technology and poetry all rolled into one
I have renamed my iPod a "Fucking Piece of Trash" because I've wasted the
entire morning trying to do something so simple as transfer music onto it.
The manual said to follow the onscreen instructions. However, as I don't have
USB 2.0, there
were no instructions, because it didn't register the
damned thing as being on in the first place. I hate it and I hope its eternal
soul is damned into hell. Fucking technology.
And here I am, supposed to be heading off to school so I could get there a
little early, but NO, I'm waiting for the fucking thing to update.
Fucking technology.
Later, 9:30 PM
Slightly more cheerful after an energetic walk to school and a successful
meeting with my flirty student, who didn't flirt with me, and then forgot his
own name (he recently changed it). I listened to Etta James and Guster on the
damned piece of trash and all was well. Now iTunes is doing unmentionable
things to my computer, but I'll just let it get it on.
I'm about five pages back from being finished volume five of my handwritten
"journal." I haven't written so much in this one, only about every two weeks
or so, so it has taken a while for it to be completed. I guess I don't have a
lot of time/creative energy anymore that I need to use up.
Anyway, as happens every time I near the end of a volume, I review my
collection to see which volume I will choose next. It's a tough choice,
because it's a book I will haul all over the continent for the next year or
so, so I have to make sure it will suit me for that entire length of time. I
still haven't decided.
And, as also happens as I reach the end of the volume, I take a skim through
the previous volumes and see how the years have turned out and how drastically
I've changed since 2000 (when I started writing in a book). It's always
entertaining to read about my teen angst over some high school boy who was out
of my league or a high school project I never thought I could finish. PAH! I
knew NOTHING.
And, I've been reading about the first few weeks of my dalliance with the Pie,
and how freaked out I was about the suddenness of the attraction and how angry I was at a certain other person who
was involved. And everything. And that wasn't too long ago.
And, I've been reading my old poetry. Yes, I used to fancy myself a
wordsmith. I still toy with verses every once in a while, but I don't really
have any special skills with them. I know the technicalities and I have a
vocabulary, but it's POETRY. So very gay.
Anyway, I ran into something I wrote on 25 April 2002, at the tender age of
twenty years. It's not bad. It's not good, but it's not bad. So I shall
subject you to it, as it's not as depressing or silly as some other things I
have lying around. Here it is:
"After the tone"
I never got the message
when you called to say you cared.
For an ugly twist of freakish fate,
I thought you were just scared.
If only I'd've read it,
on the table in the hall,
the tiny scrap of paper that
said you loved me after all.
I'd've kept it close forever
as I moved on through my life;
but instead of being enemies,
I'd be your loving wife.
I'd've told you that I loved you
every day and every night,
and when our lives were over,
I'd've died, holding you tight.
But I never got the message
when you called to say you cared,
for an ugly twist of freakish fate
I thought you were just scared.
I wonder now what happened,
what kept me from finding you:
was it jealousy, or forgetfulness,
or the winter wind that blew? [yes, I know that's rhyme searching, but it
makes sense if you think of a piece of paper blowing away]
For that tiny scrap of paper
on which you'd poured out your heart
wasn't there, upon the table,
not in whole, and not in part.
So I never got your message,
when you called to say you cared.
For an ugly twist of freakish fate,
I thought you were just scared.
No, I never got your message.
I never heard your call,
and I doubt you ever wrote down [I know, I know, HE'D be leaving the message.
someone else would write it down -- poetic license, folks]
that you loved me, after all.
I am sending you a message,
just to say that I still care,
even if by twisted fate your note
was never even there.
I just called to leave a message,
just to say that
I love you,
and I hope I'll get a message
saying that you love me, too.
If I never get an answer,
if I never hear your call,
then I'll know you never loved me,
never loved me, after all.
So now I cross my fingers,
I close my eyes and start to pray,
as the phone rings - the machine is on
- and I heard you start to say:
"You know, I got your message.
I never knew you really cared.
If I had known, I'd've told you,
but inside I was just scared.
I hope we can start over,
and I know that we can try,
but I'm just glad that you called me,
though I never will know why.
See, some years ago, I called you,
on my sleeve my open heart.
I never left a message.
I had torn it all apart."
As you hang up, I am happy.
We can make a brand new start.
Though you never left a message,
I had read you in my heart.
Yep, that's it. Cheesy, wouldn't you say? I shoulda saved it for Valentine's
Day, but I bet you five bucks I can find something far more entertaining for
then. Stay tuned.
Posted by Ally at February 8, 2006 01:10 PM