There is no party on Friday night.

Friday, March 7th, 2008

I don’t feel like writing anything intelligent tonight, or anything clever or droll or ironic or challenging. What I feel like is letting out a monumental yawn, then blinking a few times, and then swallowing, closing my eyes, curling into a ball, and falling asleep. Just like that, without even putting on my pajamas. Without even brushing my teeth!

I had a long day.

But it was good. Things of relative importance were accomplished and I laughed numerous times throughout the day and I had the chance to help people which, I am learning, is one of the best feelings or it least it can be if you’re open to it. But even a good day can be a tiring day, and that is that. I don’t feel like writing anything, really.

So as not to leave you unsatisfied, however, I will share a poem I wrote my senior year of college. It was part of a project in my Digital Printmaking class, which is to say that it wasn’t a very good project and it’s probably not a very good poem, but typing the word “yawn” earlier in this post has got it in my head and now I’m afraid I won’t be able to truly rest until I’ve shared it here.

One last thing to preface this: in writing the text to this project I wrestled at great length with various literary authorities over the grammar, and whether to use whom or who, and was rather unsatisfied when the majority vouched for “who” despite its role as the object. But apparently these days “whom” is not as popular, at least when used at the opening of a sentence, object or not. Can anyone clear this up for me? (Ahem, you know who you are!)

Tame

Who is your beast?
Who will feast on your head?
With your whip and your chair
Will you tame it instead?
With its snarling fangs
And its blood soaked maw,
And its Jaws
And its Claws
There’s the thunderous pause
Whilst the beast is restrained,
There’s a rip of applause
For the audience knows
The beast is no match
With your whip and your chair
And your shining top hat
You dominate any who get in your way,
So who will it be?
Whom will you tame?

I guess that doesn’t actually contain the word “yawn” at all, does it? I wonder why “yawn” made me think of it. The project itself contained images of a lion with his mouth wide open, probably roaring, but maybe it makes me think of yawning. I yawned just now typing that. It’s time for bed. (And yes, okay, I’ll brush my teeth and dress in pajamas first.)

Waxing and waning, and generally waiting.

Monday, February 11th, 2008

I must have gotten into a pretty comfortable routine, because I never seem to have much to write about anymore. Just now I almost wrote an entire post about how much I love my bathroom, because it is 100 degrees at any given time (but maybe you knew that already?). Maybe what this tells me is that I ought to be working on my supposed novel, or turning out a few short stories, or at the very least spending some time writing a poem or two. Poems are the easy ones, right? Take a look it’s in a book, you little crook.

Poems aren’t that easy, I guess. I manage to write about two or three poems a year, and I’d say they take a lot more work than my average blog post. Or maybe that’s not true. I wrote my best (or at least my personal favorite) about a year ago, maybe you read it in that old blog of mine:

There is a woman who listens and a woman who speaks.
Seldom do these two women meet.
Seldom they sever; their discourse is never
too clever
if ever they discourse at all.

This source of life has no remorse for strife inflicted by the fall.
We are all, each one of us, a knife plunged deeply in the wherewithal.

Celeste! Celeste! This is your quest, can you find meaning in it all?

I like to go back and reread some of my old blogs, as I’m sure most bloggers would admit to, and usually I like to go back and check where I was a year ago today. It’s a little bit harder for me to do that at this point, because a year ago these days I was so hopeful, so giddy and falling. The small quantity of writings from this time period last year attest to that, how absorbed I was becoming in something new, something nice. It’s difficult to read the words of someone who has no idea how much things will change. My how cryptic I can be when the mood strikes me! This has little to do with the approaching Valentine’s Day, I swear.

Oh, it’s Superficial Monday, isn’t it? (I always forget about Superficial Monday.) Well, here, I am thinking about cutting my hair. It is almost that time. Tufts of silken hair, wafting gently to the tile floor, collecting ’round two pairs of ankles, shorn, but never scorned.

Good grief. I can really miss you.

Handkerchief prophesy.

Monday, March 12th, 2007

Davis Dreckle met his fellow
doomsday prophet at a fence in the park–
It was dark–the sun yet an hour away.
“My brother,” Dreckle began to say,
“I see the world will end tomorrow;
might I today your handkerchief borrow?”
“Oh my,” his shadowy counterpart sighed,
“My friend, the world it will not end
Until every last tear has been theretofore shed.
And what do you think this handkerchief’s for?
To catch every tear before it hits floor.”
“No more! No more!” Dreckle said with a roar,
“There have been enough tears, there have been enough wars!
It’s time now for the closing score.
Tomorrow it ends so I’ll ask you again:
Will you to me your handkerchief lend?”

To which the reply came: “No.”

Darling Dreckle with his Neck all veiny from his anger thence
Grabbed his friend and shook him, pushed him backward off the fence.
“Tomorrow the world ends, but for you, today,”
a by passer heard dear Dreckle say
to his brother and friend where he now did lay.
And Dreckle departed feeling quite certain
that after tonight drawn would be the curtain.
“But will it end?” asked softly his friend
who as chance would have it, did not die.
“For there are still more tears to cry.”
And he himself shed only two
Which mingled with the morning dew,

For his handkerchief had missed them.

Can you find meaning?

Sunday, February 25th, 2007

There is a woman who listens and a woman who speaks.
Seldom do these two women meet.
Seldom they sever; their discourse is never
too clever
if ever they discourse at all.

This source of life has no remorse for strife inflicted by the fall.
We are all, each one of us, a knife plunged deeply in the wherewithal.

Celeste! Celeste! This is your quest, can you find meaning in it all?