On Leonard Cohen

Before I say a word more of my own, you should know a bit of Leonard Cohen and how he relates to my infantile efforts of blogging.

The Sparrows

Catching winter in their carved nostrils
the traitor birds have deserted us,
leaving only the dullest brown sparrows
for spring negotiations.

I told you we were fools
to have them in our games,
but you replied:
They are only wind-up birds
who strut on scarlet feet
so hopelessly far
from our curled fingers.

I had moved to warn you,
but you only adjusted your hair
and ventured:
Their wings are made of glass and gold
and we are fortunate
not to hear them splintering
against the sun.

Now the hollow nests
sit like tumors or petrified blossoms
between the wire branches
and you, an innocent scientist,
question me on these brown sparrows:
whether we should plant our yards with breadcrumbs
or mark them with the black, persistent crows
whom we hate and stone.

But what shall I tell you of migrations
when in this empty sky
the precise ghosts of departed summer birds
still trace old signs;
or of desperate flights
when the dimmest flutter of a coloured wing
excites all our favourite streets
to delight in imaginary spring.

I wanted to start this blog in what seems to be the eye of the storm.

I've just sent the magazine Openings to the printer. It only took me from May until now to get it together.

And I can finally breathe. and breathe . and breathe .

Now I just have to get all the constituents of my Oxford application in the mail.



On a somewhat different note, I'm going to put something up that I wrote at about two in the morning. If you can make no sense of it, please forgive. I've become an expert at wasting others' time. But I hope it's an interesting waste of time.

I can’t believe sometimes how much I miss my mother. Her blood runs through my veins—I still miss her when I’m halfway across the country from her—the connection we’ve made when I’ve been home in between my educational experiences (also known as semesters) has been immense. We’ve become best friends. She gives me advice when I don’t ask. I give her advice when she doesn’t ask. There’s this t-shirt that she used to wear all the time. It says “Mom’s Taxi Service.” It’s horribly garish, with yellow and black screen printing of ‘80s typeface and a taxi’s checkerboard pattern reminiscent of some big city to which I’ve never even been. She’d wear it with stirrup leggings. Matching black ones, of course. I used to think that shirt was horrible, but I’d give almost anything to see that shirt on her right here, right now. I just want to go home.

I just want to go home. I don’t want to grow up. I think maybe I just want to mean that much to someone—to have someone give anything to see me in an old, familiar t-shirt.

I don’t want to write this essay. I want to talk and laugh with my mother. I want to discuss Leonard Cohen with my brother. I want to learn how to change a car tire with my dad. I want to watch the third High School Musical movie with my sister. I want to be elitist and hate things and make sentimental music with my eldest brother.

I want to have a family. I want to continue to be loved. I really don’t want our family to split up.

I don’t want to have a family. I don’t want to lose anyone’s love. I don’t want raise a family that will split and explode across the country, as if jetted off like a drop of water by a Rainbird sprinkler system.

I never want to bury anyone I love. I don’t want to have heartache. Just thinking about all of these things gives me heartache. Just giving into the idea that I’ll lose someone. I can’t lose. I can’t lose. I can’t lose.

I can’t swallow this fear that I’ll do the same thing as them. I’ll raise a family, with love stretched thin between everyone. With heartstrings that span across the country.

I think that's all I'll do for now.

P.S. Here's Openings
The font on this online style is completely screwed up, but some of you may be able to see it in its physical, printed version.

P.P.S. Does anyone know the rules of use for "further" and "farther"? I'm certain I could look it up online. I'd much rather have a person's factual comment.