"- don't be so quick to knock it. People don't usually part with the weird shit they personally know because they know how easy it will be to punch holes in. Now I'm tellin you somethin. It's for you to poke through the soup and find the meat." John Patrick Shanley's 'the dreamer examines his pillow'

Monday, November 20, 2006

sitting on my chair in my sweatshirt after a beer and roommate wrestling

Oh God, the unfinishedness of life. The unsaid, the undone, the imperfect, that something you feel you left behind when you leave a place or a person...
This is a convenient time to confront the imperfection of life. At this point, when I'm leaving one living space and heading to another, I have an opportunity to reflect on everything this place and these people have been to me. I would like to leave at perfect peace with myself and those around me. The more time I've spent with these people in the past few weeks, however, the more complicated I've realized it all really is. Each individual person and my personal relationship to them. All the memories and new one created every moment in similar places. There's no way to say 'goodbye otterbein' - that dones't mean anything. otterbein is a college, it can't cover every diverse moment I've spent in the fragmented times when I've been calling myself a student. There may be a grand wash of sentimentality as I step on the plane. But that does not, will not 'wrap it all up.' and why would I want it to? Why would I want to 'end' one thing and begin another? The only way to do that is to die and be reborn. I will never put this place to rest or understand every moment. It will be a part of me, all of the love, the sweet times, the unresolved bitterness and the confusion - I'll never be able to pin it down because it is so a part of me, and to do so I would have to pin myself down - who wants to live like that? What about the grand (and not so grand, rather fucking pissish at times) mystery of life? So I don't feel resolved or at peace. Good! Or even better, just... OK. That's life.
If we were finished beings, if we didn't carry these unanswerable questions around in us our whole lives, whether about an unsatisfactory conversation in bed or the purpose of life, everything that makes us human would be... not. How boring would that be?
I love you, Me- and all of your imperfections. or at least most of them.
My friend says that I have an issue with accepting life as it is. I think we all do, to a degree, but... i do. To self: Stop trying to warp things into something 'better'. Moments, especially. what it is is more than enough.

People, wondering, conversations – truth through acceptance, truth is acceptance, there is no truth without acceptance. Move out of denial and into acceptance. Whatever love is can be founding in either – it’s all in your head, but as far as what ends up affecting the other person, it must come out of acceptance. Of self, of other, of the air around us, and if that’s not enough, of the fact that full acceptance is unattainable.

Monday, November 13, 2006


fucking ASSholes. Do not drive drunk. what a stupid fucking decision. I can't get ahold of my friends, and they're out in fucking downtown Columbus somwhere, just the trashed two of them. Screw the odds, let's say they not only get themselves into shit, what about the fucking
of putting all the innocent people around them at a horrible risk?
call me, goddamnit. Can't sleep till you're fucking home, you shithead.

Sunday, November 12, 2006

Brisk Walk with a Spicy Mocha on a Cold Day

Drinking a hot sweet drink is like giving a kiss

A kiss rises up from the body

Filling your tongue and lips to bursting

Until you must give


A taste of your love

Please, darling

Taste of my love

Drink it in, so I might drink yours

Like smooth wine between bodies

A surprise

Warm babies

In large awkward bodies

Sharing the nectar of fruit grown and tended

The seeds a sharp pang of excitement

In soil rich and ready

Waiting for rain

And your kiss

The torrent of hour upon hour washes away what we thought was for sure


Your life in me

Will stand and shiver, naked and cold

Waiting for sun

And your rough tender hand’s

touch alone