In Memoriam: *Kurt Vonnegut

I started to write this the day you died, but life and bullshit got in the way of its completion. You know how it is: things can't be avoided, and the past tends to get pushed in the back where it belongs. Had I been more focused, I'd have gotten out my eulogy to you much sooner than this.

Now, it almost seems trite. And a little late. No one has, or could, sum up your loss quite like this. So I won't even try. Not only because I couldn't be nearly as eloquent, but because my sardonic humor doesn't quite match Adam's, nor would it do justice to your masterfully satirical memory.

Like Adam, I am embarrassed at my pathetic grasp of your brilliant novels; to say I am a "true fan" (knowing that my Vonnegut reading history stems sadly from The Sirens of Titan to Slaughterhouse Five to the first half of Galapagos) would be more insulting to your memory than if I attempted to compare you to other literary greats who have left us. Even my pathetic, illiterate brain knows that nobody—not ever—can be put on the same plain as you. Nobody had the balls you did. Nobody had the words, the poetry and the wherewithal to point out just how stupid, petty and ignorant the human race is; not just once, but dozens of times. And nobody, in doing so, could have been so funny, so witty and so enlightening that we forgot the joke was on us and had ourselves a gay ol' time with your book(s) in tow.

You held up a mirror to humanity in a way that's never been done. An endless hallway of Fun House Mirrors, distorting, but not masking, our reality.

You allowed us to understand that nothing was more human than death, and more inhuman than pretending that everything was okay.

You told me the meaning of the Universe. A big Fuck You to A Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy—a number? That's it? That's all you got?? Not so. Get your sorry ass to a bookstore and pick up The Sirens of Titan, and then you'll know the reason for your existence. How much easier it is, now, for me to sleep at night.

Your writing of Life—the kind every one of us knows—became trips to other worlds, to distant places and unfathomable times.

With every word, with every sentence, with every grand and perfectly executed thought and stylistically consistent opinion, you slyly drew a penis on the face of humanity while it slept and you made out like a mother-fucking bandit.

You will be remembered. I am filled with saddness that no other words of yours will be penned for the enjoyment of self-depricating, wouldn't-it-be-nice-if-we-could-all-just-be-satisfied-with-ignorance-is-bliss, world cynics like myself. But you weren't afraid of death. You make me not afraid. Adam ponders your arrival in Hell, making She-Devil Anna Nicole understand her inadequecies with an oh-so-necessary kick to the groin (okay, so I elaborate), but I think different: If there is a God—if you are unfortunate enough to be proven wrong about the Powers That Be with a Heavenly bitch-slap to the face in your hours of Judgement—I am pretty certain that you will reign supreme in the City of Angels.

God wants so desperately to laugh. They need you up there, more than the sinners down in Hell. And I know death isn't going to stop you from making someone else realize how pointless being serious really is.

You will be missed, *Kurt Vonnegut. And so it goes.

This is all about Love.

"At the root of all evil is a heart denied love."
— Nani Power, The Sea of Tears

As difficult as it's been, I'm giving in to love stories. After Twilight, well... I didn't think it could get better than that, emotionally, so I tried to avoid it. Now, though, I've been struck with a yearning for literature that touches me, and I'm okay with it not being... classic. Not all literature can be. Starting a new array of books, and have decided that this year will not be about movies for me; it will be about reading. I'm so happy reading, and nothing makes me feel more accomplished. It's such a rare feat.
There is something about books that has been lost to this generation. In my opinion, no one really reads anymore. At least, not at my age level. I think there is something missing in the school system that should be teaching us to read everything, not just the "assigned reading" of school, then growing accustomed to hating everything with binding.

I'm sad that my nights are now so full. All I want to do is sit on my bed reading. I have no desire at all to watch TV or movies. The afternoons though... it's my happiest time of day. Quiet. Bright. Free.

The Poem In You

A very popular poem that I want to share. Short, beautiful and emotional--the best kinds. My Irish Lit professor's favorite, and it's really moved me.
"When You Are Old" by W.B. Yeats
When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

There is something uncomplicated about this poem that grabs me. Besides it's obvious brilliance--that being a saddness and thoughtfulness that seeps from each line--I am drawn in by the fact that it's not so convoluted and "symbolic" that it can't be understood. Poetry is meant to express something, yes, and maybe that thing can only be expressed through complex metaphors and guared allusions... But if it can't touch someone else... If its lines and words and ideas cannot connect, then what is it? What's its purpose? How can it be anything but a beautiful collection of words?

To me, there are two kinds of poems: those that touch you with their words, and those that simply sound beautiful. The best ones accomplish both.

I wish I knew more about poetry. I wish I had more poems memorized. I wish I felt more confident in writing them. There are aspects of me that would love that outlet. Metaphors are not my strong suit. Neither is subtlety in writing or ideas. My vocabulary should be stronger, at this point in my life, and in reading poems and literature, this is becoming more clear; a focusing of my voice, a pooling of my strengths. There is nothing wrong with simplicity. Or with writing that is easy to understand. That's me. Why try to be something else?

That being said, I'll leave you with the simplest poem I know. It's my favorite.
"The Sun Never Says" by Hafiz
Even after all this time
The sun never says to the earth

"You owe me."

Look what happens
with a love like that

It lights the whole sky.