A face more powerful

The car I saw on my way to work looked sad. Denigrated. Dank as though forgotten. Riddled with signs and trinkets commemorating a man of war. A child of war, likely. A wheelchair on the roof, strapped with crutches and patriotic tokens. Dirtied, as though ground in dirt. Deliberate. The rear hatchback yawning to expose army fatigues with a folded flag at the knees. And under that, another pair of crutches with a banner attached. "PTSD." Post traumatic stress disorder. On the side, more banners. "Thank you, military." "Thank you, army." "Remember your children, remember your troops." Sarcastic? Not all of them, at least. I think. "My Son." Written without an exclamation mark, but it seemed as though the driver was screaming it. My Son! Desperation. As I walked passed, and the car idled at an insufferable Boston traffic light, I saw the face of the driver as he reached across to empty passenger seat for the glove compartment. Ruddy, tanned skin. Almost wild, curly hair. And eyes. I'm not sure how my mind made such a connection with this man, even though his message could hardly be ignored. Seeing his face sealed the fate of our connection. Of my concern for him and his son. I couldn't tell if his son was dead or injured. If he was furious or apologetic or resentful. I wanted to stop him, to talk to him. Maybe photograph him, and capture his image. His face was so much more powerful than his message.

Drank sound from a bottle
Died of deafness

Paint a frown on a clown
Smile sadness

Place a mirror in a window
Stood in starkness

Read a book through the cover
Lived in darkness

vavoom

Busy how you blow my hair to grey.
I'm a box of tangled
cords and wires
a moment
still
in the 21st century.

First Substantive Blog: A Poem

I wrote this poem on the bus on my way back to Boston from New York City. I wrote it in the cover of my contracts book.

If I was me I would be secure
give me back myself
put me in my body.
Skeleton, my friend,
you look frail.
May I help you up the stairs?
I'll keep your thinness close
lace you in my arms
teach you to dance.
Sleep the equinox with you.
Describe what I see
cradle your hallow head
give you the comfort
of a deep rocking voice.
Fool painted white.

First Things Firsts

Before stating what I want to address in my future blogging I want to say a few things about blogs in general. The essence of a blog is communication. There is little rationale behind publishing a blog without intending others to read it. However, I would venture to assume that some people, while publishing with full knowledge of the potential for viewing by others, do not retain this as their main intention. Rather, I think that there is a catharsis in the ambivalence that another might read what you've written--which are undoubtedly one's thoughts, at some times quite personal. I think that a blog can betray the essence of the thoughts conveyed within them. I do not support the opinion that blogging about certain topics is a matter for the insecure. I think a strange and queer dichotomy is represented here: the desire to express oneself coupled with the desire to protect one's thoughts (for once they enter the "blogosphere" those thoughts are no longer rebuttable as they would be in conversation and dialogue). This is not a universal maxim. Nevertheless, taken as a given, what wins out in the blogosphere is the desire to express and share information. Information wills like a living thing--knowledge truly is power.

This blog will cover a range of topics, issues, and interests. I have a love for poetry, philosophy, music, movies, technology, and literature. Politics will infuse itself into many of these topics, so I would not call it its own topic. I am in the midst of an education in law and have come upon many interesting revelations of how I formerly organized my conceptions about the world. My life is ever-changing.