I have been reading some old poetry of mine. It is, for the most part, awful. However, I found a few interesting oddities. For example, this following is a poem-story (Haibun?) that I wrote as I went through a phase of writing symbol-rich prose, in a loosey-goosey style:

The Preacher's Robe is Full of Meatballs (9/26/2002)
     Spaghetti sauce on my plate, with noodles I ordered from church. A rotund, balding man approaches and says, "Would like like some fresh ground pepper?" He opens his robe to reveal lemongrass and other condiments. He leans over and pours me some tea, revealing himself gradually. 
     I do not admire a man with no shame. So, I leave no tip but a note carefully scrawled on a napkin: Meet me at the wharf, monsieur. As I leave he gives chase.
     "But I am not French," calls he.
     "Nevertheless, you may come."

     The next day, I pack cement carefully into a silver heart-shaped box.. What will become of this?  Wonder is better left to the imagination of a Catholic waiter at a Catholic diner, making extra tips to buy extra candles to burn to save an extra soul.
     Later, as planned, we meet near the docks, and I give him the silver box. He returns a knowing grin and nods, then turns to the great, green mass. He quickly runs to the water's edge and pivots slightly as he launches himself into the air. I expected such. I did not expect his arms to stretch out perpendicular to his body.
     "Save me," he cries to the heavens, choking on these last few words. I stand, waiting to see if anything happens. Nobody is saving him, and I certainly am not.
     I'd rather stand here with my hands in my pockets, crumpling my dining receipt.

There's a bullet in my head,
There's a bullet in my head,
No there isn't, but instead,
There's a brain.


Police should be more like gym teachers.  Instead of sirens, they could blow whistles and cheer us on: "Go! Go!  Keep it moving!  Faster!  Get your butt in gear!"  Yeah, that should help traffic move along.  And for traffic violations (which you'd get for driving too slow), people would just have to get out and do push-ups.


According to my college paper, I would be increase my "wellness" by engaging in the following activities:

1. Rollerblade the Seawall (oh okay, I'll do this August 7th)
2. Attend a theatre event (does spiderman 2 count?)
3. Park at the furthest point away from your destination in the parking lot. (but what if my destination isn't IN the parking lot?)
4. Give up caffeine for a week. (wh-wh-what?!)
5. Hike Grouse Mountain. (on my list)
6. Read a book on humour. (on my list. hehe)
7. Do not watch TV for one day. (how about a month? I hereby vow to not watch any TV during August!)
8. Listen to classical music (hehe! that's as cheesy as "go watch a foreign film.)
9. Watch the sunrise. (Okay, this is on my list. Can I wait until winter?)
10. Go on a vacation. (Sure, when I finish college)

I might actually do most of those. Now I have purpose. Oooh.


I think my dreams have reached a new apex of weirdness. Last night, I had a dream heckler. That's right, in the middle of my dream, someone stood up from the audience(?) and yelled, "This dream sucks!" If this keeps on happening, I'll have to think of some comebacks.


Terza Rima: Circle of Squares
You have mail! from the blue
Cataclysmic, rhythmic
Conversation ensues
“I’m a fairly addicted psychotic”
She says with a binary hand outstretched
Great, because I feel somewhat neurotic
The dice rolled so farfetched
Mutual abstract joy
Turning this knob to sketch
She appears to toy with the hoi polloi
Arrogance Alchemist glances downwards
Employs with practiced poise a poisoned ploy
And she says,
Who can find an angle in this circle of squares?
We engender found words
And with abandon meet
From the start so absurd
Hot Friday night, redundantly we greet
Volatile, diminutive, cynical,
She wields her spoon to save us from the heat
It all seems cyclical
Irritate plebeians
And tease with a sickle
“Your audience is in the millions!”
I argue feebly, before she replies
“And they have no worthy opinions.”
I must agree,
Who can find an angle in this circle of squares?


Last night in History class, we discussed the classic essay "Power of the People," and my professor raised the question of whether the same power could be used today. What is the "big lie" today that needs to be exposed?

After a few suggestions about Britney Spears and corporations, I suggested that people are far too apathetic or cynical to care these days. The best we can do is change our own attitudes.

Kill or be killed. The tragic theme of my most recent dreams, in which I am attempting to kill my family. These have not been intentional dreams (something I've been experimenting with lately), and they disturb me quite a bit, because most dreams have a grain of truth to them. In the most recent, I try to kill my sister by lacing her dishes with poisons. But she eludes death by graciously giving away all her dishes. Offstage, I unwittingly kill the recipient.

The dream before that included really intense swordfights with my dad. We had an armoury full of weapons... and used two at a time.

This all seems so strange since I'm not a violent person by any means. Moreover, I haven't seen or heard from my family for several weeks.


So while I was watching "Before Sunset" and Ethan and Julie reminisced about the past nine years they've been apart, I started thinking about my past and realized that most of it is a blur. There are large sections of my memory that seem to be locked away. Either that, or very little seems significant to me. Our ability to remember events is highly dependant on our level of arousal at the time. Perhaps my life has just been too boring. For example, I remember having played video games, but not a specific moment when I was playing video games. But I know my life has been more exciting than I can recall. Perhaps I just need to start examining my past and laboriously puzzling out all the details. Hm.


Thanks to the saccharine diet of children's programming I ingested as a child, now whenever I read something I imagine the rhythmic bouncing of a little white ball over every syllable.

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