|
| DON'T THINK. FEEL.
DON'T FEEL. THINK.
one or the other, but never both!
or perhaps neither, for the best effect.
what beautiful eyes you have.
| | |
| row row row your boat
gently down the stream
if you see a crocodile
don't forget to scream
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHH
| | |
| friends, romans.........
hm.
i don't really write anymore, but.. here. snippets from a former life.
--
a broken sound, a broken shell.. a bit of broken glass upon the brown, battered floor.
a broken shriek, a broken sail.. a ball of bitter rice upon the bright, barren moor.
"there's no rhyme or reason to it!" he cried.
"need there be?" she replied.
--
"absolutely not!" she said. "it's ugly."
"oh, but darling, i do so love how you look in violet.." he protested charmingly.
"you can't be serious," she responded, surprised. "it's garish, and.. and i mean, look at all those ruffles, just look at them, really, it's absurd. i wouldn't wear it."
he held the garment up again and argued gently, "it's not so bad as that, is it? just a few ruffles.. i think it's rather charming."
"do you?" she blinked and granted it a second glance, but then laughed and took the hanger from him. "no, no, you're being silly. it won't do at all. let's go to the market, i'd meant to pick up some eggplant for dinner, and maybe some grapes.." she trailed off and, replacing it on the rack absently, wandered out of the store.
he sighed and touched the material longingly. "such a lovely color.." he murmured. but after a moment, he shook his head and turned away to follow his wife to the market.
--
"you will be more careful with her feelings next time, won't you darling?" she asked, toying with the pearls at her neck and staring blankly out the window.
"yes, mother," he sighed.
"now there's a good lad," she praised, mind elsewhere.
--
it's not wrong, it's just a little... unorthodox.
--
let's all take a merry holiday..
forget the dreary ills of yesterday...
take a bow and lay to rest the pains of ev'ryday....
go to bed and sleep instead and say we'll always stay.....
on our lovely little merry holiday.
--
'so you don't have it.'
'well...' he hedged.
'so you DO have it.'
'umm..' he shifted uneasily.
'you DON'T.'
'i wouldn't put it that way, exactly..' he looked up nervously through his lashes.
'so how WOULD you put it?'
'i.. just.. umm.. well, i mean, i never really got it from the other guy to start with.'
'WHAT?'
--
a sheen of sweat stood out upon his upper lip.. his eyes darted nervously, and his fingers trembled with anxiety. his skin displayed an unusual pallor... a smug, sarcastic voice at his elbow asked if he was all right, if he'd like a moment's breath, if a drink should be called for. he rolled the dice..
and they exploded.
--
a young man, in his early to mid twenties, fairly good-looking but enormously angry, stormed down the sidewalk, scanning the numbers on the houses and glaring down at a bit of paper in his hand. he stopped abruptly before a cheery lawn, glowering at the happy house with white siding and blue shutters and flowers pouring from windowboxes, and strode purposefully up the walkway. his knock was as loud and furious as his stride. when the door opened a few inches to reveal familiar shocked eyes, and then began to close hurriedly, he shoved, hard, and slammed his way into the house, his finger in the face of his best friend, his face red, his eyes bulging, and spittle gathering at his mouth from his indecision as to what to say first.
"yeah, i'm going to judge you now." his hands clenched and unclenched and he walked away a few steps only to turn right around and point his finger in his friend's face some more. "you.. you... i can't believe you!"
--
so he picked up his little boy and put him in the pot and the little boy said 'papa, it's too warm in here' and he replied 'be still, my son, for it will get warmer still' and he piled more logs upon the fire and it burned with righteous fury and the little boy began to cry and he said 'papa, i fear i should die' and he said to him 'be strong, my son, for i share your fear' and the boy cried 'help me, papa' but the father said 'my son, i am sorry but i cannot.'
--
"you seem not to be thinking very clearly."
"i know it. do you think i do not know it?"
--
"hey," she said, tossing him a peppermint in greeting. "you look bored."
"it's the time of day when everything moves very slowly," he replied as he pulled the mint from the air. he unwrapped it and dropped it in his coffee, discarding the wrapper in the miniature wastebasket on his desk. the entire series of actions bore the absentminded marks of habit.
--
"hey," she greeted, dropping her backpack to the ground and sliding into her seat.
"hey," he said in response, on absentminded verbal reflex, before narrowing one eye at her speculatively and letting a frightening grin sprout on his face.
she'd been looking over his notes, but paused when she realized what sort of look was being leveled in her direction, and retreated to the far edge of her seat, eyeing him warily. "....what?"
the expression was gone in an instant and he laughed, a carefree sound, as he reassured her, "oh, nothing, i was just stretching my face."
--
END.
i'm going to paris tomorrow, for a week. school trip.
it's an excellent excuse to talk to you all without really having anything to say, so expect mail.
cheers.
| | |
| six months to the day.
it's a little puzzling.. i go to the same classes every week and see the same people, i walk the same streets every day and notice the same shops, i come home to the same apartment every afternoon and settle in front of the same desk... but as familiar as it is, as welcome as some of the sights may be, it's not.... comfortable.
it's not to say that i am not happy here... i think i am as happy here as i could ever hope to be anywhere, but.. heh. i don't know. i think about nutley and the house there and the cross country park and the trek home, up church street, right on prospect, and left onto chestnut... shoprite, where i know which aisles to go to to find what i want... down the shore at jen's, having woken early, watching everybody else sleep... at my mom's, where life is just about watching movies and petting the cat and eating ice cream... you know what my chinese teacher was saying the other day? she's great, she's got all kinds of chinese poetry and philosophy memorized and understood and cherished, and her english is spotty at times, but other times, she says the most amazing things, in such magnificent ways... she's always saying how there is no difference between history and legend and myth, and i mean, it's a romantic thought, but she believes it, and the way she says things, sometimes it really does seem believable.. but, anyway, last week she said--i wrote it down--"there is no absolute truth. every minute is past, illusion..." and... that's the way it feels, sometimes. a person is the aggregate of his experiences, but those experiences, they.. they grow distant, i suppose, at times.
i am here in the only reality i can know.. which is to say, the present.. and from a cluttered desk in an apartment six floors up on the lower east side of busy, noisy, dirty manhattan, nutley seems so far away, and high school, and the shore, and all of you, and.... ...how can everything that ever happened and all the people i ever knew and all the things i ever was, how can all these exist in.. in me, at once? are you all real? is this real? what happened to yesterday?
.... pfheh. i'm being a little retarded. i don't suppose any of it matters. ...not like anything really matters!
tonight for dinner i ate wheat thins and drank naked juice. mighty mango is the best kind!
i found a really old file stashed away, and it made me laugh, so i will share. the language is peculiarly stilted so it reads awkwardly, but the last bit is ridiculous and i don't know where it came from, and... i just find it funny, heh. it doesn't end, but... read anyway, please?
--
He woke to a dim, gray, sterile room, a pale little boy amid paler sheets in the thin light of a reluctant dawn. He tried to sit up and discovered he couldn’t move. Some mean-spirited fool had strapped him to the bed; for what reason, he couldn’t imagine. But then the sound of muffled weeping distracted him from his discomfort, and he turned his head to find a seated woman sobbing into her hands. Behind her stood a girl who might have been pretty if her face had borne any expression on it at all. His mother, his mind decided, and his sister.
“Good morning, mother, sister,” he said pleasantly. “Might we go home now?”
His mother’s tears redoubled, it seemed, and his sister stared stolidly out the window. With no answer forthcoming, he addressed the issue of his mother’s grief. “Why, mother,” said he, still strapped to the bed, “whatever is the matter?” And then later, “Why am I here? Why can we not go home?”
Taking deep breaths, his mother rasped brokenly with a brave little smile, “You’re sick, sweetheart. You must stay here ‘til you recover.”
The boy blinked in surprise. “What nonsense!” he said, laughing suddenly. “Is that what the doctors have said? I am perfectly well.”
His mother loudly buried her face in her saturated handkerchief once more. His sister had turned her glazed blue stare onto him, and so he said to her, “Surely you can see there is nothing wrong with me. We must clear up this misunderstanding so that we may go home.”
Blue eyes bore into his skull for long, silent minutes until his sister said coolly, “Who is the gray goat of all ages?” And immediately the boy began to scream and thrash about beneath his confines. Splotches of color appeared on his white face and
--
heh. i don't know.
=\
i gotta go study for a midterm..
i hope you all are well.
cheers.
| | |
| out-of-context thought of the day:
[would you believe it (of me)?]
it was in brackets with parentheses and everything, it really was.
almost done, now. home on wednesday.
what about you (pl.)?
home...
hum.
hearts, stars, and horseshoes..
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