Here's Cheers for New Years

The terrible weight of 2005 has been removed from my skies forever. I still have the illusion of it being up there, poisoning and darkening each passing cloud, festering with all of my idleness and stupidity and faux-paus. But it has been pushed aside, uprooted like an infected mushroom parasol under which the ant was waiting for daybreak. The light streams cleanly down. ’06 is a clean slate. I have new colors with which to paint.

Resolutions? Not really. I have learned that I never stick to them and they’re forgotten by early February. Instead of the said resolutions, this time of year brings about realizations. Such as, I should be kinder to mom. I must not let the words fly carelessly out of my mouth as they used to. Looking back into those foggy ‘05 memories I see that I meant to be understanding but when we talked, my words were colored sulfurous by the air as soon as they departed my tongue. I never hated her, though she might have thought otherwise in some of the sagging parts of the history of our relationship. I just didn’t say things right. My arguments with her became very personal, and I think she felt like I’ve never loved her as much as Dad. Which is an arrant untruth.
If only there were some way I could show her that.

Also, it isn’t dire that I exercise more. I’m not overweight. Perhaps for the security of my future good health it would be advisable to, but it sure as hell isn’t dire.

College beckons. This is graduation year. I don’t know what to say about this. It seems good, and I hope I’m not in a desert and the prospect of wild and wondrous university years is not some fleeting mirage. I hope it changes me, and I hope I am content with the change.

Well, we have outgrown 2005.
I hope 2006 fits us well.

Moon and Rye

Know what you’ve got? I do. A book-whore like me, reading lines 25 times in succession because nothing is processing except your words, echoing in my head like a slow-sad violin playing in a cave on an awfully calm night. My books are dead in my hands, the words strain and stamp on the pages but can’t jump out of their sockets, into my mind; somehow the only other thing in the world is the talking-laughing version of you in my head. I need to call you, but the telephone doesn’t make sense either, and I can’t stand the bolt my body suffers with the thought of bothering you.

I think about what we’ve done. What you’ve said. Through the hazy reality of memory, I look at you with my makeupless eyes which have the proclivity for being quick to forgive, or to be plastered over with the faraway gaze you remarked upon, creating the magnificent illusion that you might possibly understand me. I see your belt loop and want to curl my finger around it, bring you into me, ask you how it was the moon got to be your face and how you got the rye to call your name, loud and quiet enough to drag me out of the city to find you, walking out there like peace would walk if peace were a person with neurons and legs.

I go to a pothole in the planet, ask the reeds in the lake how it is that a human could be made like you—so imperfectly perfect, so wise and learning. The reeds don’t understand, only squirm and fight to keep from drowning. The trees are too busy whispering to each other and the air is only concerned with my face and eyelashes and hair, running molecules and temperatures over me and the rest of nature indiscriminately, not even knowing about the mind underneath my skin and bones.

Nature has nothing on you, honey. And I think we’re all clueless when it comes to love.

I can't rest these days; I think about relations like I think about deadlines and everything is carrying over to other sides and angles. Nothing is easy, see? Not even sleep.

The Acridity of Honesty

Often times, I'll be gliding through my day when abruptly I feel as though I am not afraid to say anything. I find myself sitting stationary with the moving scenery of people and papers scattering and rushing and colliding around me, with the feeling that I could open my mouth and pour out raw, non-fabricated, no preservatives added, from-the-heart feelings to the world, and not even flinch. Even if the President, the Pope, or God were standing right in front of me - or floating or hovering or towering or whatever beings of extreme authority and eminence do. I have no fears about honesty, I say to myself, glancing up and to the right. No trepidations whatsoever.

Which is really just a complete lie. Many times, honesty has the ability to scare the hell out of me (now whether there is hell in me to be scared out in the first place is still up for debate). I have this unavoidable proclivity to want to appease people and to forget about "To thine own self be true" to the point of falling back upon whatever appropriate response the particular situation calls for. Examples, you ask?

Ok, here are some then. And at first glance these may seem inconsequential. And probably, you're right. Here they are anyway.

"Do I look good in this?"
--"You look exquisite, naturally."

"How old would you say I look?"
--"Twenty-nine, clearly."

"Do you mind if I sit here?"
--"That would cause nary a disurbence in my current bubble of happiness."

And really, the individual may look like a sagging 52-year-old elephant squeezing into a baby's outfit who is interrupting my homework or leisure time by occupying the spot next to me. Sometimes I don't take the time to really reflect upon how I honestly feel about the subject of conversation, and sometimes the feelings of the other may prevent me from giving my true thoughts in their entirety. I speak my mind when it is readily available to be delivered in words that aren't liable to cause foreseeable damage. If that isn't plausible, I fabricate until I've formed sentences resembling my real thoughts but are softer, less harshly opinionated versions of them.

Then there's the confidence issue, which plays a formidable role in the refraining of honest contribution to the conversation as well. I often lack the confidence in my opinion to state it blatantly. Usually I feel that I'm probably missing something, or that I'm uninformed. So I keep my mouth shut to stop the faucets of ignorance out of which naïveté would otherwise come gushing in torrents. You know, salad days and all.

I don't know. I guess I'm just afraid I'm either A) going to hurt someone or B) not smart enough to answer properly.

I think both are productive fears to have. Especially A. Unless of course I become paranoid about it and never say anything. That could benefit the world, perhaps, but wouldn't be such a good deal for me.

And then imagine how full this blog would become, laden with unspoken thoughts and opinions, each one probably a little mutated and bitter as a direct result of being stuffed into a ball and covered up. You’d be more annoyed with my ranting than you already are, and then I’d really have to think of something interesting to appease you.

Salad Days

"My salad days, When I was green in judgment: cold in
blood, To say as I said then! But, come, away; Get me ink and paper . . ."

~Shakespeare

So I guess it's time for the infamous and sometimes difficult first post.

Well first there's Hi. Then comes me, trying to describe myself or something. I should tell you without giving my name, I'll be your guide through the salad days of my life. Why you've decided to embark on the journey in the first place will probably remain a mystery (unless of course you're someone like, say, my mom, and are looking to this blog so that you may further climb into my head, which technically should be your right in your case, seeing how you halfway created it). But because you are here sifting through occurences and reflections for reasons unknown, I'll keep writing more of them. And I'll try like crazy to be honest about things, honest.

With that out of the way, let's brush the awkwardness off of these words. Considering this ripe, green, altogether unwise age I'm in, what's important in my life is stuff like people, identity, gleaning knowledge, and the twisting halls and changing climates of high school.

I'm presently attending an average, mediocre school. And really, if you don't have your eyes peeled for beauty in mediocrity my choice in adjectives I suppose could be looked upon as more of a grievance than a description. But the fact remains: Mediocre = comfortable. And I enjoy the company of [most of] the individuals who, like me, are plugged into the gigantic system of Academia which day in and day out streams and streams knowledge and the occasional humble opinions of facilitators into those who are willing to accept it. I even enjoy the company of those individuals of my same age who are not so plugged in, who are more or less dangling from the system chords via class-skipping, socializing, and/or sports. I respect (and in some cases completely adore) 99.9 percent of the teachers. That .1% not included refers to the occasional miniscule aspects of a certain teachers in my lower-classman years I just could not force myself to look past or view as cute little character flaws.

This has been one of my valiant attempts to shove a complex, bloated topic like high school into a nutshell. However, something invariably cracks when I attempt this and the squirrels tend to want to file complaints about property damage, so you won't see very many things being shoved into nutshells around here. I like to dissect things; I criticize or praise and really have no problem doing either.

I don't know. There's more to me, really. But your eyes are tired; I sense it.

Besides, if you're bored enough you can always read the fine print at the bottom. (And there's always fine print. You understand.)

P.S. Mom, if it really is you reading this: knock on my door. We'll talk more.

Ah, you've found the fine print. There is nothing of consequence written here, but isn't this cute little font? Or are you one of those people that doesn't think something's cute just because it's little?