Whenever I make a box of macaroni, or some form of pasta, and after I boil it and then drain it, sometimes I lose a string or a piece of macaroni to my floor or sink and it always bothers me, wasting this less than or equal to one cent pasta piece, as if what I just lost during draining was the food with the ability to tip my hunger over from starvation to satisfaction.
I wanted to start writing again, and so I sat down and thought about themes I could use to tie my entries together. No matter the time spent, I continued to return to the idea of writing entries describing some silly or intangible idea that I hated. Sure it's been done before*, but I've developed fresh jokes and unheard situations to hate... I had found my great idea.
But** I've become cautious of such playfully biting humor. I am afraid that my penchant for letting the world hear of my dislikes does a terrible job of labeling me as negative. Even worse, these insignificant items that I enjoy hating are the same things that others seem to love. I must admit, I am a better person when I am not tearing down a piece of the foundation of some other person's joy.
I am trying to silence my voice. I talk too much in this regard. I talk too much, regardless.
For my own memory, here is a short list of things this blog was going to hate: customers who choose their first interaction with self checkout to be on a busy Saturday morning and with a cart full of fruits and vegetables; that the fastest route in Walmart from one department to another always seems to be straight through the underwear section; people slurping coffee, soda from a can, soup...; a lyricisit alluding to Romeo and Juliet; when I don't get peoples' fascination or enjoyment of certain things, such as sushi, mowing the lawn, Discovery Channel shows that involve unappealing jobs; bagels that are not New York quality; Burritos that are not made by Mexicans; brushing my teeth (yes, I do it, but it is terribly mundane); headphones that do not fit in my ear; overusing the exclamation point...
Then of course there are the obvious topics I wouldn't even feel the need to write about: Nickelback, the Olive Garden, Dan Brown Novels (although to be fair, I've only ever read the Da Vinci Code), the acting of Nicholas Cage, Satan.
My first entry was going to describe my hatred of feeling guilty for hating pointless things. I feel guilty even having written these past few paragraphs.
There still exists situations, thoughts, actions that I will continue to hate. I cannot help it. I do not like hearing married men gloat about the great sex they had with some woman who was not their wife. I wonder how they will react when a boy does the same to their daughter. I hate thinking about how these men fall asleep next to a wife, and I next to empty space.***
My plan, the redeeming quality of my blog proposal, was to end each entry contradicting my theme of hate (always playful, I must remind) with something I love. Life, if you sit down and think about it, is lovely. Seeing only the ugly leaves much to be desired.
I love sneezing. It feels good, and for some reason it makes me feel healthy, as if my body is doing its job.
* "I know it's all been done before, I want to do it again, I want to do it again."
** "Everyone I know has a big 'But'. C'mon, Simone, let's talk about your big 'But'."
*** "But with nobody in your bed, the night's hard to get through"
I read other peoples' journals and I spy on others' lives, and so many seem to have fallen ill to the great depression. This sweeping darkness where the presence of light seems sardonic or at times a night terror. I wanted to write such an entry like theirs. I wanted to type up the trials of this lonely goat whose darkness is worthy of pity, and where pity is no sorry excuse for light but a laudable alternative. But pity is deceptive, and so is darkness, they both point my way, and that is the problem because the greatest discovery I can have is the revelation that it is not about me. I do not matter. I long for the day when I practice this truth. I dream of the morning I wake up and I do not concern myself with whether I get the girl or not; that wonderful day when receiving glory is no worry of mine.
I wish more journal entries were happy, I am tired of visiting the worlds of so many sad people where light goes unnoticed.
Around the age of nine I was led to believe that Cher was naked in her music video for "If I Could Turn Back Time". I may have reacted differently if Cher's name was replaced with any other female's, but it wasn't, and like my similar reaction eighteen years later, I had no interest in watching. But the song was catchy as hell--like some schoolyard trend (garbage pail kids, slap bracelets)--and like my reaction eighteen years later, the song popped into my head whenever I wanted to redo a moment.
Maybe if confronted again with the Solomon's wish question, my new answer would grant me what Cher never had and always coveted, to control time like the Prince of Persia--just not as nerdy and maybe with a longer window of time of which to rewind.
Or even just to slow it down.
In some instances, under pressure, diamonds are made, but in my case I fail to create anything but second guessing. I do not fair well under pressure. Wit, if any exists within me, happens to be the first to retreat when a situation changes. Common sense hides, logic makes a break for it, spontaneity takes a nap, and worst of all... grace is forgotten. This is not so good considering life is so very mercurial and I lose all the necessary charactersistics to surive.
If I could turn back time, I'd fix the moment. I'd rewrite it and perfect it, and throw it into a Groundhog Day routine until the story could end no better. Soon I need to have a Chuck Bartkowski conversation, the kind that knowingly ends in rejection but has to be brought forth regardless. I will indeed want to return to that moment, to turn back time and erase it and replace it, but my powers are limited, and I will be left with the reality that under pressure I said none of the right things, but even worse there happened to be no right thing to say.
At least I have never seen Cher naked, there is always that to be reminded of in times like these.
I just finished a conversation with a friend discussing our girl troubles. Is there a more tired topic? I would hire some writers to provide me with a new problem, but they are all on strike. In my plight, I now feel like I did ten years ago, sitting in a classroom going through a week of final presentations. I fear my turn, that much is certain, but how tempting to just get the pain over with and make my presentation. And I know my material. I've planned and practiced. But without doubt I will stutter as a recite, and forget my best lines as I try and sell myself. I hate the wait, but damn if life isn't beautiful even in this anxiety.
I started writing some more silly lines last night and returned to them tonight. I did not know where this poem that reads like teenage lyrics was heading, but in the end I think it all fits together well. Part of me thinks it serves as a reponse to the discussion I had with my friend, but I did not write these words with a girl on my mind. I'm not always so prosaic.
From this height you can see everything but the future
Such as how yesterday’s news is a waste of a quarter
And the odds are slim the unknown just around the corner
Is the answer to everything you’ve been praying for
And I’m sure the sky felt similar
On the day that it was formed
So blue and oh so lonely
Before the birds were sent to swarm
But I’m so starved and this stone is so hard
And my fist can try but it can’t crack its side
To gush like a geyser, spraying gentle living water
Into the cup of my palm, instead of surrogate psalms
In the thicket there’s provision
A telling that every day has a lesson
And every drought has an end
But time spent without purpose
Is a harbinger of spiritual insurgence
And has brought me to this mountain
To lift my knife before my sacrifice
To draw my blade and end the days
Of my languor, this sycophant lover
And wave goodbye, watching my old self die
The waste will come for the flies to kiss
The pages for the wind to scatter
And if a baby never learns how to cry
Hope’s still found in a knowing father
The scribes revolted and took up their arms
The future be damned with poison tipped pens
Political cartoons so the masses heed warn
That the great volcano has met its end
Now the natives harmonize with such words
“That old mountain has never flipped its lid
Its ancient myth; we are hopeless bastards
But we’re better off with this knowledge”
And the sign at the base of the path reads:
“Our guide has not spoken to us in this life
Where once it preached words by which good men lead
In the end maybe Nietzsche had gotten it right”
"What news!", such great tunes the townsfolk now sing
And build up their homes and dreams atop ash
Writing new laws at the grave of their king
Now a new sham creation with panache
But someday when the new world grows old
And the ground stirs to irascible action
Fire and ash rain like elixirs to behold
To restore the town to righteous reason
Never forgotten, this new creation
We are the chosen; a new creation
In the sober grace of morning light
I wait for the gentle caress of wisdom’s breath
To remove the stale stench of death
But how can I con with morbid imagery?
So I clothe my sin in a sundress
Gloves conceal the dirt beneath my fingertips
Misdemeanors I mislabel as mistakes-
-A cagey synonym for peccancy
A clever con if I’ve seen one
Workers built my pool across the property line
Just a pen to claim that what wasn’t mine
While I drank in the sights of the foreman’s wife
And I’ve never seen anything quite like it
So I had my fill and called her over to save my soul
Like a cheat code offering infinite lives
But she wasn’t what she seemed
And the song we sung was about no gal
Where my pool may measure deep
Goes to show some things are not so shallow
Maybe Solomon had it all along
Before God granted him one infamous wish
But in the same test I’d choose the con
And split the child in my foolishness
-written while listening to 3 tilly and the wall songs, thrice water ep, ultraspank - where, tv on the radio - wolf like me, underoath - where the sun sleeps.
first draft about the second coming of a crush. and how i should know better.
<not yet titled>
Metal rod like shackles, I’ve been here before
To test my chances against the storm
And I really like, I mean I really like
The way my hair stands tall before the strike
The taste of abolition
(The gentle reminder of prohibition)
But this deluded sick sixth sense can be haunting
And the boom of thunder is no boon
A sardonic cackle after it’s all gone down
And nothing’s set free, but the soil tends to disagree
Unaware these shackles continue to confine me
Such is the price of reaching out to beauty
The garden blossoms and the gate is locked
The greatest flower surrounded by weeds
And I don’t have my gloves, and I don’t have a key
So I’ll dig a hole underneath
And let the thorns do their best to cut my flesh
Like bullet streaks shot through blue sky
Heavy fire in a zone where I should not fly
But I’ll stay until the petals whither or turn from me
For I am no sun, and that is just what she needs
Like a newborn pup with fluffy fur
That soft and sweet and gentle hair
An affable bark just steps away
Turned to a snarl when I am near
Still, I don’t want to leave
But neither then, can I be free
Unless my Lord intervenes
Unless my Lord has greater plans than these
If God questioned me as he did Solomon, to name the one thing i wanted and he'd grant me my wish, I would ask for the power to know every song lyric ever written. I cannot fathom how nice a trip to the grocery store can be when i can sing along with every word playing from the store speakers. There is no faster way to a woman's heart than impressing her with your ability to perfectly recite a bon jovi lyric. in all my dreaming, i can think of no better superpower.
My neck hurts. It is a remorseful pain--innocuous and fatherless. I wish that I could claim a story of vampire bites, a day of physical activity, or recite a tale of me just doing some good old fashion work, but I lament the truth. My neck hurts like one might after a night of restless slumber; it is the strain of hours upon hours of resting still, angling down, allowing my eyes to gaze into the pages of the last Harry Potter novel. But like a good muscle burn from weight lifting, my aching neck is a medal of my nerdy persistence. No one will ever have the sick oppurtunity to spoil my finished vice.
The closure of just another one of my childish interests may not force me closer to maturation, but it does still come with its benefits. For one, I can now allow God to kill me if his will desires; for now that I know the fate of Harry Potter, what hype is left? Now if a girl asks me if I am reading the Harry Potter series, I can honestly say 'no', and not frighten her away.
I can also get back to editing my novel. I use the word editing not loosely, but foolishly, as my recent work is more rewriting than editing. Editing suggests a finish line, but the end cannot be in sight when changing the narrative from first to third person, or when adding scenes.
Oh well, we'll see what happens. Now with the tale of Harry Potter concluded, I can return to other things. Maybe begin by weaving an exciting fib of why my neck hurts; and now that I have one less declaration to scare females away with, maybe I can convince one to stick around long enough to massage the soreness left over from 24-hours of nerdiness.