The phone rings. I lift it to my ear.

 "hello." it was Marcus. his baritone voice falters in the phone. drunk. again, "hello?"

"hey."

a pause. long. I begin to speak, he cuts me off. "hey, sorry, am i bothering you?" I reply no. across the couch my cat, Mugen, stretches and turns on his belly. I reach a palm out to pet him. "Can i ask you something?" Marcus asks. Unusual, as he almost always inquires about me whenever he calls. Mugen trots over my lap. he pushes against my phone before jumping down. He did always like Marcus. I reply yeah.

"I wanted to know," he begins. "...i was wondering..." I can hear the ice rattle in the glass in his hand. "I get that we're no longer romantically involved. I understand that it never worked out. But that night... Valentines day. when i came over and we watched movies all night long." his voice cracks "I guess - I mean... don't you ever think about us? Like, when we were intimate? I mean, it was valentines' day. I was alone, you were alone, i just thought it would be natural." a pause. then more confidently, "I just need some closure. I like you, and you like me" it was true "we're not in love - least no more." also true. "wasn't i fun?  Am I not attractive? did we not enjoy each other once? I don't want to sound like a desperate x lover. And I tell myself over and over that we're done. that I don't want to be close to you. no offence. but, like, we're s'posed to be friends, right? just tell me that you don't lay awake at night on occasion and think of me carnally. that you don't even like me that i'm weird and awkward and a silly boy with too little pride and not enough ..." the flick of a light and a hiss of a cigarette. I can almost taste the buttery ash on his breath. "or tell me that you do still feel for me. in some small way. That your heart was torn. That we were too different. two different people. tell me something!"

I don't know what to say. I can't even think. "I..."

"Nevermind. I don't want to know." he exhales, "I think... I think if i didn't know then, I don't want to know now. it... perhaps its better this way. sorry to bother you." then "I hope you are well."

I wish I could say something. I wish I would. perhaps it's better this way. perhaps it's better this way.

What's in a name?

That which we call a rose, By any other name would smell as sweet
   -Juliet

Aging

Nothing in this universe is permanent. Everything changes. Subjects to the inexhustiable effects of time. even blackholes, quasars and other phenomenon where in time and relativity are supposedly altered are themselves subject to change over time. Gods and Timelords alike are so ancient and so long-lived that they seem immortal. they, too, will eventually lay down to rest.

I recently returned from a trip to Omaha. Time has given me the opprotunity to reflect on my trip. Time is on my mind. I visited old friends. In Omaha and Iowa City we reconnected over the vastness of Time and space that had seperated us since college. My how life changes us. Once we were radical, spirited and energized youth machines of promise and ideals. Tamed by age. No. We are still spirited radicals of ideal and promise. But nights spent discussing taxes and marriages instead of Family Guy episodes and Magic: the Gathering cards.  No raucous beer songs. Belched, warbled notes eriely absent from these temperate nights of late. 10 dollar beer tabs and 42 dollar meals instead of the other way around.

The camaraderie is not tamed. However, the mindless hedonism replaced by utilitarian philosophy. I suppose it is well; though i must admit some sorrow on my part. I've never looked to death or age or pondered much about either. Until recently i've never though of myself as a man, aged. I've simply grown over time. Prehaps i've learned more - wizened, as it were - i can drive a car and think critically to name a few acquired skills.

While in Omaha I stopped by the Joslyn Art Museum. I adore art. The musem is fantastic. It's modest collection is well worth the 10$ entry fee. While wandering the annuls of....

Testy McTest Test

The sun and the moon and clouds and stars

Lastly, the sun languishes.
Lately, the horizon of a grey sky.
smoke hot and sweet
smolders from red bitter light
in my palm. Thrown shadows like shards.
over the raised letters
Of my books once through
Did Escape they’d provide?
No more do words I find enthrall in
Tangle tales and adventures.
All have ended, all have gone

Lastly, the words falling
Lately, closed tome in my lap
Soft, stitched-by-hand
in quilted reds with pine
and hugging burgundy hues
Not sex nor booze nor food
Tastes pleasing on these lips
What was Siddhārtha’s choice?
Too tired to wake, too wakeful to slumber
Upon my side to lay
And consign to fitless dream
My Beautiful Annabel Lee

hear now, as I write:
I seek not pity, nor sympathy nor advice.
Only you, dear reader, your ears
or rather your eyes to listen
through finger tips tapping tick tick tacking
Only to say you, I, a pal - a cohort
like you, I, adrift - a question

Backlogs

Dec 15th 2010

This is the season when people gather in the streets their gossip turns to holiday cheer between puffs of smoke or icy breath. Snow falls lazily and steady. Hinuet, as the native peoples of the north like to say, drifting, settles white over dingy cityscape. Winter has come. And with it, the hurley-burley of anticipation. Schools prepare for break as students prepare for examinations. Mothers and Fathers search shelves and kiosks for gifts. Children, red-nosed cold troumping through the school grounds; a flurry of activity - snowballs flung and flinging. Soon, the calendars will flip forward to a new year and people will forget the merriment of the season. With gifts gotten and snow fallen Winter will continue cold and bittersweet. Eventually Spring will come slowly like a great tilting weight. All the while utterances in frozen breath dangle - puffy clouds of curses on the cold and snow and wind. Sooner still Winter's chiding forgot as Summer is made out of Spring. Unbearable heat and noise and the price of petrol these days! Can you believe it's going to rain? The kids will play in the hot, weedy air blistful. Those of us, charged with age, squirm and sweat in the languishing days of August. Suddenly the wind refreshes too much; it harks of chill. Stalks of corn grow amber in the setting sun.

Where does the time go? Looking back can we see the deeds of Winter last? No great impact do the seasons have to us remembered - none not righted by work of men. Then, do the seasons' passing impress upon us at all? What works of grandeur did Summer leave last Fall?

There is a tree nearby. See it now: a tall, burly thing. Its trunk is ashen - almost dark not quite brown. Its branches are fingers stabbing open palms at gray cloud and sky - all its leafs long since fallen. In the snow it hides before your eyes - colored muted night. Unremarkable thing. Be still and watch close now: from simple seed to tree and sapling inbetween; Tiny leafs prod up through Spring's soft mud. A weed at first then a yearling. Now it is shooting high a great bouffant of verdant green - cool shadows in Summer sun. Foliage colored brightly orange and yellow-brown paint the winds of Autumn. Now, grown and weathered, steeped in snow this tree still creeps its longing branches out and higher. Or perhaps it slumbers hinuet all around.

I am watching brilliant SyFy channel Alice and Wonderland remake, Alice.

Because I cannot think of any else to scribe, in the next hour I shall transcribe my life.

Watching Alice. It is a SyFy original series remake of Alice and Wonderland by Lewis Carrol.
It is delightful.
I am sitting, legs crossed on the couch. A computer rests on the knees of Ruby. She watches intensely. Alice creeps about a low-light room. She looking for someone. op. It's a dreamsequence; she awakes to find herself in a forest.
Ruby is beautiful when she's concentrating.

Twitter
Faecbook!
Threadless.
new deals, I have 35$ in gift moneyes. Aw, they still don't have any new tees I love. however, this is interesting...
I ask Ruby if we she join the Tee-of the Month club from Threadless.
I think she agrees.
The cats slumber. Pepper stops by.  she is a shadow, silently sleek she drips through the house

-scene missing-

I awake. the coffee-rug hugs me. it is soft in the darkness. not as soft as bed and sheet. I attempt to lift ruby.
Slumber sapped strength... Instead rouse her with a kiss.
To Bed
to bed.

Cross Roads

1:38am sep 16 2010

Why keep a Blog?

I suppose I do it to maintain a frail connection to writing. To language. I loved language and literature. I enjoy analytical reading and discussing symbols and themes. writing too.

What happened?

I graduated. Nobody was interested in literary critiques or theory. I saw no jobs at the BA level -none, that is, that tailored to my interest. proof readers. I'm terrible at detail work. editing/publishing. I wanted something more academic. Teaching. I discovered that no place wanted some one with four-years of interdisiplary study with out teaching accreditation.

Why not freewrite? journalism, or fictional work?

Attempts at creative writing were abysmal. I found too quickly that I had no subject for which I had passion. perhaps I'm too high-minded, but I could not bring my self to write articles about thing for which I did not care. As it turns out, I am a stubborn wordcrafter too. I could start. But I never allowed myself to generate enough material to work with before I tried to revise it. Ultimately, I became discouraged. I convinced my self I was a terrible writer - a self-fulling prophecy compounded by my refusal to practice or even seek out side inspiration.

Is that why you returned to College?

I guess. I felt, after two years floundering and living off my parents' money, that i was most productive in the influence of an academic setting.

Did you want get a Masters in English?

yes, no. I wasn't sure what focus - what drive I had to justify further education. I didn't want to fall into the trap of continuing schooling for the lack of an other interest. I wanted to want to be in school.*shrugs* Truth is, I didn't try. I submitted one application -late- to University of Iowa. but mostly I was scared. scared to try. just like with my writings i was scared to put all that emotional effort - a significant portion of my being- to the judgment of the masses. My own fragile ego and insufficient self-esteem predicted my doom, my failure. In part, failure to find a job translated into failure to be accepted. So I took an easy way.
Another degree?
yes. I reenrolled as an undergraduate. at a school known for it's exceedingly low expectations. (but you didn't hear that from me).

You said you were scared. Is that the reason you choose Iowa State University?

No. By now I feel much more confident I my abilities. Actually, I found myself living in Ames because I was living with my love, Ruby. It was too late to apply for a postgrad position, you see. Nor did I find the opportunities at ISU that compelling.  Further, Ruby keeps talking about moving to Germany. I figured I could stay in Iowa for a year (two at most) and while I look for a nice Masters program, I could brush up the ol' GPA. and, hey, why not explore some other interests while I'm at it?

And how do you feel now?

Slow down, you move too fast

As I've announced (or meant to announce) i'm seeking to down-shift my life. into a more managible and approprate gear for my current life path. (should i go in to car puns now?) i'll talk about my life and the effects of Slwingo the  fuck down.

Firstly, At work. working is a curious thing, some say they try to rob us of our cognitive-ness. Work does not make us sheep. but not not hinkting does.  I have a terribly naive nature - a fact that has alluded me for many yeasr prioir to this post. the more i obvere people (now) the more i can see patterns in behavor. the longer i obverse a persone the more i understand thire pattern.

Late-nite-thoughts

                                 

At some point I wish'd to expess thoughts of these stories. But now i feel as a fly buzzing away other's lives.
buzzz buzzz buzzz
like the question that lingers in my head:

-what does it mean to Exist?-

any one whose contemplated existence has wondered the cliche of purpose. the question of why am I here? Outside the caveat of answers ranging from simple biologics to complex ideologies, the question is often lost to us in the fray of Philosophical notions. Few people can ponder their own existence with out the improprieties of vanity, Emo-ism, or ponce-itude. (i like 50¢ words). However, there is a growing population of folks who've been brought to life with an express propose. To be clear, i don't think ill of families like the Goldbergs (see Henry Strongin Goldberg). nor do i believe that PGD or any genetics work is bad, malicious or unethical. What interests me is the notion that someone could have a concreteness to their being -their existence (outside of love, biology, survival instinct and all the other demands humans might have for children).

 The reason one might've been created is nothing more than first forced steps of life.
Life come to those who continue the journy.

Forever and Questioningly yours,
-Marcus Miranti

In an electronic sandbox, I can erase and continue in the same breath

From an exercise

    What ever happened to stories pasted?

    What is wrong with the pen?

    Why do I condem myself to write in an electric sandbox?

    Too easy to make changed as I type?

    Too easy for first time writing?

    Do I know the tool well?

    Should a swordsmen be given a blade before the art of defence?

    Why not the apt trainer jump to the advanced arts first?

    Later, can the basics not be filled in?

    Was it once said, the pen, as with the sword, once a stroke is made it cannot be unmade?

    Can practice be constructive when learning the same bad habits?

    Did the one armed swordsmen have a foe before the accident?

    Once started can we never go back?

    Is there art in mistakes?

    Mistakes help us learn?

    What of glossing them over with backspace key?

    Do mistakes migrate?

…

    Blankspace,

    I wish I could track changes before they were made.

like a fish

Why can't fish float?
Or do they?
time flies doesn't it?
Is it lies?
(time i mean)
Did they say yes?
why do i
(in reply)
speak only no?
Only no.

the word of the day: expurgate

not to be confused with extricate or extra-gate, Expurgate means to shorten or abridge by omittion of parts considered indelicate. or (my favorite synonym: Bowdlerise)