Ivory Octopus

Oh hey, didn't see you there. I guess I haven't written a blog in a while. Tisk Tisk. The past couple of weeks were kinda crazy but it's settled down quite a bit now. I had finals week to worry about and moving to do. I'm staying in the same apartment complex for summer and fall semester and I wanted a change so I moved all my junk upstairs. We have 6 people in our apartment, which isn't unusual for fall but it is for summer. We all get along really well though and I like all of them. Everyone is a little different but we mesh well together. Even though it's just the very first week of summer, we've already accomplished a lot, including errand running, canal swimming, tie-dyeing, wackee 6 playing, and Davi and I discovered the tanning bed. We actually did it for the second time yesterday. She stayed in for 15 minutes and got this nice little tan and I stayed in for 6 and got this nice little...red. I guess you could call it a burn. I look darker because of the slight redness, so it's not so red that you can tell it's a burn. I am afeared that once the red goes away, however, that I will just go back to normal white. I'm sure some of you are thinking "Jessi, you are going to get skin cancer. Don't go tanning ever again." and to you I say "I know, I know. I'm a doctor too." I'm being careful. It's amusing to be white sometimes but during the summer I can literally blind people with how very pasty I really am. Why couldn't I have just been born back in the day when curly dark hair and fair skin was the thing? Maybe I'll just go live in Thailand. They bleach their skin to get it whiter.
Anywho, I don't really have any super cool writing to share with you. I did write a poem for class but I pretty much hate writing poetry 1) because it always ends up sounding dumb and 2) because I'm not good at it and, if you remember, I don't like trying to do things I'm not good at. I can write funny poetry but when things start getting serious, I run away. Perhaps just for kicks I'll stick my poem on the end of this blog. In the mean time, I would like to point out the stark reality of the possibility of falling in love with fictional characters. It *is* possible. I know you're wondering if this is an autobiography. Well it's not, exactly. If you look around you at all the Twilight fan-girls and Harry Potter nuts, you will see that what I'm saying is true. You can fall in love with someone who doesn't exist. Take Finn from Glee, for example. They tell you his story. They develop his character. You see him in the show about as much as you would see him in real life if you were a member of their little fictional world. You could, very plausibly, develop feelings for him because you feel like you know him. You are in love with Finn (not Cory Monteith, who is a real person, but his *fictional* character, Finn). That's what the producers and directors and authors want! They want you to have feelings for these people who don't exist so you'll become invested in what their doing. If you're reading a book and you don't care whether the main character gets the girl or dies a horrible, painful death, you wont read it again and you'll probably tell your friends to come to a book burning party with you. It's a cruel reality, really. Lonely girls left and right are dreaming of what their lives would be like if they could only have Edward Cullen or Harry Potter or Finn or whatshisface from whatever he's from. Just throwin that out there.

Poem. I hate it. The end.

Ivory Octopus

Piano girl,
and her cello boy;
a melodious duet.
The piano and the cello
unite in stunning perfection.
Her hands dance wildly across the keyboard,
striving to keep pace with the music
like an ivory octopus
darting across
an acrylic ocean floor,
tentacles surging
with the waves of the song,
left and right
so fast you can’t believe
they’re only hands.

The audience listens
on the edge of their seats
while the melody lifts them
on an atmospheric chariot
into a place between here and there.
Streams of musical air
float all around
and lift them up
through the ceiling.
The room is empty.
Only the piano and the cello remain,
communing together
in an endless dimension
where music is the only language.