I Ran
In an open plane in space
I ran past blue
I sung the stars into the sky
And fell into you
I opened memories from a jar
I took the sun rise
I took it all just for you
And put it in your eyes
And the river ran
And I ran with the river
And I climbed the highest mountain
I drank from the river
And I ate life
And I shared with the giver
And I stole the moon
I ran with the river
David Nathaniel Hackenberger
Copyright ©2004 David Nathaniel Hackenberger
Oh yeah! And like, I named my car just recently. It is now "The Cheet" like in Homestarrunner. It's got the appropriate color, not so much the appropriate markings like a Cheetah, but, also, it cheats me out of so very much money.
Actually, if it were really the color of The Cheet, it would be like those Safety Ex Terras. You know, the really bright yellow ones, like JP's red Ex Terra, only.... safer.
Also, I recommend dropping everything you're doing, go to homestarrunner.com and watch Strong Bad's email called "Crying". It's dang hilarious.
Have been weeding overenthusiastic monkey grass, and mulching (tenses: am weeding, have wed) for grounds for many many hours this week. There's nothing like being elbow deep in a truck ful of steaming mulch ("There's some lovely filth over here, Dennis!") And have come to find that when I get home, half of the tan I have acquired for the day washes off. I think I have the black lung, pop! (*eheh, eheh*!)
What kind of art, you ask? What kind of art is this penniless and starving artist about? (Well, one of you asked anyway). Oh, just stuff. I like making books mostly. (I used to worry myself that I could go into bookstores and look at the BLANK books for hours). Makin stuff with my hands-- which includes painting (I'm not very good at it), making cards, scrapbooks, books for friends, writing, writing a lot, writing poetry, reading poetry, drawing, makin a quilt. Today I have begun teaching myself from a book (not a blank one this time) how to sew a book together.
And as soon as I start earning some real cash, I will start making em Direct Deposit to Michael's craft store.
All this is good and well, but I have a feeling it often distracts me from spending quality time with Shadow, which I will come over and practice on your porch if you want me to, bob.
For those also who have mentioned something about me becoming a boozehound, I'm just going to go home and... bite my pillow.
Am about to go and help some freshmen move in... the overenthusiastic monkeys.
but one last thing: from Hack's Poetry Corner: If you want to subscribe yourself, go to Writer's Almanac
http://writersalmanac.publicradio.org/ That should do it for ya. There should be a place to subscribe to a daily smattering of good reading.
Today's poem:
Poem: "Unharvested" by Robert Frost from The Poetry of Robert Frost © Holt, Rinehart and Winston. Reprinted with permission. (buy now)
Unharvested
A scent of ripeness from over a wall.
And come to leave the routine road
And look for what had made me stall,
There sure enough was an apple tree
That had eased itself of its summer load,
And of all but its trivial foliage free,
Now breathed as light as a lady's fan.
For there had been an apple fall
As complete as the apple had given man.
The ground was one circle of solid red.
May something go always unharvested!
May much stay out of our stated plan,
Apples or something forgotten and left,
So smelling their sweetness would be no theft.
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Having just moved into a new apartment and being off contract for the first time since like.. Christmas or something, there is now alcohol in my house. I am not the alcoholic of the title, indeed my roommate made fun of me for taking three days to drink a Mike's hard lime........ and now I am making fun of myself for it, but back to the story. As i was unpacking I serendipitously put a box of whole grain crackers up on top of the fridge next to some glass bottles. I continued in the business of unpacking, taking many trips to different rooms, until I found myself in the kitchen again and looked at what I had just done. Those glass bottles happened to be empty bottles of Bacardia, Vodka, and Mountain Berry alcohol respectively, and the title of that box of crackers was "STONED Ground Wheat Thins." How they serendipitously ended up next to each other is beyond me, but I cracked up when I saw how fitting.
I subscribe to a daily Writer's Almanac so Garrison Keillor sends me his latest selected poems. I have been relating to each one of them in the past week.
This is how I am ungracefully handling being a graduate:
Poem: "a place in Philly" by Charles Bukowski from Bone Palace Ballet: New Poems © Black Sparrow Press, 1997. Reprinted with permission. (buy now)
a place in Philly
there's nothing like being young
and starving,
living in a roominghouse and
pretending to be a
writer
while other men are occupied
with their professions and
their possessions.
there's nothing like being
young and
starving,
listening to Brahms,
your belly sucked-in,
nary an ounce of
fat,
stretched out on the bed
in the dark,
smoking a rolled
cigarette
and working on the
last bottle of
wine,
the sheets of your
writing strewn across the
floor.
you have walked on and across
them,
your masterpieces, and
either
they'll be read in
hell,
or perhaps
gnawed at by the
curious
mice.
Brahms is the only
friend you have,
the only friend you
want,
him and the wine
bottle,
as you realize that
you will never
be a citizen of the
world,
and if you
live to be very
old
you still will never
be a citizen of the
world.
the wine and
Brahms mix well as
you watch the
lights
move across the
ceiling,
courtesy of
passing
automobiles.
soon you'll sleep
and
tomorrow there
certainly
will be
more
masterpieces.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I kinder like imagining I'm a starving artist. There's a certain dignity in being peniless for a good cause. Dignity, always dignity, so I tell myself. I chase at my future like one chases the wind it seems but, the thing to do now is to send my roots deeper.
"Be anxious for nothing..." means so much to me right now. Now to be zealous about everything...
I was told recently to "Love God and do as you please."
Another MPR poem for you (that's : Minnesota Public Radio for all of you non Keillor-ites.)
Poem: "this poem is haunted" by T. Cole Rachel from Surviving the Moments of Impact © Soft Skull Press, 2002. Reprinted with permission. (buy now)
this poem is haunted
we spend most of our lives this way, governed
by the rules of avoidance, narrowly scraping past
unavoidable pains, folding up the quilts
we can't sleep under any more, listening
for the rattling of chains, waiting for the things we break
to come back to us—the underwater sounds
of those we have drowned, whose faces
it might have been better to never have loved.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tell me what it means to live life to the fullest when anyone else has it figured out. For now I am holding my breath and waiting to breathe.
with love,
Hackenstar