cardiogram.tumblr.com
cardiogram.tumblr.com
cardiogram.tumblr.com
cardiogram.tumblr.com
cardiogram.tumblr.com
cardiogram.tumblr.com
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Ten Word Memoirs
In late 2008 I tried to get myself to write more by using a prompt I've heard many times before (though sometimes the word count varies). I didn't get very far—three entries to be exact. Maybe this will be something I eventually pick back up this year as well.
Oct 25
Blood blooms on my eyelids
and beneath—
body stamping itself.
Nov 26
Four letters have burned out.
Now it reads: "fun home."
Dec 5
Another dream in which smashing
a champagne bottle wakes me.
These are all very telling, even the last, in which a champagne bottle—normally reserved for popping, for celebration—is smashed so violently it actually breaks my subconscious.
I'm trying to make 2009 more like 200Mine, but if that's the case, I really need to set some goals. I blame winter for the most part.
Oct 25
Blood blooms on my eyelids
and beneath—
body stamping itself.
Nov 26
Four letters have burned out.
Now it reads: "fun home."
Dec 5
Another dream in which smashing
a champagne bottle wakes me.
These are all very telling, even the last, in which a champagne bottle—normally reserved for popping, for celebration—is smashed so violently it actually breaks my subconscious.
I'm trying to make 2009 more like 200Mine, but if that's the case, I really need to set some goals. I blame winter for the most part.
Monday, December 22, 2008
Merry Christmas, New York!
A blind man walked onto my train tonight, and wouldn't you know, started singing "The Christmas Song." It was sweet, certainly seasonal, and, being that this is the night before I fly home to Pennsylvania, a little emotional I'll admit. But then, as his voice wailed and his head shook with ferocity, the gears inside my dusty brain started spinning and I thought, "Hey, he seems familiar...."
Just as I had begun to mentally place where I'd heard this gentleman's crooning before, he switched songs. It went a little something like this:
That's right, from caroling to "Do Ya Think I'm Sexy?"
Nowhere else, but on the New York subway. See you in 2009! Tomorrow at this time I'll be resting in the chimney of my house-shaped home-state.
Just as I had begun to mentally place where I'd heard this gentleman's crooning before, he switched songs. It went a little something like this:
Though it's been said,
Many times, many ways,
Merry Christmas,
Merry Christmas, to you...
(beat)
If you want my body,
And you think I'm sexy,
Come on, baby, let me know.
That's right, from caroling to "Do Ya Think I'm Sexy?"
Nowhere else, but on the New York subway. See you in 2009! Tomorrow at this time I'll be resting in the chimney of my house-shaped home-state.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Flight Tattoo
Once I save up enough money, I want this image of the birds attached to strings on my right arm and wrist. I've finally decided.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
White Winter Hymnal
I find it baffling that I once fancied myself a writer when I can barely string together a coherent, confident, and declarative sentence these days. Other than, say, "I'm a mess." How else to explain the pit in my stomach that won't go away? I thought moving to New York would be the change I needed, when truth is, I find myself falling into the same patterns as I experienced in Boston. Inherently, there is something wrong with me.
I haven't written a complete poem in months. I haven't taken a photograph in weeks. In fact, I don't think I have much of anything at all to show in the way of creativity. Now I realize there is something worse than a "creativity block," and that's emptiness. Because at least with a block you're trying to work through it. I can't even bring myself to lift the pen or camera.
I think one of my biggest problems is that I can't handle extremes. My life is so stagnant that when the highs are high, I'm in love. But then, when it's over, the low hits so hard I forget all joys and fulfillment.
Perhaps my line of thinking has some correlation to the upcoming holidays. (I am dreading traveling to PA.) But that just seems like another excuse.
All I know is that today, at work, it began to snow, huge flakes just drifting to the wet sidewalk. I'll never get over the power it has to quiet everything, even a city. And then Sylvia, my coworker, told me how she likes to play the piano when it's snowing. Something about the flakes moving like music notes across the page.
I haven't written a complete poem in months. I haven't taken a photograph in weeks. In fact, I don't think I have much of anything at all to show in the way of creativity. Now I realize there is something worse than a "creativity block," and that's emptiness. Because at least with a block you're trying to work through it. I can't even bring myself to lift the pen or camera.
I think one of my biggest problems is that I can't handle extremes. My life is so stagnant that when the highs are high, I'm in love. But then, when it's over, the low hits so hard I forget all joys and fulfillment.
Perhaps my line of thinking has some correlation to the upcoming holidays. (I am dreading traveling to PA.) But that just seems like another excuse.
All I know is that today, at work, it began to snow, huge flakes just drifting to the wet sidewalk. I'll never get over the power it has to quiet everything, even a city. And then Sylvia, my coworker, told me how she likes to play the piano when it's snowing. Something about the flakes moving like music notes across the page.
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