The End of Beauty

Of Forced Sightes and Trusty Ferefulness

-Jorie Graham

"Stopless wind, here are the columbine seeds I have
collected. What we would do with them is
different. Though both your trick and mine flowers blue
and white

with four stem tails and yellow underpetals. Stopless

and unessential, half-hiss, half-

lullaby, if I fell in among your laws,

if I fell down into your mind, your snow, into the miles

of spirit-drafts you drive, frenetic multitudes,

out from the timber to open the ground and back to no

avail, if I fell down, warmblooded, ill, into your endless

evenness,

into this race you start them on and will not let them win...?

If I fell in?

What is your law to my law, unhurried hurrying?
At my remove from you, today, in your supremest

calculation, re-
adjustment, are these three birds scratching for dead
bark beetles, frozen seeds, too late for being here yet only
here,
in the stenchfree

cold. This is another current, river of rivers, this thrilling
third-act love. Who wouldn’t want to stay
behind? They pack the rinds away, the blazing applecores,
the frantic shadow-wings scribbling the fenceposts, window-

panes. Meanwhile you turn, white jury, draft, away

deep justice done.
I don’t presume to cross the distances, the clarity,
but what grows in your only open hands? Or is

digressive love,
row after perfect greenhouse row,
the garden you’re out of for good, wind of the theorems,
of proof, square root of light,

chaos of truth,
blinder than the mice that wait you out
in any crack?
This is the best I can do now for prayer—to you,
for you—these scraps I throw

my lonely acrobats
that fall
of your accord
right to my windowsill: they pack it away, the grains, the

accidents, they pack it deep into the rent
heart of the blue
spruce, skins in with spiky needles.... Oh
hollow
charged with forgetfulness,

through wind, through winter nights, we’ll pass,
steering with crumbs, with words,
making of every hour
a thought, remembering

by pain and rhyme and arabesques of foraging
the formula for theft
under your sky that keeps
sliding away

married to hurry
and grim song."

(To Jorie Graham, for the eloquence and words I lack, Thank you.

My eyes are dilated, now. Aperature is at f/1.4. Maladies, well, fleeting.

Everything is sequential, a delicate cipher. An enigma waiting to be distinguished. )

The Deluge

The shutter sounds.
Just another exposure
Amidst a sea of pictures.
You taste the briny water,
Catch a wave,
Topple onshore as the swell,
Crashes.

I like your wings, she had once told me, decayed and withered away. Standing here on tainted soil--it’s okay. I’m acquitted to this ramshackle life, the everyday imperfections. The heart palpitations in the evenings and shortness of breath. The condemned, it drives me forward. I am breathing that same O2 mixture entrapped within every pair of lungs connected to a beating, steady heart. Its air, respired and unfiltered through steady unyielding breaths. Those plastic breathing tubes—they choke and stifle you in the end. Their hospital Johnnies are drafty—failing to endow your purpled heart, Lavender varicose veins. A calloused, brooding soul. Show me the real sky, Jeff Cole. It’s not through infirmary windows or screened between the fragile glass panes and mesh.

November 30th, Christmas lights, already?

I can see the frosted icicles from my window, the cluster of wired white lights dangling from the banister. The soft patter of rain melds with the ticking of a clock, lamplight-droplets echo from the clouded night and fade into the soft black velvet, puddle-collections forming in the gutters. The winds blow and I can feel their undying caress chill my bones, rippling back and forth across my spine. Yet I am warm, sheltered by the streetlight kerosene-radiance, refracting off of power lines. I watch as the analog clock turns sharply from 11:59 to 12:00 midnight, just as I had noticed 49 minutes earlier…

The incandescence fades from my sanguine walls yet my eyes do not meet the darkness. Ink, it falls from my pen onto a college ruled notebook, carving its black letters onto the page, splashed with the spattering of rain drop reflections. Beauty, the symmetry of accidental inscriptions and enamored pen leaks. I hear the vibrations of never-ending communication and wonder who might be calling at this ungodly hour--12:06 flashes on the mark.

The soft grey sky and darkened floral patterns lull me into a comatose state. I wander… Cross-sectional yellow-oranges keep me at bay, guiding me, guiding, guiding... Where? Home. Drooping, the world is slightly skewed, glazed over; sleep beckons the brain to adjourn consciousness.

Oh, I’m falling. Slowly, faster now, drifting into the smooth contours of your—my pillow, echoing off to join the realm of the subconscious.

Phosphorus, phosphorus, phosphorus…

Keine Verjährungen, die Ebbe setzt ein, Ich schwimme—andauernd, andauernd, andauernd. Wieder auftauchend Erinnerungen, nie Wieder. Ich werde das nicht ertragen. Ich bin frei fließend, mein herz ist ungeschützt. Ich fühle das Heil, ins dieser Platz. Nehmen auf einer Teil und bleiben. “Ich bleib hier.” Dieser Platz angehören. Ich wohne hier am einer Laune. Zufrieden und niemals--keine Rückgabe. Geben meiner Herzschlag, zurück an den Hauptteil, zum mich bitte.

Home.
The door closes on
A headphoned man. He looks up
Through thick-framed glasses,
Evaporates into the
Luminous shadows. I stare

Out of fogged windows.
Familliar City Skyline,
Wheels churning, churning
Underfoot. Humidity
Grips the yellow raincoat man,

Sweat trickling down the
Brim of his nose. He scratches
Answers to a crossword.
The brakes lurch gently, feeling,
Feverish.
Tuned into Iron and Wine.

Umbrellas litter
The aisle, condensed muggy
Air perspires from
The windows. Awkward glances
For now—just for now. There is

No coming home tonight.
The impassioned horizon
Focuses within
My opaque retinas, halos
Crown streetlights, sirens drowned out

By Camillo. It’s
Lukewarm, holding the mast for
Support, my stream of
Consciousness gently failing.
Leather and coffee sitting

Parallel to me,
Plugged into a nameless album.
Briefcased lawyer to
His left. Their sporadic glance
Never meets. Lurch again. Stop.

The floodgates open,
Light pours in, the bell tolls, it
Is just as soon gone.
Eternal darkness passing
By the windows. Rails grinding

On the abused steel.
Intercom, “doors open on
The left.” Stop, walk. Stop.
Wait.
A Soulpatch-ed man stands on the
Yellow median and stares

Down the tunnel line.
Lake Michigan. I jump in.
The wind is blowing,
Steady, faster. A Tin box arrives,
Stampede emerges from its
Ribcage.

Cross the border. The
Boston Metro boards, followed
By The Boston Globe.
And, the New Yorker, and the
Atlantic Monthly. I try

Steadying myself.
I smell a dull, faded scent.
Cigarette burns, and
The end of life as we know it.

Reticence

Sidelong glances through windowpanes. The glare of austere fluorescents
Against the glass. Blinding the enclosed, while you stand overlooking
An interrogation room. Concealed, converging but never
Intersecting with reality. You linger there, do you dare
To challenge the stands? Do you dare to approach the microphone, to
Bridge the gap, the gorge that isolates your sinuous web of thoughts?

Do you dare to speak your mind?
Or, Do you dare speak at all?

Silence

These creatures emerge from the woodwork when I’m at ease.
Within these cubicle walls, the same shift running nine to five.
The same endless tick of the second hand,
Circling at a steady, unyielding pace. Never, Ending.
Never, Ending.

I’m running counterclockwise, seeking the root of amnesia;
Blindly searching for that watch crown, the dial to take me back
To that moment; I want to live it.
Make sense out of this mass of jumbled words,
Make meaning out of something. Decompose these fences,
Shut down this confining life! The bars,
They hold me prisoner within my own language.

This pattern is repeating again and again and- you knew this was coming. There is masochism in old love songs. How could you veil this truth? Your truth, the truth you denied over and over to quell the ache. Your eyes are as blind, as vacant as they’ve always been; dark surfaces, refracting and reflecting light. You knew. Smiled and painted a rose colored canvas in your head until crisp, cold air flooded the passageways of the heart. The sanguine oranges, the rose colored strokes were white-washed away; a blanched canvas with its dying rogue hues, silently gilding off the contours of the frame. Maybe the brisk air was all it took to see the bleeding canvas before you. Wake up, smell the coffee again. It’s strong, pungent—maybe a little too acrid. Black coffee and un-filtered cigarettes. Truth. You’re exhaustible; simply a commodity to soothe the emptiness. It’s not you, just what you represent. What you can offer.

Never was you.

Go out on a limb.

I met a German speaking woman today in the bohemian coffeehouse, and we had an entire conversation in German, give or take a few phrases. Ironically enough, she was from Hamburg! My German was slanderously shoddy because of its impromptu nature, and I didn’t originally address her in the formal ‘Sie’ tense (which is technically not polite when meeting an adult, but I am so used to using Du!) Despite plenty of grammatical error on my part, finally speaking with a native after six months, was invigorating! She was very accomidating and overlooked the mistake in tense. Scraping together roughly four years of classroom German and being able to form coherent sentences; I can’t explain it! It was the highlight of my day=) Also on an odd note, apparently many German-speaking people go there; absolutely fantastic! Great coffee, or tea, or CHAI TEA, and stimulating conversation. Another amazing day, to add to an already amazing week=) Picking up FOUR rolls of film tomorrow, finishing up the Imprint; Thundercats are go!
Ich vermisse es, soviel… Ich vermisse mein Heim fort von Heim, Hamburg! Ich duerfte eine Rückkehr machen=)

“Yeah hey,there’s some cookies and milk over there in the corner.”-Nate

Amazing how such a small, fragment of generocity can change the course of an entire day. Oh, and maybe the world isn't chock-full of narcissists after all. It’s an enlightening fact. Though it may not be as glamorous, it may be full of rocks, and it may be rather uneven, this road seems best. Traverse wisely. In all honesty, Today was a fantastic day. Cheers.

Things I love and hate about Sunday October 19:
The 59 Sound, Brueggers, Tom Gabel, Charcoal, The Dead, German, Homework Homework Homework, The smell of wood-burning stoves, Head-colds, Pomegranate cravings, Acoustic AM!, Looming college applications, Cold feet, Folk Punk, Oversized comforters, Flares, Midnight Mile, Uncertainty. Uncertainty?

[Going along with my craving for pomegranates, I kind of liked this.]

Alles Getrennte findet sich wieder

Friedrich Hölderlin

Ah... Art Class, Turkish apple tea, Mike & Ikes, and side street roaming, averting the inevitable return to normalcy at home, makes losing Wednesdays a little more bearable. Despite setbacks, I finally feel in place, so to speak; I’ve got a sense of direction now. I'm happy=)

WEEKEND PART TWO: I WANT TO LEAVE...

On another note, saw Against Me! on Sunday. The first opener was God-awful, Ted leo was decent but it seemed to carry on for too long; mainly because I was anxious to see AM! play. At first I was kind of aprehensive, and I really diddnt want to hear 'Ocean,' or 'Problems.' And the result? COMPLETE SHOCK. I didn’t expect half of reinventing Axl Rose to be included on the set-list, ‘THOSE ANARCHO PUNKS’ WAS AMAZING (my favorite AM! song of all time,) nor did I expect the handful of other songs that surfaced: Sink Florida Sink, Cliché Guevara, DISCO (HUGE surprise there.) Close to the median of the entire place, almost touching the ‘tiger-barriers,’ so to speak—it was beyond fantastic. AND THEY NEVER PLAYED OCEAN.

I am in love with that band, completely besotted.

...AND GO TO COLLEGE ALREADY

"Would you do what it takes to move this hollow life along?
I'd like to think I would, you know I'd like to think I would
but I can guarantee that what you see is not reality
and every time she makes a point, I make a counterpoint
She said it's easy but in the end you'll have no choice
and you know that's only just the way it goes
You said it right man, That is just the way it goes

And the days, and the days they seem like forever"

New York, New York =). Camped out at my uncle’s house in Mt. Vernon for a night, got four hours of sleep, then shipped off to the city.

I am infatuated… NYU is everything I would ever want in a school: the amazing photo program, the organized curriculum and living situation, THE CITY. I want to be at arm’s length with all of the action, the excitement, Sturbridge village and Soho, the decrepit grafitti’ed businesses from block to block—everything, absolutely everything. All of New York, Manhattan. There was a constant flood of skateboarders dodging taxi cabs in the streets, aspiring artists and exhibiting artists, musicians toting instrument cases and playing for the sidewalk-Starbucks coffee crowd. I saw more men sporting buffalo plaid then I have ever seen elsewhere—it’s a quirk. Oh, did I mention the 25% acceptance rate and the grueling portfolio review for the Tisch School of the Arts?

Did I mention that I saw Mike Meyers walking down Broadway?

Oh well, its okay to dream, right?

But no, really, I actually did see Mike Meyers… And no, I’m not going to become a Yankees fan; I know my roots (though I have never really been a huge sports fan altogether, minus my love for the Packers.) Regardless, the area is spectacular. I love the aura of a big city. I snapped three rolls, around 100 shots, of film during my stay. Which was spanned over, oh I don’t know, the course of the afternoon? If I want to pursue photography, then I’ve pinpointed the right location. I’m so impatient. Three rolls of film to develop, and at least two days at Hunts.

"Things got bad and things got worse. Half like blessing, half like curse. It's these blessings so hard to see sometimes. Gotta little clearer about dusk last night

It's a red sky night and I'm doing alright. It's a red sky night and I'm doing just fine"

"And honestly we were armed with our best intentions. Maybe those intentions alone are just enough to get us anywhere but here."

Against Me! tonight, New York was this weekend, I'll eventually write about it, its a matter of having enough time at the moment. Just as soon as i can get my three rolls of film developed. So excited. Chuck Palahniuk's Diary, i'm finding, is a really interesting book. Oh, and we saw Mike Meyers walking around NYC. Thought that was, well, pretty out of the ordinary!

Miles Davis & The Cool

American Cancer Society Walk For Breast Cancer, 10/05/08

This is the second year that we've taken part in the walk for Breast Cancer. The event itself is extremely evocative, for my family, and for all others afflicted. I talked with a woman today, who had been fighting the disease for seven years. She had a mastectomy, radiation, and several surgeries to combat the spread and growth of the cancer; in short, she was a trooper. She even added that before mastectomy, her husband was in complete support of the operation; eluding that he was in love with her as a whole, and not with a simple pound of flesh; prompting her to feel more comfortable and open to treatment. Unconditional love, the epitome of unconditional love. He loved her for every incorporeal element she possessed; her persona as a whole. He loved her enough to support her struggle to live, to give up that trivial section of the body. If all, it’s a symbol of how meaningless physical properties are in love. Love should be within parameters of the mind, not contours of the body.

During the walk today, like last year, I felt a certain lack of composure. Here my mother was, adorned in pink, garlanded with a sash, filled with exuberance. How selfless she was—always has been. To me, she is exemplary—a strong willed artist at heart, who has taken on and conquered a potentially life threatening disease. How can that be viewed in any other light, other than extraordinary? And there I was, standing there, brinking. It was graceless to show emotion, so I held my ground and continued. But oh, the strength... These garnered women around me had suffered so much, most of which were still struggling with their cancer. A five mile walk can conjure many thoughts—what if our situation was different.

So we came home. As I was putting together prints for U Hartford, panicking about the lack of charcoal drawings I had, she descends the stairs with a monstrous, plastic trash-bag full of poster sized drawings tucked under her arm. She showed me a few examples of her work to help me get a better idea of what a reviewer would expect, but the weight of the portfolio review subsided in my mind. Her drawings—they were stunning. Pastels and mostly charcoal drawings, all completely—I can’t find the words—I was awestruck.

To many, she is Mary; a wife and a mother of two. But she is so much more...
She is an artist, a survivor, a part time nurse and full time mother—an inspiration.

Survival is the only option

Spilling over into the crevasses between expectancy and personal limit. Who do you want me to be today? Oh, I’ll secede; follow ridiculous banter and reduce myself to a infinitesimal state until I run out of breath with a raging mind and a pounding aching heart that might explode if and when it eventually it all comes crashing down and—STOP. Where does it end. When do I finally reclaim my vitality and unshackle this possession. When do I finally realize that I need to cut these ropes to prevent myself from capsizing and sink, sink, sinking—sunk. I’ve given up on satisfying everyone. I’m not a perpetual facet, nor am I a therapist. I won’t reduce myself to that level, or yield for that matter. Nor will I accept the lack of ethics that have been thrown at me, like a garbage truck making its daily trip to the dump. I’m tired of all the harassment, the exploitation and manipulation. I am a separate cell, dividing and multiplying at my own pace. To endure, I renounce your disease, this malady—these pathogenic, infectious agents. Stay out of my fucking drinking water.

"And i spent time 'neath the tressels, with the punks and the dimestore saints. Kept faith and a switchblade tucked beneath my coat. And i ran with dirty angels, slept out in the rain. We were scared and tired and barely 17. And my first sin, was the fear that made me old. And i walked down by the shipyards, near the place where i was born, saying "ah maria, if you woulda known me when...". But she just smiles by the light on the navesink banks, saying "listen baby i know you now". And she steps into the river. And i just stand by the moon, thinking 'bout a ghost i hear at night. And she says your first sin, was a lie you told yourself."

Submission is not an option

The Vulcan rots with liquor shots
Now he falls out in the room

Verloren

This is the first break I’ve had since 7am this morning. AH, RELIEF. I’ve been working all day, through lunch, through my usual hour break before work, up until now, roughly eleven at night. Interjection: Tom Gabel’s new solo project is really absorbing me at present.

This helter-skelter is exhausting… Not only is my life in discord, struggling in this balancing-act of pre-collegiate stress, but the lack of control over my own affairs is starting to take its toll. It’s simply nonsensical. I crave a good book—a book that isn’t presented on some skewed AP English reading list, or some genre of supplemental college reading. I want to finally crack open one of Chuck Palahniuk’s many novels, not because I quote ‘liked fight club,’ but simply because I absolutely love his quotations. And I’d like to finish Sense and Sensibility as opposed to the characteristic Pride and Prejudice, staring me blankly in the face as just another AP requirement. I’d like to reread Love is a Mix Tape; a simple, ‘au naturel’ read. Maybe one day I’ll be on a whim and want to read something of a different color, like A Thousand Splendid Suns (it was recommended to me the week before school began), or Chuck Klosterman’s Killing Yourself To Live, an allegedly interesting read.

Four Prospects and no time, no time, no time.

Berliner Mauer

Hannah Evans, 2/2/08.

This is one of my favorite pieces of the Berlin wall. Love in a time of turmoil. Life, in a time of turmoil. Or at least, that is what I associate it with. Whether we are separated by walls, boarders, oceans; we always find our way back, whether it be to ourselves or to where we belong. I just ask "where do we belong?", or rather, "where do I belong?" The separation-- It’s physically paralyzing; I feel devoid of life, my lungs feel as though they are half-capacity. Yet everything eventually comes to an end, all pains, trials and evaluations; That, is just a raw fact of life, an unavoidable reality. Eventually I will find equillibrium again, balance work and school, my social life and extracurriculars, tackle the application process, and manage LIFE in general. Tonight I came home exhausted, figured I'd save my homework for tomorrow which is technically not a good idea, but I really need to breathe and calibrate my thoughts. So here’s to a cup of tea, sweatpants, and oversized slippers—tonight we’ll dine with Whittard and Celestial Seasonings.

BURNING OUT IS NOT AN OPTION

Burning Out, Banjos, and Boston...

I saw Lesley University today, and personally I thought it was really nice: Right next to Harvard Square, down the street from the Middle East (amazing venue for punk/ska/other). Art Institute of Boston, affiliated with Lesley, is right down the street from Fenway Park, Hunts, Newbury Street, BU, and has an amazing photography program=). Not to mention, outside the workshop area of the Institute, you can see the former Avalon and the wall that the Murphys signed the night of the Avalon’s closing. The main problem with Lesley is the location—id like to go out and adventure, maybe live in a new place. I know Boston so well already and I want to venture into uncharted territory.

November 9th is the Boston National Portfolio Day, and I am extremely nervous. It’s basically a review of what I’ve done photo wise, by all of the universities that I plan to apply to. PRESSURE!

I have compiled a set of photos I like better than others, however I still feel that what I’ve shot so far is basically: mediocre. 12 to 20 pieces of mediocre. I just love it, and I know this is what I want to do; always has been. I just want to be able to make it. Hopefully things begin to meld together soon; Working 13 hours a week, and various extracurriculars (German Club, Editing two sections of the paper and co editing the entire deal for the first issue) is just going to add to the whole college admissions process.

Burning out is NOT an option

"And I'll Sing with heroes thirty-three rounds per minute. I'm never going home until the sun says I'm finished. And I'll love you forever if I ever love at all"

3.2.1. Rolling.

Live journal is a nuisance with too many limitations
So here I am! Procrastinating three days worth of make-up work
And swimming in a sea of crumpled up tissues and thousands upon thousands of germs

Horray =D