#1
(Sorry about the pun.)

Version no.2:

I'm apt to feel in such a way that cuts the breath--sharp intakes, as though slightly asthmatic. Though it's just a blindsided moment, hit hard by some great and terrible force created when two souls collide after missing for so many times.
I've had a habit of crashing into people's lives like a sudden summer storm, a kind of relief from simmering days. I leave just as quickly, and in my wake: torn up trees and destroyed remnants of a beautiful thing.
As a child, I had a blue shoebox full of "remnants of beautiful things." Sparkling white pebble from Miss Nancy's garden, raw sienna maple leaf, cicada shell. Collected from years of crouching in the dirt, pulling up nightcrawlers.
Somebody lost to me now once said that looking down when you walk is to look backward, into the past. Measuring each step against another, to never loose footing. But as a small child, the ground feels so close, as everything else towers above you. I shoe-gazed for years before I gained the spine to look up at the vast expanse stretching above me. It is the choice between viewing that distant, overwhelming beauty, that moment when the earth speaks of its immeasurable soul, or to look down and wrap my hands around that palpable life.
What an escape the purity of those deepening greens after a heavy rain can be from the pretense of the big cities. Surviving amongst things that speak and judge scares me. I wish I could just touch foreheads with another and the understanding would be there, I've stumbled through so many words, choked out and untrue. Love and fear, love and fear, love and fear. I can cry so easily because the world is not always as beautiful as the golden hour of dusk. I can cry because people are not always as beautiful as when they were small children, endlessly excited to meet every single day, every single person, every single moment in those safe and precious times, like discovering a robin's egg nest and it was a color you'd never ever seen before. I'm afraid that someday the world will stop surprising me in those beautiful ways.


Version no.1:

Often times, I'm apt to feel in such a way that cuts the breath. sharp intakes, as if slightly asthmatic and I am much too affected by my environment. I never look at my feet when I walk, ever, my eyes search soley for a characteristic gesture of shades of the day. Somebody lost to me now once said that looking down when you walk is to look backward, into the past. Measuring each step against another, to never loose footing. I've always searched the heavens for colors of some kind of soul, some beauty that the earth is speaking--and I stumble so often. I love the lack of pretense out there outside the big cities, purity found in the deepening greens after a heavy rain, it leads me into wordless emotion. I've treasured visual memories, I cannot quote many things verbatim, but I could describe the way that the sky looked that time I ran out in the middle of dinner with my parents. Surviving amongst things that speak and judge scares me. I wish I could just touch foreheads with another and the understanding would be there, I've stumbled through so many words, choked out and untrue. Love and fear, love and fear, love and fear. I can cry so easily because the world is not always as beautiful as the golden hour of dusk. I can cry because people are not always as beautiful as when they were small children, endlessly excited to meet every single day, every single person, every single moment in those safe and precious times, like discovering a robin's egg nest and it was a color you'd never ever seen before. I'm afraid that someday the world will stop surprising me in those beautiful ways.
art tumblr

If I'm not raw, I'm just a bit underdone.
Last edited by Svetlova at Apr 29, 2011,
#2
I absolutely love Thoreau, but I don't see it here so much as I thought I would. This is pretty and hopeful and passionate though, this big block of emotion you have here. It's very human. At times, though, there is a little too much happening too fast. You never really stop to focus on one thing, it's almost like you are listing all of these things one after the other after the other and it's kind of an overload and before you know it you're halfway through without really having any grasp of what's been said because it's so piecemeal. There needs to be focus. Maybe you were trying to make this ultra short but had too many things to say, or maybe it just came out like that.
Today I feel electric grey
I hope tomorrow, neon black
#3
Whoever said "looking down when you walk is to look backward, into the past" is brilliant. Seriously, that's the kind of thing I'll remember every time I catch myself shoegazing... Overall this was written incredibly well and was a pleasure to read, but I have to agree with Ganoosh on the lack of direction. The sentiment near the end was much clearer than the earlier parts of the piece, it just felt like you breezed over things before arriving on that theme. I feel like it would be easier to tie this together if you'd gone with a more traditional stanza construction, as that would at least allow the reader to make a distinction between ideas. That's more of a stylistic criticism than anything, though, and the strength of the writing in this makes it a stellar piece.

Last.fm


"Art is always and everywhere the secret confession, and at the same time the immortal movement of its time."


#4
I agree with both of you, upon reading this again. Basically, this came out of semi-stream-of-consciousness writing and I didn't really go back and edit it too thoroughly before posting it. I actually had started writing it with the intention of reflecting a bit on my perception of self, meant to inspire a self-portrait I've gotta do for a painting class. So I suppose it's a bit of a confessional prose more than anything else.

I'm not so sure about formatting it into a poem, I like the idea of it reading like a monologue, but I do agree that I jump around a bit without dwelling too long on any one idea. I'll flesh it out and edit it probably tonight or tomorrow, so check back if you're interested.
art tumblr

If I'm not raw, I'm just a bit underdone.
#5
You have a way with diction that is so elegant without being posey in that jejune way stream-of-consciousness poetry often can be. It reminds me a little of Cormac Mccarthy, in the sense that there is simplistic syntax expressing something profound and beautiful, and that something large is being distilled into something small. There is that feel here and I love it, and while I agree with the other comments that the focus is broad and blurry, the topic of the self is necessarily broad and never focused, so perhaps a slightly rambling spilling-out of ideas is appropriate? Maybe that aptly reflects the scattered, inconsistent and insecurely bound mass that the "self", on reflection, invariably is?

I'm afraid I cant really offer anything constructively negative beyond this. Beyond a little trimming and editing which is down too much to personal preference for me to comment on, I would personally consider this done. I loved it.


Also, is your signature from a song by Why?
Last edited by Cacophonaut at Apr 27, 2011,
#6
^Yes, yes it from Why? They're one of my top five favorite bands, and Yoni Wolf is a brilliant lyricist.


And to anyone else, I've edited this and thought I would include both versions because they both offer something a little different.

Oh! And I'll be giving crits when I have a chance out of class. So yeah. C4C, there's some incentive.
art tumblr

If I'm not raw, I'm just a bit underdone.