morgue_n | Recent Entries

WORK
The first semester at my new school is over. I have a stack of essays to grade. I don't have work for a month. I want to have about 3 days of absolutely nothing to do before I think about what I'm going to do with my break. At school, I feel beloved. treasured by staff and students alike.

I have completely changed my style of teaching since starting at this school. I give way, way less work. I really only give 2 graded assignments a month. I feel horribly guilty about this, but the culture of Colombia is such that, if I gave homework, they wouldn't do it. Besides, I have such a greater work/life balance here.

my assignments are better. I give wildly open-ended, creative, self-paced papers now. My students love it. They cheer when I announce the assignments. Literally cheer. I can't believe it.

Month 1 was Music Reviews. Pick a band and recommend them to me in a Pitchfork style music review. I think next year I will open this assignment up to include movies, tv shows, art exhibitions, and restaurants. Also next year, I am having this be the first post on the class zine.
Month 2 was Public Relations Disasters. They had to choose a celebrity or company who had found themselves in a scandal, and then analyze their public statement to the press. They had to be specific about word choice, and talk about how their language addressed their audience's values. Next year, I am leaving this assignment unchanged.
Month 3 was a creative writing assignment. Memoirs and Gonzo journalism. Next year, I'm just doing memoirs. This unit fell during November which, at my school is a terrible month to try to teach anything. We have so few classes because of Catholic holidays and tournaments and events and things that i am not going to attempt to teach anything more than memoirs.
Month 4 was psychology. they had to choose any character from fiction and write a formal MLA paper diagnosing that character. they must cite the DSM5 as a source.

I made all that up as I went, pretty much month at a time. It was incredibly successful. I have developed a loosey goosey plan for next semester.

Month 5 will be Public Speaking. For their final, they have to write, edit, block and deliver a 5 minute presentation of some kind. I'm giving them like 4-5 different options for this. A) a progress report, B) a nonfiction story C) an award acceptance speech D) a pitch presentation.
Month 6 is a formal research paper where they have to talk about whatever field of study they're interested in, and tell me how technology is changing it.
Month 7 is Immersion Essay, so I'll be talking about anthropology the whole time. Students have to write a photo essay for the school zine where they leave their bubble, go to a new place, and attempt to explain the insider's point of view.
Month 8 is going to be writing a personal code of ethics, or perhaps a personal philosophical definition of something, like Beauty. Working on this. I'll be talking about world religion for this unit.

ROMANCE
Things are going maravilloso with Eve. She's great. In Spanish, I have learned that they have different words for romance that signify different relationship tiers.

Me gustas - I like you
Me encantas - I'm obsessed with you. I have a crush on you. I am crazy about you.
Te quiero - I care about you deeply. I want you in my life. I am serious about you.
??? I don't know if there's any other tiers
Te amo - I love you. I want to marry you.

When your ladyfriend starts using the new words, you feel like you leveled up in dungeons and dragons. I started shooting light out of my body and my health automatically refilled. I gained a new subclass, too: boyfriend. Novio.

Having a spanish speaking novia is the best spanish class you could ask for. I use google translate less and less with her. I'm constantly impressed by her patience and kindness and generosity.

MENTALITY
In therapy, we talk a lot about the hate i have in my heart for myself. its hard to let that go but I feel like I'm making progress. I'm a wreck after almost every single session. How much more do I have to cry to get this pain-clot out of me.

FAMILY
My brother Cody is engaged. My uncle just got married. My grandmother has been diagnosed with parkinsons. My aunt is retiring soon. My mother is re-retiring soon.

i had therapy today. so hey, whats up.

i feel kind of pulled in a bunch of little directions at once. it isn't bad or anything, but i have a lot of little things on my mind, i guess.

first, school.
school's going great. i feel super fulfilled. i'm teaching psychology lately. to be clear, i'm not qualified to teach psychology, but i teach a nonfiction reading and writing course, and i asked my students what fields of nonfiction did they want to research and write about. they pretty unanimously said psychology.

so, students have to choose any character from fiction and then diagnose them using the DSM5, the american psychiatric diagnostic manual or whatever.

so we've been talking about psych stuff in class a lot. the cycle of abuse. kinsey. attachment styles.

standing up and talking about anxious attachment style when you have it is really surreal.

i've been seeing Eve, la manicurista, for about a month now. We now spend most of our free days with each other. I like her a lot. I'm trying to take it slow with her. i mean, she only got divorced in september. i mean, she doesn't speak english. i told her the other day that i feel like i'm in a 3 way relationship with Google Translate.

hablamos en espanol y pantomima y la idioma de tocar.

she has a thing for wine. tinto. her purple hair curls like a corkscrew. she has scream queen eyes. she smells amazing. i love the way she looks at me when she's painting my fingernails black. she teaches me how to salsa and bachata en mi apartamente. i want to learn spanish faster so i can talk to her more.

the other night we were in my apartment. she was playing edith piaf through my bluetooth speaker, and we began acting like we were smoking cigarettes with that existential aloof expression on our faces. caricatures of french self-importance. she inhaled her pretend cigarette and then got some invisible smoke in her eye, tearing up and coughing.

i pantomimed accidentally inhaling my cigarette and started choking. she ran over and pantomimed giving me a tracheotomy, saving my life. i pantomimed pulling the cigarette out of the hole in my neck, and continued smoking my cigarette with the same aloof expression, but this time i was putting the cigarette up to my pretend wound.

I think I'm in love? obviously i wont say anything. she's freshly divorced. i cant possibly know her that well, can i?

but then again, when we pass google translate back and forth in the dark, we're discussing about deeper topics than i have talked about with a woman in years. we're communicating-- her attachment issues, my abandonment. her insecurity. my grief. what i need. what she needs. what she's looking for. what i want. secrets. dreams.

it's wild how effortless this feels, despite the language barrier, despite the big conversations.

This past weekend I went to my first Colombian futbol game.

In my city, Cali, there are two teams. The first team is Cali Deportivo, or Cali Sports Club. They're based in the south, and their colors are green. They're the friendly team.

The other team is America de Cali. They wear red, and the team mascot is Los Diablos. Their fans are rowdy as all fuck. They were a team backed by the Cali Cartel and I believe their stadium, which is in the north, was built on narco cash.

This weekend was the Clasico, or the match they have every year where the two local teams play each other. They were playing in the America stadium, and so one of the other teachers organized us all going together.

"If you come, you need to come with us. It's safer in a group," they said. "Don't wear a belt or have a pocket knife on a key chain or anything. Weapons aren't allowed in the venue. Oh and for the love of god, wear Red. If you wear green you will get jumped and we won't be able to save you."

I told my students and my other Colombian coworkers that I was going. They offered me more advice.

"Wear good running shoes," one suggested. "In case a riot breaks out or whatever."

"It's best to not go," one coworker advised. "But if you go, make sure you buy tickets in the West. The North and the South sections are were the hinchas are. Como se dice hinchas?" they asked their friend.

"Fanaticos?"

So the day of the game comes and I'm waiting for my uber in my apartment's lobby, shooting the shit with the portero, the doorman.

"Hola Alexander! Como estas? Voy a America y Deportivo partido."

"En el estadio?! Wooooow" and then he looked me up and down with incredible concern. "Con tus amigos? O solo?"

"Con MUCHOS amigos," I reassured him. He seemed relieved.

The plan was to meet at a bar around the corner, where we would pregame and wait for the crowd of amigos to assemble before walking over to the stadium together. We did that, and as we got to the stadium, picked up our tickets, and worked our way through the crowd, we saw people dancing salsa and letting off fireworks in the street. There were riot police standing around, doing nothing about the fireworks.

We got into the stadium, thinking we were among the first to file in because of the massive crowd pregaming outside, but the stadium was already packed. Every single person in the stands was wearing red and screaming their goddamn minds off, and the game hadn't even started.

When Deportivo came out, the crowd erupted into infernal booing. Conversely, when Los Diablos came out, there was a deafening cheer. I have perhaps never heard a louder group of people.

The Devils of America de Cali won, but over the course of the night I saw fires in the stands. Garish red signal flares and fireworks cast horrible shadows in the North section. At half time, they filled the entire stadium with crimson smoke to the point that you could not see anything but apocalyptic silhouettes, and I learned why the riot police were there-- their job was to protect the opposing team from beer cans and gatorade bottles, flung from the upper stands. The cops locked tower shields to protect the visiting team from thrown debris so that they could properly do throw-ins and corner kicks.

The drums did not stop the entire time I was there. Nor did the chanting. I didn't know what they chanted-- the spanish was beyond me except for one, which I only understood because they unleashed this massive banner that wrapped across the entire Northern section, maybe 3 stories tall.

DIOS PERDONA, PERO LOS DIABLOS NO. EL INFERNO LES ESPERA.

GOD FORGIVES, BUT THE DEVILS DO NOT. HELL AWAITS YOU.

We left about 10 minutes early. The score was 3-0 in favor of Hell, and we didn't want to be around when the drunken throng filled into the streets.

All in all, the entire ordeal felt more like a metal concert or a professional wrestling match than a sporting event. That is to say, all mainstream USA sports are trash, Colombian futbol is superior in every way. What a fucking blast. I can't wait to return.

this weekend marks my first colombian disease, a milestone for sure. This one is a stomach virus that rendered me useless all weekend. i spent my days sleeping or curled up in a miserable fetal position, sweating sin, dealing with cramps and taking disgusting medicine. when i did move, i stumbled deliriously through my apartment, moving downstairs to pick up a food order i barely ate or the aforementioned disgusting medicine.

when i was doing all my stumbling, i stubbed my toe and i am worried that i broke it. i really hope not. it is swollen and discolored for sure, but it isn't purple, and i can move it, though its stiff and painful.

the disease that almost took me out in korea was, what i thought, was pneumonia. i spent a week or two almost bedridden. they plied me with medicine-- both traditional korean and modern western-- but the doctor told me early on that no, this is just the common cold.

my first year in china, too, had a cold that sent me to Diyu. this time, i was better prepared though, and i think my immune system was used to asia by that point.

i'm attracted to this Brazilian scientist woman I met the other day at a rooftop party. She's only here for a few more months, but she's got that hot velma vibe that i'm really attracted to, and it's hard to keep myself from pouncing on her when she starts talking about ionic bonds. i can't tell how attracted she is to me, because for every three or four positive signs she sends me, she drops one negative one. i think she might have a boyfriend back in brazil? she told a cabbie this in spanish, i think to get him off of her and her friends' backs, but hasn't talked about him in conversation to me at all, and her insta doesn't have any pictures of guys other than her brother.

hard for me to tell. this is the first person i have found myself romantically attracted to and felt like pursuing for... a few years, now. i'd love to have a girlfriend. it's been so long, and i love our banter. she keeps asking me out to things! we were supposed to see a movie this week, but obviously i canceled because of the existence-threatening stomach virus and all.

Two nights ago I witnessed a stabbing in broad daylight.

Since we last spoke, I became a card-carrying legal worker in Colombia (NOT Columbia), got an apartment, slowly filled it with necessities (detergent, hand soap, cleaning stuff, towels, etc), bought a whole new professional wardrobe, went through training and orientation at my new school, met a bunch of people, made a bunch of friends, and slowly began preparing for my first day of classes. I am teaching the 11th graders, both the standard and Advanced Placement courses.

I'm kind of wowed by how open and accepting everyone is. I have never felt more welcome. I have never met such friendly people. I am constantly caught off balance at how this country is the OPPOSITE of China.

In China, my admin were ineffectual and mired in bureaucracy.
We talked about exams all day.
The school paid us handsomely, but tried to get their money's worth out of us by wringing us dry of free time and energy.
The students were academic, focused, respectful, and mature. Perhaps the best students I will ever teach.
I had to teach a novel every month, paired with some high-concept thing. That's 8 novels in a year.
The school was fast-paced and believed in tests, tests, tests.
My coworkers were high-strung, no chill, lived in a culture of misogyny, motivated by cash, and their egos were wrapped up in their work

In Colombia, the admin have our backs and treat us amicably.
We avoid talking about work, and drink coffee and talk about salsa dancing and food instead.
The school pays us little but take excellent care of us, and they believe in a healthy work-life balance.
The students, I hear, are entitled rich douches. I have been forewarned.
The students are not academic. I am only expected to teach 1 book each semester. LMAO.
The pace is verrrrry slow and I don't think I have to teach any tests at all, except for the AP exam.
My coworkers are friendly as fuck, incredibly relaxed, women are in positions of power. My coworkers are motivated by life, and while they took their jobs seriously, their egos do not appear to be wrapped up in their jobs.

I think I am in a much better fit for myself. So far, I love it.

My coworkers invited me out to go drinking near my apartment the other night. We walked across the river to El Parque del Gato, a park filled with giant statues of garishly painted cats, and we drank on the sidewalk there, outside a tienda. I was finishing my second cerveza when I hear a commotion to my right.

I look over and see two men. One, a man of average build, dark eyebrows, wearing a blue polo shirt and gym shorts. The other, lanky, wearing roughly the same outfit but in a white shirt, and crocs. Both men seemed to be street people, judging from the dirt all over their clothes and bodies.

The man in the blue polo was angry, pushing the skinny man forward in a threatening way. The skinny man walked backwards into the street, wary of oncoming traffic while trying to placate Mr. Blue Polo.

Blue Polo whipped out a Bowie knife, some huge sort of survival, tactical dagger with a hilt. Skinny guy, whose eyes were bagged with street life and probably drug use? screamed and fell backwards into the street. His head was against the barrier. They were separated from us by a low concrete barrier and a lane of traffic.

Blue Polo began slashing wildly, but skinny guy used his lanky legs to keep the Polo man at bay. He screamed-- from pain or fear I cannot tell-- but it didn't seem like he was screaming anything in any language I could understand. The crowd gathered on the street in shocked silence.

I kept thinking what could I do? Cross a busy lane of traffic to confront an angry man with a knife in a language he doesn't speak? Throw something? I did nothing. Instead, I watched the crowd to see what locals would do. Also nothing. I thought about calling 911, and then realized it probably isn't that number in this foreign country. One of the coworkers I was with began calling emergency services. Here, the number is 123, apparently.

Merri, my coworker, communicated what was happening and our whereabouts. Meanwhile, I could not tear my eyes from the scene. Blue Polo tried stabbing and slashing. At first, it seemed like he actually wanted to murder this scrawny guy right there in broad daylight, in front of a crowd of onlookers. But after a moment, he cooled down, and his thrusts and slashes became less intentional. I suppose his temper fizzled out when he saw people on the phone, because he sauntered away as if nothing happened.

The scrawny man curled up on the street for awhile, taking inventory of his body and looking at the crowd of people. After some time, he pulled himself to his feet and limped away in the opposite direction. His crocs were full of blood, but other than his feet, he didn't seem to be bleeding.

My coworkers, Americans, have lived in this country for 7 years. They say they have never seen something so wild and violent. Nothing like it.

"Welcome to Colombia."

Some locals who were drinking nearby just shook their heads. "Loco."

the victim could have come to the crowd of people and asked for an ambulance. He has universal healthcare in this country. Instead, he walked away. my coworker's read on the situation was that they were two homeless people. They assumed either the skinny guy had tried to steal from the larger man, or owed him money for drugs. The skinny man in particular had the body of someone addicted to needles.

We continued drinking well into the night. more friends joined us, and we recounted the story each time. We joked about it.

If the man had died, I would have been upset.

I hope so, anyway.

Today I said goodbye to my brothers, and so I have wept. I'm still feeling pretty emotionally unbalanced. It's okay. Now is the time for sadness.

Tonight, full of nervous energy and not really wanting to be alone with my thoughts, I'm packing as I type this. I roll my wooden and metal idols-- Yama, Buddha, Ganesha, Bodhidharma, Shiva, Morana, Janus, Thor, etc-- up in my blue jeans, protecting them from bumps and bruises as they're tossed around the tarmac. In South America, I might finally add Jesus, Mary, and some saints to my collection of gods.

My sister in law asked me how this exit from the country compares to all my others.

This exit feels like my first. In 2012, when I first left the USA for Korea, I sensed that a part of me was dying. I don't mean to be dramatic here, but that move was characterized by intense loss. My girlfriend and I broke up. My family grieved my passing. I was leaving everyone and everything in my life, heading to a giant unknown. I had the vague understanding that moving to Korea would be good for me, financially speaking, perhaps spiritually too, but to be frank with you, I dreaded it. I was terrified.

My first time flying out of country felt like purgatory. 30+ hours of transpacific travel by plane-- layovers and all-- isn't fun. You're stuck in this strange liminal state, not asleep really, not awake, not here, not there. Both. All. None. It was a surreal experience for me too, being surrounded by an ethnic group whose language I didn't understand, a type of people I had never interacted with and knew nothing of outside of certain brands. Hyundai. Kia. etc.

When I arrived, I spent the next year or so living through an infantilizing experience. I could not speak. I had to learn to read again. I had to learn how to shop, how to do everything, really. I needed someone to hold my hand, at least for awhile. I smashed buttons in my apartment that controlled the air-conditioning, ondol floors, television, shower. Square peg, round hole, trial and error.

This time, I feel a similar metaphorical death approaching, but this time, I'm not as afraid, but the grief is about as bad. I have a better idea of what to expect, and I expect it to be easier. Moving to a country that uses a Phoenician alphabetic system makes it way better. cognates are my friends. If I could handle the endless rorschach test of chinese characters and survive, Spanish will be ezpz.

But god, saying goodbye to my brothers is a tragedy.

Happy St. Weed's Eve

Mary’s finer than wine and worth more than a dime
and she’s mine in the morning at noon and at night
Her natural wiles while away me the time
and her smile sends me soaring as high as a kite

with her hair in me fingers, don’t mind if she lingers
I love her sweet kisses and bright orange locks
we write, sing, and dance in a smoky romance
She stays stuck in my head, sweet Mary Jane Pots

She makes everything better, lets fly all me fetters
Sniffs powerful pretty in her bonnie bouquet
Never anyone fairer, I do love to share her
So come sit with us in a circle today

I might have a job in Colombia soon.

First, I was looking for gigs in Ecuador because I have friends there. However, my friends' school in Quito (Fundacion) still hasn't gotten back to me since the interview, and the other interview I had in Quito (Menor) was kind of combative.

It was me v four other people. They were 10 minutes late, and they asked me kind of blunt questions. They came off accusatory.

"Why should we hire you."

I told them I don't know if they should or not. I don't know what their school culture is like. If they're into balance, and creativity, and critical thinking, then I'm their man. If they're just trying to get high test scores so kids can go to prestigious colleges, then don't hire me.

"Describe your current teaching context."

I'm not actually teaching right now. I work part time at a library. I was in Shanghai at a really good school for 5 years, but I've had about a year and a half to two years off now.

"Why aren't you teaching."

"Well... there's the real answer, and then there's the polite, interview answer."

"Give me the real one."

"One of my 9th grade students committed suicide, and I needed a break. I had to reconnect with family, find my balance again, figure myself out. It took two years, but I'm ready to go again."

"I'm really sorry to hear that. I can't imagine the grief you must have felt, and it says a lot that you're ready to teach again.... but we only have 5 minutes left before our next interview, so we only have time for one more question. Do you have anything you want to ask us?"

I left that interview feeling completely unlistened to. I felt robbed. I felt like I was wasting my time. Later, in the same day, I interviewed with a school in Monterrey, Mexico. The principal there was an older white man with some magical grandpa energy. The interview went smooth. Towards the middle of it, he asked me,

"So Morgan, you're in your 30s, you just switched out of Asia and you're looking at latin America now... what kind of school are you looking for?"

I told him I was done with the high pressure atmosphere of the confucian test-taking culture, and I wanted something with more balance. I was focusing on happiness.

"I'll be honest with you, our school is very much that thing you're trying to avoid. Schools like what you're looking for exist though, and I know exactly what you mean. I have worked at them, and I loved working at them. I met my wife at a school like that. Those schools are in Colombia."

So I started applying to jobs in Colombia. On Friday I had an absolutely amazing interview with a middle school principal in Medellin. If he offers me a job, I'm going to take it in a heartbeat.

Dear Chaitease aka Anastasia,

I miss you so deeply that I have been weeping for days.

We first met on Livejournal after its heyday. I forget our first conversations, but you say in a journal entry that I added you after following the dreams hashtag. That sounds like something I'd do. I was on antidepressants back then, and those SSRIs give you weird ones.

I imagine I scrolled through the entries with that hashtag until I found your writing, which probably grabbed me because you were wrestling with the same things I was, and your writing was head and shoulders above the rest. You weren't writing about KPOP or some fandom. You weren't writing the mundane details of your day or apologizing for not writing in a year or more. No, you were using writing as a vehicle to understand the world. You were figuring yourself out, psychologically, spiritually, emotionally. You were learning and growing.

My writing was tussling with the same. I found camaraderie in the written word, and it was an online companionship that I began to look forward to. We commented on each other's entries. You gave great insight and offered support. I hope I did the same. I knew from your journal that you lived in NC-- two states away-- and I discovered you were cute from some of your user icons. One was you in a dress, partially backlit, like a dancer about to step on stage. The other was a stylistic profile of your face, glasses and ponytail, that reminded me of Daria.

It wasn't until, one late night chatting through the messages, that we first talked on the phone. You started giggling immediately. You didn't know I was male. You said my voice was cute. The sound of your voice turned me on.

I eventually sent you pictures of what I looked like, or maybe we added each other on facebook and you saw me. We started chatting there in between phone calls, and eventually, one summer, I came down to visit you.

Your entry that day reads:

He is on his way.
I feel a cyclone of stars rushing. I feel music waves, light waves... I'm confused. How did I allow this to happen. Oh, right. Years of lonesome typing self preservation, censorship, and conversation made this journal and then. Bam! Someone shows up on my friends list. It was nothing but someone's ideas, color-coded text jungle to crawl inside. But... it's real. Internet's an electric toy flying in space, from prague to new zealand.. from west virginia to north carolina. What are the odds that our words tossed side by side would create some kind of chemistry to inspire me to reach out. And we reached and touched. You are on my mind most of the time. You travel to teach and maybe love me to great heights and also sleep. Dreams

He is on his way, but, where did he come from.
All my thoughts are cyclical. It's ridiculous how I feel while just thinking of him.

these words are so anticipatory.

Current Music: It's Blitz

That was the first of 3 times I would visit you in life. Shortly after I arrived, you got a DUI and your parents made you come live with them in Oklahoma. We spent a couple days smoking marijuana and having amazing sex in every room of your apartment before I got a text inviting me to spend the night in Moundsville State Penitentiary, which is supposedly one of the most haunted places in the US. I asked if you were interested in a spontaneous road trip and you were DOWN.

Looking back, this was a foundational trait we shared. That eagerness to give in and follow opportunities like that isn't something that many people share, especially not after a day or two together. Another was the struggle. I cut. You had trichtillomania. You pulled your own hair out. I saw your bald spot and you instantly grew fearful and embarrassed, but you fell apart when you saw I didn't fault you for it. I understood you completely.

I want you to know that. That stands true then, and it stands true now. You're beautiful.

We ended up driving around for a few weeks. Maybe a month. We went up to Moundsville, and then couchsurfed in Myrtle Beach. My car broke twice-- once, the muffler fell off and was repaired by a kind mechanic who saw that he could not squeeze water from a stone, and I got a flat tire in NC, so we ended up crashing with your conservatory friends nearby.

It became an impromptu party that night, where everyone but me was trained in classical guitar and drank craft beer. At one point, I sipped the IPA that had been given to me while you guys fiddled with different modes, and I said. "You guys sound really good. Do you know any Nickelback?" The party instantly stopped while all the guys there judged me. You cackled as the grinch-like grin spread across my face, and your friends realized I was cool.

Once that summer in 2009, you went on this gorgeous rant about how the stars in the sky are just astronomically huge explosions-- balls of fire beyond mortal comprehension. You were in AWE of the stars.

That summer was magical and honestly, I fell in love with you. I knew we wouldn't be together because of the sheer distance, but I wondered if perhaps we might work out one day. You felt like my second half in so many ways.

I wouldn't see you again until a few years later, when your family visited your grandmother in Beaufort, NC. You mentioned it to me, and I came down again. You'd been miserable in the midwest. They drink more out there, and you'd already been wrestling with alcohol and drug abuse alone, but now that you were more isolated than ever before, you had started drinking more. I met your parents, a kind, friendly doctor who I got along with quickly, and an obese, anxious mother who reminded me of my own.

You were still witty, still funny, still charming. We still communicated in funny faces and noises, and sprinkled our otherwise high-flying philosophical talks with silliness. Walking that balance with someone else is difficult, and we spent days talking and sharing music... but you were frustrated and darker than you had been before.

I told you that I was scared of dying. You replied that you weren't. To you, death would be a relief. It meant that the struggle was over. There wasn't a trace of nihilism in your voice. Just wisdom. I admired you for your bravery.

I didn't lie when I told you that you were among the greatest people I ever knew. It still stands true.

We kept in touch, of course. I talked to you on facebook-- moreso when you were between relationships-- but we shared memes and touched base. We flirted, still. It was innocent when you were in a relationship-- just little compliments-- and it was unabashed when you were single. You went through a few boyfriends and I think a cheating fiance in Oklahoma in the time I was in another hemisphere.

In 2012, you wrote:

thank you Morgan for those unforgettable weeks we spent traveling the east coast couchsurfing, reveling in the wonders of the world, and sharing words and the sweet mountain air. You changed my life more than you may know, and that's only because you found me since one of my interests was "dreaming".

By that time, I had stopped using LJ and didn't see it until months later.

The third time I visited you was after I had moved abroad for almost a decade, just before the 2020 pandemic, when I came home from China for Chinese New Year. You were in NC again living in a halfway house after rehab, and as soon as I learned you could have visitors, I drove the 8 hours or so to visit you. You lived with a number of other people in AA or NA. You'd gotten involved with more than just alcohol, and it showed. Your curves your gone. Your face was thinner. You were far more anxious. You'd changed a lot. I still loved you. I still considered you a companion spirit, but it hurt me to see you that way.

Before, we worked each other's bodies on every available surface as soon as we got the chance. When you were living in the halfway house, I treated you softly. We gave each other backrubs and lit candles. My heart had been through the garbage disposal, and you gave me the intimacy I needed.

That was the last time I saw you alive. We chatted more online, but it was the last time I saw you alive.

After covid clipped my wings in 2021, I was driving my grandmother's old beater around. It couldn't reliably leave the county, but in 2022, I bit the bullet and bought a new vehicle. I looked for cars with good gas mileage. My dad had moved to Bath, NC, and when I was getting ready to go on my first trip to his new house, I texted you.

Your facebook account was dead. I couldn't find your insta account. My heart sank and I googled your name, and that's when I found your obituary.

I will never know how you died. Your obituary says you died in a hospital, but I can find no news article. The obituary said there was no service, but that in lieu of flowers, the parents of the deceased had requested donations to "To Write Love on Her Arms."

To Write Love on Her Arms is a non-profit movement dedicated to presenting hope and finding help for people struggling with depression, addiction, self-injury, and suicide. TWLOHA exists to encourage, inform, inspire, and also to invest directly into treatment and recovery.

I'm left to assume you died in an overdose, or maybe a suicide. Maybe they made that request that because that struggle with addiction and depression was such a major a part of your life. I hope that's the only reason, but I know in my gut that it wasn't.

Since I found out on Friday morning, I have wept every single day. Yesterday, for literal hours. Today is the first day that I can write this, though I wanted to since I found the news.

I miss you so, so, so much.

Anastasia Rave Obituary (2022) - Greensboro, NC - Greensboro News & Record

I've been writing a shit ton. The progress feels great.

Since I wrote last, my grandfather, the union patriarch who lifted up his whole holler, died. He died in the nursing home of old age. It was a slow, meandering spiral downward into dementia. By the time he passed, he was unrecognizable. He'd grown a godly beard, but his body was emaciated and weak. Spindly. His eyes didn't see us. To be honest, when he died, it was a relief. It was so hard watching him deteriorate.

I got a part time job at the local library. I shelve books in my day. I work with 50-60 year old ladies who cluck and tut around. All of them are mother hens. We have very little in common, outside of a love of reading. We certainly don't read the same books. Regardless, they're kind, so I like them.

I've been single for almost 2 years now. I haven't had sex in a year. I've barely even flirted. Idk what's going on with me.

I got my teaching license, finally. Now, I just have to start the process of hunting for a new job outside of the states. But: do I wait another year? Or do I go buckwild trying to get a new gig for the winter, throwing it all over to luck? We'll see what happens, I guess.

I'm staying on top of my depression. I'm doing great for someone who isn't going to therapy. I'd love to go to therapy, but I don't have insurance and I really can't throw money around like that right now. Besides, all of my problems are caused by me being stuck here. If I can get out, everything else will fall into place.

The first paragraph of Moby Dick comes to mind:

Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people’s hats off—then, I account it high time tozz get to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball.

I've been hanging out with my brothers more lately, which is such a relief. There are few people in the world that I feel as comfortable around as them.

My sole blood brother, Todd, is apollonian in the way that he deals with life and solves problems. Logic is his realm, he understands music on the theoretic level, he calculates prices and costs, and reads between the lines of the news. He forms his own educated opinions about things, and researches the most efficient way in all things: fitness, nutrition, electronics, whatever. He's shorter than me but built, eats well, takes pride in his appearance without being reckless with his spending, and can pretty much wrap his mind around any problem that comes his way.

My brother Cody used to be my stepbrother, but our parents divorced something like 9 years ago. Todd and I have both told him that we think of him as our brother for life, and we treat each other that way. Cody is much more dionysian in the way he lives. He's a gifted guitarist, quick to laugh, and eager to like and be liked by others. He's got some pretty rough ADHD, but takes meds for it and has calmed down and learned focus. His role in bands growing up meant that his past is full of beautiful women, douchey bandmates, and alcoholism. He's since cleaned up and gotten sober, and I'm so proud of him for doing that. He's always upbeat. He's full of joy.

I'm the oldest by around 3 years. Todd and Cody are within a month of each other in age. They both live with intelligent, good, kind, beautiful women in nice, well-decorated houses. They are responsible pet owners. They make time for their hobbies, each other, and rewarding social lives.

I have spent the past 10 years alone pursuing adventure. I have stood at the foot of Mt. Everest, practiced meditation in a Buddhist monastery for a month, and performed live in a Shanghai funk band for warehouses full of people. I have taught children how to read from scratch. I backpacked through East Europe. I smoked hookah beneath the seagulls of Istanbul, in the shadow of the Blue Mosque. I've walked through castles and bamboo groves. I've fed monkeys and stumbled upon a shinto cemetery full of fox statues. I drove around Iceland, and done yoga in rainy season in India.

But the whole time, I have felt so empty because I've been so incredibly alone.

I have defined myself based on what I've done. They've defined themselves based on who they are.

I am just a tumbleweed.

the rain taps against the tin roof of this cabin. In the next room, I can hear Bossman the bulldog snoring. He's flopped over on his bed, a large cushion in the hallway. a fly buzzes wildly around my ceiling fan. it pings against the glass bells of the light fixture.

my room smells like weed and sandalwood. smoke ribbons up from the incense holder. the dresser is covered in ash. the incense sits at the base of a wooden box, on which stands my small collection of idols. they're gods I collected from my travels abroad. They're some of the only tangible reminders that I have been away from here. When I climb out of bed in the morning I look at them and think of what they stand for.

There's a Chinese Buddha, sitting in the lotus position, metal, a lotus blooming behind his meditating face. Serenity, Peace, Balance, Spaciousness.

Bodhidharma in dark wood sits hunched in a cross-legged position. He frowns stubbornly. Resilience. Discipline.

I have a two-faced Janus carved from rock, god of beginnings and endings and doorways.

There's a crude Thor made of wood, gripping his hammer. Action. Toughness.

A brass Ganesha with four arms sits. Heavy lidded, one of his arms bids you to stop, another offers a bowl. He's the god of obstacles, and the placement and removal thereof. Teaching and learning.

Brahma with his many arms and 5 faces creates.

Guanyin, Goddess of the Heart Sutra, stands with her dress blown in the wind. She's carved of wood. Form is emptiness, emptiness is form.

There's a crude wooden Morana, slavic goddess of winter and death, ll curvy and seductive but faceless, standing rigid. When I look at her, I am reminded that I will die.

Last, largest, and in the middle of its box, Yama. The great god of dharma, samsara, he who turns the wheel of death and rebirth, god of cycles. everything moves in circles.

I've moved back home after 10 years abroad. In so many ways, everything's changed. In so many ways, everything's so different. What is at the core of me? what do I have in common with the boy who lived on this street 20 years ago?

BUDDHA: just focus on the here and now.
GANESHA: it's okay. you can coast. You've been through so much.
GUANYIN: just accept the time and space. Gather yourself and be ready for whatever's next.
YAMA: because it won't always be like this. more will come. It always does.
THOR: and then you can take action. But you'll be ready.
BODHIDHARMA: you are the work you choose to do.
MORANA: every day is a gift.
JANUS: a new beginning.
BRAHMA: so what do you choose to do?

Life has changed so fucking much since I last posted.

I had to leave Poland. For some reason, my working visa didn't go through, so I couldn't legally work. I had jobs lined up that wanted to hire me, and they couldn't. The company that was supposed to get my work visa said that there was a limit to foreign work visas, and they didn't know when mine would go through. Frustrated, not really knowing what to do, I left.

My grandmother had broken her knee and needed help, and my grandfather's dementia had gotten worse over the summer, and my poor uncle was taking care of them all on his own. I flew home and stayed with my uncle, taking care of them. On my second day back, my grandfather held me at gunpoint because he thought I was a home invader.

The gun wasn't loaded. <y uncle had cleaned out the house of ammo 5 days before. Of course, I didn't know that, and he didn't know that. We ended up wrestling over it. Well, I tried to wrestle it out of his hands, while he punched me in the face. My uncle pulled him off of me, and they ended up fighting in the floor.

Grandma called the cops and they took him away to a geriatric psych ward. As we sifted through his stuff, looking for extra changes of clothes for him, we kept finding loaded guns that my uncle had missed. It was like a somalian easter egg hunt.

Then I took over grandma duty while unc fought the insurance companies. they kept trying to send grandpa home, despite the fact that he's dangerous. "we can't throw away every pair of scissors and steak knife in the house," he'd tell them. "He's liable to try to kill us in our sleep." I think that might be taken care of now.

I came to America in September, and when I'm not hangin' with grandma and unc, I'm smoking, hitting the gym, writing my novel, hiking, or working on my teaching certification. That's been a long and stupid process. I aced all of my exams easily enough, but fuck the bureaucracy of this process is slowwwwww. They told me they can't even start filing my paperwork until January.

I was really hoping to be gone by then but whatever. I really don't know what I'm doing right now, life wise.

Thankfully, I have cash saved up. I have a great support system. It's nice being around family, especially my grandmother, my uncle, and my brothers. Being in nature is healing me. I can feel it recalibrating my mind. I've been through a lot, what with the death of my student, and the deaths this year.

Towards the end of October, I found myself crying sometimes. Nothing would set me off, really. Not much, anyway. My grandmother would tell me that I'm a good person, or that I prove that I love her every day. Or someone would tell me that I'm a good person. Or that they missed me, or that they looked forward to hanging out with me, or the dog would lay its head on my lap, or I'd get a message from a friend in Shanghai saying they missed me, and I'd cry, because I finally believe them, and I'd realize it's been years since I believed that I'm decent. So I'd cry, but it wasn't bad. It was healing. I could feel myself processing everything.

While my family is wonderful, and my friends are wonderful, I live about an hour away from most of my friends. My city, Charleston, is kind of a heroin hell hole, and nothing is happening here. It's conservative, and to overhear English here is to be constantly incredulous at what I'm hearing. There aren't good opportunities here for an educator. I know I have to leave eventually, and the sooner the better honestly, but obviously I'm kind of yoked by my certification date.

I miss love and being in love, but there are no prospects here. Everyone has giant red flags or is married. I've been hit on by so many married women. So many women have hinted that they'd fuck me. I'm not here to enable you, damnit. work shit out with your goddamn spouse.

so, I just hit the gym. it's basically they only thing I do. i feel stuck, but i'm healing. i'm trying to keep that in mind.

Cat Pee

I used to work at this after-school center in a low-income housing project called Marcum Terrace. We fed the kids out there when they got home from school-- elementary kids, mostly.

I worked in the kitchen, making them their bagel pizzas and mixed fruit or whatever, knowing a lot of these kids weren't going to get dinner that evening. The neighborhood was rough, but we made that center as safe as humanly possible, and kids loved coming to see us.

I came to work early to get everything ready for the after-school rush. We'd preheat the oven, cook stuff and pre-make a bunch of plates as the kids started coming in off the busses. We'd chat and joke with the kids, complimenting them on their new backpacks or braids, and sling paper plates. After the rush, I'd go out into the dining/activity area to help them with homework, play board games, chat, and keep the peace.

I poured a lot of fruit cups before work back then, and at the end, when there was all that extra juice at the bottom of the Sam's Club tub, I'd funnel it into a 2 liter and drink it sometimes on break. My favorite was pineapple juice, which was especially refreshing in those summer months on the job. I kept the unlabeled bottle in the fridge.

A lot of kids skipped school though, so we always had a gaggle of kids crowding in, watching us set up and eat. We weren't supposed to let them in until we officially opened, but Jessica, my boss, was a saint, and understood that as long as a kid was in that center, they were safe. One day a couple kids came in early to watch us cook, and as I was waiting for something to come out of the oven, I went to pour myself a refreshing cup of juice.

"Ewwww," said the kids, watching me.

"What?"

"What are you DRINKING-uh!" Kids liked to emphasize with that extra syllable on the end.

"Oh this?" I said, holding the bottle up.

"EW," said the kids.

"This is just… cat pee."

"EWWWWWWWWWWWW"

From here, I went on a long explanation about how cat pee is delicious, that its best when it's nice and cold, how, if you shake it up, it gets nice and foamy, and how chasing down local alley cats with a funnel is difficult but sooo rewarding in the end. Jessica could barely contain herself from laughing, and busied herself in the freezer. I ended my speech by offering the kids some cat pee, to which they ran away, giggling and screaming.

This quickly became a ritual. Kids would come in every day before work, in bigger and bigger groups, to ask me about my cat pee. They were as curious as they were disgusted, and the initated took great delight in watching newcomers faces as they learned the horrible truth:

“Mr. Morgan drinks cat pee,” one kid would say out loud to the group as a whole.

“Nuh-huh,” said the newcomers.

I’d reach into the fridge and pull out my 2-liter, which now had a hilarious label in curlicue cursive

Mr. Morgan’s Delicious Cat Pee

(I had asked one of the art students who worked with me to make a label for me. They eagerly acquiesced.)

“What’s it say?” one of the little kids said.

“It says ‘Mr. Morgan’s Delicious Cat Pee’.”

“EWWWWWWWUH”

“Do any of ya’ll want a nice refreshing cup of Mr. Morgan’s delicious cat pee?”

Now, in all my years working with kids, I have avoided playing favorites, but I have had them. Back then, my favorite was this boy named Deonte. We had the same sense of humor. He was clever and interested in the wider world but acted ignorant to hide his intelligence from his peers. We played Othello every day. Hanging out with Deonte was something I greatly looked forward to. In fact, if anything had happened to Deonte’s family while I knew him, I would have adopted him within a heartbeat.

So I was not surprised-- I was teary with paternal pride-- when Deonte was the only kid after many weeks to take me up on my offer.

“You know Mr. Morgan,” he said, looking me dead in the eye, “some of that cold cat pee sounds really good right now.”

So, I poured him a cup, and I poured myself a cup, and we toasted. To Deonte, it was a simple toast among comrades. To me, it was a toast goodbye to my ruse. It was over. A child would realize this was pineapple juice and tell everyone.

So we toasted and drank, and I was shot through with pride for the second time in a minute when Deonte said, “Dag Mr. Morgan, that is some DELICIOUS cat pee. Can I have another?”

All the children ran away, and from then on, Deonte and I would drink cat pee before work together in front of a crowd of children.

AHHHHHHHHH

I move countries on Tuesday night. I'm going from Shanghai, China to Krakow, Poland. Jesus it's hard to leave. Countries hate it when you move around.

I'm honestly keeping up with every duty that I have, but christ there's SO MUCH TO DO. covid test, bank accounts, phone shit, book lodgings for the first 2 weeks or whatever in poland-- It doesn't help that my bank back home keeps flagging everything I do as fraud and boxing me out of my card usage-- find a new place to live, get a job, figure out how to do everything all over again, start over from scratch, own nothing except what I'm wearing an a backpack or whatever.

Also saying goodbye to everyone is hard. Ashleigh, my neighbor, cried last night. I'm going to write her a letter on the inside cover of a book I'm leaving her. She held me up through the death of my student, and I held her as she cried a few times this year. I'm going to miss the fuck out of her. That wasn't even the last time I saw her! I'm visiting her today at our regular hookah spot for a final goodbye after my covid test.

Deal's one of my best friends in this hemisphere. We were in the band, we play videogames together, and I've invited him to speak at these drunken PPT night things that I throw.

i want to meet someone and fall in a GOOD love when i move
i want to make a new social circle
i want to be in a real life community
i want to look forward to work again
i want to write all winter long
i want to join a yoga class

i have so many hopes riding on this move and god damnit i need a good life-changing win.

Went out last night with Anita, Deal, and Tom. They're some of my greatest friends here, and some of my best friends in the world.

Anita is the vibrant child of West African immigrants, born in Chicago, and she went to school in the UK. She speaks with a slight accent and calls absolutely everybody baby. She's got a head full of thick braids. Her fashion sense is made for the stage, and she's got a laugh and smile big enough to fill a stadium.

She seems to know everyone in town from her side gig spinning brit-pop, motown, funk, and soul. She rules Spectres-- the late-night counterculture bar-- like the queen of the underworld. The clientele of her favorite bar is comprised of goths, neon punks, trans Asians, and foreigners who have seen some shit. It's a smoky, crusty place, a sea of dyed hair, jaded eyes, and tattoos, and in its heyday, it was a place where people did uppers off of urinals. It's a vampire den, and Anita rules them.

Deal's dad is a black actor from NYC and his mom is a white German immigrant. Deal stands tall and his trademark flattop sits on his head like an Egyptian headdress. He favors loud, colorful African print shirts, and he wears them well. He's a man of charisma, a social chameleon, and he's able to talk effortlessly with nerds, drug festival types, Europeans and expats of all walk of life. It's no wonder that women tend to find him irresistible, but while he doesn't like being tied down, he always manages to remain on friendly terms with them after because Deal's a feminist.

My favorite thing about Deal is his humor. He's a goofy motherfucker with a rubbery face-- like what if a handsome Will Smith type had the facial elasticity and goofiness of Jim Carrey. He sputters, he cackles, he screams when he laughs. He bends like a palm tree in the wind when a joke catches him off guard. He nods in approval and unabashedly adores corny dad jokes. He cackles and falls over at lewd sexual jokes. Especially when blurted. Especially when something that doesn't need to be sexualized is done so suddenly. I called him a bukkake jockey the other day and he died. But the thing that makes him laugh the absolute most-- something we both cherish-- is when crude or low humor is mixed with something cerebral, cultured, educated, and elegant.

Tom's a newer friend-- I only got to know him this year through Deal. He's an Irish guy from Cork-- turf-turnin' country-- and he's a charmer who is always smiling and down for whatever's happening. He laughs easily and hard. He's quick to join in on any inside joke. He says everything with a wink and a grin, and he reaches into his pocket to pass you his secret flask in social situations when the prices seem high. He wants everyone to be safe, comfortable, and having fun. I really value people like that.

I've been hanging a lot with all three of these because of the band, but this summer, I've been seeing them for social outings more frequently. We saw an rnb cover band last night and got the party started by singing the choruses and dancing like fools. I had a fucking blast.

The night ended with me riding on the back of Anita's scooter through the dark and empty streets of downtown Shanghai. This city, despite the sheer numbers of its population-- one of the largest megopolises in the world-- sleeps at night. I love these moments. I love its surreality. I love the people I have met here. I'm going to miss it.

I write to you from my friend Torey's apartment. Last couple months in Shanghai. The melancholy I feel is overwhelming sometimes.

Torey's got a real apartment in town, and she's letting me crash at the school provided one. The view from her window is the same as my old one, just 3 stories down. Needless to say, my lifestyle hasn't changed much.

I spend my days this summer waking up early, reading, writing, seeing people, hanging out. I feel these urges to go out, meet new people, spend money. But then again, I know that here in a couple months, I'll be starting from scratch. It's probably best if I didn't go somewhere every fucking day.

My reading digest has been weird. THE ASTRAL PLANE: IT'S SCENERY, INHABITANTS, AND PHENOMENA was an occult text from the late 1800s I was working through there for awhile. It's a theosophical work about what you see/do when you engage in astral projection. I was using it for research for this novel i've been working on, but I think it's going to be most useful for DnD reasons.

I'm also reading DON'T SLEEP, THERE ARE SNAKES, which is about this Amazonian tribe and their weird culture. Love it. They kind of break all the rules of anthropology and linguistics. It's written by a Christian missionary who gave up his faith, so that's kind of the B plot. I'm trying to finish it before I leave this country so I don't have to take it with me.

I've been bingeing Netflix shows when I'm not going out and doing stuff. Mostly all the good cult/murder/heist stuff. You know, the yoozh.

Every day I water Torey's house plants and work through my shit, giving or throwing my stuff away. I'm trying to whittle down my worldly possessions but it's slow going. I'm working through clothes, mostly-- what has holes in it, what do I not want anymore, what have I always hated? I still have a suitcase full of stuff my most beloved ex gave me. Love notes and drawings she left me. She ghosted me (and everyone else she knew) 5 years ago and I have a hard time letting go. That shit fucks with your sense of reality. She has no internet presence. None. I really can't describe how empty she continues to make me feel.

Outside of that, the funk band's doing great. We have a pretty large following, and the shows we've been playing have been HUGE. I really can't believe how successful we are. I'd add a pic of me in my Funk Wizard attire but I have no idea how to do that.

Current Mood: melancholy

I just bought my ticket to Krakow. I move on August 24th. Eek.

I'm excited and eager and nervous and anxious and exhausted by the thought of starting from scratch again. No family, no friends, no contacts. It'll be back to doing the weekly legwork of using meetup.com and couchsurfing.com to find accessible social groups, and then figuring out who has social capital in each group, and then buddying up with them, and then hosting my own shit to try to build my own cliques.

Ugh and then there's relearning the basics-- how do i pay my bills? how do I buy groceries? how do I take the bus? What apps does everyone use?

I hope that I meet someone there. Some cute, quirky nerd who I can laugh with, and who teaches me things.

The funk band has been going really well. The school year is winding down. I'm signed on to move to Poland. Not much has really changed, except I'm feeling less and less unstable. However, my responsibilities are sloughing off as school gets quieter. Next week, my life will just be exams-- proctoring, grading, submitting. On Monday the band records three of our best songs.

I'm getting rid of all my stuff. There's my bright yellow arm chair, which will go to Ashleigh, who claimed it the first time she ever sat on it. My green couch will be inherited by the guy who moves in. It's his problem now. I have 2 lamps and a coat rack, which I think he'll take too. I have this cool wine holder that has a chest in the top, which has been holding my DND books and whiskey all year. That should be easy to get rid of. I already gave my dryer to Dave. Dryers are a rarity in Asia, and I'm glad to help him out.

My wall decorations were bought with the understanding that I'd throw them away one day. There's an 1800s rustic map of the world, a map of fushi-inarii shrine, and a map of Shanghai. I've also decorated my walls with post-cards and ticket stubs from my time here. It will be throwing away a lot of little cheap mementos.

I've already given away most of my books-- books which I've inherited from people who have left. I got books from brian, and miller, and paul hughes, and hodachok, and a bunch of nameless individuals who have left them downstairs on the take-it-leave-it bureau. I'm keeping a handful if I can: The Poetic Edda, which I really want to read. There's Ship of Theseus, a gift and the thing I'm currently reading. I'll probably finish it over the summer. There's my yearbooks, Hero of One Thousand Faces, my Rothfuss, Donna Tartt, and a few comics by Eric Powell that are dear to me.

I'll give away the birdwatching guide to campus, of course. A student made it a few years ago as a senior project. It's so cool. And of course, my DND books will go to the DND people.

Most of my clothes will be given away. To be honest, I hate most of my wardrobe. I don't know why I do this-- accumulate clothes that I always hate. I didn't love them when I got them. I just needed something that would cover my nudity. I don't care much for fashion, obviously.

I have a collection of idols that I'll try to take with me. Honestly, that's the only thing I really care to keep, aside from books. I would have taken them home this year for safekeeping, but corona and all. I have a Buddha of course, a Brahma from Pattaya in Thailand, which is one of the only places that worship the 5 faced god. I have a Bodhidharma (whose large, stern form is my largest idol, weirdly enough). I have a 2 faced Janus that I got from Cappadocia, Turkey. There's a Ganesha that I adore. I got him here, and first because he's the patron god of teachers, but I've been to India so it counts. I have a slavic Morana, goddess of winter and death. There's an old Thor idol. Aside from that, I have other idols and charms-- a Tibetan Garuda, Chinese Lions, a dragon turtle. I gifted my mother the Kali I bought from Dharamsala.

I've moved so much, and so many of the times that I have moved have been countries. It's always strange to pack up your life, and it's hard not to think about the mindstate you were when you moved in. I'll save that post for another time.

A teacher at school asked me if i could do a poem for the kids. i dug up this old thing. figured i'd post it here for posterity.

............................................

i once met the angel who paints sunsets

outside a diner. she kissed her cig with a lighter, toking twisting trains of smoke and sipping coffee, black as bibles.

her tired face, hardened from the sun's stare, carried a ton of spare weight.

"what's the matter?" i asked her.

she sucked a mucky breath down the barrel of the cigarette tucked between her two filmy fingers and frowned. She spit, shuff-led her feet, taking her disgust out on the dusty street. "are you familiar with my art?"

"yes," I said with no hesitation. I had often gazed in amazement at the work emblazoned on the heavens.

"Okay, then." Her statement was not a question. it was an unpleasant accusation. "How many sunsets have you watched in entirety. Don't lie to me."

i reckoned awhile while she stood there impatiently. In all the years of life that had transpired,

i'd admired fewer than 50 sunsets entirely.

"How old are you?" she inquired.

"24," for this was many years before.

her eyes glassed as she tasked herself with the mental math, and she swore, "Damn, So basically you've been around for 8,760 days, give or take, and have seen fewer than 50 sunsets all the way?

my

career

is

a

waste."

she flicked her cig, withdrew another stick, lit it with fire from her fingertips, and split.

....................................................

I once met the angel who paints the night. he was hiding under the bright, sweeping body of his art, weeping a twinkling tear for every quiet star that

d
r
i
p
p
e
d

down his canvas.

i couldn't stand it. "angel," i asked, "why are you crying?"

"You wouldn't understand," he whispered in a voice like scripture. "Have you seen the famous angel who paints the sunset on high? i idolize her for the
pain and regret she ~~reflects~~ on dyed light in the skies...

Meanwhile, I paint the night," he sighed "stark darkness,"

"but the stars," I started, but he'd already lost heart.

"i'm just a reject. why do I try."

and depressed, he wept, head hung, shoulders slung. discussion done, he left.

........................................................................

I once met the angel who paints the sunrise.
chuckling, smiling, he paints with delight with no brush-- in smooth smears that gush through his fingers and lush colors in swirls that cover his collar, his cuffs, and his curls
Impressed by his m i r t h and overt vigor for life, I asked him for whom he paints.

He giggled and chortled before his reply,

"i paint for fun."

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probably a metaphor

pseudointellectual bullshit, definitely

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