These aren't mine.

It's a late night returning from school, along the concrete pathway edged with grass, I walk to my apartment. A door opens in front of me, like a jack-in-the-box this tall man steps out in front of me. We know each other, loosely but the timing is so fast with both of us walking and him popping out like that-- I can't really remember his name. Apparently neither does he but obligation makes both of us to smile, nod, and for him to confess himself to me.

"Oh. uh. Hello! These, these aren't mine."

He strides away from me and I'm confused, still walking to my apartment in the velvety darkness that holds jack-in-the-box men and social norms I forget.

At the corner where the Circle k and the mexican taco shop and the stoplights are, safe from my supposingly accusing eyes, the glow of his lighter touching the cigarette silhouettes him. He has an aura of smoke shadowing him as he walks away.


The power of the gaze of another human. Especially when we feel there is something to hide. The eyes are the window of the soul, we should protect our souls better. Hide them behind dark glasses and makeup. If I pretend I don't see you, will you pretend too?

Jack-in-the-box man, I wish we would walk along the sidewalk together and your aura of smoke would surround us both. No I don't smoke but I don't mind if you do. I like the way it smells. I'll bring Dove chocolates. I've heard they go togethor well. I'm sorry you thought you had to pretend in front of me. I do that too sometimes.

Invoking the Muse

FROM pent-up, aching rivers;

From that of myself, without which I were nothing;

From what I am determin’d to make illustrious, even if I stand sole among men;

From my own voice resonant
Singing the true song of the Soul, fitful, at random;

Singing what, to the Soul, entirely redeem’d---


Stop this day and night with me, and you shall possess the origin of all poems;
25
You shall possess the good of the earth and sun—(there are millions of suns left;)

You shall no longer take things at second or third hand, nor look through the eyes of the dead, nor feed on the spectres in books;

You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me:

You shall listen to all sides, and filter them from yourself.



What better muse than Walt Whitman for a blog? "I sing of myself, I celebrate myself, I loafe and invite my soul--I sing the body electric...poetry, sheer poetry!!

equation for blogging: (me + me and my soul + words + a kind public = blogging channeling whitmanesque poetry.)

--thank you God, whatever Higher Power you believe and invoke, yourself, the Universe, and the printing press---

for giving modern bloggers
and me

the gift of Walt Whitman and his words.

It is finished!

commence to start...

I'd like to sing, to dream, to do.

I’d like to sing a song of myself. But I’m never wholly sure exactly who that self might be. Sometimes I seem like a stereotype of myself—the quiet English major wearing glasses, dressing the part in skirts and dowdy hand-me-downs. Who else would use the word “dowdy”? To my older sister, I am eternally her “mei-mei”, her little sister that she will always fiercely protect and try to control. To my younger sister, I am her “jei-jei”— her older sister who will fiercely protect and try to control. I am the middle and am often neutral like Switzerland on most issues. At times, I bubble forth with wit and laughter and joy and other times I am silent, thoughtful and moody.

When I was little, I used to believe that I might wake up as a different person—transformed into one of the characters from a book. It wasn’t that I disliked myself—I just wondered what it was like to live elswhere, in someone else’s head—another world besides my own. I guess that’s why I am an English major, one who deals with words and other worlds of ideas and imagination. Put like that, it sounds very noble and academic but words are deceiving. The mind is a dark labyrinth to wander in and the search for meaning and love is lonely and often meaningless. I’m only twenty-one but I was born old. I can’t wait for retirement and I haven’t yet begun the work. Most people would call this lazy. I guess I’m a waiter and a dreamer who dreams of doing.