translation can be tricky sometimes, i think.
how do we know that what we mean gets
processed "just so" in another's mind?
not even from one language to another,
it can be complicated even from one
eye movement to another. but if "it"
is really all about me, in the end, then
why does it matter if you understand why
i write the words that i write, in this
particular order, at this particular time
(11:53:58 EST) for any particular reason?
what if i don't even know my own reason, and
therefore couldn't try to translate it
into your comprehension, even if i wanted to?
in the end, if it was really all about "me" in my world
and "you" in yours, i wouldn't need to be asking
these questions, now would i.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
99-real life
we're all involved in this: you know, the art
of making things. searching for meaning. what do you mean
it's not there? everything must have a meaning,
for why else would we assign phonetic sounds to little
symbols which we use to create mental representations of
items we meet in the real world? does that mean that
inside of the brain isn't the real world? can synaptic
transference constitute communication like when i tell you
i love you? perhaps the transfer of neural information is like that,
and sometimes when you can't remember something or focus
on a particular topic, it means that the neurons that
Should Be communicating are in a fight; aren't talking to each other
right now. or maybe the inside of the mind is like a trifocal glasses lens,
and you have to find the sweet spot to get the message
through the synaptic cleft. like i said, everything must have a meaning.
of making things. searching for meaning. what do you mean
it's not there? everything must have a meaning,
for why else would we assign phonetic sounds to little
symbols which we use to create mental representations of
items we meet in the real world? does that mean that
inside of the brain isn't the real world? can synaptic
transference constitute communication like when i tell you
i love you? perhaps the transfer of neural information is like that,
and sometimes when you can't remember something or focus
on a particular topic, it means that the neurons that
Should Be communicating are in a fight; aren't talking to each other
right now. or maybe the inside of the mind is like a trifocal glasses lens,
and you have to find the sweet spot to get the message
through the synaptic cleft. like i said, everything must have a meaning.
98-interlaced
was it the dress
or
the music that made this
one night the way i was?
the way it was?
the way you were?
soft notes fluttering down
slowly grazing the skin,
the slightest of touches,
nuzzling into corners, folds.
beats trickling down the back,
tapping harmonies of colors and sounds
into each skin cell. how can one be
separate from the other? how can two
senses not be intertwined, interlaced,
the feel of silk upon skin creates its own
reverberation.
97-declension
i like to create my own scenes of potential,
at random,
when they strike me. when you ask
me to cut up the vegetables
for dinner, or
your foot brushes mine when we're
asleep, or when we're walking
through aisles of (nouns-declining
through their inflections)
whatever. i like to see the
potential (capable of becoming,
becoming what?) in this, this
moment. can't you see it there?
just behind the lampshade?
reflected in the mirror
(remember, your brain turns it
upside-down for you, so you can make
sense
of the world)
at random,
when they strike me. when you ask
me to cut up the vegetables
for dinner, or
your foot brushes mine when we're
asleep, or when we're walking
through aisles of (nouns-declining
through their inflections)
whatever. i like to see the
potential (capable of becoming,
becoming what?) in this, this
moment. can't you see it there?
just behind the lampshade?
reflected in the mirror
(remember, your brain turns it
upside-down for you, so you can make
sense
of the world)
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
96-really
i don't think it's stalking, really,
especially since i completely don't care;
really, i'm happy now, i have all my ducks in a row
-school-job-exercise-boyfriend-family-all lined up
to my liking. it's not stalking, really,
but sometimes i still notice when your name comes up
(like that street we passed in ohio-stark white
emblazoned on green, lit brightly in the headlights)
or when i saw you that one time, at the party, with
that other girl. i wouldn't say it's stalking, really,
since i was with him, just as happy as you, but i
still felt a dull twisting in my spine (really, i have
no right to still feel this, i shouldn't still feel this,
but come on, you can't expect me to wish happiness
upon you, the happiness i know)
especially since i completely don't care;
really, i'm happy now, i have all my ducks in a row
-school-job-exercise-boyfriend-family-all lined up
to my liking. it's not stalking, really,
but sometimes i still notice when your name comes up
(like that street we passed in ohio-stark white
emblazoned on green, lit brightly in the headlights)
or when i saw you that one time, at the party, with
that other girl. i wouldn't say it's stalking, really,
since i was with him, just as happy as you, but i
still felt a dull twisting in my spine (really, i have
no right to still feel this, i shouldn't still feel this,
but come on, you can't expect me to wish happiness
upon you, the happiness i know)
95-or was it fog?
the night air still clings to me, a cloak
of mist pulling me back into memory.
the low bustle of cicadas in the trees,
dust hanging in the air,
(or was it fog?)
no, it was the condensation of my
breath as i bitterly exhaled into
the biting wind, snow nipping at my
heels as i dug them in that much
harder. or was it raining? and my heels
being pulled to and fro by puddles
deep with reflection? dwelling
in the depths of memories can be
pointless, you see, as new memories
work retroactively to cloud the older
ones even more.
of mist pulling me back into memory.
the low bustle of cicadas in the trees,
dust hanging in the air,
(or was it fog?)
no, it was the condensation of my
breath as i bitterly exhaled into
the biting wind, snow nipping at my
heels as i dug them in that much
harder. or was it raining? and my heels
being pulled to and fro by puddles
deep with reflection? dwelling
in the depths of memories can be
pointless, you see, as new memories
work retroactively to cloud the older
ones even more.
94-moon
I remember the time I heard someone tell me about
their little brother thinking that when they drive,
the world is moving past them, instead of the car
moving past the world. I smiled to myself on the rest
of the way home, thinking about my own childhood ideas;
the moon was my friend who followed me home in the car,
to make sure I made it home safe and sound.
I thought of the moon as a little puppy dog, on a
reallyreallyreallyreally long leash, stretching all
the way up to the stars around his neck, and he would
be there, trotting along at night, as our car
hummed along the highway, providing us with a safe
dull light, all the way home.
their little brother thinking that when they drive,
the world is moving past them, instead of the car
moving past the world. I smiled to myself on the rest
of the way home, thinking about my own childhood ideas;
the moon was my friend who followed me home in the car,
to make sure I made it home safe and sound.
I thought of the moon as a little puppy dog, on a
reallyreallyreallyreally long leash, stretching all
the way up to the stars around his neck, and he would
be there, trotting along at night, as our car
hummed along the highway, providing us with a safe
dull light, all the way home.
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