fear not father, it will all get better

F e b r u a r y  2 3 , 2 0 1 8

It's freezing rain outside. But I'm feeling all warm inside. The droplets feel cool and refreshing on my heated cheeks.

My dad just called me. He seemed to be feeling quite depressed these past months. He lost a lot of money, is in a lot of debt and has loads of bills to pay with money he doesn't have to support a family he doesn't seem to truly want. And while I am disappointed and angry at his ease into despair, I can only feel sorry for him.

It makes me really happy, when after all these years, what makes me most proud to be who I am, is how much I can be my dad's best friend. I can hear it in his voice, that he's feeling a little better. And I'm glad I could be there to listen and encourage him in any way he needs it. Because that's what he needs. Not remorse, or anger or resentfulness. I'm sure he's already feeling those enough for himself.

I just want him to be better, to be healthy and to know that everything can become better, if only for a little bit. A little bit at a time, can go a long way for a long time.

almost threw up

D e c e m b e r  2 8 , 2 0 1 7

Either tastes have seriously, and I mean SERIOUSLY gone downhill or there are just no more criteria for anything anymore! You can't seriously expect people to take what you wrote seriously?! It sounds like an 8 year old wrote it. and that would be insult to an 8 year old. Just because you broke your one sentence into 4 different lines does not make it poetry. oh boy oh boy. i'm not angry at this though. i just don't think it should be about supporting ABSOlutely everyone. if there's something u like. great. but don't go pretending it's the best thing in the world when you know it's crap. just admit that you like crap.

totally got the boots

J a n u a r y  0 2 , 2 0 1 7

Yohji Yamamoto Spring 2017
Go to Paris.

walking around the block doesn't help as i thought it would

D e c e m b e r  2 2 , 2 0 1 6

It doesn't matter. it doesn't matter how anyone makes you feel, it doesn't matter what anyone says. because you can't escape what you are. that's just it. it's inevitable. not because you know it's coming, but because it just is. it's always been true, it's always been that way. and it won't change. not today 

naught aghast

O c t o b e r  2 7 , 2 0 1 6

naught gained. a myriad of symphonies. treading laggardly behind. pushing nuns aside. public penitence for a dolly, a pop. and a wringing of the ears to wind them bearers up. it likens to sing. it's likened a lot. resemblance to paths before taken abrupt. wriggles assigned. chosen or dismissed. however dismantled, crevices unhinged. until luckless sire bends a will. a will and a flaunt. a manner of speaking. manageable, preponderant. to wash over craters. their waters a wheeling. bashful pertinence. backing, backing; blacking out.  

I've figured it out. It's mispensating.

J u l y  0 7 , 2 0 1 6

There's the rub. Words are most fun when they're made up. Because that is when they hold most truth. Mispensation for example. Magic tricks is all. Foolish most of all. Misconception then. And there. A lack. Not quite, not yet.
Deficiency. Depletion. Deficit.

frus frus frus frustrated

A p r i l  2 5 , 2 0 1 6

Isn't to merit to want? It's nothing to do with who is deserving or what so-called talents can accomplish. THAT HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH ANYTHING. Why can't things be as they are. It would be so nice to just sit somewhere with a breeze and sew threads on white cotton. No walls, just light. And the only conflict playing would be the thimble against the thumb.

fool and fall

M a r c h  1 5 ,  2 0 1 6

There is sweet music here that softer falls
Then petals from blown roses on the grass,
Or night-dews on still waters between walls
Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass;
Music that gentlier on the spirit lies;
Than tir'd eyelids upon tir'd eyes;
Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies.
Here are cool mosses deep,
And thro' the moss the ivies creep,
And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep,
And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep.


Why are we weigh'd upon with heaviness,
And utterly consumed with sharp distress,
While all things else have rest from weariness?
All things have rest: why should we toil alone,
We only toil, who are the first of things,
And make perpetual moan,
Still from one sorrow to another thrown:
Nor ever fold our wings,
And cease from wanderings,
Nor steep our brows in slumber's holy balm;
Nor harken what the inner spirit sings,
"There is no joy but calm!"
Why should we only toil, the roof and crown of things?

- Alfred, Lord Tennyson


F e b r u a r y  2 3 , 2 0 1 6

Happiness. They look upon it with disdain. The excitement in your eyes reflects a worry in theirs. A worry that you might take what you feel and run away. From responsibilities and such. What else is new. They like when you're worried, tired and sad. But you should never show them sadness. Respond politely, accordingly, willingly bowing to their will. They like to burden themselves with the creation of their own burdensome selves. It's a happy medium of tyranny and creative outlet-ivity wouldn't you say? I hate them. I hate them all. 

The woman in yellow

F e b r u a r y  1 5 , 2 0 1 6

There's a yellow little old lady. I seldom see her. But when I do, she's dressed in yellow from head to toe. From the ground up, yellow toes encased in yellow shoes wrapped in yellow laces. Feet kept warm in yellow socks trimmed with yellow lace. Pants of the most brilliant yellow skimmed with yellow stitching. A sweater of soft yellow under a raincoat made of yellow. Hands are adorned with yellow polish which glimmer in the company of her yellow bag. She tops it off with a hat in tones of darling yellow. And her light hair glows of a feverish yellow under all the yellowness of her presence.