aimless musings

Wednesday, April 25, 2007

in transit

Sometimes I'm taken over by the urge to move. I don't always know where I'm heading, or what I want to find when I stop, but I just have to go.

"The train moved past the seascape and the jogger, on toward Rhode Island, and I closed my eyes. Exhausted as I was I had a brief new impression: the the world was a place of kids in transit, people like the jogger and Lucy Consalves and that punk from Linville, PA, all of them, inexplicably, bound on excursions that might end up being glorious or stupid or violent, but that certainly moved in a direction away from anything they had ever known. I was one of them, and although I didn't know what direction I was heading in, and had only a faint idea yet of what I was leaving behind, the sense of being in motion was a thrill that made up for a lot. I sat and squeezed my eyes tighter and hoped that it would turn out to be enough for me." -- Sarah Phillips (117)

Posted by nabero @ 1:17 PM :: (0) comments

Sunday, April 22, 2007

tidbit from Joan...

Manfred Mann, "Blinded by the Light" *rock*

Senioritis has taken hold of me with a deathgrip. I'm still enjoying my classes, but I have to say that my actual motivation to do this whole "work" thing...stunted. I'm blinded by the light of graduation and moving on, so much that studying for an exam longer than 10 minutes seems extensive and unnecessary. (So far my arse has avoided nips from my negligence...but it must be right around the corner, eh?)

One of my favorite courses this quarter is my Women & Literature course. Here's a snip from a personal essay by one of my favorites, Joan Didion.

"The impulse to write things down is a peculiarly compulsive one, inexplicable to those who do not share it, useful only accidentally, only secondarily, in the way that any compulsion tries to justify itself. I suppose that it begins or does not begin in the cradle. Although I have felt compelled to wrte things down since I was five years old, I doubt that my daughter ever will, for she is a singularly blessed and accepting child, delighted with life exactly as life presents itself to her, unafraid to go to sleep and unafraid to wake up. Keepers of private notebooks are a different breed altogether, lonely and resistant rearrangers of things, anxious malcontents, children afflicted apparently at birth with some presentiment of loss."

Joan Didion, "On Keeping a Notebook".

Here are a few shots from my excursion to The Ridges this week. I'm sure I'll head up there again even though it's such a long drive (30 seconds)

Cheers ma' dears

Posted by nabero @ 11:24 AM :: (0) comments

Thursday, April 19, 2007

a bit..

Professor Anderson assigned us to write a poem about love in my creative writing: poetry course last quarter. We could not use the word "love" and we could not write ourselves as the persona.

Apartment 76C

"I remembered the duck sauce, this time" I said.
"That's great--but I wanted soup and
it was spicy mustard anyway,"

she laughed. My eyes dropped
the scratch in the table--cherry, a
day trip to Portland. Her hair
soggy (rain). Dropped it in
the gutter. Scrapped finish but

it's still here.

"This will never work"
----I don't care.
"My mother hates you"
----She kind of hates you too.

Toothbrush bristles
mingling in a faded circus
(cracked) coffee mug. She leaned
on this sink on my 21st.
Hunched over the toilet I
prayed. Keep her.

"I see the way she looks at you"
----It was nothing.
"Will I be (_______ ) too?"

Space between us rice
(sticky) too long on the
stove.

"Damn, we missed the flick"
I laugh. I know all she wants
is the blue-flavored slushy
she won't finish ($) but I buy. It's
worth to see her like a hypothermic
bunny.

Our day's big plans dissolved into
blankets strewn across the floor,
Chinese aging in paper tubs.
We are silent beneath the him humm of re-runs
above The World buzzing. (Together) Between the static.

Posted by nabero @ 8:38 PM :: (0) comments