Black Butterfly: The Soul's Lament (A moment of teen angst for which I must be forgiven)

I sat down beside her Waited; a sound, a stir, a sign Anything. The Black Butterfly took her ruby ring and sang 'The only way to go is after the fireflies: Weaving within the husky threads of forsaken willow hair In a clearing by the river, Sweet river.' The Black Butterfly held her tainted heart and whispered 'When lilies fade, all is lost And golden dew will never guise the fragrance gone Beneath a silken air, Virgin air.' River rose, I cried While she cherished the wind and made it scream 'Goodnight sweet song, Goodbye.' Sky sank she waited; Watched me praise Demeter in the lavender evening shadow Never knowing, I was vulnerable And she knew When she grasped me, an icy hand, And could not let go. Did she know-- Did she know her soul Could never stand it? Well...that was...stupid. Oh well, I still can't help but like it.

Identifying with Caroline Helstone

Any fan of Charlotte Bronte knows that Shirley is a novel not only about the character for which it is named, but also for Caroline, who, in unusually calm dispair, says the famous line "Half a century of existence may lie before me. How am I to occupy it?" Looking at the text surrounding this statement, I have grown to truly appreciate Caroline and her situation. This text is what follows Caroline's dispairing words:

"I have to live, perhaps, till seventy years. As far as I know, I have good health: half a century of existence may lie before me. How am I to occupy it? What am I to do to fill the intercal of time which spreads between me and the grave?"
She reflected.
"I shall not be married, it appears," she continued. "I suppose, as robert does not care for me, I shall never have a husband to love, nor little children to take care of. Till lately I had rechoned securely on the duties and affections of wife and mother to occupy my existence. I considered, somehow, as a matter of course, that I was growing up to the ordinary destiny, and never troubled myself to seek any other; but now, I perceive plainly, I may have been mistaken. Probably I shall be an old maid. I shall live to see Robert married to some one else, some rich lady: I shall never marry. What was I created for, I wonder? Where is my place in the world?"

Caroline is my favorite charater in this book, and I would love Robert Moore, if he would love her. I feel that many women today can identify with Caroline's predicament, and feel as though no one may comprehend their loneliness and pain. Yet, it was understood over 150 years ago by Miss Bronte! And what made me hopeful was when I learned that Charlotte Bronte was married within the last year of her life. Some may say this is horrible, having only one year being loved, then disappearing, but I take the opposite view: if a person lives in misery and discontent all their life, then finds happiness--wouldn't it be an all consuming joy which would suffice for their entire existence? To be loved at all, truly and simply, is a beautiful way to finish existence. Charlotte Bronte could have died with total and complete happiness in her heart--who could ask for more?

The Waiter: Finalish Draft (the one I have to turn in for a grade, anyway)

I added a scene, then took it out again. Hee hee, oh well. I just made some minor adjustments, mostly grammatical.

"I don't come here often."
I nodded, twirling my fork in the soupy wreckage otherwise known as tortellini. It really didn't matter. I knew he was excusing his poor taste in restaurants, but that wasn't the problem. There was no real problem. Except for me.
He glanced down at his soggy fettuccini alfredo and exhaled a meager sigh. "I'll drive you home."
I shook my head, fiddling with my unused spoon. "No thanks." One cold spoon.
He raised a sparse eyebrow. "It's a long walk."
"I don't mind it." I really didn't. I never mind walking.
He gave a resigned shrug. "See you."
"Yeah." I nodded and looked up into his face. He was one of those people who looked perpetually tired. His brown, practically gray hair was lank and his eyes gave off a faint glimmer, like a light bulb at the end of a long, dank sewer. "See you."
I heard the bells on the door jingle as he left. I grabbed a few sugar supplement packets and opened the first. Splenda. I poured a small amount into my hand tentatively sampled the hard white flakes. They were bittersweet, and I had half a mind to spit them out. Their unpalatable flavor spread over my tongue like a virus, and I quickly downed some water. I do that everywhere: sample the sugar packets at restaurants to see which one's best. Not that I ever use them; real sugar is just fine for me.
The waiter sauntered up to my table. "Mind if I sit? It's my break."
I glanced around the room. Plenty of similar red velvet booths were empty, and this table happened to have a terrible draft. "I don't see why not."
The waiter smiled and sat down across from me, grinning softly. The waiter was definitely Oriental, but his eyes were a hazel green that caught my interest; not what you'd call good looking, but he did have a sort of charm that made me want to stare at him all night.
"That your boyfriend?" the waiter asked, gesturing, unperturbed by my staring, to the door.
I shrugged. "I don't mind him."
The waiter's eyes twinkled. I couldn't look away. "You don't mind him? How romantic." The waiter laughed, leaning forward slightly and closing his eyes. It was a nice laugh. You might call it sincere.
"Well, he's nice, he doesn' mind me-" I couldn't think of anything else.
The waiter chuckled. "Am I nice?"
"Sure."
"Well, I don't mind you. Does that make me your boyfriend?"
I considered that. "I know almost everything about him." The waiter's eyes laughed. "No, really," I explained, "there's not much to know. We've been together for a long time."
The waiter nodded. I could tell he understood. It was just one of those things. "What if you knew everything about Frank Sinatra? Would he be your boyfriend?" I marveled at the perfect seriousness, no sarcasm involved.
I gave that one some thought. "He's dead."
"That's a problem?"
"Maybe. No. It depends."
"It depends?" The waiter's eyes shone.
"It depends on the person he was when he was alive."
The waiter nodded. "That makes sense."
"What's your name?"
"Haven't got one."
"Haven't got one?"
The waiter pointed at his nametag. It was blank. "Haven't got one."
"Sorry."
"Why?"
I wasn't sure. "You're the first person I've met without a name."
The waiter was amused. "Do I seem worse for wear?"
"I guess not."
The waiter glanced at his small black watch. 11:24. "It's almost closing time. I can give you a ride home after I finish cleaning up, if you don't mind waiting."
I didn't mind. I never do.
We made love in his room that night. The waiter was surprisingly gentle. The waiter probably knew it was my first time. Still, it wasn't awkward, like I'd imagined it would be. I'd never cared about the whole virginity thing in the first place, but I'd never gotten around to getting rid enough.
Afterwords I showered and the waiter gave me a ride home.
...

"You've got to understand," my friend told me sheepishly, sipping her black coffee and staring intently into my eyes. Both were habits she'd picked up from the waiter.
I nodded. I knew how easy it was to get caught up in a person.
"The waiter knew too much," she continued fondly, letting her hand stroke the handle of her mug, "I could say anything and he'd understand. Anything." Her eyes cleared for a moment. "I never loved him," she mused, "but I let myself believe I did. We're all able to trick ourselves like that, I think." Another tentative sip. "You know the rest."
I nodded again. I knew that things had gone on like that for months. She would go to the restaurant at 10:30, hang out for an hour, help clean up, go to the waiter's house, have sex, shower and go home. All very methodical, invariable, and according to her, wonderful. Then it just ended.
"Everyone has to wake up from a dream sometime," she told me, "and I got to dream for a long time. I guess I was lucky."
...

"The waiter wasn't at the restaurant one day. Just like that. I asked the hostess if the waiter was sick. She didn't know.
"I was scared. I realized how much I depended on him, on the connection we shared. I know it sounds corney, but I was addicted to him. I ran to his house, but I think part of me knew he wouldn't be there. I couldn't comprehend it. He just disappeared. Gone. It's possible he never existed. Not that I'm crazy. It's just one of those things."
"The door to the waiter's house was unlocked, but it didn't feel like I remembered it. Th waiter's Subaru was gone. I went inside.
"Everything was gone. A bare, cold skeleton of a house was all that was left. I didn't find any of it unnatural though. It just felt like the way life worked. His bedroom was empty too, not that there had been much in it in the first place; the waiter lived like a monk. I walked to the shower as slowly as my feet would let me, running my fingers over the stark walls of his bedroom. I didn't feel a thing maybe it was a dream after all. Maybe I hadn't woken up."
...

"I still don't think I've woken up," she whispered, "I don't think I'll wake up until he comes back." She pulled a small, white rectangle out of her purse. "This is the waiter's nametag," she explained, handing it to me. "You see? Nothing."
I turned the nametag over in my palm. Terrence. "Yeah," I said, handing the nametag back to her, "nothing."
Sometimes people need to keep dreaming.

La Luna, Que Belleza

Ewwwwwwwww....standardized testing is horrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrid.

I realized just now that Doris Day is an cute little woman (upon watching The Ballad of Josie), and a perfectly average actress. But so adorable! She's like a sugar cube or pink frosting with sprinkles. I wonder what it would be like to be her; purely feminine warmth and sweet glances, like a fragrant angel.

It makes me giggle how wonderful people can be. I'd like to be one, really; it would be amazing to be darling. That or to be a kindly senile woman--if I could count on being senile, I'd want to live a long life. I wouldn't be the Arsenic and Old Lace type, necessarily, but I would at least be the Wedding Singer type granny. Hmhmm, that would be nice.

I don't know how to deal with my writing right now. I ave plenty ideas, but I just can't focus, as if my mind decided to play tag and I have to chase it. I wonder if that's considered idiocy or lunacy. Huh, lunacy. I really like that word: it's as if the moon makes you crazy. La luna, que belleza. Mis ojos sonrien para ti. Dulcemente, Carinosamente, perfectamente....Ha ha, Spanish is beautiful to me, even if I do some of the grammatical stuff incorrectly. The moon, what beauty. My eyes smile for you. Sweetly, lovingly, perfectly. I'm in a rambling mood and I'm just not saying anything sensible or useful. Oh well, rambling is nice.

Semi-Screamo Bands Before Wall-e and Unpacking

Yesterday I heard this song in my friend's car, and it made me think. And then I was a little sad.


La Dispute: One

In the last quarter of the twentieth century
much of the world sat on the edge of an increasingly expensive theater seat
waiting for something momentous to occur.
Christian aficionados of the Second Coming scenario were convinced that,
after two thousand years, the other shoe was about to drop.
And five of the era's best-known psychics predicted
that Atlantis would soon reemerge from the depths.
To this last, Princess Leigh-Cheri responded,
"There are three lost continents: we are one: the lovers.
"In whatever esteem on might hold Princess Leigh-Cheri's thoughts, one must agree
that the last quarter of the twentieth century was a severe period for lovers.
It was a time a time when romantic relationships took on the character of ice in spring,
stranding many little children on jagged and inhospitable floes.
Nobody quite knew what to make of the moon anymore. Consider a certain night in August.
The moon was so bloated it was about to tip over.
For more than an hour, Leigh-Cheri stared into the sky. "Does the moon have a purpose?" She inquired.
The same query put to the Remington SL3 elicited this response:
Albert Camus wrote that the only serious question
is whether to kill yourself or not.
Tom Robbins wrote that the only serious question
is whether time has a beginning and an end.
Camus clearly got up on the wrong side of bed,
and Robbins must have forgotten to set the alarm.
There is only one serious question. And that is:
Who knows how to make love stay?
Answer me that and I will tell you whether or not to kill yourself.
Answer me that and I will ease your mind about the beginning and end of time,
Answer me that and I will reveal to you the purpose of the moon.

Almost Done, Dang It. I Was Getting Obsessed.

This is the third piece of my Shakespeare soliloquy, and I'm back to iambic pentameter (thank goodness!)

And yet, t'was not so consarn'd i'th'beginning;
Temple Grafton gone, experimentation
T'was the essence o'my youthful being.
So insidious was the time, and love:
(5) Venturous, imbecilic 'n'fantastic!
Harmonic Emilia! Where hast thou gone?
Back to thine husband? Thy sickly consort
O'whom all my jealousy rivited up'n?
Ah, perhaps you've gone, ebbed n'waned away
(10) 'Til nothing remains but ardent mem'ry.
Sidney's Puck quoth, "What fools these mortals be!"
Th'flippant faerie may've comprehend'd rightly;
Beings malodorous as I're easily
Confounded. This being th'case, I'm decieved.
(15) Fool-hardy, mine fascinations of old--
Undiluded, unrefined, a'diamond i'th'rough--
Such callow romance did cloud mine eyes,
Those constant, veridical crystals t'th'soul,
That intelligable meditation
(20) T'was unattainable, nay, insanable, a'th'time.
The course of true love never did run smooth;
Lysander found veracity i'that.
Fools who dream do lack th'straight integrity,
Which doth seek out th'dignified n'magnific,
(25) Do gain th'nugget o'purest silver: amour--
Th'fervor which doth battle 'gainst enmity
And pluck detestation out o'th'hard'st bossom.
'Tis true, for Mary Sidney claim'd it so,
And her love for Brooke surely proved it'all.
(30) Ah, tender anemnesis doth dry m'tears
And so lead me t'Aphrodite's sweet pool,
Where meadows n'glen offer breezes o'primrose
And m'darling rests her head up'n fair lilies.

My Music of the Day: A Bunch Of Losers Who Might Not Know It

This is a song of Bruce Springsteen's that the Format redid, and I really like it. For You Princess cards she sends me with her regards Barroom eyes shine vacancy, to see her you gotta look hard Wounded deep in battle, I stand stuffed like some soldier undaunted To her Cheshire smile. I'll stand on file, she's all I ever wanted But you let your blue walls get in the way of these facts Honey, get your carpetbaggers off my back You wouldn't even give me time to cover my tracks You said "Here's your mirror and your ball and jacks" But they're not what I came for, and I'm sure you see that too I came for you, for you, I came for you, but you did not need my urgency I came for you, for you, I came for you, but your life was one long emergency And your cloud line urges me, and my electric surges free Crawl into my ambulance, your pulse is getting weak Reveal yourself all now to me girl while you've got the strength to speak `Cause they're waiting for you at Bellevue with their oxygen masks But I could give it all to you now if only you could ask And don't call for your surgeon even he says it's too late It's not your lungs this time, it's your heart that holds your fate Don't give me money, honey, I don't want it back You and your pony face and your union jack Well take your local joker and teach him how to act I swear I was never that way even when I really cracked Didn't you think I knew that you were born with the power of a locomotive Able to leap tall buildings in a single bound? And your Chelsea suicide with no apparent motive You could laugh and cry in a single sound And your strength is devastating in the face of all these odds Remember how I kept you waiting when it was my turn to be the god? You were not quite half so proud when I found you broken on the beach Remember how I poured salt on your tongue and hung just out of reach And the band they played the homecoming theme as I caressed your cheek They ragged, jagged melody she still clings to me like a leach But that medal you wore on your chest always got in the way Like a little girl with a trophy so soft to buy her way We were both hitchhikers but you had your ear tuned to the roar Of some metal-tempered engine on an alien, distant shore So you, left to find a better reason than the one we were living for And it's not that nursery mouth I came back forI t's not the way you're stretched out on the floor `Cause I've broken all your windows and I've rammed through all your doors And who am I to ask you to lick my sores? And you should know that's true I came for you, for you, I came for you, but you did not need my urgency I came for you, for you, I came for you, but your life was one long emergency And your cloud line urges me, and my electric surges free

And then they broke up! Grrr...

And this is Bo Burnham, who seems to be a teenage Tom Lehrer for this millenium. Only dirtier. Thanks, E and J, for taking that much innocence out of me.

whats a pirate minus the ship? just a creative homeless guy,and an anteater plus a large hungry mutant ant? an ironic way to dieand whats domain, domain, range (xxy) a kid with too much in his pantsand two balls minus one, six titles at the tour de france.
split a decision with long division, take the circumference of your circumcisionlive like your data and when you're all "set"put it all together and whatever you get.
is new math...
whats a bag of chips divided by five, thats a nike worker's mealand santa clause mutliplied by "i" well i guess that makes him real,and the square root of the NBA is Africa in a box,how do u trace a scatter plot? give the pencil to michael j fox.
take the approximate moral proportion of the probable problem of a pro-life abortionlive like your data, and when youre all "set"put it all together and whatever you get...
is new math.
and if you made a factor tree of the factors that caused my girl to leave me youd have a tree...full of asian porn.C-A-L-C-U-LATOR (see you later) mathetmatical minds make industrial smog.and whats the opposite of lnx, duraflame the unnatural log.
support the farmers with a pro-tractor, link kennedy and lincoln with a common factor (fact, or)live like ur data...blah blah
word problems
if theres a fat guy in a pastry shop with a twenty dollar bill and he's ready to buy,in order to predict his volume change you need to know the value of pi (pie)and theres a metal train that a mile long and at the very back end a lightning bolt struck her,how long til it reaches adn kills the driver, provided that he's a good conductor,and if ten percent of men are gay and twenty percent of men are chinese, what are the odds that a men chosen at random spends his freetime and mealtime while on his kneesand if kim is half as old as bobby who is two years older then twelve year old tori,for how many more 30 day months will their threesomes be considered statutory rape
cause havin sex is like quadratic expansion if it cant be split then its time to stop,and havin sex is like doing fractions, its improper for the larger one to be on top, and havin sex is like math homework, i do it best when i'm alone in my bed.and squarin numbers are just like women, if theyre under thirteen just do them in your head....
and new math

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=obIGsb-IZMo

Ha ha ha ha ha, I feel better now. Time for Ben Kweller!