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.