Poems XIII

"And A Sermon"

Do you remember when we used to do this?
I get a two-day hangover now
It's day one.
We'd drink our bellyful
Until the sun
Came up and we'd go to bed 'til noon and do it all again.
The moon was our friend,
Work the enemy.
It didn't matter the day,
We had class, sure,
and some wimmin did and some didn't
The same sisters wore their Lululemon
To 9 o' clock Wednesday Spanish
and 7 am Friday slinkings back home.
I loved those girls.
Not in the sentimental way,
But what they stood for,
Youth and ribaldry.
Revelry at the Dionysian Catalina wine mixer,
While in the pursuit of an education- they'll amount to more than us,
The ones who had to worry
About cleanup and setup
and the moral cleanup of taking back
Everything said the night before.
I don't know what they see in us.
But they're beautiful, every one.
Sluts is a bad word they say,
and it has dreadful connotations
But should not everyone
Be allowed the freedom to choose love with a side of lust?
It's the judgment inherent in the word, but it reflects on the moral police
I see jealousy and a lack of understanding.
We set a standard
We don't really know who should follow it.
So we lob darts at the board of "whores"
and know obscenity when we see it.
But I see beauty and hair flowing in the wind, the way it should be.
That's just me
A sentimental young fool,
Full of hope for the new, the next, the "us" generation
Let the girls play, they're women, not girls,
We're boys and men, not patriarchs,
I see walks of the unashamed,
Though the headaches can hang our heads.
We all have a desire to own,
To lock up our booty, or claim it from someone else,
Someone who has left it to fallow on an island
Men and women alike want the security
So they fight against gaiety.
A treasure can never be yours.
It's metal and gemstone and has no feelings.
A person can be yours
But some will never be.
Those are the grails you drink from-
I'd rather have a carpenter's cup
Than a gaudy, flashy one.
Tramps exist, so do cads, and the blurred lines inhabited between
But it is him without stones that casts the first one
While the happy stay grounded in dreams.

Poems XII

"At North Lake, Where I Did Not Mean To Go"

I took the path less traveled by,
The air cold and crisp and light,
The fall sun casting shadows,
The rocks and trees in darkened sight.

To look left at the leafless aspens,
With their amber cousin down the hill,
You could think they would squabble for life,
But they are one as the lakewater still.

A fish hops, brings a single ripple,
A southern breeze on calm North Lake.
But the aspen's stalks stand tall and clustered,
No telltale shiverous shake.

The fishermen across the water
Can be heard, what do they say?
They see me as I am quiet, on this
Lovely autumn day.


"Down In Sunset"

A pale silhouette of the burnished sky
The reflection shines brighter in its gray
My sight
Flies through the aspen ghosts
To watch a shimmer of refraction fade.
Fleeting, and gloriously so,
The ashen flow
Peeks through to me.
The mountains have their flipped counterparts,
But it is
Sky Father
seen in himself upon
Earth Mother
who stops my descent.

The sun dies
And my subject is cold and pale,
A silver farewell.


"Knives In My Room"

Three knives
On the wall
Coming in at Angle
Down & In
Down and out
A triad, trifecta, triangle,
The glided red, a royal's blade
A peasant's of hide and leather.
Nondescript and ceremonial,
The third tilted on its tether.
Knives for grandfather,
Knives for me,
Brothers of blood and those across borders
"Uzbekiston"
The cougar says
In fantasy scripts out of Mordor.

"Untitled"

I went to see the fall colors at Lake Sabrina
A friend
I don't know very well
Told me it was beautiful.

Why is it that someone always gets there first?
I was too late
Too old
To see the red-topped sprouts
The way my heart felt it should.
I went the wrong way more than once
Dead ends so full of hope
I thanked myself that I told no one
Brought no friends for my journey
But wouldn't it be wonderful

To share the sorrow,
For them to know my mind?

Rust still stood, here and there,
But I dismissed it as not my Muse,
Rocky islands, so many stones
Needing water
Needing snow, not shallows.

I see the waterline.
What could be.
The folly and fall of any romantic.

Possibilities linger and tempt.
So I'll try again.
I'll climb the mountains.
Find a new lake.
One higher up.
One that was there the whole time.

A few weeks, or months,
Time flies even when you want it to, when you wait for it.
Who is next?
I welcome winter
The harbor's closed.

An auburn gully tantalizes,
Moving on to what I cannot grasp.

But O!

The azure!

A different vantage,
Of a higher and nobler sort.

Breathtaking views from
Hard-breathing heights,
A powder sky,
Verdant shallows where I see
No fish but know he is there.
The lake, she opens a cerulean depth over there
Over. There.
There!
The word that's been missing.
What is, not what could be,
The is, the there
Bringing presence to the present moment
For this present soul.
Why harp on the nonce?
I see a second me belong
To the lady of the lake, so clear.

Poems XI

"On Horseshoe Lake"

A slight breeze brings the scent of the trees,
The bushes in sight
But no flowers, though
I scent happiness bright,
The smell of the act of living.
I calm my heart, and
Sunbursts bubble up from the deep.
I paddle in a ring,
Ringed by canine friendliness.
Sticks drift past me, theirs once, as
The cares of the world.

Green and brown and blue and
Hues all in between,
the murkiness and sun and shade collide.
No exultant joy, no excitement of ecstasy but-
Sweet, sweet melancholy turning to happiness as
The season turns too,
To what's right and should be.
No sadness there for me.

I paddle back and forth and have no purpose and
Stress washes and melts in the sun's warm beams.
It's serene, beauteous, peaceful and quiet, and
Solitary! But
I finally don't feel lonely.
Just calm even though the wind stirs the waves.
The chilly lake has no measure of "too much-"
Refreshment only,
The wind dies for me, the only one.
Just by myself, with a quieted mind.
He's not bringing the world with him. Just
Accepting it, the wondrous things,
The impartial sun, the lovely sun.
I am acquitted of dreariness and business both.

So I paddle, sweet serenity my guide.

Poems X

I think I've figured out my type; it's AAWG: All-American White Girl. The kind that would make me a pie. That's, I guess, first on my list of criteria for a life mate. Pie-making. Question 1: Would you make me a pie? Question 2: Will that pie be delicious? Question 3: Would you get jealous if I eat someone else's pie, like at Thanksgiving? If the answers are Yay, Yay, Nay, you've passed. This next poem has absolutely nothing to do with any of that.

"Cualacino"

I'm not drinking anymore,
he says,
Until I am.
I'm not eating carbs anymore,
he says,
Unless I want a donut.
I'm going to be a better person-
But not quite yet.
I'm going to clean the whole house-
Tomorrow.

Everything starts tomorrow,
It's the first day of the rest of your life.
But if that fails,
There's still the day after that.

A man sits in a chair
A woman lies in bed.
The room's a mess
And so are their heads.
The wind blows outside,
And the garage door creaks,
The front door slams,
They left it ajar,
A glass on the table,
Two on the stairs,
And all the while, it piles up,
Piles up, piles up-
Until it's too much to handle
Nowhere to begin
The wind chimes, again
Like an alarm
Blaring, the people like sheep,
Bleating, hating themselves
But they can't stop! Or rather, start.
Tomorrow is the first day of the rest of everyone's lives,
Not just yours,
You're being selfish,
self-indulgent, because
Being selfless is scary.

It doesn't matter,
Fear never goes away,
It just changes-

So why can't you?

Why not me?
Why not you?
Why not?
Why?

What. The. Fuck. : A Series of Poor Decisions

"Well, my life is over."

Frank's roommate Todd put down the phone and collapsed back into the couch. To Frank, it looked as if he was trying to assimilate with it. Todd thought that maybe, just maybe, he could fuse with the couch on an atomic level through a quantum miracle. The universe would never be able to find him again. More importantly, neither would Alex or Megan.

"What's wrong?" asked Frank. He did not know Todd to be a depressive.

"Remember how great last week was? How I got published, and felt on top of the world?"

"Yeah."

"Remember how fucking dope I looked when we out each night?"

"In your opinion, yeah."

"Hawaiian shirts with rolled up sleeves are cool. I think. If it's good enough for Jon Cusack and Anthony Edwards, it's good enough for us. But I slayed. I banged five chicks that week."

"That's terrible. Life definitely over."

"Two of them are pregnant."

"Two?" Frank looked at Todd in disbelief.

Todd had the same incredulous look in his own eyes, but his pupils also contained fear and melancholy.

"Two, Todd confirmed. "Alex and I were blacked out. She was so sure we used protection. I didn't force the issue. Megan said she was on birth control."

"Never trust a woman."

"But she was hot!"

"Case in point."

"What am I gonna do, Frank?" Todd lamented to the sky while sinking further into the couch. "What am I gonna do?"

"Can't marry both. In a way, getting two relative strangers pregnant might be better than just knocking up one."

"Shut up."

"Serious."

"Alex ain't a stranger, she's a softball teammate. We're practically friends. Anyway, that's not what I'm worried about. Alex says she's keeping it, since she's getting on in years and still single, but I can be as involved as I want and that I'm not on the hook for child support-"

"-get it in writing-"

"-I'm not on the hook for child support, Frank. She may not be the brightest bulb, but I trust her in her sincerity. If it makes you happy, you who's so invested in this- oh, wait, you're not- I will. Dick."

"Thanks."

There were a few moments of silence before Frank chimed back up. "So it's Megan you're worried about?"

"She doesn't want to ruin her figure at 21 with a pregnancy. I just have to completely pay for the abortion. Bitch. But it's better than paying for a baby."

"What're you worried about then?"

"Remember that black chick whose name I don't remember?"

"Yeah."

"Didn't wear a condom with her either. And I have two missed calls from a number I don't recognize."

Ned Stark (You're A Fine Man)

To the tune of "Brandy (You're A Fine Girl)" by The Looking Glass. Lyrics copyright Jimmy Davoren, about George RR Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire. Do not read if you haven't read Dance With Dragons. SPOILERS

There's a war in Westeros
And it kills a hundred men a day
Lonely soldiers miss the Starks who were slain
And say how Winter Comes

And there's a girl in a harbor town
Across the sea, laying justice down
They say, Arya, kill another clown
But enough about her now

Because Stannis said "Davos! You're a fine man (such a fine man)
What a good knight you would be (Onion knight)
But you smuggled, so your fingers belong to me"
(dooda-dit-dooda-dit-dooda-dit-dooda-dit)

Davos wore a pouch and chain
Carrying his fingers, luck, and shame
He lost it, on Blackwater Bay
For King Stannis whom he loves

He went to Wyman Manderly
To beg for a king's fealty
Wyman made it clear Rickon lives
White Harbor was his home

Jojen said "Brandon! I'm a greenseer (creepy greenseer)
What a good warg you would be (straight wizard)
But Beyond-The-Wall is where we need to be"
(dooda-dit-dooda-dit-dooda-dit-dooda-dit)

Yeah, Brandon saw a crow with three eyes
Who told him magic stories
His dream were real, one day he would fly
With the Children of the Forest
But now he was connected to the trees, lord, he was a weirwood man
Brandon does his best to understand
(dooda-dit-dooda-dit-dooda-dit-dooda-dit)

Davos is sent to find Rickon on the sea
Brandon walks through history
Sansa wants lemon cakes
And Arya's a Faceless Man

Melisandre says "Azor! Ahai! (Lightbringer)
Stannis it should be (for the Red God)
But in these fires, it is Jon Snow who I see"
(dooda-dit-dooda-dit-dooda-dit-dooda-dit)

Jon! You're Rhaegar's son! (and Lyanna)
A Targaryen you should be (Song of Ice and Fire)
The Prince that was Promised, not just the LC
(George-RR-George-RR-George-RR-Martin)

Poems IX

It's smoky out here in Mammoth because of a fire that can't reach us. It's smoke, on the other hand, is not making my lungs happy. I hate wildfires, and it's high season here in California. Drought and years of dryness have turned out beautiful forests into tinder. All we can hope is that El Niño brings a wet winter for the upcoming year. But really, we can't change the natural processes of nature to our liking. We have to accept what happens, while still doing all we can the right way. We only have control over ourselves, so that's where we need to start, "I'm starting with the Man in the Mirror/I'm asking him to change his ways." Please conserve. Please, be the best you that you can be.

"Wildfires"

"Healthily" trapped in a cabin, in a cottage
A haze outside
And a ruby sun.
We have freedom from the flames
But the smoke assails us still
Assaulted with ash,
The secondary details,
The ripples and Vulcan echoes, are we.
The fire was fanned by "other"
Lightning or lighted fag,
I fear a man with no remorse
More than nature which just is.
The worlds consumes itself
And needs justify nothing.
But I cough and hack and wheeze and burn,
My eyes tear
For beauty and solemn truth.
We will be long gone
Before the last of the fires die, out or down
But still we can mourn and cherish
For that's the gift that's been given us.

"Through the fire and the flames/We carry on"

Poems VIII

"Clifford Smiles"

Fragile psyches

Embittered egos

On laundry day.

By God let your laundry hang out to dry

Hang out to dry

Let it hang out to dry.

It's not too worrisome,

It's not too important, even if it is.

Remember what you mock is simply laundry day

So let it hang out to dry.

I can bring quarters,

She can push buttons,

He can run out of bleach.

But it's laundry day, and even with a faulty dryer,

Tomorrow all your clothes will be clean.

Soon enough, they'll all be clean.

Soon enough, they'll all be dirty again

And it'll be laundry day.

Poems VII: Love Poems

Here are some love poems, and they're not all about the same person. They're all to remain a mystery, as they strike burnishing with the unrequited, unrelenting flame, lain cold.

"To Love a Love"

O! To be smitten,
That's the word;
An ode to being smitten-
Takes flight on a bird.
A lark as 'twere,
But always there,
I'm constantly flying,
Butterflies for a mare.
Bewitched in any hour,
By the heart's sweet power-
Has there ever been a time it's just been me
With no marathon running of fantasies?
I'll guess on answer,
Sweet Jeopardy-style,
And say no, not a chance, from checking
Mental files.
I love love
And always will
Being heady and drunk,
Drinking in my fill.


"M'lady"

A poem of love (a terrible one)
Yes, that's the way to do it-
One written by me
That you'll never see
Though your laughter did accrue it.
I might as well let my emotions forth,
(In paper form, at least)
Because it's wrong, I will not act-
I am no lustful beast.
"The pert and nimble spirits of youth,"
Your strawberry flowing tresses,
And of course the way you make me feel,
When my jokes are all successes.

Smartness goes a long way,
Dorkiness even farther,
I hope the best for the rest of your life,
May your blushing radiance grow ever larger.


"Fireworks of the Doubly Drunken Heart"

Hey!!! So...
I'm sorry,
But it turns out I love you.

And I ain't a fan

Of emotions,
Or notions,
But there are enough fireworks
In the world.
Not between us or nothin',
Cuz we friends,
And friends is dope,

-Haha-

There it is.
Damn straight,

Motherfucker.

Puttin'
Motherfucker on its own line?
Crazy as shit.
But:

Motherfuckin' worth
It.
Byaa.

Not this one. This one is more recent and that was her real name, a girl who lives in Vietnam. On two different paths, yet the fates let me have one blissful night of conversation. I do not live in Vietnam.

"Love In Sadness"

Danielle.
Forever,
And just for a nigh.
Love is a fickle thing
And it can happen in an instant
And last til the end of time.
When there's truth to it
When the connection is reality
It doesn't even matter what you say.
Because the content is deeper,
Its an elder compulsion,
An attraction of minds,
A gravitational pull,
Two bodies, one absolute,
Danielle.
You'll be gone,
Already fading,
Never again to meet.
But our hearts met,
That's all that matters.
One day, if the gods be good,
We'll be together knit in the universal consciousness,
That beating heart of humanity's entropy,
The math that holds the universe tight.
Tendrils of happiness
Of the true twinkling beauty
Starstruck and striking out gem-like stars.
A knowing.
An actual knowing.
No grok but yes.
A sure thing for a surety of passion.
Your hair that falls over earrings sweet,
Sweetness falling over thin smiles.
A leg up, on my shoulder,
A leg up, on the competition for my desire:
Full desire.
No singularity but wholeness
Of every fiber, every ounce.
A lingering hope
But I care not.
I accept you now as a part of me,
Though apart from me.
I wither and thrive in flux.

The Life Of A Hater Hater

I am a hater hater. What does this mean, exactly? It means that I can't stand people who hate for no reason other than to hate. Chapelle's Show's Haters Ball is my nightmare. Studies have shown there are people who are predisposed to hate, and that's a shame. They take offense to impersonal things that happen halfway around the world. But the problem with being a "hater" is not that they hate. It's that they hate for the wrong reasons, or with the wrong evidence. Either way, they don't care. Haters choose to always hate. Haters carry a wholly pessimistic worldview, but also a very self-centered one. Haters internalize. What they hate on is incorrect. What they don't is acceptable. It's based on the hater's opinion, and they refuse to see it as so. They see it as fact. Where's the empathy?

I'm talking about haters because Lebron James just announced he's going back to Cleveland to play for the Cavs. I am stoked. I woke up to that news and I've been watching SportsCenter all morning, even though I did not want to. It's an important story. "Where were you when you heard Lebron was returning home to the Cavaliers?" I was in Mammoth, excited that the city of Cleveland is ready to welcome him back. One of the pundits said it right. "Cleveland was the only place that offered him redemption." In a lot of people's eyes, he needed to be redeemed. Those were haters. They became haters. But many of them won't be haters anymore. They'll forgive. The true haters will keep their back turned on Lebron. Some of them never liked him in the first place. He's one of the greatest basketball players of all time, one of the most tremendous athletes I've ever seen.

Pasha tweeted, wondering if he could still hate Lebron because the Cavs knock out the Wizards. He's good now. That's a valid reason. I hate the Seahawks, because they're in the Niners' division. Pete Carrol coached USC, and he's smiles the smarmiest smile. Hate for a reason is perfectly fine. You can't choose to hate for the sake of hating. Cleveland burned Lebron jerseys when he left. They hated him, because he left. I don't agree with thoughts of "betrayal," but I understand the hate. Now, they're sorry. But Miami fans are all "betrayed," and are hating. That I don't get as much. Come on. He came, he left. That's just standard pro sports. The history and emotion doesn't exist like that.

The only reason I ever wanted the Heat to win championships was so the haters would get what was coming to them. Also, the Spurs are boring. Mostly, though, I loved Lebron because everyone else hated him.

The other thing I want to talk about is all these chicks being vilified for posting pictures of themselves hunting in Africa. Oh my god, you fucks, you can't attack a girl for posting her big game pics. The Texas Tech cheerleader shot a lion. They're majestic! Well, the way that kind of hunting works is that you pay. And that money goes back into supporting wildlife conservation and stopping poaching. It's not the Wild West out there, where you get to shoot buffalo from the train. Poaching is like warfare, and it's important for the economy to have hunting occur. Don't call a woman a coward for shooting something. Don't become indignant about something you know nothing about. I support hunting. Sure, I'd like to see it all be bows and arrows. They're are ways to improve everything. But you don't get to call for a human's head because it doesn't agree with your "morals," ones you don't have until there's controversy and it's time to jump on the hate bandwagon.

And the Belgian shot a prey animal! That stuff is edible, that stuff is acceptable beyond belief, and that's important. Haters don't get the concept of culling the herd. Killing healthy, powerful lions can be bad. I has stayed away from all the vitriol for the Texas Tech girl until now, but I looked it up. Male lion, controlled area, killed to make sure he doesn't kill any cubs. That's a thing that happens so that the male can make sure HIS cubs are the survivors. It's not like the lions are super aware of their numbers or the system of evolution and survival. It's a progeny thing to them only. But remember how they brought back the wolves in Yosemite, and then they ate and scared the deer, bringing back a better, thriving version of the Yosemite ecosystem? African savannah can be corrupted too if you have too many antelope. So shoot 'em. Give the money and the dead to the local community. Everyone thinks they're so cultured and advanced for condemning any and all hunting. No. You're simply wrong.

I am not a preservationist. I am a conversationist. If you want to leave everything "pristine," you're getting mad at beavers and fungi. Everyone can agree that sounds ridiculous. Humans are in the animal kingdom. We should be one with it, not apart from it. We can be above it on either side: We shouldn't crush it beneath our feet, and we shouldn't be high and mighty as its protectors. We need to accept our role as part of it, as it.

But fuck Thoreau though. I don't hate how I hate him.

USA out of the World Cup

Hamstring injuries. Two broken noses. 19 and 20-yr-olds playing for the national side. I couldn't be prouder of our team, but I could be happier with them, if they had won.

There were a few opportunities we might have been able to capitalize on and win with. But they had more, that they didn't get to. Tim Howard was too locked down in goal. He had 16 saves, the most going back 50 years. Or maybe more. They only started keeping track 50 years ago, meaning Tim Howard might have had the most saves in World Cup history. I think it's sad. Tim Howard might, for the rest of his life, not remember those 16 saves. He's crying right now on TV. Those two goals they scored, though, those are the ones he might remember forever. Let's hope not. We're all in awe of him. It's not like the Brazilian goalkeeper everyone hates from 1950.

2-1. So heartbreaking. We could have won. On penalty kicks, I'd take none other than Timmy. So sad. He was on fire. But he couldn't be flaming enough. He got mad at his defenders tonight. He had to do so much.

You have to realize how I don't watch soccer. I thought I literally could not watch a whole game. I sat there enthralled. I was up and down, out of my seat, pacing almost like a Niners game. Everyone in the United States is on that page. That's at least something to have pride in, too. That we cared. I actually cared and I actually understood what was going on. I'm terrible at FIFA.

Also on Tv, they keep saying "He stood on his head." Is that a real reference? Or is that a soccerism? All these association footballers don't normally stand on their heads.

2005 O. Henry Prize Stories, In Order from "Best" to "Godawful Worst Holy Crap Sphinxes Almost Made Me Vomit"

I read all these short stories to try and get a feel for different writers, juxtaposed against each other. I wanted to see what I'd like, and what I wouldn't like. Hope is important. Shitty endings and feelings of isolation with no resolution- why would you write that story? Why would you enjoy it, and why would you expect anyone else to? Every ending doesn't have to be happy. Every ending should, however, make sense, and be satisfying or cathartic. A terribly sad ending can be the best ending if it's right, if it fits. It shouldn't just be blah. Here's my ranking. 1-5 are fantastic, 6-9 good reads, 10-13 okay, 14-16 acceptable, 17-19 not good, and 20 should be stayed away from on all fronts unless you want to want to punch Timothy Crouse in the face.

1. What You Pawn I Will Redeem: Sherman Alexie

2. Fantasy for Eleven Fingers: Ben Fountain

3. Mudlavia: Elizabeth Stuckey-French

4. Christie: Caitlin Macy

5. A Rich Man: Edward P. Jones

6. The Hurt Man: Wendell Berry

7. Tea: Nancy Reisman

8. The Tutor: Nell Freudenberger

9. Refuge in London: Ruth Prawer Jhabvala

10. The Card Trick: Tessa Hadley

11. Speckle Trout: Ron Rash

12. The Drowned Woman: Frances de Pontes Peebles

13. The Brief History of the Dead: Kevin Brockmeier

14. Snowbound: Liza Ward

15. The High Divide: Charles D'Ambrosio

16. Grace: Paula Fox

17. Dues: Dale Peck

18. The Golden Era of Heartbreak: Michael Parker

19. Desolation: Gail Jones

20. Sphinxes: Timothy Crouse

Plugged

Can we watch something else?

It’s what’s on. You shouldn’t change it, that’s rude.

But he’s not watching.

You’re not watching either.

Technically. But I know it’s on.

So does he. Maybe it’s soothing.

It’s aggravating.

Why?

Why? That’s the question, isn’t it.

So answer it.

Ok. I will.

...

Fine, here goes. These people, they’re not doing anything. Nothing worthwhile. And yet, you’d never know that from listening to them. Every moment of their lives is so exciting, or heartbreaking. At least they play it that way for the cameras. You get the impression that their very lives hang on the balance of the next five minutes. The five minutes, which of course, take up twenty minutes of TV time.

Franklin looked over at his roommate. Mark had his laptop open to BuzzFeed, a listicle of pug dogs that Franklin had disgustedly scrolled through the night before, a listicle he had scrolled through until the end, scoffing and hating and yet finishing, eagerly rushing to the comment section to express his disdain. Mark’s eyes weren’t on the pugs, but rather his smartphone, as he loaded up Clash of Clans. He had just finished exclusively liking hot girls’ posts on Instagram, and now he needed to win virtual glory. Mark had turned to the History channel when he awoke.

Franklin had returned from his early morning bowel movement to find Mark getting ready to watch “Pawn Stars.” Franklin had already sat through an hour and a half of Sportscenter when this happened, meaning he knew a half hour of sports content well, and another half hour extremely well. He still made a peevish coughing noise of offense that Mark had not noticed. Franklin felt Mark never noticed his annoyances or passive-aggressive comments. Mark felt Franklin needed to stop wearing shoes in the house.

Franklin loaded up his Instagram feed, looking at Mark’s Likes with disdain and not liking anything he came across. Two of the pictures he did like already had triple digit likes, since they were posted by sorority girls he had known tangentially in college. Franklin refused to become part of the sea. He wanted his Likes to stand out, as they did in real life. Quinoa and ketchup embodied Franklin: too off the beaten path even for those who fought the current. He incorporated cultural norms in ways that went against the grains of normalcy. He was better than the heathens, especially the people who try to sell cars to Rick on “Pawn Stars,” instead of selling them themselves like everyone else does.

Mark ripped a bowl one-handed, and had moved on to a video on his iPad. Many men multi-tasked with two or three tasks. Mark’s record, though he didn’t keep of track of those things, was eight and a half.

Carlos, the third roommate, was asleep. He had a night job but maintained himself in pretty good physical shape for that one night a week he had off. He’d go to bars. Mark and Franklin would complain that his room smelled of sex, or that they heard him the night before when they were trying to watch videos on their computers- Netflix for Mark, torrents for Franklin. Carlos simply smiled when later in the week they’d complain about their personal lack of sex lives.

Thoreau (Is the Worst)

I read another post off of Brain Pickings, which I love, about Henry David Thoreau, who I do not, and who I think is the original hipster. Thoreau is a hipster in the negative sense. I really couldn't stand him by the end of Walden. He wrote a whole book about living by himself in the woods when he was like a mile out of town and made his mom do his laundry for him. Anyone who looks up to Thoreau is mistaken. He's a fraud, not "one of the masters of the art of living," as Ms. Maria Popova put it. He's a pretentious hypocrite and I do not like him. I mean, what do you expect from someone with the worst facial hair neckbeard of all time. He is not a role model in any way. Except for hipsters.

Star Wars Episode VII

Still only one woman announced as a new cast member. Really, Star Wars? How are the humans supposed to reproduce? WIth Bea Arthur? How is Lando going to get his game on with smooth Colt 45?

Poems VI

"A Walk in the Morning/Wood"

I took a walk one morning
would I say that that was that?
No, for I stumbled upon a bone,
Earnestly circled by a cat.
Its back was arched, its fur erect,
Shunning me, shooing me forth.
So I thought hard on the matter
And promptly changed my course.

Poems V, from a ski day at June Mountain

He was a dragon now
He looked like himself
But he was a dragon
Unequivocally. He knew.
Breathing fire
Hot
Like a fart on someone else's thigh
Seagulls flying
He was better than them.
All of them
All of who?
He didn't know anymore
Anymore
Than he knew who he was

-but he did know-
The universe and its secrets.
Our universe's name was Ted
It had replaced Francine
Or rather
Inflated inside her
A balloon in a balloon
Clowns have balloons
Dragons don't.
Rawr

"Shrooms"

I think saying the title after really makes the poem better for that one. These poems were written skiing at June Mountain. There are only two. I was by myself.

"Dope Status"

Try eight
You know it when you jump
Kicker off of Deer Bowl
I'd landed with a thump

Not once not twice
I gotta make it
Can't go home
My pride just won't take it

I'm the only one who knows I landed a three
But the most important person to see it is me

I know I did it
That's what counts
I refused to bounce without, I'm no slouch
So
All hail the conquering hero
With bruises and booboos
But a 3-6-0

Dandelion Wine vs. Blood Meridian

The last two books I read were each "classics" of their authors. Ray Bradbury's "Dandelion Wine" is a semi-autobiographical novel about a 12 year old boy in summer. Cormac McCarthy wrote "Blood Meridian" as a violent exploration of borderland outlaws in the late 1800s in the Southwest. Both authors express themselves incredibly poetically, with fanciful language and high metaphor use. The difference is, McCarthy's novel was a struggle. I breezed through "Dandelion Wine." I worked through "Blood Meridian."

And to me, that makes "Dandelion Wine" a much better book. It's filled with deaths, yes, but it's also filled with hope. It expresses a deep sadness that reflects reality, and only serves to make you glad at the end of it. "Dandelion Wine"'s tears are the kind that Butters cries in the one episode of South Park where his Raisins "girlfriend"ends it with him. Even when you lose something important to you, the knowledge exists that you had it in the first place. Tragedy comes from living. Without it, the tears don't come but neither does the smile.

"Blood Meridian" makes a point with its drudgery and repetition. War and violence keep on keepin' on, and the hearts of men lead to evil if they give in. The poetry was beautiful, the vocabulary perplexingly yet intriguingly arcane, but it never could hook me in. Plot? Not really. Just a lot of walking and riding and killing, and an author making it all seem mundane. I guess it's more depressing than shocking. It is true looking around the internet that it could never be a movie. It lives on its own as a book.

Both books, by the way, are linked to Moby Dick. Which is weird. I guess this is an example of how your brain always finds the connections when it's primed or already looking for them. It's like noticing how your iPod always seems to play the same artist in an hour even when you're on shuffle. Actually it's random, but your brain goes in for false pattern recognition.

Read "Dandelion Wine." Many times. Study "Blood Meridian" in a college course.

This quote from Dandelion Wine links in to both of them, but is really a good life lesson about throwing in the towel when it's the proper time:

"Tom, when the time comes that the same cowboys are shooting the same Indians on the same mountaintop, then it's best to fold back the seat and head for the door, with no regrets and no walking backwards up the aisle."

And then there's a quote I thought I had written down but I can't find so I'll try and recite from memory:

"She wasn't thin in the way that girls are when they're not loved at seventeen, or fat in the way that women are when they're not loved at fifty, but a firmness, a roundness, when women are at any age and there is no question."

Something like that. The proper Venus.

BREAKING NEWS

This just in: 2014 is going to be a great year

How do I know this? Because the Niners lost, there is no snow on the mountain and I'm basically unemployed, and I gave up on pining after a good friend who will only ever be that.

But Jimmy, that sounds like 2014 is the worst year on record!

Yes, accurate.

But I have nothing left to lose. Which makes a man very dangerous. Alternatively, not dangerous at all, just optimistic that things have to and will get better.

I'm excited. No longer down in the dumps. Nothing to hang my hopes on, just me. It's liberating and a little cheesy. But it's gonna be great.

Stay tuned, spam sites that are my only hits on this blog. Because life is looking up.