she's kind of beautiful
in this really amazing way
and i am so intent on her not noticing
that i don't know what to say...
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
thoughts on today, 4-07-2009
on the way home
the smell of rain
does battle with
the smell of fire-
its different here, the rain smells like the ocean
not like the earth
i have ten fingers on my hands
but how many fingers does my brain have?
charles darwin, age 12.
on the way home from collecting beetles.
a successful endeavor, in his left hand he clutches
a new species. not new to the world
but new to his 12 year old brain.
you have to collect them live, you see, and you can't squish them
or they lose their value.
you kill them in a jar, and preserve them, and stick a pin through them-
so he is on his way home to do just that
to the beetle in his left hand
when he sees another beetle (and new to him, too!)
and so he lets it crawl into his left hand, and hurries home.
smiles all around.
but thats not all!
a third beetle crosses his path, and what do you know,
it is another crunchy critter that he has yet to collect!
But his hands are full. They will crawl out of his pockets. Maybe the third beetle will still be there tomorrow. But maybe it won't. Maybe it won't ever be there again for young Charles.
What to do, what to do?
It is important to remember that this is early 19th Century England, and young people of class do not generally put unpleasant things into their mouths. But that is just what Young Charles did.
And the beetle, which had been happily squirming in his right hand, did not approve.
And Charles soon found out that beetles do not respond favorably to being put into mouths, even mouths not intent on chewing them. And it was a stink beetle.
The story sort of ends there. I would like to think that it keeps going, and that Charles, stink-beetle and all, makes it home, and adds all three trophies to his collection.
And while some might think of this as a warning (don't hold on to more things than you can carry) I think of it this way:
Sometimes, the circumstances of life force us to put unpleasant things into our mouths. You don't give up. You don't let the thing go. You just stick it in your mouth, run home, and pay the price. Because even that little beetle is too valuable to be obtained without some sort of sacrifice.
the personalities of basements
that i have been in:
#2. A train set. My Grandpa Bob carved mountains out of styrofoam. My Granny Mary's quilts hung on the walls. There is a smell to this place, because it is the place where earth meets water. Two steps out the door and you can jump in the lake. I remember waking up early, and I could hear my Grandma making breakfast upstairs. The sound of the waffle iron closing. Sunday morning radio. It is a magic place, with smooth stones and spiders in the shower.
Keep your stick on the ice.
the smell of rain
does battle with
the smell of fire-
its different here, the rain smells like the ocean
not like the earth
i have ten fingers on my hands
but how many fingers does my brain have?
charles darwin, age 12.
on the way home from collecting beetles.
a successful endeavor, in his left hand he clutches
a new species. not new to the world
but new to his 12 year old brain.
you have to collect them live, you see, and you can't squish them
or they lose their value.
you kill them in a jar, and preserve them, and stick a pin through them-
so he is on his way home to do just that
to the beetle in his left hand
when he sees another beetle (and new to him, too!)
and so he lets it crawl into his left hand, and hurries home.
smiles all around.
but thats not all!
a third beetle crosses his path, and what do you know,
it is another crunchy critter that he has yet to collect!
But his hands are full. They will crawl out of his pockets. Maybe the third beetle will still be there tomorrow. But maybe it won't. Maybe it won't ever be there again for young Charles.
What to do, what to do?
It is important to remember that this is early 19th Century England, and young people of class do not generally put unpleasant things into their mouths. But that is just what Young Charles did.
And the beetle, which had been happily squirming in his right hand, did not approve.
And Charles soon found out that beetles do not respond favorably to being put into mouths, even mouths not intent on chewing them. And it was a stink beetle.
The story sort of ends there. I would like to think that it keeps going, and that Charles, stink-beetle and all, makes it home, and adds all three trophies to his collection.
And while some might think of this as a warning (don't hold on to more things than you can carry) I think of it this way:
Sometimes, the circumstances of life force us to put unpleasant things into our mouths. You don't give up. You don't let the thing go. You just stick it in your mouth, run home, and pay the price. Because even that little beetle is too valuable to be obtained without some sort of sacrifice.
the personalities of basements
that i have been in:
#2. A train set. My Grandpa Bob carved mountains out of styrofoam. My Granny Mary's quilts hung on the walls. There is a smell to this place, because it is the place where earth meets water. Two steps out the door and you can jump in the lake. I remember waking up early, and I could hear my Grandma making breakfast upstairs. The sound of the waffle iron closing. Sunday morning radio. It is a magic place, with smooth stones and spiders in the shower.
Keep your stick on the ice.
Monday, April 6, 2009
thoughts on today, 4-06-2009
scribbled in class:
i've been tangled before
in short black hair
and wouldn't mind being there again
creatures
fuzzy beasts
with beating hearts
inhabiting a great forest
(which probably symbolizes my youth)
some are dangerous!
some are not.
most are imaginary
but a few are real
and black fingernail polish
not solid, but chipped
and i think of an old guitar
(which can be the most beautiful
thing in the world)
the personalities of basements
that i have been in:
#1. I used to pretend that I was underneath Alcatraz, in some forgotten room with a decaying ceiling. I stayed down there until one or two in the morning, painting these tiny model airplanes. It must have been cold, because I went down there in the winter, too. But I don't remember that. I just remember running up the stairs, through the door, into the backyard (it was an old farm house) and onto the back porch. If I was fast enough, the ghosts of tortured prisoners couldn't catch me. I never liked to go to bed early. There was too much to explore in the basement.
Do you ever miss someone so much that you would give anything to have them knock on your door? Anything.
i've been tangled before
in short black hair
and wouldn't mind being there again
creatures
fuzzy beasts
with beating hearts
inhabiting a great forest
(which probably symbolizes my youth)
some are dangerous!
some are not.
most are imaginary
but a few are real
and black fingernail polish
not solid, but chipped
and i think of an old guitar
(which can be the most beautiful
thing in the world)
the personalities of basements
that i have been in:
#1. I used to pretend that I was underneath Alcatraz, in some forgotten room with a decaying ceiling. I stayed down there until one or two in the morning, painting these tiny model airplanes. It must have been cold, because I went down there in the winter, too. But I don't remember that. I just remember running up the stairs, through the door, into the backyard (it was an old farm house) and onto the back porch. If I was fast enough, the ghosts of tortured prisoners couldn't catch me. I never liked to go to bed early. There was too much to explore in the basement.
Do you ever miss someone so much that you would give anything to have them knock on your door? Anything.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
thoughts on today, 4-05-2009
"not yet, anyway"
he said, when asked about god.
what are we waiting for?
dad to fill the car up with gas?
let's get back on the road.
i want to see the billboards for
medicine shops
and gambling towns
for miles and miles
perfect imperfection
means
that everything fits just right
into a shape that doesn't exist
(like the way that trees grow, and think of all the trees)
when something is different
it is more valuable
except that the term "valuable"
sounds too much like "can be sold for more money"
so,
what i really mean is:
when something is different
it makes me want to put it in my pocket
or remember it
until i can write it down
and by write it down, i mean:
a pretty girl (reminds me of an old movie, black and white, and that same smile that Grace Kelly gave to a busted up Jimmy Stewart)
a hummingbird (a small thing but perfectly designed)
unexpected miles davis (you can't desribe this. you just have to listen.)
coming this summer:
my album.
prairie reclamation project by bobby bobbie's broken heart.
release date TBD.
he said, when asked about god.
what are we waiting for?
dad to fill the car up with gas?
let's get back on the road.
i want to see the billboards for
medicine shops
and gambling towns
for miles and miles
perfect imperfection
means
that everything fits just right
into a shape that doesn't exist
(like the way that trees grow, and think of all the trees)
when something is different
it is more valuable
except that the term "valuable"
sounds too much like "can be sold for more money"
so,
what i really mean is:
when something is different
it makes me want to put it in my pocket
or remember it
until i can write it down
and by write it down, i mean:
a pretty girl (reminds me of an old movie, black and white, and that same smile that Grace Kelly gave to a busted up Jimmy Stewart)
a hummingbird (a small thing but perfectly designed)
unexpected miles davis (you can't desribe this. you just have to listen.)
coming this summer:
my album.
prairie reclamation project by bobby bobbie's broken heart.
release date TBD.
let's try this again
blogging comes back.
there is absolutely no excuse to not write a poem every day.
even though the word "poem" and the idea of "poetry" illicit a response that isn't really appropriate for the type of writing that i intend to do here. more appropriately, i am holding myself responsible for posting thoughts that i have, which usually manifest themselves without caring much about punctuation or grammatical correctness. spelling is important, usually.
so here is my goal:
every day, for the next year, i will be logging on here to post a "thoughts on today, xx-xx-2009".
we'll see what happens.
more to come... later today.
there is absolutely no excuse to not write a poem every day.
even though the word "poem" and the idea of "poetry" illicit a response that isn't really appropriate for the type of writing that i intend to do here. more appropriately, i am holding myself responsible for posting thoughts that i have, which usually manifest themselves without caring much about punctuation or grammatical correctness. spelling is important, usually.
so here is my goal:
every day, for the next year, i will be logging on here to post a "thoughts on today, xx-xx-2009".
we'll see what happens.
more to come... later today.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
could have slept on the beach...
i remember being sad
about the pigeons
the passenger pigeons
who are gone now
all their little souls
wingless and running
in a place
that they don't understand
_________________________________
poems are pebbles
stones that i find throughout the day
and put in my pocket
hot stones
cold stones
sharp stones
and soft stones, too
stones without souls
and stones who are happy
frustrated stones
mongolian throat singing stones
misunderstood stones
and stoned stones
my pockets are very heavy
and my hands don't fit
because there is
too much beauty
in there.
about the pigeons
the passenger pigeons
who are gone now
all their little souls
wingless and running
in a place
that they don't understand
_________________________________
poems are pebbles
stones that i find throughout the day
and put in my pocket
hot stones
cold stones
sharp stones
and soft stones, too
stones without souls
and stones who are happy
frustrated stones
mongolian throat singing stones
misunderstood stones
and stoned stones
my pockets are very heavy
and my hands don't fit
because there is
too much beauty
in there.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
lovely
I think it has been about a week since I blogged last. It feels like this quarter is in reverse, and all of my work has to be done at the beginning as opposed to the end. But I have loved every minute of it.
I only wanted to comment on the color of the sky today. It is blue. Which should come as no surprise. But it is different in San Diego. It isn't just "blue" or "kinda blue with some clouds". There are absolutely no clouds, and it stretches out above you like some great upside down Caribbean Sea. I almost expect to see upside-down flying fish and upside down pirate ships go sailing by.
Today in a word: lovely.
I only wanted to comment on the color of the sky today. It is blue. Which should come as no surprise. But it is different in San Diego. It isn't just "blue" or "kinda blue with some clouds". There are absolutely no clouds, and it stretches out above you like some great upside down Caribbean Sea. I almost expect to see upside-down flying fish and upside down pirate ships go sailing by.
Today in a word: lovely.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
