Pandora, TommyOshima
IRRELEVANT PRE-POST NOTE:
I have been asked by someone to write about identity. I usually would not satisfy such requests, out of fear that my blog will turn into Dr. Phil, but I am happy to this time, because it is for a long-time reader who read with enthusiasm even when I was archiving miserable 2007 on Entropy Pieces. In any case, I have been mulling over the topic for a day now, and sooner or later, when I have some idea about (1) what it is in general, and (2) how to best present my own, I will go ahead and write it. Until then, most things I write may be shaded somewhat by its looming presence since it is on my mind. That is all. Today's post will begin shortly. Enjoy the rest of your now.
*__*__*
In my notebook, under the words: *__*__*
Dear Muses, hear my Song:
I wrote a personal statement. My entire me reduced to 500 words (well, not yet, right now, I'm 608 words long). I managed to write about everything that matters except:
____- the second time i fell in love and realized i was human
____- the time i came home from school and saw my mom sitting on my sister's bed, holding her head in her chest and sobbing with her. the room was painted light pink, and there were merry toys and cutesey clothing scattered everywhere. it seemed the wrong room for such a scene (which i feel most days about my own life)
____- all the things my eyes see incorrectly that make life more beautiful (like the red in your hair), the stars in your eyes, that trees do actually have hands, and if you look up when you walk beneath them you can see them holding hands together, about 1 geological-second* away from kissing. *NOTE: a geological-second is a unit of measurement discovered by a famous anonymous botanist who also holds the record for most patient woman alive. She sat with a stop-watch and stared assiduously at two trees until she saw their chest expand to maximum. Since the exact timing differs for different species of trees, she hoped to take the average of 1200 trees. She decided the time it takes for a tree to take one deep breath ought to be 1 geological second. Since she passed away from old age after her second observation, the Gsec is really the average of the two trees she observed. Later botanists have decided that any aberations are negligable.
____- the time my sister had a dream where she was told i should have died on New Year's Day, 2004, at approximately 5:12am when I fell asleep at the wheel and totaled my car, and that two Prophet's consulted and decided to keep me around a little longer. When she first told me i was irate. i prayed that any moment now i might collapse of cardiac failure (and die at least with a beaming smile on my face). Later i decided to rethink my plan of moving to a nowhere state and getting a job as a gas-station attendant and never speaking to anyone i knew ever again. (in short ghostifying myself somewhat earlier (or later, depending on perspective) than the One-True-God would have planned for).
Which leads us to now. Since I have decided to postpone ghostifying myself, and I cannot quite manage to keep up the bohemian rhapsodist lifestyle i've led for these last six months, there must be a thread of a future somewhere for me to follow out of this rabbit hole.
So this is what we do. We lie still on a gurney, and dissect our various selves for the benefit of a stuffy old man at a stuffy old school to pass judgment on.
- oh Africa, interesting.
- and look here, 2 and a half years in Israel, what's the Bahai World Center?
- who knows, he must be a Jew.
- makes sense.
- his transcripts are pretty inconsistent.
- and he's never interned anywhere we've heard of.
- i bet he's one of those kids with too-long hair.
- oh i hate those ones!
- yeah.
- not a bad writer though.
- then let him pay the rent with that!
- well spoke Professor! (ha ha)
- (ha ha) why thankyou Professor. (ha ha)
and so goes a man's destiny.
Here's what I'd really like to write:
Dear People Who Inevitably Control My Destiny (Aside from the All-Knowing One-True God who doesn't count because He finds me humorous and loves to giggle at my mistakes):
I couldn't care less about your course in the least. I don't really care about the papers you've published, or your conference proceedings, or the fact that your Honorable Institution has 73 Nobel Prize Laureates. I just want to get a piece of paper and learn a few fancy words so I can get a stable-half-decent job so that the next-time-around-girl-of-my-dreams (better than the first because supposedly this one will be there when I wake up) will marry me so after another long day we can giggle and make-out as we cook dinner and then I can forget about my cup of tea and fall asleep in her lap listening to the slow movement of the Brahm's first piano concerto while she reads whatever it is she likes to read.
I'm pretty smart- as long as the All-Knowing One-True God doesn't interfere with the usual mishaps, cataclysms, and unfortunate miracles- and contrary to recent criticisms, I work hard. Apart from that, I like to wear my red Ralph Lauren sweater, I never wear french-cuffs, I think you can wear converse shoes with any outfit, and I hate shaving. My hair is not too long, and I haven't touched marijuana in years. Also I can speak at length about: the persistence of memory, Johannes Brahms, the light of reunion and the fire of separation , the dichotomy of clarity and enigma in free-verse poetry, and reasons why I had to learn to "stop worrying and love the God"
That's all.
I'm really tired. (throw a dog a bone)
With Best Regards
what's-left-of-me.
*__*__*
let's end with some poetry:
one's not half two. It's two are halves of one:
which halves reintegrating,shall occur
no death and any quantity;but than
all numerable mosts the actual more
minds ignorant of stern miraculous
this every truth-beware of heartless them
(given the scalpel,they dissect a kiss;
or,sold the reason,they undream a dream)
one is the song which fiends and angels sing:
all murdering lies by mortals told make two.
Let liars wilt,repaying life they're loaned;
we(by a gift called dying born)must grow
deep in dark least ourselves remembering
love only rides his year.
All lose,whole find
ee cummings
____- the time my sister had a dream where she was told i should have died on New Year's Day, 2004, at approximately 5:12am when I fell asleep at the wheel and totaled my car, and that two Prophet's consulted and decided to keep me around a little longer. When she first told me i was irate. i prayed that any moment now i might collapse of cardiac failure (and die at least with a beaming smile on my face). Later i decided to rethink my plan of moving to a nowhere state and getting a job as a gas-station attendant and never speaking to anyone i knew ever again. (in short ghostifying myself somewhat earlier (or later, depending on perspective) than the One-True-God would have planned for).
Which leads us to now. Since I have decided to postpone ghostifying myself, and I cannot quite manage to keep up the bohemian rhapsodist lifestyle i've led for these last six months, there must be a thread of a future somewhere for me to follow out of this rabbit hole.
So this is what we do. We lie still on a gurney, and dissect our various selves for the benefit of a stuffy old man at a stuffy old school to pass judgment on.
- oh Africa, interesting.
- and look here, 2 and a half years in Israel, what's the Bahai World Center?
- who knows, he must be a Jew.
- makes sense.
- his transcripts are pretty inconsistent.
- and he's never interned anywhere we've heard of.
- i bet he's one of those kids with too-long hair.
- oh i hate those ones!
- yeah.
- not a bad writer though.
- then let him pay the rent with that!
- well spoke Professor! (ha ha)
- (ha ha) why thankyou Professor. (ha ha)
and so goes a man's destiny.
Here's what I'd really like to write:
Dear People Who Inevitably Control My Destiny (Aside from the All-Knowing One-True God who doesn't count because He finds me humorous and loves to giggle at my mistakes):
I couldn't care less about your course in the least. I don't really care about the papers you've published, or your conference proceedings, or the fact that your Honorable Institution has 73 Nobel Prize Laureates. I just want to get a piece of paper and learn a few fancy words so I can get a stable-half-decent job so that the next-time-around-girl-of-my-dreams (better than the first because supposedly this one will be there when I wake up) will marry me so after another long day we can giggle and make-out as we cook dinner and then I can forget about my cup of tea and fall asleep in her lap listening to the slow movement of the Brahm's first piano concerto while she reads whatever it is she likes to read.
I'm pretty smart- as long as the All-Knowing One-True God doesn't interfere with the usual mishaps, cataclysms, and unfortunate miracles- and contrary to recent criticisms, I work hard. Apart from that, I like to wear my red Ralph Lauren sweater, I never wear french-cuffs, I think you can wear converse shoes with any outfit, and I hate shaving. My hair is not too long, and I haven't touched marijuana in years. Also I can speak at length about: the persistence of memory, Johannes Brahms, the light of reunion and the fire of separation , the dichotomy of clarity and enigma in free-verse poetry, and reasons why I had to learn to "stop worrying and love the God"
That's all.
I'm really tired. (throw a dog a bone)
With Best Regards
what's-left-of-me.
*__*__*
let's end with some poetry:
one's not half two. It's two are halves of one:
which halves reintegrating,shall occur
no death and any quantity;but than
all numerable mosts the actual more
minds ignorant of stern miraculous
this every truth-beware of heartless them
(given the scalpel,they dissect a kiss;
or,sold the reason,they undream a dream)
one is the song which fiends and angels sing:
all murdering lies by mortals told make two.
Let liars wilt,repaying life they're loaned;
we(by a gift called dying born)must grow
deep in dark least ourselves remembering
love only rides his year.
All lose,whole find
ee cummings
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