An Open Letter to Angst

Dear Angst:
This is a break-up letter.
I'm just writing to let you know that our little off-again-but-mostly-on
constant codependent excuse for a relationship is through.
I'm over you and your late-night shaking shtick.
But in that defiant adolescent way
where I'm not so over you as to not potentially benefit
from an angry poem or two.
Here's the deal:
I'm a 17.5-year-old American female,
 meaning I have an average of 60.3 years left,
which is not long enough to be some tautological panic receptor
tuned to some white noise anxiety station.

I'm playing with the dial.

Finding a place where there's airspace enough
for me to breathe freely.
I'm taking all the time I need
for flower-picking, poem-plucking,
absent-minded humming, hand-holding
and other general happiness-seeking activities.

I'm rewriting the script and putting some balance back into it,
remembering that homework is meant to be educational- not just stressful!-
and that reading books is a pretty nice way to spend time.

So angst,
next time you come knocking on my door
looking for some middle-of-the night
shit to stir,
I'm hoping you'll find me asleep.

Sincerely,
Me







P.S.
 Um... hey. One last thing.
Thanks, y'know... for helping me write this poem.
Come to think of it...
are you free next Thursday?
I've got a slam coming up...

Springy

A haiku for spring:
seventeen syllables of
bare feet and new growth.

Holy Monday Mornin'

It's interesting to note that "unholy" doesn't just describe a lack of holiness, but actually indicates a demonic or Abrahamically Evil nature. There's no middle ground, here; you're either with Yahweh or you're against Him (and babies and puppy dogs and all things beautiful and innocent). How does one indicate neutrality of sanctity?  Blessing-ambiguity? Can our puritan knee-clapping heritage even handle that concept? Maybe this is why "atheist" (or "agnostic," for that matter) is instantly translated to "amoral" 'round these parts.

I Exist. Sometimes.

"Did I subscribe to your blog?"

It took a moment for my sleep-deprived brain to remember that I actually had one when that question was thrown at me this morning. Thanks for the reminder, Chuck. Sorry to be so neglectful, little blog.

I have three points to address, at the moment. Here we go:

1. Why you gotta psych me out, atmosphere? After all this wonderful spring weather, not only do you have to rain on a day I would really like some outdoor mobility; you don't even have the decency to give me a warm rainstorm as if it were spring- you've gotta give me this cold, miserable winter dribble. Fickle bitch.

2. Who the hell leaves a mostly-eaten MacDo-lookin' biscuit thing sitting on the stairwell post in a theater/college arts building? Seriously? The effort to carry the thing the rest of the way up/down the stairs and find a trashcan was too much? That's just... something people do? I was kind of blown away by that. (I left it. Sorry, Kathryn.)

...I swear I had a third point. It's gone now. Feathers in the wind.

I might update this thing more frequently, now. Hrm. Maybe I'll post poems. Maybe.

Art

Andy Warhol said, "Art is what you can get away with."
William Saroyan said, "Art is what is irresistible."
Amanda Palmer said, "Stop pretending art is hard."
Salvador Dalí said, "Milk of today born!"