exactly the opposite

When it's zero and one eighty;
When it's midnight and noon;
When it's black and white,
Then it's a pair of exact opposites.

When it's day or night,
Or hot or cold,
Or awake or asleep,
Then it's general exact opposites.

It doesn't make sense, but stay with me.

When it's going, not stopped;
When it's silent, not loud;
When it's hectic, not calm,
It's doing the exact opposite.

When I'm blogging, not working;
When I'm blogging, not sleeping;
When I'm blogging, not thinking,
I don't think it's quite the exact opposite of what I OUGHT to do,

But it certainly won't be found on the list of shoulds.


However,
I'll do it anyway.  Because it makes me feel productive.
Which helps me actually be productive.


So now that I've done this, I'll go do
E x a c t l y  t h e  o p p o s i t e
of what I shouldn't currently do.

Have one of the best ones,
Josie

Dear Poems,

If I promise to let you out more often, do you think you'd be willing to have all your pieces when you show up?  I love what you've given me, but usually I think that a beginning and an ending always bring out the best in the middle parts.  All together.  All three parts.

Either way, I guess I'll still be letting you out more often.   I want you to get some more fresh air.

Cordially,
Josie

a little warm, but not at all astonished

I love Rudyard Kippling.  My dad used to read The Elephant's Child to my siblings and I before bed.  Consequently, we still quote it. For example: 'a little warm, but not at all astonished'.

'Insatiable Curiosity' is another phrase I love.  Especially when Papá says it.

I don't have a Dad.  I have a Papá.  For third person usage, I have a dad, but no Dad.  I'm proud of that fact.  Not that it gives me anything special.  (Besides a magic genie, and ownership of several islands.)
... No.
I don't get anything.  Except my Papá.  But that's cooler than a genie or islands, so I'm content.

Anyway.  Mr. Kippling, I wish I could write a little more like you did.  If is one of my favorite poems.

We drove my sister to her husband and new home in North Carolina.  Summers may be short there, but they are compensatingly humid.  Compensatingly should be a word.

I think that if someone took all the discomfort available during the long, dry summer out in this desert and compressed it so that it took up as little time as possible, the result would be summer out by the Atlantic Ocean.  Hot; Humid; No cooling off at night.  (I think the absence of actual mountains contributes to the absence of cooler evenings.)

Anyway, besides the instant-stickiness, North Carolina has very little worth complaining about.  I loved it there.  I want to go back soon.  (My desire to return is probably heavily influenced by family,  but scenery plays a significant roll too.)

So.  Driving, trees, restaurants, beach, museum, cameras, Knudsens, refrigerator, Target.  Those are words that came to mind as far as "NC Highlights" goes.

Other trip highlights include (but are not limited to): Lizzie, dark chocolate, Hampton Inn in New Albany, Indiana, driving home through the canyon.

But I'm back now.  A little warm, but not at all astonished.

Yep.
The end.
Josie

Poem of the day

Poem of the day:

And now the day is done:

A bright full moon has come.

Knudsens left. They're gone.

And Calvin's twenty-one.

this is how i feel.

THE PRODUCT OF MY DRIVE HOME, AND THE SIGHT BEYOND THE WINDOW I NOW FACE:

If only for the cross-breeze,

[with its iconic sound

and the blissful sense of chaos,]

I'd roll that window down.

If it was warm,

or stormy,

I'd still roll that window down.

I'd rather not face rain, though.

It's not that it won't sing--

it's actually quite full of

pieces of some everythings,

some in-betweens,

and also filled by hungry, grieved nothings.

But I don't think it'd be useful

to bet wet again so soon.

The clouds might disagree.

Last night, they hid the moon.

But even if it does rain,

(perhaps especially,)

I'd still roll down that window.

I still need that cross-breeze.

*STREAMOFTHOUGHT:* earlier i was discussing utah weather. i'm very much in love with the variety. i'm pretty sure it keeps me sane. i don't normally type poems. in fact, usually i can't type a poem. i just do better with a pen. i see green blurs on my willow. i view the tree right through that window-- the one willow i can see-- as my tree. right now there are lots of blurs. i wonder where my glasses went. i often have long titles. they usually mean more to me than i mean them to. or maybe they mean more to me than i mean them to mean to other people...

I'm done.

josie

a post i'm posting late

(Today is actually the thirtieth. But this belongs on the 25th.)

Olivia Cherie Juárez Knudsen.

Oliviack, maybe? Maybe.

She's older, and she's wiser.

She can raise her eyebrow, too.

(Like, really, though. She means it

when she raises it at you.)

She quite enjoys her major.

(A designer-- graphic'ly.)

She's GOOD at it. I've seen her

work with simplicity

and show so well whatever

she meant to get across.

(Kind of like that eyebrow

which just tells you it's the boss.)

There's lot's more to her. She's the oldest, of course there is. It isn't hard to tell, though, because she's very real. And very much her own character.

Go see.

Olivia, I love you very much. Happy 25 on 25, even though that's sort of old news. I still think it's exciting. Sorry I didn't do this when it was your actual birthday. We'll just say I was busy helping you celebrate, okay?

Okay.

Cool.

Love you,

jos

words are magic

I've had a lot of poems recently. Which is good, because I was beginning to feel like the poems were beginning to fade into quotes, single words, and stories. But there is something about poems that let words actually become what they want to become.

I'm probably only making sense to myself, but that's okay. That's all I need for now.

Here's one of the said recent poems:

Why I Got to Sleep so Late

I am not a sleeper.

But I dearly love to dream.

But shutting down--

It wouldn't work.

And I wondered

How he'd been.

Then my brother came,

And for a while, we just spoke.

But he laid down.

(He does hard work)

And my pen--

it met my book.

That was last night. I hadn't seen Sean in a while, and he came to my room late last night as I was about to go to sleep. I didn't go to sleep for another hour, because of talking with Sean, and then waking Sean up. Then writing a poem.

I've been thinking a lot about words recently. Words are really important to me. In a way that I don't fully understand. The best part is, the words themselves can't help me to describe it. It's kind of magic.

Words, words, words.

Josie

let impatience have a go

A few things (if "few" is allowed to equal 4 and a poem) :

• Blogger won't let me upload pictures. Upset? Yes. But only by a little bit. If we were to measure it in terms of a threshold, then I'm standing just beyond said threshold. But it was a threshold of quit. I gave up trying to put a picture up here. In retrospect, I wasted time. ... It wasn't even all that important. In fact, it was zero important.
• 'Nother thing: I've developed a crush on in- words. A few that have found their way onto the blank-no-longer pages of my moleskin are inconsistency, intrude, inflict, interlude, intervene. I have others in my head, but I haven't yet let them out. It's kinda a gradual thing. But it makes me want to write inportant instead of important. Baffling. (Not really, but I wanted to use that word.)
• I was thinking the other day (four minutes ago), "Hey. Why do I always talk about myself when I blog?" That's when I realized A: it's not always, and B: it's... my blog. But still, I sometimes wish that I wasn't always writing about me and my writing and why I'm this or I'm that or mine or me or my or whomever is I. Is it weird that I feel guilty writing about myself? ... Probably. That said, I'm currently collecting art blogs that I love, and I want to share. So I'm going to shortly.

• I tend to be embarrassed by my blog, words, poems, stories, and the like. I don't think that's really a good thing. So I'm going to try to let myself tell people about this blog. I usually don't, or when I do it's a very shallow effort. I feel... like it's bragging. Anybody know how that goes? ... I do. I poem'd about it a bit earlier today. (Once again, trying to be more ¿confident? with my writing, I'll post it with this post.)

A Question I Discovered I'd Asked Myself

Am I writing for a purpose?

I let few people read.

But it feels a bit intimidating,

And I know there's stuff I lack.

I don't write quite as often

as I know I think I should.

Admittedly, I'm scared--

Even terrified (to a point).

I know there's stuff I lack,

But I still should write some more,

And let more people read words

I write to write some more.

And not just the same ones

I let 'cause I feel safe.

But am I writing for a purpose,

Or just to write some more?

Hey Sean. Guess What. You're 22.

Hey Sean. Guess What. You're 22

Today is the twentieth

Now you're twenty two.

It's not your real birthday.

If it was you'd be pretty small.

But we'll still have a party.

'Cause it was your birthday once

(It was on the twentieth

in 1987)

Anyway, congrats.

It's been really cool

to have you back around again.

And now you're twenty two.

Sean, I wrote you a poem. Happy Birthday.

Love you,

Josie

I Titled a Poem with a Picture

Why did I title a poem with a picture? Because it fit better than a word would. Sometimes pictures can just say it all. Very eloquently too.

Here is the poem (with the kind-of title):

I'm listening

And you know it's true,

But sleep sounds

So inviting.

_I'm wandering

I'm here with you.

Can you tell that

___I am trying?

______ _________I'm mumbling.

______ ______All my speech is slurring.

______ ___ Mumbling...

______ So inviting...

___Eyes closed

_Feels so much better.

Eyes closed,

I can see you better.

Eyes closed.

___ Eyes closed.

______ _I'm sleeping now.

No. I'm back with you.

Your shoulder looks

_So inviting

_I'm leaning now.

Were you saying something?

Was it really

So important?

Can't I SLEEP?

I CAN'T sleep.

___But eyes closed

_Feels so much better.

Eyes closed,

I can hear you better.

Eyes closed.

___ Ears down.

______ Sleep sounds

______ _________So inviting.

Yup. As I was writing it, I realized that there were plenty of potential titles that would work well. But I still think the picture works best.

San Carlos

A poem I wrote a couple of days ago about the place where I went to school:

San Carlos

There are Dark Heads adorned in forrest green--

And here there is no silk, there is no jean.

And when the bell is rung, the door is shut,

And then the Dark Heads pull their notebooks out,

And they are set on wood that's painted grey,

And it, through time, has slowly worn away.

The man in front begins to say his piece

And so the pens record--few words are missed.

Three speakers come in turn, and then they go.

And after that begins the out door show.

The forrest gathers thick around the snacks.

They purchase what they want, and then come back.

Or others simply warm up in the sun--

The ones not wearing skirts will jump, or run.

Their toasted skin was not made for cement

That made the buildings where their days are spent.

And then the bell is heard. The crowds retreat.

Dark eyes--bright lamps--they watch the one who speaks.

And so, they do the cycle once again

With different words and thoughts to entertain.

And after three more bells are rung, it's time

To journey to the park, or home to dine.

The sun still sits above. The day is young.

And so the forrest gathers, then it's gone.

I wrote it for my Creative Writing class in the states, about my school here in Guatemala. I have plenty of homework for the U.S. classes, so Friday the 20th was my last day. They threw me a party. Someone from the administration, and the class president said some words about me before I spoke, to thank the class for their kindness. They bought me a shirt from the PE uniforms from our school, and all signed it, and presented me with a gift too. It was just a simple bag, but it was really sweet. All of the students talked about how they were sure I missed my family, but they all hoped that I'd miss them when I left too. Such good, kind, loving people. I love it here.

There it is.

Josie