Cause who doesn't want to k.i.s.s.

I am living simply. Eating simply. My diet consists of rice and beans, pizzas, chilis, breads, pastas, delicious kale/spinach smoothies and whatever else my mom decides to make. Because all said things above are homemade and fantastic. Even the dough. My mother is like a young Bobby Flay (minus the genitals). My stomach thanks her everytime I open the fridge. I think this diet has been having reciprical effects on how I live. Or (more likely) how I live is influencing my diet choices. And health my taste buds are winning.

I don't know. I am not sure what is happening really. I feel complete. In a way that is foreign to me. There is nothing on my agenda that I do not want to do really because I made it up. And most days it is made the day of. I work, food shop, watch a movie, read, sit, nap, walk the dog, think, shave, etc. Simple.

Check out my foxy and ferocious non-feline friendly friend slumbering on the equally as fiery, vintage Power Rangers comforter.

I still live with my mom and though there is a stigma attached with twenty and living with parents (and I see the reasoning behind it) I really enjoying being with. It is like connecting with my best. Seeing where the feet that taught me to walk walked and just hearing stories or how she lives. Simple things. Family things. Connecting with a part of my history that I think I missed out on when I was younger. I mean I don't want to live with my mom forever but for right now, it is perfect. I am satisfied with who I am being.

But I wish I was doing more. Writing more, singing more, math more, physics more, dance more, talk more, play more, draw more, knit more. And do more better also. But I know all these things are just a decision a way and that they change anytime I say so. So say so.

Talking with an ex-girlfriend last night I realized that I become nervous when speaking to anyone from my past whom I have had an intimate relationship with. When I see that name pop up on my phone screen my hands become a bit wet and heart races a little and I have no idea why. Even if it is not an intimate person from my past. Just a friend calling. But with strangers, I am fine. Not even a hint of nervousness. Maybe it is because I subconsiously think that that person has a perception of me that I have to live up. That I have to be as cool or attractive or clever or funny as I have ever been. I have to live up to myself. And with strangers there is no past me, there is only whoever I am now. And it is so not worth the nervousness. Man, you should just drop.

I think you have to choose carefully the things you carry. They can either weigh you down or help you move forward.

Simply,

anthony

Getting out of shape

I have left my mind go as of late. Not in the good sense of letting it go like freeing it up and letting it make wild connections and really interacting with every moment. No, I mean the other letting go. The opposite from what is said above. It now has a beer belly from to much time spent on the couch watching movies and sleeping in. The mind is just like the physical body, it you do not strech it out and use it then it becomes flat, lifeless, uninspired. So, now I must get it back into shape.

Heading back to college has been weighing me down with questions. I continue to second guess my self as to if this is the right choice or not, still reading through guide books and college review websites to reassure myself that I am making the right decision, though no alleviation of worry is felt. But I do not think any amount of reading can answer the questions that roll through my head. Am I making the right choice? Should I attend this college? Or wait to attend another? Or transfer later? Or not attend at all? Is it right for me to ask my mother to help pay for an education that I should be responsible for?

The older I get the more I know that questions like these have no merit to them. There are no answer for these questions. You can only move forward and adjust accordingly.

Whenever I come to a choice, whether it be buying a new pair of shoes or what I want to eat, I quiet myself and ask, "What do you REALLY want?" And I listen to myself, to my heart, for a reply for we always know what we really want, what we really need. Sometimes we just become very good at hiding it from ourselves, but it is there. And it cannot be moved. All one must do is quiet one's self and listen closely. You know the truth all ready because you are truth. You embody the truth. For it is through you that truth emanates. I have been getting away from this and really need to rid myself of the trash floating around in me and come back to center.

There is no right or wrong way. There is only a path. And whatever path you take or make it matters not, it is the one you are on and because of that it is perfect and you are perfect. That is the way has been and that is they it will always be. You can do nothing wrong for there is nothing to be lost. Your heart will know they way, as if it has been there before and knows all the twists and turns, so follow it and try not to worry so much.

- ar

A reflection (in peaces)

There are a few downers of living with my mom at twenty:

Female: "I had a really nice time tonight."
"Good. I'm glad. I did too."
"So, can we go back to your place."
"Nah. I don't want to wake my mom."
"Oh."
"Yeah."

(This above scenario never happens.)

However the food is not one of them. Feast your eyes on these beauties:

(Tastes much better in person)

I have been reading a lot. Well, not really. More like doing nothing. I've been doing nothing a lot. Sitting around and thinking, but not thinking of anything. Moping really is more like. But I'm not depressed or sad really. Just useless. I feel lately. Uninspired and uninspiring. Like I am walking the track in the forest over and over again. The weather changes, the trees shed their leaves and then rekindle their branches, I hear the stream passing over rocks, people wave but I see nothing. I hear nothing. I consume myself and within that consumption is me. My now. My only moment that I have. And I do not really have it. It contains me. And all I really may do is appreciate it and be grateful for my existence within it.

It is never the outer world that causes duress. People believe it to be, but it isn't. I can do nothing but loaf for an entire day without qualm,but the next, I stricken myself for not doing a thing worth doing. It is not what I'm doing, it's who I'm being. It is finding the satisfaction in being that brings peace. I think.

Look at the Sky and Smile

Reading the diary of a young girl makes me feel behind in the times. Anne Frank had more wisdom at age thirteen than I do at twenty. Her insights have more candor and eloquence than I have ever written or spoken. But I have always been a late bloomer.

There is something I always hold on to, something I dare not give away. I am not sure what it is but I never share it. Forgive me for the ambiguity if you wish to know more, but so do I. I have never had that close, intimate relationship so sought after with friends, lovers, family members. I am a lone traveler traversing and dancing. A companion who understands me completely has escaped me completely. But do not mistake me to be complaining, everyone must take that long walk alone and must continue moving. Always moving. Moving forward. One step then the another. One foot then the other. But it can get lonely.

I connect with parts of people though. People of different times, of the living and the not, I steal from them ideas, words, expressions, movements, gestures, gazes, habits, quirks, and carry them with me to pass on to someone else. People whom I have never met and might not ever meet, I take what they give and am grateful.

There is no coherency to my thoughts. Do you ever find yourself in a lull or stuck in a funk (what a cool word)? I have been lazy recently, shirk the duties that I owe to myself. Taking care of one's self is a continual task. The brain can become out of shape just like the body. Habits begin to form and thoughts become rutted into a certain path that, most likely, was not even consciously chosen. One must be careful and always keep mentally in shape. Always challenge one's self and keep on the pursuit; comtinue to go after that greatness and submerge yourself in the work you deem worthy. Do not settle. Follow that intuition. Follow that curiousity. They are on to something.

Honestly, why do I write here? My words will pass into oblivion just like thousands upon millions upon billion and (most definitely) upon trillion of other words from people much wiser, graceful, determined than I. Only the very few have there words saved and read by generations after and even those will not last. But we continue on, knowing that one day all the doors we open will one day close and become nothing. But there is today.

- ar

Sunday School

She wiped the seat before she sat on the swing. She didn't want to dirty her sunday school dress since it was Sunday and still before church. It was still early and roosters could still be heard crowing just on the outside of town. Almost in town, but they like to be labeled as out-of-towners, pround country folk. In an hour an a half the train would pass through and give a loud whistle like it did every day, even sundays. The priest didn't tak to liking that so much, but there wasn't much choice. Plus, it is easy to get used to something that happens every day.

Staring at her shoes then back to the house she knew that her parents would not be out until another fifteen minutes had passed. Her shoes shone white against the mud track that had been run by her bare feet or other shoes under the swing's bench. It was still early enough for the sky to still have some blue night in it. The sun shone in through the trees, manuevering its way in and out of brunches not yet able to climb higher on that horizon to cast its light over the foliage.

There was no rule against it, to play on the swing before church but momma didn't like. She would give that real disapproving look when they got their shoes dirty before God got to see them clean. After church it was fine for momma didn't mind cleaning and it would be a week before they were worn again.

The coolness of the night pervaded that summer morning and as she swung back and forth, she could feel the softness of it against her face. Her legs moved forward, stretching out in front of her to go higher, and backwards, tucking her feet under her butt to get even higher on the next fling forward. There is a smell that accompanies summer mornings, as if an exhausted ground, grateful for the day to finally be over and for the sun to stop beatung on its breast that it welcomes night to envelope it, every summer night. And the night does just that, covers all the ground, surrounding it with its darkness and giving it refuge from the unmerciful light shining down on it just a few hours earlier. But when that morning comes, and it always does, the ground gives a grand and wide exhale, giving up the comfort of the night. She smells that exhale as it passes over her skin as her hair flys back as she swings forward and sticks behind her as she swings back.

A time for everything

When I was younger, I never knew how to be "cool". It eluded me. Escaped me. It was like a formula that I did not know or understand. I would look at each piece: the clothes, the walk, the mannerisms, how they talked (especially to the opposite sex), which sports they would play, how they played and tried to add it all up. To sum it up inot one big equation. But it never came out right, never made sense. The end result of the equation was not equivalent to what I believed it to be. This caused great confusion, though not at the time. Apathy was too busy plaguing my lifestyle for much anything to have an effect. It was just another thing that I did not understand that became cast into the growing (and still growing) pile of things that I cannot figure out or do not make sense to me. And when one is young that pile is huge (though the youth have no idea how big that pile can grow, and continue to grow).

Perhaps that is why I remeber so few things from my childhhod. Like most, my memory is hazy (putting it softly (such ambigious adjectives dominate our language)) from events happening in my childhhood, but, perhaps, even more so than most. Family members whom are younger than I am (by a year or two), or are just a tad bit older bring up memories from our shared childhood that I have no recollection of. For all I know they could have never happened and all their story-telling is just a jest to see how much they can make me believe actually did or did not happen. But I have known these people for quite some time and do not believe they have the creative capability or ambition to stretch a joke that far (plus, from the stories I have been told so far, they are not all that creative or far-fetched in the first place. I mean which middle-classed American childhood does not have the memory of an ice-cream truck driving through their neighborhood playing that all too familiar song that still comes back after childhood is long over, entering other memories.)

Everything before the age of twelve, thirteen, even fourtenn is, at least somewhat blurred to me. But that is not being entirely true. "Everyone speaks in half-truths, partial truths." Making that oath of "the whole truth and nothing but..." an impossible task to begin with. Looking back now I can see many moments: finding out about words reserved for parents and using them profusely, the first crush, counseling for a divorce that was unneeded (the counseling, not the divorce), the weird kid who would eat things off the ground if someone dared him to, the park next to the school, and many other things having no significance.

Memories, doing what memories do best: growing dimmer and dimmer by the light that is cast by our present, relatively recent past, and the ever-expanding present (for the young), but is there a point when it all becomes reversed, when time flips situations around making life run backwards, in a way? Events that occured long ago and believed to be lost, forgotten, suppressed, lied about, things in which no one else knew about, whos only witness was you and you alone hold that memory which comes back into focus after what seems like and endless amount of time has passed. Now, the past, instead of becoming farther and farther away, turns its head and to be nearer to you, to be close to you, to haunt you. This point of change in role in time instead of being a bringer of better things becomes a reminder things past happens when the time ahead of a person is less than the time all ready lived. There is something about the half-way point of a journey or test or race that is relieving or terrifying, depending on the situation, rejuvinating and depressing, helping you to take that next step or to turn the page or making you fearfull of it. The half-way point can give one strength because you think,"I have all ready made it to the half-way mark, I have all ready ran half the course and I am still here so if I am capabale of completing the first half than I am capabale of doing the second half as well." The sheer momentum of this thought can push people to the finish line or desired end. But in other cases it is the opposite. People see the mid-point as the beginning of the end. The relatively recent past becomes more and more insignificant because at this point because most of your story has been written, how much of a difference can it make to write anything more? Everybody knows how the ending will be (except in those rare and extraordinary occasions). Horizons that used to be so wide because you could say,"In ten to fifteen to twenty to fourty years, I will do this," now begin to narrow and not be cast so wide. Past memories begin to creep, as if to attack, "Rest heavy on thy Bossom," and one tries to see the over arching line to their life. They look back to see a certain memory and its significance as if it only existed to lead them to this moment, this point in the "then" future. As if when it was happening you understood completely why everything was happening the way it did and why things fell into place or fell apart as they did. As if this moment is for some future moment, still unforeseen.

But with life, there is mid-point, no halw-way mark. For we have no way of knowing how far our story will reach past us. How are words will impact others and how many things of ours (though not initially ours) others will choose to pick up or forget about. Our things will lose us leaving them without a history should one pick it up without knowing who we are. It will be as if our possesion will go through a rebirth. We may last on through our posterity, which is the most often used and most concrete way of passing ourselves on and for us to live past our lives, giving our eye color and shape to another or perhaps one of our most used phrases or gestures that passes our lips and moves through our bodies without notice or effort. One does not know how long one will out last one's self. Paintings begin to leave lasting impressions on people only after their death, authors never see any of their works published but years later, kids are studying their words, buildings outlast the architect, and people farmers feed live longer than the farmers with the soil they toiled giving them their rest in the end.

I do not know if I believe the things I write, I just write. If it sounds good at the time, I write. How many things there are that we do because of its time and place. "Everything has its time to be believed."

I missed the eclipse and the Geminids. Damn it. All ready preparing for next year. Or this year. And I cannot wait for 2014 either. Eclipse, here I come (or you come, more accurately). Happy new year. Make it a good one.

-anthony