prose

LAMEnt

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*not a haiku, still good*

Lamenting on the time I’m spending on this futon in this place where I don’t know anyone and have only small glimmers of prospects for any sort of reasonable income seems like a waste of your time as well as mine, but as it stands, that’s what I’m doing because I really have nothing else to do; the job market seems to be laughing at me and my two diplomas with no regard for my well-being.

I am starkly alone most of the day. Even when I venture out of the house, I am bombarded by, though mostly friendly strangers, strangers nonetheless and my interaction with these strangers, though mostly friendly, is not meaningful in a lasting way. I am existing next to other people as opposed to existing with other people.

Clementine is my lone social interaction and mostly, those interactions bookend my day with peacefulness and support, but still, my resolve is dwindling as the calls I get regarding gainful, let alone meaningful employment, are very few and often far between. If not for her I would go mad in this house, mad referring to my mood state, and then eventually referring to my mental state.

The peace I feel around my family and the comfort I have even in new situations with my long lasting friends is 2200 miles away. This is not a point of pity, it’s just a fact. It is my duty to provide stability for myself and in truth, sympathy from loved ones does a small bit to provide it. It’s just that, I had a fine job prior to leaving, and I was having meaningful musical experiences with some of my favorite musical people and now, I have neither. Again, not a point of pity, just a fact. This was fully expected but perhaps not adequately prepared for prior to departure. I’m making inroads on both accounts. Slow and steady.

Aloneness has afforded me opportunities to come face to face with some shortcomings in my playing, my writing, my outlook on life, my health, my habits. I have grown up a little I’m sure, and I’m willing to do a lot more than I was when I was living in a comfortable place. But this isn’t the midwest, its a city with a million people who hail from everywhere in the world and they’re all trying to “do it” here. I’m just one of them.

There is tragedy here too. From 3000 miles away we felt the vibrations of the bombs in Boston. Family and friends on both sides residing in the city left us in a panic as we gathered information. Everyone seems to be safe and sound. Truth be told, we’re reflecting a lot on how difficult it is to experience national tragedy without the support of family. We didn’t lose anyone, but we’re alone here, and we’re thinking about family that is alone out there, and appreciating fully the impact of our families. That on the back of some sour news regarding our potential future travels out of the country. So says the universe, and we start the search for the next adventure.

We live with a view of the highway, the airport, the seaport. We can hear the train and the planes and the cares and the ships all day. It’s this organized thing, not a mess at all, that I love to observe by accident. Honestly, I forget it’s there most of the day. If I do hear something abnormal, I forget about it almost as quickly as I noticed it. It’s comforting actually. I remember that about college. It’s never really quiet, but it’s not bad; it’s kind of nice.

There is exploring to do here. It’s been a bit cold, but seems to be evening out. I’m looking forward to seeing this planet with new eyes.

I’m hopeful to get a few calls this week. Seems like everything just takes a few days longer than I would like here. I’m eating better than I ever have and I’m exercising  which is a shock to me as well as I’m sure a shock to those who know me well. We’re figuring out living together, being together, supporting each other, helping each other selflessly, trusting each other, respecting each other. We’re a good team for sure.

My coffee’s getting cold. This futon is uncomfortable. And it’s nice outside. There’s always that. Even when it’s crappy here, it’s nice. Love and good vibrations from the southwest coast.

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LAMEnt

Adverbs of Frequency

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Often, I’m lost with mountains to do. Often, they’re on the back burner. Often, they are left there at the end of the night to simmer. Often, they’re forgotten tomorrow.

Sometimes, I sleep really well and wake up and my back doesn’t hurt and my neck isn’t stiff. Sometimes, I drink enough water and have to visit the bathroom in the middle of the night. Sometimes that keeps me up. Sometimes I can’t fall asleep, and also can’t wake up. Sometimes I have lots of energy in the morning. Sometimes I drink tea before bed. Sometimes tea helps me sleep.

Usually, I shower before work. Recently, I have been showering at night. Rarely od tinghs jelbum in my hdea.

Almost always, I am lost and looking.

Adverbs of Frequency

Prose on Prose on Prose OR Success Isn’t Given OR I’m Lonely For No Reason OR I Need a New Hobby

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I watched THIS documentary this morning and realized that everyone is the same, no matter how different. If you’re good at something, and you work really hard for a really long time, it’ll maybe pan out but maybe not. I like the idea of indie gaming, and singular vision and purpose and I think it walks alongside music or visual art or writing as something that is worthy of experiencing with a mind open to newness and uniqueness.

I don’t even think I’m unique among my friends in believing that I’m struggling to find my voice as an artist, especially one that is (even if very minimally) different than everyone else’s. Whether its in writing or playing or composing, I am constantly evaluating what I’m doing, and struggling to find consistent moments that I don’t feel like I’m saying all of the same things in the exact same way as everyone else.

That’s all. Here’s to hoping for…

Prose on Prose on Prose OR Success Isn’t Given OR I’m Lonely For No Reason OR I Need a New Hobby

Guest Submission – “Some Words”

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by Jordan Reed

(not a haiku, still good)

The first thing I thought was “who in the hell gives a fuck about the migration patterns of Canadian Geese?!” And, the sad thing is, there’s, at least, 1 person who does, and she’s unrealistically excited because she now has a little over over an hour (a baker’s hour) to fill our heads with useless information that, I’m sure, we’re all going to actively purge. Her old, stained sweater, it looks like a pair of pre-distressed jeans, or a dumbass hat with a dumbass ripped brim, or something else that’s old, or the bottom corners of a couch of a cat owner, or the tattered jeans of that sexually ambiguous goth kid who sits a few rows down from me who ALWAYS smells like a shitty candle, or something else that should’ve been thrown out years ago, or something else that’s old. This is her time to shine. I’m usually a really nice guy.

Guest Submission – “Some Words”

Truth in Recreational Despair OR I Am Successful, Now What?

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Sometimes you have to
break the monotony; MORE
syllable writing!

I’m finished with (“)things with things(“), both the piece and the concept. The piece is not good. You will never hear it. You may experience the concept.

Have you ever had a day that was free of dread? Even that I-don’t-want-to-oh-here-he-comes-gosh-I-hate-talking-to-people sort of dread?

I was thinking about being a child and remembering lying a lot. Fabricating myths about injuries or relatives or whathaveyou. I remember doing it and getting this huge rush of anxiety about being found out. I don’t think I really LIKED it but I was sort of addicted to it. I think I’m still addicted to it. It is AMAZING how much you can get done when you feel like your life will explode if you don’t. I think maybe if you’re lucky you develop the ability or a thick skin to both accomplish things and not almost blow your brain up with anxiety. Maybehopefully.

I like it when something overlaps something else and there’s the space in between (like a venn diagram!) and that space in between is sort of confused but can be REALLY awesome.

Then there’s this shrimp. Wtf…

Drinking is fun but
hangover’s are not. I think
one outweighs: other.

I passed my sort of culmination cumulative oral exams yesterday which sort of signifies the end of grad school. It has been a difficult (embarrassingly…) experience to talk about for some reason. Some things were good, some great, some dumb. Hooray for finishing what you start. Hooray for starting new things bigger and stronger. Hooray for being more aware today than I was yesterday of how little I know and how exciting it is to know that.

I wish I did half
of what I wish I did. That
I did what I wished.

Truth in Recreational Despair OR I Am Successful, Now What?

White Walls for Aaron Quinn

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I wrote this for a piece that Aaron Quinn wrote this summer. It was meant to be a sort of mumble in the context of a large ensemble. So when you read it, you should mumble it quietly to yourself. Like you’re talking to your collarbone.

White walls are bare only when you see them. If given a choice, I’m sure they would be full. The existence that they’ve choice up to this point, in the particular reality, are that they are bare. White walls are bare only when you see them. White walls are bear. White walls are rivers and moons colliding with no real evidence of choice. They are trees birthing ideas birthing peanut butter birthing reality. White walls are canvases for writing or for looking or for building an idea for building an idea for building an idea. White walls are bears in the heat and white in the cold and white walls are for building an idea for building an idea. A monumental moment mesmerizing moons and white walls and the truth from bare fiction or from bear fiction, which is always about things bears would never do but not what you would do bare. White walls represent repentance and repeal and white walls shine but not convincingly or upliftingly or lifting up. White walls lift up. I lift up white walls. I lift up. I breathe life up. I breathe live, up. Up, live I breathe. I breathe live, up. Up, up, up. I breathe live. I breathe live. I breathe, live up, live. I live. I live, live. I breathe live. I live up. I, up, live. I breathe live in white walls. I see white walls. I live in white walls. I breathe in white walls. I breathe, lifted up in white walls. White walls. White walls, up, live. White walls, I breathe in. I breathe in. I breathe in white walls. Breathe white walls up. Breathe up. Live up. Breathe up. Breath, up. Breath. Breath. Breath. White walls allow you to breathe. Take breaths. White walls are for an idea about an idea about an idea. Steps away from an idea for an idea. White walls are the in and out and the in and out and the in and out. They’re bare. White walls are bare only when you see them.

White Walls for Aaron Quinn

This Is Not a Haiku.

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I am struggling constantly with the idea of mental identity. I’m afraid to come to conclusions because I feel like if I do, I won’t know it if/when the “right” answer comes along. I have a legitimate fear that I won’t ever come to any of these conclusions and I’ll always be waiting for something bigger and better or more right or more beautiful or smarter or whatever.

I think the real question is, is faith something you have to go for, or is it something you have? If the former, isn’t it SCARY to put your heart into something you can poke holes into, whether its a relationship or a belief or an idea of what I am or what I’ll be or ANYTHING. If its the latter, WHY DON’T I GET TO HAVE IT AND OTHER PEOPLE DO? It seems unfair that there are some people who just get to “know” what they think and I’m stuck, like many, many other people, talking themselves in circles.

Also, I project things I don’t like about myself on others. For example:

People who don’t think as much as me are dumb = I’m insecure about how little I “know” and how confident some people are with themselves.

I feel like if you think about it as much as I do you should think exactly like I think = I’m close-minded and an asshole.

People who are happy are dumb = I’m smart and unhappy so everyone should be, if they’re smart, also unhappy.

Conclusion: I’m trying to fix my brain. Here’s to success *

This Is Not a Haiku.

In the Country

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At night, in the country, I can hear the trees but I can’t see them. I hear their leaves rustle beneath them, within them, on sidewalks and porches and under my feet. I hear their arms scratching itches on the houses they neighbor. I can hear them creaking and cracking their backs, stretching and talking to each other. There is a community of trees and they communicate while we’re asleep, while everything else is quiet. Their prose is indistinguishable to us from noise, but at night, when its too dark to see them all, they’re together in a beautiful, harmonious way. Their conversation is harmony. At night, they are a symphony.

In the Country