The other writer

Back when I was 16...
I was in the Borders coffee place and this old man comes and sits down, frustrated by the help of his daughter (probably almost 50 herself). When she left he was able to be at peace, he could watch others and just work. So he takes out his notepad of yellow paper and I really want to talk to him, because now's the only time I'll get to tell him that I think he's incredible because he's sitting right across from me and we're both writers and we're both writing and we've both taken a moment to glance at what the other person is writing in curious skepticism and we're both drinking coffee drinks and we're both extremes on the ages, he's near the end of his life and my life's near the beginning. So finally I asked him, "What are you writing?" And he smiles, that 'Yes! This is the situation we both wanted it to be' smile that writers get when asked about their work and answers "A Novel" "What's it about?" I ask, and he told me, and I listened, and after the one sentence synopsis he told me about the scene he was writing, and then he said "Thank you for asking" and I forget what I said and I went back to writing and so did he and we were comfortable strangers, proud of a moment.

Threw away an apple

I got my first taste of Boston this weekend, first real taste. I've spotted various bookstores to lose myself in, 3 just in Harvard Square, as well as a really cool thrift/vintage clothes store which I'd like to give more time.
Halloween is on its way and, if I have enough time, the plan is to be Poison Ivy (from Batman).
Last night I typed up all the poetry I had written (mostly in Logic class, but some in Peace and Justice, and one or two poems in French). Well, the use of "1 or 2 poems" is misleading, what I have been creating is one long poem. Currently 4 pages. It's interesting, because the poetry goes through fazes as I do: hopeful, overwhelmed, futile, sentimental sometimes, and pleasantly distracted at other times.
So, part of the poem.

Threw away an apple that met with the floor,

My luck, my illustration of disparity.

I do not feel honest despair for the disparity

because I don't know how

to disperse the spare I have.

We are learning about problems, but we are rarely taught how to solve them. Occasionally, we learn of lofty solutions that aren't accessible, that's about it.

Shit and Sunshine

"It's all shit and sunshine in the beginning, and then it gets worse, and then it gets better, much better."

Vera, in latin, means truth. It's a lofty goal, but life is a lofty enterprise.

So, a poem of mine as introduction. This is from when I was playing around with sonnets.

Wake up, eat breakfast, never leave the snare
Ignore your hopes, you'll feel another day.
The shoes not yours, whose body do you wear?
And all the while there's nothing you can say.

Your mind, your body squirms in the attack
You focus on a poem, love, dance cry sing.
Take time, eventually you'll gain the knack
Till then, let dreams or sleep serve as your wing.

Don't waste "now", for there is no forever
The thing you make, maybe that thing will last.
Life's overwhelming sounds combined make "never"
Your moment of Existence passes- fast.

Push past despair onto I can, I will.
Ignore restrictions, and smile at the thrill.


The plan for this blog: some poetry (I've started writing a lot of it since I got to college). Also, to keep the world/myself.. updated on my explorations of Boston. General exploration of thoughts. Comments are always nice, but I'm not really expecting an audience. Maybe I'll rant about some political theories, explore my own. Find a voice? We'll see.