Morning Anxiety

It’s cold. I can feel the dense air creep in through a window I’ve kept ajar. Fooled again by warm spring nights. Will I never learn? The alarm clock screams its reveille. For the second time this morning I silence its report. It would be a shame to release the heat my quilt so tirelessly held prisoner. The byproduct of frantic metabolism exhausts into the surrounding atmosphere. I’m sorry I betrayed you. I am awake.

Lights explode; my hands rest on porcelain and particleboard. Still fuzzy I greet myself. Staring into staring, search the wall. Click. Smothered by the void. My eyes adjust to the darkness. The iris opens. Click. My pupils slam shut, keeping me out, keeping me in.

Pounding and pumping, gripping my chest. Where am I in this place? My eyes, my heart, my fingers and toes, I can feel the cold tile slowing my bones.

One Shimmer Less

I sit on an upturned apple crate that has been motionless for years. Wrestles at heart, but to ashamed to move. Fear of revealing the decay caused by its weight bears heavy on its mind.

I stare at stars that are no longer with us. The twinkle and shimmer subsided long ago. At some magic distance I could meet up with reality. Revealing a sky with one pinprick less.

I often wonder when I will fade. At what distance will I catch up with reality? What decay will be left behind when my weight is lifted and the night sky is one shimmer less?

Bear in my Bead

The key finally slid into the lock and I opened the weathered door leading down into my apartment. I looked back at her and smiled. She shot a nervous grin back my way and we innocently stepped inside. As I shut the door, the reality of the situation hit me. This was the first time we were alone. It felt good. The city noise died, and our quick shallow breathing could be heard through the silence. The stink of the street floated away as her perfume wrapped itself around me. The vanilla was a pleasant reprieve from the polluted air that lingered outside. She was pure. A gentle reminder of how the world should be.
Glancing at my watch I hurried up the stairs. Fifteen minutes late and still two stories hovered between me and my destination. Walking up to the door I took a deep breath and entered. The class looked up at me. I was that kid. Late on the first day with no excuse other than I just simply forgot. I looked at the class and smirked, giving the impression that I didn’t care, that I lived my life with a certain reckless abandonment that discouraged questioning of my tardiness. I was a wreck, embarrassed, alone at the front of the class, all eyes on me. But there was a way out. In the back was an empty seat. I scurried down the row of students and dropped my bag onto the floor. The seat creaked. The professor continued her rant. I reached down to pick up my backpack, but a pen came crashing down and blocked my path. My hand grasped the obstacle and placed it on the desk next to me. Without glancing up I continued on toward my original goal. “Thanks” Whispered a voice under the drone of classroom discussion. I turned my head and instinctively smiled. There she sit, dirty brown hair swept across her forehead cascading down the right side of her face, twinkling blue eyes fixed on me. Her red hoodie was just tight enough to make out the slender frame that lay below. She was by no means the prettiest girl in the class, but she looked the most genuine and her demeanor begged for adventure. Restlessness burned deep inside of her and that made me more aroused than any pair of breasts or pretty face could.
“So this is it” I said opening my arms as if to reveal a grandeur worthy of royal acclaim. She nodded her head with arms folded. “I like those pipes hanging from the ceiling” she said as she pointed to the rusty gas lines that snaked through my basement apartment. “Thanks, they’re new, just had em put in yesterday.” Our eyes met and we smiled, both realizing my attempt at sarcasm was failed but noble none the less. She kicked off neon Nikes that hugged her feet to reveal mismatched black and white socks. She felt comfortable with me, I felt comfortable with her. “Here, I’ll give you the grand tour” I said in a regal voice. I took one step forward into the main room that housed my TV, couch and kitchen. “Here you got the entertainment center, and for efficiency, I had the kitchen put right next to my TV and couch.” She walked behind me, taking in every nuance. Every so often I would turn and catch a glimpse of her. She was interested in what I saying, she was having fun. I was having fun. I walked through an open door. “And this is well, my bed room”. Posters of obscure bands adorned my walls. The only light came from Christmas tree lights wrapped around the gas pipes that stretched like metallic vines into the far reaches of my room. She sat down onto my bed and looked around. “To be honest, I really like it” she said as she continued to pan her head. I stood still, leaning against my door frame; I couldn’t take my eyes off of her.
The lecture finally ended. Everyone one rushed up and out of the room. Everyone has some where to be. Perpetual motion plagues a generation where sitting still is equivalent to wasting life. We were not an exception. I followed the heard out into the hall. She was next to me. I smiled at her again, how could I not. “Hey, I’m Alexa” she said playfully as she put her hand out in front of her. Taken aback, I laughed and shook her hand. “Well hey Alexa, I’m Chris, it’s nice to meet ya”. That’s all it took. Walking down the stairs we joked about how boring class was, and how the teachers’ voice reminded us of golem from Lord of the Rings. Testing the waters, we began to bring up more and more personal questions and giving more and more revealing answers. She wanted to travel; she wanted to see the world. I wanted to be spontaneous; I wanted to be happy. We both wanted to live, but were too anxious and scared. Both of us had ADHD, we talked fast and changed subjects even faster. It was all so seamless, so natural. We reached the subway and I stopped. My train was coming. I looked at her and in a rushed lapse of judgment I asked, “Hey you wana see my apartment?” Shit, what a creepy thing to say. But without missing a beat she agreed. A wave of relief washed over my nervous core. The sun sank behind the looming city skyline and we boarded the B line.
The array of colored lights shone above us, they cast a warm glow on her face. She sat content, finding pleasure in soaking up the new surroundings. “What do ya want to do tonight?” I asked from my awkward position in the door way. She wrinkled her cute face, deep in thought, pondering the myriad of possibilities. “Nothing” she said looking up at me, “What do you wana do?” I walk to my computer. Hunched over, I began typing.
My heart races faster and faster every day. My tired body marches on, with little rest. I’m running myself into the ground and I know it. It makes me happy, the constant motion. But sometimes it’s too much. The stress builds; my heart skips beats, tired of the unyielding rapid pumping.
I click the mouse, a song beings to play. Pachuca Sunrise coasts out of the speakers as I sit down next to her. I lie down on my back and put my hands behind my head. She follows suit and lies beside me. Our feet dangle off the edge. “Midnight on the beach in the Mediterranean.” I look over and her eyes are closed. Her glossy lips mouth the words, her feet bounce to the beat. She looked so beautiful laying there. I slide my hand close to hers, our pinkies touched. Slowly our fingers find their way. My thumb caresses her thumb. I can feel her pulse, it quickens, and mine quickens. “Cargo ships move by tracing on the horizon line.” She slowly rolls over and looks at me. Her hair falls over mine. All I can see is her; all I could think of is one thing. My face slowly rises and I kiss her lips, softly and slowly. Our warm moist lips stick slightly as we ease apart. I look at her, she looks at me. I smile as she rests her head on my chest. I look down at her as I run my hand through her long soft hair. We both smile knowing how rare these moments are.
The streets outside are busy with aimless souls, the earth spins rapidly and our galaxy twirls out of control in the busy vacuum of space. One day well visit all the places in all the songs. Well scream from the tops of mountains and echo through the dips of valleys. We’ll travel this world with vigor, explore and live the lives we dreamed of. But for now, all that can wait, tonight we are two still bodies in a boiling sea of motion. I let out a deep breath and smile. I can’t see her lips, but I know she’s smiling too.

Would You Like to Hear a Lullaby?

I slowly made my way to the back of the train while trying to piss as few people off as possible. The camera equipment that I had used that weekend was taking up space that already wasn’t available. With tripod protruding out into the isle, I sat down and took a breath. It will be a half hour till I can get off and multiple people could flood the space I was occupying. To avoid all the weary eyed travelers I took out a small collection of story’s I had purchased the prior week. I was rather excited because it was written by Soupy, who just so happens to be the singer of one of my favorite bands. Lost in my own little world I read, and took up space.

I knew things were going to get interesting when the man stepped on board. Kenmore was the first underground stop and things were already packed. He didn’t mind much, and with guitar case in hand he made his way into the car, settling himself into one of those seats with the metal bar next to it that no one ever wants. He opened his case and smiled widely at all the passengers revealing yellow crooked teeth. “Would you like to hear a lullaby?” he asked us all with a raspy but enthusiastic voice. I looked up from the page I was reading and quickly glanced around, people were inevitably irritated. It was the morning commute and no one wanted to have his or her allotted reading time for the day disrupted by a crazy old man with a guitar. So naturally every one ignored him, and naturally he began to play us all a song.

He was terrible, and it became plainly obvious to everyone that he had no musical talent to speak of. Strumming wildly all the while singing with the voice of a drunken tone def sailor. As the passengers turned up their IPods, and looked away, he sang of sleepless nights and of lovers lost, dead or gone. I sat in my seat starring at the page, not reading, but listening to his performance. Good for him I thought, none of these cowards in business suits, or self loathing college kids would have the balls to sing their hearts out in front of people who wanted nothing more than for them to disappear.

It was my stop, so I put Paper Boats or Some Poems I Wrote back into my bag (Philadelphia and Boston really do have a lot in common after all). I wanted to clap as I exited the train, but my hands were full of gear and I was a major contributor to the tight quarters and thusly already irritating. The doors shut behind me and the train whined as it launched off into the gloomy tunnel in front of it. I watched the train full of pissed off people who were late to things that didn’t really matter disappear out of sight and out of earshot. A huge smile was on my face because I knew that there was one crazy man inside, singing lullabies about sleeplessness and loss to a group of people who will never get it.

Simple Plan may suck, but I was sure pumped on them as a kid.

I crested the hill and the lights from the cars below disappeared and then reappeared as they passed under the low flying bridge that hovered over the highway. I-91 was crowed as usual and some kid in a non VTEC Honda was swerving through traffic trying to impress a girl in the passenger seat. Despite all the chaos I was happy and content, New Found Glory was pulsing through my car speakers. It made me smile knowing that five years ago, things were almost the exact same. Looking back I can remember being terrified to grow up. That one-day driving wouldn't be as fun, and New Found Glory wouldn't grace my ears. That becoming an adult meant I would go through a profound change, but the stars that have been above me my whole life are still there, unchanged. I pull onto Brighton Ave. beaming, knowing that I’ll always be me. I’ll still fall for goofy girls, huge dreams, the stars and I’ll still listen to New Found Glory driving in my car, thinking of the times when I was younger.

Changing Of The Guard

This was a blog for school, but now its a blog for fun.

Rhetoric of the Image

Rhetoric of the Image by Roland Barthes discuses the three messages a photographic analysis can yield.
First being the linguistic code. This is the link between language and picture; either in comics, graphic novels or ads. The text helps anchor the viewer into the context which the creator intended. Meaning it molds your frame of reference. It can also distract you from things, thereby validating, or falsifying information that would be interpreted differently given a dissimilar context. It can also attribute meaning to objects not found in the picture (fill in gaps and questions left by the image). But text can also pose a problem for the creator. The viewer must have the cultural knowledge to decode the text (understand the language it was written in and know its cultural reference).
The second is a coded iconic message. This message refers to the way a person can interpret particular items (and the image as a whole). This does not mean the viewer looks at the image in a literal sense, but in a more abstract way of thinking. For example the coded iconic message of a red background may be it signifies warmth and love, when it reality it is only a color. The codes in an image are culturally dependant. This means that an image can take on a different interpretation depending on the cultural context of the viewer.
The final message is the non-coded iconic message. This is the literal interpretation. Using the example stated above a red background becomes just that, a background colored red. The non-coded iconic message is the literal items in the image, not their inferred meaning, just their being or representation of.
Using the three analytical messages I will apply them to the following image (an ad for the final episode of The Sopranos.)

The first text that appears in the image (appears in order of western language, left to right, top to bottom) is the words “The Final Episodes”. The word “The” for instance implies the creator wanted the viewer to feel a sense of importance in the statement. The statement “Final Episodes” would have the same finishing message with or without the first word. This means it was added for effect. It gives the statement authority, rather than having it just mealy be a statement. Next we come upon the word “Final”. This word implies that there must have been events that predated this event and are somehow linked. Also in American culture the world final (or finale) gives the expectation of greatness. The finale of anything is designed to be the most intense and intriguing. For example, the finale of a firework display is usually the most enthusiastic part of the display. Then the word “episode” arises. This is what the word “final” describes. It also validates that the something is a part of a greater whole. The word “episode” means part of a greater collection. Then the date is given. This tells the viewer when the actual final episode takes place. The date allows the individual to place this event in time. This allows them to place it in reality and take it off the screen or paper. There is nothing to the left of the date so the eye moves down. Here it is greeted by the words “Made in America”. The word “made” implies the creation of something (physical matter or an idea). The word “America” describes (in the context of the sentence) where that something was made. But if we only look at the image linguistically we do not know what it is that is being made, only where it is made. Because of this we must look further.
We must now look at the coded iconic messages in the image. First we see a man in the foreground (we know he is in the foreground because of the rules of perspective, rules that were culturally constructed in their depiction, even though the appearance of perspective is apparent in nature we constructed the rules of their replication). The fact that he is a man is globally accepted. In American popular culture we assume the man is a “mobster” of some sort. Even without seeing the actual show, American held stereotypes says that pudgy balding Italian men with smug looks on their faces belong to the mobster lifestyle. We also see that his eyes are squinted and looking away from the camera (the viewer). This adds to his demeanor by giving the impression that he is “looking out” at something off in the distance. In the background we see the statue of liberty. Many people living in the United States view the statue of liberty as an icon of liberty and freedom. The fact that the statue is in the background diminishes its overall importance in the photo. This means that the man is actually more important (in the context of the image). Given the cultural significance the Statue holds in Americans minds, the inferred importance of the man is extremely high. His has implied power over liberty and freedom. Then we see birds fly off to the edge of the photo. The fact that the birds are in flight implies a sort of tension within the photo. The birds add motion to an otherwise motionless photo (other than the water; but water has an implied sense of constant motion, whereas the birds have a conscious decision to be either at rest, or in motion). The fact that birds are moving means a couple things. First, they were at one time at rest (not moving) and, now that they are moving, they have a destination at which they will stop again. The two combined infers that there was a reason the birds left their state of rest. This adds meaning to their flight and thereby adding meaning to the man and his restful state. We can also infer that that the words “made in American” refer to the man. This is because we know the statue of liberty was not made in American (although it resides there). The birds can also be removed from this statement because western culture believes animals are not, in a sense, “made”. But this causes problems. Humans (the man) are in fact animals, so the sentence cannot be referring to the man himself (the physical man). The only thing left is the stereotype of his mobster persona, which can in fact be created or made in America. So in a sense the words “made in America” do not refer to the physical man, but his line of work and mentality.
Finally we can look at the literal interpretation or non-coded iconic message. The image shows a Man standing in front of the statue of liberty with birds flying in-between. This means that the man and birds were at that exact position in time and space at one point prior. We know this because we can reduce it further. It is an image. An image repeats an instant in time and space. It is a copy of that time and those photons of light in that said time. Furthermore the photo is just a chemical reaction. So in order to see this as a man, birds and statue, we must agree to what culture has told us about photographs. If the viewer did not understand the concept of a photo, they would assume it is a depiction of an event happening in the present, not the past.
Given these three analysis we can take a lot from this photo. But not all things in an image are intended. There are textual cues on how far one can take an interpretation and dissection of a photo. It is up to the viewer to decide where meaning ends and the ridiculous begins. But if you utilize these three analysis correctly you can truly understand how a picture can become a thousand words.