Love

Love, like the fleeting winter sun, will tease you with its warmth, wet your dreams, and encourage your fantasies, before leaving you to rot in the cold and eternal dark of the winter night.

Sonnet for Dulcinea

There be a time when springs will come and forget to bring the summer.

Yet sweet soundless music will whisk the air as if lover’s summer feign,

Until the blossoms die and Apollo grows cold, his warm love for mankind wanes,

Passing by the golden leaves and fields of green, returns the linens of winter.

Yet Dulcinea, thou stand so still even amidst the cold and wintry groves,

Dressed only with Psyche’s dress and Evie’s robes -

I longed to drape you with my words of love as clothes.

But no fire could thrive in Apollo’s wrath, and somewhere, sometime, I lost my guide.

Alas, if only thou hast an ear for me, I would my heart break asunder,

Basked in the golden sun, recite to you these words from Eden I have plundered,

“Sweet Dulcinea, thy image trapped within my heart’s lament,

Fairer than Helen, sadder than a withering rose, and more than Paris content,

Fading away into the Evergreen, and ne’er shall I find a face so serene,

Than yours asleep in the autumn scene.”

Tribute to Salinger's "Catcher in the Rye"

I peeked around the corner, and craned to see
If down the street, there really were
An elephant white, and filled with glee
hopping, with wings at its rear.

I looked under the couch to verify
If, my dad really kid not I,
A great red wall with mice and all,
With murals of great kings in awe.

I pressed my ear against his chest,
To hear the deep tumtum of his heart,
And know that of all the children he loved me best,
Even though I spilled the milk, a whole one quart.

But all I saw ‘round the corner,
Were men in white and black,
Yelling, pointing, yelling pointing.

All I found beneath the couch,
Were dust, foods, and rats,
Scurrying, squeaking, scurrying, squeaking.

And all I heard from his chest,
Was silence. Silence. Silence.
So I wondered, and wandered,
Until I came across a peculiar cliff asunder,
I thought then, skies all blue, below a field of rye,
That maybe I could fly.

So I ran towards the edge.
The clouds appeared, and the sky turned red,
I tried to stop, but my feet tread forward,
I tumbled over, falling ever lower.

I closed my eyes, and began to cry,
Damn the mice, Damn the elephants,
Damn the silent heart that sucked me dry.
I closed my eyes, and felt the end,
Life suddenly seemed so bland.

But then a voice called out, “Hold on tight!”
And his arms caught me right.
The clouds died away, and the sun shone through.
He set me down, and said, pointing, “over there look!”

And I saw…Ah, but alas,
The image is different each time.
But perhaps that is for the best, my lass,
For ‘tis not my images that’ll last,
But yours, dearie, my lovely dearest,
And when perhaps you find one day,
That falling is the only way,
I’ll be there, in that field of rye,
Catching you, whispering “hold on tight!”
And show you the world, in this same light,
Right now, and forever,
Yes, that’ll be how it goes,
A thorn, a rose,
A journey, an everlasting flight,
Through white clouds and blue skies.

Dec. 14th

I turned 18 yesterday. It was rather interesting, lots of highs, a few lows: that's okay, it's my perogative as a teen. Oh shoot, I can't quite say that anymore!

Today there was a World Music festival. The guitarist there was phenomenal.
Anyway, he wasn't very happy about the term "World Music."

But I thought about it, and realized I couldn't care less. It was the evocation of...I don't know what. The evocation of something: as long as it stirs. In a meaningful way of course.

It's funny though, isn't it? Futility. The only way to overcome inevitability is to strive on futility. To always be bigger than life, and life is immense. You're expected to save the world. I'm not sure what from.

I believe the average man can make a difference on his own. I believe that the average man can rise above and become and extraordinary man.

Are we fated to family life? Not that I don't enjoy settling down.

This isn't angst. I don't think so anyway. Maybe a kind of...like being lost with a map in your hands. Or having written directions, but all the signs say the same thing.

Invisible, anonymous readers! Isn't that interesting? I write for a blog that no one really reads. But I still do it! I don't know what compels me to do so. I wanted to write this article with all the sophistication of a university student writing an essay. Actually, it really isn't an article at all.

My train of thought is a mess. Maybe you understand. Sometimes, you have so much to say, but can't? And then you have less and less to say, until conversation dies out completely. You result to nods and then eventually things come to a halt. What if you said those things? Do you think it'd make a difference? Or will it all eventually lead to silence? Apathy? Is this boring?

Have you ever watched a ceiling fan before? It's enchanting. It goes round and round. But sometimes if you stare hard enough, it begins to turn back. Like winding time backwards. Wouldn't it be nice to be able to turn back time? You'd be able to fix all kind of things. Is regret part of the human condition? I suppose a little regret wouldn't be too bad though. It comes hand in hand with guilt, and that seems to have a rather big effect on people. Guilt.

I think I understand a little about the nature of pop music nowadays. Sure, the harmonies and content may lack any real substance, but it certainly strikes a note. Elitism.

I have to admit though, until the bus ride home, the World Music Festival was extremely enjoyable. I loved all of it, except maybe for...the Capoeira. The final concert was really fun: conga line and all! I tried to get a friend of mine to crowd surf, but we were all too afraid of what our I.B. coordinator would say if we commited such atrocity. I call it atrocity because...well we are I.B. students!

The bus home was the same as the morning bus; however it was very uncomfortable. I found it hard to breathe and my heart rate was jacked. I tried to sleep and turned up the music rather loudly. I'm glad though: it was just loud enough to block out the chatter. I could "lose myself," if you will.

It's 12:37 now. I didn't think I'd still be up at this time! I was really exhausted today. But I suppose that 3 hour nap from 6-9 didn't help very much. Very tempted right now to shove some left over birthday cake down for some dinner. The same song has been looping over and over again for the past hour. Birthday cards are sprawled all over my desk.

It would be so much more simple to be a character. Like, a character someone write about, you know? Everything would be determined for you, and you'd still have the illusion of choice! I write plenty about the ability to choose nowadays. Sometimes I hear poetry in my head, but I figure it's better not to write them down now. I haven't folded origami for weeks now too. I've tried writing, in this tone too, but nothing seems to come out. Well, nothing that would be befitting of a fiction.

I swear it's not hormones: it can't possibly be hormones that make people act this way. And it can't just be teenagers who experience this: it must be everyone of all ages. There's always that sense of desperation, of nearing the edge. If only there was a catcher in the rye...If only I was that catcher in the rye you know? But there it is again! The futility of it all! Everyone has to take the tumble one of these days. And maybe, even if you catch those unfortunate children before they flew off that ledge, they would kick you and bite your hand, free themselves and jump off anyway. Such is the spirit of a child. Maybe the only way to catch them is to let them fall, and soften the blow. But what does that mean? If saving the world is catching these children from tumbling, softening the blow wouldn't do anything. Would it?

Last night I had a dream about falling. I didn't jump, you know? No jumping. I just found myself falling. It was so surreal and peaceful, free falling with nothing but a shirt on my back and a pair of pants. I was looking up, and the sky, it seemed to reach forever, getting darker and darker as I fell further and further. The ground, it felt like paper: I tore right though it, falling into...Well it seemed like darkness, but all around me were glittering lights. I saw the big dipper and the small dipper. Andromeda smiled and Orion...he just had his belt.

I guess, maybe, I'm just in over my head. Head over heels.

Ha! I used to balk at cliches! But here I am! I guess you can never quite truly know yourself!

I'm hesitant to press "Publish Post." I'm sure that there will be people who read this. But who? I will never quite know! It's not something I would really like people to read. This seems like something I usually write but keep to myself, you know? I'm not quite sure what I'm looking for here, but here it is, and there you are. I'll write it anyway! It seems like the right thing to do, especially at 12:59am. This seems like an awfully nice way to begin a fiction anyway, don't you think?

Now...if it only it was snowing...the atmosphere would be perfect.