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After clever hours, I found it: the perfect anagram of "Jonathan's Blog." Every page hides words?

May 29, 2018

It is 4 AM, and soon my resurrected love you will die again.
Verse is in green. Light is starting in the sky. After a weak morning's sleep, will I continue this blog any further? None of my efforts at journaling have ever made it past the 2-day mark. Here is a graph that shows this pattern:
	Work over Time*
 |
 |  o
 |	
 |  
w|
o|
r|
k|  
 |
 |
 |        o
 |______________________________
   day1  day2  day3  day4  day5
*subsequent days have been omitted for brevity. Also, I tried to put the second datapoint lower, but it looked weird:
___o____
  day2
I first attempted journaling when I was 5 or so in a small blue sketchbook. I have it somewhere, but not here. I do have a typed copy of a few of the pages, which I've rendered as a poem:
The Werd Dream

It was 11o,clock PM.
I went to bed
and then I started
dreaming. This is
what my dream
was. I was jumping      rock to
			    from
rock in a low lake and 
[...]
up the mountin behind me and ended
up at my house and
it was locked. I checked
the gerash my holl famly
was there. And then
I checked in front of
my house. There I
saw a huge stack
of would.
There undernethe
the pile of would
[...] hide-
out stoud. I told
[her], she was so
exsited. we sellobrated
it with a little party.
Most of the line breaks are original, from the sketchbook's small pages and my big letters. Others are editorial decisions I made while copying. I have also omitted small parts of the poem for dramatic effect. I remember that dream. There were racoons by the "low lake" and the water was shallow. I also remember lying: it was not my whole family in the garage. In math, we could write "the gerash my holl famly / was there" as
X is in famly if and only if X is in garash,
assuming I meant my holl famly was in the gerash and nobody else was there. In this case, both the "if" and "only if" are lies.

In first grade, I dreamt I was in the living room (as I type, I am there!) and a bear killed me. It slashed across my view with its claw, and a skeleton flashed before me: white bones on black. That is how I imagined death. I like that.
A skeleton flashed before me: white bones on black.
That is how I imagined death.
The day before the dream, I had the following homework assignment. Make a footprint with paint on paper, then turn the foot into something else by decorating it, e.g., with a marker. I chose a bear. I am not sure how I turned the foot into a bear, but I think the paint was green.

Poems are often confusing without context:
Green.
Sometimes they are confusing even with context. A lot confuses me, especially short words with no obvious latinate meanings. Glib. Cloy. Mete. Perhaps you know these words, so in some sense you are better than me? Please check out my photo essay. Could there be a "non-verbal rant"?

I next attempted journaling at the age of 10. The journal was leather-bound, it was too good for my words. I wrote two entries. Again I have the journal somewhere, but not here. So I have to go from memory: I think the first entry is from the day before my father turned 50. We went to Maggiano's, and I kept a slip of paper that indicated we'd parked on level 4. It was maroon. I don't recall what I wrote on the first day. My second entry was basically just "shit" over and over again: I had started this journal because a writer had visited our class, and recommended it to anyone who wanted to be a writer. She said she wrote fiction for adults, which I thought was funny. Clearly children's fiction was more important. She reminds many of the color soodilver and that book where they put on the thinking caps. The reason I wrote "shit" so many times was the visiting writer told us to confide in our journals, that they were a private place for anything we wanted to say. Here are some things I want to say.

Here are some more things I want to say:
Blue noon
and the boats are out whose
whitecaps lap the stony shore.
Sunk in stones
a cedar log whose tree in 1992
christened our kitchen by falling through
the ceiling. No one was home,
and when the unwelcome furniture was butchered,
my mother kept this section.


I promise this is a picture of my cat. He is Frank, and sometimes I will call out "Frankie!" to black objects. Here is a list of his names: When I was little, our neighbors had a dog named Gigolo. They called to him, "Here Jiggy Jiggy Jiggy!"

To poem-readers: read The Lost Land by Eavan Boland! and drop on by Margaret Jacks Hall to tell her how much you love it. My copy smells of mildew! Also please be aware of updates to our privacy policy.
Is this how I add vertical space?

June 1, 2018


My lyrical journey:



What wasted time in Coldplay's vast plains and Radiohead's cold mounts. I should have set long ago sail on The Frank Ocean.
Seest thou yon dreary plain, forlorn and wild,
The seat of desolation, void of light,
Save what the glimmering of these livid* flames
Casts pale and dreadful? Thither let us tend
From off the tossing of these fiery waves,
-- Satan, in Paradise Lost by John Milton.

Hell is a burning lake. Dim blue* flames (like those of gas stoves) lick the lake, which rolls in burning waves; the ground is Sulfur. According to Oxford about the word livid, "The sense 'furiously angry' dates from the early 20th century." Huh.

Hell is cool, much cooler than leather jackets and Harley Davidsons. It is Chaos, the void out of which God made the Heavens and the Earth. When Satan rebels, God throws him and his followers from Heav'n into a left-behind place. They build a palace of gold: Pandemonium, Milton coins after Pantheon.

Satan is massive. His body parts are "many a rood" apart. A rood is, according to a note in my copy, "An old unit of measure, between six and eight yards." I like the idea of a massive Satan. Satan and his angels can fly, and are gender-fluid shapeshifters.

Today my father and I hiked. Here is a photo. It was taken with an app that adds chromatic aberration and light leaks to photos. It also claims, if you want it to, they were taken in 1998. I have one memory of 1998 it is sky-lights, a right turn near my house and then the Volkswagen dealership. It was snowing and we bought a green Beetle. I recommend this essay.

I was born in Eden! While little, I played with LEGO construction toys. I could have lived in the backgrounds which framed the set covers. Necessarily, they were analog photographs of the plastic LEGO bricks in front of paper backgrounds. They were real, they were warm. The Turing Machine does everything but nothing perfect. What progress, though Eden lost: I can no longer live in a paper.

Abnormal things happen: slowly, my secrets and there will be nothing. Slowly the world digitizes its secrets, chopped up and sent as to the twelve kings. Carlsbad, California in summer: strawberry fields and Legoland. Blue noon, day-long and cloudless. And Santa Monica cloudless too. The sky is all safe things: palm, Curb, wealth like a golden palace, film grains, hot pavement, the Santa Anas, Douglas Park. There is something but not the list.
Summer, Santa Monica

The sky is all safe things: palm, Lego,
no homework and always with my brother.
Our old Spanish house,
the purple bathroom, the perfect grass.
Climbing onto the garage, running in the sprinkler
and state capitals and Mario.
Peeling bark off and writing notes on it.
Mandy's English lessons: noun, verb, adjective, adverb,
"When you are older, you will understand
why texting is better than calling." 
Thatch blinds we draw to prevent bleaching
when we leave for school up north.
All of it cloudless. All of it
blue and still and hot as a memory.
As if the still heat and blue could cauterize my fear of death or my hands or my head. In Pandemonium, the lamps
yielded light
As from a sky.