Office Space and Little Miss Sunshine
Ben Kweller and coffee shops
The shortest bridge in Bowling Green
- (that should belong only us)
Kisses in the rain & on the picnic table
...every where we can.
Pennies on the train track
Plans: skipping town & visiting Paris
September 5th; I know what that is!
September 14th ...I remember that one too.
Longest time apart: four days
...next time 2 weeks (I couldn't take it!)
Albino Squirrels and Lions that are King
Swinging
(Zenon, Shawna, and other strange People)
Holding hands.
Being cute and gross.
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
Awkward
I sit.
You
walk past
me.
You don't
look
at me.
I sit
awkwardly.
You walk
past
quickly. I
look down
You
look up
We avoid.
You
walk past
me.
You don't
look
at me.
I sit
awkwardly.
You walk
past
quickly. I
look down
You
look up
We avoid.
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
Solitaire
Solitaire.
- A fun game played by many.
Solitaire.
- A game played when no one is around.
Solitaire.
- A silent game to play when silently declaring you wish to be left alone.
- A fun game played by many.
Solitaire.
- A game played when no one is around.
Solitaire.
- A silent game to play when silently declaring you wish to be left alone.
Silence
Silence.
A beautiful, golden thing.
Silence.
An awkward ...pause.
Silence.
A tension straining to make a room implode.
A beautiful, golden thing.
Silence.
An awkward ...pause.
Silence.
A tension straining to make a room implode.
Awkward Silence
What's it mean to 'feel' the tension in a room?
How can it be sensed?
You know it's there
is it a personal thing?
Does everyone have to feel equally awkward?
Or is it something that can actually be sensed by all?
How can it be sensed?
You know it's there
is it a personal thing?
Does everyone have to feel equally awkward?
Or is it something that can actually be sensed by all?
Monday, December 04, 2006
I am Capable
I am female
I am young
I am beautiful
therefore I know nothing (relevant)
especially not anything technical
I am angered when old men
know something only by their age
and gender
It irritates me
makes me want to strangle someone
It is just a pet peeve of mine
A pet peeve of a beautiful
young
woman
I am young
I am beautiful
therefore I know nothing (relevant)
especially not anything technical
I am angered when old men
know something only by their age
and gender
It irritates me
makes me want to strangle someone
It is just a pet peeve of mine
A pet peeve of a beautiful
young
woman
Friday, November 24, 2006
Monday, November 13, 2006
*Chthonian Revelation: A Myth*
*Robert Penn Warren*
I. Prologue : Mediterranean Basin
I. Chthonian Revelation: A Myth
Long before sun had toward the mountain dipped,
There downward at crag-fall, bare-footed, bare-hided but for
Beach-decency’s minimum, they
Painfully picked past lava, past pumice, past boulders
High-hung and precarious over the sea-edge, awaiting
Last gust or earth-tremor. Below,
Lay the sand-patch, white
As the lace-fringe that, languid and lazy,
Teased from the edge of the sun-singing sea.
Few know what is there:
Sea and sand finger back into cave-shade where
Gothic, great strata,
Once torn in the shudder of earth and earth-agony, had
Down-reached to find footing in depth. Now deep
In arched dusk from the secret strand, the eye
Stares from that mystic and chthonian privacy
To far waters whose tirelessly eye-slashing blue
Commands the wide world beyond that secret purlieu.
After sun, how dark! Or after sun-scimitar, how
Gentle the touch of the shade’s hypothetical hand, Farther on,
Farther in!—and on the soft sand he is sure
Of the track. Then looks back
Just once through the dwindling aperture
To the world of light-tangled detail.
Where once life was led that now seems illusion of life
And swings in the distance with no more identity than
A dream half-remembered. He turns. His face lifts
To the soaring and scarcely definable nave,
From which darkness downward and endlessly sifts.
Eyes lower: and there,
In that drizzle of earth’s inner darkness, she
Stands, face upward arms up as in prayer or
Communion with whispers that wordlessly breathe—
There in columnar gracility stands, breasts,
In that posture, high. Eyes closes, And in
Such world of shadows, she,
From the light of her own inner being, glows.
Slowly, the lifted arms descend, fingers out,
Slightly parted. His eyes find the light of her eyes,
And over immeasurable distance,
Hands out, as thought feeling his way in the act,
On the soundless sand he moves in his naked trance,
At last fingertips make contact.
When in hermetic wisdom they wake, the cave-mouth is dim.
Once out, they find sun sinking under the mountain-rim,
And a last gleam boldly probes
High eastward the lone upper cloud. Scraps of nylon
Slip on like new skin, though cold, and feet
Find the rustle and kitten-tongue kiss of the foam creeping in.
A kilometer toward the headland, then home: they wade out,
And plunge. All wordless, this—
In a world where all words would be
Without meaning, and all they long to hear
Is the gull’s high cry
Of mercilessly joyful veracity
To fill the hollow sky.
Side by side, stroke by stroke, in a fading light they move.
The sea pours over each stroke’s frail groove.
Blackly, the headland looms. The first start is declared.
It is white above the mountain mass.
Eyes starward fixed, they feel the sea’s long swell
And the darkling drag of the nameless depth below.
They turn the headland, with starlight the only light
they now know.
At arch-height of every stroke, at each fingertip, hangs
One drop, and the drops—one by one—are
About to fall, each a perfect universe defined
By its single, minuscule, radiant, enshrined star.
Robert Penn Warren. Rumor Verified: Poems 1979-1980. New York: Random House, 1981. P 3-5.
I. Prologue : Mediterranean Basin
I. Chthonian Revelation: A Myth
Long before sun had toward the mountain dipped,
There downward at crag-fall, bare-footed, bare-hided but for
Beach-decency’s minimum, they
Painfully picked past lava, past pumice, past boulders
High-hung and precarious over the sea-edge, awaiting
Last gust or earth-tremor. Below,
Lay the sand-patch, white
As the lace-fringe that, languid and lazy,
Teased from the edge of the sun-singing sea.
Few know what is there:
Sea and sand finger back into cave-shade where
Gothic, great strata,
Once torn in the shudder of earth and earth-agony, had
Down-reached to find footing in depth. Now deep
In arched dusk from the secret strand, the eye
Stares from that mystic and chthonian privacy
To far waters whose tirelessly eye-slashing blue
Commands the wide world beyond that secret purlieu.
After sun, how dark! Or after sun-scimitar, how
Gentle the touch of the shade’s hypothetical hand, Farther on,
Farther in!—and on the soft sand he is sure
Of the track. Then looks back
Just once through the dwindling aperture
To the world of light-tangled detail.
Where once life was led that now seems illusion of life
And swings in the distance with no more identity than
A dream half-remembered. He turns. His face lifts
To the soaring and scarcely definable nave,
From which darkness downward and endlessly sifts.
Eyes lower: and there,
In that drizzle of earth’s inner darkness, she
Stands, face upward arms up as in prayer or
Communion with whispers that wordlessly breathe—
There in columnar gracility stands, breasts,
In that posture, high. Eyes closes, And in
Such world of shadows, she,
From the light of her own inner being, glows.
Slowly, the lifted arms descend, fingers out,
Slightly parted. His eyes find the light of her eyes,
And over immeasurable distance,
Hands out, as thought feeling his way in the act,
On the soundless sand he moves in his naked trance,
At last fingertips make contact.
When in hermetic wisdom they wake, the cave-mouth is dim.
Once out, they find sun sinking under the mountain-rim,
And a last gleam boldly probes
High eastward the lone upper cloud. Scraps of nylon
Slip on like new skin, though cold, and feet
Find the rustle and kitten-tongue kiss of the foam creeping in.
A kilometer toward the headland, then home: they wade out,
And plunge. All wordless, this—
In a world where all words would be
Without meaning, and all they long to hear
Is the gull’s high cry
Of mercilessly joyful veracity
To fill the hollow sky.
Side by side, stroke by stroke, in a fading light they move.
The sea pours over each stroke’s frail groove.
Blackly, the headland looms. The first start is declared.
It is white above the mountain mass.
Eyes starward fixed, they feel the sea’s long swell
And the darkling drag of the nameless depth below.
They turn the headland, with starlight the only light
they now know.
At arch-height of every stroke, at each fingertip, hangs
One drop, and the drops—one by one—are
About to fall, each a perfect universe defined
By its single, minuscule, radiant, enshrined star.
Robert Penn Warren. Rumor Verified: Poems 1979-1980. New York: Random House, 1981. P 3-5.
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Anything I've Been
Anything I've ever been
and anything I've said I've ever been
is different when I'm with you.
You're either perfect and the one
or the best con artist yet.
You scare me because I've never had someone like you.
You really aren't my type
But I'm not still with any of them, am I?
and anything I've said I've ever been
is different when I'm with you.
You're either perfect and the one
or the best con artist yet.
You scare me because I've never had someone like you.
You really aren't my type
But I'm not still with any of them, am I?