Plop!

Excerpts of the ceaseless one-sided conversation within my mind will splatter onto the intangible cyber pages of this blog. So here we go...

First, you should know that at any given time I have at least five unrelated thoughts, impressions, theories, or questions whizzing through my head.

Sometimes they may be worth mentioning: What's the deal with Hyper Postmodernism? Who will publish my words when they're ready? Where in this wild world will I be in ten, twenty, fifty years?! Really, what happened to Amelia Earhart? Amelia, I like that name. Maybe stick it in my back pocket for potential daughter's name.

...and sometimes not: Why is the mullet still in existence? Why was it ever? Why are these people in front of me walking so slowly? I wonder if pesto would be good on a burger...of course it would. Do ants have ears? How many times have my apartment walls been re-painted?

My point is, much like my stream of thought, this blog will probably be non-linear, confusing and seemingly random.

* * * * * * *


I like that there are seven asterisks there. Nine is good too. And three, three is my favorite. Which is why I like nine: three times three.

"Asterisk" is a weird word. I had to look it up: Asterisk: ( * )The root of the word, "Aster", is a conjugation of the greek word "Astro-", a prefix meaning "star" (as in "heavenly body"). Therefore, the asterisk is drawn like a twinkling star, in a raised position to symbolize the fact that it is above everything else.

Not too helpful. I knew "aster" meant star, but why the "risk"? The risky star.



In general, I'm apprehensive about firsts. As in, this is my first blog entry so I feel like it should be significant, eloquent, meaningful. It is and will probably continue to be none of those things. I have put off essays, stories and poems due to a fear of the first word or line. I always feel a little strange on the first of the month, thinking it is a new beginning of sorts and should therefore be a near-perfect day. I find myself walking around holding my breath and an alarmingly superficial sense of optimism. I can delve into that some other day though.

BUT, as with all of my writing, my fingers will move with the speed of my silent words and my eyes will not return to the top. Editing doesn't currently exist in my world and "polished" is a term I avoid. All I strive for is sudden rawness, which is what comes when I turn off the super-ego (thanks, Freud).

I want my writing (my real writing: poems, essays, plays....not this blog) to be an unexpected burst or gash; sunlight in your eyes when you weren't expecting it, a twig breaking skin as you're treking through a dark forest, or unexplained goosebumps.

OK, I think I am done for now.

Oh, one more thing: I have noticed that many of my experiences lately have been marked by smell or sound. This is a shift that has taken place within me. I wonder what it means, if anything. Usually upon remembering things I will recreate them, visually, behind closed eyes. Lately this has been different. I will recall only scents (sweetness in the air, gravel in the park), only voices, machines, birds, wind, or feet shuffling along the ground. If an image comes to mind, it'll be only a detail, rather than a full picture. The man's bitten fingernails on the subway, the crack in the woman's lip on the plane, the child's wild, sweaty curls in the park...

I was walking to the subway today and there was an old, tattered mattress sleeping on the edge of the sidewalk. Somebody had written on it with a thick, black Sharpie: "Become your dreams". Beside the letters, they drew a little goldfish. And I don't know why, but it definitely felt like a natural image to accompany the phrase. It didn't even phase me until I was on the subway a few hours later. Why a goldfish and why, like the person who had written on the mattress, did it seem perfectly right to me? I looked up "goldfish symbolism" when I got home (also FYI: complete nerd) and discovered that they typically represent gold, wealth, abundance and harmony. I wonder if the mattress graffiti artist was aware of this. Maybe his/her subconscious knew they were writing of dreams and that they wanted all of those things and therefore shot a goldfish to their hand and through the marker. Hmm...

Ok, this post is going to awkwardly end now...but the first will be done and the rest will be more natural, as the pressure will be off.

Current reads: "The Unbearable Lightness of Being", Milan Kundera and "The Archaeology of Knowledge and the Discourse on Language", Michel Foucault

As the days dance by, there are a few things I definitely want to ponder via blog--

Airports
Sidewalk rage
Old Age
Birthday Gifts
Magic/the extraordinary
Signs
Street Meat
FedEx inefficiency
The art of the perfect cappuccino




Thanks for bearing with the first...