Tell No One Where You've Been

Sometimes I’ll stand on top of a manhole in the street,
remain perfectly still, and feel the pull of gravity on all my limbs.
The world that lurks below my feet reigns me in
until I burn to see what the concrete hides from me.
What sort of feasts lie underground that I’ll never taste?
There’s a galaxy down there, they say.
And if you’re perfectly silent, you can hear the moan of saxophones
and the jovial clink of glasses emanate from below.
I once heard an old man speak of how he stumbled upon it
as he was rushing from work, late to get home to his wife
the wind biting at his chilled face and pressed suit
and in his hurry, did not notice the manhole cover
askew to the side of the gaping hole that lead below.
He took a sharp turn, slipped, his red bowtie shed from his throat
from the quickness of the fall, yelling so much
he nearly swallowed his own voice, until he landed softly in a candlelit room
filled with small round tables and the walls lined with bottles
of red, blue, green, gold, purple, magenta
the light catching the liquid inside and sending colors dancing
across the vacant room’s walls like playful pixies.
People then flooded into the room, chattering and laughing
and platters of cold, ripe apples were placed on each table
“Eat, eat,” they told him, and so he did.
His teeth pierced the apple’s red skin as it bled juice
and its sweetness was the purest thing he’d ever tasted.
They poured him drinks of every color and size
and saxophones, hundreds of them, echoed amidst their speech
until their voices sounded like them,
and everything was music.
After the bottles were emptied and apple cores strewn everywhere
the people, thick with the night, began to wave goodbye and exit
and like a geyser erupted below his feet, he was propelled in the air
and thrown back above ground, flung onto the city streets like discarded litter.
Panting, he ran back, but the manhole was sealed over the opening
forbidding him entry. Beside him, glittering red like the apples,
a sharp contrast to the grey of the sidewalk, lay his bowtie.
He picked it up, a memento of his journey, and walked home.
Nobody believed him. His wife thought him crazy,
and sent him off to bed. But there are nights I know he was right,
for I am overwhelmed with the hushed whispering of life below me,
and drop to my knees, trying to pry the manhole loose,
desperate for just one taste.





- LAP etc.

Ribs

When my arms are down,
you can’t really see them.
There’s not enough tension, there’s too many layers to sift through.
But when I reach up towards the sky,
they rise to the surface of my skin like long fingers,
one, two three, four, pressing against the membrane that contains them.
They’re ready to break through my skin and gasp for air,
release from the prison of my fleshy torso.
They keep me strong, I’m fearless so long as they exist
to hold me up, rigid and unyielding.
Sometimes I’ll raise one hand up, elongate myself
and with the other hand, trace them
and push them, test their density. I tap them like piano keys,
the sound is slightly musical, but mostly hollow.
I feel each tiny thud echo in my spine, until I’m just
one big cavern of sound, rattling like a maraca,
or a shopping cart with a broken wheel.
Sometimes I wish they were profound enough
to hold onto, grasp like a banister,
hang ornaments from, a breathing Christmas tree.
I need them, more than they know. They are the silent
guardians whose presence makes me possible.
They defend the delicate life that lurks within:
the meaty, moist, throbbing tissue – so vulnerable and helpless –
now safe within the vibrating bones, beating to their melody.
I am safe from the probing forces around me,
all the jabs and gestures, the slander and slurs
cannot get past my iron barrier, those sturdy ridges.
For inside them beats my caged heart, secure, untouchable,
living serenely in the comfort
of its own white picket fence.




- LAP etc.

The Ballad of Narcissism

The sound of the bristles of the comb
ripping through your tangled hair
shhhrrrpppttt, shhhrrrpppttt
like bark being ripped from a tree
or thousands of pieces of paper
being torn in half at once.
It’s enough to make me go deaf.

Then the subtle popping noise
as you pump the wand of your mascara
in and out of its rounded base
fffffwop, fffffwop
the liquidy blackness a congealed mess on the brush
as you drag it around on your eyelashes

Next is the scraping of your nail file
as you whittle down the jagged ends
of your long nails, painted with fuschia
sstthhhhht, sstthhhhht
like sandpaper to wood, only more pitiful

You conclude with a muted pant
as you gape at yourself in the mirror,
applying eyeliner, mouth hanging wide open
as if you couldn’t possibly draw a straight line otherwise.
hhhhaahhhh, hhhaahhhh
your breath fogs up the mirror rhythmically, like a pulse.

I’m used to this discordant symphony by now
as I listen with impatience from outside the bathroom door
waiting and waiting, as you serve as the conductor
to the concerto of your vanity.


- LAP etc.

Wandering Harmonies

I

Those ragged people on the sidewalks
silently braving the London chill
reaching desperately for each passerby
trying to thrust some sort of flyer into
every outstretched hand are ignored by
everyone. Except you, who meets their eye
with a sympathetic smile, as you say
“No, thank you,” and, surprised to be addressed
they draw back, nod, startled by the kindness.
It was Tuesday, and you were walking me to class.



II

The watch on your left wrist doesn’t work.
It died months ago, and now it is always
six seconds to midnight on New Years.
What better time, you say?
Its presence has branded your arm, so when you
remove it, it remains as a thickened line of white
against the tan of your skin. Even in the winter,
when sunshine has long been drained from your body,
the faint paleness is there, obstinate, resilient.



III

It was the biggest snowstorm in twenty years, they said.
A very first for some of the children, who ran about
so gingerly, so as not to cause the precious new whiteness to
melt before its time. They shut down the Tube, stranding you
in Hextable and me in Kings Cross. Schools closed for the day,
roads were blocked off. I laughed and laughed, for the snow
amassed two inches at best, and it was gone the next morning.
You still owe me a snowball fight.



IV

I can’t keep a steady enough hand to get the picture right.
The pencil meanders around the page like a lost poet, and then
screeches to a halt, its wayward marks an eyesore against the
fresh white paper in my sketchbook. The pillars in the church
look more like a rickety old staircase, the kind in my
Grandmother’s house, that moans and sighs as you take each step.
I frown, strangle the pencil like a noose, and scratch a huge X into
the page, so hard the point tears through the paper like butter.
I pull the page out of the book, crumple it, leave it in the
dusty corner of the pews. You stifle a laugh, and I stampede
away from you, bruised, insulted. Weeks later, I find that
crumpled drawing in the pocket of your coat.



V

There’s a South African sunset in your smile
and Grecian skies in the whites of your eyes.
Then that blue of your gaze, like Corfu’s seashores.
You shake the sand from Cape Town out of your hair
and let the breeze from Brighton push it out of your face
as the sun swerves through the open window, lighting you up
like a Tuscan star. I peer down at our intertwined hands, and
see the dirt and grime of New York City underneath my fingernails.



VI

If you were planning on me being forgettable,
then, for your sake, I hope I am. Tuck me away like
an old diary, and don’t bother to date the entries. Let it
lie, like all the dead letters whose destination never
welcomed them and that can’t be returned to their sender.
Unread and lost in a dusty bin, soon to become ashes
among other stories that will remain untold, unembraced,
alone. The smell of burnt letters thickens the air so that even
God cannot breathe. You’re a glacier on the sand, and I’m
just a wishful thinker. We dug each other’s graves but, oh, we
made them feel like home. So I’ll think myself sick, as my pen
tries to stall what I know will now take place. Without you,
this city can’t smile, only bear its teeth. Every road I
cross whispers of the loss. Sometimes, peace of mind
isn’t worth the goodbye.



VII

I checked every grocery store in New York, but none
have Jaffa Cakes. I settle for the bland, discounted cookies
moping next to the crackers. Five hours ahead of me already,
I envision you enjoying one, as you check the time on your
watch, grin, and send a single snowflake my way, a fleeting
striking whiteness amidst the grey sidewalks I traverse,
hands in my empty pockets.


VIII

May the Earth always lay its gentle hands upon your head,
and may science and reason steer clear of your timeless heart,
unlike the way it ravaged my own. And, the one task I live to fulfill,
if I dare attempt it – To not let you let me go.



- LAP etc.

And the Funniest Part About It Is

I swear, some divine afflatus
came down on me that night, and I could do no wrong.
“I will charm, I will slice, I will dazzle
I will outshine them all.”
Chugging gasoline, having sex on broken glass.
Don't tell me you didn’t want to,
you’re worse at lying than you are at dancing.
I’m a crazy balloon, the kind without string.
Flitting, flying, finagling, and you can’t catch me, oh no
at least not without your shoes. But I made you take those off
and tossed them from the overpass. Thud, thud. One two.
How different your stride is now!
Listen.
No, stop talking. Can you hear that?
Footsteps, they kept on walking without you.
See? They didn’t need you after all!
You can’t really blame them, because you scuffed them to death
Of course they’d want to get away.
Now every divot in the concrete claws at the soles of your feet
like a broken clothes hanger. What goes around comes around.
You can thank me later, when you're in bed and swollen
and the dye from your wet jeans has bled onto your thighs
making you look blue and bruised.
You always wanted to feel that way, you said.
I’ll be back tomorrow, and we can pick up where we left off
in your car, as we drive underwater.
That'll get your blood flowing, mark my words.



- LAP etc.

Thrice Crowned Queen of the Night

There’s a full moon out tonight
and I hold it between my teeth.
I command the midnight breeze
to hold every single strand of hair
out of my face.

The slick sidewalk surface reflects each step
until two of me walk in unison
one commanding the streets above
and the other seizing those underground.
I keep my pace.

My eyes shine like two round opals
I laugh, and stars fall to the ground.
I twirl the planets on my fingertips
as the sun throbs in my back pocket,
my little friend.

You try to keep up, but can only
hang onto the hem of my dress for
dear life, as I split the air in two.
Your fingernails tear at me, but you
cannot apprehend.

I exhale fog and mist, and each droplet
catches the light like a prism, as I confer with
its spectrums and make a rainbow.
Its arch nestles into the curve of my back
and it walks with me.

Don’t look too closely, for it’ll blind you
when you see the nimbus of my smile.
Come morning, it will fade, as daylight
threads through my bones. But nightfall is mine.
You’ll see, you’ll see.




- LAP etc.

Eat, Drink, and Be Merry

David thought the place had a casual, old-school feel to it, something homelike even, that would help her feel at ease. Besides, too many first dates are wasted on fancy restaurants with exorbitant prices and pretentious-tasting meals that never kept you full long enough. Also, what if the date is a total bust? Better to start out small, see if she’s worth it, then take it up a scale on the fifth date or so and bring her to somewhere super nice. No, first dates should definitely be humble, relaxed. But now, as they shifted on the sticky red pleather swivel chairs that squeaked with every movement, he wondered if he had taken the casual thing a little too far. The place didn’t even have menus. The selections were etched in sloppy script on a blackboard above the counter, where they had just ordered their meals – two double-cheeseburgers, one with American cheese and one with Swiss, a large order of fries, one Dr. Pepper and one Diet Coke.
She smiled meekly as their food was brought over by a waiter in a red apron and cargo shorts stained with ketchup. The food was in a plastic thatched basket lined with tissue paper, and the grease of the burgers had dampened the paper until it was see-through. The fries were placed between them, and were clearly already drenched in salt; the tiny particles glistened on them like a sheet of snow. She picked up a fry, wiped the salt off with her forefinger, and chewed it tentatively.
“Good?” He asked stupidly.
“Mmm,” she said, still chewing.
He picked up his burger. The stale bun was cracked on top, its little crusted arteries swarming around the sesame seeds. As he brought the burger to his mouth, a mixture of grease and melted cheese plopped onto the table. The congealed mess made her cringe, and he quickly put down his burger and reached over to the napkin dispenser.
“Oops,” he said, and quickly wiped up the mess. “Well, I’ll take a greasy burger over a burned one any day. Nothing worse than feeling like you’re eating charcoal.”
She giggled politely. “That’s true.” She took the bun off her burger and slowly removed the onions that had settled into the cheese. He watched her with interest.
“Not an onion fan?”
“Nah, not too much.” She replaced the bun. She picked up the massive sandwich and surveyed it for an entry point that would make the least amount of mess. Finally, she took the smallest bite he had ever seen, quickly put down the burger, and chose to return to the plate of fries.
“How is it?” he asked. “This place is supposed to make really tasty burgers.”
“It’s pretty good,” she said. “I’m just working up my appetite.” She sipped her Diet Coke.
“Let me give it a go,” he said. He brought his burger up to his mouth and took a hearty bite, leaving a ring of ketchup and mayo around his mouth. The bun was bland, but gave way to a salty, greasy conglomeration of juicy meat and melted cheese, which was the kind of thing that tasted good at the moment, but you knew you were setting yourself up for an upset stomach in about an hour. He chose to focus on the immediate taste rather than its future adverse effects, and followed his first bite with another of the same magnitude.
“This,” he said between mouthfuls, “is the way a burger should taste!” He nodded towards her burger. “Go ahead, take a bigger bite, I know you can do better than that.”
In the meantime, she had taken to wiping the salt off multiple French fries and making a small pile for herself, at the moment there were about 6. “Don’t worry, I’ll get there,” she said. “But keep it up, the grease looks good on you.”



- LAP etc.

Reasons Like Seasons, They Constantly Change. And Seasons of Last Year, Like Reasons, Have Floated Away

A young woman was sitting on one of Washington Square Park’s many wooden benches, talking avidly to her friend, who was wearing a wide-rimmed beige hat that bobbed gently with the passing breeze. They were both bent over a fashion magazine, flipping through its glossy pages, and dog-earing their favorite parts. It was sunny and around lunchtime, and as they sat together on a bench, they were approached by an older man wearing tattered clothes, fingerless gloves and a red bandana to hold back his tousled hair.
“Ma’am,” he said, “would you happen to have any extra food?”
The two women were taken aback, and turned to look at each other. The woman in the hat then turned back to the man and shook her head.
“No, I don’t.”
The man looked at her friend. “How about you, ma’am?”
The woman smirked and raised an eyebrow. “No, neither of us have food.”
The man remained still for a moment, then nodded his head. They expected him to walk away at this point, but to their confusion, he remained standing a few paces away from them for what seemed like a solid minute and a half. During this time, the two women didn’t speak, and awkwardly tried to ignore his gaze by turning their attention back to the magazine. They flipped through the pages noisily and quickly, hoping the noise might cause him to scatter. Finally the man slowly backed up and walked in the other direction. When he was out of earshot, the two women laughed out loud.
“What the hell was that all about?” said the woman in the hat. “Doesn’t he understand that no means no?”
“I’m telling you,” said her friend, “the people in this park get crazier every damn day. What nerve!”
“You know what I noticed about homeless people around here? They try to play on your emotions. They stumble over and bother us for food, and once we refuse, they act as if standing there all sad and mute would get us to change our minds. I’m sorry, but there’s no reason for anyone to be homeless. Walk into a fucking McDonalds and get a janitor job, how hard is it?”
The woman laughed. “Seriously. It’s sad to see people in that situation, but truth be told, they did it to themselves. And then they have the audacity to ask me for food? Why would I waste the food I bought with my hard-earned money on a complete stranger?”
“I know. And it’s not like we’re rolling in resources ourselves.”
They shrugged, and the woman in the hat turned back to the magazine. While she did this, her friend looked at a group of squirrels scuttling around the pavement in front of her, their jerking bodies moving in erratic circles. Smiling at their crazy dance, she reached into her purse and pulled out a bag of peanuts, and began to toss them outward to feed the squirrels.




- LAP etc.

Things I Firmly and Seriously Believe that Others Probably Don’t…

1) There are only two reasons that people cheat while in a relationship. One is because they want to remind themselves that they are still desirable, because they’re insecure. The other is that they are scared at how much they care about who they’re with, and can’t face their own feelings, so they make foolish decisions. Cheating is forgivable, but not condonable.

2) There’s no way you can love one person every second of every day forever. This doesn’t mean monogamy can’t work, but people need to look at it for what it is. You meet someone you care about and believe you love him or her. You make a commitment to be together, and inevitably you fight, get pissed off at each other, make up, have amazing times, then fight again, etc. During all those moments, you’re constantly falling in and out of love with that person, sometimes even several times a day, depending on the circumstances that exist between you. When you’re at each other’s throats, you’re too preoccupied with the matter at hand to put your love first, so you ignore it and push it back until later. When the matters are resolved, the love resurfaces, and happiness follows. As long as the times you’re in love with that person outnumbers the times you fall out of love with them, you can count on being pretty happy for as long as you’re together. The reason marriages fall apart and people breakup is when they realize that the times they love each other are few and numbered, and are instead shadowed by the times they are too preoccupied with other emotions and situations where love can’t thrive. So, love is not a steady 24/7 ordeal. It’s a constant journey you revisit together all the time.

3) If you seriously feel as though you need someone to survive, the most absolutely important thing you can possibly do for yourself is to get away from them. Feeling that way is unhealthy, dangerous and not conducive to self-growth. You can still have that person in your life, but you must prove to yourself that they are not the core of your existence. Once you are truly happy with yourself, you can be truly happy with someone else. Not one second before.

4) Lying is the biggest mistake you could ever make. Lying comes in many forms, but denying someone’s right to the truth in any way is wrong for two reasons. 1) As coexisting human beings, so much of our knowledge is based on what we have learned from others. If we are lied to, that delicate sense of trust we have for what we learn from each other is shattered, and we become skeptical, lose our sense of wonder, and relinquish our loving bond with the world. 2) The only time people lie is when they’re afraid. I don’t lie to anyone because I don’t fear anyone, simple as that. Those who exhibit a habit of lying are fearful, insecure people who are deathly afraid of how others view them. The truth can be dirty and hurtful, but at least it’s real. Liars lead lives of no value whatsoever.

5) Experiencing different people is such an important part of life. I’m not just talking about sex and love and things of that caliber. You can be in a relationship and still “experience” other people while being committed to someone. Closing off to people is a horrible thing to do, and is as detrimental to you as it is to them. Get to know people. Talk to strangers, branch out, initiate conversations, flirt, have fun, take chances. Stay true to your feelings, but remember that feelings are amorphous. They shift, change, grow, dissolve. Don’t build your entire life on something as fleeting as feelings. Go to sleep knowing that, at the end of each day, you gave the world and all in it a chance to shape you for the better.

6) While it would be nice to think that you can be intimate with people and fool around with no feelings attached, this is rarely the case. Chances are at least one person involved hopes that it will either become something more, or at the very least, hopes that it will reoccur in the future. It would be awesome if two consenting adults could mess around and literally leave it to that, but that pesky thing we talked about, feelings, get in the way. Some people aren’t content with feeling like a one-night stand, and for their own selfish reasons, want the other person to care about them, even if they don’t care much themselves. Others pretend they’re ok with a one-nighter, but have every intention of repeating it in the near future and will happily play along until they get their second dose. So have fun, do sexy things, explore people. But realize they might have a trick or two up their sleeve when it’s all over.

7) There’s no such thing as luck. There is such a thing as a coincidence. When something happens, if the chain of events that occur afterwards are positive, it’s easy to say “wow, I was so lucky to have done that.” The circumstances deceive us into believing that some force outside of our control called luck (and, to some, fate) lead us to this marvelous point in our lives. The truth is, that’s a cop-out. We control every single thing we go through and that happens to us, at least on some level. Sitting around waiting for luck or fate to take hold of our lives is a waste of the influence we have over ourselves in the first place. You make your own luck, and you control your own fate.

8) Everyone says “chicks before dicks” and “bros before hoes,” but at the end of the day, everyone wants to be with the one they care about. It is a universal truth that, when it comes down to the wire, you would more often rather hang out with your boyfriend/girlfriend than your friends. People deny it, but it’s true. Everyone needs time with buddies, because only hanging out with your significant other all the time is obviously stupid. But when you’re going about your day and you think of the person you’d most like to share even the most mundane moments with, your first thought will always be the one you care about or, if you’re lucky enough, the one you love. Our hearts always seek out their companion.

9) If you’re convinced the place you grew up is the best place on earth, think again. Home will always be the most special place in your heart, but it may not be the best place for you to personally thrive. Travel, see the world, meet new people. Don’t be content to remain in the introverted bubble of your hometown before giving other places the chance to bring out the best in you.

10) Your thoughts create your world. Reality is objective. See the world the way you want to, and don’t let someone else alter the beautiful, unique vision you’ve constructed of how you live your life. Love the way only you can. Live the way only you want.


- LAP etc.

The Bucket List (2009 version)

1) Write a book
2) Go to the following places: the entire west coast of America, South Africa, Egypt, Belize, Barcelona, Canada, Thailand, Australia, Berlin, Jamaica, Croatia, Japan, Amsterdam, Vienna, and many more
3) Ride an elephant
4) Go skydiving and bungee jumping
5) Learn to speak Spanish somewhat
6) Save someone's life, in any way, shape or form, knowingly or unknowingly
7) Live by myself for at least a few years before inviting anyone else into my living situation
8) Record some original piano songs
9) Cut my hair crazy short, just for the hell of it
10) Learn photography and buy a seriously nice camera
11) Go on a real camping trip with friends, tents, campfires, etc
12) See U2 in concert
13) Get my driver's license (FML)
14) Take my old Latin teacher out to dinner, and tell her how much her enthusiam and kind words meant to me
15) Never lose my zest for life, my love of adventure, my curiosity about all people, and the amazing sense of emotional independence I've achieved
16) See him again, no matter how long it takes to make it happen
17) Find something or someone to give myself over to forever, without regret
18) Make a room hush as I enter it
19) Get hurt standing up for something or someone dear to me
20) Get a full body massage
21) Make something out of wood
22) Carve my name onto the wall inside a pitch dark cave
23) Learn how to play golf somewhat decently
24) Love something or someone until it hurts
25) See a lunar and solar eclipse

- LAP etc.

"Closing Time. Every New Beginning Comes From Some Other Beginning's End"

This is for someone who needs no introduction.

**

Flexibility can be learned, you see
Reach farther, arch lower, grasp further
Your muscles lead the way, its matter over mind
Elongate the spine, you can touch the sky if you tried
But keep your feet planted, it’s the view from below
that you need to keep in mind, for it’s what you’ll return to in the end

What would you say if I told you my limbs
Were all just extensions of some heartless machine
Churning away in my chest, working indiscriminately
All movements involuntary, driven not by thought
But by precision lacking emotion, by carnal instinct
Is it better for us this way
That I be a function of science rather than romance?

Tell me what you found
When you explored my body like a new jigsaw puzzle
Did you finally piece me together? Was the picture worth the trouble?
The time you took to learn me, to feel me out
So tedious, like a writer proofreading a story that
he didn’t even remember he wrote, with words he doesn’t recognize.
Trying to remember who he was when it poured forth from his pen.
Was it I who inspired you to recreation?

What did you see when you closed your eyes right before the shock?
Stretching and aching for your benefit, you teach me flexibility
I would not have achieved on my own
The night sky is hovering between us like a broad finish line
And my mouth on your neck, silently murmuring your praises
I thought of how this would feel for so long
And the newness of you ignites every nerve ending like a live wire.

Guitar riffs resound in the hollow space between the machine in my chest
And the heart beating somewhere amidst the metal
You shared them with me, I never knew the sound
But now I can’t do without them. They echo and ring all for you
The music you chose, the songs in your head, I want them all
Play them for me, don’t keep them tucked away
My one gift is that I can harmonize with anyone who sings for me

I never had expectations for this, or you
Yet you exceed them all anyway, as you move above me
And light up all my hidden contours, kept in shadows
Even the most deliberate attempt to detach mind and heart
To treat this just as a fix, a double-blind experiment
is abandoned as you catch each of my breaths in your hands
and ease the air back into my body, you’re my iron lung
I never knew I was so intricate until you showed me

The covers are askew, as we fumble through a maze
of limbs and sheets, we meet in the middle
I don’t want to know what it feels like when your skin isn’t upon mine
Or what the air would taste like when you don’t breathe for me
Science and common sense escape me now
The deliberate way I conducted each movement, functions of the machine
They are reborn with foreign influence, I try to name it
But it evades distinction, it transforms reason
And in its place, I find that in spite of my inner structure
of metal and gears and lifeless things
I am helpless in this, and for the first time
I know fear, and hope, and what it means to dream
And as we settle down and sleep, I dream of you

How thin can I stretch before I risk a fatal tear, a mortal wound
You could stitch it together but it risks a scar, so I’d rather you keep me whole
But leave a mark somehow, teach me heartache
Push me, I can handle the bruising. It gives me character
You test me in dizzying ways,
the world moves in waves when you’re near
Our days are numbered and pinpricks of fear remind me
that every touch, though it feels like the first, will be the last
And I’ll be left with insides of melted steel, chaffed beyond recognition
Another story I forgot I wrote, but mine all the same

Though self-preservation keeps me stagnant
If you lead me, I’ll follow you anywhere
I want all of you that fate will offer me
And I’ll give you all of me that I know exists
But I know you, and you’ll find more than I knew was there
All you see is possibility, when all I saw were limits
And as you kiss the parts of me that the tangled sheets reveal,
I know that with you, walls become windows, locks become open doors
And I’ll always know that the written story of my life
Surprising, sometimes foreign, but always mine
was once so beautifully touched by you

So sing of all the places you’ve been
Speak of broken watches and long hair
I’ll touch old scars of yours in wonder and awe
So strange to think there was a time when you didn’t exist to me
or I to you. And I’ll marvel at what’s become of us now
and the chance encounter that first crossed my path with yours
in a dingy van in the wintertime, with a shared destination
As you showed me what it feels like when it’s midnight all the time
The clock stopped, so we’d have a chance to be.

To think that time was so kind to us then,
and mocks us now. How feeble we are in the end
Because with the flutter of an eyelid, mountains crumble
and with a touch, stars fall to the ground.
But I’ll relish every moment, let every touch sink to the bone
and forget nothing, from the moons of your fingernails
to the curve of your jaw. And as you run your fingers down my spine
I’ll reach, arch, grasp, stretch, with my newfound strength
Flexibility beyond my wildest dreams
Of mind and body, heart and soul.
All this and more you taught me, all this I learned from you

Remember me, and the way I raced the traffic
Remember that first meal of mussels, in your fancy coat
Remember the way the bass thudded in our ribs, the guitars that sang
and the lights that flashed, songs I cried along to in your arms
Remember how I jumped at every touch, how I yelped at every jab
and the way we meandered like lost poets through the streets
The maps, the top ups, the arguments and tickets
All serving as proof that London was ours.
And while this city lingers on without me, carry me always
In the watch on your wrist, the sleeve of your leather coat
Feel me, in the smell of rain on pavement
and the hum of streetlamps. And while you still have me,
while we’re lying here with the shades drawn and the window open
Map out my story with me. Guide my pen, write my life
Touch me, hurt me, heal me.
And may every stroke of midnight bring me back to you
so I might once again touch the sky.


- LAP etc.

Anyway the Wind Blows, Doesn't Really Matter to Me...

Came across an old song I wrote after an epiphany I had this past November. Forgot all about it, and recently went browsing through old Word documents, and realized that this really was a turning point for me worthy of a second look a few months later. It's a remarkable and humbling thing seeing how much you've grown, and knowing you still have the power to surprise yourself.

**

You came in without rhyme or reason
Holding my youth in the palm of your hand
We melted together in the hottest of seasons
And traced our names together in the sand

We didn’t worry with the petty fact
That the sand erases itself each day
We thought as long as we wanted it to
The bond we etched would somehow stay

I never disliked the wind or rain
Nor scorned the high tide of the shore
But as I saw our names fade from nature
I loathed it like never before

What is it I could do, I wondered
To keep what we’d written in tact?
In defiance I went back each night
And scribbled our lines right back

Afterwards as the tide rolled in
The sand was reborn with the morning
And though I never gave up on my duty
You approached me one day without warning

You deflected my gaze from my sandy canvas
And tilted my chin up to the sky
As I saw where the sand is engulfed by the sea
I shook, knowing this meant goodbye

Though it tore my small heart to pieces
To be told that my efforts should cease
I saw there was something inside of you
That needed some steady release

I pondered if that day would ever come
Where you’d need more than me to feel whole
And though it took strength unknown to me
I knew I must relinquish this role

The sand seems so new to me now
As the sunlight rolls in over head
And though I’m still tempted to love you
I see beauty in oceans instead

I spent so much time on the shoreline
That I never got lost on a wave
So though my heart once was aching
Sand no longer makes me its slave

The cold water bites at my toes
But I venture in deeper each day
And I know I’ll teach myself to swim
Until the shoreline I knew fades away

There will be many sunsets to witness
I will swim across so many shores
And though memories never shall leave me
I have faith that I’m meant for much more

My darling, I am no longer yours.

- LAP etc.

Sure to Raise a Few Eyebrows....

In a recent creative project I've been involved with alongside my favorite British boy, I wrote a scene for a 'film' we're creating. Can't say about what, in fact, I won't say another word on the matter. But for one scene, the main character Lola is asked to give a speech on the following prompt: in your own words, describe what you consider to be the most obvious fault of today’s society, and offer suggestions on how to rectify the situation. I now present you with her dialogue. ATTENTION ROMANTICS: read at your own risk.

Our country’s most potent vice is our senseless obsession with aesthetics. We value appearances over quality to an extent that is just plain embarrassing. Here I am, standing before all of you, and in the 30 seconds you’ve had to check me out you’ve all already formed countless opinions about me. I have no idea what they are, and frankly I couldn’t care less. But the truth is, all we need is a glance of someone or something and like clockwork, a thousand assumptions run rampant in our minds, unhindered and dangerous. Even worse, these assumptions irrevocably clout our opinions of people – first impressions often take a long time to alter or disprove, even when those impressions were based on absolutely nothing but our own convoluted thoughts.

As a result, being the uber smart people we are, we’ve found a way to cut corners – to cheat the system, if you will. To feed into this process, we abandon any desire for real integrity and instead focus on perfecting a first impression, putting up appearances, for as long as it takes to win people over. We all do it, and what’s worse is we’ve even stopped realizing when it happens. The stupid pick up lines you use when you first meet someone at a bar, things anyone with half a brain would never say to anyone they truly know or value, is a ubiquitous example. And although we know it’s all bullshit, we play the game so well that we allow ourselves to fall for it time after time. It’s all part of the plan, the rehearsed interaction between male and female, the appearances we put up so we don’t have to worry about revealing anything unique or intimate that might challenge these societal norms.

This is how we live life, and although I know I do it too, at least I can admit that it’s pathetic and utter crap. However, the one saving grace in this potent mess is the bond that everyone praises as the most important in the world, the one thing that transcends the bullshit and allows us to be genuine and true for the first time – the bond of two people in love. Once you find love, we believe that you immediately jump light years ahead of the rest of the population and engage in real, intimate interactions free of external influence. Suddenly, putting up artificial appearances for your own benefit isn’t necessary, because – what have you? – there’s actually someone in the world who seems to be able to tolerate your lame ass self for exactly what you are. Once that happens, you achieve a feeling of completeness, acceptance, and a genuine well being beyond your wildest dreams. So once we find love, we’ll all be dandy, the sun will shine and we will all hold hands in the shared union of our lives’ fulfillment. Love will save us all!

So for anyone in the audience who actually believed any of that, you can escort yourself out of the room and spend a few minutes pondering how you could have been so incontrovertibly stupid. For all of you hopeless romantics, I know it’s tough at first, but there are some things you can’t dance around, and this is one of them – love doesn’t work, doesn’t last, doesn’t exist. Love isn’t a tangible thing you can measure, there’s no love-o-meter that will tell you “oh, look! You two are officially in true love.” Love is a fabrication created by lonely people who know they cannot achieve a sense of self-fulfillment by themselves. It’s a state of mind used to make hollow, fake people who have lived artificial lives feel better about themselves because, gee wiz, if somebody wants to spend their whole life with me, I can’t be that bad! We judge our self-worth based on how much someone else can tolerate us, and we call this contrived bond “love.” And we sing and dance about it as though it was some never-ending party, one where everyone’s invited! How wonderful! But the truth is, everyone thinks this “love” thing is the only bond that’s free of all the false pretenses, the phony personas we emulate to impress others, and the like. Actually, it’s the opposite. Love is by far the biggest culprit of all. And it’s best that you all see and understand it now before it’s too late.

Let’s consider loves best ally – marriage. If I asked how many people here have divorced parents, almost half the room would have their hands in the air. The proof is in the pudding when it comes to marriage, and the way it’s become the world’s most failed institution. You’ve been told day after day that you need to find a special someone, fall in love, and tie the knot and till death do you part, live every waking second on his or her behalf. But why would we, fallible creatures we are, put ourselves in the position of constant interaction and intimacy with another fallible creature for the rest of our lives? Because of love, we say! When you love someone, these sacrifices don’t hurt, don’t mean anything! So what if we lose every sense of who we are as individuals? Who cares if after years, the passion dies, the feelings fade, and we’re left feigning a sense of commitment and attraction out of some fucked up sense of duty? It’s all in the name of love!

Well, if you’re okay with living an empty life in the name of love, be my guest. But I implore the wise people in the audience to avoid this at all costs, or regret it forever. And you will regret it. Even if you find yourself with someone wonderful, someone who seems to get the real you, someone you are genuinely excited to spend time with and can see yourself caring about down the line, you are not exempt from this untimely fate. I am not saying your feelings aren’t real and shouldn’t be pursued, but I am saying that those feelings will never be enough. If millions of people day after day can look each other in the eye in front of their loved ones and family, and legally proclaim that they will love each other forever, then find themselves arguing over who gets to keep the coffee table once they divorce, you know something is terribly amiss. Why do we put so much faith and so much of our lives in an institution that has a failure rate that is downright pathetic? I don’t know much about poker or gambling, but if I had those kinds of odds staring me down, I would laugh in the dealer’s face, book it out of there and never look back. We are consciously abandoning all common sense to promote something that is just a waste of life, time and effort. We are giving up everything we stand for as individuals to embrace this idea of love that hurts more people, breaks more hearts and screws more people over than anything else in the world. I don’t care if you’re dating the reincarnation of Jesus Christ, no kind of love is worth that feeling of emptiness. Until we learn this, and until we stop basing our lives on this piece of shit idea of love, we will always be those droning, artificial robots that meet and greet each other with rehearsed sayings, act out of a sense of duty rather than individuality, and live based on false pretenses rather than true self-awareness. If you’re into that, by all means, stay the course. But if you want to actually do something with your life, take the reigns in your own hands and die knowing you didn’t back down or compromise for anyone, take my advice. Ditch the rose-tinted glasses already. Grow up, man up, and get up. And join me in saying: Fuck love.

Thank you!

- LAP etc.

One Day, Some Day

If there's one thing I absolutely cannot wrap my mind around, it's people who don't see the beauty, triumph and inspiration in sports. Even if you're the most nonathletic div to ever have a pulse, how can one not appreciate the passion, skill and kinetic genius that makes up the core of every athlete, and the epic lessons that are to be learned with every victory and loss? Nothing builds character like seeing your opponent celebrate and rejoice when you've just given up your mind, body and soul for the game, only to fall short. There's a feeling of immense disillusionment, remorse, anger, jealousy and hopelessness. You try to turn it into inspiration to do better, but the truth is, some losses will sting forever. There are some defeats in which it's hard, if not impossible, to see the bright side. Time eases the sharpness, but it still jabs at you with its blunt edge from time to time, reminding you of what you'll never have. The pain is self-inflicted, but it's real. I've felt it more than once, during particularly brutal losses during my 12-year soccer career. But I doubt that any of those combined could ever amount to the emotions that must have been felt by tennis player Andy Roddick after today's defeat at Wimbledon.

When you look at Andy, you're overwhelmed with the desire to hug him. His tousled blonde hair, youthful candid smile and handsome face all exude a very specific kind of charisma, one that is surprisingly genuine for such a successful man. Fame tends to wear down the edges of one's integrity, but as soon as you hear Andy talk you know he has avoided this fate. Well spoken, eloquent, heartfelt and passionate is his speech, all these traits are reflected tenfold in his playing. Known for his unfathomable 155 mph serve, when you see his back arch and his racket slice the air in two, you start to wonder if Roddick is the reincarnation of Christ. The way he manipulates the court and the ball are magical, and seeing his shameless reactions after every point makes you realize that this man lives and dies for the sport of tennis. That kind of devotion is something you rarely find between people. It transcends the bonds of humanity, and it delves into something more intricate -- the love of courage, the need to be tested, and the willingness to fail. Sports often illuminate the very best in people, in a way even the ones we love most never could.

Roddick's shining moment in his career was his Grand Slam victory in 2003 US Open. Since then, he has reached the finals of 4 Grand Slams -- Wimbledon three times and the US Open once -- each time losing to Roger Federer. Federer has been a dream snatcher for Roddick all these years, so it was only fit that in this Wimbledon final, emotions would get involved. Feds was tied with Pete Sampras for having the most Grand Slams in the history of tennis - 14. The man is a beast on the court, but what makes it hard to relate to or root for this fantastic athlete is the fact that, throughout his epic career, he seems to remain somewhat stoic in the face of his accomplishments. Although you will see Federer become extremely enthused once in a blue moon and pump his fists, or maybe even cheer or raise his voice, Federer is an uncannily nonchalant individual. He seems to lack the unbridled enthuisiasm that makes passionate players like Roddick so likable and relatable. By disallowing himself to get lost in the game, be vulnerable or be overcome with emotion, Federer has isolated himself in a place that none of us can really comprehend. He seems to be elevated far above our reach -- the fact that he might be the greatest tennis player of all time, coupled with his rather drab personality, make it seem as though he is too good for us mere mortals. The fact that he doesn't seem to get excited about his unbelievable success makes it hard for us to do so as well. On a personal level, it's hard to root for Federer; on a tactical level, it's easy as pie. The man is a genius, albeit one we wouldn't necessarily enjoy as a dinner date.

In this year's Wimbledon, Andy became the unsung hero for all of the broken, battered, restless souls who needed someone to look up to. The British Andy Murray was a huge fan favorite and, since the tournament was on his native soil, held all of the United Kingdom on his shoulders. A Brit has not won Wimbledon in over 73 years, the longest drought ever. But with Murray's emerging success, everyone harped their hopes and dreams on this formidable man from Scotland, hoping he would catapult their nation to greatness. However, the alternate Andy defeated him in the semifinals, in a heartfelt and tireless display of powerhouse tennis. Hearts broke across the land, but for some reason, they found a new hero in Andy #2. Roddick became their surrogate favorite, and they all fell under the charm of this young American who was dying for one more Grand Slam to put to his name, eager and ready to face the one man who had so many times caused him dissappointment. One fan expressed this new love perfectly with a sign that was displayed during the Wimbledon finals -- it said "Let's Go Andy Murray!" but the "Murray" was crossed out with a big red X, and to it's right was scrawled the name "Roddick!"

Thus, Roddick won us all over. We were able to build up an emotional attachment to this man, the underdog, the Yank kid with nothing to lose and everything to gain. We knew it was a long shot, but we became invested in his every move, and found ourselves, despite all better reason, feeling, hoping, predicting that he would stun the world with an improbable victory. And, when Roddick took the first set against Federer 7 games to 5, we were convinced that a miracle was well underway.

Federer is all about ease, grace and composure, while Roddick takes chances, plays with less tact and more heart. Throughout the match, we saw Roddick roll around on the court, diving for balls and almost twisting ankles, while Federer appeared to listlessly prance around the baseline as though he was barely exerting himself. Though this could be attributed to his unprecedented skill and athleticism, to the untrained eye it just seems boring and heartless. It isn't necessarily Federer's fault that we perceive him this way; after all, the man must be doing something right to be number 1 in the world. And he certainly has established a solid fan base that has been loyal to him since his first Grand Slam years ago. But, to me and countless others, the 29-year-old doesn't get my blood to boil, doesn't make my heart pound or my stomach flutter. He just plays tennis really well.

After his victorious first set, in which he broke Federer to pull ahead 7 to 5, things were looking rather glorious for Andy. Even though he was literally sweating through the brim of his white Lacoste hat, he seemed like he had all the energy in the world. However, the next set proved a bit of a downfall as he fell to Federer in a nerve-racking tie break, 7-6 (6). Despite the fact that the match was now even at one set apiece, we thought back to Roddick's victory over Murray and remembered that, after being tied in identical circumstances, Roddick was able to come back and reign victorious. Hoping history would repeat itself, we were eager to let the third set commence, with the inkling that Roddick would reward us. However, our hearts broke a little when, in tiebreak style yet again, Federer just barely nudged ahead of Roddick 7-6 (5). Close-ups of Roddick's face revealed a man who was swimming in thoughts, trying to psych himself up, keeping the faith despite almost insurmountable obstacles. Being a set behind Federer is like being 10 sets behind any other player -- his prolific ground strokes and solid serve could intimidate the pants off anybody. But if anyone could put this stoic Swiss man in his place, we knew it was the adorable, sweaty kid across the court.

After two straight sets of defeat, the fourth set was an amazing showcase of magnificent, beautiful tennis that put Federer in his place. Roddick beat him by a large margin of 6 games to 3, breaking Federer's serve twice more, for 3 breaks in the match. Feds had yet to break Roddick on serve, which was a testimony to Roddick's composure and skill under pressure. After seeing Roddick kneel down and pump his fists after his fourth set victory, who didn't want to jump down from the stands and high five him? His passion was infectious, and before long, even Federer fans had to admit that today might be Roddick's day.

The fifth and final set was a mental, physical and emotional test for both players. Unlike other grand slams, the final set of a Wimbledon match does not end in a tiebreak. A player must win by 2 games. That said, no one was surprised when, after 6 games a piece, both players were tied and extra games were needed to determine a winner. However, nobody counted on the unforgettable display of tennis that would ensue afterwards. During every point played, nobody dared breathe, as these two athletes tried their hardest to gradually wear the other down. At this point, victory was so close that you couldn't help but wonder what your reaction might be if Roddick were to beat the best player in the universe. I pictured him slamming one of his trademark aces into the grass, falling down in an unadulterated display of raw emotion, shedding tears of joy, jumping up and down. My heart burned to see it happen in real life, as tears were already starting to well up behind my eyes at the thought of such a stunning victory. I was ready to jump, to cry, to scream with Roddick, to taste his success in my mouth like it was my own. Every nerve ending in my body was ignited with the anticipation of this moment, and having it so close was torture.

But we all know that life isn't fair. And if that's true, that must mean sports is not only unfair, but downright cruel. It doesn't make sense by any stretch of the imagination that a man who outplayed, outserved, and outlasted his opponent could possibly fall short at the end. It just doesn't sit right that Roddick, after breaking Federer thrice and never having his own serve broken, and winning the fourth set by the largest margin in the entire match, could actually falter and see the championship dissolve before his eyes. But, as we were forced to see, such is life. Roddick fell to Federer after playing, battling, churning, fighting, for 4 hours and 16 minutes, miss-hitting a forehand and losing the match 14 games to 16. It was the longest men's Grand Slam final in history at 77 games total, and the longest fifth set in a men's Grand Slam final in history. To put it simply, it was unlike anything the world had ever seen. And, with that victory, Roger Federer's Grand Slam titles rose to 15, giving him the most prestigious record in tennis -- all time Grand Slam leader.

The match had absolutely every detail in line to be one of the best upsets of the sport -- Federer going for the record, Andy having not won a Grand Slam in 6 years, and the reason for that 6 year dry spell due to Federer himself. Everything about this match today was aching to exist in Roddick's favor. Brits and Americans alike all held hands in support of this man, which is no easy feat. However, Roddick fans were left feeling absolutely crestfallen as the match ended, and our united hope proved not enough. But as slighted as Roddick fans felt, it was but a trifle compared to the expression on Roddick's face, as he himself comprehended the loss. His head hung low, arms crossed over his knees, he embodied the most bitter kind of disappointment. And as he slowly raised his head and tears squirmed out of his eyes and down his face, I felt my own throat close up and my entire body quivered with the loss. It was like hearing the most beautiful song in the world, and suddenly having the last 15 seconds of the track skip and lag, the discordance almost unbearable.

However, although we felt cheated out of an amazing emotional victory through Roddick, something spectacular took place with the loss -- as Federer watched Roddick's forehand drift out of bounds, he actually jumped up and down, pumped his arms several times, screamed out loud and smiled big and wide for all to see. The world had now seen something entirely new -- Federer got lost in the moment and let feelings sweep him away. And while tears aren't enough to save poor Roddick from another disappointment, seeing Federer jump around, dance, cheer, feel, was a small, redeeming victory in its own right.

The two great players congratulated each other during the awards ceremony in amiable, genuine ways that made the ending more bearable for everyone. Andy turned to Pete Sampras, the previous record holder, and with a smile said, "Sorry Pete, I tried to hold him off for you." And we all laughed, knowing that this charming man would be just fine. And as his name was announced as the runner-up of Wimbledon, the thunderous applause from everyone in the audience was proof that his efforts were not in vain.

Roddick, stay the course. One day, some day, your time will come.

- LAP etc.

Don't Give Away the End

I wish I had stuck with my piano playing a little more. I could have actually been pretty great. I stopped taking lessons in 7th grade because I didn't have time between all the soccer teams I was on, and now when I sit down and play it's like trying to reinstate an old habit you've already kicked. It takes so long to remember how my fingers are supposed to move, and before long my pinky finger cramps up and I need to take a 10 minute break until it regains mobility. But sometimes I'll sit at my keyboard and let lots of songs flood my head and before I know it, my fingers have a mind of their own and they're dancing around the keys, mimicking the great melodies in my head with expert ease. I don't know how that transition happens, but I can't really duplicate it at will, it just happens. Maybe if I practiced more when I was first learning the instrument, I could have established that bond early on and avoided the annoying interum between warming up and kicking ass. Piano for me is like a lot of things in life... there's greatness lurking there somewhere, but my own lack of ability makes the effort to achieve that greatness a real chore sometimes.

I wish I kept in touch with my pen pal from Guatemala. When I was younger, my family did one of those "save a child" things where you donate a few bucks a week to some starving infant across the world and as a thank you, you get pictures of how the child is doing, health reports, report cards from school, etc. When I was 6 my pen pal, Marta Julia Bunchen Perez, was 8. I was intrigued by her photographs... she had very clear black eyes, even blacker hair, and unevenly tanned skin, but her smile was just magical. She would just slightly curl up the edges of her mouth, never showing teeth, but smiling this sly grin that was hopeful and cheeky at the same time. I would write to her all the time, just telling her about my every day goings-on. I remember it was the time when my family got their first good computer, so I would beg my mom to let me type a letter to Marta and sign it in pen at the end. They had a person in her village translate my letters for her, and she would respond in like, getting the same person to type up an English version of her Spanish text and shipping it off to me when it was all over. She would always include some kind of drawing with her letters... it was sometimes an original crayon drawing, other times magazine clippings all pasted together, sometimes a collage of stickers. But she always included something or other. I wrote to her for a few years, and we'd talk about pretty benign stuff -- school, sports, food, our hobbies, our family. But even though we never wrote about anything of real substance, I felt a serious connection to this stranger from a strange land, one I knew nothing about and couldn't even imagine. Then, like many things in my life, one day I just stopped. I got her letters but never found the time to write back. After a few weeks passed by, I remember getting a letter from her that ended with something like, "It has been a while since your last letter. I would like to hear from you." Nothing cruel, nothing serious, just a simple statement that was to the point and honest. I remember vowing to write her back, but for some inexplicable reason, it just never happened. Thinking back now, I don't know how many letters she continued to write me after that. But in retrospect, I'm kind of disgusted in myself for not feeling extremely guilty and awful about the whole thing. I kind of just let it slip by, not feeling any shame for being too goddamn lazy to type a paragraph to a girl whose entire month was made better by a few words from me. I wonder where she is now.. she's a woman by now, about 22 I think. I wonder if she has a job, if she found someone to love, if she's still living in the same dilapidated village as before, if her favorite color is still green. I wish to hell I had her address and could find an answer to all these questions. But I guess the burning curiousity and peculiar sense of loss is my load to bear for my actions.

I wish I could grow the balls to just cut my hair already. It's ridiculously long and looks like a tangled mess and the ends are so dead and frayed and unseemly. All I need is a quick trim, but for some reason I really don't want to. Have you ever noticed that when you ask a barber to "take off as little as possible," they always end up taking off a minimum of 2 inches and you're left to watch in horror as wet clumps of your hair go cascading to the floor around you like a brunette hairball hurricane. I really fucking hate that. I'm paying you to do something to a part of my body, why can't you just listen? Also, I've become pathetically more invested in my looks lately, which I don't really understand. I'm fine with my appearance, but now more than ever I find myself literally walking out of my way in order to catch my reflection in the windows of stores and stuff. It's sick and stupid and I don't know why I'm suddenly this appearance freak. But I have this compulsion to keep checking over myself that wasn't there before, at least not at this magnitude. I don't know if it's the fact that it's summer and therefore people generally weare less clothes, or if something set me off recently to make me feel insecure out of nowhere. But I am now on a quest to train myself to ignore windows, stop pretending to go to the bathroom so I can look in the mirror, and stop being such a dumbass idiot vain bitch of a person.

I have a lot of wishes, apparently. I won't ask if they'll ever come true, because I know at the end of the day, I control whether they do or don't. And that's the hardest pressure life will ever throw at me.

- LAP etc.

Can You Hear It?

I'm watching this annoying, stupid beetle fly around my room. It keeps bumping into the light fixture of my ceiling fan like it wants to bust the damn thing into a million pieces. Occasionally it'll swoop down near my head and, like a skittish three-year-old, I tense up and start swatting the air for thirty seconds until I feel I've created a soundless, impenetrable barrier around my body that will now serve as an anti-bug zone. Five seconds later, the freaking thing is back at it, buzzing provocatively near my ear and doing it's frenetic head bang into the light, daring me to interrupt its fun. I look around me for a book so I can catch the beetle in a moment of weakness, and then annihilate it with my herculean strength. I'm so ready to teach this little asshole a lesson, and I wait patiently as it continues to smack its little body into the lightbulb, making an almost imperceptible "ping!" with every blow. Finally, it decides to take a breather and drifts onto the wall, doing figure-8s above my dresser. Then, it stops cold, just sitting there, all buzzing ceased. It's time. I slither over with my unnecessarily huge book, selected with great care from my bookshelf as the weapon of choice. I use my other hand to frame the bug, setting up a mental bulls-eye. Then, just when the book is hoisted up just within demolition range, some ridiculous voice in my head says:

"Wait, wait. What if you miss?"

The thought stops me mid-slaughter, and I'm suddenly frozen. What if I swing with all my might and I don't even kill this cantankerous thing? How could I deal with that kind of failure? I can't even imagine the mortification that would come with hearing the huge hardcover novel in my hands hit the wall, a sickening thud, while the beetle buzzes around the room unscathed, laughing in my face, banging its beady little insect head against the light even faster than before out of jest. My dignity and ego are far too compromised to handle that kind of a blow.

So what do I do? I want more than anything to kill this idiotic, impetuous, inexplicably irritating insect, and yet knowing I might miss is too much to handle. So I cease and desist. I put the obnoxiously huge book back on the shelf, retreat back to my bed, and sit there, feeling seriously fucked in the head.

For people who are a fan of really elaborate segues, hold steady, for you're about to get one right now: beetles can physically buzz around you and drive you nuts, but what about the things in your head that nag at you, buzz in your brain and taunt you, nip at your sanity. The things you desperately want to do, know you can do, but make excuses for why you simply can't, won't, shouldn't. We all have beetles in our heads. Some bigger and louder than others, others a mere shadow that occasionally taunts us when we least expect it. And we are all armed with our personal talents and gifts to defeat this beetle - the huge book we grab off the shelf to combat the little demon bug on the wall of our minds. But something often comes around and, for whatever reason, coerces us into putting the book back on the shelf, letting the beetle thrive, buzz, insult, damage. It's a crying shame, really.

These self-doubt beetles are lethal, and need to be stopped. I'm trying to get rid of mine, but it's in there somewhere, occasionally reminding me of its presence with a little buzz that then equates to a real disappointment in my life. Some big, some small. My biggest struggle to date is the beetle that plagues my confidence in my writing. I've kept a journal since age 4, writing every little thought, event, occurance, what have you. I wrote through the innocence of elementary school, the awkwardness of middle school, the decadence of high school, and then.... I stopped. Just when my life started to go somewhere, I started to think I couldn't possibly account for it all, and my desire to map out my existence through words started to die. It could have been the pressures of college, the intimidation of adulthood, or just the fact that I was a lazy asshole. Regardless, I caught the bug, and it hasn't set me loose. I'm convinced that I can never write anything of merit, that the passion in my heart to write beautiful books and stories for the world will never be enough, that the promise that lurks in my abilities will never transform into actual talent. Buzz, buzz, buzz.

One advancement I have made is that I've finally stopped believing that with age, I'll become better at everything. There are some things time can't teach you. I can wait forever, hoping the dust I gather will make me more wise. Or I can get my ass moving and stop thinking my time will come, my time will come. I may never be as smart as I think I'll become, and I may never garner the experiences I need to be as gifted as I want to be. But what I do have is a mind that is too special to be cluttered with the buzzings of reasons "why not." And that goes for you. We may know what we want, but it means nothing unless we're ballsy enough to look like idiots striving for it. Get over your self-doubt, and listen to the gentle musings of the better version of you that hangs out in your head, wants to emerge, wants to get to know you better. Never let any other noise drown it out. If you listen through the buzzing, you'll hear it.

So, I'm writing this blog at 2:38 AM on a Sunday morning, in my room, on my bed, in the dark, for no reason. I write this for no one. I expect nothing of it. But, the fact that I'm doing it is liberating enough to give the beetle in my head a swift kick to the jaw, or the insect equivalent of one. Suddenly, my room seems much quieter. I might even get some sleep. Maybe, with each entry, I'll annihilate it forever. Thus, I'll write whenever, whatever, and however I want, hopefully daily but at least whenever I feel like it. Feel free to come along for the journey, for I promise it will be wonderfully dull, and extraordinarily ordinary. But at least it's mine.

- LAP etc.