A Semi-Poetic Stream of Consciousness - by Emily Cordes | Writing | 2ktwelve.com

Anatomy of this Moment:
A Semi-Poetic Stream of Consciousness - by Emily Cordes

Picture this moment like a snapshot.

I can hear the booming bass of my next door neighbor's rap music pounding through the walls, mingling with the deeply intoned "Om Namah Shivaya" of my Krishna Das. The strange musical lovechild of a hip-hopper and a hippie, born between the walls of an ancient dorm, filled with women who try to ignore the threat of a two-minute burn time posed by the straw insulation within said plaster walls.
Decades ago, my kindred spirit lived just down the hall, a profound, overachieving Scorpio poetess, prone to depression and fond of bubble baths (at least her Esther Greenwood was; I can't vouch for Miss Sylvia herself). I wouldn't be surprised if her ghost still hangs out here, making the radiators hiss and smell like gas, blowing doors shut and whispering inspiration into the ears of young Smithie poets late at night.

A pint of Ben & Jerry's American Pie ice cream, bought under hormonal duress, sings to me from my audition-flyer-papered freezer with the alluring vocals of a swanky lounge singer. Is you is or is you ain't my baby. Making its neighbors, my Amy's organic Indian dinners, wish it would shut the fuck up already and leave them to their saffrony frozen slumber. Promising sweet creamy temptation, melting on the heat of my tongue like the snowflakes that graced the Massachusetts skies today. I lapped them up like candy from the heavens as I prowled the streets in the cold, searching for a cell phone charger so I can regain contact with the world.

Calls from potential beaux pepper my messages, one hundreds of miles away, the other a balding middle-aged man, met at a community hippie dance. Hopefully he just wants to be friends, and if not, he'd better look for some other cradle to rob. A snarky green-eyed Bostonian in commedia dell'arte class runs hot and cold, once liking my cute toe socks and red sari-print purse, now turning away to trade barbs and shoulder rubs with a friend of mine. Oh well. I close my eyes and see visions of ex-loveboy standing in a wooded clearing during a meteor shower, stars falling like the torrential rains he loves, pouring into his open palms as he throws his head back in exultation. Like Marina in "Wasteland", read for the umpteenth time before lending it to a friend, he should have stars, all over his body like jewelry. And like West, I would give them to him, along with Sigur Ros CDs and coffee ice cream and MYST computer games and whatever else he wanted. Here's to the men I loved, to those that loved me, and to everything in between and to come.

I want to stretch and breathe, clear the novels and clothes, shoes and poetry books off of my dorm room floor and do some yoga. But for now I hunch over my laptop and ramble on about everything and nothing. Impending auditions, tech work, study abroad applications, and the upcoming semester make me want to pee myself. I turn to my Tarot cards and angel readings for guidance in this period of silent, surfacely-calm limbo. My dreams become anxious, convoluted, strange. And, inspired by Sean Michael Kalahar (www.seanmichaelkalahar.com, please check him out), a modern hipster beatnik whose work I stumbled upon while educating Amanda about Kerouac, I spew poetry from my pores and fingertips in the guise of a blog entry, wondering who it will touch.