Solitude of the Sea
It's often strange how we write so late at night.
Perchance it be that during day time is lost so easily from sight.
That during times of quiet contemplation, we find the voice which cries in quiet desperation.
I believe that poetry is often a lost art these days. I am quite sad that I am unable to quote a single line from the likes of Tennyson, Shakesphere (none of the R&J stuff), or Whitman. There were these people who were able to take pure emotions and place them down into words. The sheer impossibility of such a feat astounds me, and yet here today I know that somewhere out in the billions of books are trillions of words, some of which are placed just so.
I have decided to embark upon a journery to memorize at least one decent poem this summer.
After taking up boxing for but a mere week, I've successfully managed to injure my wrist to the point where it hurts to put pants on. Of course, this is not to say that I have stopped going to boxing practice. This just means that I have now increased the usage of my left hand by about 500%. It's coming swimmingly, and I hope to be able to use my inferior right hand during this Saturday during a friendly sparring match. Dear God, I hope they do not overestimate my abilities . . .
Additionally, I managed to recieve my Wusthof cuterly set today. For a paltry $179.99 I have managed to acquire 4 stunning knives, 1 delightful set of shears, and a lovely Steeler. Included in the set was a block of wood in which to place my said knives. I know. You may be thinking to yourself "That's quite a large chunk of cash to spend on a set of kitchen knives Gee" and you would be indeed correct. Yet, these are no ordinary knives. Oh no. They are precision forged to form a single 3/4 tang piece of artwork. Unlike the usual knives (basically stamped sheet metals that are sharpened) these knives have a unique balance and sharpness that belies their dreary demeanor. These knives represent one of the few obsessions I cannot justify these days. That of cookery. Look well upon these, for I shall not have another day of victory for quite some time.
I've finished reading a book by the name of "The Incident of the Dog at Midnight" by Mark Haddon. This is by far, one of the least enjoyable books I've ever read. However, it's writing style is very similar to that of J.D. Salinger's in "Catcher in the Rye". The voice of the book seems to neither have a climax nor a denuemount. It just simply exists. I hate stories without any sort of resolution, but that's just the way I am. The writing style is similar to stream of consciousness writing which outlines the thought proccess of an autistic child living in England. A lot of "adult situations" surround our young protagonist, none of which he can fully comprehend. All in all, I give it 5 out of 5 for exterior packaging, and a mere 2 out of 5 for enjoyability.
I've been feeling very lonely these past days. It's not for lack of a significant other, nor for lack of friends. Rather, it is a very deep longing for understanding, and perhaps acceptance. I can't tell which. I assume it's a bit of both. I find myself very seperated from my roomates this summer. David is far too into wanting to exhibit his intellectual prowress in everything and anything. I can't even pretend to humor some of the things that come out of his mouth. It's an uneasy truce at best. Braden is rather preoccupied with his girlfriend and all that comes with it. In addition, I feel there's a lack of connection that goes much deeper than the conflict of availability. Rather, I feel there is a part of his soul which is missing and I find it very objectionable to be in his prescence.
Doesn't that sound silly? Yet, there it stands. I feel like I must be his guardian whenever I am in his prescence, since it seems he cannot take care of himself. I wonder if we all fall into some strange parental role when we least realize it. I pray it isn't so. We spend enough of our lives trying to get away from our parents as it is.
This leaves Michael, who, I must admit, I'm very curious about. His very accomodating demeanor also drives a very strange parental aspect in me, and yet I feel a strange peace that surrounds him despite all these very irritating situations that come up for him. Truely, if there is ever an eye in the storm of Windtree #307, he would be it.
I do not think I've been satisfied for a very long time. Not with life. Not with my relationships. Not with my accomplishments and my successes. Is it because I'm being too hard on myself? Setting the bar much much too high? Should I settle for what I have now and call it quits? Or rather is my unsatiated desires for deeper relationships, greater successes, and greater personal accountability where I need to be?
There's been far too many rhetoricals in this entry.
I bid thee adieu.
Perchance it be that during day time is lost so easily from sight.
That during times of quiet contemplation, we find the voice which cries in quiet desperation.
I believe that poetry is often a lost art these days. I am quite sad that I am unable to quote a single line from the likes of Tennyson, Shakesphere (none of the R&J stuff), or Whitman. There were these people who were able to take pure emotions and place them down into words. The sheer impossibility of such a feat astounds me, and yet here today I know that somewhere out in the billions of books are trillions of words, some of which are placed just so.
I have decided to embark upon a journery to memorize at least one decent poem this summer.
After taking up boxing for but a mere week, I've successfully managed to injure my wrist to the point where it hurts to put pants on. Of course, this is not to say that I have stopped going to boxing practice. This just means that I have now increased the usage of my left hand by about 500%. It's coming swimmingly, and I hope to be able to use my inferior right hand during this Saturday during a friendly sparring match. Dear God, I hope they do not overestimate my abilities . . .
Additionally, I managed to recieve my Wusthof cuterly set today. For a paltry $179.99 I have managed to acquire 4 stunning knives, 1 delightful set of shears, and a lovely Steeler. Included in the set was a block of wood in which to place my said knives. I know. You may be thinking to yourself "That's quite a large chunk of cash to spend on a set of kitchen knives Gee" and you would be indeed correct. Yet, these are no ordinary knives. Oh no. They are precision forged to form a single 3/4 tang piece of artwork. Unlike the usual knives (basically stamped sheet metals that are sharpened) these knives have a unique balance and sharpness that belies their dreary demeanor. These knives represent one of the few obsessions I cannot justify these days. That of cookery. Look well upon these, for I shall not have another day of victory for quite some time.
I've finished reading a book by the name of "The Incident of the Dog at Midnight" by Mark Haddon. This is by far, one of the least enjoyable books I've ever read. However, it's writing style is very similar to that of J.D. Salinger's in "Catcher in the Rye". The voice of the book seems to neither have a climax nor a denuemount. It just simply exists. I hate stories without any sort of resolution, but that's just the way I am. The writing style is similar to stream of consciousness writing which outlines the thought proccess of an autistic child living in England. A lot of "adult situations" surround our young protagonist, none of which he can fully comprehend. All in all, I give it 5 out of 5 for exterior packaging, and a mere 2 out of 5 for enjoyability.
I've been feeling very lonely these past days. It's not for lack of a significant other, nor for lack of friends. Rather, it is a very deep longing for understanding, and perhaps acceptance. I can't tell which. I assume it's a bit of both. I find myself very seperated from my roomates this summer. David is far too into wanting to exhibit his intellectual prowress in everything and anything. I can't even pretend to humor some of the things that come out of his mouth. It's an uneasy truce at best. Braden is rather preoccupied with his girlfriend and all that comes with it. In addition, I feel there's a lack of connection that goes much deeper than the conflict of availability. Rather, I feel there is a part of his soul which is missing and I find it very objectionable to be in his prescence.
Doesn't that sound silly? Yet, there it stands. I feel like I must be his guardian whenever I am in his prescence, since it seems he cannot take care of himself. I wonder if we all fall into some strange parental role when we least realize it. I pray it isn't so. We spend enough of our lives trying to get away from our parents as it is.
This leaves Michael, who, I must admit, I'm very curious about. His very accomodating demeanor also drives a very strange parental aspect in me, and yet I feel a strange peace that surrounds him despite all these very irritating situations that come up for him. Truely, if there is ever an eye in the storm of Windtree #307, he would be it.
I do not think I've been satisfied for a very long time. Not with life. Not with my relationships. Not with my accomplishments and my successes. Is it because I'm being too hard on myself? Setting the bar much much too high? Should I settle for what I have now and call it quits? Or rather is my unsatiated desires for deeper relationships, greater successes, and greater personal accountability where I need to be?
There's been far too many rhetoricals in this entry.
I bid thee adieu.