I run out of ideas every day! Each day I live in mortal fear that I’ve used up the last idea that’ll ever come to me. If you don’t wanna run out of ideas the best thing to do is not to execute them. You can tell yourself that you don’t have the time or resources to do ‘em right. Then they stay around in your head like brain crack. No matter how bad things get, at least you have those good ideas that you’ll get to later.
Some people get addicted to that brain crack. And the longer they wait, the more they convince themselves of how perfectly that idea should be executed. And they imagine it on a beautiful platter with glitter and rose petals. And everyone’s clapping for them. But the bummer is most ideas kinda suck when you do ‘em. And no matter how much you plan you still have to do something for the first time. And you’re almost guaranteed the first time you do something it’ll blow. But somebody who does something bad three times still has three times the experience of that other person who’s still dreaming of all the applause. When I get an idea, even a bad one, I try to get it out into the world as fast as possible, ‘cause I certainly don’t want to be addicted to brain crack.
You’re probably wondering why I’m walking down Willow in a towel. In short: it’s the greedy bastards’ in Derryberry fault!! You see, a bureaucrat will do anything to swing a few extra bucks of profit. Even if it means forcing me to cross campus in a towel.
Have you heard of these water-saver showerheads? It comes out like a dribble and it even shuts off the water after 5 minutes. With the total bogus front of making the campus “go green”, the greedy bastards in Derryberry had the resource-scrimping showerheads installed in all the dorms! But that’s not the reason why I’m waving at cars honking at me like they’ve never seen a guy in a bathtowel before.
Not directly. I didn’t mind the 5 minute showers. Fundamentally, it drives me crazy the greedy bastards in Derryberry would even try such a flagrant method of saving money, but the in-and-out showers worked with my lifestyle enough that I had no urge to put up a fight. However, every other guy living in the dorm had an issue with the new showerheads functionally, if not also fundamentally. And that is why I am trekking half-a-mile in a towel to my friend’s apartment.
To their merit, the guys in the dorms were well-read. They knew their Thoreau and Martin Luther King. While quoting these greats, the ambitious young men of my dorm formed the largest demonstration at our university since the Civil Rights Movement. So, because the greedy bastards in Derryberry did something the ambitious young men of my dorm didn’t like, I have to go to my friend’s apartment so I can clean up before my big interview with a company I might work for after graduation.
The ambitious young men of my dorm were in protest. And it wasn’t a sit-in or a love-in, not even a drive-in. They had collected a hundred signatures in commitment to a shower-in. So the ambitious young men of my dorm, some in towels or nothing at all, took turns in shifts to fill every shower stall and prevent anyone from using them. The idea being thrown around was that the greedy bastards in Derryberry would begin to smell the unwashed ambitious young men of my dorm and have to give us our water back.
Although exceedingly ambitious, I must confess it was fundamentally as good of an idea as the showerheads themselves were a bad one. In fact, I was in support of the movement, sans signature on the petition. That is, until I got thrown out on my ass for wanting to clean up for my interview. My feelings, toward the demonstration itself is now neutral; toward the particular ambitious young man who threw me out, negative; and towards the greedy bastards in Derryberry, more negative than I can express.
So that is why I had to walk down Willow in a towel. Now if you excuse me, I have to take a nice long shower before my interview.
Wash over me like diffused light, like a waterfall. I retain my depths, but the colors are wrong. I retain my humanity, but my outlook has changed. Wash. Wash over me like a bucket of paint, Like a bubble bath in the ocean with a clean cloth towel. You don’t remember me because it was you who changed. Maybe it’s not permanent, maybe today is uncharacteristic.
Light from the sun Lasting 4 hours a day. Light candle Light electric lamp Light for the prevention of giving up Sister light Mother light Spirit light! Hold strong to your light Go forth and live Boldly with your light Light in your window Light on your ceiling Light the dark places you need to change. Father light Brother light Everyone light! Folded hands behind my head Unarmed in the light Folded dreams burnt in the fire and the light Delight in the light Make all things right in the light The sun of God the son is here Be freed by the light Stand in awe of the light The light is your hope and you are light.
I’m neither a fighter nor a revolutionary. I’m not a leadership position holder. Don’t call on me to get shit done. Don’t call on me to speak out on what we believe. I don’t know why I am here, if I’m just a warm body to be counted or anything more. Hell, I’m not even a poet. Unless failing to express myself in any other form except the written word counts as poetry.
What fire makes a woman burn for what brings her joy? What fire makes a woman radiate love and hospitality? What fire makes a woman forge a blessed family? Discouragement thoughts unfairly compare all I could have to all I haven’t. The yet-to-be-done to the already-have-not. The vacancies of the past to the unknown tenants of the future. But here in youth, I still have hope. Hope to be host to a great Somethingness. Hope for the wild ignition of the passion-fire. The blazing of persistence and excellence. A “yes-I-can”-fueled fear-destroyer. A locomotive engine, pulling hopefully out of station. I feel dizzy thinking about it. About that first one-hundred yards, more trying than the last hundred miles. Pulling every car, full of heavy Discouragement thoughts, up to speed The Passion-Fire Force earnestly overcoming the Fear-Inertia. Stoke the fire with Hope! With a mentor’s belief. Stoke the fire with Diligence! And with Love, and Valor, and, Faith and Patriotism. Throw whatever ideals you have into the fire! Burn away all your ideals! Ideals pull the train out of the station. Ideals burn in the deep Passion-Fire of a woman with eyes set on the horizon, and it overcomes Fear and the sometimes unbearably discouraging load. And then full-speed, Focus.
Distant foothills, layered in rich colors, like sheets of ripped paper, beyond the endless stretch of velvet green triangles of old-growth forest spreading out before me in every direction. Trail-side tree-windows frame plunging valley. Balanced on this rock, I see her, crisp against blue sky. She presides among the hills, instructing the trees in which direction to grow.
Me and Cary at the center of the universe above the vast green. “I’m going away.” Quiet desk calendar, circled day. Enumerated until school begins and he returns.
“Without unison between the right- and left-brain, neither is useful,” so we ascended into concert with knowledge and belief. Never giving name to mountain or tree or hawk; satisfied in allowing the ubiquitous pine to become our breath.
I found a wild daisy pressed into my palm, yellow with slender white petals. I twirled it between my fingers and looked through a valley-window. Tucked into my hair, my crown. Although wilted and dead, the daisy still sits on my desk. I had worn a tank top, but when dusk fell he wrapped his extra-large hoodie around my shoulders.
Today I saw foxgloves along the trail, afternoon sun and the shadows from trail-side trees. I thought about life, and existence, and faith, as I gave name to the trees and mountain. I said a humble mercy prayer as I left that rocky evergreen outlook, and came home for lunch.
“I’m a god, I’m not The God… I don’t think” “Frank Sinatra is God and David Bowie is Jesus, like in Ziggy Stardust.” “Ziggy Elman, now that’s one great jazz name!”
Yeah, a shining-golden frozen-snake, a bent-up tube of brass, an extension of the musician, so alien to view, to hear, but an animal-deep impulse says it’s so natural, something so pure that causes volumes about its power to fill entire bookshelves in the quiet, dusty, library. Passion and neglect. Like a dismissed Great Idea. Bone-yard for what spent a period in a Mind that called it once “good”. Like a spinning, dying Earth going to pieces… The façade of care and attention, like a comic book collection sealed in a vault, may be to blame. But, it’s much more than that. Ownership turns passion to neglect. From Author to librarian. God to humanity. And imaginative boy to neurotic adult. The passing of hands, from the passionate to neglectful.
Where is my Ginsey My Johnny, my muse? Where is my coffee mug! I drink water and self-respect. only. I drink Gin and Tonic If chronic dreams gin and lofty goals tonic. Stirred up, mixed up, smashed up dreams of gin and tonic An Ayn Rand world populated with Biblical characters: Jesus overthrowing the tables of the non-profits who think they can save the world with personal sacrifice, the Sermon on the Mount lauding the enterprising tent-builders. And John the Baptist on a train! Pulling into every train station to shout “Repent!” and baptizing the believers in the name of Rearden Metal.
You’d think after hundreds of messages in church services, I would have been instructed to see services as part of a spiritual life… but I feel like I was taught that life had to be elevated to the spiritual high of the services.
I love conversations with intelligent friends, with mutual interest and respect for each other’s ideas and opinions. And sometimes, they draw out ideas I had not yet put into words. Sometimes in just the right way, like this, too.
It’s that serendipitous encounter, when you bump into someone. Or rather, that’s only the wording you use to describe it in the aftermath. Because there is something more to seeing a familiar person in a place you did not anticipate to see them. What is it? My brother says coincidences are all relevant and you should pay attention + react to them. But coincidences, like dreams, are always fading away and being forgotten… unless they are uncanny and nausiating. The sick feeling of seeing the last person you wanted to see in such casual setting. Your day can be ruined. Maybe that’s the bump. Everything is peachy then, bump I’m crying. or bump with that friend you love so dearly and you smile for the next hour. That bump is not something you forget about so soon. You have to tell somebody “You’ll never guess who I bumped into today!” that bump flings you off the track you were on, sometimes just your emotions change from it, but sometimes you’re set reeling. "Dear God - you wouldn’t believe who I bumped into.” Life is made up of so many little coincidences. One bump after another. Perhaps that’s even what keeps us on course. One good bump to offset the bad. And perhaps life is to be thought only as coincidences! Coincidence you’re born. Coincidence you are in Cookeville. Coincidence you are in Poets with Emily and Clay. And everyday is bump-bump-bump for each thing that may go right or wrong due to the incalculable influences in your life. Incalculable! Super computers can’t even bring up enough variables ,but if it could it would print out the results, the formula: Bump.
American [War] Literature class makes me upset like nothing else in my life. Today we watched a movie about Iraq soldiers come home just totally messed up with PTSD. There are few other ways to think about it other than this: The American Government is Killing its own People. It’s so fucked up. I think the reason I can even sleep at night is knowing that life in this world is not the end-all of existence. I cannot believe in Evil so deep (that people use guns to kill others… on purpose!) without having a Hope in Something that is infinitely Good. And I have this sort of Hope in my heart, regardless of what sort of beliefs I try to put into my head: The Creator loves this world and offers freedom from Evil, and a Hope for a permanent home away from Darkness. To me, that’s fundamental… It’s so difficult to describe what Faith is in words; I think that’s actually what I’m taking about.
You know, it’s the little things that keep me from sadness, too. Like talking about boys with my roommate while eating red skittles. Like hearing my favorite podcasters mention my fan email. Like watching a music video. Like remembering I got butt-dialed by a friend at an awesome concert right as I was waking up from a nap last month. Like remembering how blessed I am (I’d try this “count your blessings” thing, but I feel like thankfulness is far beyond enumerations).
Once again, dedicated with Heart-felt-ness to Lauren A.
As Chuck would phrase it, “I feel like I have been doing a lot of things recently that contributes to a certain strong emotion that I do not find particularly pleasant.”
Reading Anarchist literature, listening to No Agenda, and about to dive into a semester of reading American novels about war… I’m pissed off.
At least I still have my first amendment rights enough to say, What the fuck, things are not right in the upper tiers of American leadership…
And then, I trail off because… I’m just an inarticulate math/science nerd. I hear the truth, I got it, I’m pissed off… but… I can’t win arguments, I can’t even clearly state my views. I just wave my hands in the air and say John and Adam said so on No Agenda, it’s out there! It’s true!
How am I supposed to know what’s true and what’s not? I don’t want to shut up and go on living my life. My parents always told me just to not worry about it. So I haven’t. But if I don’t worry about it, who will? Certainly not the liberal arts majors who sit on their asses watching entertainment news. Are they? I’m pissed and I want to do something. Spread awareness… GET awareness.
I’m trying like hell to think for myself, to want to learn and care (this even goes for things in general like classwork, not just political world-events)… but fuck it, if I haven’t been trained up so well to “Shut up, slave” and take the propaganda pills. I was raised to be a sheep. And fuck it, that no one ever thought of teaching a course to high schoolers about being able to read boring documents loaded down with legalese so they don’t get fucked when they find themselves in the real world, signing contracts and whatnot, like, oh, I don’t know, trying to survive in a country where congress can pass bills every day that are jam packed with whatever little clauses they want. Because I don’t like it, and I want to understand what’s going on.
I want to ‘not worry about it’… but for now, I’ll keep my eyes open and stay pissed off.
After some typical, god-awful entertainment at the last math competition, Tanner started rapping about “trail mix”, the zip-lock baggy of various prescription drugs that kids take, which was featured in one of the monologues in the performance.
Since that day, I swore to make it into a song, beat track and all. This week I’ve been working on learning FL Studio…. So this is my first song I’ve ever produced :D
Where is the best place you've traveled to? and what was it like?
I hate tourist destinations.
The first thing that popped into my mind was my trip driving back to university after Easter weekend at home. I pulled off the highway and drove down a gravel road because there was a sign indicating a park with a waterfall. I had to. Something in me made me turn around and go down that road. There was only one other car at the parking area. I saw a trail head down the hill from where I parked. I said, if the falls is less than 2 miles away, I’ll do it. There were messages hand written in marker on the wooden board. I followed their directions, they said just a mile to the falls! It was a lovely hike, out in the middle of the woods, in solitude. During my entire trek I had the thrill that I felt John Muir or the guy from Into the Wild had all the time. I made it to the falls and squat down and just stared at it. It was all mine to enjoy. I washed my sweat away in the creek that fed the falls. Then! I saw the trail that lead around the basin and to the foot of the falls. Oh! What an adventure! By the time I started back towards the car and reality, the sun was sinking down. I hurried. I saw an animal scamper by. Definitely bigger than a rabbit. I begin clapping my hands to fend of wild animals, a little scared, but comforted that it was no more than a mile to the car. I make it back alive. I don’t have any water in the car, only a jar of apple sauce. And Oh! that was some of the sweetest and most refreshing apple sauce I’ve ever had! I made it back to campus, a little late, but with a proud, goofy smile on my face. I survived the waterfall adventure.
It’s 1AM and I’m feeling journal-y. My composition book for the semester is almost all filled up of memories and feelings and thoughts and sadnesses and ideas and regrets.
Right now I’m online chatting with a boy I met in class. We’re talking about books. About how he loves Fydor Dostoevesky and Faulkner. And maybe it’s because I’m listening to Bright Eyes, and maybe it’s just because I’m trying to recall books I’ve read and loved… That I’m sitting here reminiscing about the WV media center. About those quiet mornings with Liberty, going up and down the 4 aisles of books looking at all the lovely volumes. Oh yes, it’s the Bright Eyes and eels. Maybe it’s just late and I haven’t studied for finals at all and I feel slave to the internet. I don’t like this boy, particularly. And I have to keep remembering I have to be deliberate about my actions so as not to lead him on. I’ve already made that mistake. I’m afraid all my new friends are male, and I’m terribly afraid that that means there’s something wrong with me. Today I’ve been having occasional short, subtle anxiety attacks. Or something like that. Where, for 10 minutes or until I try to get rid of the thoughts, I’m sure I’m a failure, and quite specifically, for so many reasons. And it’s such an intense, convoluted emotion, I can hardly even pick out specific examples of the ideas that flood my poor head.
On April 8 I will be wearing shoes. In fact, I will be wearing my nice shoes. This way, I will experience life as a privileged American first-hand and help spread awareness of the impact that hipsters who wear TOMs have on nobody.
There’s nothing like some good live music. This is the second time I’ve walked out of the Backdoor Playhouse on campus in hysterics. Some good music does this to me: Makes me feel everything about my life at once: all the parts that are right, and all that are bad. And the clash of emotions is too much to handle! I stagger out of the venue, past the kids lighting up their American Spirits, laughing at them and laughing at myself for enjoying them so much.
Secretly I love going to shows alone; secretly I’m awful lonely at shows when I am alone. They’re both secret because there’s never anyone there for me to share it with. I always look around and hope there’s someone I know and like enough to go and talk with. I always let everyone slip away as the lights go down and the band strikes up a tune.
And then I begin to feel everything. I just let my mind wander wherever it wants in to daydreams and hopes and plans and memories. The songs lead me through my deepest feelings; that’s the language of music, emotions. I feel at one moment how desperate and hopeless my life can be. The next, I know I’m just like them: I do what I love and love how I look and don’t give a damn about what other people expect of me. In addition, I’m engaged fully in the antics on the stage and I can’t help but laugh insanely because I gotta respond to the music physically, too.
She was crazy and I loved her. All three of the Darlin’s rocking my face off up there! My game is called figure out their influences. I heard some Elvis, punk rock, and some good old Southern Rock. Or, like the Avett Brothers minus the banjo and the boys and earthy sound, plus girls and ukulele and a few extra barroom brawls… ok, nothing like the Avett Brothers. (The other day I tried to compare the Avett Brothers to Owl City saying they were just like them only they didn’t steal their sound from the Postal Service and their lyrics are actually cute.) And you better believe that the girl who played the electrified ukulele has asymmetric hair like me. And if you can handle that, the next girl was smaller than her guitar and danced around like nothing else. And the third looked like a blond but there was nothing ditsy in the way she rocked.
a statement of an error and its correction inserted, usually on a separate page or slip of paper, in a book or other publication;corrigendum.
I learned this because, as it turns out, a 100 page notes manual for Static Mechanics is that hard to prepare. Good grief. They’re not even real errors. It’s a list of things one of those OCD + smart-ass kids might point out. I’m really beginning to hate this instructor. He’s real patronizing in class, too.
Also, there’s a road in a town I used to live in called Arata, and I want to make some clever art combining it and this word.