carpe verbum

"Joey"

2005-05-25T17:08:00.000-04:00

drawing by yours truely in the summer of '99

when joey died everyone was sad
the dishes piled in the sink
the bills piled in the mailbox
and i didn't cry
for months.

so, we decided to get a little cat.
he's sweet, like joey was,
and he loves to play, just like joey did.
he sleeps on the bed where joey used to sleep,
and they even eat the same catfood.

inspiration

2005-05-14T10:17:00.000-04:00

She hadn't realized how angry he was when
she told him to "take out the trash".

http://onecaption.com

http://poetc.com/

http://oneword.com/

i challange you.

stop picking at your lips

2005-05-11T18:19:00.000-04:00

here's a story of sorts that i wrote a little while back. i debated about posting it because i don't want anyone to read into it too much. it isn't about me; it's not about anyone i know. it's just a story about a girl. even if it was about me, which it isn't, it's very important to me that when anyone reads something i've written, that they take it for what it is- the words on the page. it's separate from myself and deserves it's own entity.

“It’s been over three years now.”

“Don’t think about it.”

“I have to,” the grit beneath the girl’s heels crunched as she shifted her weight; “if I let myself forget I might do it again.” This was a reasonable argument. Her friend did not rebut immediately.
“It wasn’t your fault, you were younger then.”
They both knew this didn’t matter. It had happened, and it was now a part of them, no matter how many reasons they came up with to justify the whole thing.

“I still shake, you know.”

“I know.”

The sun beat down on the concrete steps and made the muscles in the girl’s eyes strain as they looked over the cars evacuating the parking lot.

“Like when I think I see him, or hear him or anything, you know...”

She knew. The girl’s friend slid down the brick wall and crouched on the ground, books on her knees.

“...i shake.”

“I know you do; I see you.”

For a little while they sat there together. The traffic rushed by, people came in and out of the doors and went up and down the steps to and from the school. It smelled like fish sticks, tater-tots, and gasoline.

“Stop picking at your lips, you’re going to make them bleed.”

Too pensive to be embarrassed, the girl did as her friend told her, and opened her backpack to look for some chap-stick. She found a strawberry flavored glitter-gloss, a Ruby Red moisture stick plus, and some Maybelline waterproof Shimmering Sunset Pink lipstick. She stared intensely at the gaping bag for a moment before zipping it shut and pushing it aside. She went back to picking at her lips. Her friend scowled.

Just then two Muslim girls appeared from behind the far corner of the school. They passed by, walked up to the crosswalk, pushed the button, and waited. The light changed, and the cars slowed to a stop that seemed as smooth and rhythmic as trees swaying in the wind or waves rolling with the tide. The girl watched them effortlessly cross the street while her friend took out a notebook and started working on some math. The girls made it safely to the other side of the street, smiling vibrantly and talking with their hands as they went. Somewhere somebody snapped their gum; a car drove by blasting abrasive rap music, but the girl was unmoved. She stretched her neck to try and watch the two Muslim girls as they all but disappeared behind some hedges leading up to a library. Once they were inside the building the girl stopped watching and she once again began to notice the hearts and names carved into the walls, the shattered glass and cigarette butts scattered around the trash can, and she tugged at her low-rise jeans in a futile attempt to hide her peek-a-boo thong.

“Hey, your ride’s here.”

The girl’s friend pointed at a roaring dust storm charging towards them, closer, faster, closer, faster, and finally coming to a screeching halt before them. As the sand and dust began to clear away the engine sputtered and a young man came into view. He flashed a big white smile and shouted to the girl to hop in the car. She got up and greeted him with a series of coughs that were brought on by a combination of some remaining unsettled dust and cigarette smoke that emanated from the window. The girl threw herself into the black leather bucket seat, tossed her bag on the floor, and turned to wave goodbye to her friend just as the young man stepped on the gas, jerking the car forward and whipping her neck around at an unnatural angle.

“I missed you baby.” He said to the girl, who, rubbing her neck, did not respond. She kept a fixed gaze out the window while picking at her lips. The young man took his eyes off the road for a moment to look towards the girl inquisitively. He sensed her dis-ease and, naturally, searched for something consoling to say.

“You look hot today.”

Her lips were bleeding now.

“Thanks,” she replied.

HAH!

2005-05-10T16:25:00.000-04:00

LAUGHTER YOGA -- A widow goes to her rooftop every
day to laugh, meditate and escape from the craziness
of her 20-member family -- proving that laughter is the
best medicine for the body and the soul in a new
documentary, "The Laughter Club of India."

TIME Magazine
Jan. 17, 2005

Learning the Yoga Way of Laughter
Six in the morning is way too early for the kind of raucous guffaws that are echoing around a sports ground in central Bombay. Walkers and joggers are frowning at a group of 40 people hooting and slapping their thighs, eyeing them with the jealous disapproval that hardworking commuters reserve for all-night partyers on weekdays. But this is no carousers' dawn chorus. There are no drinks and very little talking, and most of the group will shortly be on their merry way to work. What there is, nonstop for 45 minutes, is hysterical, weeping laughter. So what's the big joke?

Actually, there's none. Dr. Madan Kataria, 45, explains that when he started his first laughter club in 1995 after reading about the medical benefits of a good giggle, he ran out of funny stories in a week. So, throwing in a few yoga stretches, he tried encouraging people to laugh for no reason. His formula for laughing yoga clubs proved infectious. There are 1,800 such clubs in India alone, and an additional 700 around the world from Finland to the Philippines. Every year on a Kataria-inspired holiday called World Laughter Day, celebrated on the first Sunday in May, 10,000 Danes gather in Copenhagen for the world's biggest mass chortle. One of the world's funniest men, British actor John Cleese, was so overwhelmed by the good humor he felt for his fellow man after a session at Kataria's club in Bombay, he called it a "force for democracy."The physical and psychological benefits of laughter are the subject of serious scientific study, but Dr. Kataria, who practiced general medicine before taking up his laughter mission, prefers intuitive explanations: "We don't need doctors to tell us it's good for us. We know it is."

One of Kataria's students, Alka Bhatia, who volunteers her time to teach at his clubs, says laughter pulled her out of depression. "There's a lot of pressure in my job," says Bhatia, 35, a middle manager at an import-export firm. "But now if I get stressed, I just have a little laugh at my desk and forget everything."

What if you just don't feel like laughing? Kataria says there's no problem with faking it: "Your body doesn't know the difference." At his clubs, which charge no fees, instructors get the yuks rolling with a "Ho, ho, ha-ha-ha" chant or perhaps the "lion laugh," which involves sticking out your tongue and flapping your hands by your ears. "Laughter can't solve your problems," says the laughing yogi. "But it can dissolve them." It's not that great a pun. But Kataria, like a man without a care in the world, nearly laughs his big, smiley head off. --By Alex Perry/ New Delhi

i'd thought today was world laughter day... apparently not. nevertheless, the sentiment couldn't hurt, and i don't think that Dr Kataria would protest to a few extra guffaws. so, happy post world laughter day.

Photo Credit: http://www.the-tidings.com/2001/0817/laughing2.htm

2005-04-28T22:26:00.000-04:00

a tree called life

homage to edward

2005-04-28T22:11:00.000-04:00


i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
                                    i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you
 
here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart
 
i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)
 
e.e. cummings

2005-04-13T22:41:00.000-04:00

he seemed very kind.

2005-04-13T20:41:00.000-04:00

I sold your soul to Satan,
Oh i hope that you don't mind,
I was rather pressed for cash, you see,
And he seemed very kind.

I sold your soul to Satan,
Let me tell you what he paid,
Some pocket lint, a broken splint,
And a jar of marmalade.

Yes, I sold your soul to Satan,
I didn't really think you'd care,
'cause he said you'd go to hell, my dear,
But you're already there.

2005-04-11T18:59:00.000-04:00

"not-the-next-book"

2005-04-11T17:22:00.000-04:00

i just finished reading Craig Thompson's Carnet De Voyage.

[it made me hungry for travel and culture and drawing and writing and that feeling one gets when they feel like they're really taking a step towards becoming who they want to be.]

i'm listening to butterflies and hurricanes and feeling ridiculously and powerfully optimistic.

[i find his writing style and drawing technique very alluring. i would describe it as very honest, and a paradox between minimalist and the most insignificant yet influential detail, if i actually had any idea of what i was talking about. he seems to most enjoy drawing trees, and women, and kitties. that doesn't make him sound like a particularly bold individual, but his infatuation with that recurrent trinity is by no means the focus of his musings. his plots and sketches are as complex as he describes himself to be.

but then again, i don't actually know anything about him. he's just a guy who wrote some books (so far i've only read Blankets and Carnet De Voyage) that I really enjoyed.]

anyway, i've got a million things on my mind and not a clue where to start. that's how i found myself here. i'll admit that the idea of keeping a journal online isn't particularly appealing to me... i've always kept hand written journals and i prefer that, but i've been feeling guilty about neglecting yet another project, and decided to give the ol' blog a shot.

[everything i type feels like it needs to be perfected... like i have to go over it time after time in order to correct any flaw or tweak any adjective, whereas in a written journal, i feel more at ease. in a written journal, i can cross out my mistakes but leave them there as reminders. i can add in comments and footnotes on the side, without altering my original thoughts. in a written journal i can entertain both the lingual and visual parts of my brain by forging art out of my lettering and scribbling down the sides of pages where images describe things that words less readily express. so, i'm making this an exercise in things i'm not very good at, and trying not to pour over the quality/validity/grammar/content of this post.]

don't get me wrong, i'm a big fan of technology; i find security in the patterns of technology and i find it vast and exciting, but i'm not so sure how i feel about blogs, and i'm not so sure how i feel about keeping one. there's something detached and desperate about them.

[then again, can something created by man be in itself detached and desperate?]

[...]

2005-04-05T19:59:00.000-04:00

wipe that instinct off your face.

2005-04-05T19:35:00.000-04:00

i've got a secret
if you come closer,
(closer)
i might just,
stick it in your ear.

i've got a secret
that'll wipe that instinct
right off your face.
it'll curl
underneath your toungue, and
tickle
your conscience.
(all on the first date)

2005-02-24T23:40:00.000-05:00

CLASSIFIED INFORMATION

2005-02-24T23:39:00.000-05:00

with out a trace!

Cat Cought Biteing Mother

2005-02-24T23:14:00.000-05:00

i've been remiss in my blog duties.

i have, however, been cleaning my room. today, inside of a drawer, inside of a desk, inside of a room full of things that became a part of my permanent collection as soon as they became a part of my life, i found a historical document.

i've taken it upon myself to post this document for your viewing pleasure. it is, in fact, my first newspaper. i'd be lying if i said i remember making it, or that i've wanted to be a journalist all my life (i'm pretty sure i wanted to be a tight-rope walker at the time, actually), but i can tell you that what we have here is the first of many attempts i've made, and vow to continue to make, in the constant and passionate pursuit of communicating ideas through the written word.

as the image appears to be rather illegible, this is how the text reads:

Cat Cought Biteing Mother

this morning in _________ ABin Leo ______ a one and three month old kitten bit his mother and ran [off] with out a trace! this kitten is all Black exsept 4 white hairs on his tummy 5 white hairs on his neck and one white hair on his Butt. If you see this Bad Kitty Please call me at: _______ and we will report him to the police.

2005-02-17T20:24:00.000-05:00

It sounded like a robin.

values

2005-02-17T12:52:00.000-05:00

When I went to bed last night the robins were dying.

I crawled into my nest of infinite blankets and heated pillows and tucked sheets around my toes in order to flush out the numb sensation that had become them. I lay quietly and listened to a lullaby of Matthew Good’s riddled lyrics off of a mix CD my boyfriend had made me. What a romantic scene. The vocalist pleaded with my empathy:

“So long Mrs. Smith,
This spring I think that I should go,
And I have had enough of this, And this place ain’t what it was before,
When I was young 9:30 was late enough,
And the sky was angel dust,
A dead top trio,
of criminal saints,
To worship at Wong’s,
Would you say that we were wrong?
Would you say, that we were wrong?”

"No" I thought to myself, "I would not say that you were wrong."

I turned off the light and allowed my sense of hearing to dominate the others. I could hear my stereo. I could hear my heart. Fa-thump. Fa-thump. Does it always beat so slowly? I could hear my cat drinking from his water dish. I could hear wood crackle and hush to ashes. I could hear airplanes drone as they panned the night sky. I could hear the tops of trees dancing to keep themselves warm in the numbing freeze. And then, I heard something else. I cut Matthew Good off mid-sentence to try and make out the sound. It sounded like a children’s playground in the spring. It sounded like a robin. Forgetting for a moment that the night had settled in around my home I pulled open the shade to try and confirm the unlikely vision I had heard. I was met with an impenetrable darkness and a biting cold that flooded into my room as if it were some carnivorous night-stalker pouncing on it’s pray.

Powerless against the freeze I pulled the shade shut and retreated into my blankets. I tried my best to silence my heart and listened again for the robin’s call. Sure enough, there it was, alone, piercing, as if the cold had made the sound itself sharper, clearer. I found this song to be much less of a plea, more of a proclamation of accepted defeat. It did not ask for my empathy nor sympathy, but it immediately had them both. I suddenly felt guilt wash over me like the cold had, yet with a much more potent sting that lingered like the aroma of burning plastic. Yet guilt was not what the robin wanted. This was not its usual announcement of spring or call to say that all is well and we are safe. This song was strong and slow. The resilient bird held out notes in a peculiar fashion I had never before heard. I suppose when one is completely alone one’s values shift slightly.

As if they were as set as I to listen to the symphonic tragedy, the trees all hushed each other softly, and the snow ceased to melt and the planes ceased to fly and the cat ceased to drink and the wood ceased to burn and then, for a moment, my heart ceased to beat. The soloist was gone. I listened. Fa-thump, fa-thump, fathump-fathump. The wind picked up again and a tear rolled down my cheek. My toes were no longer cold. I no longer felt romantic - not in the least. I had no empathy for Matthew Good or the “dead top trio of criminal saints.” I looked up at the ceiling and a million glow-in-the-dark-stars buzzed out of focus as tears bombarded my eyes. There was no one to tell- no one to sing to. I took out a journal and wrote illegibly in the darkness; when one is so wholly and completely alone, one’s values shift slightly.

2005-02-16T19:04:00.000-05:00

They probably don't even eat peanuts.

The Lions

2005-02-16T18:47:00.000-05:00

“The lions! Where... What happened to the lions!?”

As my mother methodically opened the front door to my grandparent’s house I could hear him waking from his sleep, and apparently a dream about lions. I stopped as I entered the room to thoroughly wipe the mud off my feet on a dark brown doormat. While I checked the treads of my shoes my mother set down the pill boxes and books she was carrying and kneeled by my grandfather’s side. His eyes were milky and glazed over with some kind of infection as he sat clutching the arms of his recliner, brows furrowed, focused on something out the window that was not there. My mother’s eyes were glazed too, but not with infection. They looked tired and sullen like those of the animals in the zoo I had seen. They lived in cages and waited to be fed and it was difficult to get their attention. It is my guess they were thinking about their lives before the zoo - their parents, their siblings, the places they lived, the games they used to play... The other kids made a game of throwing peanuts at them but I didn’t join in. I felt sorry for the animals and didn’t want to bother them. They probably don’t even eat peanuts.

“It was just a dream, dad, you were just having a dream about lions.” My mother reassured my grandfather and spoke to him with a tone that one might use with a pleasant acquaintance. “Boy, it sure is cold out,” you might say, or “How was your vacation? Did you enjoy the cruise? I bet the food was great.” This was the tone of voice you used with someone you knew very well but hadn't seen in a long time. She collected the dishes and bottles piled on the coffee table beside his recliner and chuckled softly to herself as she set them in the sink.

The intensity in my grandfather’s eyes faded and his muscles visibly relaxed and the veins in his arms and neck settled back into loose white skin. I sat back on the couch and tried to think of something to do while my mom set up my grandma’s medicine in her room. The whole house smelled like burnt crispbread and avocados and it was kind of hard to breathe. I settled on an issue of Home & Garden, forcing myself to absently read, and struggled to get past the first sentence of the first article.

After giving up on the rather impertinent magazine I resigned myself to shifting restlessly on the stiff couch. My grandfather took notice of this and, raising his implied eyebrows silently offered me the T.V. remote. I told him that that was O.K. and that I was “alright.” I’m always saying that when people offer me anything – “I’m alright.” As if maybe they thought I wasn’t or that they were about to make some great sacrifice to get me a soda or lend me a jacket or turn up the heat or whatever anybody would offer to do. I’m sure no one else thinks twice about it. Anyway, a couple minutes later he did the same kind of funny thing with his eyebrows again and raised up a bottle of Guinness as an offering. I shook my head and politely declined; not only do I not drink but at the time I was about twelve. The thing I liked most of all was the way he respected me. He didn’t make all kinds of assumptions and take every rule into account. Instead, he treated me like a real free thinking individual, like I really had some big idea of what it was all about.

I set the magazine down, took off my shoes and curled up on the couch. I closed my eyes and attempted to find some comfortable position in the couch that was for visitors.

That day I dreamt of lions.

2005-02-15T18:22:00.000-05:00

Look deeper.

look into the eye of the alpha noodle

2005-02-15T17:25:00.000-05:00

They say the eye is the window to the soul.
So tell me, what do you see? Colors? Shapes? Reflections? Nothing?

Look deeper.

Chances are what you don't see are Autumn leaves, seemingly lifeless yet so eager to dance at the slightest suggestion of a breeze.
Chances are what you don't see are wave after wave after wave gliding up to the shoreline and every so often, crashing so that the sand is rearranged to reflect the fingerprint of the moon's vibrations.
Chances are what you don't see are shelves and shelves of every kind of book - children's books, mythology, classics, picture books, novels, dictionaries, etc. - inside a very small and crowded room with a small bed full of blankets and also a girl.

Chances are, you don't see me.

And so, I have taken this opportunity to inform those who have, or possibly will at some time, happen to look into my eyes, as to just who it is they are looking at.