that's awasum

Verses on the Subway and the Street
03.11.04 + 10:32 p.m.

Sometimes the city is so aggressively indifferent. You feel like a pill, a superfluous vanity vitamin that it swallows without the aid of water. You stick in its throat for a bit, slide down to be dissolved in its belly, and you are absorbed, unnoticed and unnecessary.

But even in the city, the sky is childish at twilight, casting an innocent dusting of indigo over the concrete and neon surfaces, softening them despite themselves. The newborn evening is spread like a fingerpainting behind the jagged skyline. It is a deep, wide-eyed blue smeared with burning orange fingerprints.

On lonely nights, I still sometimes long for the country. There, the mountains may not take much notice of you, but they'd probably take time to form an opinion if you asked them to.

Know what happens when you write your life like poetry?

You become annoying as hell.

Everyday situations couch themselves in the soft ethereality of metaphor. Sidewalks become treadmills, and you become Sisyphus. Strangers and cars are seen as missed opportunities. They are all your romantic failures: Dulcineas to woo, and windmills against which to splinter your MIGHTY LANCE!

Gag.

If I were to make a movie of my life, it wouldn't depict my linear story. So far, there's not much tale to tell. In my biopic, the title character wouldn't have many spoken lines. My life, as shown, would consist of what the title character observed; things would come to life through her eyes.

There's something to be said for pretty delusions of grandeur.

See? See what happens when you ascribe poetic attributes to EVery FUCKing SECond YOU are LIVing? (Hey! Trochaic pentameter!)

(Shoot me.)

God. Insist on seeing everything as verse, and your life becomes the inward-spiralling theme of itself.

The problem with makingyour life into a poem is that, enjoyable as the dreaminess might seem, NOTHING HAPPENS in a poem! The good poems are about abstract things or people who ... aren't you. Even if the piece IS about you, it's about you in the abstract sense. If you live your life like that, no matter how lyrical and rich in image, nothing gets done.

When each moment becomes its own, separate universe, the world can be a very lonely place.

If I hadn't any sense of humor, I'd be fucking unbearable. I realize this.

Hey, today's my sister's birthday! Happy #28, Sistabeans!

~ Last Five Entries ~

Moths, and Relative Nonsense - 08.18.05

I Finally Have Internet Access in my Bedroom. But, No Ashtray. - 08.09.05

Here I Am - 08.02.05

One-Armed Paper Hanger Earns her Wings - 07.29.05

Sugar & Lemon - 07.28.05

BUY JEN'S BOOK! BUY IT! DO IT!

BUY DEAN'S BOOK, TOO! YOU KNOW YOU WANNA! SERIOUSLY.
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words Š luvabeans, 2003 - 2004