Tuesday, December 21, 2010

Here it goes again

Well, finals are over, and despite the fact that I put in next to no effort on them (or, really, into any of my classes after the last three weeks or so), it looks like I'll be pulling all A's and A-'s.

I got accepted into my study abroad program, but when I got the email, I suddenly had these insane second thoughts. Like about how England is really far away and how I don't know if it's really a legitimate thing to spend $5000 on. Damn.

But, even though apathy seems to have taken a pretty strong hold on my life, I'm still pleased with things. I still enjoy the rich blessings. I love where I work. I meet wonderful people and they all have stories to tell. It really is a holy experience. Dozens of sacred moments piled one on top of the other.

I'm having some transcendentalistic stirrings, again. I went skinny dipping at the hot springs, and read WW aloud to the trees.

Also, poetry is just about pouring out of me. Maybe I'll post some later. After True Grit tonight.

Wednesday, November 17, 2010

On Tana's Hatred of the Human Race

I'm sick of ignorant asses.

That's all there is to it. Forgive the language, but really.

First: I am sick to death of idiots who base all of their music preferences on what is or isn't popular. On the one end of the spectrum, you've got people who listen to whatever is "cool" simply because the nebulous collective (of which I refuse to call myself a member) has deemed it so. And at the opposite end, you've got people who refuse to like something because other people embrace it. These people irk me even more, if possible, than the first group. They're people who approach popular bands, both the good and the bad, and reject them on the premise that if several hundred people have stupidly latched on to one or two songs, the band's whole repertoire must be full of opiate for the masses.

What the hell? The public in general is not a particularly keen body. Persons are smart; people are not. Look at how people act in mobs, in wars, etc. It's chaos. YES, there are exceptions. I'm not addressing them. I'm saying that as a whole, humans don't always make the best choices. So why on Earth would you base your preferences on "popular opinion"? Try actually listening to music for a change. And, by the way, it's still possible to realize a band's talent and see what they've done for the progression of music without worshipping them. If you have a legitimate reason for disliking the Beatles or Queen, you can still acknowledge that they were groundbreaking. But popularity does not equal ability. Open your effing ears.

Second: Why on earth do people feel the need to say unkind things about appearances or choices that they don't agree with? Yes, my hair is short. No, you don't need to write rude poems about short hair and then read them aloud. It's fine if you don't like it, but you don't have to be mean about it.

Finally: It's just common courtesy that when you tell someone you're going to do something, DO IT.

Sorry. I'm angry. I don't want to talk anymore.

Thursday, October 28, 2010

Apology #287

Again, I have been lax. Again, I beg your forgiveness. You, that imaginary, ever-demanding readership. So needy.

I ran the Dirty Dash. It was lovely.

I work at the Parlor. We listen to good music and make good food. Please come visit me.

I have an essay to write: Revulsion. But when oh when?

I'm keeping my head above the water, but just barely. Just. Barely.

I have to write a poem, but I'd rather use one of my old ones. I don't feel particularly poetic. Or, maybe, I don't want to feel particularly poetic. Because who am I anyway? Who am I to put words where they belong? Who am I to arrange them to sing when all they want to do is cry, cry, cry.

I still love baking, though I have little time.

Halloween? Hah. I haven't a costume.

I want to paint and sing and dance and love and hike and live, oh how I want to live.

Take comfort, readers. I'll be back to myself before long. And then some real posts, not just this inane drivel.

While you're waiting for me to get back, though, listen to this:

Saturday, September 11, 2010


I propose a reinvention of good intentions.

Breathe in, breathe out.

Arcade Fire's new album is white hot. Buy it. Put it in your CD player. Crank the base until you feel it deeper than your own heartbeat.

Tuesday, August 31, 2010

Hopes and Dreams

Good morning all!

School has started once again, and I am just so dang happy about it. My classes are lovely, my classmates are lovely, and my teachers are lovely.

Rick Duerden, in particular, is going to be one of my favorite this semester, I can already tell. He's passionate and funny, and just what I need in my life right now. See, I sometimes have this awful habit of second-guessing myself. So right around the beginning of the semester every year I have a mini-panic attack because I'm worried that maybe studying English and German isn't going to be a sound enough choice. That maybe I ought to suck it up and swallow back my distaste for Chemistry or Biology or whatever and start getting a more specific education.

And then people like Rick come along, and explain that in studying English, we don't have to be good little fascists. We can think for ourselves! No no no, I can think for myself! An' that's the truth, isn't it? Because by thinking independently, perhaps we really can, as Rick put it (in his best imitation of the Brain), "TRY TO TAKE OVER THE WORLD!"

Some of my other classes terrify me a little bit; they're going to challenge me. But I love that. I love trying to break out of my little self-contained world and talking to other people.

And despite the fact that I'm going to have to kiss my social life goodbye, this semester seems like it's going to be a good one. I almost got to move into a house, which made me really really happy (because I love old houses very very much), but it didn't quite work out. But I'm happy with that, too, because I have two of the best roommates anyone could ask for. So if this is where I'm meant to be (and there's nowhere you can be that isn't where you're meant to be), then I'm just pleased as punch to see what lies in store.

Wednesday, August 11, 2010

Flight of Fancy

Oh how the sea,
To you and me
sings a longing ecstasy.

Hey friends. I know it's been a while since we last talked. I didn't mean to neglect you . . . It'll never happen again. Or, it probably will, but it doesn't mean I love you any less.

Wow, a lot has happened since I posted last. After McCartney (and the confirmation that perhaps we really might be able to give peace a chance), I fled.

I don't know what from; maybe everything, or maybe nothing. All I know is that I jumped into Artie, and sped off after a dream. Following were a night of satisfaction, a day of joy, a night of terror, a day of bliss, a night of despair, a day of anxiety, and a night of relief.

My birthday was gear. We saw Inception at a drive-in, which brought back a childhood euphoria that I haven't felt in YEARS. It was a funny way to kick off my entrance into (what I feel to be) the real realm of adulthood. My doll of a coworker called these my "salad years." When I inquired as to what he meant, he simply replied, "You know, fresh!"

I'm dismayed by how little I read this summer, but I've seen more movies than you can shake a stick at. I've become a zombie-movie connoisseur, a die-hard Woody Allen fan, and a sucker for indie films. Micmacs, Into the Wild, and 28 Days Later are probably some of the most beautiful movies ever made.

Sir Macca's Meat-Free Monday campaign has renewed my enthusiasm for vegetarianism. Go veg!

Ich liebe dich. Je t'aime. Yo te amo. I love you.

Friday, July 9, 2010

I guess I'm done

I love these people.

And these people, too.

So yesterday, after my third consecutive day of being at the store for 10 hours, I lost it. I closed early, and blew off cleaning to go see a couple of shows (the above-mentioned beloveds) and get a strawberry-oreo milkshake.

Totally worth it.

And as a side note, in less than 72 hours, I will be watching Paul McCartney. It's funny: I've been brushing up on the Beatles songs that I can play on guitar. I think it's because I secretly hope that Paulie will hurt his hand (in a very mild way), and that no one else in his band will know the songs, so he'll have to ask the audience, "Can anyone here play Jenny Wren?" to which I will triumphantly respond in the affirmative, and then me and my favorite Beatle will rock out together.

Don't judge me.

Monday, July 5, 2010

Macca, baby!

"There's a fine line between recklessness and courage"
- Paulie . . . Who else?

Hello friends. Life is swell.

There's a very deep-seated comfort that seems to be engulfing every aspect of my life, and it's so beautiful.

The agenda for this week is looking a little intimidating: Work everyday from 11-9. Yikes. But I do get to have a movie night with Taylor, and I also start official half-marathon training. Which is something that makes me wicked excited, because it's about progress and self-betterment - things that I am quickly discovering give my life a thrilling new energy. I live to strive!

But I also live to be happy. So after Jon is back from Havasupai and can cover my shifts, I am Oregon bound. I've got a beautiful friend who gave me a nice little list of things to see and do while I'm there, too.

Oh, and did I mention that I'm going to see Paul McCartney in concert?

PAUL EFFING MCCARTNEY. Like, the real live (vegetarian) Beatle!

Sometimes my life is just too marvelous for words.

Sunday, June 27, 2010


It's funny what life throws at you. I took Claudio in for his yearly Safety and Emissions inspection, and it turns out that he's got a broken motor mount. Which wouldn't be such a big deal if he were anything other than a 1999 Hyundai Sonata. But since he is a 1999 Hyundai Sonata, it's going to cost $400 to get it replaced. Rough. But we take it in stride. I'm hoofing it a whole bunch more, and that's a win-win situation, both for me and the environment.

Plus, as of Tuesday, I'll have a very nice bike to ride around. Conveniently, that'll be just in time for the cross-training portions of my preparation for the Provo Halloween Half Marathon. I kind of surprised myself with this whole thing. I know it's not a full one, but running 13.1 miles is still a big deal (especially for someone as fitness-challenged as yours truly). My official training schedule doesn't start until July, after this whole vegan thing is done, but unofficial training started this week. I'm wicked excited.

I actually got the motivation from the marvelous people who sprung a last-minute camping trip on me. We went up to Payson Lakes and did some hiking/walking/trailrunning/generally awesome things. We swam the lakes, talked about everything and nothing, and had a blast.

Oh good people, I love you!

Sunday, June 20, 2010


Wow. These last couple of weeks have been life-changing. Or rather, motivational to make some sort of change. I'm embracing counter-culture. I am living for the music of the moment. Hipster, Hippie, call me what you will; I am happy.

Sadly, though, I think I'm lacking a lot of direction. I'm full of this jittery energy that keeps spilling into nothing. So, here are a list of goals - things that I want to do - because by writing them, I validate them. Watch me go:

1. Continue with the vegan-ness. At the end of the month, reevaluate vegetarianism.

2. Write a song. Stop just screwing around with my guitar and make something performable at open-mic night.

3. Draw/Paint something to be proud of. Hang it up in my new room.

4. Conquer the UTA system. Make it up to SLC and eat at One World.

5. Find something decent at DI. Change it.

6. Write letters. Stop being so reliant on technology.

7. In the same vein: 15 minutes of computer time a day. Facebook doesn't own me.

8. Keep up the hour of yoga every day. Imitate Bryan Kest in everyday life.

9. Learn more about Buddhism. Go beyond Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Riding.

10. Get out of Utah. Hop a train to Oregon.

11. Tell people how amazing they are. Stop waiting around for them to talk first.

12. Hug more. All you need is love.

13. Buy a cycle. Scratch that - buy two cycles: one bi- and one motor-

14. Go green. Walk to work (and, again, conquer UTA).

15. Let people go. Clean out address books usw.

16. Learn Spanish and French. Practice practice practice.

17. Explore Neo-Psych . . . Man.

18. Buy a camera. Take photos and shake 'em like Polaroids.

19. Research med schools. Change major?

20. Visit HBLL twice a week. Pick a floor and area at random, and find one book on something completely new.

That's all I've got for now. I'll think up more later.

So much to do!

Saturday, June 19, 2010


"Don't you know it's gonna be alright?" -John Lennon, Revolution 1

Yes, John. I do.

Things are better. We're being positive. And listening to really great music.

Monday, June 14, 2010


My mom has cancer.

Not real. Not real. Not real.

Friday, June 11, 2010


So I have this amazing friend with great taste in just about everything. At his behest, I watched Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.

I loved it.

I'm pretty sure that a cuter scene does not exist:

Friday, June 4, 2010


Night creeps cold and lonely into hospital rooms. Soft, neutral colors turn sick in the dim fluorescent light, and bodies in beds turn sick with them. It smells antiseptic. I long for the hot, thick air of my own bedroom. My chair sounds ancient, but without a personality. The old red and white book resting open on my leg, and the sound of breathing from the bed next to me offer a mild comfort; still, I cannot believe that people come here to get well.

I'm tired. People are so unbelievably delicate. It's exhausting to try and keep everything together. But we soldier on, eh?

Ahem. Sorry. Dearest readers, prayers and love would be much appreciated, if you can spare them. I promise to reciprocate.

Thursday, May 27, 2010


I am tiredly relieved.

Rather than wasting my time on manufacturing a synthetic facade of stability, I can devote myself to the arbitrary goals that summer seems to demand. Things like finishing off the plethora of eggs, milk, cheese, and other assorted animal products before June 1 when I will begin my month of vegan-ness. Or getting through 3 books a week. Or doing yoga in the mountains.

I guess Paul Simon said it best:

Friday, May 7, 2010


I have great vision for this blog. I really do.

But when I sit down to write, the incredible vastness of what I want to say hits me in the face and I run out of breath just thinking about it.

Here, for example: I'm reading a book called Eating Animals by Jonathan Safran Foer (because ILL is stupid and instead of sending JM Coetzee's Waiting for the Barbarians [you know, the novel by the Nobel Prize winning author], they sent me some collection of political essays by a guy named Lapham, so 'til they get me the correct Coetzee book, I'm killing time with books on vegetarianism). It deals a lot with the concept of animal consciousness, definition of self and other (which is part of why I love Jonathan Safran Foer - he brings in Derrida and Kafka, too), and the question of essential mercy (both for animals and human social existence). Which brings up my ever-changing definition of (and relationship to) God. Like, I do believe in a merciful divinity; I feel like I have to. But, goodness, does Romans 9 have to be so harsh? So then I start thinking about the connotations of mercy with the feminine and wonder where the female role lies in the realm of the divine. Does the role really differ all that much? I mean, Christ was a blend of so many traits traditionally classified as "masculine" and "feminine." Am I just missing the mark on a really basic level? Maybe my severely limited human mind is just balking at these concepts that fly so far overhead. The heart of Mormonism, for me, is living a Christlike life. I try to live in a charitable Christian manner, though skewing it sometimes. Until recently, I sincerely valued the existence of others above my own, but a development of more blatant introversion has revealed the flaws of that mindset. I'm starting (well, more than just starting) to understand the magnificence and importance of developed selfhood. Rumi's poetry collection, Feeling the Shoulder of the Lion, has some really good insights on that (on the same level as Gibran's The Prophet). I read some of it yesterday on a hike, and it felt like a huge push (ironically) towards some kind of connection on a very spiritual level. I've started to resurrect my fascination with Transcendentalism recently (did it ever die?), because it feels like an access to some type of holy moment. My coworker James was discussing the need for an appreciation of life for what it is now, the wonder of the present, because you can't hold out continuously for an uncertain result. I agree, and I like that it doesn't need to put morality on hold. If every moment is divine, we still need to live in a way deserving of that divinity, while simultaneously allowing the moment itself to propel us onward and upward. Something along the lines of a perpetual breath of renewal and redemption - helping to actualize while actualizing. And all of that gives so much weight to the little words we speak on a day-to-day basis, because we are identifying (creating?) and uniting the taste of the word on the tongue with its music to the ear and its visual representation for the eye. If we can find beauty in one of those senses, why not all? I've recently started experiencing a strange bloom of euphoria when I hear people say my name. Oh, Bloom. "Being who he wasn't, could be as he wished to be . . . " And unfortunately this blog post has become something akin to Ulysses (though on a pathetically small scale; Joyce, you are still my master).

It's almost terrifying, huh? Everything is so darn intertwined.

Here, accept these as my apology:

Spencer Russell (Mudbison) - Wait For Me from DonaMajicShow on Vimeo.

Friday, April 30, 2010


Hello world.

I'm going a little crazy. Summer was here, but now it's in hiding. Boo. It's not that I don't absolutely love the overcast sky, or the soft drizzly rain - - on the contrary. But I am a cold-blooded thing, and have a very difficult time functioning when it's 60 degrees in my apartment.

However, despite the freezing temperatures that refuse to depart, I still manage to get things done. Like hikes to the hot springs and vegetarian lunches.

A recent preoccupation with The Shins (oh, James Mercer) has stirred an acute desire to comprehend time and fate. So I meander around in the mountains, hoping to stumble over an answer to a question I don't think I could even verbalize.

Dinner on Tuesday made me realize how much I absolutely adore my family. Other people, though, that's a different story.

As for media, this week I'm wrapping myself up in Indie-folk and Isaac Russell. The Men Who Stare At Goats was fantastic, if a little rushed towards the end. And to top it all off, I've begun to wade through Joyce's Ulysses. Hopefully tomorrow I'll be able to find a copy of Coetzee's Waiting for the Barbarians.

People people people. Does the key to self lie in the other, or vice versa?

Saturday, April 17, 2010


First final down; Take that my postmodern kittens.

In other news:

MUDBiSON tonight. Hells yeah.

Wednesday, April 14, 2010


I am done. Done with my Winter classes. Now it's just a few finals and then I am home free. I'm not even that worried about them.

All I'm concerned with at this moment is how wonderful the sun looks streaming through my bedroom window, and how summery my new black dress feels against my skin, and how much I love daffodil people.

And how Iron & Wine sings like a sticky summer twilight on a Pennsylvania porch - low and mellow with empty thunder and cicadas.

One more week. Then, world, you're mine.

Saturday, April 3, 2010


Awesome person of the week:

Christian Bök

Kim Johnson gave a Brown Bag Lecture last Thursday entitled "The Anatomy of Language." It was really great. I love it when people are passionate about language. I am inspired to go buy a gigantic dictionary, and to look up every word I use, and to try and fit "chartreuse" into more of my conversations.

She read to us from Christian Bök's book, Eunoia, and it was one of the coolest things I've ever heard. He wrote five chapters, each dedicated to one vowel, and in each he used nothing but univocal words. It's nothing short of amazing. Kim pointed out that each of the vowels seem to have a corresponding feel to them; the A chapter is very social, the E chapter very elegant, usw.

An excerpt from the A chapter:

Awkward grammar appals a craftsman. A Dada bard as daft as Tzara damns stagnant art and scrawls an alpha (a slapdash arc and a backward zag) that mars all stanzas and jams all ballads (what a scandal).

Brilliant people make me so happy.

Now conference!

Tuesday, March 30, 2010


I hate being sick.

BUT . . .

I still managed to get everything done that needed to get done today.
-wrote four pages of my research paper
-wrote two pages of my other research paper
-wrote a reading response to Tolstoy's Letter to a Hindu
-did some beginning research on my "Snows of Kilimanjaro" paper
-bought and ate French pastries while watching "I've Loved You So Long"
-did not throw up said pastries
-scheduled Visiting Teaching
-figured out Friday night things (Kebab Connection and Chili's!)
-created a most marvelous 18-credit schedule for Fall 2010:

English 218R: Creative Writing - J. Bennion
English 382: Shakespeare - R. Duerden
Geology 100: Dinosaurs - B. Britt
Religion 212: The New Testament - A. Skinner
German 202 - C. Clement
Honors 303R: C.S. Lewis - B. Young

All in all, a rather productive day.

Now if my belly would stop trying to crawl up my throat, I might be able to enjoy it a little bit more . . .

Friday, March 26, 2010


Mon Oubliette

Lying on my back, I pluck at smoky roses -
incense sweet and silky.
They smell like time, and old love;
breathing dreamstuff in the silence of

Creation and recreation -
my thoughts are dancing from a
smoldering orange ember.

Why do the good die young?

And is it memory
that evolves
into experience,
or the other way 'round?

I don't
recall -

Old souls are curling,
yet between us
we can only forget.

Thursday, February 25, 2010


Best day I've had in a long time. 

Finally got to watch Zombieland. I was a skeptic, I'll admit. I wouldn't have even looked twice at the movie if Aymara hadn't brought it home. I had no idea that a zombie movie could be so . . . Heartwarming? And absolutely hilarious. I mean, it had Bill Murray, for heaven's sake! Bill Murray! 

I've never thought of zombies as particularly frightening. I mean, being undead and all, I assumed their reflexes would be slowed, and that the only way you were really in danger is if you were cornered by a whole horde. Not so. They're actually wicked fast and super mean, at least in this instance. Given, the Zombieland zombies aren't classic "back from the grave" beasties - they're actually just normal people who got infected by some sort of new strain of mad cow disease. Completely ordinary bleeding-from-the-eyes, black-bile-vomiting, human-flesh-shredding people.  That means that when you put 'em to sleep, they're going down for the first time, so they're easier to kill than the traditional zombie. And quicker kills means extra time for - you guessed it - more kills. Kind of gory, consequently, but the super-explicit parts were easy to see coming (and thus easy to avoid watching in their entirety).

All told, a fairly believable romance, a cute discovery of friendship, and one terrifying clown zombie that was almost too much for me (Coulrophobia, anyone?). Quite an enjoyable flick, on the whole.

Deathdream, you're next. 

Monday, February 22, 2010


On a hot summer night, would you offer your throat to the wolf with the red roses?

Yes, and this along with it:

I really like this video. Jack White, I appreciate your brilliance. I bask in it. 

Saturday, February 20, 2010


Saturday, February the 20th

1:15 am - Agree with roommate upon a 9:00 am departure time. To bed.

8:02 am - Wake up. Shower (without much appreciation for the miracles of hot running water). Dress. Load backpack, search for route. 

9:00 am - Notice that roommate has still not come out from her room. Eat a Nutrigrain. Feel GREAT. Contemplate having 500 babies. 

9:28 am - Give up on roommate. Depart alone.

10:40 am - Having made it through the first part of the canyon, become dismayed that the road is closed to cars. Decide that Three Forks Trailhead cannot be too far away, and begin walking.

12:00 pm - Arrive at trailhead. Realize that it is actually about 5 miles from road close location. Continue on trail.

12:28 pm - Arrive at hot springs. Find a lovely warm pool. Strip down to swimsuit (ask self if having a two-piece means sub-par mormon status; decide not to care, as two-pieces are much more sensible). Bask in the weightless sensation that the water provides. Consider skinny dipping. Decide against it. Daydream about old Chem labs and their similar sulfur smell. 

1:03 pm - Lunch: two handfuls of dry Apple Jacks. Mmm. Remember that work begins at 4:30. Towel off. Get dressed. Begin trek back.

1:15 pm - Think about Thoreau's Walden. Contemplate the problems associated with living in a 6' railroad box. Wonder if next pair of clothes ought to be handmade. Remember lack of equipment and knowhow. 

1:26 pm - Think about Whitman. Overcome desire to roll in mud. 

1:32 pm - Think about Margaret Fuller and all manners of Transcendentalism. Wonder about Heavenly Mother. Wonder about relationships. Wonder about intellectual communion. 

2:00 pm - Rejoice in the feeling of movement and use. Decide that the phrase, "loamy soil" is oddly sexy. 

2:15 pm - Try to discover the question to life, the universe, and everything. Agree with Arthur that it is probably, "How many roads must a man walk down?" Worry about the state of the world. Wonder how on earth a person can become so far removed from themselves that they can do violence to another. 

2:27 pm - Curse self for forgetting sunscreen. 

2:40 pm - Reunite with Claude. Realize that total hiking distance was an estimated 15 miles. Start drive home.

3:30 pm - Shower (with MUCH appreciation for hot running water)

3:50 pm - Pass out on bed. 

4:25 pm - Wake from fitful half-sleep to Paul McCartney mourning Eleanor Rigby. Stumble into clothes. To work.

5:00 pm - Angsty Footloose dancing. 

6:30 pm - Realize the intense hunger that is searing belly. Attempt to make a pizza, but find no time. 

7:17 pm - Advise Cam on the proper method of knife threatening; walk right into dirty-joke setup ("Here, it'll just be in and out, real quick." "That's what she said.").

8:00 pm - Rocky Horror Picture Show. Wish for rice to throw during wedding scene. Time Warp. 

9:07 pm - Finally make veggie pizza. Eat a quarter of said pizza. Remember why Rocky Horror Picture Show is not in movie collection. 

10:30 pm - Home at last. 

11:00 pm - Coin word "itinerize." Itinerize day.  Eat weird bean-paste ball offered by roommate. 

11:25 pm - Fear for aching legs and feet tomorrow morning. To bed.

Thursday, February 18, 2010


I postulate that we do naught but oscillate until we osculate. Or suffocate, I suppose. Whichever happens first. But 'til then, we keep walking the fine line between ins and exes. Our lives and interactions center on one choice: Sex or Sanity - that is, Love or Logic?

And somehow, paradoxically, one cannot exist without the other; not entirely. Without love of something, be it selves, sciences, spouses, souls, then what air has logic to breathe? And in the absence of logic, love knows not even itself.

So, the solution? To live continually in that marvelous moment of sweet-on-tongue ecstasy, in which the cake is more yours than ever it was on plate - at the very instant you eat. A continual existence at these moments is impossible; but to live always in them is feasible.

The shortest distance between two points is a straight line - but life is not that short. We ebb and flow in emulation of that great ocean of Mother-tears and Mother-essence from whence we all came. We feel in sound as much as in silence, for silence, too, is a symbol. We rise and fall, but always with a brief respite at some intangible zero between our peak and our depression, holding momentarily to the everything and nothing of our memories. We stand here, in our grounded limbo, with dreams of our deepest depths, and hopes for our highest heights. In these sacred moments (or, for the wiser being, "In the mindset of these sacred moments,") is communion possible. The only thing left, then, is to seek out those willing and able to enter ethereality with us.

We mustn't forget that every being has the potential to commune with us - indeed, we are all extensions of divinity, living with a common core. We rose from dirt, from our Mother Earth. The makeup of our blood, our sweat, our spittle - it's all the same: Protons, Neutrons, Electrons - infinitely divisible if we but recollected the power. Thus is Hate the most irrational emotion; if there is anything in this world we love, the we can do nothing so logical as to love all. That which we claim to adore is built of the same stuff as what we detest. Hatred is merely a failure to remember this.

Then there are those that we remember more than others - those with whom we share heart-beat and heart-melody. Perhaps it is that a million years ago, one core particle of each of our respective beings dwelt together in one drop of angry animal blood. We remember the wild electricity in breaths of sensual oneirism. It takes no effort to recollect what we were, or might have been.

And so, as it has been for as long as the world can remember, we love to talk and long to touch. Ever will it be until the ultimate day when all transcend all and, uninhibited, we recognize our completion.

Monday, February 15, 2010


1 AM, and my sleep schedule is once again off. I feel like this particular moment would be one of those, "Oh eff," sort of moments, had not these moments become so frequent in the past few weeks that they've lost their effect. Woe, woe is me - but not to an extreme degree. Woe is unbecoming.

My brain has been going in hyper-speed lately. I don't know why. And even though my fingers tick across the keys as fast as possible, it seems only a ticking of seconds - time trickling away so much quicker and taking all semblances of reason along. So I'm left with tired fingers that can't dance anymore, and a page of breaths that sang yesterday and weep tonight.

Isn't it funny when the sky reflects your mood? Sickly hollow, and hollowing; I'm snakeskin and thistles.

But . . . The original purpose of this post . . . It's a song I love.

I love.

Sunday, February 14, 2010


In my Writing About Literature class we've been discussing (though not in any great depth) Literary Theory. Our Theory book (Culler's Literary Theory, a Very Short Introduction) has focused on two particular Theorists thus far - Foucault and Derrida. Foucault has some interesting stuff to be sure, but Derrida's ideas really piqued my curiosity.

Derrida focused a decent part of his energy on examining the works of Jean-Jacques Rousseau. Rousseau, in his novel The Confessions, puts forth an idea about signs: he accepts them, essentially, as substitutes. And, in accordance with traditional theory, the sign is supposed to make itself as transparent as possible to allow the most accurate view of the actual thing it's standing in for (Keats' "camelion" poet and Negative Capability sound familiar?). Rousseau makes his point by referring to the Freudian relationship he had with his caretaker; he thinks of nothing but this woman, and everything around him has some connection to her. Derrida points out a flaw in this method of thought, however, in referencing one particular instance when, in the presence of his "maman," the young Rousseau steals a bite of food that had been in her mouth. Thus, even when the alleged "being" is present, a sign is still necessary to access it. He goes on to say that even if Rousseau were to actually possess the woman, it would only be a possession of the act - another sign of her.

Derrida's conclusion is simply this: nothing has an actual identity. Or rather, the identity lies in the intermediates. All things are actualized by their signs, which, in turn, are merely signs for thought or feeling, which are signs for the being doing the thinking or feeling, which is a sign for the concept that someone else has of said being, usw.

So, if everything is nothing, and nothing can be anything, then everything can be anything, and you've got a start on Deconstructionism. I'm still undecided on how I feel about that. On the one hand, I love the idea that everything (on some level) can be the same, because we're all signs representing one another - or at least representing what someone else might be. It's very equalizing. But on the other hand, something in me screams out against such ambiguity. It might just be that ol' divine potential acting up again, but I find order a lot more appealing than chaos. [Note to self: post musings on ambiguity in self-concept, relationships &c].

I appreciate Derrida for offering some sort of identity concept, and definitely for providing a veritable Vegas-style buffet for thought, but if he's got it right (and I'm a little terrified that he might), the adjustment period is gonna be kinda rough.

Monday, February 8, 2010


Wie tanzt mein Herz? Wie ein Reh, das jung und wild ist. Es läuft, es springt, es rührt meine Seele.

Ich träume zwischen Sterne.

Komm, sei mit mir. Wir werden Geheimnisse flüstern und Schmetterlinge zähmen. Wasserfälle werden für uns singen. Die Bäume werden mit uns lachen.

Das ist meine Welt.

Kannst du sie sehen?

Friday, February 5, 2010

Number 9

I want a revolution.

Well, you know, we all wanna change the world.

Peace Corps!

Tengo que practicar el español.

Erin Brokovich = Love.

Mattress bouncing and sharing tie-dye blankets with Nate = also Love.

Gigantic sugar cookies are so cool.

Disco night at Classic Skating?

All told, this week has been fairly gear. Now I must away to "forests ancient as the hills, / Enfolding sunny spots of greenery."

Be well, all.

Love and Peace,


Saturday, January 23, 2010


A low base bleeds out of the monitor, trickles out across the crowd. Eager am I for this baptism of soul, such complete envelopment.
The drums next, stomping their dull fury. The body-hollowing beats enter me entirely, and I live only as they allow. They are air of lung, growl of belly, beat of heart. Let them be merciful; if they stop, I die.
Scalded fingers over black frets dance. Ear tickled and excited, I am no longer my own. The music takes. Me.
The hot smell of human is everywhere, but we are far and beyond. Sweat runs down the many and one who are music, are me, are everything and nothing.

This is how I am not myself.

It's beautiful.

Wednesday, January 20, 2010


Kinda weird to come back down. Or maybe just over, back into the niche that I seem to fill oh-so-much better. Which, admittedly, is frustrating on a few different levels, but mostly just in the fact that, subconsciously, I myself seem to be the biggest advocate for this role - probably to preserve the sense of security (however false) it provides. But playing it safe isn't always a good thing, especially when the concept of safety is so tipsy anyway. I am okay with where I am now, though I don't think it's a particularly eternal state of being.

I don't really know what to call the emotion I've been so taken with of late. Contentment originated in one far deep spot, and sort of permeated the rest of my life. I think I've kind of lost sight of the starting point, but somehow I'm not sad. Dead poets speak with tongues of lovers, and the soft vibrations of steel strings over a hollow body warm my belly.

There was an excitement - which was fun - an anxiety - which served as a reminder that I can still feel wholly - and now a calm - which is good for what it is and what I guess I need it to be.

It's painfully hard, though, for me to come to terms with the concept that the method of connecting with people isn't something that I'm going to discover by burrowing further into myself. Up until now, that seemed like a perfectly viable coping strategy; When the fragile, fragile people all around are so close to breaking, it's easy to duck down behind a barricade of consciousness and give them exactly what they ask for, nothing more or less. But what happens when what they ask for has been with you so long, it's almost a part of you? What happens when they ask you to tear down the wall?

I'm struck a little bit by the irony that I was conceived on November 9th.

Also, I take some twisted comfort in knowing that Pink Floyd understands.

I suppose it has to come down sometime, huh?

Sunday, January 10, 2010


So so so so happy.


Tuesday, January 5, 2010


On Love
"When love beckons to you, follow him,
Though his ways are hard and steep,
And when his wings enfold you yield to him,
Though the sword hidden among his pinions may wound you.
And when he speaks to you believe in him,
Though his voice may shatter your dreams as the north wind lays waste the garden.
For even as love crowns you so shall he crucify you.
Even as he is for your growth so is he for your pruning.
Even as he ascends to your height and caresses your tenderest branches that quiver in the sun,
So shall he descend to your roots and shake them in their clinging to the earth.
Like sheaves of corn he gathers you unto himself.
He threshes you to make you naked.
He sifts you to free you from your husks.
He grinds you to whiteness.
He kneads you until you are pliant;
And then he assigns you to his sacred fire, that you may become sacred bread for God's sacred feast. All these things shall love do unto you that you may know the secrets of your heart, and in that knowledge become a fragment of Life's heart.
But if in your fear you would seek only love's peace and love's pleasure,
Then it is better for you that you cover your nakedness and pass out of love's threshing floor,
Into the seasonless world where you shall laugh, but not all of your laughter, and weep, but not all of your tears.
Love gives naught but itself and takes naught but from itself.
Love possesses not nor would it be possessed;
For love is sufficient unto love.
When you love you should not say, 'God is in my heart,' but rather, 'I am in the heart of God.'
And think not you can direct the course of love, for love, if it finds you worthy, directs your course.
Love has no other desire but to fulfill itself.
But if you love and must needs have desires, let these be your desires:
To melt and be like a running brook that sings its melody to the night,
To know the pain of too much tenderness.
To be wounded by your own understanding of love;
And to bleed willingly and joyfully.
To wake at dawn with a winged heart and give thanks for another day of loving;
To rest at the noon hour and meditate love's ecstasy;
To return home at eventide with gratitude;
And to sleep with a prayer for the beloved in your heart and a song of praise upon your lips."
-Kahlil Gibran, The Prophet