Day ninety-two

WFMAD may be on hold for a few weeks. I have a business trip and some other projects I must work on :(

Day ninety-one

Apology

This morning the world nearly ended

and all of my regrets lay in front of me

like dead soldiers. I want to remove them,

but the bodies feel too heavy to lift.

I think I've done wrong, but I don't know

what I've done. Only guilt guilt guilt

like a hammer to nail pounds away

in my mind. I am sorry. I made a mistake

forgive me and even if you slip away

and nothing I say can sway you. I still

love you. Always. Until the sun stops rising.

Day ninety

Can you believe it has been 90 days already! This experiment has had its ups and downs and I've noticed that writing late at night may not always be the best way to squeeze out creativity like an almost empty tube of toothpaste. Day light savings times has begun again! It's 1:29am right now and it still feels like 2:29am. So during the beginning of these 90 days I was going through a tough relationship... trying to salvage something that wasn't working. Eventually that relationship ended. During the past two weeks or so, a new relationship has begun and the cycle begins again. This relationship is far more healthier and better in a lot of aspects. We'll have to see how it affects my writing. For now all is good, and I'm really tired so I'm signing off. Goodnight world and thanks for the reads!

15:56

eighty-nine

Your hands feel cold against the warmth of mine.

The scent of cherry blossoms in your hair

The smell of cherry blossoms fills the air

And I am always yours and you are mine

your hands feel warm against the cold of mine.

25:30

Rhyming is hard. Especially if its near iambic.

Day eighty-eight

He contemplates on the infinite mysteries of love and destiny and God

The low growl of the engine hums, inside

your car we sit and listen to the sound of

the top forty radio. I've never felt so

complete.

15:44

Day eighty-seven

Found

Your hands fit perfectly in mine, our fingers

fit between each other like the corners of

a log cabin. We say nothing to each other

as we contemplate the meanings of life.

Here, under the bright florescent lights

of the steak n shake we laugh and smile

and create a bubble of privacy in the public

eye. Beyond our table nothing exists. Zoom

out above the street, above the state

the country, the earth, and the galaxy

we are mere specs of specs of specs

across the universe. But, here alone

together we create warm meaning in

a seemingly meaningless world. And like

the birth of a star, we burst with silent joy.

15:23

Day eighty-six

Forgot to post this yesterday... I didn't cheat and not write 15min I promise... ask Twan! Excerpt from a project.

A nightmare. I’m in a nightmare. the bottom of my soles grip the heavy ground like an ivy tendril that grasps a tree trunk. Tad finally jolts me. “What’s her damn problem?” he says. The words come sharp like an e string on a guitar. I shrug. I replay the moment fast forwarding and rewinding, I edit different angles of my memory. I clutch the rock in my pocket. Take it out and begin to polish it with my shirt. The tiger’s eye in my hand still reminds me of your eyes. Should I have remained silent like a graveyard statue when you passed by? Should I have said something else, anything else, as long it wasn’t hey? I’m silent and remain silent for the rest of the day, and I’m afraid to open my mouth, afraid that you will hate me, afraid that you would stop talking too, afraid.

Approx 30min

Day eighty-five

The proton is dead: Today's misadventures in blog form.

I went to work this morning at 6am and did my usual Tuesday morning job, only the employee that I work with on Tuesdays was terribly ill. I had to do a bunch of mindless tasks and eventually sent her home. Today was like a Saturday, thanks to teacher furlough day. Children were in mass destroying our store and it seemed like I could not get any task done without being interrupted by one problem or the next. Luckily I had the opportunity to leave early and I seized it.

Unfortunately I had to leave work early for a reason. I promised my sister that I would take her and her friend to a concert downtown. She had no details about the concert except for it's location and time. So I naturally was a bit irritated by the lack of information and was in a generally bad mood. My sister sometimes really really bugs me. I wasn't really into the band she was going to see so I dropped her off and hung out at my alma mater.

I found an old building that I had many classes in and reached the top floor and read "Smiles to Go". At first I wasn't too interested in this kid's fiction book, but then I really got into it. I was about halfway through when an old High School friend of mine spotted me. I thought I was in trouble, because generally I'm awkward with encounters like this. I didn't really know him well, but he was a nice guy. In fact, he invited me to a violin / cello graduate student recital that was happening later on in the evening. I had nothing better to do, so I went.

My old high school acquaintance had to leave to go into the control room and I was left to sit alone, which was a relief, because I would have been awkward if we had sat next to each other. I chose a seat in the upper right most corner of the recital hall and I began to read more of "Smiles to Go". I kept reading and when it got to the climax the emotional part, I cried. I wept while a Schubert quintet was playing some up lifting music.

Oddly enough, the girl who sat directly in front of me... even though there were empty seats all around me, since this is the very very far back corner of the recital hall, began to cry too. Probably because of unrelated reasons, I ididn't see a book in her hand. She seemed very sad and I wanted to reach out and comfort her. But, this I thought in my head would be weird. Me, blotchy eyed, over a children's book and her blotchy eyed, for who knows what reason, her girlfriend or boyfriend, her failure to play in the recital, etc... So I decided against saying anything.

I like sitting in the far back, because I think it sounds better, especially if the recital hall is well insulated for acoustics. In the back, I finally get to hear the music, after it has traveled through the ears of so many others. I also like to see the big picture, the players vigorously handling their instruments.

Afterwards I realized that Twan was right, yet again, that I was much like Will Tuppence... tuppence, tuppence, tuppence a bag... sorry I had to go there. Anyways. I really really really related to Will. And I love this book. Read it! It will only take you 2 or 3 hours at most, and that's if you are a slow reader like me.

Anyways after the concert I read some other books that I will mention later in another blog post and I went to pick up my sister from the concert. While I was waiting outside the venue, I saw a girl get arrested, a bunch of drunk people, and four crazy homeless. It was all kind of funny seeing everyone interact with each other. I sat quietly and just observed.

So after the concert, my sister's friend wanted to meet the lead singer. We wait outside for at least 2 hours before the guy shows up in the loading area of the venue where everyone is waiting for him. And my sister got her picture taken. What is the point of this? Nothing, but it gives me an entry for now.

On another note, I almost got hit by a car today that is/was involved in a high speed pursuit with not just 1 cop car, not just 2, but 5... I've never seen so many cars move that quickly without being like a nascar wreck on the freeway.

That is all for now.

??:?? (More than 15 min).

Day eighty-four

Another long email. I've copied and pasted so you won't think I'm cheating on wfmad. This email is kind of personal so be aware you may be offended.

Where do you see God at work in the world?

Where do you see God at work in you (this one is often hard – ask a Christian friend you trust to help you answer this, or ask God to open your eyes to what God is doing in you: don’t forget, God could be at work in your questions!

What are one or two small steps can you do to move closer to God at work in you and in the world?

Randy,

The questions you’ve asked are almost impossible for me to answer at this point in time. I cannot tell you where I see God at work if I don’t even fully believe He exists. I do not follow both of the commandments Jesus stated in Matthew 22:37 – 40. Hypothetically speaking if I, from some divine intervention, retain what is called unconditional belief in God, I would imagine that I would say something like this:

God is at work everywhere, His omnipresent, omniscient, omni- benevolent, and omnipotent being works every minute of every day. His work is seen in nature, in life and death, in miracles, and all things good. I’ve seen God’s work in people moved by the Holy Spirit. I’ve seen God’s work move people to do unexpected things such as giving up their possessions and become missionaries in foreign countries to spread his word. God’s work, like Him, exists everywhere, sometime people do not recognize when He is working in them. The nearly avoided traffic accident, the serendipity of eros love, the arrival of friendship in times of depression, are all everyday examples of God’s work.

If I was a true believer I would say all these things without question without doubt, but I don’t see God’s work often. This may be blasphemous, but I mostly see a bitter and angry Father disappointed with his children – teaching his children to love out of fear. (Romans 1:18 being an example, I haven’t read much of the Old Testament, but from what I’m told God was indeed very wrathful in the Old days). Christ seemed to have intervened and as they say in that all too quoted John 3:16 (mostly at football games and wrestling matches) “For God so loved the world...” It seems though all of my non-believing will eventually lead me to perish. But, I would rather perish than to pretend to believe in something I don’t— A view that causes me great discomfort (as it should I suppose).

As for your second question: Assuming that God exists and that I believe in Him unconditionally, I would say I see God’s work in me everyday when I think about epistemological questions about truth and ontological questions of being and know that even though I question I still believe in His existence, that there is some inherent part of my being fighting a battle, let’s say my soul, for this belief. I have asked God several times to reveal Himself to me. I read and re-read Matthew 7:7-12 and Luke 11:5-10 in hopes that my audacity will finally get noticed by God. I feel frustrated, because I assume the search for God would be a peaceful, and in a more ignorant sense a simple one. I find myself questioning and confronting everything I read. I feel so much resistance, perhaps it could be called insecurity, in my search for God. if there was a way to say a prayer and just believe I would love to know what it is. Perhaps I see God at work in me when I have this unknown desire to be reconciled with Him (Romans 5:11). I read once that I feel spiritual guilt because I did not know or accept that guilt has been paid for by Christ.

I’m not sure any steps I take will move me closer to God in myself or at work.

The only steps I see are vast ones. “Leaps of Faith” if you will, but I suppose I could read the Bible more often and pray. If possible, I could humor myself and perhaps even God by just letting go of all doubt. It seems impossible though.

I know I haven’t really answered your questions and honestly I don’t know how to properly answer them (if there is even a proper way). I’m sorry for this. I wish there was a better way to convey myself. If you need me to clarify anything let me know, though I might not even know how to. One day I hope you ask me these questions again when I’m a true believer.

I have some questions for you if you have the time:

When you say “The truth is, faith in Jesus is not primarily fueled by feeling, but instead, it is fueled by intentional choices to live each day in the presence of God” I’m not sure what you mean by living each day in the presence of God. If God’s already always present, wouldn’t all of our actions be in His presence? What are some examples of intentional choices that lead to living each day in the presence of God?

Do you believe God chases after those who don’t believe in Him? Do you think he truly gives us a choice to believe or not to believe? I know this is a heavy handed question predicated by the issue of “Free Will”, but I would at least like to know your opinion, even if there isn’t an answer.

Thanks again for responding and taking the time to reply. I know you are very busy and this email is very long, so I’m not expecting a response right away and I definitely can wait. I’m not sure if I can repay you for your time, but perhaps when I stop becoming a heathen it will be revealed to me.

2:43:41

Day eighty-three

So, I wrote a letter to a friend, took me an hour to write out the words. It was sad. So instead of what I wrote I provide you with a short stories set in the World of Warcraft mythos. Enjoy.

An’she and Mu’sha

Part One of Mistrunner.

The Earthmother, her heart heavy with her children’s plight, could not bear to watch them fall from grace. In her grief, she tore out her eyes and set them spinning across the endless starry skies. An’she and Mu’sha, seeking to ease the other’s sorrow, could only chase each other’s faint glow across the sky.

-Excerpt from Sorrow of the Earthmother.

Mu’sha, the left eye of the Earthmother, glowed dimly through the clouds above the lands of old Lordaeron. A yellow fog hugged the land as a Shu’halo (The Children of the Earth, Tauren) prepared a camp near a dying evergreen tree somewhere in northern Lordaeron. He set his companion, a midnight colored hawk owl, near him as he sat down and wrote in his journal—

Day One hundred and eighty-six: I have found a unique species of what the followers of the Banshee Queen call Plaguebloom. It has some of the properties that The Circle has been looking for. I have still avoided detection from the Scourge, it appears their attention is distracted. The land here is not right, it seems to have gotten progressively worse than when I first arrived. The further I go into the wilds the worse it is. Something is worsening its condition. Although, some parts of the land are fighting back though; it is as if it were a child desperately fighting off an infection. I will continue my mission and bring a sample back to Nighthaven for further study at the end of the…

The Shu’halo heard twigs snapping nearby and stopped writing. He detected no signs of the undead, but it was difficult to see or sense anything in the dense fog that enveloped him. He looked deeply into the fog, straining his eyes, and saw the shape of red flames approaching. “Strange” he muttered to himself as he tried to comprehend what he was seeing. The flames did not give off any light, but it was clear to him that they were moving closer. Cold and silent the crimson flames slowly encircled the lone bull. The Shu’halo, sensing the danger, quickly scrawled lettering on his parchment and attached it to the leg of his hawk owl, and said “Go now Ero and find your way home, safe journey old friend.” The sound of drawn steel and human laughter soon surrounded him. It was too late to escape; the Shu’halo grabbed his mace and prepared to fight. The flames approached closer as the laughter grew louder. The moon was soon covered by black clouds and a heavy darkness covered the land like a blanket. In the distance the Shu’halo could hear his name called out.

“Jongo! Jongoooo! Jooonnngooo!” Jongo’s sister screamed as she poked the tired bull in the back.

“Only a dream, or nightmare.” Jongo thought to himself as he trudged across the bridge between the land of sleep and the land of awake. “Go away Nan! The sun has yet to rise and I’m in no mood for your dung!” Jongo yelled.

“Wake up you lazy turtle! Mother wants to speak with you. And oh I umm did it again, brother.” Nan sheepishly held up a large ceramic pot with what looked like a small twig and dead leaves.

Jongo looked at the withered plant and sighed, he closed his eyes and muttered grow. As though by command the twig began to sprout leaves and grew taller and its roots spread quickly. The plant grew to five times its size, bore small fruit, and its large roots curled out and destroyed the ceramic vessel that once held it. “You would be hard pressed to kill this one. Remember to water it once a day.” Jongo chuckled.

“You always overdo things! Hmmph, and you better hurry, Mother looks pretty serious about this, I bet you’re in trouble.” Nan grinned as she skipped out of the room with the large plant in her hands.

It was not yet dawn when Jongo stepped out of his room into the brisk morning air. He looked at his trembling hands as he tried to make sense of his dream. The terror felt real enough and Jongo shook his head. “Only a dream.” He muttered. He saw his mother waiting for him outside her hut; her eyes were sharper than quilboar tusks. He had not seen his mother this concerned or anxious since the death of his father over ten years ago.

“Jongo, Hamuul Runetotem has sent for you. It’s about your brother Chaske. I-I don’t know what this is all about, but he sent for you specifically and would tell me no more. You are to meet him on Elder’s Rise at nightfall. He says Chaske’s on an important errand, but-but something doesn’t feel right.” His mother tried to push back the tears that were flowing down her face.

“I’m sure Chaske’s fine, Mother, He can take care of himself. He’s a fine druid; Hamuul himself said that he was the best he’s seen in decades. besides, we both know that he’s on a special errand for the Warchief.” Jongo said grasping his mother’s shoulder.

“It’s been over half a year since we’ve heard from him, not one word, and I don’t know what to think. And now out of nowhere Hamuul’s messenger comes and says you are needed and it’s about Chaske!? What could it mean?” Jongo’s mother replied.

“I don’t know Mother, but I will let you know as soon as I find out. The sun’s almost up and I have to tend to the northern orchards they are looking a little withered, I’ll let you know what happens after the meeting, I promise, I love you Mother.” With that said Jongo hugged his mother and left for the fields below Thunder Bluff.

The day passed quickly and soon An’she, the right eye of the Earthmother, descended slowly toward the edge of the World. Bright hues of pinks and oranges were painted behind her wake, the sky blazed, and Mu’sha, the left eye trailed not far behind. In the distance the sound of drums pounded like thunder echoing off of mountains. Day was at an end and the many Shu’halo that were out farming, hunting, and gathering were returning to their homes on the windswept mesa of Thunder Bluff. Jongo Mistrunner stood, staring at the bright orb falling behind cascading mountains, on one of the wood planked bridges that connected the main rise of Thunder Bluff to the Elder rise. The bridge swayed softly, rocked by the wind, as if it was being cradled by the Earthmother herself. “What could Hamuul want or need and what does this have to do with Chaske?” Jongo reflected as he continued to watch the setting sun.

End of Part One.

Day eighty-two

My own Eulogy

Save your tears., there will be

none at my grave sight. No talks

of how good of a person I was,

no lies about my character

and how I was the most honest

person you would ever meet.

Just read a poem or two then

break out into laughter as you

retell all the embarrassing

moments I had when I was

alive, like the time that I ran

straight into a parked school

bus. How I had a toilet paper

tail in the porn shop on my

eighteenth birthday. Laugh

and laugh out loud about

the silly stupid things I've

done. Hug each other finally

meet one another. Each of

you has a quality I admire

and respect. Find that feature

in those who sit solemnly

beside you. Death's never

a fun occasion. At my funeral

play one giant game of Catch

Phrase and finally most

important of all, invite a

stranger and in the quietest

moment of the funeral

burst into a flash mob

for ten minutes and resume

the funeral as if nothing

had ever happened.

15:55

Day eighty-one

Letter to God

Show me that you exist and you aren't

fairytale make believe. I've knocked on

your front door. Asked to be invited in

but I still wait outside unattended like a

traveling shoe salesmen. Maybe its

too much to ask for the Holy Spirit

to show itself like a descending dove.

I want a sign, some proof that you are

there and I am not crazy.

The world's full of divisions and every

priest, pastor, and minster has something

different to say about you. You are like

someone describing a taste.

But maybe I ask too much

maybe I'm too young spiritually speaking,

like a child who asks his mother

how electricity works, to which

she replies, it just does.

15:30

Day eighty

Synesthesia

Forget first sight, let's believe

for just a singular moment that

Love has nothing to do with sight.

Eyes closed. Your voice travels

in waves, osculating against the

hard air. Life's just vibrations.

Smell's important too. The odors

lifting from hair and skin are all

too pleasant. Touch and taste

follow only after sight and smell.

There is no outer beauty, only

beauty or no beauty at all. Plastic

Hollywood surgeries mean nothing

The rhythm and melody of your

language, your voice means everything.

Your hair smells blue and your voice

sounds purple. Is this how blind

people love?

15:08

Day seventy-nine

Complaint

You're never here when I want you to be

I wish I had a silver bell to summon

you when the mood strikes. Do I need

to drink more? Will you come out of

your hiding hole? You're cheating on me

You're cheating on me with the guy

next door. You know I need you, so just

relax and help me out. Remember that time

we spent the whole morning together

without a care in the world? Was it

the coffee? No, we didn't have coffee,

I was sitting right in front of you

and you worked your magic and I

stood by and it was all good. I hate

when you go away. Maybe I need to

invoke you like back in the old days

when all those Greeks had the fun.

I need you right now, beside me rub

my shoulders for good luck. You're

always gone when I need you.

7:39

epic failure.

Day seventy-eight

All our knowledge begins with the senses, proceeds then to the understanding, and ends with reason. There is nothing higher than reason. -Immanuel Kant

Higher than reason.

(Architecture of a poem unwritten)

Line one: Something about Kant and how he didn't believe in miracles

Line two: Reiterate line 1 with a substantial metaphor.

Line three: Something about reasoning and the rational mind

Line four: A simile about the mind and the rational mind.

Line five: Nature imagery. juxtaposition of nature and religion. Perhaps a church in a meadow.

Line six: Metaphor about the image above. More nature.

Line seven: Tie in higher than reason with "God" and how He could be higher than reason

Line eight: Question tie in with God and add metaphor, perhaps alliteration

Line nine: More imagery and religious symbolism

Line ten: Final flourish, a question, employ assonance, rhyme, and a strong finishing image. perhaps something disturbing.

This was definitely a cop-out

15:55

Day seventy-seven

Waning Gibbus

There's always a sense of uncertainty

after the full moon's passed, something

about cycles. Lit by the bright moon

the sky and clouds continue to roam

in one direction, oblivious to the dark.

I sit in the driveway and look up wishing

for a star to bloom supernova. A sign

from God perhaps on this lonely night.

I am tense, but your voice calms me.

A possum silently cackles by, grimaced

by my presence. I should not be out

this late. The animals own the dim

and quiet places. The land around

me breathes and I exhale. There's

always a sense of uncertainty after

the full moon's passed, something

about cycles. There's always a sense...

15:18

Day seventy-six

Church

There's a natural radiance in

churches with stained glass.

Today I am at a Baptist Church,

the stereotypical images flash

in my mind, a triple K slideshow.

But there are no men in hoods

nor burning crosses, no condemnation.

She sits with me, a small smirk

lay on her face. She leans back

against the velvet covered

bench, like a bored student.

We are in the balcony overlooking

the congregation. When the choir

sings, She sings and with her

I am in the presence of God.

15:09

Day seventy-five

Barn, Delicate, Food, Gentle, Yellow

Night 10/23/10

A barn owl searches the night

for food. The delicate trees creek

against the wind. Nearby, a deer clops

against asphalt, distracted by its own

gentle footsteps. Insects of the dark

no longer hum in the quiet cold. Winter

stands idly by and watches Autumn

lose her hair strand by strand-- The green

leaves yellowed by lack of light. Nothing

seems more lonely than a lovely

autumn night.

15:24

This exercise is hard.

Day seventy-four

Rebirth

They used cheap wood to seal me.

It smells like pine. I scratch at it

claustrophobic hysteria. They never

tell you how dark and how alone

it is underground. And the silence,

unbearable. I am in a vacuum, somewhere

in space. Pleas for help, useless, I gather

the rest of my strength and push hard

against the planks. three feet of soft

dirt weigh against me. They were too

poor to bury me deeper into the earth.

I am not dead. I am not dead.

I scratch until my fingers nail start

to peel off, like the rind of a citrus fruit.

They cannot hear my angry pounding

I don't waste my breath shouting.

I devour the rest of the air slowly

and write goodbye with my nail-less

index finger. The blood trickles

against my face from the ceiling.

It's too dark to see if my word

is perfect. Then I wait and wait

until my mind and body finally rest.

14:36

Day seventy-three

First Light

The birds always sing loudest right before

the light hits the ground. An early morning

wake up call startles me out of a dream. You

are panic stricken, perhaps rum drunk. You

want to tell me you're sorry, but the words

come out as sobs. The 5 am grog hits me

what were you talking about. Something

about regrets. The words crushed like a muddled

Caipirinha. I don't care what you have to say

anymore. A rooster's crow's more important

than your voice. I like the taste of bitter

words in my mouth. You scream and plead

and I finally turn the phone off. Shut you

out of my world, breathe easy. The next

morning. I get ten messages from you.

I delete them all. Your brother's texted

me. They found you in a ditch, your car

spun out of control and smashed head

on into the ravine. You died on impact. You

said your final farewell and I didn't listen.

15:17

Day seventy-two

Bedraggled

Her picture lay on my desk, coffee

stained, browned by the sun. I can't

throw away the image embedded

in the back of my mind-- water

clouded, her head just above

the line, body fully clothed. She

cleaned her room that night, vacuumed

and laid her pink prom dress on

the bed. Everything had to be perfect.

Email sent, a champaign

bottle sat on her desk with a white

ribbon, bon voyage written neatly

on an index card. Ready to set sail

with a proper christening, she melted

into the tub of lukewarm water.

What were her last thoughts? No

tears fell from her eyes. The knife

lay wrapped, flat under her left leg

a final gift for the man who

lifts her body away.

16:05

Day seventy-one

Forget about today, tomorrow's another day.

I tell you it's not a choice, what

does the bible have to say about that?

You choose not to focus on it like

an animal who refuses to believe

that its territory shrinks day by day.

Do you really believe that God

wanted six suicides? The Bible says

love thy neighbor. There is no love

in suicide.

9:39

Day seventy

Haunt

She walks with anger in her hands
nails dig into palms, she wants to

bleed. I see her slouch towards
the door and I follow her as she
reaches for another bottle. I want
to grab her wrist and say enough
is enough, but my hands pass through
air when I'm close enough to touch
her. She smirks and her dry smile
shows me that she's right. I won't
interfere again. The glass bounces
against the hardwood floor as she
drops the precious liquid. Nothing
shatters nor shakes, nor quiver nor
quakes. Every night she comes and goes
A perpetual moving image in my mind.
Love sometimes survives death,
but survival comes at a price.

11:19

Day sixty-nine

Muse

You deserve better more fertile

minds. But, you are stuck with me.

I don't appreciate you anymore, my

belly swollen, my energy fades and fades.

I want you back, the way an alcoholic longs

for the bottle under his bed. I treat you

like shit, slap you when I don't mean to

kick you when you're on the ground. Each

apology a broken promise. Should I be surprised

you left? You always threatened with bags packed

I'm leaving now, Cris, I'm leaving. I didn't believe

you. Ignored everything you said. Told you I can

do this on my own, I don't need you. But it was

all a lie. I need you more now. And though you've

heard I'll change, I'll change, a thousand times

over. This time I really will, and I will take

the eight steps.

15:21

Day sixty-eight

Wind Makers

For Chris Hester

We're ten years old and have no

money to see movies or to go

to the local pool. I grab a piece of

paper from our dot matrix printer

and fold a paper plane that loops

and loops. When I throw the plane

we become pilots. I'm the pilot he's

the gunner. And we shoot down giant

birds and bugs. The wind blows

too hard and we crash land onto

the roof of my house. The game's

over. But Chris, has an idea, a one

that comes from the brilliance of

the sun. He went to the reservation

last week and saw the Cherokee dance.

They danced for rain spinning and stomping

against drum beats. "Lets do a wind dance"

Chris grins. We don't know what we're

doing. If we were older we would look

like prejudice punks, mocking the power

of native traditions, but we are young.

We dance spinning in confusion and the wind

picks up. We dance fierce against the wind

and the paper plane glides off the roof.

We've pleased the Wind spirit. We are

wind makers.

15:54

Day sixty-seven

Serendipity

I know that you are out there, watching

the same night sky. Perhaps we are in different

hemispheres, but the moon's the same bright

white. Perhaps I've passed by you several

times in my car on my way to work. Heading

in opposite directions, two strangers concentrating

on the road ahead. I want to know your name

so I can find you. Look for you in the Dark

places of the world. Perhaps hidden from view.

One day I will stop looking and by mere happenstance

I will find you or you will find me, slumped

in a chair like a been bag at a used bookstore, reading

a novel by Paulo Coehlo.

15:19

Day sixty-six

"Be still, and know that I am God" - Psalm 46:10

Why I want to be a writer

Because I can't paint or sing.

My hands tremble, my voice trembles.

But at the keyboard there is stillness.

The click click click of keys, rhythmic

like drum beats, flows from my finger tips.

At his date fifty years ago, some poor

fool was typing rhythmic madness on

another machine. One made of metal

that clang at each line break. I am

connected to him and the fools before

him with quill and ink, scratching madly

at parchment paper. We all are chained

to our own minds, watching the Muse

come and go as she pleases, and like

a ghost, we can't catch her.

15:55

I don't know why I'm compelled to write down bible verses.

Inspired by O'hara's "Why I am not a Painter"

http://www.poetryfoundation.org/archive/poem.html?id=171361

Day sixty-five

Exercise

I found a tire on the road

and tomorrow I will hit with

a sledge hammer. I will infuse

the tire with all the hate and grief

of the world. And smash until

my hands blister and my arms

burn until I can lift no more.

15:58

Day sixty-four

Uncertainty

"Whoever does not love does not know God, because God is love" - 1 John 4:8

Show me how to love. Her voice
cuts through crisp autumn air. I
know she's concentrating on my
eyes. It is night. Her pupils twitch back
and forth, refocus like twin
camera lenses as they try to capture
the universe behind my dark orbs.
But there is no such universe, only

tricks, only photo-genesis. Her

reflection resides behind the dark

glass of the soul and if I am lucky

my image hides behind the veil

of hers. I don't need to show her

anything. She already knows without

knowing. The fingernail of the moon

points directly at her. There's no

beauty like a beauty lit by Luna.

Tonight we know God.

19:05

Day sixty-three

To my future love

I am an awkward person, the same
as the feeling you get when you
forget an old friend's name. I
don't snore, but I'm told I talk
in the middle of the night when
things grow quiet, when the crickets
stop singing. I like crude humor
the kind that make little school boys
giggle on the playground-- typical
dick and fart jokes. I have delusions
of grandeur and sometimes think my poems
can move mountains, that poetry will
save the world one day. When I experience
something new, I know if I like it or not
almost immediately. I will like the sound
of your voice, so keep talking. Your parents
will think I'm a nice young man, but you
know the truth. I like astrology and I
want to believe in ghosts. I am perfect
for you, but not perfect at all. I'm clumsy
and will break something of yours, or trip
and fall in front of you. I might make
you cry one day, and I apologize for that
right now, it will probably be an insensitive
remark. I like watching films at the run
down dollar theater, the floor sticky
and the chairs falling apart. I don't
watch sports and I have no interest,
save for some Olympic ones. I love to read
and I love talking to you.

15:17

Day sixty-two

"God sometimes removes a person from your life for your protection. Don't run after them." Rick Warren

And if they listened I
would not be alive. "Dead in
a ditch" as they say. The twelve
small holes still ache on
my wrists. "You did it
wrong", the girl next to me
says in the ward. She smiles
and holds up her arms. On each
wrist a white line starts
from her palm and rivers
downward. "Third time" she
whispers like a child who
shows her mother a finger
painting. Would I be on
the other side if you hadn't
rushed in, dialed those three
digits, raving hysterical manic.
If you did not Speak to me
or cut the threads that tie
us together, would I still
stare at the poor girl next
to me, screaming silently
for help? No, because if you
chose to stay home after
seeing the flare of my Facebook
message, God would have taken
me and you would be protected.

15:37

Day sixty-one

The Other Side

We are perfect for each other
like the way the Moon and Earth
revolve around an endless waltz,
but I don't love you the way
you deserved to be loved. The spark
isn't there. I imagine that love
is just a word of colors. We
aren't on the same spectrum
and the feeling that grows from
the pit of my stomach isn't
there anymore like an empty
cave after a bear has awaken
from its hibernation. I am astronaut
in the coldness of space, waving
his hand trying to touch the rim
of the bright blue atmosphere.
Goodbye, there's nothing more to say.

15:11

Day sixty

Infatuation

There's always the little
things that enter the mind,
like worms burrowing into soft
earth. The nuances that repeat
and repeat-- The way she ties her
hair in a pony tail, the color of
the ribbon. Even the way she walks
as though she always has an important
place to go, fill the mind's projection
screen. I can't stop. I know it is wrong
to want. She's a Capulet, and my family
has neither title nor rank. I wish the mind
could wipe memories like the ocean sometimes
erases land. But I have these thoughts
spread against me like a woolen lover*.
Perhaps this is love? No love
is much stronger I suppose. Never
have I been truly in love. Perhaps
I've found the wrong fragments of
my Soul. The ones that never quite
seem to fit like mysterious jig saw
pieces. I'm waiting for a larger
chunk of my past life to wander
haphazardly into my life like a drunken
stag or turtle. Or maybe, I'm the small
fragment finding another small
piece of a greater whole.

15:00



*Stolen from John Berryman's Dream Song 1 http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15206

Day fifty-nine

And here again I stand

I look too deeply, a fraction
too long than I'm supposed to
and you don't blink, like you're
supposed to. There's no wide chasm
between us and for a fraction
we linger, but we're supposed to
break apart. It's almost like you're
caught in a trance. No wide chasm
to divide us like a fraction
with a zero denominator. Supposed to
such nonsense like you're
a common dishrag. The wide chasm
of breaking hearts a fraction
of things that I'm supposed to
take as "life experience" like you're
Father always said. "Always a wide chasm"

And here I stand again.

15:12

(Yeah don't ask... I'm on cold medication right now)

Day fifty-eight

Introspect

Likes:

I am not a vegetarian, but I like vegetarian
foods. I enjoy staring into women's eyes. Yes,
it's a bit weird. I like watching sunsets
and sunrises, I find it sad that some people
don't take the time and look up and see
the grandeur of the sky-- each individual
scape different from the other. I like
people's laughter. Not toward me of course,
but shared laughter. I like the sound of Kina
Grannis's voice. I like martial arts, both the martial
and arts aspect. They seem opposing, war and art, but
somehow come together beautifully. I like paper
cranes and the taste of blue Gatorade. I like
music of all sorts. I like walking barefoot
at the beach. I like being near water.
I like people who aren't fake. I like people
who are passionate about things. I like
oranges, even though some people may hate
the color and it doesn't rhyme with anything.
I like being not sick. I like sleeping and
dreaming good dreams. I like crystals and
seashells. I like the end of things and
the beginnings of other things.

15:32

Day fifty-seven

Day 2 of the Plague

The Fifteenth Day of October in the Year of Our Lord 2010

I have finally contracted the plague. The apothecary tells me that I may yet live another day. He gave me herbal medicines and salves and tells me that if I have not healed within ten days I am lost. I prayed to the Lord that I will be healed, but so many others have been taken by His grace. In a valiant attempt for the quest of science I will record my symptoms below:

-Soreness in eyes
-Severe cough
-Stuffed nose
-Body aches
-Breathing difficulty

I fear that if these symptoms continue, all will be lost. In the future I hope that one day a scientist or apothecary may devise a cure all for these symptoms, one that does not involve death or blood letting. If I shall pass in the coming days, I wish blessing to all those who have known me.

6:06

I have a cold :/

Day fifty-six

Sick as a dog, I'm fighting to stay awake and write this. I have a cold and I hate colds because there aren't cures for them. Whoever invents that or even a vaccine will be my hero. I haven't had a cold in a long while and I absolutely hate them. Who doesn't? So right now, I have no meds, and am blabbing on and on. I want to chant to my white blood cells "Go, Go, Go" I can see them fighting and epic battle inside my blood stream. The major battles lay at the chest, throat, nose, and eyes. I can't write anymore. Goodnight

9:21

Day fifty-five

Inspired by "Reason's for Attendance" By Philip Larkin

Attendance

The trumpet drew me in, too
and unlike you I walked right into
it. Too much alcohol pours
freely passed from hand to hand
like water from a fire bucket brigade.

And you were right to think
that in here is sex, what you would
see as pure indecency. It doesn't hide in
the dark anymore as Women lick each
other the way dogs lick their master's hand.

The bump and grind replaces
"the maul to and fro" The loud
thump of music drags for hours--
everything's a blur of flashing lights.
And every bar tender knows-- "Satisfied"

is the question asked to the poor
chump hugging the heavenly toilet.
And I have misjudged myself
as the rough tongued-bell rings outside.

18:13

Day fifty-four

Dear Diary,

For the first time in 3 years I got fucked up. One shot of cuervo, two shots of crown, one shot of yager, and two shots of khalua. None of which I paid for, so I got really lucky. I have a headache now. It is very bad. I will probably never get drunk again for another 3 years. I don't like having headaches. Today I saw two girls kissing and three girls giving each other lap dances. It was awesome and awkward at the same time. I probably won't remember what I am writing now. But, I had the sudden urge to keep up with my 15 minute a day project. Thank god for my designated driver Shin, without him I would have had to call a cab, because drunk driving is super stupid. I am at Shin's place and he has a large light fixture that looks like daisies and Eric thinks it's a monstrosity. Shin is going to bed. Chris, the other Chris is passed out in the bathroom, because he got more effed up than myself. I can't believe I am typing, my head feels like a nuclear bomb. But I will write, no matter what. Eric is awesome because he gave me a blanket and pillow to sleep in. These guys are amazing folks and I would not trade them for a million dollars. Maybe 1 billion, but not a million. Tomorrow I go to church to see my friends Leah and Stephen in the praise band. They are going to play their original composition and I'm very excited for them. I might regret everything I said tomorrow. But as of now I haven't done anything bad and I feel content. I didn't even think about my ex-girlfriend one bit. Right now I love my life. Maybe it's the alcohol. I miss you Twan and I miss Lisa a little, but she made her decision and I respect it. I also love my co-workers with the exception of one, which we all know who it is. I put my hands up in the air tonight saying Ayo let's gooo.


15:11

Day fifty-three

My bucket list in 15 minutes:

Bungee Jump

Get a tattoo

Visit Spain

Visit New York City

Visit Washington D.C.

Visit Oregon

Visit The Wizarding World of Harry Potter

Do a back flip

Scuba dive in the Great Barrier Reef

Visit New Zealand

Hug a penguin in Argentina

Visit Philip Larkin's grave

Meet the president, any president

Be in a feature film (as an extra or something)

Read my poems in a packed house

Be on stage with OneRepublic

Eat fish and chips at an English Pub

Visit Tokyo

Visit Interlocken

Find true love?

Have a home near a large body of water

Go shell hunting at a deserted beach

Be in a hot air balloon festival, in a hot air balloon of course

Learn to drive a manual, well

Learn to bake artisan bread

Be a part of a flash mob

Witness a flash mob happening at random

Jump in a pool of green Jello

Meet Natalie Portman

Help a person that actually needs help

Have a fully lucid dream

Have a large entourage of beautiful women walk down the street with me (don't ask)

Photograph a kiss

Spontaneously start dance in a crowded street and have others follow suit

Make music for a video game or film

Make another person smile and have that person make another person smile

Visit a large observatory/planetarium in the middle of nowhere

Sleep under the stars with uncluttered light pollution

Go gem/treasure hunting

Learn to sail

Learn to horseback ride

Hug a llama

Participate in an activist march

Hug a citizen of every country in the world in order to promote world peace

Drive over 120 mph

Win a contest

16:39

Day fifty-two

Bowling

Only a drunkard would have thought
knocking down ten wooden pins
with a resin ball would entertain
so many people through so many
generations. The pins, metaphors
of life, and the ball, swirling
images, smash into each other
to create poetry. How easily things
glide on wax oiled floors! The slow
hum of the ball against wood grain
then the sudden smash of pins
startles the senses. Perhaps
the anticipation, the ball
released from hand, forms
a spiritual bond of letting go.
That life courses the route
unpredictably as we attempt
to guide ourselves to perfect
strikes. Forget gutter balls
as the next frame enters
the lengthy hallway to the reset
pins.

15:01

Day fifty-one

Postcard to twan

"Wish you were here" it says
on the front. I'm sitting at a table
overlooking the shopping center, people
watching.The autumn air's finally arrived
and humidity lay sleeping further south.
The sun sets and the paint on the sky
reminds me of an early Monet. Your voice
travels hundreds of miles through satellite
cell phone signals to reach my ear. It brings
a steady stillness to my life. And I realize
I love you. Not through Eros nor Storge, but
something that transcends mere friendship
or Phileo. My love for you is Agape, because
at one point in our past lives we shared
the same Soul and we are fragments
of the same being-- Reborn throughout space
and time, always in search for one another
in different forms.

17:52

Ummm embarrassing, but true? yes.

Day fifty

So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen. For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal.
2 Corinthians 4:18 (NIV Bible)

Things Unseen

Always the dichotomy, religion
and science. Let's imagine for a minute
like those famous Lennon lines
that science and religion were the same.
That the Big Bang was the same phrase
as Let there be light.
That the six days in the Bible
mere metaphors for an age and time
when people had no concept of the world
outside of Earth. That the six days represented
the sum of around 13 billion years. Lets
Imagine for a minute that Science
was the language of God and the Bible
the poetry. That things left unseen
were mysteries created to be solved
not by mere prayers, but by method
and experimentation. After all,
aren't we God's grand experiment,
to cure his holy loneliness?

20:20

I have no idea where I was going with this...

Day forty-nine

I am reading "Thanks, But This Isn't For Us: A (Sort of) Compassionate Guide to Why Your Writing Is Being Rejected" by Jessica Page Morrell. One of the exercises Morrell challenges writers with is to "write five sentence openings to short stories, novels, or memoirs that you don't intend to write".

Western:

John still felt the heavy vibration from h is left hand after he fired the pistol. It was the first time he had ever shot a gun and he was hoping it would be his last. His hand shook as he tried to re-holster his gun. Not many in his generations were south paws.

Horror:

I asked to be handcuffed, but the police cited regulation and shoved me in a cell in the corner of the jail. The problem was "it" was still out there and as long as I was alone, we would be safe.

Fantasy:

Hemlock laughed as the human tried to lift his ax. Dwarves, much stouter than men, have large muscular arms built from years of working in underground mines. All Dwarves are practically given pick axes as soon as they leave their mother's womb.

Suspense:

His eyes are blurred behind frosted glass as he feels the pulse of the girl he's about to strangle. They had just slept together and she felt too relaxed to see the glaze in his eyes. The fangs of his thumbs dig deep and at once she is startled, thrashing like a pigeon held up by a single leg.

Memoir:

I was only 4 years old when I left the country I was born in. I remember almost every detail. My mother cried all day, her eyes red and bleary. My father purchased a car from a gas station for only $200. The black bucket had leather seats with holes in them and no seat belts in the back. It was cheaper than hiring a taxi to get from Pusan to Seoul, where the airport awaited us. The year is 1987 and South Korea was in celebration and parades were abundant with a life sized Hodori (The South Korean mascot, a Korean tiger, giving hugs to every child.

30:45

Day forty-eight

Hindsight

Everything is perfect
as clear as a digital photograph,
all the memories in full HD.
The skies were sunny and the birds
sang joyful songs. The gray blur
of thunderclouds in the distance
never show in post production. They
were always there, the static
cling always present. But I choose
to ignore. I relive each memory
in Technicolor brights. I forget
that in my dreams that everything's
black and white. The signs were all
there. The way she drifted away,
like an iceberg slowly breaking off
from a glacial sheet. I chose not
to see the disconnection. Tried to fit
a square peg into a round hole. It wasn't
fair for her. My eyes narrowed
and nothing beyond the scope of her
existed. Behind the camera I didn't
notice that she was just a small
part of a bigger whole. The landscape
of friends and missed opportunities
lay among the fringes.

15:42

Day forty-seven

I am at my friend, Shin's place and I just drank my first beer in years. It still tastes bitter and strange. I am watching 500 days of Summer. My hands smell like lime and I am writing this blog on my cell phone. This movie is fantastic so far. Tomorrow I have work and Im not looking forward to it. "I like being alone, relationships are messy and stuff and we live in a beautiful city and I want to save the serious stuff for later". I am thinking about going to japan to teach. Two more trips left in the year, one to Orlando and one to Santa Ana. Ive gone to Nashville and Savannah so far. Next year is new york!

15 minish

Day forty-six

Five Haikus

books fall on the ground

they all commit suicide

unread, forgotten

the rain falls again

against the wide window panes

gentle like laughter

Death holds up his hand

flowers fade, leaves change colors

and winter begins

The sound of pebbles

slapping across pond water

remember childhood

Trees sway against wind

pushed to creak and crack once more

hurricane season

Snow falls on the field

the crunch of snow beneath feet

I miss cold winter

16:35

Day forty-five

A Short Ode to Autumn

It's about fucking time you reared

your ugly face. Summer's a bitch and Spring

stopped caring a long time ago.

Autumn, sweet autumn, the trees

grow angry at your sight, some burst

into colorful flames. The evergreens

are through with seasons. They

see no point in emotion. Autumn

your lips are cold and your hair

smells like vegetable rot. You're

covered in pumpkin scent, decayed

leaves, apple cider, brisk crisp, air.

I still love you Autumn. You're

cooler than Summer and not as

icy as Winter. Autumn your full

name's better than Fall. Fall. Fall.

Autumn Autumn Autumn.

Breath of fresh smells!

16:16

Lame hahaha

Day forty-four

Attonbitus

I stand ten feet away from

the door as she enters the room.

Then it happens. The air from my lungs

escapes as though frightened by

a coming storm. My jaw drops

like the wolf in a Droopy cartoon.

The neurons in me seem to temporarily

freeze, disconnecting the body

and mind. My brain tries to interpret

the actions of my lungs and knees,

it knows I look like a fool. I'm paralyzed

and afraid of being eaten alive. Flight

or fight, fight or flight. The adrenaline

moves too slow. My heart pants. The spell

breaks as she walks past. Then,

as though the world is in slow motion

my brain and body speed to the present.

I attempt to regain composure. And I want

to tell her everything, but the flight

instinct finally kicks in and I walk away.

15:52

Day forty-three

I was thinking about writing a poem about my grandmother. About how it felt to hold her ashes in a bronze urn shaped like a cube. How it felt to hold both my grandfather's and grandmother's ashes. The heaviness of the bronze and the texture of the metal. I even wanted to write about the Honpa Hongwanji (the Buddhist temple the ashes are housed at), But I couldn't come up with the right words. Is there a way to write about death without it being so sentimental? Death, I suppose, is arguably the central point of all poetry. Keats wrote in that poem about a Greek vase "Beauty is truth, truth beauty", but I think I like the phrasing "death is beauty, beauty death". Death seems to be the only constant that we know in life. I always go back to Philip Larkin's poem "Next, Please". I think the last stanza of the poem is the most powerful. "Only one ship is seeking us, a black- / Sailed unfamiliar, towing at her back / A huge and birdless silence. In her wake / No waters breed or break". I suppose love is a form of death as well. Elizabeth Barret Browning wrote in her famous Portuguese poem, the one that's printed on millions of valentine's cards "I shall but love thee better after death". I'm not sure where I'm going with this. In short, I've been thinking about death lately. Not in a depressing way, but more in a curious fashion, as though I'm a researcher. I want to write a version of "The Divine Comedy" using the levels of hell/purgatory known in Buddhism as Naraka. Maybe one day it'll come to fruition. Whoever wrote this Wikipedia article ( http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Naraka_(Buddhism) ) has a great imagination. I'll have to do more research on the poster's description, evidently whoever wrote the article didn't know how spell "existence".

27:20

Day forty-two

Another Love Song

And there you are. A flash

then thunder crackles

as you enter the room. Scattered

light on the candle lit

ceiling dances rhythmic

pulsing with each inhale then

exhale. Then the heart thumps bass

beats, another layer added as you

inhale then exhale. Breath. Crickets

chirp and lightning bugs burn, A southern

breeze muffles the sounds like

a woolen blanket. Together we feel

most alone, stranded like marooned

penguins floating on melting icebergs.

The distance becomes mere illusion

between us as we sit next

to another. We lay on opposite

ends my yin does not match

your yang. Imperfect circle, jagged,

cracked. It always ends. And all

I say is never again. as it happens again.

21:58

Day forty-one

Portmanteau of the day: Ignoranus

Definition: Derives from the words ignorant and asshole.

Application: Wesley Scroggins is an ignoranus.

All pettiness aside... What kind of generation do we live in when books are banned? Let's all start a bonfire folks and start burning books... I'll bring the s'mores! Let me give you a picture of what's going to happen next. Yes this absolutely is a slippery slope argument for those logic nazi's out there. We ban books first then we ban music, television, various forms of art. Then we start banning the way people dress and the way people speak and any form of art. We thus become people that are "morally" good. All will be right in the world... except one thing. We lose our fucking humanity.

For fucks sake... my blog is going to be banned for profanity.

For a more coherent information please visit my friend's blog:

http://artieismymuse.wordpress.com/2010/09/19/speak-loudly-and-carry-a-banned-book/

20:01

this kind of pissed me off.

Day forty

Sentimental cliche

A list to get them out of my head so I never write them again.

a baby's laughter

the smell of your hair

like sunset, like sunrise, like nightfall, like the changing of seasons

tears shatter

love love love

heart pounding

death

birth

life

The sound of your voice

The smell of your skin

The air you breath

roses

as big as a

as small as a

vast as an ocean

forever and never

darkness

happy sweet bright

Penguins

15:20

Day thirty-nine

A child divided

Where do I fit in? Neither black

nor white, I'm outside false dichotomies.

Am I the child of three countries? Two

that hate each other, centuries

old grudges? Korea and Japan. I am

American I try to tell myself over

and over again. It's not so simple. I'm expected

to speak both languages, know both

cultures. But nothing's ever perfect. I am

a melting pot of two cultures, inserted

into the bowl of a third. I speak English

like most Americans. Eat fast food

watch television. What makes us

so different? Some people think

I'm hispanic or an ambiguous

race. Does it matter? One day

will there be no distinction? A preacher's

daughter once said that races

were like flowers in the field. If all

the flowers were the same, the

world wouldn't be as beautiful. But,

I said what of hybrids of varieties

of orchids mixed for generations.

Should I attempt to revert back

to my heritage. Be proud of places

and countries unknown to me.
To people who hold ancient

connections with my blood?

Or should I do nothing and attempt

to live my life separated from

all ties of my past? Ancient

cultures crumble, new ones

are born do we hold to them

or are we all just hybrids.

15:01

Day thirty-eight

The final days of Giraffes

My daughter won't believe

me when I tell her that giraffes

once existed. She's only six and says

No daddy, giraffe's are make

believe. I describe their long necks--

tall as tree trunks, and their patchwork

skin of brown and tan spots. She laughs

as I tell her that giraffes have blue

tongues and horns. Were they monsters?

she asks, her tone like a dancing

mouse. I clasp my hands with hers

and explain they were as gentle giants.

I show her a picture then show her

a clip from a national geographic

documentary. What happened to them?

she squeals. I shake my head and tell

her they disappeared. Daddy and

daddy's friends scared them off.

she smiles and shakes her head

Be nice and they'll come back.

I want to tell her that she's wrong

that we were careless. That we

neglected the earth. Instead

I say what a great idea as I

read on the front page

Last giraffe dies in captivity.

17:53

Day thirty-seven

I used the graph to make this.

Fair

The smell of pink cotton

candy, funnel cakes, buttered

popcorn fills the air. The sky

shades of rose colored wisps,

an ever changing painting,

slowly dims. The heavy ozone

scent near the bumper cars fills

the air as the zap tap tapping

of electricity dances rhythmically

against the flickering of carnival

lights. Reminisce. Crisp candied

apples-- a father hoists her daughter

on his shoulders. Pigeons coo softly.

Twirling melodies, everything spin

spin spinning as though in a giant wind

up music box. Here inside, the outside

neither exists nor matters. Sadness,

depression mere illusions of a magic fun house

mirror, distorted, concave, convex.

I have wasted my time.

Cris

16:42

Day thirty-six

25:16

Day thirty-five

Disclaimer: This post is a little late in the night and I'm very fatigued.

For this entry I used a creative method of brain storming called a bubble diagram. Basically I start out with five bubbles. My five bubbles contain the words "Color, Smell, Sound, Weight, Emotion" Then for each bubble I write out the first five things that immediately come to mind. So for this example and future reference I'll just display what I've written:

Color:
blue

green

yellow

beige

pink

Emotion:

love

sadness

happy

joy

depression

Smell:

bagels

ozone

chicken

roses

popcorn

Weight:

ounces

pounds

light

heavy

simple

Sound:

tapping

laughter

birds

music

drums

Now for each word under the main word I think of five other words. So for this example we will use green

Green:

trees

grass

christmas

latency

eyes

So imagine a page full of words. You take bits and pieces of words to form lines in poems. For example:

The smell of ozone from the heavy drums of blue lightning.

or

Joy is the sound and smell of fried chicken popping like popcorn on Christmas morning.

You can use any combination of five words, or as many words as you want and you can add five words to as many existing words as you want. As long as the words you are writing come immediately to mind. When you are done with all your words start making connections between random words using existing ones. I spent too much time explaining this. Tomorrow I'll write a poem out of this exercise and post a picture of my actual diagram using paint or something.

20:45

Day thirty-four

Three Masks

I wear three masks. one made

of paper, another of plastic, the last

of metal. The paper mask, flimsy

and frail, wrinkles at the slightest touch--

It creases and bends with ease and a mere

whisper wrinkles it's skin. When I'm

alone I wear the paper one. Too brittle

for public if it's exposed it slowly

disintegrates as though on fire.

The plastic mask molds easily to any situation--

It's the consistency of gel. Words

mold it and it becomes whatever

it touches. When I'm in public

I wear this one. It flows like water

dragged by wind. It will never tear

or break. The last mask I almost never

wear. The metal one never bends or breaks.

It's hard like iron and heavy too. I wear

this gargoyle ugly mask when I'm angry,

Sometimes it is too hard to pick up

and like the paper mask if I wear it

too long it falls apart.

15:08

Day thirty-three

Another 9/11 poem

Is nine years enough to write

another sentimental poem about

this day. It was a boulder thrown

into to pond, the ripples changed

everything. Nine years and we're

still at war. Those three thousand

poor souls not avenged. Would they

want to be anyways? I could write

that watching the towers fall felt

as though I was a citizen of pompeii.

I could write about the empathy I feel,

the sadness, but there is nothing

I can say or do to change anything. There's

no poetry in this. Just nothingness...

the cold numb feeling that always

comes after tragedy as we live

our lives and never forget.

15:00

Day thirty-two

Part of a larger project I'm working on with the TF
The formatting is off from the original again

Your shoulder feels stiff like a tree branch. Did I

hold you too tightly? Are you like dandelion seeds

ready to blow away at a mere whisper? I must

look like a fish to you as my mouth opens and closes

trying to find the right words to say. When you mention

the note I’m relieved. My brain says over and over again

“you got the message, you got the message!” I can feel

the adrenaline rush slowly end. Pieces of gravel stab

into my back, I can still feel my arms and legs. A good

sign. There’s a hot feeling on my left arm. The one

that’s not touching you. Someone smeared something

red across my forearm. I let you go. Dab my left arm

and realize that I’m bleeding. You look worried, about

to cry. I try my best to smile and say in a bad British

accent “It’s just a flesh wound”. Tad shakes his head

and frowns as he says “I called your mom, she’s coming

to pick you up”. I mutter “thanks”. The one thing I need

right now is you to see my crazy mother. “So you live

around here?” I ask. Your face turns from sadness

into anger faster than the chameleon’s tongue I saw

on a nature special, so quickly that I don’t have time

to react. Did I say something wrong? My body aches

as it finally realizes that I’ve been in a crash. Lightheaded,

I apologize. Try to smile as I wince at the pain. It felt

as though I was body slammed by my favorite wrestler.

A hear a car coming and honking. I close my eyes. My

mother has arrived.

21:27

Day thirty-one

Night

I lived Dugan's seven day diary* once. The droll

week passed by in a blur. I remember the evenings

the most. Driving the freeway south at an hour before

midnight. My neighborhood hidden by night. The lights

of my car reveal forgotten homes, ghostly sculptures

grooved against artificial hills. Near my home I greet

the mother and daughter deer that graze in the front

yard of a foreclosed home. They both freeze and look

up at me. The mother's ears twitch, she can hear my

breathing, rhythmic against the sound of a low rustling

breeze. I want to wave at them, but I know better. Last

week as I raised my right hand they danced into

the shadowed wood. Leaving me nothing but the sound

of hooves against dry leaves. We pause and stare at

each other as if any sudden movement would make

the world collapse. I wait for them, but they do not

move. I say "hello" and again they dance. I want to tell

them I will not hurt them, I want to explain I am

safe. But they know better. They know men lie

and as though they were looking into my soul,

they knew that I had the potential to be dangerous

like a polished rifle barrel or the loud crack of thunder

before their family member suddenly falls dead.

*Alan Dugan's On a Seven Day Diary:

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/on-a-seven-day-diary/

17:45

Day thirty

Day Thirty... oh what a milestone! Who would have thought I would survive thirty days of consistent writing. I will tell you that it was not easy... not easy at all. Sometimes it was a chore and other times a pleasure. I suppose that's what writing really is. Today I felt unusually happy at work. Perhaps it was the absence of a particular co worker or the conversation I had with my favorite girl :). I suppose I found my rhythm today. I feel bursts of creativity, like bursts of energy after you've reached a certain painful point when running. Some people call it getting over a wall. I need to stop making excuses and start writing more. I'm not afraid of how terrible it will be. I know the majority of the stuff I write is pure crap, but maybe a sliver or a fragment of something good may come of it. I read a story in a book called "Art & Fear: Observations On the Perils (and Rewards) of Artmaking" that compelled me to think about the writing process in a different way. In the book (I'm paraphrasing deeply of course) there's a story of a college pottery class. The professor divided the classroom in half. One half of the classroom had a single semester long project. Create the "perfect" piece of pottery by the end of the semester. The other half of the classroom was assigned the task of creating as many pieces of pottery it could during the entire semester. Well it turns out that the quality and the style of those students assigned the task of making as many pieces of pottery as they could, was much better than those students who had a singular piece to turn in. So if I keep writing I suppose I'll get better. I suppose 30 days isn't a long enough period to critique myself. At the 60 day mark I'll have compiled enough writing to do a self assessment. I suppose I have some talent in writing, but Stephen King once said "Talent is cheaper than table salt. What separates the talented individual from the successful individual is a lot of hard work". Indeed I have a lot of handwork ahead if this experiment is to succeed. Fifteen minutes sometimes feels like a second, other times it feels like an eternity. What do I hope to gain from this project? I hope that something I write here, will eventually be edited and published in a journal or magazine. I hope to become a better writer in the process of writing everyday. I had no set expectations and will see where the river will take me. My fifteen minutes comes to an end, although I do not limit myself to only fifteen minutes, I try and come close to it as possible. It's just a box / barrier I've created to see what happens, to add a little pressure. I wish happiness to all who read this.

15:15

Day twenty-nine

Epithalamium of the Strawberry Banana Smoothie

Oh strawberry! How red and ripe your lips

Soon you and banana will be joined together

in holy matrimony. You're a berry

like no other. Your seeds show on

the outside, scandalous. You have no shame

as you wear the color of passion. Unlike

the other berries you need no bush

you thrive in patches on the earth.

Strawberry you get along with everyone

milk, cream, even shortcakes love your

sweetness. How did fate intertwine

you with the yellow hanging fruit?

Banana, your sweet flesh cultivated

in jungle heat has no equal. Unlike

the vile plantain you aren't starchy

or bitter when raw. You were born

in an elevated position. It was a shock

when your marriage to strawberry,

a common ground dweller was announced.

Soon the two will become one. Ice will

help you blend together as you

twirl together in the blender of life.

Days before your matrimony you were

still green and bitter. Time guided

you to your true potential. May the

fruit gods bless you with happiness

as you are slowly devoured.

________________________

My friend Terry calls bananas, nanners.

It disturbs me a little, as though he

were talking about eating pieces

of his grandmother. I wonder if

you could buy a seedless strawberry...

would it be a naked strawberry?

15:02

Day twenty-eight

Wrote a comment on my favorite blog. http://artieismymuse.wordpress.com/

Read it, devour it, love it.

17:41

Day twenty-seven

Harold the good Troll

Once, like all stories, in a land very far away and long ago

there lived a family of Trolls. There was a papa troll, a mama troll

and two brother trolls. The older brother was named Urt, a fine troll name.

The younger brother was named Harold. The Trolls lived in a cave

just outside a very small village. For many years the Trolls stuck

to their cave eating their favorite food. Rocks. Shiny rocks, dull rocks

jagged and smooth rocks. They ate them all. Now Trolls don't age

as quickly as you and I. For every 100 years they age about 5. Another

important thing to know about Trolls is that turn into the very thing they

eat if they are caught out in the sun. Trolls are known to despise humans

and they try to avoid them. They stick to caves, rivers, and sometimes under

bridges. Harold was a very special Troll. He wasn't like other Trolls.

His mother would always say "Now eat your rocks and you'll grow big

and strong!" Harold. Hated. Rocks. He didn't like the way the crunched

or felt. Rocks were just disgusting. Trolls are supposed to be very mean

and rotten creatures. For fun they stomp on flowers and kick little forest

creatures like footballs. Harold didn't like to stomp or kick, but he loved

to laugh and sing. He tended to the flowers his brother stomped

and bandaged the little forest creatures his brother kicked. Harold was

a good Troll. He laughed and sang all the way until sun up, when all trolls

hide from the sun to sleep. Harold would sometimes even sing in his sleep!

There aren't very many trolls around now, but if you're near a cave, be careful

and listen for growls and grumbles. If you hear laughter or a quiet song, maybe you've found

Harold... then again maybe not.

The End.

15:01