Cold Metal Kite

I can feel the cold metal links
hanging indifferently from my neck
leaves swim by me, the cold air bites me.
The sun sets dutifully and the cars fly incessantly
a gust catches the kite on my chain
my back arches as my neck tightens in pain
I thought this device would help me fly
I thought it was possible to fly.

The gravel dust eats my palms
the thick crust of the earth is calm
as I slide heavily on it's skin
my eyelids up but nothing is sinking in
The clouds in my head have clouded my vision
no wisdom, concision, just deep incision

a rag doll in the sticky fingers of a child
a balloon caught in the door of a honeymooner's car
If I had hands I would grab for a hold
dig my fingers into the dirt until they bleed.
But I can't.
I can only hope this mad drag is just a rough takeoff.

a brief summary of Obama's marxist ties

Obama was born of Communist activists, mentored by Communist writer and activist, spent his college days hanging around radical activists, worked as a radical community organizer learning the radical tactics of Alinsky, kept contact with radicals through the years, attended a radical church, and today lends his political skill to the international goals of radical activists, and has radicals working on for his campaign.
-theobamafile.com

I love this country.

eggs

Yesterday Doug and I were leaving Moody to walk to Kate and Samm's for dinner and we saw these cars stopped on LaSalle, right across from Moody. We couldn't see the ground because the barrier on the median blocked our sight of it, but everyone was really quiet and walking around dazedly, raking their fingers through their hair. When we crossed the street we saw a man laying in the middle of the road, not moving. I was walking my bike on the sidewalk and a passing girl said "makes you want to walk it doesn't it?" Another guy on a bike, late 40s with a blue tooth ear piece and an expensive looking bike was telling someone that he thought the guy was wearing a helmet and that he saw a splatter of blood on the pavement by the guy's head.

22

Clinton Miceli

Doored by an SUV, flew into traffic and was run over by a second SUV.

He was pronounced dead at 10:18 that evening.

Four other cyclists have been killed in Chicago since October. Three were in my new neighborhood. One was a Moody grad.

spilled and cracked
raw egg on the frying pan
hard shells brittle and membrane thin
all that protects
all that is in.

who is the cook
and what is his play?
omlettes and chicklets
and SUV dickheads

the fragile
the firm
the lucky
the dead

A Personal Essay

1.
I have always known that my feet were repulsive. My gender at large have a terribly poor track record for feet, aesthetically speaking, but mine are particularly difficult for me to accept, both because they are stuck on my ankles and because they are very hobbit like. Not to discredit hobbits, for them having big harry feet is probably like having big breasts or big muscles (man, did you see his feet? Gargantuan! I would smoke that pipe any day). But for humans, such as we are, large harry feet are generally a thing of shame.

The first girl I ever loved had a mortal fear of feet. Shoed, polished, sanitized, booted, didn't matter. Every foot to her was a foot too many. Of course my own insecurity about my oversized appendages was only exacerbated into full blown shame by this fact, something that I attempted to mask by wearing broad ankled trousers and the smallest shoes I could fit into. Later when the only people still wearing trousers three sizes too big for them were zit ridden adolescents, I had to find a new way of disguising my clown feet. And I did. Boots. Solid leather ranger from the north boots. Sure I still look like a fantasy figure, but rangers are hot, hobbits are not. I mean, Aragorn got some elf to give up immortal life just because of his kick ass boots. I bought boots that take five or six minutes of enormous pressure to get off my feet, they are that small. But it works, or I think so anyway. No more "Hey hobbit foot!" or "Bilbo, quit playing barefoot. The hacky-sack is stuck in your foot hair again. "

It is in this superficial way that I have dealt with this mammoth issue of self esteem.

2.
Her fingers were cold and short between mine, her breathing labored through her narrow nostrils. The sway of the bus was hypnotic, and the warmth of her thigh against mine vaguely comforting. Physicists tell us no two objects can ever actually touch each other, that before they can the electrons on the surface of each react to electric repulsion from the other object's electrons. Sometimes something passes between these energy fields and links two beings in a preternatural way. Sometimes the energy fields repel, like same pole magnets. I could feel blood pulsing through her hand, could sense the exhaustion in her weak grip, but we were not connected. I found myself watching as a fly, disconnected and objective to the interaction taking place. I saw a boy holding a girl's hand, saw him watching her, knowing she was in her own impenetrable world.

The hands on my watch rushed the minutes past defiantly. Perpetual tardiness had aptly prepared me to deal with the urgency once again generated by my hesitancy. Hesitancy for her to step into the wheeled metal box and be propelled away from me by combustion and pressure. Hesitancy not because these last moments or the many that had preceded them were so rich with connection, but because they were so rife with muted attempts, and the chance to connect was now about to roll away. And in the chaos of urgency, I feared the goodbye kiss I had been anticipating since her arrival would be lost. The goodbye kiss, of any, is the most pregnant with possibility. It is born of innocence, a child of affection and of restrained desire.

True to form the walk to the connecting bus was a sprint, bags swinging from sweaty shoulders, old shoes scuffing smooth concrete rhythmically. I glanced down to try to see her soul through her eyes but only saw her eyes, and reflected in them the looming wheeled can of blue and yellow and the digital clocks hung frozen from the walls and the sweaty browed baggage handler chucking the last of the bedraggled travelers precious belongings into the cold steel belly of the bus.

We arrived not a moment too late, ticket wagging in her hand and her other hand wagging in mine. The driver motioned with weary apathy for her to step forward and she started to but then stopped, turned, and connected her eyes to mine. So sudden was the shield her eyes had previously held gone, and so unexpected and raw was the connection that our eyes bore, that I stood stunned for a moment, held frozen and rigid.

Goodbye.

And I kissed her. And she was not what I would call a great kisser, but this, this was a great kiss.

3.
There is a man I hate above all others.
He is the terror of children, wily suitor of mothers.
He once gave me a straw colored doll, with tendrils like coffee.
He told me if I behaved very perfectly and did just what he whispered in my ear
that it was mine to squeeze and pet.
So I perfectly did what he quietly said and my doll grew teeth and bit off my head.

He is a fisher of me - dangles a wet worm for my hungry eyes
Hooks jerks tugs - playing reeling in.
The reward, no tasty morsel - death by asphyxiation.
But to my last breath all I can think about is that damn worm.

The man I hate is always on the set
a leghold trap and I am the bear
a golf ball on a flimsy wooden tee
a bug light from a dark and and stooping tree

He makes me love the films I should love to hate
He makes me love the girls I should hate to love
He makes me ache and pine for things I reason should be mine.
He makes me die inside a little when he opens the gap between himself and the cold one.
From this gap all conflict springs abundantly, the gap between mr. expectation and mr. reality.

My return (after a brief romp years ago and years of absence) to attempted poetry.

If I knew the future as well as they did I certainly wouldn't want to fuck it up.

A year is short and people suffer worse
day in and day out
besides hard things are the best for you
stretch push try, I did.
And look what happened.
Pussies do what they want and taunt what is perceived wearisome.
Those possessing character understand that
they do as they should not as you would.

There is no should for me though, only must.
Some do as they wish others as they ought
or ought not. But all men do as they must. They must.

jogging on.

Life is so arbitrary, so unquantifiable. I often wonder what I am doing and who the hell I think I am. I find it a difficult question, troubling often. Disturbing occasionally.

I am honest or honestly trying to fake it.
I am sure of myself or sometimes think I am.
I am mature or play mature sometimes.
I don't need people's affirmation or I crave it as quietly as possible.
I am generous or I am careful to let everyone see when I am.
I don't care or I care so much I hurt in my gut where it is dark and hidden.
I don't need answers or I just can't find the ones I'm looking for.

Somehow one foot gets placed in front of the other and the days roll by twenty-four hours at a time. Some part of me thinks eventually the feet will get the rest somewhere worth being, but this is conjecture at best, and those parts of me aren't even really able to articulate what a place worth being would look like. They get confused, sometimes they think they are already there. Not today. Today they stare hard ahead into the foggy future and squint as though they are trying to see what is there when really they are just squinting to try to hold back the tears, to keep anyone from asking why they are crying. Just keep walking, keep putting one foot in front of the other. We'll make it there, where ever "there" is.

interpret as desired.

Your Brain is 80% Female, 20% Male

Your brain leans female You think with your heart, not your head Sweet and considerate, you are a giver But you're tough enough not to let anyone take advantage of you!

What Gender Is Your Brain?



Hmm. Not going to pretend thats not a little disturbing.

80%.

Hmm.

Sweet and considerate?



Maybe I answered the questions wrong.

The importance of seeing Earnest

Well, in spite the fact that Carver and I had to do an Olympic sprint from the El station to the theater, had to ask someone where it was after scouring the block and a half that surrounded it for ages, had to bang on the door and ring the doorbell multiple times to be allowed in, fork over our life savings, and then had to be snuck in at a subtle moment, the play itself did end up being quite anticlimactic. Fortunately, I kept a photo journal of the events which followed for your viewing pleasure. Unfortunately almost nothing interesting followed, but I took pictures anyway, and here they are:

this is carver.

this is what he looks like when he is angry. kind of scary.


we were waiting for the el train to come and it was cold...


So I took this picture for no reason....

and then we played this game called expression review which I made up on the spot. I named something and he summed up his sentiments on that subject with a single expression.

This is his sentiments about the play we just saw.


This was his sentiment about last friday night.

This was his sentiment regarding David Todd.

This is his sentiment regarding the prospect of Spring Break.

This expression sums up his entire year.

This is a general message to the blogspot audience.

Then we ate this at a cheap Italian place called Go Romas.

Complete with "lemonade" which is just water with a few lemons and some non-soluble large grain sugar.

The end.

boring

I feel like all of my posts now are just more of the same, so rather than continuing to bore everyone who reads them, particularly everyone who reads them and knows me in person since they recieve a double dose, I thought I would construct a more creative and hopefully more interesting post. Now I just have to figure out what that will be.

Well.


I got nothing.





Damn.

Shocking

My life shocks me. It really does. I mean sure there is a stress point here or there, but in all honesty, its amazing. The projects, the classes, the opportunities, but especially the people, it blows my mind.

Everything is illuminated by the past. It may not be true that we are who we were, but we certainly are because we were.

Today I went to chapel, compelled by the word that John Guerra would be leading worship the whole time. I remained on the verge of tears for the duration of the service. Sometimes it was difficult to choke the words out. O the deep deep love of Jesus. Nothing but the blood of Jesus. It occurred to me during these gutting songs that I love Jesus. It is strange because it is the sort of thing I have tried to do for ages, not that I haven't ever, but today it was a discovery, a shocking one, like finding you are in love with a friend who you've known forever but never expected to love. It wasn't me trying to love God anymore, simply me discovering that I have been seduced hopelessly. Perhaps it is the only way it can really happen, because generally my striving to love him seems to result in a numbness. It is an ellusive devil that I chase and chase and when I finally catch it I find my hand empty of anything but a dead shell. And just when I am standing there staring at the shell, trying to figure out where I went wrong I am attacked from behind and realize that I have been the prey all along and the faster I ran the farther I got from the hunter. This may make sense only to my mind just now, but I needed to get it down on something.

Crazy Kids

This is, oddly enough, my fovorite photo of the lot. Lovely girl.





We shared coffee and mittens at the green line coach station, tired but happy in spite of the rubbish brew in the pretty cup.

For anyone at Moody, don't worry, it isn't real. Just a magnet or maybe I photoshopped the photo. For everyone else, look what my wicked sister talked me into in Camden Market.

That was her permanent expression in Trafalger Square, and no I hands down refuse to look up Trafalger to learn how to properly spell it.

This was when Helen figured out how to focus the camera on something off center, a landmark in her flourishing photography career.

This is our trip. Chipped nail polish, Kierkegaard with some random person's underlining and notes all through it (suppose thats the price of stealing books from Moody's library), and an obscenely large thumb ring. Not sure how the thumb ring relates but I am certain it does.

This was my permanent inner expression, a ridiculous grin frozen on my inner face.

Isn't she lovely?




My hat. Actually Banney's hat. Very warm.

We bought two coffees and nicked the comfy chairs in starbucks for two hours. I think we got our money's worth, even if the coffee was abysmal.

This is where we used the amazing free bathrooms and looked at maybe three portraits. Loveit.

Wicked and her Christmas gift.

This photo is elseware on the web, but deserved a second post. Marvelous.

Amazing and amazingly cold. Shiver.

It doesn't look much like a tube here, but it was. And apparently there was a giant "pee stain" on the wall there which Helen won't let me forget I made her stop by for this photo.

This photo also is not original to this post, but it is such a wonderful photo of Helen's and I look so like the character's in horror films that always get killed off in the first ten minutes, I couldn't pass it up.

Helen was terribly embarrassed that I would have the camera out and be taking loud pictures during the bus ride to London, but I would not be stopped. The haunting frost-glazed fog-filled sunrise-lit morning was too much for me to pass up.

We had a laugh or two. A minute.

I just love the sun reflecting off the windows of that o-so-European building there. Couldn't resist.




These are the doughnuts we bought in Tesco edxpress and illegally smuggled into the National Portrait Gallery to eat with cold, sludglike, extortionately expensive coffee.

Happy as clams, tubing the tunnels of London's subteranean.

Yes, those were actually Jodi's gloves that we were sharing.

a Prolific diary of ThanksGiving in Chicago

Here is an extensive photo-journal of the celebrations of Thanksgiving of 2006 for six fortunate people.

Many too many large people (one) for this small kitchen.


Kate looking happy to play the mum role for all the lost little boys.


sweetness.


An enjoyable photo from the deep well of Paul Davis' soul.


Like proud parents or something. Weird.


Paul vs. the celery.


Kathryn the domestic one.


"trying" to be helpful.


A little glimpse of heaven.


Beauty in the form of stuffed celery.





Samm "the Barbarian" Banthien Hodges ladies and gentlemen.


Doesn't that look inviting?


I just like the photo. Nothing spiritual.


We may have looked ridiculous, but we felt amazing at that moment, perched at the edge of edible bliss.



Just thought I would showcase this sweet photo of Dan's for no other reason than its undeniable sweetness.



The epitome of male leadership.








This was a meager attempt by me to break the male stereotype my counterparts were working so diligently to reinforce. ("no keep the male sterotype, its worked for years!" - anonymous)





I love finding narcissistic photos like this on my camera. Means I'm not the only one.


Just a sweet bridge.


I like to consider this impressionistic photography. As opposed to what it actually is...a shaky freakin photo.



Lovin in the night on a deserted city bridge, doesn't get much better than that. Unless of course you are lovin in the night on a city bridge with a free photographer to capture the moment...


Uh oh.


I had to climb an uncomfortable beam for this picture. Worth it?


No town like Chi-town.


Paul "the wild-eyed prophet" Davis.


What can I say, this just looked flippin sweet, I couldn't resist.


And so the fellowship of the Turkey set out...


Shooting the breeze.


Roomie Winne.


I can never get over the beauty of this city and these people.


Doesn't Samm look like a genius in this photo?


Dan "the..." Winne.


The crazies.


The love birds.


We all ducked down as the El (spanish for the "the") went past so as not to be spotted and ...who knows what could have happened then...


The lads trying to break into the piano factory to try to steal some keys.


my wonderful home.


Samm looking very...yes.



Just to make everyone envy Chicago and its amazing...sticks in the water.

symmetry.



These are my Irish hit men. Vicious, but cheap.


Kate and Paul the porter carrying my crocks and scarf.


Samm climbing out of the bridge where he was considering living.


My sister and brother (more or less)


Notice that more or less every photo of me is a little out of focus. The camera must automatically know who should be in front of the camera, and who should stay behind it.

I know, its an anticlimactic end. Dont' care.