Nonsense, Drivel, and Balderdash

My life has been chaotically dull lately. The monotony ---hold on, I feel a digression coming up--- Why do we call it monotony? It was a term originally meant to describe music and sound. I mean, mono being one and then tone being, obviously, musical tone. Somehow it has ended up describing a something dull, with little variation. However, why do we not use a similar term relating to visual dullness: Monochrome? I like that word. I think it got swindled by its sonorous brother. I refuse to put up with that... ok, end of digression. Anyway, the monochromy of my lifestyle has sucked me dry of any sort of creative inspiration. I write for class, but in every other aspect, my life has been devoid of writing or reading. I feel so bored inside, artistically apathetic. Strangely, the apathy is limited to that part of my life. I have been keeping up with my studies more than I ever have I think. I still lack a little discipline in my daily spiritual research , but at least I feel some sort of...

I have been wrestling with myself tonight. I grabbed my mind and smashed it against the white, painted, cinder block dorm wall. I punched it, trying to force it into submission, but instead my brain charged me wielding a something sharp and painful. After an hour and a half we found ourselves at an impasse. I had a chokehold on my brain and was slowly choking the life out of it; it in turn gave me a headache. In the end we both gave up trying to write a sonnet. I sat at my cheap, prefabricated desk staring in space, as if the final frontier might have an extra sonnet lying around that I could call my own; finders keepers after all. But not a verse was to be found. I could not create one, and I did not find one lying around. Now resignation is illuminated on my face by the dull glow of the laptop screen. I am tired and cranky. My eyes might smell a bit like sweat, but its hard to tell since my nose is below them. I do not know what happened today. I usually have no problem writing. I us...

Boston, like every city, has a certain charm that comes from its eccentricity. Tonight is a night like none other, yet in many ways it is like so many other urban nights; different people, same old weirdness. There is a heated subway argument between an old, racist, drunken codger and a trash talking midget. The interaction ends with the little man showing his bravado by wielding his middle finger menacingly; it is a weapon he uses with ease. Up above, a street performer is perched upon the top of a tall balancing pole, and simultaneously leaning down attempting to reassure a small child below, whom he had frightened moments before. A block away, a shroom selling teenager offers his goods to a local college student, only to be confounded by the students claim that he is addicted to water. All these great things have a great soundtrack: a piper playing old Scottish hits, an ancient Asian man playing an instrument whose screechy sounds I could not appreciate, a flamenco guitarist strummi...

It has been quite a good weekend I must say. I have pretty much accepted that my "main hang out group" has changed this year from my choir buddies to my evans buddies. This is neither good nor bad, for both groups have great people. It is just a slight adjustment. I probably spent 65% of my time with my choir crowd and the other 35 with my evans people. I think the numbers have been reversed now. While I am a sad that I am not able to see my old friends as much, it is clear that this year has changed and the dynamic is different. Allie is gone and I am no longer in choir. On top of it all the old crew is scattered across the face of the campus now. So, somehow I have ended up doing most of the things I do with my old group of Evans buddies. I must say that I have had a really good time with them this year. They are the kind of people that you can just sit in the living room and do absolutely nothing with for about 3 hours before deciding to drive to Krispy Kreme's at 1 in...

This weekend my father came up to visit me. I had not seen him in 9 months and it was time. I was a bit nervous about his arrival, because it is never been easy to see him; a depressed man is not the best thing for one's mood. However this time things went smoothly, and I can say that I actually enjoyed the time we spent together. We went to Vermont and went camping. Vermont is very pretty, and I am sure that it will be even more magnificent in a couple weeks when the leaves change. On another note, I am enjoying my english classes. Most of all I like the creative writing course I am taking. It is very corny. It makes you write very corny things, that you would normally feel embarrassed to compose. However, they are a lot of fun to do. Today I had to hand in a piece of nonsense poetry. I had a list of words, from which I had to pick a few to use in the poem. Then I had a series of structural rules that I had to comply with. The only other other directions for the assignment was tha...

I need to be remembered. I deserve to be remembered. That is what I am really saying every time I write something down. Lets face it; writing is essentially a beautiful ego trip. Somewhere in my writers mind, I decide that my thoughts are worth keeping for posterity. Somehow I am convinced that my views have intrinsic value; that someone, at the very least myself, will someday benefit from my wisdom. So writers breathe words onto paper, and mash dreams onto computer screens, with the hope that their texts will one day be recognized as the works of genius that they think they are. Oh sure, many artists are shy and self deprecating when it comes to their work, but even the fact that they have written it down says that they think it is worthy of being recorded. It would be tragic for our words to be forgotten. And so we write out of fear. A hopeless act of desperation with which we hope to transcend our vapid existence. Writing is our chance to burst our mortal shell and make something t...

I have neglected my blog for a while. Yes, I know I have been updating fairly often lately, however, I have not really posted anything of much depth. For this I apologize, I will try to write things of substance in the future. However, it is late tonight and I am tired and uninspired. Tomorrow I will resume my walks in the woods. They usually leave me refreshed and ready to write once again. Part of that inspiration comes from the actual woods, nature. However, much of the reason for me coming back inspired from my lonely walks is because I talk out loud while I walk. Sometimes to God, sometimes to myself; but always talking. Sometimes I recite poetry. Sometimes I make up poetry. Sometimes I tell stories. Sometimes I complain. Sometimes I rejoice. However, when I am alone and walking something happens, and my words take new shapes and sometimes form beautiful phrases. When I get back to my dorm I am so inspired by my own speeches, that I sit down and write. Sometimes I think that what ...