Random notes

Here are some excerpts from my “Nonrealized Poetical Stuff” file:

I like you.
I like thinking about you,
and dreaming about you,
and trying to remember how you smell.
I think you’re stunning,
and gorgeous,
and sexy in every way.
I love every line and curve of your thigh,
your shoulder, your ribs, your back––love
that it seems I’ve always known them.
Your astral gaze grips my thoughts,
and no other smile has ever made me feel
so many mellifluous things at once.

I often wonder to myself where my storyline will go. I live my story arcs and think about what will happen next. I’ve been so fascinated in my own life, so somehow disconnected from it by intimacy that I’m never quite as disappointed with the sad and pathetic endings as I expect to be. In fact, some of them seem so fantastically original and exemplary of outright failure that I get the same buttery giddiness which melts into stilted but uncontrollable giggling, much like a newly built bridge flapping in the wind for weeks until its collapse, or an unmanned rocket slowly lifting itself off the pad to great cheers, full of promise and self-congratulation until it hilariously flounders at peak anticipation, writing lovely poetry with exhaust in the sky before impacting the ground. Perhaps it’s my propensity to think of life like it was nothing more than a novel––to think of every retelling of every story as if I lived it, mixed with a rigid and unflinching logic to create a mélange of satisfaction from misery, the “well I could make that into a book (or poem)” reaction, as if my own feelings and emotions and even my wellbeing were nothing more than details in a short story. In a way, I’m glad for this. I can escape from life so easily, narration starts in some cases before the event has fully occurred. In other ways, however, I wonder about my sanity.

Advertisement