15
Apr
09

We write to create the future, not to destroy the past

There have been exactly 942 visitors to this site at the moment i type this sentence. I’ve had this site for just over six months. I think that means i’m doing fairly well. It looks like i average probably five visitors a day, which, i think, means i get probably three readers every other day. Because, let’s face it, most people just click the link. i know i click links like it’s going out of style. Can’t help it, really. You link something, i’m there. But, yeah, i’d guess probably 300 of the visitors have read something here and i’d guess that those 300 visitors represent fifty people [generous number, there], some of whom’ve read one post and other, like Ian [you’re the man] who’ve read all or close to all. Yeah, that’s my calculations.

Been obsessed with that song for the last couple of days. I should do another video post of all the song’s i’ve been diggin on recently. Those are always fun, i think. Though, i mean, could just be me.

This post is mostly about how i spent this most recent Saturday. I stayed in bed all day and chronicled what went on outside my window and various other things. I wrote it, or typed, rather, it all down, so i’m just going to copy and past it.

Saturday the whatevereth of April

It’s three in the afternoon. I’m still in bed, have a headache, and an empty case of beer next to me, drank more than i meant to. Or should have, rather.

From my bed, the sky looks glorious and i wish i was spending my day outside. There’s nice weather in Dublin lately. The sky’s that beautiful blue, but not endless; the great puffclouds are trudging past, not ominously, but prettily. Like they know something i don’t, something wonderful that i’ve only hinted at in my years on earth.

There’s love to be made
or so she said
while holding my hand,
our feet in the sand.

We swoon when the water
hits our toes,
and so it goes:
we made a lovely daughter.

Anabelle Lee was the name intended,
though we changed it quick
less she grow to be offended
by the awful name we made to stick

upon her life for all her days.
Little Jessica was a delight,
all smiles and elegant ways.
Our daughter, a prize, a beauteous sight.

She did begin to grow.
A lovely life as a show
for us to watch and script
behind our coffees being sipped.

Age comes as it’s wont to do
and bid living farewell, my wife,
my love, my magnificent Jew,
was forced to leave behind this life.

Young Jessica cried and cried
but no tears came for me
just desire to travel and see
the world before i, too, died.

Packing our bags, we took to the road.
Just my Jessica and my fading life
off to nowhere, writing my ode
to a life led well, a story free of strife.

Just my Jessica and me
A daughter, a companion, see.
We travel on and on for days and years,
beyond my life, forever past, free from fears.

We drive on.

There’s a cat who lives in the courtyard, too. I call him Alexander because it’s a kingly name and he’s a beautiful specimen. Though, it’s possible he is a she, in which case i’ll call her Alexandra. He wanders the courtyard, prowling, rather, in search of something, a bird or a small child to fiend on. Cat’s know things. This, i know.

Last night was a good night, mind. Got together with my friends, some of whom i’d not seen since France. We got a bit wild, as we tend to do. Watched The Life Aquatic and reminisced about Manifest Destiny and the Amsterdam/Parisian adventure.

Also, a girl with a pretty voice called me and i’m sure i made a bit of a fool of myself while talking to her. I’m a foolish person, though, so it’s to be expected. And she was kind enough to not make me feel stupid. Or maybe she was and i can’t remember.

Now Annabelle Lee was from Tennessee.
A feisty young lass with ten kinds of class,
she’d spit and she’d holler, she’d undo your collar.

Henry O’Toole was nobody’s fool,
but he came unawares, forgetting his cares,
to the spot on the dot where one could fit a cot.

Little fat Carol was known for his barrel.
He rolled it down hills where sometimes it kills.
A terror, he be, so beware when you see a fat boy from Tennessee.

Henry O’Toole, who was still nobody’s fool,
took the long road devoid of a magic fortune telling toad
to Tennessee to see the famous Annabelle Lee.

On his way, he met Little fat Carol and his deadly old barrel.
Fat Carol was sorrowful, his barrel, so powerful,
was beaten and damaged, a wreckage of woodage.

But Henry O’Toole pulled up a stool,
rolled up his sleeves, face in the breeze,
and commenced to mend the barrel of Carol.

Fat Carol was pleased, his barrel appeased,
He thanked Henry O’Toole, called him nobody’s fool,
and left merrily, to kill, verily.

Annabelle Lee danced on the stage of Tennessee,
for all life is one, or so they say, till it is done.
She danced and romanced, famous at last.

Henry O’Toole strolled in real cool looking nobody’s fool.
He searched for Annabelle Lee, for just a chance to see
her grace his face and the stage with her lace.

Annabelle Lee spotted Henry O’Toole sipping tea on a stool.
A handsome young man, a little bit tan; the ladies, all fans.
She walked to a desired new lover and he damn near tipped over.

Henry O’Toole was wordless, but far from worthless.
He swooped her off her feet, showed he was the man she needed to meet,
‘Annabelle Lee, you’re gonna see, that you’re the only woman for me!’ said he.

It’s near five in the afternoon now. Alexander’s back, just lounging in the sun–a rarity here–and licking himself. The sun’s been staying out later and later these days. Just a few months ago, it’d already be dark at this time. The sky’s opened up a bit, too, and i smell delicious food coming from somewhere.
I’m really hungry and still haven’t left my room. Afraid to see my roommates, i think. Who knows what they thought i was doing last night, talking to one amerikan girl, and then another amerikan girl i’ve not seen in years.

I don’t much recall what we talked about, but i remember laughing a lot and enjoying myself. I’m sure i was quite comical.

In probably four hours, i’ll be out making a fool of myself again.

Young Tomas was always cross.
He cursed and he cussed;
he made a big fuss,
so his mother did say,
in that way that they do,
‘Tomas, my dear,
you really must behave
or the world’ll think ye
a knave.’
Tomas, so cross, tossed
himself outside,
far from foul felt-tip admonishes.
He kicked and he shuffled,
his boots filled with rubble.
He hollered and hooted,
shouted and tooted.
Billy boy heard all the ruckus
and followed the rumpus
to where Tomas,
so cross,
was resting.
‘Tomas,’ he did say
in that boyish of ways,
‘your Mother says you’re a mess,
that you lashed out
and looted.’
‘What of it?’ seethed Tomas.
‘Well,’ Billy stammered,
‘You musn’t be so reprehensible,
it’s far from civil
and not one bit
jovial.’
‘Ah, your joviality
and civility
and respectability
can rot in a pot!’
Tomas did rage.
‘I’m tired of rules
and more so of fools!
The lot of ye
can rot!’
Billy boy left him,
for no fun’s to be had
with a boy
so far from glad.
But Tomas still fumed,
thought rebellions would swarm
from the ill thoughts
born.
Tomas did not see
that callous rage
birthed only
platitudinous,
ponderous,
woe-begotten
absurdity.
With Tomas as a guide,
a lonely
regretful
life ye’ll lead.
So cheer up
and smile more
because Tomas,
poor Tomas so cross,
is not you.

It’s 630pm now.I’m kind of drifting in and out of it. Still sitting in bed, looking out the window. I was listening to the score to The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford by Nick Cave and Warren Ellis–a fantastic album, no doubt–and this song came on:

while i was watching the clouds float by.
I got one of those feelings that i get every now and then. Something deep inside, where the whole earth kind of fills me and the grandness, the magnificence of existence sort of overflows and the world shimmers. Everything becomes so still, so, i don’t know, epic and important. And the clouds, they know me, or know i’m here, not sure it matters. They know i’m watching, anyway. And the dance by, so elegantly, so perfectly, just like these violin strings and the piano keys that tap in at 2:15 of that song. You hear it and something, not clicks, but sort of orients itself in just the right way. You know the day’s not wasted, though you’ve spent it in bed, because you’re here now, where you were meant to be, where all of this could happen, had to happen. And you–not sure why i’m in second person–smile. For no reason, just this sensation, this almost overwhelming fullness that comes when you’re living in those clouds, so beautiful and high above, watching down.

‘Come away with me into the night.
Give your hand, my dear,
we’ve miles to go before first light.’

She stretched forth her hand,
and in a sweep of black feathers,
she flew over grass, stone, and sand.

Closing her eyes and clutching tight,
she felt him, like raven feathers
brushing her cheek, and lost all her fright.

‘Be not afraid,’ his voice echoed in her head,
‘you’re safe here with me. Open your eyes.’
These words resonated, but were never said.

Hundreds of feet below shimmering with light,
the ground flew by in kaleidoscopic swirls
of greens, blues, reds, and purples wound tight.

She gasped and swallowed a scream,
clutching tighter to him,
though a bird he did seem.

And man he was not, but a creature of might,
existing between day and night,
balanced on gloam, near the death of light.

More feathers than skin, more demon than man,
he’s known as Orpheus, the Shadowking,
the keeper of the night and all that lives then.

Blacker than night, he swallowed the light,
ripping it from the surrounding,
making the world appear colorful and bright.

She clung close to him and wondered where he led.
‘To the birth of the day,’ he said,
though she never asked aloud, but only in her head.

And so they flew further into that dark night
leaving far behind all remnants of light
where the beauty of earth burned a bit more bright.

It’s now nearly one in the morning. The window stopped being interesting hours ago, but i’m still here.

Danny the Duck danced
to dangerous degrees of
dizzying drumtop drops.

Robert the Robin robbed
a Red Robin recently revealed
and revered as a regal restaurant.

Sam the Swan swam
stupendously in sweltering
serendipitous streams.

Bobby the Birdwatcher browsed
beaches and birches for birds
busting with brilliance.

I left my post for about an hour to return a movie and find out if my roommates were still alive. They are. I’ve still not brushed my teeth or anything. I ate a huge steak, though. It was bigger than my frying pan so i had to do it in waves. Who knows what happened outside my window whilst i was away. Alexander may’ve done some fiendish deeds. Too, before i left, i saw another cat, which makes me think Alexander has a girlfriend. Her name’s Ophelia. I might play with them tomorrow.

Lay down beside me, dear.
Yes, rest your head here.
A pillow out of my arm,
for you, pleasant and warm.

Lay down beside me, love.
Be careful, no need to shove.
Your kisses, so sweet,
a whispered heartbeat.

Soft midnight hair
spread everywhere,
looking so pretty
enough so to write this ditty.

Your eyes gleam with begs
when i reach between your legs.
A tongue like a wandering star,
we’ll take this so far.

This started so innocent,
but turned quite magnificent
with every touch of your lips
and the feeling of your hips.

No longer laying beside me,
but sitting on top where i see
the curve of your breast,
and adore all the rest.

Deeper inside her,
all flesh turns a blur.
Faster and faster, then slow,
i sense the curl of her toe.

Gasping and heaving,
our bodies interweaving.
You stay so still up above,
lay down beside me, my love.

It’s almost 6am.

And so the sun does rise
lighting up the open skies,
flooding through my closed eyes;
they open as night’s dream dies.

And so, too, i must rise,
brush the sleep from my tired eyes,
prepare for the day with grateful sighs,
and so i rise to enjoy these April skies.

The birds have been awake for a while. I hear them singing or tweeting or whatever it is they do with their time. The sky, it’s opened up again, cloudless, and it’s starting to brighten.

She came a long way,
or so they do say,
to lie in the grass
and itch her sweet ass.

A kitten came to greet her.
With shadowed fluffed fur
and cold nose kisses,
it pranced to the young missus.

Fingers rubbing behinds ears,
young missus forgot all her years
spent wandering earth for this patch
of grass with a kitten to scratch.

Clouds before her green eyes
masked the bluest of skies.
The grass, soft as a bed,
tickled the back of her head.

The kitten softly did purr,
rubbing its head into her.
A sandpaper wetness on her face,
the kitten meowed with such grace.

To forever lie there
was a dream she could wear
as long as the sun shone.
‘Forever,’ she did moan.

A beautiful companion,
and not just anyone,
but a beautiful kitten.
Young missus, so smitten.

And there she did lie
beneath a glorious sky
with the feline so dear
forever, and one more year.

So, yeah, i spent about twenty four hours in bed. So close to a wasted day, but quite all right with me. I wrote a lot of poems, silly rhymes, for my own amusement. Thought i’d share them with ye, see if you get a bit of enjoyment from some scribblings.

The work for the semester’s nearly all done. Laura’s coming to visit for the weekend. I’ll tell you about it next week. My sleep schedule is so backwards and cockeyed that it’s a bit ridiculous, but i decided to stay up to get it back on track. About to go to sleep, truth be told. But, yeah, yesterday i went to bed at 11am, woke up at 5pm, and haven’t slept since then. It’s about 130am now. Too long to go without sleep.

I’ll get to all that stuff i brought up in the post below this one eventually. Patience, my dears.

Good night.

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1 Response to “We write to create the future, not to destroy the past”


  1. 1 ijhanson
    April 15, 2009 at 7:28 pm

    Goodness gracious amigo,

    I though that I had a sub par sleeping schedule, but you dear sir have taken the cake. That’s even more cock-eyed than when I was working the night job for the Pioneer Press, although it is great because you get to see the sun rise every day in the cool, crisp, and frigid morning air. Breath visible, people invisible, sky indivisible, night unknowable.
    You do have quite a knack for rhyming and chiming in with all sorts of wondery. I do believe that you could create your own dialect and dictionary – I suggest that you get going on that and continue to integrate creationism into your writings (try chopping words in half and combining them with other stray half words to create monstrous, dark, mutant words that will prowl around the readers mind long after they’ve put down the page.)
    I’m pretty happy to get a shout out, I must say, and I’ve got quite the system down now for tracking anything and everything that goes on in your blog and all the other blogs that I enjoy perusing. Check out blogger.com. As you know, I’ve got a WP blog just like yourself, but at blogger.com you can set up your dashboard and follow blogs from all sorts of services and have the newest entries shown to you all in one spot. Kinda cool. I like blogs as a form of far away communication because one has plenty of time to develop better articulated responses to any questions or comments about a myriad of things.
    Anyways, I’ve been using Windows Live Writer to pound out some entries and think I’ll continue to do the same.

    I dig those poems; the one with Annabelle Lee from Tennessee gave me much pleasure and glee to read. indeed.

    I shall keep on keeping on, and maybe go out to Cerro Santa Lucia to photograph plants for my class.

    Cheers,
    Ian J


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