Dreaming

I dreamt in Farsi last night. There were men—young men, few years my senior—and they were dark-eyed Iranians, their smooth tan hands coated in blood and dripping. The drops on the floor were mesmerizing in a sick sort of way, revolutionary raindrops to harvest a better tomorrow. They were slender and boyish and I could not help but gag as they carried the bodies of their fellow protestors and friends inside, away from the conflict. Some were already dead and some still stubbornly clung to life. The men were tired, it showed in their deep eyes, but their mouths were set firmly, their hands steady, practiced, as they tended the wounded. Their voices were low and determined, easily heard even over the gunfire. An injured boy quietly lay on the floor while another knelt next to him, comforting. A longer look revealed the boy’s scalp in shreds, blood pooling behind his head, a red halo. He blinked hard and tried to focus, but it didn’t take long for his eyes to stop moving, for his chest to stop moving. I wondered what his name was and who would tell his family—or if he had any family at all. He was so young. What could he have been? A writer? A politician? A doctor? His potential lay there, bleeding out on a white linoleum floor. That potential would dry a sticky, cracking brown and someone would have to scrub that potential up with soap and warm water, washing away the future.

Grit and Grime

I was walking the stairs up to a friend's apartment today and passed by a used, dripping condom hanging off the handrail. I glanced at it with minor interest and kept on walking, ever careful to not touch the railings. I never give it much thought--it's a college town so things like this happen all the time. The night before, I listened to my neighbors scream "fuck you!" at each other for hours (you'd think after awhile that they would mix it up, but they never do). This morning, I woke up to find my car keyed, apparently the victim of mistaken identity because said neighbor and I have the same car and I'm pretty sure her boyfriend found out she's cheating on him...

I live in a pretty shitty place. It's kind of gritty here. It's sure as hell ugly. But it's home--somehow, this little grotto of a college town is home. And it's affected my writing, you know? It's changed since I've been living here--I've changed since living here. It's more ballsy. Angrier. Profane. But that's what this place will do to you, I guess. You can only listen to couples fucking on the 6th floor of the library for so long before you know when she's faking an orgasm and you can only be called a dumb cunt for tripping in the cafeteria before it stops fazing you.

This is the stuff Edinboro has taught me. These are the things I know. They're ugly things, but this is an ugly place.

It's changed my writing. I don't lie in my writing anymore. I don't say "sugar" when I mean "shit." I don't gloss things over because they're too in-your-face, too audacious. If you want me to tell you a story, if you want me to be a raconteur, I will--but you're going to be disappointed if you're expecting a nice, clean, neat story. I hate nice, clean, neat stories because they're not true. Truth is dirty; truth is bold and sexual and indecent; truth uses words like "fuck" and "cunt"; the truth gets in your face and spits in it.

And why shouldn't I tell the truth? I used to write nice things, things I could show my grandmother. But that era is over. Now I write things that make people squirm. I write things that make people so uncomfortable that they set the paper down--but even then, it's worth it. Being reader-less is better than vapid popularity; a sincere sinner rather than a bastard saint.

And maybe I'm just saying this because I'm young and maybe I'll sell out my values someday. But, for today, I've got my fucking principles and I'm clinging to them like a herpes on a whore.


POST EDIT: Edinboro has also made me a horrible, horrible, moral compass-less human being. I'm beginning to aspire to the Tucker Maxx level of Hell.

So... Sometimes I Write Poetry...

The Journalist

Whiskey on the rocks

then straight from the bottle.

Making out and coming up for air,

“This is a bad idea. I should stop.”

Words slurred and giggled—

hollow anyways.

Mustering sobriety and apologizing

“I’m sorry I’m not a pretty woman.

I’m so sorry I’m not a pretty woman.”

Your laughter,

Kissing—

Too gentle for a one-night-stand.

I should’ve known then.

Body warm and drunk,

fluid

melting

instinctive.

Loneliness,

A ghost vanquished.

Sunshine burning,

acid in retinas,

trapped under your arm and sobering fast.

You,

a hungover beauty with sleepy green eyes

telling me I look beautiful.

Broke Down

So... I did it. I got a blog. I've never blogged before, you know--too much commitment, too much work for my lazy ass. But I'm going to try. No promises, of course, but I'll give it a shot and punch in and write something now and then. Maybe all my posts will be crap, but maybe I'll write something brilliant too.