I'll be home in two weeks.
"La Martorana" by Matthew King
I
The rigger, relying upon the palette
of primary color and achromatic gray,
defines the separation
of woman from road
from sea and dwelling
soon drawing the eye
to the crest of Sicily
dancing on three legs
around the lions
that bow in awe towards the face
of the rock-laden cliffs
surrounded by
the dark waters
of the Mediterranean,
the sea that muses on the faded hairs,
the wood now dried
and ready to burn
and to be burnt
into funeral ash.
Those branches snap from
this old craftsman's scalp
as he finds himself
creating the final simulcrum
of the island's landscape
that he has continued to alter
to the whim of memory
as long as memory
has served him,
always lingering for an instant
longer on the curves
of the land as
he dips his instrument
carefully into a puddle
of mixed oil.
Guiding the brush
once more
across the surface
of the canvas,
his hand contricts
to make its final mark
before his heart gives way
to the stress of tobacco lungs
and his body falls limp
back into his chair
and the brush falls
to the ground
leaving a streak of red
on the carpet floor.
II
This smoking Medusa,
taking her eyes off
of the corpse,
feels the body stiffen
into rock and
become a piece
of furniture below
the rooms of the living
where only silent air
will now reside
alongside the last stroke
of the cobblestone
as it draws a hard gaze
into the stripped mahogany's frame,
forming a path
traversed by static lives
roaming in circles
and idolized in the twirl
of a dancing woman
in Sicilian garb
while she overlooks the streets
of still life.
Her siculo dress waves
to welcome those colors
having never seen
Palermu's brick shaded
red or grey in the afternoon light
as the city is brightened to sing
a folkloric song
on a paper accordion
in the hands
of a man whose wrinkles
are barely visible
in the drying paint.
As she dances
'round the garden
down to the stone roads
that the wandering musician
walks upon
as he presses
down the black
and white keys,
the song sounds
throughout the oceanside houses,
bringing peace
to the widows who mourn
their dead husbands
and the warmth of
their lost children,
and to the widowers
who have tried to forget
their dead wives by drinking
the blood wine from the rise
of dawn to the
fall of the western horizon,
where rock and sea meet
the sun's last light
soon to be reflected
in the crevices of the moon
and turned back to the sky
from the mirror of the waters,
and where the fishermen catch
sardines and anchovies for
the bakers of sfincioni and
the mother who still cooks
for a family of eleven,
and where that
woman's youngest daughter
weeps with the storm's wind
at the loss of her father
to the mermaids of the sea,
III
a father who spoke
of love
when she was taken
from his pocket,
who prayed underneath
the colored mosaic tiles
that reflect upon
the broken but angelic image
of the Annunciation
and kneeled in awe
in the absence
of the aspe
that once put together
the pieces of Mary's image
beneath the blessed gazes
of Heli and Anna,
a father who took to the
sea as a young man,
breathing in
the deep shades of blue
as salt water tinged
his lips
and whose hands became
callous while rubbing
against the coarse net
he spent weeks
tying together
with rope he could
barely afford,
a father she was told
fell ill to the family's past,
loving the mythic waters
of the Cyclops
where the mermaids
bitterly attack the health of men,
men who stand one step closer
to their heavenly ascent
while the beautiful half-breeds
are struck down
to the depth
of the depths.
IV
That deepest of deep gravesr
has taken the lives
of men who only
wished to skim the surface,
diving in only when they
had hope to return safely to
the firm grip of land,
where those brave enough
to wade in the torrents
of the colorless storms
often drown,
fighting nature's command
while gasping for
their last breath
only to be taken
by the burning surge
of salt water in their nostrils
and to be beaten by the tossing
of scattered debris
into their broken red flesh,
tissue that was once shown
under the sun's yellow light
and once was fresh and cherished
by the women
within the city's ends,
like the Admiral of La Martorana
who had once returned
to his home
with a nun by his side,
before she had taken vows
to be placed in the family of God
and before her love
was lost in the flames
of a shipwreck.
a woman who carried
from door to droom
the pastries that allowed
her to pass her days
as she molded sweets and dough
into islands separate from
her hermetic life in the convent,
imagining them surrounded
by clear waters
of translucent blue
also shown under
the sun's golden light,
where troubadours
played accordions,
singing the mermaid's
intoxicating refrain
on the westernmost shores,
and where La Monica never set sail
and never burst into flames,
destroying an etching
in the boat's soaked wood
that read "Ti amo!"
written by a young sailor
from Messina wishing to breathe
as the sea breathes,
V
like the lungs of a large cat,
breathing heavy and slow
as he sleeps in the warmth
of the glowing afternoon sun,
only to begin pulsing
as shelter must be found
when the shade of blue
fades in the sky's horizon lines
overwhelmed by quick flashes
of light against the grey,
or like the hunt begins,
waiting, motionless,
and without a breath,
until the heart snaps
into a violent fury
and his body
is hurled in the direction
of his prey with hair
standing on end
and spiking away
from the skin,
reddish hair much like that
of the sable
used for the long-bristled
brush that articulates the
rigging of ships,
the brush used
when the artist poises
before his first and last stroke,
those dashes of color
against the rippling canvas
that extend
his most refined reflections
from eye to mind to hand
to be maneuvered
into the image
his final sight
falls upon.
The long poem above is my current work-in-progress. Any comments would be great, but it was more of an "I want to share" thing, and the formatting is incorrect due to my inept use of LiveJournal. It's been awhile.
I apologize for the long reflection and long rant. Like I said, I haven't used this in awhile, and figured that someone out there might want to know what's up in my life and mind. I don't know who knows what about where I am in life anymore.
It's not about who reads this. If you do, whether for pure entertainment or for fellow-feeling, thank you. The one thing I wish is to be read by many. I am a hopeless one in that case.
First, what I've been doing:
I've had a great semester. My classes went well and are nearly done. I have little left to do because I was constantly on top of thing. I had an independent study that was a graduate course and that encouraged me to continue into post-graduate studies. I finished the readings that the real graduates students needed to read in about a month. After that, I focused on my project(an autobiography) and my own writing(my passion). My other classes went well. I'm recommended for two writing awards. One in creative writing and the other in A Critical Essay on Literature. My essay was on the adoption of haiku and haibun into English-language literature and also the coordination and use of prose and haiku in English-language pieces.
Other than school, I've been cooking a lot. I can make sfincione(Sicilian pizza), a few different types of sauces for pasta, curries, vegetables cook in many different ways and I have been slowing adapting to the balancing act that comes with using a multitude of spices. It passes the time.
Mostly, I have been writing. I am in the library reading or writing outside of classwork for at least 4 hours a day. I stay online through most of it, so it is an over-exaggerated amount, but I use the online library databases to research different writers and literary theory so much that I figure it is worth my time. I've come up with quite a lot. Three plays, more poems than I can count (maybe 20 revised ones), a short story, many essay reflections and critiques of poetry and poets, a thirty page autobiography that dabbles in more experimental prose and poetry forms, and hundreds of pages of journals. When I finally deem a piece of work worthy to be revised and formatted into something to be loved, even one word out of place can make me manic. Staring at one word in context for two hours is strangely the best feeling in the world.
I'm hoping to go to Sicily in July and stay until December. It's not for sure, though my mind is set on trying my damnedest. I'd study Italian, get back to my Sicilian roots, eat, drink, be merry, and write. The only thing that would stop me would be receiving a fellowship for my writing, which will likely NOT happen.
If any of you in Maryland are still reading, I'm coming home for Thanksgiving. I probably won't be home too long this winter(a week? and even that taken up mostly by family), so this may be the best change for me to see you.
443-542-1530
I've been looking at graduate schools, because I won't have time to, should I goto Sicily. My top choices right now are Bard College and Art Institute of Chicago for an MFA in Creative Writing. There are a few others, but those two top my choices there. After that, I'd also like to continue on to a Phd at University of Denver. I keep hearing great things about their program, as well as meeting great people who have come out of it.
I've also decided that I'm going to start studying Art History on my own time. I don't have time for it in school, but so much in philosophy, literature and social movements has been predicted by the artistic movements and the theories behind them.
My love life is null and void when it comes to relationships. I'm half alright with that, half annoyed with it. I have gotten over the obsession-type way I once approached them with. That is definitely a good thing. The problem has been my lack of effort, not knowing where I should put my efforts. If I attempt to come near to a relationship, I worry that it will damage too much else in my life that I have only begun to understand and interact with. Romantic relationships at this age will likely stint my growth as a whole. Despite this, I would like ignore the rationale. I think I really just haven't met anyone that would be a probable girlfriend in awhile.
I've started to befriend people who don't speak much English. It's a great habit for anyone who wants to make a good friend quickly. My friends from Madrid, Venezuela, Mexico and Saudi Arabia have taken me into their arms very quickly. Maybe it is that they want to learn English faster. Maybe they enjoy not having to always be talking. No matter, I enjoy being clueless in the midst of foreign banter.
Second is what I've been thinking about(I apologize for any repetition):
I complain on occasion, but every complaint is either false or new knowledge that there is something that I should be doing and am not. Complacency is still foreign to me. I want something new at all times, though I try to be content with what I have because it is forever renewed. I can always attempt to find new beauty in an old thing.
I love my friends. I have a hard time dealing with them. I lack the ability to commit to a person on a personal level. This is my fault completely. I have elitist tendencies and I can't shut off my mind when I should. I know this now. I can't seem to put up with much below an intellectual level unless it goes to deeply personal. There is something about cheap comedy that makes me feel like there is something horribly unhealthy that needs to be dealt with. But then, humor is one of very few ways in which people bond. Sure, there are many varieties but, at the core, there are very few.
I have finally started to allow myself to "miss" people. To not allow myself to do that, I really didn't allow myself to have a preference for what I liked and didn't like about other people. My friends were not generic, but often how I looked at them was. I do not mean that I cared less about them when I didn't miss them. I simply had very little opinion past a slight preference towards who I was around. Convenience was the biggest issue.
I miss Kyle(my old roommate). He's the only person I've allowed myself to be close to in awhile that has been a reliable source of friendship and support.
I miss a lot of people back in Maryland, especially since I saw them last New Year's Eve. It was great seeing good people that were doing well, even if I'm not a big fan of living in Maryland.
Mostly, I miss those people that I've only met briefly or met and never seen again. It may once again be a lack of ability in committing to a person on a larger level, but those brief encounters are some of the happiest moments of my life. Mark in British Columbia. All the awesome people from the philosophy conference in Portland. Mimi. Rachel. Matt. I'll just shout off meaningless names. It is the memory that stays with me. I don't know what to really say about all of it. So many missed opportunities in life. I keep in touch with some people from afar, via email or whatever else I can do, but there is little to say. I felt great energy in those people.
I'm purely venting here. It's good and it's in a way that I haven't done in forever. The reason for it. I am reaching out. I'm doing fantastic these days, but it is still a lack. It isn't a spiritual or existential lack so much. I think I have come to peace with my understanding of those issues and how they change. I think it is a physical lack of interaction with real people.
I have a hard time being anything but a piece of furniture in social situations these days. I like people, but I get stressed out because I want them to enjoy themselves. I try to make that happen, but I cannot control every situation that goes into it. I go into host mode, and I stress out. The first and easiest sign of something you shouldn't be doing is something that stresses you out before during AND after you do it. If there is a release at the end, there is a chance that it is a very good thing, but there is no release, only a further building of mind-fucking, body-tensing stress.
I need to learn to stick to the basics. It's very simple to cook a delicious meal from vegetables and rice with very few spices. I always go ornate and choose many many expensive dishes that have too many things in them. I need to stop that. When I'm drunk and cooking or cooking in a rush, I never go overboard. The more you put in something, the larger the change there is to screw it up. The less you put into something, the more important each piece has to be. I learned that from my writing, but it seems to be true on almost any level. That doesn't mean avoid the many or focus on the few or balance in the middle. It means that you have to know what you're doing and work on it without ignoring other aspects of it.
I'm committing myself to reading from now on. Dr. Paine was right, and I don't need to do it to prove him wrong. I believe that may have been what I was initiailly trying to do, until I realized how amazing reading Derek Walcott actually is. Then I picked up Ashbery's "Flow Chart" and I didn't like it any more than I did before, but I liked that I was reading and had an opinion on it.
Likewise, this summer I read a lot. The summer before that, I read even more. There is too much and too little time...no! I have no reason but my own laziness.
I need to get started and bring some ideas to Lauren for our project. I can't believe that a grad student could write that horribly. It give me even less faith in what undergraduates must be writing. I really wish there was a way to convince people to care about what they're doing. Apathy is the killer of too many. Domgatism normally kills the rest.
I like instrumental music. I may use it more often while I write. Lindsy's string quartet is amazing. No wonder they are Futureman's band. Speaking of which, how did all of my friends end up playing with Futureman, and everyone else is playing with other big bands. I never knew that this school would brings these people success so quickly. I am not sad that I dropped music business, but I am proud of my friends.
In all dead bodies, there exists life, the possibility of something other than our visions and sense. Afterlife, reincarnation, science. All of these things point in the direction of hope and celebration in dying. There is no absolute answer that we can give, but we must try. We find hope despite anything that can hold us back.
I was once depressed constantly, melodramatic even. Then, I tried to be depressed constantly. I was then melodramatic. Eventually, that drained my energy to the point of exhaustion. I repeated the process many times. I need to balance that. I know that depression comes and goes and that we all have it occasionally, but I have made more progress in coming to grips with my own emotional well-being in the past few months than ever before and I hope to continue it. I'll hopefully get to be a bit more social though.
The reclusiveness was very good in learning about who I am, what my strengths are, and what I can do about my situation. I buckled down, and I think I got straight A's this semester. I still have sleeping issues and attendance problems that I'm still working on, but I have modified my habits to the point where I have removed most stress from my life and opened myself up to more possibilities.
I still fall in love with everyone, in a single meeting, passing them on the street, being told about them, or seeing a picture. Anything can do it. Sartre said that "Hell is other people." They are heaven to me.
Lastly,
I commit to change, always for the better.
I
The rigger, relying upon the palette
of primary color and achromatic gray,
defines the separation
of woman from road
from sea and dwelling
soon drawing the eye
to the crest of Sicily
dancing on three legs
around the lions
that bow in awe towards the face
of the rock-laden cliffs
surrounded by
the dark waters
of the Mediterranean,
the sea that muses on the faded hairs,
the wood now dried
and ready to burn
and to be burnt
into funeral ash.
Those branches snap from
this old craftsman's scalp
as he finds himself
creating the final simulcrum
of the island's landscape
that he has continued to alter
to the whim of memory
as long as memory
has served him,
always lingering for an instant
longer on the curves
of the land as
he dips his instrument
carefully into a puddle
of mixed oil.
Guiding the brush
once more
across the surface
of the canvas,
his hand contricts
to make its final mark
before his heart gives way
to the stress of tobacco lungs
and his body falls limp
back into his chair
and the brush falls
to the ground
leaving a streak of red
on the carpet floor.
II
This smoking Medusa,
taking her eyes off
of the corpse,
feels the body stiffen
into rock and
become a piece
of furniture below
the rooms of the living
where only silent air
will now reside
alongside the last stroke
of the cobblestone
as it draws a hard gaze
into the stripped mahogany's frame,
forming a path
traversed by static lives
roaming in circles
and idolized in the twirl
of a dancing woman
in Sicilian garb
while she overlooks the streets
of still life.
Her siculo dress waves
to welcome those colors
having never seen
Palermu's brick shaded
red or grey in the afternoon light
as the city is brightened to sing
a folkloric song
on a paper accordion
in the hands
of a man whose wrinkles
are barely visible
in the drying paint.
As she dances
'round the garden
down to the stone roads
that the wandering musician
walks upon
as he presses
down the black
and white keys,
the song sounds
throughout the oceanside houses,
bringing peace
to the widows who mourn
their dead husbands
and the warmth of
their lost children,
and to the widowers
who have tried to forget
their dead wives by drinking
the blood wine from the rise
of dawn to the
fall of the western horizon,
where rock and sea meet
the sun's last light
soon to be reflected
in the crevices of the moon
and turned back to the sky
from the mirror of the waters,
and where the fishermen catch
sardines and anchovies for
the bakers of sfincioni and
the mother who still cooks
for a family of eleven,
and where that
woman's youngest daughter
weeps with the storm's wind
at the loss of her father
to the mermaids of the sea,
III
a father who spoke
of love
when she was taken
from his pocket,
who prayed underneath
the colored mosaic tiles
that reflect upon
the broken but angelic image
of the Annunciation
and kneeled in awe
in the absence
of the aspe
that once put together
the pieces of Mary's image
beneath the blessed gazes
of Heli and Anna,
a father who took to the
sea as a young man,
breathing in
the deep shades of blue
as salt water tinged
his lips
and whose hands became
callous while rubbing
against the coarse net
he spent weeks
tying together
with rope he could
barely afford,
a father she was told
fell ill to the family's past,
loving the mythic waters
of the Cyclops
where the mermaids
bitterly attack the health of men,
men who stand one step closer
to their heavenly ascent
while the beautiful half-breeds
are struck down
to the depth
of the depths.
IV
That deepest of deep gravesr
has taken the lives
of men who only
wished to skim the surface,
diving in only when they
had hope to return safely to
the firm grip of land,
where those brave enough
to wade in the torrents
of the colorless storms
often drown,
fighting nature's command
while gasping for
their last breath
only to be taken
by the burning surge
of salt water in their nostrils
and to be beaten by the tossing
of scattered debris
into their broken red flesh,
tissue that was once shown
under the sun's yellow light
and once was fresh and cherished
by the women
within the city's ends,
like the Admiral of La Martorana
who had once returned
to his home
with a nun by his side,
before she had taken vows
to be placed in the family of God
and before her love
was lost in the flames
of a shipwreck.
a woman who carried
from door to droom
the pastries that allowed
her to pass her days
as she molded sweets and dough
into islands separate from
her hermetic life in the convent,
imagining them surrounded
by clear waters
of translucent blue
also shown under
the sun's golden light,
where troubadours
played accordions,
singing the mermaid's
intoxicating refrain
on the westernmost shores,
and where La Monica never set sail
and never burst into flames,
destroying an etching
in the boat's soaked wood
that read "Ti amo!"
written by a young sailor
from Messina wishing to breathe
as the sea breathes,
V
like the lungs of a large cat,
breathing heavy and slow
as he sleeps in the warmth
of the glowing afternoon sun,
only to begin pulsing
as shelter must be found
when the shade of blue
fades in the sky's horizon lines
overwhelmed by quick flashes
of light against the grey,
or like the hunt begins,
waiting, motionless,
and without a breath,
until the heart snaps
into a violent fury
and his body
is hurled in the direction
of his prey with hair
standing on end
and spiking away
from the skin,
reddish hair much like that
of the sable
used for the long-bristled
brush that articulates the
rigging of ships,
the brush used
when the artist poises
before his first and last stroke,
those dashes of color
against the rippling canvas
that extend
his most refined reflections
from eye to mind to hand
to be maneuvered
into the image
his final sight
falls upon.
The long poem above is my current work-in-progress. Any comments would be great, but it was more of an "I want to share" thing, and the formatting is incorrect due to my inept use of LiveJournal. It's been awhile.
I apologize for the long reflection and long rant. Like I said, I haven't used this in awhile, and figured that someone out there might want to know what's up in my life and mind. I don't know who knows what about where I am in life anymore.
It's not about who reads this. If you do, whether for pure entertainment or for fellow-feeling, thank you. The one thing I wish is to be read by many. I am a hopeless one in that case.
First, what I've been doing:
I've had a great semester. My classes went well and are nearly done. I have little left to do because I was constantly on top of thing. I had an independent study that was a graduate course and that encouraged me to continue into post-graduate studies. I finished the readings that the real graduates students needed to read in about a month. After that, I focused on my project(an autobiography) and my own writing(my passion). My other classes went well. I'm recommended for two writing awards. One in creative writing and the other in A Critical Essay on Literature. My essay was on the adoption of haiku and haibun into English-language literature and also the coordination and use of prose and haiku in English-language pieces.
Other than school, I've been cooking a lot. I can make sfincione(Sicilian pizza), a few different types of sauces for pasta, curries, vegetables cook in many different ways and I have been slowing adapting to the balancing act that comes with using a multitude of spices. It passes the time.
Mostly, I have been writing. I am in the library reading or writing outside of classwork for at least 4 hours a day. I stay online through most of it, so it is an over-exaggerated amount, but I use the online library databases to research different writers and literary theory so much that I figure it is worth my time. I've come up with quite a lot. Three plays, more poems than I can count (maybe 20 revised ones), a short story, many essay reflections and critiques of poetry and poets, a thirty page autobiography that dabbles in more experimental prose and poetry forms, and hundreds of pages of journals. When I finally deem a piece of work worthy to be revised and formatted into something to be loved, even one word out of place can make me manic. Staring at one word in context for two hours is strangely the best feeling in the world.
I'm hoping to go to Sicily in July and stay until December. It's not for sure, though my mind is set on trying my damnedest. I'd study Italian, get back to my Sicilian roots, eat, drink, be merry, and write. The only thing that would stop me would be receiving a fellowship for my writing, which will likely NOT happen.
If any of you in Maryland are still reading, I'm coming home for Thanksgiving. I probably won't be home too long this winter(a week? and even that taken up mostly by family), so this may be the best change for me to see you.
443-542-1530
I've been looking at graduate schools, because I won't have time to, should I goto Sicily. My top choices right now are Bard College and Art Institute of Chicago for an MFA in Creative Writing. There are a few others, but those two top my choices there. After that, I'd also like to continue on to a Phd at University of Denver. I keep hearing great things about their program, as well as meeting great people who have come out of it.
I've also decided that I'm going to start studying Art History on my own time. I don't have time for it in school, but so much in philosophy, literature and social movements has been predicted by the artistic movements and the theories behind them.
My love life is null and void when it comes to relationships. I'm half alright with that, half annoyed with it. I have gotten over the obsession-type way I once approached them with. That is definitely a good thing. The problem has been my lack of effort, not knowing where I should put my efforts. If I attempt to come near to a relationship, I worry that it will damage too much else in my life that I have only begun to understand and interact with. Romantic relationships at this age will likely stint my growth as a whole. Despite this, I would like ignore the rationale. I think I really just haven't met anyone that would be a probable girlfriend in awhile.
I've started to befriend people who don't speak much English. It's a great habit for anyone who wants to make a good friend quickly. My friends from Madrid, Venezuela, Mexico and Saudi Arabia have taken me into their arms very quickly. Maybe it is that they want to learn English faster. Maybe they enjoy not having to always be talking. No matter, I enjoy being clueless in the midst of foreign banter.
Second is what I've been thinking about(I apologize for any repetition):
I complain on occasion, but every complaint is either false or new knowledge that there is something that I should be doing and am not. Complacency is still foreign to me. I want something new at all times, though I try to be content with what I have because it is forever renewed. I can always attempt to find new beauty in an old thing.
I love my friends. I have a hard time dealing with them. I lack the ability to commit to a person on a personal level. This is my fault completely. I have elitist tendencies and I can't shut off my mind when I should. I know this now. I can't seem to put up with much below an intellectual level unless it goes to deeply personal. There is something about cheap comedy that makes me feel like there is something horribly unhealthy that needs to be dealt with. But then, humor is one of very few ways in which people bond. Sure, there are many varieties but, at the core, there are very few.
I have finally started to allow myself to "miss" people. To not allow myself to do that, I really didn't allow myself to have a preference for what I liked and didn't like about other people. My friends were not generic, but often how I looked at them was. I do not mean that I cared less about them when I didn't miss them. I simply had very little opinion past a slight preference towards who I was around. Convenience was the biggest issue.
I miss Kyle(my old roommate). He's the only person I've allowed myself to be close to in awhile that has been a reliable source of friendship and support.
I miss a lot of people back in Maryland, especially since I saw them last New Year's Eve. It was great seeing good people that were doing well, even if I'm not a big fan of living in Maryland.
Mostly, I miss those people that I've only met briefly or met and never seen again. It may once again be a lack of ability in committing to a person on a larger level, but those brief encounters are some of the happiest moments of my life. Mark in British Columbia. All the awesome people from the philosophy conference in Portland. Mimi. Rachel. Matt. I'll just shout off meaningless names. It is the memory that stays with me. I don't know what to really say about all of it. So many missed opportunities in life. I keep in touch with some people from afar, via email or whatever else I can do, but there is little to say. I felt great energy in those people.
I'm purely venting here. It's good and it's in a way that I haven't done in forever. The reason for it. I am reaching out. I'm doing fantastic these days, but it is still a lack. It isn't a spiritual or existential lack so much. I think I have come to peace with my understanding of those issues and how they change. I think it is a physical lack of interaction with real people.
I have a hard time being anything but a piece of furniture in social situations these days. I like people, but I get stressed out because I want them to enjoy themselves. I try to make that happen, but I cannot control every situation that goes into it. I go into host mode, and I stress out. The first and easiest sign of something you shouldn't be doing is something that stresses you out before during AND after you do it. If there is a release at the end, there is a chance that it is a very good thing, but there is no release, only a further building of mind-fucking, body-tensing stress.
I need to learn to stick to the basics. It's very simple to cook a delicious meal from vegetables and rice with very few spices. I always go ornate and choose many many expensive dishes that have too many things in them. I need to stop that. When I'm drunk and cooking or cooking in a rush, I never go overboard. The more you put in something, the larger the change there is to screw it up. The less you put into something, the more important each piece has to be. I learned that from my writing, but it seems to be true on almost any level. That doesn't mean avoid the many or focus on the few or balance in the middle. It means that you have to know what you're doing and work on it without ignoring other aspects of it.
I'm committing myself to reading from now on. Dr. Paine was right, and I don't need to do it to prove him wrong. I believe that may have been what I was initiailly trying to do, until I realized how amazing reading Derek Walcott actually is. Then I picked up Ashbery's "Flow Chart" and I didn't like it any more than I did before, but I liked that I was reading and had an opinion on it.
Likewise, this summer I read a lot. The summer before that, I read even more. There is too much and too little time...no! I have no reason but my own laziness.
I need to get started and bring some ideas to Lauren for our project. I can't believe that a grad student could write that horribly. It give me even less faith in what undergraduates must be writing. I really wish there was a way to convince people to care about what they're doing. Apathy is the killer of too many. Domgatism normally kills the rest.
I like instrumental music. I may use it more often while I write. Lindsy's string quartet is amazing. No wonder they are Futureman's band. Speaking of which, how did all of my friends end up playing with Futureman, and everyone else is playing with other big bands. I never knew that this school would brings these people success so quickly. I am not sad that I dropped music business, but I am proud of my friends.
In all dead bodies, there exists life, the possibility of something other than our visions and sense. Afterlife, reincarnation, science. All of these things point in the direction of hope and celebration in dying. There is no absolute answer that we can give, but we must try. We find hope despite anything that can hold us back.
I was once depressed constantly, melodramatic even. Then, I tried to be depressed constantly. I was then melodramatic. Eventually, that drained my energy to the point of exhaustion. I repeated the process many times. I need to balance that. I know that depression comes and goes and that we all have it occasionally, but I have made more progress in coming to grips with my own emotional well-being in the past few months than ever before and I hope to continue it. I'll hopefully get to be a bit more social though.
The reclusiveness was very good in learning about who I am, what my strengths are, and what I can do about my situation. I buckled down, and I think I got straight A's this semester. I still have sleeping issues and attendance problems that I'm still working on, but I have modified my habits to the point where I have removed most stress from my life and opened myself up to more possibilities.
I still fall in love with everyone, in a single meeting, passing them on the street, being told about them, or seeing a picture. Anything can do it. Sartre said that "Hell is other people." They are heaven to me.
Lastly,
I commit to change, always for the better.