Tuesday, May 17, 2005

Writing ahead of the storm, perhaps words will keep me dry. I reach into darkness, grasping for hope. Somewhere, deep within me, there is a way to ride out the fiercest storms; there are roots whose depths I cannot imagine. Roots my conscious splinter cannot fathom.

Confronting fears one by one is like swatting at flies with a pencil. It's better to use that pencil to find pieces of myself stronger than I've known; to move beyond the flies, leaving them to their buzzing.

Monday, May 02, 2005

________________________________________

I wrote this poem on 29 January 2002. I found it again and think it deserves better than a wine stained notebook. It's part of a perpetual series of drunk pieces/thoughts. My proximity to drunks in Helsinki was amplified by using public transportation and their relatively commonplace position in society, but their state made me consider what kinds of things happen to bring someone into this state...

    Standing now in the weakness of himself
    he fumbles drunkenly for names to call,
    but finds only a blur of hands sketching
    outlines to words he'd called before the dark
    & fire took him; before the gin let loose
    its furious discovery & broke
    the little left to him:
    his arms & teeth.