Blog problem

The end of the semester is coming to a close, so here are the problems I've run into trying to update daily (something that shouldn't be that hard to do).

1. I get distracted easily. It's a bit harder to study with a thousand things going on around you, and believe me, being in college, there are plenty of things to do. Having interesting roommates definitely helps.

2. Sometimes, I just don't run into interesting people. I may have simply gone from class, back home, back to class the next day. Granted, those people might be new to readers, but not to me. I want this blog to be sort of a narrative exploration of people that I run into.

3. It's not as fun as it could be. I often want to do something super-creative, and not stick to frameworks. A blog with a specific purpose, well, it defeats the purpose.

4. Not being in the mood for writing is a buzzkill too. There are days when I'm blocked.


Next step: Finding a way to rid myself of all these situations that cause me to fail at blogging.

Laura

Who knows where she's from, what she does. All I know is she can write--write fast, write well, write with what some would call passion, others might call skill.

She's impressive. Subtle, small, soft-spoken until she knows you. Not one of those whose eyes suggest what to expect.

Subtlety is in the eye of the beholder.

Coming Soon: customer service guy

to be edited in, in the morning.

Poli sci guy

Lacrosse is his sport, but academics...well, he takes that seriously.

Presentation after presentation in his senior year has gone smoothly, until now. He's standing behind the podium, rattling line by line about sovreignty, outlining detailed concepts in democratic theory, when he notices the professor checking her watch every minute or so.

"Is something wrong?" he asks.

"How much longer do you have to go?"

"Well, I have 25 minutes don't I?"

"The presentation's supposed to last ten minutes"

"Shit."

He's gunning through the presentation now, skipping slides, glossing over subjects that aren't critical to what he wants to talk about. Faster and faster, until at the end of it all, he's out of breath.

His classmates stare. The professor sighs. And the clock ticks one minute ahead--class is done.

Whoo, fell behind

Meh...I haven't been blogging as much, and I've seen so many interesting people. Time to change that.

b

Wroks in progress

Working on a newspaper tonight. Will post soon, dear readers. In the meantime, read this to keep yourselves occupied:

http://www.achewood.com/comic.php?date=07072006

No posts recently.

I've been swamped with work,  will post a real post tomorrow.

Dying

"I was the student that was dying when I came here," she says.

Then goes on to talk about writing 15 page papers. Being an overachiever. In general, going over and beyond what anyone asks of her.

She lived up to some higher standard in school. Wanted to be top of the class, for whatever reason. Built up an education that stretched out for days and hours on end. Turned in multiple drafts of everything, and loved every second of it.

~^~ ~^~ ~^~

Meanwhile, here I sit. Struggling to finish reading all these essays. A semester behind. Frustrated and confused with what to do with life right now.

And loving every second of it.

Awkward youger guy

Pale, smiling. Scraggly facial hair.

You show nothing about yourself. Secrets are kept.

You wander from campus, to coffee house, to home. I see you with friends, but I don't know who you are, where you are from.

Your head is rounded off by short hair. Average in every way.

Your clothes are baggy, indestinct jeans with a tee shirt, sweatshirt when it's cold.

And yet, you smile. Permanently. Happy about life, the sun that's shining, the warm coffee that heats your hands in the cold morning. You are learning, and thankful for it. You have friends, and love each one. And you know you are in a place you need to be, a place you love.

NO TIME

I've been swamped with work. More posts this weekend. Apologies, dear readers.

Short-haired kid

Remember the pale kid with the short hair I was going to write about? Yeah, in the works for tomorrow, dear readers.

Motivational speaker

I have nothing against you, really.

But when I have five papers to write, a research project to complete, interviews to transcribe, and a CD to review, along with working as a guy laying out copy this weekend, the last thing I want is for you to tell me how I can be a better leader.

Seriously, trying to engage me tonight is like engaging a rock with a TV show. Stop trying.

And yet, you're persistent. You don't give up, convinced that you can entertain and educate me. I don't care. I don't think you can. I don't know how you found this gig (maybe just by talking to someone, and finding a funder that thought you were cool because he was in a good mood that day), but don't bring it to me.

All I care about is having some free time to do what I need to do. There's a time an a place to motivate me, and it's not now.

Homework

There's a person I'm thinking of, but I have to write a paper for class first, unfortunately. Will post soon about a short, constantly smiling, younger guy. He's got really pale skin, awkward facial hair, and a really short haircut that's jet black. Stay tuned.

Post 70

Wow...lots of posts. Unfortunately, no one new today. We'll see who shows up tomorrow.

Waitress

There are very few Italian-looking waitresses at this restaurant. You're one of them

Slender, tallish, with a braid of dark brown hair tossed across one shoulder, a face defined by a distinctly sloped and pointed nose, the epitome of a fashion model.

You dreamed of posing in new shoes, fancy evening gowns with lace in places unseen, avant garde clothes not designed for humans.

Instead you plate up hot lasagna and salads with special, homemade dressings. Your hands are scarred from placing them on broken dishes, bumping against burning ovens. There's no feeling left in your fingertips.

But maybe, soon, the runway will come to you. Perhaps after that next photo shoot for the local bridal shop you'll get noticed. You cross your fingers every night and run home to live life your way, after living it for others all day.

You'll still be here when luck rolls around.

Kid at aquarium store

"Hi there, how are you?"

"Good"

"Alright, let me know if you need anything,"

... and that was the extent of our conversation.

Quiet guy, didn't know much about fish, or aquariums. It's clear that this is a college job, a way to pay the bills this semester. A way to get by.

The owners trust him enough to have him run the place singlehandedly. That's not hard to do on a nasty, misty Thursday afternoon. In fact, it looks fun to walk around and stare at all the aquariums filled with all sorts of fish: big ones, small ones, ones with blue and white speckles, shaped like a dinner plates, others brown and striped, built like a stone tip tied to an acient spear.

No customers. Nothing to do. But stare at fish.

Sometimes he imagines he's one of them, running around carelessly in a glass box, moving in three dimensions. He doesn't realize he's locked in and trapped. He enjoys the scenery--bizarre, spiny plants on the left. Sideways terra cotta pot on the right. Anemones beneath that he avoids, unless he's a clown fish that day.

Some days, he's an eel, slithering around like an underwater viper, waiting for victims to come near him. An underwater thug, he doesn't care that he's ugly. He gets his way by force and impression.

Other days, he's a golden-yellow apple snail, lounging around, looking startlingly perfect for lazily eating up chunks of algae. The supermodel of the aquarium world--there's no need to run around, keep moving, just to stay alive. It's easier to sit there, look pretty, and enjoy life.

Each day he locks up the doors behind him, leaving this daydream behind. There's no picking and choosing now. He has to make his own fate.

Elderly couple at Brandywine

It's two minutes after ten-thirty. She sits down across from our booth, one over. I don't notice when she comes in, but in hindsight, I can piece times together.

10:34. Waitress comes up, asks what she'd like to drink, if she's ready to order. She points to the breakfast specials, the ones that run to 10:30. The waitress starts apologizing, but seeing the look of concern on the womans face, she says she'll still have it made for her. The woman simply agrees, still carrying that same, concerned look: eyes wide, thin-lipped, with wrinkles around the mouth and a small, twitchy note in her voice.

Then again, that look might've just been age. It fit with her outfit: beige slacks, pressed neatly, with a baby blue windbreaker. Blonde-ish hair, wispy from the windy day and the years.

10:38. The woman sips her coffee, when her husband walks in from the bathroom. I hadn't seen him before. He slides into the booth, on her side. His oval face and pointed chin carry themselves stooped over his torso. His mouth, filled with small, white teeth, moves slowly as he talks to her, eyes magnified by the thick, round glasses perched on his nose, as he reaches next to him in slow motion and pulls out a newspaper.

10:40 They split it into sections, as she laughs at what he said, her face beaming into a sudden smile. For an instant, I can see them fifty years ago, when they first met. At a dance somehwere, maybe in one of the local bars across the street. I can see their eyes meet the same way they just did, ever so slightly, as he drops an off-handed sarcastic comment with a slight grin as he sips his drink and she blooms into a smile.

It's nice to know people still fall in love for the long haul.

I am not a bagpiper

Look, it's Kilt Guy who isn't a kilt guy. Bagpiper who doesn't play bagpipes. The Ceci n'est pas une pipe of humans. And proud member of the 99%.

Walking around in front of the library, most people would think he was crazy. His sweaty face, nearvous step, and loud, soapbox-preacher tone lend him that aura. But he doesn't think so. In fact, he's totally convinced he has a message to take to the world, in any way possible.

“I am not a bagpiper,” he claims, marching in front of the Art Museum. “But I am a member of the 99%!”

The elderly woman, sitting at a stainless steel table in the plaza out front, about ten feet away from the prosletyzing protester, looks at him in some sort of shock. It would seem he's speaking directly to her, as no one else stops to listen, or dares venture onto the plaza.

But it's clear he's shouting to the world around him.

“Question their looks,” he's saying.

Just because you wear jeans and flannel doesn't make you a country bumpkin, or a grunge guitarist. Just because you wear a suit and tie doesn't mean you earn hudreds of thousands of dollars a year. Just because you go to rave parties doesn't mean you don't have a family and a steady job. And just because you carry around bagpipes and wear a kilt, doesn't mean you're a folk musician.

Couple at Occupy GR

I'm guessing you're an item, the way you sit together, arms folded over one another in the grass. I wanted to talk to you, ask you questions like, “Why are you here?” “What do you want? “What's your purpose?”

But I couldn't let myself wander up and shatter your moment together.

You seemed in tune with one another. In love, but not the kind of love most know at this age. The kind of love where it's calm, and comfortable, like an old, leather armchair or a worn, warm sweater. The kind that you can count on to be there, and not to change from day to day with the weather, or after the next party.

I know that love. I've seen it, and felt it. I can't be unhappy knowing it exists.

Power's out

My laptop has an hour or so left, I'm typing. No internet, but Open Office still works.

It's still. No people. No one to write about. Cold and blustery outside, gale force winds, nast raindrops that cut into your face like tiny scalpel blades falling from the sky.

The brances on trees next door keep bending in one direction. Some end up snapping from the weather. I can't see them anymore, it's so dark out.

There are no lights, except for my screen and the candles I have around me. I can see the neighbor has one on her kitchen table, as well. There are no stars—the sky is black with angry clouds.

A fireplace would be really nice right now. Time to kick out some old ideas I've had sitting around, and never got around to posting on here.

Bartender

Your parents came from Japan.  You know what it's like to grow up first generation in a new place, watching your parents learn with you how it is.

(TBC)

Man in front of AB

I see you here often--bearded, shaggy, sunglassed.

I think your voice sounds gruff.  At least, I'd expect it to.

You live around here.  You have to.  You don't carry your belongings with you, or wander aimlessly with your back slumped.

You're scraggly but clean, showering every morning in your Eastown flat.  You always feel proud being one of the few people that actually lives above the bars and businesses, the hot dogs and cold beers that make up that part of town.

Creaky pipes wake you in the morning, now.  It's fall, the weather's colder.  Your window fogs up next to your double bed, occupied by your single figure.   You smile at the sunrise

State fans at the butcher

Buying meat as a family?  Stocking up on bosco sticks?  Wearing matching team sweaters for fun?

It's pretty clear you were all headed to your party, poiled up in two or three cars.  The game hadn't started yet, the keg hadn't been delivered yet.  Right?

Meh, walk down to the meat market and grab some snacks.  Good life choice.

No one new today

Just got into Bay city from Grand Rapids, spending some time with the family.  I saw no one eye catching.

I'll be out and about tomorrow, hopefully I'll find someone.

Fail

I haven't published anything in a loooooong time.  That's my fault.  Apologies, all.

On the other hand, my friend Steve has a new buddy from the bar.  I could potentially kill two birds with one stone from tonight.  We'll see how that goes.

Time to get back on the ball.

Kids in car

Courtesy Kaloozer on Flickr.

I saw you driving past today, in a white PT cruiser.

You were headed to a party, I could tell--the spiked hair and popped polo collars were a giveaway.  You got the location wrong, though.  This is Bay City, not Jersey.

Where's this party?  Will people there be dressed like you?  Do you like dressing like this?  Do you go to the dance halls because you love to dance to music?  Is it just for the girls?

I ask because I'm curious.  I wanted to be like you, for a time.  I thought it might be fun, hop from club to club, listen to some awesome new electronics making amazing new sounds, see the women, be with the women.

Now, I'm not so sure.  Do you like this "you" you've become?

Bieneman

Few professors have a slew of old tractors sitting around.  Bieneman does.

Not to many academics thank their students for staying awake.  Bieneman does.

He's unapologetic, humorous, and has a way of keeping you awake with weird, "bizarre" anecdotes. 

(To be edited / continued)

Nothing new to post

No one new, yesterday, or today.  Hopefully something interesting will catch my eye tomorrow.

Owen

Owen's a freshly-minted undergrad.  Bachelor's in Fine Arts.  He loves to paint, and is a fantastic photographer.

 There's only one problem:  no space to do anything.  See, when Owen got his diploma, he lost his studio in the school's Fine Arts Center. Officially, he's on his own.  That means finding a place to make art.  

"Yeah, life is hard," he mutters sarcastically.

He's sitting in a coffeeshop, looking at the campus newspaper he used to take photos for.  He warns me that if there's anything wrong with it, he'll rip it up, set it on fire, and throw it in my face.  All with a smile on his face.  I'm sure he's joking.  I think.

Then he laughs, and I'm sure for sure.

He's also working with Americorps, helping out at a local school, mentoring kids.   In his free time, he heads to the library, gets books of poetry and reads over coffee.    He doesn't have a steady job right now.

But he does have a steady life.

Leather leggings

That's the first thing you want us to see, right?

Fake leather leggings, to go with your punk attitude.  Buddy Holly glasses, to show you're indie.  An eighties, one-shoulder barred sweatshirt under which you wear black.  Just black.  You know, because you're retro and chic like that.

You started out this way in high school--parents were good people, made decent money, upper-middle class.  Mom stayed at home.  Dad worked, a lawyer.  Brothers and sisters all went to college before you did.  You got good grades, made it top of your grade.  But there was something wrong, something missing.

Excitement.  That's what it was, excitement was missing.  "I'll pick up a guitar," you thought, "learn a few songs."  Punk was your thing, but no one expected it.  That is, until you dyed your hair black, and picked up a few pairs of leather leggings.

Now you stand there, I sit here.  I drink my drink, you stare at the band.  You wish you were them today.  Your legs were made for the stage.  You want the thrill, but it's not your turn.  Our ears ring in tune as  I see through you.

I wish I could tell you to stop being a collage.  I wish I could tell you to just break out of yourself and find the one thing you love.  Perhaps you've found it, but you're so uncomfortable even in your second skin.  I can only imagine what's going on in your own.

So I sit there, ignore you.  I bob my head, tap my foot.  Out of the corner of my eye, you do nothing.  Not a move, not a tap, not a bob, not a snap.  Each edge of your pastiche pulls you so hard, you can't budge.  I wish for a blink, a laugh, a cheer.  Anything.  I wish you didn't have to set yourself in stone to make yourself welcome.  Feel at home, please.  Feel the music.

"Dance!" is all I can think.  "Dance, for the love of God.  Dance!"

No one new

Didn't see anyone new, or strange today.  It's unfortunate.

Kid who stayed at our dorm

This is from a while ago.  Know that.

You didn't know how to react to our world.  You were young, getting out of high school, and checking your options.  Awkward, gangly, uncomfortable with those who had done this for years before.

Perhaps you never really went away from home much, like me.  Maybe this was your first time being away for longer.  Possibly, we just didn't get where you came from.  Your past to us was an enigma we didn't want to crack.

After all, you were visiting us, not the other way around.

Now I see you here.  Still gangly, less uncomfortable.  You have people around you, you've got somewhere you're going to.  College is home now.  And you don't mind, one bit.

Guy at wine fest.

I bumped into you, sober still.

"Oh, sorry dude!" you effused.  No one hadever apologized so seemingly wholeheartedly for bumping into me.  I knew you were drinking, but in vino veritas,  and you seemed convincing.

I accepted your apology, walking away, searching for a sample from the local vinyards.

Couple that sat down to listen

I looked up from my guitar, saw you two sitting there.  I would have never imagined you were into the type of music we were playing (sloppily).

Guy was wearing glasses, looked like an IT guy.  Or a lawyer. Maybe ex-military with that short haircut.  Girl was smiling, leaning on his shoulder, oddly enough wearing a pastel shade of pink.  He was wearing blue. 

You probably walked here from home, right?  Not really following your ears, but hearing some crazy music going on somewhere.  Just a nice walk together for a freshly-minted married couple.  No kids for a while yet, but settling down.  No more crazy Fridays. 

Stable income now.  A job now.  Work-related friends now.  A backyard that needs mowing.  A garden that needs tending.  Windows that need cleaning.  Family that needs visiting.

I hope we reminded you of what you felt like just a few short years ago, before average life came a long.  Maybe you even used to listen to music like we were playing.  Maybe it's time you dusted off those records, CDs, and danced around the room like crazy again.

Jacob

"I'm egotistical enough to accept that," he says with a grin, replying in joking philosopher-speak.  That means I can write about him.

He used to live in Kalamazoo.  Today, though, Jacob pretty much lives here, in the local campus coffee shop. Some might say he's the stereotype of the coffeehouse hound:  sweater-wearing, bearded, spouting off about Sartre and Kant.

But that's not him.  With a six-foot-plus frame topped with a shock of blond hair, he towers over most of the people at the Moose Cafe.  His goal is to try and piece together the limits of human thought.  At 19, he's also been published in an academic journal, but he won't tell you that offhand, or lord it over your head.  He wants to discuss, not dominate.

This is just where he puts his thoughts together, over a cup of Mexican Organic, hunched over a dimly-lit tall table next to the carriage doors and self-serve coffeepots.

"I come here because of the pleasant aesthetic," he says, "I like to come here for the academic kind of environment that it offers, as opposed to my house which offers distractions.  The library's reserved for the most intense work, which is why I frequent the Moose more often."

He glances down at the outline he's working on for class:

"You think this is a good enough outline of Socrates, in sentences?"

It probably is.

No one again

Haven't seen anyone new today...yet.  Potentially no blog post.

Gypsy cart

Artisan market day.  The gypsy cart is rolling down Fulton Street, turning into a side road, making its way home.
In front, a younger-looking guy has himself harnessed in place of a horse.  Behind it, two girls help to push.  I've never been to the Artisan Market, but this guy might just make me want to go.

Walking down the street, seeing this jaunty vehicle runbling along, is enough of a reason to question one's surroundings.  There is no caravan behind it, no cars and no traffic to slow it down.  For a moment, today's roadway is turned into a bizarre enigma for anyone walking by.

Couple crossing the street

Courtesy Grant Hutchins

I thought you were my friends at first, sprinting across the street even though there was no traffic.  You were blurred through the screen across the window, somewhat invisible.

Now I'm not sure.  No one's knocking, the doorknobs aren't turning.

Maybe you're running next door, to some party.  Perhaps your friends are making you dinner.  They're not too well off, but they can make a mean barbecue, so you didn't hesitate to say "yes."  Usually the conversation with them is a bit bland, but today, with the coals slowly roasting specially marinated steaks and shishkabobs famous across town, talking comes easier than usual.

The guy was laid off last week from a job at a carpentry shop.  His girlfriend can't find work, and is going to school to finish her nursing degree.  They're doing all they can to hold onto the house.  He quit smoking.  She mows the lawn with a push mower.  They dry their clothes on a clothesline, and unplug everything.  Two squeaky bikes and a few ragged pairs of workboots and Chuck Taylors have replaced the Honda sitting in the driveway, for the most part.  Somehow they're still there.

-Money is tight, but the Lions are winning.-  he says with a laugh
- There is hope. -

You both look up.  Both of you notice that the sky still seems blue today, even though it's cloudy.

No one really interesting.

I didn't see anyone blogworthy or photoworthy tonight.  Sorry, guys and gals.

Bartender

Courtesy .Mitch on Flickr.com

Bam, there you are.  Slinging glasses through the spinning, buzzing brushes hovering in the sudsy sink water.  Appearing out of nowhere from the kitchen.  To us, it looks like an impressive assembly line of glassware and beer.  To you, it's just another day at the bar.

You notice something's off at the taps, call over another guy, and he affirms it.  Indeed, the IPA is closer to a brown ale, and has probably gone bad.   No praise, though.  Just criticism for not draining the lines after changing the kegs.  And back to washing you go, for a little while.

New guy?  Maybe.  Designated dishwasher?  Also probable.  Busboy?  That too. Waiter?  When need be. In fact, they have you running everything besides handling bottles and the cash register.   Anything that involves more than the arm stretch and two steps to the dark, musty coolers or bottles behind the dimly lit, worn-to-the-wood bar, well, you do that.

Such is the way of the new guy.  Be seen, not heard, and do what we tell you, or else.

Man at Moose Cafe

Are you a professor?  Just continuing ed?

I've seen you around here pretty often, toting a giant laptop case, looking like you're headed someplace, business?  Facebook?  Your glasses and sweaters say school.  Your ambling gait says student for life.

I can't tell.  I might never tell.

New deacon at church

He's shaky, he knows he's new. He admits he's scared within the first few lines.  Everyone can tell he's not quite sure of himself, but he's been preparing his homily a long time.  It shows.

The people cooperate, with polite laughs and nods here and there.  He rolls forward with the passionate energy every twenty-something has, once they find their niche.  There's a dash of sweat on his forehead, he's trying hard to remember exactly which lines to quote, which verses to cite, and how to bundle them all together.


He wants to enlighten the masses.  He doesn't want to convert, but to preach.  Each word he says feels more like the inherent simplicity of Gandhi or Confucius than a Papal encyclical.  Somehow, he pulls it off.  His words reach those gathered there to listen.  They're simple, elegant, and transcend his light accent and slightly jumbled grammar.  His eyes shine over the smile on his face, knowing he's reached the people.  He's done God's work.

Now to wake up tomorrow, and keep doing it.

Checkout guy

Swiping item after item at 11:00 pm should get to you.  But as run-down as this guy is, his clothes don't reflect it.  After 12 hours behind the checkout lane, with the smell of the dusty, spilled-beer-and-milk coated belt the norm in his nose, his tie is still creased perfectly and snapped tight with a cravat.  His slacks are pressed to a point that could cut through oak branches.  His shoes are slightly scuffed, but still shined from the morning.

He looks like he could go on non-stop.  Even with a scowl on his face and a mean look darting above the bags of his eyes, he's completely ready for anything that will come his way tonight, be it just a few drinks at the bar, meeting royalty, or the apocalypse.

Girl at Cafe.

The first thing you see is her guitar.  It's roughly the size of her, inky black, with tons of mother-of-pearl inlaid all over.  Fancy barbed-wire designs ring the sound hole.  The whole thing glistens in the dim light, each curve reflecting a little differently, like a grand piano on a stage.  Some musician's dedication is scrawled onto the top in silver ink. 

The strap that holds the instrument on her wiry frame is harsh fluorescent pink, with a black checkerboard motif.  Perhaps an Avril Lavigne custom model.

She talks like a wasp flaps its wings, with spits and starts, twitches and buzzes.

How she has 7 guitars.

How this one is her baby.

How her doctor has no rules on what to eat, and what not to eat, as she slams a Starbucks Frappucino, the first of three.

 How she tried Ritalin, but she doesn't take it anymore.

How you might recognize this song that she's about to play, but after playing three bars, she can't sing it or play more because it gets harder.

A constant barrage of statements and quips flies out of her mouth, like a verbal seizure.  Everything fires at the same time.   She's out of control, gunning at random, and there's no sign of the ammo running out.

Woman at Family Fare

Blond cornrows on a dark scalp will always jump out in everyday places.  They look unique among the power cuts of average Joes getting out of work or school, that reach for the bottles of fancy beer or lox-infused bagels.

She's average in almost every way: average build, average clothes, two occasionally-screaming kids in tow,  a cart full of groceries.   She's yelling at someone at the other end of the line on her cell phone, though.  No, she won't be home tonight.  It doesn't matter where the kids are as long as they're with her.  She's better than that.

She's probably moving in with her sister, now; carrying one or two small bags of clothes,  hoping to find herself and to find a new home.

She knows it's time to move on.  But can she?

A new reason for this blog

Well, what started as a New Year's resolution has pretty much failed.  But there might be a way to save A Clean, Well-Lighted Place.

There are tons of places like Hemingway's cafe, the namesake of that story.  And just like in the story, there are tons of interesting, unique people in each one:  the barflies, the coffeehouse dwellers, the urban nomads, the next-door-neighbors-down-the-street.

This is going to be a look at those everyday people, one at a time.  Some will be friends or family, some will be total strangers.  Some will get a chance to tell their story, others will have their lives filled in for them.  Some of them will have pictures attached; others, you'll have to imagine.

They'll all be real, though.  That much is for sure.

Rant: The punny guy on facebook

Every time I open up Facebook, there he is.  Mr. Punny.  Mr. "do Amazons swing Broad Swords?"

He's stupid, pseudo-intelligent, and a waste of my newsfeed space.  I hope he realizes that all those LOL's and ROFL's aren't people really laughing.  Unfortunately, there's plenty of those folks to fuel his humorous flames.

Maybe I'm jealous that his cheap kindergarten jokes can garner more attention than my reasoned questions posted out to the public.  Maybe I've got some sort of inferiority complex going on.  But dammit, is it really necessary or fair for one guy to make the world facepalm and groan every time he updates his status?

To said Pun-master:  Please stop and think about the rest of us before you throw up some more ornate word vomit next to your super-serious portrait online.   If you want an image of your face to always be associated with "I'm giving up giving up for Lent, but that means I still gave something up," great.  But honestly, do you want the only thing all your foreign friends and distant family knows you for to be really bad one-liners?  Do you?

Quick haiku night

I am oh so tired

World spinning, a top on end

puts me to sleep soon.

Everyone else here

both young and old, rich and poor

is snuggled in bed.

I really have to pack

clothes lie like broken roses

colors spread about.

My break is now finished

Pencil, paper, library

These are my friends now.

Search for a home, you

find a place to lie your head!

I like being free.

I've got the urge to travel again (or Morocco Part 1)

I've got the urge to travel again.
That jolt in my feet that pushes me out the door
           is most definitely trying
                      to shove me outside
                                and get me to see
                                          things that lie beyond my doorstep
                                                         that smells of soot, old snow,
                                                                         rubber boots, and salt

So I go
To Morocco.

Taxi! Two hundred  euro?  Twenty euro!
    on we go
           past national flags
                  casbah-looking buildings
                       arabesque arches loom everywhere
                              merchants hawk spices pungently
                                   a man with an orange cart, stares at me,
                                         calls me over to partake in his succulent feast
                                                 so bold, so sweet, so un-packaged and sans-cellophane

He's as boisterous as the fruit he hawks

I choose the man who looks like a beggar
       four or so scraggly teeth left
          a steel-wool beard hanging off limp jowls
               a robe that had seen better, more traditional days
                         he sells dates as wrinkled and dark as his face
                              I wonder where he sleeps at night (2 dirham's worth)
                                  If his stories are as rich as the fruit he sells (about a handful)
                                       his memories as detailed as the alleys of wrinkles on his face?

               
There are no street signs here.

Detroit: Pt. 2

I'm on Spring Break for the next 10 days or so.  That means I'll be slaving to get up to my "post-a-day" quota that's been neglected since early January.  Whatever I can write:  reviews, journalism, non-fiction, poetry, smoke-long stories, etc.  I've got to get back to the idea of using this blog as a practice tool.


Mogtaba Shirdel


Thirty-three times once more
beads slip through your fingers
a startling, worn red
on the calloused, yellow fingers

Yellow like the  books,
album covers that surround you.
Yellowed phones will never ring.
On the wall, it never rings.

This used to be your city.
This used to be your home.
This used to be a place that paid you rent.


Thirty-three times once more
Beads slipped through your fingers.
a startling, fresh red
against the latest paint on your walls.

Scents, so clean and new
In each home you created
Soon filled with life, with people
Soon killed by life, by people.

This was truly your city.
This was truly your home.
This was truly a place that paid.


Thirty-three times once more
Beads are slipping through your fingers.
a startling, worn red
against the dust-brown of the floor

 Kicked up by your shoes
 Bells ring against the door.
Someone's come in, only one today.
Someone's come in, you're not alone today.  

This is your city.
This is your home.  
This is where you pay your rent.




Check out where the subject came from at detroitblog.org  

Good little cigar tonight

[This is cross posted from Puff, where I wrote it]

I picked up a tin of CAO Flavours Cherrybomb Minis sometime last year on c-bid, and never really got into them. I think I've smoked two of them, and my girlfriend has smoked most of them-she really likes the sweet tips.

Anyway, it's a still, frigid night here in Grand Rapids, and I was toying between either finishing a half-bowl of Samuel Gawith, or having one of these after finishing a 4,000 word take-home test from hell.After trying to light that half-bowl and keep it going, well, I went with the CAO.

I'm glad I did.

I don't know if it was the cold, or the fact that the humidity in my flavored cigar tupperdor was fairly low, or just the fact that I wanted to smoke something fruitier and sweet, but it was good. Really good, in fact-way better than I had remembered them to be.

I avoided the overly-sweetened tip as much as possible (blegh), and still picked up on hints of sour cherries and black currants, with a subtle vanilla/cream flavoring that went really well with the smooth mildness of the Cameroon wrapper. If I exhaled through my nose, I got a nice blast of gentle peppery tobacco smoke, followed by more currant aroma. Even when I wasn't smoking it, the little wafts of smoke smelled like a good cigar had met an orchard.

The flavor wasn't near as cloying as the tin smell reminded me of. In fact, it was pretty damned good, and lasted me the whole half-hour walk through the woods. The few times I actually did get a touch of the sweetened tip on my tongue, it complemented the flavors nicely, like when a hint of sugar brings out nuances in tea sometimes.

So, am I surprised that I'm even writing this little review right now? Yes. Would I smoke another? For sure-it was everything I was looking for in my pipe tobacco tonight, and couldn't find.

I guess I'm a cigar guy at heart.

[/TL,DR]

Detroit Pt. 1

  Blogging every day is a negative so far.  But when I do get here, I've been enjoying writing.
  The Motor City has been on my mind lately, which is how, I suppose, this happened.  I plan on writing more about Detroit-I love it and want to visit it again in a strange way.

  















1920's Detroit / Courtesy Detnews.com


Detroit is a beautiful city.
Don't believe what they've told you
Don't swallow what they've fed you

Don't look at the broken windows
and broken workers.

Look past the plants-those empty Leviathans
Lords of the region, where winches and bodies
Once mobile
Stand rusted still, deadened and locked.

Look past the streets-corridors draw blood
that ends in suburbs, in sewers. The asphalt
Once living,
lies drained, broken and opened

Look past the roots-these rifled branches
stood and watched this city crave an escape,
Once possible,
now missing-gone with the people.

Don't look at the broken windows
and broken workers.

Don't swallow what they've fed you
Don't believe what they've told you
Detroit is a beautiful city.

Samuel Smith's Nut Brown Ale

Fancy beer of the night:

Samuel Smith's Nut Brown Ale.  I got a six-pack of interesting imports from all over the world along with that sweet tall mug from my girlfriend for Valentine's Day/2-year anniversary, hence I'm drinking things I normally couldn't afford.  The foodie in me loves this sort of gift beyond all belief.

But the beer.  Ah, the beer...

I know English ales are supposed to be the more bitter counterpart to the rest of the world's.  I've had the typical mass-marketed Murphy's and Guinness, but this is my first experience with an English craft brew.

First thought Damn, it's dry.  Second thought: Too dry.  Third thought:  It's like a Negra Modelo, but dry.

After a while, though, the flavor's finally starting to come through.  I think this is one of those beers that should be had at room temp instead of chilled.  There's a little toastiness going on, a lot of yeast smell (complements the toast flavor nicely), some bitters that don't linger too long, and a nice, tangy, white wine sort of finish.

It's not a loaf of bread in a bottle (ahem Guinness), but it's not a Negra Modelo-light, Mexican sort of dark.  This is balanced, slanted a bit toward what I imagine a classic English beer would taste like.

Not bad.  I'd drink it again, but I think it would be better on a warm autumn night, instead of a frigid winter one like tonight.

I'm back.

Well, I failed on the catching up this weekend, but better late than never.

In other news, blogosphere, it's been an eventful week:

• My girlfriend and I have officially been together for two years now
• I have six sutures in my thumb from a broken metal coffee mug
•  Mubarak finally decided to give up power in Egypt...in September
•  Green Bay won the Superbowl (not that I really care)
• and Grand Rapids survived the Snowpocalypse blizzard.  

Other than that, not much to speak of.  I've got some homework to finish up tonight, but I'll be writing more in coming days.

I'll post catch-up posts this weekend.

I know I've said that this blogging everyday thing is harder than I thought...but I never thought I'd be over five posts behind.  For that matter, I never thought I'd be behind.  But schoolwork, responsibilities, and other life issues are unfortunately ahead of my blog.

Which is unfortunate, because I really like writing here.  It lets me get whatever's on my mind, out.  I've kind of turned this into an online journal, where anyone who cares/stumbles far enough into the world wide web finds my writings, no matter how terrible they are.

It's really kind of cool.

Here are some thoughts on homelessness

This is a slightly edited cross-post from my facebook:



Get involved. Try to help, if you feel mobilized.

Don't judge those who walk past, though. The dignity of the homeless is still recognized, just unseen. Walking past dozens of them eventually numbs one to what's in the streets.

Think about it this way: someone who ignores the homeless might be a lawyer representing a homeless man in court, pro bono; or a state department guy working to alleviate poverty in a third-world country; or a clerk at a homeless shelter's office.

Undesirables being moved out because they make the city ugly, however, is another situation. If they are directed towards places that can help them, I can see a modicum of value in official "clean up" policy. But if they are just bumped to another sector...there's something wrong. Sweeping the problem under the rug eventually just makes for a really big and unignorable mound of dirt beneath the carpet.

I agree that there are people who will turn their noses up at the homeless, but you will find far more who fall speechless and look at straight ahead because there's nothing they can say. That's a recognition of dignity-momentarily putting our lives in their place, and realizing how astoundingly more difficult it is.

Honestly, homelessnesses everywhere (social, political or physical) is one of those things that drew me into international studies/poli sci and journalism, looking back and thinking about it. I'd never considered those fields until I took a few classes in college and started thinking that maybe I could get involved deeply in these sorts of humanist issues.

Even the smallest bit of help still helps.

Economics

Dollars, nonsense, left and right
they tell, pull, push, fall
out between us and the acrid smell
of gunshots
cowers in the air.

X and Y intersect, slope tight
against each other
worlds watch us do the funky math
as curves
show it isn't fair.

Profit lives, divine holy light
them up they shriek
behind damp-smelling bunkers
money
rains, and they don't care.

Skies laced with napalm ignite
their hearts and dollar bills
in Washington, change sweaty hands
clean cash
clean-cut,  everywhere.  

Liquor is a godsend.

Alcohol is really a wonderful social lubricant.

Now before you criticize me as an alcoholic or a typical college student, hear me out.  My friends and I are an introverted bunch, we struggle through awkward small talk every day.  It's not a bad thing, but there are just days when I wish segways between conversation would just go more easily.

Enter ethanol.

Be it a beer, cocktail, wine, whatever-it's a magic bullet to any sort of situation where those awkward social missteps always wheedle their way in.  A little bit of liquor can gloss over little moments of insecurity and silence and make everything flow better.  Cutting back on inhibitions is a wonderful thing, too-how else could you muster up the guts to start a civil debate on musical taste (or any other topic) with someone you barely know?

There's nothing wrong with a drink before dinner.  In fact, it may even be beneficial to heart health.  But most importantly, for me, and for so many other introverts out there, it lets us open up and fly.

Being home

Sara, a friend of mine is leaving for France in about a week (she's blogging it here), and that's got me thinking about my recent European excursion.  All I can say is, it's strange to be home after a semester in Spain.

 The historical buildings and squares everywhere are replaced by neat grids of streets.  The jamon y tapas is replaced by burgers and corn nuts.  Fine wine becomes grape juice.   Rain becomes snow.  Cold becomes...colder.

But I love it.  Everything that I've grown used to feels new and fresh.  The memories that float in my head of my months abroad feel like an extended lucid dream.  I know I was there-I have the photos to prove everything.  I just can't believe it all.

I stood at the rocky edge of the roaring ocean at Finisterra, walked through the Moroccan spice markets in the fragrant night and haggled for incense and scarves, stared at the Duomo's flying buttresses trying to figure out how they possibly were still standing  in Milan, bought Spanish translations of Mark Twain, H.P. Lovecraft, and Saint-Exupéry from a burned-out hippy in Salamanca after catching a glimpse of the infamous frog, watched one of the larges political rallies on earth develop during the November strikes in Madrid, and dabbled my feet in the same water that carried Columbus' contemporaries across the ocean in Lisbon.

I wouldn't trade a moment of it.  But I still love my home, the normality of it all.  I love life just the way it is, really:  unpredictable, spontaneous, and at times, frustrating.   And I'll always be looking for new places to go.

I'm two days behind...

Well, here we are again, dear readers.  Matt's fallen two days behind in blogging, school's ratcheting up the gears in classes, and Facebook yet again drains millions of hours.

In short, I've been lazy.

But enough complaining-on to issues that stick out in my mind.

Martin Luther King Jr. Day (Or, How We're Not Quite Colorblind Yet)

In an Urban Government class yesterday, we were discussing the significance of MLK and his impact on the U.S.  The more we talked about how much the world has changed for black people since the 50's, the more it became clear to me that the U.S. is far from colorblind.

We talked for nearly an hour about race disparity, how African-American is an outdated term for black people, how brown is slowly becoming the new white as far as skin color is concerned.

Only a few people brought up how they felt race didn't have to be as big of a concern as it used to be.

We still see color.  We still feel the need to debate it, to look at it, to perpetuate this myth of difference between us.  When current policy applies to certain people over certain other people, such as in affirmative action cases, we see racial differences take center stage.  I know that color is easy to see, and therefore becomes a huge part of one's identity.

But does it have to be so central to so many things we do?

School

At 6:00 A.M, my alarm is going to go off.

At 6:15, I'll roll out of bed.

At 6:20, I'll brush my teeth and check my hair.

At 6:35, I'll brew a pot of coffee.

At 6:45, I'll walk out the door, coffee in hand.

So will begin another morning.

Sobieski Vodka is Amazing

I've had a bit to drink, therefore this post may be a bit more stream-of-consciousness than most.

And I know I have make-up posts to do.

But here's the deal:  I was at a party with some friends today...old friends, people that I've known for a few years.  They had people over, it was a kegger for profit, and I didn't know most of the people there.

But they didn't jive with me.  They weren't necessarily rude, they weren't necessarily bad people.  But I just  couldn't get along.

Does this make me a bad person?  Does this make me a douche, just as much as they were?

I don't really know.  There are days when I feel like isolating myself from people.  There are days when I just don't feel like breaking the ice with new people...especially when they've been sitting around a keg all night.

It's not that I dislike people, it's just that I have a sense of when I'll get along with someone and when I won't.

I'm having a good night tonight.  I'm at my girlfriend's home, and I'm talking to her roommates.  They're very friendly, kind people.  These are the people I love, the conversationalists.  Maybe I'm getting old.  Or maybe I just know who I can trust and get along with.  I love life, especially with people I get along with.

Those Moments Before Sleep are the Strangest.

Have you ever been really tired, on the verge of falling asleep, and started hearing things that weren't there?   I get this sensation all the time-a Micheal Jackson CD playing somewhere, someone talking to me, lines from a movie getting replayed over and over in my head.  It's a bizarre and disorienting feeling, but it's also almost like being able to dream awake.  I enjoy sleep.

Missed another write...

Damn.

I can't believe I missed another post.  I mean, granted, there are those days when I just can't find time to dedicate myself to writing a blog post, but most of the time it's just being to lazy to find the time.

Anyway, make-up lymeric:

I'm a sloth, said the terrible writer
My mind's lazy, I can't seem to find, er,
Inspiration!  he stammered
And the keyboard he hammered
So insipred, that he pulled an all nighter.

Why I called my blog "A Clean, Well-Lighted Place"

I'm a Hemingway fan.  His curt, close-cut sentences and laid-back stories that deal with everyday life always appealed to me.   I started thinking about "A Clean, Well-Lighted Place," just because the title sounded cool originally.  The more I looked at it, though, there were definite ties between me, this project, and that Hemingway story.

Here's a link for you who haven't read it:  http://www.mrbauld.com/hemclean.html

Late-night coffee joints are my second home.   When I re-read the story, I realized why.

I've been on both sides of the bar in the story.  I've been among the last to leave only when my late-night joints close, and I've been both waiters: the one that's trying to chase out customers after a few final drinks, just so that I can go home, and the one who knows them and why they're there.

Staring into a glass on the table that I sit at night by night really makes it harder to leave at last call.  I'm at home at these places.   I know people there, if only by how they look.

There's Mandolin Pirate who walked in one night with whiteface makeup and lavender tunic, complete with stovepipe hat. He was carrying a mandolin case.   Giant Transvestite was ordering coffee one night when I arrived.  All I remember are his sequined stiletto heels and fishnets that ended at his hips, at my eye level.  Hobbling Reader was always there when I was, perched over his cane slowly shuffling across the floor.  An endless stream of English cigarette butts would fill the ashtray as he paged through his pretentious novels.  His wispy blond hair and stylish glasses masked his broken legs.  If he was sitting down, it was impossible to imagine that without that cane sitting next to him, he couldn't move.  And of course, the Feauxhemian Crew was a permanent rotating fixture, dressed up in knit caps, overly tight jeans, gaudy sun dresses and dirty flannel.  They always laughed too loud, stayed too long, and never tipped.

These were my friends from afar.  We all knew that this was the place we went to when we needed a light for the night.  We still need the cafe  just as much as they need us.


And I could help when others needed a place to go to.  This time, I was at a different bar with different clientèle, mixing drinks and trying to be happy.  They were kind, older men, happy to get away from the rush of capitalism to play a round of golf.  I was a college student, the same thing as a grade schooler to these older gents in Weejuns and twill pants.  I knew them and their lives, their jobs, their friends.  Dennis's wife was in the hospital because of a stroke.  John had gotten hired to finish the plumbing in the country club.  Doug had gotten kicked out for unpaid dues, but his friends kept bringing him over.   They needed this place, isolated from the world, just as much as I needed mine.

 There were days when I didn't care.  The doors would get closed a few hours early, I would go home and sleep.   My imagination would run those nights, picturing all the lonely men finding the doors to their clean, well-lighted place locked.  I can see myself in their shoes, now, annoyed with a bartender-less bar and dark hallways.

(...)

I'm learning to like my new, digital place.  It's always open, the lights are always on.  I can come here whenever and talk, and stay as long as I please.  It's what I plan on doing.

Missed a day...make-up post.

I honestly missed a day last night.  My goal's not to do that again.  Here's a make-up limerick:

I usually write here most nightly
But last night my tiredness was frightly
I passed out right quick
Perhaps I was sick
Right now, though, I'm feeling quite sprightly!

Blogging is more difficult then I thought.

When I started this up, I thought a blog a day would be a breeze.  A piece of cake.  Now I realize it's really not so.

Put it this way-there are so many things that happen in a day.  All of them threaten to take precedence over a lowly piece of writing a few people might stumble upon and read one day.  The internet is a good distraction-why write when you can read hundreds of top ten lists and stumble through great photography?  I'm at a plateau already?  Why now?  Blargh.

Flibbertigibbet.

Clown.

Packing for school

I'm heading back to college after a semester abroad.  I've spend all day packing.  Everything in boxes-nicely compartmentalized, organized, racked and stacked.  All of it's ready to go.  I can't wait to be back, it will be a blast.

Sometimes I feel crazy.

There are nights when my mind just goes off the tracks, and takes a few days to be put back on:



I wish I understood sometimes
What goes through my head
not questioning, not reasoning,
Just there.  Just sitting.

Eggshells blank and fragile
Floating like clouds
I step on them, watch them crumble into layered dust
Watch as the wind picks them up and turns them again to cloud.

It takes time, all things
But the clouds will come again.
For now the sun shines
And burns me red.

Most days, I really love the winter

There's snow on the ground again.  Real snow, white snow.  Not that road-salt-and-grime-laden kind I'm used to seeing around the east coast of Michigan.

It's refreshing.  My view from my window looks clean again.  The summer stench of the drainage ditch is covered in five inches of white powder.  Nonexistent.  Disappeared.  Poof.

Under twelve layers, the cold doesn't bother me.  I constantly catch a glimmer from every snowflake as I walk past.  My family's front yard feels like it's coated in diamonds.  Someone has their fireplace going, I can smell the pine burning.  Any smell out here is twice as intense when it's against the  background of the cold winter.

Every last bit of it is beautiful.  Trees stand nude now, willfully stripped, curving and reaching toward the sky.  Their stark limbs shiver when they feel a breeze.  Even as they chatter, they don't change their pose.

White clouds burst from the chimneys and vents along the streets as they breathe.   In the quiet, the wind whistles and whispers at anyone who cares to listen.  A few birds hopping around the feeder occasionally tweet back a reply as they flutter through the fresh snow.   I watch the tiny points of white sparkle as they fall on their heads, like little kids playing around.  Then they see me.  With an embarrassed twitch and a flutter, they fly away, over the white roofs, past the white fields, into another white world, just as captivating as mine.

Yesterday's post, blogger was down

Hey all,  I couldn't get on blogger for some reason last night.  Here's my post for Jan 6:

Haikus again, because they're fun:

I met her with coffee:

Enticed into love, so strong

We kiss like dark steam.

One mind of havoc

Overloaded with random

Is what I live with

A heart of darkness:

In jungles and dead rivers,

Human delusion

I've got the flu

So, the illustrated short story is getting put on hold again.  I caught a pretty bad stomach flu and was asleep until 4 today.  Instead, here's a little free-write.

I'm sick and I'm tired.  My friend's sick and tired, too.
My stomach feels like it's ripping it in half.  His whole life feels like it's ripped in half.
I just wish I could leave my body right now.  He wishes he could leave town right now.
Everything I eat keeps coming back up.  Everything he did keeps coming back up.
I wish everything would just go back to normal.

My friend wishes it would, too.

Haiku night

Oh, the things that I crank out when I'm tired.  I'll have a more interesting, illustrated (!) story up tomorrow, hopefully.

Once more it is late

I'm typing on my laptop

The moon smiles at me

            

Fish swim in the stream

Fins break water in silence

The ripples spread wide.

            

Sleep closes my eyes

I travel to other worlds

Dreams dance before me.

My desk

is a mess right now.

There are pill bottles to the left of me-my hands almost topple them every time I reach for a drink from my mug.  Three of them sit there-mixed herbs, vitamins, aspirins, ibuprofens, all left over from a trip.

 Behind them, my mail.  Envelopes on envelopes, set at every which angle, are trying to escape from a letter stand that's doing it's best to contain all the credit card offers, bills, and opened Christmas greetings.  Every time I pull a page from them, they all move, jostling the bottles, shifting things every which way.  They're hustlers, really.  Just a bunch of rowdy thugs that want my attention, or are yelling to "pay now or else," or are trying to sell me something that I really don't need.  I'm tired of it all.

 Not too far from them sit the doodads and knicknacks.  The useful waste.  An old, unused keychain souvenier that someone brought back from Europe.  A scuffed, kinked-up cable that connected something with something at one time-it used to be white.  A set of miniature screwdrivers, some used a few times, some untouched, rubber banded together and bundled in an old film cannister. A half-eaten box of Sour Patch Kids, a little dried, and a bit less appealing then they were a week ago, trapped underneath all the rest.  A pen and a marker, snuggled against each other, holding out next to the chaos, wondering when there will be some peace and order again.  A plastic bag, wrinkled, used once, and forgotten-it knows it can still hold.  Scissors, brand-new, sit there with the rest of the merch, shiny, spotless.  They know they're better than the rest, they just got here, they won't end up like everybody else.

 They're all vagabonds, moved from place to place so many times that they have no real place of their own. Everything that they are is seemingly insignificant, but did so much, and just might do more in the future, if I give them the chance.

 If they don't end up moved to another dark corner.

The books and notes stand sentient and massive at the far end of the desk.   Collected knowledge from everywhere, around the world, is compiled between bindings, slowly gathering dust like a regal wig.  They rarely move.  They have their place.  They are permanent, only to be destroyed by fire or water.  They are even, orderly, with numbered pages, indexes, square-cut corners and perfectly stitched bindings.  Their white paper glimmers in the softest light, blazes and reflects everything when open in the sun.   Their intelligence stays, their value, timeless.

 Above them, a few sticks of incense waver at the scene.  Slight breezes or touches can move them about in their jar of pebbles.  Each is tall, each is even, and each has an aroma that's so pleasing, so beautiful.  They want to keep this gift to themselves.  The only way to release it is to destroy them by fire.  So far, they've survived.  As time goes by, they lose their scented beauty.  They become sticks like all the rest as the oils dry up.  There's no reason to keep them out anymore.  They keep fidgeting.

 At the edge sits a camera, turned away, turned off.  It doesn't see the bedlam behind it, it doesn't feel the bills struggling to escape and explode onto the floor, it doesn't smell the sweet perfume fading from the incense inches away.  It doesn't think about how the silent books can store so much thought and not speak a word.  It doesn't bother trying to untangle the cables from scissors, screwdrivers from the rubber bands.

It stares at the the plain white wall.

There's always a broken string

Just playing with words tonight.  I haven't written any cheesy poems in a while:

There's doves at my window again.
They survey the earth like I study a page-
A string just broke on my guitar.
There's always a broken string.

Those starved birds never did cry.
Their steel-beaded eyes on tight-bundled feathers
dart towards the ground, beaks jutting down:
they can taste what the earth gives.

I lost that gift long ago.
I feed on what they teach me:
Thought and language, manners in time
There's always a broken string.

Two hours in...

I'm sitting here thinking over what I want to wish everyone for this new year and new decade.  Real new year's wishes.  Things that I'd love to see happen.  Here's my list, something that my fingers blurted out on a Facebook status a few minutes ago:


Real New Year's wishes (or hopes):


I hope that everyone discovers something great about themselves this year.

I hope that each person who reads this can gain a new appreciation for the people that surround them.

I hope everyone who's feeling any pain, emotional or physical, has good days when it goes away on its own.

I hope that the wind in the leaves and the birds in the skies remind you that there are still wonderful things that happen every day, even if we don't see them.

I hope all of us learn to open up a little more.

I hope the world finds a little bit of peace it can hold on to.

I hope we all learn to live the best we can.

I hope you remember that even if you don't feel it sometimes, there is someone out there who loves you. You may not know who, may not even realize it, but they're there. Remember that.

I hope that a sliver more of happiness finds its way into your heart and never leaves any of you.

I hope for the best, for all of us.


Happy New Year, for real this time.