looking at a photograph of a family reunion, summer 2001. notable is my grandfather, who had passed away last year. everyone looks
happy.
 

tell me what we know
is written somewhere, in stone. tell me
that we don't need to hide
from the things we've done, or
shy away from the dying
days of winter.

mondays and wednesdays I sing
with a choir, young and brash.
the music stands resolute
like Achilles, triumphant
on the shores of Troy - the way he feels
accomplishment gleaming at his sword tip,
skin-bronzed standing on Trojan sand.
I know somewhere, I can hear
the notes hang triumphantly in the air,
immortal.

tell me we're making something ancient -
that we are scraping against a moment,
carving out like gem stones the very
things that are worthwhile. those things that
make standing there -
this moment, with the sun in my hair -
make this the most important thing I do in a lifetime.

-------------------------



looking at a photograph of any Saturday, July 2007 – me and my brother standing on the beach looking at the moonlight dragged over the bay, recklessly taking candids with a digital camera. both of us smile -  
we look happy.


tell me that these
are those whispers I want to tell you,
softly on your ear and
shy like fingers of fog that tease the streetlights -

those moments when I'm alone,
and I remember man is not an island.
I relive afternoons, lazy hours after school
sharing the forbidden knowledge,
glad to die with the fruit of the Tree. I've made
my skeleton out of moments that brag
with the boldness of the sun,
all the paths of your life laid out clear
in sidewalk paths and auditorium rows, pews
and stages familiar through months and years.

these are the secrets, a sadness
I wonder if you share - living out the days
of my dwindling adolescence - I'm nothing
if I'm not alive.
if I cannot at least once a day
savour a hard-boiled egg
or savour the nonsense of being
then it's not the life that I can hear humming
from flourescant tubes down hallways,
in the concrete edifices of our street corners, or
in our hearts.

I wonder if it's written in stone -
the throbbing pulse of I'm trying to say,
that sits in my gut like too much whiskey
tell me it's carved deep enough to run
my fingers through the edges
so I can understand it,
know that my love is the right balance
of unbearable lightness,
why I'm terrified to die.
I wonder if you can look at the lines,
if they just as deadly
miserable it feels.
 
-------------------------



looking at a photograph, dated March 16, 2006. The Fairfield University choir is performing a concert in the San Lorenzo chapel in Florence, Italy on their spring break tour. the sixty students line the steps of the altar, the white and black tuxedos and dresses silhouettes against the pure white stone. they are frozen, mid-note – they
look happy.
 

tell me this is how I imagine dying –

I imagined music, a hymn that I heard
one March evening, sung by an italian choir.
the notes hung like fingers of light, caressing your face -
I was there, sitting on a wood pew and
wringing my hands in the cathedral -
something ethereal in me lifted up,
gently -

because it's whisper quiet, these days - grey
and lonely, listless. not how
I imagined this happening,
or what I want it to be.
tell me the feeling doesn't die, too
and that I can visit it sometimes, sitting
surrounded by picture frames and love letters -
memories welling up like hymns lifting
glory glory hallelujah,
lux, lux callida gravisque into the night -
because I hear it every day
the warmth and certainty of being lost
into an essence larger than yourself,
knowing that the answers dance in your mind in the twilight hours of your sleep.

tell me you hear those whispers, too -
maddeningly too soft to understand, but
the heart of it rings true,
hanging immortal, and somehow
you know.

I neglect this journal, along with many other things in my life right now. This semester has been exhausting, and it's not over.

My sanity is still stable, at least so far - that's very reassuring. At times I feel like I'm "on the outside looking in" and it's gratifying to see how I'm tackling stress this semester, as opposed to sophomore year when I snapped. This year, I don't snap - I'm not brittle. I bend. I'm stressed, astronomically so, but I'm flexible. Mutable. I will persevere.

It's difficult to place my feelings and emotions this year. I feel as if I'm hurtling toward commencement in May like an astronaut tossed from an airlock; I'm not in control anymore, I'm just a victim of my own momentum. Suffice to say I'm not fighting it. I always try to recognize and avoid futility if I can help it. Instead I'm trying to take pride and solace in my growing maturity. When in a similar transition at the end of high school, I dreaded and resented the inevitable "what are your plans? What's your major? What kind of career?" I was young. I couldn't have cared less, I just wanted escape.

Those questions have weight and relevance now, and as much as I hate leaving a life behind, a new one is about to start without me or not. I have tentative plans for graduate school - teaching colleges around the city and a vague goal to begin heading toward.

Part of me still resents it. I can't help but feel that I'm not ready for The Real World™, that I don't want to "grow up" and can't handle the weight of the responsibilities that are falling on my shoulders. There's still that part of me that wants to say "fuck off" to the world - graduate and book it to the middle of nowhere and live alone, away from everyone and everything. I'm beginning to join the cult of the almighty dollar, and as stereotypically "college" as it is, I hate the nine-to-five grind, I hate my debt and I hate that I'm beginning to revolve my life around the dollar sign.

But that's the way it goes, isn't it? I'm resigning all my impotent rage and rebellion and acting realistically, I suppose. Part of me hates that I feel like I'm throwing in the towel, but it's sink or swim time, and I've always thought drowning was an awful way to die.

On the plus side: I still believe that the world is incomprehensibly beautiful - painfully so. That is my last bastion - I do believe that I'm part of a small minority who can see the world not necessarily differently, but for what it is. If that sense of awe and euphoria ever leaves, then I will die as a human being. It's all I have left, and ultimately, all I need.

I still am tormented by questions of faith and religion. On a whim I read a book by a very angry atheist, Christopher Hitchens, called God is Not Great: How Religion Poisons Everything. At times the vitriol and hatred he approached the faithful with was a touch over the top, even for me - critiques and attacks bordering on the downright personal instead of analytical and fact-based, as I would prefer. Obvious bias aside, good points were made. I remain resolute in my vague agnosticism. And yet I'm plagued by the beauty of the idea, of the expression, the emotion and sometimes unbounded love I perceive - I swear it's enough to make me doubt my convictions sometimes.

The Glee Club (which I am still somehow a member) is performing an arrangement of Baba Yetu in an upcoming concert - a rendition of the Lord's Prayer sung in Swahili. I looked up a video on Youtube to see what it sounded like and to follow along in my new sheet music, and it's a great song. Very beautiful. Part way through, maybe just catharsis from stress, I just started crying - as in full-out bawling in tears. Something about the song - a pure, resonant beauty just rang clear as a bell and broke me down. It's that kind of emotion that shakes my foundations and convictions - that all the misgivings and problems with religion aside, there is a beautiful and honest purity that pulses at its core.

The Glee Club has also had The Prayer of the Children in our Chamber's repertoire - and lately, it's another song that has a powerful resonance with me, and I can't help but choke up sometimes in spite of the occasional triteness of the song. It's almost blatantly designed to tug heartstrings and garner easy empathy - written to give awareness to the slaughter of innocent civilians in the Yugoslavian Wars of the early '90s, especially (surprise!) the children. But the arrangement is stellar - the song just plain sounds beautiful, and there is some real force behind the lyrics at times:

      Angry guns preach a gospel full of hate,
      blood of the innocent on their hands.
      Crying "Jesus, help me!
      to feel the sun again, upon my face -
      For when darkness clears, I know you're near,
      bringing peace again."

It's a sad situation, no doubt, but maybe it's just the simplicity of the plea that gets to me. Maybe it's my cynicism breaking through - that they're crying out to a god that is a fabrication. Help isn't about to come, and within the context of the song, it didn't. The more beautiful and innocent facets of humanity have an awful tendency to be crushed by an overwhelming hatred and selfishness that is thick in today's society.

There are times when I just can't bear the sadness, and get sick of my capacity for empathy. I'm growing more bitter and cynical each and every day. I'm beginning to believe that my constant effort to find beautiful "nothings" that validate humanity is necessary to save my spirit. People holding doors, genuine small-talk and small kindnesses that can prove to me again and again that the human heart isn't always cold.

I'm sorry for writing a book. Apologize to your friend's page for me - this must've hurt.

35 Things You Never Needed to Know about Cameron John Osborne Martin.
Idea stolen from Marybeth

1. I have strong passions and great plans, and without fail, consistently disappoint myself.
2. I have vivid, frequent, and fierce desires to live off the grid for a lengthy stretch of time.
3. I always wish I would have stuck with piano. When I think about how I could always take up an instrument, I look at my harmonicas collecting dust, and refer back to #1.
4. Frequently, I believe I am smarter, wiser, or otherwise superior to most other people. Immediately, the lack of humility makes me feel like shit about myself. But secretly, I still think it's true.
5. I love reading, writing and experiencing literature and poetry to a frightening degree.
6. I frequently have a mental image or great idea of something I want to doodle/draw. Due to my grievous overconfidence in my artistic ability, inevitably, it turns out like utter shit. Invariably, I wish I stuck with art. Refer to #1.
7. The world is so beautiful it scares the shit out of me sometimes.
8. I am overwhelmed with emotion by some minute occurrence on at least a daily basis, i.e., a plastic bag caught on a fence, sparrows on the train platform, an overheard snippet of conversation.
9. As time goes by, I become increasingly more convinced I'm going functionally insane.
10. My complete inability to accept and seamlessly integrate into normal society is my greatest source of pride and satisfaction.
11. I am a horrible hypochondriac, to a nearly debilitating degree.
12. I am completely unable to budget.
13. If I were to hypothetically wake up and be the last remaining human on Earth, it'd certainly be a very sad circumstance but I'd be just fine with the isolation.
14. The only things to actually make me lose my temper in the past two years are instances of ignorance and futility.
15. I cannot plan more than a few days into the future. I believe this is integral in maintaining my sanity.
16. If I had three wishes - the ability to play any instrument flawlessly, the assurance of a long and healthy life, and the assurance of perfect, healthy teeth. Seriously, the teeth.
17. I foresee myself doing psychedelics of some kind every few years.
18. My daily life typically amounts to a struggle to maintain humility and find satisfaction in the powerlessness and utter ignorance I possess.
19. I am a shameless procrastinator.
20. I struggle constantly not to succumb to cynicism, and to discern whether my feelings are realistic or cynical.
21. My body is a simultaneous source of pride and insecurity for me.
22. I would get a tattoo but I cannot think of anything I'd permanently affix to my body.
23. I sometimes think I use my physical deficiencies as a crutch to avoid troubling or difficult scenarios, and am constantly trying to overcome that tendency.
24. I cannot understand why people typically would want to go back in time to avoid painful mistakes. I sometimes wish my consequences of my mistakes were more painful. Maybe I would be a better person.
25. I obsess constantly over the quality of my character, and the sincerity of my morality.
26. I am currently atheistic but obsessed with the idea of Christ and God. Sometimes I'm not sure if it's nostalgic remnants of childhood or if somewhere deep down I actually might believe it, or if I wish I did.
27. I am convinced that time is the enemy.
28. A great source of pain and regret for me is my not being able to maintain my relationships and friendships as well as those people and friends deserve.
29. I am an English major and think most stories and poetry written prior to 1940 are utter shit.
30. I frequently and fiercely believe I was born in the wrong decade.
31. I believe that I probably would benefit from counseling in some way but am too damn good at placing up facades.
32. It's a mystery how I haven't gotten fired at my current job.
33. I am beginning to think of myself as a jack-of-all-trades, yet master of nothing, except I'm not really competent in most trades.
34. I worry constantly about what legacy I will leave after I die.
35. My absolute and greatest regret is that I cannot come close to adequately expressing the cataclysmically beautiful thoughts, sounds and images that never, ever shut up inside my head. Refer to #1.

i watch the world unfold from a window.
the wrought iron fence wraps around
a neglected wood, cobwebs of moss strewn
between proud, grey bark trees

importance escaped me
while He spoke in my ear -
a constant bleating -
whispers from the wind

i watch from the window
and He is gentle,
     He is a father -
how do you explain to a child?

there is a book i read last month,
i finished it in bed, kicked the blankets off and i
understood that He is as tangible, like
weak coffee

but He still talks to me,
and His voice is gentle, because
how do you explain to a child?
i watch the world from the window.

a crow lands on the ground, at a red light,
pecks the ground near a brother, struck by car -
i remember, I read somewhere -
crows can count to sixteen,  not more, and
remember enemies for the whole of their lives.
magpies, too; both birds family
corvidae.

the crow will remember death for a long time.
i am sad, life complexity delights me.
how do you explain to a child?
what happens when you die?

i watch the world from my window.
the wind roars in my ear whispers rushing
past and He says god takes care of you
god takes care of you
tell the crow, tell his brother
god takes care of you

i watch the crow from my window,
    the wind in my ear,
                i am the wind
                i am the crow,

and i know we can't do this alone

School has a wonderful habit of getting in the way of having time to do the things I want to do, for example, keeping this journal updated. It's been a while.

Fall semester has gone by too quickly. We, the Fairfield University Glee Club, are already having our Christmas concerts this weekend. Staying with the choir has been one of my decisions in college that I'm most proud of. I definitely bitch and moan about rehearsals - at least the ones I show up to - but I can't deny that I love being a Gleetard. I love making music.

In other news: after a doozy of a financial scare, I'm able to actually start registering for next semester's classes, albeit a couple of weeks after the actual registration period. I'm beginning to piecemeal my courses together and although I can liken my schedule to Frankenstein's monster, I think I'll survive. Of course, this only means graduation is rushing toward me. The closer it gets the more and more I become resolute in my dissatisfaction with the world and with society, especially what it mandates is expected of me after I leave as an undergrad.

I know it's selfish and damn childish but I'm not ready to be an adult. I'm not ready for graduate school, to find a job. I'd love nothing more than obtaining a doctorate but I sure as hell don't want to do the work. I want everything handed to me, and that's my problem. At least I know my problem. And rest assured, I don't actually expect anything to be handed to me. That doesn't change the fact that the prospect of leaving my comfortable life at Fairfield is absolutely scaring the shit out of me. I need to start making plans, and I could punch myself in the face because my procrastination really pisses me off.

I had grand plans for this semester. Straight A's, go to the gym several days a week, save money. All of which promptly went down the shitter. Again, I'm profoundly disappointed in myself. I'm at the point in my life that I should be able to come up with at least some answers on my own - hell, thirty years ago and I'd be out the door with my own house, car and career.

My dreams aren't dead yet, and I take comfort in the fact that I can't foreseeing the glimmer of idealism inside me ever dying off. If it ever did, that would be the death of me as I know myself. My dreams, my hopes and remaining optimism makes me indomitable. I suppose the challenge now is figuring out how to put it that metaphorical furnace to good use.

Christopher McCandless still inspires me, the Appalachian Trail still calls out to me. I hear the calls, I look at myself - I'm weak, and I am frail. I don't believe I could survive those aspirations with my physical state being what it is. However I'm slowly becoming convinced that my spirit is strong enough, and that excites me. I can change my body; I can get stronger. Before I go into "the real world," pursue a calling and find a career, I know that I somehow need to test myself.

...the sea's only gifts are harsh blows and, occasionally, the chance to feel strong. Now, I don't know much about the sea, but I do know that that's the way it is here. And I also know how important it is in life not necessarily to be strong but to feel strong, to measure yourself at least once, to find yourself at least once in the most ancient of human conditions, facing blind, deaf stone alone, with nothing to help you but your own hands and your own head...
- excerpt from Bear Meat by Primo Levi

I find satisfaction in the indomitable spirit of man, our perseverance and ability to rebuild, remake and restore. I take comfort in humanity's unfathomable depth of kindness, the inevitability of it to surface when it is needed the most dearly. I take comfort in the other day, when I was gripped by a sudden sadness and despair - and turning a corner, a young buck and I crossed paths. We met eyes, he galloped away and I continued on, my faith and cheer restored.

1. name:
2. birthday:
3. place of residence:
4. what makes you happy:
5. what are you listening to now/have listened to last:
6. do you read my lj:
7. if you do, what is particularly good/bad about it:
8. an interesting fact about you:
9. are you in love/have a crush at the moment:
10. favourite place to be:
12. best time of the year:
13: Post the most recent picture of yourself:

RECOMMEND
1. a film:
2. a book:
3. a band, a song and an album:

PLUS
1. one thing you like about me:
2. two things you like about yourself:
3. put this in your lj so i can tell you what i think of you

I'm in love with living. It's been a while since I've taken time to post an update, and I think I'm beginning to fall into a comfortable routine enough to sit and think - if you could ever call my routine's comfortable.

I'm sitting in the computer lab below Donnaruma Hall, and I'm supposed to be reading The Dim Sum of All Things, by Kim Wong Keltner. I'll read it eventually. It looks interesting enough, although the first few pages I've gotten through ring pretentiously. Lately - this morning, especially - I'm not particularly thrilled with my Buddhist Spirituality professor, Dr. Davidson. I've said it a few times before - I'm certain once I'm through with the course I'll love the man. It's difficult not to, he's so damned strange and quirky that he's an instantly unforgettable character. However he is ruthlessly sucking all of the passion and joy from the religion he's supposed to be elucidating. If I do go into education, that is one pitfall I'll be sure to avoid. The last thing I want is to murder passion before it's gotten a chance to begin.

The course has set a few things straight. Mostly, that there isn't a religious structure under the sun that I could ever assign myself to. Apparently even Buddhism is unapproachable for me. I envy the faithful.  I suppose I'll continue to pick and chose the bits and pieces I like from whatever I encounter. I don't know who said it or how the saying goes, exactly, but I think I can apply it here - "Good writers borrow, great writers steal."

The Real World is approaching much, much, much too quickly. Lately I've been trying to reconcile the fact that I don't know what I'm going to do when I leave. I've made no plans or put no thought into GRE's or graduate school. I know that I will eventually, I just can't fathom why it has to occur immediately after I leave Fairfield. Ugh, I'm sick to my stomach thinking of it now. That's enough thought about it for today, I think.

The past few days I've also been thinking about myself and my own ideologies. I had made a lot of grand plans and aspirations for this year which largely have gone promptly out the window. I think my current lifestyle and approach to the days is largely satisfactory, for me, but I've recently been picking a lot of holes from it. Mostly, I'm becoming resolute in the realization that I'm not as good a person as I perceive myself to be. Not that I would call myself a murdering baby rapist, but I've got a lot of flaws that I cannot reconcile. I think they should be easy enough to address. My struggle to understand myself better has progressed enough, I think, to realize to a certain extent how I operate.

I've had a long standing plan to come up with a list of ideals and "rules," in a sense, to carry out my life and to carry with me from day to day. I know myself well enough to know that I won't follow a long list. I think that I want to come up with three or four rules - ones that can encompass a number of facets of the kind of morality, ethics and conduct that I want to follow. This morning a thought came to me to make a bracelet, or something I can wear permanently. Maybe I learn to weave a bracelet - each weave being a rule? Sounds a bit tacky, actually. Maybe not. I look into it, regardless.

I don't know who I'm writing to, anymore, or if anyone reads. I suppose I'm writing to myself for posterity. My present-self is hoping, right now, that my future-self won't think of my present-self as an insufferable asshole. That's kind of how I feel I'm sounding, these days.

Tomorrow is the day it all begins. There's no more time to avoid and be afraid. But I am. I'm afraid. Vonnegut had it right; "Life is no way to treat an animal."

But I'll succeed. I take comfort in that surety. Because there's so many beautiful things about living, about being terrified, being tested - being alive!

From time to time I'll take the subways to get to the LIRR. It's about a twenty minute walk and I'll typically endure it, if only to save money. On my lazier days, though, you take the shuttle from Grand Central to Times Square, and then any downtown 1, 2, or 3 train to Penn Station. They're quick rides - both only taken one stop - and can save me a little wear and tear on my legs at the expense of $2 and the oppressive heat of the tunnels.

Sometimes, you get the odd performer or panhandler that walks through the subway cars. The shuttle seems to be the ideal place to bump into them, it's a short and direct ride and typically guaranteed to be pretty full of passengers, making it an understandable favorite. You get your fair share of singers and musicians, a couple of charity workers, your occasional sob story, and they all usually don't garner much attention. I remember one young black kid who started his speech when the train started rolling: he was an aspiring singer, and he wanted to do a religious soul, R&B kind of album and was collecting money for studio time. He make his pitch and jumped into a song and man-oh-man was it awful. Off key, nasally voice, trite and uninspired lyrics, and trying to emulate as many popular singers and styles in all the wrong ways. I didn't give him anything, if only to spare the studio.

Yesterday was different. I had gotten paid and had a ten dollar bill in my pocket. I step on the shuttle and it starts rolling toward Times Square, when woman begins to make a plea to the passengers. She was about 35 years old or so, clean and decent looking - I scrutinized her the entire ride through my sunglasses.

She was widowed, unemployed and stuck in New York City with no relatives or friends to turn to. She had two young daughters, and she needed help. I felt around in my pocket and could only find the ten dollar bill.

I'm what most people would consider liberal with my money when it comes to homeless - I typically don't hesitate to dole out my few quarters or a dollar bill. Sometimes I like to get a hot dog from a vendor and pass it off instead of change. Believe me, I know all the angles as much as anyone else when it comes to the poor and homeless, and I'm well aware that in all likelihood my money is going towards alcohol or drugs most of the time. Once, while my brother was walking to work, he saw a businessman hand a sealed paper bag to a homeless man on the sidewalk. The man held the bag like it had a bomb in it, and he grunted "What the hell is this?" The businessman was shocked. "Its a... I got you a slice of pizza." The homeless man shoved the bag back and snuffed, "I don't want it." The businessman was disgusted - he stormed off and stuffed the bag into the trash.

Now this alleged widow is walking down the aisle and I'm still fingering the ten dollar bill, torn between polar opposites of my conscience - the one half that's calling her a liar and the other half that's worried about her kids. I give the responsibility of the coin flip to my gut - which rarely does me wrong - and my gut said to give her the money. I slip the bill into her cup, and she double takes, trying to find my eyes through the mirrored lenses of my sunglasses. Neither of us said a word, but something in her eyes said "thank you." Of course, the other half of my conscience saw that glimmer as guilt.

The shuttle arrived at Times Square and I made my way for the downtown trains. I was angry. Angry at myself for giving her the money, and simultaneously angry for being doubtful of her story. Then I was angry at her for lying, then angry that I called her a liar. Even this morning I'm angry. I can't reconcile my two halves - the cynical and the hopeful. Every day it seems like I swing wildly between loving everything and everyone on the planet and wanting to watch it all burn. I want to wipe it clean and start over.

The more I've thought about it, the more I realize I'm angry the world has to be this way. As much as I want to kill the cynical side of me, both sides of my psyche are necessary to survive. If you're too trusting and altruistic you'll get taken advantage of and bled dry. If you're too cynical and skeptical you'll be safe, but you'll die inside.

Yes, that's why I'm angry. I'm angry that we have to live this way. The more I analyze it, the more furious I get. If she's truthful, then I'm angry that my doubt could cost her children food and warmth. If she's a liar, then I'm angry that my doubt is right. Then, even if she's a liar, I'm mad somebody can be reduced to panhandling in boiling subway tunnels. While I'm walking to my next train I get tired of being angry so I say a prayer for her - that whether her story was true or not that she'll be happy and find her way out of her situation. But then I'm angry that I cannot even believe there's a god to pray to, and that my plea is going to go unheard. I get off of my second train and leave the subway. A retarded, elderly man crosses my path. Reflexively, a habit I started many years ago, I pray for the man. That he be watched over, comforted and taken care of. That he find happiness and not have to be as afraid as he looked - overwhelmed by the surging pulse of Penn Station. I remember no-one is listening to the prayer. I'm angry.

I get off of the railroad, I am driven home. I'm surrounded by shelter, by family and privilege. I'm angry that I get to have security while countless others don't. I think about casting off everything, rejecting my privilege and becoming aesthetic - hermetic. I realize I don't have the willpower and I'm deluding myself. I'm too spoiled and would never do it. I've been accustomed and have trained myself my entire life to take things for granted. I eat a wholesome dinner. I sleep in a bed, seething.

I'm still angry. Fantastically sad, and angry. I'm just one man! I'm powerless, I'm powerful; I'm alone, I'm everyone - I'm spiritual, I'm humanitarian...

God, Jesus, Buddha - Joseph and Mary, Isaac and Abraham - Grandpa, Vishna, all of the saints - pray for me, pray for me! Be real! Be real! The more I witness in the world the more convinced I become that we, as a people, cannot do this alone.

I read a great quotation this morning by Barbara Tober saying that "Traditions are group efforts to keep the unexpected from happening." I'm a man of many routines myself and for all my efforts I can be terribly predictable a majority of the time.

I realize it's been said before in the last few posts, but this summer is quickly becoming a very tired routine for me and I'm really beginning to resent it. Fortunately the end is well within sight; I've only seven more days of work (including today) before I finish my summer period here at ACLS. I took two weeks off for a few reasons - one, it will give me and excuse to be very lazy for a week prior to Fall semester, then also giving me time to settle for a week after I move back in. Second, I can catch up on some loose ends from projects, thoughts and ideas I've had over the summer.

This summer has been very productive and busy for me, which is of course a good thing. It is, however, a departure from how I typically pass my summer months (namely, doing close to nothing) and I miss having the freedom and time to devote to whatever comes to mind. My plan for the week off before the semester begins is to finish up on last minute shopping and packing, lay about like a mostly inanimate blob, and (god willing) write something. I don't even want to think how long it's been since I've wrought a finished product, and the past couple of weeks I've been feeling like I'm very, very close. Wheels are spinning, gears are turning - I'm fairly sure I'm almost there. Then again, when I think about it, summer hiatuses from writing are not unusual for me.

Something that I really want to do in my week off is write and design a personal manifesto of sorts for my next year. While I hate to use the word, I feel like I've matured a lot in the past several months, to the point where I think I'm capable of a number of significant changes in my life. Since about the sixth grade, at the end of every summer I've "resolutely" decided that "this year will be the best year ever! I'll get in shape and do great in school and all of these wonderful things!" Needless to say, this has never happened.

I'm going to try to approach things realistically. These days I have a better grasp on what I am capable of, and I'm at the point in my life where changes should be and have to be made. The amount of room and time I've got to screw up, to form good habits and outlooks is growing increasingly smaller. Inside myself, I see the potential for wonderful things, for great wisdom, lots of love and understanding, for moments and glimpses of beauty and peace that I want to share with the people that are important to me.

Every day now, it seems, I get these overwhelming washes of this unearthly goodness that overtake me. One of my greatest regrets is my inability to share it, to rationalize and explain it. Maybe that feeling is something like what one could call divinity. As days go by I find it easier to perceive it around me, and more and more I feel that I'm stealing glances and peeks at the underlying purpose and immense perfection of the universe, of our existence here. Every day I'm intensely guilty that I cannot seem to share it the way and as much as I want to. This needs to change. I need to change. The world needs to know.

Not a terrible amount to talk about. Still restless, still through with being home. More thinking without a whole lot of resolution. But things are manageable, things are good.

I think that if you cannot say to yourself at any given moment, "If I were struck by a stray cinder block walking down the sidewalk, my life wouldn't be a waste," then you're doing it wrong. More and more I find myself immune from embarrassment and fear - if I have an opportunity to go on a random excursion or expose myself to something strange or unusual then I take it - even if I need to convince myself. It's those strange memories and moments that stick - give a life fulfillment and variety, make a life worth living.

If I were to be hit by a bus today while jaywalking my way to Penn Station, I think I would be ok with it. Obviously there are loads of things and people and accomplishments I'd be sad to miss out on, but so far, I don't think I've been wasting my time. Everyday I can see myself becoming the person I want to be, a person I can love and who has a role I'm happy, no, thrilled to fulfill. The people I surround myself with are my family. I'm root-less; I can travel anywhere and find remarkable beauty. I strive everyday to shed my dependence on things and focus on ideas, on truth and hope. On love.

Today I realized that truth, freedom, love and beauty are four of the most subjective words that I know. But once you can apply a meaning that you can agree with, they become a useful lens with which to look on the world.

Chris and Cameron - fearless, intrepid weekend warriors once again. The two of us left Friday night for Medford, NJ and made excellent time and pace all the way there. After spending the night we drove to spend another day and night in Atlantic City.

The beach was nice, although the water was absolutely frigid. A few hours later and we returned to the house to regroup and make spontaneous plans for the rest of the evening. We settled on a late-night trip to a Ruby Tuesday, and had a surprisingly good experience. After dinner we drunkenly ambled to the nearest casino where Chris pumped six dollars into slots before realizing he had no clue what was going on. We left.

Sunday morning brought a decent breakfast and the shortest trip to the boardwalk ever before the heavens opened up upon us all. Torrential rain, sprinkled with a fierce hail storm gave a short preview for the rest of the day - and sure enough - Chris and I were blessed with lightning, rain and thunder for the entire five (five!) hour drive home. A quickly paced, but otherwise enjoyable, weekend.

This weekend I found satisfaction in discomfort, disarray and grit. I found happiness in beach towels and sunblock, in Cherry Pepsi and grapes. I had my philosophies validated and only found longing for the summer to end - if only because stagnation is my greatest worry. I'm growing tired.

The old username for my account and journal was bothering me. It was a relic of what seems everyday to be more and more a thing I've left behind. There isn't anything you have to do on your ends - current links and friend's pages will automatically route to the new name.

The new name is borrowed from a poem I wrote:

I understand how
people die young
and leave this world:
with the best intentions.

Today I took satisfaction in second chances, in overcrowding and self-reliance. I found adventure and fear in 11 o'clock kayak rides, bobbing exposed in a bay during a thunderstorm and ignoring the gut instinct every once and again.

The whole exercising bit is starting to wear me down, and I'm approaching that point where I simply lose motivation and energy, dropping the entire routine until the next annual attempt. I refuse to stop this time. I was using free weights yesterday afternoon and it was starting to get noticeably and significantly easier. I'm only young once - I'm tired of being scrawny. I want to get in shape.

I think it just has to get to a point where it becomes more rewarding. I need to crave the satisfaction of coming back from the kayak ride exhausted and spent, so I can be tired but know I did something worthwhile.

There's a lot of things I need to do and keep up with. I have to put together a list of short and long term goals sometime and keep track of both on a monthly basis. There is so much I want to do and so much I'm capable of. I don't want to waste this life.

I still need to write, too. It's probably been close to two months. Then again, this wouldn't be the first time I've gone on an extended hiatus. Sometimes a bit of removal is good for you. I'm just feeling so restless and eager that I want to get something down, but I'm waiting for the right moment. I'm also desperately afraid of not writing anymore, of nonchalantly giving it up. But I know I can't let that happen, that it won't. Writing is everything to me.

Yesterday I found satisfaction in the little boy in his backyard, wearing a complete Superman costume. I watched him from a distance as I paddled my kayak by - he climbed his swing set and panted triumphantly, laughing and smiling to no one in particular.

I was simultaneously sad and overjoyed - because at one point in my life, I could be Superman too. I could be Superman and believe it - if only for a little while. I wished then and there that the little boy wouldn't lose that too soon.

My weekends have been very busy the past few weeks. Birthday parties, the Fourth of July, trips to Pennsylvania, and this weekend I stayed at the guys' big beach house in Fairfield. The house itself was rather nice - pretty big, considering the typical renters. The whole weekend was really relaxing and easy-going, which is what I think I needed. Fairfield Beach was an interesting experience too. I've been at Fairfield for the past three years and have been down in the beach neighborhood all of one time. Being immersed into surroundings so completely unfamiliar in a place you've spent so much time in can be very strange.

We visited another house the first night, who was having a kegger, then did our drinking at home the next night, and lazed about the house yesterday. The heat was impressive, and a trip to the beach on Saturday was very uncomfortable, even for beach standards. The sand was baking under the sun and the head and humidity was oppressive. Most of the time around the house was spent trying to find ways to outsmart the heat without air conditioning, typically without any success.

Last night we went to see the new Batman flick in Bridgeport, which lived up to every word of hype that's been pumped into the media since it's release. Simply outstanding. Heath Ledger's performance made his death all the more poignant, too - while a role as a super-villain in a comic book movie typically doesn't bestow a lot of honor and credibility he was remarkable as the Joker.

This weekend I found satisfaction in isolation, in new-found freedom and maturity. I confronted uncertainty and the future and was tempered by it, but not overwhelmed. I found comfort everywhere I turned, closure at two in the morning, and rest in the unlikeliest of places.

I've been on another one of my random hiatuses with my writing. I just haven't had the urge to sit down and focus on it; there really isn't material I feel I have to get down on paper. Lately, though, I feel myself starting to come out of it. I'm excited! I miss writing, and I can't believe it's been more than a month since my last finished piece.

There's that, and then lately I feel like I really need to make a change. I don't know what kind of change that would necessarily entail - mostly I think I just want to make sure I don't become stagnant. Every day I realize more and more how I'll never be twenty-one years old again. I know that there's no way to do it "perfectly," so I'm not approaching life with that mindset. It's all just a matter of trying, and finding satisfaction with the results - whatever they might be.

This weekend I found myself making the sign of the cross when I passed graveyards on the trip up to Pennsylvania. When I realized it I kind of chuckled since I can't settle into any kind of faith these days. The only real faith I have in anything is myself, and even that is shaky at best! Human beings are fickle things. But regardless, I caught myself making the gesture and felt a twinge of guilt - who am I to observe Christianity? All I ever do is push it aside - it's not my place to carry out the rites.

But then the coin flipped. I added a mental bullet to a list in my head - general rules to carry out my life under. I figured that even if I cannot fully place my faith and life into a religion's credo, I can still recognize the good that (at it's purest level) it's trying to do. It was easy, then, to wave aside my harmless gesture passing the cemetery. I need to really sit down and make that mental list a little more concrete. I think it'd be good for me.

It's little changes like that I'm talking about. I'm trying very hard to exercise and get into shape (and not having the easiest time about it). I'm trying to be healthy in body and mind. Sometimes I'd love to subscribe to a religious practice if only for the structure of it. Something nice, trite and clichéd like Zen Buddhism is obviously something I have in mind. However I'd still have a lot of trouble calling myself a follower of any faith I chose, since I'd be unable to really, 100%, believe it, you know? I have a lot to think about.

This morning I found truth in recognizing my faults, of which I've many. I found satisfaction in sleep last night, the simple comfort and necessity of it. I found happiness when I pulled myself out of a short slump of depression, and realized how fragile my mind and temperament is. Sometimes every minute is a fight to stay optimistic, strong and capable - and I've grown to love that struggle. Life shouldn't be easy. I found a moment of peace when I smiled, mused and thought, "am I that hard to understand?" I laughed and answered myself, "I hope so." I'd hate to be boring.

This weekend was the trip to Pennsylvania with my brother and his old college friend Lester. Lester lives in a very rural part of PA, tucked away somewhere west in the state. His property was enormous and beautiful, absolutely surrounded by trees and wildlife and very isolated from any semblance of a settlement or community. All the roads were winding, pastoral farm roads. Let me tell you - there is something very soothing about being able to change and get naked in front of picture windows, knowing that nobody can see you.

The first full day we got up early and went to Hershey Park close to its opening. We didn't want to waste any time so it was just roller coaster to roller coaster until we got hot and exhausted and decided to leave. My aversion to roller coasters has gone back as long as I can recall, so that was my first time riding a "real" theme park ride; my usual favorites were the tea-cups and kiddie coasters. I had a lot of fun, though, and was glad to see that facing my fear was a great decision, as it always seems to be, once you get around to it.

The rest of the time we stalked around the house and yards, using a series of single round air rifles to shoot small game. Our last and final purchase was a 1,000 fps single-shot .177 caliber no-name rifle, and we never could get the damn scope sighted so we opted for the manual sights. I hit the cardboard targets just fine - but we couldn't manage to even clip any birds or squirrels. Hell, we didn't come across many. They must have known we were waiting.

This weekend I found satisfaction in oblivion, in terror, in falling 97 degrees to the ground. I was barefoot and flying, letting go and acknowledging fear. I found satisfaction and acceptance of 100% humidity, in sunburns and gentle tans. I recognized the subtleties of the innocuous gestures we all make throughout the day, comfort in blue collars and good customer service. I was hidden away and happier for it.

But today I saw the most striking face on the subway. Not a day over twenty, sharply dressed and young in his face. What a face! I couldn't tell why, but he was remarkable - he looked so lost and afraid, spoke gently as he let women in the car ahead of him. I was afraid the jolt of the subway car taking off would make him crumble, but he was still clutching the bar when I passed him.

Then it all came crashing down.

Who knew that embracing of insignificance could instill such courage and such thrill for life? It's wonderful to be alive. Sometimes you just have to laugh! Why can't someone live the water and the sky? The sun and the storms?

I love God and Jesus and the Devil, too!

"HAPPINESS ONLY REAL WHEN SHARED"
- self-inserted footnote by Chris McCandless in a copy of Doctor Zhivago"

Birthdays are another semi-sweet holiday in the ranks of Christmas and the like. After a certain age, though I can't discern exactly which, they just seemed to lose the impact they had when I was littler. I suppose that's everybody, so I don't feel my experience is unique.

The birthday party was a welcome and wonderful present. I've wanted friends to come to a party at my house for years and I don't think my birthday party on Saturday could have gone any better. Everyone seemed to have a great time. It's very nice to turn off the thinking part of your head and to just revel in the simple fact that I had a great weekend.

I even made out with some loot! My Pickle got me a set of Bose headphones that I've scarcely taken off since the party was over, and Rob got me a pair of kick ass dual-layered green and brown Chucks. The guys got me a few shirts and a hand-lathed wooden pen which is a perfect fit in the pen-sleeve of my notebook. Just in the nick of time, too - I wanted to replace the flimsy plastic pen I've been using in there for a bit.

Yesterday, my actual birthday, I spent the morning at the cardiologist. I walked out with a clean bill of health, most of my heart problems slowly and steadily dissipating. A fine birthday present in my book. My mom had taken me, and we spent most of the day together afterward. We watched my copy of Into the Wild, further increasing my obsession with the Supertramp. We had a real cheesy cry after the movie finished, and I sat on my dock under the waning sun and felt very, very deeply happy.

It was a good weekend, and this next weekend is the family party! I'm still exhausted from the last shindig but at least this party will be considerably quieter.

This weekend I found satisfaction in sunburns, icy water and bruised ribs. I found joy in taxing my body - collapsing on a bed on the cusp of midnight entirely spent. What a feeling! To be incapable of movement, to tap every ounce of your energy. I adored the feel of salt on my skin, the taste of it in my mouth - strength in ignoring the bluster and boom of thunderstorms. My spirit was indomitable and couldn't be shaken. I found satisfaction in the feel of wood under the soles of my feet, the palms of my hand - the touches and breaths of love that seemed to be all around me. I found truth in Christopher McCandless saying that it's not necessarily important to be strong, but to feel strong.

This weekend, I felt strong.

Consider the case of Christopher Johnson "Supertramp" McCandless - a young man too idealistic and stubborn to submit to American society. He was dissatisfied with his place in life, so he packed up, sold everything and headed out on the road, beginning a two year odyssey with an end goal to subsist and survive in the Alaskan wilderness. McCandless died of starvation after five months in the Alaskan bush, largely due to the haphazard approach he took in his excursion. He had no experience and was fiercely prideful, routinely refusing help, advice and offers of money or supplies. McCandless did not even bring a map on his journey - and one of which would have been able to tell McCandless the location of a ranger outpost during his final trials that led to his poisoning and/or starvation.

The public approach to McCandless' journey and abrupt end is polarized, some being very sympathetic and envious of "Alexander Supertramp's" sheer energy and unquenchable thirst for life. The other camp is significantly more cold to his attitude and spirit, citing his death as evidence of his foolish and brash lifestyle, ultimately a needless and thoughtless waste.

I cannot help but side with the former. McCandless is a hero to me, and I share many of the same ideals and passions he touted and lived by. I've read the book recounting his trials and adventures, I've seen the movie and became infatuated with Jack Kerouac's own accounts of the Rucksack Revolution, and I'm in love with it. I envy McCandless because I can never accomplish a percentage of what he did. He was a star athlete and tempered to the wild, ready to drop his life at the drop of a hat and disappear. I see myself more and more futilely stuck between the Wild and society. Christopher McCandless' passion and adventure has no place or power in someone who is stuck on the fence.

McCandless' pride was his downfall, and I can agree that he himself was the cause of his own death. I don't downplay the critics of the Supertramp's adventures and philosophy, and if I ever were to disappear I'd err a great deal toward the safer side. But I think that McCandless simply couldn't do that - he couldn't half-ass his dream and his life's aspiration, and he accomplished what he wanted to do. He threw himself out there and survived. He wanted a change and he made it. He died happy, and didn't hurt anyone in his adventure or death - save for the ones who were heartbroken to lose him. Maybe in that sense, his death wasn't a mistake or a loss. He wanted to escape and find himself, find happiness for himself, and he did. I pray that I can find a pittance of that same courage for myself someday.

This weekend I found satisfaction in sleep, in sandy beaches surrounded my land that I named for myself. I sang to the wind and received only its howling reply - I didn't submit, I roared back. I found satisfaction in sun, how we are submissive to it - we cannot avoid it. I let many things go, and realized how many things more I have to lose from myself. I found satisfaction in my simple wishes, and if only my one can come true - then I would be a deeply fortunate man.



I HAVE HAD A HAPPY LIFE AND THANK THE LORD. GOODBYE AND MAY GOD BLESS ALL!
- self-written epitaph by Christopher "Supertramp" McCandless

This week has been strange, time-wise - the days seem to drag on forever, yet the week has blazed by damn fast. It's Thursday, I got paid yesterday, and I can't wait to go home. I'm beat.

For whatever reason I've been looking through a thread on the Something Awful Forums about "The Saddest Thing on the Internet," chock full of sad pictures and stories. I just watched Jimmy Stewart read a heartbreaking poem about his deceased dog, and funeral footage and eulogies for such mammoths as Jim Henson. The eulogies are tough to watch, as they usually are, and for any other man but Jim Henson having a gigantic yellow bird walk on stage would have been ridiculous. But it was just somber. I hope that I can impact the world a mere percent as much as Henson did. His character was genuine, and call me cynical, but that doesn't happen any more nowadays.

There was a story in the thread, too, a personal experience of one of the posters. It's remarkably simple but painfully poignant. If I could somehow beat the meaning in this story through every person's skull, I would.

I worked in an ice cream shop, and each day an older, retarded gentleman would come in. He was slow, but kind and polite to us. Every day he would always put all his change on the counter and get his ice cream. One day, he came in and pulled his change out and started trying to count it. He tried over and over, but each time he'd get more frustrated and eventually started crying. He said, through tears, "I used to be able to do this! I used to!"

After he left, the owner told me that he used to be a professor at a university, until he was struck by a car that ran up on the curb. He was severely and irrevocably brain-damaged. His wife left him because his changed mental state and, obviously, he lost his career. So there he is, day in and out, AWARE that he is retarded, AWARE that he used to have it all, and now he can't even count out the change for an ice cream.

Read this story, accept the truth and reality of it, and wake up. Stop complaining about traffic, about bills, about burnt coffee, about how your teacher hates you and gives you bad grades, about petty arguments. You're lucky. You're alive. Wake up.

Today I took satisfaction that I'm alive, I'm awake, and I'm blessed. And that's all.

And that's all that matters.

There was a graduation party on Saturday night for Chris' friend's brother, George, who graduated high school this month. Me and Chris got trashed before we even left the house. When we got to the party, I started recklessly drinking until before I knew it I was back in Long Beach, trying in vain to get home without falling over myself too many times. I think what sent me on the long, wet road back home was getting turned away at a bar, which I remember was a pretty funny story.

Chris and I walked in and he got right on by the bouncer. When the bouncer got to me, I gave him my better fake and he asked me the address. Now I was pretty pleased at this point - I had taken the time in the past to get most of the details on the card memorized. Miraculously I remembered and parroted it back. Then he goes, "Alright, alright... what's your birthday?" Crap. I think for a moment, weigh my options - shrug - "Well you've got me there." I laugh, he laughs back and hands me my card back and I leave - "Well, you have a good night now!" And that was that.

I woke up yesterday not because I was finished sleeping but because my headache wouldn't allow sleep. After writhing in agony for a couple of hours I deliberated and came to the decision that June 15th's hangover was the official Worst Hangover of 2008 thus far. Christ that was a bad one. Father's Day thus got off to a bit of a rough kick-off but it inevitably faded away - although not until about four o'clock. Ouch.

This weekend I found satisfaction in thunderstorms, drinking in the rain, microphones and air guitars. I found satisfaction in friendship, overcrowded taxi-cabs and seniority. I found pleasure in moving pictures outside a caravan's windows, reprieve in car seats and Gatorade, wonder in the fact that some cars that shouldn't move, can.

Screw Starbucks, seriously. I got a large ice-coffee and a couple of buttered rolls for $3.50 this morning from a street vendor and I am feasting right now.

This week has blazed by pretty quickly. Today's walk to work was pleasant, also, thanks to the weather dipping back down to an agreeable temperature. I'm looking forward to doing a lot of nothing tomorrow. I'll probably swing by the library and look into some new books. Get a free ice-coffee at McDonald's. Riveting life, I know. But I'm pretty pleased about it.

Yesterday the Humanities E-Book staff had a lunch on the company's tab. One of our staff members is vegan and the restaurant chosen was a Korean tea house. It was a simple and well made meal, with justifiably expensive tea that was some kind of wonderful. I'll probably be going back. Modernity and contemporary means of life are great in their own right, but tea is an art that should not be soon forgotten. (Or coffee.)

Today I found satisfaction in mirrored lenses, in my skin's hunger for the sun. I found familiarity in platforms, saw the mechanisms behind the sleepless routines in the city. I took in the sights, the habits, selfishly and devilishly made it my own. Lastly I found envy in the young wanderers crashed on the sidewalk, hopeful eyes and messy hair. They've got the same demeanor and uniforms: worn shoes, and deftly moving hands sliding across pawn shop guitar strings - nonchalant grins across their faces.

A young man's cardboard sign announced this morning in careful Sharpie print that "I've got nothing and I've got nobody," while the belligerent black man playing buddy cried to the masses to "have a heart!" I read the sign carefully, and our eyes met. Not a blink and not an apology. He strummed a chord, in rhythm with the plink of a handful of change into his cup.

Liar. He had everything.

I fully realize I've already updated today, but if it's one thing I excel at it's procrastination. Besides, what else am I going to do at work? Don't be smart and tell me "work." I've heard it before, and it's not clever (and frankly, given me, impossible).

Anyway, the purpose is really only to commemorate a layout change on the ol' girl, as well as changing the header and title. Also to relate a couple of points: one, that re-reading old entries for the past hour and a half has reminded me of a great deal and further reinforced my decision to keep this up. Second, an anecdote - I went clothes shopping last night with my brother and mother and bought new shirts, one of which I'm wearing now. I just this moment realized there's been a strip of cardboard resting in the collar around the back of my neck all morning. I'm dumb.

Also, a quick aside before I zone out staring at the wall for the remainder of the day: if I were to change my user-name, how many people would notice? I suppose to put it more bluntly, how many people still read this? If I get enough responses I'll be more cognitive during any future shift.

This summer has already been productive to book reading. I've gone through a pretty good deal of books, what with my constant train riding, and I hope to keep up the pace. I bought the first book in George R. R. Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire trilogy, A Game of Thrones, in Fairfield last summer. For whatever reason I got about 30 pages into it (out of a dense 700 or so) and just couldn't pick it up again. About a week ago, in the middle of a short-lived drought of reading material, I found it and picked it up again, and was thoroughly rewarded. I'll probably be taking out the other installments from the library soon.

Speaking of my library, I was greeted by a very unpleasant eighteen dollars of late fees when I got back home. I just got around to paying those off, and took out Nabokov's Lolita and Martel's Life of Pi. I heard only glowing recommendations for Lolita and got about halfway through, and I can't help but feel a little bored. I started reading Life of Pi and fortunately its been living up to it's reputation; I should be through it by the end of my train ride today. I'm sure I'll finish Lolita out of principle afterwards - it's not a bad book, hopefully it will pick up toward the end. I guess that ends my book review: I never really planned on being so lengthy when I started. Sorry.

I left work last Thursday early and took the subway to Penn Station, leaving on a four o'clock Amtrak train to Exton, PA to visit Liz for the weekend. I had a great time - I really needed to see her and it also served as a desperately needed reprieve from Long Beach and my family. The weather and atmosphere was beautiful - we spent a couple hours in Valley Forge park, which I love, until the insects started to assert authority. Some time was spent visiting her friends and we escaped the (ruthless!) sunshine in another friend's pool on Saturday. It's nice to know that I still revert to a four-year old when I get into a pool.

The heat never left when I got back home - it was nearly a hundred degrees in NYC yesterday and it's already pushing ninety today, and it's not even eleven. I hadn't counted on being thankful that the ACLS office being so frigid, but it's definitely been welcome so far. The twenty or so minutes between Penn Station and 3rd Avenue seem like a marathon in the mornings, though.

This week I found satisfaction in quotas, in keyboards and surnames. I found anxiety in paychecks and checking accounts, felt fatigued under heavy, thick June atmosphere. I found pleasure in soup-thick breaths and appreciation for sunshine, simplicity in staring at the motions of a massive oak. I was overjoyed with blades of grass and board games, infancy and bedazzlement. Green leaves and tawny branches were all I saw - soft kisses and perfect embraces were all I felt - the scope and purpose and fulfillment in my place in the world was all I knew.

Three day weekends are vicious. Waking up for the 6:45 am A-train out of Rockaway after doing exactly nothing all weekend was not high on my priorities list. As Memorial Day weekends go, it was a respectable one. Two barbecues in a row, a lot of drinking, good weather, and my resulting sunburn was not as bad as I anticipated. Go me.

And here I am - 633 3rd. Avenue, eighth floor, back into the routine. It's not a bad life. Watching all the businessmen and women on the streets and subways in the morning is a bit demoralizing. I really can't imagine subjecting myself to this everyday for spans of years, even decades. I'm sure I'll have had my fill by summer's end.

I've gotten some writing done, and as usual, I'll get the poems formatted and onto my poetry journal promptly. Here's one I like, though, and I'd like some responses back. Please. Por favor.

( Say I Am You )

This weekend I found satisfaction in sunlight, relief when three of us washed our feet biblically, amusement in a trio of hats. I found satisfaction in blankets and beds, comfort in quick resolutions. I found strength in power-chords in the middle of 42nd St., familiarity in faces I've never seen.

Me and my brother passed a homeless man near Bryant Park in New York City yesterday morning. He held a cardboard sign advertising that you could "Tell me off for $1." You can't fault him for asking a dollar - at least he's providing a service.

I'm working for ACLS four days a week now, and I'm getting up at about six in the morning to take the train with my brother. For the remainder of this month, though, I'm taking the A train out of Rockaway with Bob next door. This will save me money until I can buy a monthly ticket in June for the LIRR. In the meantime, I'm exhausted.

This summer is shaping up well. Ideally, my days can go on as they have been the past week - it's a pretty tolerable way to spend a summer.

This week I found satisfaction in C's and C-'s, comfort in trashy espionage novels. I found adventure in sleepy suburbs, rest and repose on a futon. I was surprised by interconnectedness when approached by a neighborhood cat, and understanding in my own cat (although she still rather dislikes me). This week I opened up my eyes and refused to believe anything was real, and was comforted by my peaceful indifference.

Each semester of college has passed exponentially faster since the first. I recall freshman year stretching across what felt like an eternity - plenty of time for remembrances and memories to be made. Although I'm sure I have just as many experiences in my consequent semesters spent at Fairfield, though they did not seem to pass as leisurely as they used to.

The last Glee Club concert of the year is tomorrow night. I had intended to sing The Beatles' Hey Jude but my audition was lost in the sea of the others, so I got the solo for the ensemble piece that closes the concert. I'll be singing the second verse and intermittent solos in Queen's Somebody to Love. It sounds excellent, although I sincerely hope that our conductor doesn't race through the piece like at last nights rehearsal. I'll have to remind her nicely again at tomorrow's call.

As the semester draws to a close I'm getting progressively more stressed as the days go by - there are few more papers to write and written finals in Latin and Microbiology. I don't feel I'm doing as well in my English classes as I typically do, but I can't let myself me concerned too much. I'll pass the courses at the very least - the stress is a natural stage in the progression of the school year. I find myself looking forward to summer a little more every day - my job in New York City is going to continue so I'll have money. I'll get to spend time with my brother. A short spell away from Fairfield will do me some good, too, I think. I'll miss being within walking distance of my friends, of course.

Anyway.

I found satisfaction in good pens in the stock room, catching rides out of Monday rainstorms. I found happiness in gaudy jewelry, nostalgia in game manuals. I found the natural order of things in my hypocrisy and cynicism, and it made me glad. I found satisfaction in being able to see through brick and mortar like cheese-cloth, by being able to discard anxiety like taking off rain-soaked t-shirts.

There's always a nagging corner of my mind that admonishes my mannerisms and thoughts, my lifestyle and outlook, calling it "trendy" or probably a "phase" and sometimes that scares me most of all. The way I feel about myself and they way I look at the world is so damn refreshing and so what if the music I listen to is "scene" and "hipster" or the fact that every wanna-be college bohemian writes stupid trite poetry? I like writing - I love writing. It's the only drive and passion that I've got. I don't think I'll ever stop. I'd love to do it for a career, sure - but I'm more than content writing for me.

I'm perpetually reminding myself not to live more than ten minutes in the future. Personally, I feel any further than that is downright dangerous for the psyche.

And anyway, I'm too jaded and cynical in regards to reality and society right now to live think and breathe any other way. I'm sure my outlook has been echoed and shared by every American university-going English major to date - they all rebel against the system, man and they're all a bunch of hip and crazy cats, drinking and playing their anthems on back porches and sunny quads. I'm sure they've all long since assimilated and fallen into the American groove, working their 9 to 5's and filing their income taxes every April. I've got no qualms about that - I hope their happy, at least.

Sure - right now the American groove tastes pretty bitter to me. Maybe someday I'll fall victim to the same fate. That doesn't frighten me, though (besides, I won't allow myself to look that far ahead - remember?) and if I do slide into that comfortable society than I do. No changing that. That'll be then, though - and I'm right here, now. And now, I'm content. So I guess I'll let myself be as hipster as I want to be, as dramatic and wild and strange and frivolous as I want to be. I'm having too much fun to do otherwise.

A manifesto for the faux-liberated:

• Question everything!
• Find the inanity in everything.
• Find the beauty in everything.
• Never fail to realize how utterly hollow and pointless everything is!
• That isn't to say that hollowness is meaninglessness!
• Remember to never fail to find satisfaction in that fact.
• Never ever look ahead more than ten minutes.
• Follow your harmless impulses - they'll never steer you wrong.
• And never, ever, ever take yourself too seriously.

We are all just dirt! What a wonderful thought!

This week I found satisfaction in sick days, satiation in grilled chicken, pleasure in rock 'n roll. I found respite in headphones, comfort in springtime and wonder in blossoming trees. I found nostalgia in honeysuckle imitators, freedom on train tracks. I found astonishment in the mobs of New York City sidewalk walkers, humility in the blind man riding the 9:18 off-peak, felt beautiful in the right pair of arms. I found satisfaction in atmosphere and wrought liberation within my psyche.