I am looking for a something very specific. It is a stencil of a camera, created by me several years ago. I cannot find it, but I am finding far more interesting things in the process. Some long buried, under layers of earth and more fossils. Tripping down memory lane, dirt under my fingernails. Come look at some of my broken pieces of pottery.
5/7/05 - random word document
The curb swoops sickeningly close to the window edge in my view. Water slips through the tire treads with a soft swishing. My roommate turns up the Nirvana issuing faintly from the radio and bobs her head in time to the beat. I want to say something patronizing about how passé Nirvana is, but I keep my lips pursed together and press my aching forehead to the cool window. The curb curls out of view again, and I close my eyes.
7/23/05 - random word document
I want to write poetry again, but I don’t know where to start. Recognizing as is necessary that all I wrote previously was crap, I am unsure of the next steps. The art of putting emotion into words is one of the most difficult to pursue. In my opinion, the greatest virtue of good poetry is that it finds a happy medium between superficial and inaccessible. I don’t want it spelled out for me, but I don’t want a bunch of undetectable abstract metaphor either. Should I read others until I find a style I want to emulate? Should I just go for it without studying, and edit/change subsequently? I’ll have to figure that out soon. Maybe it should be the latter. Because I haven’t had the urge to write poetry in a long time, and I don’t want to lose it while I waste time studying the classics.
this never happened...guess I failed to strike while the iron was hot...
8/26/04 - saved as "IMPORTANT QUOTE - PASSION"
"Passion. It lies in all of us - sleeping, waiting. And though unwanted, unbidden - it will stir, open its jaws, and howl. It speaks to us, guides us; passion rules us all. And we obey. What other choice do we have? Passion is the source of our finest moments: the joy of love, the clarity of hatred, and the ecstasy of grief. It hurts sometimes more than we can bear. If we could live without passion maybe we’d know some kind of peace. But we would be hollow - empty rooms, shuttered and dank. Without passion we’d be truly dead." - Angelus , btvs S2
9/9/2003 - birthday rhyme from zeshan
my best friend's birthday's today, so i hope all
thas bad stays away today, evils' held at bay,
and i'm sad to say she's so far away, but i'm hopin
she's glad today, knowin thought of her face never
fades, helpin me clear up life when i can't see
black and white from the shades of grey, so though
this happy birthday's belated, i hope your day's
been elevated to a status of elated, you've been
graded a plus, cause your friendship i'd never trade
and i just wanted to say you bring sunshine to
september like it was may
1/29/03 - pirate joke
Me: What do you call it when a pirate buys US dollars cheaply on the London Exchange and sells them at a premium on the Tokyo Exchange?
You: I don't know.
no date, one of paul's away messages from AIM:
I never thought i'd see her again. she wandered up, drunk, obviously a little sick, and in desparate need of sensory stimuli. i screamed, loud like a child, right at her eyes, until she ran towards me, tripping or hopping over some debris on the asphalt, falling into my arms and knocking me to the ground. I skinned my heel as i fell, i lost my breath as she landed on me, and i dont remember ever getting it back. I woke up miserable, seeing first her crumbled posture, her crumbled face, held up on her bent wrists like a pale ugly moon, a perversion of her beauty into this dull mess. I could feel the black tar in her belly, the sinking depression, like she was super magnetized, being pulled straight down by the planets cruel latent field. I didnt laugh at her, but she acted like i had. I closed my eyes.
able to finally put a date on it. from a 2600 word email dated january 26, 2002:
"and then there's you....but i guess thats another talk for another time."
a creative endeavor, titled "the girls on the boys" where I combined two lyrics each from my favorite chick singers to tell a story:
China decorates our table; funny how the cracks don’t seem to show. Words are flowing out like endless rain into a paper cup. I am writing graffiti on your body, I am drawing the story of how hard we try. I remember the days when I was so eager to satisfy you. “You’re just too good to be true, can’t take my eyes off of you.” It’s funny how we feel so much but cannot say a word; we are screaming inside but can’t be heard. And it goes round in circles one night is perfect the next is brutal. The tide rushes by where we stand and the earth underneath turns to sand.
“Give me one reason to stay here, and I’ll turn right back around.”
“Everything is everything, what is meant to be will be.”
You say love is a hell you cannot bear, and I say gimme mine back and then go there for all I care.
First my left foot then my right behind the other, pantyhose running in the cold. I crossed the last line, from where I can return, when every step I took in faith betrayed me. I don’t think of you no more, except for every day or two; I don’t think of you no more, except for in between the sun and moon. When I said I’ll take you, I meant as is.