You gave me a poem last night

I commandeered your sleeping self and wrote about it.

Thank you! ;-)

--

The dreams still drive me. After all this time, I'm still looking for signs.

For a good afternoon

Am I boring you? Do you prefer the broken girl? I can think of one who won't. Would you rather the metaphored zings? Allusions to "you"? None of this Girl And Her Thesis? There's always subtext if you follow closely enough. Face to the ground, eyes unblinking on the underbrush until something moves.

What's saved me is that I can't remember good. Just crying and cautious fleeting happiness. A high, really. I could say more but that's not the point right now. It was the point for a while. I could write about everything wrong with this place, but everyone here already knows. I could write about everything that's wrong with what you call love and friendship, but you're too busy shutting doors and I've got other stories that need a voice.

green flash

I'm surrounded by green cups. Green cups and 7-Up. This weekend I remembered what it felt like to relax. That will pass soon enough. I want the way that will write itself. That won't come.

But maybe I lie. It's 1:59 and I just remembered something. The sort of something that didn't really matter then but when I think to write of it, of course it had to be there.

Other Roads

So if a man often meets his destiny on the road he takes to avoid it, then I'm on the proper path--agonizing over every drifting sentence, finding any other project/person/plan more enticing easier acceptable, and eventually doing what I knew I would--coming back, coming back.

"All the elements are there."

Today feels fantastic. It's almost October and almost eighty. I have a (hopefully) thought-provoking class planned. I've got some flipping to look forward to. Check check check yes.

--

Locked doors couldn't take away that smile.

secrets on small paper

(And tonight, this is okay): How will I fit all of this into one thesis? (And tonight, I dare to try.)

I like conversations with doors open, secrets on small paper, questions with so many answers. I like that I no longer need some things and like that I can't remember quite how it was like. I like humid warm night, silent thick black phone, love in pumpkin goodness, words and words and words.

It rains when you're here and it rains when you're gone

I can't help but love this line on such days:

We need the rain to wash away our bad luck.

"You don't need horses to have an epiphany."

On early end-of-summer Baltimore morning, sun dazzles off the bay and people drive past farms. Planes lift and land, someone dies, someone falls in love, someone says yes and another says no. Someone is born. Others finish waking up and stretch and look on the wall and it's Sunday.

On Long Island afternoon, comet-white streaks trail ocean boats, a power plant watches without surge, people drive and text and call on grid-schemed roads, someone hears the worst news and others get the best, someone sleeps for the final time and someone comes to stay.

that which makes the climax inevitable

Dear Christina, your comments make me smile. I'm glad we continue to be friends after our 101 Hendrick days. :-)

Dear Lena, I would be neither writer nor gymnast were it not for you.

And now I have a screenplay!

Dear Octoberfest, you make me want to dance. To be like them. I will dance again.

Right now I wish to write something profound, but I shut the door instead.

you meant to me what no other could be

I miss you all. You, and you, and you, too. I pull on Albany purple and Edinburgh blue.

I go through dreams as you. I am your man-appears-from-the-shadows-and-slow-motion-breaks-you-down nightmare. I am your all-night job, the one where you're responsible for cleaning and saving lives, and I panic but this dream has only a staff meeting, and I leave without anyone knowing that I don't know what I am doing.

Maybe this is why I don't sleep well.

When do you have time for you?

Uh. Sundays?

But not really, of course.

..

Well, I'm excited for tonight before the dreams. :-)

I hope you always find a mystery in me.

I measured distance in lines

Fall nostalgia whispers in. This is the way I'm always missing. I've made leaps and bounds, but the path still winds.

So many fires burning.

station-like activities

I can't concentrate. This is the sign of too much. But it's okay. I always say it's okay. What else would I do, scream? Today one student said, "I don't usually like writing, but your class is interesting." I'll take "interesting."

I ought to know what's going on and I don't. I'm sorry. I'm always sorry, too. What else would I do? Scream.

Remember my name

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ywGNmsGoMl0 --> my cousin says, "Jaaaazzzzzz." :-)

black heart inertia

Blogger has a happy piece of cake on the log-in page. Good signs?

Thunderclouds are the signs I like. Thick black streaks above the highway. It's still so hard to let go, isn't it? Count those headlights. Whisper your wants. We'll be something. Something.

tonight smells like incense

and I haven't burnt out.

I may, though, but so far one instrument joins the hum at a time. I explain "tone" with chalk and while everything doesn't quite make sense right now, it's beginning to. I will make it do so. I will!

(Too many metaphors:)
In afternoons, the peacock strutting; by night, soft shadow moving from shelter south; in mornings, as exhausted as the rest; but sometimes in mirror glances, the bun, the red jacket, the flip-flops and ready legs of a girl prepared to spring. The one I love best.

premise as personal conviction

I'll be impressed if I accomplish anything this semester (cough thesis) that's more than the late-night slap of fingers to keyboards and colors--but hey, isn't that pretty?

It's just like the ocean under the moon

Before she rises over the trees tonight, before my knee takes a sudden stop, the sun burns into cool upstate night and I think how nice it is to lead my life not by the thunderstorm now, but by the moon. My moon.

Nineteen-year-old brothers

I'm reading first-day writing samples and walking in Southampton in short shorts and sweatshirt (what else is new?), looking at neon-streaked portraits. The diagonal stroke (rush rush)--I see the lines of light blue, light blue, dark. Yet somehow the perfect shading to the suit to the man with the green drops hailing from his heaven.

And I think that some things, you just know.