Confessions of a platzrigger
yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes.
now that we are past the word count i re-edit the post. the excitment of cheating in something so important, the rush of adrenalin that i get, for brazenly flaunting this word count.
its sexy. my heart is beating fast, as i know that i am way..way...waaay past the word count. i dont check how much. that doesn’t concern me now. i feel immidiate sensations of hair rising, of goosbumps. i’m in a free fall of words and fuck the loser that set this stuff up to be just 15 words. let him get through his bowel movement of an existance with rules and regulations. it’s anarchy here. i feel like making molotov cocktails, of going to the library, taking the cute trolly and riding it, until i smack into the ‘ethnography’ section, whatever the dewey system code for that.
to hell with that stalinist crap anyway!
long live the revolution, bring on the guilliotine, and put up the barricades. we shall defend our right to not count stuff!!
i feel like buying seven super-gulps and gulping them , just so i could mess up the subway station .
to hell with structure, to hell with contrivance.
live, live, live!!!
now, for random things , just to make it longer, out of spite.
1) outside the entrance, the air is cool. i see in the distance, the fragile leaves of a gingko tree are green and trembling as the cool breeze disturbs them. i am a samurai of words. the leaves know my poetry, which is undefinable by quantity!! the leaves shudder , fearing the worst.
someday there will be a reckoning . i will be bested. but not today.
2) upon the coffee table, rest forgotten, a pack of spaghetti noodles (the italian kind), an empty box of cigaretts, and empty bottle of orange gatorade, the cap is missing, misteriously. i am tempted to write what drove all three objects to be found there so early in the morrow. maybe i should. who will stop me? who?!
3) the lady that i car-pool with, is not coming today with me. i shall bear the crushing brunt of the taxi fare by myself. you are actually more aware of your loneliness the more materialistic you are.
4) road work ahead. we detour , round the second ring road. i fear getting lost as much as i fear screwing with the word count!!!
5) arriving at the office, i am unusually the only one to arrive si early. the vpn is working, so i pop up youtube and put on the hammerklavier sonata. Daniel Birenbaum is a giant.
one of the commenters states that he imagines beethoven sitting by the piano, composing with a grin. saying to himself ‘try playing this, fuckers! ha ha ha!’.
if you haven’t understood the meaning of the word platzrigger. it comes from the noble art of platzrigging- the intentional flaunting of wordcount rules. it is a sick type of sexual perversion, and people like me should be sent away for the betterment of society. maybe to an island of platzriggers, where we sit around with notebooks and get electric shock with cattle prods if we write less or more than is precisely demanded. we shall all have striped shirts, shaven heads, some symbol delianting us from each other, but not on ethnic or sexual or religious grounds. word count nazis do not care of such things. in this camp for the literary deranged , we will be taught respect, meter, punctuation, spelling and good citizanry. it will be meaningful and we will be grateful. after we learn all that good stuff, we shall be gassed, ’cause we still need to pay for our heinous crimes. we shall form short-lived bonds of friendship, about 15 words in length.
15 words
15 words
15 words!!!
oh. sorry. got carried off again...
it could be that platzrigging stems from a deeper problem with understanding arythmatics.
no matter, no matter...
it goes on,
until I decide when it’s enough!!!
Someday
Someday..
You will return.
Someday..
I will see your smile again.
Someday..
We will get to hug.
Someday..
I will feel your arms holding me tight.
Someday..
I will feel love.
Someday..
I hope to hear you whisper three words of truth and love into my ear.
Yet..
You being gone, someday is only a dream. So, someday may never come.
moving on isn’t easy
When you left, there was a hole that wasn't there before, and I wasn't entirely sure how to make it go away again. Every day was the same as the last day, and I kept waking up, not sure how I'd make it through the day. I would go through the motions, praying that no one would notice that I wasn't okay. I couldn't help but feel alone, even though I knew I wasn't. I knew I had my friends and family by my side, but I couldn't not feel as if I was alone. There is nothing like the feeling of being lonely in a room of crowded people. That feeling is miserable and hateful, and you made me feel like that. You made me as if I was no longer good enough for you. I went through the motions of my life because of what you did to me.
You don't get to show up now. You don't get to walk back into my life like you didn't completely devastate me. You gave up the right to call me yours when you walked away without a glance back. This doesn't work like that. Life doesn't work like that. Love isn't something you can flip on and off depending on what you feel like on a certain day. I loved you and I believed that you loved me back because you said so. I took you for granted, and lost my heart and my mental health because of it. So I'm sorry, but no. You don't get a second chance. You don't get to know me again; I've moved on.
Am I healed? Not even close. But that doesn't mean I don't want to get there. You want to know how I plan to heal? Without you. I plan to find myself again, and I plan to rebuild myself in the person I want to be, without you. Does that mean I want someone else? I don't know yet. But I want to find out. I want someone to be there when I find myself. But I don't know how it will end. The one thing I do know, however, is that I want you as far from me as possible when it does end. You broke me, and I will fix myself. But you won't get to break me again. I won't give you the chance to. Because love, love is something I can't pick or choose. But I know damn well I will never choose you again.
Things People Told Me When I Said I Was Graduating Early, and My Internal Struggle
You can't leave!
You are the only reason I come to school!
I'll miss you so much!
I can't imagine school without you!
All my best friends are leaving me, not you too!
Please don't go!
But I need to . . .
Why don't you take easy classes next year?
You won't even come for the cheap college credit?
Have a half year schedule!
No one understands . . .
What are you going to do?
Where are you going to college?
What are you planning on studying?
What do you want to be when you grow up?
I don't know!!
I'm not graduating early to go to college early
I'm not graduating to get on with my life
I like school
I just can't do this anymore
The stress is too much
I'm not leaving you
I'm leaving the situation
I can't stay to help others anymore
I need to put my oxygen mask on first
I need to destress, take a year off
Learn how to enjoy life again
Wait, you have anxiety?
You always look so put together!
There's no way you are that stressed.
Ohhh but I am.
I wear my mask of confidence very well
I've trained myself over the years.
But I can't hold it up much longer.
I need to go.
Well, I'll miss you!
I'll miss you too!
But even for you, I can't stay
I'm sorry
The scent of childhood
Childhood smells
like my baby
that day
I buried my nose
in his neck
and found
his warm baby smell
was gone
replaced by the scent
of fresh air, sunshine
and
the sweet sweat
of growing child.
I was thrown back
to when I was young
running outside
with friends
away
from the comfort
of Mommy
to
life.
I smelled
this
and
eyes filled
heart ached
for I knew
my baby
was
no more.
