I’m for reckless abandon and spontaneous celebrations of nothing at all, like the twin flutes I kept in the trunk of my car in a box labeled Emergency Champagne Glasses!
Raise an unexpected glass to long, cold winters and sweet hot summers and the beautiful confusion of the times in between. To the unexpected drenching rain that leaves you soaking wet and smiling breathless;
Here’s to the soul‐expanding power of the universally optimistic simplicity of the beautiful.
See, things you hate, things you despise, multinational corporations and lies that politicians tell, injustices that make you mad as hell, that’s all well and good. And as far as writing poems goes, I guess you should. It just might be a poem that gets Mumia released, brings an end to terrorism or peace in the middle east.
But as far as what soothes me, what inspires and moves me, honesty behooves me to tell you your rage doesn’t move me. See, like the darkest of clouds my heart has a silver lining, which does not harken to the loudest whining, but beats and stirs and grows ever more when I learn of the things you’re actually for.
That’s why I’m for best friends, long drives, and smiles, nothing but the sound of thinking for miles. For the unconditional love of dogs: may we learn the lessons of their love by heart. For therapy when you need it, and poetry when you need it. And the wisdom to know the difference.
I’m for hard work, and homework, and chapter tests, and cumulative exams, and yearly science fairs, and pop quizzes when you least expect them just to keep everybody honest. For love and the fragile human heart, may it always heal stronger than it was before. For walks in the woods, and the for the woods themselves, by which I mean the trees. Definitely for the trees. Window seats, and locally brewed beer, and love letters written by hand with fountain pens: I’m for all of these.
For Galway Kinnell, and Rufus Wainright, and Mos Def, and the Indigo Girls, and getting closer to fine each and every day.
For the integrity it takes not to lightly suffer fools. For God, and faith, and prayers, but not in public schools.
I’m for evolution more than revolution unless you’re offering some kind of solution. Isn’t that how we got the Consitution?
For charm and charisma and style without being a self‐important prig. For chivalry and being a gentleman at the risk of being called a male chauvinist pig.
I’m for crushes not acted upon, for admiration from afar, for intense sessions of self love, especially if they make you a nicer person.
I’m for the courage it takes to volunteer, to say “yes,” “I believe in this,” and “I will.” For the bright side, the glass half full, the silver lining, and the optimists who consider darkness just a different kind of shining.
I’m for what can be achieved more than for what i would want in an ideal world. I’m for working every day to make the world a better place and not complaining about how it isn’t
So don’t waste my time and your curses on verses about what you are against, despise, and abhor. Tell me what inspires you, what fulfills and fires you, put your gaddamn pen to paper and tell me what you’re for!
This land like a mirror turns you inward And you become a forest in a furtive lake; The dark pines of your mind reach downward, You dream in the green of your time, Your memory is a row of sinking pines.
Explorer, you tell yourself, this is not what you came for Although it is good here, and green; You had meant to move with a kind of largeness, You had planned a heavy grace, an anguished dream.
But the dark pines of your mind dip deeper And you are sinking, sinking, sleeper In an elementary world; There is something down there and you want it told.
“I admire addicts. In a world where everybody is waiting for some bline, random disaster, or some sudden disease, the addict has the comfort of knowing what will most likely wait for him down the road. He’s taken some control over his ultimate fate, and his addiction keeps the cause of death from being a total surprise.”—Chuck Palahniuk
“It’s still a good idea. Its exercise is discipline: to remember to cross the street without looking, to remember not to jump when the cars side-swipe, to remember not to bother to have clothes cleaned, to remember not to eat or want to eat, to consider the numerous methods of killing oneself, that is surely the finest exercise of the imagination: death by drowning, sleeping pills, slashed wrists, kitchen fumes, bullets through the brain or through the stomach, hanging by the neck in attic or basement, a clean frozen death—the ways are endless. And consider the drama! It’s better than a whole season at Stratford when you think of the emotion of your family on hearing the news and when you imagine how embarrassed some will be when the body is found. One could furnish a whole chorus in a Greek play with expletives and feel sneaky and omniscient at the same time. But there’s no shame in this concept of suicide. It has concerned our best philosophers and inspired some of the most popular of our politicians and financiers. Some people swim lakes, others climb flagpoles, some join monasteries, but we, my friends, who have considered suicide take our daily walk with death and are not lonely. In the end it brings more honesty and care than all the democratic parliaments of tricks. It is the ‘sickness unto death’; it is death; it is not death; it is the sand from the beaches of a hundred civilizations, the sand in the teeth of death and barnacles our singing tongue: and this is ‘life’ and we owe at least this much contemplation to our western fact: to Rise, Decline, Fall, to futility and larks, to the bright crustaceans of the oversky.”—Phyllis Webb