A poet is like a visual photographer

He shapes letters into color and emotion.

Captures an instant in a phrase

Gives life and meaning to cold ink



A duck on a pond is not just a duck on a pond

But the embodiment of the clumsy side of nature

Floating aimlessly on the dark, rippling water,

Droplets tumbling onto and over its sleek wings

Then plunging its head in with a carefree disregard

Waggling its tail like a feathery banner

Until disturbed by a suspicious branch



A poet cannot simply exist

He must BE

Both for others

And for himself

He must notice the minute

Writes to save the moment,

To remember

To share

To see

To live.


I haven't written for a while now.

I wonder if I'm going blind

Or dying.

musica

sit me in a silent office for four hours and i start singing to myself. having already sung in the shower, and in anticipation of a concert later on, as well as the sheer fact that spring is on it's way, my mind wazed rather verbous. the results are as follows and, as always, it's a first draft, so criticism is welcome.

i can't read music
i don't know notes, theories, or keys
still, i can't seem to contain
this strange rhythmn

so i sing it in the shower
i wash it down the drain
the water knows my passions
but my secret's safe behind the bathroom door.

i wish i knew their lessons
i wish i understood, but i don't
at times my heart longs to share
but it's a foreign game to me.

so i sing it in the shower
i wash it down the drain
the water knows my passions
but my secret's safe behind the bathroom door.

base and treble
time and tempo
all elude me
i just want to sing.

one day i'll learn and raise my voice up to the sky
but for now i'll save it for the shower
where my feeling is just mine

i lather up in music
rinse myself in song
it pours down my head and body
and i bid it so long

occam's dilemma

one of my friends from work came back from the Christmas holiday sporting a mustache.a few days later, i heard the other male in our group commenting on how he himself was thinking of growing a 'stache. this set me to thinking; you never hear a girl come casually into work and say, "i may just stop shaving for a while. i think it'd be stylish." or even better, "you know, i'm thinking about shaving stripes into my leg hair."
this presents a strange sociality for us: on the one hand, male facial hair is much more prominent and obvious than female leg hair. and yet, it is much more of a social faux pas for a female not to shave than it is for a male not to shave. why is that?

every once and again, i get the impression that i step outside of time. the chronological classification and stereotypes go out the window and i'm left with people solely as entities in and of themselves. it's an interesting experience, and one that has occurred with more frequency since i've graduated. there are so many barriers that are in place when dealing with time. remove them and the individual comes out a lot more. of course, this is the case when any stereotype or boundry is removed. i kind of like the perspective one get with a lack of time.
however, i must attach a warning: while in my timeless state, i happened to fall asleep and did not set my alarm. i woke up, and had to be at work in twenty minutes. alas, time calls.

*i need to start shooting in film again. i'm getting sloppy.

bedhead-ed

Introduction:
it is seven-o-clock in the morning. i went to bed sometime after 12:30 last night, which gives me enough sleep to put on a facade of cognition without actually having anyone behind the curtain. i have a test later today, and i'm not yet prepared; anxiety level is running higher than average. aside from these two things, what more introducksun do you need?
thEsis:
this should be that friends should not let friends write tired. but it's not. you're too late (or early, as the case may be)for that. real thesis: there are three different kinds of bedhead--the good, the bad, and the ugly.
bodY:
the first type of bedhead--the good--is the obviously the most mild of the three. the Mama bear, if you will. this is the i-did-my-hair-before-going-to-sleep-and-slept-in-the-most-awkward-position-ever-to-keep-it-that-way style. admittedly, i've pulled this stunt on multiple occasions, usually when i know that someone is going to "kidnap" me early in the morning, or my brothers are going to force me into family activities before i have a chance to look anything close to alive.
type numbero two: the bad. this is the average bedhead. it's generally not too messed up; a little frizzy, flat on one side, and a couple of curly roostertails for spice. this style is, in fact, increasingly becoming a socially-acceptable doo. it's usually accompanied by tight pants and heavy eye-liner. sadly.
as for the third, and final, type of bedhead, the best way to describe it is through anecdote: my brother's been growing his hair out recently, and it's gotten to the stage where there is a great variation in lengths, though all go past his ears and on a whole it looks like a hollywood science experiment gone wrong. think elephant toothpaste. it was in this circumstance that my brother retired. when we finally pried him from his bedsheets in the morning, it was evident that he'd had a hard night. his hair gave all the expression that his could not--it was as though a cottonball had been doused in alcohol and lit with a blond fire, then tied into knots by a brand new boyscout who was running around on carpet in his socks. such hair stood in blatant defiance of the laws of gravity except for a slight undulation as my brother walked.
and that is only the ugly for my brother's shaggy, overgrown mane. one can only imagine the effect with over twice the length and the stress of finals adding to the mixture. the ugly is not to be mocked. it is to be feared.
ConclUsion:
the day may come when you will encounter me, or some other helpless, psychotic undergraduate in such a state as i currently am: in my pajamas, slumped against my computer, eyes half-closed and bleary, hair half-way between the bad and the ugly, chewing on a pen and muttering to myself as an occasional tremor shakes both my head and hand. should this happen, do not walk away! please gently remove the keyboard from my flighty fingers, the pen from my mouth (there's probably one in my hair as well), ignore my senseless scholastic prattle, wrap my in a blanket, and send me to the couch.