portrait of the blogger as a young idiot

well, i somehow fancied myself a better writer back then. but in complete reality, there isn't much i wish to share or even keep in these old journals.

some of it is just plain unbelievably bad. embarrassing. right now all i can think of is how much i must have pained my english professor and mentor, Dr. Ann Ferguson, who made me keep these journals for every class I had with her.

the most interesting part of this re-reading is reading her comments. The little "hmmmmmm" at the end of one poem and the "try some objective, totally impersonal, pure, descriptive paragraphs. They are good antidotes for the more subjective expressions of our world. Write of the landscape, as it were, external rather than interior."

in other words, quit bitching and moaning about Steve. stop whining about your broken heart. write about clouds and weather, dogs and puddles, anything but your personal hell for crying out loud.

if she could have, she would have smacked me back then. i wish she would have. or if she tried to verbally slap me, i don't remember hearing her.

i feel i owe her an apology for being the over sappy, heart broken, piney mcpinepine shabbadoux that i was back then.

but here are three of the nicer things i had in there. and one that someone wrote for me. or at least I think she wrote it. I don't think it's someone else's poem and she just wrote it down and gave it to me, but if so... who cares. She thought enough to give a poem to me.

and a couple other things that were in the Ralph issues.

mostly, i'm excessively embarrassed by what i've got here, and plan to hide these damn things. in the trash. gah. enjoy... this is all you get.

---

linda (july 16, 1985)

i'd like to tell her to leave me alone
here, with the storm.

I pretend I'm writing
something important, poetic;
so she leaves on her own accord. silently

she goes back down the hall
to her own room, where she can't see
the storm.

because of how the rain falls, laying on her bed, visible
in all white
she is an angel
in the dark.

-clf

---

21 December. 15th year

Countless piles of old photos
lay rotting, time piling on
in the old red book and the boxes.

Black and whites, and Instamatics
showing faces and places
of memories I can't erase
too easily

Her youthful smile
and baby fine hair have
given way to a new era
in her ways
Time has painted the colors well.

Soon the way she is now
will be a memory like
these, placed far back in mind
like old Christmas gifts.
And new pictures will fall
into their places in the book.

-clf

---

Winter from the Inside

Ghostly white
water, dormant in the night time
Glimmers as if moonlight in
abundance
is pouring only onto the
water's surface

No reflection of shadows
and tall trees
rise to meet the eyes.

Temptation like that
one which struck the
Fair Ophelia
over
comes
you

to go below the white layer
and see if beauty is only
surface deep.

-clf

---

Christine

Teary-eyed children pass candy store windows
crying for things that they never can have
All of life's sweetness is captured and waiting
Behind red-brick corners and crystal clear glass

All of the hopes of those times lie forgotten --
Sugar plum fairies turn to worries and pains.
Pushing us onward are dreams of the future
Pulling us back are those candy store days.

Then in the midst of this whirlwind of forces
Lonely and hopeless I reached toward the sky
Fast fading memories might lead me to heaven
But only one thing here will keep me alive.

Frazzled and screaming I groped for the answer
Never quite knowing what questions there'd been
Someone looked down to the hand in the cyclone
Thought what she saw was worth salvaging.

Never did try to redeem such a recluse
She only talked when I needed to hear.
I can't say I much remember words spoken --
Only that words made the winds disappear.

Thank you Cliffy-even though you may not know it, this is you, to me.
Merry Christmas, I love you,
Laurie.

---

Pale Sun

The pale sun and clear sky
Only give me a delusion
of warmth.

The perfect diamond, with brilliance and fire
provides no light, or heat, but is
still beautiful.

and your winter-sky eyes, cold candles in the dark,
show me no path, no exit
no hope.

-C.A. Livingston

---

Snow is Too Beautiful

Snow is too beautiful
	and strangely warm
Perfectly white,
	alive.
Snow is too beautiful;
	it easily deceives,
covering all quickly.
Snow is too beautiful;
	I lie face down,
strangely warm,
	suffocating. -C.A. Livingsto