Wednesday, April 27, 2011

Do we want to help, or are we just voyeurs? When the excitement of happiness is muted to a quiet lull, how do we mask the often undeniable truth of getting joy from pain? While all humanity is not lost, and while there is still hope for sanity, it’s hard to really know whether all help is good help.

Monday, April 25, 2011


The sky was closing,
the clouds lining the falling sun’s path,
leaving scattered traces of light among the bank.
The wet air filled his lungs with salt and grit,
but he paid no mind to its barrenness.

He thought of the way her fingers curled around his,
and the way her hair fell in his mouth when her head lay on his chest—
the way it stuck to his dry lips and parched tongue.
He could see her and feel her.
He could touch her skin and smooth the hair from her cheek,
and he could feel the weight of her leg pressed against his waist.
And he knew that it wasn’t all gone.
He knew that she probably thought of him, too.

A breeze rolled in,
sweeping open his worn coat,
exposing him to the frozen wind.
And he sat and waited
for nothing and for everything.

(Andrew Wyeth's painting Baleen)

Thursday, April 21, 2011

It's been stuck in my head all day...well, I've been listening to it all day...

"I know what you're thinking
But I'm not your property
No matter what you say
No matter what you say

Move along, there's nothing left to see

Just a body, nothing left to see

A couple more for breakfast

A little more for tea
Just to take the edge off
Just to take the edge off

Move along, there's nothing left to see

Just a body, pouring down the street

Move along, there's nothing left to see

Just a body, nothing left to see

Move along"

-"Gagging Order" by Radiohead

Thursday, April 14, 2011

It's hard to conceive time sometimes. I know it's there, and I know it's passing, but I can't always get a good hold of it. Sometimes it seems that it loops back around or that it overlaps itself. After a while everything becomes constant--even the things that should shake me become so normal, so ordinary, that I'm hardly moved by even the hardest push. And then things come flooding back, and I lose myself, once again, in the rush of all the things that once were gone.