flurry fury

i am flying away to cincinnati on saturday and i am so excited my head is going to explode. i am even convinced that the flight is going to be fantastic.

[this is mostly because the last flight i took was like a tiny version of hell, so this time will definitely be an improvement. besides sitting in the

airport for 6 hours after my flight was delayed, i got stopped by the tsa guys because i was carrying a space heater in my bag. they were convinced it was a bomb, [which, if i’m going to be honest, isn’t really a bad assumption; it’s older than me, makes ticking noises, and sparks sometimes] and so they decided that it would be a good idea to take everything out of my suitcase and question me about the heater for about a year. also, the person in front of me was the crankiest old woman alive. the little boy sitting next to me touched her seat a few time and she kept slapping him. at first i thought maybe he just had an abusive grandma or something, but then they weren’t related and she was just mean.]

going to cincinnati means seeing stars, reading real books without feeling guilty about not doing homework, spooning with my dog, and playing cards with my

grandma. and it’s christmas which is especially exciting because i really like wrapping presents. [ps if anyone wants to know what to wrap for me, i would like cowboy boots, a flu shot, paris je t’aime, a shamwow, and some new songs to love.]

This Winter

I suppose, with the wind and rain outside, and more to come, we’ve cocooned with blankets, warm fires. I suppose, like the change of season, freezing cold, instead of sun, inward, instead of outward, the season of that endless war, killer hurricanes, loved ones lost, I’ll just turn the page, start over.

I’ve often wondered if I’m a winter writer, rather than summer. Throw on thick sweaters, coats, gloves and trek high up the mountain to my tower, to “bear” for winter. One small, frosty window to look out. “Countless tales,” I write in my journal shivering, “layers of rain, snow, and wind, to overcome.”

It is this imagination that binds. Pen in hand, fingers spread evenly on a keyboard. Wipe the frost, find the pulse. Tell them what ails, or inspires. Reveal the colors, be it agony, intense and miserably cold, or thoughts of romance, desires, engulfed or enflamed by simple candlelight. Set the temperature and tone, open the page, begin.

I suppose, from my mountain view, the lights below, mere weeks before Christmas, that I’ve got something significant to share. A vast landscape, glistening jewels of light, smoke billowing from thousands of chimneys. Don’t know, can’t tell yet. Maybe nothing.

I stroke my long beard, smoke my pipe, pull the flaps of my hat lower. We are, the words of every season, all of us, to our last breath, touching hearts and souls, scribbling blindly, breathlessly, designing, building, hunkering down.

But all is silent, save the wind, howling at my back.

Look, tell them of the pain of death, so recently endured, what my eyes have seen, tortured, beaten, abused. Tell them of flying high above the fray, a view so magnificent, it begs to say, to express, to share. Create an unforgettable character, that mighty hero of mind and heart that gives, saves, knows all. One who carries us to that tearful page of victory. Lie down here, another blanket to keep warm.

I suppose, there is no greatness, not now, perhaps later, but we trudge through, press on. Every day, every season, different.

High above the howling storm, frost on my beard, eyes searching wanefully to heartfelt losses, human touch. Seasons that follow, lead, churn deeply. Imagination does not go cold. Or does it? Here, take this pen, write it. Eyes, alive and moving beyond the snow, conjuring winters across the ridge, snowflakes dreamily to the page.

We’re not gone, only adjusting, acclimating, different sights and sounds, binding. Takes time to see, peel the layers, undress. There is nothing to say, not yet, the world at our feet.

“Countless tales,” I write, “layers of snow and wind, to overcome.”

[Charles Mariano]

work in progress x3

is it possible for sound to make a heart bend?

i like these songs a lot a lot. but in that way that it kind of hurts, you know? they sound like memories and comfort and love and being cold. they feel like blankets; sometimes too much, but usually they're cozy. they let you drown in everything you hear. and then there are words, which say exactly what you were thinking but better than you ever could.

there are things we can't recall, blind as night that finds us all
winter tucks her children in, her fragile china dolls
but my hands remember hers, rolling 'round the shaded ferns
naked arms, her secrets still like songs I'd never learned

[ ]

a piece of love in your face that bathed me in regret

we liked to watch you laughing
picking insects off of plants
no time to think of consequences

you tried to reach deep but you couldn't get in

i wanted to thank you for a vision that was lost that you returned
but you're past where you understand

i've got nostalgic pavements

i will love this love forever

i was of three [or four] minds

xiii
it was evening all afternoon.
it was snowing
and it was going to snow.
the blackbird sat
in the cedar-limbs.

[wallace stevens: 13 ways of looking at a blackbird]

1: winter means being cold

sometimes when i’m outside, i try to think “cold is just a state of mind,” because maybe, if i think about it [or don’t think about it so much] the cold won’t get me.

i like how it feels when you first go outside, suffocated by your too many layers, and then this wind cuts at your face and blows through you. and i like that cold weather means that i can stay inside with a hoodie and my comforter.
but after a while of winter, the cold outside seems intrusive and the cozy feeling inside starts to be sickly, like when there’s too much sugar.

2: and getting sick
i have vertigo. i knew i was sick and not just bitching about having a cold because i kept falling up stairs and feeling like i was sinking into chairs. after waiting in student health services for 4 months, a doctor played the “follow my finger” game with me [which i lost at] and told me that vertigo can last from two hours to two months. my reaction: at least it’s got a good name. my mum’s reaction: “DO NOT RIDE YOUR BIKE. YOU WILL DIE. AND IF YOU DON’T DIE, I WILL KILL YOU.”

also: rabies. i don’t have it, obviously, but i

listened to a “this american life” around halloween about rabies and since then, i’ve been a walking psa. rabies is FUCKED UP. do you know what it does? it makes animals senselessly violent, takes away all their inhibitions, makes them immune to pain, heightens their sense of focus, and makes adrenaline practically ooze out of their eyeballs; basically, it makes them into real life, tiny, furry versions of superman, but evil. i know what you’re thinking: superman can fly and raccoons can’t. BUT guess what the number one carrier of rabies is? bats. and bats fly. if you wake up and a bat is in your house, you should get tested for rabies STAT. if you don’t get a vaccine within 72 hours, you die. new york and the surrounding area has experienced a ridiculous increase in rabies outbreaks, with over 300 reported attacks last year. and since it’s not bad enough that i live by new york during the school year, there is a new rabies epidemic spreading towards southwest ohio, i.e. cincinnati. i am going to be attacked by an animal and i am going to die.

3: it turns out that all your friends, they were just mean, dressed up
i can’t figure out how someone can spend so much time hating me; planning and whispering and manipulating and then pretending like they don’t care. but then, i’ve only recently started to understand what a waste it is. when i’ve figured something out, i expect that it’s something that everyone already knows. i have this skewed view where i’m just catching up with the rest of the world, when really i’m learning along with everyone else.

so sometimes i get sad for people i don’t even like. i wonder who has left them and how big that shadow is. i’ve decided that writing someone off as crazy overlooks too much and is too easy. it’s like denying them humanity, to say that they have no other motivation.

4: waffles

i’m trying to make a budget and track my spending and all those nice grown-up things that i really wish i would be better at, but i haven't been very successful yet. if i were going to estimate where i spend my money, though, i am guessing that it would look like this:

what this graph illustrates, besides that i spend too much on waffles, is that i should probably weigh a lot more than i do right now and that i should start saving my money so i can by a graphics tablet and actually draw pictures on my computer.

if you ever come to philadelphia, i will take you to eat at bonte before getting you a cheesesteak. meat and cheesewhiz just sound gross together, but that’s not the point, the point is: bonte’s waffles are bangin’.