a short, simple list of my gratitude towards time

time.
use of time.
time to look inwards and out.
time alone.
time with people.
time to cook.
time to listen to music:
instruments,
voices,
the earth.

times inverses and the various ways of viewing them:
time's infinity,
and time's rarity.
the compressed, efficent type of time,
which comfortably goes along with the expanded time to produce a sense of triumph.
then there's the somewhat controlling and more widely accepted suggestion that time exists,
and then the more enjoyable concept that it doesnt.

my personal favorite, which as a whole is not linked with any inverse or highly thought-out concept, rather it is a pure goodness in itself...
the time it takes to produce milk.
milk is by far the most satisfying drink on this planet. thank you cows for your involuntary input into this world.

neato bondito

here are a few that i think are neat.

rays

of the many men who i am, who we are,
i cant find a singe one;
they disappear among my clothes,
they've left for another city.

when everything seems to be set
to show me off as intelligent,
the fool i always keep hidden
takes over all that i say.

at other times, i'm asleep
among distinguished people,
and when i look for my brave self,
a coward unknown to me
rushes to cover my skeleton
with a thousand fine excuses.

when a decent house catches fire,
instaed of the fireman i summon,
an arsonist bursts on the scene,
and that's me. what can i do?
what can i do to distinguish myself?
how can i pull myself together?

all the books i read
are full of dazzling heroes,
always sure of themselves.
i die with envy of them;
and in films full of wind and bullets,
i goggle at cowboys,
i even admire the horses.

but when i call for a hero,
out comes my lazy old self;
so i never know who i am,
nor how many i am or will be.
i'd love to be able to touch a bell
and summon the real me,
becasue if i really need myself,
i musn't disappear.

while i am writing, i'm far away;
and when i come back, i've gone.
i would like to know if others
go through the same things that i do,
have as many selves as i have,
and see themselves similarly;
and when i've exhausted this problem,
i'm going to study so hard
that when i explain myself,
ill be talking geography.




(pablo neruda. we are many.)

heres a thought that ive often disregarded for the sole reason of having no simple solution...

i went on a long walk tonight to explore more of the city. unsure why, but its getting colder everyday and even more windy and cold at night. there are little flower stands at like every other corner and i decided that i wanted a flower to watch in my room. as i walked to the stand, i passed by a homeless woman. i thought, 'hey you should give her a flower.' i think i thought that initially bc i dont really have anything efficient that i can physically give her, much less emotionally, and i dont speak spanish well enough to hold down that sort of conversation, . then i thought, 'why the fuck would she want a flower? how would that brighten her night? why not give her some hot tea or food, or something useful?' and then i got real mad at myself bc its like even i would to have given her something she couldve possible used, whats being done? like most, i thought that itd be renewing my own consciense, but then i realized, no, not at all. id give her one thing and then itd be like an addiction and knowing me, id be giving things, even if they were words, thinking that i could help just enough to get her off the streets. its such bullshit. it makes me angry that im at such war with myself that i dont even know how to give selflessly and effectively. its easier to give something when its not needed, theres no obligation beyond that. and then today i went walking the same way but much further and there again was the same woman. and then another, and another, and another, and then there was a man and small child and this time i became enraged. if older people are homeless then thats just the way it is, but thats absolute barbarity to take a child into your hands and continue to beg for money. for gods sake, put the child in adoption or something. things like that make me want to slam their heads against a wall and scream, 'stop acting like an idiot and get better, damnit!' but its until i look closer that i notice the bruises covering their bodies and realize that someone had already tried that approach.

i wish i knew how to respond to such situations. theyre everywhere, not just on the streets and naturally im incapable of passing people and my surroundings without some sort of recognition. i dont know what to do and it makes me angry.

div>

a vast fish tank

day of beauty, cold, and believeable contentment:

days should always be listed as such.

day one and two and three were especially difficult here in the city, and here in another country not so much bc they dont speak your language (bc thats what i came for), but bc of the initial unwelcoming feeling i recieved and the inferiority i could no longer sluff off. in coming here, i had to come to terms with the fact that i dont fully know how to socialize with people my age, and when they are my age and i really become close, or they to me, they tend to be strange but loveable people. chip. james. katy. stewart. stewarts weird. he probably things i dont notice but i do. in my mind, that sounded a bit creepy...so i guess, all in all, im a lot like the ones i associate with. i never really thought that until maya lemon told me im a strange individual, and she wasnt just saying it as like 'oh you precious and lost child,' but very matter-of-factly. took me a sec, or day, or until now to really register that.

register? wait, and just who exactly associated a human emotion/realization with a machine?

if old people can sit by themselves in public, why cant young people? whats so different? why cant i not be in a rush? or simply enjoy my food, and a book, or watch people, or train myself to tune them out. why not? will you please stop looking at me with your judgemental eyes.

i went to la biblioteca nacional yesterday. wasnt true to the pictures, but it was pretty neat. six floors: one jam-packed with students, two off limits, one an art exhibit, one a history exhibit plus a concert hall, and the last with haughty, preoccupied guards, (except the woman). so of all of my options, i chose to go to the concert hall. there was a show at seven with a group of students playing the music of tango. its was good, good for me, it sparked my imagination and allowed my mind to flutter in pleasant thoughts, with the least bit of control. i wrote during it though. heres what i came up with....

words without music would be so much more sensational. if you really think about it, wouldnt it be more fufilling? our minds could think, our hearts could not be told what to feel and what not to feel.

(that was one thought/question, the next i was thinking of writing to a particular someone and i was planning on asking them what they thought on the subject and then i realized...)

one might think its nonsense, another might not. oh yea, and dont forget the one who may think nothing of it at all. life has more than two options. who knew?

(moving on...)

i really enjoyed watching this one particular young gentleman (at least he seemed like he'd be a gentleman if ever introduced). anywho, he had some curly, wild black hair, kind of like mine when i began to grow it out. its at the stage where it looks goofy and is all over the place, so much so that no one takes you seriously. he was playing the accordian and was just so into it, not in a pretentious way, but he had an obvious feel for the music and whatever that may entail. but i fell in love. oh yea, and i must admit, i do catch myself often in my own mind, asking every tall, beautiful passerby if we can marry. my goodness.

these people are too stylish.