Like a swarm of jellyfish afloat in a swell, an uncountable glut of balloons offer trailing threads of many colors and rise away. If I grab the blue string, will I need to gather every thread of that hue to succeed at blues? Or must I make bundles of rainbow colors, yet miss the bulbs of indigo I cannot see?
The Pith Re-emerges Winter's tentacles remained on my mind and held me under at my ebb-tide. Time, weeks more, froze in suspense by anti-virtues wrought from the wrong drugs given with good intentions. The summer-self emerges like cactus fronds breaking the brittle soil. The scorching and freezing is over, the pith has survived to emerge,… Continue reading Grabbing a Greased Crocodile
first draft "A Discount Muffin" is the poem I eat tonight. I am ravenous to find nourishment with meaning and its empty calories (so-called?) are filling a visceral space. The mental debt owed to me is the coffer I constructed, empty, to fill for myself from my self, extorting my self in proficient, endless anachronisms.… Continue reading A Discount Muffin
Blogging at its truest: I "process-wrote" at Starbucks for over three hours. I'm accepting this. I have a novel pitch for readers to respond to but first I need to do some reflection -- something 'normal' preceding a BIG lump of weird. Inspiration is a powerful reason to live. I want to be inspired and… Continue reading IHOP ‘Max Tomato’, ‘Hyperbolic Time-Chambers’, and my Dani…
Calling me a perfectionist has no practical benefit. I rarely fixate on perfection. I will share the take-home-lesson of this post right away: don't waste energy making accusations of perfectionism or mentally attaching that label to people because a pathology of 'perfectionism' is a misconception at the roots. Perfection is "the action or process of… Continue reading Obsessed with a Metaphorical Devil’s Tower
I started to write a piece called "Boomerangs All The Way Up", in implicit answer to the title "Turtles All The Way Down" by John Green. The day before, I picked a fortune cookie (one of the browner ones, on purpose) from the breakfast buffet table at the Alumni Brunch. It was a good day;… Continue reading I can’t throw boomerangs, anyway
I wept Sunday. Cradling an iPhone in my lap, earbuds like IV-lines between my father and me, I sat on the floorboards of my friends' attic, near the brightly-lit hole leading to my room, and finally found my fountain. Bizarrely, I had not wept at all during this entire painful period and I was aware.… Continue reading Cactus Adonis