4.27b

I'm not going to punctuate these poems like I probably should. SEE here's the thing. Katy was in a poetry-writing class at Andrews, and they discussed things like punctuation and rhythm (which has one, non-standard vowel, bytheway) and meter and rhyme and such. One glorious poet in the class did not understand the [thitherto undiscussed] concept of cohesion, and wrote a wonderful poem in which various housepets appeared on unexplained lecterns for the sake of the rhyme. The poem was about winter, so why these elements made an appearance is beyond me.

Anyhow, I plan to be like that poet when I grow up.

I used to know several old men

who balancéd plates on their shins.

These shin-balance men

did giggle and grin

whenever they balancéd ten.

And I know that the rhyme scheme is aabba, but I like this too.

4.27a

The raptor did sit

at the edge of the pit

eating his pudding and pie

"This pudding and pie

doth belong in my eye,"

said the raptor, all covered in spit

His pudding and pie

he did stick in his eye

admiring it then from afar

He looked up to the star

and wished super hard

with a wistful and woebegone sigh

that the pudding and pie

(now creamed in his eye)

could be there until he did die.

4.26

I'm trying to not expend any extra energy.

BUT I'm falling behind super rapidly.

I'll tell you this story to make up for it.

I always sit next to water when wooing a woman. I don't know if there's something primal in it: a reminder of inexorable forward motion.

4.24b

This morning, I wrote an epic poem about socks/loss. I fell into rhyme without trying to. Here are a few of the better rhymes that I thought were worth texting to my sister (and thus are saved).

The sky took offence

and did strike him but twice

--no small matter--

with softballs of ice.

. . .

He never finished his task

so the sky struck them both.

"Both?" You might ask.

"From whence did the second man come?"

Well, sit still, stop your fidgeting.

I'll tell you, my son.

4.24a

HAVE YOU BEEN OUTSIDE?

This night is amazing: wind, rain, and awesome. If anyone knows a geographical location with those three elements 365 days a year, tell me so I can move there.

This night is so awesome that I lost my hat (my favorite hat) to the river and I'm kind of not caring yet. (Give it a week or so.)

ALSO:

You can't get something for nothing.

4.22b

I'm currently loading film into the camera. It's hard, because I have to pull out some film and wind it down into the camera just right, or it won't catch and I'll have to start all over again. Once I finally get it, I'll take pictures.

It's hard to take pictures, because I have no idea how they'll turn out. I can't take a picture again if it's out of focus, or underexposed, or weird. I have to just point and shoot, pray and hope. Some of the pictures are ruined by people getting in the way. Some of them are ruined by the subject blinking. Some of them are ruined by a shaky camera hand.

But maybe, just maybe, one of them is good.

So I keep shooting.

People make fun of me sometimes, for not using a digital camera. "It's easier! You don't have to wait to see your pictures. It's way more fun, too!" I'm unconvinced, but I can't prove my case. I can't just pull out all the film on the spool and say "Here, look! I have great pictures! Life is peachy!" because all the film is still light-sensitive, and it would ruin everything if I did.

I have to be careful.

I have to plan my shots.

I have to be patient and wait to see them.

The worst part of film is handing it to someone else, asking them to finish the process. What if they say no? What if they botch it all up? What if they lose the negatives?

The best part of film is pulling all the pictures out of the paper envelope and going through them all, seeing all the mistakes and underexposures and weird faces. And pictures are never as good without waiting first.

And that's why I wait.

4.22a

My film is at Wal-Mart today.

I love film because you know what pictures you take, but you slowly forget. Maybe I remember two or three of the pictures, but that's it. No more.

Opening the packet and rifling through a set of exposures is always a pleasure, even when they don't turn out. Sometimes, especially when they don't turn out. I like those because it's hard to figure out what the heck I was trying to take a picture of. (of what the heck I was trying to take a picture.)

I don't have anything deep for this yet; I'm late for class. Look for a film metaphor sometime today.

4.21b

True story:

Last night, the fog spoke to me, so I took my accordion and played outside. It was awesome, so minor keys and improvisation for me it was.

This evening, a girl friends me. She's in choir, so I figure why not? Her status update:

Sometimes I do very weird things. It's nice to know that they do have an impact. Most people just look at me funny and go on with their lives. I would like to be remembered. I would like to seem weird. I am weird. I am weird.

4.21a

I'm not keeping up well. The breath comes in ragged gasps. My hands pump twice as fast as my feet. All I can see is the runner in front of me. I put on an extra burst of speed, passing the only person in view and losing sight completely.

Fourty seconds later, I wake up wearing a victor's medal, surrounded by crowds.

[fact: I have passed out while running before]

[fact: I did not enjoy it]

[fact: I will not be doing it again]

[fact: I was in the best physical condition of my life and I ran up heartattack hill at camp and passed out forty feet from my goal, and woke up when I felt the light pole between my hands. It was the most weird, surreal experience of my life. It's like my brain shut off all unnecessary functions.]

4.19b

This is not a creative post.

This is an instructive post.

I'm terrified of messing up.

I'm also afraid that this is common in men.

4.19a

"I had a friend once who ate a lightbulb."

"What?"

"Yeah, he ate a whole lightbulb."

--No joke, I heard this conversation.

4.16b

He doesn't want to brush his teeth because then the taste will go away. He wants to remember this moment. He wants to have this feeling to fall back on when his mouth won't ever taste this way again.

Ginger Beer, what have you done with my life?

4.16a

Sometimes, his fascination with despair worried him. He had never been depressed. He was sad from time to time, sure. But never depressed. The mechanics of it: how did it work? Why did people stay that way? Was it a choice, or was it something unhelpable--something sinister that snuck up on you in the dark and pounced and clung to your shoulders, dragging you down into the dirt until you couldn't breathe?

Sometimes, his fascination with despair worried him. Until she left.

Then, it wasn't a worry: it was a reality.

http://cl.ly/TNy

I stand in the sun for now, but how long can I stand before I burn?

4.14

"There's a photo of me that does not look super cute. I was in the Bahamas, and I was sleep-deprived."

"So I won't look at it, as a favor to you?"

"Eh, I think you've seen me look worse than that, so . . ."

"Ok. That's good. Here's a revelation from me to you: you don't have to impress me. I'm already impressed."

"With what are you impressed?"

"You. And that preposition usage, but you more than anything else."

4.13

He raised the mug to his fat, stupid face. I wished the mug was unwashed, or filled with poison. But it sparkled clean and the water inside was clear and not green.

"So you see," he started again. I could hear his tongue sounds as he talked. I could always hear his tongue sounds. They cracked out of his civilized speech like a Cinco de Mayo celebration in Tijuana--loud and filled with gunfire and tequila. His tongue was always too close to the top of his mouth--that's why. It got in the way and slapped against his palate and shoved the air back up through his nose and made his voice sound like it had been recorded on a broken tape player. "We have to break up. Are you listening to me?"

This last bit came because I stooped to tie my shoe. And again, his old-radio voice "Are you listening to me?" No, you fat slob. I'm not listening. I'm trying not to cry.

4.12

"Sometimes, it's hard for me to be a man. God made men to . . . want . . . women. You know, 'go forth and multiply.' "

Silence.

"So it makes it hard for me to control myself around you sometimes. It's a constant struggle against the devil in my mind. You know, I'm pretty sure that every man has said this at one point or another, but I have a monster inside me."

Silence.

"I think that's probably a line from Twilight, which just goes to show how dried up and hackneyed it really is. I think about perverse, degraded, stupid things entirely too often."

Silence.

"And of course, you know . . . sex."

Giggles.

4.11

"Would you rather . . . be eaten by a Crocodile, or an Alligator."

"What's the difference?"

"Crocodiles have craggledy teeth."

"Hm. Crocodile then. You?"

"Yeah. They're way cooler."

"Would you rather . . . pick one thing that you knew would work out in the end, or have no idea what was happening, but be assured that everything would be okay?"

"Be assured that everything would be okay. You?"

"Yeah."

She's way better at this than I am.

4.9b

Click

Another moment in time saved forever. She's holding him, he's laughing and running away, she's got jelly in her hand and he's got jelly on his shirt.

Click

Another moment in time preserved. She's talking on the phone to her friend about how he's never around. He's not around.

Click

Another moment in time that the universe will never be rid of. She's yelling. He's yelling.

4.9a

He fell.

Collecting himself from the sidewalk, gathering up all his blood and pain, he launches himself into the air at improbable speed.

Catapulting through the air, he bounces off the surface of the building, leaving a streak of him-ness.

Breathing deeply

he jumped.

4.7b

This morning, I finished my 10 page paper. I went to print it and printed 2 copies because "I'm a good student." I actually mouthed those words to myself when I pressed "print" the second time.

The papers came out crisp and clean.

22 pages with works cited, written and finalized and printed by me.

I got to class. The assignment called for 2 copies of the paper.

I slowly mouthed "I'm a good student."

4.7a

"No, I can't call her. I can't text her. No, because I'm talking to you. Well, I'll do it when I get off the phone with you."

I literally heard this conversation the other day and it has stuck with me.

4.5

I returned to the room hours later. It was exactly the same as before. It was quiet.

She bounced out of the closet behind me and sprayed silly string all over me. "Happy Birthday! I know it's a week late, but it's the best I could do!"

She stopped talking when she saw the tears on my face. "What's wrong?"

"I'm leaving you." I paused. "That's why I came by."

She left. I sat in the silly string and cried for hours.

4.4

Today I was eating in CK with Josh and I saw a girl I’ve known for some time. She stood up to leave and saw me. So I smiled and waved. She waved back.

And then her face flashed pity so strong I almost choked.

And it’s not like there’s a comprehensible reason for it. I haven’t hung out with her for a while because school placed us in different classes and work and whatever. I have absolutely no idea why she pities me. Maybe . . . no, I got nothing. I mean, it could be that I was misreading her face. It could have also been the condescending happy face that people make at children when the kid does something stupid and adorable. BUT it had an element of sadness around the eyes. If you ARE that person or someone (preferably female) with some insight, go ahead and throw it at me because I’m superconfused.

4.2b

He watched the glass revolve in the air. It landed lip-down, perfectly level, on the cement. It splattered like water from the lip up until it was spread in tiny chunks around his feet.

Butterfingers.

4.2a

Her finger left a hot trail of sparks up my arm. She left and went to sleep.

How long would the fire burn me?

3.31b

I know it's the first. I'm still stuck in the 31st. Katy wrote this:

Regard:

"Unforgeable day!"

What, pray tell, do you think this means?

I wrote this:

ell, "to ge" is obviously the root verb, which is the past tense of the verb "to go" but only when the individual likes men with hairy bums. The addition of the morphemes "Un" and "for" lead me to the belief that it isn't "ge" and that the person doesn't realize what a morpheme is and just threw in "for" to make it sound better. And the "able" brings us to the final meaning of "I can't go gay today."