Resolutions

Every single new years resolution - since I've been dating - has been to be happy with the person I'm with all the way until the next new years (I included "since I've been dating" because before that my resolutions were "get a girlfriend/hot girlfriend").

But, as for the last 5 years of resolutions, I have never succeeded. I have almost always broken up with the girl I was with because I was not "being happy" with them. Then, to accent this circle of "lying to the New Years Gods," I've dated or been with another girl at new years time and made the same resolution.

Maybe I'm a hopeless romantic who just wants to be with someone for the whole cycle of a year. Not so true. Who knows?

But, as referred to previously, I am still continuing this cycle. As if to prove my point, I have broken up with the girl I was with throughout this year, and am now with another girl, who I actually dated before and made this resolution for (do I get to make up resolutions past?).

I think I'm going to stop making this absurd resolution and do something more feasible, like "eat a cheeseburger" or "cook a stir fry that doesn't include wilted/overcooked vegetables"

Well, I suppose I should get to planning. Hmmm....what to do....

I'm Writing a Research Paper

It is becoming damn near impossible for me to write this research paper. So damn near impossible, that I'm blogging about it. Ugh.
My paper is called "Alchemy and Science to Enact Fear in Mary Shelley's Frankenstein." And, unfortunately for me, but also slightly fortunate, there is no other article like mine. So, as great as it could be that my article will be one of a kind, there is also almost nothing (scholarly) to base my article on.
It's going to be tough considering my article is due in about 15 hours.
I just want it to be over. It is my final final of this semester and will be a great paper to submit for my graduate applications. I just want to be done.
I want to read books (mostly the books I was supposed to read this semester), watch movies, and just relax.
Oh, and I haven't bought any Christmas presents either and that is coming up WAY too soon.

Well, I suppose it's time to get back to work. Shalom followers and stumblers.

How Much For a Free Lobster Dinner?

           Several years ago, in the bay area, when my father had hair on his head and I wasn’t even a thought, he and his friends were bored, hungry, and drinking. They had gone to a restaurant, a relatively nice restaurant, to drink at the downstairs bar and have a good time. After an hour or so of drinking and joking around, the men decided that it was time to walk back home to the apartment, and maybe make some food.

            “All we’ve got is pasta,” my dad remarked to the other three men.

            He was met with a grumble and a weary nod as if to say, it’s better than nothing, but we’re still going to hate it.

            They all stood up from their tall bar table, drunkenly pushed their stools back to where they found them (sort of), and trudged out of the bar doing their best not to knock anything over.

            Heading back up the stairs into the restaurant area of the building, in a semi-drunken stupor, my dad noticed a large lobster tank in the middle of the foyer. Or, should I say he noticed a prospect that sounded better than pasta.

            “I don’t think we’ll be eating pasta tonight, guys,” my dad remarked.

            His friends looked back at him with confused stares and blank faces. He pointed to the tank, and suddenly as if holy light had shone down upon the large aquarium his friends’ faces went completely aglow and excitement filled their eyes. So, they began to plan.

After what seemed like several minutes of superior planning, which was probably a couple seconds of drunken ideas, my dad’s friend, Rich, went to the host to strike up a conversation.

Rich was a smooth-talking Italian man who would later grow up to be a very profitable real estate agent. If you needed anyone to talk, and to talk well, Rich was certainly your man. He could probably make conversation with a mute.

While Rich distracted the host talking of being a restaurateur and expressing great interest in the business, my dad sneakily waltzed over to the lobsters’ tank. After looking several times in all directions to make sure that the coast was clear, he rolled up his sleeve and reached in. This must have looked extremely odd and extremely illegal to anyone around, but fortunately for my dad as well as his friends it was a busy night and few people were actually paying any attention. After a second he snatched up a very large lobster and held it dancing in his hand. He flashed it at his friends by the stairs and mouthed a silent “WOW!” as they giggled and tried to keep their cool.

            Upon noticing my dad’s fresh catch, Rich started to finish his conversation with the host as the rest of the crew made their escape. My dad and “dinner” hid within the group as they passed the host giggling and mouthing a “thank you” to the preoccupied host. I’m sure the host never knew how thankful they actually were. The men then regrouped outside with Rich and paused for a secret victory dance.

            They sprinted back home and rejoiced that at least for tonight, they wouldn’t be eating pasta.

On Floating

I feared for my own short life,

Afraid that I may lose myself.

Cold, rushing waters. But they made me safe.

Floated hundreds of times, they said.

As long as I stuck with them I’d have no worries, they said.

I relaxed and believed, safe.

Then, the current started to pick up,

And take our tubes where it shouldn’t.

Toward a drowned, dead tree.

It grabbed us and sent me

Into the strong current, fighting for

My life, head bobbing up and down

While I gripped the trunk to save myself.

Love: Like Clockwork

Your pointed hands dance before my eyes,

Forcing me to stare.

Keeping me chained with constant anxiety.

Your beautiful crystal-white face smiles at me from across the room,

But your glass house keeps you protected from my tinkering.

Your slender arms always moving in a

Steady,

Beautiful,

Rhythm,

I hang on your every tick and tock,

Until I can finally be free.

Some Statements Created Through Magnet Poetry

They were just words, I added punctuation to make them sentences...kinda.

Enjoy:

"Would sixty million sheep go into infinity? Some don’t."

"Each day, nine good little beans abuse a tall grain press."

"Country grows like artichokes in city."

"Who is who with seven thousand computer trees?"

"Real yellow where small dog try to sleep."

"Never read and write under your own pie."

"Run Gingerbread Company not for self."

"You see bread, then our idea of their lighthouse."

Ward: The Writer

I don’t sit down at my black Target discount desk and write. I throw up on paper with a pen in my hand.

Ward is the writer. He acts symbiotically with me. He takes all of that word vomit and finds what worth writing about. It’s his pen that sits poised in my hand, and it’s his hand that makes it write.

I put words on a page to prove something, to prove I can write, but it might as well be to prove I’m literate with the content hanging on the value of the words. Of course I want to be great, but I really write to prove that I can do what I set out to do. Prove that I can finish something, and that it will meet my standard.

Ward takes my words I place all over the page and presents them with style and creates an art. He works with my structure-less clay and molds it to meet my standard.

He writes to feel good, to be reflective, cynical, fun.

I just make the motions.

I write to look good. I write to make the “Kelly” at the top of the page shine. To make people see my name and think, Oh my! Kelly is sooo interesting. Maybe I should sleep with him? That’s a joke, but I wouldn’t fight them. I write to keep my name out there, to create a recognizable identity, to be noticed. I want to accomplish something. I don’t want to be a face in the crowd. I want to be published, and would love to be famous. To have people read the vomit I spew forth onto my page.

Ward doesn’t care about these things. He writes to vent and because it makes him happy. He doesn’t care if anyone notices him in public, or if anyone reads the art he paints with my pen. He writes with the sole understanding that I may be the only one to read his work and tell him my thoughts.

Ward could care less.

Ward is sarcastic, strange, and funny. I try to be deep and write provocatively, but I just end up getting in Ward’s way. He tends to toss out my ideas to build a stronger, better piece of art.

I just try to live a little. Find a niche and go out into the world. Ward sits at the dark black Target desk I bought him. He just sits and waits there for me to come home and bring him something new to work with.

Ward is a part of me. He’ll stay with me and with any luck, I can get all I want from him and he’ll always get what he wants from me. I’ll always have words that attract themselves to a blank page like magnet poetry. I’m happy to have Ward there to take the time to – with more talent – rearrange my words into an art that I can appreciate. Maybe one day, if I get my way, I won’t be the only one appreciating it.