38 Paper Cranes

First of all, this post was due Saturday. I botched it. Second, There should be 88 paper cranes by now; there are 38. I am falling dangerously close to behind.

My week has been - not bizarre, but - unusual. Three specific things are effecting me quite profoundly.

Firstly, I'm becoming increasingly aware of the fact that I don't believe in an afterlife. This puts me in the rather unenviable position (that we may all find ourselves in) of reflecting on the worth of my existence. Am I living? Am I grateful to be some of the mud that got to sit up? How can I show that, or change it if I have to? Am I wasting my time here?

B. I haven't written poetry in eight years, and I'm dubious as to the quality of that verse; I still tend to think of poets as kind of silly.

There's this girl I know...

This is how all the trouble starts, but nothing will come of this. Not because I don't like her or think of her that way - not because she's this unattainable illusion (a common problem) - not because she's out of my league.

I don't even think we're playing the same game. But she's really pretty. She's just got that face and eyes like [what's her name] and the best smile, and hair the color of chestnut something or other. And she's smart. Funny. Every time she opens her mouth something amazing (or at least mildly interesting) happens.

She does these sickeningly sweet, cute little things - the kind of stuff you'd roll your eyes at if you saw it in a movie or if someone else did it. But when a girl you like does it.

Melts you a little.

She reminds me what it's like to be in love.

I don't think I'm in love. My heart hurts a little and I don't not think about her, and the sun and moon and stars (which were just so slightly out of whack) have come around again and lined up in her absence, and all I hear on the radio is love song after love song after - and I didn't realize they were all so good. But it's not love.

I won't go into all the reasons why it won't be (one or two may even be legitimate). It's just nice to feel that again. Feel alive again.

And I sure could use a new friend right about now.

Three. I'm focusing (pretty well) on these goals. On this idea that I can make my life better.

I haven't written another page of the book, but I was telling someone about the concept and it got me pretty F'n pumped again. I really believe in this story. It's something I think I can do (and do well); I just haven't yet. It's not writer's block. It's what Kevin Smith calls "writer's Laze." And I've got it in spades.

I have been working out, and I've got the sore muscles to prove it. I didn't do cardio Saturday, because my back was sore [blah, blah, blah], which made me feel lousy. All there was today was stretching, but I managed to get right back up and do it. I'm optimistic about tomorrow. I haven't been eating right because I'm broke, but that too will change soon.

I'm still working at the fucking grocery store. It's still sucking a little of my soul out of me every time I walk through the doors, but I managed to at least get the ball rolled half-way up the hill so we can get this whole e-business thing going. I'm going to pick up my first appraisals today before work, and then I'll get them scanned in and (hopefully) up on eBay before the week's out. Our intention is to use proceeds from these auctions to finance the site.

I asked for an iPhone for my birthday. I'm not going to get it; but my folks are at least (possibly) going to look at the insurance on my old phone to see about my upgrade. I've done exactly jack and squat about a motorcycle or a home. This angers me a little, so I'm going to stop writing about it. Maybe working on financing a new venture is working on those. I think it's a cop-out, though it also covers the "working on financial goals" bit. Damn it.

So there you have it. I'm going to die. I remember what it was like to be in love. I'm working (in a half-assed, slip-shod way) on attaining my one-year goals. Also, I'm 50 cranes behind on my folding quota. I'm writing though (if maybe the wrong things). And I'm drawing. I'm working on gaming, but it doesn't swallow my life. I don't even seem to give a damn that I'm weeks behind in all "my" shows.

I'm pretty grateful to be some of the mud that got to sit up (Vonnegut, by the way - not mine). I'm struggling with an idea I heard recently that went something like "if you're not making someone else's life better, you're just wasting your time," but in a good way. I mean, I'd like to enrich someone's life. All the time. But maybe a little rest isn't exactly a waste of time (finite though it may be). We should enjoy our lives. We only get a little time to do so. I just have to remember - I don't know how to say this. I don't know how many times I can write "time" in the same paragraph.

I spend too much time (sigh) enjoying myself, maybe. I don't know how to write this, but this post is already cyclopean* in scope anyway. I've got some paper folding and other stuff to do.

The wind blows her scent across my path
Even days after I last laid eyes on her.
I am not in love

Every time she opens that cute little mouth
She is smarter, funnier, better.
I am not in love

I see echoed in her laugh, her eyes, the shape of her neck
Every girl or woman I've ever fallen for.
I am not in love.

I haven't written poetry in eight years.
I haven't felt the warm smile of another
Stamped so indelibly on my heart.
I haven't been in love.

I am not in love.

*I am so freakin' excited to have been able to use

that word in a sentence I just want to do my

Unspeakable Dance. In fact, I'm going to.