Absorbed

Stress grabbed me the other day, not really grabbed, strangled is more like it. It wretched me out of bed threw me into the shower and ran me out the door. It happens every time, stress can rule my life wear me paper thin and tear me into pieces to be let free with the wind. But not today, today I am as heavy as a heap of bricks, as unmovable as one too. Stress can get the hell out of my way, I am on a mission. A mission to make it through the day without running into him, stress and his big ogre form ready like a football player to knock me to the ground.
So I start out running, getting through the day is the goal and I’m making my best effort to get to the end will I make it still standing? Will I end up on my ass flattened out like some cartoon character under a steamroller? When I finally realize that by trying to avoid stress’s hulking form he has transformed into the smallest form and wiggled his way into my day nonetheless without me even realizing it.
So now here I lay in bed, trying to release stress’s grip from my body and mind, iTunes running, some soft melody transitions to a strong Metallica guitar rift screaming out the lyrics from my standard speakers on my laptop helps some. Metallica transitions to Taylor Swift, Slipknot, Three Doors Down, Megadeth, Johnny Cash, and on and on for almost 12 days worth of music it could go on but it has to stop sometime doesn’t it? Organizing my life into lists helps keep the mammoth at bay.
1. Call eye Dr.
2. Write in poetry blog
3. Pay rent

So what is poetry supposed to be exactly? Is it meant to puzzle the mind and provoke thought, and insightful conversation? Is it personal, sentimental and can only hold true meaning for the writer and their specific audience? One or the other? Both? I don’t feel that I know the answer; all I know is that I enjoy it I enjoy the pace, tempo, themes and for the most part how concise they can be. I do not enjoy writing and for the most part reading long drawn out, “Shakespeare-like” language. I don’t like to have to search for the meaning behind what I read, I want clear cut language not convoluted, long-winded, tedious, writing. Tell me what you’re taking about and tell me quickly or I will loose interest.

Music helps the most. If I can listen to something I’d much rather do that than anything else. I’m sure I’ll be deaf by the age of 30 but it would all be worth it. I have no musical talent but I can still appreciate those that have it, and be envious of it at the same time. Without music what would the world be? So much more silence but also an entire art form would be wiped from the face of the planet. How would people relate? How would blind dates go if you didn’t have music to talk about and only the weather? So much enjoyment would be sucked from parties, gatherings, movies, plays, so much silence would cause my eardrums to burst. Without music I could find no way to tell the world how I feel. You can tell what I feel with music especially when I drive; windows down sunglasses on, and music, glorious music bursting from my small car’s speakers professing my emotions to anyone within earshot whether or not they like it. So could music be considered poetry? I believe it is, words put together specifically for a meaning, with a form, possibly rhyming, some are in free form, some set up like limericks, both can be set to a musical accompaniment. So they could both be the same right? Kind of like the differences between a square and a rhombus, one can be the other but not the other way around, right?

It’s getting later than I anticipated now, this has taken longer than I guessed it would, perhaps I’m not as creative as I thought I was.

Juicy fingers
Undercover to infiltrate
Larry’s secret evil lair
Inside the
Eskimo’s igloo

Maybe that will help get the creative juices flowing a silly acrostic poem with my name like Gabe’s in class today. I liked what Whitman did in his “Song of Myself” he took the everyday ordinary experiences around him, everything he saw and experienced and made it into a (albeit long) poem. He took things that rightfully shouldn’t be poetic, the harboring of an escaped slave, the blacksmith working in his shop; Whitman takes these things and transforms them into something totally different. Suddenly I want to be there, I want to experience the feelings, the smell, the touch of the grass through his fingers, the look of the passerbyers faces as they go about their lives, I want to BE THERE. I can only hope that my writing can someday do that for someone. Make them imagine something so wonderful that they want it to be tangible, to be real between their fingers and toes. Like when Gabe was describing why he liked rivers, how the sounds of the water, the animals, the birds chirping in the trees all envelop him. I wanted to be back on my Uncle’s lake totally along in the kayak just enjoying a moment of perfect self reflection without any outside distractions, sun setting just behind the grove of trees to the West, the light refracting through his house windows and onto the lake breaking into millions of pieces, like a broken glass on the linoleum tile in the kitchen.
I wish that I were back in Yellowstone park back when I was only a 5th grader. Walking around the deep pine forests, smelling the ground that has basically remained untouched for hundreds and hundreds of years. How small you can feel in a forest of that size, how insignificant and tiny. The cool mountain breeze ruffling your hair and making the fuzz on your arm stand on end. I imagine that standing there drowning in the smell of pine and wet dirt is the best form of therapy, even for a 5th grade girl feeling rather isolated and small in such a great forest.
I want to travel I want to see many more great forests around the world, I want to see the Great Wall of China, I want to see Moscow, The Mayan Ruins, I want to absorb all the smells and feelings of these places, I want to imprint them on my memory so that I can carry them around with me for the rest of my days. I want to expand my horizons, I want my eyes to take in all that they can, I want my skin to feel the rain of a rainforest, to be burned by the desert sun, I want it all.

JULIE ZEI