“Seahorses”
Seahorses
We struggle for life, gasp for water
and we die, wriggling and contorting into position.
Our dried carcasses serve as amusement.
Fifty years we’ve been on display,
dust gathering in our rigid and bony structures,
souvenirs for those whose lives were more exciting.
They pull us out to reminisce about their wild youth,
our magic now stripped by time,
and they talk to each other about us and how they miss us.
Some of them forget about us,
about how we thrived in the waters before being rescued,
collected as memorials.
They don’t know about the vibrant reefs like we do,
about the others who didn’t make it or we carried back
to other grey places where they too would be forgotten.
Many of us are labeled for easy identification,
classified and sorted so onlookers can gaze at our husks
in wonderment or disgust… or a bit of both.
Our tiny bodies have become too numerous,
too many have been broken or discarded,
but most of us will fade into the dark obscurity, lost.
The new fashion has been to provide a tank,
to adopt a bit of our habitat and collect several specimens,
lives lived with names and memorialized
as members of families, temporary and disposable.
We exist as novelty, and still a part of their youth,
a part of that colorful past they will talk about one day,
sharing the photos with their children and grandchildren.
They’ll talk about us, about how much they love us,
pulling us from the drawers and boxes to prove themselves,
they’ll show videos they took of the tanks filled with water,
convinced that they are showing great love for us.
But when they are no longer beings asked to show off
their specimens, their carefully curated collections,
they’ll put us away again and go back to their real lives.
We will keep wishing that our dried bodies would stop
finding their way into souvenir shops of those who
do not want to dip into the water and experience our lives.
We don’t want to live in tanks either, playthings of people
who do not understand that our beauty has not been for them,
that our magic was meant for ourselves.
The sun is coming up on the horizon,
Christopher Street is quieter than it used to be,
and I wonder if a generation is coming
who will realize the world that was fought for,
and I wonder if they will long for the days
when they were precious trinkets of other people’s youth.
Written 1 July 2009 in Anchorage, Alaska & 5 September 2019 in Payne County, Oklahoma.
Brian Fuchs, “Seahorses” from Okie Dokie (Scissortail Press, 2019)
“Bea”
Bea
The swan lands, awkwardly gliding
into water among strangers, among friends.
On the far horizon, the ponds edges
kiss coy stars, lurking in the dusk.
The swan gracefully turns her long neck;
her eyelids close softly — contentedly.
A world escapes behind veils of thin skin;
the murmur of voices fades to silence.
Gently, the elegant bird tucks her beak
under her wing and lets peace take her.
4.26.2009
Written 26 April 2009 in Anchorage, Alaska.
Brian Fuchs, “Bea” from Okie Dokie (Scissortail Press, 2019)
“Literary Debris”
Literary Debris
The deities are losing cellular cohesion, gasping desperately for breaths as they become liquid and evaporate.
The poets have been usurped by melancholy memoirists,
aching to have original lives.
Every story seems to be told, despite repetition
despite repetition
despite repetition,
despite…
repetition.
I keep sweeping up the dried remnants of fallen giants:
Thoreau, Dickinson, Whitman, O’Hara;
I even find Baum and Steinbeck and Spyri in the wreckage.
I collect the bits I can in a beautiful vessel where they remain safe, more pieces having been spared than expected.
Few search for the treasures, worried they’ll cut themselves on the old words of masters.
Picking through the pieces still brings me joy
even if I’ve no one to share them with;
I wish I could be as beautiful whole as they are in shards & residue.
Written 16 February 2009 in Anchorage, Alaska.
Brian Fuchs, “Literary Debris” from Okie Dokie (Scissortail Press, 2019)
The Words Escaped… For Now
untitled [mediocrity]
How are we preparing ourselves to be gods,
to shed these skins and rise to greatness?
I’ve been expecting miracles and have found
normalcy.
Mediocrity is punishment for lack of passion,
a pain I’ve allowed to flow through me,
finding ways to penetrate my fibers.
I’m looking for ways to free the me who
screams and wants to be released.
10.15.2008
The creative block continues. It took considerable time to squeeze the above from my head and I really believe that while writing should be a lot of work, it shouldn’t be this difficult. Perhaps I need to put aside my silly fears and just write the things I know would flow easily. Perhaps I should try harder. I’m waiting for that elusive muse the deliver a swift kick to my backside and get me moving. Maybe I’ve waited too long; I should just do it myself.
So, the snow come to us about a month earlier than it did last year. I’m both annoyed and relieved by its return. I do love the crispness of the air when I walk outside in the morning. It blasts me awake in a refreshing way. I love the stillness of a busy city when it is blanketed in softness that blocks out the sound. To be surrounded by bustling and still feel peaceful is a surreal experience that summer doesn’t offer in the same way for me. But I had already forgotten about the driving. I’ll get over it soon enough and it won’t feel like such a big deal to never seem to get through the intersections fast enough. In the meantime, I’ll try to be careful and not let the roads distract me. This place is already piling up with cars crashing into one another. I don’t really want to be a part of that.
Inspiration will come. I trust that. I also know I’m probably forcing it a bit, which won’t help. Maybe I need to get out, have a little fun for once and let my creativity work itself out.
Happy Birthday to KC, Meghan, & my 7 year old kitten, Franz.
Featured Image Art: photo of Franz
“All Growed Up”
Written 13 September 2008 in Anchorage, Alaska.
Brian Fuchs, “All Growed Up” from Okie Dokie (Scissortail Press, 2019)
________
Original Version
29! Did I just realize that?!?
All Growed Up
The icons are all dead or broken,
ushered off in wheelchairs and caskets of immoral expense to paradises
surrounded by wildness.
My childhood crumbles without the support of the ones I admired and by the weight of my guilts and follies.
That time of heroes is so distant — it no longer even feels like a dream,
no longer feels like a memory.
The blurred fragments of the Sues, the Mikes, the D’Jeilas… they are fading into emptiness,
leaving me with a search for new people to look up to, if anyone.
I miss the me who was in that time, but celebrate his death.
The me of now is an improvement, a focused replica of an aimless child.
The slate has been cleaned and readied for the new icons to place on pedestals.
Soon, I’ll break out of the thin shell of fear that remains and emerge as a fully complete person.
My wings itch to stretch out and let me fly.
9.13.2008
“Open Your Arms”
Open your arms (and welcome Love)
A fervent plea to those people I’ve seen my Church family morphing into, slipping away from me, from Love. A prayer for the many who’ve seen the backs of their loved ones too often, shivering alone because they were misunderstood or openly judged for being human.
My neighbors turned towards themselves
and forgot my face.
Backs towards me with multitudes of assumptions.
My heart feels the hymns,
feels the joy still.
I’m unchanged.
My image fails me; refuses to take the shape of the mold
[the idyllic life]
the person I was supposed to be.
I’m neither broken nor lost.
I’m Love’s child, regardless of whispers and raised eyebrows.
My home,
our home.
I never felt so unwelcome from a family, silently, passively.
Judgments. Silence.
Silence.
From my perch high above the elders,
the deacons, the little old ladies
who wait for death on the third pew from the back,
my mind stretches, finding thoughts far from my body,
dreamily.
I welcome judgment.
Don’t pray for me in anger
or sorrow
or disappointment.
Don’t welcome be back from depravity.
Be family; be true to Love.
Love. Love.
Open your arms — not only to me,
not to selfish or petty concerns of mine,
open your arms because they should be open.
Because they are there for welcoming,
uncrossed and warm,
welcome the children, your family,
forgotten innocents,
the joyful, the content,
the exuberantly happy,
the depressed, and the angry.
Keep you arms open to those whose lives you don’t understand,
whose lives are full of light and laughter,
but cannot find comfort in rigid conformity.
I’ll join them too — march with them
into the auditoriums across distances,
across situational divides.
Be Love.
Kiss your neighbor on the forehead and have them over for dinner.
There is nothing important like Love.
There is nothing but Love.
There is Love.
Love.
And Love will take our hands — yours, mine,
the multitudes huddled in the rain.
We’ll find ourselves then.
We’ll free ourselves and be family again.
And selfish concerns and trivial differences will never be able to keep us apart.
8.21.2008
Featured Image Art: Michelangelo, “The Creation of Adam”
I’m ready to start shedding the skin of my twenties
Birth
And now, this 29th time around the sun is coming to an end.
My trips seems less celebratory than ever, but somehow more satisfying.
I enter the final year of my 20s this very second.
It isn’t a disconnection, it isn’t loss.
Life seems to have only just begun.
8.5.2008 (written at the minute of my birth, 9:01a.m. AKDT; 12:01p.m. CDT)
I’ve begun my 30th trip. How is it that my birthday always feel a little different from other days? I suppose I’ve wondered that before, but leading up to today I really thought that this birthday, more than any other, would feel like just an ordinary day. Perhaps it is the cold I’ve had or the frustration of life not going the way it is supposed to go, but things haven’t been as merry as I’d like. Today, that seems to have changed. I am still waiting for adulthood — or the realization of — to smack me in the face.
My day started beautifully. I had decided to not go over to David & Daniel’s last night after they called and told me they were going to bed instead (the initial plan had been to go over there), but I decided that I wanted the change of scenery. The first minutes of the day were spent rediscovering what it is like to be outside in the dark. It seems like it has been a long time since that happened, with the longer days of summer. It even struck me as odd that it would be dark at midnight. Daniel got up to join me while I used the computer at their house, which was nice. I stayed a couple hours, then came home and slept for a bit. Since waking up this morning, I’ve spent the day updating poems that I had written earlier this year. I’ve also done a tiny bit of writing today, but more editing. Let me know what you think of the revised versions. I think I finally am getting “Whale” where it needs to be. Also, is this “more” thing annoying or not?
Birds
Summer failed to arrive in this grey urbanity.
Anchorage feels naked, empty
without the carpet of ice and snow crunching below.
I was aware of it when lupines and wild roses
heralded the arrival of what should have been June.
I was keenly aware of the missing white when
flowers conceded, accepting the cruelty of warmthlessness.
This city is wet now, as the great lion arrives.
Saddened by this dreary failure, the cat weeps,
drizzles pulling themselves from a sky
that has married itself with concrete.
The world darkens, turning even more grey and distant.
All hope escapes of summer, of warmth.
It’ll return to Alaska now, the familiar cold driving
away smaller birds and welcoming ravens.
In the merriment of an metropolitan buffet,
they’ll shoo the clouds, revealing the sun,
shining brightly on the brief days of a frozen world.
7.27.2008
Lightning Bugs
It hasn’t been enough to love people
to grasp at them, lightning bugs
I want to jar and admire.
They’ve been too quick, lighting up
and confusing me.
I’m no longer willing to feel
punished by time, by God (or god),
by the will of those who just
don’t want me.
5.15.2008
Whale
ode to my vanity
I sneak upon you, surprising you
from beneath your feet.
From not knowing to knowing,
I grow enormous and fill you field of view,
become your entire world for a few moments.
I press on away from you towards newness,
fading slowly away into the blue and into
the recesses of your mind,
an image of something that was,
but that is no longer so impressive.
I long to rekindle the wonder you felt
the first time I allowed you to see,
but the second time I swim by
you’ll think you remembered me larger.
3.29.2008
Sun Vs. Son
Sun
Falling rays prove merciless;
the hospital all robed in pink fills with babies,
exhausted mothers
breathless
from rising heat.
Son,
colored like the sun and screaming,
comfort taken too hastily.
The minty green dressed men and women
put the baby in a box, shine lights,
drain the sun from his skin.
Rejoicing, the sun burns more fiercely.
The world sighs.
8.4.2008
The Short Reign of a Queen
Heather warmly picked up the old girl,
dusted her off and proudly placed her
high on a pedestal.
Norma purred, closed her eyes.
The two fell in love among yaps
and slobbers.
Comfort, home, family, importance.
Heather’d created a queen and Norma
was content to be crowned.
Amid celebrations of the new monarch,
Norma’s life quietly expired.
Heather’s heart broke and tears flooded
the world; nobody could be as they once were.
7.11.2008
The Short Reign of a Queen is a revised version of a poem I had been afraid to post. I think it captures the situation now, so I offer it to the world.
Smoking, Waiting
With clouds of nothing else to occupy my time,
I’ve paced the walkways in front of jobs
where I arrived too early, cigarette in hand,
waiting for purpose.
Work is not and cannot be life or love,
the search for these things prevents
nervousness and the need to smoke.
4.16.2008
Featured Image Art: photo by David Clode (via Unsplash)
August came a bit early, merging with lingering Spring.
Birds
The scheming magpies’ plan must’ve worked;
summer failed to arrive in this grey and spiraling urbanity.
Anchorage feels naked, empty
without the carpet of ice and snow crunching below.
I was aware of it when lupines and wild roses
heralded the arrival of what should have been June.
I was keenly aware of the missing white when
flowers conceded, accepting the cruelty of warmthlessness.
This city is wet now, as the great lion arrives.
Saddened by this dreary failure, the cat weeps,
drizzles pulling themselves from a sky
that has married itself with concrete.
The world darkens, turning grey and distant.
All hope escapes of summer, of warmth.
It’ll return to Alaska now, familiar cold eventually driving
away those smaller birds and welcoming the giant cousins,
the benevolent and ominous ravens, keepers of my soul.
In the merriment of an metropolitan buffet,
they’ll shoo the clouds, revealing the sun,
still hanging where they’d first placed it.
7.27.2008
What do I think of this poem? I almost feel like I was trying too hard. I’m still blocked and the words are not coming in waves. They take effort, like these, to release. I nearly like it, but may need to scrap an animal reference.
Featured Image Art: vintage illustration of a magpie
“Meeting with Tlāloc”
Written 22 July 2008 in Anchorage, Alaska.
Brian Fuchs, “Meeting with Tlāloc” from Okie Dokie (Scissortail Press, 2019)
__________
Original Version
untitled
Life’s all pauses and breaks;
my feet don’t seem so eager anymore to get to those places
I’ve always kept close to my heart and deep in my dreams.
There’s something soothing about stasis,
something unnerving as well.
I’m peering through cracks and holes of a life that is always shifting,
searching for someone who might be peering back at me
from the other side… of what?
The winds are picking up and I can feel change creeping over the horizon.
Storm’s comin’ and I’ve not gotten ready for it this time,
thought I’d enjoy more of this part of life,
thought there’d be more,
thought I could find comfort in being alone.
Blow me into bits; create something new and magical,
something more than I’ve ever been.
Grasping for hands to hold, I realize that there is only me.
7.22.2008
Of Heart Attacks, Cats, & Tire Studs
I think the previously posted poem Hiking At Kennicott will either will be edited to be shorter or fleshed out to be an essay. I like it, but it is almost begging to be prose. I find myself rather blocked this week. Perhaps it has been the turmoil this past week seems to be in. Things are in disarray. It causes me to not want to face myself and I slink into my corner and pretend I don’t want to write. In reality, nothing would bring me greater joy in difficult times. Facing myself always seems to convince me that I like me more than I thought and still troubles me because I don’t understand how I can still be alone. I’m feeling rather desperate to have what those around me have and desperation causes foolishness. I hope I can keep the antics at bay. In the meantime, I’ll risk a poem on here that could potentially offend those mentioned in it. It is about three people I love a great deal — a family of sorts. Like all families, it is the quirks of individuals that sometimes receive the focus. It rarely means that those quirky people are thought of any less.
Reflections On My [Alaskan] Family
The pariah’s made up in all shades of green,
needlessly feeling pain, self-induced and unwarranted.
It’s hard to feel unconventional in world of unconventional people;
the appeal diminishes.
I’m melding with others,
whose lives barely cross mine and I feel again like a third wheel.
And I feel love. Love.
Quantified love. David first, me last, Daniel in between?
Quantified love?
Really?
Is it orderable, rankable, defined in aboveness?
The pariah feels sucked in and ever more distant,
perhaps well-placed feelings. Family.
Quantified?
I cannot see it. Not through the thick haze of love.
The boss makes diplomatic concessions for the patriarchal figure head
and I tend to understand [and to not understand].
The pariah’s green vestments seem to flash with new vibrance;
I can’t even get attention from myself. Love? Love. It’s possible.
Expanding, filling the room, feeling myself uncomfortable
and taking up space, wondering how I can be ignored.
Deflate the elephant. And sometimes I do it myself,
shrinking to almost nothing,
transparent.
I take perch and watch my family below grow ever closer
without me, saddened by my own inability to include myself.
The charmer found David and I can’t see the path to follow;
fields of sweetly scented flowers cover the trail that so recently existed.
The green is increasing.
I wish I could figure out how to remove this person who hides me,
shuck him from the golden ear of me inside.
I don’t believe in quantified love.
It is an expression of “like.”
Love holds us to standards we don’t often hold ourselves to,
expects us to look past ourselves.
The pariah’s only a pariah in his own eyes and longs to not be green.
Moist sounds of boys keeping each other warm make me
simultaneously happy and enraged.
Enraged at me, at ignorance, at my insufferability.
I won’t stand for this and demand that I not be the spoiled brat
who wants what everyone else has got.
I’m me and I’ll get mine when I accept that.
Quantified love? No.
I don’t love myself less than — or more than –
only as much as anyone else.
The boss will keep tabs on the situation,
very occasionally checking to see how I’m doing.
It’s easiest when he speaks about making love
with the charmer.
I feel less jealous the more he mentions it, happier.
More…
I will not be ranked and when my turn comes,
I’ll flood friends with my happiness.
And they’ll smile, genuinely proud of me.
The pariah is thinking more of himself.
6.14.2008
Image: photo of David, Daniel, & Brian (between McCarthy, Alaska & Kennicott Mine)
Featured Image Art: photo of David, taken on trip to Kennicott
Kennecott, Kennicott, Kennycott
I got out of Anchorage for nearly three days. David, Daniel, Denis, & I took a trip to McCarthy & Kennecott in the Copper River Basin. Kennecott is an old mining town that was abandoned in 1938. The trip was beautiful, therapeutic, and well-deserved by all of us.
Honestly, I imagined great tension and possible distance on our return, but the four of us play very well off one another and if I can get over my jealousy that the other three live in two adjacent houses far from me, I think we’ll continue to have a strong relationship.
I’m not a nature person… so I say, but I do really enjoy getting out and doing things like this trip. I mainly say these things about not being a nature person to prevent people from inviting me on adventures that I can resent them for going on later. I should see someone about that, but for now I will just admit it and try to deal with it. I seem to be all too willing to sabotage my own happiness. Curious. I think getting a little nature all over me was good.
My pictures will be around soon. Too tired to care tonight.
Hiking At Kennicott
We chose stones carefully, stepping goat-like
across the field of glacier
deposits,
rocks brought here by powerful ice.
We made our way along the river, through a
density of silt.
I followed a narrow trail, curiosity claiming one, two, then all
three of my companions.
My path lay flat, carved from trees and grasses on the hills,
running along the very center of each towering, but small peak
and back down again.
The path only briefly meandered
through some trees
and then I emerged again, taking my place atop the next hill.
The 3 appeared in the distance at my new height,
far in the distance and now far
behind me.
Waving, we acknowledged our continued group hike,
now made one person short.
My feet took me forward and I pressed on,
again goating my way
over sloped white rock,
my clear and flattened path disappearing and then
reappearing some ways below me.
Preoccupied with safety, I’d been unaware of beauty
that was rising up and spreading out around me.
White, green
beige
grey, pink
green
I turned my head to see the glacier,
angrily peering from beneath its rocky blanket, spilling stones
and streaming water into a vast pool
that lay idle a moment,
trying to get its bearings before
heading towards the river.
In the distance I saw my friends and spoke to them
with a barely raised voice.
I guarded the glacier discovery, allowing them the chance
to experience and awe at the mighty size of the creature.
Disappearing into a pass that took them out of view,
I continued on,
drawn by some magic the trail had conjured.
Increasing heights made the hills more difficult, exhilarating,
sweaty.
Another rocky slope found my feet less sure,
challenging me with loose rocks.
My friends came to mind,
unseen for a long while.
The path diminished a bit at the line of trees began
to impede my passage.
My name rang gently through the valley once
(that I heard).
I turned, collected a rock and headed back to the group.
My back wet with sweat,
shirt clinging exhaustedly to my skin,
I felt a rush of new freedom,
of accomplishment,
solitude.
I sprinted now, over peaks that had seemed so difficult,
my feet never flinching on the now familiar trail.
I dashed up hills and pranced lightly down,
increasingly eager to get back to the company of friends,
family.
I slowed and walked slowly up a hill and saw the orange hat
making its way up to the same point, the hill with the view —
the perfect view of the white faces, lodged and straining.
We clicked our cameras, in awe
and I could now see the other two below, resting on rocks,
lazily taking Nature in,
hearts full.
I hopped down to the bed of boulders, where they had veered
and danced ceremoniously down towards the lodge.
Weary, wet, hot,
my feet were no longer trustworthy and my movements
required more thought.
Back safely at our cabin, we had a tailgate feast of whatever
each of us could find: olives, cookies, whole chickens, tuna salad,
carrots, juice, apples, nuts, dried cranberries, soda,…
Blissfully, the lovers among us retired
to the deck of the great common building
to share a romantic ramen and wine dinner,
alone finally,
content.
Creativity oozed out of anywhere it could and houses built
themselves on imagined sites of beautiful dreams that
seem to be coming true.
Wine gave way to haughty birds and the words once again
took over my hand.
We all seemed to be looking towards the glacier,
a pure moment carrying over and living on.
Alaska is good.
6.14.2008
I really like where I was trying to go with this next one. The day after I said it, there was a discussion in the truck about how everyone felt the same way about this. Even though I felt like the sentiment had been justified, I still don’t quite know how to phrase that last line to have maximum impact. Hmm… Oh, and if the title doesn’t stick with this poem, it WILL be the title of a similarly themed poem.
The Musk Ox & the Unicorn In Single Combat
Some people dream up mythical places with colors pulled from curious recesses,
fantastic creatures conjured up, unknown to man.
Some people write of beautiful worlds, misty moored landscapes and jagged
mountain peaks cutting through the sky towards gods just imagined.
Poets pull detail from made-up places;
describe them in wrapped beauty and make awe from the seemingly mundane.
Some people tell tales of lovely people doing spectacular things — heroes, heroines,
trailblazing pioneers making paths towards alien places.
I get to live in Alaska.
6.13.2008
Images: photos taken during trip with David, Daniel, & Denis
Featured Image Art: photo of Kennicott Mine
“10th & Cordova”
10th & Cordova
I’m working on feeling unconventional
in a world of unconventional people.
I’m melding with others,
with those whose lives barely cross mine,
I am again like a loose bit
dangling from a ragged tree branch.
And I feel love. Love.
Quantified love. Finite and sequenced love.
Quantified?
I know I’m last. The love left is different,
the love is coated with a sticky doubt.
Denis is made up in shades of green,
needlessly feeding himself pain, gorging himself on his own thoughts.
His love is ranked, ordered, defined by hierarchy.
Denis uses his love to feel closeness,
and he wraps that love in money. Family.
Quantified? Finite?
David makes diplomatic concessions,
talks in circles and understanding tones, tries to hold together
things that aren’t in danger of slipping away.
He spends his time adding on to the structures, stroking egos,
helping Denis find even brighter green vestments.
I can’t even seem to get attention from myself.
Love? Love. It’s possible.
Expanding, filling the room, I feel uncomfortable
and take up too much space. How can I be ignored?
Sometimes I deflate the elephant and shrink to almost nothing,
transparent.
I shrink into a corner and watch my family below grow ever closer
without me, saddened by my own inability to include myself.
Daniel has come in, found David, taken him down a path I cannot see.
The fields of sweetly scented flowers cover the trail.
There is an increased interest in green.
I try to figure out how to be seen,
how to understand quantified love.
Denis longs to not be green, but I only know about this too late,
after I have purchased green tinted glasses that I wear when I look at him.
David and Daniel playing in the flowers makes me
simultaneously happy and enraged.
Enraged at me, at my ignorance, at how insufferable I’ve become.
Daniel brings back flowers and shares them with me,
and I am happy enough. Family.
Quantified? No.
David keeps tabs on the situation, sometimes,
very occasionally checking to see how I’m doing.
It’s easiest when he speaks about Daniel, about secrets and sex,
about the fields of flowers down the path.
I feel happy when he mentions Daniel, free.
The cracks are forming, and we are all distracted with our efforts.
I’ll soon need to purchase another pair of glasses, this time in rose.
Written 14 June 2008 in McCarthy, Alaska. Revised 1 October 2018 in Payne County, Oklahoma.
Brian Fuchs, “10th & Cordova” from Okie Dokie (Scissortail Press, 2019)
something a little different for me
I paused to bend your ear [it didn’t go well]
Secrets whispered make this place
tolerable, despite crumudgeons
who’d have it otherwise.
Would-be librarians shush us,
make get-back-to-work motions.
My face goes blank like a yokel
with nothin’ in my noggin ‘cept dust.
I’m animally staring into
the headlights of disapproval,
amazed that people think
themselves as so much more
important than they are.
I forget the secrets for now,
pretend to obey these adults who
wish to again be hall monitors.
I’ll wait and shout bits as I pass by
to show you that I still include you.
Together we’ll prove ourselves here
and these asses will fall away
to make room for our ascent.
5.20.2008
I’ve discovered that I wasn’t the only person to want to create a Title Wave book. Now, having discussed it with a coworker, I’m going to try hard to make it happen. He proposed donating profits to a charity, which I think is brilliant. We wouldn’t be in it for the money anyway. Now, choosing the right people to run it will be tough. One of the strongest resources is not a supporter of the project, so we cannot count on that person or the knowledge from them. I think it requires people who are willing to get things done, so I’ll be working on staying on other people about it, as well as myself.
Featured Image Art: F. Barolozzi, drawing of ears (from Ciprianii’s Rudiments of Drawing, 1796)
Are the plastic sheep about to land?
Here you go Jess. This is the CD I wrote on. The only pen I had was a green micro sharpie. It took me some time because I thought I’d thrown it out. I have restocked my car with the appropriate writing tools.
My glasses broke today. That is not completely accurate. I broke my glasses today. There was a hair stuck in them, so I popped the lens out (which I do from time to time) and they snapped. They had gotten pretty old, so it is hardly a tragedy. I’ve ordered more, which are much more girly, but I’m hardly the model of masculinity.
I’ve spent FAR too much time making little books with my new printer. I’m trying to carefully select things I’ve written to send to my parents. Really, I seem to be looking for any excuse to not work on things that need to be worked on.
My coworker Alicia is going to help with some booklists. I’m unclear about it all right now, but it sounds like a plan… well, almost. I know I want to list the best of the certain subjects, not just have long lists of books. They really have to have been great to make the list. It is sounding like a lot of work. We’ll see what happens. I just find that looking up certain subjects (things I want to read) can be hard because there don’t seem to be good resources out there for some subjects.
Okay, that was rather long winded for having said nothing.
Alone, Alaska
The pumpkin is covered in snow;
I’ve found myself taking refuge
on the crowded velvet cushion,
I could stand here, waiting
for the snow to melt,
hiding in a corner alone.
At least I would find the quiet I was looking for.
Solitude makes me feel closer to nature,
but I don’t feel like being closer just now.
The cold has forgotten to lift from here
and my heart has grown fond of snow and ice,
the very elements that have removed
me from my quiet repose.
I look forward to meditation and calm,
to sitting on the lawn,
overgrown with dandelions,
beautiful blooms making me
close my eyes and feel God within me.
For now, I’ll take what I can get,
taking life from the faces of people
around me; weaving that life into lines of words.
Oh solace, elusively greeting me,
ready with this world still hard
from the months of frozenness.
And I feel the power of this place
in ways that change with seasons,
feel the huddling masses,
each individual finding a way to self,
all of us alone in this together,
penguins of the North,
tightly packed for warmth,
but barely knowing our neighbors.
5.20.2008