Jose Gonzalez-- Heartbeats
Wyclef Jean-- Sweetest Girl
Jimmy Eat World-- Let it Happen
Coldplay-- The Scientist
Damien Rice- Rootless Tree
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Monday, June 16, 2008
What do you want??
You know what I want?
All of these things, possibilities they call it, opportunity, 'potential' --- Grad school, the things I could do with my life,
They talk about it like they have stock, investment, time that gradually becomes worth more the more I live. They talk about passion like it is something that is expendable, something that runs out. Hurry.
No.
I want people to be safe, before they get hurt. I want women and children to not be afraid of those who are supposed to love them, and I want innocent people not to suffer for the corruption of others who were hurt somehow. I want the corrupt prosecuted, I want them (even them) to be treated as human, I want everyone else to understand that you can't deny them (even them) this, or else bits of your own humanity begins to be revoked.
I want to jump out of a plane and land somewhere I may never be again, learn languages just so I can tell women with sad eyes that their children are beautiful, ask them to teach me how with out knowing what I will be taught, and I want to never ever 'get it out of my system', I don't want to find a husband because that is just kind of what you do around twenty--- why not marry some man when I am 82, and spend the rest of our lives listening to the wonderful stories, imagining the beautiful places and never giving them up? Why not love when you find the person, not when the timeline tells you to?
I want to cry and laugh and be completely honest, feel what hurts (pain is there for a reason)
I want to scream at you when I am angry, call you out on your falsities, have you call me out on mine. I want to live according to no formula, I want to use my mind to consider, my soul to consider.
I want to be absurd, happy, content--- acknowledging the pain of this world, the way that the people are hurting, but not let it consume me
SO they ask me, constantly, always, What do you want?? What are you going to do?? What is your one year, two year, five year life plan?
It can be hard to explain.
All of these things, possibilities they call it, opportunity, 'potential' --- Grad school, the things I could do with my life,
They talk about it like they have stock, investment, time that gradually becomes worth more the more I live. They talk about passion like it is something that is expendable, something that runs out. Hurry.
No.
I want people to be safe, before they get hurt. I want women and children to not be afraid of those who are supposed to love them, and I want innocent people not to suffer for the corruption of others who were hurt somehow. I want the corrupt prosecuted, I want them (even them) to be treated as human, I want everyone else to understand that you can't deny them (even them) this, or else bits of your own humanity begins to be revoked.
I want to jump out of a plane and land somewhere I may never be again, learn languages just so I can tell women with sad eyes that their children are beautiful, ask them to teach me how with out knowing what I will be taught, and I want to never ever 'get it out of my system', I don't want to find a husband because that is just kind of what you do around twenty--- why not marry some man when I am 82, and spend the rest of our lives listening to the wonderful stories, imagining the beautiful places and never giving them up? Why not love when you find the person, not when the timeline tells you to?
I want to cry and laugh and be completely honest, feel what hurts (pain is there for a reason)
I want to scream at you when I am angry, call you out on your falsities, have you call me out on mine. I want to live according to no formula, I want to use my mind to consider, my soul to consider.
I want to be absurd, happy, content--- acknowledging the pain of this world, the way that the people are hurting, but not let it consume me
SO they ask me, constantly, always, What do you want?? What are you going to do?? What is your one year, two year, five year life plan?
It can be hard to explain.
How
does
the
shards
of whatever
is left
come
together
and equal
the damp palms
the heart not resting
the mind not sleeping
the twisting in
my belly
the fight with my features
to stay as they should,
the music not salving
the words, the touch not satisfying
the disappearances
of intangible ties.
how do you stay whole, with the emptinesses
so glaringly apparent?
does
the
shards
of whatever
is left
come
together
and equal
the damp palms
the heart not resting
the mind not sleeping
the twisting in
my belly
the fight with my features
to stay as they should,
the music not salving
the words, the touch not satisfying
the disappearances
of intangible ties.
how do you stay whole, with the emptinesses
so glaringly apparent?
Sunday, June 15, 2008
leaving is not difficult.
leaving ideas, dreams, people-- especially if there is something or someone to leave for, someplace to journey to.
the man leaves his wife for his mistress, the woman her old comfortable job for something new and more. there is that promise of excitement, of novelty, intrigue-- that tiny whisper that says you are not happy enough -- a different kind of greed.
two weeks, months, years, decades later you become nostalgic, or fight off the nostalgia self-assuredly-- citing the shiny new people, accomplishments, places and experiences as trophies. you did the right thing by giving up that mundane little place, relationship, that small town.
it took so little to be happy then, you muse, and there is a tickle in the back of your thoughts, like a small feather, and you wonder-- maybe I was happier then, in that small town
'all the world's a stage' but
maybe
if the script was never written
and the actors were all drunk before they could get into costume
I could be happy with just the stage alone.
the man leaves his wife for his mistress, the woman her old comfortable job for something new and more. there is that promise of excitement, of novelty, intrigue-- that tiny whisper that says you are not happy enough -- a different kind of greed.
two weeks, months, years, decades later you become nostalgic, or fight off the nostalgia self-assuredly-- citing the shiny new people, accomplishments, places and experiences as trophies. you did the right thing by giving up that mundane little place, relationship, that small town.
it took so little to be happy then, you muse, and there is a tickle in the back of your thoughts, like a small feather, and you wonder-- maybe I was happier then, in that small town
'all the world's a stage' but
maybe
if the script was never written
and the actors were all drunk before they could get into costume
I could be happy with just the stage alone.
Saturday, June 07, 2008
memory
i have been careless with my life.
not necessarily unappreciative of it, but merely careless. Finding pleasure in unnecessary risks, naively embracing the possibility of death without considering the possibility of injury, or the emotional consequences of those who I have somehow been loved by.
recognizing this, this previous carelessness and the mistakes of others, i have a perpetual need to remember and recall the beautiful moments. much like a photographer might miss the actual event by focusing his attentions on capturing it, squinting into a tiny screen while the world flees around him--- i am constantly focused on remembering what i should be feeling rather than simply feeling it.
isn't the loveliest part of memory they way that it surprises you by recording without you knowing it? shouldn't this be pleasure enough?
not necessarily unappreciative of it, but merely careless. Finding pleasure in unnecessary risks, naively embracing the possibility of death without considering the possibility of injury, or the emotional consequences of those who I have somehow been loved by.
recognizing this, this previous carelessness and the mistakes of others, i have a perpetual need to remember and recall the beautiful moments. much like a photographer might miss the actual event by focusing his attentions on capturing it, squinting into a tiny screen while the world flees around him--- i am constantly focused on remembering what i should be feeling rather than simply feeling it.
isn't the loveliest part of memory they way that it surprises you by recording without you knowing it? shouldn't this be pleasure enough?
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