Be

here

It was all a dream

I woke up to the metalic door sliding shut. He said something to me.

"Where you going?"

I told him, "207th Street."

"You better get off now, you'll end up at JFK."

I jumped up and ran out to find myself standing on the far side of the platform, and staring at the uptown train coming, and going. I knew the next one wouldn't come for a long time. It was 5:30 AM. I called Su:

"Hello? Hello? Su, are you asleep? I'm in Queens."

I uttered the last bit with a swallow.

"Hello? I'm sleeping..."

"Oh, sorry. I'm in Queens. Sorry, good night."

The station stands solitary in the clear night sky. A small crescent moon dots the distance. I'm on the other side now, and it's as cold as hell on this platform. I feel as if I'll freeze to death, and my body will float up into the massive black sky, my body just another shell wandering the bitter cold, my body trembling to the merciless schedule of the patient A train, my body, so close to having been dropped off, like luggage, at JFK.

It's 7:30 AM. I climb into the living room couch and under the covers.
I sleep.

Anything dead coming alive.. feels that way

First thought: I hope this can last.

Second thought (more like a fear) : If it does last, where will it take me?

I went down to the gym tonight to start working out again. I took a three week hiatus after two weeks of working out at the gym downstairs from my office. I drank a can of "Tab" (the original redbull?) this afternoon and was buzzed all day. When I went down I must have been sustaining the high heart rate, or at least the chemically induced enthusiasm, because I went at it a little too quickly. After half an hour, I was burnt out. I huffed and puffed, and climbed up to the locker room to take a shower. I could feel the muscles glow. The flesh around my bug bites shimmered red, and the scabs looked as if they were going to erupt like little volcanoes.

Itch Itch Itch Itch

The last two weeks have been difficult. After pulling an all nighter, and coming in on Sunday, I felt the weight of a job that I do not enjoy and that takes up most of my time. Everyday I would work up the energy and motivation to get through the day with various exercises: drinking ice water, red bull, coffee, or tea; nibbling on pastries, potato chips, and gum; getting up to stretch, walk, chat, and poop.

Also, the last two weeks have left my body riddled with bug bites. I have a bed bug problem.

I sat there in my cubicle thinking of how boring the job was, and how pointless life felt, and all the while scratched, and I scratched, and eventually there formed a patch of red scabs on my chest. Gross, really.

After showing my rosey scabs to person after person, grossing out each unsuspecting onlooker, I went home this weekend and I fell into an itchy, bleeding, depression.

There's nothing more unsettling than being unsettled. I have yet to get a mattress for my bed frame, itself missing a piece that I must have forgotten at IKEA when picking up the item, and the air mattress I have been sleeping on has left me full of bug bites.

So tonight I'm going home. I've packed my bags, and I'm ready to leave. But before I do, I am going to open the closet door, take apart the drawers to my clothing chest, and deflate my air mattress, laying it out on the floor. Then, I will pop open a can of bug fumigation and shut the door behind me in hopes that when I return tomorrow, the bugs will be gone.

Remember to:

SCREAM

You, your best thing

What you do, and where you've come from: believe that this is it. Believe that there's nothing more. And listen to the wind, hear its language--this is everything. Find a way to love. Do your best. Simply remember that this is your time, and you'll not let anyone take it away from you. Struggle because you want to, not because you have to. You are not a martyr. You are not a sage. You are not a poet. You are not a peon. You are the complexity of human experience, not a peg in the sand of time--we are either all nothing, or all everything. There are no classes, no races, just a terrible storm of skin, hurt, and homes. I haven't written in so long. Perhaps I have no voice. Maybe we're not talking. Let's change that.

Love is...

It's good to sing about it
Good to need it and not have it
Hurts to know it and leave it
It's good to dream about it
Bad to know it and beat it
Abuse it even though you believe it
Make it wait and it leaves
Tell it to go away and it'll stay
Hold it and it holds you back
Hurry and you'll fall
Slowly you will crawl
And above it all
You will risk your life to keep it alive
Give away all your self
To have it inside
It's good to write about it
Good to cry about it
Because it cries for you
Trust it, and tell it no lies
Because it knows how you hurt
Every night.

Believe

Do I have any regrets? No.
But do I know where to go from here? No.

Dedication to: work? Family? Friends? Myself? My art? Love? Lover? Stranger?
Every answer already taken, by others, like seats on a subway car.
Everything rattles, and everyone's a stranger I've known so long
we unknowingly wear each others secrets.

"Seat?"
I blink in disbelief.

Dog

Have you ever witnessed and experienced the energy that runs through the animated body of a dog?

The pit bull has been treated as the bottom of all dogs for a long time. It's ugly face a symbol for an unrelenting jaw-grip, the pit bull has been abused and neglected. It has been bred to naturally feel aggressive towards other dogs, and combined with a preconceived notion that the dog is no use except to strike fear into people and dogs alike, we have an animal that cannot seem to escape its miserable reputation and its genetic conditioning.

I saw a 60 pound gray pit bull one night running with its owner. The man was stocky and muscular, and his gray tshirt was dark with sweat. The dog's name is Santana. He was excited to meet me and seemed ready to play rough after an invigorating run. The owner handled him for a couple minutes, and had to yell at the dog when it would use its teeth in play--this is a common practice to train dogs not to bite. The man smacked Santana on the side of his stomach and hind legs, and of course, Santana was unfazed accept for feeling slightly ashamed. Santana licked my hand with his thick tongue and I could feel him contemplating a nibble, which would have been fine; he meant no harm at all. The man had found Santana at the pound; the dog had been abandoned by its previous owners and if the man had not taken him home, Santana might have been killed. Santana has beautiful eyes that are alive with excitement and curiosity. The life had not been killed in this one.

Something to get you by

Audre Lorde wrote this poem, "Sacrifice"

Sacrifice

The only hungers left
are the hungers allowed us.

By the light of our sacred street lamps
by whatever maps we are sworn to follow
pleasure will betray us
unless we do what we must do
without
wanting to do it
feel the enemy stone give way in retreat
without pleasure or satisfaction
we look the other way
as our dreams come true
as our bloody hands move over history
writing
we have come
we have done
what we came to do.

Pulling down statues of rock from their high places
we must level the expectation
upon which they stand
waiting for us
to fulfill their image
waiting
for our feet to replace them.

Unless we refuse to sleep
even one night in houses of marble
the sight of our children's false pleasure
will undo us
for our children have grown
in the shadow of what was
the shape of marble
between their eyes and the sun
but we do not wish to stand
like great marble statues
between our children's eyes
and their sun.

Learning all
we can use
only what is vital
The only sacrifice of worth
is the sacrifice of desire.

I hope Autumn

Another morning, but today's morning is the first autumn morning of the year. Students are returning to school. The body aches a little more to stay in bed. I get up at 8, but it's still dark. The morning chill is a special sign. It means we're entering the dark period. It's a sign that everything can get cold, but that warmth is the greatest possibility. I always feel I might be reborn in the autumn season. Sometimes it turns out that I die. But every year, I feel hopeful, and this is the time perhaps most full of romance. If anything, there should be a few good love poems. If anything, there should be a longing, pure and crisp as the air, as nature finds its most poetic state, blushing and dying. This morning, I thank the maker for this reminder. Afterall, that's all we have. Signs to trigger the only flesh we have, memory. Quivering as the naked branches do, vitality is in the wind. Shivering, good morning.

Help

Thanks for all the...

Fighting

Okay Readers! Ready for another pep talk?!
Here it is!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Every single step forward blotches red with pain, because every step is the wrong step, and you've just fucked up for the 13th time in a row. You've said the wrong thing, You've done the wrong thing, You ARE the wrong thing. You don't have a damn thing to be proud of, and all you can do is feel sorry for yourself, and maybe cry yourself to sleep, because baby, ain't nobody calling your sweet ass for a warm cup of coffee.

yes, That's right. You are, at this very moment, a loser.
no favors, no help, no understanding glances of empathy.
just this: Fuck, You.

But you just give them a fuck you right back because at the end of the day the only person you have to answer to is yourself. You will not be a bitchy coward about your feelings, your dreams, and your thoughts. You will give yourself the ass kicking you deserve. No one else cares enough to give it to you, so you will proceed to look yourself in the mirror and see how pathetic you are, and you will yell at yourself.

And then you will leave the room and leave your self to sit by himself and think about what he just did. He will get his shit together, open the door, come back to you, and say, please sir, give me some more. And then, you'll feel like a goddamn person, again. And then, you'll sober up and apply to a few more jobs, scrutinize some more writing, and plan tomorrow's ass kicking.

and THAT, is how I feel right now.

Reading a book

Writing in this blog is like climbing atop a small steel cast children's ride outside the local bodega. I feel a little stupid most of the times, but when I'm really in the mood, I just want the world to know it.

I'm currently working on several books (reading! not writing.. Unfortunately).
Native Son
Moby Dick
Native Speaker
Freakonomics
Guns Germs and Steel
7 habits of highly effective people

I probably won't finish any of those books any time soon, but I'm almost done with Native Speaker, Chang Rae Lee. My friend said he sat down with the man once in an English Class. He didn't remember much about him. Nothing striking. Smart, suave, and soft, was how he described Mr. Lee.

Disappointing. Because I would like to talk to him about his book.

A book that seems to strain with its "problem" more than any other book I've read. It's a book about how difficult it is to write a book. Well, more accurately, it's a book about how difficult it is to write a character--and perhaps, it's a book about how writing a character close to home is like betrayal, spying, or worse, lying. And at one moment in the book, the main character talks about a hypothetical figure, a brother figure, a strong Asian man who's outspoken and confident. He also has an assignment to write profiles on a highly influential New York Politician, John Kwang. The main character struggles with painting pictures of the Korean Man. He ends up painting his own portrait as a sordid rant and tirade on his disfunctional and pathetic father and mother; he talks about his failing relationship with his wife, and his dead son. He sprinkles in some intimate details about New York.

Mr. Lee, is it so difficult? I mean, you write beautifully. Am I just missing the point? I have to say, I'm about 3/4 of the book done, and when I finish, I hope to have discovered some huge twist in this narrative of yours.

I'll tell you how it goes.

He once wrote:

"And I return to the simple task"

Rehab

Here's a story for you: In the May 29th 2006 Issue of Sports Illustrated, in the "LeadingOff" section, there's a two page photo of a horse in bandages, being held up in the air over rubber tubing. Countless straps cover the horse and there appears to be a hook hanging in the air keeping the horse suspended:

"Following more than five hours of surgery on Sunday to repair multiple fractures of the right hind leg suffered in the Preakness the day before, Barbaro was placed in a pool so that he wouldn't put pressure on the leg or reinjure himself by thrashing. A metal plate and 23 screws were used to put the shattered bones back together. Surgeons at the University of Pennsylvania's veterinary hospital said that horses so severely injured are usually destroyed."

The absence of the fact made a shotgun blast ring in my ears. I suddenly felt the horse was not being suspended against the force of gravity, but instead held up from fate, put together despite history, and saved from a cruel society.

Barbaro, the horse, is recovering and making good progress today.

Listening Session

Today: 하나하면 너와나
(FIFTH ALBUM)

Closed my e y e s and relaxed, listened to the tracks from A to Z, from 1 to 3, and meditated on the structure of the track listing, each song's significance to the rest of the album, the overall msg of the album, meaning of it, if any exists. Tried to focus on the lyrics and the instrumentals, how the two connected, the context surrounding the production of the album, Shine's imminent departure, the growing strength of the other Movement members. Of course, I was pretty lost in terms of many of the references and lyrics, the Korean is too quick and playful for me to get it all. But there was one moment where JK yells out, Move something! I enjoyed getting that Talib Kweli reference.

A good moment of clarity. Haven't made time for it in a while.
Tiger uppercut!

Your world disgusts me

I open the fridge this morning and as is the case most of the times, there's nothing good to eat, but the fridge is packed. I pick out a plastic cup of yogurt, hopeful that it might be regular, and not lowfat.

"Light n' Fit" -- Dannon Peach Yogurt. Terrible.

The worst moment, though, is as I decide without thought to visit my MySpace page, I shovel a small load of yogurt into my mouth and, there she is. A huge picture of some bikini clad girl advertising whoknowswhat pops out. The sensation is like nothing I've vomited before. The lowfat yogurt, the turquoise bikini blond, the saccharine smile, the plastic pose.

I can't go on.
This is the end!

Still Life

I always loved how baseball seemed to move at the same pace throughout the whole game.

What keeps changing is the atmosphere. The mood. When a team starts to rally, looks a little more focused, feels a bit more confident. Maybe it's a home game, and the stadium is vibrant. The crowd is a loud roar. The pace of the game is kept at bay by the pitcher and the batter. They take their time. They look at each other and think deeply about one thing: victory. Then in an instant everyone moves, even the man who's farthest from the action flinches. And it's over. Back to plate, to the mound.

I always loved how people would say, baseball is boring, it's a game about statistics. The boring game, the quiet storm.

Hey!

Far from figuring out what makes my life work, I am constantly baffled by the challenges that lie before me.

Honest.

The biggest blocks in my heart and mind preventing me from feeling at ease with myself and the world are huge and complicated, inexplicable and probably impossible to solve or change.

Oooh, suddenly that self-help book I half-way read is coming back to me: "Recognize what you can change, and what you cannot." Wise words, my friend. Funny how some generic advice can gel with personal experience... I've always believed in the universality of human experience, but also the uniqueness of individual expression. Self help book, meet Sol Park?

Anyway, my point was to explain to you, reader, that the main struggles in my life are massive and living complexities that no one could possibly hope to explain to me or resolve for me. And it isn't even that the challenges before me are unchangeable, necessarily, just that there are too many of them, and they are too large, for me to possible face them all.

Of course, they face me. They face me no matter where I turn.

I think those ads are funny, the ones that go, "Are you overweight? Depressed? Funny feeling in your stomach? Then we've got the product for you!" I think that if you took out the punchline, then it might actually be more valuable.

Do you feel you have potential for great things?
Do you feel you'll never reach that potential?
Maybe you feel it's too late.
Maybe you're fooling yourself and in actuality
you're nothing but a average person.
Maybe feeling like a normal person feels also like defeat?
Maybe all your life you've been lead to believe
that special is the way to be.
Is there no where you can turn to, to find a different perspective?
Can you not speak to anyone?
Are you alone?
Are other people just assholes?
Does no one see what you see?
Is everyone else pretty much blind,
in search of trivial things,
superficial?

Okay. I Understand.

You were meant for more

Photo, Ian Park

Everything in its place

That shelf over there, by the clock has all the books about human history. Since I was young I had a interest in history. The dry text books and oftentimes militant teachers would kill the stories of their energy by emphasizing dates and names. But they couldn't fool me. The stories were told despite their every effort to have them untold. I knew the betrayal, the risk, and the relief that escaped from the pores of time. Like sufluric gases, or hot searing steam. When I was a kid, I loved those things.

The books for that story are over there, on that shelf.

And if you want to see the clothes I wear when I go to work, you have to look here. Just slide open this closet and you'll find a small room that has three walls. The wall on the right is the wall you want to look at. It's got all my shirts, ties, pants, and dress shoes. There are small drawers on the bottom for cuff links and watches. This is where I have managed to collect and organize the masks I wear to project my confidence and ability at the world. This is a very important.

To find my masks, look inside the sliding doors, on the right wall.

This is my desk. This is where I have only what I need to connect and control the many facets of my life, through papers, pens, keyboard, printer, and stapler. The small tools are in this drawer. The big flat screen here glows with a comforting light, and I can virtually place all the complexities of life on to this large living painting. This is my Michelangelo. My point of creation.

This is my center. This is my space. This is where I have placed what I own as an extension of my history, my future, and my present.

Welcome.

There is a very special spot in my heart for Alanis Morissette's album Jagged Little Pill

Oh my

Oh my how beautiful you will be. How you will dance, and how you will sing. How you will speak and sit and stand. Oh how you will hold the world around you with a relaxed posture. Oh how confidence will be your dog, and how despair your beloved. How wise you will be. You will be, so wise.

Myspace

Where the lines between you, and me, melt
this is the place where I sleep
where an explosion is but a sneeze,
god blesses you, wipe away the snot
this is where people come to listen to me rock
mistakenly tumble, trip,
that's my improv,
grace does not belong to god

it's mine, and yours,
so instead of what we're not
we are we are we are

sincerely,
mortal.

It's been a long day, friend

I'm telling you, right now, I feel lost. I feel like I haven't got a friend in the world, and everything I do is to no avail. I breathe because I'm afraid to die. I work because I'm afraid to be lazy. I stay silent because I'm afraid to fight.

I'm teling you, right now, this is a moment where I need your help. This is a moment where I need anyone. I'm desperate for an embrace, but I don't know how to walk the distance from here to the living room. I don't know the language to speak ask for love from my father. I don't have the courage to be creative.

I'm telling you, right now, that I feel stronger than I did a 30 seconds ago. I'm telling you that suddenly I feel a slight surge of strength that has mixed in it some hate, like blood in a bathtub. I'm stronger, now, than I was before.

I'm telling you, right now, that I was lost when I started to write this this blog entry. But I began writing with the full intention of emerging from this fight with nothing less than victory.

I'm telling you, right now, that there is value to this. These words are worth something to me. This page. This voice. As I walk through the valley of life, I fear evil, and see no shephard by me. But I see others. And I'm telling you, right now, that I feel at peace. A kind of peace one feels as they fly across a green field, remembering the many days and nights spent struggling to get up. The bleeding knees. The broken feet. The years it took to stand up. To take a first step. To find intention. Then direction. Then love. Then grace. Now I'm flying.

I'm telling you, right now, this very moment is but one of many, but I started somewhere, and I was honest, and I spoke with a voice I earned, I worked for, I strugled to have.

I'm telling you, because this is much too important to keep to myself.
Simply.

Question:

Where have all the ninjas gone?

Peaceful Night

On a cool evening, I took a shower. The hot water massaged my head and I could feel blood rushing through hands running through my hair. I smiled and I could feel love flowing from my lips down into my chest. I washed. then I rinsed. then I dried.

When I returned the towel to the rack, I noticed a smaller towel hanging there, dirty, and old. I picked it up and went into the kitchen and picked up the another small towel that rested on a tea kettle. It had food stains and I had used it in the afternoon to pick up the hot metal. I turned on a song I wanted to hear earlier.

A piano rippled, a guitar strummed a hollow tune. The song was about feeling lost, but the music meandered gracefully.

I turned on hot water in the bathroom sink and soaked the two towels in with some detergent. I waited for the water to run and then I sunk my two hands in, feeling the warmth, and then pulled out one to turn off the hot, and turn on the cold. The cold fell into the hot pool of soap like a cloud that had been kept in the refridgerator. It wrapped around my fingers as I tightened my hands around the towels. I massaged the thick wet cotten towels, straining my shoulders, my arms, my hands. My fingers were red. Pushing away the shower curtains, I hung the two towels to dry on the rusty bar.

So Much Work to Do

Comfort is the devil, he said.

Finding myself soft, digesting my food well, I realize what I have to do. I've grown too comfortable in this state. I've left the fields of blood to come home and grow old, too soon. My children laugh at me. My wife no longer loves me. The house creaks, and opens its windows, allowing dead leaves to spread through its hallways, bedrooms. Beauty mocks me. Dangles its grace before my atrophied body. I can not even remember what it felt like. We were not invincible when we were young, we were in constant state of pain. Our bones stretched, and our stomachs swallowed with desperation. And now we resign ourselves to wisdom? To experience? to knowledge? Be prepared.

You will be young, whether you're ready or not.

Attempt #5506

I'll take this old receipt
rub away the charcoal
script, watch the white
paper wrinkle between my fingers
flutter away white dove
fingers spread--
I'll lose every coffee
and biscuit we bought
in the web,
fall through like silk scarves
a snake seems forever
consuming my youth
clenched fist--
new evidence like new kiss
printed on dove's feather
death will be quiet
when we are together.

[Nothing To Hide]

that's enough

What is it you rhyme?
when you time
your words to the beat testin
the limits of your life passed
to the next kin
inherit the best thing
the soul memory
enscribed without fear of the body
afloat in the ether
the big house for the ghosts
written in stone
in an invisible ink
as the little ones lost--
(under development dreams)
big things
crush but never kill
so live like no matter what you will
know no other
but the patience it takes
to grow to grasp to gravitate
fate like space dust
accumlate into us
what?

Words are meaningless

Without work, words are dead birds. Still and quivering in the wind, this beauty will not fly. I try to face this everyday, but I have failed. So far, I have only tried to make a dead thing live. There is no potential. There is nothing to defend. Nothing to protect. That was all a dream. Wake up. Wake up.


Wake up.

and Stand.

Shuffle

So here's what happened. I picked up my powerbook for the first time in a week and I carreid it into the ktichen to try out what a friend of mine, dianna, suggested, which was to listen to music while doing the dishes. And so I'm listening to beyonce and i'm like okay, this is cool, this is cool, but then i realized that the itunes was on repeat single, so i turned it on to shuffle and

i let it ripppp....

first this soulful song about love for the parents came on, rapped by dynamic duo, on their taxi driver album, then i believe louis armstrong came on and he started to sing, if you smile the whole world smiles with you, and then lauryn hill came on and said that you can get the money and you can get the power, just watch out! for the final hour. and now dispatch is strumming and streaming about the general let his soldiers free but stayed to finish his duty, go now you are forgiven! go now you are forgiven! and then oh man, foo fighters blasted on with a mellow bass singing the rain is here, and you my dear, are still my friend, it's true, the two, of us, are back, as one, again.... a short song that has this smooth blue shell and a rocking electric core of a room party! my lonely heart it falls apart for you to bend! ouch!

and i peace out with the current song blastin' bomb
dilated peoples just tryin' to breathe
so all ya'll can try and see
it's my world till it's time to leave!

and swooooosh!

peace

Hold with your Hands

There is no such thing as an emaculate conception. I vehemently protest this idea applied to our living breathing and suffering bodies minds words thoughts images sounds songs shakes trembles dances embraces cold warms. I remind myself. There is no such thing as an emaculate conception. I fight the thought that birth can happen without blood without sweat without a violent burst of colors that pale the human skin without love without hateful exchanges without human animal and godly expressions often embodied in bodies embroiled in bed rituals dances debates debauch moments of fate. I tell myself there is no clean birth. There is no son no daughter no child without death without murder or unjust blame beaten upon the brows of a thorned and lowered head asking for forgiveness despite and because of all the terrible things the doubtful the hateful said. There are no poems blessed with a paternal moon that floats owning the world. There are no loves that escape lips without trails and tangles of bloody threads, fleshy breaths, and above all, there is no emaculate creation only an expression of something pure to be dashed like the first stupid idea that a lazy man has.

good weather

Man, oh man. what a job. what a mix. smells and feels like genius, brilliance. today's weather is an absolutely lucid experience. like a perfectly mixed hue of orange. or gray. just right so that it touches those untouched places in my brain, triggering warm memories. this is some sweet job someone's done. done it right. good timing, too.

love.

Hate Violence

Racial Slur Preceded Slashing of 3 in Manhattan, Police Say
By NICHOLAS CONFESSORE and KAREEM FAHIM
Published: March 5, 2006

A man with a box cutter slashed three men outside a Manhattan restaurant early yesterday, and the police said they were investigating whether racial bias motivated the attack.

The three men were entering the Gramercy Restaurant on Third Avenue at 17th Street with a fourth friend at 4:30 a.m., when two men on the sidewalk spoke to them, using a derogatory name for Chinese people, and performed mock karate moves, the police said.

The attackers were Hispanic, the police said, and the victims were of Asian descent. When the Asian men left the diner about 45 minutes later, the police said, the two Hispanic men had been joined by a third. One of them pulled out a box cutter, then cut three of the Asian men with it, slashing one in the face, one in the neck and one in the back.

The three were taken to the Bellevue Hospital Center, where they were treated and released. The injuries were minor, the police said. The victims' names were not available.

Officers canvassed the area around the diner, a mostly residential neighborhood near Gramercy Park, but had not made any arrests.

By the time the breakfast rush began yesterday, there was little sign of the attacks. On the sidewalk outside, a bloodstained blue dress shirt lay on the ground, alongside a torn white undershirt wrapped around a scaffolding pole.

Residents expressed surprise at reports of the attack and said such crimes were rare in the neighborhood.

"I eat here all the time, like three times a week," said Jennifer Connell, 28, who lives in the building above the restaurant and works nearby. "If it wasn't safe, I wouldn't live here."

http://www.nytimes.com/2006/03/05/nyregion/05assault.html

Landscapes

Flying low over the landscape, I can't see them cry. The engine roars so loud I can hardly imagine a dog barking outside on the front lawn. The bricks of the buildings blur into each other. I cross a thousand homes in minutes.

I want to hear a voice. Mine. I realize I'm speaking. It's my back I'm staring at. It's a summer afternoon and the apartment is so hot the fan blows only hot hair. My shoulders sag and I'm saying... speaking to a figure wavering before me. Is it the heat, am I seeing things?

It's so cold. I see my breath, and realize it's mine. My hands are wearing no gloves, so my skin is raw and numb. I've been waiting for an hour, watching bus after bus. Each one seemed different from the other. Each one carried a little less hope. At home, mail piles up. Telephone rings. I'm not aware of it. I don't know it, because I'm here.

I wake up with my forehead pressed against the glass. I look up to see that I've returned. A cacophony of cabs, smog, and suits are silent as I look on from inside the bus. A baby cries somwhere up front. The seat next to mine is empty. I feel nothing.

Something Beautiful

Lately I've been thinking about idenitity, politics, and life. Navigating the waters of who you are can be difficult, and may involve facing a lot of hard questions. No one likes politics, and it it seems it's easier to simply have a prefabricated opinion or to completely play that apathy card. Where's politics and identity in life? It seems one thing is clear to me: that nothing is simple, and that anyone who tells you it is hasn't thought about it enough. Sometimes, the best thing is to know the right questions to ask. A willingness to feel uncomfortable. I find it rewarding to talk to many different kinds of people. Ask them questions. Listen to them talk. And I've got some strong opinions about certain things. I can get awful angry. But I know in my heart that I'm not done growing. I'm no where near done struggling. I'm trying. Trying to stay hungry because something in my heart tells me that's important. What am I hungry for?

hm. hungry for:

Something Fresh?
Possibilities?
Positivity?
Connection?
maybe, the day
I can give
something big.

Travelin' Man

Is it possible to live in the present? Do you constantly live in tomorrow? Is this traveler's life makin' you sing sad sweet songs, as you pack your bags, and stand inside glass boxes looking out at your next ride out of town? Do you know home? Have you been back, recently? Can you face the hot hatred, and the distance between where you've been and where you're always coming from? Is the soul a suitcase lined with socks and underwear, a toothbrush, and a clean pair of pants, a jacket, shirt, and tie? Do you know, when you leave, if you'll be back again?

Sol Park

A week of confusion and reckless abandon left me with a lot of pieces to pick up, but mostly I had to pick my self up. Sickness set in the confusion, and reckless abandon came from the self-pity I felt because I couldn't breathe comfortably through my nostrils and my throat felt as if coals had been sprinkled on to my red flesh, turning it black, and stringy. But after a pretty long day out doing a last-minute architecture project (we had to create a narrative of a journey from one place in manhattan to another) and a brief moment of flipping out at home, I cleaned my room, watched a movie, drank some tea, then went to the library and figured out the plan for the week. Sure, some things are going to end up lost, and I won't be able to say I scored a perfect 10. But I kept my composure in the end, setting up enough time to think of my next move.

review of Sympathy for Lady Vengeance coming soon

decoding

So you think you've got it all figured out.
I won't be the one to tell you you're wrong. You're not wrong.
After all, what's so complicated about life, anyway. Most of us are living in a tearless existence and emotion is long for emo. War is happening and people are starving and the means to this knowledge are more potent than ever and it seems we're more apathetic than ever. where is love? Do you feel like an island? Is connection just another asset? How's the book going? Are your memories for sale? Am I a chink, and is that funny? Should I picket my existence? Protest my outrage. Or work within in the system, because it's all a system, and there's no man. Hollywood is benign. Music is money. There's no intelligent design, there's only stream lined. Penguins fly. like rockets to the walmart moon.

where have you been, lately?

what have you felt?

Green Light

"guys were waiting at a light, discussing the backwards and lowly state of some of their brothers, today. all the while, waiting for a electric light to tell them when to go."

So today was the last day of the first week of the last semester of my undergraduate career.

I think I've forgotten how to build a logical argument.


Looking up,
the weight of the world slides
off the top of our round heads.
crashing plates and bronze weights
our eyes catch glimpse of the infinite stars scattered
shattered light like church glass smashed
by the grey stone in our pocket.
we feel the smoothness of a world that fits
whistle through the air
as if God, as if stars,
realizes us
and is born, anew.

Click

The music Ons,
have vision.