Monday, March 31, 2008

everything could be anylized and conversed into nothing.

for some reason we narrow down all our emotions to fit into
sad emotions and
happy ones.

i think instead we should narrow them down to fulfilled ones and emptiness ones.

that says more.

all sadness is emptiness.
all happiness is fulfillment.

this weekend was full of things that filled my life with fullness and happiness.

things like late night conversations with my favorite boys
and falling asleep ...
in a white room in one tiny bed with a huge window for the headboard,
a window that looked out on a river.
with lights on the other side.
...propped on our elbows and watching the four am yellow thumb nail of a moon sitting on top of the oposite shore's trees and buildings.

and feeling terrified and small in a world where everything could be anylized and conversed into nothing.

a feeling that would have been overpowering and lonley and empty if we had discovered it alone.

but one that made us feel like one complete person made of three individual ones... because we had discovered it together.

and in the morning.
the friend i left behind felt like an empty place.
and that place is sad and empty now.

i dont know what to do.

i want everyone to stop being sad.
and everyone to stop being vague.
and i want me and everyone i know and love to feel like one person made of everyone
in this huge scary world where discoveries are terrifying when you make them alone.
and perfect and ecstatic when you make them together.

Tuesday, March 25, 2008

applying myself to an envelope in a thin layer...

and sending my shallowed-out self away to be evaluated by an anonymous pair of artistic looking hands who will pick me up and read me and decide if they like me.

Ive been wondering on the subject of why I have begun to dread art class...

Ive tried desperatly to concieve of a original sounding metephoric statment to describe my feelings of tormented unoriginality

I feel like its all been done before.

My head has dropped back under the clouds;

My eyes were once in a black, starlit universe of uninfluenced, original thought.

Now all I can see is a foggy generic mist and the backs of the heads of the other millions of high schoolers* whose attempts come from the same polluted, plagiarized landscape as my own and whose college essays and portfolios will reveal as much.

*(An image I stole from so many others who have already drawn or described it…

It's an image of those floating nondescript individuals holding brief cases or over-sized pocket-watches under their arms…

They're all wearing the same common suit and all headed for the same disappointing day of work… or life.)


is it possible do you think..
to have an allergic reaction to charcoal?

my fingers are itchy and my arm is red and there is charcoal everywhere.

and i want to go to sleep.

but the original culprits...
the drawings...
are there...
on my bed.
and i dont want to get to near to them.

so i think ill sleep in my brothers bed.

because hes never home.

even though hes home for break.

i dont know where he is.

but if i sleep in his bed ill wake up smelling like boy.

so i think ill move the drawings.

but seriously.

i am scared to go to close to them.

because im allergic to charcoal.

and my fingers are itchy.

good nite.

Thursday, March 20, 2008


i are
doing to well.

we thought in the begining
perhaps we were progressing
slowly towards
that resembled
or talent

then we

and we also realized.
that we have paint in our hair.
i mean
my hair.

i realized
that there was
in my hair.

art in my hair.


on my paper
is no more
then the
paint that is
underneath my nails
and in
my hair.

i thought i was on fire.

cuz i lit a candle
but i wasnt
on fire
but i did light a candle

i thought it was inspiring
its just...

but o so pretty.

the only things that are happy in the
right now...
are white christmas lights...
where the owning used to be
over the door.
before it got blown away by the wind.

there are lights on it now
twined arouned sticks...
that are there.
instead of
that was
away by the wind.

and beeswax candles are happy in the world too.

enless we are on fire.
i mean.
on fire

by way of flaming hair.

there is paint in my hair.

and on my paper.
that is
all it is.
cuz it couldnt be art.
cuz art and i are having some difficulties...
in out relationship.

laughing with the wind

today i sat outside
at school
instead of going to gym
cuz we had a sub
and i sat all alone near the football feild on the bleaches looking towards the river
and was all like
blown by the wind. and watched the birds
and felt meditative.
it was weird
there was no sound
almost none at all
like no cars
and no people
and nothing
just like...
and leaves on pavement
it felt like i was in an alternate reality
a world without anything but me
and nature.
and the wind.
it was really calm and fluttery
then all of a sudden (twice)
it just whipped up and blew my hood right off and i laughed
even though no one could hear me.
and i realized that i dont laugh for my self as much as i laugh for other people.
when i laugh im usually stifling or exagerating it for someone elses sake.
i dont think about it
i dont resent it
but when its only for the wind...
its refreshing.

Wednesday, March 19, 2008

Thoughts the occurred to me on the snowy stretch of road between the bottom of pinebrook and here...

Something is poetic in the way different branches of different trees carry their snow.

Evergreen trees huddle in their snow like homeless men on the cold streets of cities…
they're wearing two or three bulky down coats but still each gentle icey breeze seems likely to blow them away.
and theyre calm. under the incredible weight we assume they are carrying.

the other, leafless, trees wear their white like jewels.
like rich woman in sparse black evening gowns... skinny and shivery in their fashion- wearing diamonds.

What is cinematic about a field covered in a untouched sheet of snow?

cinematic? or symbolic?

a field, unlike a road, has no direction.
well. in truth. it has infinite direction.
every direction.
and the snow makes it original direction.
it is cinematic in its image of infinite possibility discovered by no one but the perhaps one pair of footprints- you.
one track leading somewhere out of infinity.

Unoriginality is no longer original you know...
billy collins copy righted that adjective with his poem about copying other poems.
and im sure someone did it before him.
and someone did it before someone else who did it before someone who did it first.
and we can trace it all back to that first person who originated all things unoriginal.