We Should Fight

Ignore this.

I just like him too much.

How Long, Diana?

So I certainly love my friends.

I don't understand how I survived

before them.

There is something

so grotesquely comforting

in a bout of unrefined laughter;

in insanity at its finest.

There is something so perfect

in knowing that this group of people

is so close. We are close enough to

discuss our fights, to talk about 

anything. To admit everything to each

other. I am unsure of how people

exist without such a network of 

wonderful, beautiful people.

And yes, my friends are beautiful.

They are a such pretty girls, and

they ought to know it, people

should tell them, because they are

superb-looking.

And they are beautiful people 

inside, too. There are aspects of everyone

I admire so deeply. They all do things

that are so lovely. 

I love them, you should know.

They are the most important people

I know. 

And as we lie awake in the dark,

dark morning hours, staring at the

ceiling, and talking and talking,

it is so mundane sounding, I know,

but it is nearly my favorite thing to do.

Talk to these people, in the dark,

as we try not to fall asleep

and as we are all very warm.

And that we can talk about everything

is fascinating to me. I've never realized

so deeply before, that I cannot trust

any other people so deeply with all

I've ever told them. It strikes so deep 

in my heart, that these people and I can

speak so simply of anything,

anything at all. Everything;

we talk about our lives, the state of the world,

this war, people smells, arguments and politics,

and yes, we talk about boys, and we talk about

school, typical.

And in the absolute depth of night,

every time we ever have a sleep-over,

there are two, and we talk for a long time,

as everyone is asleep, because somehow,

we are always very alive very long after 

everyone else. 

I will tell her my love-stricken feelings,

and she will tell me about her actual 

love, her boyfriend. And we have these silly,

very serious, very interesting conversations

about boys sometimes. I have come to 

trust her so much in such matters.

And she is so understanding and we

can really just blab blab blab about whatever,

but boys especially. 

And sometimes I tell her things

and it will be the first time

I admit a certain thing aloud,

to another human being for real.

It's always so startling.

To conclude:

I love my friends,

basically more than 

life itself. 

(Although they are the only

reason I have a life)

Mysterious Power

It's Saturday,
and I've woken up in such a glorious mood.
It ought to be warm and breezy outside,
not so cold and frosty, 
to accommodate this feeling.


Sometimes you wake up
and just know it's going to
be a splendid day.


I'm so glad today feels
like one of those days.


There will be friends
and pumpkin carving
and halloween 
costume-putting-together/
scavenging.


And at least it's
sunny outside.
That's awfully nice.


And there's Feist, Karen O, and
Ezra Furman and the Harpoons 
to listen to all day.
Which is so lovely.


It just seems
like a good day.

Heads Up

Then the universe realizes you're
feeling down and overwhelmed 
and gives you a little boost.


But at the same time,
things can't be too
good so you get a 
fresh slap in the face too.

I Feel It All

Nothing has been superbly blog-worthy
as of late.
It's just a lot of work and frustration and
anxiety. A natural process of anybody's life.
It seems there is so much of it.
So much work.
So little work ethic.
Too much riding on it
to let it go for just a little while.


I am slacking so much,
it hurts me.
But I can't figure out how to fix it.
I am not doing very well at all.
Perhaps to accomplish things
one must put aside all else
and focus.


But then there is no perspective,
so all is lost and askew
and who knows what I'm going to do.


Right,
I am going to continue living
and breathing and being.
Because it is all I can do 
steadfastly and surely.
Being is my anchor,
I would suppose.


I enjoy that.
For no matter what,
we all continue in 
our being.
We sleep,
and it's beautiful.
We wake and look out our windows
and it's beautiful.
We love and realize there is much to hope for
and it's beautiful, too.


So I shall keep perspective,
as we all must in an age so full
of contortion.
I hope you can wake up
and say "what a lovely sleep"
and look out your window and
whisper "it's so nice out,
that birds look so pleasing
against the sky".


To keep in mind the small things
is to keep us alive.
In this sense we really ought
to be smelling those roses
and jumping in the rain puddles.


It's all about perspective.
The most fascinating, wonderful gift
we have found.


Also,
there was a classically awkward photo op
today, and he said "come here", very nicely and softly,
and put his arm around me 
and we took our awkward photo.
He then said "I am the most unphotogenic person. Ever." 
Which is not true all the time.


After which he was so very nice,
and made me blush, in spite of myself.

Rumpus Reprise

I feel like a real,
alive human being again!
It has taken much too long,
but at long last,
I am like normal!


And I did normal things
yesterday, and I will do
fun, normal things today.
I no longer feel confined
to my sofa! I can even 
dance and sing. It is 
so wonderful to not be ill
anymore.


I went nearly a week without 
writing a single poem,
without reading a single poem.
I did not wear jewelry for nearly a
week. I watched more tv in a week
than I usually do in a year.


But no more.
No more being sick.
Awesome.




(Comic by Kate Beaton)

There's A Place

I'm restless,
feel sick
but less so than I have.


I've been stuck here
at home for four days.


I hate being sick.
I dislike Emergency Rooms
and IVs. I don't like
sore throats and passing out.


The weekend was not 
a good one.


I don't know.
I am not dead though,
and I hadn't posted in a while,
since I sort of felt like I was dead,
at least. 


So I am alive.
Useless and confined to my
sofa, but 
I am here.
Functioning.


Have some pictures.
I didn't make any of them.
But I enjoy them,
and you might too.

The Chain

I don't know,
but I always feel
weird in the fall.


The whole time,
there is a nagging in my head
as though to say
"Everything is shit"
even when it's not.


Fall just gets me down,
very far, too deep.


And combine fall
with a library,
silent and no redecorated since
the 1960s
and you've got a really
angsty person
on your hands.


Because it's cold,
grey and rainy.
And you may or may not
come to more depressing
conclusions everyday
about a guy you like 
a lot.


And you may or may not
find yourself 
buried in books
that smell old
thinking you may as well
just sit there
and pull them from the shelves
and read them all.
Except the library
closes at five


and you've got
better things to do.
But not really.


Because you can't focus.


You're nervous about an audition
among people so very talented,
so much more so than yourself.


And you don't know how
to handle 
this boy.


Because there's no way it
could ever happen...

We Are Hot Dogs

Small things I am ever constantly 
wishing for:


To be able to call him "dear", 
without being awkward.


To perhaps hold his hands
in my own,
though they may be sort of
big for that.


To do a duet with him
on guitar, and I could do vocals,
and we could have a lovely time with it.


I'd like for us to be able to
brush our teeth together,
jostling arms for space over the
bathroom sink.


I'd like to ride the subway with him
at an obscene hour of the morning.


Like I said,
wash dishes with him.


Make him tea when he's feeling 
under the weather.
(I wonder if he likes tea...?)


Have small and meaningful
silences, in a room full of
books, where we would not
have to speak to say
what we wanted to.


And really,
I'd love to be able to say
"I love you"
just once.

Word By Word

There is a lull, a lull, a lull

and then the 

tide sweeps in and

carries everything hungrily out

to sea again. 

All's been caught in the rip tides,

all is being spun about like a 

washing machine

in a lonely laundromat.

Now it seems there is so much 

to be done.

So much and the time is always

so little,

too little.

I fear an exchange in

interests

will leave me 

without anywhere to go.

But now there are new responsibilities

that will make me a better person,

I guess.

Or so they all like to make you think.

It shall be worth it,

I hope,

for I am already nervous

about this influx of stuff

in my life.

------

And dear boy,

I hope you took my advice and

slept, and took a healthy dose

of Nyquil. I know you're against self-medicating,

but you said it yourself that you felt like crap.

So I hope you are feeling better, dear.

I hope you are not so miserable

and gaunt-looking; hope you are not

so stuffy-nosed and flushed.

You have a habit of over-exerting yourself,

but you do not seem to realize this.

On The Planet Earth

And what if in life,
we get caught standing still?


What happens when we come 
hurtling towards
our hurtful realizations?


When we come to a neck-breaking
stop, and slam on the brakes too hard?


When all of a sudden you know,
you just know, in your bones,
down to the core of
what little being is left in you,


that you may never
get out of here.


That if the opportunity arose,
you'd be financially tied.
There would be nowhere to go.
Only a stagnant sea
to stifle you, and fill your 
tired lungs with murky depths.


You know,
that you are not going to be
everything you wish you could.


Your visions of the future
are so far-fetched they
could only have ever been hazy mirages.


Standing still for so long,
knee-deep in the swamps.


And then you become so 
disoriented as to 
lose perspective,
lose focus.


But what, tell me please,
is the focus anymore?


Shall I focus on this,
the here,
the high school, the classes,
the awkwardness associated with teenage dreaming?


Or should the focus be on the future?
On the looming horrors 
coming up fast?


Or am I always wrong,
and is happiness at stake
and is that what we are all
so desperately trying for?


Is that what we ought never to
lose perspective on?
Should it always be our focus?
All our lives,
through the tribulations
dealt us in this random hand
we've been dealt by an epileptic dealer
in a seedy casino.


Am I always going to be stuck here,
in my waders in the filthy stream?
In this shady dive bar, playing poker,
betting my cheap jewelry?


Or will I transcend?


I am thinking the reality is clear,
but I chose to focus on my dreams only.


I can't bear the thought of more
stangnancy.
I cannot bear anymore thoughts of
my financial situation.
There is no small way
to push it aside.


If I am stuck here,
what is left?