Cursive,Print, and the Desire of Difference

Excerpt from the book on my night stand:






"I have noticed a pattern in these pages. Being an advocate for originality and spontaneity this is my attempt to break that pattern. I recently have read through the pages that I have written so far. I remembered everything about every page. I remember where I wrote it, what provoked it, whether wine caused it or pain. I even remember where the tears fell on many of the ink splattered pages. As I read along I noticed a dominating pattern. I only write when I feel like it. When something moves me it often times causes me to pick up a pen. There is a stirring of emotion that makes me feel that if I don't write down what is inside me it will destroy me or escape forever. I am not okay with either. This pattern disturbed me.

I am a man that wants to be unpredictable. I want to have no habits. I once did not eat for a week just to prove to myself that food did not even hold me under her boot. To prove that I did not have to eat like every one else. When I walk to class I don't take the sidewalk. I walk in the grass, the dirt, the mud. Dirty shoes mean you have been somewhere. It also reminded me of where I am going. If I follow the path everyone else follows then I tend to forget. Making my own path gives me a purpose. Where there are puddles I often walk through them as all the sorority girls tip toe around them in their rain boots. I don't think that I am special ore elite. I just want to be different. Which brings me back to the purpose of me writing. I want this time to be different from the others. If you flip through this book you will notice a sporadic compilation of cursive and print. Another attempt at being unpredictable. But every time I wrote it was because something manifested that response in me. This time is not so. I am sitting in a chair, donating blood, writing. Not because I have been stirred to write or want to write. Just writing because I want to be different. "


written many years ago, in a town of bloomington, by an ignorant pen. Nothing is new under the sun. Be careful.....difference may mascaraed as an evil creature.

- Mediocrity is a gift from God, but it is seen as a curse

My necklace

Four years ago today my Grandmother died. I remember it vividly. The memory is potent. It stings my eyes as they well up with tears. She was living in our basement, waiting to die. We all knew it would be soon. That however never seems to make it hurt less. Every time death visits you it feels brand new. I remember the phone call I got from my brother, "she is not going to make it". He barely could speak the sentence. His voice stammered and crackled through the phone. I could hear death on the end of the telephone, as it sat in my basement clutching my Grandmother's lungs. I dropped my books, grabbed my keys, and squeaked out, "I'll be there in 2 hours." To which was responded "you won't make it". I set the phone down and sat on my porch lifeless, hunched over in a chair with my elbows on my knees and my head in my hands. A silver necklace hung from my neck. At the end of the chain hung a tiny silver cross with a square amethyst stone in the center.

It was my Grandmothers

I never took the necklace off after she died. I wore it until the chain wore through the clasp and it broke. It now sits in a box on a dresser hidden away. Much like the body of my Grandmother; put in a box, placed in a wall by my family and I, far from me now but so close to my heart. Much like the purple stoned cross that hung on my neck and lay against my chest. I remember her laugh. I remember the goofy faces she made. I remember how much she hated getting old. I remember the way she swore when she thought no one could hear. Memories are all I have left of her. Her face imprinted in my brain, and in photographs. Photographs much like my necklace, much like my Grandmother. Placed in a box, and tucked away.

For Irene Roberts

I love and miss you

Thank you for the necklace.....

Not All That Glitters is Gold

Lie awake my restless soul be calm

You sit and wait for answers for so long

Follow me to the ever green where dreams are kind and she is mean, I know.

Forever is a word in songs, in life I do not know

Remember when you watched the sun with me?

Life against the Earth felt more than free

Now I stare at a tall jar of coins

Wondering if someday it will be as empty as me?

Listen my weary soul, there is something you should know

Love is stupid but man do you dream to be dumb

so fall asleep restless soul be calm

The answers will come before too long