Poem

A Song in Orange

Laying in light, sulfur mixing
in orange, the night gleaming
with a diamond buried
in pavement and devotion,
where a song played
five years ago
finds a reverent listener
who, in a pensive mood,
finds a passing solace
where people walk,
and say not one word
in that orange
you have made, that you have
found for me

My New Favorite Book

It had been a while since I've read fiction. Free from literary analysis and criticism via coursework, I gravitated toward non-fiction over the summer. I read books about pirates, athieism, Joe Strummer, the evolution of sex, not once considering a work of fiction. I was rather concerned, actually.

In high school I read so many great books: Lord of the Flies, To Kill a Mockingbird, and my favorite, The Catcher in the Rye. I contend that my love of reading established itself at this point, finding escape and relief in literature, when the reality of adolescents was lacking.

I think four years of being in college had restricted my enjoyment of fiction: reading material I wouldn't have otherwise choosen (not necessarily a bad thing in certain instances), forced to analyze passages and characters in boring, obvious ways, with the pressure to focus on certain aspects of a work that one thinks the professor will test them on, regardless if you think it important or not.

With this in mind I approached Herman Hesse's Siddhartha for my Zen Buddhism course. Just as reading Catcher in the Rye made me feel as if I wasn't alone in how I thought, how frustrated I was with adults, and with growing up in general; it reassured me that I wasn't crazy for having the thoughts that I did.

For many months I've contemplated ego, self, and the Buddhist notion of tanha (desire; thirst). I've examined my life, my wishes, attempting to distinguish my egocentric self with that of a more geniune self (does such a separation exist?) I felt unorthodox and strange in thinking the way I did.

Just like Catcher in the Rye, I read Siddhartha at a most opportune time. This simple, short novel absorbed me. The struggles and questioning of the title character mimicked that of my own. Just as I saw myself in Holden Caulfield, I saw myself in Siddhartha, a character created in 1919 Germany. Ninety years have past since Hesse created his Siddhartha, and me, a twenty-five year old in Richmond, VA, reads it as though it is at it's most fresh and relevant state.

American historian Barbara Tuchman once spoke that books are humanity in print. I think I might have found my own once again.

Poetry

I'm not as comfortable with my poetry as I was in my previous workshop one year ago, but I'll post anyway:

Melancholy in Indonesia

In the marriage of
flesh and river
I live restlessly
in a village
not unlike that of Indonesia
where the temples, religions, and
rain fall aimlessly on
my little hut
where I am lonely
and dry

A New Genesis (sans Phil Collins)

I have resolved myself to begin, somewhat, regular posts back on this blog. Over the past few weeks I've noticed myself regressing into the void of television and ennui; unhappiness and nonfulfillment being the resulting symptoms. Unfortunately, this is second nature for me, as I grew up in an environment where the only time one doesn't watch T.V. is when they are at work. I grew up satiating my mind and emotions via the idiot box. Thanks, but no thanks.

In talking with Brika about her new inspiration to begin her art once again, I've realized that it would be wise to follow her lead as a sort of muse. I want to revise old poems, write new ones, use this blog as a journal to get random thoughts down (to even explore thoughts I didn't even knew I had!).

I don't think a lot of friends understand my relationship (perhaps an odd, sentimental choice of vocabulary, but done so tactfully) with writing. That's fine. I realized over the summer that I probably read more books in three months than most friends will in three years. This not an elitist complaint, I know full well that reading is less exciting than most everything else out there in modernity, but reading and writing are special for me, even though it is not for most of my friends.

Writing is thinking. Explicating thoughts gives me an enormous, unique rush. I love it, and I miss it dearly.