The Statler Brothers - Flowers On The Wall [2:22m]: Play in Popup
(Yes, the Statler Brothers. It’s from the Pulp Fiction soundtrack, if you must know.)
What makes you think I’m writing about you?
While it’s true that most of the entries in my blog reflect certain experiences in my life, there are a few that mean nothing at all. And, in general, even if you recognize yourself in one of the entries, I doubt anyone else will (unless, of course, I choose to tell them). I write what I feel at the moment I feel it; and just because I felt something at one point in my life doesn’t mean I feel that way now. Our lives change constantly, and we change with them. We live and we learn; we love and we lose; we forgive and we forget.
Moreover, when I write poetry, I often pay attention to meter and rhyme, which occasionally leads me to stray from the initial topic, or to say something slightly different than what I initially wanted to express. I can’t say this happens frequently, though. Most of the time the blog entries seem to write themselves. My fingers do the typing before my mind does the thinking. (I know, I know — that’s not necessarily a good thing.)
Anyway, the blog is meant to be obscure, and it is not meant to reflect the truth as it stands right now. Yet, in a way, it reflects both the ephemeral and the constant in my life. Interpret what I write any way you wish. There will be no multiple choice exam. There isn’t a right answer or a single meaning to anything I say.
Or, in other words, I like to write, and I have my own, fairly recognizable style of doing so. You’re free to like it; you’re free to be ambivalent about it; and you’re free to hate it. Just don’t look for certainty or absolute truth in the things I say. You won’t find it here.
And finally, just to clear up any leftover misconceptions, I don’t always post things at the time I write them, and I don’t always post all the things that I write. So don’t expect perfect chronology or complete disclosure, either.
–All original content in this post is by(c)BluHarmony with all rights reserved.
(The song has nothing to do with the text. Or maybe it does.)
I walked down the stairs and opened the refrigerator door, stared at the contents for about five minutes, but what I was looking for wasn’t there. Regardless, I nibbled on some cherries, finding them tasteless. I thought I was hungry, but I must have been wrong.
I started reading a book and realized that although what I was reading was both funny and well-written, I didn’t want to read it nonetheless. I think law school taught me to hate reading. I associate all books with boring case law written in verbiage that you can understand only after rereading a passage fifty times and being rewarded with a serious migraine.
I turned on the TV, hoping for mindless distraction, but I was constantly annoyed by the fact that the commercials were louder than the programming. Then I realized that I didn’t even know what I was watching because I was thinking about something else. Or I was thinking about someone else. Or I was thinking about what someone else was thinking about me. Anyway, I wasn’t thinking about the show, and I couldn’t follow the plot. In fact, I’m not even sure the show had a plot; I may have been watching “reality” TV.
I went to play online, hoping to find either creativity or connection, but all I found was lonely souls or sated hearts. So many seekers, but no one to fit within the jigsaw puzzle of my own bizarre ideal. As an aside, I’ve even lost my interest in Scrabble. How can that be? I thought I was devoted to that game forever. It must be my lengthy losing streak. It is, after all, more fun to win than to lose.
I checked my phone and was relieved that I had no messages to return. I loathe the phone, especially when the world turns dark and the demons take over. And in any case, the phone rarely holds much pleasure for me. At its finest moments, it is only the next best thing.
The birds began to chirp. They always do around this hour. I heard the paper being delivered outside. It hit the ground with a loud, ruthless thump. And I went back downstairs to the fridge and ate more cherries. Maybe the cherries were what I wanted after all.
–All original content in this post is by(c)BluHarmony with all rights reserved.
A few days ago, I opened my over-stuffed wallet looking for a slip of paper with a phone number. I couldn’t find it easily, so I had to check in each of many messy compartments. I never did find the phone number, but I found a playing card — a six of hearts, I think. The card meant something to me, though I’m not sure what.
I just looked for it again, but it wasn’t there. The playing card vanished, as if by magic. I guess when I found it, I must have thrown it away in disgust. But I don’t remember. I know exactly who put it there and when, and the thought of this person going through something as personal as my wallet makes me sick. Still, I wish I remembered what card it was. I don’t know why. But I do know that some souvenirs are not worth keeping.
–All original content in this post is by(c)BluHarmony with all rights reserved.
I ask for silver and he gives me gold;
An ear that will listen; a hand that will hold.
I ask for the moon and he brings me the sun;
He worries about me as if we were one.
He stays up all night when I cannot sleep,
He cares for me gently when I’m in too deep;
His lectures are few, but they’re right on point,
Some lessons he’s learned; I may disappoint.
I’m grateful forever for the love I’ve received;
It’s treasure beyond what I’d ever believed;
My world is muddled, confused and a blur,
But there’s little at this point I’d rather prefer.
Thank you.
–All original content in this post is by(c)BluHarmony with all rights reserved.
Shriekback - The Shining Path [4:37m]: Play in Popup
I’m wary of the path; I’m wary of the changes that I must inevitably make. Like the true procrastinator, I put them off and off, until there’s no escape, my back is pressed firmly against the door.
Oh sure, “the art of losing isn’t hard to master,” but I’m losing my home — or to be accurate — my mother’s home, where for twenty years I escaped whenever something major happened in my life. The thought of this tears my heart apart. We moved so much throughout my lifetime, that it’s the closest thing to a home I’ve ever known. I imagine when the market looks up, I will sell my condo too and move elsewhere. But I’ve never been attached to that condo, and leaving it will cause no great pain.
But this house, this beautiful bizarre house, I just can’t let it go. Maybe some day the time will come, but right now, it does not seem like the right path to me. The Koi in the pond, the extensive greenbelt, and the fact that everything in it reminds me of my mother. I’m here, and I don’t want to go anywhere else.
–All original content in this post is by(c)BluHarmony with all rights reserved.
Don’t tell me what to do;
You know I know it all,
And still my heart is blue,
Don’t tempt me with your lies,
I’ll peek through your disguise.
Just kiss me with your lips,
My skin; your fingertips.
And know that in the end,
You’ve proven a true friend.
–All original content in this post is by(c)BluHarmony with all rights reserved.
I read something silly today, written by a girl who couldn’t find anything to say about her misguided and useless adventures, because nothing of interest ever happened. In my opinion, she seemed to miss the point. The fact is that something fascinating and mysterious happens every single day. Any person with sensitivity and talent for writing will see it, note it, and want to write about it. There is a story hiding in every human, in every breath, in every sigh, in every minute we live. Every second holds a treasure, which only the truly gifted uncover. Each moment holds a story, and each story holds a grain of truth.
Not to mention, every attempt at disproving something requires an explanation of the original premise, and some scientific proof of why it’s not possible. An unprofessional photo, without more, simply isn’t enough to say anything at all. Take a step, look to the sky, and find something worthwhile to write about. Explain the background and then offer an alternative explanation. Otherwise, what’s the point?
Why won’t the thought of you still let me go?
I’m lost in confusion; it tortures me so.
The hunger has passed, and reason prevailed,
Yet still I feel trapped as if I’ve been assailed.
I know what this is; I have felt it before,
It’s my incredulity, not anything more.
False pride telling me I could not be so wrong,
This is the reason release takes so long.
So give me this gift, I beseech you my dear,
Forget I exist; don’t believe what you hear.
Go on with your life and let me live mine,
I found what I sought; I’m climbing the vine.
Yet sleep still eludes me; strange thoughts plague my mind,
And dreams of your ugliness wake me to find,
Existence of something so rude and perverse,
That only a lifetime of shame could reverse.
–All original content in this post is by(c)BluHarmony with all rights reserved.
How often do we really get to hate? Rarely, if ever. At least for me, “hate” is a word I use merely as a description of a life experience I don’t enjoy — I hate going to the doctor; I hate onions. But hating people? Is this even possible? And if it is, how different is that emotion from romantic love? Both are illusions, and neither is grounded in reality.
Still… oh, how I love to hate you.
–All original content in this post is by(c)BluHarmony with all rights reserved.
