Did I mention that I can't stop writing Sestinas?

(Also, I've been taking the six words for each Sestina from particular poems that we've read in my Into to Poetry class. These Sestinas are my final "creative project" for the class.)

from Rorschach by a poet I'm too lazy to look up right now.

----

I hear the flutter of wings
like the twisting of a road
on a map, a stain
on the lips of one who's been kissing a flute.
Every time you light a cigarette,
someone awakes on a deserted island.

On the shore of this island,
the sun rests in the ruby wings
of birds, glowing like a cigarette
left on the side of a road.
The wind blows here with the sweetness of a flute,
but it leaves marks on the sand like stains.

Did you notice that stain?
It's shaped like an island,
abandoned like the cry of a flute
in the night. This night that came in on wings,
and left its footprints on the road.
You pierced that night with your cigarette.

I put out the cigarette
on your shadow, but it left a stain
on your mouth. Your tongue is the road
that I take to our island
where the wind comes in on wings
and sings to us like the whisper of a flute.

We put the world on pause to listen to the flute.
The sound fills our ears like cigarette
smoke, and I can see the morning's wings
approaching. The newborn sun leaves a stain
on the sky, and the clouds sort of form an island-
a sacred place at the end of the road.

Our sacred place is at the end of that road,
where we speak with the purity of a flute.
And when we get to this island,
I will meet the sand like a mouth meets a cigarette.
Until then, you leave yourself on me like a stain,
and I could swear I have wings.

This island is our final road,
and we'll depart on wings that hum like flutes;
a cigarette forever illuminating our stain of sky.

I can't stop writing Sestinas.

For anyone who's never heard of a Sestina (as I hadn't until a few weeks ago), it's basically a poem consisting of six six-lined stanzas followed by one tercet (three lines). The poem is constructed according to an outline according to the last word in every line. If you were to number the last word of every line in the first stanza 1-6, those would be your numbers, and they change order in every stanza from there on out. I'm not going to post the pattern because it's not important (you can figure it out via the poem if you really want to know), and you'll pick up on it as you're reading. So anyway, these are basically all I've been writing since I first encountered one, and this is my most recent and my most favorite so far.

-----

6 words taken from Body and Soul by Charles Wright.
(Also, this is yours.)

I count the colors of your body,
reds and golds and blues melting into the same world.
I count the shape-shifting of the clouds,
merging into houses and canoes and tropical fruit.
Choose a patch of sky, put it in a frame
made by the edges of your fingertips.

Rain runs down the bridge of a nose, like fingertips
in the secret parts of your body.
On Mondays, I miss the entirety of your frame
that you've given to the rest of the world.
You sing and cry and dance, the fruit
of your spirit growing as high as the clouds.

Though they've never known you, the clouds
appreciate what you send from your fingertips:
light and fire and a love as sweet as fruit.
I bury my eyes in your body,
and I do not miss the world.
Your bones are my bed frame.

Sometimes the morning breaks your frame
and pieces of you shoot into the clouds,
then fall with the rain back onto the world.
And people ask you questions with their fingertips,
making your body their body.
You fertilize the soil and produce the sweetest of fruit.

And my veins crave your fruit,
and its your face that I want in my film frame.
I call your body
and wait for the clouds
that I'm sure you've sculpted with your fingertips.
This is all that I need in the world.

For you, I'd swallow the world
and stitch together every fruit
that you desired between your fingertips.
Out of my bones, I'd make a frame,
and fill it with the freshest of clouds.
For only you, an everlasting body.

You sing me your fingertips and I weave them into the world.
We make your body the earth's fruit.
And when I hand you the frame to fill, you always choose the best clouds.

There are two hairs twisted just right on my bed that consequently appear as a double Helix;
I wonder exactly what part of me is evolving.
I'd say my consciousness.
You may suggest my heart.
But what really matters is just the fact that there is transformation.

Maybe next year.

I can't even form coherent sentences.
I saw a mind-blowing dance performance tonight at the Art Institute and my entire soul feels new.

Jess and Casey, I really needed everything that was tonight. Thank. You.

Every now and then there's a raindrop that was worth the entire hurricane.

I really need this photo lecture tonight to inspire the hell out of me.
I have a good feeling.

Saturday.

Face pressed against the home side of a cold window, I wait.
I note every movement: every car light, every shuffling leaf, every breath of wind that could be you.
Which amber gust will you slide in on?
Your bicycle is painting shadows on some street that hasn't yet met mine;
I etch the same shadows into the window with my finger.
Night drips from the moon. I collect as much as she will give me,
and put it in a vase for you.
The bricks start to whisper, and I know that you are close.
When the darkness breaks and produces your figure,
the entire building knows,
and my door opens without your knuckles having to ask.
You are here, and I can rest.
You are here, and we rest.

A prompt.

"Since you ask, most days I cannot remember..."

where I came from;
my origin like a track missing on a record.
My mother insists that I am from one location, my father insists on another.
But the unfamiliar places that they speak of are always different.
A beautiful kaleidoscope of answers that’s constantly shifting.
I have since stopped inquiring about this place-
I know that when I find it, it will tell me I am home.

Dear Swine Flu:
Can I please have my life back?

All my love,
Krystal

Futures.

What if we owned a cafe? We could bake and sell our own desserts, give daily dinner choices to our customers, brew only the best teas and coffee. We could play whatever music we wanted to work alongside all day, and make friends with all the artists in our neighborhood- display and sell their art, have nightly acoustic music performances, poetry readings. Maybe even hookahs? Why can't we just put everything that we love into a building, fill it with beautiful people, and make a living out of it?

I really don't see why not.

I want to go to New York.

I hugged her and added, "Thank you for everything."
She hugged me back and whispered, "Thank you for loving him."

One day, I will make a list of the 5, maybe 10 most important moments in my life-
this will be on it.

It's not that I don't like working, or that I regret when I have to spend hours on one particular project. I just get so caught up in the idea of each day being available to us just once, and that's it. And I worry about time wasted, and about opportunities missed because of a, b, or c. But I'm so young. And we have so much time. I have so much time. And I finally feel ready for what's next.

I want to study abroad.
And I need to work on speaking clearly, mostly about important things that cause me to hesitate and get tripped up.


It kills me that I couldn't answer that question tonight. First, because it really was the most monumental moment of my life- and that should be one of the easiest things to dictate. Second, because as hard as it is to admit, sometimes I want those days back. But whether they return or not, I want to be able to understand that part of my past. At least be able to relate to it. These aren't negative feelings, for the record, or at least they aren't now. I was struck with surprising sadness and regret at dinner, but now, looking back, I just want to understand. No discomfort either way. It's just different.

Scrap sheets of paper at work.

The reminder of a dress that passes my knees, ankles hidden in a cave of cotton shadow. I meet a pair of eyes that look more like vials of ocean water and am struck with a desire for sand and sunshine. When the clouds turn gray over the Chicago streets, the taxis dance and interchange in rhythm with the lake I love so dearly. The lake that laps and shines and waves and whispers. I listen closely and she tells me everything- the way I confide in you when the moon rests and these gray Chicago clouds disperse.

It has never taken me so long to come up with a photo project concept. Have I really never contemplated still life before? I found some pretty awesome work while searching for inspiration, though.

Dan Tobin Smith:

I asked you once and you couldn't answer. I figured maybe you were wondering, too.

Because you're honest.
Because you're genuine.
Because you have the biggest heart I've ever known.
Because you love your family with all of that heart. And because you've let me into it.
Because you make me smile until my mouth hurts.
Because you're intelligent and well-read.
Because the art you produce is incredible.
Because you inspire me to want to be better.
Because I don't have to hide my mess with you.
Because I am able to be more of myself with you than I have ever been able to with anyone.
Because you never needed to drink or smoke to have fun.
Because I still get butterflies.
Because you kiss my forehead.
Because we want all of the same things.
Because you're nice to everyone.
Because you remind me that I should be nice to everyone.
Because of all the awesome things we do together.
Because I didn't question that night for one second.
Because there is absolutely nothing missing.

Today, I miss home.

I may have grown out of titles.

I'm sitting on the couch with my feet up, the ceiling light halfway on, and the far left window open. The dust from earlier has settled. I got out of work nearly four hours earlier than planned, which was great, but am bummed that I still had to miss what I'm sure is a beautiful dinner. There are some people that you meet and you know within seconds that there is a) something extraordinary to be learned from them, b) magical times ahead, or c) that they bring with them some part of the (fill in the blank, for me it's peace) you've been looking for. It astounds me on a regular basis that most of the adults in your life are those people for me. And that a few of them are even a,b, and c.

I cannot for the life of me begin this introductory speech that is due in two days, so I'm contemplating and attempting to find words for that concert that changed my entire heart this past thursday. I felt new. Like Nate kept singing, I felt alive. And he took what I feel for you and put it into words and melody. I can't stop thinking about it, yet I can't put it into much more words than what I just did. But it was a life-changing night. And I've never been so in love as when I caught your eye during The Gambler. Days can be shitty, and today was. But you keep me focused on the big picture. And the big picture is fucking golden.

I'm very different than I was this time last year. The only major aspect I can think of that may attribute to the type of personality changes I feel I've gone through is the exact thing I want to have absolutely no meaning. Or do I? When it first changed, I had no choice. Looking back, I like me better pre-reconstruction. But everything is relative. And hindsight is 20/20. I do have 20/20 vision, though.......anyway. Note to self: be more appreciative of things exactly the way they are at present.


I CAN'T WAIT until I can _______________________, when ________________ will not even be close to being an issue. Oh, and I'll get my own fucking ________.



How passive aggressive of me.
This blog was getting dull, anyway.

I'm learning how to balance. I've been very good at doing that naturally up until very recently, and I'm not sure what changed. Balancing is hard, it's stressful, and it can be discouraging. But in the long run, it's helping. I'm continually amazed by how things work out on their own, though. It could always be worse. Take a deep breath, Krystal.

An uncomfortable space and a much needed night off.

Into the Wild was one of the greatest books I have ever read. Also, I came across some old (and very short) writings today that I am now surprisingly pleased with....

A truck filled with Diet Coke passes, suggesting all those around it to "Enjoy!" I wonder how the driver feels about this, or if he's a Pepsi drinker. Is there a Diet Coke code of ethics? Is enjoyment a recommendation or a hope?

-

Your left forearm is never bare. You use this space of skin like most use planners. The omnipresent Sharpie in your pocket covers these cells with duties and expectations that will never know your short term memory. And on the mornings that begin the way I like them to, your responsibilities are monogrammed across my neck.

-

One too many steps in the dark; I leave foot patterns that I'll never live up to. The exit path is shaped like an angular snake. I hardly slither when I leave.

-

I am safe under this umbrella of fluctuation. If there's no plan, there's nothing to be missed.
Does anyone have a map?

-



..........I wish the girls who live above us would take off their heels.

I couldn't find the words to finish this.

I want to explain. I want you to know. I want you to feel the waterfalls that have been rushing over me the past few days. I want you to feel how extraordinarily overwhelmed I've been, like the most beautiful sunset that refuses to give in to the night.

I love you for trying. And I love that sometimes you just can't explain (even though your words are still seriously missed). Also, I had to look up that word. You challenge me in absolutely every way, and that's exactly what I need.

Contemplations of past and present loves.

I sit on my deck with Into the Wild in one hand and a Djarum clove in the other. As I read the pages I have become so enchanted by lately, I begin to contemplate the smoking black stick resting between my middle and pointer fingers. It crackles when I inhale, and this is the only instance I can think of outside of pains or cramps when I am actually aware of my insides. I envision the smoke's trail through my lips, down my throat, and into my lungs. They inflate like balloons, and relax again to release some of the smoke, the rest to be left in there forever. A final, not as pink as it should be, living, resting place. I suppose humans are given living resting places as well- a breathing earth that houses our remains until there are none left, and a spiritual nirvana to dwell in for the eternity that follows your final breath, if you believe in that sort of thing. Thinking about all of this, I am reminded as to why I used to be addicted to the white, cheaper cousins of this sweet-tasting cigarette of sorts. The more pleasant a situation, the more cigarettes I smoked. Getting to know beautiful people in front of local coffee shops, enjoying particularly sweet green tea or perfectly brewed African coffee, driving in the fall down highway 96 with my windows down and the most moving songs I know playing as loudly as my car speakers would allow, being let into the souls of friends on various porches, particularly that of the Carriage House, visions of myself pushing out brilliant novels, going through packs and packs of Camel Lights just to continue the flow of my words. Before I knew it, all this dreaming and priceless experiences led to an unbreakable habit that I always expected I'd be stronger than. Having since quit, I remember these feelings- but I cannot achieve them. It does not even really feel right to seek them out.

I don't finish the clove that I have lit, the words I'm reading are just as beautiful without it, and about a quarter of the way through, my lungs ask me to stop. I put it out in an ashtray on a porch like I've done hundreds of times before and place my Polaroid bookmark in its place, this time somewhere around page 143. Evaluations of Chris McCandless linger in my mind. When he was out in Alaska all by himself surrounded by nothing but the wilderness his soul longed for, was he aware of everything? His past, present, future, the animals surrounding him, his insides, his desires. Were these things aligned when he reached this destination he'd been looking forward to and working toward for years? Was anything not in its right place? Chris McCandless kept an avid journal during most of his travels, and one of the last things he wrote before he died was "Happiness is only real when shared." I was happy then. I truly was. But as I get older, like McCandless, I have more and more trouble relating with those around me. And I enjoy more and more time by myself- thinking, listening, reading. The difference is, I have someone to share all of that with. Someone I want to share all of that with. I wonder if I am where McCandless would have been, had he taken Carine with him on the last leg of his journey, or accepted the company of the last man to give him a ride.

Happiness is only real when shared, but only when I have the company of the person with whom I share everything- am I happy.

There's a stick in my ass that I can't pull out. I am not this angry, introverted person that this series of unfortunate events has morphed me into. Until the smoke clears, tralalalala.

The new Fun album is delicious.



Also, ask me one more freaking mom question/suggest ONE MORE THING THAT FUNCTIONING ADULTS CAN DO ALL BY THEMSELVES and see what happens. kthanks.

Getting up this early to start a hosting job is absurd. That being said, I'm really excited.

If I were a man, I'd have the sweetest Sam Beam beard in the entire world.

"No man ever followed his genius till it misled him. Though the result were bodily weakness, yet perhaps no one can say that the consequences were to be regretted, for these were a life in conformity to higher principles. If the day and the night are such that you greet them with joy, and life emits a fragrance like flowers and sweet-scented herbs, is more elastic, more starry, more immortal- that is your success. All nature is your congratulation, and you have cause momentarily to bless yourself. The greatest gains and values are farthest from being appreciated. We easily come to doubt if they exist. We soon forget them. They are the highest reality... the true harvest of my daily life is somewhat intangible and indescribable as the tints of morning or evening. It is a little star-dust caught, a segment of the rainbow which I have clutched."

Oh, Henry.

Everything in its right place.

I've been painting, I've been reading, I've been writing, I've been photographing, I got the tattoo I've been wanting for months, I'm starting a new job on tuesday, the weather is perfect, my bike Cecilia is a classy lady, and I'm more in love than ever. This is the peace I've been waiting for.

500 Days of Chicago.

What changes an artist? I look at work from one period of his or her life and am moved, my thoughts are provoked. And then I look through work from years prior or after, and it stirs nothing inside of me. Sometimes I wish for the option of subtitles or footnotes beneath people, actions, decisions, changes. What's happening beneath the surface that onlookers cannot hear/see/feel? I'm interested. And the sky and I are hanging out tonight.

The most delicious cup of coffee that was ever brewed, a group of words I cannot translate, and a painting that will make or break. Break.

I'm selfish and I'm working on it. Please don't move too far.

The bike gods answered my prayers. Also, Paper Heart was adorable and inspiring and full of both positive and negative truths about love.

I can't believe how long/short it's been. I love you.

Also, I miss writing poetry all the time. I haven't felt like I deserve to lately, if that makes sense. I've been silenced by music much more beautiful.

I nested a bit more today. I was beginning to worry that this space would never actually feel quite like home, but I think I made a lot of progress. I gave my walls a little more attention with the last few photos, collages, and Alice In Wonderland posters that were hiding in my closet. Incense, also, strangely makes me feel at home in any place. No matter what particular scent a stick may be, they all register in my brain as comfort and openness. My room finally feels done, and it finally feels (and smells) like mine. Andrew Bird's sweet melodies help, too. Kim and I also completely cleaned off the deck and commandeered a small grill we found on the steps- all that's left out there is to find some furniture. Once we get that, and finish decorating the "dining room," I think all will feel done and all will feel like home.

Tall buildings shake, voices escape.

I am so frustrated. I'm frustrated with the things that people think are okay, I'm frustrated with the people that think these things are okay. I'm frustrated with people being more concerned with expensive things than important things. I'm frustrated with my parents. I'm frustrated with myself for being frustrated with my parents. I'm frustrated with this stupid complex they've stemmed in me about "society and tattoos/piercings." I'm frustrated with myself for being affected by this, for letting it get to me. I'm frustrated with myself for being so scared to do what I want to do. I'm frustrated with money and all shitty means of acquiring such. I'm frustrated with alcohol and what it does to people that I love. I'm frustrated with myself for drinking anyway just because, socially, it's easier. I'm frustrated with things from my past that won't go away no matter how far I physically get, and with the people that bring some of those things back. I'm frustrated that I'm 100% more comfortable with someone else than with myself these days. And I hate that I know this place in myself so well, and that every time I get here, this is what happens.

I can't believe it's here. I can't believe you're here.

If I see one more TV special/commercial/"news report" on Michael Jackson, I am going to cut someone. That is all.

The Dead Weather, Screaming Females, Death Cab For Cutie, Ra Ra Riot, Iron and Wine, Cold War Kids, Pinback, Jack's Mannequin, Fun, Conor Oberst and the Mystic Valley Band, Bright Eyes, The Magic Numbers, Feist, Jason Mraz, All American Rejects, Ozomatli, Hoobastank, Paramore, The Juliana Theory, The Spill Canvas, Radiohead, Rage Against The Machine, Wilco, Kanye West, (25)The Raconteurs, The Black Keys, G Love, Brand New, Girl Talk, Brazillian Girls, Chromeo, Rogue Wave, MGMT, Ludo, Dr. Dog, Manchester Orchestra, Pearl Jam, Daft Punk, Modest Mouse, Muse, Ben Harper, Yeah Yeah Yeahs, Regina Spektor, Amy Winehouse, M.I.A, STS9, Bassnectar, Motion City Soundtrack, Senses Fail, (50)Underoath, Family Force 5, Gym Class Heroes, The Academy Is, The Wreckers, Cake, Tegan and Sara, Calexico, Corey Smith, Dashboard Confessional, Say Anything, Fear Before the March Of Flames, Gavin DeGraw, Tyler Hilton, Hanson, Maroon 5, John Mayer, Mae, Meg and Dia, My Brightest Diamond, Relient K, Sufjan Stevens, Waking Ashland(72). And whoever else I can't remember. This was just for me. Sorry if anyone spent any amount of their life reading through this and/or thinking it was important.

The words she knows, the tune she hums.

I really don't even like Elton John that much, but "Tiny Dancer" is one of the most beautiful songs I have ever heard. Also, the Dead Weather rocked my body tonight. Seriously, the best musical experience of my entire life.

Today I feel strangely adult-like. I woke up at Mary's way too early, and instead of going back to sleep, drove home to have coffee and breakfast with my mum. Since then, I have counted and separated the rest of my money to be taken to the bank, set up our electricity in Chicago, and collected and signed all the necessary paperwork for my cell phone rebate. I have my own address. I have bills and cell phones and bank accounts in my name. This is a weird and wonderful feeling.

First adult task when I get to Chicago that really is refreshingly not adult-like at all: find a cheap bike.

Headrush.

Packing, Food Network, packing, packing, packing, fudge pie, packing, Where are my coffee mugs?, bank, packing, packing, rain, Food Network, packing.

A butterfly flew over my head today and I instantly wondered how you were doing. Also, the most vibrant cardinals I have ever seen have been spending time in my backyard lately. I wonder what it is I'm emitting.

At Famous Dave's earlier this week, I waited on two men who were on their way home to Huntsville, Alabama, making the last few miles on a Harley trip/caravan that began in Milwaukee. I don't remember how, but school came up, and I told them I was going to school in Chicago and that my ultimate goal was to make a living doing photography. The one on the right smiled politely and wished me luck, and the guy on the left just stared at me. I smiled, because I thought I knew what was coming. "Can I ask you something? Why in the HELL would you want to do that?" It's hard, obviously, to portray via internet, but as serious as his question was, his tone of voice was not menacing or offending at all. Long story short, I spent most of their meal doing what I hadn't had to do in months- convince someone that I can do this. Convince someone that I am doing this. They were nice, southern gentlemen (ha), and at the end of the meal, I gave them both my Flickr url. After having said all that I could, I told them that I wanted them to decide for themselves if I was wasting my time, or if what I was doing was going somewhere. Since, there's been a few extra views on the pictures that have been sitting on my website for a while, and I can only hope it's the Harley guys from Huntsville who told me I would "make a great computer engineer."

This is what it's all about. Convince people, friends, family, neighbors, competitors, strangers, that you're going to do what you say you're going to do. Make them believe in you, even if they want to think you're crazy.

Yes.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v8e6-IeQ0aw

I'm frustrated. As all humans do and should, I am constantly thinking. Constantly questioning, constantly deciding, constantly wondering, constantly imagining. And as I go about my day, doing mindless and not so mindless things, working, spending time with people, not spending time with people, I constantly...... all this is leading to is me saying there's always so much on my mind that I want to share, but by the time I get here and am able to write, I've forgotten everything of any importance. Someone share a thought with me, an experience, a question. Can you make annonymous comments on Blogger? I don't know, someone. Anything.

There's a wrinkle in the water.

Even poaching salmon makes me miss you.

The sky could be blue, could be gray,

without you I just slide away.

The sky could be blue, I don't mind,

without you it's a waste of time.

Volair tonight; I'm hoping it inspires some writing as satisfying as that which stemmed from their last show in January. I just want to sit on the floor and soak in every word and melody they'll share. 

And then, HP6 at 12:06. Good gawd.

Beat Repeat.

Last night was crazy and incredible and ridiculous and cleansing and exactly what I needed. I don't even know what else to say about it. But, making the most of these last TN days is going extremely well thus far. I feel good about it. About everything.

French Vanilla.

Up way too early, waiting to be picked up by Kim in a mini van so we can conquer every Goodwill in the area. I'm praying to the dining room table gods.

Inspiration, aviation.

Patrick flew away from me this morning, leaving me unbalanced and with a dozen empty spaces to fill. This is my first attempt at filling some.

I've been inspired by Jess Santrock more times than I can count in the last nine or ten months, and this blog is the product of her most recent inspiration. To write. About anything and all things, because language is a gift. And because sharing ourselves with each other is an even greater one. 

These are my last twenty days in Tennessee; I'm going to do all I can to fill the spaces, and to make them count.

p.s. I drove nearly straight into the moon on my way home from work tonight; I'd never seen it so low and so HUGE in the sky so late at night. It was incredible.