blackholes & revelations

I dream about falling backwards into black holes.

There is nothing there and I am nothing.

But I am something, and something that is floating.

There is also no consistency in space.

Send me to that galaxy where there is floating clouds of rum

and I’ll remember to bring a Camelbak full of coke.

Advertisements

Art is a Facebook Status

For the past few nights, I’ve had a few lines of this poem stuck in my head. I read it a long time ago on Tumblr and love the message. And in light of all the phone shaming that’s been going around for a while. Here’s a lovely poem that aptly describes how I feel about social media and how I feel about the people who complain about it. It’s a piece by B.E Fitzgerald and it’s called “art is a Facebook status about your winter break.”

“I swear to every heaven ever imagined,
if I hear one more dead-eyed hipster
tell me that art is dead, I will personally summon Shakespeare
from the grave so he can tell them every reason
why he wishes he were born in a time where
he could have a damn Gmail account.
The day after I taught my mother
how to send pictures over Iphone she texted
me a blurry image of our cocker spaniel ten times in a row.
Don’t you dare try to tell me that that is not beautiful.
But whatever, go ahead and choose to stay in
your backwards-hoping-all-inclusive club
while the rest of us fall in love over Skype.
Send angry letters to state representatives,
as we record the years first sunrise so
we can remember what beginning feels like when
we are inches away from the trigger.
Lock yourself away in your Antoinette castle
while we eat cake and tweet to the whole universe that we did.
Hashtag you’re a pretentious ass hole.
Van Gogh would have taken 20 selflies a day.
Sylvia Plath would have texted her lovers
nothing but heart eyed emojis when she ran out of words.
Andy Warhol would have had the worlds weirdest Vine account,
and we all would have checked it every morning while we
Snap Chat our coffee orders to the people
we wish were pressed against our lips instead of lattes.
This life is spilling over with 85 year olds
rewatching JFK’s assassination and
7 year olds teaching themselves guitar over Youtube videos.
Never again do I have to be afraid of forgetting
what my fathers voice sounds like.
No longer must we sneak into our families phonebook
to look up an eating disorder hotline for our best friend.
No more must I wonder what people in Australia sound like
or how grasshoppers procreate.
I will gleefully continue to take pictures of tulips
in public parks on my cellphone
and you will continue to scoff and that is okay.
But I hope, I pray, that one day you will realize how blessed
you are to be alive in a moment where you can google search
how to say I love you in 164 different languages.

This Is…

I’m not gonna lie, this is my umpteenth attempt at making a blog. Whenever I begin one of my attempts at these it’s usually because I’ve been inspired by other more refined writers than myself. But that’s not important.

A few months ago I officially began calling myself a writer. For as long as I can remember I’ve written, I’ve written on every scrap of paper I have come cross. I remember writing songs and poems from a young age. I also have a cringe worthy memory of reading a poem aloud in middle school.

I’m not the best grammatically, and I’m not the most punctual when it comes to posting regularly. Consistency is not our friend here, and will probably never be.

I received some brilliant advice a while ago where the person said whenever you write, “fall the fuck apart.”

So, this is me… falling the fuck apart.

In bits and pieces of course.