Indie's Inanities

If you ever feel like you have nothing in you to write a poem. Compile a list of your entries in the "I Am" thread...especially if you go back to the old s2 to do it. It's fun! And revealing.

I Am A Compilation:
I am negotiable...to a point.
I am a little teapot.
I am feeling rather impulsive.
I am secretly in league with the Aquabats.
I am weirder.
I am laughing.
I am dancing in my chair at work to the Pixies.
I am Heather Crazy.
I am going to get you, my pretty.
I am the walrus.
I am infamous.
I am missing Veebs like a lost limb.
I am in love with Fred Z. Randall.
I am the face you half-see and forget.
I am hilarious.
I am glad to have entertained you.
I am currently reading a poem by Borges.
I am wondering, why are you here?
I am still laughing.
I am all of a dither.
I am right single to salute and wait for answer again.
I am, and this is my trusty servant Patsy.
I am drawn to the comedy of Eddie Izzard in drag.
I am still wearing my Gingerbread Man shirt.
I am searching for cold, cold wind.
I am impressed.
I am Danny, the Champion of the World.
I am cherry alive.
I am a mambo sun.
I am just a jeepster for your love.
I am wearing a pink wig.
I am all dried up.
I am oddly fascinated.
I am going to be a nomad.
I am keeled over laughing.
I am all kicks and giggles.
I am wondering what all the waiting is for.
I am trying to silence my grumbly tumbly with loud music.
I am not made of marshmallows OR creamy nougat filling.
I am a Pirate King.
I am not at all convinced.
I am tempted to do something childish.
I am curious as to what the slickest thing on the far side of the greased-up pig is.
I am going to cry.
I am done spamming, and will leave now.
I am going to tell you that my coworker just said, "That's the easiest thing ever!" and I added quietly, "this side of YOUR MOM." And Nick laughed.
I am teh coolest.
I am Curious...Fred?
I am so proud of you.
I am feeling strangely detached from my depressing reality.
I am sooooooo sick of my job today.
I am not dumb. I just have a command of thoroughly useless information.
I am uncomfortably anxious.
I am particularly edgy.
I am morbidly fascinated by that.
I am positive that your opinion is of no concern on that matter.
I am shocked an dismayed that so many of Poltsamaa's spare exclamation marks have found their way into Opa's punctuation arsenal.
I am a better one.
I am the shadow that passes in the night.
I am The Luckiest(tm). So suck it, Ben Folds.
I am occasionally overwhelming and always amused.
I be chewin' a large wad o' watermelon Bubbalicious.
I be the first t'point out I ne'er said the gum was piratey.
I am suddenly come over all peckish, and I thought to myself a little fermented curd would do the trick.
I am smiling quietly to myself.
I am going to point out that ^ should realize this is the "I am" thread and not the "You are" thread. Even if ^ is posting "You are" vicariously through a sad imitation.
I am having a delightful convo with Syd.
I am cropping scanned microfilm images on Irfanview.
I am laughing.
I am listening to Schoolhouse Rock songs.
I am smoke on the water.
I am not a crook.
I am rolling my eyes.
I am giggling. Because boys are funny in the morning. To me.
I am going to send OPA some anthrax in the mail if he doesn't stop making stupid assumptions about my feelings.
I am laughing and rolling my eyes because there's so much animosity around here this morning.
I am going to ride my scooter up the canyon and look at the leaves in the rain.
I am ALLIIIIIIIIVE. Bwahaha.
I am MEEELLLLLLLTIIIIING!!! AAAAAAAAAAAAH!!!
I am suddenly motivated to get 1500 posts.
I am prepared for bacon in the soap.
I am crunchy on the inside.
I am beddy for read!
I am back to lay thick the beginnings of yet another spam trail. Woohoo!
I am excited for the new season of 24.
I am deeeeelicious.
I am here! -=dramatic cavalry music=-
I am getting further, and further off target.
I am reading about the Lyndon B. Johnson cult.
I am going to laugh at you, because they were from New Guinea.
I am wondering why, because I did check it. And I emailed you back. And then I got...NOTHING.
I am content to let the reasoning behind the pirate smiley remain shrouded in mystery.
I am going to let you know that's Morrissey, before OPA gets the chance to yell at you for not knowing him.
I am laughing at the mental image of OPA being angry bullshit.
I am, once again, finding myself at work. I don't remember how I got here. And I'm not sure I know how to leave...
I am also unsure as to how I feel about John Voight being Optimus Prime in the new Transformers movie...
I am slightly irate about...the recent re-debut of an occasional wanker.
Click to expand...
 
Sooooo....the better my poetry is, the uglier I am? That explains SOOO much! No wonder I'm such a good poet! :D

You're a good poet yourself. :)
 
Psh. Just cuz I don't post doesn't mean I'm not haunting this place like a proverbial ghost. Plus, I've not much to say these days. Too, too busy. Mebbe I'll post more this weekend. Bye kids! :hello:
 
Can't glass
curtains leave just
me on
the insides.

Always you
assume
I'll have one or
seven sides
to say.

I catch too
easily on the finer
points
of all you

say.
 
Leave me this
watchtower

so I can see
your time
pick through

my peeledoff
layers.

If you do find
me between
the yellowlines

you neglect it
in your list of all
my names

you feel your
duty
to mention.

I will add another
thing
here, just for

abstraction.

I am
to(o) extroverted
to leave
particulars

for another
scrapheap conundrum

of binaries and
code.
 
I gave youall
my slate layers,

and I am done
with alone
and flaying myself

at the window

just for the
passersby to

see.
I'm no longer

dimeadozen,
same old poemwhore,

apparition

me.

[/end]
 
reading your poetry with audislave (exploder) playing in the background seemed to have this odd calming effect over my confusing weary ole sole. Thanx for the fix kiddo.

Again I G ROX!
and rolls over those bumpy paths with the art of a steamroller. ;)
They sux!
 
*IndieGirl dons her famous wistful half-smile.

That's what I'm here for, MI. It's what I used to be here for, anyway.

Thanks, Chelle. You're sweet. Love you.
 
It's not the same truth if you give a lot of love that you can't help giving. It actually rarely comes back anywhere near equal measure to what you gave out.
 
The trick is not to care, and to realize that you're here to spread love across everything so that it can fill in the tiny cracks of lives that people don't realize need constant filling until you've gone.
 
What you have to learn (and this is usually the hard part) is how to prep yourself to live with knowing your only appreciation will be a constantly posthumous thing.
 
But then, the task of life is service - a charity of sorts. Charity isn't something we do to get credit. It's not something we do just to get to heaven. It's the very fabric of which heaven is wove.
 
All I'm saying is that maybe loving EVERYTHING too much is a soul's way of attempting to repay God for that act of greatest Love.

Mosiah said it best: "When ye are in the service of your fellow beings, ye are only in the service of your God."
 
And I guess that true mortal progression comes when you realize that you can never repay God for all you've been given, and that you keep loving and serving the people around you anyway.
 
Is there really such a thing as settling for laying up the proverbial treasure in heaven?

The world's such a tainted, crummy place anyway. Why settle for it's recognition?

I'm not saying this to any of you. It's just something I had to explain to myself this morning.

Always,
IG
 
Something I'd been meaning to post since Jan 18th...ish...

Y'know how sometimes you just feel untied to everything going on in your life? I feel that way about most things. My current voicemail message says, "Hey, this is Chelsea. Sorry I missed your call. I'm in the process of making some changes in my life. If I don't return your call, you are one of those changes. Leave a message!"

It was per Jodie's suggestion, and because I found it funny.

I haven't been writing much. Other than emails to Syb (a.k.a. syber rad, sybertronia), because he's the best emailer in the world (okay, so he ties with Syd - the irony!) And I suppose that if I'm counting emails, then I'm completely lying about not writing much lately, because these are like...emails that would give the length of War & Peace a run for it's money.

I guess it's not so much the feeling of being untied as it is the feeling of untying and tying on to new things. The last little strings that need to be reattached before you let go into a new life.

I guess that's one way to put it, anyway.

We've moved the date to April, so the 'couverites (as Syb calls them) can be here for the whole thing. Mom wants me to grow my hair out for it. I told her if she bugs me about my hair again, I'm going to wear my hot pink wig for the wedding pictures.

I don't think she thinks I'm serious about that. I guess we'll just have to see.

Fun story - I actually got to talk to Syb on the phone Saturday night (it was Saturday night my time. Which was 3 in the morning, but still counted as nighttime because I hadn't gone to sleep yet.) It was an awesome conversation. We talked about monkeys and music and all sorts of stuff. Seriously one of the best phone conversations I've ever had at three in the morning. And I've had my fair share of 3am phone calls.

I have been writing other stuff than emails too, I confess. Just not poetry. I write in my journal every night - it's a New Year's resolution thing - I shared one of my entries with Syb, and since part of it is about the North Pacific, I figured I might as well share it with the rest of you.

January 17, 2007

Reading: The Sea by John Banville, The Quitter by Harvey Pekar, Snow by Orhan Pamuk.
Playing: Nothing, at the moment.
Listening to: Indie stuff, The Engineers mostly. Ted Leo. Casiotone.
Using Cell Phone For: Sudoku. Email. Web-surfing. My calendar.

Quote: (from page 108 in "The Sea") "Happiness was different in childhood. It was so much more then a matter simply of accumulation, of taking things - new experiences, new emotions - and applying them like so many polished tiles to what would someday be the marvellously finished pavillion of the self. And incredulity, that too was a large part of being happy, I mean that euphoric inability to fully believe one's simple luck."

I can't recall being a child. I can, but most of my childhood recollections - memories, to be so torpid - aren't exactly happy, or blissfully ignorant of their fortune. My descent from childhood, emotionally, was an un-numbing. A slow awakening to the awkwardness of self from the blissful anaesthesia of a extroverted penchant for both curiosity and compassion. My childhood was observation, filling in all of the spaces in my subconscious and conscious mind (the white space that blinds you - a child so fresh from God - with it's pervasive sterility, it's overwhelming necessitate of useability.)

I spent my early life assembling the experiential control of a stumbling, perpetual, experiment of maturing which would be lobbed a godless (well, it was painfully felt) amount of unchartable, unstable, unconscionable variables. I never adequately prepared for it, you see.

I never once caught in this giant, pieceless, hemless, smothering patchwork of acute observations a vision, a premonition, a sketch of myself. I am not mother or father before me. Not grandparent, teacher, mentor, friend, crossing guard, bosomous church lady, supposited male figures, artist, artiste, poet, Dr. Seuss character, or prophet of fire and light and the holy terror of the love of God. I was a composite of each of them - including the Harley gang bikers in the bank parking lot who I was convinced were going to kidnap my three year-old brother.

And so it goes. We are each that way - we are divinity and experience (as nouns and not adjectives - we are Divinity + Experience) both constantly grappling for dominance in the meagre confines  of a fleshy, imperfect, beautiful, expanselessly limited wuss of a soul. I envelope you, my truth-wielding, seraphic self-counterpart; my bumbling idiot.

I am still doing these things.

I am still tripping back to the North Pacific. Quenchless. I am on hands and knees groping from the veritable desert of days and "mellow fruitlessness." I have loved you. All of you. I do. I love you because I cannot help myself. The wretched soul-fingers that reach for your reaching merely because I breathe. I see. Because I need something more red - more here - than here is.

I write, I confess, I mistake, I over-react because of all that encompasses me, of all my patchwork properties, the batting - those very fibres of my being - of any being - that make a quilt worth having - is composed of loves.

Like Brod from Everything is Illuminated, like Jesus, like Enos, like a mercenary, like a sinner, like the faces you half-see and forget, I love you.  I love. It claws, it ekes itself out of me. With such force I can hardly believe it's not tangible. Can hardly believe these letters do not burrow themselves into your very corneas with the perviousness of which they're imbibed.

I clamour for this place - this slew of lifewindows, of the real shadowyous, where each breath, space, symbol, absence, cloying presence of mine only begs you:

Love me. Because I am afraid that love doesn't exist - and I am willing to try nearly everything that does to find it.

Love me enough to take me seriously when I am not being serious - because even, perhaps especially - insincerity and humor have their truths, their sadnesses, their silent admissions. Who stops to count them? Who gives them priority?

I love you, so-imaginary-you're-real-maybe-even-more-real place. You North Pacific. You People. Your nuances, your flavors, your magazines, your harrowing rapport, your steely-tottering precipice of tolerance for the shenanigan, the casual word.

Everyone builds life on a hope for tenderness. Who would shoulder the burdens of actual living if love - in its layers - wasn't worth waking up for?

If happiness in childhood consists of a heedless taking, of sorts, is it safe to conclude that at the bottom of this adulthood, this foot of clay crumbles flawlessly on the happiness, the satisfaction, of GIVING with a clear and observed understanding?

I was merely wondering, you see. I seem to have crossed a threshold. Putting away a portion of my childish things.

I find myself increduless (misspelling intentional). Schrapnelled on the panguishing moments I live. I love.
Click to expand...

Stuff like that. Now you know why I don't share it.

Two songs you should all listen to:
Mastercontrol - Graeme Downes
Lull - Record of Small Histories

Lull is instrumental. But it's awesome. Mastercontrol is just rad. Graeme Downes is of The Verlaines fame, for those of you hip enough to have known The Verlaines. Lyrics for Mastercontrol you won't be able to find - trust me, I've tried. Here's the jist of them that I can type down while I listen to it:

devolving tonight without ending.
decked out, running these engines.
a notice posted was steel-coated.
i've said farewell to land and sky.
the ocean liners and barges
(with cargoes of bullshit and garbage)
we wait below them, torpedoes loaded,
if it sweetly goes to plan then
we can sink with abandon.
now don't try explaining
why no love can change me.
when the whitecaps drop diamonds
we gotta dive down to find them.
we stayed in the garden of eden -
we can't pay the bills so we're leaving
we're going where no one knows us.
there's no new roses -
it's cuz love is such a vandal.
this is all we can handle.

THAT is it. That is how I can feel some days.


Same as always with just a bit of stitches left,

IG



IGEdit: Spelled "than" as "that". Had to fix it.
 
A poem I wrote at work on Thursday, after thinking about an illustration from my Edward Gorey desk calendar that Mom got me for Christmas, from his book called "The Epileptic Bicycle." (Coincidentally, Edward Gorey is one of my very favorite author/artists.)

Here's the picture: it's kind of hard to see, but the caption underneath says "Embley and Yewbert were hitting one another with croquet mallets."

epi_bic_3.jpg


Embley and Yewbert

at present,
mentally

absent
she'll stay adrift
on her chair, her eyes

meandering some
flaccid
petulance of apathy,

of a swung detachment
toward herself
and what

she finds
herself

doing.

it isn't
someone. she ponders
this
she ponders

Edward Gorey and
the way

he wrode
his Epileptic Bicycle.

she'll manipulate
her feelings
around a probable
ethos
of such dark

humor. it's
funny. croquet mallets.
ninnies.

and just like
that
she's

excused.
she'll absent
herself.

presently.
 
IndieGirl:
It's not the same truth if you give a lot of love that you can't help giving. It actually rarely comes back anywhere near equal measure to what you gave out.
Click to expand...
Three times what thou givest or takest returns to thee.

Don't you miss her?
 
How often do you find that mindless prattering in your brain feeling like a toilet has been flushed and as you write all of the bad and waste is being purged leaving you a clear sparkling view of life? Good grief if only half of what I ever wrote turned out as spectacular as your journal entries I would be riding the Best Seller list for years. Can I have the rights to publish your journal when you die?? The depth, the breadth, like throwing a canvas over life and watching colors seep in but never turning it over to get the full picture because you find that what you see satisfies your craving. I am in awe.

Sorry about the fiance thing. Men are pigs. This comes from many gathered comments on men from women over the years and also a first hand look at our gender in those moments when women aren't around. Although I can not say you are better off for there is something that is created in that bond between man and woman - a shared sense of self...unified being made up of so many individual parts and in that being you find strength and comfort hidden and absent in all other parts of life.

I raise a glass to your poetry and sorrows. May the one blossom and the other diminish as your soul continues to paint with the colors of words.
 
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