Really, for real now, I'm good.

This is something I jotted down on receipt paper while musing at work. Very organic, no? I had a whole argument with someone about how doing that sort of thing on purpose negates the hipster feel, but I suppose I have no room to talk about contrived originality . . . anyway. It would seem that a very long, rather frustrating chapter of my life is closing, not to be too dramatic or anything, and this sort of articulates how.

__

Not much is different, but everything's changed
where it counts.

Cuz you're still you, and I'm still me, and that will never change, but what that means to us both? Who knows. I can't speak for you, anyway.

That fact . . . those facts used to make me angry, or sad, or a whole host of other negative emotions.

Those facts used to light me up and make me sing before they brought me down.

Now, I think . . . I think I'm leveling off. Those facts sort of ground me, in a way.

You're you, and I'm me, and that hasn't changed for so long that I'm not sure how I'd function if it did. That's a lot to put on someone.

I'm sorry for that, but. Thank you.

For being you, and letting me be me.

Poetry and form

A poet I will never be with ease,
Though rhymes and rhythmic tools confound me not.
I order words in lines just as I please,
But find that eloquence cannot be taught.
I yearn to put my passion on the page,
To move the soul and mind with what I write,
To pen soliloquies worthy of stage,
To bring to cry, to laugh, to love, to fight.
I've lived these things, but cannot find a way
To make them real and living once again.
My words, mechanical, precise, just say
Exactly what they say, not what I mean.
Farewell, then, structure, lines perfect in form.
To speak good poetry, look past the norm.

Didn't realize I was so angry...

I may have said this before, but. Saying it again because it is relevant. Again.

Don't you ever. Ever. Assume you know me. Don't do it.

Don't act like you can predict what I am doing or thinking or feeling.

"I am so proud of you. I know that was really hard for you to do."

No. It wasn't. If it was hard, I wouldn't have bothered. You are not in any way a person whose approval I want; I do nothing for you. It has nothing to do with you.

You don't know me. Don't presume.

Surprise, sucker...

It was one of those flashbang grenades, and it went off somewhere behind my nose. My mind couldn't see straight or make sense of anything it was hearing. I mean, I heard him and saw him, but processing? Nah.

I said the right things, I think, and made the right faces and was generally how I needed to be right then. You couldn't tell by looking at me how hard I was shaken up inside, neat boxes of feelings and thinkings and paradigms in my head tossed around like an earthquake had hit, epicenter: me.

Putting everything back in its place was a chore for later. It was like cleaning your room, a journey of discovery and recovery all in one. How long has this been hiding here? I thought I had thrown it away. This should go in a different place, and this one I want to try on and see how it fits me now.

I'm repackaged, but not everything fit right. Guess we'll see how it goes.

sorry for gibberish

i'm on an edge
about something
about several things
so i guess i am balanced on blades

i'm waiting all tense for something? anything? to happen
but it's up to me to make it happen
or it's inevitable and bearing down
compressing my gut into an anxious knot

i also feel guilty
and alone
and jealous
and angry
and bored
and tired

one more makes it perfect, so . . .

i feel
afraid

maybe i'm being defeatist but

I think I begin to see why stuff in the New Yorker is so depressing. It's mostly by the young, "up and coming" writers of today, right? People like me. 

Apparently we're all depressed. I know I am, and telling a happy story requires so much more effort when you've forgotten just what happiness feels like. There's no hope, is there? We don't see a brighter or better future. Everything's bleak and awful.

I don't see a victory. No happy ending. We won't win.

So I can't write the novel I've been meaning to, or the poem, or the story. It'll just be another of those depressing New Yorker type pieces. I refuse to perpetuate misery.

what have i been up to?

seems impossible to me that it's been a month already, but it has. odd.

i keep hoping to have experiences about which to write, but nothing much happens to me, you know? i work and i complain about work and i work more and i complain more and then i sing a bit and it's better for a bit. until i go back to work.

we had thanksgiving and i worked for all of it. came home to the ruins of a feast and relatives lazing in chairs too stiff for supination. cried in the bathroom with rage for missing the only family holiday that is happening this year.

we had christmas the next day and i shopped all day and decorated all afternoon and wrapped presents including all the ones i bought myself because no one else got me anything. that's okay, really. i'm 24. mum is paying for a new jacket that i helped her order. surprises on christmas are overrated.

i baked cookies all day for a reception, then sang in a concert tonight with magnify and the dude quartet. i was pretty proud of it, but silvie just wanted to go home and mom was unimpressed/less than effusive with praise. i had fun, so that's what matters, isn't it? gonna say yes.

so yeah. not much happening, but lots happening, but it's not too much after all.