profs say the darndest things

Suicide is GORGEOUS.
"irregardless" (Should someone tell her that's not a word?)
This rubber glove is my buddy, i'm taking him out for a drink later. 
Hey, that's from my prom dress that I never got to wear! 
They wouldn't let me on the plane because I was part of an atheist organization.
(Handing out $100 bills) So, we'll be doing class evaluations next...please take this...
They're playing flutes, which symbolizes something sexual (getting flustered) well you all know what I mean.
You have to make the other children understand, so they won't wonder why that little girl's out there eating the woodchips on the playground.
Your favorite thing to do is play with your truck. His favorite thing is to roll back and forth on the floor.
An artist's life isn't too bad, you just don't buy the good bologna at wegmans
I don't really want to teach any more. You can go home.

the blue last two (weeks)

lying in my bed, on my right side
my fist curled, just above my head
fingertips touch the pillow
my left eye is open
staring up
a dead white eye
for a dead white sky
it doesn't have to move, just like I
lie still
but it does
sliding across the expanse
caught by bare little trees.

villanelle, first attempt.

It's wrong, but i like free verse better!

As Darkness Falls, A Mad Girl’s Lullaby

Swiftly, softly, stop your weeping
Look around: the world’s entrails are opened clear
To breathe again this bright fresh air

Even though the torrent fails
To wash our streets clean and white—it’s time
Swiftly, softly, stop your weeping

As darkness falls now, stars appear
Over the hills the sun dips to drink
To breathe again this bright fresh air.

Walk with me, take my hand
Even though I dreamed you dear
Swiftly, softly, stop your weeping.

You are as solid as the moonbeams
That bathe my face, I beg you, kiss me and
Swiftly, softly, stop your weeping
To breathe again this bright fresh air.

i wish

i wish i were the rain
so i could fall
softly

or tear you
wind-whipped
with my claws

streaming like
icy tears
upon your cheek

and whisper
like mist
cooling the embers

free hug day

loudly voices hot
against the wet warm hunting of fog
distant drifting dripping
something's missing
the taming stroke separating us
from arguing beasts upon their sun-drenched rock
a passing summer evening's calm
breaks quickly to crescendo
in nearness struggling in vain
to reassure us that the gray light of dawn
will rise again, in some soft direction -
the east.

and dreading
it's impossible to take back the landing
after the fall
the silence; the fall was mythical
and now seems sordid
trampled beneath your feet--
in my mind's eye.
What's reality but a cessation of mid-air moments
a reintroduction
to the solidity
the grayness
of dust.
In each moment, I despise and long for that plunge
foward-falling ( not backward-glancing )
in limb-trembling air.
But here I am,
on earth again,
scoffing at the foolishness of the fall.

studious study school

Japanese beetles
Hitting a tin roof.
Like hail in the afternoon,
They swarm away from a shaken tree.

whisper to sleep

Hush, voice
Your tiredness is in my throat
Your softness at my ear
Almost inaudible.
You deny
The possibility of a blurry similarity
The possibility
Of humanity’s inkling:
Attention must be paid—
It is necessary.
In the gathering dawn
Hush, voice
Ignore that rasping whisper
That weary wrinkle of crestfallen cords
The disappointed murmur
Of acceptance.
Hush, voice
Away from the world of waking!
On to oblivion,
Where you can lisp slippery syllables
Until a glass-soled slipper
Worn on the pale foot of dawn
That chimes like silver bells—until with a soft crumbling,
It breaks.

Don't Slide: An Apology to Myself

There is nothing that I can say that will make it up to you.
What can I say?
Sometimes I just fuck up.
Sometimes it’s minor, and sometimes it trashes everything you’ve worked for.
You worked so hard.
I’m sorry.
I’m sorry.
I messed up: I was an arrogant, selfish, thoughtless idiot.
I was wrong.
I can’t make excuses, even though they are on my tongue. I long to blame someone.
But I’m to blame.
I will try to make it up to you, even though I know you will never trust me again.
I will work to right this wrong the only way I know how.

And I reply:
You fool.
You don’t have a chance.
All the other times you’ve betrayed me—now this!
You’ve ruined everything.
You acted like a rich spoiled brat; a thoughtless piece of shit.
You didn’t think!
I worked so hard—didn’t I teach you better?
I have to live with these consequences. You do too. You didn’t think of that!
Now I have to start all over.
Get out of my life.
Forever.

I’ve said my piece.
I can’t take it back: everyone messes up sometimes.
I must go on.
Try to forget it.
Maybe some unlikely day,
I’ll forgive me.

always eight

ALWAYS EIGHT YEARS OLD/ TWELVE YEARS OF POETRY

the sun is rising here,
but it's setting for me.
Setting on a world that's
not all it's cracked up to be
woke up this morning, i knew
something was wrong
the blue bird stopped singin' his song...
the world was orange, the sky was green
a thief had murdered the queen.
oh don't tell me, no more no more,
oh don't tell me no more
that the world is good
that everything's right,
cause it's not.
it is setting--
the world's all right.

they say the world is ending

Dad wakes me to close the window;
I reach forward out of sleep to bullets of cold night
beyond the screeching screen.
I fall back into the eventful heat, the long-awaited oblivion.
While I sleep, careless—carefree
The years’ weight drops with
heavy rain, a deadening battery
and, so
falls
the maple tree.
Through three-pointed leaves’ dappled shadows
I swim in buzzing summer
Naked-warm, I am suspended
A small, green fruit
Strung between the thick trunks.
Hammock, leaving diamonds:
A camouflage of lines.
And, so
Falls
The maple tree.
A fabric rends—a great gaping blackness of sound
Spinning swing
Laughing sickly dizzy spinning.
Then the fabric tears in
An instant of flying breathless dusk.
The first branch has fallen
On me.
And, so
Falls
The maple tree.

My hands are heavy
Filled with sand
Bloated weights
They hang at my side.
A surgeon’s glove has split
Underneath my skin
Soaking every pore
With shards of glass.
Isn’t that the way
The formaldehyde tastes
As you petrify
In your repetition.

Vanished, in a flash
Those hours
In another world, I was
Called to paint my own

Speak
And notice
Again
This weary world
Has paused
To see.

yesterday

Last day
A sheen of sweat
On my shoulder
Stitching lungs
From the flight of instinct
Don’t catch me!

Three days: now, then, and later

Now:
Mine is the culture of Now
“Stop that this instant”:
And we wait.
I continue
My imperfect search for perfection
I pause,
Fascinated by what was, what could be.
Teach me these histories,
Now.

Waiting, waiting,
My small tired scratching
On pages of soft pulp
White, inner birch
That grows in this forest of words.


July 26, 2007
Then
The day is sun-tan sticky hot
Wavering across--
Gathering under the eaves
Coming to wash my skin
And run its fingers through my hair

I lift my lip to let it kiss
My parched throat
And think
Of how cool water looks
Under the trees.

In summer-heated hay
I smell the thunder
And run from shelter
To cover my skin with beaded glass

--
Later
Would I Mind Less
If Reality
Weren’t so slippery?

I need to take a breath
To catch my thoughts at work
Like guilty imps
Fingers coveting

The bat:
Its Papery skin
Orchid-soft and Onion-thin
Dark on a furled wing.

thin-slicing

Pressing my nose against the screen
I smell the rain
Falling on the fuzzy sumac

A passing car kicks up a swirl of khaki
Settling,
Drifting,
On thick-veined leaves.

A film of iridescent algae
surface tension,
reflecting heavens
for the strider to skate upon.

The gentle hiss
Of droplets
Reaching home.

Heads crooked backwards looking
Gaping mouths and question-mark brows
Curving curling pointing fingers
I am “cold, closed, reserved.”


Another e,
+ motion.
I feel
In this silence
The temptation
Of fear.

What shoes are these—?
They are not my own
And my feet are strangers
Treading this trembling path.

Don’t wake, it’s not light out yet
I only have flowers to paint these days
And a sullen smile
And fighting in my sleep

providing music for the stars

Clouds rush down toward me
A blue bowl--spinning daylight
In front of the sun
____

Time, a restless fog
Sunlight on tiger-lilies
It’s not my garden.

cogitate...cogitate...cogitate

Things to think about:

1. True Love vs. Lust
& Love at First Sight Vs. Slowly-growing commitment
2. Fate or Free Will
3. What is truth?
4. Are humans innately "evil" or mostly good?
5. What is happiness?
6. Is there any such thing as originality?
7. Where are we going?

Highway 81; I can't wait to be 20

I paused to realize this morning:
Things to be done before turning 20-
Thing I must think about when I am 20-
What a small age, a single turn of the clock, 20:
And how like dying 20 will never be - except now.
When I am twenty i must think seriously about smiling only when neccessary - smiling deepens wrinkles, you know.
When I am twenty, I probably won't dye my hair purple.
When I am twenty, I should already know how to run a dishwasher, and which exit to take to get home.
When I am twenty, I can't ask for a lollipop when i visit the bank.
When I am twenty, I can't ride in shopping carts ( but probably will anyway).
When I am twenty, I will wonder why people still ask me if I'm shy.
When I am twenty, I will curse at the clerk who asks if I have parents' permission to watch R rated films.
When I am twenty, I will say what I mean, and mean it.
When I am twenty, survival won't seem like such a hazy thing.
When I am twenty, I can say, "When I was a teen..."
When I am twenty, I must practice moderate drinking so when i'm 21 it will already be boring
When I am twenty, I can say, "your music is too loud."
When I am twenty, I will be the youngest adult I know.
When I am twenty, the world will be new before me.
When I'm twenty, I'll know better than the age of reason, and can deny the age of consent.
When I am twenty, I will be able to take a shower without flooding the bathroom.
When I am twenty, I won't be afraid to disagree.
When I am twenty, winter will seem like a holiday.
When I am twenty, I will be able to look food in the eye and say no.
When I am twenty, I'll realize that birthdays aren't such a big deal.
When I am twenty, I will still ask for a pony for my birthday.
When I am twenty, I'll realize that what I really want is a new pair of shoes.
When I am twenty, I will probably buy and new pair of shoes because these shoes are starting to get holes in them, and they're turning green.
When I am twenty, I won't need someone to tell me to clean my room, because, IT'S NOT GETTING ANY CLEANER, DAMMIT!
When I am twenty, I will be the first one not to take it seriously.
When I am twenty, I'll always call you back when I say I will.
When I am twenty, I'll know what I'm talking about.
But maybe--not just yet...

it's a virtue, this thing you have

The air is heavy
A perfect lisp of sweetness
Vanishes like dust
...
Water-speckled glass
Stillness runs its course like rain
I will wake swiftly.

Easy Mower: A Meditation on Lawn Mowing

It’s the dark of the moon, which means if I mow the lawn the grass won’t grow back fast enough to make the whole process a waste of time. We don’t have a “lawn,” but our house is surrounded by tufts of thick, wide-bladed grass that shoots up from the bed of softer, shorter blades to bear golden stalks and tangled seed-heads. Dad bought a new mower recently, which makes the mowing disgustingly easy.
“Don’t worry, it is still exercise,” Dad tells me; I am looking for something more punishing. This mower is self-propelled—inconceivable! I miss our old mower, which Dad found in a junk-heap and revived numerous times. Its red paint covered less than one-third of its body, the little rubber wheels were prone to falling off, and it started only after about five yanks of the starter-rope.
I know the beginning of summer when the mower coughs to life outside my window. I used to watch the creatures escaping its whirring blades: dancing grasshoppers and fat black crickets like the ones I fed to the toad I caught behind our house, little pickerel frogs that scoot away with bulging emerald eyes.
I have to clutch the shuddering handle and push, the muscles in my legs pulling taught. Half of the time I’m not strong enough and I can only manage by pulling the mower backwards behind me, its wheels rattling. The sound of cicadas reminds me of mowing. The sun is honey-warm on my back, scorching on my forehead. In the tall grass, the mower will choke, so I have to angle it upwards and only take half a strip of grass at a time. If the mower chokes on heavy grass, it may not start for a few days. I learned to judge how close the mower was to choking by the pitch of its humming. I like to cut in patterns, squares and swirls, alternating forwards and backwards, around trees and down the driveway. After I finish the slope outside our front door, my hands are bruised and blistered across the palms, my shoes green and skin itching with sticky green confetti. Deerflies prick my knees; I dash inside, too tired to haul the mower back to the shop.
Away with those acres of silky-smooth, moss-green lawn, arching and shining. I’d smirk at that display of foolishness; old men riding back and forth on their riding mowers, as though there is nothing better to do in life but trim the grass down to a quarter of an inch. As though one’s life and reputation depended on it. This is conspicuous consumption at its finest. A lawn isn’t useful, it isn’t doing anything, and requires hours of care, gallons of water, pounds of fertilizer, oh, and weed-killer. Ha! Those lawns say. We’re wasted land, not growing crops, or flowers—we’re just owned—look at how handsome and tended we are (the better to show off the caddy and the pool)! In those days, we didn’t mow because, as I would smugly say to my inquiring friends, “We have lawnmowers—the animals keep our grass short.” Tethered in the middle of the yard, each one would quickly crop that circle short.
The waist high grass was where I’d crawl, playing out my daring deeds and stalking my prey. My friend and I played hide and seek in the grass, our knees stained green, our hair full of seeds. Lying flat on my stomach, I breathed in the smell of growing, the juicy stalks warmed by the sun. I wriggled forward, making a path through the field. I am burrowing through and tunnel, green like the sea. Strawberries grow at the bottom in clusters, their juice staining my palms and lips.
But now our new mower makes the task of keeping the grass cut feasible. I can start it. I am amazed that I can cut the whole “lawn” in an hour. Everything seems different when the grass is cut, the light is a different shade of lime, the shadows of leaves on the ground are sharper, the smell is overpowering, begging me to gather up piles of grass and jump in them. I think of lawn ornaments, the smell of chlorine, summer games of soccer, barbecues, and things that are not part of my life.

contradictions that might or might not apply to the way to sun rises today

this morning was early dark
yesterday i knew everything
too ready (for it all)
I paused on the edge of sleep,
smiling.
and as the sun rose,
I am empty again.

close your eyes when you look
and i will tell you
what to see.
I am flat on the surface;
a thin trickle of memories--
i have no right to be so broken.

contradictions
are on my breath
as I whisper:
I am happiness.

I need to be needed
neediness pushes me away.
Just tell me! - I beg
then i can be complete
in knowing.

what it is

I want to share this
with a world that already knows.
how long i have missed you!
i thought i had none
what a silly thing to think
here they are. here they were. always
and i go back alone.

everything was beautiful and nothing hurt

When a Tralfamadorian sees a corpse, all he thinks is that the dead person is in bad condition at that particular moment, but that the same person is just fine in plenty of other moments. Now, when I myself hear that somebody is dead, I simply shrug and say what the Tralfamadorians say about dead people, which is 'So it goes.'"

When I read too much, or three or more books at a time, the stories all blend together. when I'm reading, the words go directly from the page to my brain, skipping my eyes altogether. I'm skipping along, tumbling, drowning in this stream of consciousness. I can't pause, can't take a breath. But what happens next, when the word life-raft runs out and I can't remember a single phrase to keep myself afloat with?

There are some books I just can't make myself read. Everyone keeps telling me how great Catch-22 is. You just have to read it. But here I am, page 33, and I'm choking. I don't think I'm going to make it. Some books I just read. I left off Catch22 for Slaughterhouse Five, a book I never wanted to read because I was afraid of the title. But as I'm reading along, enjoying the ride (even though i know i'm going to drown in all this war stuff) there's someone else there too. This reader. As I'm reading along, suddenly it's not only Billy Pilgrim's and Kurt Vonnegut's voice in my head. There's this other person, some nameless tyrant with a pencil, who has found the need to comment in the margins.

I appreciate that it's in pencil. I love to make notes. That's active reading. But all the same, keep your comments in your own damn copy and get out of my head. I thought the reader was humorous at first, but now he's just smug. He feels the need to comment on tiny inconsistencies. There is about one spelling error in the book, but this reader finds it, questioning whether the song shouldn't say, "BARN?" instead of bar. "AN I.Q. OF 103 IS ACTUALLY ABOVE AVERAGE." The reader informs me, smugly. Hello, would it ever cross your mind that that might be the point? When the childhood Billy Pilgrim wets his pants, the reader says, contemptuously, "AT TWELVE YEARS OLD?"
So he wet his pants. He's not exactly the heroic protagonist anyway. How funny, the reader doesn't seem to comment when, later, it's much worse.
"HOW MUCH OF THIS IS STOLEN FROM CATCH22?" The reader asks.
Well, I wouldn't know, would I? I'm reading this one first. I'd like to write back.
And finally, "HA,HA KURT." The reader says, taking on a gratingly familiar tone with the author. Mind-jolting or thought provoking comments in the margins I can accept. Even corrections about grammar or punctuation or style (no one's perfect, maybe they'll get it right in the next edition.) But what purpose do these comments serve?
Gah. I'm going to get an eraser.
Maybe later I'll force myself to struggle on with Catch 22.

wednesday

it's one of those days when everything sweats
the toilet tank, the refrigerator, the windows-- but mostly the sky
everything soupy, like gray cabbage water.
A gray cabbage cloud leaks weepily above the gray cabbage pond, gray cabbage pots and pans on the countertop.
A beetle has turned himself over in the bathtub
and struggles against the droplet.
He struggles, feet in the air.
The lights flicker when the dry pumpernickel toast pops
Neither coffee nor string quartet, sallying forth from the radio
serves to cheer me.
The cats clambor inside just before a gray cabbagewater drizzle
a bumblebee trying to follow.
The drops, fat and dull, hit the cracked porch wood
when i go to close the windows, a grinding shriek
everything smells metallic
and i am all alone in this gray cabbage tower.

when you ask a question

The arts are not a way to make a living. They are a very human way of making life more bearable.

We are dancing animals. How beautiful it is to get up and go and do something."
Kurt Vonnegut, A Man Without a Country. p. 68.

Does being educated make us more genuine human beings?

it's easier to scoff;
you feel vindicated, uplifted, hearing
the "ain'ts" and "nowheres,"
the running commentary idolizing pickup-drivers and pitbull owners.
it's easier to say
"she's never had an original thought in her life,"
tobacco smoke curling around the curlers
like beehives of pink in the over-processed straw.
You must feel tall, a poor sickly pity pulsing
in the brain stem
a poor sickly superiority--
you know "nuclear" doesn't rhyme with "tubular"
and you've never used duct tape
to patch the holes in your hand-me-down sneakers
or cover cracks in your car window.
Is that meth-mouth, dangling slack-jawed above the golden cruifix?
It's ponderous, this gaudy symbol, worn on the outside;
this gory representation, reminiscant of a 16th century Grunewald Altarpiece.
Religion is the opiate of the masses, a last breath of a dying beast.
Her man-hands folding flabbily over the diamond ring her first husband bought
as she snatches the groceries
skinny logs of greasy maple-sugar sausage, (on sale this week, buy one get one)
cheese-doodles crackling in their plastic next to cap'n'crunch,
hamburger-helper,
Five packs of diet pepsi.
she uses her last WIC check
The baby formula, synthetic Similac with Iron
$16.50 for 12 oz.

What's more genuine than that?

tapping on the inside of the box

tap. tap.
time is--full STOP.
I'm suspicious
of this box.
Who was I STOP
before summer?
Leaving STOP
is beginning
and beginning
becomes the box. STOP.

if i am not my khakis, what am i?

you lost me yesterday
while you were stumbling
over preposterous words used poorly
malapropisms- i couldn't help but smirk
your ipod plugged in
carelessly feeding away into your brain
you lost me yesterday, I'm not sure you noticed
the world was too crisp
for any words at all.
i'd rather speak simply than appear foolish,
can my minimalistic mumblings convey anything at all?
no; the buzzing of the electronic seashell is in your ear
Like Montag, alone with a robot
i lost you yesterday
your flesh turned to vinyl
head filled with circuits and wires
the grass smelled like hunter green
the heavy sun on my back
reminded me that i'm alive
and i stood and walked away.

summer = cottleston pie

I know it's summer
when the muted hum of the mowers wakes me
the heavy scent of manure slipping through the insulation
on cold, wet breeze
to coat my eyelashes and the back of my throat
A call like chanticlear echoing in the empty dawn, silly guinea-fowl scatter
The road-roller rattling the windows as dust kicks up around the lilac trees
they're trying to flatten the potholes that only reappear
when the rainwater washes into ill-formed ditches
Summer is the smell of horses sweating in their pasture
blinking, sleepy-eyed, too hot to nudge the flies from their fetlocks
Summer is the sting of warm, ripe tomato juice in my mouth
An angry whine of 4-wheelers, like frustrated mechanical hornets gathering.
With summer comes the squealing of chlorine-coated children
splashing in the campsite pool
and the incessant prickle of mosquitoes, swarming
Each one, a greedy proboscus probing -
It doesn't hurt if you let them gather like leaf-mold on your skin
each droplet of blood glistening inside their bloated bellies

Out, damned spot

oh, tenacious weed
your bitter stalk and spangled leaves
thrusting upward through adversity--
we can't escape you.

empty tables

so i was wondering, "since when is it culturally unacceptable to sit with a stranger?" Going through the dining hall, we weave around tables, groan, and move away, daunted because there's a backpack sitting on that chair. More than half of the chairs remain empty, but yet we can't find a seat because it's impossible to ask some stranger, "May i sit here?" What an intrusion! I feel that this is a symptom of our times; we stick together with those that we know, ears plugged with our ipods to keep us safely in our isolation when we might run the risk of being alone among the sea of "others."
Granted, I don't want some random person interrupting my peaceful meal -- but there are times when I sit alone and wonder - are those other solitary diners wishing for company too? Meals are an important social function, a time to share, talk, and laugh with friends, but maybe some day we'll be brave enough to break the barriers of "occupied seat syndrome."

Is there a pill for that? (Of course, silly grasshopper. There's a pill for everything that might ail you. You have insurance; it'll only cost 1/4 your weekly paycheck.) You need to ask your doctor, NOW! Side-effects may include: nausea, dry mouth, constipation, dizzyness, vomiting, night sweats, abdominal pain, fatigue, headache, chills, sweaty palms, hallucinations, muscle spasms, anxiety, sudden death, swollen glands, an itchy rash, coma, runny nose, and dry eyes.
to be continued...

summer shadows

all we are while waking; shadows of our own reality

today
my subconscious destroyer
rebels against goodness.
I've had too much -- enough
time to crush hopes/dreams/
i crave disaster

in love with the sun and rain

bare feet
on the asphalt
cool
wet
splashes of droplets
on my face, from the darkling sky
sliding across my cheek like warm tears.
Gravel clings
to my toes
barefoot
i walk
in the rain

oh, sun!

Part of me wonders how I can be happy when there is sorrow and war in the world.
Where is our anger? Our indignance? Our sense of right and wrong? How can we go on living, oblivious and uncaring to the death toll, the slaughter and misery that goes on each day? How can we do nothing and still sleep at night?
I asked Pentagon officials: ''How many Iraqis have been killed in this war?''
The reply to my first Pentagon call was: ``We don't track them (Iraqi dead).''

Weeks later I pursued the question and was told by a Defense Department official: ''They don't count. They are not important,'' meaning the casualty figures.

''If the Iraqis laid down their arms,'' he added, ''there was no problem. But if we have to go in by force to kill them, the numbers don't make a difference. It's not something we are concerned with.'' - commondreams.org, 2004

And part of me wonders, how can I not be incredibly happy in this moment, with the sun shining upon my skin? I am the most content that I have ever been, in this moment...
I do not want to feel that helplessness, hopelessness that creeps up when I think. It so hard to speak or move or breathe. What can I do? But I can do something.

confessions

i don't believe i'm in need of confessions, but sometimes you just want to tell your life story to a complete stranger--and then never see them again. This is why I don't tell my friends my life story...

anti-fun discoveries

well, over the past few weekends i've discovered that the highschool impression of myself is correct. not that it ever bothered me that much. but these weekends I've spent friday and saturday nights in my room, eating chips and salsa. it's my scholarly nature's fault; last semester I kept turning friends' offers of entertainment away because i wanted to study. Now they know what i'm like (always going to disappoint when they want to party). but it's not true-- I just want them to conform to my schedule. i can be crazy. if i sit dumb and unmoving in the corner during your party that's because i'm not ready; I don't want to step on anyone's toes. I'm sick of people saying, "Oh, you've really come out of your shell. You're a lot of fun when you're drunk." I'm a lot of fun all the time, damn it! It doesn't matter that most of the time when i'm having fun it's because I am reading a book or studying for class. tut tut.

tenets

Live simply.
Be here now--be conscious.
Man was not made to suffer.
Smile often and laugh easily.
Do not fear death.
Do not seek wealth or power.
Be one with the earth.
Community is neccessary.
Be passionate.
Listen to your art.
"Blessed are the peacemakers...blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth."

beginning in brevity

I've been thinking too much lately. The search for a forum for my thoughts and discoveries has motivated me to start this blog--one of many which have died mysterious, silent deaths in the past. They blossomed to life, full of outrage and communication, and they grandually slowed to a halt. Do I lose interest in saying anything, or become disgusted with my own thoughts? Do I want to hide my crazy musings from prying eyes? Am I convinced that no one cares to read my mutterings (yes--and it's the truth, I write these for myself.) All of this. My posts are as fickle as april weather; one cannot take them for granted. one cannot believe in the consistency of the idea. But I like to write, to keep track of ideas. And so, here it is: my newest blog.