Calendar Girl-Stars

If I am lost for a day; try to find me.
But if I don't come back, then I won't look behind me.
All of the things that I thought were so easy
Just got harder and harder each day.

December is darkest and June is the light,
but this empty bedroom won't make anything right.
While out on the landing a friend I forgot to send home
Who waits up for me all through the night:

Calendar girl, who's in love with the world, stay alive
Calendar Girl, who's in love with the world, stay alive

I dreamed I was dying, as I so often do,
And when I awoke I was sure it was true.
I ran to the window, threw my head to the sky
And said, "Whoever is up there, please don't let me die."

But I can't live forever; I can't always be.
One day I'll be sand on a beach by a sea.
The pages keep turning, I'll mark off each day with a cross,
And I'll laugh about all that we've lost.

Calendar Girl, who is lost to the world, stay alive.
Calendar Girl, who is lost to the world, stay alive.

January, February, March, April, May I'm alive.
June, July, August, September,October I'm alive.
November, December, you all through the winter, I'm alive.

I'm alive.

(for someone--or anyone--who needs to hear it)

So, it's been forever since I've posted here. I just felt the need to let out a silent scream at the fact that my finals are all today (save one). Worse, still, they are going in order of my grades in them, worst to least. I am doing not-too-poorly in PS 467, which is in two hours. PHIL 110 is so-so, and right after PS 467. Then I have a break, so that I may eat and cry (simultaneously, of course; there's not too much time) before HIST 240, in which I may get an A+. Thanks, registrar gods, for giving me study time for the only final I DON'T need it for.

Y'guys are fucking hilarious.

Set Yourself on Fire

Twenty years asleep before we sleep...forever.

Ten years on the coast
figuring out
the weather.

Another decade getting high
until you're free.

There's nothing after that
but you and I,
nothing after that
but you and me.

I hate getting the creative itch at 11 o'clock during dead week. It makes it impossible to wade through German Idealist philosophy.

even though it's horrible
messy
and wildly painful
love is perfect

there's nothing like it
to make me smile

it grows
grows and spreads
and sometimes
it blooms
and when it does
there is nothing more beautiful

i love love
and i love you

I can't sleep nights, lately;
my mind is too full.
Or perhaps my conscience
is too loud. Either way.

I just don't understand
how to get past this;
I don't know where to lay
all this blame.

It's a contradiction in terms
to be a victimized
perpetrator.

So the way I see it,
either we're both to blame
or there ought to be
a collective absolution.

And then I have two thoughts:

If we are both unclean, who washes this away?
If we are both on the wall, who's holding the guns?

Maybe this would all be easier if I had no heart.

If I didn't love her more than I ever thought I could love. If, every time I think about leaving her, I didn't get a memory in my head. A memory of lying in bed with her, my hand on that spot just above her hip. The spot she hated me to touch, because it either made her feel fat or tickled.

Maybe this would be easier if I could leave her now but still have forever with her, too.

Why isn't love ever enough?
Why is indecision the predisposition of all mankind?
Why isn't life easy?

An Update

So, I'm tinkering with something. A longer piece of writing. I'm not sure where it's going, but I like it so far. If I still like it in a week or so, maybe I'll post some of it here. Also, everyone should check out this website: Overqualified. I have to confess, I found it thanks to Erin, so she already knows about this, but it's really awesome anyway. When the book comes out, I might buy it.

I wish that immortality was easy. I don't mean immortality in the strictest sense, because of course that's impossible. I mean the kind of immortality that Achilles pursued. Kleos, glory, or however you want to conceptualize it. But of course, Achilles fought a ten-year war and died to get it.

I wish immortality was easy. Like logging on to blogger. Type in your e-mail address, your password, and then click, "Remember me."

I stole this from another person's blog. Who obviously stole it from Charles Shulz. But I can't think of anything so perfect as this to describe the way I feel right now.

"Amie, come sit on my wall..."

It's hard for me to not be a little ambiguous here, but I have to be. Some terrible things happened a few months ago (the end of January, to be specific) and I'm really not at liberty to make an all-points bulletin about it. Zach and Emily are on this page, but I'm pretty sure that the rest of you aren't. Privately, though, I'd be willing to fill in the gaps (*coughErincough*).

I just can't stand it anymore. Things are allowed to go wrong and all, but not this wrong. It's not fair. I didn't do anything to deserve this. My family is falling apart from the outside inward. I'm coming unhinged. And no one is trying to fix it. From all sides, my support is dissolving around me, and I'm not sure that I can handle that. Part of me wants to curl up under the covers and cry about it, and the other part makes me want to run as far and as fast as I can. Maybe somewhere in Europe I'll drink myself into such a stupor that I'll forget everyone I ever cared about and start anew. Not Germany, though. My accent is terrible.

Right now, I'm sitting at my desk, listening to my RA's terrible, terrible guitar playing. And the argument raging next door about whether or not the new girl on the fourth floor is fuckable. And I just want it all to go away. Or maybe I want to go away. I don't know.

I don't know.

So right now, I'm listening to probably the stupidest people in the world discuss economics. They're debating whether or not America is slipping as an economic power, and why that might be the case.

In answer to the first: of course it is.

In answer to the second: If people like them are the future drivers of the economy, it's not really a surprise, now, is it?

I hate it when it rains. It's so fucking depressing. I miss the sun again. And also, it means that the assholes in my dorm tend to stay in my dorm. Which is never any fun.

The Verdict is In...

...I like Panic at the Disco's new album. It's catchy as hell in some spots, and I like the lyrics better on this one. I mean sure, it's a Beatles ripoff, but then, a lot of rock music theorists think that everyone rips off The Beatles. To quote Rolling Stone, they're "the fountainhead." Check out "Northern Downpour" and "When the Day Met the Night". Or most of the album. Recommending a song is actually really hard, because it's like recommending a song by The Beatles. Which phase did you like best? (And sorry Zach, I stole your format a little.)

Why can't I be like everyone else?
Why can't I be distracted by consumption like everyone else?
Why can't I just believe in God like everyone else?
Why can't I want that mid-size house in that suburban neighborhood, the one I return to after some mid-level professional day at work?

Why can't I be happy?

Some Concerns I'm Having...

How the fuck am I supposed to be a good FIG leader? Seriously, HOW THE FUCK?! I don't CARE! I FUCKING PATENTED APATHY! Why would I want to help welcome a bunch of Bambi-eyed freshman to this place? I don't really like it. But I don't hate it. If there was a way to go to a better school without leaving the people I care about, I'd be gone in a flash. If the whole fucking library exploded, I would be mildly surprised. Speaking of libraries, that's one of the things that I have to do: plan an activity that teaches the FIGlets how to use the library. Um, let's think...THE FUCKING DIRECTORY!

There's actually a reasonable amount of reading for this course, and SO MUCH busy work. It's kind of astonishing. And horrible. It's a flashback to high school, where I nearly didn't graduate because I see these exercises for what they are: a colossal waste of time. The subject matter obviously has its practical applications, but really? We have to perform plays? And do "character journals"? And discussion questions on BlackBoard? Really?

Unfortunately, yes. Really. Now I have to e-mail the faculty adviser for this FIG, and tell them how excited I am to be teaching a FIG with them on, of all things, Russian literature, which I hate with a passion.

The Shit I Put Up With

Would you share an apartment with Kevin Federline for $50,000?

Maybe. Who's Kevin Federline?

Britney Spears's ex-husband.

Oh. Uh, sure.

Would you have sex with Jessica Biel if there was a 1 in 10 chance that her vagina would turn into a garbage disposal?

Uh, no, I don't think so.

Would you stick your penis in a glory hole if there was an equal chance that your mother, Jenna Jameson, or Greg Gumbel would be on the other side?

Who's Greg Gumbel?

Would you let an old toothless woman give you a blowjob for $50,000?

No.

Dude, think of the hummer she'd give!

Uh, no fucking way.

Would you have sex with a sheep for $200,000?

No.

Vladimir Lenin's corpse?

Eew.

A bag of croutons?

Hell yeah, I'd fuck croutons for $200 grand.

Also, I've got some stuff that I'll post after the break. A couple poems, but I left the hard copies in my dorm.

At a Loss For Words

So, Panic at the Disco's new album came out recently...was it yesterday? I really don't know. Anyway, I'm totally unsure of what to say about it. I have to admit, I kinda liked the last album, A Fever You Can't Sweat Out. It was...well, it was pretty run-of-the-mill, but I liked it anyway. They sounded like Fall Out Boy after a little more time in production. A phrase I liked was "studio filligree." But this new thing...

It's called Pretty. Odd. Which I think sums it up brilliantly. I can't think of a way to describe the change in sound... Well, of course, there's The Beatles. Because I'm pretty sure that someone...*cough* Brenden Urie *cough*... studied their Sgt. Pepper stuff and after. It's like...twee. Yeah, that's a good way. A lot like twee. And so random. They go from ELO-influenced choruses to interludes entitled "Folkin' Around." I don't think that it needs more explanation than that.

There's more of everything. More lyrical...acrobatics. More vocal harmonies. More orchestral backing. And all of it makes the album indescribably different. I think I like it, but...maybe I don't. I'm not sure. All I know is, I can't wait until a consensus is reached, because either PATD just killed the emo scene (thank God) or there's going to be some fan-base shifting.

Check this one out for yourself. It's their new single, "Nine in the Afternoon."

From the dictionary, under "idyllic"...

"Well, the boys from the south played guitar on the porch,
as we surfed in the waves trying not to get scorched
by the sun that day. Man we had fun that day.

And that night after dark, when our bellies were full
fire-flies, they came out for a private light show,
and I couldn't believe that we soon had to leave...

Sweet Madera,
I've got to get back to Madera.
You know that I'll miss my Madera.

Well we talked round the table until the dawn came
and then lay in our beds listening to the rain
on the tin roof above, whispering about love.

As our thoughts drifted off to the sounds of the night,
oh, the clouds opened wide letting in the sweet light,
and we watched the sun rise saying our last goodbyes.

To Madera,
You know that I'll miss my Madera.
I've got to get back to Madera..."

Is it wrong to want to be understood?

I think it might be.

That would explain why we are so effortlessly felled by people that love us. I mean, why do we love people? For them, or for us? I bet it's both, but mostly the latter. We love people that make us feel complete. And the truth of the matter is so hard to take:

We aren't supposed to be understood.

Take just now, for instance. I wrote a poem, a poem that I really liked a lot. I was quite proud of it. Emily read it and wanted to know what it was about. I answered truthfully--I suppose--and said her. She flew off the handle and started crying because I "thought she had unrealistic goals."

Maybe I'm selfish. Maybe I'm wrong. But that's not what I meant at all, and no matter how many times I told her, she wouldn't listen. I don't know that the poem was about her. I mean, it was sort of, but then again it really wasn't. The things I write are rarely so didactic as to be translated into a one-sentence moral. It was a poem, not Aesop's fucking Fables.

After I stuck my foot in my mouth, I sat here for the longest time, thinking of what else I could say. And then I had an epiphany, so I called her. The poem wasn't about her unrealistic goals, it was about her wandering through fantasies and grand dreams helter-skelter while I drift away from her. While she drifts away from me.

Did she listen? No, she was beyond the point of listening. Maybe she'll read this and understand. Then again, maybe she can't. Maybe that's the problem. Maybe we just can't really understand each other; maybe no one can. Which leads to a really uncomfortable question:

If love is just disappointment at not being understood, wouldn't it be better to not try? Because then you wouldn't hope for understanding. Wouldn't it be better to die alone?

A Profound Metaphor

l(a

le
af
fa
ll

s)
one
l

iness

--e.e. cummings

I heard there was a secret chord
that David played and it pleased the lord,
but you don't really care for music, do you?
Well, it goes like this, the fourth, the fifth,
the minor fall, and the major lift;
the baffled king composing Hallelujah.

Hallelujah...

Well, your faith was strong, but you needed proof.
You saw her bathing on the roof.
Her beauty and the moonlight overthrew you.
She tied you to her kitchen chair,
she broke your throne and she cut your hair,
and from your lips she drew the Hallelujah.

Hallelujah...

Baby, I've been here before.
I've seen this room and I've walked this floor.
I used to live alone before I knew you
I've seen your flag on the marble arch,
but love is not a victory march.
It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah.

Hallelujah...

Well, there was a time when you let me know
what's really going on below,
but now you never show that to me, do you?
But remember when i moved in you,
and the holy dove was moving too,
and every breath we drew was Hallelujah?

Well, maybe there's a God above,
but all I've ever learned from love
was how to shoot somebody who outdrew you.
It's not a cry that you hear at night.
It's not somebody who's seen the light.
It's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah

Hallelujah...



P.S. So that we're clear, that's not mine.

I Fucking Hate Ernesto

So, no one was really available on the phone, so I've resorted to ranting via blog. Sorry.

To catch everyone (all three of you) up, Ernest is the Graduate Teacher in my Holocaust class. Basically he leads a discussion every Friday morning at 8. I FUCKING HATE HIM. Like, I hate him so much it is ridiculous.

REASONS WHY I HATE ERNESTO

1. I hate Ernesto because his discussions are a colossal waste of time. Discussion section is all I have on Fridays, and it's also the earliest class of the week. Thus, every Friday I drag myself out of bed after about four hours' sleep (for an explanation, see the blog before this), shower, dress, and go all the way across campus. FOR NOTHING. The "conversations" are terrible. They consist largely of Ernesto asking broad and ultimately unintelligible questions. After about a minute of silence, Ernesto will answer these questions himself, although the answer is only loosely connected to the question. Or, we have a "we love everyone" discussion in which random people give their profound insights into the latest book. Examples: "I think that this book is hard to understand. I mean, she doesn't, like, say things...like...directly. It's like...poetry...and stuff." "I think the author's purpose is to tell us that the Holocaust is really bad." Today we went off on an Ernesto-led tangent about the American government. Ernesto claims that he is doing research into the PATRIOT Act (which is interesting, because at the beginning of the course, he was researching Latin American trauma literature). He then asked the class, "Do you guys know what the PATRIOT Act is?" One girl raised her hand and said, "Yeah, it's an act that basically gives the government total control." To which Ernesto replied, "Yeah." Now, as you should know, I am quite possibly the LAST PERSON ON EARTH that would EVER defend the Bush Administration, but I wanted to punch the bitch in the face. That is NOT what the PATRIOT Act does. It does a lot of things, but declares martial law it does not. Then Ernesto said that he plans to bring in some scholarly articles that talk about how America is now a fascist state. A friend of PATRIOT Girl's (it's clear why they get along) said:

   "To a certain extent, that's totally not an opinion, though. I mean, fascism is believing in an idea and pushing it on others. It's like today, how we're going into Middle Eastern countries on really questionable premises, all in an attempt to eradicate the Islamic race."

   That was a direct quote. I was so appalled by it that I wrote it down in my notes. First, that is totally not what fascism is. Fascism really describes an authoritarian, nationalist, right-wing government. It in no way applies imperialistic tendencies. Second, and perhaps most disturbingly, ISLAM IS NOT A MOTHERFUCKING RACE, FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY. Is America fascist? A little bit, yeah. But Islam is still not a race.
2. I hate Ernesto because arbitrarily grades the quizzes. I got a nine out of sixteen on the first quiz in the class. Now, mathematically that is an F, but in ErnestoLand, it's actually a B-. Of course, although I got a nine, he wrote "8=C+" on the top of my paper. Hmm...2+3+2+2=9. Not eight. He had no reason for the grade he gave me, either. The page was literally blank except for the grade. When I asked him to discuss the quiz with me...
3. I hate Ernesto because ERNESTO FUCKING STOOD ME UP AT HIS FUCKING OFFICE HOURS. TWICE.
   
4. I hate Ernesto because he gave me an 86% on my paper because he clearly doesn't understand anything at all about grammar, or the Holocaust. First off, he docked me some points for not using MLA format on quotes longer than four lines. I did indeed have a four-line quote. But it was indented properly. The quote next to which Ernesto attempted to edify me was actually only two-and-a-half lines. He said repeatedly that I "needed to make my sentences clearer." For example, "In studying the Holocaust, Italian chemist Primo Levi's memoir Survival in Auschwitz is frequently billed as an "objective" account of his experience, and of the whole machinery of the Holocaust itself." Ernesto underlined the word Holocaust and wrote, "You mean the Nazi regime." In fact, I did not mean the Nazi regime. I meant the machinery of the Holocaust itself. I know how hard it is to swallow, that I said what I meant, but on my honor, I swear that I did.

In short, I FUCKING HATE ERNESTO. On Tuesday I'm going to go and talk to the professor of the course and try my damnedest to get him sacked. I pay that bastard. I PAY HIM.

sitting

sitting outside the museum
on a park bench
a mother and a daughter
they watch the people
the people that come and go

they talk sometimes
when they see a man with a funny hat
or a woman with a pretty dress
or about the art that they saw inside
about the beautiful pictures

so much there is that the little girl does not ask
so many things she burns to know
like why some pictures looked nothing like the world
some worse, some better,
and why so many seemed so sad

the people walking by
they remind her of the pictures
of the broken man and his guitar
of the girls dancing
of the people on the river-bank

instead the little girl looks at her mother
and asks her

mama, if people don't have wings how can they fly

and her mother thinks and she says

not everyone needs wings to fly baby
some people live their lives without ever feeling the ground

A Conversation Overheard

Josh: Uh, Doug, you just touched my ass.
Doug: Yeah, I know.
Josh: That's kinda gay.
Doug: But I called you a homo first.
Josh: Yeah, but you touched my ass.
Doug: But I called you a homo. That means it's fair game.
Josh: What, so you can do whatever you want because I'm a homo?
Doug: Pretty much.
Josh [walking away]: Yeah, whatever. Next you're gonna tell me that it's cool if you touch my balls.
Doug: Well...that is the next step in being a homo...

Knowing

O you who know
did you know that hunger makes the eyes sparkle that thirst dims
them
O you who know
did you know that you can see your mother dead
and not shed a tear
O you who know
did you know that in the morning you wish for death
and in the evening you fear it
O you who know
did you know that a day is longer than a year
a minute longer than a lifetime
O you who know
did you know that legs are more vulnerable than eyes
nerves harder than bones
the heart firmer than steel
Did you know that the stones of the road do not weep
that there is one word only for dread
one for anguish
Did you know that suffering is limitless
that horror cannot be circumscribed
Did you know this
You who know.

I should be writing my paper right know, but I can't. Today in class we started discussing Auschwitz and After, a memoir by Holocaust survivor Charlotte Delbo. She was a political prisoner, not a Jew, but her memoir is no less poignant. Her voice haunts me. I can't get it out of my head. After Night, Survival in Auschwitz, and Fatelessness, I didn't think that anything would get me this badly. But it does.

Read that poem up there aloud.
Slowly. With feeling. Explore every pause.
What's in them?
Nothing. An all-encompassing, abject nothing.

Marie by Charlotte Delbo

Her father, her mother, her brothers and sisters were all gassed on
arrival.
Her parents were too old, the children too young.
She says: "She was beautiful, my little sister.
You can't imagine how beautiful she was.
They mustn't have looked at her.
If they had, they would never have killed her.
They couldn't have."

rail-thin children
dance on the dry ground
making empty gestures
praying for rain

strange men pass through
longing for drink
the children mouth nonsense shapes
and speak soundless words

"no water here"

alone, alone they dance
to squeeze some mercy from angry gods
like moisture from rocks
it does not come

but still they stay, in this dry month,
bound to the barren earth
by roots of blood
roots of guilt and shame

there is no rest for the weary
in these antique lands
no peace for the dead
only dust.

Storytelling

They're laughing next door. Loudly--for that is how they do everything. One of them is recounting a sexual exploit; such conversations are the logical termination of their digressions. In them, the raconteur is suave, debonair, and skilled. His prey, some pretty ingenue, falls for his easy words. They remove themselves to a secluded room--always secluded, and always a room. They lie on the bed and kiss gently. Their hands begin to explore each other's bodies, and as he reaches that area just above the hem of her skirt, she whispers in his ear. "I'm a virgin." That, of course, does not stop him; it was not meant to, after all.

So gently, she trembles. So tenderly. As their clothes fall to the floor, she grows shy, but he holds her nevertheless, kissing her on the side of her face as she turns away, afraid or ashamed. Gradually they dissolve back onto the bed, and he gives her the greatest pleasure she has ever known.

It is unspoken, the truth--for what fun is the truth? What illusory solace can honesty provide? For they all know that he was not really suave, and that the beer, not his words, lured her upstairs. The kisses were not gentle, and the pace was far quicker. In reality, she did not tremble; she was too numb. His kisses missed her mouth because he could not find it. Their disrobing was entirely unglamorous, and the act itself...it was hurried, sloppy, and unspectacular. She laid back and felt nothing save discomfort as he spasmed wildly. A few vigorous thrusts and it was over. He was satiated, and she was shamed.

Of course, none of this is said--it makes for a terrible story. And so, they all go their separate ways, to their beds, where those few moments before sleep cast aside all pretense. In this limbo they remember their awkward patting gestures, made as she silently cried, platitudes grossly incapable of giving back what was taken away. In this insecurity they drift to sleep, and the morning will see them as gods yet again.

Flushed and decided, he assaults at once;
Exploring hands encounter no defence;
His vanity requires no response,
And makes a welcome of indifference...

... She turns and looks a moment in the glass,
Hardly aware of her departed lover;
Her brain allows one half-formed thought to pass:
"Well now that's done: and I'm glad it's over."

-T.S. Eliot, The Waste Land

Le Scaphandre et le Papillon

I watched an amazing movie today.

It's a French film, Le Scaphandre et le Papillon, or The Diving Bell and the Butterfly. It was a beautiful and haunting story about a successful magazine editor trapped in his own mind by a stroke. It broke my heart to watch the man at first, then stirred me deeply as he overcame his condition (to an extent) and dictated an entire book by blinking out each letter of each word.

The most affecting part was that the film takes its name from a book. That book. The magazine editor, Jean-Dominique Bauby, really lived. He was the editor of the French Elle, and in his early forties, Bauby suffered a terrible stroke that paralyzed every part of his body save one eye. With that eye Bauby spoke to his wife, whom he had abandoned for another woman. He spoke to his children, whom he was unable to touch or feel. He spoke to Claude Mendibil, a secretary-esque assistant to whom Bauby narrated his life "in the diving bell."

The film's cinematography is beautiful and innovative, showing many things through Bauby's one eye. Perhaps most haunting, though, is the liberal use of Bauby's own words, extracted from the memoir. The lyricism of the work is, while not consistent, often astounding:

My diving bell becomes less oppressive, and my mind takes flight like a butterfly. There is so much to do. You can wander off in space or in time, set out for Tierra del Fuego or for King Midas's court.

You can visit the woman you love, slide down beside her and stroke her still-sleeping face. You can build castles in Spain, steal the Golden Fleece, discover Atlantis, realize your childhood dreams and adult ambitions. (The entire first chapter can be viewed here.)

The Diving Bell and the Butterfly is at once life-affirming and heart-breaking--a very hard balance to achieve. There are moments of total despondency peppered with wit and joviality--a truly humanistic film. I left the theater saddened and alive at the same time. And guilty. Guilty for wasting my life and my gifts. I can type these words, or say them to people. Bauby's words are far louder--deafening almost--and he speaks in silence.

Drew's 25 Most Played

Zach and Emily did this, and I'm a procrastinator at my core, so I figured hey, what the hell.

1. "Wine Red" by The Hush Sound
2. "Still Take You Home" by the Arctic Monkeys
3. "How Far We've Come" by Matchbox Twenty
4. "Shake It" by Metro Station
5. "We Intertwined" by The Hush Sound
6. "No World for Tomorrow" by Coheed & Cambria
7. "The Reaping" by Coheed & Cambria
8. "Take Me to the Riot" by Stars
9. "The Hound (Of Blood and Rank)" by Coheed & Cambria
10. "Feathers" by Coheed & Cambria
11. "Gravemakers & Gunslingers" by Coheed & Cambria
12. "Stronger" by Kanye West
13. "Where We Went Wrong" by The Hush Sound
14. "The Start of Something" by Voxtrot
15. "When the Sun Goes Down" by the Arctic Monkeys
16. "Mother Superior" by Coheed & Cambria
17. "A Dark Congregation" by The Hush Sound
18. "Don't Wake Me Up" by The Hush Sound
19. "From the Ritz to the Rubble" by the Arctic Monkeys
20. "The End Complete II: Radio Bye-Bye" by Coheed & Cambria
21. "I'm Ready" by Jack's Mannequin
22. "Mardy Bum" by the Arctic Monkeys
23. "Unplayed Piano" by Damien Rice
24. "The End Complete IV: The Road and the Damned" by Coheed & Cambria
25. "Dogs" by Damien Rice

So, according to this, my top three albums would be (in order):

Coheed & Cambria's Good Apollo I'm Burning Star IV, Vol. 2: No World For Tomorrow

The Hush Sound's Like Vines

...and the Arctic Monkeys' Whatever People Say I Am, That's What I'm Not.

Very interesting. Were I asked, probably only one of those three would have made the list, and it would NOT have been #1. Oh well. iTunes has spoken.

How I Live Now

This last week has been a nightmare. A horrible, horrible nightmare from which I don't think I can wake. On Monday, one of my dearest friends ingested a bottle of Tylenol in an attempt to end her life. My girlfriend and I had a titanic fight on Wednesday. And then, on Friday, my family was blown apart.

I can't really go into specifics, but I left Greek at 9:50 AM and listened to a message from my little sister that nearly made me lose consciousness and/or vomit. I called my mother to notify her of the situation, called my girlfriend for a ride, and practically flew down to Roseburg. I went to be there for my mother, because she was alone. My dad was with my little brother on a ski trip, and she couldn't call them and tell them what had happened. It was too much. So I was there with her as one of her worst fears came into being. I was there with her as a monstrous truth tore asunder what was once a tight-knit family. I was there with her as she came to terms with (in her eyes) the reality that she failed to protect her children.

I can't blame her for it, nor did I try. No one saw this coming. My mother and I sat reeling as we talked with social workers and the police. I did what I could for her. It wasn't much to me, but it meant the world to her.

Now, I'm not particularly religious, but I do believe in God, and I'd like to think that everything happens for a reason. But now I don't know. Every waking moment is like a scream, a shout to the heavens, a prayer for some respite. Everything would be better if only I could know why this happened. I just want to know what I am to be learning from all of these hardships: the fire, the relationship (at times), the sad, lacking realities of the real world. And though my cry for reason resounds in every second of every day, the reply is a whisper, perhaps from a higher power or a voice in my head, stirred into speech to fill the silence: "Hier ist kein Warum." Here is no why.

Thus, the new title, and the new layout. Bubbles are too happy. Too "why". And there is none.

So This is Rock Bottom...

I'm sitting in the middle of one of the biggest buildings on campus,
all alone,
crying my eyes out.
Everyone sees me.
In the thirty seconds I had before meltdown,
I couldn't really think of a good place to hide.
So I'm not hiding at all.
This is the second time in two weeks she's made me cry in public.
And the thought that she won't do it again makes me cry more.

I Don't

know what to do.

Perspective

I am finally realizing that I don't have it as bad as I thought I did.

Also, that some relationships are worse than mine.

But maybe that's because mine's going well.

But this one's really bad.

Why I Hate "Paultards" Pt. 1

A caveat:
I love politics. To those that know me, it should come as no surprise, and to those that do not...well, hang on tight, because a nice, long rant has been a long time in coming.


To anyone not aware, I am a liberal. So please don't use that word as if it's some kind of slander on my character. I support Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama in that order, but only because Obama really hasn't made many tangible plans for his presidency.

But most of all...

I FUCKING HATE RON PAUL AND ALL OF HIS DELUDED LITTLE FUCKHEAD "PAULTARDS"!

I'm dreadfully sorry for the language just then. I promise I'll try and avoid it from here on out. But in my defense...

Earlier this week, some guy whom I've never met invited me to join a Facebook group entitled "Are You Unplugged? Or Are You Ignorant?" Don't bother looking; you won't be able to find any mention of it. It's a secret group, hidden from all but its members. The creator (who shall remain nameless) personally invited most of the people in the group based on comments they had left on discussion boards elsewhere on Facebook. The criteria (according to him): be intelligent. Once we all joined the group, our fearless leader told us of his master plan. He wants to let the group go for a while, discussing things and hopefully coming to solutions on some of the issues. After he thinks enough progress has been made, he wants to make the group public, so that we can educate the whole of Facebook, thereby a large number of the young voting population.

Yeah, I know. He's fucking nuts.

But that's his plan. And I'm along for the ride. At first I thought it was funny, but now...Well, there's something that a lot of the group's members have in common: they support Ron Paul for president.

For a while now, Ron Paul has been the butt of my political jokes. I see signs that say "No taxes! Not ever! Ron Paul!", and I laugh my ass off. Actually, for a long time I had no idea that he was actually running as part of the Republican Party. For a while, I wasn't even aware that he was legitimately running at all.

After joining the group and seeing all of these (supposedly) intelligent people support this man with such zeal, I decided to find out about him for myself. Okay, that's a lie. This is what made me investigate Dr. Paul:

...they [Fox News] will marginalize Paul every step of the way, from what questions they ask him, how much "face" time he receives, and the pundits' spin after the debate. You will see pollsters going out of their way to encourage us to vote for anybody but Ron Paul. Why? Because Ron Paul speaks the truth about not only the USA, but the world. CFR [Council on Foreign Relations] media moguls know that Ron Paul is a huge stumbling block on the road to globalized, one-world government.

It would help to know more about Ron Paul, and I don't want to use this forum to articulate politics when there are other groups that do that, but I must say, for the sake of speaking the truth, Ron Paul is completely honest and has been since the first day he went into office as Congressman. His main platform is concerned with getting all foreign assets (military bases, troops) out of other countries, eliminating Federal Reserve-controlled monetary policy (that is destroying our dollar by the way), and keeping the USA the same USA we know and love.

Fox News, our government, and all of the corporate media hate this message because they are in bed with the CFR global elite who are pushing for the North American Union, a project that would require we give up our national sovereignty (i.e. laws) to another more powerful organization. Hmmm... I wonder who this organization might be... the CFR perhaps...

...I want to offer that if anyone here is interested in seeking truth in politics, I mean the real truth can hurt once you take off the emotional blinders, then start with Ron Paul.

Some of his supporters might be a bit crazy (i.e. angry), but I think they have reason, and Ron Paul by no means deserves the treatement that he is receiving in the mainstream press. He is a peaceful man; I met him in person once (hopefully twice by the end of the night). I believe in this man so much that I would take a bullet for him, seriously. (Bold and italics mine)

That was the start of a discussion board entitled "Truth in Politics". The guy sounded fucking crazy, so I decided (being the vindictive bastard that I am) that I wanted to prove him wrong.

I did. It was fun.

To start, Ron Paul is a Congressman from Texas who has served about ten non-consecutive terms in office. He is also an OB/GYN, who has delivered over 4,000 babies. Don't ask me why that's relevant, I'm just the messenger, and most Paul supporters seem to think that this is important. Paul is notorious for voting against everything he perceives as "unconstitutional," which is, well, almost everything.

To begin with the most recent development in the unfolding saga of the Ron Paul Revolution:

Ron Paul, apparently is a racist. Or at least, a political newsletter bearing his name and often his signature contains numerous racially offensive comments, among other disturbing things. Don't buy it? The New Republic ran an article that can be accessed here, containing scans of the actual newsletters themselves.

Paul denied ever writing the racist comments, or approving them. Which is interesting, because this is not the first time Paul has been asked to respond to these newsletters. The first time, Paul took responsibility, but now, he says he's never seen them before and says he wasn't really editing the publication at the time. Which is perfectly plausible. One problem though: these publications span almost a decade. So is Paul saying that for ten years, he did not read anything in a series of newsletters bearing his name? That none of his friends or co-workers read them? That no one ever said anything to him for TEN YEARS?

Yeah, right.

Unsurprisingly, the Paul supporters have an answer, and I bet you can't guess what it is. A conspiracy theory. The signatures were fake. It's part of a CFR smear campaign, because they're afraid that they'll lose control of the US government.

(For a very candid step-by-step illustration of the self-delusion that Paul supporters use to come to these conclusions, click here.)

...so that is the beginning of what will probably be a multi-volume work. There's so much to say about the guy! (And now that there's something of substance on here, maybe some people will read it.)

A Poem

so thick, the quiet, so strong,
like fog, like a pungent smoke.
so loud, the quiet--
a buzzing nothingness
like they had become.

there were things in that quiet--
shadows, memories,
murmurs in dead tongues,
hollow images,
dead things.

they gnawed at him, those things,
while he was alone,
while he was not alone.
crying out for vengeance,
their Furies tore his skin

his tears, though copious, were of no use.
they were merely water,
no libations for the dead.
and he remembered his myths;
he knew how to get them to go away.

Ta-Da!

So that didn't take half as long as I thought it would. I'm still not sure if I like this look or not, but it's...interesting. Opinions are welcome.