From Appalachia

Since I am fairly confident in my ability to procrastinate through the holidays, I will wish you a Merry Christmas now, and I'll see you in January.

Somewhere Between Friendship and Howard

I rode out to Jamestown, which from where I live, is about a five hour drive one way. It's a rather brain-numbing experience to go such a long distance and back in a day. To top it off, my friend and I hadn't slept well for a few days before that. By the time we hit the halfway mark on the way back, we had become delirious, laughing over two towns, named "Friendship" and "Howard". I promised to write about them, and as much as I'd like to take back that promise, here they are in full splendor.

In other news, I found a notebook filled with poetry I wrote from 2003. While most of it was abysmal, some of the poems were gems, and will eventually find their way into very harsh, but nurturing, revisions.

And, in domestic news, my room's carpet is now visible.

Adieu.

The Phone, it Rings

The semester is over, and I’m starting to work at the office again. While not a cubicle labyrinth, there are still the typical office perils. Phones constantly ring, the printer runs out of paper, and the four people that work here constantly fight over the cd player.

I’ve been employed to be the nameless voice that greets and redirects callers. I fix the printer and the network should either break down. I put labels on envelopes, stuff manila folders, and grab pizza and coffee from down the street. To my horror, I have become the office bitch. I’m hoping to not stay here long.

In the meantime, however, I am readying a manuscript of five poems to submit to a literary magazine. I’ll keep you posted if I get published!

Dodecahedron Dreams

I'm still persisting through Moby-Dick (my reading speed is somewhere between slow and obtuse), though I am greatly enjoying every word. I am now back at home, and have consolidated my dorm life frivolities with the mess of my bedroom. Suffice to say, my work is cut out for me if I wish to see my carpet again.

So, instead of working on tidying up, I am now working on another post, and a second blog! This will contain drafts of my works for anyone who is interested in reading my hyperbolic mind.

As if by prophecy, I now have to clean my room a little, so I can leap to my bed.

Adieu.

The Heart of an Arctic Crystal

I'm approximately one-hundred pages into Moby-Dick, and I am having serious issues in putting it down for the evening. Everything about Melville is gripping, and sublimely eloquent.

This great novel is just my first step in a greater task. My professor has given me personal assignment, so to speak; I am to read the Western Canon, to wake my Orphic voice from its blatant sleep-talking. The list is comprehensive, and it will involve delving into other languages to fully complete. Though the prospect of diversifying and enlightening my mind to the entirety of European literature is thrilling, I might be compelled to limit myself to English and the Latinate.

If anyone is interested in a collection of good works to read (I know that reading can't be quite dead yet), then go here.

My social world, on the other hand, is a gripping tale of another level entirely. My institutionalized academic world is waning into dormancy, perhaps even death, my love life is in proverbial shambles, and I'm in a struggle with what my counselor says are traits and symptoms commonly associated with bipolar disorder. My life's throes are synonymous with the rolling snowball.

And now, for non sequitur; my psychology professor, distraught over the poor turnout to the last day of class, entrusted the students who did show up with the answer to a bonus question on our final. The question, the only one not a multiple choice, is to correctly identify and write down her youngest nephew's full name. Respect can be earned in sometimes the most peculiar of manners.

I do enjoy these bitter nights. To quote Melville,

Nothing exists in itself. If you flatter yourself that you are all over comfortable, and have been so for a long time, then you cannot be said to be comfortable anymore. [...] For the height of this sort of deliciousness is to have nothing but the blanket between you and your snugness and the cold of the outer air. There you lie like the one warm spark in the heart of an arctic crystal.

Moby-Dick, Chapter 11

And with that, I bid you adieu.

Scenes From the Archivist

After I got out of work, I got caught in a massive detour around Main St. They decided to shut down the main road so people could have horse cart rides down Main Street. Historic downtown, and all that. I was stuck outside a parking lot for 15 minutes, and before I knew it, the sections of the lot were different government types, allocating their parking spots preferentially, according to their political alignment. Big freaking whoop.

I bought another collection of Bukowski's poetry, and I am, as always, impressed at how blunt he can be. Also bought a sketch pad for inking things; I want to be artsy, apparently. A friend from the interwebs is coming to visit next week. I hope she's not a sketch.

And, for tonight's great endeavor, I've decided to consolidate the entirety of my myspace blog into one giant chunk of relevant and worthwhile chunks, starting now.



"For some unforseen reason, I feel compelled to talk about absolutely nothing."
November 09, 2005

"...next time you think about criticizing me, ask yourself why the hell you're on my blog. And how many chromosomes you may or may not have."
April 09, 2006

"I no longer have to drink water, I just open my mouth and inhale."
June 04, 2006, on the humidity

"too much water... I can't go anywhere, I can't do anything. I want to do something, let people know I'm alive.. anything at all will do."
June 30, 2006, on the flood

"I'm going to try and appreciate what little free time I have left in my life. Guess I'll go watch MASH"
September 27, 2006

"The message was worth it, in a world where music and poetry [lost their] meaning in a post-modern tempest"
October 9, 2006

"I would now like to reproach my younger, far more naive self."
December 9, 2007

"Haha, you increased by blog views."
January 29, 2007, the entire blog

"Actually, it's more like watching the stupidity drain from my writing."
January 30, 2007, on reading old posts

"My IP address is 127.0.0.1, I dare you to DOS it."
May 28, 2007

"It's almost like I'm waiting for something... some whisper"
June 08, 2007, listening to the rain

"I am shutting down my account."
June 18, 2008



In retrospect, what a pathetic blog. I had to weed through pages of drivel to find halfway decent lines.

Building Block Towers

A month is the only time element that is both intrinsically eternal and microcosmic. I was going to say that a lot has happened, and it most likely has, but of what consequence is it? I have a guaranteed F in two classes, a guaranteed A in one, and maybe a B+ to show for my half-assed work in yet another. And I'm dropping out of my school. These days, I feel like Holden Caulfield, I really do.

Then, after writing it, I realize I've given you the Caulfield joke before. This is the monotony of my life, if complete incoherence can be described as monotonous.

My professor of writing suggests that I continue with school, and to read the great literary canon to help dig my niche in the writing world. I enjoy writing, though you could have gathered that. Perhaps, if you're in my first group of followers, I'll give you all signed copies of my first work.

And of course, into the greater scheme of things, I will now extract a quote:

Mankind, ignorant of the truths that lie within every human being, looked outward-pushed ever outward. [...] Eventually it flung them out into space, into the colorless, tasteless, weightless sea of outwardness without end. It flung them like stones.

Kurt Vonnegut

The greater things in our life are the things that tend to take place in our minds, in the great microcosm of neurons. My great things are all quesetions, as it were. And tonight, or today, or whenever it is that you so happen to read this, I would like to develop a more informed understanding of nostalgia.

It's been well established that nostalgia is a depression of varying intensity, over the longing for the past to return. It's the feeling that gives us an excuse to remember ex's, old jobs, places we lived, and all of the etceteras. Our beautiful past, as it were.

At my present age of 20 (going on five-thousand it seems), I have finally hit the surface of reality. To explicate, I have now completed my second decade on Earth, out of a projected 7.8. Sometimes, in my disorientation, I'll earnestly consider what middle school like will be like, or where I put my blocks, before realizing that those days are a part of a different life.

Which leads me to wonder if we were ever what we remember. We can have our memories, and we can the meaning and nostalgia for these memories, but did the past ever actually happen? There are times, occurring sadly more often, that I believe the more grim answer.

But what can you do, you know? I guess complaining is the most that can be done. But hey, if you have an answer, inform me!

À bientôt!