synaestherapy
October 2011
33 posts
from you to me
you’re the coffee to my cup
the stitch to my seam
you bring the down to my up
the I to my beam
you’re the orange to my carrot
the beef to my stew
you’re the fox to my ferret
your cages, my zoo
you’re the moat to my castle
the saddle to my steed
your jester’s my vassal
your virtue, my deed
you’re the fly to my web
the venom to my sting
you turn my flow into ebb
my winters into spring
you’re the syn to my thesis
the sun to my leaves
your puzzle holds my pieces
your wire binds my sieves
you’re the hedges to my maze
the signal to my noise
your game racks up my plays
like a child collecting toys
you’re the sheen to my mirror
the pixels to my screen
you make further feel nearer
than my feelers can glean
you’re the ink to my pen
the feathers to my wings
you turn how into when
and whethers into rings
you’re the valves to my heart
the fluid to my spine
you’re laughing at my fart
(was that yours or mine?)
you’re the hints to my clue
the hunch to my claim
you turn my false into true
and my wild, you tame
your splinters are my plank
your twist, my screw
you’re the toothbrush to my shank
the red to my blue
you’re in love with my hatred
you honor my shame
your church bears my cross
your tombstone, my name
you’re waging my war
your shells fill my tanks
your rich, my poor
your spit, my thanks
you’re more to my less
the vowels to my needs
you put the sure in my guess
the plea in my pleads
you’re the soles to my feet
and the depths to my sea
but in case we don’t meet
here’s from you to me
“We mean nobody goes to work, nobody goes to school, we shut the city down. The only thing they seem to care about is money and they don’t understand that it’s our money they need. We don’t need them, they need us.”
—Occupy Oakland organizer Carl Brooks • Very much obeying the will of the Occupy Oakland protesters, as reports indicate the general assembly last night voted 96.9% in favor of the idea. What effect this will have is yet unclear — it depends on a lot of things, such as how many protesters there actually are, what percentage of them are employed, and whether non-participants will get on board with the idea. That said, this was the primary issue on the tongues of nearly everyone we heard from last night (Editor’s note: The author of this piece, Chris Tognotti, was at Frank Ogawa Plaza to see the protests in action), even moreso than any reflection on the brutal police crackdown the night before. For those who criticize the Occupy movement for lacking coherent plans or goals, this is pretty demonstrative action. source (via • follow)
It’s only Monday and it’s already been a rough week.
Chris never regained consciousness after the surgery. He was 77 years old.
When someone close to the family dies, it can feel like a wave crashing over you.
You’re submerged, but not like them.
Loss.
Four little symbols that describe untold amounts of pain.
I like to think death kinder after life, more of a mentor and guide for the next grand choice.
Rejoice.
Seven little symbols that sing old verses anew.
I’m in the midst of writing a script.
More like writing a rough treatment of the script to be.
I’m in the middle of act two with a real mess in progress.
This’ll be my second stab at a feature length, thankfully with a new idea.
Not that the first idea was bad, only that I failed to adapt it to feature length.
I think that fact has stuck in my craw ever since and it’s up to me to fish it out.
There ain’t nothin’ easy about writing a feature film.
First, it takes an idea worth staking yourself on.
Second, it takes the willpower to (re)write it.
Third, it takes the strength to let it go.
I find myself caught between word and image, intent and action.
My direction seems so veiled, yet writing seems to illuminate.
I’ve been through this before, wavering between post and pre.
Am I an instigator or an actuator? An initiator or evaluator?
A writer or an editor?
No doubt my struggle is to balance the two (and more).
Choosing one is like chopping a limb from a promising tree.
Everyone needs to express themselves.
The question is how?
What a day.
I woke up to a dead phone, news of Gaddafi’s capture and death, topped off by a 4.2 quake just outside Berkeley. To be honest, I was too busy trying to revive my phone to feel it (though I heard my door creak, which made me wonder).
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