when it's over...

...that's the time I start to blog again.

But now, I'm working on a particular project, so flit on over here if you feel so inclined, as I will likely be counting clouds very infrequently for the rest of the summer, at least.

Cheers!


(this isn't me, just a childhood doppelganger in better clothes)

here at the end of all things

Welp, now I am done.

Whelp, now I am done. Take my plate away and wash it with your salty, salty tears. Apparently I am feeling silly today, so I won't claim much space here. Good interweb manners call for reciprocity--though modesty might decree otherwise. Ergo, I must recommend that you flit over to Bought Books for excellent reviews of mostly modestly priced books (and, on occasion, students). Erroneous "fan" labelling of me aside, I highly recommend this blog for your RSS.

fugitive peaces

i'm not entirely convinced
that names need remembering.
that
once lost
they render spirit irretrievable
mustardyellow, ochre, gilded, she peers through the fraying curtains
into nothing
and this is significant.
this
is where - how - when - holocaust begins
seeping, apartheid steeped in gastide

broken mirrors, immobile, fragmented, but whole
and irreducible
the skin, taut under her twentysomething sunkissed
eyelash, smooth as uninterrupted embryo
or unripe starfruit
untangled, unrepentant,
she watches the light refract in
the wayward running raindrop
clinging to existence through
liminal glass.

when she was killed, they said
amelia, bella, sinead, guinevere
was beautiful
and young
brilliant
(unwise)
fresh
(untouched)
was delicate
elegant
and light.
that susan,
jocelyn, anna, dale
will be missed
won't be forgotten
waits
in the tightest clutches of heaven
for those who remember her.

but she is watching still
watching, still,
exposition dense and unreadable
as the rain breaks loose and sinks into
pungent loam.

feudal

because for some reason this is what came to mind. Why? Goodness. (Expletive or otherwise, take your pick.) If everything is perennially elusive -- including my ability to parse coherently and type appropriately -- then what exactly is there to be gained? Nothing, of course. Therein lies the eternal beauty of the world; it is meaningless, non-moral (as opposed to amoral); there's plenty of room to care as you will where you like of you choose. Your impact is effortless and infinite, unknowable and untraceable, and absolutely essential in its non-essence. You are breathing the souls of the universe, their bodies; you are never touching and never separate; you are absolutely individual and impossible to extricate. You not only can change the world, but are completely incapable of not doing so. Your complacence or combustion sparks, jives, sails. You have been everywhere, everywhen in the universe...and are there, then, now. You know everything you will ever need and absolutely nothing concrete. You are already complete in your profound emptiness. You can breathe out, now. You made it. Shall we?

spirit[ed] away (a way; aw, ay?)

The resilience of the human spirit (alright, spirit at all) never ceases to amaze me. Despondence, mortification, pain, suffering -- everywhere, an omnipresence of Pandora's eternal guilt complex waiting to be affirmed, embraced, acknowledged. And there is always, perennially, choice. The pain, as she earnestly confided, is one thing...suffering, as much as I've connected the two, is optional. It is in counting the out-breaths that we can really feel the release of each individual moment. Perhaps this is how I conceive of a moment as a unit of time -- the passage between each glorious exhalation.

Conspiratiorial...conspiritorial? Spirit and halation are entwined, tangled, inextricably. The difference, when one is perceived, is in the perceiver; the locus remains eternally inaccessible, elusive and dynamic. It is least phenomenological in stasis, however, which is as compelling an argument as any I've ever encountered for flexibility of my self (myself, my's elf, etc ad nauseam). I'd like to perceive infinite possibility recirocally, or strive and seek, forgoing finding to never yield.

responses

There were two (or two and a half) postcards I wanted to respond out loud to immediately this week (on Postsecret); I will proceed to do so in text instead.


As much as I get this (and I really, really do), it makes me sad. I'd like to think, still, based entirely on Campbellian faith, that you, whoever you are, will be proven erroneous. There's something potentially exquisite about any kind of intimacy. Don't rush it, though. Don't force it, or you will find that you repeatedly prove yourself right. I've done it. I'm done it. I send you, stranger, a digital hug that you will likely never receive...but just because you have not experienced it yet, does not mean that it is not there to be experienced. It's waiting for you, whenever you are ready.



Yes! Just, yes. This is fantastic. We seem to be drifting in such a sea of irony and sarcasm that no one is willing to take risks anymore, because they're too risky. Eventually, though, you have to take the plunge and try things you've never experienced. It's the only way we'll find solutions of any kind. So, balls deep, population of Earth. See you on the other side.

evolved?

how does anything -- god, allah, evolution, eru -- account for tigers? snapdragons? pachelbel's canon in d? how can anyone explain, in any way that's even remotely meaningful, sentences parsed? the mona lisa? raspberry-banana gluten-free high-fibre muffins? juicy mullet cinnamon gum?

you?