2001-05-10 - 10:25 p.m. - poemata_mala1

I've decided that I write entirely too much in this thing, but it's part of my goulash of activities which keep me reasonably sane. Knowing that writing here helps is a good reason for me to keep writing. And so I do. (Wow... I'm writing about writing... maybe I should give this one up.)

Life is getting more tolerable these days... the stress of the competition and various essays are over for the time being, so I have a chance to breathe for once. Now that I've started breathing agian, I can start recharging my fuel for my next shaped screams- which is really what my entire life is about. I've made an art of taking the desperation and doing neat tricks with it. At the end of the day, it still feels awful, but it's sort of pretty to look at. Writing, speaking, singing - with an instrument as medium or not - all function as coping mechanisms while slowly I get crushed in life's intricate gears. Whether I'll be able to extricate myself in time is anyone's guess.

My cello lesson today was better than last week's. I put in a lot more effort on the Shostakovich this week, and apparently it showed - my teacher was pretty happy. I still have a long way to go, though. This summer I'll be practicing a lot more - probably two-three hours a day of cello. I should be able to get some good work done over the summer.

I had a great conversation with my English teacher today about... jeez, I've forgotten what it was about, but it was nice to just talk with someone for once. Life, the universe, and everything, we'll call it, and NO, the answer is NOT forty-two. Mr. Morris, if you're reading this, you're great; at this point in my life you can be safely regarded as one of the best people who has happened to me. And yes, I am fully aware that people don't "happen to" other people, but what else am I supposed to say? It's late and my normal fix-it processes aren't working at full speed.

I've decided to start putting some of my earlier works out there. They're not poetry, nor are they prose; instead they inhabit that odd half-world in between in which I often feel I dwell. More about the half-world later. To the stuff of questionable worth and quality! Titles in parentheses were originally in Chinese.

(Eternity)

eternity is a terribly long time to spend

cooped up in a prison, awaiting light,

not quite knowing when one will be loosed

not daring any longer to test the bars.

speak:

to tell someone that ten hundred thousand years

are necessary to liberate them from their fears �

this is mercy; there is no danger of hope.

but give them nothing, and you touch eternity�s face �

not knowing, waiting, hoping that perhaps soon

dawn will break � but when is soon?

and how long, o gods, must we wait?//

(Door)

I closed the closet door behind me

but left it ajar by mistake.

how empty the world feels, I whistled,

diving in as life waxed fierce.

So out and say the names you�ve heard �

mock me, jeer at me, what do I care?

faggot, fairy, pansy, queer �

know that I am human, too �

have just as much inalienable right to:

freedom, pursuit of happiness...

and love, that�s right, my own brand, if I can find it �

not government-stamped USDA grade triple-A,

but mine, just as good, and who are you to deny me here,

HERE, of all places, this ridiculous planet �

who are you to deny me my stand against the dark?//

[Yes, I have issues with the 12th line "not... triple-A" now... but then I didn't. It seemed proper at the time.]

Untitled

Think now upon

the nature of the gods-

dare you cry heresy?

You claim that gods too die,

that tumbled altars, altered thoughts

have any meaning

to an immortal pantheon of immortal gods?

Fool mortal, you,

have you not known

that awe and power

will know no death?

that reverence a thousand years past will endure?

From power is spawned power.

And you shall see yet -

though you have been blind,

your soul will stir at ancient memory...

In the night, floorboards creak.

the gods of old rise...

muttering in ancient tongues

they gather in circles on foreign plains

their great cities long since passed to eternity

in dust and the rubbish heap of history...

waiting always for men who fail to come.

And will they wait to the end of time?

Have pity on they who know no death but yearn for it.//

Anyway. I've got to go do some work now. Send me an email, sign my guestbook, ask me questions about the cello... please.

J