caesura

understanding visual poetry leads me to understanding you

It has been six weeks since the start of school and I am locked in my room sick as a dog… Certainly, one of the perks of sociability. With the toll that I have taken physically throughout the duration of this whole ordeal, I find my mind unusually sharp. A function, whether it may be upsetting or not, of being on guard and, thus, constantly aware of my perception and how I am perceived and how I am to be percieved. I was asked if the person I am here is the same as who I was back home. Despite the absurdidty of one achieving such a profound behavioral change after a month, I find myself looking in the mirror a little bit longer than usual. As if to check that I am still here occupying the same body: if my feet still fit in old shoes.

I will admit that here writes a mixed-bag when it comes to the experience of getting out of the house. Should the prospect of leaving what is known for what is new be placed upon the shoulders of those at the height of their adolescent—at least from a standpoint of identity—development APA? Is that precisely what makes it the perfect time to ship one away? The novelty and independence and stress fostering a culture that ignites something in our gut? New faces (mirrors) in our personal revelation? Wonderful opportunities these are that I am faced with such questions, although I barely have enough time to deliberate over the work assigned to me by my professors… As much of a human as I am—evaluating and revaluating myself in the context of another—I am pained to have no personal anchor here. An other. Im afraid that I will throw myself wholeheartedly into new relationships grasping at any straw of connection that I can catch wind of. People don’t usually appreciate that, although it is all I see: handholding and lovemaking and crisscrossing tongues until everyones sick. Is “This cant be any proper behavior” the right way to ask “Am I missing something?”?

I read writing three times:

1. Visually—how it is presented to me on the page: a combination of type and blank space; arrangement.
2. Sonically—what I can hear when I close my eyes and read the words when they become someone else’s voice; singsong.
3. Meaningfully—the depth of what I am being shown; thesis.

We can draw a parallel to how we choose to read each other.

It feels that some of the cliquishness here, albiet in smaller amounts that I had expected out of this place previously, is based on a (first or second) look. Goodlookingpeople help us self-preserve. I would be lying if I were to say I was not one to see one’s appearance (take it into account). I walk around those who are (or at least uphold the appearance of one those who are) incredibly passionate. It makes me question my own passion and passions, and their associated experiences—tragic how easily I can succumb to that kind of mentality. Maybe its a discipline thing… Maybe its resolution is further along down the road: a place where I have more of a routine and more things I can be proud of.

If we are so preoccupied with comparison, how at all will we be able to live a life of gratitude?

I suppose “being proud of” in this sense really means “things that I can put on a resume”, not necessarily what actually brings me gratification in my day-to-day. I walk throughout my routine constantly considering the number and alignment of blessings that brought me to this point, also by way of combating the constant pressures of comparison. Whether or not this is part of my vocation, I will pursue it all with the vigor it deserves.

I digress.

It is fascinating how much we notice the sound of one’s voice. That specific tonal sequence that serves as a signature to conversation—and how we associate it with the visual information we have gathered already. Right now, I am listening to Men I Trust and pondering if I would know what they looked like if I passed them on the street. If it would make a difference to the way I hear their music. Reading out loud shows the room where we place emphasis… The points that we value over others, enough to lend them more oxygen or a faster roll out of the mouth. I hope I am not the only one who wishes to be read in this (natural) way. I want to know the places where you stop to breathe.

Poems like to read pretty and talk pretty, too—even when it draws them further from meaning? We gather so much information from our skims that we lose the need for anything else. What makes surface levels anodyne for difficult conversation (i.e. to learn more than “what’s your name”). I mean so much if only someone told me I did. Thats how it will go, until I can hear enough to know what I am—that whole thing about self-identification.

A good exercise might be to find a shape and fill it in with words and repeat until I see and hear and understand a shape and its words to be me.

Fuck school.