Manifesto

Cordelia Diamond

Ms. Parham

AP Language and Composition

                                                            Manifesto

I keep too many dead flowers in my room. I guess once I have them it never occurs to me to throw them away.

You can’t really tell when they’re dead; they hold themselves together convincingly enough...

I think that that is rather mischevious on their part.

They’re just empty remanants of life

Just husks.

                        But they are sneaky

            If I look quickly enough I can convince myself that there’s

Actually something there.

                                   

                                    -but there isn’t....

If I touch them they crumble, instantly.

I’m angry because I feel cheated. They weren’t what I expected

I’m sad because they weren’t what I expected.  I’m sad because

                        I expected.

I’m angry because I’m disappointed. I’m foolish because I expected too much.

But I keep them in my room and keep expecting. I don’t look too hard.

I fool myself.

                        And I in turn am a fool

I do this with people too.

I look to them for things that aren’t there. I suspend my disbelief

Indefinitely

I hang my doubt from the gallows.

I won’t allow it to touch down, even though it strangles me.

I want to see my reflection in your heart.

            Values. Morals. Deep discontent. Shallow satisfaction.

More often than not... I see apathy.

The people around me don’t care

            -not really.

And you see; people like me can never be objective, we make everything so personal.

Now why is it that I weep at upon the sight of both beautiful and evil things?

The old man sitting alone in a corner booth at Friendly’s

            Makes me tear up over my sundae.

I wonder about his story. I bite my lip and stare pointedly at my phone as my friend laughs at me.

                        She is right. I’m being silly.

Still-- I can’t help but wonder why I seem to be the only one affected by it.

The sadness, the clarity of that moment.

I feel like I am staring up at two moons

While everyone else stares at one.

                        My empathy is a weakness. It cripples me.

It is not empathy at all. It is a man clutching to the belly of a sheep pretending to be no one.

It’s an impostor! Empathy is reflected emotion, and the whole spectrum of light is absorbed by your emotions when I gaze upon them. So where is my light source?

It is much easier, then, to pretend you are understood.

Much harder to pretend you understand.

In the words of Vonnegut’s Bokonon:

                        I wanted all things

                        To seem to make some sense,

                        So we all could be happy, yes,

                        Instead of tense.

                        And I made up lies

                        So that they all fit nice,

                        And I made this sad world

                        A par-a-dise.

If I am deceived, I am.

           

            But Augustine, what if I deceive myself?

I dismiss the notion. I am not alone. I am not alone, I just haven’t found the words yet.

Yes! They were there once.... but they were too powerful.

“And the Lord said: ‘Behold, they are one people, and they have all one language; and this is what they begin to do; and now nothing will be withholden from them, which they purpose to do.’”

Is god himself afraid of my articulation?

It is no matter. He has no part in this.

He was wrong anyway. One stupid tower means nothing.

A tower is hardly a city! It must be a city. Emerson says that Language is a city to the building of which every human being brought a stone.

Where’s my stone? What am I bringing? Who am I?

            I’m Cordelia Diamond, one of the roughs, a woman, a dedicated taker of naps, a Canaanite, a cynic, a sensitive one. A strong one. A khaleesi. A bad Oedipus.

I speak from under a roof. I speak from privilege.

I speak with a thesaurus. I speak with the internet.

I speak with parental support. I speak with an education.

Do I speak at all?

I feel guilty for the things I have and the things I do.

I do not deserve them. I am not original... though Emerson is wont to forgive me.

            But I don’t forgive myself. My guilt isn’t helping anyone or anything.

I cancel my pity party.

It would have been badly attended anyway.

I shall start the day like Benjamin Franklin;

Rise and ask myself: ‘What good shall I do today?’

            Myself answers.

                        “Everything you can.”

And I can. I can choose to cry over the lonely man at Friendly’s just as much as over the sunset in Ecuador.

           

A good Samaritan performing selfless acts.

            I could be that Samaritan.

            Could or could not I’ll still cry over it.

I’m troubled by this assignment. How could I write about life when I’ve never had a love affair or a baby or even seen anybody die?

Teenagers laugh and cry and yell. That’s all anyone thinks we’re qualified to do anyway.

...And if you aren’t laughing and crying and yelling, then surely you are making someone else do any combination of the above.

I  am a poet of the body and the of the soul.

But my body is changing! Alas, I am the poet of puberty.

My soul is not yet mine—my parents are still working on it.

When will my soul ever be mine?

If I have to ask myself, I know the answer is never.

You see, I have a problem.

It’s an implementation problem- problematic, obviously.

Sometimes I have these revelations, big and small

Sometimes they’re not really revelations at all...

            Sometimes I realize “this is life, this is happening right now”

            “this will never be now again”

am I doing it right?

am I living it right?

am I doing anything?

            It’s too frustrating to think about. I’d much rather sit in front of the television

            or curl up inside a book.

I can project

In projecting I protect my hope

                        Maybe... I can be the same?

My hope stares up at my doubt, swinging in the breeze, rope around neck, and smiles.

 hope knows that doubt is a criminal. hope is satisfied with justice.

.....hope can’t help but remember doubt’s swinging black silhouette.

           

Chances are like fireworks- if you don’t spark ’m up soon enough they’re not ever gonna light up for you.

I’ve had a box of fireworks under my bed for quite some time.

I’m serious.

I guess it could be phrased like this:

I have too many blank journals and empty frames

White paper is a personal insult

            Taunting me:

You’re weak! Weak-willed, weak-spirited!

On the edge of a precipice, feeling light and nervous

The beckons of the joy below

Nervous laughter.

I warn, brow raised in challenge- “Don’t push me!”

            Too bad, I want to be pushed

            I need to be pushed

            It’s safe but I-

Well, not this time.

I am no shiksa.

And my nose only looks button-y from my coat lapel.

            That goddamn angling- 2 degrees more and I’m Gregor

the Russian repairman

Never thought I’d be spending any portion of my life thinking about face angling, but here we are.

You see I don’t think well with my eyes open.

In my sleep I come to closure about a lot of things. I plan things, I realize things

But dreams only.

“They were troubled and feverish hours”

disturbed with dreams that were intangible, that eluded her”

hmm...

....something unattainable (48, chopin)

I keep dreaming that I’m floating in a river with my mom when the current picks up

The current picks up and mom is whisked beyond reach

Mom is whisked beyond reach and I begin to fall behind

I begin to fall behind and I look ahead

I look ahead and there’s the cliff, the waterfall

The cliff! The water fall!

Mom goes over. I don’t.

I keep getting closer to that precipice though

agony, frightened tears-

            Nevermind, I don’t really want to think about this again.

I feel like a space monkey, reading rote “You are not a beautiful and unique snowflake”

I sit on the ground and ignore the ache in my back:

(If Adam and Eve only had their asses and the dirt, why does sitting on the ground hurt?)

I sit:

“You are the same decaying organic matter as everyone else, and we are all a part of the same compost pile” (Palhnuiuk,134)

You’re not special, I’m not special

Don’t you know, they can even take your face and give it to someone else?

            Your heart even

            Limbs even!

            Kidneys odd- if you give one away.

All I want is for things to matter

            To other people I mean

            That starry eyed romantic crap

Those cute rose coloured glasses seem out of fashion now.

           

Apathy is my enemy

            I want to fight it, defeat it

            But apathy feels no need to battle

It just

s

i

t

s

.

Walking towards my car in the school parking lot

I reach behind me in silly gymnastics, trying to snag my keys from the backpack front pocket without pulling everything else out.

I keep walking

Pause. Turn.

Narrowed eyes...

my ticket to a lightshow in Athens is sitting on the ground.

I don’t wonder how it got there. There in my backpack, there on the ground.

 I pick it up, I wouldn’t feel right if I didn’t.

But I stand silent for a few minutes...

...musing about what would happen if I just left it there

What would someone think if they found a ticket to a Greek lightshow in the Brien McMahon parking lot?

They probably wouldn’t think anything, or find it. Which depresses me for some reason.

I keep it. I’ll write about it someday.

            -the lightshow, I mean.

When you pursue the things you want you get further from the things you love.

They are not mutually exclusive things, contrary to what we believe

The more I work for a goal the less I work for myself

I have to make my goal myself..

            But let me finish this first- it can wait

Stop!

 I have something to say!