February 2008 - Posts

  • Hey two poems from writing 1 class

    Hi Jordyn... How have you been? I'm not back yet but break is coming soon... Yay!! For now I'm mostly posting assignments.


    Wakeful Being



     Like Bathing in Candlelight


    Swimming in the lull of warm


    Sensation of beating, flowing, falling


     Ripples at the navel


    Like the butterflies


     So overt and sinful


    While church bells sing



    No is subtle


    No is safe


    No is real


    But yes courses through the running water


    And bounces off the porcelain tiles


    Glowing as the fire sublimes


    In the fervor of my senses


    In the hems of the fabric


    In the secrets


    And in the undertones



    It’s true that sometimes


    The desire never comes


    And to the literal


    We fall prisoner 


    In the abstraction of disappointment


    Until clarity conforms like water


    Church bells ring outside our psyche


    And security sings from the outside in


    Was it the departure you thought you wanted?


    That shivers outside the womb


    Or was it the fervor, the wakeful being


    That lives between the tiles


    And glows beneath the grout




    Across the Street and then across the street again


    The man with the mustache sold snow cones


    That would leak sticky purple before I could finish


    I learned what a yellow Jacket was



    And that bumble bees don’t sting


    When tag birthed my competitive spirit


    The cement bleachers were like big stairs


    Concrete grounds for amusement



     The basket ball courts were grounds for breeding


    The orgy of 98 he later told me


    He didn’t know I was eight back then


    But I remember him


    When I was little and I would watch the big kids play


    And when I was older and they were older still


    Until one day “Big” became relative


    Because I thought to myself



    “If I am still little we must all still be little to someone.”


    But we didn’t know it then


    Or at least I didn’t


    I didn’t know my fear was envy


    Or that my envy was fear


    But every time I sat there on the concrete bleachers


    I would remember my lopsided training wheels


    Designed to teach balance


    And prepare me for the two-wheeler


    I still haven’t learned to ride


  • Ahoy there Maties


     I hope I still have license to go on introspective tangents as if it hasn’t been a month since the last one.

    I know I’ve been a negligent blogger lately but love me anyway. My latest thoughts have been channeled in my classes which are, FYI, going well. I’ve more or less, come out of the self-destructive coma that envelopes adolescence.  I’ve been taking good care of myself, maintaining my beliefs, and not doubting the value of my perspective. I’ve realized that sharing my thoughts eloquently free of looming self-doubt is my meaning in this meaningless life. Because well founded arguments can only lead to better counter argument, insight into the nature of perspective, and/or confidence in the ingenuity of one’s reasoning. All of these elicit the orgasmic satiation of accumulating truth.

    The argument of the month has been the prosecution and defense of my personal writing style. The result of my advocacy has allowed me to prove the competence of my rationale as well as provoked insightful criticism that will facilitate further progress. The exceptionally bright faculty and students at my school have helped me to realize this:

    To be a good writer I have to trust myself. My voice does not emulate from my words when my diction is calculated. I write fluidly, I think methodically, and I much prefer the climax of spontaneity controlled retrospectively than the predictability of rhetoric formula. My talent lies in my honesty. My honesty lies intuitively. I will not sell myself short by ignoring my impulses and doubting the dexterity of my senses.

    That being said, I know that I am not my only audience and that language barriers will forever separate society and the self. I know there are choices I will have to make, manipulations I must employ, and allusions I will have to clarify and solidify. But I trust my sense of rhythm and reason and it is that strength in individuality that I believe pushes me into the realm of greatness.

    Until the true strife of self sufficiency I have a new youthful struggle before me. And that is the limbic challenge of severing childhood impressionability while resisting the comfortable misery of adult cynicism. We are all jaded by our world-view and that is why we need human interaction. Voicing one’s opinion while keeping an open mind will unravel the greatest pleasures of life.

    They are [in my humble opinion] as follows in no particular order

    1. Validation of intelligence

     2. Thought provocation

    3. Expression of self

    4. Accumulation of insight

    5. Interpersonal connectivity

    I’ve been working on my writing a lot and I’m coming to comprehend the meaning of “Higher Education,” although I couldn’t define it in any way that doesn’t sound trite or vague. I guess I finally feel like my life is my own and I’m not taught to strive for any particular standard. Instead I’m taught how to exercise awareness, sensitivity, and slight skepticism all to sharpen the fluency of my ideas.

    P.S. I have so much work to do this weekend but I also have so many updates: New relationships, old ones salvaged, new outlooks… No time. I have a couple of papers I wrote that I’ll post when I “Perfect” them. And one day I’ll get to editing my month-long streams of consciousness.


  • So I know it’s been a while…

    Life’s pretty good. Kinda exciting, kinda boaring, kinda getting my work done, kina having too much fun, kinda happy, kinda sad… Balanced; Pretty well balanced. I still have pages and pages of notes that were supposed to be comprehensive blogs. Perhaps over some break when I have a bit more time… But  I uh wrote this thing for fiction writing. It’s not edited yet but I’m a fan so far. The assignment was to develop two characters and describe a brief interaction between them. Enjoy.

    Goodnight guys. G-dspeed.


    Red. “Why red?” He wondered watching her aggressively chip away at today’s fresh coat of finger nail polish.  It seemed too explicitly feminine for the little grunge goddess that she was. Sitting in the front row, smooth legs crossed, faded flannel plaid unbuttoned conveniently at her chest. She was sexy. She knew it. He knew it. He saw no reason not to stare behind his dark Armani frames before the synthetic light faded the UV protected lenses back to clear. He watched her gaze pensively, you know; diagonally upward, lightly biting the eraser on her suspended number two pencil. He smirked. As he very much doubted she was thinking or writing anything at all. She’s an actress, he thought, living on a twenty-four hour stage using seduction as her only motivation. But maybe he just wanted to believe that. He also thought that it was entirely possible his escalading thirst for intrigue was responsible for the hidden intentions and calculated gestures he assigned to her. It was thrilling to believe someone in this crazy world knew what they were doing.

    She drops her pencil absent mindedly and searches for its location with a piercing stair. She can feel his gaze narrow in excitement as she gathers her dirty blond hair and rests it on her right soldier. Subtle, she thinks. Be subtle. She lets the sleeve of her flannel blouse fall exposing her left soldiers and extends her arm to pick up the writing utensil she will never use. It’s no secret; they all know she has yet to take a single note in Professor Shevchenko’s Calculus class. But judging simply by the nature of men in general and the mastery she has honed over her allure- she’ll pass.; probably with a B minus. Looking up swiftly and dramatically, she catches his gaze no longer veiled by tinted lenses. Her eyes widen and she cocks her head innocently provoking him to severe the eye contact immediately and bashfully. Scratch that, B+, she reassess.

    He didn’t know why, but he decided to look back at her and found her facial expression to be less than surprising. Naturally she looked quite pleased with herself, her little tricks, and her little games. Why do these spoiled college girls think they’re so damn clever? Your sexy, we get it, but we’re in math class. Can you please find a more appropriate time to reassure me that you are exceptionally competent at evoking sexual arousal? She stares at him again. What now you deviant? Back to reaffirm your suspicion that I would in fact like to see you naked? Ingenious, someone give this girl a Nobel Prize.

    He was still staring but now his gaze said nothing at all. All of a sudden she feels exposed; the assurance of careful manipulation drowns in the elevating self-doubt of a vulnerable spectacle. Her confidence falls and the talent she only moments ago viewed as empowering feels like a glaring flaw. She glances at his left ring finger sure that it was decorated in a wedding band. Still there; sparkling and gold.  So why was he acting as though he had nothing to lose; like she was free entertainment. “Alright, let’s get started” he says in his slight Slavic accent. He nods at her as if to ask her permission and she shrugs in response. He gets up from his black fabric desk chair and the sound of the spinning wheels echo across the yellow lecture room walls. Let the games begin.

    Facing the chalk board, he hears the discourteous shuffling and knows that class has ended weather he likes it or not. Papers crumple, Zippers proclaim themselves shut in irritating crescendos, and latches sound as doors swing open. He knows she’s still there. She was always still there packing up slowly and silently in the front row. It was rather charming that she took her sweet time; it always made him believe it was magically possible to borrow some. But his skepticism and disenchantment always won out. O well, at least he could stare at her again as she walked away.  The fact remains she was still nice to look at.

     He finishes his white chicken scratches and announces to those who care “As x approaches negative one, Y approaches infinity.” Eh, she supposed it was at least slightly stimulating to learn today. She stuffed her spiral notebook into a stained and worn corduroy back pack and slipped her unused pencil behind her right ear. She swings nylon padded straps over her soldier and approaches Professor Shevchenko’s large wooden desk at the forefront of the room.

    He looks up from tomorrow’s lesson plan to find hot girl walking steadily toward him. “Yes?” he makes no effort to suggest candor. She doesn’t quiver, she only speaks in her collective tone. “I never got my test back.” He motions to a beige-ish file folder on his desk and explains his clever structure for anonymous assignments. “Find it and prove to me it’s that it’s yours.” He watched her silver cross dangle above the vector that is her cleavage as she rummaged through his organized papers carelessly. He was so tempted to suggest she take her sweet time but whether her demeanor suggested or not, this was a respectable institution. He reminded himself that his salary in part depended on tolerating the antics of this youthful generation. The shift in her stature indicated she had found what she was looking for and he lifted his gaze just in time to meet hers.

    “How exactly would you like me to prove that this is mine?”

    “Just turn in a page from your notes.” She hears in a methodical disinterest.

    ***. O well, I guess I’ll play the truth card. “I don’t exactly take notes.”

    She sees his eyes grace the red number indicated on her exam. “88%, that’s pretty impressive. I bet if you took notes you could get 100.”

    How is one supposed to respond to that? “Thanks…” 

    Her strategy; when all else fails make him feel awkward.  But clever Demetri is no stranger to manipulation. “Very well, just write your name at the top.”

    “Julianne Levi.” She says coolly. He looks at her pensively and rests “Well, nice to finally meet you Julianne.” Intrigue slips into his generally composed tone. Wrong move. “Pleasure is all mine.” She insists and she slips away long before he has time to lose interest in her chest and speculate that she did not even take the test that she just handed in.