Sunday, August 30, 2009

What I Spent Hours Writing in My Journal At Washington Square Park/Jack's Coffee House

Knowing everything will inevitably change never keeps people from lamenting about the fact. With the recession forcing doors shut, and the streets filled with people who don't know that the Washington Square fountain was, until recently, 20 feet t0o the left, it seems we as a general populace, will always remain in the dark about ourselves. With innumeral factoid sheets spitting in our face how many jobs have been lost, the question of "how will consumerism save us now?" seems to loom, static, in the background of all we do. But not just at face value. With my friends and family all hoping to achieve great things (and, unfourtantly, success in this country normally goes hand in hand with money) how will anyone figure a way to be happy, or, at least, be content? I am extremely lucky (?), derranged (?) enough to have no real direction, nor any immediate goals. Just to: be. But I do feel I have been keeping a tad bit quiet for much too long, in a couple of ways. This will change. "Knockin' on Heaven's Door" sounds from my left, as more laxidazical New Yorkers make fun of the many passerbys, photographers, people with cameras, and other New Yorkers simply minding their buisness. It's actually buiser than it ever has been here, though ironically, far less musicians and more street lights. There is also strangely more "Passive Lawn, No Sports" and "No Dogs Allowed" signs that are strewn about the park, to protect the immediate dollar at work on the grass that will at one point or another be the wrecking ball of this and every city. But I digress. "All Along the Watchtower", now; the men playing the song on a mandalin and acoustic guitar wear reflective sunglasses, sporty in their shades, laughing and awkward with Bob Dylan's words falling from their mouths all over the place, and too late. The Village has changed. An untrained pitbull to my right coughs up phlegm, barks excitedly, and gets hit on its snout by its two European owners; "No, no, no, no!" The men playing guitar play more Dylan covers, assuming everyone around them aren't drawing the connection to the area, and think themselves smarter for it. Across the way, two men in breakdancing outfits make quips about white people, as a white crowd claps them on. It smells like hot dogs and tobacco smoke. A man on a CurrentTV episode claimed that he hated to be the one to break to the nation, but this, from an economic standpoint, is monetary normalcy, if we've ever seen it. Which we haven't, so we as Americans all look at one another curiously wondering what in the hell to do now. But no one really pays attention to each other, and even when we do, we all shake our heads to any sort of alterior motive. But that's most of it for you. Of course humans are innately good-- but, just as John Lennon also reminds us, "we all have violence inside". I believe the chemical reaction these two extremes make gives us passion. I just hope one day I'll be able to harness an inbetween were I can speak as well as act. I hope one day this country can speak as much as it can act, and understand as much as it yells. Two girls slowly creep up to the man playing guitar. The man has a voice that could cut through bullshit, if there was such a voice. If there was such a need for such a voice--and there should be--but some could argue either way. A man is selling photographs of the old Village. This was my last Summer in the city, maybe forever, but who can really tell these things for sure. Not too much longer until a new city with less obvious motives. One that doesn't try as hard. To Jack's Coffee, if it's still open.

At Jack's.
I don't know if I'd have faith in coffee houses anymore if it wasn't for this place. Seems like everywhere else is just horribly half-assed, or simply put, dull. Best damn coffee here, though, really. Rose bought African Dwarf Frogs for our suite. So awesome. Ok, so I'm really going to miss the slowness, the relaxation, the...Ana! of the city! But really though. I like how close she and I have gotten. The city, and Ana, and me. I hope I get my writing groove back. Once I'm at school and am forced to, I'm sure I will. You see, I'd like to be able to set goals for myself for this year, but I can't figure if it's worth it or not. Might as well, I suppose:
1) Hang out with as many friends as possible (within reason!)
2) Do well in my writing classes...well, all of my classes!
3) Get most of my senior thesis out of the way this semester
4) Figure out something awesome either as an internship, or a class for next summer. Bushwacking, etc.

Now, in real time, it is 2:04 A.M. The cabs are whistling, the dump trucks are rumbling, and soon I'll be in a real bed again surrounded by friends and other random people alike. Every year lends new suprises, some very good and some bad, but given that this is my last year, I will try my damn hardest to do my best to make it memorable and generally good. I feel I have surrounded myself with people who can make it that way, though. I feel I accomplished a lot with myself today, even just with walking around, drinking coffee; because when I came home I without thinking researched volunteer opportunities, and signed up for 2. I am also now seriously contimplating taking courses after graduation to work with battered and sexually abused women, because these women need help, and I truly believe I could be someone they could talk to too.

You know, I honestly do not know what I want to do with my life. All I know is I'd like to make my life a good life; and not be a good person because I think others want me to be or because I'm comparing myself to others. But because I simply know I'm an alright gal, who just wants to help people out. I was there once, too, where too many people have been and should never have to be and I know I appreciated the helping hand when I got it. I would simply like to return to the world the favor.

I am here as a consiquence; I only hope to exist here as a favor.

Goodnight, and good luck. To me, and you, and everyone here.

Tuesday, August 25, 2009

Σειρήν Seirēn (The Siren)

The bareness of my legs confronted the texture of the sheet and my shadows on the bedroom door are orange. The fan forms itself in my silhouette. The streets outside glitter, splash unnecessary light onto the walls, onto my face, onto the week before I knew I could live without you.

My eyeglasses knock the hard tips of my eyelashes, thick with mascara; I wear fire engine red lipstick hoping I can smoke signal you from here (Can you see me?). Those are my teeth buried in the sky, behind the shooters; the quick, flashy, moving stars. Those are my lips signaling sunrise. Red smears across the skyline. But vinyl sleeping bags keep your eyes shut, your head lolled away. Thousands of hundreds of steps of miles of meters away. The idea of stars will catch your attention quicker than the thought of my naked body here, tangerine with the street lights. I’ll keep the extra blankets at the foot of the bed for you. You will forget warmth is where I keep huddled. Instead, I will be forced outside, swiveling my hips in the witching hour air; just beyond the trashcans. Next to the stone steps. Just to the right of the Asian-Fusion outdoor seating. Air conditioners will leak on to the sidewalk, start currents, form rivers under my shoes. The water will mix with leftover coffee from street venders and then you’ll smell me. Somewhere in the stink of pressed coffee grounds and soil thick with the vomit of worms. In between snapped twigs. In between Birch tree bark held taught with paper clips. I’ll just keep singing my song, until your ship comes crashing home.

Sunday, August 23, 2009

Just So You Can See How Dumb This Summer Has Made Me...

Alright, maybe not. But this is a poem I wrote last semester:

I gather my statements, poems and lines into a jar.

And they, each running in to each,

Fumble their letters,

All mesh together

As they make their dance like captured

Fluttering, brilliant beetles

Wing’d and no longer lit or free;

With the rubber rim tightly fit

‘Round an old forgotten gospel hymn,

The round glass brims in tight knotted

Knuckle wound rucksacks;

Keeping licked stamp to letters

Asphyxiating and close;

Close enough to keep the soul tied quiet in

A ramblin’ mans’ jib.

The metallic clip

resists the explosion of further reaching

comb binding slews;

Lest the inky pages try and stick too far

Into your ever-soil pressing shoes;

Grasping your ankles and wondering

Where the author went?

Suffocating the words in whole, at last

Compressing and tightening through

the bottom of the glass,

The ethereal lights do dim-

The words left in their own wake to shrivel; make do,

Choking down water before ever escaping the brim.

Reverberating clashes of thunderous flowers

Shake the woodwork of ancient wireless modems

Christening phantoms, and Luna moth wire cutters;

Raking together, scratching and kissing one another’s


Roaring and crackling

To let the glass open wide.

With hesitant fingers I always hope to grip

The thick rippled seal, along all the modern lyric,

Underneath quotes, and definition’s tips

To rip aside the glass and try

A readied apology to the author whose

Personality I had begun to unsuccessfully pry.

But neither the thick ribbed, stained tank top brandishing man

Nor the petticoat, brazier boasting woman

Could take my eyes from off the steadied blaze

The words inside my jar forever will create,

Eternally wafting in and about one and another

In a waltzing, crafting, drunken haze.

And this is one I wrote just now, very tired, slightly hungover. It makes no sense, but it's all that would come out.

Streets lighter than dark,

Though all that could be seen of the glow

Was everything that is, everything that was,

With words ever fighting for right of way out of my mouth.

The seas of streets did pour

And so they will, for endless,

Many decades more;

Assuming its war torn parties will ne'er be washed ashore.

'Til finally, one day, time was tricked

And the assault weapons stopped

The wind died down and the

Ocean failed to rock;

The ship that ne’er do sail,

To seas too far for stronger quells-

There, did the cannons lose their aim,

Did the eye of the storm then rage,

Upon that wasted, evasive,

Lost and holy wave.

To shore, for sure,

Did the wave hope would be its final move

To be in and among, the watery naked dunes.

But the ships that waged their war

Had other plans for the wave to make

For what use is a current calm,

And a breeze far gone

For a ship to cause another to quake?

“Rock, you unholy wave; rock so that we

May be at war again and again."

“Nay,” claimed the wave,

“For it is not me who begs the water churn,

Who stocks the rifles taught

Who nips the light from the dark

Just as a hand would stop naught a clock.”

Monday, August 3, 2009


Even his name bore no resemblance to anything that would suffice a place and purpose. The letters were composed only of the darkest river ever rushing on and on, never stepping inside himself twice; his family genealogy a peoples who lived either here, there, and no where for sure. Ever trudging on despite himself, despite everything and despite nothing. Just for the heck of it- who should ask for more, he begs the question, and asks the priest? Little does he know, oh, for where will he ever go? The little one, not so big at all. Who can find meaning, he thinks, in this world with justifications for action and truth; goodness and wellness? Whatever it takes, he thinks, whatever makes comradery sans whatever takes a commitment and lightness without tears or dark corners. "Whatever is contrary," the river says; "oh, however, to the contrary," the river smiles to the bend.

I Haven't Written Anything In Such A Long Time...

And I still don't know what to write about. But Ryan Bingham speaks:

"I'm a homeless man with my thumb in the wind,
I sure miss my kin, but then again-
I'm on the road with a song for you.

I took a step, I lost a bet,
They cut off my tongue now they're full of regret,
Careful what you say if they ain't gonna listen anyway.

Just make the cash, bet on the past,
Everybody's so afraid to be last,
You can't take back everything you leave behind.

Is everybody so ashamed, for letting it all slide?
Is everybody so afraid, Mr. Dylan's hard rain was fair warning...

That's all 'til I figure everything out again.