So mostly, I want to write, but every time I sit down it seems like all I want to do is type up Bright Eyes and Decemberists lyrics. I guess to set up an AIM away message? Because the inside of my heart is still shaped like it was when I was 15 and no amount of taxes paid or resumes refined or vegetables eaten can seem to convince it to budge. And seems worrisome at times. I'll run circles fretting about the relationship between past- and future-me. But thinking about the scenery in my life I realize that at 15 everything was about falling in love and writing crummy poems and doing my everyday job through a clenched-teeth grin, and at 22 everything is about falling in love and writing slightly better poems and doing my everyday job through a clenched-teeth grin until 11 at night. So really in a way I'm just sticking to my values. Only now I know what phonemes are and who Ariana Reines is and how to make an Old-Fashioned. So... progress. Funnily enough, my stress level regarding sonnets has remained approximately the same over this span of time, though those particular stress vectors have changed somewhat.
I am now resisting the urge to post blocks of Bright Eyes and/or Decemberists lyrics. Such things run rampant on the corpses of old online journals, and something about repeating the past &c.
A self-deprecating couplet on my work this month:
o how the banality of viscerality marries
unhappily the distract of abstraction
Friday, April 5, 2013
Wednesday, April 3, 2013
Between a box and a right place
Um. So. Took an impromptu two month hiatus from this blog for the various and usual reasons-- demotivations, existential grumbles, etc. These issues have not been resolved, but have been integrated into my life to the point that I can either deal with them or deal around them. I think I'll continue to do both and see how that works out.
Anyway. Have hit a couple of mildly strange points in the last few weeks which make me stop and think. Right now, for instance, I seem to be in this oddly specific transitional phase of "I'm going to be losing half of my furniture in the imminent future but still have it in the house". I imagine I am not the only one who has gone though this; I can think of several occasions where it may arise. Well, at least one (moving). I, however, am not moving-- just losing a lot of key pieces in my living area, cutting down by an obnoxious amount the surfaces on which I can place things.
The grating part of the situation comes in when I realize I want to keep most of the Things that lived on or in the furniture I will no longer have (but still at this moment do). In preparation for the furniture evacuation, I have removed the Things from the Furniture. I am the kind of person that believes moderately to strongly in the adage "A place for everything and everything in it's place." So having the Things be not in their Place but just sitting next to their place in big exposed piles is getting to me. I want to tuck everything away in the drawers and on shelves, but I just can't. It would defeat the purpose. So whole big chunks of my (material) life are just kind of laying around on the floor, moping around like naked looking shabby and disorganized. Shambles. Is it an instinct to streamline or an instinct to hide that drives me to irritation around this? Can't it be both at once?
Maybe I should buy boxes, some of those big plastic storage containers just begging to be filled with Things and then never looked at again. And that puts me a step up the ladder to being Grown Up-- having some sort of actual storage apparatus useful for moving instead of just humping around stuff in crumply boxes from the most convenient restaurant back dock. But then when the boxes are not filled and the Things are living in their Places will I get just as mad at them for loitering around? Guess I may just have to find out the hard way. Alternately, Leave books, notepads, pens, headphones, etc. scattered around in the open like a foul bachelorette frog and just build up tolerance until I find a good deal on a coffee table on craigslist. Life decisions.
ALSO April is National Poetry Month and I would like to make some attempt to celebrate (is that the right word? I think so) it. So maybe I'm writing some poems, but mostly I'm just writing sonorous scribbles in my notebook. In the interest of full disclosure, I was going to post some of those scraps here daily(ish) for the rest of the month, but promptly got too embarrassed by them to put them even on fringes of a public sphere. Sorry scribbles, you shame me even in my public/private space.
So. Now that I'm back in the blogosphere (or whatever the cool kids are calling it these days), some things I'd like the cover: more about my shame/poetry relationship I guess, how I feel about being a Poetry Whore, how much I hate writing cover letters but it's even worse when you forget to attach them to your submission, something about grad school.
Anyway. Have hit a couple of mildly strange points in the last few weeks which make me stop and think. Right now, for instance, I seem to be in this oddly specific transitional phase of "I'm going to be losing half of my furniture in the imminent future but still have it in the house". I imagine I am not the only one who has gone though this; I can think of several occasions where it may arise. Well, at least one (moving). I, however, am not moving-- just losing a lot of key pieces in my living area, cutting down by an obnoxious amount the surfaces on which I can place things.
The grating part of the situation comes in when I realize I want to keep most of the Things that lived on or in the furniture I will no longer have (but still at this moment do). In preparation for the furniture evacuation, I have removed the Things from the Furniture. I am the kind of person that believes moderately to strongly in the adage "A place for everything and everything in it's place." So having the Things be not in their Place but just sitting next to their place in big exposed piles is getting to me. I want to tuck everything away in the drawers and on shelves, but I just can't. It would defeat the purpose. So whole big chunks of my (material) life are just kind of laying around on the floor, moping around like naked looking shabby and disorganized. Shambles. Is it an instinct to streamline or an instinct to hide that drives me to irritation around this? Can't it be both at once?
Maybe I should buy boxes, some of those big plastic storage containers just begging to be filled with Things and then never looked at again. And that puts me a step up the ladder to being Grown Up-- having some sort of actual storage apparatus useful for moving instead of just humping around stuff in crumply boxes from the most convenient restaurant back dock. But then when the boxes are not filled and the Things are living in their Places will I get just as mad at them for loitering around? Guess I may just have to find out the hard way. Alternately, Leave books, notepads, pens, headphones, etc. scattered around in the open like a foul bachelorette frog and just build up tolerance until I find a good deal on a coffee table on craigslist. Life decisions.
ALSO April is National Poetry Month and I would like to make some attempt to celebrate (is that the right word? I think so) it. So maybe I'm writing some poems, but mostly I'm just writing sonorous scribbles in my notebook. In the interest of full disclosure, I was going to post some of those scraps here daily(ish) for the rest of the month, but promptly got too embarrassed by them to put them even on fringes of a public sphere. Sorry scribbles, you shame me even in my public/private space.
So. Now that I'm back in the blogosphere (or whatever the cool kids are calling it these days), some things I'd like the cover: more about my shame/poetry relationship I guess, how I feel about being a Poetry Whore, how much I hate writing cover letters but it's even worse when you forget to attach them to your submission, something about grad school.
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