Motivation through spirituality

Hello folks. Many of you may not know me, in fact, I am slightly disjointed from this community. However, I always have this nagging feeling, like "I really wish I spent more time on Matt's Arumpahpah: gardyloo! thing.

Every month or two, I will get exited about it, and start thinking of things to blog/rant/expunge from my mind on to the webverse. I will go through past posts and enjoy the talent, but eventually I will be bogged down by the immensity of the catching up I have to do. Soon rapid firing brain will move on to the next tantalizingly fun idea. Without finishing here my mind moves in a never ending cycle of zipping from idea to idea, without any completion.

Well finally I came to this realization, with help from my lifelong friend Travis.

Now I know this is sort-of going to turn into an advertisement/endorsement of another blog, but before that turns you off, I implore you to keep reading.

Now my buddy Travis has spent the last few years devouring a plethora of books, blogs, and websites devoted to self-help. He is also quite a spiritual (hint hint.. spiritual not religious) guy, not the preachy type though.

Anyways hes combined these two elements of his life, self improvement, and spirituality, and created a blog about how the two are inextricably linked.

His ideas here are whats opening my eyes to now ways of bettering myself.

I hope you will give it a shot, even if your not into the whole spirituality stuff. At the very least it makes for great reading, and content that makes your mind churn.

http://www.thinkingspirit.com/

Jesse

Ps, I hope to be around more often!! For real this time!

sour baggage

we were statues interacting. My hand outreached putting the ball in her court. The next move was critical, real life chess. She hates chess.

My hand outreached, honestly not knowing what to expect.

Statues beginning to erode in a vacuum.

Then she took my hand, and we were reanimated. The color returned to our cheeks.

a good sense of smell

Every now and again, I catch a whiff of something familiar in the air. A trace of what it used to be like. The smell of freshmen year, a year when all was unfamiliar yet all was comfortable. A year of alternate realities, and bonds so strong they could support the world. I smell this, like windex, wafting from time to time as I walk through campus. Something about the air tastes just right, so these feelings come flooding back. My first roommate. Pokemon into all hours of the night. Metric cups of winter sand carpeting the floor as I walk everywhere in my happy feet. When music wasnt in style. When the circle was tight.

I've recently discovered an old friend who after telling me stories, is now more dear to me than I ever thought possible. Respect and adoration, understanding and sympathy, minding ones own business unless fatal. These are things we have always exhibited together even without knowing it. He and I always reminisce, and we now know why. While we prefer our current status' of the present, there was something magical about the child years of 2006 and 7.

I keep catching that whiff, that taste in the air that tells me a lot of time has passed. A lot of things have changed. We're all on our separate paths now. All of us. And while we may miss each other when we're gone, we have no choice but to flourish onward and upward, and hope the rest may too.

passable

it is the act of the witticism:

"Knock knock"
who's there?
"Aleph?"
"Aleph who?"

Where does it go from there? Joke joke joke
there once was a man from nantucket,
the ilk
the like.

it is the act of witticism:
birth & natural disaster

it is the act of a single, potent witticism.

i don't know where this is going; but I usually don't
it's usually about the footfalls, the long steps,
the brief parodies of movement, the fantasy
gouge, the blatant apostrophe, the terrible
triptake, the sly beast, the breasts like moonlight

here is your story. you can understand what love feels like,
and what it means to be loveless. you can understand what
wigs are like. you can understand the Principle Of Beards.


It is a competition to come up with a punchline.

(1460)

What's left in these tiny states but the interstate out to somewhere new?
Memories floating in every landscape
Each molecule holding the bitterness
No doors will open but the ones with exits signs glowing above.
No windows to sneak into on late nights.
But out there
Past the doors with no door knobs on our sides
That is where we will escape to a place where the sun only ever rises.

gray

reading all again I get lightheaded and dizzy with memory.

I see it all, over and over again, all of our strife, our accomplishments

I see how much we've changed since we all met each other.

Its different than high school and middle school, where one cant change but now we're adults, we can make choices and see the progression and consequences of our actions.

Relationships found and lost, grades up and down, rooms messy or clean, even hair long and short.

Its too much to keep track of, but after looking at it all again I say we should all be proud of where we are now, for its these changes and experiences that define who and what we are. Regardless of what we are, or who others think we are, be proud. Had anything in the past been different, you would not be who you are right this second. You may not even be reading this had the butterfly effect not taken hold of our existence.

Too much is left to the unknown should we wish to be different. The "what if" scenarios never could play out like in our heads because we're only human, and cant see all the variables.

I find after all this time, burning my past was not a good idea. Memory is so one sided, and I know if the writings were not tossed to the flames, I may relearn some tidbit of realization that could help snap everything back into place.

but memory is so one sided. So black and white.

I'd like to think Im gray now, have been since Santo Spirito.

And im told its noticeable. I hope thats a good thing.

timidity. humiditiy.

timidity. humidity.

halls. (empy of me)

pacifier rights. cuckold.

swell. hubris.

ketchup manfucatured. huddle.

you have beautiful eyes.

childball. stainwaste.

perfected. temerity.

baseball. balls. testicles, to be frank.

come home with me. faithless.

peanut butter and honey

there's a letter under your bed, but you'll never read it.
i've sealed it with wax, like they did back then.
it doesn't say anything important, really.

remember the time we made those peanut butter sandwiches?
the honey you drizzled on top, soaking into wheat bread and making something i thought was beautiful.
heavy on our tongues, sweet in our throats.
crumbs on your chin, on my lap, on the floor.

it's sealed in wax and maybe someday the landlord will find it.
read it, fold it up, tuck in away somewhere because it seems like it's important.
but really, it's not.
not anymore.

we're all 2 faced

all of us, no matter the circumstances are people we would never let on to be.

Secrets so dear, so close, no matter who we surround ourselves with, the whole truth stays hidden. And was it really that much of a surprise? to be innocent or ignorant of the whole big picture? Even now, I think and believe in things that I wish I wouldnt. I know full well details I'll refrain from referring to when the questions are asked. I have those same secret desires, the wishes, the needs to explain everything, but one person cannot handle the burden of all my blathering. I could tell it all, and I have, but I need to tell more than one person. and I worry the people I surround myself now are not the ones who can handle my complete truths.

Likewise, I wont handle theirs. I learn nothing I want to from them, and I cant go to them for support ever, because more often than not, they are part of the problem, or have been. Everythings connected after all.

Everythings changed though. One solid bridge for support and direction is now a delicate spiderweb of alterations, misdirections, lies and fragility.

Im all to blame. But I suppose that would be unfair to those around me, to the people that care.

It makes me want summer to come sooner. I'll claim connection with the ones I hold precious, but I wonder how I'll hold up relationships with these friends. It wouldnt be the first time I've left somewhere and never looked back. but I always look back and cringe at what I've done, what i do, what I want to happen, and Ive always been that way, so how can I change?

But is that fair?

I dont even know if any of this makes sense anymore. My dream now is one of solitude. Not loneliness or separation, but solitude. I'm my own best audience, and was a fool to think anyone around me would be as moved by my show as I was.

thats enough, time to sign off.

I'll prolly post something in another few hours

world peas. butter.

world peas. butter. albatross.

word association. burguny. breakwater.

docks. hot doc.

streamline. baseline. passing line. forward.

tableau. art. chalk. talkback.

faith. fearless. foolish,

sage. parsley. rosemary (you know the rest)

tablesalt. spell. names on walls.

simple. fulcrum.

gravity well. bone.

seesalt.

RE: backyards and falling stars

after travel: realizations had

unexpected twists and full of hypocrisy

negative views and self destruction

would I regret it?

do I still?

each day runs in a parallel loop, a dimensional slinky.

where this passes

a familiar hitchhiker reminding me of a chance of "what could have been"

a what-if scenario played out in one direction, as if from a movie.

and now im in the audience,

and ask if I still regret it.

The Back Page

He said, When have I ever promised you anything?
And I wanted to laugh, I felt my cheeks burn and the moment turn movie classic.
Of course, never, how could he? Who'd even want such bile...
And his poison coursed through my veins, so aware of his poison, I writhed.
Another sip, eyeliner rubbed to bruises.
Days would turn to years before I'd have to twist like this again.
Time is relative.
Fantasies taste better than swollen lips.
And I find myself becoming a woman and forgetting how to cry like a child.

2 wolves in overdrive

2 wolves in their own packs, once carried each other.

bite marks on both now circle the same woods picking up each others trail and avoiding it.

Each claiming territorial superiority over the other silently.

Their concentric circular trails at equal diameters, now growing shorter?

what awaits at a black holes center?

ultimate realization?

or utter oblivion?

or is it cyclical? and it all to repeat once more.

Waxing and waning like the chaos spirals.

Child-Lady

I am just a whisper. A constant child on the outside. you look at my front stage of bundled winter cold and my small, shyness and must think, "there goes the child-lady."

bunches of tantrum words rise in me at these passings by, every day. Every day starts with "if only" and ends with "never." I make desperate attempts to convince myself it's their loss. It's your loss. I am the nice one. The one who listens, who cares. smiles on faces holding hands - frostbite - but together with no hats or scarves.

Why not me? So easily answered - so many different answers I see it as truth. Don't think like that - you don't even have time for a guy in your life. Yeah, but I'd like to have the option.

Am I not alone in memory?

It stings far more than I thought it would. It was of no surprise, but a slap in the face is still a slap in the face even when you brace yourself for it. There was no provocation, no reason as of late for it to happen, though it did. and I suppose it was long overdue. And the worst part, I dont even know when. Must have been at the outset of the new year. Both of them.
Like I said, I'm not surprised, but there was just something about it that made me hopeful I guess.
Oh well.
I suppose that chance encounter will never happen. It's true, the more you think about it, the less likely will it happen the way you imagine it to be.
so why do I still think about it? And am I not the only one of us like Ive secretly suspected all this time?
Am I not alone in memory?

Sunday Pizza

Breath in. Sigh. Sunday - I hate Sunday well no don't I hate the expectations that come with Sunday. Did you do your your homework? No. Then you can't draw you can't work on your own stuff. so how else am I supposed to do it? mmm pizza. mmm warm nap - I wish someone took it with me. well, I'm sure they did, just in a different bed. What the hell is that sound? I hate waiting but I hate being alone. I feel I can use the word "hate" because it's only geared towards myself. No guilt involved. mmmmmpizza aftertaste - *pause for bite*I took two - I'm really hungry. I want Lo Mein and Crab Rangoon. How can Chinese food be romantic - it's so greasy! Sometimes, I feel like I don't chew right. because my mouth is so small. Small and child-like. grow up you're going to to be a teacher!

Tuck away

"My sister and I always had to choose between going blind or going deaf. We'd talk about it in the dark. Eventually, one of us will go blind and one of us will go deaf. We'd have to figure out a way to communicate because, God, what a lonely world it would be without a sister.

I sometimes thought I'd prefer to be deaf. I could still walk around, travel, explore the world like I've always dreamed. Curl up on the couch and read a book.

I sometimes thought I'd prefer to be blind. I could learn how to read with my fingers and stay up all night talking, and it wouldn't matter because it would be dark anyway. I could hear the music and the sounds that are so comforting, so valuable.

Then I realize that no matter what, I could only communicate with my sister with some sixth sense. So I'm looking for one to tuck away inside me until the day comes when we lose our senses."

3d person

I tell people I try see everything from the outside. Unbiased, ignorant. So I can give an honest opinion and judge how it would look to me if I were a stranger. I saw myself from the outside for an entire semester, to make up for the semester previous. I kept my ideas to myself and felt as though I was the only target of my reflections. But I was wrong.

Given all of this time, I havent had any truly contemplative moments where I see others as I saw myself, or really saw myself as other have seen me. I see others, and I see myself, but selfishly.

And I dont even know where Im going with this anymore, so if you have any ideas, I love comments.

yet another day

so much olor so little laces to visit where I can be free as the ealges engagered as they are you cant even take a feather without taking a bite out your banbks asss. 25 grand or somehting rediculous like that. but without the feathers how can I make the wings to fly where i need be? Wax is nothing, thats the caution, the feahters are the ghings you need in life that are restricted . Without those feathers i cant escape. no hope but to stay in prison. I can smell the salted air but can never again tast fox's ice cream. the rocks would be a nice place to contem[plate thes things, ut now theyre overrun with tourists and people like me who only want ot feel uniquie. people like me. its not fair, we try so hard to leave, but we all head for the same place, so how can we escape? when would we be free except to hold back. I dont want to progress if it means the restof the world will keep moving forwards with no cares for me or my feathersuit. They'll call me a chicken, some tar and feather victim, but I'll know what the real score is. I'll show them.

paper:flower:girl

folded like paper the flower girl at the ehart of things
she's up in there inside of me under the ehart with hear
that's red like setting sun not to beat around the bush
but she'sa mermaid and she flies and i've seeen her carried
i watched the ocean washo ver her the way it does
now the way its washing wright now the way its washing
over me its washing over you can you imaging living at
the sea side and never getting buried under the sand
that what is like that i promise you is what it slike
being baked
like a pie
being baked
under the sun
being baked baked baked baked baked
baked baked.
its' laa relative. the nateur of baking. the nature of the potato who's been sabotaged. the nature of the rose thorns on the patio. when pricked when bleed. when baked when dead. when ravens and crows convene to congregate about rose throns the black of their fetahres you can't see through its like ink, like word.s i wonder if anyone knows the truth of hte city. i ownder if anyone knows the beating hearts. i woner for you, mr. loner. i wonder for you mr. skin and bones, under this ghaggard flex. under these nipples udner these hair. i wonder if you've been baked. i wonder if you've been the city. a tumultuous pastime. i left os many behind. i tramped a girl under the city. i trampled a girl under my city. she remembered loving me once, and i told her about the curls and about the rubber soles and about the word that gets pressed when you stamp hard enough. i told her about the times in the night.
dear lady,

i love you

dear sir,

i love you

dear city,

i love you i love you dear city my love. somewhere under concerete is kin and bones. somewhere under iron is the passivity of grave. i wanted to talk about grace but all it comes out as death as skull and pones buy.

dear city, dear city,
dear city, i love you,
dear city, dear city,
this hoel, that i love you

its all coming out here, in this little letter in this last note to grace the end of the colelction.
this matter ofthe city. this matter
of the asphalt. the i disappointment
of the matter o f the asphalt.

the clock ticks down.

dear city.

the clock ticks down.

dear city.

simic writes that the end is as meaningless as the beginning,
or, that isn't correct, it is a paraphrase, a dumbing down, a
simplification of the city. don't you understand lungs?

look, i love you, and i remember things about
you mermaid. maybe leaving, maybe staying.

look, i love you, city.

look i love you! in the mirror,
there is a standout tower, a wall of windows
and portsl reflecting, and looking through
and looking through you see them, and looking
at the window you can see how it is really a mirror
and even if you are falling you are inside and the
carpet is plush or ochre

same time next week, jelly bean

seam times

like sewing

like she sewed

like the city's seaweed
as the saltwater comes up the streets and through the doors
and washes right up to your toes and you count he grains
that tgather in the ply of the carpet and you can see the cat
in a sailboat on mainstreet, he looks disctracted
there is a dead mouse in the bow
and you can see the ribcage
and you can see the organs
under the rib cage
there are organs
like uder the city there is another city
and under that city veins
and under that city bacteria

when you finally reach the bottom let me tall you something
YOU WONT LIKE IT BECAUES ITLL SEEM FALSE AND YOULL
LOOK BACK ON THE THINGS YOU"VE SAID TO THE CIT AND youLL
WONDER< DID IT REALLY MATTER ALL THAt much?

did it really matter because the mermaid still prefers the ocean
and the sandysilt backs at your toes

and your baking under this sun
your skin is peeling
and under your skin is someone
that looks a little like you
but younger
and paler
and more naive

and you just want to take them to town
buy them a present
say be well
say i'll see you another day
say time to go, lover

and then you'll wander back up the street
and the city will yawn
and the vast magnitude of it all
can be forgotten under it all
the vast magnitude
can be forgtotten