Hey, January 11th, 2012, I will not miss you when you’re gone.
As a result of almost no sleep, nonstop classes from 8:30-2:30, no riding and no gym, I’ve been in a very strange mood today. There are so many things I’m unsure of lately. My validity as an artist, as a human being, as a stance upon being a human being. It’s like I’m carrying armfuls upon armfuls of stuff, and I don’t know how to put down what I was carrying before in order to pick something else up. I want to so desperately, but I don’t know how.
Henry David Thoreau said “most men lead lives of quiet desperation.” I will allow that I am far from quiet. But is that enough?
I, very often, feel like I have no idea what I’m doing.
Here’s a precursor-to-a-poem that I wrote in my senior seminar class today. If you steal it, you especially suck at life because it is almost completely unedited and, quite possibly, really bad.
I will fall down to my knees now, if
that’s okay with you, blood stone
and moon rock all blue bone in the dim
second-hand light, maybe you didn’t
notice the metallic smell or the way I said
ah-sigh-eee, I’m depending on your not
having noticed, the way I set my hair
on fire all kinetic desperation and cool
toner, doused it with water birth,
inkwell and contrast, when love is
empty other lights can scream right
through it to the other side, minimum
security prison, you, with all your
corduroy and blue jean and hiss.