I sleep til noon,

and could care less about the sunrise.

But the dawn calls to you pretty and chaste and

true

I could shout at the moon,

my own significance

But the lightbulbs for you are brighter

there is a dream on another hemisphere

and I have missed it.

  (sleeping too late or sometimes not enough)

I’d wait for you now,

I’ve only half a life to waste

Pathos rolling down my back

in heavy drops

With stars blinking out

and ducky lights behind my eyes

I can’t be your washcloth,

Although I’d like to be

Wednesday’s coming soon

and do I know how that makes me feel?

Of course I don’t and nor do you

The sky is calling falling out of your

Mouths move, I look away

and maybe I’m maybe I’m happy

but Wednesday’s coming soon

I sleep with the lights on in the bathroom

- too late, or sometimes not enough.

If you’ll bear with me for a moment of fancy, I have a dream that I find to be the most ideal of all possible infinite circumstances, however improbable it may be. I will graduate from this place, some 3 years from now, and by that time, most of my dear friends will have already moved on to greater things. Two of them, one an environmentalist and the other a vegan musician, will be living together in an apartment in Maine. When I graduate and we decide to live together, their apartment will prove too small, and other, roomier lodgings will be required (after all, my electric organ will need a home of its own and cannot live in an apartment complex). We will find a dilapidated home in New Hampshire or Vermont, a place where we feel comfortable, and begin renovations on it while the three of us work somewhat satisfactory jobs and struggle in our various creative endeavors. Eventually, our straggling friends from across the countryside will come, at first only to visit, but inevitably they would find themselves too comfortable and the temptations of living so near the fabulous eastern seaboard, and yet far enough away from it as to be deeply inspired by the living world daily. The rolling hills filled with forests and broken branches will provide endless sources of entertainment for our nature filmmaker and our drunken philosopher. The silence of isolation will give our quirky composers and recording artists plenty of freedom. We will create a tree house of the attic, on which a tree has fallen, so that one can always read in the comfortable shade of leaves and branches without all the uncomfortable business of going outside and climbing things. We will always make dinner together, spending hours in the kitchen when really only one would suffice. We will share clothing, so that none of us need ever expand their wardrobe, merely ask their neighbor for a spare shirt. We will have such odd collections of furniture, for we will buy only what we can afford. A pair of us will sleep in bunk-beds. We will have a king sized mattress which has no box spring or frame, on which a couple sleeps. Some will sleep in sleeping bags, some on large masses of pillows like a Turkish brothel. Some of us will not have dressers or wardrobes, merely plastic bins which contain clothes. All our books and entertainment devices will be stored in one room of the house, partially for ease of access, and partially because we only have one bookshelf. We are continually buying rugs, new silverware, chairs, and light fixtures. Some day we will repaint this place, but it’s not at the top of the list. In the winter, the poorly insulated walls grow too difficult to heat effectively, so we only heat one room, (the one with the king-sized bed) to which we bring all our spare pillows and sleeping bags, and sleep on the floor, wearing all our warmest clothes, and sometimes draping coats over our blankets, for collective warmth. This makes privacy all but impossible, and is often more uncomfortable than it is endearing. We will share vehicles, so that all ten of us need only use two cars and various bicycles to get to town for work. Not all of our jobs are traditionally fulfilling, and not all of us are entirely satisfied with living here. It is not expected by anyone that we will stay forever, and some of us will not last out the month here. We will come and go, year by year, day by day, the house always morphing along with its residents. Here we are free to express our ideas, share a common living space, love, go to work, and return, or not. Perhaps we will recognize our surroundings as familiar in this other place where an abstract and silent idea which none of us can name is the source and fount of our unity.

More music! This one I actually wrote all by myself. I wasn’t going to post it at all, I didn’t think it was ready (and I still don’t, truthfully) but since I submitted it to The Silo I figured I could share it here as well.

Oh look, it’s another cover I did! The actual song is entitled (I Never Promised You) A Rose Garden, but I have a friend named Rose, and I thought would be interesting to change the lyrics, and once I started I couldn’t do it the other way round.

I apologize for the lack of literary posts- I have been doing a lot more music and far less poetry and story writing than usual.

-

Also, on a rather unrelated note, I very seldom acknowledge the fact that people follow me, and even though I don’t actively reblog question sets or follower appreciation images, I would like to use this post to thank all of you for noticing me and supporting me in my artistic endeavors. Also, be advised that I have just reformatted this blog and included an ask box for any comments or questions you may have that you think the world should know about, or that you’d rather tell me anonymously.

A work in progress of sorts. The end is rough, but I was too lazy to rerecord.

For CC

I love you continually,

though there are parts of you hidden

or guarded from public compassion.

You are a brightly-colored Pekingese

with a mouth and mind made of brilliant

thumbtacks,

but without sounding ridiculous,

how do I tell you this?

I love you unromantically,

of which I think there is no question,

but I am proud of the fact

that you have shared with me

your secret demons and

your giants of frost.

And these memories

of our fond platonic nature

will keep me up nights on which

a lover’s torment

never would,

but without sounding ludicrous,

how do I tell you this?

I love you abashedly.

Your handprint on my arm

will never fade

and while the whole wide world

may see it and recognize

that a girl made my heart a different place,

and then said her goodbyes,

without sounding selfish,

how do I tell you this?

For EK

We have had the conversation before,

very informal,

very brief,

in which we contemplate our futures

like lovers under the California stars.

And while your demeanor,

very informal,

released waves of ocean calm,

your words,

very brief,

grated me like a fresh orange

(that is to say-

not enough that my insides were damaged,

but that I would probably not be useful

for future baking excursions).

Now I know there is a siren calling you,

and whether or not I can name her

friend or foe

without bias is doubtful.

Though I hope for the best of things,

and that the wind blows your hair

not into your eyes, but

full free of your shoulders

and speeds your course for happier shores,

surely you must be aware that this

sandbar of companion

could not let you go without a word of goodbye-

very informal,

very brief.

Today I looked 

into a new mirror.

I live in a house of mirrors,

work with a statue of mirrors,

see myself every second of every day

when I can,

but this new mirror was a different experience.

Of all the mirrors

I had heretofore become acquainted with,

this one was the cleanest.

No blemish,

imperfection,

frame, or curves round the edges to belie the illusion

of reflection.

It was purity, simplified and

horrifying.

An earthly, tangible surface, that has known the touch

of fingers, faces,

the breeze or chill of water

is mottled into humanization;

I can see myself, and forget that

it is truly me

and pretend that there is some phantasm

or animal other in that handprinted glass case.

But when there is no frame of reference,

and only an abyss of bleak reality

forces itself onto your eyes,

what can you do 

but grow timid and cold

until you accept that yes,

only this stainless window

can you see the world.

So I just realized I haven’t written anything in a while. Not here (sorry followers- few of you though there are, I don’t like to disappoint), not in my creativity notebook (which is really a sketchbook which has drawings, songs, poems, etc. in it), not even for a class. I haven’t really wanted to, though I’ve had plenty of time. And frankly, that’s a terrifying thought.

I’ve always loved writing; my writing is the reason I got a tumblr, hoping that some people would find what I’ve written and enjoy it, at least a little. I love the creative outlet, I love using artistic language and verbose phrasing to share my perspective with other people. Yet, if I’m being entirely honest, I do have less altruistic intentions; I would like my writing (or my music, perhaps) to gain me fame and recognition.

Yes, I said it, I want to be famous. I want to see my name in print, I want people to recognize me on the street, I want to rub elbows with my heroes. A lot of people would look down on me for that; “art is its own reward,” “fame is no indicator of greatness,” blah blah. I can’t help it if there’s some part of me that thinks about what I would say if I was being interviewed by Oprah about my latest collection of poetry, or by Stereogum for my upcoming album. I don’t think that makes me a bad person, or an inferior artist. In fact, it helps me quite a lot. My envy of other people who are more talented or famous than I am is an inspiration in and of itself. I wrote a song about envy once, and I’m quite proud of it. I also write songs and poems about writer’s block. I’m seldom at a loss for words.

So recently when I started losing my aching desire to write at any cost, I got really really worried. I don’t have much else other than my writing. I’m a fair saxophonist, but I don’t practice enough. I’m a good vocalist, but again, I don’t practice enough. I’m not quite smart enough to be one of those geniusbrain people who invents something cool or is a political diplomat. And I’m not trying to disparage myself either; I recognize that I’m better than the average human at a lot of things that I do, but I’m not good enough to get myself on LaundroMatinee. I know that “fame isn’t everything,” and that 99% of the population isn’t what I would consider “famous,” and many of those same people lead fulfilling and happy lives regardless of that fact. I’m sure that I won’t die of sadness if I don’t achieve celeb status, but I know that I will probably always be harangued by the feeling of inadequacy and underachievement as a result of my failure.

I’m not sure if this post is my way of consoling myself (like, “hey look, I wrote something, now I can get back to reading Game of Thrones or watching Star Trek”), or apologizing to the zero people who are upset about my lack of posts, or if I just needed to type out loud. In any case, what I am doing is convincing myself that my lust for fame isn’t a bad thing, and that I should keep exercising my typing fingers and brain-thingy in order to actually make progress toward my goal. I’m not bad, I’m not uncreative, I’m not even incapable of fame; it just isn’t going to happen today.