Something is very wrong with me. This morning, as I slowly prepared for work and mused on the cloudy, dreary day that awaited me outside (more on that later), I turned the channel to one of the music stations. A video began. A Jonas Bros video. And I, um, enjoyed the video, found the music unbearably catchy, and um…thought one of them was kind of cute.
Somebody help me.
Just a few posts ago, I was talking about the wonder of boy bands, right? And that it’s all right; it’s generational; it’s a rite of passage. How it feels great to stand in a stadium and scream your head off for a campy song that will be forgotten when you leave said stadium?
I had that. I have that. (See post and awesome picture below). I don’t want it again. I went through this with Hanson. (I still heart you, Taylor Hanson, even though you’re younger than me and you have 12 children). I don’t want to sit around and wonder what Nick Jonas is doing. Or YouTube that video I saw this morning. I want to be free, encumbered only by musings on what Jordan Knight is doing at this moment (NKOTB) or happy that JC Chasez has a steady job (‘nsync). So no Jonas for me. I’m sorry. Get out of my head, catchy, campy song!
So, the day is cloudy and gloomy and dreary. My bones hurt. I hate days like this. To add further insult to injury, I’m headed for the beach today. The only vacation I’m taking, and the weather has to be like this. Nevertheless, I resolve to remain careless about it all and enjoy my time with my friend. Yeah.
I’ve always considered myself a fictionist first–short stories, the occasional abandoned novel–before anything. It’s what I aim to do, if I ever do it one of these days; to write a book, to write books, to put together a book full of my stories. (Whether desire will meet action is entirely another issue). Having said the latter, I have to also say that I’ve always loved and enjoyed poetry. Writing it, reading it, everything. I took tons of poetry courses in college to feed that love; I wrote tons of bad poems in high school to feed that love, as well. A good poem makes my day.
My point is that I’ve writing more poems lately. A lot lately. And I like it. There’s something freeing about pouring out my feelings in stanza form, of really playing around with language and thought. And my poems (something I can’t always say about my fiction) are wholly and completely comprised of me, my life, my experiences. It just feels real. I’m not saying that I’m leaving my short stories behind (or have they left me?), but maybe it’s time to consider (which I haven’t always done) that writing poetry is still writing.
You see, I haven’t been very fair to poetry. Because before? When I would lament that I hadn’t written anything? I meant stories. And, sadly, I equated true writing solely to fiction. (Sorry, Emily Dickinson. Never said I was perfect). Mainly because it’s what I’ve done for all these years. My cushion, my truest love. But the pen was moving all along. The pen was moving all along! For a professed lover and dabbler of poetry, it’s time to be real. In fact, poetry, stories, essays, a JournaBlog–it’s all writing. So I’m doing it and I’ve been. In your face, writer’s block.
I’m no poet, though. Yikes; there are true poets out there, seriously. Nevertheless: yes, I can happily say that I’m a writer of poetry, and that suits me just fine.
He’s the saxophone player from one of my favorite favorite groups, the Dave Matthews Band. Sadly, he passed away yesterday from injuries related to an ATV accident in June. What a cool guy. He was quiet and hung out in the background, but he was amazing and always added that significant touch to DMB’s music. Sigh. Really sad, indeed.
It’s a new layout, a new day. I decided to at least help brighten the day by changing the layout to my JournaBlog. You like?
(By “you”, I refer to the three people that happen upon this place. Thank you, three people.)
The pre-scream madness of yesterday still sits at the bottom of my chest, slumbering, waiting for the next opportunity to push me to dizzying heights of scream-dom. I certainly hope the opportunity doesn’t come, but who knows? Those crazy days we all tend to have come in either drips or waves. Yesterday was a typhoon, apparently. I think it’s that old restless feeling. It visits me every now and then. If anything, perhaps a good poem can come out of it. Perhaps. (I make no bones about it anymore: I am currently not writing a thing. I only hope to do so, but the delusions of completing something with a beginning/middle/ending/plotline have worn away. Life stinks sometimes, don’t it?)
Over and out, Idaho. I shall return at some point.
Ever have one of those days?
When you want to open your mouth and let out the longest, loudest wail ever heard from a girl?
I’m having one of those days. I won’t go into too much detail, but it’s bad. It’s horr-i-ble. I’m about 5 minutes from turning into the Hulk. I hate this feeling. I HATE this feeling.
To make things worse, it smells like maple syrup in my cubicle. Which means that my desire for French toast–which manifested itself this past weekend when I dreamt of once again walking into an IHOP after nearly a year of not walking into an IHOP–will become a reality at lunchtime. I’ll find French toast and I’ll eat it. With scrambled eggs. And wild abandon.
I really, really, hate this feeling.
That would be Phil Collins. In the vein of my music entries this week (totally unplanned, mind you), I deem this Phil Collins day. People decry his musicality; his talent; so on and so, so forth. Who cares? He’s amazing. He was amazing with Genesis, amazing on his own, everything. I so enjoy him. Right now, this one is playing in my ear: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bQK6CGqGleI It makes me want to…I don’t know, buy a gingham dress and skip down a sunny avenue somewhere. (I’m really quite ready for some psychotherapist to stumble onto this JournaBlog and request that I sit on his couch and discuss some of this imagery I tend to associate with music). Anyway, yes, woo hoo for Phil Collins.
While we’re on Genesis, let’s make this Peter Gabriel day, as well. Red Rain? Red Rain? I heart it. In Your Eyes? IN YOUR EYES? I need not say more. Here’s one where Phil was still the drummer for Genesis and Peter was singing lead. Great harmony. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ko0hiIYGANU
What else? Nothing. I’m restless. Impatient. Feeling like I’m on the cusp of something and I’d like to jump in, but waiting for the very important push. (Intentionally vague, yes). Standing outside an open door; can’t move until I get the nod. Yes, that weird feeling. Knowing that I may not even get the opportunity to jump over or walk in, certainly a possibility, but wanting to know just the same. One of those days.
Ever stared at the computer so much that it seems like you’re shrinking? Or that your chair is descending to the ground? I have to get up now.