9:35, February 3rd, 2011

You drink with both hands,
and everything is heavy.
It isn't yet dusk.

Ice in the cotton,
not a single line to trace.
Yellow presses through.

There is beauty past the fence,
and through the vines that contain it,
from the steps of my stairwell
and the sight of my balcony.

Spring is coming
after all.

Its like we've all got words pressed into the skin of our hands..inky black splotches sitting in the cracked skin, all from kneading and rolling each and every conversation into something 'correct', something 'right', something 'neutral'.

Eventually we're all going to look down and see or hands
black and speckled like molded bread..
all because we were afraid to speak -
and we thought we could own our language.

Knowing what to say
and saying the right thing,

they are distant cousins at best.

^Simplification -

lets stop using our words to manipulate each other. If you say something, mean it. If you don't mean it, don't say it.

Spread some love with your words...
haha, a bit cliche -
but that's only because it works.

GRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGHGHGAHGAHGAHGGGGGAHHAHHGHGGHGHG



it was a good graahgh :)

that is all.

I remember seeing him in he park, a few years ago. The crooked cane that laid across his lap had seen far fewer seasons change as the man had, yet each knot and crack in the wood made it apparent that the old polished branch was eager to catch up with him. Bundled brown cloth clung to his body like blankets, but as the sun peeked out from the low moving clouds I saw that it was an old tweed coat that he had simply become to small for.

The wind picked up, and I feared for a moment that it would blow the skin right off of his body. But it didn't. The mans eyes closed, and a soft smile edged across his cheeks as red and yellow leaves bustled past him . The shadows under his cheeks shrunk as his head tilted up in a warm salutation to the chill, crisp wind.

He had seen all things come and go. He had watched death and birth from an intimate distance. He had felt every sensation, and he was at peace. The hardships of life had come only so that they might pass, and this moment for him was worth every tear he had ever shed.



Because the wind had never lost its beauty.
The sun had never stopped shining.
Its just that he had come back to it,
with younger eyes
than have ever been mine.

Today I was thinking about how many of my old hobbies I've left behind. I think that I'm going to find them again this semester, and ask them to come back. I'm sure I can't pick them all up again, but there are some I miss especially.

First, I want to pick up my electric guitar again. It might sound silly, but when you're playing a riff that actually sound good, its a pretty powerful feeling.

Second, I'd like to draw again. Maps, specifically. I used to draw layouts and blueprints for fantasy worlds,and I think I'll start again. Maybe I can find the first one I ever drew, I think its back in phoenix.

Finally, I want to start creating languages again. It sounds intensive and well, it is. But its also something you can just pick at in your free time, and come back to when you're ready. I found a bunch of old alphabets and phonetic charts (made before I actually took phonetics), and I think I might utilize some of those.

Ready.
Set.
Go.

Appalachia

It would be a returning.
Though our skin has never tasted
the air,
our bones have been in every tree -
in the strings of a dulcimer
and in the moss
worn by the
stones,
which would mark every step.
Meet me there,
when my eyes are gray
and my hands are knotted -
with young eyes
we will see how much the world
can truly give.

1:50 AM

I have just woken up,
and my fan is whirring.

There is a simple taste lingering
in my mouth -
lips wearing
fine beads
of water.

"I"
The offset,
the only word
I know