post-JD

untitled by swimminginmilk

when it finishes it is a quiet but in a different way.
i sit and wait.
i spend quite some time with letters and envelopes.

___(i'm always very careful before i staple things.
___it's a new superstition: if the staple's messy i won't get the job)

mostly i like to stay in my room. editing things - i've become expert in punctuation -
semicolons receive tremendous care.

someone asks me what i've been doing lately. editing a paper for publication i say.
it sounds so adult , still ,
i'm glad when they don't ask me anything else.

later i send more applications in between tinkering on the piano.
i stare at a book by my bedside table but refuse to read it.
instead i walk laps around my coffee table.

my mom wants to know if i feel relieved or lighter or calm since i've been done?
no i say.
she wants to know why.

i miss being busy. (she nods, 'maybe you're a man afterall')

notapoem

i.
i make a small stack,
delicately adding
each thing i don't know
the answer to.


ii.
everytime it rains
i send you the same text:
it's raining. godlovesme.
funny thing is...
i believe it.


iii.
A PERFECT DAY AS UNDERSTOOD BY Q:

11am
brunch with Mar at Greg's.
after, we walk down 19 terraces.
at the bottom there's a beach i don't remember seeing before.
there's no sand. only rocks.
in the water half a mountain stands alone,
waiting for someone's hand to lead it back to shore.
i sit on the rocks and put my socks back on.
Mar looks out at the waves breaking, which, sprays up into a haze
that never quite merges with the sky.
don't worry. i haven't quite merged yet either.
she nods. waiting. without ever taking her hand away either.

3pm
an old man walks into my office.
i'm tired he says. i give him a seat, which he reclines in.
closes his eyes. god it's quiet in here. i nod.
i am offer him some tea but he shakes his head with his
eyes still closed and puts a finger in front of his lips, shh.

3:30pm
i get a call, there's something in the mailroom for me.
it's a scarf. grey, with an orange stripe.
i'm confused, go home: hey Matt, did you send me a scarf? he hasn't.
John? not me.

two years later someone compliments my scarf. it's grey, with an orange stripe.
i smile. my best friend gave it to me, a rose petal from when we first met.
have you known her your whole life?
i shake my head. nono, of course not.

___longer.

4pm
i'm too tired to talk i confess, guiltily.
she understands. we meet anyway,
sit opposite each other in plush chairs.
i smell like coffee beans, for months i smelt like coffee beans.
it's less obvious in here, Pontius and Sepulveda.
every now and then you still send me a picture when you drive by.
the dusty valley, dusty stucco walls - beige from paint or dust i can't tell,
and your always fluorescent toe-nail polish. it's all i see sometimes, when i think of it:
a buzzard of a year, and your understanding face that for half an hour here,
ninety minutes there, silences the Furies.

6pm
you cry on the phone telling me about
how they want a drug test and you did this
naughty thing weeks ago just once and how
you wish you hadn't now oh my god how terrible
because it means you might not go (which to me
sounds like you might just stay) and you have to go
(you really should i say) because it's just what needs
to happen (in a few years i'll really know what you mean,
and you'll call me and remind me of it too) distance, sometimes
it's just distance just to be far and away and amongst strangers which
are so often just the friends you needed who don't know you and don't care
the name of your highschool boyfriend, and i nod through all this, unseen
because phones lack eyes - they crawl through the dark like salamanders
or something, i tell you it'll be fine, it's got to be, there comes a time
for distance and when the times come it just happens (in a few years
like it or not i'll know exactly what i meant) after i hang up the
phone i think to myself god i hope she can go/stay and
despite my best intentions never did separate the two.

words written by the dude who write this blog

untitled by kagogo


so what are you doing next year? he asks, looking at me expectantly. there's only a few correct answers to this question. associateship with a judge (but only State Supreme or Federal Court level); work for 1 of 6 top tier firms; miscellaneous. i want to say i'm taking a year off to find a new shipping route for merchant vessels and accidentally find the new New Indies; take a year off to listen to the full discography of the Beatles; maybe read something really long... the Story of Civilization, in 11 volumes... the Golden Bough: A Study in Magic and Religion (3rd ed, 1906-15) in 12 volumes.


___*___*___*

when we were young we sat in coffee shops. we drank hot chocolate. we spoke of the future (which... looking around me, must be about now sometime).


___*___*___*

- whatchya reading? [i'm sitting on the 38th floor of a fancy high-rise in the city. the question is directed towards me by the partner of 1 of 6 (said) top tier firms who will spend the next 40mins telling me about himself while i nod in feigned interest]
- bit of light on-the-train-at-8-am-reading: Crimes Against Humanity by Geoffrey Robertson. [he laughs]. Oh, it is funny, i mean, who doesn't want to start their day with 600pages worth of genocide and systematic and serious violations of human rights? [he laughs]
- count me in
- that's the spirit akrM [i know his name already because the receptionist told me 'you'll be interviewing with krMa today', as i say this i reach out my hand and we have a firm, very satisfying hand shake].
- i read [can't remember the title] at a hearty 900pages a few months back. it was so damn heavy i got sick of holding it up in bed - i had the wife find me a copy for the ipod. even then you read for hours and you see the little %read dial move up from 1.4 to 1.6. [i laugh]
- it's annoying heavily <-- get the pun? [he thinks...
- ha! yes. exactly.
[i forget the rest other than to remember to nod occasionally and say: wow, really? that's incredible. sporadically: is that right?]


___*___*___*

after the coffee we forgave each other our/their shortcomings.
___what now?
easy.
___what?
something that involves glitter. sparkle.
___like what?

(___k__i s_s
_________t_a_ s
____________r
_y o u r_ e ye__s

l__a_c k___ time. )

(i wish we did)


___*___*___*

i never sleep on planes. not until i'm the last person awake. darkdark, everyone else huddled in cocoons made of just-not-quite-large-enough blankets. me and one of those little lights. pluto that'll eventually get annexed. or just an out of the way star, one of the too-many temples that you visit just to say you've been there take a compulsory photo of a wall or cement something-or-another and walk on thinking whether you're brave enough to try the street food again while trying to psychically connect to your stomach's mood-of-the-hour.

everyone wakes refreshed, i'm trashed. why didn't you sleep? i can't answer that question. it was quite. so? so... it's too delicious not to have too much of it. but now you'll be annoying and dopey all day. this makes no sense. no sense at all. i'm always dopey and annoying all day. my point is acknowledged, more so.

(but i'm saving up to cry about it all one day).


___*___*___*

they sit silently in the coffee shop. she resents him for having picked up a magazine before he sat down. in their secret parlance this means 'no-talkey-time'. she flicks through photos on her camera. does experiments by taking photos of reflections in the glass. he's oblivious. although it would ordinarily amuse her, she's irked to think she's like a child playing around while her father minds her absentmindedly. she tries to start a conversation. mmm-hmm he responds and turns a page. it will be winter when we get back. he nods this time, rright-right.
(but everything is so lovely she thinks).
he looks up to watch her take a photo of nothing. takes a sip. smiles. what are you thinking? he makes a face that means he's not sure there are words for it. just wandering he says. about what? not wondering, wandering, with an 'a'. oh. about what? i'm not sure there are words for it.


___*___*___*

on election night i wore burgundy pants and a tie, with a sweater-vest. some people drank and i spoke to this guy about what he'd do after he graduated (one of three options). later we went to the bar and i hugged some people i hadn't seen in months. where have you been? they kept asking, studying i kept saying. after that i realised i hadn't much left to say to anyone. half an hour later i walked back to the apartment. sat and watched the elections while eating little cubes of cheese just because they were in front of me on the coffee table.

that was... like a year ago.

how'd that happen?


___*___*___*

so what are you doing next year? he asks, looking at me expectantly.

goddamit i can't go through this sh*t again.

giggle-worthy

True Stories

+ i am alive.

+ i have been in Vietnam for 2 weeks. now i am not. this is sad. i walked between villages and buffalo blocked my path and it was green and my muscles hurt and that hurt made me happy. i have not felt so much sun for 2.5 years.

+ goodbye law school. hello (more) job apps. (officially finished)

+ i feel like writing again. so. look out.


THINGS I HAVE READ, A LIST:

(1) Memoirs of a Survivor, Doris Lessing

(2) Man Walks into a Room, Nicole Krauss

(3) Classics, a Short Introduction, (can't remember, it's the Oxford University series)

2 weeks in Vietnam, a story in ailments

untitled by Valeria Heine


characteristically, i sit at my desk for 26 hours straight. she sleeps. wakes, i'm still there. it's humid, so i'm slippery like a sea mammal. smell like death. (she informs me of this). i hear voices, occasionally my door opens or closes, but it's a blur. i hear something about packing. i'm told we have to leave now. i shower. i'm handed a brown bag full of tshirts and the only two jeans you ever wear anyway. she drives. i continue to edit the document on the laptop that sits on my lap. i have a purple pen in my mouth that's been there 2 hours i forgot to take it out before and now my mouth is numb around it.


___*___*___*

by the end of the first week my body overheats and i shiver in bed and sweat and gasp and can't sleep. what's wrong with you? exhaustion i explain. what's that that's not an illness. i lay still for 27 hours and wake up the next morning ready to walk some more. that's it? it's over? i nod. Ho Chi Minh City ain't killing me this week. let's hope so she says.


___*___*___*

by the 9th day i'm back in bed. this time it's not exhaustion. at least, not one i'm conscious of. again? this one's different i explain. i lay in bed for 19 hours and wake up the next morning, still dizzy from the sound of the Discovery Channel that's been on all night and shower myself back into health.


___*___*___*

- hey do you know where the bathroom is?
- i think it's...
- no time to think. must walk faster. meetyouherelaterjustwaitgottagobye.


___*___*___*

then for three days i try and keep thoughts out of my head that want to be in my head. she wants to know why it's such a big deal. first i have to identify what exactly is 'it'. it's mediocrity i finally admit. i'm terrified of it. i'm worried i'm perfectly ordinary and will live an ordinary life and will be miserable in that ordinary plain way that everyone is (without knowing), and happy in that ordinary plain mediocre way that everyone is (forced and strained constantly for three flower petals to call romance, and every year a bigger tv must mean you're advancing in life). i swear, no one who knows you thinks you're mediocre. you're actually like the least mediocre person i know. nothing about you is mediocre. i smile, gently. i know it's all in my head... but 'it' is what it is. what's mediocre about being told you were just awarded a first-class honours degree? i mull this over. 3-5% of people have those i say. that's too many. she stares at me horrified. you are actually delusional. oh my god. i'm dating a delusional person. i nod. she's right. she is.

- hey, guess what.
- what?
- on day 14 Vietnam tried to kill me through my brain.
- ha. i suppose your immune and GI systems fought it off, what's left?
- don't jinx us into broken bones babs.
- amen bruthaman.


___*___*___*

i arrive home. hand out some presents, put in a load of laundry and fall asleep for 14 hours. i wake up, pick a tie and go off to a clerkship interview.

late afternoon i collapse (again) on my couch. put up my feet, and close my eyes wishing myself into stone.

...

amongst the tea leaves there are little blue flowers.
they're brighter than they should be ; my tea has eyes.

the teapot is blue too. almost. maybenotquite.
colours are indeterminate. i'm not soo good with them.

you wait for me to make my mind up.
it takes a while, i stand when i read papers and you ask why.

'i don't know the answer to that question' i respond.
you nod.

at 5:54am i jump onto the bed, yelping frantically till you're
up and awake and telling me a half-asleep story until we're both

half asleep the next morning.
after your shower you grow roots into my couch

and i stare off at somenothing and (by now) am no longer playful.
'it's dark-' you say but i get up and turn the lights on before you finish.

your tea's gotten cold. it means you can drink it now, your first cup.
i finish my fourth and get up for another.

walk past the fridge which has been beeping for an hour and shut it right.
stop in the middle of the hall to contemplate how tired i am for a moment.

you find me 20 minutes later and ask me how long i've been standing.
'i don't know the answer to that question' i respond.

for dinner we discuss what to have.
eventually we eat whatever your mom cooked us last.

the menu's written on the plastic containers.
when i wash them i hold them up to the light to read my fortune.

it is silent.


sometimes it is silent and you are hidden in my phone.
amongst the tea leaves there are your blue eyes.

it beeps and your handprint is still on the couch.
i open the window to give it light, maybe it will grow;

by morning i could have three fingers with Chanel coloured tips.
'which colour?' you'd ask and after reading papers for a while i'd say

'i don't know the answer to that question'.
when it's silent a sad voice speaks.

you thought the song was dainty, 'it's dainty' you said, 'it sounds like something dancing ;
what do you think it sounds like?' you asked.

i said it was a ghost dancing.
even when it is silent the ghost is dancing.

i put on shoes when it gets dark,
when i walk i bump into stacks of books

papers fall and slide. every 3 minutes you see me get
up for 10 trying to find my needle in a rainstack.

eventually i stop jumping on the bed at 5:54am.
'sometimes you are the little spoon' you say, 'when you are running away from me'.

it is quiet but i hear swimming.
there are blue eyes in my tea.

between the cushions, i push aside some papers,
there's a fingertip.

four days later they'll find me rowing out to sea,
dreaming in vermilion on a blue-flower ocean

listening to a silent voice
ask my why i'm playing Mozart at 3am.