On One Hand

September 30, 2005

Filed under: Uncategorized — ononehand @ 8:32 pm

re-organized my memories, yo.

next step is to go through and actually edit those entries themselves, to make them good. I’m a much better writer now than I was when I wrote most of them.

September 29, 2005

Protected: Not Welcome Here

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My Life’s To Do List

Filed under: Uncategorized — ononehand @ 2:24 pm

My Life’s To Do List:

. . .

1000. die


Filed under: Uncategorized — ononehand @ 1:43 pm

The days are blending together now, probably because I don’t keep a regular schedule and I rarely sleep at home. I like it this way. I remember times when each morning felt like the beginning of a new story, and I and everyone else would take turns writing it. Now the daystories stretch on to encompass weeks, strung into a longer whole. It’s the way thoughts are fleeting but when placed naked in writing and connected to other thoughts, they are joined, like my days, into a longer whole.

Now I have everything I’ve wanted lately – beautiful people and long chains of unusual moments blured into perpetual disjoint. I get what I want every now and then and it never results in the sense of completeness that I felt it would. I take a few moments to pause and reorganize myself, only to find that I want new things. (With no particular desires in mind, I’m pausing right now, wondering what I’ll set my eyes on next.) Intellectually I always knew I wouldn’t be content, so I’m never dissilusioned by the lack of fulfillment, but each moment a part of me yearns for that wonderful golden apple (a lover, a symbol, a poem) insisting that it’s all I’ll need. Being perfectly satisfied contradicts an important part of what it is to be alive and to be human. It’s why the Christian Heaven never quite appealed to me, even when I was Catholic – I always assumed God had a part II up his sleeve that would occur after the “final” Judement Day. I think that Buddhism would have something to say about most of this.

Over the last week and a half, I have consumed over half my bodyweight in cigarettes and pure alcohol. It’s eating me alive and I love it.

What was that final thing I wanted to say…
Oh yeah, breathing. I love sleeping with people and feeling them breathe. I breathe slower than most people, so I like to time my breathing so that he breathes exactly four cycles for every one breath I take. It’s like he’s the melody and I’m the harmony of a song. It’s like I’m playing guitar and he’s my left hand and I’m my right, and I strum or pick four paterns before I change the chord.

If this is resonant with your thoughts and you have something you would like to contribute, please do.

September 28, 2005

Protected: From the Vatican

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September 27, 2005


Filed under: Uncategorized — ononehand @ 2:03 pm

You have to dig through so much shit to find the jewels here –
but when you find them, it’s so worth it. The sky lights up and streetcorners speak to you.

September 24, 2005

Protected: Google

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September 23, 2005

How to Not Write a Poem

Filed under: Uncategorized — ononehand @ 4:48 pm
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This is only a musing.

I can never write poetry. I don’t mean that in a defeatist way; the problem with me writing poetry has to do with the complexities of what poetry is and when it is. As any poet will tell you, there are times when you feel it and times you don’t. You can’t just wake up in the morning and scribble a poem like it’s breakfast or your first cigarette. You must have noticed something beautiful about waking up before you wrote a poem about it. To make it work you have to feel it.

Not that I don’t feel it. I felt poetry today while I was walking home just now, and I felt it last night when I was holding someone, and I felt it a few nights ago with some friends and I was feeling tumultuously conflicted at the time. When I’m walking and I feel the rhythm of my feet as they place themselves across the pavement, that’s poetry. When I see an ash tree with its leaves beginning to furl and yellow standing out above newly sodded grass that didn’t take, that’s poetry. When I look into molasses-colored eyes and run my thumb over his eyebrows and cheeks, that’s poetry. So I sit down in front of paper and a pen, holding the smooth cylinder in my hand and noticing the crispness of the fresh sheet, hoping to write. And that is poetry, in its fresh entirety, the perfect moment of momentum and whole potential in itself, so the poem doesn’t need anything more to be complete. And we know that poetry is about reducing to that minimum, nothing more, so if I were to actually start writing something I wouldn’t have poetry but excess. I might get something on paper but I won’t feel it anymore. So you can see I can’t write poetry when I don’t feel it, but I stop feeling it whenever I write. That’s why I can never write poetry.

What I write instead are philosophisings, thoughts, or memories; call them what you want. I can make them look like poems, and occasionally, by luck, they’ll evoke. But they aren’t poems. People think it’s poetry if I break it up into small lines, which can lead to something interesting – the trick to breaking up the lines is taking something complete and splitting it into items, or thoughts, at semi-logical places in what is really always a whole. It’s kind of the way scientists split the digestive system into four main parts when it’s really all one tube, or the way geographers split long ridges into individual peaks when it’s really a connected mass of rock. Then at least it looks like poetry.

Basically, start with a paragraph of thought, whatever you want to say, and then type it and press [enter] here and there until you have the appearance of a poem. See if you like it; if not, try breaking it up again. I will example as follows:

Basically [enter]
Start with a paragraph (of thought). [enter]
Whatever you want to say [enter]
press [enter]
[enter] here and there until [enter]
you have it – [enter]
the appearance [enter]
of [enter]
a poem. [enter]

Now read that twice and tell me it hasn’t begun to dig furrows in your mind like rivulets of rainwater in soil. The more disjointed the rhythm the more contagious the rhythm – this is what your subconscious seeks to wrap around, to make sense of. If you felt it, you just wrote a poem inside yourself. If you ever read anything and loved it, you just wrote a poem.

But I didn’t write one. I just typed some words and pressed the [enter] key. You can ignore the last five paragraphs, actually.

If you must have a thesis, I will try:
To appreciate is the true creative process, not composing. The creator only screens infinite stimuli for those with potential to evoke…the artist is the one who understands it and stares bleary-eyed at the page, saying nothing
everything is poetry.
And, this is more of a thought experiment/musing than me actually trying to say something sweeping or transendant.

September 22, 2005

Railroad Tracks

Filed under: Uncategorized — ononehand @ 8:40 pm
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I adorn my body with things that connect me. I own a black beanie that belonged to my cousin who died years ago, a t-shirt that was once my sister’s, and a jacket that my dad wore when he was my age. I always wear a Saint Christopher medalian for my mother’s sake and I still wear the chain from my previous Saint Christopher medalian, from my aunt, even though the pendant fell off. These things put me in touch with people I love.

Shortly after I first hooked up with Matt I noticed scars on his arms. Hypertrophic railroad tracks stitched paralell across his forearms, beginning at the elbow and appearing periodically down to each wrist. The moment I saw the thin lines I knew everything, because I had some of my own. I first fell in love with Matt the moment I saw those scars. Matt was cocky, overconfident, artificially masculine, and shielded, which was agonizingly sexy but not endearing to me. But when I saw those scars I saw the depth and turbulence in him. Later when I was depressed and missed Matt, I took a razor blade and cut myself for the first time in a while, giving myself scars to match his.

Now Matt is gone, if not from my life completely then at least from the place he once filled in me. But I still have these scars I adorned myself with – connecting me – keeping me in touch with him. and though they’re small and faint now I’ll never be rid of them. They seem to disappear sometimes but when I’m sunburned they rise up and turn red like welts, and show up white against brown when I tan. When I cut myself in a hazy psychosis I saw the permanence of scars as a good thing, but now I’m not sure. I want to forget the things that no longer make me happy. Sometimes they bring me comfort and sometimes they make me feel twisted and melancholy – but I wouldn’t know what to do about them except cover with more scars.

I recently saw someone who has a lot of those scars, and there in the dim light this thought took hold of me. I didn’t say anything then – I was at a loss – but this has been heavy on my mind, and I’m just getting it out.


Filed under: Uncategorized — ononehand @ 7:47 pm

My photo on my column in the Campus Press makes me look like a cartoon character. Since there are 10,000 copies in print, I can safely assume that 99.5 percent of all printed photos of me are very bad photos. I think I can live with that. Luckily, few people will read the column, and most copies of the paper will be destroyed/thrown away by the end of the week.

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