ten to one

A worm, insidious and noxious, feeding on my organs.

The sheets are fresh and tight, though the bed is old and worn; I sleep on the lumpy imprints of forgotten lovers. Not mine, I never forget you or you or you. It is not my bed, they are not my sheets, they were not my lovers. Am I to mind the past? one cannot have a tail without a dog.

I ate a clove of garlic and the worm lost interest in it's habitation.

Before the sun rises, my feet pad across the floor, it is wooden and quite old, a girl wrote her name in permanent black marker, "Alicia". I find my eyes. They are full of dreams and the morning sweeps down the chimney in a rush of fresh air and sunshine.

I cut it up into bits and fed it to the fish.

temerity

After life, I have an extended vacation

Folding my body into the back seat of my ford taurus wagon, I using a high powered vacuum to suck cheerios from the recesses of the upholstery. How did I ever get here? I don't mean pushing thirty with half a bachelors degree; I know exactly how I got that. One damn quarter at a time, working a job I took because I thought that it would be emotionally fulfilling. Being a nanny is the hardest work I have ever done; it has all of the benefits of dysfunctional family life, minus the vacations and wealthy parents. That was the last time I will suck cheerios from the back seat of my station wagon.

Good that I leave now— it's been sixteen months— before I spill my mind to the unsuspecting, workaholic parents.
What, you may ask, will I do now? that remains to be seen.

My next job will be one in which my nature is respected, not be stifled; one in which joy is the key requirement.

"I say, beware of all enterprises that require new clothes, and not rather a new wearer of clothes. If there is not a new man, how can the new clothes be made to fit?" Thoreau

assimilation

well if truthiness made it, why not weaponize?

The destruction of the English language is a shame. This applies not only to the perversion of shrinking lexicons, but the general failure to accept grammar. I am not one of those high and mighty snobs who rebuffs the youth for attempting to walk. Instead, I wince as peers mangle fragmented sentences. Unaware that their flight is awkward, they seek to soar.

I wade through prodigal works rife with erroneous grammar and the morbid inclination for self-proclamation. I am special, unique, and brilliant: feed me first, they all cry.

There was a time, before the era of the confessional self, when literature had depth. Words had weight; they were measured to deliver meaning and emphasis. The affectation of society is driving me mad.

As to those who have craft and wit? write on christian soldiers

mainstream

My number one recomendation is to do it just like her

The past has a way of creeping up, inflitrating the present with it's insidious poison. Words and their heady aroma, deafen my ears. These same ears with which I hear insistant music in overlit grocery stores. These same ears which cannot not help but ring with painful frequency. The ring is an octive higher than a piano, it never varies in pitch, only in persistency. It interupts activities, wakening me from sleep.

It is this same tenacity that my past persues me. I float between pity and jealousy when I examine the overly dramatic lives of nearly forgotten friends. The pity stems from my pride in thinking that my life has changed, and for the better; jealousy is my natural reaction to competition.

These reactions are real, but narrow.

perspicacious

When I don't say what I think so the case may rest with me

Recently I have found that my minute and idealized world view is not commonly available. I find it difficult, verging on impossible, to persue peace with logic. Peace is not logic; it goes against the natural grain of humanity. It is not impossible for us to rise above our natural instincts to maim and mutilate. Compassion is a truely modern ideal. I am at a standstill. How can I rise above my romantic notions that the world is need, and more, that I can somehow help. Peace is not natural. However nature can be overcome. The question remains: should it?

fractious

there is a debate raging my fifth chakra-- i will leave it there

In passing familiar faces on my small campus, the beginning of the winter quarter seems pedestrian. Peoples lack of consideration is astounding, mine included. I am delighted to see the few people I recognize.

I wonder what I am learning and for what end. I find learning happens in hindsight.

As days lengthen I grow anxious for the seedlings; the moon was in the sky this morning as I left at half-past seven.

Persistant and committed to this life, I push on to my pioneer's dream.

sparta

It is dark well into the morning. The day hides beneath rain; I hide beneath down covers. During this holiday from school, many books have receieved my attention. I am reading at a modest pace, slowly as I know there is time tomorrow as well. Life should not be based on the hectic notion that forty-eight hours are yours weekly, free and clear. That's just not enough. The trap that holds me to my car is the same as holds me to my job. What ever would I do if I were not (unhappily) turning the pages of a calander (waiting for spring). This is my resolution: to live fully and love with all of my heart. In a recent attack of the ever imposing future on my present state, I came to the conclusion that the future is a mutiable dream. This current state of here and now overlap, allowing me to focus.
I wake up and it is raining heavily. January in the northwest is always wet. Walking across the quagmire to my mailbox, I loose a shoe in the muck. I sit and drink tea, and wonder about the bulbs germinating.