[I wrote this a number of years back. It was more for myself than anything, but for some reason a lot of people liked it, so I've decided to make it public. Be kind :P It was originally a journal entry.] Jesus was Jewish. It came as quite a surprise when I realized through all that hair and that monstrous, unkindly-set nose that this was indeed a fact. He wasn’t necessarily what many a woman would find beautiful, if even good-looking. I had to admit that I’d never have figured that my Lord, my Savior would be a long (I had to cough: extremely long) way from being the ‘Sexiest Man Alive’. “You think I’m ugly?” Jesus asked as he cast out his rather novel-looking fishing rod; it looked as though he’d carved it himself (and did a rather poor job of it too). “Well, you’re definitely not someone I would stare at in wonder,” I said; incapable of stepping ahead of my thoughts and filtering them. Jesus laughed, and in a rather high-pitch too. “It tends to work in my favor.” “How’s that?” “Well, if I was indeed beautiful, and as perfect as I am on the inside, there wouldn’t be many women left for all you average-looking folks,” Jesus said, his folding beard the only hint that he was smirking. “Average? I’m average?” “Let me put it this way: Joe, you won’t be winning any ‘Sexiest Man Alive’ awards any time soon.” I looked at him through narrowed eyes. “Ha, ha, Mr. Omniscient.” Jesus laughed, his high-pitched, effeminate laught- “-Effeminate?” Jesus interrupted my thoughts. “Not only am I ugly, but I’m also effeminate. You’re not a very nice person, you know.” “Would you stop doing that?” “Then stop thinking in conclusions.” The disgruntled look on my face made him laugh again; his belly shaking and him holding it as if cradling a womb. For once, I decided to speak no further, in the hopes that I wouldn’t dig myself a deeper hole. In such a short amount of responses, Jesus had managed to set me against my own mind, fluster me, and make me feel like a child who’d done wrong. Now, I didn’t know what to think, because what I was thinking was based off presuppositions and whatever answers I could come to so that I could combat this would come from assumptions justified by knowledge that
I live among you, a beat, fallen man.
To look at myself in the mirror is reason for my stomach to twirl;
force me to my knees and hurl.
Taste the waste that rushes out between my teeth, firing my tongue;
tasting so wrong.
It should make me livid, make me want to go and drown my stupidity
among the narcissi that know no pity.
But take me, my dear lord; let my seeds not already be sown.
O Provider, Provider
Let this not persist, or harm my daughter.
She is tiny and innocent, like no other, may she grow old and bright,
with dreams sparkling alight.
Let her quiet slumbers have dreams masked from violence and hate;
If it is her future that I control, I pray to carry it gently.
To her I will whisper praises quietly.
I beseech thee, Guardian, let my callous feet not falter.
O Protector, Protector
The humble nymph cries out my name once more.
Let her hold no attention of mine, for but a spirit walks in my stead;
forget I ever existed.
She sent love to me, softly handled by wind’s squalling fingers;
My defense cannot be conquered; my walls stretch to the sky, unflinching.
Even I cannot cross; I fear the writhing.
This is a castle of guilt and sorrow from the very core.
O Destroyer, Destroyer
Why continue cry out to this weak man?
Your words; they convey to me thoughts and feelings only foreign how I stand.
They feel like a fiery brand.
Stop, for these feelings are even higher than the skies above.
Why must you love?
You destroy my fortress, bring me to knee, leaving me naked and heaving.
Astounding! Your love for the unbelieving.
My castle is built anew, the way only a master can.
O Father, Father
I happen to love this exercise. Type for a pre-determined amount of time assuming you have no backspace key and your fingers will catch on fire the second you stop. This is what two minutes in my head looks like: The road isn't what I was missing. Close. not quite. Something that moves, sure, but not quite a motorcycle. Music does so much to my brain. Perpetually confused. Perpetually lacking in courage. music solves both. Courage. The great ones had the courage to move the way they wanted. Presented the fundamental threads their own way. universal audience. Found the rhythms that reached them and hurled them in every direction. Ultimate courage, facing everyone's response. Intensely personal. Trust. They trusted something. Ultimate courage, ultimate faith: That not only does one person's voice matter but that MINE matters, and that I'm accountable for its dispersal. Horrifying concept. Irrational. But only irrational because of personal effacement and sense of personal weakness, not genuine lack of worth. In which case, self-effacement is irrational. Self-hatred, irrational. Self-destruction, irrational. Self-deprecation, irrational. If worth is unknown, but depends on participation multiplied by an individual's self-concept, then to willingly nullify either variable with zero is an irrational act, and ultimately ineffecient.Participation X Self-concept = Personal well-being, feeling of self-worth and satisfaction(P) X (S) = Value (personal)Participation without self-affection is worthless. Self-concept with validation is groundless. No value without either. Either can be nullified by zero. MUST attempt. MUST believe yourself worthy of the attempt. Must fail.
I found this old piece this morning, one that I used to try and get myself into a class taught by the director of the Iowa Writer's Workshop, Lan Samantha Chang. Somehow, this weird little conversational piece got me in, but they split the class in two and I had the other teacher. Best laid plans, I guess. But that's beside the point. I'd encourage anyone to go take a look back at their older writing, as you'd be surprised how much there is to be proud of. If you're just starting out, hold on to what you're doing now and check in on it from time to time as you progress. Always somethin' to learn, even from your weird "Writing to the reader as if they were part of the dialogue" phase. I lost my virginity in a motel about a mile outside Columbus, Ohio. The Stardust Motel, if I remember correctly, which chances are fairly good that I don’t. There’s a lot I can’t remember about that evening, and a lot of things I can, not things, though, people typically remember from that particular experience. The things people remember, though, they say a lot about them as people with priorities. There are girls who tell you how romantic it was, even if you can still see the Honda insignia in their back where the steering wheel was digging in, these girls whose lives have been forever changed by their introduction to the world of sexual activity. There are girls, too, and just as many, that will tell you that it wasn’t all it was cracked up to be, that it stung for a little while and then it was ok, they guess, but they didn’t really FEEL anything. Then there are girls who the first, I mean the VERY first thing they tell you (whether you’ve ever talked to them extensively or not) is just how big his dick was, how defined his pecs were or what they could’ve fit in the groove on the outside of ass, because, c’mon, you’re a bit curious, even if you have no idea who the other party involved was. So what’s the first thing I tell you? That it was in a motel about a mile outside of Columbus, Ohio and I don’t remember much. Now, I don’t remember much for a lot of reasons, good reasons, none of which involve alcohol if you can believe that. First off, I find myself among the ranks, at least somewhat, of the second type of girl, the nonchalant. I waited 19 years. Have you noticed that’s always what it feels like? Your whole life you’ve been waiting for this one thing to happen, conveniently forgetting the years you didn’t know or didn’t want to know what sex even meant, much less what it was like. 19 fucking years. That’s probably how I would’ve put it, too, if you’d asked me then. I would’ve said, “It’s been 19 fucking years! The hell’s wrong with me, anyways?” That whole si
This started as a writing exercise where a character revealed a secret. I cleaned it up a bit, and is now a really short monologue on having just a bit too much distant affection for another. Also note that this reads a little smoother when read aloud.
Alright, that's enough excuses.
and it's like a
laundry-list of acquaintances,
name-marked and chilled condiments;
squeeze-filled "hello!" embraces
or a clumsy slumberkiss.
impartial sandman relations and
impact to sway an axis;
care without condition,
unbiased opinions or
a scar-free appendage.
siblings. childhood friends.
a domesticated orca,
a drink void of caution,
a late night walk without keys in hand or
a beach in which to submerge my toes and
those scenarios premiering in dreamland;
a well-paid career [or
at least equal to that of a man's].
life without currencysocietyand
without the mundane, routine progression
of green, grey, gone;
singular sentiment, automated sleep,
parents capable of satiety and
a world lacking dishes and trash-taking.
winter white and frigid,
an early completion;
someone to wait on me
without an inevitable aberration.
the assuagement of afterlife, the
divine intervention of hands
the quiet murmur of ideals and desires within
the ear of some orphic entity
presumed to care.
a kiss clean of guilt,
solicitous reassurance, and
a sigh at the stars in the arms of a
it's like you:
something I can never have.
I found a journal with a series of short pieces in it (some horribly pretentious attempts at being through-provoking, others just descriptive) and am working through editing them. This was written in the spring, possibly as an attempt to hurry summer along.
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i refuse to say
anything that matters
related to itself
amnesia traces motion:
how do you say
hello when the wind
like a distant friend
arboreal fingers reaching
the gusts of a body
passing into past
i deny to see
anything of meaning
absence fills up silence:
how do you see
the wind’s memories
when it only gives you
the creak of the seat
lulls memory to sleep
back and forth
the tranquil repetition
of an empty chair
a dying presence
i refuse to feel
anything of importance
the pain of knowing
you forgot something
i retold myself
with a new ending
an old beginning
in a few thoughts
i will remember
only the lost nuance
of a swaying chair
a rocking branch
fading in a photograph:
how do you say
see and feel
of the wind
now moves faste
this piece is a week-long collaboration between katie & I. there had been virtually no prior planning, save for an agreement to compose a fictional piece and to write from separate character perspectives. I portrayed liam, whereas she portrayed ethan.
Dedicated to my brother Jesse.
These are the first 3 chapters from a work I've been planning for a long time. Throughout the course of the next couple months, I'll be regularly adding content to it in the form of new chapters. I hope you enjoy it. Putting this work together has been and will continue to be something of an emotional purging. It's a bit insane for me to think that I've actually begun to write this, but it's been long overdue.
I'll be chronicling the last few years of my life in the form of a novel, hopefully taking you on a journey that will be memorable, charming, and curious. Feel free to leave whatever feedback you like. I'm open to any thoughts you'd like to share.
A sincere thanks to all who read this.