Welcome to the Working Week

I feel so weak.

What is wrong with me?

In the Backseat

11:27 am
EST
Monday.
January 30, 2012


I felt like I was
pulling a Craig Gilner.


In the car.
In silence.
On my way to 
an ER.


Later.


Wearing a 
hospital gown 
and a barcoded wristband.
Talking to a frumpy
social worker
who was not helping.


Earlier.
Talking to a 
medical student.
Nikita.
She was sweet,
I would have told her 
everything.


They ask
you questions.
A panel 
just like they ask
everyone else.


It doesn't mean much.
They rephrase
the question they
hope you don't 
say 'yes' to.
So they don't
have to admit
you.
Put you up in a room
for your own safety.


I said no.
Because 'no' is
the truth.
And now I can be home.


I got angry.
And I think it helped.
I think I'm going to be
alright.


My mother called Helpline this morning.


One of my teachers called
my mother this morning.

Feel Like Myself

That nagging
sadness, insistent
in the back of your head.


It doesn't die.


It's so persistent.


I don't want to 
be this.


This is not who I am.

Don't Leave the Light On Baby

I hope this is the end
of something.


I hope things change.


Everyday we are new.


I want so badly to 
wake up and understand.


I want to take a walk at night
and feel good.


I need these thoughts
to stop. I need to get some sleep.


And I'm going to try not
to cry anymore today,
and to get some sleep
and to not wake up and
feel alone and trapped.


I don't want to have
to call someone at 3 
in the morning
because I am scared.


I can't do this 
anymore.


Something
must be changed.
Something
must be done.

Janglin

You know there's a problem
when you sit 
fully clothed
in your bathtub
and 
whisper softly softly
slowly
"I cannot do this
anymore".


But you don't know how
to change 




anything.

Stay Loose

The Pledge

My little brother comes home
and pulls a test out of his bookbag.


He didn't do so well on it.


And this kid, he beats himself up.
He gets anxious and worries and
makes himself sad. 


It's horrible.


He's 9. He has better things
to do than make himself
sick with anxiety
(that's my job). 


So he gets sad and he cries.
He studied. Hard. I watched,
I tried to help.
He knew what he was doing.
But he gets test anxiety,
and some things were not
on the study guide he was 
given. 


My parents
can't really 
communicate.
At all.
Especially not
with matters involving
the greater scheme
of life.


They are faulty in their phrasing,
weak in their consolation
and consultation.


So I talked to him.
(It was like one
of the bonding scenes
straight outta Hollywood, folks)


We both ended up crying, actually.
Because we're so similar- we
get worked up and stressed out
about school.


I tried to give him perspective.
He's good at other things,
he works hard,
he really actually knows 
what he's talking about.


He's a good guy.
And I believe in his ability.
He needs to know someone does.
He needs some more support.


We talked for a while,
I tried to tell him
that life is bigger
than tests in school.
That he is not a horrible person,
that he is smart and will
do ok in life.
He has other strengths,
and things come with time.


Then I hugged him
and we tried to stop crying
and return to our 
normally scheduled lives.

Chalet Lines

Draft two. Exactly 300 words (the maximum allowed). Perhaps not as well-phrased. But it may not be the end. 

The utopian ideal of writers coming together

to work, discuss and swap perspectives

is just that- utopian. As a group,

young writers are divided; a collective voice

is hard to come by. Giving such an interesting

minority a chance to come together and form a unity

is a truly beautiful adventure; and I am thrilled

that such opportunities exist for both myself

and my colleagues. Simply the idea of such a

program is amazing; 

how could any adolescent writer not get excited about this?

As we are coming into our own as intellectuals,

creatives, and writers an opportunity to come

gather ourselves and share philosophies and

perspectives is crucial and wonderful.

For we work with ideas, we create,

and our work is meant to be shared

and to be understood by the world.

Our stances on life, inspiration,

philosophy, on writing- these are

aspects hardwired into our beings

which guide our existence- the need

to mold these beliefs is ever-present.

We must reflect upon who we are,

Why we do what we do.

 May I generalize

that my peers are a thoughtful bunch.

When given an opportunity to study

within ourselves (an essential aspect

of having a creative mind)

we can create beautiful works-

but to perfect and cultivate our craft

we need an atmosphere which

allows breathing room and

inspiration, which I believe

is what this program aims to accomplish.

I want to be part of a union

Of my peers- where we can explore

What we do- splay out its innerworkings

and get a firm grasp on this thing which

ignites the brightest flames in our souls.

We need this opportunity to reach out,

Gather ourselves into a web,

To establish this community

Which threads together intellectuals

for a lifetime.

Gazebo Tree

This is the first draft of my Kenyon essay. It is in stanzas. It is 200 words too long. It is brutally honest, and is trying very hard not to be cliche. 

The utopian ideal of writers coming together

to work, discuss and swap perspectives

is just that- utopian. As a group,

teen writers are divided, looked down upon,

and generally ignored. Giving such an interesting

minority a chance to come together and form a unity

is a truly beautiful adventure; and I am thrilled

that such opportunities exist for both myself

and my colleagues. Simply the idea of such a

program is amazing; 

how could any adolescent writer not get excited about this?

I'd like to generalize my peers as a philosophical bunch,

but as we are so few and far between, it's exceptionally

difficult to gather ourselves and share perspectives

on all types of writing, but more importantly,

there are so few chances to discuss life from the view

of an artist. And as developing humans and authors,

this is a crucial aspect of our lives, for we are struggling to 

figure where we as artists, intellectuals, and creatives

fit into the general theme of society and life. What better way

to understand ourselves and our roles better than to get together

as a group and discuss, through our writing- which must be out true passion-

life?

But not only is this an opportunity to meet people 

who truly think differently and see things in 

a new light, but this opens an introspective element,

as well. How can a writer improve their craft without

critique in a non-threatening environment? It's nearly impossible.

We thrive off of feedback, we need the chance to write 

those drafts and delve below the surface of 

this art form. We must know who we are,

we must understand why we write, in order

to become better. Two weeks in a writing-oriented

environment can help us to understand all

of the elements of the art form and ourselves

so much more. Every artist must have time

to think and contemplate upon why

we are who we are, why we do what we do. 

We are artists, and a part of that is reflecting

upon the self and our own work. There is no

better way to do this compelling soul-searching

than to gather ourselves with people who 

are following a similar map to our own in an environment

meant to cater to the intellect and writer.

I want to be part of some union among

my peers in which we can truly

explore what we do. We can splay out

its innerworkings and get a firm grasp

on this thing which ignites the brightest

of flames in our souls. We need this chance

to adventure into ourselves and our work,

but also to reach out and gather

these connections which hold us together

as artists.

To explore this part of our beings

is an opportunity not given often,

nor lightly. As teen writers, though,

we need this, to expand ourselves

in so many ways- in our art, our philosophy,

the central theory of our lives.

And I would like nothing more than

to take such an adventure into

my work and myself. 

Walking in the Park

Somedays I wake up
and I'm already sad.


Somedays I wake up
and question what I'm doing.


Is this what I should do?
Why am I unhappy?
Where am I going?


Somedays I wake up
and really wish I 
was not an artist.


I sometimes admit 
in some sector of my brain
that maybe I am an artist.
I know I'm delving
into being an intellectual,
being a creative.
I think I might be an artist.


And somedays 
I pull my sheets across my face
and regret this 
realization,
this part of me.


I think artists are born
with brains that 
truly function on a different level,
on a parallel plane.
Left of center. 


This genre of people
are more different than different.
And I don't know how
or why but I think it's true.


The perspective is totally different,
the thoughts, functioning, living,
it's different.


And I think perhaps 
I have that.


It could just be me 
being a teenager.


But another part farther
within me says,
"wake up stupid- this is your life,
you're stuck with this thing
in your brain." 


I wish society didn't make it seem
so impossible to be an artist.
Maybe it is impossible
-I know it's hard, very hard.
But what the hell else can I do?


I am becoming who I am,
I am learning to live with my life.


Slowly.
Coming into my own.


Somedays
it's sad and lonely.
Others it's fiery and alive.
mostly it just lives within me
making an impossible nest
and telling me softly not to 
give in, not to let go.


Because this little part of me
is the reality I want to subscribe to,
but can't bring myself to .


My philosophical problems haunt me.

Between Us

"I'll lend you 200 quid, 

for a flight across the ocean.

Maybe things will look better

there, because they

couldn't be much worse."

-Belle and Sebastian

"Somedays I'm content to stay at home,

but other days I get restless,

I can't stand to be alone.

Okay, I've been known to cry in my sleep,

but dreams often show what you don't want to know,

when you're awake you're not so deep."

-Brendan Benson

I think this sums up how I'm feeling.

Steve Threw Up

And I want to be me.
To be solitary.
Because sometimes
I wish I didn't have to 
depend on other people.


Even though some people
are so wonderful.
I love them.


But sometimes
people make you angry.


So it'd be nice
to be completely 
independent.


Lonely? Yes.
Convenient. Yes.

Mother Whale Eyeless

Today may not be over

but my verdict is 

already in,

and I don't think it can be changed.

Everything is

shit.

Sweet and Soft

I'm exploring the contextual
uses of the word 
"jangly"
and would like to know,
if you are reading this,
what does that word
feel like to you?
What does it sound like?


Do not tell me what it means.
That is subjective.
But tell me 
where in your mind
this word falls,
is it a bell-ish sound?
Chimes? Or tinny guitars?
Is it folk music?
Does it feel like
sunshine? Or castanets?
Does it sound like
Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros?


If so, I venture to say we have
a lot in common.


Please share your experience
with the word jangly.


Much appreciated.


Ahh, so I spend the night
in creative endeavors,
I have painted
and destroyed things
to make newer things out of old,
and it feels nice to 
work with my hands to
make something.


It is reassuring
to know that my hands are
useful in a philosophical sense.


I was also reading 
a story I had written
and never finished four years
ago, and how strange it is to 
see where I existed back those
four years,
it was not long,
but at the same time,
it's a fraction of my life
which has elapsed.


Which means something,
because I am somewhere else now.


Which is a lot of things,
I guess. 


But this story,
of vampire-human love
and the destruction of a family
and a pretty bulimic boy vampire
and a flighty girl just-turned,
this story
has something to say about my 
concept of reality and also love
four years ago.
And I think I had some good ideas.
Naive and narrow ideas as well,
but a couple good ones thrown in too.


Which is interesting.


Aside-
I need to write an 'essay'
to submit to Kenyon for their summer writing camp application.


Essay is in little quotes
because I am highly considering
transcending their 
very undefined rules
and write
this 'essay' as a free verse
extension of myself.


Just to scramble up their
pretty little heads
and make them look
at this application
a little differently.


Is this a risk I am willing to take?
I believe so.