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.