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Tuesday, August 18, 2009

Old Stuff

note: the currents of my creative energies have been redirected; either into the pathetic wellstream of furniture arrangement or into a reservoir for academic use. Yes, composition does work like divisible, rolling-over pieces of material, in case you were wondering. So, today I present a little steam-of-consciousness prose written about an old friend (around a year ago). This person recently asked if I ever put anything on this blog about him. I hadn't, but I feel such a formative friendship deserves some poetic space. So here's to you. My sincerest blessing.

"Today I discovered that unconventional beauty attracts men who are unconventional. Either that, or some alloy of internal sentience and external asceticism stiffens my empathy, and because of that it's excruciatingly difficult to converse with others.

External asceticism by default. I'm no fucking martyr. It's just that, no one's watching me.

Do you find any truth in this assertion: "Everyone's favorite word is their own name." I'm ambivalent towards its factuality; however, it does intuitively force the question:
"Is my name my favorite word?"
How else could we possibly begin to judge the accuracy of the aforementioned theory? Do people have favorite words? Do you ask them about it? Probably not - although I did once.

It was probably 2004. At that time my life followed a predictable, all-American, 4-season cycle. Summers were spent working part-time. Fall: school and running. Winter: Depression. Spring: school and soccer. The memories of high school I do not cherish. I hardly remember being in love. But I remember a few classmates' favorite words. (Juxtapose. Pandemonium.) Or least favorite. (Moist. Like.) It was during this existence period that unconventionality first stared to notice me. His beauty then is absolutely perfect to me now.

My computer radiates in a shade of feminine pink, bubbly keyboard, and complementary periwinkle Bluetooth wireless mouse. I took up an interest in gender studies in my formative collegiate years, (a proclivity which has since, by the way, dissipated into a shriveled memory of passion) and predict that my educated lady-friends probably would turn their nose on such a gender-biased alterna-typewriter.

An equally combative strategy to battling the tenseness experienced at being the second sex would be to just fucking embrace it. Submission can be sexy. Operate your business not from behind a cubicle wall but within the minds of others."

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