i sit in the rain showered sun;
its meager rays barely touch
my skin, cold with platitudes.
the cobwebs of disbelief stick to me
like a promiscuous virgin
who with a rusty comb teases raven hair.
i want the purple of deep eggplant
or the brown at the center of your eyes
to generate the longing for sometime again.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Monday, February 22, 2010
It's Personal: A Major Change
It was August 1995. Four hours after we departed the house in Connecticut, we arrived in Delaware. Yes, Delaware. The butt of Wayne's 'Hi, I'm in Delaware' joke. The home of the Blue Hens, or as those in Delaware suggest, the ass kickin' chickens. A freshman in college...
I moved into a double that housed three of us. I, TD. And they, Chris and Chris. I felt like I was in an episode of Newhart. Except these two were not at all similar.
There was the Chris from New Jersey. The pretty boy. Surfer. (From New Jersey? Yeah, I didn't really get it either.) Loved The Cure. A band I loved to hate by the end of freshman year. (By the way, in a war between The Cure and Wagner, Wagner wins.)
Then there was the Chris from Staten Island. The city boy. A short Asian who had a ridiculous amount of charm. A diplomat. And a good one at that. A good smile. I got along with him.
I went into Delaware as an International Relations and Economics major. I had no idea what to do with them. I had little idea what one could do with them. I thought, maybe, I'd become a translator. Maybe work for the UN. I never really believed either of those. But thought that I could get away with not thinking about it. I was a frosh after all. Experimenting with vodka and Coors Light. Living in a co-ed dorm where life was always an adventure.
Each and every one of us on that floor had a major or minor breakdown during that first year. I was no different. For me, it came during the second semester. Relatively soon after the beginning of spring semester. Which, for Delaware was well into February, for whatever reason. The breakdown came in early March. Before the drop date. I attended an introductory philosophy course. And we were assigned a paper based on Mircea Eliade's The Sacred and the Profane. All we had to do was discuss the sacred and... wait for it... the profane.
I went to the library. Then back to my room on that warm, rainy March day. I tried to write the paper. And nothing came to me. I argued with the book. Threw the book against the wall. Literally. I tried. God knows I tried. And I couldn't do it. I couldn't write the paper. There was a mental block. That's when the breakdown came. I put on a pair of shorts and a t-shirt. And I ran. I ran all the way from the dorm to the football stadium. A full 2 miles. In the rain. For no good reason. I'm not a runner. I don't particularly like running. But I ran all the way there. When I got there, I figured out that I had to walk all the way back.
I went to sleep that night.
The next day, I changed my major to math education.
I later changed that major too.
And, after I left Delaware, I got a degree in philosophy...
I moved into a double that housed three of us. I, TD. And they, Chris and Chris. I felt like I was in an episode of Newhart. Except these two were not at all similar.
There was the Chris from New Jersey. The pretty boy. Surfer. (From New Jersey? Yeah, I didn't really get it either.) Loved The Cure. A band I loved to hate by the end of freshman year. (By the way, in a war between The Cure and Wagner, Wagner wins.)
Then there was the Chris from Staten Island. The city boy. A short Asian who had a ridiculous amount of charm. A diplomat. And a good one at that. A good smile. I got along with him.
I went into Delaware as an International Relations and Economics major. I had no idea what to do with them. I had little idea what one could do with them. I thought, maybe, I'd become a translator. Maybe work for the UN. I never really believed either of those. But thought that I could get away with not thinking about it. I was a frosh after all. Experimenting with vodka and Coors Light. Living in a co-ed dorm where life was always an adventure.
Each and every one of us on that floor had a major or minor breakdown during that first year. I was no different. For me, it came during the second semester. Relatively soon after the beginning of spring semester. Which, for Delaware was well into February, for whatever reason. The breakdown came in early March. Before the drop date. I attended an introductory philosophy course. And we were assigned a paper based on Mircea Eliade's The Sacred and the Profane. All we had to do was discuss the sacred and... wait for it... the profane.
I went to the library. Then back to my room on that warm, rainy March day. I tried to write the paper. And nothing came to me. I argued with the book. Threw the book against the wall. Literally. I tried. God knows I tried. And I couldn't do it. I couldn't write the paper. There was a mental block. That's when the breakdown came. I put on a pair of shorts and a t-shirt. And I ran. I ran all the way from the dorm to the football stadium. A full 2 miles. In the rain. For no good reason. I'm not a runner. I don't particularly like running. But I ran all the way there. When I got there, I figured out that I had to walk all the way back.
I went to sleep that night.
The next day, I changed my major to math education.
I later changed that major too.
And, after I left Delaware, I got a degree in philosophy...
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
3WW (Occur, Ragged, Tidy): Haiku
I return not with a bang but a whimper. Still, I return...
When these things occur
Life’s most tidy perfections
Run themselves ragged
When these things occur
Life’s most tidy perfections
Run themselves ragged
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
A Lighter Shade of Dark
It’s been a while since I attempted it.
Are you in the dark?
No, not in the dark…
In the light then?
A lighter shade of grey…
You smoke?
No, why?
Because you just said you have a gray lighter.
No, I didn’t. And why are you spelling grey with an ‘a’?
I’m an American.
I won’t hold that against you.
What is that supposed to mean?
Nothing in particular…
But an American is a particular.
Yes, there are only two particular continents that contain the name.
Better than three.
Not as particular as one.
The loneliest number.
Don’t change the topic.
Look who’s talking.
Should we get back to our original conversation?
Were we having one?
I’d like to think so.
What of it, then?
It’s been a while since I attempted it.
No kidding.
No, I’m not kidding.
About the gray lighter?
Who cares about a grey lighter?
A smoker, I’m sure.
I don’t smoke.
That’s a good thing; you could catch cancer.
You don’t catch cancer.
No, I don’t, but my Uncle Al did.
He didn’t catch cancer either.
You shouldn’t speak ill of the dead.
No one can catch cancer.
Wow, are you misinformed.
It’s a diagnosis.
You’re a Gnostic?
I don’t even know what a Gnostic is.
Someone who believes in Pleroma and a demiurge, oversimplified.
Oh my God, this conversation is ridiculous.
Well, if you’re a Gnostic, you probably meant oh my gods.
Can we try to get back to the point?
What point?
It’s been a while since I attempted it.
Why so long?
Length of time is relative.
Not sure about that, but Uncle Al was my relative.
Are you trying to piss me off?
I generally stay away from bodily fluids.
That’s disgusting.
Yeah, not sure why you brought it up.
This conversation is useless.
Have you recently had a useful conversation to which to compare?
Not really…
Why not?
I only have useful conversations in the light of day.
You should try a useful conversation with me.
It’s been a while since I attempted it.
Are you in the dark?
Are you in the dark?
No, not in the dark…
In the light then?
A lighter shade of grey…
You smoke?
No, why?
Because you just said you have a gray lighter.
No, I didn’t. And why are you spelling grey with an ‘a’?
I’m an American.
I won’t hold that against you.
What is that supposed to mean?
Nothing in particular…
But an American is a particular.
Yes, there are only two particular continents that contain the name.
Better than three.
Not as particular as one.
The loneliest number.
Don’t change the topic.
Look who’s talking.
Should we get back to our original conversation?
Were we having one?
I’d like to think so.
What of it, then?
It’s been a while since I attempted it.
No kidding.
No, I’m not kidding.
About the gray lighter?
Who cares about a grey lighter?
A smoker, I’m sure.
I don’t smoke.
That’s a good thing; you could catch cancer.
You don’t catch cancer.
No, I don’t, but my Uncle Al did.
He didn’t catch cancer either.
You shouldn’t speak ill of the dead.
No one can catch cancer.
Wow, are you misinformed.
It’s a diagnosis.
You’re a Gnostic?
I don’t even know what a Gnostic is.
Someone who believes in Pleroma and a demiurge, oversimplified.
Oh my God, this conversation is ridiculous.
Well, if you’re a Gnostic, you probably meant oh my gods.
Can we try to get back to the point?
What point?
It’s been a while since I attempted it.
Why so long?
Length of time is relative.
Not sure about that, but Uncle Al was my relative.
Are you trying to piss me off?
I generally stay away from bodily fluids.
That’s disgusting.
Yeah, not sure why you brought it up.
This conversation is useless.
Have you recently had a useful conversation to which to compare?
Not really…
Why not?
I only have useful conversations in the light of day.
You should try a useful conversation with me.
It’s been a while since I attempted it.
Are you in the dark?
Monday, February 15, 2010
It's Personal: School or Bust
Before I owned the silver 1984 Toyota Celica GT Hatchback with power roof, windows, and doors, I owned a refurbished 10-speed bicycle, my vehicle of choice for traveling to school from my apartment during middle and high school. Like some deranged mailman, I set out on that straight handle-barred bike each morning at 6 a.m. in whatever weather the Board of Education deemed not detrimental for bus travel. And not being a skilled 'biker' as it were, I spent most of my time on the frail - and sometimes frosty - sidewalks avoiding people, dogs, and their leashes. as well as the cars driven by sleepy people, who couldn't care less about students on 10-speeds at 6 a.m. What made me look the most hysterical and ridiculous was the way I 'carried' my bag. For whatever reason, I did not like backpacks during middle and high school. I can't give a good reason why; I simply didn't want to have one. Instead, I carried a duffel bag, a big you-can-fit-all-of-your-books-in-it duffel bag. How does one carry such a bag when venturing to school? Not on one's back lest one break one's back at the age of 15. No, I 'fastened' the bag to the right handlebar and subsequently attempted to wobble the bike the 1.4 miles to the high school.
Of all the mornings I rode to school, I think I can choose a worst. I can give you no date apart from the fact that it was during high school, meaning between August 1991 and June 1995. The rain was falling hard. My mother made the suggestion that I call someone for a ride. Although a good idea, I could think of no 'someone' for whom it wouldn't be an inconvenience. My mother left for work, as she always did, leaving my brother and I to stare into the murky morning. Thinking I had no other choice, I wheeled my bike from the apartment and banged the wheels down the stairs to the front doors of the apartment complex. I 'fastened' my duffel bag to the right handlebar and opened the door. It wasn't raining; it was pouring. But, convinced I had no other choice, I pushed the bike into the rain, sat on the seat, and began pedaling. It would have been better had anything I was wearing been waterproof. But it wasn't. And my book bag? Same issue. Within the first half mile, my hair was as soaked as it had been prior to my post-shower towel drying that morning. By the one mile mark, my socks and school shirt were drenched. I could only imagine my books. And by the time I arrived at school, it looked as though I had driven off a diving board and into the deep end of a pool. I thought about going to my homeroom, but then thought better of it. Having been a nerd in high school, that might have been all the ammunition the other students needed to let loose. Instead, I walked into the office and simply said, 'I can't go to class like this.' Those blessed women agreed and allowed me to call my mother, who contacted someone to take me back to the apartment. I changed and returned to school.
It continued to rain all day.
And I had to ride back home...
Of all the mornings I rode to school, I think I can choose a worst. I can give you no date apart from the fact that it was during high school, meaning between August 1991 and June 1995. The rain was falling hard. My mother made the suggestion that I call someone for a ride. Although a good idea, I could think of no 'someone' for whom it wouldn't be an inconvenience. My mother left for work, as she always did, leaving my brother and I to stare into the murky morning. Thinking I had no other choice, I wheeled my bike from the apartment and banged the wheels down the stairs to the front doors of the apartment complex. I 'fastened' my duffel bag to the right handlebar and opened the door. It wasn't raining; it was pouring. But, convinced I had no other choice, I pushed the bike into the rain, sat on the seat, and began pedaling. It would have been better had anything I was wearing been waterproof. But it wasn't. And my book bag? Same issue. Within the first half mile, my hair was as soaked as it had been prior to my post-shower towel drying that morning. By the one mile mark, my socks and school shirt were drenched. I could only imagine my books. And by the time I arrived at school, it looked as though I had driven off a diving board and into the deep end of a pool. I thought about going to my homeroom, but then thought better of it. Having been a nerd in high school, that might have been all the ammunition the other students needed to let loose. Instead, I walked into the office and simply said, 'I can't go to class like this.' Those blessed women agreed and allowed me to call my mother, who contacted someone to take me back to the apartment. I changed and returned to school.
It continued to rain all day.
And I had to ride back home...
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Return of the... What was I saying?
I chose the Indianapolis Colts. Then again, what do I know?
Good evening friends, family, and random readers. I have returned. And plan to return for more regular posts. Because it's what I should be doing. Because it's what I want to do.
It's Personal. Sporting Rants and Raves. Three Word Wednesdays. All on the docket.
For now, I give to you a brief overview of the time since last I posted. Try to keep up...
I chose the Saints, the Colts, the Cowboys, and the Chargers. Saints and Colts played Saturday. Cowboys and Chargers played Sunday. 100% on Saturday and 0% on Sunday. The Old Man made it a point to tell me. I like to think of it as 50/50.
Softball started on the 17th. I, the lunatic coach, had the team at the fields at 9 a.m. People straggled and lazily trotted. 'This ain't last year's team,' I told 'em. Then we ran. And ran. And ran some more...
No class that Monday. The celebration of Martin Luther King, Jr. I don't really remember it. Okay, not for the reasons you're thinking. Well, maybe for the reasons you're thinking...
A short week. I worked. I home-worked. I class-worked. I remember a few victuals and a lack of sleep.
On January 23rd, I should have wished Kevin Mawae a happy 39th birthday.
JB hasn't been too happy about the lack of trivia...
Trivia of the Week 1/23
Who was the first Heisman Trophy winner elected to the Football Hall of Fame? In what year was he inducted?
And I thought it would be the Colts and Saints. Not that I have any way of proving it.
Another week. I worked. I home-worked. I class-worked. I remember a few victuals and a lack of sleep.
Rusty and I met with the owner of Purr, a bar on the Hill. We discussed sponsorship for this year's Thrusters. Very generous, she...
The weekend with no football during football season arrived. No, the Pro Bowl doesn't count, even if it was played the week before.
I should have wished Davey Johnson a happy 67th birthday on January 30th.
Trivia of the Week 1/30
For which team does Davey Johnson now serve as a Senior Adviser?
What is Sunday without football anyway?
Eh...
First week of February followed. I worked. I home-worked. I class-worked. I remember a few victuals and a lack of sleep.
Phil saw his shadow. Another six weeks of winter. Then, I read a stat regarding his accuracy. Phil gets it right 37% of the time. Now, honestly, given a very brief background in statistics, I'd imagine Phil would be about 50/50. Same as I with predicting football games. But no, he's a whopping 37/63. Has anyone ever wondered if there's a possibility that seeing his shadow actually means there won't be six more weeks of winter?
Given of course, that we're talking about a tradition that has a guy dressed in antiquated clothing yanking a rodent out of a hole and translating what that rodent sees.
That Wednesday night, a night not alright for fighting, Joseph and I accompanied a couple friends not to Zanzibar where we didn't replay scenes from an Italian restaurant, but rather to a packed and understaffed Mexican restaurant where we didn't start the fire in our stomachs. The meal was ridiculously late, which made us wonder if we could get to the concert on time. But we did, which allowed us to witness the song of you who have actually read this far into this post. When captain fantastic arrived, I was somewhat unsure about what he was trying to say. But the other one with his uptown girl was as hilarious as I'd been told. Neither piano man has yet let the sun go down on them...
Super Bowl weekend came in all its glory.
I could have wished Brodie Croyle a happy 27th birthday on February 6th. But I wouldn't have had more than that to say.
Trivia of the Week 2/6
Where did Babe Ruth - born on 2/6 - hit his final home run? (City and field)
The Super Bowl came. First half was boring. And then Sean Payton decided to try something that had never been attempted in any quarter but the fourth. It just so happens he became a hero and not a goat. A game of inches. Who dat!
I traveled that following Tuesday to Las Vegas. An uneventful flight. And raining in Vegas. Raining, really? A cab ride to the Mirage. A smoky casino wrapped in a mall. An average room. Steve and I drinking a beer. Visited Tao, a night club with which I was supposed to be impressed. Ate at Del Fresco's twice, a restaurant with which I was impressed. A guy named Robert yelling in the street, 'La verdad no está aquí', which roughly translated means 'The truth is not here.' I couldn't agree more.
The difference between New York and Las Vegas? New York has history and a soul...
Traveled back from Vegas and realized some things. Heard the Old Man asking me that Sunday before the Super Bowl began, 'What are you doing? Where are you going?'
We all have a window of opportunity. And that window isn't about money or fame. Neither greed nor lust. But truth. And, as a priest once told me, for saving the one soul that I can, namely mine.
That time fast approaches.
And here we are on this Saturday in mid-February. Anticipating an enjoyably long weekend followed by a week of work, some victuals, and more sleep.
I wish Mr. Randall Gene Moss a happy 33rd birthday.
Trivia of the Week
Randy Moss played for Marshall in college. But that was not his original choice. For which school did he sign a letter of intent? And when he was denied enrollment, to which college did he 'transfer'?
If you have made it this far, I applaud you. And if you've skimmed, I'll give you accolades. If you skipped all the way down here, shame on you. And if you never read this at all, you won't mind me calling you a dope. Thanks for taking the time. And I'll see you soon. Until next I write...
Good evening friends, family, and random readers. I have returned. And plan to return for more regular posts. Because it's what I should be doing. Because it's what I want to do.
It's Personal. Sporting Rants and Raves. Three Word Wednesdays. All on the docket.
For now, I give to you a brief overview of the time since last I posted. Try to keep up...
I chose the Saints, the Colts, the Cowboys, and the Chargers. Saints and Colts played Saturday. Cowboys and Chargers played Sunday. 100% on Saturday and 0% on Sunday. The Old Man made it a point to tell me. I like to think of it as 50/50.
Softball started on the 17th. I, the lunatic coach, had the team at the fields at 9 a.m. People straggled and lazily trotted. 'This ain't last year's team,' I told 'em. Then we ran. And ran. And ran some more...
No class that Monday. The celebration of Martin Luther King, Jr. I don't really remember it. Okay, not for the reasons you're thinking. Well, maybe for the reasons you're thinking...
A short week. I worked. I home-worked. I class-worked. I remember a few victuals and a lack of sleep.
On January 23rd, I should have wished Kevin Mawae a happy 39th birthday.
JB hasn't been too happy about the lack of trivia...
Trivia of the Week 1/23
Who was the first Heisman Trophy winner elected to the Football Hall of Fame? In what year was he inducted?
And I thought it would be the Colts and Saints. Not that I have any way of proving it.
Another week. I worked. I home-worked. I class-worked. I remember a few victuals and a lack of sleep.
Rusty and I met with the owner of Purr, a bar on the Hill. We discussed sponsorship for this year's Thrusters. Very generous, she...
The weekend with no football during football season arrived. No, the Pro Bowl doesn't count, even if it was played the week before.
I should have wished Davey Johnson a happy 67th birthday on January 30th.
Trivia of the Week 1/30
For which team does Davey Johnson now serve as a Senior Adviser?
What is Sunday without football anyway?
Eh...
First week of February followed. I worked. I home-worked. I class-worked. I remember a few victuals and a lack of sleep.
Phil saw his shadow. Another six weeks of winter. Then, I read a stat regarding his accuracy. Phil gets it right 37% of the time. Now, honestly, given a very brief background in statistics, I'd imagine Phil would be about 50/50. Same as I with predicting football games. But no, he's a whopping 37/63. Has anyone ever wondered if there's a possibility that seeing his shadow actually means there won't be six more weeks of winter?
Given of course, that we're talking about a tradition that has a guy dressed in antiquated clothing yanking a rodent out of a hole and translating what that rodent sees.
That Wednesday night, a night not alright for fighting, Joseph and I accompanied a couple friends not to Zanzibar where we didn't replay scenes from an Italian restaurant, but rather to a packed and understaffed Mexican restaurant where we didn't start the fire in our stomachs. The meal was ridiculously late, which made us wonder if we could get to the concert on time. But we did, which allowed us to witness the song of you who have actually read this far into this post. When captain fantastic arrived, I was somewhat unsure about what he was trying to say. But the other one with his uptown girl was as hilarious as I'd been told. Neither piano man has yet let the sun go down on them...
Super Bowl weekend came in all its glory.
I could have wished Brodie Croyle a happy 27th birthday on February 6th. But I wouldn't have had more than that to say.
Trivia of the Week 2/6
Where did Babe Ruth - born on 2/6 - hit his final home run? (City and field)
The Super Bowl came. First half was boring. And then Sean Payton decided to try something that had never been attempted in any quarter but the fourth. It just so happens he became a hero and not a goat. A game of inches. Who dat!
I traveled that following Tuesday to Las Vegas. An uneventful flight. And raining in Vegas. Raining, really? A cab ride to the Mirage. A smoky casino wrapped in a mall. An average room. Steve and I drinking a beer. Visited Tao, a night club with which I was supposed to be impressed. Ate at Del Fresco's twice, a restaurant with which I was impressed. A guy named Robert yelling in the street, 'La verdad no está aquí', which roughly translated means 'The truth is not here.' I couldn't agree more.
The difference between New York and Las Vegas? New York has history and a soul...
Traveled back from Vegas and realized some things. Heard the Old Man asking me that Sunday before the Super Bowl began, 'What are you doing? Where are you going?'
We all have a window of opportunity. And that window isn't about money or fame. Neither greed nor lust. But truth. And, as a priest once told me, for saving the one soul that I can, namely mine.
That time fast approaches.
And here we are on this Saturday in mid-February. Anticipating an enjoyably long weekend followed by a week of work, some victuals, and more sleep.
I wish Mr. Randall Gene Moss a happy 33rd birthday.
Trivia of the Week
Randy Moss played for Marshall in college. But that was not his original choice. For which school did he sign a letter of intent? And when he was denied enrollment, to which college did he 'transfer'?
If you have made it this far, I applaud you. And if you've skimmed, I'll give you accolades. If you skipped all the way down here, shame on you. And if you never read this at all, you won't mind me calling you a dope. Thanks for taking the time. And I'll see you soon. Until next I write...
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