Why, This is Just a Devolution of Thought

My family was here this weekend.
It was a full time, with lots of hither and thither.
Of course I was left feeling like I had so much more to talk about and say to these beautiful people I get to call my own...

When I'm with my family now, time feels really tangible. Like it can be held my hands... and it feels strange. I think that maybe change is the only way I can really put a value to time. Thats why the Greeks had two different words for it; Kairos and Kronos.
(not to be confused with crinosity, which means a state of extreme hairiness...)
Anyways, the latter word is comparative to our english notion of calender time. Its talking about the long term, continuous and revolving circle of life type stuff. Kairos, however, describes the kind of time that becomes that opportune moment; A red-letter day amidst a line of dreary ones.
Not that my winter Seattle days have been dreary...

One could note that Kairos usually can't be observed until looking back into the past. That's when you see the line of days, hours, moments and realize that a certain one was different than all the rest.

It is very rare to have your Kairos and Kronos overlap each other, like sheafs of thin paper.

What I am trying to say is that there is a certain weighted importance added to the family moments that I spend with the Fields lately. It feels like I've been twirling through starry space, but with with a string attached.
And I'm almost out of slack.

I just like to drink my coffee from it

She looks up from her coffee cup on the table. She traces her finger around the image of a perplexed-looking cat wearing heels displayed on the side. My kind of morning, the caption reads.

Whoever made that mug is sick, I say. I wish you wouldn't use it all the time. Cats should be cats, without the addition of obscene female attire. Is it supposed to be making a statement? Is it supposed to be ironic? I just don't get it...
I'm standing behind the kitchen chair, my fingers not tracing anything.

Well, She replies; I just like to drink my coffee from it, in the morning. And I guess if it reminds me of anything, it makes me think that somewhere out there, there is a person who is measuring their success cheap cat cup by cheap cat cup. They wake up in the morning, turn off their alarm while the city sunlight leaks through the blinds, and catch the met to their corner office. They set aside the big, empty What If questions for eight hours a day and create something, anything...
And I can look up to that. Its like people who design christmas sweaters. At least when they begin measuring the accomplishments of their lives they can hold on to something tangible. Jingle bells and all.

I grabbed my jacket and she grabbed her keys. Another day, I think as I strap my computer over my shoulder. She walks out first and I close the door behind us. As I pull the door towards me, I notice the coffee mug she has left sitting on the table. The city sunlight pools on the table, illuminating the face of the cat in heels. My kind of morning, the caption reads.

Like a Mix CD

put a camera in my head yo

On this day, the eve of my birthday month, 2011.

The title is a bit narcissistic, I admit. But so am I. And so is she.

However, I am moved to blog right now for two reasons. In one hour it will be february, always a notorious month for me and most others. the second is that by blogging  now I push my post count for the month of January up to I think 10, the most I have ever published in one month before.

yay me.

I might get a youtube account in honor of this occasion. Or maybe start a twitter profile. Or even upload to vimeo.

But lets be honest, shall we? None of that is going to happen. I'll probably just make myself another round of peppermint tea and continue correcting personal essays from my colleagues in the creative writing workshop that I'm in this quarter. Which is what I should be doing now, but I'll leave the Oxford commas and syntax schisms for another month. Like the month of February.

This weekend in pictures:

... Not even this weekend. More like three hours in pictures:

(Because lets be honest: every hour I spend in real life necessitates three times that many pictures taken for fake life. I should fill the internet's data space by 2040. like, tag me.)

Can't Won't Leave it Behind

I'm self conscious of ambiguity tonight.

so here is a list, instead:

1. The year 1869, completion of the Suiz Canal and America's first transcontinental railroad.

2. Mixing up appointments, I meet with my academic counselor on Monday.

3. Costa Rica? Guatemala? Mexico?

4. Honesty in the hands of dearest friends.

5. Its so cold but talking anyways.

6. January is getting brighter

7. Tale of Two Cities

8. A walk to Queen Anne

8. Bill Murray

9. Veganism

10. Cookies made with loads of butter and Elton John on vinyl.

11. Brittany, Tate, and Tim. 

12. Shakespeare quotes

13. I assure you that coffee will keep you up.

13. Goodnight Moon

Tomorrow, A Math Exam Will Meet Its Doom

I love placing commas in titles.

If for any wild (or mundane) reason you follow my blog at a regular pace, you have possibly noticed this.

Commas are breathing, and if words carry the weight of the world than commas are the life-force that allow them to do so. You can't carry all that and not supply your muscle tissue with oxygen! You'll atrophy, or something like that.

I, was never one, for biology.

Why Would I Be Writing Essays When I Could Be Reading Obscure Poems By Poet Laureates?"

Forgetfulness

By Billy Collins 

The name of the author is the first to go
followed obediently by the title, the plot,
the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel
which suddenly becomes one you have never read, 
never even heard of,

as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor
decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,
to a little fishing village where there are no phones.

Long ago you kissed the names of the nine Muses goodbye
and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag,
and even now as you memorize the order of the planets,

something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps,
the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay.

Whatever it is you are struggling to remember
it is not poised on the tip of your tongue,
not even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen.

It has floated away down a dark mythological river
whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall,
well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those 
who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle.

No wonder you rise in the middle of the night
to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war.
No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted
out of a love poem that you used to know by heart