Monday June 28th 2010

The overcast fluid skies and thick air are stagnant in the early evening heat. Bodies drone onward towards home, their bags and shoes pounding with workday exhaustion. Silent murky steps hear the quiet subway cars beneath. Sitting with my feet clean and being painted, I look out onto the scene, gladly resting.

A phone call from a loved one interrupts the peace and my heart races. A happy conversation with my man is private among the women with the colors who can only hear my words. His voice is deep and comes from the chest. It is strong and suits his big build and scruffy beard. I can imagine his nuzzle on my chest, his reverberating mmm’s against my skin, and his manly hands grasping my slender waist.

I walk home in the stillness of Manhattan summer. Is this the voice I will call home to everyday to discuss what we’ll have for dinner?

The Meaning of Words

“Letters are just pieces of paper … Burn them, and what stays in your heart will stay; keep them, and what vanishes will vanish.”
-Haruki Murakami, Norwegian Wood

I write to create a sense of permanence. I want my thoughts to be ingrained somewhere forever. My mind is too transient to contain every ounce of profundity that passes through; if I really want to capture something worth remembering, I have to set it down on paper, on my keyboard.
But what of this thought, this philosophy, that a shared piece of verbal communication can just vanish away? Even words can die, it seems. Words are as mortal and corporeal as our bodies.
So what is it then that remains with us? Is it mere memory? Is it truly that abstraction that picks and pokes at us once something goes away?
This notion is almost a little haunting: to truly give something its value for pleasure, it must be impermanent. It must be able to vanish away, for it is only meant to be enjoyed in that singular moment it actively exists. Is it more beautiful this way, or is it more tragic? It’s almost like an unrequited love, perhaps the most romantic kind out there because it can never be fulfilled, and thus it holds a greater longevity. What is it about something’s inability to last forever that makes us desire it more?
My heart is big; I want it to cradle all the joys and sorrows of the world I inhabit. I have constructed it to be capable of such a daunting task. I want my words, my thoughts, my feelings to stay in my heart forever, with every other external thing I tuck away inside it. I don’t ever want to burn my words away. My heart should only burn to fuel itself, keep its engine running and help it chug along its path to collect and carry every happiness and every burden, every trial and every jest.
I know that when I die, it’s inevitable that these things shall pass. But while I’m alive, these things should stay alive. Every miniscule thing has a history, a history that lives and breathes in memory. If there is an existence for everything in some way, why must it be forced to vanish? Thus, my words can experience the same. Even if they burn away with my remains, I’d like to think that all these things my heart contains will be packed away into a knapsack for my soul, something my soul will forever carry with it. I want to be impermanent; I want my words to stay.

11:50

Sometimes late at night I can't sleep. I'm not sure if it's anxiety or what. I just can't sleep. I stumbled across this blog and I forgot how much I miss our class, and I miss having something to look forward to every other day. Working is not the same, having to do the same boring thing everyday for nine hours is not the same as sharing good feelings with good people. I miss every one. I have a lot of down time during work, so today I decided to start writing a book. I don't know what it's going to be about, or how I would ever get it published, but I'm going to write, and I will not stop until it's finished. I promise. I miss everyone and I hope you're well. xoxo -Laura

BananaMan

This past Monday morning, while waiting in the lobby of my summer internship office building, I stood biting the straw of my large iced-coffee with milk (no sugar) and waited for the elevator to take me the 36th Floor.

Bing!

The number 36 lit up and I started packing away my ipod. Someone came into the elevator. As I raised my head from feet up, I noticed first: large legs in khaki colored suit pants, then his left hand holding three bananas. Three. I continued moving my eyes upwards and saw that he had a round middle and balding head. Thin-rimmed glasses. My mind started wandering as I continued chewing my straw.

"Three bananas...how many bananas does one really need throughout the day?"

Scenarios ran through my head.

#1. My buddy, here, just really loves bananas. He eats one for breakfast, one with lunch, and then one later as a snack.

#2. Buddy has two other pals in his office and all three are potassium deficient.

#3. He works in a test kitchen working on recipes and they needed extra bananas?

#4. Buddy is an avant-garde sculptor, who carves animals out of fruit. Par Example: http://i176.photobucket.com/albums/w199/dugvince/untitled8.jpg

#5. He's an Ad man, like in MadMen, and his Creative Team is working on a Dole Campaign.

#6. Buddy has OCD and it's a ritual of his to buy three of the same kind of fruit every morning.

#7. He likes to play jokes on people and leave the peels around the office, but the office is fully carpeted.

#8. Buddy works for a lab that does testing on monkeys and apes, so he was just buying them breakfast.

#9. He was raised in the tropics and likes to surround himself with objects from back home. He also has a mosquito net around his desk.

Buddy got off before me on the 33rd floor.

#10. I guess he just really likes the number 3.