sometimes it's better not to say anything.

and maybe just listen to the strokes...


you want to be cool,
but cool people don't think...

i've got problems too

it's not just me standing there in black
with the wind blowing through me
and that dark look on my face


i'm somebody

snow blanketing the hard ground

and laying thick on my car


i'm not sure how i feel about that...

the voice like an old, persistent motor
was rattling on, never dying
and he was listening, listening, listening
and dreaming, dreaming, dreaming
the words
if they meant anything
he couldn't tell you what
he could tell you that if was hot
and stiff and stuffy
and the air was thick
and the walls were closing in
around him
the ceiling was falling down
on top of him
but he could see outside
the deep, dark sky
and the sharp, piercing stars
and feel the cool, night breeze
as it flew through the trees
running through the wet grass
that motor never dying behind him
sputtering
if there was a river rushing fast
with the full moon hanging low over it
he would jump in
and cause more than a ripple
less than a wave
and swim to the other side
and pull himself out
the water dripping off his skin
he might lie on the shore
and look up at the sky
see a fast falling star
and make a wish.

weekend's almost over... but it was good... too short







tomorrow never knows.

if only tonight we could sleep

in a bed made of flowers

if only tonight we could fall

in a deathless spell

if only tonight we could slide

into deep, black water 

and breathe...

and breathe...

then an angel would come

with burning eyes like stars 

and bury us deep

in his velvet arms 

and the rain would cry

as our faces slipped away

and the rain would cry

don't let it end...

-Robert Smith aka the Cure 

elliot smith: always good on a cold, frosty morning in October...

i am cornered in my soul,
sleeping
wake me up



she wanted me to anaylze
what is that?

analyze my soul if you will
and tell me what you find

Writing Process

The first piece, Thoughts in her head, was the free writing exercise we did about the picture with the "sad woman" and the man in the background. I really didn't have to do much editing to it. It's pretty much exactly how I wrote it in class. I'm not sure exactly what the situation is, I'm pretty sure they're a married couple going through a really tough time... probably headed for divorce... let's hope that doesn't happen.

My second piece, Spinning into snow, was the one where Professor Strong asked us to write about a traumatic experience we had (I think) like a car crash or a fight. I transposed it from first person to third person and changed a bit of it. But that did actually happen. We've all gone off the road at least once. 

I'm not obsessed with car crashes or anything. My third piece, the one where we wrote for the whole class, just happened to be a crash story too. It was inspired by the picture of the crash scene by the river. The couch was the object from my "blueprint." I can't figure out how to take out the space between paragraphs, which is annoying. But I edited it a bit and cleaned it up. But most of my favorite sentences in it actually came from the free writing process, surprisingly enough. The title refers to a line in the Bob Dylan song. If you've never head that song, listen to it. 

"We Sit Here Stranded"

 

 

    The song was Visions of Johanna by Bob Dylan. She remembered it from the old days, playing softly on her father’s record player. It was odd that it was playing now. Now with the couch in the back of the car. The old couch –she remembered her dad sprawled out on it like a cat, and she nestled on the end of it; listening, just listening.

     He was still talking in the seat beside her. He kept his eyes on the road, but every now and again cast sharp and piercing glances her way. She said nothing. And he kept talking. She looked out the other window. The river was beside her, running parallel with the road. The sun cast gold and gleaming light on the water, dancing and reflecting. There were geese or swans or something drifting and how peaceful they looked.

      He was still talking.

      His voice was like an old, persistent motor, rattling on, never dying. She even tried to listen but couldn’t focus on the words. –They didn’t really mean anything.

      “Just stop,” she said finally. “It doesn’t matter anymore anyway. There’s nothing we can do about it now. We’ve messed up.”

       He stared at her and she refused to meet his gaze. It started raining. Quite suddenly, she thought. Out on the river the sun was still shining through the rain, making everything warm and soft and hazy; like a watercolor.

      “Just like a watercolor,” she said out loud.

      “What’s that?” he asked.

      And then,

     something on the road.

     Swirling, tires screeching, and she could hear herself screaming. And Bob Dylan was still playing. And they were spinning, spinning, around and around. God this is a long song, she thought crazily just before they hit something hard and glass broke and she was flying free through soft air.

    

 

    Her dad sprawled out on it like a cat, and she nestled on the end of it, listening, just listening. She could never figure out exactly what he was singing about. But the song was slow and sad. And Dylan’s voice was low and soothing. And it was warm. And her dad was with her. And everything was good, and everything was certain.

     Rain on her face; she wasn’t there. She was here, in the cool rain and dirty road. Lights flashing all around, blinking through the wetness. People’s voices talking loud and harsh. She didn’t want to be here. She wanted to be back, back on her couch with her father and Bob Dylan. Why did nobody come for her? Why did nobody try to save her?

    And then he was standing over her, his voice etched out in the rain.  She could see that he was bleeding, a wound to the forehead, and he was crying too, looking down at her. He was saying something to her she could not hear.

     There’s nothing we can do about it now. We’ve messed up.

    She didn’t want him to leave her. But eventually he did. Men in white coats took him away. Strange faces came and looked down on her, lifted her up and put her on a stretcher. She could hear again, quite suddenly: the rain on the asphalt, the sirens.

    People talking.

    “Gently now. Get her in the ambulance. She should be OK.”

   “It was the couch that saved her, you know. She flew out over the dashboard and her head hit that instead of the road. It was a miracle really.”

    “Funny how an old, beat-up couch could become to important.”

     Funny.

Spinning into snow

    He could still get there on time if he hurried. It was cold and he turned on the heat. The radio was playing Smashing Pumpkins. Outside it was wet and sleak, snow still on the ground. The road was turning fast and sharp like a whip, trees on either side. It happened without warning. The tire must have caught something because he felt it jerk, then turn sharp and he was spinning, spinning, spinning fast. He stopped

    Suddenly,

   …in the snow. In the snowdrift. “Shit!” he said, then fuck. He sat there for a moment, hands still on the steering wheel, drumming. The radio was still playing.

 

 

Thoughts in her head

He was behind her. She knew though she didn't turn around to look. To her he was just a presence, a dead weight, like a rock tied to a piece of thread. Sometimes she could hide. Sometimes it was all right. Why is it the memories we want to save slip away so fast, and the memories that haunt us never truly leave? It's never clear. Clear or pure. Life is a thick and dirty like gravel, like a mirky puddle. Nothing is the same.

"cause people believe that they're gonna get away for the summer..."

yesterday the trees were warm and bright

today there stark, bare skeletons 

with some life still clinging 

to their naked forms 

you can already, almost feel winter moving in

you should see the leaves

red, orange and gold

adorning the ground and blowing,

sometimes across my path.

the sky is a clear, clean blue

and the breeze is sharp and crisp 

as i walk through the world with my dog.

let me take you down
cause i'm going to
strawberry fields
nothing is real
and nothing to get hung about
strawberry fields forever

living is easy with eyes closed
misunderstanding all you see
it's getting hard to be
someone
but it all works out
it doesn't matter much to me

let me take you down
cause i'm going to
strawberry fields
nothing is real
and nothing to get hung about
strawberry fields forever

no one, i think, is in my tree
i mean, it must be high or low
that is, you can't, you know
tune in
but it's all right
that is, i think it's not too bad

let me take you down
cause i'm going to
strawberry fields
nothing is real
and nothing to get hung about
strawberry fields forever

always, no!,
sometimes i think it's me
but you know, i know
when it's a dream
i think, um, no i mean
er, yes
but it's all wrong
that is i think i disagree

let me take you down
cause i'm going to
strawberry fields
nothing is real
and nothing to get hung about
strawberry fields forever


...strawberry fields forever
...strawberry fields forever...


-john lennon






when i dropped him off this morning i felt an accute sense of sadness
that was something i never could go back to
lost forever to me

hmmm... life goes on

time, i guess, can't be stopped
and can't be reasoned with

it's a mean little bugger, that's for sure.


what if life never ran out
like water runing to the ocean?

heaven?

the ocean never ceasing, never dying.

this is turning into a poem.

funny how that happens.