YOU'RE THE APPLE OF MY EYE,
GIRL I'VE NEVER LOVED ONE LIKE YOU.
Fuck it, I know quoting lyrics ain't cool but goddamn it does Edward Sharpe & The Magnetic Zeros have some good things to say in that song. I saw them at Bluesfest this summer and it was such an ill show, they were obviously high as clouds the whole time but i got so much more into them. I even got a signature from the trumpet player, it's hanging on my wall.
That song is so goddamn true, too. Home, it seems, ain't no place at all. Home is a person. Home is the person you want to go home to, and I know that's fuck all cheesy but it honestly seems to me, knowing that I've known people like that, that it's the most honest definition of home to me. I've been more at home in a stranger's house than in my own, because of the people I was there with.
And I guess it's never just one person, it's any and all people who make you feel that way. That make you feel like yeah you could take on the world right now for sure but this couch is really comfortable and the kettle just got put on and it could wait until after this chapter and the person sitting there agrees and maybe you go out and save the day but maybe you don't and either way you know that you have that option.
and yeah it might just be delusion but some days it isn't, because to be home you have to love the people in that home, and love it goddamn turns you into a superhero, it helps you scale buildings and fly into the stars even when you're just sitting there talking because when you talk to someone you love you're everywhere in the world because the whole world is right there.
and no i'm not just talking about romantic love even though romantic love is the most intense and passionate and agonizing of the loves, but any love can make you feel that way. and i've loved a hell of a lot and i'm not sure yet if coming home to my new apartment is coming home yet but it's feeling more and more like it just because i love my roommate and my cat and my stack of books and the posters on my wall but half of those are memories and emotions pressed into books and onto paper and hell they don't compare to the real interpersonal love.
and i don't know how to properly state an ounce of my emotion but however much i can put out is enough and goddamn i want to know everyone right now. i want to hear everyone's innermost secrets and put them on a goddamn billboard next to their names and phone numbers so that when anyone gets lonely at night they can look out their window and know someone so deeply and intimately that they could talk for hours they could talk forever they could count the seconds between when the sun rises for one and then the other and with this they could determine the exact distance between their lonesome beds and with this everything feels a bit less bad, because no matter how far away you are from someone your footsteps can carry you to their front step and maybe it'd take an hour or a day or a month but eventually you'd collapse on their porch and they'll take you in and you'll have hot chocolate and later that night you'll get engaged and it's perfection for that one night but knowing it's perfect that one night is enough to know that this is a perfect world, that this is the most ideal of worlds, that no matter the fact that the rebels are racist douchebags they still take care of their kids and sure maybe no ones perfect and you can either be good great or good small but it seems to me that everyone's great somehow and i'm sorry if that's idealistic of me but hell i can't help myself for some reason tonight.
i want to make out with the setting sun.
i want to count footsteps.
NEEDY.
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
Needy! That's what I'd call these ghosts.
Each and every last one of them, needy little fuckers. Why're they all here, asking me to finish their failed tasks and lives. Isn't there someone else they could go to with their problems?
I mean, I've got the time since I got kicked to the curb by my last job, and then when my girlfriend left me, but seriously, their demands are getting ridiculous.
Oh, go dig up this time capsule and bring it to my brother.
Tell her I love her for me, just one last time. Tell her I'm sorry.
They come to me, all bloody and old and withered, and ask me to help them out. I need some fuckin' Ghostbusters shit on this. I should get an exorcist. I even asked my landlord if this was a common problem. He threatened to evict me, he told me he doesn't rent out to crazies. I almost brought up Ms. Kazenski upstairs. Lady has, like, 12 cats, and I hear her talking to them all through the night. I don't think she sleeps. I wonder if she has her own ghosts.
One of the ghosts asked me to avenge his death. I said no, but he persisted, would follow me into bed, into the shower, I finally snapped one night, killed the man who killed him.
What the hell am I supposed to do with that ghost when it shows up?
Better? Besides the fact that it took me a week to write, and it's significantly shorter. Ehn, I'll get better at this.
The word was provided by my lovely sister, Ms. Sheila Molnar.
Each and every last one of them, needy little fuckers. Why're they all here, asking me to finish their failed tasks and lives. Isn't there someone else they could go to with their problems?
I mean, I've got the time since I got kicked to the curb by my last job, and then when my girlfriend left me, but seriously, their demands are getting ridiculous.
Oh, go dig up this time capsule and bring it to my brother.
Tell her I love her for me, just one last time. Tell her I'm sorry.
They come to me, all bloody and old and withered, and ask me to help them out. I need some fuckin' Ghostbusters shit on this. I should get an exorcist. I even asked my landlord if this was a common problem. He threatened to evict me, he told me he doesn't rent out to crazies. I almost brought up Ms. Kazenski upstairs. Lady has, like, 12 cats, and I hear her talking to them all through the night. I don't think she sleeps. I wonder if she has her own ghosts.
One of the ghosts asked me to avenge his death. I said no, but he persisted, would follow me into bed, into the shower, I finally snapped one night, killed the man who killed him.
What the hell am I supposed to do with that ghost when it shows up?
Better? Besides the fact that it took me a week to write, and it's significantly shorter. Ehn, I'll get better at this.
The word was provided by my lovely sister, Ms. Sheila Molnar.
FORTITUDE.
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
"Fortitude, darling. It's what I have and you don't. And with that," Dan said, extracting the wiimote from the box, "I will destroy you!"
Boxes filled the room. They had just moved, but due to an argument on the car ride over, the wii and TV were all set up, raring to go. Dan was standing and Claire sat on the part of the couch not covered in boxes or the lethargic dog. Janet unpacked loudly in the kitchen, words like "useless" and "nerds" somehow drifted in above the clatter of cutlery slamming into their proper places. Josh wandered the apartment in a daze, apparently confused about where his bedroom was, and then further confused about why it was the only one without a window.
"What the hell does fortitude even mean? And how does that help you with Mario Kart?" Claire asked, scratching the dog behind the ear.
"Fortitude is, like, toughness, or something," Dan said, selecting a bike for Bowser to ride on.
Josh wandered in, enthralled by something on his phone. He glanced up at the TV. "Dude, you're playing Bowser? Homeboy sucks in this game."
"Fuck you!"
"Yeah, don't mess, he has 'fortitude'," said Claire, picking out the scooter for Yoshi.
"The scooter? Y'all suck at this game," said Josh. "And what the hell does fortitude mean, anyway?"
"He's tough!" Dan yelled, then swore as the race started and Bowser spun out. "God damn it, I've lost now."
"The race just started, don't be so FUCK," she yelled as a red shell smashed into Yoshi.
Janet stalked into the make-shift living room, the arena for this epic battle, which in reality was Dan's room. They had to turn the living room into Claire's so they could all live there.
"Who broke my French Press?" she asked, livid. "Hey, nerds! Which one of you idiots broke my French Press? These are expensive, kinda."
But her anger could not distract the gamers, the race was heating up, and in this game, at any second everything could change. She stopped to watch the match. The technicolour race was mesmerizing. The upbeat music was interspersed with the swearing and yelling of the racers.
"Fuck! I lost," said Claire, putting down the controller.
"What did I tell you," said Dan, trying to coax a high-five from Janet, who had turned back to the kitchen to unpack. "Fortitude!"
"Whatever, asshole, you gonna help unpack, or will you revel in your victory a bit more?" asked Claire, trying to get up, but failing, as the dog had laid his head on her lap, and it would be heartless to expect such a dog to move.
"Unpack? But we still have three more races!"
"Janet will kill us," said Claire, as she picked the controller back up.
"So? She's always saying that."
Josh left the living room. As he passed the kitchen, Janet called out to him.
"Are they playing again?" Josh nodded. "Useless nerds."
He walked on to his room, ignoring Janet's almost-panicked call of, "Wait, aren't you going to help?"
He shut the door, turned on the light, and gazed upon his four bare walls, his mattress, his boxes, and his bare bulb dangling from the ceiling.
Okay, that didn't turn out so good. Fortitude is hard, people. But considering it's a first try, I'd say it turned out good, maybe?
Boxes filled the room. They had just moved, but due to an argument on the car ride over, the wii and TV were all set up, raring to go. Dan was standing and Claire sat on the part of the couch not covered in boxes or the lethargic dog. Janet unpacked loudly in the kitchen, words like "useless" and "nerds" somehow drifted in above the clatter of cutlery slamming into their proper places. Josh wandered the apartment in a daze, apparently confused about where his bedroom was, and then further confused about why it was the only one without a window.
"What the hell does fortitude even mean? And how does that help you with Mario Kart?" Claire asked, scratching the dog behind the ear.
"Fortitude is, like, toughness, or something," Dan said, selecting a bike for Bowser to ride on.
Josh wandered in, enthralled by something on his phone. He glanced up at the TV. "Dude, you're playing Bowser? Homeboy sucks in this game."
"Fuck you!"
"Yeah, don't mess, he has 'fortitude'," said Claire, picking out the scooter for Yoshi.
"The scooter? Y'all suck at this game," said Josh. "And what the hell does fortitude mean, anyway?"
"He's tough!" Dan yelled, then swore as the race started and Bowser spun out. "God damn it, I've lost now."
"The race just started, don't be so FUCK," she yelled as a red shell smashed into Yoshi.
Janet stalked into the make-shift living room, the arena for this epic battle, which in reality was Dan's room. They had to turn the living room into Claire's so they could all live there.
"Who broke my French Press?" she asked, livid. "Hey, nerds! Which one of you idiots broke my French Press? These are expensive, kinda."
But her anger could not distract the gamers, the race was heating up, and in this game, at any second everything could change. She stopped to watch the match. The technicolour race was mesmerizing. The upbeat music was interspersed with the swearing and yelling of the racers.
"Fuck! I lost," said Claire, putting down the controller.
"What did I tell you," said Dan, trying to coax a high-five from Janet, who had turned back to the kitchen to unpack. "Fortitude!"
"Whatever, asshole, you gonna help unpack, or will you revel in your victory a bit more?" asked Claire, trying to get up, but failing, as the dog had laid his head on her lap, and it would be heartless to expect such a dog to move.
"Unpack? But we still have three more races!"
"Janet will kill us," said Claire, as she picked the controller back up.
"So? She's always saying that."
Josh left the living room. As he passed the kitchen, Janet called out to him.
"Are they playing again?" Josh nodded. "Useless nerds."
He walked on to his room, ignoring Janet's almost-panicked call of, "Wait, aren't you going to help?"
He shut the door, turned on the light, and gazed upon his four bare walls, his mattress, his boxes, and his bare bulb dangling from the ceiling.
Okay, that didn't turn out so good. Fortitude is hard, people. But considering it's a first try, I'd say it turned out good, maybe?
BEES!
I got stung by a bee today. BEES HURT, PEOPLE. I haven't been stung by a bee for, like, a year, so I didn't really know what to do. The only ointment we had was burn ointment, and then I put some ice on it, so I think I'm covered in case it was one of those evil FIRE BEES. But I don't think it was. Those only come out on the coldest nights. They are nightmares.
Anyway, I'm going to try something here. And usually when I do that, nothing of the sort happens, but today I have faith in my own self to see this through, because I think it'd be a good exercise.
I, Lee Joseph Molnar, first (as far as I know) of my name, has already asked facebook to give me a word.
And this word will be the first word in a little story, vignette, dialogue, scene, or whatever else I want to write.
I shall do this weekly, on every Tuesday I suppose.
I've already gotten some, so I will be using the first.
The word is "fortitude", provided by one Kaia Kater.
The incredibly short story will show up later tonight, if I remember.
Kisses!
Anyway, I'm going to try something here. And usually when I do that, nothing of the sort happens, but today I have faith in my own self to see this through, because I think it'd be a good exercise.
I, Lee Joseph Molnar, first (as far as I know) of my name, has already asked facebook to give me a word.
And this word will be the first word in a little story, vignette, dialogue, scene, or whatever else I want to write.
I shall do this weekly, on every Tuesday I suppose.
I've already gotten some, so I will be using the first.
The word is "fortitude", provided by one Kaia Kater.
The incredibly short story will show up later tonight, if I remember.
Kisses!
What Matters To Me, Moon? Prologue & Epilogue
Monday, August 8, 2011
Here it is. The end of a long short-story. Ignore the left side of that first page there and read "What Matters To Me, Moon?" chapters 1, 2, 3, 4-1 & 4-2. RIGHT! I should mention that this story was previously called "The Relief of Rock At The Side Of The Road" because I needed to call it something and when I first started this story I was on a bus in Ottawa that was traveling by a rock-cliff between Holland Cross and Lebreton Flats. I liked the rhythm and assonance of the phrase, but it ended up having nothing to do with the story.
Anyhow, if you click on the tag "Daymoon" at the bottom there, you should be able to find all of my stories.
Dear readers, I swear to you, that one day and other days after that, I will upload every single story or poem or anything that I write and like. This public diary will live on and love lots. Nmaste, babes, amen.
What Matters To Me, Moon? ch.4 pt.2
Howdy. I know that it has been a long time since I have last posted. Regardless the story is finished. I am proud of it. It has actually been finished since April or May of 2011. I, however, have not been lazy. It pains me so much that I have ten million responsibilities, when all I want is to be a kid and have fun with my years of know-how, creative urges and friends. FRIENDS! DAMN, friends are one of the most important things to have in your life at aLL times.
Dear Hope and Derring Do, I miss my great friends greatly and my super friends superlee -der, I mean, supremely. I cannot know how long it will be before an other post from alter ego Daymoon, but make sure to check out the PROLOGUE/EPILOGUE when you are finished with this writy-dighty WHO-HAW!
B.J. THOMAS!
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Somehow SOMEHOW my heart is beating a love for art still. Somehow that's where my feet are bringing me day after day I find myself amidst beauty on riverbanks and under overpasses. I see people making this beauty, and maybe I'm making it whenever I open my eyes or maybe every time I close them.
and goddamn this text I'm typing out just looks so goddamned classy sitting here on this white background. it looks tasteful. it looks like it can sweep you off your feet and teach you to dance. and maybe it's substance isn't the same and maybe it doesn't want to be classy or tasteful, but I'll be damned if it doesn't want to run dance classes in the Catskills.
and books or pages or zeroes and ones aren't enough to keep this in because every GOOD book is more than a book, the words on the page explode out and scream in your head making you sing with every pore in your body ecstasy isn't the aim but somehow the bullet always passes through there on the way to hit somewhere a bit more fragile and damaging. a good work of art is a good workout. it tears you apart in a million tiny little ways and leaves you there, sore and cursing, to heal yourself like you have to. so i never got why people damn pain to the worst of hells, or why people revel in it, pain is pain is pain. it's there, darling, whether any damned one of you wants it or not. and pain is where you grow and pain is where you die and pain is pain.
and somehow pain isn't enough to build a home out of. discomfort does not lead to comfort, no matter how familiar it gets, and i don't want to write about this. pain isn't life, but life is married to pain and this is where it gets confusing.
we all want to live within the boundaries of happiness. some of us build fences and walls on the border, man it with memories of what happens when you cross it, we shoot ourselves in our foot and put it in our mouth. and i'm not saying that i don't like my flat in this metropolis, but vacations are nice too. day trips to the cliffs of despair and all that. and i feel bad saying that, because i don't seek out these trips, but i get kidnapped some nights by regrets i try to deny, and i'm dumped at the side of the road far from home, but today the rain drizzled down insubstantial, not even enough to be fun, but as people passed frowning like all hell lived between their lips, i couldn't help but smile because, man, I can't help it. and also, admittedly, because pop-cultured poetry swam in my head.
and goddamn this text I'm typing out just looks so goddamned classy sitting here on this white background. it looks tasteful. it looks like it can sweep you off your feet and teach you to dance. and maybe it's substance isn't the same and maybe it doesn't want to be classy or tasteful, but I'll be damned if it doesn't want to run dance classes in the Catskills.
and books or pages or zeroes and ones aren't enough to keep this in because every GOOD book is more than a book, the words on the page explode out and scream in your head making you sing with every pore in your body ecstasy isn't the aim but somehow the bullet always passes through there on the way to hit somewhere a bit more fragile and damaging. a good work of art is a good workout. it tears you apart in a million tiny little ways and leaves you there, sore and cursing, to heal yourself like you have to. so i never got why people damn pain to the worst of hells, or why people revel in it, pain is pain is pain. it's there, darling, whether any damned one of you wants it or not. and pain is where you grow and pain is where you die and pain is pain.
and somehow pain isn't enough to build a home out of. discomfort does not lead to comfort, no matter how familiar it gets, and i don't want to write about this. pain isn't life, but life is married to pain and this is where it gets confusing.
we all want to live within the boundaries of happiness. some of us build fences and walls on the border, man it with memories of what happens when you cross it, we shoot ourselves in our foot and put it in our mouth. and i'm not saying that i don't like my flat in this metropolis, but vacations are nice too. day trips to the cliffs of despair and all that. and i feel bad saying that, because i don't seek out these trips, but i get kidnapped some nights by regrets i try to deny, and i'm dumped at the side of the road far from home, but today the rain drizzled down insubstantial, not even enough to be fun, but as people passed frowning like all hell lived between their lips, i couldn't help but smile because, man, I can't help it. and also, admittedly, because pop-cultured poetry swam in my head.
rain drops keep falling on my head, but that doesn't mean my eyes will soon be turning red. crying's not for me, 'cause i'm never going to stop the rain by complainin'.yeah just like that. and i wish i could think of a better quote for it all but there it is. aye, there it is.
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