Two is not as bad as one...

I am tired. Tired from really good, productive hard work. My eyes are about close and my fingers can hardly lift from individual keyyysssssssssssss. Sseeeeeeeeeeeeeee???????

Anyway. I feel good. For the first time, perhaps in a long time, I feel good about myself. I woke up early. I had a list of things to do, and I finished every single one of them. And I have plans for tomorrow that go beyond the TV guide.

For a lazy bastard, it does me proud.

And if this particular post is disjointed, fuck you. I'm brain dead.

*****

Here are two poems, not mine:

1.

The Unsaid
Stephen Dunn

One night they both needed different things
of a similar kind; she, solace; he, to be consoled.
So after a wine-deepened dinner
when they arrived at their house seperately
in the same car, each already had been failing
the other with what seemed
an unbearable delay of what felt due.
What solace meant to her was being understood
so well you'd give it to her before she asked.
To him, consolation was a network
of agreements: say what you will
as long as you acknowledge what I mean.
In the bedroom they undressed and dressed
and got into bed. The silence was what fills
a tunnel after a locomotive passes through.
Days later the one most needy finally spoke.
"What's on TV tonight?" he said this time,
and she answered, and they were okay again.
Each, forever, would remember the failure
to give solace, the failure to be consoled.
And many, many future nights
would find them turning to their respective sides
of the bed, terribly awake and twisting up
the covers, or, just as likely, moving closer
and sleeping forgetfully the night long.


2.

The Sheets
Erica Jong

We used to meet
on this corner
in the same wind.
It fought us up the hill
to your house,
blew us in the door.
The elevator rose
on gusts of stale air
fed on ancient dinners.
Your room smelled
of roach spray and roses.

In those days
we went to bed with Marvell.
The wind ruffled the sheets and pages,
spoke to us through walls.
For hours I used to lie
with my ear to your bare chest,
listening for the sea.

Now the wind is tearing
the building down.
The sheets are rising.

They billow through the air like sails.

White with your semen,
holding invisible prints
of the people we were,
the people we might have been,
they sail across the country
disguised as clouds.

Momentarily they snag
on the Rocky Mountains,
then rise
shredded into streamers.

Now they are bannering westward
over California
where your existence
is rumored.

*****

Why? Because. I like them. I'm tired. I wrote a poem, but couldn't re-write two. I read one poem, pored over two. I was doing one thing whole day: writing. Writing poetry, and writing letters. I helped my sister with science today: Chemistry and Math. It may not make sense but it's clear everything comes in pairs today. So there you go, two poems.

Well, well. What do we have here?

In a recent phone conversation, my best friend was tricked into admitting that she solves math problems to help her relax. Mean bitch that I am, I had a field day with this information--laughed myself to tears (unmoved by her embarrassed protests--actually, these made me laugh harder) and, as you can see, published this information on my blog.

But then a few nights ago, I had been trying to write for about three hours (read: staring at the blank document screen, cursing, writing an odd line or two, wishing for a cigarette, staring, pulling my hair, talking to myself, erasing that odd line or two, staring...) when I stumbled upon a distraction. I mean an idea. An idea for an experiment, to be exact.

I took out an old college chemistry book (to each her own), looked up my most-hated topic, read up a little bit about it, solved an even-numbered problem (no solution at the back), came up with a reasonable answer following logical progression, felt extremely smug and relaxed, and finally fell asleep.

Sure, I still haven't written that poem. But my, my. How the tables have turned.

*****

My uncle has just given me an enormous assignment: 32 CDs of about 11 songs each that I have to put into his iPod. The CDs are mostly classical or opera, which I don't hate, but don't intend to fully appreciate until I am in my 50s. Then my laptop doesn't recognize his iPod (or it doesn't want to), and I had to do a little research and some fiddling around (do you know about the 5R's of overcoming any, and I mean ANY iPod issues? And they actually call it that: iPod issues.) plus some extra downloading which is a bitch with my lousy connection.

It doesn't end there. These CDs are pretty old, and I am assuming that once I rip them, they'll act like little shithead cowards and hide behind such blah names as Unknown Album, Track 13, etc, etc, etc. And since he wants them organized into albums ("I don't want them shuffled. I want to listen to a complete opera, not have it jump from one aria to the next."), I'm thinking I won't have a lot of time staring into space (or blank screens) this week.

Thing is I'm actually looking forward to it. THAT'S how big a nerd I am.

Can you see it? One person. 7 days. 20 GB of space. 32 CDs. 350 songs. This could be the next big reality series.

*****

Last night I was explaining different 5-card combinations and possibilities (not to mention probabilities) of poker to my 15-year-old sister. I wanted to play a bit of Russian poker and she was to be my victim. Totally bored with my explanations on why a flush beats a straight, she innocently asked, "What about blackjack? What's that about?" So I answered, "Two cards minimum, you add them up and the sum closest to 21 wins" impatient to get on with my Basics of Poker trial lessson. With a gleam in her eye, she goes, "Only two cards? 21? Okay, that's what we're playing."

And before I could say, "Wha--?" She takes the cards away from me, shuffles them expertly and starts to deal.

"Dealer has an Ace showing. You want insurance against a possible blackjack?" she asks.

How about insurance against a possible black eye?

Want versus Need, two versions

Want versus Need

I’ve had it! you say over and over until
you almost believe it. No more cigarettes,
enough drinking, even the fucking around—
Ah, this last one’s a bit tricky— still,
you gotta start sometime. Today you do it
on a Monday. Start the week right, you figure
it isn’t too late—like new year’s resolutions
in February, or trees blooming mid-spring.
Your head fills with good intentions and words
like respectable, dignified, proper which suddenly
empties to taunting chants of old, boring, and uncool.
No, it’s nothing; you just need to calm yourself down
so you reach for the scotch even before the action
fully registers in your brain. You wonder What is wrong
with me? while the cigarette tip smolders a glowing red,
brighter and sharper than your anger at yourself.
You decide you shouldn’t be alone now so you call
your current squeeze and ask Can you come over?
knowing there’d be a time you’d stop. You listen
to the safe if mindless chatter, resignation flowing
like whiskey through your entire body, replacing tension.
Yes, you can end this anytime, any time at all. You can
put a stop to it. Soon, soon—just not tonight.

*****

Gravel
Ani DiFranco

I heard the sound of your bike
as your wheels hit the gravel
and your engine in the driveway, cutting off
I pushed through the screen door
and I stood out on the porch
thinking fight, fight, fight, at all costs
But instead I let you in
just like I've always done
I sat you down and offered you a beer
and across the kitchen table
I fired several rounds
but you were still sitting there when the smoke cleared
You came crawling back to say
that you want to make good in the end
oh, let me count the ways that I abhore you
you were never a good lay
and you never were a good friend
but oh, what can I say, I adore you
All I need is my leather
one t-shirt and two socks
I'll keep my hands warm in your pockets
and you can use the engine blocks
we'll ride out to California
with my arms around your chest
and i'll pretend this is real
cuz this is what I like best
You've been juggling two women
like a stupid circus clown
telling us both we are the one
and maybe you can keep me
from ever being happy
but you're not going to stop me
from having fun
So let's go, before I change my mind
I'll leave the luggage of all your lies behind
cuz I am bigger than everything that came before
you were never very kind
and you let me way down every time
but oh, what can I say, I adore you

How to be Cold

Perhaps you have read
too many romance novels,

that is why you tend to
overemphasize and dramatize
emotions. Pain, lust, joy:

Your chest doesn’t just hurt.
You have to have a fist
squeezing your heart.

You cannot simply be horny—
your fingertips have to tingle
with desire, your skin hum.

You are not merely smiling,
rather rapture overflows and
floods your entire face.

And now you are tired, no
spent: passion, after all, requires
that you give and give and give.

But remember your science class.
Cold only exists in reference: a function
of being in contact with a hotter entity.

How, at a touch, at an instant
heat is transferred, absorbed,
sucked greedily into the frigid body.

But your fingers on my skin
disregard this hunger for warmth, ignore
the desperate need for equilibrium,

register nothing, but
the difference in temperature.

who's afraid of the big bad wolf?

is it just me, or do things (imagined, hoped for, etc) seem more real once you've told someone else? take having a crush on someone... the giggly, giddy, generally stupid feeling you get around that person doesn't really exist until that moment you tell someone else that you like the guy. or when you make a promise to yourself--aren't promises to oneself easier to break than promises to other people? (and this is just wrong, but that's another story.)

so. for my first post of the year, i've decided to share my new year's resolutions (otherwise known as promises-to-oneself), so that i really really really stick to them. i guess, i'm promising you, whoever you are, and asking you to help me keep these promises. and thus, i'm making you a little bit responsible for my actions this year! (insert evil laughter here.)

okay, here they are:

1. be honest and up front about everything at all times to everyone, but especially to myself.
2. invest only in those relationships that are meaningful to me.
3. do my best at everything (job/project/commitment) i take on.

i suppose, these resolutions don't really make sense unless you know me well, or i explain myself, but that's not really my style. besides, ask yourself, do you really care?

and really those three statements above can be summarized into one main goal-for-the-year, which is to minimize bullshit and drama in my life. you see, 2005 was a pretty good year for me in the sense that i learned a lot about myself. but with all those life-lessons and god-questions and hallmark-moments (all documented in my past-life-blog), i also got sucked into a big-ass quicksand of complications. so, this year, i'm simplifying.

so, who's afraid of the big bad wolf?

small talk

i like gerunds. it's as if the action had become so continuous--past, present, future in an uninterrupted flow--it became fact. solid. tangible. something you could learn to depend on.

anyway, that light bulb just went off in my head. but i really don't have the energy to pursue the idea right now. might want to work on it later.

isn't this proof of just how lazy i am? see here, things are clear to me as of the moment. they may not be to you. do you see me trying to drum up enough energy to care?

why don't we try again later.

*****

that was it. that was the whole plan: go to the beach.

we knew which island and which beach we wanted to go to, and we knew (kind of) how to get there. the next phase of the plan would unravel once we had arrived.

we almost didn't. i got lost on my way to pick her up. then we almost got stuck in the middle of nowhere (miles away from any body of water). i had to borrow another bikini top. the list goes on.

and i have reason to believe a couple of weird photos might be going around the internet as i type.

but. the water was great--cold only if you've been under the sun too long; the weather perfect: sunglasses-flipflops-shorts-and- bottled-water perfect. the sunblock was sticky on our backs and the sand gritty on our tummies.

it was so great, so perfect, we almost missed the last ferry back.

*****

god-awful-radio-station jocks here often end their segment with little quotes, cliches, or worse, moral derived from one of aesop's fables. you know--"here's a little something to remember...[put quote here]."

i'm sure i've written stuff ending on a similar note. but i shudder to think at how i might've sounded. (i have nothing against the "and so, kids, the moral of the story is..." type of ending. i just hate the holier-than-thou tone.)

the minute i start to sound like that, do me a favor? slap me.

Forgetting is an erosion

Forgetting

The rain poured relentlessly.
It filtered through leaves,
soaked grass; it broke
twigs, washed away
flowers.

It turned hard-packed earth into
muddy puddles—where even
a reflection couldn’t form
for the incessant droplets
shattering its surface.

*****

I can be so stupid sometimes. And such a coward.

Once, I was dared to hunt the hunter, to find the words and write, to be a poet! At the same time, I was asked, "Who is crazy enough to dare a hunter?"

Through the buzz of fear around my heart, I forgot the question and could only hear these words: crazy, fool, naive. I forgot the question Who? and more importantly, I forgot the answer: It could be me. Yes, it could be me.

So I grabbed whatever excuse I could not to respond to the dare. The distance was already there; it was only a matter of time; it's too much of a risk. Ad infinitum. Forgetting after all is a form of erosion-- destruction through time. And all I could remember is how, when one waits long enough, time destroys everything. Everything: things, places, people. Memory.

So I wrote that poem above...

But. I write to remember. And it's true, time destroys everything. But perhaps, waiting and doing nothing kills it much, much faster, and leaves you with nothing, not even memory. So, I search, and search, for the words.