The Whole Kit ‘n’ Caboodle

Nonfiction 5/25

I live like a book.
That doesn’t necessarily mean I live in books like a bookworm. It really just means that I live my life like a book. I let things wash over me as images and take them as metaphysics.

When I do, when I act, I improvise entirely. I’m at a point now where I improvise with every single person with whom I come into contact. I have no ‘interests’, per-se. I am interested by purest language, by purest beat, by purest vibration, by purest tone.

I am repulsed by tone for style. Style for beat. Beat for language. I could go on with these combinations. It’s odd, because that means I’m shunning the people who happen to like those things. The thing is, I don’t know these people, because they don’t know they like those things.

Do I know what I like? Yes. Can I effortlessly describe what it is that I like? No. I like simplicity in complexity, and I rarely like anything else. Rarely means occasions other than the guaranteed acceptance. I like a walking bass line. I like a 500 foot home run. I like a list of all the different kinds of chocolate in the world. I like taking something that everybody on this earth would think about and make it something that nobody would think about.

Porcupines are cute, right? What if a porcupine were to start up a small business in the middle of skunk country? Would the skunks be intimidated by the porcupine’s initial success? Would they leave menacing notes of odor around the porcupine’s establishment to let him know that he’s not welcome?

Those are the questions I ask of the world, ask of the reader, ask of the writer, ask of God.

Is it a crime to ask questions that nobody else wants to answer? Is that why I prefer to be alone with my thoughts most of the time?

I have a few kindred spirits who may enjoy indulging my wild thoughts and becoming avatars of the present tense with me. These spirits are few, but growing. I know it.

I don’t often go looking for these spirits. They often find me. They see me and think I could be like them. Often times I am, because I am like everybody sometimes.

Everybody is a nice affectation, sure, but it’s very heavy. Billions of personalities, even if they only weigh an ounce each, still make billions of pounds. I don’t like carrying a bag of faces on my back. I like holding my face to the sky. I know there are others, but I’m just sucky at finding them.

I’m running in circles now. But what is life if not cyclical?


Renewed Interest

Today marks the first day of the rest of my writing life, which comes as no shock to myself. I’ve recently been contemplating what kind of writer I should be in my life. By recently, I should probably account for the last ten years of my life, where I’ve churned out snippets and assignments and poems and essays and lots of stream of consciousness work. During this time, I’ve always enjoyed affixing language (usually the English language) to the page, and it’s shifted between the keyboard and the pen with regularity. One day I’ll decide that I’m sick of typing things, because I can’t flow with my brain in the same way that I can when I’m writing with a pen. I can’t achieve the same kind of bravado with every stroke, and it always comes out in a straight line, always knowing when to go to the next line, even when I don’t want it to. I take a pen to paper, and there’s no guarantee what kind of mark is going to come out. I find that terrifically real, and sometimes even terrifying. When I write something on paper, I then have to store it somewhere, and I have no guaranteed method for returning to said documents. I often come back upon them a year and some change later, wondering why I never wrote my genius (ha ha, genius) in a more lasting medium, like a journal. Well, I dislike binding things when they’re such fragile little thoughts, barely conceived by the time they spurt out of my utensil (wow, sexual much?), feebly grinning at me from the page, because they know they’re special. I grin back at them when they’re on an index card, a legal pad, a junior legal pad, a notebook, a sketchbook, a napkin, a piece of printer paper, an interestingly shaped scrap of fabric. I love the words I make, and I’m pretty sure that they love me.

That’s it, I have to write. To write is to continue with my development as a writer (crazy how that works), and the more I do it, the less I worry about what nonfiction really is. For a while, I lived by my own brand of fiction, thinking I was the only person in the world unsatisfied with being a fish weaving together with millions of other fish in the attempt to get away from the sharks and dolphins and diving birds of the world. Then it hit me: I don’t have to be a fish. I don’t have to be a dolphin. I don’t have to be a shark. I don’t have to be a diving bird.

I have to be me. Aidan. I don’t use my own name very often, but when I do, it’s only to ground myself in the life I’ve lived (whether it’s to my advantage or detriment). I know that every second I live is a second in the forward progress of life, the race of the planet, etcetera.

I must write every day. Tall order? Yes. Of course it is. Sometimes I loathe the computer and my desk and my pens and my sketchpads and my printer paper and my notebooks and my index cards. Sometimes I despise food. Sometimes I despise myself for despising all of these things, and sometimes I despise every single one of those things in combination. Why? I don’t know, frankly. This world just has a way of getting to me sometimes. I may not interact with many of its inhabitants, but I know that’s going to change. If I loathe, if I despise, I lose.

I love myself as a human, which is really all I can do at this point.

This day forward, I shall don my skin with resolve to produce.

Excellent. I like today. I’m going to like tomorrow. I am also going to like the next day. I like this outlook, this foresight.



My intent for this blog is to introduce people to my poetry. I enjoy writing and reading it, so I think other people will enjoy reading it as well! If you’re curious, my style is mostly stream of consciousness, and I love connecting things that wouldn’t normally be connected.

I’m currently a junior writing major at DePauw University (down in Greencastle, IN), and this past semester, I made the resolution to designate poetry as my passion. With that existentialist dilemma behind me, I’ve begun to make life decisions based upon my future as a starving artist. I figure a career in editing or copywriting may suit me best, since English probably won’t let me cheat on her (the overbearing mistress!).

Now that we’re nice and familiar with each other, let’s get crackin’ on some poetry!

Swivel Rights

Mannequin rest is a sign of weakness

and cheap plastic.

My staff at Sears believes

that since they look human,

they should receive pay and benefits

like my employees.


I have to keep telling them

that they were built and purchased

for the sole purpose of displaying garments,

and I’m not to blame

for their poor quality of life.


How am I supposed to provide

services for company property?

I’ve tided them over by letting them form

an in-store mannequin union in the basement,

but until they’re legitimate,

They’re not getting a red cent from me.