Dry

The well has run dry. The cabinet's empty. We've hit rock bottom. There are no words left to write. No more rhymes or clever quips to extrapolate or remark on.

The past three weeks have literally felt a decade long. I swear. It's been like trudging through wet cement wearing stiletto shoes, or some other ridiculously strenuous activity. Senior sprint...or marathon?

But I've been keeping up. Brought in some Tibetan peace flags for my room. Found an air freshener so it doesn't smell like 18th century must when I walk in. Hung up some tiny lanterns by my bed. Started reading another crime novel by Don Winslow...entertaining, mind bending, questionable in regards to its content. Watched the new episode of The Office this afternoon, which brought on some serious stitches. I miss Michael Scott, but I'm glad the writing hasn't gone down in quality.

But I've been writing more and more for class and college, which has led to a depletion of blog posts, obviously. It's been a blur, but I know it will be over soon. Knowing this instills a bit of fear, however, so I try not to think about time. Just a general principle. Ironic, since I pride myself on good time management. Also ironic that this post is entitled "Dry," and there's a monsoon going on outside right now. Witnessed a sun shower earlier today. That was pretty cool.

Since I'm seeing the quality of what I have to say in this post decline,
and I have little to contribute to make it better,
I'm going to leave it with this:


Clip from the Office
 Not the funniest part of the episode, for sure, but still pretty funny.  

Technicolor Dreamscape

Holding onto those beauteous days,
when the sun shines so perfectly
it could bring a poet to tears
because he couldn't find the words
to describe it with justice.

Holding onto that feeling
that everything's going to turn out
just the way it's meant to.


Drinking a seltzer and breathing,
and that's about all I need for now.

The Kooks. I would marry them.

A Return to Simplicity

The assignment was to write a Ticket (our fancy word for an essay) on the topic of "The Return." It's not due yet, but here's what I'm up to so far. 


         In a modern world, Twitter competes with the birds for the highest number of tweets. In a modern world, phones vibrate, gyrate and light up, shocking us into a realm of constant communication. We can hold the world at our fingertips, touch-screen tablets that can solve your problems for you. Or create new ones.
         We’re burdened by these inventions, as freeing and helpful as they are. We don’t need to carry dictionaries, maps, address books or even pens with us, because we can store all of our necessary information right in our Personal Digital Assistants, or PDAs. But what about the other meaning of PDA, Personal Displays of Affection? Do we giving all of our attention and affection to tiny, pixilated devices? I would argue that we most certainly do. And if we don’t give this issue the attention it deserves, we will remain slaves to our silver slices of technology.  
         With all of the 3G and 4G waves invisibly surrounding our bodies, the internet age capitalizes on our mental power (and thumb power). As a society, we are growing more connected to the idea of the latest iPhone and less connected to one another. We comment on photos instantly, but do we really remember every message we send?
         The answer is no. The accessibility of communication has rendered the entire point of reaching out to an old friend useless. It’s second nature to pick up the phone and text back. It requires such little effort, that we should question how much a response really means, in the big scheme of things. Do people write back because they want to, or because it’s just so easy? Are easy things always insignificant? Is this easy thing, communication?
 

An analogy for senior year

From StoryPeople

not sure if she's ready for the whole world, but not sure if she can take another minute cooped up in that cage either. leaving the door open so if she has to come back she can do it with a minimum of anxiety

Hundreth Post!

So I've been (successfully?) blogging for about four months now.
That sounds so small, four, and yet I think of all that's happened over the past 1/3 of a year, and I'm frightened.

I can't aim to do much in this post. My head is spinning with images if Egyptian artwork and word plays and standard deviations. But I do want to get a little bit out on the page about time.

Now, it's sort of late. 11 pm. I've finally decided that the pattering sound on my window sill is in fact rain. My eyes fight to stay open as I type these words. Long days around here. Not enough caffeine packed into mine, today. Thought I lost my coffee mug, but I just misplaced it.

We pack our days tight. Like cans of sardines. Or suitcases. Full of classes, meetings, video clips, meals, conversations about nutella and homework. We pack them tight because we don't want to forget anything. We can't survive if we feel like we're missing one aspect, one fish, one sock. Our luggage weighs tons, but it's all metaphorical, so we won't have trouble carrying it through customs.

Perhaps this is rambling, but it's all that I can get out for this hundredth post. I feel, and fear, the fleeting of time. Breakfast feels so long ago, and yet it still seems that I should wake up tomorrow and start my first day of Kindergarden, instead of finish my college essays. On the flip side, I've been at school for just over three weeks now, and I swear a decade has passed. I don't even want to fully unpack my things or decorate my room, because I'm convinced that I'll wake up tomorrow and graduation day will have arrived. A beautiful ship, waiting for me to embark upon it.

Hours slip through our fingers so easily. They're slick guys, hard to capture if you don't put on the right gloves. So watch out for them. Ease into them. Savor them for all their worth. Or don't. Whatever feels right, I suppose.

AND with that, 100 posts on this lovely little blog.
Off to bed.
Listen to this strange song. That's what I'm up to tonight. 

Turn the pages

So she poured herself some more coffee,
and put on some incomprehensible music
that sounded more like the accelerated pulse
of some static monster
than a melody,
and carried on.

Those pages kept turning.
The wind blew too fast,
she couldn't stick her thumb in the middle
to keep track
of where she left off.

Recovery

Sometimes we can’t avoid that bitter taste.
The lingering one that won’t go away, no matter how many times we swish
with Listerine.
We can squint and bite our tongues, but nothing will get rid of that
Poisonous memory. It’s engraved in our senses.
It becomes braided in with the rest of our qualities and idiosyncrasies.

Even still, we can’t survive in acerbity.
We’ve got to find a buffer, one strong enough to effectively
Balance whatever harshness has occurred.
We can’t succumb to our failures, or live within our boundaries.
If we don’t branch out and try to heal the wounds we accumulate,
We’ll never reach that golden light.

And a failure like that is hard to recover from.

Saturday Songs

 

Packed weekend. 

Enjoy this fantastic Strokes song. 

And this one by Ben Folds. Whom I adore. 

Behind the Headlines

I've spent most of my writing energy on college essays these days,
and facebook-chat correspondence.
And so, my fingertips have pretty much run dry of all creative possibilities.

BUT I did find these short, but interesting, articles on TruthDig (new favorite news/updates site).
Controversial and a little shocking. It woke me up this morning. 
Though not as thoroughly as my french-pressed coffee.

The University of Hypocrisy
Netflix's Economic Strategy Failed

Tchau,
TB

Let's lose the networking.

How much do Americans "like" facebook?
A little too much if you ask me. According to this article, Americans spent more time on Facebook in May than on any other website that month.

I can't say I don't use facebook. I definitely do, regularly. But I would not say that I spend 12 minutes a day stalking my friends. We'd definitely be a more productive country if we weren't so absorbed in cyberspace.

I now realize that this post may be counter productive, in terms of trying to gain readers. But hopefully my quips are a more interesting than the rest of your friend's status updates.

Ciao,
TB

Frozen Peas and Freakonomics

No time to post anything extravagant.
Been busy, writing essays and debating a whole lot.
Trying to get some sleep tonight.
Finishing off the night with some statistics while eating
some frozen peas out of my fantastic fridge,
and listening to Freakonomics on Itunes.

Fascinating.

Cleanliness

Inside the glass walls
of dreams,
the children linger.
They watch blown bubbles
drift away,
turning purple as they do
when the sun hits so perfectly.
Nothing fills the air
inside that dream scape,
except silence.
And dish soap.


He spoke out.
Then shut up.
Then thought about it. All. For a while.
Needed some time to decide
just what it was, that he said,
that changed the state of the universe.



She was trapped in a constant memory,
that flash flooded before her closed eyes.
So she kept them open.
She much preferred the newness of the world,
to the heartaches of the past.

Full Moon

Full moon.
Full of popcorn,
and Snapple green tea.
Full of questions about microbiology,
and comedic skits, and 13th century architecture.

Wanting to succumb to the moon's beckoning,
and just climb into bed.

Part of my assignment was to analyze funny youtube videos.

Can't complain about that one.

Just a Minor Thing

And already she feels like she's under 25 feet of water. Or something denser.
Where's that promised breath of air? 


At least
the sun's blaring down still, even as the leaves change and the weather gets cold,
and the boots come out, while the sandals take their leave.


At least
she knows what to expect,
and has no fear about the future.
Fear's the killer. It ain't no minor thing.

Awakening

         Here's a quote I found from StoryPeople, that I think really describes today's date in history.

In those days,
we finally chose
to walk like giants
& hold the world
in arms grown strong with love
& there may be many things we forget
in the days to come,
but this will not be one of them.

         I was eight when the Twin Towers were ambushed on 9/11/2001. Third graders don't usually receive too much in the way of current events, let alone terrorists. But this day mattered. I remember one girl complaining that she had to leave school; I was a bit confused myself, though relieved that my mom came in the middle of gym class. 

         She walked me and my brother home from our tiny school on the hill. We walked the mile distance, kicking rocks and staring up at the blue, completely cloudless, completely plane-less sky. Then we played baseball in the front yard. The sun shone so brightly. I breathed crisp air as I pitched a wiffle-ball to my five year old brother, who had even less of an idea than I did about the fate of the world. And rightly so.
         My mom kept running in to check the TV,  I suppose. This wasn't the norm in our family; I still can't think of a time when my mother sat down to deliberately watch a news program. I couldn't comprehend why my favorite shows were replaced with horrified newscasters. I didn't understand that the fall of those two buildings represented the attack of our entire country, of my home in small-town Connecticut, of the values we have been fed, on the independence we gained. 

         I can't remember it clearly, but they must have explained something to me on that day, in their protective, parenting way. What a task adults must have faced, trying to convey the gravity, while not scaring their children, or bursting into tears themselves. My heart breaks for those who lost their parents and loved ones in the crash. To be a victim of a problem so huge, so much larger than any individual, that's a tragedy.

         When I read quotations from those who were there, who saw it happen, I don't even know what to feel. Some kind of melancholy sickness, wrapped with a small layer of hope knowing that, although so many lost their lives, so many survived. The New York Times has an interactive page, where people can share where they were and what they thought. It helps to show just how atrocious, frightening, and impactful 9/11 was for people around the world.

         That kind of catastrophe can't be dealt with lightly. I don't want to get into the ways we handled it as a nation, but I am going to say this. Now, ten years later, I understand a bit more. Just a bit. I have seen enough to know that we face problems as a nation and as a global community. It's stomach-churning to think about the horror that exists. Memories of September 2001 should be revisited, but they should be accompanied with hope for the future. If we keep our heads straight, we'll fare well.



The News - Jack Johnson 

Bottle it up

She'd like to take the sun on days like today,

bottle it up,

and store it away,

--Under her bed,

with the rest of her secret dreams

and outrageous laughs--

So that when the rain comes,

and the grey falls down,

and she gets weary and beaten by the 

sad things in life,

She could take a sip of today's summer sun,

and remember what it feels like

to be perfectly warm.

Looking at the rain

And when she blinked her eyes open,
the little puddles of light blue
that she grew accustomed to,
had faded to dark gray. 

Without a sense

We learn at an early age that we each have 5 senses. Sight, sound, taste, touch and smell. We use these to sense danger, if we smell smoke or hear a siren. Our sense heighten pleasure, so much so that the smell of warm baked cookies can link you to your mom's kitchen, or the taste of cotton candy can bring images to mind of your first carnival. What would a hug mean if you couldn't feel the person's arms wrapped around yours? What importance would music have in religion, culture and history, if not for our ability to sense sound with our ears?

In addition to those, we often discuss a sixth sense. (And no, I'm not thinking about the Bruce Willis movie.) That feeling of deja vu, or the crawling feeling you get when you know someone's watching you, those are senses too. These internal senses help evoke emotion, stir longings, grapple with memory. They can't be tested as easily as sight or hearing, but for most people, this sixth sense can be, well, sensed. With out, we'd all be grossly out of tune with one another. This humanistic sense connects us, makes us wired in a strange, intangible way.

But the list of definitions for sense continue. The dictionary includes entries such as: sound, practical intelligence--the value, merit, or significance of something--a DNA sequence capable of coding for an amino acid--an opinion formed by a group consensus. In a properly functioning society, leaders have a good sense of what's going on. They also are able to sense change arriving; they provide a sense of security for their followers. Followers too utilize their own senses when listening to broadcasts and empathizing with situations. In order to seek progress, individuals must provide a moral sense in their lives. To keep things light, we must develop a sense of humor. We must realize that there's little sense in holding on to the past, when the future lies so close to our eyes.


Sometimes, we lose our senses. Flustering situations, panic, laughter, change, can all alter our perception of the life we have built for ourselves. That's perfectly OK. Some moments in our lives, sense shouldn't take the reigns. Death, for instance, make perfect sense. Life happens, and it ends. Biological, right? So why do we cry and mourn for our loved ones when they pass? It's illogical if you think it through, and yet our emotions take over, and sense gets put in the back seat. A lot of decisions made in Washington make sense for the greater good, and yet they result in arguments and anger among different political parties. In forming our own opinions, we essentially give up any hope of finding common ground, a set of simple, sensible rules to live by. When we follow our own desires, we forfeit the right to say 'this makes sense.' Sense, in this sense, refers to personal perception, not straight knowledge. That's perfectly OK too. 

A man who hopes to get close to others, to make connections stronger than political, social, or business allies, must overstep the boundaries of what makes sense to himself, and accept that things can be right without being logical. Life isn't a puzzle. It's not a race to see who can build the most impressive picture. It's about indulging in delicacies on occasion, living out our dreams, and speaking up, even if our sentences make no sense.  In the long run, comprehension can't compare with our internally developed six senses. Those primitive aspects did, after all, came first. 

And now that you've read all that, 

listen to this completely nonsensical song by the Barenaked Ladies (a nonsense name if I ever saw one.) I may or may not (I do) know all the words to this song.

Without a title

and when she woke up, the storm was over.

Crashed Catharsis

Her eyes opened wide at the past,

at all those feelings

flooding back

through the dams

she thought

she had sealed so

tight.

Then the squinted shut fast

to hide all those,

flooding back

through the dams

that she couldn't

figure out how

to seal.

More Crickets

let the chips fall where they may

but these school yard games

I can no longer play. 

childhood seems so far gone

the fresh start rises

with tomorrow's pink dawn. 

this poem might seem boring, 

drawing out a hard-earned yawn, 

but it won't be long till sunrise

it won't be long at all

Crickets

Nothing but the sound of crickets.

Nothing but the smell of stale, September air

I can't believe the dark, stillness, 

filling the space out there.

She wants to fill all the buckets, 

to the brim, 

to the point where they're overflowing

with so much water

that the whole world could take a drink.

enough water to quench the thirst

of all the earth's children.