Four Thoughts

1. I loathe people who tell me that they are "born again ________s." For instance, this afternoon I overheard someone tell another that they were a "born again Christian." For a moment, I turned to get a nice, long look at this character. I then imagined them putting the frigid, business-end of a pistol between their teeth and fingering the trigger gently; finally, yanking the action enough to plunge a life-ending bullet through the back of their throat. Then, of course, I had to appease my imagination with thoughts of an elaborate birth; one in which this character emerges as a new & improved human being. At this point, I opt to figuratively shoot this person in the back of the head and ponder what they'll come back as next. Frankly, I just think "born-again" is lacking in terms of metaphoric-relevance. Creativity shouldn't settle for less.

2. Birthdays mirror our society insofar as they provide an outlet for our narcissistic (see: self-absorbency, egocentricity, conceit, et cetera), and inherently vain natures. Is it important to reflect on a year passed? Yes. Period.

3. Truth (remember, Katy?): I often write things in the margins of my readings that are relevant to my then-present state of mind, though not the text. In the future, I wonder, will anyone pick up a treasured text of mine and ponder what it was that the reader was responding to? In an monomaniacal (see: obsessive, aggrandizing, freaking the fuck out about shit) sort of way, I find pleasure in knowing that I could alter one's perception of something; that I could prompt a response to a text that would have not happened if not for my irrelevant mark-ups. Funny world.

4. I believe in the certain sense of process that our world revolves around. Think about it: we process(ize) everything. Thoughts, words, sounds, sights, smells, shit. We age and mature in a fundamentally procedural way (birth: tit-milk>>walk>>talk>>potty training>>adolescence>> sex>>booze>>internship>>job>>kids>>debt>>401K>>golf-outings>>bourbon>>retirement>>death). There is a process for everything. This, and only this, is what distinguishes you from me, her from him: OUR PROCESS. Our inconsistencies in operandi may be the intrinsic cause of earthly evil, but such petty misunderstandings need only simple explanations on behalf of the parties in angst. Next time you want to fight, or yell, or scream, and bitch: don't. Smile, and recognize that you are you.



I'm nineteen today, but I feel like I'm 48.




MH: "I saw this wino the other day. He was eating grapes. I said 'No, no, no man. You gotta wait!"

Sleep Deprivation

Sleep (or lack-there-of) is peculiar. I find that I can function (relatively) well on four to five hours of uninterrupted slumber on a nightly basis. It's simply that I am much happier accomplishing the shit that I've neglected to do during the day in the middle of the night. Perhaps, it is such that I am undisturbed. Alone. My phone is silent, my light is dimmed, my mind is weary (though entirely aware), my mouth is shut, and my stream of consciousness is free to ramble and roam is at sees fit.



Recently, I have fallen in love with This I Believe all over again. I am in the preliminary stages of fashioning a personal account of my belief. Sounds easy enough, eh? Easy, insofar as I have been staring at this naked page for an hour and a half. Where does one begin? We all have beliefs, or so we claim. Challenge yourself to compact one belief into a concise, thoughtful, intellectually-stimulating cluster of words and I assure you that the aforementioned notion of ease is no longer applicable.

On a lighter note, this made my evening.

Happy Sunday

I was recently asked to write a poem fashioned after Elizabeth Bishop's "An Invitation for Miss Marianne Moore." Though the refrain fluctuates, I am relatively pleased with how the piece turned out. Comment, critique?

"For You, From Me, Cordially"
by Steven Scott

Josh, come meet me
in Memphis where you can sense
the permeating pit
barbecue & the sweet vermouth
scent as it rolls off my grandmother’s tongue
when she reaches
to kiss your cheeks

Josh, come see me soon
bear your long hair,
your dead, red cowboy
killers—I still recall
the way you tried to stifle
the odor in your baby
(was it blue?) truck

Josh, come see me
because the world is our
ashtray & I’ve been meaning to steal
the Times’ crossword (we never had
the $. twenty-five)

Josh, do you remember
when my grandmother taught
us how to make a Manhattan
up? I do.

Josh, do you remember
when we used to drive
drunk like high school
cruise-control, case
open, between my legs

Josh, do you remember,
were we invincible? no
careful hand of God
nor Devil could touch
this or that
or us

Josh, come see me
with your wallet empty always
& your eyes full like life
come see me with your beard
burned now by the butt
of this cigarette

Come see me, Josh
we’ll make manhattans (count them, 3 rocks)
our skin can grow
old
& gray & tainted
like distance

***