Tiny Incisions

"He falls back onto clean new sheets of a freshly made bed, surrendering to the infinite choices life has provided for him. The hardness of the mattress has never felt so real. Mouth agape, he stares at the wall, the door, the pile of clothes on the floor. Some new realization is taking over but it isn't taking hold. The feelings coarse through his body but the ideas can't be articulated. Always one to reject reality, he ignores this and hopes it will pass. But it doesn't. It doesn't and it never will. His struggles will do no good against this adversary. Acceptance is the only weapon that can lull this beast into a slumber. Good night."

"Fear not the future and things you can't know,"
That's what she said to me,
"You're the only one I can be myself around, you make me feel so..."
As if it were an acceptable apology,
Why did we spend all that time?
Why did we waste each other's minds?
And never walked the pond twice,
You knew you'd go back, despite all advice,
Was it worth the words spoken and songs sung?
Nights with stars in our hearts and the sunrise on the tips of our tongues,
Pockets full of memories collecting like lint,
Fading like the light we made when I was a spark to your flint,
"I'm just not ready now, give me some time,"
I complied foolishly,
"I thought you'd forgotten me, it's been quite a while..."
Goodbye and good luck to you and to me.

.dm.

A Road Traveled

I feel like I'm at a fork in the road once again. It's the same one as the last time. And the time before that. I don't simply choose a path and follow it, for better or worse. No, I start walking and decide that this isn't the kind of trail I'd like to travel on. The view is nice, but the ground is muddy, making it hard to walk and, well, I don't want to get these shoes dirty. So I trudge back to the divergence and select a more suitable road for my purposes. It's a clean, dry walk this time.. but there's simply no scenery. On top of that, I can't remember the last person to pass by who seemed worthy of conversing with. No, this won't do either, but have I come too far to return to where this road splits in all directions? Shoud I risk trekking down another thoroughfare of unknown conditions? There's no telling what types of terrain or ne'er-do-wells I could encounter the next time around. So, here you find me, strolling slowly at the edge of my most recent route, throwing thoughtful glances from whence I came, waiting for my feet to join my mind that's already turned back.

-dm-

The Dangers of Conformity

“I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I have not lived.” ~ Henry David Thoreau

To be read at the start of all Dead Poet's Society meetings.

I love movies that give me such a good feeling. Granted, it does end on somewhat of a down note, but the spirit of the film outweighs that greatly. In an environment built firmly on the conformity of each and every student, one teacher goes against the grain and treats his students like free-thinking individuals with ideas and personalities. Wouldn't that be great? I'm not saying all of my teachers have been stuffy old men that treat us like children, but I can't say I've ever been inspired enough to stand on my desk and recite poetry. I would love to be though.

John Keating: "We don't read and write poetry because it's cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for. To quote from Whitman, 'O me! O life!... of the questions of these recurring; of the endless trains of the faithless... of cities filled with the foolish; what good amid these, O me, O life?' Answer. That you are here - that life exists, and identity; that the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse. That the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse. What will your verse be?"

The passion behind this one monologue just makes me want to go out and live life to the fullest. Wouldn't it be great to learn in a new way and enjoy yourself at the same time? To have meetings late at night, crowded in a cave reciting old poetry and creating your own and living life. Let's start a new chapter, who's with me?

Back to reality, I spent my afternoon in a remarkably less stimulating classroom environment drawing a still life. With art supplies, gas, food and textbooks, not to mention my current status as unemployed, it's getting harder daily to keep my kleptomaniacal urges under control.

I did vote today, but that brings to mind far too many topics, who have been ganging up and snickering at my confused little brain lately, for me to coherently link together right now. Suffice to say: I've never understood racism.

.dm.

I found this while reading some Whitman poems and it seemed appropriate.

I Sit and Look Out
Walt Whitman

I sit and look out upon all the sorrows of the world,
and upon all oppression and shame;
I hear secret convulsive sobs from young men, at anguish with themselves,
remorseful after deeds done.

Riding Free

“A car is useless in New York, essential everywhere else. The same with good manners.” ~ Mignon McLaughlin

The first half of this quote is common knowledge, the other half was ingrained in our minds today during our trip to the Big Apple. Free train transit (provided graciously by NJ Transit for college students in an attempt to show us how useful it is so we'll keep using it after the freebie week is over and the prices return to their ungodly rate) led me to plan a trip to the city for no reason in particular. It was raining when we left, but I decided I'd rather be wet in New York than dry in New Jersey most of the time anyway.

The trip was good, while serving no purpose but to kill time that could have (Read: Should have) been spent on portfolios, homework, projects, etc. I'm a big fan of procrastination, so this was just fine with me. We strolled through Central Park, rode the subways from uptown to downtown and back again, paid way too much for sandwiches at a deli, saved the life of an injured pigeon (tried to anyway..) and were harrassed by not one, but TWO NJ Transit officials about our free student passes. Ah, New York, you never let me down.

Oh, and where do the ducks go in the winter?

It seems they just move to another pond that's not frozen. I guess if the winter had been this mild when Holden Caulfield was heading back home, that fond musing may never have been thought of. Glad the (fictional) winter was much colder then, because I wonder the same thing...

Trains always inspire me. I don't know what it is about them, but the clanking wheels, screeching brakes, chug of the engine and teetering passenger cars just make me giddy and full of things to say.

I remember riding the train next to you, casually tuned into the sound of your headphones. Sidestepping onto the landing and up the stairs to the grandeur that is New York City's streets. Never once glancing to your side, at me, nor removing an earbud for just a second to listen to any words that were dropping from my mouth, hopelessly into the gutters and through the city sewers for purification. Maybe one day you'll turn on your faucet and pour out some of my recycled sentences, drinking them unknowingly and thinking of me. Just maybe.

Why do people linger with us like the phantom limbs of a wounded soldier? We've fought the fights we expected to win, and the ones we never intended to fight at all, losing more than we knew we could live without. But still after the war is long over, we think we can stand on legs that we've left behind and try swinging fists attached to arms that just aren't there. When can we become whole again without these severed appendages?

.dm.