eng 259.

i just wrote possibly one of the most amazing things to ever have shimmied and sparked from my finger tips 

and it disappeared, just like that.

i feel so alive

call it a celebration of the "custom of innocence"

or naievete.

i could really care either way.

i can write all day and all night-

from the moment the gray skin of the sky is peeled back to reveal that inky depth,

i can write.

i just want to love you.

it aches to imagine such a love.

and i don't know who you are (what kind of a question is that? "who are you?")

i can feel you within the velvet lines of the sweater

the rough cotton of sheets

the heated wall that is your chest

the pointed tips of holly-leaves

the icy pelts of rain on a nameless path in loudonville.

i can see you within the scratchy swipes of a pencil

and the smudged numbers that i've never really cared for.

i'm growing far more than i ever thought was possible

i've uprooted

and replanted.

i'm a beam in the barn that no one ever explores

save the lone owl

or the shivering.

but i am not alone.

you, and he, and she are my fellow beams

and together

we erect the barn

that no one ever explores

save the lone owl

or the observant.

i am Michelle.

i have never named myself,

but i am.

and you are

and we are both here together.

and come now somber one,

isn't that miraculous?

smile for me now

and lay down that cross.

i'm going to press these words into that naked sky,

just like that God did so many eons ago with the stars.

didn't you know that's what they are, the stars i mean?

they're letters of that language that we forget so many years ago,

but i'm adding my own taste to the horizon this day

and you, will be etched there for eternity,

simply because you are you,

and i am me.

we are alive.

scatter-brained

i don't really have much to say, but i feel as if i should.

i've been doing a lot of internal thinking lately

and that always leads to disaster.

i'm worrying about spilling blood

and tripping in heels.

(if i'm worried about it now, why am i even going through with it?)

because there's always going to be some new plane

that you'll have to slide across,

most likely hitting the harsh angles,

but praying that the pinball arms can push you away, just in time, unscathed.

i really wish my printer worked

and that i felt like i was wearing my own clothes.

i actually had to stop and wonder this morning about what i usually wear.

isn't that strange?

in a closet full of my own clothes, everything seems old.

i wonder what happened to weekends with my friends

friday nights at burke's

and rolling out of bed whining

to go to mass at eight am.

i know i'll be back there soon enough,

but i'm starting to wonder if i want to.

will i be upset to leave?

will i yearn to come back?

i can't even imagine how strange that's going to be.

i've been having dreams about thanksgiving

in the most recent,

i go home

and devin wants me to go out with them

and we're standing in my side yard

but i'm not ready for the wedding rehersal

and i need to put heels on

i promise to mee up with her later

but my friends from here are there

and i have to somehow mesh both groups together.

this is so problematic.

i want to go clubbing with n. ho

and sit in govt. once again.

i miss walking around in the hallways acting like an idiot because everyone knew me.

isn't it strange,

that in a place where no one knows my name,

i'm even more afraid of being associated with looking like a freak?

i miss hugging without hesitation

and share prayer.

i miss feeling

and connections.

why did you get a new dog?

don't you think it's too soon?

i wonder if the leaves have started to fall yet.

i should probably go look up that tranny bar.

i can't tell you what's wrong or why i'm upset because i don't know the answer myself.

if i did, i promise i would tell you.

i feel like crying rivers

i feel like crying until everything blurs

and my cheeks feel raw and red.

i want to cry until i feel closer to him again,

until i'm back where i was just a few short months ago.

god, i can't do this without you

and i know you're here

but i can't get past everything else that i've hid myself behind.

i'm not even stressed

or upset

or mad.

just drifting away.

you know what,

i am mad.

i'm mad because you're using me

and you expect me to fucking wait until you're ready?

are you kidding me?

do you think i'm dense?

learn how the world works,

learn how i work.

i wish that using the term "indie" wasn't so cliche.

standish= nirvana

i miss ethan frome.

a religious experience.

tokyo police club

the postal service

sigur ros

coldplay

the killers

the shins

bright eyes.

lips are partially open, eyes grow weak.

i miss the chill of leather seats

and the slip of flats on black ice

the numbness of my fingertips

as i tap the button

to play the next song.

come up to meet you, tell you i'm sorry.

i wrote this yesterday (or did i?)

things are becoming more confused

with every passed note

and missed birthday.

sometimes i just know things,

and i don't know how to explain it.

i don't claim to be a prophet or a god.

i just know things.

maybe it's because i pay attention

and i can read you

and maybe deep down,

that's what scares you:

you haven't been written in another language.

i'm not decoding you

or just "pressing you buttons"

for my own pleasure

i just need you to know

that you make the decisions.

yes, there is the inevitable, and there always will be,

but you take action.

now, and now.

if you don't like what's going on

or if you know it hurts

and you know it doesn't feel right,

then why not stop it?

time and time again,

i've told you that i'm not mad

and that's the truth.

i just don't understand how one cannot see their own will.

please, don't place the blame on someone else.

and so it's fall

and i have yet to wear my pea coat

and boots.

the leaves are just changing

and yet,

i have yet to pluck apples straight from the tree

or brush the dust off of a pumpkin.

i've always wanted to travel

but i'd be lying if i said i didn't miss home.

festival.

i'm slipping farther away from what i had once cherished to be the most important thing in my life. i'm grasping and leaping from moment to moment and not looking ahead. it makes sense as to why i feel unstable, empty even.

(like i said today, i've always felt alone, but this just proves it.)

and i'm not upset about it

or angry

or jealous

because i know that i'm surrounded by love

every hour

every day.

i said to them today to think about the fact that one day we will be without one another.

one day, i will be without u, and u without me.

but to sit in our rooms

isolated

and awaiting that day-

fear. our hands clenched around our covers,

our eyes staring out towards the maples

with their wide, veined palms offering themselves up to someone, something

but not impatient.

omniscient in their beliefs

confident in what's to come.

so please don't fret

and just let me know that you love me

and i promise that i'll do the same. 

i'm praying for you. wherever you may be, whoever you may be

because i'm unsure of anything.

and for the first time,

it doesn't really bother me.

it's all coming at us

regardless of whether or not we have prepared for it

with meticulous charts

and circled dates on calendars

because nothing is certain other than this:

we are here and soon we won't be.

so let's get all dressed up

and apply the unnecessary cakey blush

smiling at ourselves in the mirror,

ultimately preparing ourselves for disappointment

because over-analysis

and any expectations

always result in something much different than disappointment, and yet we still continue to use the term. i believe it's more shock that reality is different than our own imaginations.

but don't you know flightless bird, that everyone has thoughts too?

this is what reality is- the culmination of yearning imaginations to create action.

so i'm staring wide-eyed and breathless at the white washed ceiling,

draining myself of the excess.

use me, please.

i have so much to give

and it's being wasted within me.

take my hands and make them bleed,

take my eyes and make them tear for your pain, your struggles.

i've done enough for my own. 

a supermarket in california

by allen ginsberg

What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman, for I walked down the sidestreets under the trees with a headache self-conscious looking at the full moon. In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went into the neon fruit supermarket, dreaming of your enumerations! What peaches and what penumbras!  Whole families shopping at night!  Aisles full of husbands!  Wives in the avocados, babies in the tomatoes!--and you, Garcia Lorca, what were you doing down by the watermelons?  I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old grubber, poking among the meats in the refrigerator and eyeing the grocery boys. I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed the pork chops?  What price bananas?  Are you my Angel? I wandered in and out of the brilliant stacks of cans following you, and followed in my imagination by the store detective. We strode down the open corridors together in our solitary fancy tasting artichokes, possessing every frozen delicacy, and never passing the cashier.  Where are we going, Walt Whitman?  The doors close in an hour.  Which way does your beard point tonight?

(I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the

supermarket and feel absurd.) Will we walk all night through solitary streets?  The trees add shade to shade, lights out in the houses, we'll both be lonely.  Will we stroll dreaming of the lost America of love past blue automobiles in driveways, home to our silent cottage? Ah, dear father, graybeard, lonely old courage-teacher, what America did you have when Charon quit poling his ferry and you got out on a smoking bank and stood watching the boat disappear on the black waters of Lethe?

dearest lisa

so it kind of upsets me and at the same time, it doesn't.

i haven't talked talked with anyone. 

but i mean i guess that's what everyone does.

don't they?

it's not a question of what's new in my life,

but rather what's "old"

because it seems that there are less constants

than variables.

i miss driving

and listening to my music

and not making new friends at every corner.

who would think i would ever be happy for assignments

and study sessions

and structure

to start?