headphone baby

Happy again. Also: trying to write a paper again. So, I wrote a poem instead.

headphone baby

headphone wire
an umbilical string
birthing and being born to
music
words in, thoughts out
thoughts in, words out
free at the edges
mixing
music, my mother
my daughter, music

(Psst... I love comments. They make me feel validated. Not really... but... a little bit?)

x a.h.

P.S. I feel like I should try to draw this. I kind of see a buddha-esque abstract baby. Kind of psychedelic. This actually came from me accidentally sitting on my wire (because I'm a mess like that) and being like "hey..." So yeah, now I've destroyed any sense of sophistication that a random person reading this blog might have been tempted to attribute to me.

Yup, definitely flattering myself there...

Hey Jealousy...

Okay, so it's been a while. Here's a song I've fallen in love with:

Also, the video isn't the official music video, because those weren't embeddable.

Hey Jealousy-Gin Blossoms

Tell me do you think it'd be all right
If I could just crash here tonight
You can see I'm in no shape for driving
And anyway I've got no place to go
And you know it might not be that bad
You were the best I'd ever had
If I hadn't blown the whole thing years ago
I might not be alone
Tomorrow we can drive around this town
And let the cops chase us around
The past is gone but something might be found
To take its place...hey jealousy
And you can trust me not to think
And not to sleep around
If you don't expect too much from me
You might not be let down
Cause all I really want is to be with you
Feeling like I matter too
If I hadn't blown the whole thing years ago
I might be here with you
Tomorrow we can drive around this town
And let the cops chase us around
The past is gone but something might be found
To take its place...hey jealousy



Hope you enjoyed it.

x ah

Hard Labor

Alright, so I wrote this sometime after midnight when I should have been reading Dickens. There was a lot of should-be-reading-Dickens last night. Anyway, I was frustrated with lack of communication despite the fact that it's completely logical. It's kind of grotesque.
________________

What can I say to you?

I love you. I hate you. But no--no--I love you.
My words are being squeezed out of me. Painful and incohesive.
A lover giving birth to a dead baby. A gift that will hurt us both.
The labor of getting this poison out of me might take me down. It's all sweat and tears, and an uncomfortable bedside supporter who doesn't remember his contribution.
..... I didn't make that thing. I couldn't give it my all. I pulled out. I'm pulling out.
..... Whose is it?
Breathe in. Breathe out. Push. Push! Okay, easyyy. Wait a bit, now.
..... You have to be careful with babies. Give them enough rope; push them the wrong
.....way—and they hang themselves. Problem is: it’s hard to see in a darkroom. You don’t see
.....what's developed until it's come to light.
Push!: I’d like a hand to hold, but my effort might break its fingers.
..... A lover lost to loss.
Wait. Wait? No! Get it out. This gift needs to be shared. No, I’ll push.
..... A gift lost to impatience.
But wait: it’s out. Let me count.
..... A head full of hair and a glimmer of silver.
..... Two beautiful eyes immune to the light.
..... Two petal-ears.
..... Two arms, two legs.
..... A torso—Thank God.
..... Ten little toes.
..... Ten little fingers, grasping.
.......... love
.......... affection
.......... need
.......... confusion
.......... obligation
.......... time
.......... strength
.......... weakness
.......... friendship
.......... lust
..... A dull, wrinkled body the color of death.
And.
..... A strangely articulate mouth
.......... Knowing its place at my chest
A slimy weight on my chest and a lost supporter.
..... Take it off.
The literate dead-word-baby wails its zombie cry. It eats my brains.
________________

I threw in a little joke there at the end. It's not all that funny, but--hey--I'm maintaining my warped sense of humor.

Comments are a beautiful, beautiful thing. Though I don't blame you if you can't get past the baby zombie; it was kind of weird.

x ah

Argh... editing posts is a horrible process. The blogger got rid of all my indentations, and I just wasted a lot of time trying to figure out how to keep them--hence the stupid periods showing up everywhere...

Attachment Theory

I most definitely should be writing my poli-sci paper right now, but doesn't that sound awful? Poli-sci? So instead, I wrote a poem. It's my second one today. I'll post the first one later, when it's not as fresh. Anyway, I was listening to "First Day Of My Life" by Bright Eyes. (You should listen to it. I don't know what the video is, so just ignore it--unless you don't want to.)



Anyway, if you don't understand the poem, there's context at the bottom of the post. If you don't need it, don't bother.
_______________________

Attachment Theory

Shell-crackle
Dewy-bodied, fresh-eyed
New light, new shadow
Creature face, creature comfort
Thought true, but

You’re not my mother.
You’re not my lover.

Stale angst-awkward skin-shed
Wings spread
New world, new form
Creature face, creature comfort
Thought true, lover

Not to hold you.
Not to follow you.

Strange start
First true-sight, first love-light
New plane, new center
Creature face, creature comfort
Thought true, so

Does first mean false?
______________________

Okay, so if you aren't familiar with psychology studies, you might not get the whole thing. Basically, experimenters looking into infant attachment hatched duck eggs, and the ducklings attached to the experimenter and thought him to be their mother--a line of fluff-balls trailing a grown man. Cute, maybe creepy. Anyway, there's context. (Konrad Lorenz, 1937--if you're curious.)

As always, comments & criticism are lovely.

Fragmented Boy-Girl Story, Parts III & IV

This might be it. I meant to take a nap, but instead I let this out. (I suppose it's an equally refreshing process.) I do intend to add Parts I and II, but these Parts were of higher priority, more immediate.
_______________________

Part III: Revived

A discovery. A muddled heart finds companionship in another reality-stricken soul. A boy-made-man with a big heart, a heart of reinforced steel, strong enough to house those he loves, those who must never change. Comfort is shared; friendship is made.

There is freedom in trust.

The reality keeps in a niche of the girl-heart and creeps out to explore its new territory. Questions. The girl-heart shakes, and its fear leads it to seek refuge in the fortress. Comfort is shared; friendship is made.

There is surprise in the comfort of steel. The taste of metal and the feel of metal warmed by blood and breath.

An unexpected home to the girl-guest. The girl-guest: the girl guessed wrong. Hospitality does not make a home. Accustomed to the generosity, the warmth of the reality-stricken-boy-made-man host, the girl-heart opened the door for herself. A fortress must not be forgotten its function. (But it may be forgiven.)

A fortress is not a home, and it is not yet a house. The windows are being opened, one by one, with informed care, to let life in. See what is stirred by fresh air. The boy-made-man with his reality-stricken soul invites the air in, one channel at a time. See what is shaken by this freedom of motion. Time is allowed to pass; movement, to proceed. Watch carefully. Will the under-bed, stubbornly clung-to-corner, dust-bunny-demon-cobweb-phantom-monsters be blown out, swept clear?

Papers are blown off desk, settle in drawers not yet to be opened. Locked drawers, with easily excited skittish secret-mice, eager to streak to corners, to under-bed and distant-corner places, to nestle in dust and scatter it on the floors, the drawers, the cabinets. Happy mouse-baby, demon-phantom-memory nests in a mildly-aired fortress.

How?
A holding hand. Pleasant. Warm.
Why? A door was opened. Boy-made-man closes window, forsakes papers for fear of phantom-loving mice. Escorts girl-guest-girl-wrongly-guessed out.
Alienated.

Come visit. Sit with me sometimes. Only.
Only this: I can’t open the door… What might crawl through the window when vigilance fails?

Girl-heart takes up rustic bench across the street. Fades into scenery. Shaking-girl-heart-statue upon bench.

Part IV: Future?

Children walk the sidewalks. Strollers. Mothers: pregnant mothers, experienced mothers, old mothers, worn mothers, mothers with lovers, mothers without. Children: glucose-coated, sticky-fingered, carefully-brushed, dusted-off, freshly-dirtied children. Ask: But who is that statue? Why hasn’t she a plaque? How silly! Answered: She’s only been here forever. Why the town would put a statue on a bench, who knows? Yes, that is silly. Isn’t it?

Girl-heart-fixture petrified by time and love-loss, love-bath, tub-drained. Cold air on soggy skin, a figure shelled in bronze goose-bumps—stylistically.

Girl-heart-statue-bench sits opposite a home, with windows open, glass door set aside for warm air. Broken-girl-broken-heart-phantom resides. True-man-not-boy-made embraces air. If the doorbell rings, will a gray broken-girl-broken-heart-phantom crawl through the window? Linger under familiar aired-out, life-filled, dream-graced bed? Be swept out by warm-summer-breath or stimulated-to-life to dust-bunny-demon-cobweb-phantom-monster-Frankensteinian life by the cold winter-death-breath who slides his fingers around the storm window?

Perhaps this: perhaps a blessing on a yellow-shining home of mystery dust. Dust of unknown origin. Not paper-dust, skin-dust, dander-dust, food-dust, wood-dust. Not mold-dust or paint-dust. Broken-girl-broken-heart dust found in creases of frames on walls, on pages of loved books—particularly fond of polished wooden string, a ballad in minor dust, and boy-made-man finger-pads.

Not a curse, but a blessing. A bittersweet confectioner’s sugar coating walls, making winter chill snow sweeter, and making the sweet sigh of spring sweeter still.
_____________________

Comments/criticism are Much Appreciated.

Camel

It may have come to your attention that my work is not very consistent, and this is because I am trying to work something out. I wrote the following yesterday and do not necessarily like it. Actually, I'm quite certain it's horrible. It tries to hard and comes off as a game. I'm posting it, because it was written--which, in and of itself, is an Improvement.
_____________________________

Am I to be the straw that breaks your camel-back?
The brittleness that oppresses your golden will to fight, the loving muscles of your back?

Or am I to be the straw trampled under your blind feet? For, surely this is a matter in which only one survives.

Just as surely, it must not be so.
Would I be the straw that nurtures you as you cross your desert? Would you not accept my nutrition so that you could claim your destination as a product of your individual strength?
_____________________________

As I said--not so good. The prose is awkward; the style, inconsistent; the parallels, incongruent. However, something in the feeling--maybe just a tiny shade of it--is right.

Life in a Cupboard

I'm currently reading The God of Small Things (Arundhati Roy) for my Contemporary World Novel course, and I was particularly struck by this description:

Some things come with their own punishments. Like bedrooms with built-in cupboards. They would all learn more about punishments soon. That they came in different sizes. That some were so big they were like cupboards with built-in bedrooms. You could spend your whole life in them, wandering through dark shelving (109).

While I don't necessarily connect this feeling to punishment for a wrong, I see where she's coming from. It's beautiful and terrifying at the same time.

Scary Picture...

This was drawn A While Ago, but it's stuck with me. Voila:

Bird-Song

Okay, I'm posting this because I don't know what else to do with it. It kind of came into my head while I was trying to take a nap in someone's room--after talking about maybe taking a poetry class, coincidentally.
________________

Bird-Song

A bird in a bush is worth
two in a hand
but only a fraction of one in your arms.

For my song is sung
more sweetly than
a greeting of the sun.
________________

It's pretty juvenile, but that's it. On the topic of being juvenile, I made a type-o in which I used the word "arse" instead of "arms," which really changes the meaning of this poem.

Anyway... comments are appreciated.

Fall 2008

So... it would appear that I still haven't posted anything. Now, to make excuses for myself I will say it was to prevent myself from going back on my word. It would have been ranting, and I didn't want to start out that way. On the bright side, it would appear that I'm writing again, as I was struck with the need to write this out in the midst of social psych midterm notes. Very counterintuitive and very spontaneous. Now: rather than admit to having a short attention span, I will say that I was inspired. Maybe. Maybe not.
______________________

Fall this year came quietly.
The only sign of its progress was the vaguely acrid smell scent of leaves lingering in the bright morning chill. The leaves did not take their time changing. They were green, and then they were on fire. After this, the only event was the descent of the fire from branch to ground. It was not a burning fire or even a provoking fire. It was a fire that should have inspired but only succeeded in crunching dully under our feet. The scope of how unimpressed we were is this: we neglected to even see it. It was synonymous with a second. Its presence or loss was meaningless—unless we were to look at it and claim tragic airs, which we didn’t.
The cold came slowly. Nearly imperceptibly thanks to the afternoon sun arguing that nothing had changed. Nothing is changing.
But it is. The darkness comes with more speed and less furtively. Our notice came too late—it need not pretend to be a cloud over the sun; it has already ushered the sun behind the trees, and we cannot convince it otherwise. Why would we? How could we?
The church bells do not ring triumphantly, as they once did in an illusion. They clang discordantly and upset the air as their noise smacks our tin bodies. The impact hits us, and we walk faster. Don’t gasp lest you take it into you. It will jolt our clockwork hearts. Tinmen don’t need to breathe anyway. As long as we’re still ticking, everything is fine.
What’s the time?
80 bpm
Good. We haven’t missed our appointment. Just don’t let the violence jolt you, and we’ll make it in time.
______________________

Alright. That was it: short and sweet (without the sweet). I'm well aware that I'm not a brilliant writer, so do go ahead and leave feedback/criticism. Thank you.

x ah