I don't know what to call this anymore.

The setting sun drew the scattered mounds of earth eastward into long, indigo shadows. For every square foot of undisturbed grass, three minuscule ditches of equal size peppered it's perimeter. Anyone stumbling across this scene would assume it was a spectacularly preserved battle site from the American Civil War, but these trenches yielded neither bone nor bullet. In fact, they yielded nothing but disappointment. Well, nothing but an exhaust pipe, a horseshoe, a Christmas ornament, and a paperweight in the shape of Felix the Cat; but those all equated to disappointment.

A trail of small, ocherous footprints twisted around the yard and up the small set of porch stairs. They made their way past a discarded shovel, through a back door, and through a small, cluttered house. Where the trail ended sat a small girl of seven. Face propped up on filthy palms, she surveyed the fruits of her toils laid out in front of her. Her eyes moved from the procession of knick-knacks to the window, then back again. This disappointed treasure-hunter was a second grade me. Spade in one hand, garage-sale metal detector in the other, I had spent my entire day attacking the lawn in hopes that it would surrender some shimmering bounty. With each false-alarm paperclip, my resolve seemed to strengthen, rather than deteriorate, as one would expect it to.

In the same manner, throughout the years, every tug of a shelved book that failed to trigger a sliding bookcase simply convinced me that it was surely the next book. But eventually, there came a day when I had run out of books to pluck and fixtures to wheedle. And there I was, a seven-year-old female Ponce de Leon with an unquenched thirst for a drink from the fountain of adventure. So what did I do? As the beams of sunset gave way to a dusty summer dusk, I tiptoed in my own footprints, past my parent's bedroom, out the back door, and into the yard yet again. I returned to the battlefield, armed with the shovel and this time my coin collection. I began to fill in the craters that I had created; a 2-cent piece here, a peso there; until my collection had substantially diminished in size. Before dawn crested the horizon, I was finished. My backyard, once seamless, level, and utterly boring, was now marred, scarred, and full of treasure. No child of the future would ever suffer the disappointment that I had!

I learned on that occasion that my quest for adventure, for meaning, would not always be as easily fulfilled as that of Treasure Island's Jim Hawkins, or H.G. Wells' Time Traveler. Sometimes, one must create meaning in meaning's absence. The discovery of an empty chest should not elicit disappointment, but excitement at the prospect of filling it with whatever you want! Such is the case with a blank canvas, ready to become a masterpiece, or an empty lawn, ready to be filled with foreign currency. Many people spend their lives attempting to discover the innate purpose of humanity. Many people are dependent upon the notion that we exist here for some specific reason, to meet some pre-defined need. Where is the freedom in that, though? There is no room for self-expression in a life where one's route has been drawn for them on some almighty map. Contrary to popular belief, a life without an assigned purpose is not dominated by ennui or despair, but rather, an exhilarating freedom.

When the world does not provide a clear path, no X to mark the spot, you have to hack your way through the undergrowth. And that ungraceful, stumbling gait is what makes life interesting. What merit is there to the simple following of a map? The true purpose is to create your own purpose. The real treasure is the joy of drawing your own map. It's what separates leaders from followers; pioneers from tourists, and it’s what has made me the person that I am.

My mornings are shaped like hoops.

My eyes are shaped like pecans.
My conscience is shaped like a cricket.
My sleep is shaped like a diamond.
My love is shaped like an amoeba.

And I always make perfect sense.

I tried to be like Grace Kelley.

But all her looks were too sad.

Yeah, I could be wholesome,
I could be loathsome
but I'm a little bit shy.
Why don't you like me?
Why don't you like me without making me try?

I could be brown, I could be blue,
I could be violet sky.
I could be hurtful, I could be purple;
I could be anything you like.

Just give up and admit you're an asshole.

You would be in some good company. I think you'd find that your friends would forgive you, or maybe I'm just speaking for me.

You can't hide behind social graces, so don't try to be all touchy-feely and you lie in my face of all places, but I've got no problem with that really.
What bugs me is that you believe what you're saying. What bothers me is that you don't know how you feel. What scares me is that while you're telling me stories you actually believe that they are real.

And I've got no illusions about you. And guess what? I never did. And when I said "I'll take it", I meant 'as is'.

When I look around I think this is good enough and I try to laugh at whatever life brings 'cause when I look down I just miss all the good stuff and when I look up I just trip over things.

I've got no illusions about you. Guess what? I never did and when I say I'll take it, I mean 'as is'.



Ani Difranco is my soul sister.

"God, I wanna' be brilliant, I wanna' glow in the dark,"

said a grasshopper to the sky, which perched perilously atop the steeples of the world.

Seconds later, a robin swoops from a clothesline, snatches the incognizant orthoptera in her dainty beak from a blade of grass, and returns like a boomerang to the very spot she had previously alighted.

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I want to write a weird firefly/bug allegory, involving religion, reincarnation, hiccups, and unearthly tarps. Keep your eyes peeled. I'm going to want opinions.

Thanks.

"Happiness is only real if shared."

Christopher McCandless, the doomed Emory University graduate who tossed everything to live the life of a hopeful vagabond criss-crossing America in the early-1990s, scribbled the above quote days before he died of starvation, alone, in a dilapidated bus in rural Alaska where he had been living for months.

The colorful short life of McCandless -- chronicled in Jon Krakauer's book, Into the Wild, and now in the mesmerizing and beautiful Sean Penn film adaptation of the same name -- can be viewed as a spoiled kid posturing through a pretentious rebellion against his troubled, yet privileged, youth. Or, as Penn suggests, his rebellion could also have been a valid attempt to exorcise the past through experiencing life on his own romantic Thoreau-inspired terms.

Into the Wild, the movie, ultimately presents McCandless as somewhat of a tragic figure: two years of a bountiful life full of individualistic adventures and searching, a life where his passion for living touched all he encountered on his journey still ended with his solitary death in a mammoth wilderness so far from the world.

This, however, doesn't make his journey, or the film, seem like a waste. To the contrary, until his lonely passing, the paths McCandless (embodied in a wonderful performance by Emile Hirsch!) chose, whatever his disillusioned intentions, crammed a lifetime of passion into his short time on Earth. Of course, the very nature of cinema lends itself to romanticizing the celluloid heroes, but with Krakauer's investigations, there was no question that those with whom McCandless shared his nomadic quest were touched by the young man's enthusiastic zeal for the possibilities of this world. The hippie couple (portrayed in the film by the always wonderful Catherine Keener and newcomer Brian Dierker) who saw him as a younger vessel of themselves. The wild farmer (Vince Vaughn) whose wild ways were somewhat tempered by the naivety of McCandless. And, of course, the elderly religious widower (portrayed, in a deeply felt performance, by Hal Holbrook) whose lonely life was turned topsy-turvy by the entry into his world of McCandless, the possible embodiment of a son whose life was lost decades earlier.

It's telling that Penn, of all people, paints a strong spiritual significance to the story of McCandless, where Krakauer tended to discount such ideals. Christ-like imagery of the innocent hero floating naked down a river in a crucifix pose; the hippie dude asking if McCandless could walk on water; and a stirring, emotional scene on a mountain where the widower and McCandless touch on the nature of God -- all of these moments (not to mention the last few minutes depicted of McCandless' life) point to a deeply felt appreciation of a divine touch in our lives and in the life of McCandless.

It's also telling that in Krakauer's book, he notes the widower renounced God when he learned of the young man's lonely passing. That Penn left that point out of the film perhaps shows that, despite one sad man's disillusionment, the life of Christopher McCandless was, indeed, somewhat of a spiritual touchstone that one cannot overlook.

In 2009, I resolve to...

• pick up my writing again. No more procrastination out of me (or at least considerably less procrastination). And no more utilizing lack of inspiration as an excuse to deviate from what I love and ought to be doing.
• Commence the convocation of the new generation of Hellfish.

And, uh, that's all I've got so far. I feel like I've done really well this past year; I've tried many new things, I've dedicated myself to a good cause, I've helped and given to a lot of people and I would be very content with continuity in those aspects. Now don't think that I don't want more out of this coming year, because I do. I welcome change. And I assure you, the congenital inclination for caprice is fluttering in my organs and throbbing within my arteries. For instance, I'd like to travel, I'd like to sky-dive, I'd love to act in a small movie, but most of all, what I want the most out of the approaching year is some romance. I'm a sap. I hope something good happens soon.

Remember readers, rearrange your consistencies, constantly.

I hope you're well, not ill.

Smiley, not frowney.

Up, not down.

Clear, not cloudy.


I want to keep you safe. I want to be your shield and your umbrella and your medicine. I want you to make me necessary.

I've probably never been more in concurrence with a statement in my life:
“What I want is to be needed. What I need is to be indispensable to somebody. Who I need is somebody that will eat up all my free time, my ego, my attention. Somebody addicted to me. A mutual addiction." -Chuck Palahniuk

Why Obama?

Complain all you want about lead paint in toys from China, metal in candy, the exterpation of the rain-forest, political unrest, and global warming;
we reap what we sew until we all come together and plant something which bears the fruit of real change and hope for tomorrow.

We waste away this new day with 'Us verses Them' politics in a system of ineffectual compromise and undemocratic "representation", by politicians on both sides, purchased through contributions in advance by those wishing to lazily maintain and continue financially benefitting from the same old story.

The method of maintaining the status quo over the last eight years has been like a nightmare, where the only unity we are encouraged to feel is the fear of the next disaster, the sunrise, the new day, tomorrow. We are chained by fear, immobilized and demoralized by 'us verses them' issues, at the very time in history when it is most important for us come together, as a unified nation to hold our heads high each and every day to the challenges we face together. Not only as Americans, but as humans, all of us, are in this together.

I think we need a leader who isn't so 'experienced' in cynicism and putting on the old hand-me-downs of failed policies. We need a person who can recognize the cheap threading and hasty workmanship before they begin unravelling.

Have we really learned nothing from the mistakes of Vietnam?
Did we really have to stay there for so long, to prove what point again?
Would it be cynical to suggest we try something less conventional next time?
May we not spend taxpayer money propping-up and funding men like Bin Ladin, Hussein, and so on only to wage the same conventional wars against them, with deficit spending? We can win any conventional war right now, obviously, with what we are spending-- but show me this enemy today?
It's like using a battle axe blade to tighten a loose screw-
Soldiers fight, politicians invent reasons.
Let's at least make them good ones, if it is required, to honor their sacrifices.
Would the "Axis of Evil" even exist today without our Cold War Policies? We should remember those brave souls who stood for change, from all nationalities, who stood next to the wall, literally or metaphorically, with sledge hammers and dismantled the hopelessness of super power politics,
blow by blow on that day, or all the dark days without hope that led up to it.

As Americans, we have the resources and responsibility to be innovative,
it is unbecoming of us to give up, to give in to the fear at the beginning of the day. In the World, and our own politics, it is not a conventional war, we do not win by dominating and dictating to those who disagree, we all win by participating in a dialog, the great dialog that is our Humanity, our common heritage, our collective gaze toward the horizon, toward tomorrow.

Right now though, I do believe, in the present, with all we must accomplish,
it makes sense that the only way we can achieve this innovation within economy, environment, education, and health, is by participating in a global dialogue with effective leadership at the federal level, and utilizing those resources without the burden of lazy pandering and wasteful stagnation.
By a leader that is effective, a leader that is inspired by the challenge of change, and not already defeated by the intension of punishing opponents.
Beyond rhetoric, everyone needs to be at this table of change. We are in a global economy and to fix the problems we face, we need global solutions,
but not based on the lowest common denominator rule. We need innovative solutions that give all the children of the world a reason to hope,
beyond hopping fences.

We need leader who will actually inspire Americans to again raise their heads to the horizon, to be the people we all know we can be in our hearts,
to lead by example, as citizens of this country, and as good citizens of this world.
One who will facilitate us to speak with one voice, infinitely nuanced within our own personalities and diversities, but together welcoming each new day
as an opportunity to improve on what we can say together about ourselves,
as the people of this planet.

I am not perfect;
Barack Obama isn't perfect.
But he understands how to inspire real change by addressing the hopelessness in the world today.
We've all heard campaign promises in the past. Both parties had their try at healthcare, each failed through partisan maneuvering.
An effective leader doesn't arise because they are owed the candidacy,
because of their race, gender, or age. An effective leader only arises when what they're saying from their heart coincides with what people feel in their guts.
Is it a movement to challenge hopelessness?
To wage unconventional War on hopelessness?

I sure hope so.

When we can stop playing big brother to the world, and be a friend instead,
When we can stand together to anticipate the coming day as a unified whole, bound together by patriotism and honor,
When we open our eyes and instead of seeing what can be accomplished alone, we see everything that we could accomplish together.
And we think "Yes, we can."

That'll be the day.

Lady Lazarus

I have done it again.
One year in every ten
I manage it----

A sort of walking miracle, my skin
Bright as a Nazi lampshade,
My right foot
A paperweight,
My face a featureless, fine
Jew linen.

Peel off the napkin
0 my enemy.
Do I terrify?----

The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?
The sour breath
Will vanish in a day.

Soon, soon the flesh
The grave cave ate will be
At home on me
And I a smiling woman.
I am only thirty.
And like the cat I have nine times to die.

This is Number Three.
What a trash
To annihilate each decade.

What a million filaments.
The peanut-crunching crowd
Shoves in to see
Them unwrap me hand and foot
The big strip tease.

Gentlemen, ladies,

These are my hands
My knees.
I may be skin and bone,

Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.
The first time it happened I was ten.
It was an accident.

The second time I meant
To last it out and not come back at all.
I rocked shut
As a seashell.
They had to call and call
And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.

Dying
Is an art, like everything else,
I do it exceptionally well.
I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I've a call.

It's easy enough to do it in a cell.
It's easy enough to do it and stay put.
It's the theatrical
Comeback in broad day
To the same place, the same face, the same brute
Amused shout:

'A miracle!'
That knocks me out.
There is a charge
For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge
For the hearing of my heart----
It really goes.

And there is a charge, a very large charge
For a word or a touch
Or a bit of blood
Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.

So, so, Herr Doktor.
So, Herr Enemy.

I am your opus.
I am your valuable,
The pure gold baby
That melts to a shriek.
I turn and burn.
Do not think I underestimate your great concern.

Ash, ash ---
You poke and stir.
Flesh, bone, there is nothing there----

A cake of soap,
A wedding ring,
A gold filling.

Herr God,
Herr Lucifer,
Beware
Beware.

Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
And I eat men like air.



I dreamt of Sylvia Plath last night. It was one of the most horrifying things I've ever witnessed. I love her work, don't get me wrong, but it puts me in a strange dark place, a place I seldom like to visit within my mind because it takes so long to abscond from the gloom it renders. But this dream was different for the reason that every horrible juncture that ensued was immediately amended by some glorious affair. So I awoke without despair, instead, possessing a spirit of rectification.
It was awesome. I was disgusted by some of the images my mind conjured up, some things were so vile that if I had been awake to view them, I might have puked.
But before any negative reaction could impose on my countenance, something beautiful would happen, a psychedelic air would envelop all bad things and cast a beautiful light over the grisly cadavers and equally appalling things so that they could no longer be considered abhorred-
just stunning.