STRUGGLEOFWORDS

10-10-2002 || 1:01 AM
It's strange that the surest things in our lives are based on abstraction. I take the most comfort in writing, reading, thought. Each and every word we see is an abstraction of the idea that it represents. What does "mist" mean? It is a sign for this cloud of dewy water droplets blurring our cool, breezy mornings. But on seeing the word "mist," it becomes a form, perfect in our mind and intellect. What is mathematics but some of the simplest yet obvious forms of abstraction. I have yet to trip over a "2" while walking down the street. And yet we are certain that "1 + 1 = 2", a fact we learn as young children. We cling to these principles as truth in our lives. Tables and chairs and hard sculpted things, following the form of what we believe the "perfect" table is.

And the geniuses of the world sit there, and these immense universal, fantastic ideas and theorems come to them, their mind open like a beautiful vessel. They know something we do not -- these Nobel and Pulitzer Prize winners, these artists, teachers, creators, and mothers -- they know something we might never grasp. And so they sit there, with a smile on the face of their mind's eye.

10-3-2002 || 6:50 PM
I was supposed to be tutoring this little girl today, teaching her all the States, long division, reading books. But it was canceled because some person decides to go on a shooting spree in Rockville. Understandably, after-school activities for kids in the area did not take place. And while dozens of young college students and elementary school kids could have sitting in a brightly painted library or outside in the sun playing math games, I suppose it didn't happen. I cannot even imagine what it would be like, just a man mowing his lawn or a woman at a post office. And just like that. Gone.

10-1-2002 || 11:43 PM
I am sure he will write well, and I am sure I will be jealous.

Yes, you and your thinning hair and faded glory. You with your knowledge of me, paragon of youth. I wear my ponytail high and tail so that you may watch it sway to and fro as I walk on the balls of my feet.

Read some Whitman, "Song of Myself." It is some amazing stuff from an amazing poet. And yes, my vocabulary and grammar are less than excellent.

9-29-2002 || 12:35 AM
The streets glisten with rain water, and cars splash by, creating small waves that crash onto the curb by my feet. Little caterpillar-like drizzle falls on my face, my hair, my shoulders. People gather under the shelter at the bus stop, watching the headlights coming over the hill in the road. Perhaps if we all focus on willing the bus to come, it will.

Across the way, bright red and blue signs advertise fast rood restaurants and drug stores. The rectangular buildings block out my view like a well-graphed picture. Yet the dark-violet night sky, the young saplings by the road, and the inane chatter of teenaged girls all contributes to a sense of silence or wonder. Everything fades out and weaves behind me, and I find myself searching for the stars or the moon that I will not be able to see behind the mass of stormy clouds.

A man with a shaved head and glasses paces around in the background by himself. He is listening intently to his headphones and staring at his shoes or his khaki shorts as he walks back and forth on the pavement. He's getting wet with sky water, but it does not seem to bother him. And, I'll bet that I would like whatever it is that he's listening to.

9-25-2002 || 5:50 PM
I am periodically sitting in a room: a classroom, the cafeteria, in a chair donating blood. I keep on trying to catch someone else's eye. We're all in the same thing together. We share this mutual bond, I figure. We chose to take this course, to eat breakfast at 7:30 when the sun has yet to warm the world, and to sit here with a needle in our arm.

And I am trying to make a connection. Granted, I do not know what I look like when I smile in those situations. Maybe my expression is not as uplifting as I would like it to be. Perhaps I should practice in a mirror. But then, some one will smile back. We both know. And we smile.

9-22-2002 || 11:27 PM
I am fated now. To change in a flash of neon fluorescence. To discover though another, unconsciously, a band or some music or a man I had not heard of before. Yes, he had always existed. But, he had not been mine until now. I know him, and I own a piece of him now. A fragment. A facet of his identity. No, he says, shaking his head softly. He is his own man. He cannot give himself unwillingly.

No. I say. We are equals now in some way. You through your craft, reaching thousands or millions. And I sitting here in a quiet, empty room, skirting the issue of a college essay.

You tell me that I am not rational. That reason has not found its way into my mind at this moment. Oh, but I know the clarity of my understanding. This moment, the ancient Greek philosophers could not refute me now. For I can do it. Play your music or hear your voice at any time. Of the night. And push my feelings in like a tack into an easily yielding wall. All at once, words and rhythm, tone and inflection hold happiness and pain and joy and ecstasy all at the same. Outside the sun rises, the trash truck backs up, beeping, and I must awake at 7:00 AM for classes. And face it, you are mine.

9-22-2002 || 11:19 PM
She takes a little time to mellow out. To fret and worry, feel insecure and unsure about her future and her abilities. Then she laughs and reassures herself just to feel that jolt of energy and joy of life. You can see it. She holds it in, but if you look you can tell. Can taste it seeping through her pores and falling out like sunshine. She could lie there on the grassy fields and stare at the quickly moving wind-blown clouds. They wisp and waft past the perfect blue. She reflects that color like the ocean. Clear yet completely unfathomable in her depths.

Her hair is cold from the condensation of her shower-fresh dew. And her eyes and body and face are tired from laughing and from the day that she has just passed. Just lived through. Youth and its follies and beauties.

9-12-2002 || 7:31 PM
To think there is so much talent in this world, on this earth, or even within the confines of one university. Even in a school renown for its momentous strides in science and medicine, there are so many talented individuals of art. Their accomplishments at so young an age shock me, yet they please me to think that, yes, I am part of this generation. Perhaps one, with its weblogs, mp3 players, and palm pilots, that could show the world a beauty and an inter-connectedness in all aspects.

I cannot wait to see what they can do, what they will create in these next four years. Meanwhile, I shall hold fast to myself and throw it all into the air, to catch hold and dance about. There is no reason for competition or jealousy, only an ever-growing push to better yourself for yourself. So I will take joy in my skills, humble as they are. I will develop them and hone them so that I may have a better understanding of the world and myself.

9-7-2002 || 1:42 PM
I understand that college life means a lot of different things to different people. The whole social aspect of it -- meeting new people, learning responsibility -- is important and pertinent to anyone's life. Still, I wonder if most people are as enthusiastic about the actual learning process. I AM excited for my classes. I am excited to learn about the principles and practices of literary criticisms. I am interested in finding out how and why the mind can process language. I am looking forward to learning Spanish and Chinese and maybe German. I want to learn about computers and astronomy, philosophy, literature and linguistics. I am going to write essays and theses and learn from the professors at the cutting edge of their fields.

And I am thinking this as I walk through the door after lunch, my breath tasting of food. I am walking up the stairway, and my shirt had come unbuttoned. No one had pointed it out, so by accident I see and have to correct myself. I suppose that is the way life goes.

8-31-2002 || 5:24 PM
Sweet heaviness, that lies beneath your skin and behind your eyelids like a perfectly dainty rock, floating somewhere between the unfathomable depths of myself. I think I hiccupped and that it is frozen in my chest. And at times, I could imagine myself becoming part of the wind, easy and perfect and all. But instead, the harsh truth grates out, biting and caustic like acid that you thought was water.

Ok. Whatever I just wrote was horrible, but sometimes, you just need to get it out. The writing asks to be seen in concrete form instead of the clipped phrases and overwhelming emotion that exudes otherwise. What an existence. Just.

8-25-2002 || 4:08 PM
If I have nothing to say then why must I speak at all? And if I sit and silence with a neutral expression on my face, then perhaps I am feeling a joy of peace more than you would ever be able to understand. How and childlike we can all be, while waiting for the ocean to wash us clean.

8-23-2002 || 12:03 AM
We grab onto the lingering light, riding on its coat tails. Night comes and lying in bed, I do not feel the desire to sleep. Nor the need. I could float forever in this wave of not-quite conscious. In the corner of the shadowed room a man stands alone, bobbing his head in the rythm to the music rich in bass and brass and the faint scratching of vinyl records. On their own accord, my arms curve and sway upwards. Gravity ceases to exist.

The words people say are poignant and designed to arouse my emotions. Still, I feel strangely detached. I step back physically to assert my distant so that I may watch them and think of them as something sweet and made to dote upon. I stroke and polish the small marble of the earth, my breath echoing upon its reflective surface. I place it away carefully and slowly. It will stay in my pocket for another day.

The music fades into the background and the man and the beat turn to night sound. I close my eyes and hover in the world between sleep, dream and life. Good Night.

8-10-2002 || 1:06 pm
As the summer draws to an end, I find myself wishing that I had read more books. Yes, some of them ask to be read with furious pacing, and other books take time. With Atlas Shrugged it isn't so much because of the length of the massive book, but rather the intricate, complex yet completely understandable behavior of all the characters that takes such a long time to process. Or maybe their actions and words are not immediately accessible, but they become believable in the human-sense. Sometimes people are not rational. Yet in the scheme of things, it cannot happen any other way. Or perhaps it could have, but the fact is, it didn't. Unless you understand the ideas behind Quantum Physics. Which I do not.

I kind of want to take a class in Quantum Physics, but it requires too many other prerequisites. Maybe I'll just read a book on the subject. If I ever finish Atlas Shrugged. Which I won't. There are just the times when I have to close the book to think about what has just happened. Or when I try very hard to stop myself from quickly scanning the next couple of pages to find out what is going to happen. I know this book is going to haunt me. In a good way, though.

8-6-2002 || 10:35 pm
Scanning the highway, the five dark cars merging into the lane in front of me suddenly remind me of huge Egyptian scarabs with gleaming, jeweled eyes. Their sleek shells glisten in the sunlight and emit a liquid effect as it gels across the asphalt.

8-5-2002 || 1:52 pm
Welcome to the new gross incompetence here at Mirrorsoul.net thanks to my talented and gracious host Melcena. Thanks so much and definitely go visit all her many many sites and tell her how great she is!

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