can you tell me a story?, about love.

____since feeling is first
____who pays any attention
____to the syntax of things
____will never wholly kiss you;

____wholly to be a fool
____while Spring is in the world

____my blood approves,
____and kisses are a far better fate
____than wisdom
____lady i swear by all flowers. Don't cry
____--the best gesture of my brain is less than
____your eyelids' flutter which says

____we are for eachother: then
____laugh, leaning back in my arms
____for life's not a paragraph

____And death i think is no parenthesis


________ee cummings



from the season in hell by Maxwell Loren Holyoke-Hirsch,
courtesy of my love for you is a stampede of horses


____i.
it starts, has a middle, then fizzles out.
usually slowly.
hurts all the way through, but for different reasons.
sinks and rises so that underwater you can miraculously breathe,
and on dry land you sink and cough.
(that's if you can tell the difference, which you usually can't).

you learn to speak to cats,
become soo lonely you want to rub your palms and lips against tree-trunks,
and stay up late into the night listening to the sound of breaths till
you can't tell body from body
(that's if you can tell the difference, which you usually can't)

and in all honesty:
who'd want to?


____ii.
you were drunk again.
late in the evening you call me, whimpering, guilty sounding.

on the drive back you throw up out my car window.
it's still there on the passenger door the next morning,
in the light it'll look worse.
(history stinks most when it's left out all night)

back home you apologized, undressed,
and made sure i forgave you for all of it.


____iii.
we've been friends for...
____god, like eight years.
you're one of my best friends now, you know that?
how'd that happen?
________(right, how?

it's sunny.
we sit on a grass hillock.
i stare at your feet,
____when we first met they were younger too.

i'm comfortable around you, that's what it comes down to,
____(time is tideless with you,
you've digested each of my failures as they happened,

the grass leaves marks in my skin,
but you like the sun on your legs.
i lean back.
you look towards me quietly.

yeah, i know.


____iv.
after the dreams wear themselves out,

news of you dries up too,

so the memories grow brown and yellow,

and make crackly noises when stepped on,

and we walk without really noticing,

and i hope someday, when i look at the moon,

i'll see the moon.


____v.
love is a story you tell with your hands, and your eyelids. everyone wants to say the part they remember best: there's the skin behind the ear that knows something about lips, and the shortish hair at the back of the neck that remembers some fingertips and being wrapped and twirled, and there's the buttocks that remember nails and there's the belly that remembers another belly, softer, and belly buttons that remember coming together to form a bubble of empty space amongst a unit of flesh magically bound. it's a story you tell in movement, and dance, and words, and you have to whisper it and scream it and cry it out, and hate it and be angry at it, and wish it all over again, and never hope to see it on the corner of a road in a foreign city somewhere because some genocides always happen twice, and shiver just at the recollection of it, and letters need to be burnt and framed and memories share that fate too. it's a story that can't be told in anything less than a lifetime, and it's the memories that sleep latest at night, so when you lay awake, it's the only song you know how to hum.


____vi.
and to conclude,
i say this:

all,
everything,
moments,
universes,
seconds,
meteorites,

somehow don't matter.


*___*___*

i might delete this soon... so get it while it's hot.

Nocturne (final thoughts about Wednesday)

in the dim light the veins of my hand

make more sense. 

a few lights: streetlight outside, mobile phone charging, 

mark the course of my soon-dreams like airport lights or

slow slow lighthouses. 

(be gentle dreams, be

)

i rub my hands across pillow faces

hoping to find even one long herhair to touch. 

not tonight. 

are there rainbows at night? (i wonder)

i think how, for every woman's name

there's a man somewhere in love with one. 

( losing , lose , lost . )

night is a simple shape anyway. 

cuboid. eclipse. schizoid. 

three paces from my bed in any direction: 

shadow... rainbows i haven't eyes to see. 

it rains silently in one corner, 

in another a cat i don't own purrs, 

blinds and blankets and private lawns: 

the nocturnal kingdoms have a hierarchy of their own:

he who breathes hardest, 

loses fastest. 

you win some, 

you lose most. 

Letter to Bon Iver

This is not the sound of a new man or crispy realization

It's the sound of the unlocking and the lift away

Your love will be


______Bon Iver, Re: Stacks




Dear Bon,

have you proven, as a closing argument, what Bach and radiohead and Nina Simone had proven by way of exposition- that if cut the right way, crack-cocaine can be somehow ingratiated into music, concealed in the invisible wavelets of air vibrating, and sucked in through the ear. it must be that, i can't think of another explanation, not just for wanting to listen to you all the time, but the for feeling i get during.after listening. it's a... a heavy head, a feeling of dizziness. an inability to quite distinguish words, i'm heavy - my body too heavy a burden, i'm mixed and thrown against walls, i'm lost. to what? you are new to me, so i have not cast you into a mould with memories yet, so you bring up nothing from Nostalgia Lane, but you stir up un-named emotions, things that have lived in human hearts (Malouf: a darkness even the waters are not deep enough to hold) without a scientist finding them and naming them, like those giant squids that live forever ever underwater somewhere... the love-stories of pirates and Atlantis's mermaids and gold coins with curses. those unworded consequences that live as crispy dried-jasmine petals in prayers books, purple pieces of paper with handwriting (love's final heiroglphyic clue to me - i threw out all your love letters when i got home this last time), dusk and overcast days when it rains and i drive lost in tortuous grey roads that lead from nowhere to nowhere again, listening to you, not able to understand a word you say,
though in the dark enclaves of my fingertips, in the hollow caverns of my internal organs, the beasts of the sea, of the dark, of shadows and lightless creatures that have evolved eyeless and sightless and dreamless (but for black shadows and black pearls and black meals of black morsels of black nutrients of black men's black hearts) perturbed and finally spoken to stare back trying to discern the shape of things to come. ,
dear Bon, who are you to me?
what is this despaired high you've brought me to?, where i suck you up and fall against the corners of my days shaking and tired and unable to distinguish pain from pleasure (yet again), waiting for some event or occurance to forge you to. so that you can become: Bon Iver, the music of when x & y happened. Like... Damien Rice, O, the music of a train trip form Hamburg to Prague after only just recovering from a 5-day fever because you probably didn't love me; and the music is painted white with snow, and the black trees and electric lines lacerating gashes like stitch marks throughout my afternoon as i cried softly to myself and composed a 6 page letter i regret doing now- because i actually sent it.
What malady or victory or midlove afternoon is going to define you? What good winter of mine are you here to claim? Dear Bon, even your name is a metaphoral dichotomy. are you playing a Shakesperian joke on all of us? Now is the good winter of our good discontent? Are you feeding us black sightless pills that remind us of hollows within ourselves, and clogged arteries in my brain, my circle of Willis traffic-jammed nearly shut with thoughts of blue hatchback cars and girls with yellow eyes and open mouths and the soft purrs of love taken out of hearts and stapled to palms that to other palms can share, or to cheeks can transmit, or to lips or to eyelids? you cannot be the music of my past, you don't know about Adelaide. or, last night, when someone said to me:

so you're back?
yeah. i'm back.
to stay?
looks that way. [for now]
so it's home.
what?
home.
what is?
[um... awkward] um, ya know, like... home. __where is home?
home?...
yeah
___. has no meaning for me .
what?
the word; it means... nothing. it's a historical term.
[are you high?] what?
it means archeology, or geology or paleontology. [Adelaide, Haifa, Los Angeles... dead things, like Tutakhamon or Diomedes]
hey, that's my friend over there, i just have to go say hi to her.
[thank god. silence]

you are certainly the music of the present. the music of idealogical limbos. the music of crevices and flumes running on empty. the smell of cement warmed by car tires after it rains. the discomfort of quiet men dragged into noisy rooms. you are the music of my phantoms. an archived aural record of my regrets. a reminder of my failures. you are the music of the present, the homeless present, being constantly sapped by my own heavy sense of self-dom, or, again to borrow Malouf:

We are all of us exiles of one place
or another - even those
who never leave home.

or to recount myself:
where have you taken me? what astrology can disentangle this tortuous skein of life that i've made/been given/don't know what to do with? all this tangled skin (see there, between my toes, what a mess). you are a music of Gold Coast summers that are not warm at all. when it rains everyday, and is colored dark grey even when the sun finds gaps to assert itself. you are the music of lost highway drives, round-a-bouts and a life peopled by precisely one person: me. An insular compartment in a dashboard of the world, sitting in modest shadows counting lost and founds, wins and losts, and throwing away hours like wet newspapers, dreaming of red hairs and blue eyes and olive skins and middle fingers and laugh-out-louds and i'm so sorry babys, and will you be okay?s and two tickets to Pragues and my car's been towed.s and autumn on a magical wall in China and walking around Vienna kicking rocks, and walking (soo) sadly home from Brentwood listening to (Not) What You Wanted by Angus & Julia Stone which Monz gave to me not realizing how sad it would make me because it was the theme song for LA disowning me and sending me off and not wanting me to stay with her and her Venice Beaches and her 4pm omelettes and diners and her peak-hour napalm-scented traffic with the venemous red eyes of the BMW in front of you winking so often... you are the music of my alleverything,
you are a gross high that leaves me sickened and disgusted with history-future dread. i lick every stone for a taste of you. i tremble covered in sweat and lying on the floor kick my heel into the cement ground hoping to leave a mark somewhere for someone to know me, and jab every needle into my veins and snort every powder of you i can find. i ... i ...

this morning, with my eyes closed, i tried to recall the feeling of a warm body in a bed. i could recall hands through hair, and lips on eyelids... but i couldn't model the mixing of weights on beds. the changes in temperature, and sounds, and constant collision of limbs.

where does that leave us Bon?


This is not the sound of a new man or crispy realization

It's the sound of the unlocking and the lift away

Your love will be


well put. bastard.

arrested development

____MY cocoon tightens, colors tease,
____I ’m feeling for the air;
____A dim capacity for wings
____Degrades the dress I wear.

________Emily Dickinson










8:30 Monday Morning, by Mineral


____i.

(deleted by author because it sucked 90 minutes after writing)


____ii. (negativity song)
never not no cannot will-not do-not
unfortunately regretfully inconceivably
impossible uncontrollable misfortunately
blithely apathetic aloof misanthrope
unsuccessful losing lose lost
____________________(lost.


____iii. (let the mute speak for himself to try and say for himself what himself doth mean)






____iv.
i tire of normal mental/emotional processes. my body's mutinous organs and sweat glands
and falling hair and fingertips. like if after every 1000 heartbeats or every time i ate i collapsed
out of breath and trembling and unable to stay awake from fatigue. the mental version of that-
a full conversation, 2 decisions, or 3 minor activities, and i fall unable to recover.


____v.

(deleted by author because it sucked 90 minutes after writing)


*___*___*

there go the train tracks. safe and direct. if only i could grip a few hands and follow those along...
this is a fake summer - it's hidden behind gusts of wind and overcast skies and seems to me Nature's worried what might happen to me if it glares and unleashes too much of it on me.

i suddenly realize i don't know where i am. the optometrist today declared i'm pretty much blind - it's a wonder you've managed soo long. i think maybe that might explain these last few years. my constantly referring to it as my failed attempts at a grasp in the darkness.

here comes the memories, bringing with them names of old cities, and old friends, and old lives i don't remember burying but whose eulogies i've already written. (time and again) (and again) (and again)

truth is, dear friends, i don't think i'll ever really learn how to control myself. and... i'm sorry to say, i'll always wonder besides the train tracks, sometimes following them just right, and other times drifting off into the green wall, the blue floor, the white cieling, and stumbling bruised and sorry back the knees of the sitting train-tracks that would have saved me the trouble - had i known.

it sounds like maybe rain. maybe wind. can't tell. the Gold Coast is an exotic place, with exotic weather. Combinations that seem... improbable are a daily occurance here. Like cocktails with chilli and mint and raw sugar - or green tea icecream, or pizzas with sweetened plum sauce. on the Gold Coast the weather can be overcast and dark as the day your dog dies, and still with warm wind at a temperate speed. Other days is bright as all heaven shining down like midas just licked his tongue across the whole city- and cold as an Ice-Queen's heart. Strange combinations. strange mixes of color and temperaure and wind and humidity and half the day pleasant and half the day worthy of only measuring your own grave up and digging it in preparedness.

maybe it's just wind. it doesn't have that pointilism effect you expect from good rain. maybe it's just a few droplets. (that's a blurry rain, that happens here too).

Bon Iver continues to make me incredibly sad.human.me.nothing.hopeful.less, i listen anyway, hopeing to discover an answer there. i don't. Angus and Julia Stone - Chocolate & Cigarettes has been on repeat all evening amongst reading news, and looking for futures, and slowly draining myself, and trying to find spectacle frames online.

*___*___*_

Dear God,
i'm in the wrong life again.
your postal service sucks, you never get the message.

sort it out or we're done.
i'm serious this time, no games.

nice job on November 4th by the way, we were all starting to wonder if you actually existed or not.

bests and bests
q


*___*___*

i cannot seem to say what i mean. i hate it when that happens. it makes me feel mute. and lame. and deaf. and small(er than usual).

don't you love those moments when you realize the course of several years has led you back to the starting point again? don't you feel like you've accomplished so much and done so much and overcome so much? (only to be nowhere at all. just the same place, but with a different doormat)

no more.
i'm done.

Letter to Sandy

--And yet this great wink of eternity,
Of rimless floods, unfettered leewardings,
Samite sheeted and processioned where
Her undinal vast belly moonward bends,
Laughing the wrapt inflections of our love;

___Voyages II, Hart Crane







the fall/the leap, amalia chimera

dear sandy,

several problems. all out of order, (1) am craving some cereal bad, real bad. like. (2) tired, tempted to sleep, and although all the windows in my room are open, the blinds open enough so that people can see me walking around half-naked and also let in some of the breeze (because, afterall, what good are open windows if blinds are closed like it being day time and you having your eyelids shut?) and despite that, and despite new bedsheets that still crunch a little, and dreamy milk-dark night that is gentle and smooth still seem prickly and i wary of night. a little rift between us seems unresolved. and even though i know my dreams are the stuff of vomit and unremembered nights and dust-covered antiques in the back of rooms no one visits and hazy unstructured mannequins and blurrred images of no-ones and no-ones doing nothings and nothing, i still can't find it in myself to peacefully roll over and say 'goodnight you fu*&er Sunday'. (3) i can't don't won't wanna canna finna write somehting to write about. Which has been a major problem for a little while now and i try and try and it's all rubbishy blllaaahhhs what's coming out of my head now. just shadows of the ideas i have somewhere hidden. someone shine a light in my ear, out the other side we might see eclipsed amoebae floating about -

what am i talking about? (am i? (am i? (who?, where?)

tired tired, boredome game, music the same lame,
unfinished cannot tame sunday from monday, shame fear and horrified (the future's upon us yet again and when'd we ever realize the past was too craven to bother with?, too filthy to redeem, to unfinished to hope for - and now tomorrow, it's air-tight cusp upon us like a blow-fish's mouth or the flame of a yet-another morning crawling up the edge of the earth, meeting our horizon in a glaze of bright pink and azure, and the final fleeting phantasms of a night's hazy (unwanted anyway) dreams.

what_am_i_talking about?

i can't write to you right now Sandy. i don't know why, for the same reason i'm not writing to anyone. because i can't write. i can't think, i'm drowning (not enough)(too)(much)(all this air, it's like drowning every breath i take) whatever the mess is i don't know, and cereal won't fix, but damned well i will try - if there's a hole, cereal's the first thing that might clog it back up, and let the mermen gasping on the too much air drift back into oceanic valleys where there's not enough light for them to have developed eyes in the first place,

Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
In death’s dream kingdom
These do not appear:
There, the eyes are
Sunlight on a broken column
There, is a tree swinging
And voices are
In the wind’s singing
More distant and more solemn
Than a fading star.

there's all that to compete with too. i concede my words. all of them. i have let them loose just to show you how unfortunate they are at present. i am no man. i am no sentences. i do not know about grammar or rhetoric right now. i do not understand midnight from mischief.

what am i saying?

much love
q

narrative

Study me then, you who shall lovers be
At the next world, that is, at the next spring:
__For I am every dead thing,
__In whom love wrought new alchemy.
____For his art did express
A quintessence even from nothingness,
From dull privations, and lean emptiness
He ruined me, and I am re-begot
Of absence, darkness, death; things which are not.

______A Nocturnal upon St. Lucy's Day, John Donne



Dakar (Sénégal), by Finbarr O’Reilly, Reuters


there is no dancing here. i just want you to know that straight-up. off-the-cuff. right out there ; _ok?, just want there to be no... mis.non.understanding - it's all out there now. all out there.
And that's pretty much it for rules. you can rest assure, there's no other problems. even when you drink water from clean glasses and your lips leave their little prints on the edge (the fingertips of lips) - that's cool too. all that. and after you shower and the floor's wet for half an hour... often times more. admit it, alot of the time it's much longer than half an hour. half an hour is like the generous estimate. (and that's what we like to call hope. - but let's not get into all that. semantics, and all that meaninglessness stuff. means nothing doesn't it? just words. not a paycheck or a cheeseburger to be found int he whole lot, so why bother says i? why bother?)

Oh, listen, before i forget, try and keep the lights off if you're not in the room ok? attracts bugs, sure sure, it really doesn't matter if you're in there. but, personally, i just keep 'em off all the time. Unless you don't mind sharing with bugs... but it's the noise they make. worse than refrigerators - they sound like static or something, a high-pitched sing-a-long, like fluorescent lights or something, half an hour of that, i'm sure i'm tripping again like it's high-school. No, not me, i never did. No, never at all. Jesus forbid that sort of thing. All the others too, God-people, proof-readers? Prophets. Yes, well that's what i meant. a pun obviously, where's your sense of literatzi? heh? heh? ____No worries, yeah, you can hide your champagne in here, it's just flappy wall-paper, but no one need know. looksy there, the last guy has a candle and a paperclip. damn occultists - everything's a goddamned symbol. huh? yeah, i agree. (damned agnostics, nothing's a mystery to that lot except why there's questions and equal signs and no answers.

truth =
meaning =
alleverything =
if you search for happiness, you might find (at least a part of it, if it can be detached into littler parts) it at =

Listen, if you find that you shed alot of hair, then that's fine. i often think there'll be nothing left of me at all but bones, a handful of white dust and hair that feels unreal soon as it's not on your head. (or where ever else). na na, i didn't mean nothing unwholesome by that. meant the whole lot. whole. all of it, yup, protein's protein. Never. no. leave my prayers by the front door, God's got the wind and the ocean and the damned insects mumbling to him all damned night long - doesn't need me with my last good remaining three teeth joining in that chorus. no sir. my fingers hate the touch of newspapers, and loneliness, and prayer books.

but i'm serious about the dancing, ya hear me now son? keep it to a mimimum, and i mean the whole lot. stamping. jumping-jacks. those seizures you junkies get up to - that's called dancing here just the same as any pas de deux. you try that stunt in here, might as well consider it your danse macabre ya hear me? your tottentanz. (Ophelia drifts past, white as a calla lily or a jasmine petal or 14 white lies told to protect one darned truth no one ought to hear. i'll take all the lies i can get to avoid hearing that other thing just once. just once is bad enough. __You hear it?, yeah it's a piano. No. No piano on premises. not the neighbours either. Anamoly. Time and space disturbances, not to be taken too seriously. think of it as wind, think of it as a dream-catcher - yes, no sir, you can dream in sound just the same as your arm-pit dreams in mould and your penis dreams in thrusts and scratches and freaks. whichever way then, climbing the walls is fine but watch that patch there, there's a cockroach family, honest-t0-god a good famliy, been paying their rent for years, lives under the roof there, see the stain?, yeah, they urinate there. same spot they carry their dead. 12 generations worth now. they cry better than the rest of us - try and keep your head under sheets at night, they've quite a liberal policy regarding privacy space. Anomaly causes the sound, don't know what happens after that. moon's all retrograde on us, like we're upside down all night long, drifting off on boats we never remember boarding.

don't care what you do for decoration, long as you keep few friends, spend too much time alone, waste hours conscious that your skin is being scraped off you and your hair is being detached and in the end you're nothing but nails and bones and calcium patches, you're right for our establishment here.

the piano keys all turned yellow in the end. player or not, they did that all on their own.

yes we did: A Bold New World

It grew strength from the young people who rejected the myth of their generation's apathy

___President-Elect Barack H. Obama












_________XXXIII
_________(from The Man With the Blue Guitar, Wallace Stevens)

_________That generation's dream, aviled
_________In the mud, in Monday's dirty light,

_________That's it, the only dream they knew,
_________Time in its final block, not time

_________To come, a wrangling of two dreams.
_________Here is the bread of time to come,

_________Here is its actual stone. The bread
_________Will be our bread, the stone will be

_________Our bed and we shall sleep by night.
_________We shall forget by day, except

_________The moments when we choose to play
_________The imagined pine, the imagined jay.


I am overcome today in soo many ways. in fragments. different parts of me are overcome in different ways. One thing is, I am full of phrases and lines today. It started first thing, when I saw a clip of Oprah Winfrey walk out onto her show wearing a tshirt that said: a bold new world. It's been swirling in my head all day. Yes we can. I like it when Obama says it. It's not forced. It's not labored. It's not even the chant of a rhetorician working the crowd. He just says it, yes we can, like an obvious fact... like a well underground spring that needs only be dug for, yes it's there.

I am overcome by images too. One often confronts these in picture books and archival film images. Gandhi. Mandela. Martin Luther King Jnr. and think of leadership. How people must have felt to be in those moments. JF and Bobby Kennedy. One is soo often confronted with the phrase 'great leader'. 'important man'. 'history in the making'. Those phrases have all been thrown around alot today. And finally, I'm going to add mine to that list:

dear generation,

are we aware, that this is ours? Are you aware that teeth and bone i have suffered, and you have suffered the confusions and angst of our time for this? That we have tolerated fools and crooks and thieves and isms and Darfur and Rosa Parks and Guantanamo and Rwanda and re-count Florida 2000 and Alabama lynch mobs for this. that this is our Berlin Wall falling. that this is our Man-On-The-Moon.

are we aware, that we did this? all it took was standing in lines. listening to voices. posting forms. extinguishing prejudices. pressing buttons. re-imagining the future. showing ID. braving the cold. discussing ideals. ticking the box. reclaiming the world: ladies and gentlemen of my times: the youth have just inherited the world. and i say this because:

are we aware, that we are not just color-blind, but doubly proud of the achievement of our African-American brothers and sisters? are we aware, that the debt we owe to them, we have just finally initiated a repayment of? are we aware, that their joy makes us joyous? are we aware that we have chosen the best candidate and not the shadow of our evils? are we aware that Yes We Can has just become the mantra of a world's worth of youth, who, sitting at lonely park benches, and listening to the monotonous rattles of trains, and stuck in traffic, and inked and pierced and diced and raw and bruised and cut, have just realized a man of such youth (47 years old!), who is willing to come to us on MTV, will inspire us not to just re-imagine the world, but to reconstruct it in the image of our longing. Yes We Can has just been cast as a fact- not just a hope, a fact... because we did.

are we aware; after i got through crying, and then praying and praying and praying, i stumbled on another phrase lingering in my mind: at this defining moment, change has come, that the world has been in just 18 minutes (the duration of a victory speech) disassembled, revised, imbued with hoped (so long as we breathe, we hope), invested with hope, redeemed by hope, discovered hope still clinging to it, and put back together again, ostensibly the same, but... no. oh no. not at all the same. not the same at all. are we aware these are new atoms we breathe? are we aware that as the remainder of this edifice, this blistered world order comes falling down, we now have a step-ladder to stand on? we now have a new arm, and a just-oiled elbow, and an eager wrist to reach up with? are we aware that we have conducted the first scientific experiment on the hypothesis of the American Dream (the world dream, the human dream), and found, without question, that it exists! that it can happen. that we can do it. that there is worth in aspiration. that there is value in endeavor. that there is truth to opportunity.

are we aware generation, that the burden of gross ignorance, of petty arrogance, of factions and schisms and pro-abort-choice-gay-straight-oil-terror-othercolor-ist is ours to destroy. to expel. Generation, we are Rushdie's Midnight's Children. we are Nietszche's Superman. We are Reverend King's dream. we are the seed of the hope of every prophet. we are a momentary wink of God's rosy cheek. we are the sprinting frontier of the universe expanding- we are the wave that grows and rises and plummets at the shoreline, at the cliff-face, at the jagged rock till we edge it towards us, till we reshape it the way we want, and spit it back out in our image.

for the first time in my life, today, this day, i understood what it is to be in a great moment. not a tragic moment, where you are sickened by your humanity- the stench of your own skin from watching images of Rwanda, Darfur, Sudan, Guantanamo... the filth behind your ears of Abu Graihb, of KKK rallies, of negative-campaign-ads, the boils and lesions of September 11, no, not that at all. a great moment, a moment when skin, and flesh, and hair, and eyes are... (when we are worthy of the bodies we are in) (when we become worthy of the time we have- the Time we are in) (when we are worthy of the task(s) at hand) (when we become instruments of the change we seek). that sort of greatness. For this first time in my life, today, this day, i felt soo near, and so in love with millions of people i have never met, but who are my friends. soo near to me- my team who had helped me accomplish this. my family. my fraternity. i felt soo near to my generation, my lonely, perpetually exiled, dreamy star-gazing hope-mongers, my lovers and brothers and sisters, together based on idealism we proved that race doesn't matter: qualities do. that experience is as important as heart. that we are willing to sacrifice for each other. that we care about our planet... that we are united in our sense of Space, and Time: Change we need. Change has come.

my generation, on this day, we have slithered awake out of our haze of hopeless angst, our muted frustration, our labored castigation of presidents who cannot inspire, of leaders who cannot transgress, of politics that seeks to divide, of civic responsibility that makes us sneeze as dust arouses our asthma, of constantly dividing and ism-ing, and schisming, and scaring and bullying- we have woken up just in time to say, yes we can change this. we own this.

and that's my point generation: we own this. our stinky flesh (rotting prematurely). our lofty words. and only our actions to bridge the gap. this is a day for exultation. the first, clear, defining moment of the start of re-constructing the world. the first, clear, defining moment of our collective, united front against history's slanted view of democracy, liberty, opportunity, and unyielding hope.

dear generation, i love you.
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