skewwllllll and shouldn't it only matter that it does something not the why? I wish I could tell you the why, but I can't so stop being so fucking hostile.
I fucking hate when people get all pretentious. It's like..why.
"ask me why and I'll spit in your eye"
lol Morrissey <3
I gave Mr.Raimondi his surprise today. The smile was more than worth it! :)
I have three surprises now for Brenda. AHHHHHHHH. I can't wait.
And I have something for Panda and Aumi and yayyyyyyy.
I tried to make something for my mom, but i didn't know what she'd like...
i pictured making her jewelery and then quickly pictured her rejecting it...
immerse yourself in love.
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