My Life

I will no longer write on this blog. My reasons are plentiful, most of which will remain unspoken and live only inside of myself. Honestly, there are people I don’t want reading my writing anymore. I’ll have another blog, you can e-mail me at Jealousound@hotmail.com if you want a link, and I’ll probably post it on my Facebook (link to Facebook on the side). I wish I didn’t have to do this, but I think I do. I’m tired of people reading my writing and turning it into something it isn’t. So, I’m done.

Oh, and by the way, comments are up again.

It’s so nice sleeping in a bed that isn’t mine, especially with a girl who is worth spending the night with.

Enough with the emails- I know comments have been down, I emailed Today already, and am doing everything I can. (Though I really do appreciate the concern!!!) I’ll probably post something letting you know when comments will be up and running again. Until then… You can just email me the comments, or save them. Thanks!

I’m not feeling especially creative today, but I read a poem I fell in love with.

This is Just To Say

I have eaten

the plums

that were in

the icebox

and which

you were probably

saving

for breakfast

Forgive me

they were delicious

so sweet

and so cold

By, William Carlos Williams

A girl  in my class rose her hand and talked about how cute of an idea it is- the speaker taking the plums, then leaving a poem in hopes of replacing it. She said how it would have made her happy, and she smiled as she said it… I couldn’t help but imagine it being something I would do to her… We’d go out shopping, buy a snack, and while she’s in the shower I’d eat it and leave a dumb little poem teasing her about how good it was.

I read online that the poem could be about a love affair, that the plum represents another lover, and the speaker caved into the desires of it. It was an affair the speaker doesn’t really feel sorry about, emphasized by his erotic word choice in the final stanza.

I question this analytical explanation for several reasons. Firstly, the title of the poem signifies that there isn’t supposed to be more than what is in the poem. Carlos writes imagery poetry, similar to Pound, one huge implication of modernism is that they do not wish to be lost in the metaphors of traditional poetry. Secondly, the fruit choice. Had it been grapes, strawberries, even an apple, I could understand the sexual link, but a plum? I feel like if the author was trying to represent a sexual affair, he would have picked a more applicable symbol. I think the poem is just what it is, a taunting poem left for someone on the fridge after the speaker takes their plums.

I suppose that any poem is up for any interpretation, or multiple perhaps.

So for now, I will relate it to her and I, the girl from my class… We come home from shopping and are about to go out on a date, she tells me she wants to jump in the shower for a minute, and leaves. While she is showering, I eat something out of her fridge, then put a poem in its place teasing her… And all of it not because I want the plum, but because I want the smile.

Her foot gently glides against the top of mine, I feel her touch, soft, sweet, and caring. I look toward her as she giggles in the midst of a conversation, and it makes me smile to myself. A smile of truth, reality, compassion, happiness. I look toward her and see all of the qualities in her which are not of my past. They are the qualities which stand out, the ones I want the most. Her hand moves across the couch and brushes against my finger tips, the kind which appears casual to everyone else, but not to the two experiencing it… And there it is, the volcano in my heart bubbling before eruption- Oh, my friend, my foe, my desire.

“We are all our own devil, and we make this world our hell” rings through the room, and the voice of my head responds back, “I am my own angel, it’s time to make it my heaven.” I look toward her smile, and smile once again.

There it is… Eruption.

Eyes so tired, searching for sleep,

But they see a copy

of what keeps them awake.

I feel like I’ve been rotting in a jail cell… Sitting in the middle of town square’s public stocks, the same people walking by and spitting in my face… And now, freedom.

My phone rings, I look toward a call I would have ignored before, and answer it. I glance around the bus, I see a smile I would have looked away from, and return it. I wear an outfit I wouldn’t have worn before, and am complimented. I am me, unscathed and unabashed, unrestricted and unrestrained… I’m me, happy, and free.

I’ve made more friends than ever before, been closer to friends than ever before, felt cared about like never before, and felt wanted much more than before. I’m not here to thank some god I know isn’t there, I’m not here to slap anyone’s wrists (or even my own) as punishment or ill-directed emotion… I’m here to say this;

I’m me, and if you don’t like it, fuck you.

Freedom is a beautiful thing.

Perhaps some poems are better left unpublished. Perhaps some words are better left unsaid. Perhaps some arguments should end in silence, before the argument begins.

It’s astounding that the thing you wrapped your universe around can shatter in but a single night.

It makes me question, “was it just a single night?” And the answer to that I do not know. Perhaps it was just the final push over the edge of the cliff she had been teasing me with all along, and maybe it hurt worse because it was so unexpected. I wonder if I was dumb for not expecting it… But I believed. I genuinely thought things were different… Things were fixed… Things were right.

When it comes down to it, they must not have been. If happiness was truly attained, it is impossible for there to be such strong negative emotions that someone would even consider withdrawing, quitting, throwing the figurative white towel into the ring. There could be no real happiness- superficial, perhaps, but nothing that truly digs itself into your chest and funnels its way into the bottom of your heart.There could be no true realness.

So, I realize now things were simply partial. Partially changed, partially true, partially this, partially that…

Partiality frightens, no- terrifies me. Falling for someone who only partially falls back…. I can’t say she didn’t care for me, for that would be exaggerated drastically, but I do think I can say that her happiness was partial. If it was not, there would be no true room for such deeply instilled sadness, pain, and dishonesty. I wonder if she thought she was. I wonder if she believed she was as happy as I was, as in love. Falsehoods rooted so deeply into the mind that it tricks oneself. I find that more likely, more comforting than simply being convinced it was a wonderful actress.

Or did she truly feel the same? It’s a happy thought, but one which is, at the same time, ridiculous, incredulous, unsupported, and unbelievable… So I cannot, and it would shock me.

I don’t think that it’s possible to truly love someone and be happy, but want to do that which was attempted by her. To do that, on top of the things which have come before… None of these were love. None of these were complete change… And to realize that crushes me. Once again, all logic points toward partiality.

After watching, hearing, and feeling the way I make her feel, it made me realize what I must do if I love her. If she were with me and wanted to do those things, it obviously isn’t right for her. Both recently, and historically speaking. She may not understand it, even, but I think it has become the ultimate truth for me, and for us. It is one which I wanted so desperately not to be true, but slapped me in the face.

I have a feeling this will be the kind of post I remove the same day I write it, something I’m just trying to get off of my chest and pass through my confused, hurt, yet settled mind. It appears that I have used logic so deeply and intently that I have stumbled upon truth.

“Truth is beauty, beauty is truth.” It seems that Keats is in desperate need of an eye opener, for there is little beauty in such a sad truth- only pain.

Day has become a new sensation of seeking something worthwhile, while night is blurred into a composition of emotional instability and my attempt toward redirection.

What has my life turned into? It is not what I thought it would be, but what is? It has all changed, all been so different, and how can one tell when it is for the better, or for the worse?

I look toward the window and watch the branch of a tree shaking in the wind. The sky is a pasty white, tiny droplets of water provide the illusion that it is foggy outside. How can condensation, moisture, and glass do such a thing? I compare it to my life, and realize there has been this same window in front of my eyes for months.

Everyone thinks they’re in love. Everyone pretends to be in love. Life… A huge act, a performance… But what happens when one isn’t pretending? They are back-handed by the unrelenting hand of the director, he shouts “exit stage right! Stage right god-damn you!” And you can’t exit. You spin around and everything becomes confusion. You can’t see a single thing, stage right becomes center becomes left becomes up down right up left and so you just stand on stage while everyone stares at you in dumbfounded disbelief. And he looks at you, “You poor mother-fucker.”And she looks at you “Fuck off and go to hell.” she says.

Welcome to the stage, where in some Sister Carrie replication, your dramatic performance turns out to be a fucking joke, a fucking joke everyone’s in on but yourself. Where the actress you weren’t acting to spins you around so hard you can’t exit. “You poor mother-fucker…”

I used to feel as if I needed this, as if it was my only way of stretching out my self-pitying hands to ask for help. I’m not entirely sure what changed, why it changed, or what caused it to change. Perhaps it was an emotional change, like a pendulum beginning it’s accent toward total happiness. Or was it that I don’t feel like it did anything for anyone, including myself, and I lost a sense of purpose? Why? How? What?

Whatever the answer, I feel like I’ve lost a desire to write here. I’m happy, for now, honestly, and I guess that’s what matters… Or is it?

Look at me now- no elegance, no mind-blowing ideas, nothing that dances off the page. Just myself, thinking aloud, to a sleeping audience, wondering how I can wake them, or myself.