5 day marathons with 20 hours sleep, total.
fettuchine alla crema di scampi, chocolate raspberry truffle, the italian, asian kitchen, and sunroom.
rain.
chicago, with green shoes, and busses.
trenchcoats.
sethela!
crazy, stress-induced explosions of wrestling madness, and being thrown about.
half-assed papers, and apathy.
naps on couches, involving dreams about missing babies, blocked stairwells, and yelling.
qdoba with cath, and the "but i want a STRAW" incident.
drunk (thanks, bradley).
drunk tour II.
the attic, and the drawer full of fire alarms.
fixing my doorknob, tipsy.
almost falling out the window, and the last sounds of the lake.
seeing 7 am from the otherside.
chopping garlic, drinking catabwa juice, and dreaming of international gun-running.
leinenkugel's apple cider.
the wife! the triangle! perfect christmas-going away-valentine's-st. patty's-birthday presents.
caribou.
tirades on conundrums, paradoxical problems, and boys.
kate!
seeing randoms, shopping wildly, and step up. mmm.
these are a few of my favorite things.
Thursday, December 28, 2006
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
say goodnight and go
he starts to say
i feel like -
- we're caught in a cage, she finishes.
they were always good at finishing.
he smiles.
yea, he says.
non-favorite things:
male-chavinists and misogynism
7 hours sleep in 72 hours
16 page papers
being afraid of the dark
saying goodbye
favorite things:
imogen heap in the kitchen
drinking fat squirrel while dancing
making bread
hugs
cute TA's
eggers
1) thoughts are made of water and water always finds a way.
2) if you can't dodge the water, run.
Why d'ya have to be so cute? | It's impossible to ignore you | Must you make me laugh so much | It's bad enough we get along so well
Friday, December 15, 2006
all of this
how many birds have died in cages, thinking the ceiling was the sky?
use me c’mon and use me
da da da da dum da da dum da da dum dum
da da da da dum dum
and all again I wait for this to fill the hole, to shake the sky in two
wait...there is a light...there is a fire
illuminated attic.
Fate? or something better? i could care less,
just stay with me a while
da da da da dum da da dum da da dum dum
da da da da dum dum
a cloud hangs over this city by the sea
please do persist, boy its time we met and made a mess.
he would splash paint across the great back of that invisible elephant, beg her to watch as the color dripped down its sides,
as it was elucidated.
he would try to bring it up, saying
that he was sorry, that even though he couldn't explain why
all he could do was love her.
and she would sigh, sad.
she would move as if to walk away, and he would rise, she would push her hands against his chest, holding her palms steady for a moment,
pressing down hard.
don't, she would say.
the slow jangle of a banjo, the first chords, would drift from the stereo, 'for the widows' following her footprints through the sand as she disappears behind the shelf, climbing steady down the rock face toward the ocean.
that was how he would find her, an hour before sunrise.
illuminated by the reflection of the moon off the rough pacific surf, she would stand, there in the steaming wake of a beached whale.
its grey skin drying, sending
life
evaporating into thin air.
she would bend, hold her body to his massive side, and rise slowly as he inhaled.
he would ask if she could forgive him, and she would say
look how quiet he is.
he was lost, and panicked; somehow,
he found himself too far along to turn back,
and now he's dying.
we could push,
maybe call the coastguard, he says.
and she would say
but look how quiet he is.
…and people are always runnin around giving their forever away…
i gave me away
i could have knocked off the evening
but i lonelily loomed him into my bone
i feel like -
- we're caught in a cage, she finishes.
they were always good at finishing.
he smiles.
yea, he says.
da da da da dum da da dum da da dum dum da da da da dum dum
use me c’mon and use me
da da da da dum da da dum da da dum dum
da da da da dum dum
and all again I wait for this to fill the hole, to shake the sky in two
wait...there is a light...there is a fire
illuminated attic.
Fate? or something better? i could care less,
just stay with me a while
da da da da dum da da dum da da dum dum
da da da da dum dum
a cloud hangs over this city by the sea
please do persist, boy its time we met and made a mess.
he would splash paint across the great back of that invisible elephant, beg her to watch as the color dripped down its sides,
as it was elucidated.
he would try to bring it up, saying
that he was sorry, that even though he couldn't explain why
all he could do was love her.
and she would sigh, sad.
she would move as if to walk away, and he would rise, she would push her hands against his chest, holding her palms steady for a moment,
pressing down hard.
don't, she would say.
the slow jangle of a banjo, the first chords, would drift from the stereo, 'for the widows' following her footprints through the sand as she disappears behind the shelf, climbing steady down the rock face toward the ocean.
that was how he would find her, an hour before sunrise.
illuminated by the reflection of the moon off the rough pacific surf, she would stand, there in the steaming wake of a beached whale.
its grey skin drying, sending
life
evaporating into thin air.
she would bend, hold her body to his massive side, and rise slowly as he inhaled.
he would ask if she could forgive him, and she would say
look how quiet he is.
he was lost, and panicked; somehow,
he found himself too far along to turn back,
and now he's dying.
we could push,
maybe call the coastguard, he says.
and she would say
but look how quiet he is.
…and people are always runnin around giving their forever away…
i gave me away
i could have knocked off the evening
but i lonelily loomed him into my bone
i feel like -
- we're caught in a cage, she finishes.
they were always good at finishing.
he smiles.
yea, he says.
da da da da dum da da dum da da dum dum da da da da dum dum
Sunday, December 10, 2006
the denial twist
if you think that a kiss is all in the lips | c'mon | you got it all wrong, man
peach riesling + cloves + race rants. j. newsom! at the union, in the great hall, for free. the threat of a hipster riot. accordians, banjos, bass drums, glockenspiels, and musical saws. oh, and the harp. oblivious celebrity sightings in bathrooms. moon conversations and back-route wanderings with 99 stabbers. bruised palms. sleeping in when i really shouldn't be, feeling guilty about it, and then falling asleep again. signing leases [meaning: i have somewhere to live next year.] accidentally calling my lovelies, and not realizing it. winding up to wind it way down, and being terrified to say goodbye.
and there was a booming above you | that night, black airplanes flew over the sea | and they were lowing and shifting like | beached whales
peach riesling + cloves + race rants. j. newsom! at the union, in the great hall, for free. the threat of a hipster riot. accordians, banjos, bass drums, glockenspiels, and musical saws. oh, and the harp. oblivious celebrity sightings in bathrooms. moon conversations and back-route wanderings with 99 stabbers. bruised palms. sleeping in when i really shouldn't be, feeling guilty about it, and then falling asleep again. signing leases [meaning: i have somewhere to live next year.] accidentally calling my lovelies, and not realizing it. winding up to wind it way down, and being terrified to say goodbye.
and there was a booming above you | that night, black airplanes flew over the sea | and they were lowing and shifting like | beached whales
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
i like a man who grins when he fights
three stories i loved when i was ten:
1) harriet the spy
2) a wind in the door
3) from the mixed-up files of mrs. basil e. frankweiler
why?
who doesn't want to run away and live in the metropolitan museum of art? [see the royal tenenbaums for further evidence of the merit of such adventures; margot and richie tenenbaum, at ages similar to claudia and jamie of mrs. basil... ran away to the natural history museum in new york city and slept surrounded by dinosaur skeletons and the taxidermied bodies of mammoths, saber-toothed tigers, and the {famous further thanks to wes anderson} "squid and the whale." man, what i wouldn't give to be a kid in new york city. everyone gets to hide somewhere fascinating!]
who didn't pretend to belong to an elite spy association? i did this while hiding in my bushes with a notebook, invisible-ink pen, and 'tape recorder' (actually a defunct-walkman), recording my every mundane observation about the obnoxiously-boringly-normal neighbors and the wonder-bread delivery man who came every wednesday afternoon. i also hid stores of ordinary stones, maple leaves, and paperbirch sticks in my shed. this was quite obviously for an emergency, in case i had to live there for an extended period of time, such as if i were to be discovered and had to run away. [i had no other choice of location, not living nearby a museum interesting enough to hide within.]
what child didn't want a drove of dragons hanging about in their garden, their mitochondrian/farandolae having mental breakdowns and needing internal adventures, and a black psychic garter snake named louise living in their stone wall? i sure did. also, further evidence of said desires: see the episode(s) of jim henson's muppet babies in which the babies must escape the nursery in order to adventure inside a) skooter and his broken immune system, taking trips into the memory files of his brain and flying around his bloodstream in a submarine, and b) in order to prevent the watermelon seed fozzie swallowed from becoming a sizeable fruit. those two really only refer to the internal adventures aspect, but i did write a paper in a.p. bio about a wind in the door, and ms. kahlstorf wanted me to research further on the existence/importance of farandolae, as scientists at this point in time are aware of only the importance of mitochondrian. ha!
sleeping in the library last night made me feel as if i partially experienced one of the three, even if it were not in a museum, not for an extended period of time, and not actually illegal. i'd still much rather hide out in the Met, much rather have to hide from security guards in toilets and under artifacts, than to sleep in awkwardly shaped armchairs and wake up to the janitors moving the furniture about. but at least i can pretend, right? right.
¿me deseas? necesito saber antes de salir por los bosques, antes de salir por las islas, porque me he vuelto muy loca, y te amo. esta es la verdad. no el tipo de amor que es en las películas, no entre las personas viejas que han casado por muchos años, no el tipo de amor que es profundo en el corazón. esta es un tipo de amor fugaz, y no quiero amarte. pero hago.
favorites: [charlie] and [hard to concentrate] by the red hot chili peppers. greys marathons. [emily] by j. newsom. tomato-basil-cheese pizza, after consuming nothing but (1) cup coffee in 24 hours. [violent pornography] by system of a down. being cranky. [for the widows...] by s. stevens. dark jeans that make a) my ass look good and b) me look tall + my houndstooth heels. [winter] by j. radin. hot tomales and peanut butter m&m's. [globalization and its discontents as sung by joseph stiglitz] by sean (unknown). having my window open again (even though its -3 degrees outside).
non-favorites: wisconsin winter weather and waiting to waltz my way to ecuador (oh, i am good. look at that alliteration!) the impending doom of finals week. making appointments at the ecuadorian consulate in chicago. trying to sign a lease in the midst of a shitstorm, all by myself. knowing i am going to miss people i don't want to be missing. knowing i am going to miss people i want to be missing. flakes. not sleeping.
i like a man who grins when he fights [ ear to ear. it's the irish in me. ]
1) harriet the spy
2) a wind in the door
3) from the mixed-up files of mrs. basil e. frankweiler
why?
who doesn't want to run away and live in the metropolitan museum of art? [see the royal tenenbaums for further evidence of the merit of such adventures; margot and richie tenenbaum, at ages similar to claudia and jamie of mrs. basil... ran away to the natural history museum in new york city and slept surrounded by dinosaur skeletons and the taxidermied bodies of mammoths, saber-toothed tigers, and the {famous further thanks to wes anderson} "squid and the whale." man, what i wouldn't give to be a kid in new york city. everyone gets to hide somewhere fascinating!]
who didn't pretend to belong to an elite spy association? i did this while hiding in my bushes with a notebook, invisible-ink pen, and 'tape recorder' (actually a defunct-walkman), recording my every mundane observation about the obnoxiously-boringly-normal neighbors and the wonder-bread delivery man who came every wednesday afternoon. i also hid stores of ordinary stones, maple leaves, and paperbirch sticks in my shed. this was quite obviously for an emergency, in case i had to live there for an extended period of time, such as if i were to be discovered and had to run away. [i had no other choice of location, not living nearby a museum interesting enough to hide within.]
what child didn't want a drove of dragons hanging about in their garden, their mitochondrian/farandolae having mental breakdowns and needing internal adventures, and a black psychic garter snake named louise living in their stone wall? i sure did. also, further evidence of said desires: see the episode(s) of jim henson's muppet babies in which the babies must escape the nursery in order to adventure inside a) skooter and his broken immune system, taking trips into the memory files of his brain and flying around his bloodstream in a submarine, and b) in order to prevent the watermelon seed fozzie swallowed from becoming a sizeable fruit. those two really only refer to the internal adventures aspect, but i did write a paper in a.p. bio about a wind in the door, and ms. kahlstorf wanted me to research further on the existence/importance of farandolae, as scientists at this point in time are aware of only the importance of mitochondrian. ha!
sleeping in the library last night made me feel as if i partially experienced one of the three, even if it were not in a museum, not for an extended period of time, and not actually illegal. i'd still much rather hide out in the Met, much rather have to hide from security guards in toilets and under artifacts, than to sleep in awkwardly shaped armchairs and wake up to the janitors moving the furniture about. but at least i can pretend, right? right.
¿me deseas? necesito saber antes de salir por los bosques, antes de salir por las islas, porque me he vuelto muy loca, y te amo. esta es la verdad. no el tipo de amor que es en las películas, no entre las personas viejas que han casado por muchos años, no el tipo de amor que es profundo en el corazón. esta es un tipo de amor fugaz, y no quiero amarte. pero hago.
favorites: [charlie] and [hard to concentrate] by the red hot chili peppers. greys marathons. [emily] by j. newsom. tomato-basil-cheese pizza, after consuming nothing but (1) cup coffee in 24 hours. [violent pornography] by system of a down. being cranky. [for the widows...] by s. stevens. dark jeans that make a) my ass look good and b) me look tall + my houndstooth heels. [winter] by j. radin. hot tomales and peanut butter m&m's. [globalization and its discontents as sung by joseph stiglitz] by sean (unknown). having my window open again (even though its -3 degrees outside).
non-favorites: wisconsin winter weather and waiting to waltz my way to ecuador (oh, i am good. look at that alliteration!) the impending doom of finals week. making appointments at the ecuadorian consulate in chicago. trying to sign a lease in the midst of a shitstorm, all by myself. knowing i am going to miss people i don't want to be missing. knowing i am going to miss people i want to be missing. flakes. not sleeping.
i like a man who grins when he fights [ ear to ear. it's the irish in me. ]
Sunday, November 26, 2006
beautiful songs, nervous hearts, and awkward jazz.
like a nervous heart that | is crazy beating | so back up back up | don’t you mess up mess up | wake up wake up this aint just a thing that you | give up give up don’t you say that I’d be | better off
hiding in my basement, drinking jazzy red wine and telling stories from the past three months. dunn brothers study sessions and awkwardly adorable crazy elderly person #1 [the elf lady]. stress-induced breakouts. happy feet! insomnia. unexpected and emotionally unsettling messages.
and all the gold dust in her eyes | won't reform into rain | you had and lost the one thing | of the girl who made you her own | and how you left her alone | over playing the blues with the light on
DEAD POETS SOCIETY (i still have a crush on nuanda). mashed potatoes and pumpkin pie and being mistaken for my cousin repeatedly by my grandfather. impromptu meetings in the living room when he goes missing, and reappears at the park. tiny relations attempting to leap from platforms and dinner tables.
tense hour long dramas involving (future) baby-doctors and surgeons with shaky fingers.
m: please? please please please? [cute rocking]
mcd: you know what would say thank you better than anything? [mouths] "sex."
m: the-boy-induced-giggle giggling
babe here's your song | babe it took too long | you're nina simone | when you talk on the phone
really bad movies about gymnastics. travel clinic appointments in which i am told repeatedly of the many ways in which i could die. and also of the many ways in which the vaccinations i am receiving [ouch!] could also kill me. but that 95% of people who go adventuring into the jungle have a wonderful time. thanks. caribou, and awkwardly adorable crazy elderly person #2 [the old man with the broken zipper]. to rookies! for the playing bosbens and crowds of drunken ex-high school hotshots. awkward? hilarious? both?
come on put a little love here in my void| he said, "It's all in your head"| and I said, "so's everything'" but he didn't get it| hunger hurts, but starving works, when it costs too much to love
to kate's, for conan. in which there is a comic who tells the following jokes:
"now, i'm one of those people who has a tendency to make awkward situations even more awkward. so i was moving into my apartment, and i'm carrying my mattress. this old woman opens the door for me, which i thought was nice. then she says to me, 'i let you in because i know you're not a rapist. rapists don't have beds like that.' that's a pretty awkward way to start a conversation. what i should of said - nothing. what did i say? 'you'd be surprised.'"
"i'm not a republican, but i guess george w. is a pretty likeable guy. i mean, he's one of those guys you'd invite to a barbeque. but then things could start to get out of control. he'd probably want to play wiffel ball, but he'd get a little competitive, and he'd hit the wiffel balls into the neighbors' yards. tell them they should play wiffel ball too. some people just don't like wiffel ball! but he wouldn't care. if they didn't play with him, he'd start throwing hamburgers at them. dare them to throw hamburgers back. and the thing is - some of them don't even have hamburgers!'"
every word you say | i think | i should write down | don't want to forget come daylight
to my cousin's house. where 3 giant dogs sit on my lap and cover me in kisses. hugs from dominic, panera baked potato soup and awkward cole-aversions. waiting for hours, photo shoots in the mummy sack, gollum, scene it! and annoying orders about parked cars. breakfast at brueggers. sledge-hammering my doorknob off.
[the little things] and [bubbly] : c. caillat.
[star mile] [these photographs] and [paperweight] : j. radin (feat. schuyler fisk).
[paper bag] : f. apple.
[bleeker street] [the times...] [go tell it...] and [peggy-o] : simon & garfunkel
[elias w. beautiful soul & if i am] : the bosbens
[peach, plum, pear] : j. newsom
voices leaking from a sad cafe | smiling faces try to understand | i saw a shadow touch a shadow's hand | on bleeker street
hiding in my basement, drinking jazzy red wine and telling stories from the past three months. dunn brothers study sessions and awkwardly adorable crazy elderly person #1 [the elf lady]. stress-induced breakouts. happy feet! insomnia. unexpected and emotionally unsettling messages.
and all the gold dust in her eyes | won't reform into rain | you had and lost the one thing | of the girl who made you her own | and how you left her alone | over playing the blues with the light on
DEAD POETS SOCIETY (i still have a crush on nuanda). mashed potatoes and pumpkin pie and being mistaken for my cousin repeatedly by my grandfather. impromptu meetings in the living room when he goes missing, and reappears at the park. tiny relations attempting to leap from platforms and dinner tables.
tense hour long dramas involving (future) baby-doctors and surgeons with shaky fingers.
m: please? please please please? [cute rocking]
mcd: you know what would say thank you better than anything? [mouths] "sex."
m: the-boy-induced-giggle giggling
babe here's your song | babe it took too long | you're nina simone | when you talk on the phone
really bad movies about gymnastics. travel clinic appointments in which i am told repeatedly of the many ways in which i could die. and also of the many ways in which the vaccinations i am receiving [ouch!] could also kill me. but that 95% of people who go adventuring into the jungle have a wonderful time. thanks. caribou, and awkwardly adorable crazy elderly person #2 [the old man with the broken zipper]. to rookies! for the playing bosbens and crowds of drunken ex-high school hotshots. awkward? hilarious? both?
come on put a little love here in my void| he said, "It's all in your head"| and I said, "so's everything'" but he didn't get it| hunger hurts, but starving works, when it costs too much to love
to kate's, for conan. in which there is a comic who tells the following jokes:
"now, i'm one of those people who has a tendency to make awkward situations even more awkward. so i was moving into my apartment, and i'm carrying my mattress. this old woman opens the door for me, which i thought was nice. then she says to me, 'i let you in because i know you're not a rapist. rapists don't have beds like that.' that's a pretty awkward way to start a conversation. what i should of said - nothing. what did i say? 'you'd be surprised.'"
"i'm not a republican, but i guess george w. is a pretty likeable guy. i mean, he's one of those guys you'd invite to a barbeque. but then things could start to get out of control. he'd probably want to play wiffel ball, but he'd get a little competitive, and he'd hit the wiffel balls into the neighbors' yards. tell them they should play wiffel ball too. some people just don't like wiffel ball! but he wouldn't care. if they didn't play with him, he'd start throwing hamburgers at them. dare them to throw hamburgers back. and the thing is - some of them don't even have hamburgers!'"
every word you say | i think | i should write down | don't want to forget come daylight
to my cousin's house. where 3 giant dogs sit on my lap and cover me in kisses. hugs from dominic, panera baked potato soup and awkward cole-aversions. waiting for hours, photo shoots in the mummy sack, gollum, scene it! and annoying orders about parked cars. breakfast at brueggers. sledge-hammering my doorknob off.
[the little things] and [bubbly] : c. caillat.
[star mile] [these photographs] and [paperweight] : j. radin (feat. schuyler fisk).
[paper bag] : f. apple.
[bleeker street] [the times...] [go tell it...] and [peggy-o] : simon & garfunkel
[elias w. beautiful soul & if i am] : the bosbens
[peach, plum, pear] : j. newsom
voices leaking from a sad cafe | smiling faces try to understand | i saw a shadow touch a shadow's hand | on bleeker street
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
j. newsom is a genius
That means no Where i come from I am cold, out waiting for the day to come
I chew my lips And i scratch my nose Feels so good to be a rose
Oh don't Don't you lift me up Like i'm that shy no-no-no-no-no, just give it up
See, there are bats all dissolving in a row Into the wishy-washy dark that can't let go I cannot let go
So i thank the lord And i thank his sword Though it be mincing up the morning, slightly bored Oh
oh oh, morning Without warning Like a hole Oh, and i watch you go
There are some mornings when the sky looks like a road There are some dragons who were built to have and hold And some machines are dropped from great heights lovingly And some great bellies ache with many bumblebees And they sting so terribly
I do as i please Now i'm on my knees Your skin is something that i stir into my tea And i am watching you And you are starry, starry, starry
(and you will never Ever know how Very sorry you will be ... I am)
And i'm tumbling down And i check a frown Well just look around That's why i love this town To see me;
Serenaded hourly Celebrated sourly Dedicated dourly
Waltzing with the open sea Clam, crab, cockle, cowrie
Will you just look at me! Oh, oh, oh, oh Oh, oh, oh, oh
[clam crab cockle cowrie] - j. newsom
I chew my lips And i scratch my nose Feels so good to be a rose
Oh don't Don't you lift me up Like i'm that shy no-no-no-no-no, just give it up
See, there are bats all dissolving in a row Into the wishy-washy dark that can't let go I cannot let go
So i thank the lord And i thank his sword Though it be mincing up the morning, slightly bored Oh
oh oh, morning Without warning Like a hole Oh, and i watch you go
There are some mornings when the sky looks like a road There are some dragons who were built to have and hold And some machines are dropped from great heights lovingly And some great bellies ache with many bumblebees And they sting so terribly
I do as i please Now i'm on my knees Your skin is something that i stir into my tea And i am watching you And you are starry, starry, starry
(and you will never Ever know how Very sorry you will be ... I am)
And i'm tumbling down And i check a frown Well just look around That's why i love this town To see me;
Serenaded hourly Celebrated sourly Dedicated dourly
Waltzing with the open sea Clam, crab, cockle, cowrie
Will you just look at me! Oh, oh, oh, oh Oh, oh, oh, oh
[clam crab cockle cowrie] - j. newsom
Sunday, November 19, 2006
cocktail cascading chaos
you ask why i rebel | why i am loud and angry, bursting.
trust me | there is no answer that could
satisfy
the feeling | in words. perhaps when we are old
[if we are old together] i | will explain everything.
in this moment, all i can say | is that your eyes drive me
crazy.
things to remember:
flying black russians
quiet stovetop conversation
the dirty three
2-for-1 caramel macchiatos
nottingfeast.
alliances, and throwing a martini in my eye.
clementines
green houses on triangle corners
peppermint stick ice cream + amaretto coffee
don't feed me violence | just run with me | through rows of speeding cars
[i always thought the words were "don't feed me violins." somehow, i think either way it's sung is so terribly, tragically beautiful.]
trust me | there is no answer that could
satisfy
the feeling | in words. perhaps when we are old
[if we are old together] i | will explain everything.
in this moment, all i can say | is that your eyes drive me
crazy.
things to remember:
flying black russians
quiet stovetop conversation
the dirty three
2-for-1 caramel macchiatos
nottingfeast.
alliances, and throwing a martini in my eye.
clementines
green houses on triangle corners
peppermint stick ice cream + amaretto coffee
the banquet was in shambles, the velveteen curtains in flames.
twelve young men in suit coats walked in to the middle of the ballroom and starting throwing porcelain. at first, no one knew whether or not to blink, as if perhaps this sort of thing happens all the time beneath actual crystal chandeliers.
[they were wrong. this sort of thing never happens.]
one by one, we joined in. there was stomping. our feet pounded the floor til
rings of sound echoed through the walls, shattering the stems of every wine glass held high. the chaos was thick like smoke, as the chef was crying in the kitchen, clutching the remains of her piano keys. we stayed up all night watching the explosion. you could see it from miles.
don't feed me violence | just run with me | through rows of speeding cars
[i always thought the words were "don't feed me violins." somehow, i think either way it's sung is so terribly, tragically beautiful.]
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
i am crying for wisconsin.
i don't even know what to say.
i'm disgusted.
outraged.
i want to run around the streets and scream.
GAY RIGHTS ARE HUMAN RIGHTS.
marriage as defined: between a man and a woman; is not only discriminatory, but filled with ignorance and blind homophobic hatred. AND not to mention...a deviation on the separation of church and state.
i am crying for wisconsin.
i am raging for wisconsin.
this is the civil rights fight of our generation. there was the suffrage era [thanks, susan b, for the right to VOTE in the first place.] then there was the civil rights movement of the 1950s and 60s. [martin, malcom, rosa...you will be remembered forever for what you've done for this country, and ALL of its people.] now it's OUR turn. OUR turn to fight for the rights of the opressed, those who the state, the government (which is supposed to provide freedoms and equality to all beneath its umbrella of supposed democracy) has passed judgement on, and found wanting, found unwanted, found unworthy of equality. it is OUR turn to stand up and howl that, regardless of bigoted religious-right mouthpieces, regardless of ignorant, cowardly politicians, regardless of the over 1 MiLLiON wisconsinites who voted yes - regardless of every last one, it is OUR turn to stand up and howl that GAY RIGHTS are HUMAN RIGHTS.
i seem angry.
i am angry.
you should be angry, too.
and in this | we find exactly not what we have been searching for | but what we have lost.
those things so beautiful we have forgotten them | and their glorious way of tearing our hearts out.
even in between fragments of time | these things have become like ghosts.
go now | and live in them.
i dare you.
i'm disgusted.
outraged.
i want to run around the streets and scream.
GAY RIGHTS ARE HUMAN RIGHTS.
marriage as defined: between a man and a woman; is not only discriminatory, but filled with ignorance and blind homophobic hatred. AND not to mention...a deviation on the separation of church and state.
i am crying for wisconsin.
i am raging for wisconsin.
this is the civil rights fight of our generation. there was the suffrage era [thanks, susan b, for the right to VOTE in the first place.] then there was the civil rights movement of the 1950s and 60s. [martin, malcom, rosa...you will be remembered forever for what you've done for this country, and ALL of its people.] now it's OUR turn. OUR turn to fight for the rights of the opressed, those who the state, the government (which is supposed to provide freedoms and equality to all beneath its umbrella of supposed democracy) has passed judgement on, and found wanting, found unwanted, found unworthy of equality. it is OUR turn to stand up and howl that, regardless of bigoted religious-right mouthpieces, regardless of ignorant, cowardly politicians, regardless of the over 1 MiLLiON wisconsinites who voted yes - regardless of every last one, it is OUR turn to stand up and howl that GAY RIGHTS are HUMAN RIGHTS.
i seem angry.
i am angry.
you should be angry, too.
and in this | we find exactly not what we have been searching for | but what we have lost.
those things so beautiful we have forgotten them | and their glorious way of tearing our hearts out.
even in between fragments of time | these things have become like ghosts.
go now | and live in them.
i dare you.
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
yea, that's the story of the hurricane
you raise up your head and ask "is this where it is?" | and somebody points to you and says
"it's his"
and you say "what's mine?" | and somebody else says
"where what is?"
and you say "oh my god
am i here all alone?"
because something is happening here
but you don't know what it is
do you, mister jones?
"it's his"
and you say "what's mine?" | and somebody else says
"where what is?"
and you say "oh my god
am i here all alone?"
because something is happening here
but you don't know what it is
do you, mister jones?
Einstein, disguised as Robin Hood | With his memories in a trunk | Passed this way an hour ago With his friend, a jealous monk | He looked so immaculately frightful | As he bummed a cigarette | Then he went off sniffing drainpipes | And reciting the alphabet | Now you would not think to look at him | But he was famous long ago | For playing the electric violin | On Desolation Row
Friday, October 27, 2006
the amazon trail
las islas y los bosques tropicales estan llamando...
when i was little, my parents bought my brother and i three computer games for our old school acer windows 95 system. all three were in the vein of adventure-educational-psuedo creativity inspiring (now, in retrospect, also ridiculous animated depiction of american manifest 'bullshit' destiny and colonization) and they were as follows : the first was the oregon trail [old standard, no explanation needed for any child of the 90s]. the second was the yukon trail [go digging for gold with the klondikes and the 49ers of san fransisco in the rugged alaskan wilderness. use a dog sled! play at a shooting gallery in an oldtime saloon! meet old grizzly men named mountain ted! seriously.] the third, my personal favorite, was the amazon trail.
in this particular version of global exploration, the character meets up with an english speaking 'mestizo' guide [of the gender of your choosing] in the headwaters of the amazon river, and after buying supplies, both set off in a canoe down the fabled waters of the south american lifeblood. upon your journey, you had free choice to stop along the banks of the river to explore further in the jungles [los bosques tropicales] and enjoy the extreme biodiversity. i must admit, combined with many hours of discovery channel rapture, 20+ trips to the minnesota zoo (which has a tropical rainforest exhibit, albeit rather small) and a lust for books some would refer to as unnatural [hush!], i garnered much of my preliminary knowledge of south american flora and fauna while navigating the amazon trail.
the purpose of the game (besides educating youngsters about bromeliads, the dangers of malaria, and the supposed [i.e. mangled] accents of latinoamerica) was to complete a collection of photographs of a specified (50?) number of animals, plants, and locations throughout the amazon. some of these (the bromeliad, fire ants, and red bellied piranhas, etc.) were terribly easy to find, and often sprang unwanted into the frame of your shot, interrupting the act of photographing some other creature. [you think i'm kidding? it's a good thing that the film was magically unlimited. i can't even count how many times i took pictures of trees or slow-moving lizards when i was really aiming for the elusive black-banded anteater, or the hyperactively spastic scarlet tanager.] others were not so easy to find (as i mentioned) and were often found only once or twice throughout the game. as one could not continue navigation without obtaining the photograph (which would then be placed on a mayan shield to be given and studied to indigenous kings at the end of the game, apparently...) it was often a game of patience and frustration.
me: we've been on this section of the river for three weeks!
guide: [in a calm, accented, computerized voice] oops! we already have a picture of that one. let's go back to the river and try again later.
me: i was aiming for the bird!
guide: maybe we will have better luck tomorrow.
the game also included the navigation and exploration of the amazon itself. this was often frustrating as well, because pre-2000 computer animation made it difficult for a trolling mouse movement to navigate a canoe around a giant log deceptively close to the image on the screen.
me: the jaguar was in the tree! [the jaguar was particularly difficult to find, and often turned up swimming in the middle of the amazon, disguised as a log. however, unlike an annoying leak which would appear in your canoe when running across a log, the canoe and all of its contents would tip into said river when running across a jaguar. i'm surprised they didn't design graphics of violent jaguar-eating-humanflesh type scenarios. it would have been more realistic. what self-respecting jaguar wouldn't eat the stupid person who ran over her in the river?!]
there was also the typical 'death news' update from the guide, similar to the 'gary has dysentary' message that occured frequently in the oregon trail. however, this also included side trips and backtracking to various larger villages along the river. which meant that supplies were run-low, money disappeared, and the guide became impatient. also, valuable photographic time was lost, and jaguars and pink river dolphins swam tauntingly close to the boat as you turned in the other direction, and whilst you were unable to photograph them.
guide: you don't look so good. maybe you have a fever.
me: i don't have a fever!
guide: uh oh. you have malaria. we have to find a village, so that you can trade for medication.
me: but i haven't taken a picture of the bird yet!
another part of the amazon trail similar to that of its north-american counterpart was the fish-hunt for food. done with harpoons, there were various types of fish available for consumption along the river.
guide: our supplies are running low. if we don't fish soon, we will starve.
some were as small as the piranha (aka the squirrel of the river), but others were so large as to go about promptly capsizing the canoe if you attempted to catch them (most likely meant to mirror the charging buffalo). and guess what! you can catch weeds. woo. or, even better, electric eels. and rays. which means, aha...
guide: oh no! you have been electrocuted by an eel. your burns require attention. we have to turn back.
just when you thought you were making progress down the river.
i promise i'm not bitter. i LOVED this game. i'm just rather frustrated, as i must admit, i never made it to the end. it was hard! the birds were too quick for my camera. i was much too susceptible to malaria and dengue fever. and my computer froze occasionally, coming back to life only when it was much too late for me to navigate away from a giant waterfall (thus ensuring that i, and my obnoxiously emotionless guide juliana, would have to resume at the beginning of the river. sans all photographs, and carrying harpoons.)
but, all of that will be remedied. as this girl is going to ecuador.
when i was little, my parents bought my brother and i three computer games for our old school acer windows 95 system. all three were in the vein of adventure-educational-psuedo creativity inspiring (now, in retrospect, also ridiculous animated depiction of american manifest 'bullshit' destiny and colonization) and they were as follows : the first was the oregon trail [old standard, no explanation needed for any child of the 90s]. the second was the yukon trail [go digging for gold with the klondikes and the 49ers of san fransisco in the rugged alaskan wilderness. use a dog sled! play at a shooting gallery in an oldtime saloon! meet old grizzly men named mountain ted! seriously.] the third, my personal favorite, was the amazon trail.
in this particular version of global exploration, the character meets up with an english speaking 'mestizo' guide [of the gender of your choosing] in the headwaters of the amazon river, and after buying supplies, both set off in a canoe down the fabled waters of the south american lifeblood. upon your journey, you had free choice to stop along the banks of the river to explore further in the jungles [los bosques tropicales] and enjoy the extreme biodiversity. i must admit, combined with many hours of discovery channel rapture, 20+ trips to the minnesota zoo (which has a tropical rainforest exhibit, albeit rather small) and a lust for books some would refer to as unnatural [hush!], i garnered much of my preliminary knowledge of south american flora and fauna while navigating the amazon trail.
the purpose of the game (besides educating youngsters about bromeliads, the dangers of malaria, and the supposed [i.e. mangled] accents of latinoamerica) was to complete a collection of photographs of a specified (50?) number of animals, plants, and locations throughout the amazon. some of these (the bromeliad, fire ants, and red bellied piranhas, etc.) were terribly easy to find, and often sprang unwanted into the frame of your shot, interrupting the act of photographing some other creature. [you think i'm kidding? it's a good thing that the film was magically unlimited. i can't even count how many times i took pictures of trees or slow-moving lizards when i was really aiming for the elusive black-banded anteater, or the hyperactively spastic scarlet tanager.] others were not so easy to find (as i mentioned) and were often found only once or twice throughout the game. as one could not continue navigation without obtaining the photograph (which would then be placed on a mayan shield to be given and studied to indigenous kings at the end of the game, apparently...) it was often a game of patience and frustration.
me: we've been on this section of the river for three weeks!
guide: [in a calm, accented, computerized voice] oops! we already have a picture of that one. let's go back to the river and try again later.
me: i was aiming for the bird!
guide: maybe we will have better luck tomorrow.
the game also included the navigation and exploration of the amazon itself. this was often frustrating as well, because pre-2000 computer animation made it difficult for a trolling mouse movement to navigate a canoe around a giant log deceptively close to the image on the screen.
me: the jaguar was in the tree! [the jaguar was particularly difficult to find, and often turned up swimming in the middle of the amazon, disguised as a log. however, unlike an annoying leak which would appear in your canoe when running across a log, the canoe and all of its contents would tip into said river when running across a jaguar. i'm surprised they didn't design graphics of violent jaguar-eating-humanflesh type scenarios. it would have been more realistic. what self-respecting jaguar wouldn't eat the stupid person who ran over her in the river?!]
there was also the typical 'death news' update from the guide, similar to the 'gary has dysentary' message that occured frequently in the oregon trail. however, this also included side trips and backtracking to various larger villages along the river. which meant that supplies were run-low, money disappeared, and the guide became impatient. also, valuable photographic time was lost, and jaguars and pink river dolphins swam tauntingly close to the boat as you turned in the other direction, and whilst you were unable to photograph them.
guide: you don't look so good. maybe you have a fever.
me: i don't have a fever!
guide: uh oh. you have malaria. we have to find a village, so that you can trade for medication.
me: but i haven't taken a picture of the bird yet!
another part of the amazon trail similar to that of its north-american counterpart was the fish-hunt for food. done with harpoons, there were various types of fish available for consumption along the river.
guide: our supplies are running low. if we don't fish soon, we will starve.
some were as small as the piranha (aka the squirrel of the river), but others were so large as to go about promptly capsizing the canoe if you attempted to catch them (most likely meant to mirror the charging buffalo). and guess what! you can catch weeds. woo. or, even better, electric eels. and rays. which means, aha...
guide: oh no! you have been electrocuted by an eel. your burns require attention. we have to turn back.
just when you thought you were making progress down the river.
i promise i'm not bitter. i LOVED this game. i'm just rather frustrated, as i must admit, i never made it to the end. it was hard! the birds were too quick for my camera. i was much too susceptible to malaria and dengue fever. and my computer froze occasionally, coming back to life only when it was much too late for me to navigate away from a giant waterfall (thus ensuring that i, and my obnoxiously emotionless guide juliana, would have to resume at the beginning of the river. sans all photographs, and carrying harpoons.)
but, all of that will be remedied. as this girl is going to ecuador.
Saturday, October 14, 2006
. . . yesterday i got lost in the circus . . .
never mind that the nanoseconds in between
are some of the darkest darkness that you've ever seen
i was emotionally healed, for a time. [thanks, ani.]
staying awake for forty hours straight has a tendency to give the world a surreal sort of glow. something about the day rising from the other side of midnight is essential to this surreality - i can't quite wrap my words around the sensation, but it's in between the oxygen and the carbon dioxide that keep out the reflections of the sun for long enough to send a warm buzz across the lake. and by warm, i mean in color, in emotion, in hope and happiness and anthropomorphic imagery, not temperature. it is cold in this city.
but oh, oh, oh what can I say. . . I adore you
i wish i was cold. but then you go and give me that look, the one with the tired eyes, the pirate smile, and somehow, i manage to find myself apologetic. how does that happen? i wish i was angry. it's exhausting, though. i think that's mostly why i give it up; i'm too sleep deprived to deal with anything more emotionally taxing than a rainy day.
but you can't fool the queen, baby
nancy died in september. the last time i saw her, i knew it was the last time. she knew it was the last time. we reached across the counter top and clung to each other. . . she was so frantically happy, it broke my heart. she kept saying,
"'it's so good to see you!
it's so good to see you!
look at you,
you're beautiful,
and all grown up."
neither of us said anything about it. but it was there, hovering. the reason we were both so terribly sad. how could i have known? do you get that feeling every time, when you have seen someone for the last time? because i've never felt that way before. does that mean i'll see everyone i've ever known again? somehow i don't think that is true. those five minutes, in the rushing chaos of a saturday at work, some clearance sale and a mass of people, and noise, and one giant fucking mess of a blurred time four years ago...those five minutes are stuck to the inside of my heart. and it hurts.
that is, according to light and gravity | and baby this is you, according to me
october is sinking into my bones. i used to love october. i have a jar of dried leaves from freshman year in high school, and they still smell like brittle yellow oak. they still smell that way, the way that fall smells. six years ago, i carried a handfull of leaves in my sweatshirt from the douglas trail. that scent swept into my nose and i had to get off of my bike, i had to stop right there in the middle of the trail, to keep it in, soak it into my skin. i picked them up, all crispy and fallen and fragile, and i pushed them into my pocket. carried them home. and they still smell that way. every time i come home from school, i smell the jar, just to find it again, that feeling. that sense of urgency, of terrible violent beauty. i used to love october.
i am holding my breath | i am feigning my death | when I'm looking in your direction
[moments]
quiet heaving, gentle rocking.
the path of one leaf through the air, from the tree to the ground.
warm hands on soft stomache flesh.
falling in to sleep.
sonic resonance in a stairwell.
hot water early in the morning.
being bare, and watching trust seep.
making up songs and words and singin from the soul | he got up to his feet and he sang hallelujah
are some of the darkest darkness that you've ever seen
i was emotionally healed, for a time. [thanks, ani.]
staying awake for forty hours straight has a tendency to give the world a surreal sort of glow. something about the day rising from the other side of midnight is essential to this surreality - i can't quite wrap my words around the sensation, but it's in between the oxygen and the carbon dioxide that keep out the reflections of the sun for long enough to send a warm buzz across the lake. and by warm, i mean in color, in emotion, in hope and happiness and anthropomorphic imagery, not temperature. it is cold in this city.
but oh, oh, oh what can I say. . . I adore you
i wish i was cold. but then you go and give me that look, the one with the tired eyes, the pirate smile, and somehow, i manage to find myself apologetic. how does that happen? i wish i was angry. it's exhausting, though. i think that's mostly why i give it up; i'm too sleep deprived to deal with anything more emotionally taxing than a rainy day.
but you can't fool the queen, baby
nancy died in september. the last time i saw her, i knew it was the last time. she knew it was the last time. we reached across the counter top and clung to each other. . . she was so frantically happy, it broke my heart. she kept saying,
"'it's so good to see you!
it's so good to see you!
look at you,
you're beautiful,
and all grown up."
neither of us said anything about it. but it was there, hovering. the reason we were both so terribly sad. how could i have known? do you get that feeling every time, when you have seen someone for the last time? because i've never felt that way before. does that mean i'll see everyone i've ever known again? somehow i don't think that is true. those five minutes, in the rushing chaos of a saturday at work, some clearance sale and a mass of people, and noise, and one giant fucking mess of a blurred time four years ago...those five minutes are stuck to the inside of my heart. and it hurts.
that is, according to light and gravity | and baby this is you, according to me
october is sinking into my bones. i used to love october. i have a jar of dried leaves from freshman year in high school, and they still smell like brittle yellow oak. they still smell that way, the way that fall smells. six years ago, i carried a handfull of leaves in my sweatshirt from the douglas trail. that scent swept into my nose and i had to get off of my bike, i had to stop right there in the middle of the trail, to keep it in, soak it into my skin. i picked them up, all crispy and fallen and fragile, and i pushed them into my pocket. carried them home. and they still smell that way. every time i come home from school, i smell the jar, just to find it again, that feeling. that sense of urgency, of terrible violent beauty. i used to love october.
i am holding my breath | i am feigning my death | when I'm looking in your direction
[moments]
quiet heaving, gentle rocking.
the path of one leaf through the air, from the tree to the ground.
warm hands on soft stomache flesh.
falling in to sleep.
sonic resonance in a stairwell.
hot water early in the morning.
being bare, and watching trust seep.
making up songs and words and singin from the soul | he got up to his feet and he sang hallelujah
Monday, October 09, 2006
elephants > people.
their hearts and minds are bursting with emotion, and all the world sees is ivory and a circus tent.
if they live long enough, they forget everything.
most of them don't live that long. nine out of ten are slaughtered in their prime, decades before their memories have started to drain. i speak of the majority, then, when i say it is true what you've heard: they never forget.
they themselves think this accounts for their size. some go so far as to claim that under that thunderhead of flesh and those huge rolling bones they are memory. they contain memory, yes, but what may not be so well known is that they are doomed without it. when their memories begin to drain, their bodies go into decline, as if from a slow leakage of blood.
before then, every odour they have ever sucked into their trunks, every flicker of sunlight they have ever doused with their tremendous shadows is preserved inside them as a perfect and instantly retrievable moment. they rarely ask, do you remember? the remembering is taken for granted. it is the noticing that they question: did you smell that? did you see it?
they see better than you may imagine. don't believe the stories about their being half blind. they gaze at the horizon, make out what's there, and unlike the carnivores are never dazzled by a herd of moving zebras. if the herd is close enough they can pick out individuals, knowing them by their stripes alone and from a brief look years earlier. the precise tenor of the wind that lowed in the acacias that day, how the sun slammed down through the foliage - these accompany the memory and are re-experienced, and what was scarcely noticed at the time can now be dwelt upon.
suppose, off to one side, waves of salt dust had swirled up from the pan. in memory, they can turn their gaze on the waves and ponder this phenomenon of a lake bed dreaming its lost lake.
which may start them weeping. to a degree that we would call maudlin they are sentimental; even the big bulls are. any kind of loss or yearning breaks their hearts.
- prologue from THE WHITE BONE [barbara gowdy]
if they live long enough, they forget everything.
most of them don't live that long. nine out of ten are slaughtered in their prime, decades before their memories have started to drain. i speak of the majority, then, when i say it is true what you've heard: they never forget.
they themselves think this accounts for their size. some go so far as to claim that under that thunderhead of flesh and those huge rolling bones they are memory. they contain memory, yes, but what may not be so well known is that they are doomed without it. when their memories begin to drain, their bodies go into decline, as if from a slow leakage of blood.
before then, every odour they have ever sucked into their trunks, every flicker of sunlight they have ever doused with their tremendous shadows is preserved inside them as a perfect and instantly retrievable moment. they rarely ask, do you remember? the remembering is taken for granted. it is the noticing that they question: did you smell that? did you see it?
they see better than you may imagine. don't believe the stories about their being half blind. they gaze at the horizon, make out what's there, and unlike the carnivores are never dazzled by a herd of moving zebras. if the herd is close enough they can pick out individuals, knowing them by their stripes alone and from a brief look years earlier. the precise tenor of the wind that lowed in the acacias that day, how the sun slammed down through the foliage - these accompany the memory and are re-experienced, and what was scarcely noticed at the time can now be dwelt upon.
suppose, off to one side, waves of salt dust had swirled up from the pan. in memory, they can turn their gaze on the waves and ponder this phenomenon of a lake bed dreaming its lost lake.
which may start them weeping. to a degree that we would call maudlin they are sentimental; even the big bulls are. any kind of loss or yearning breaks their hearts.
- prologue from THE WHITE BONE [barbara gowdy]
Thursday, October 05, 2006
hard to concentrate
ceramic mugs of turquoise and brown, with broken handles.
dangerous hugs.
having fabulously precocious breasts. [i meant precocious.]
extremely vivid dreams, seven days straight.
peppermint-eyebright-lavender-lemon verbana tea.
"the europeans were awarded five points because sergio garcia was happy" - the onion.
amusing my parents.
procrastinating my ass off, and being completely apathetic about it.
impulsively buying things from amazon.com. things being namely grey's anatomy.
molly, and her infatuation with mohawked men.
running six miles [minus the terrible muscle cramps the next day.]
greenbush donuts and coffee.
tofu.
having small yet meaningful moments remembered by others.
awkward situations in library easy chairs.
morning dog kisses.
And finally you have found | Here we go.
dangerous hugs.
having fabulously precocious breasts. [i meant precocious.]
extremely vivid dreams, seven days straight.
peppermint-eyebright-lavender-lemon verbana tea.
"the europeans were awarded five points because sergio garcia was happy" - the onion.
amusing my parents.
procrastinating my ass off, and being completely apathetic about it.
impulsively buying things from amazon.com. things being namely grey's anatomy.
molly, and her infatuation with mohawked men.
running six miles [minus the terrible muscle cramps the next day.]
greenbush donuts and coffee.
tofu.
having small yet meaningful moments remembered by others.
awkward situations in library easy chairs.
morning dog kisses.
And finally you have found | Here we go.
Thursday, September 28, 2006
got these far away blues
i have three overwhelming new adorations:
grey's anatomy [thursday night happiness].
dr. preston burke [my new tv doctor of choice].
joe purdy, and his beautiful voice [heart-breaking folk music].
i just felt like i should maybe admit to these obsessions before they consume me.
i love rain most, when it stops.
making bananas foster and spinach quiche lorraine for dinner. being an insomniac [again] and thus really appreciating the comfort of my bed. filming a photo essay of my castle. dangerous hugs. dreaming [in spanish] about sobbing about fruit. indulging even when i don't have time. angelhair pasta, challah bread, sweet potatoes, peaches, tomato cayenne bread with raspberry jam, and peanut-butter covered pretzels.
the lake is angry, and beating itself against the shores.
we weather together it's never a feather your mother my father they sever the ties. they sever the tether that holds us together, the tether we sever is breaking our minds.
this girl's got a twitch, you son of a bitch, we are made to abstain: the cure for the uncommon itch. my name sounds the same when you say it like that, but i can't stand the rain much longer.
sing me a song oh bastard faced-liar, i know you can hum the tune of the sweet. even between lines you spin higher and higher, but i'm never enough of a melody to complete.
messiah, medusa, la musa, they call me. with fog horns and sickles together we'll be. you're reckless, i'm headless- my heart in the dungeon; with needles and telegraphs together we'll be.
these maps that you're leaving around in my easy chairs are covered in blood and fallacy ridden. stop wasting my time with your decaying red banter, i'd handle the truth if you wouldn't keep it so hidden.
bare polka dot patterns rip my ribs all to dust. and the old chinese rooster is beginning to rust. bury me bury me, in sand made of seaweed, we'll never love no one whose clocks mutter their trust.
we weather together it's never a feather your mother my father they sever the ties. they sever the tether that holds us together, the tether we sever is breaking our minds.
I'm so selfish | Won't you forgive me my haste | But I hope you last forever | At least all of my days.
grey's anatomy [thursday night happiness].
dr. preston burke [my new tv doctor of choice].
joe purdy, and his beautiful voice [heart-breaking folk music].
i just felt like i should maybe admit to these obsessions before they consume me.
i love rain most, when it stops.
making bananas foster and spinach quiche lorraine for dinner. being an insomniac [again] and thus really appreciating the comfort of my bed. filming a photo essay of my castle. dangerous hugs. dreaming [in spanish] about sobbing about fruit. indulging even when i don't have time. angelhair pasta, challah bread, sweet potatoes, peaches, tomato cayenne bread with raspberry jam, and peanut-butter covered pretzels.
the lake is angry, and beating itself against the shores.
we weather together it's never a feather your mother my father they sever the ties. they sever the tether that holds us together, the tether we sever is breaking our minds.
this girl's got a twitch, you son of a bitch, we are made to abstain: the cure for the uncommon itch. my name sounds the same when you say it like that, but i can't stand the rain much longer.
sing me a song oh bastard faced-liar, i know you can hum the tune of the sweet. even between lines you spin higher and higher, but i'm never enough of a melody to complete.
messiah, medusa, la musa, they call me. with fog horns and sickles together we'll be. you're reckless, i'm headless- my heart in the dungeon; with needles and telegraphs together we'll be.
these maps that you're leaving around in my easy chairs are covered in blood and fallacy ridden. stop wasting my time with your decaying red banter, i'd handle the truth if you wouldn't keep it so hidden.
bare polka dot patterns rip my ribs all to dust. and the old chinese rooster is beginning to rust. bury me bury me, in sand made of seaweed, we'll never love no one whose clocks mutter their trust.
we weather together it's never a feather your mother my father they sever the ties. they sever the tether that holds us together, the tether we sever is breaking our minds.
I'm so selfish | Won't you forgive me my haste | But I hope you last forever | At least all of my days.
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
like a polaroid picture
you and your unrestrained affection, shy or squirrely or calm and quiet-like, make me feel loved regardless of how horrible the day has been. sometimes it's only for a few moments, but you are why i know it's no mistake that i am allergic to cats.
you make me want to cry. scream. throw myself at you. call you out on your assface behavior. but i want me to be better than that. god dammit! i am a porcupine. keep (unknowingly?) pushing my buttons, and i'll spit fire. [i hate ambivalence. i've never said that before. i'll never say it again - i hope.]
you make a strange part of my brain ache. the part that knows i'm doing the right thing, but that misses what was there before. it's an unsettling feeling to realize that you do not want (what you used to so badly) at all anymore. it would be easier to forget any of it happened. can't.
you make me know that i'm not horrible. and that i'm not going crazy. and that i'm not the only one who feels like throwing f-bombs and rocks at boys. you make me realize truths that settle my soul. and that i can slack off if i want to every once in a while. that indulgence is something a girl really NEEDS when it is necessary. which means that dessert is never a bad thing.
you make me feel like a whole person, except for that you're not here, which makes me sad. but you also make me know that there is a lot more to a really good friendship than physical presence. you are the proof that there are people who will be there and understand and love no matter what, regardless of petty problems and busy-ness and distance. it doesn't matter if we aren't in the same place for a while. as terribly depressing and painful (seriously, it aches sometimes...) as it is, we'll be good. and knowing that makes me happy.
you and your curly hair and your lunch offerings make me smile. just a little bit. i've got no overwhelming hopes for anything, but whenever i see a broken mirror, i think of you.
you and your goofy smile make me feel like everything is all right in the world. like all of my sins are forgiven, regardless of my heathen ways, or my drunken ramblings, or my 'faulty' politics. you are more accepting than i expected, and this gives me hope for the world.
you have no idea how much it meant to me that you showed me those pictures. i'll never be able to express it, no matter how i try. thank you.
you assure me that i am loveable. you make me question my ability to love.
you are my collective gorillas. not meaning that you are dumb, because you're all ridiculously smart. you are my collective gorillas, because, if i asked, you would take a bat to anyone if they bothered me. and this i appreciate, more than you will ever know. and as it was referred to in good will hunting, that is called loyalty.
these are my pseudo-love letters. some of them are written with more affection than others. some of them are not love letters at all, but hate-letters, or as close to that as i will ever come. mostly they are to myself; not in the sense that i am schizophrenic, or afflicted with multiple personalities, but that i have the unnerving need to express these sorts of things about the way people affect me. some of them are direct as love letters should be, and if you recognize yourself as one, take it as my gratitude. some of them are more frustrations with my own emotions, and should not be taken personally. if you recognize one of these, my mirroring of you in the void of my semi-cynical heart, apologies. don't worry too much - i'll heal, if indeed i am broken at all.
the first one is about a dog.
i am listening with every breath i've got.
SAEGLOPUR: sigur ros (1:47-1:53)
DIA A CHANTAR M'ER: unknown (0:00-0:25)
GOD BLESS THE MOON : games of may (2:50-3:06)
ALL THE WORLD TONIGHT: graham colton (0:19-0:52)
BALLAD OF A THIN MAN: bob dylan (3:35-3:59)
HEY YA [acoustic cover]: obadiah parker (0:00-4:27)
DILAUDID: the mountain goats (1:11-1:40)
not being, but becoming…we are not yet, but we shall be…not everything shines and sparkles as yet, but everything is getting better.
you make me want to cry. scream. throw myself at you. call you out on your assface behavior. but i want me to be better than that. god dammit! i am a porcupine. keep (unknowingly?) pushing my buttons, and i'll spit fire. [i hate ambivalence. i've never said that before. i'll never say it again - i hope.]
you make a strange part of my brain ache. the part that knows i'm doing the right thing, but that misses what was there before. it's an unsettling feeling to realize that you do not want (what you used to so badly) at all anymore. it would be easier to forget any of it happened. can't.
you make me know that i'm not horrible. and that i'm not going crazy. and that i'm not the only one who feels like throwing f-bombs and rocks at boys. you make me realize truths that settle my soul. and that i can slack off if i want to every once in a while. that indulgence is something a girl really NEEDS when it is necessary. which means that dessert is never a bad thing.
you make me feel like a whole person, except for that you're not here, which makes me sad. but you also make me know that there is a lot more to a really good friendship than physical presence. you are the proof that there are people who will be there and understand and love no matter what, regardless of petty problems and busy-ness and distance. it doesn't matter if we aren't in the same place for a while. as terribly depressing and painful (seriously, it aches sometimes...) as it is, we'll be good. and knowing that makes me happy.
you and your curly hair and your lunch offerings make me smile. just a little bit. i've got no overwhelming hopes for anything, but whenever i see a broken mirror, i think of you.
you and your goofy smile make me feel like everything is all right in the world. like all of my sins are forgiven, regardless of my heathen ways, or my drunken ramblings, or my 'faulty' politics. you are more accepting than i expected, and this gives me hope for the world.
you have no idea how much it meant to me that you showed me those pictures. i'll never be able to express it, no matter how i try. thank you.
you assure me that i am loveable. you make me question my ability to love.
you are my collective gorillas. not meaning that you are dumb, because you're all ridiculously smart. you are my collective gorillas, because, if i asked, you would take a bat to anyone if they bothered me. and this i appreciate, more than you will ever know. and as it was referred to in good will hunting, that is called loyalty.
these are my pseudo-love letters. some of them are written with more affection than others. some of them are not love letters at all, but hate-letters, or as close to that as i will ever come. mostly they are to myself; not in the sense that i am schizophrenic, or afflicted with multiple personalities, but that i have the unnerving need to express these sorts of things about the way people affect me. some of them are direct as love letters should be, and if you recognize yourself as one, take it as my gratitude. some of them are more frustrations with my own emotions, and should not be taken personally. if you recognize one of these, my mirroring of you in the void of my semi-cynical heart, apologies. don't worry too much - i'll heal, if indeed i am broken at all.
the first one is about a dog.
i am listening with every breath i've got.
SAEGLOPUR: sigur ros (1:47-1:53)
DIA A CHANTAR M'ER: unknown (0:00-0:25)
GOD BLESS THE MOON : games of may (2:50-3:06)
ALL THE WORLD TONIGHT: graham colton (0:19-0:52)
BALLAD OF A THIN MAN: bob dylan (3:35-3:59)
HEY YA [acoustic cover]: obadiah parker (0:00-4:27)
DILAUDID: the mountain goats (1:11-1:40)
not being, but becoming…we are not yet, but we shall be…not everything shines and sparkles as yet, but everything is getting better.
Saturday, September 09, 2006
cafe nottingham
red wine and coffee, in a rainstorm, is better than just about anything. except maybe polka dots, or black molasses cookies. the amps are crying! they're crying, i say, and the telephone is ringing. but no one can hear it, anyway. because there is a banjo, and an irish dirge, and 13,000 voices singing loud beneath the cobwebs and the chandeliers. electronic whales are swimming through the coffeehouse, and as the static arises, there is a man on a bench, carrying a mandolin on his acid dreams. the calico couples are sitting on couches with coffee stains on their knees, but that doesn't matter. there is a violin playing loud in the attic, and a llama in the trees.
a one-man band, bagpipes, fresh bread, and a bag full of apples that taste like cider.
sweatpants and thermals, at the farmer's market.
harmonizing at three in the morning with five guitars and a drum and sing-a-longs that are so spontaneous and off-key and filled with the blues...
i love being irish.
so come all you weavers, you calton weavers, come all you weavers, where e'er you be
beware of whiskey, nancy whiskey, she'll ruin you like she ruined me
whiskey whiskey nancy whiskey
whiskey whiskey nancy-o
'they wanted footnotes. the illiterate fucks!'
a one-man band, bagpipes, fresh bread, and a bag full of apples that taste like cider.
sweatpants and thermals, at the farmer's market.
harmonizing at three in the morning with five guitars and a drum and sing-a-longs that are so spontaneous and off-key and filled with the blues...
i love being irish.
so come all you weavers, you calton weavers, come all you weavers, where e'er you be
beware of whiskey, nancy whiskey, she'll ruin you like she ruined me
whiskey whiskey nancy whiskey
whiskey whiskey nancy-o
'they wanted footnotes. the illiterate fucks!'
Sunday, September 03, 2006
this space no longer fits.
and that echo chorus lied to me with its
"hold on, hold on hold on hold on hold on..."
babe, remember that time you told me there were multiple of you? and all of them sort of came crashing down on top of each other, and then there was a crack, and the entire world split in two?
i think that happened to me too.
so many words get lost. they leave the mouth and lose their courage, wandering aimlessly until they are swept into the gutter like dead leaves. on rainy days you can hear their chorus rushing past: IwasabeautifulgirlPleasedon'tgoItoobelievemybodyismadeofglassI'veneverlovedanyoneForgive me...
i've been reckless.
and now you're paying.
through the nose, bits of your
heart are
dripping
into your
too strong whiskey coke.
and i can see it when she comes.
and she never lets me go.
have all my efforts found the way.
have all my efforts gone astray.
mistakes are meant to be broken. hearts do so too easily. i'm sorry.
"hold on, hold on hold on hold on hold on..."
babe, remember that time you told me there were multiple of you? and all of them sort of came crashing down on top of each other, and then there was a crack, and the entire world split in two?
i think that happened to me too.
so many words get lost. they leave the mouth and lose their courage, wandering aimlessly until they are swept into the gutter like dead leaves. on rainy days you can hear their chorus rushing past: IwasabeautifulgirlPleasedon'tgoItoobelievemybodyismadeofglassI'veneverlovedanyoneForgive me...
i've been reckless.
and now you're paying.
through the nose, bits of your
heart are
dripping
into your
too strong whiskey coke.
and i can see it when she comes.
and she never lets me go.
have all my efforts found the way.
have all my efforts gone astray.
mistakes are meant to be broken. hearts do so too easily. i'm sorry.
Monday, August 28, 2006
unstable catharsii is beautiful if you can find the words.
my feet are covered in mud.
people are returning to this city by the sea [ok, so mendota isn't a sea. i dearly wish it was...but if wishes were fishes - and i am understood] and we are the same, but we are all so very different. funny how three months can change perspective, change eyes and hugs and truths. some things are lingering, and i'd thought they'd gone, and their ghosts are giving me a headache. terribly depressed inside milliseconds, but mostly happy.
but it breaks my h-h-h-h-heart. and it breaks my heart.
saying farewell [ farewell is so much more elegant than goodbye. goodbye is melancholy and overused, like cheap wine. farewell embodies fancy crystal champagne and pearls.] to mis chicas a espana, with cosmopolitans on porches in rainstorms. pobre mi, pobre mi. my boys are bodyguards. which, of course, is why i adore them. obviously. tangential conversations of hilarity in the backyard of the hippies, surrounding: marietta the spy, subversive water antagonisms, ground black pepper, and 'finding tennytown'. WRITERS GROUP on the roof, dangling precarious over the edge five stories high and yearning for the time (and the inspiration) to pour out the words of all of the stories in my head. did you notice that 'stories' was used in twice different context within one sentence? surely this is not that impressive, but it struck a chord. and i pay attention to the chiming in my head when it hits. 'tis rather distracting. hence: my reign as the tangent queen continues.
just to break my f-a-a-a-a-ll. just to break my f-a-a-a-ll.
headless mice in darkened dirty stairwells. i drank the last of the beautiful, orgasmic, organic chocolate milk, and i am unabashed. the fountain at the center of library mall broke my heart on friday afternoon. having rained for days prior, the pooled water had all come from the sky, and it was littered with smallish bits of the atmosphere, and of the city. but there, at the very bottom, right near the edge, was a single drowned daisy. i am doomed to remember this until my brain goes blind (as is my fate...hearing more about the descent of my grandfather makes me think of two things: the white bone and the elephants who have lost their memories, and the way that unknowingly disappearing from the world around you is so terribly sad).
i got lost. in the sounds. and i got lost.
i'd like to think that the following is false, but in all possibilities, it is entirely true. the last time i will see amsterdam, the secretary of war, and the assassin, they were marching angrily and in black, waving flags and wearing masks, protesting the flailing, floundering nazis. it's fitting, though, that this might be my last impression - a. we are the sidewalk revolutionaries of the yellow traffic lights, and b. summer is an inherently fleeting season. many things are contained within summer months that are not meant to be stretched, not intended to continue into the cooling of the earth. people love to forlorn the loss of summer, supposedly because of the temperature change. i think, on some level, it is because what they are actually missing is the freedom, and the heat [which is subconsciously linked with passion] and the raw energy that comes with the temperate vernal expression. there are feats and adventures and anecdotes of mythic proportions held beneath the hours of our summers. i relish these; i mourn their passing; i cover myself in their memories like rubber cement, like sun-bleached cotton.
i hear in my mind. all these voices. i hear in my mind all of these words.
i am a breadmaker, a heartbreaker, a chaotic [mental] rolling stone.
i am threadbare, heartbroken, infected, detected.
there is a snaking string of colored lights emblazoned in the corner, glowing:
suit jackets.
cellar door.
folding chair.
copper jewelry and black ink.
memorizing the history of the entire world.
ivory and ebony.
rainy sundays.
i'll be outside in my two-man tent. leave me to the warrings of the world, and go.
people are returning to this city by the sea [ok, so mendota isn't a sea. i dearly wish it was...but if wishes were fishes - and i am understood] and we are the same, but we are all so very different. funny how three months can change perspective, change eyes and hugs and truths. some things are lingering, and i'd thought they'd gone, and their ghosts are giving me a headache. terribly depressed inside milliseconds, but mostly happy.
but it breaks my h-h-h-h-heart. and it breaks my heart.
saying farewell [ farewell is so much more elegant than goodbye. goodbye is melancholy and overused, like cheap wine. farewell embodies fancy crystal champagne and pearls.] to mis chicas a espana, with cosmopolitans on porches in rainstorms. pobre mi, pobre mi. my boys are bodyguards. which, of course, is why i adore them. obviously. tangential conversations of hilarity in the backyard of the hippies, surrounding: marietta the spy, subversive water antagonisms, ground black pepper, and 'finding tennytown'. WRITERS GROUP on the roof, dangling precarious over the edge five stories high and yearning for the time (and the inspiration) to pour out the words of all of the stories in my head. did you notice that 'stories' was used in twice different context within one sentence? surely this is not that impressive, but it struck a chord. and i pay attention to the chiming in my head when it hits. 'tis rather distracting. hence: my reign as the tangent queen continues.
just to break my f-a-a-a-a-ll. just to break my f-a-a-a-ll.
headless mice in darkened dirty stairwells. i drank the last of the beautiful, orgasmic, organic chocolate milk, and i am unabashed. the fountain at the center of library mall broke my heart on friday afternoon. having rained for days prior, the pooled water had all come from the sky, and it was littered with smallish bits of the atmosphere, and of the city. but there, at the very bottom, right near the edge, was a single drowned daisy. i am doomed to remember this until my brain goes blind (as is my fate...hearing more about the descent of my grandfather makes me think of two things: the white bone and the elephants who have lost their memories, and the way that unknowingly disappearing from the world around you is so terribly sad).
i got lost. in the sounds. and i got lost.
i'd like to think that the following is false, but in all possibilities, it is entirely true. the last time i will see amsterdam, the secretary of war, and the assassin, they were marching angrily and in black, waving flags and wearing masks, protesting the flailing, floundering nazis. it's fitting, though, that this might be my last impression - a. we are the sidewalk revolutionaries of the yellow traffic lights, and b. summer is an inherently fleeting season. many things are contained within summer months that are not meant to be stretched, not intended to continue into the cooling of the earth. people love to forlorn the loss of summer, supposedly because of the temperature change. i think, on some level, it is because what they are actually missing is the freedom, and the heat [which is subconsciously linked with passion] and the raw energy that comes with the temperate vernal expression. there are feats and adventures and anecdotes of mythic proportions held beneath the hours of our summers. i relish these; i mourn their passing; i cover myself in their memories like rubber cement, like sun-bleached cotton.
i hear in my mind. all these voices. i hear in my mind all of these words.
i am a breadmaker, a heartbreaker, a chaotic [mental] rolling stone.
i am threadbare, heartbroken, infected, detected.
there is a snaking string of colored lights emblazoned in the corner, glowing:
suit jackets.
cellar door.
folding chair.
copper jewelry and black ink.
memorizing the history of the entire world.
ivory and ebony.
rainy sundays.
i'll be outside in my two-man tent. leave me to the warrings of the world, and go.
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
sparrows and screws
screws the size of men,
most of them bigger.
symphonies, in the background,
and gravel.
the smell of sulfer,
burning cold like the blood red end
of a match
fills the nostrils
of soldiers marching
passed the chain links.
[or are they mirrored there?
are these fences bound together
like the bones of our
corpses killed and lying in
faceless boxes? they are
just
as indeterminate, exact replicas.]
violins in the barren bellies
of the warships send
tattered waltzes to the fishes
that lie in coral,
sleeping, beneath
rusted iron, and old cannon
fire, having long forgotten its gunpowder.
the space is now covered in seaweed.
on high, they sing hallelujah. in harmony
with the chords of flailing
bullet casings,
and always marching.
marching skyward!
those in planes, hovering over the land
like seabirds
waiting for the scent of
carrion to reach them
on the wind.
do they sing for revolution?
their words are lost in the
synapsis of their warheads,
falling toward the rising
breath
of some map torn mountain.
they're like mice with wings.
and curious eyes.
they come in waves. quickly. suddenly, like a rainstorm over the lake. but quiet!
and they're alive right now, but maybe they won't be tomorrow, maybe there will be a dog, too friendly, and young, too friendly and strong for its own good, and the dog will want to play, will take the sparrows between its teeth, like a tennis ball, but birds are not made of rubber, do not bounce. the dog will leave the sparrows on the sidewalk, damp, and limp, small balls of dead feathers.
but they are alive right now.
you.shall.know.our.velocity. [dave eggers]
ice cream for lunch.
seeing those i haven't in a while.
ruca!
butternut squash ravioli.
you're the reason why i burst and why i bloom
most of them bigger.
symphonies, in the background,
and gravel.
the smell of sulfer,
burning cold like the blood red end
of a match
fills the nostrils
of soldiers marching
passed the chain links.
[or are they mirrored there?
are these fences bound together
like the bones of our
corpses killed and lying in
faceless boxes? they are
just
as indeterminate, exact replicas.]
violins in the barren bellies
of the warships send
tattered waltzes to the fishes
that lie in coral,
sleeping, beneath
rusted iron, and old cannon
fire, having long forgotten its gunpowder.
the space is now covered in seaweed.
on high, they sing hallelujah. in harmony
with the chords of flailing
bullet casings,
and always marching.
marching skyward!
those in planes, hovering over the land
like seabirds
waiting for the scent of
carrion to reach them
on the wind.
do they sing for revolution?
their words are lost in the
synapsis of their warheads,
falling toward the rising
breath
of some map torn mountain.
they're like mice with wings.
and curious eyes.
they come in waves. quickly. suddenly, like a rainstorm over the lake. but quiet!
and they're alive right now, but maybe they won't be tomorrow, maybe there will be a dog, too friendly, and young, too friendly and strong for its own good, and the dog will want to play, will take the sparrows between its teeth, like a tennis ball, but birds are not made of rubber, do not bounce. the dog will leave the sparrows on the sidewalk, damp, and limp, small balls of dead feathers.
but they are alive right now.
you.shall.know.our.velocity. [dave eggers]
ice cream for lunch.
seeing those i haven't in a while.
ruca!
butternut squash ravioli.
you're the reason why i burst and why i bloom
Thursday, August 17, 2006
and it breaks my h-h-h-h-heart
Look into your heart and you'll find love love love Listen to the music of the moment maybe sing with me A lá peaceful melodys It's your God-forsaken right to be loved loved love
ah, gravity. gravity!
black eyeliner. sleeping 'til noon. vanilla yogurt. escaping on backroads at 70 mph + blasting folk music. returning to the bench, in daylight (and possibly finding matty?) espresso shots. wasting time in walmart, while yelling loudly of its horrid nature. kate, and her 21st birthday. waking up on the barren floor of an apartment in a pile of friends. being car-less (ala 8th grade). understanding arbitrary technology. spelling. french toast, 7 hour busrides, and gas station cappuchinos. having the 2 "big brothers" of my house back. underground hip-hop + dishes + industrial kitchen + perfect summer weather. inappropriately friendly little girls and unnamed baby dolls with newly coined monikers. light wash jeans. four dollar t-shirts and marker martinis. dreams about being blind, and the returning ghost of former infatuations. movies that make it impossible not to dance. CHANNING TATUM. photography among friends, [ghetto] amaretto sours, fresh cut grass, and clean showers.
i'm yours (jason mraz)
evening chai (blue scholars)
step up (soundtrack)
fidelity (regina spektor)
its your god-forsaken right to be loved loved love.
ah, gravity. gravity!
black eyeliner. sleeping 'til noon. vanilla yogurt. escaping on backroads at 70 mph + blasting folk music. returning to the bench, in daylight (and possibly finding matty?) espresso shots. wasting time in walmart, while yelling loudly of its horrid nature. kate, and her 21st birthday. waking up on the barren floor of an apartment in a pile of friends. being car-less (ala 8th grade). understanding arbitrary technology. spelling. french toast, 7 hour busrides, and gas station cappuchinos. having the 2 "big brothers" of my house back. underground hip-hop + dishes + industrial kitchen + perfect summer weather. inappropriately friendly little girls and unnamed baby dolls with newly coined monikers. light wash jeans. four dollar t-shirts and marker martinis. dreams about being blind, and the returning ghost of former infatuations. movies that make it impossible not to dance. CHANNING TATUM. photography among friends, [ghetto] amaretto sours, fresh cut grass, and clean showers.
i'm yours (jason mraz)
evening chai (blue scholars)
step up (soundtrack)
fidelity (regina spektor)
its your god-forsaken right to be loved loved love.
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
heat
it must feel good to stand above me | while i make you so proud of me
riding in a train, passed the calves of long horned cattle, and the winding river zumbro, and an old truck stop. there is a mound of earth a mile wide, and it has been silent for so long, the roots of misplaced rainforests have begun to sprout and grow wild. we are doomed to remember them as the bones of the earth, but as we melt into the atmosphere in pieces of translucent mica, i wonder if that smile you reflected in the glass wasn't made from something more.
interventions. the viewing of a chaotic summer, colors inverted and reflected in the eyes of family members unrelated by blood. unexpected coffee visitors. choosing caramel instead of chocolate, latte instead of cafe, and being all the wiser for it. early morning breakfasts in an attempt to escape into normalcy and ignorance. hugs necessary for the continuation of being. karma. unwanted white lilies. newspapers. sleeping during the day instead of at night. recounting winter escapades. dreaming of houses covered in moss, terrorized by storms, inhabited by faceless lovers, and surrounded by ugly memories. heartbreaking voices reverberating from stellar satellites. chocolate chip macadamia nut cookies with [regular, non-organic skim] milk.
wine.
water.
tears.
blood.
coffee.
limeade.
taking care of each other. traveling long distances for painful reasons. parking garages. the evolution of the meaning of a room. loveable assholes. the overheating of the planet. contemplating the beginnings of knowledge, and wishing for roots that were never there. old soft spots that will never rot. ice cream. sleeping open-mouthed in moving vehicles amongst strangers. heat.
and if our always is all that we gave
and we someday take that away . . .
riding in a train, passed the calves of long horned cattle, and the winding river zumbro, and an old truck stop. there is a mound of earth a mile wide, and it has been silent for so long, the roots of misplaced rainforests have begun to sprout and grow wild. we are doomed to remember them as the bones of the earth, but as we melt into the atmosphere in pieces of translucent mica, i wonder if that smile you reflected in the glass wasn't made from something more.
interventions. the viewing of a chaotic summer, colors inverted and reflected in the eyes of family members unrelated by blood. unexpected coffee visitors. choosing caramel instead of chocolate, latte instead of cafe, and being all the wiser for it. early morning breakfasts in an attempt to escape into normalcy and ignorance. hugs necessary for the continuation of being. karma. unwanted white lilies. newspapers. sleeping during the day instead of at night. recounting winter escapades. dreaming of houses covered in moss, terrorized by storms, inhabited by faceless lovers, and surrounded by ugly memories. heartbreaking voices reverberating from stellar satellites. chocolate chip macadamia nut cookies with [regular, non-organic skim] milk.
wine.
water.
tears.
blood.
coffee.
limeade.
taking care of each other. traveling long distances for painful reasons. parking garages. the evolution of the meaning of a room. loveable assholes. the overheating of the planet. contemplating the beginnings of knowledge, and wishing for roots that were never there. old soft spots that will never rot. ice cream. sleeping open-mouthed in moving vehicles amongst strangers. heat.
and if our always is all that we gave
and we someday take that away . . .
Saturday, July 22, 2006
and we all stood behind glass and witnessed.
humidified.
the seagulls are sleeping to fend off the heat which weeps from the air.
everything is quiet, hoping the stillness will radiate, form crystals that will
masquerade as ice.
even new lovers can't bear to be near
each other.
their body heat melting their skins before they've come together
in the way that lovers
do.
a hint, a single drop, falls from the sky, like light
yet the terra firma has eloped with lava,
and the dharma bums have taken their leave
in the jungles tonight.
we'll watch, and listen as the whole planet sizzles.
astrological mind games.
there is a plastic apple in the middle of a table five stories below my feet. we sit in the wind and the trees as the leaves funnel skyward in clouds like yellow bullets in slow motion. there aren't enough to saturate the air, but they catch in my eyes even from miles away and hold me still inside the vaccuum of air they are suspended within. a globe of noncircular time haunts the canopy of trees, and as single molecules multiply, they begin to magnify, their preoccupation of space. the lake is whipping itself into a frenzy, rolling in sheets inches above the horizon, and sending notes like fog horns just below the surface, until they reach the shore, when they smash into the rocks and split sound waves into ten million tiny carbon bombs. the zodiac voice is out and ringing, pulling planets from the bricks and the boards. letting them fall into place while they spin carefully across angles made of unborn chaos. memory, of course. the attic born prophet continues to splinter the mysteries, but in the background comes the rumbling of some great beast. metallic, and angry, it is the churning of mindless joints, cast from steel, driven by the hunger of its endless smoky heart. deus ex machina, in reverse...more or less. the flicker of heat lightning draws me out of my tortured meditation, and my eyes drift down five stories to the plastic apple. it has been left half eaten by the invisible man seated in the courtyard.
things to remember:
being a mirror.
temporary molten copper hearts.
"as the world bursts apart on literary fascination, and the weather."
finding a pistol in a drawer full of remote controls
smoking lilies
the muse is awakened.
the storm came on like a cyclone and the trees came down...
rain.
white caps racing their way towards shore.
this beastly thing of lightning struck through water,
electrified.
the muse is awakened.
the water was rising, and you were in a fury, and
we all stood behind the glass and witnessed.
wine. music.
and we all stood behind glass and witnessed.
the seagulls are sleeping to fend off the heat which weeps from the air.
everything is quiet, hoping the stillness will radiate, form crystals that will
masquerade as ice.
even new lovers can't bear to be near
each other.
their body heat melting their skins before they've come together
in the way that lovers
do.
a hint, a single drop, falls from the sky, like light
yet the terra firma has eloped with lava,
and the dharma bums have taken their leave
in the jungles tonight.
we'll watch, and listen as the whole planet sizzles.
astrological mind games.
there is a plastic apple in the middle of a table five stories below my feet. we sit in the wind and the trees as the leaves funnel skyward in clouds like yellow bullets in slow motion. there aren't enough to saturate the air, but they catch in my eyes even from miles away and hold me still inside the vaccuum of air they are suspended within. a globe of noncircular time haunts the canopy of trees, and as single molecules multiply, they begin to magnify, their preoccupation of space. the lake is whipping itself into a frenzy, rolling in sheets inches above the horizon, and sending notes like fog horns just below the surface, until they reach the shore, when they smash into the rocks and split sound waves into ten million tiny carbon bombs. the zodiac voice is out and ringing, pulling planets from the bricks and the boards. letting them fall into place while they spin carefully across angles made of unborn chaos. memory, of course. the attic born prophet continues to splinter the mysteries, but in the background comes the rumbling of some great beast. metallic, and angry, it is the churning of mindless joints, cast from steel, driven by the hunger of its endless smoky heart. deus ex machina, in reverse...more or less. the flicker of heat lightning draws me out of my tortured meditation, and my eyes drift down five stories to the plastic apple. it has been left half eaten by the invisible man seated in the courtyard.
things to remember:
being a mirror.
temporary molten copper hearts.
"as the world bursts apart on literary fascination, and the weather."
finding a pistol in a drawer full of remote controls
smoking lilies
the muse is awakened.
the storm came on like a cyclone and the trees came down...
rain.
white caps racing their way towards shore.
this beastly thing of lightning struck through water,
electrified.
the muse is awakened.
the water was rising, and you were in a fury, and
we all stood behind the glass and witnessed.
wine. music.
and we all stood behind glass and witnessed.
Sunday, July 16, 2006
mental record players
these things are singing in my head...
Opening credits: [new slang] the shins
Waking up: [banana pancakes] jack johnson
Average day: [passing afternoon] iron and wine
First date: [second time around] yo-yo ma
Falling in love: [samson] regina spector
Love scene: [can't stop] red hot chili peppers, or [after an afternoon] jason mraz
Comfort love: [kingdom come] coldplay
Fight scene: [shy] ani difranco
Breaking up: [i don't want to know] goo goo dolls, or [options] pedro the lion
Getting back together: [comfortable] john mayer
Secret love: [the humpty dumpty love song] travis
Life’s okay: [for the widows in paradise...] sufjan stevens
Mental breakdown: [i didn't understand] elliott smith
Self Love: [beautiful soul] jesse mccartney
Driving: [night swimming] r.e.m.
Learning a lesson: [don't think twice, it's all right] vonda shepard
Deep thought: [moonlight mile] the rolling stones
Flashback: [holland, 1945] neutral milk hotel
Dance party: [fakin' amnesia] bikeride
Happy dance: [hey man!] nelly furtado
Regreting: [ez] pete yorn
Long night alone: [land locked blues] bright eyes
Death scene: [if i should fall from grace] the pogues
Closing credits: [see you soon] coldplay
because there, i don't have to think so much. i can just be, and nothing explodes.
Opening credits: [new slang] the shins
Waking up: [banana pancakes] jack johnson
Average day: [passing afternoon] iron and wine
First date: [second time around] yo-yo ma
Falling in love: [samson] regina spector
Love scene: [can't stop] red hot chili peppers, or [after an afternoon] jason mraz
Comfort love: [kingdom come] coldplay
Fight scene: [shy] ani difranco
Breaking up: [i don't want to know] goo goo dolls, or [options] pedro the lion
Getting back together: [comfortable] john mayer
Secret love: [the humpty dumpty love song] travis
Life’s okay: [for the widows in paradise...] sufjan stevens
Mental breakdown: [i didn't understand] elliott smith
Self Love: [beautiful soul] jesse mccartney
Driving: [night swimming] r.e.m.
Learning a lesson: [don't think twice, it's all right] vonda shepard
Deep thought: [moonlight mile] the rolling stones
Flashback: [holland, 1945] neutral milk hotel
Dance party: [fakin' amnesia] bikeride
Happy dance: [hey man!] nelly furtado
Regreting: [ez] pete yorn
Long night alone: [land locked blues] bright eyes
Death scene: [if i should fall from grace] the pogues
Closing credits: [see you soon] coldplay
because there, i don't have to think so much. i can just be, and nothing explodes.
Monday, July 03, 2006
honey, now if i'm honest
i know it would be outrageous
to come on all courageous
there are only so many things that i can continue to adore about this place, that i'm living in, i swear. they just keep appearing, and i'm beginning to think i'll be overwhelmed with ridiculous affection, and i won't be able to handle myself. then i'll go crazy. not that i'm sane now...
and it's not just the physical place, either. it's this place that i'm in...sitting in, living in, loving in. because i love lists, and i'm bursting with little bits, i think i'll do it that way.
a. burning incensence and candles. i've gone for two years without doing so, and i just recently remembered that i can burn whatever the fuck i want in my room. sandalwood smoke drifts out my window on a daily basis now
b. the lake, and all things included. in the morning, and at night, it sounds very similar to the ocean. i know it isn't, because the scent is missing...but the sound is so close, i wake up smiling. i haven't done that in years. sunning myself on the dock. the trees behind our house that begin to engulf the back porch, and the attic. i feel that i am living in a canopy...a canopy way up in the trees, and that i have no reason to climb down. i can channel my inner julia butterfly hill. live like a queen in the trees...
c. having a kitchen (again). making scrambled eggs and potatoes and farina and chocolate milk. playing chef. doing the dishes (!)
d. adventures. this comes with summer, always. but it's so much different here, because the parentals are mia. the independence is intoxicating. this feeling that i have is difficult to explain, to make sense of in words, but i think i've phrased it as such before: i feel like i'm actually participating in my life.
e. getting sunburnt. having cleaning fits. vacuuming to blasting classical music. singing sweet jazz on the porch in the dark.
f. the fragile dance i do when i play with my own emotions.
g. being surrounded by people who introduce me to new things. new music, new movies, new authors. new ideas, new perspectives, new thought processes. its like being washed under a stream of fresh life...a different way of living. at work, in the co-op, all around me, there are these people who have a totally strange, completely chaotic way of functioning, but they're all surviving..thriving even. which gives me faith that i'll be able to carry on the way that i do
h. dysfunctional moments of unconventional amusement. in cars, via milwaukee. on couches, listening to records. standing on the porch, and soaking in the glow of the house.
i. watching the fireworks over the lake, and being completely jaded by the blind patriotism hiding within the non-subliminally enforced love affair with our democractic wasteland of a nation. comparing that feeling to how it was when we were young. what changed us? when did we become what we are now? what has happened to those small children, who looked forward to that sultry night in july that was covered in flashing lights, and picnics, and the glorious star-spangled banner. that flag makes me flinch, approaching doors or watching it wave in the wind. i associate it with something else, now. and i do not identify with it in the slightest.
j. there's a mouse in the frying pan.
k. being provocative. awkward. uneasy. outrageous.
l. "i like the way you sing. i can see you, as a young mother, singing to your children." there will be music in my house. always.
there will always be things i miss about the places i've been before. some of them are smallish [standing in the hallway by the drinking fountain. rolling down hills full of leaves. screaming obscenities into the darkness from swingsets and cars.] some of them are much larger [not so much things, but people. and the way we live together. ] but i think that the farther i go outward, the more that will wash over me that i will adore, and it will just build and build until one day i really will burst. i cannot wait for that day. i cannot wait to overflow.
i've got something with me. my soul's kinda gritty. now do i lie or run away. i'll be on my own. it don't matter i'm grown. i won't be singing no sad song. and if i rub you wrong. baby i come on strong. i got no mind to cushion what i say.
to come on all courageous
there are only so many things that i can continue to adore about this place, that i'm living in, i swear. they just keep appearing, and i'm beginning to think i'll be overwhelmed with ridiculous affection, and i won't be able to handle myself. then i'll go crazy. not that i'm sane now...
and it's not just the physical place, either. it's this place that i'm in...sitting in, living in, loving in. because i love lists, and i'm bursting with little bits, i think i'll do it that way.
a. burning incensence and candles. i've gone for two years without doing so, and i just recently remembered that i can burn whatever the fuck i want in my room. sandalwood smoke drifts out my window on a daily basis now
b. the lake, and all things included. in the morning, and at night, it sounds very similar to the ocean. i know it isn't, because the scent is missing...but the sound is so close, i wake up smiling. i haven't done that in years. sunning myself on the dock. the trees behind our house that begin to engulf the back porch, and the attic. i feel that i am living in a canopy...a canopy way up in the trees, and that i have no reason to climb down. i can channel my inner julia butterfly hill. live like a queen in the trees...
c. having a kitchen (again). making scrambled eggs and potatoes and farina and chocolate milk. playing chef. doing the dishes (!)
d. adventures. this comes with summer, always. but it's so much different here, because the parentals are mia. the independence is intoxicating. this feeling that i have is difficult to explain, to make sense of in words, but i think i've phrased it as such before: i feel like i'm actually participating in my life.
e. getting sunburnt. having cleaning fits. vacuuming to blasting classical music. singing sweet jazz on the porch in the dark.
f. the fragile dance i do when i play with my own emotions.
g. being surrounded by people who introduce me to new things. new music, new movies, new authors. new ideas, new perspectives, new thought processes. its like being washed under a stream of fresh life...a different way of living. at work, in the co-op, all around me, there are these people who have a totally strange, completely chaotic way of functioning, but they're all surviving..thriving even. which gives me faith that i'll be able to carry on the way that i do
h. dysfunctional moments of unconventional amusement. in cars, via milwaukee. on couches, listening to records. standing on the porch, and soaking in the glow of the house.
i. watching the fireworks over the lake, and being completely jaded by the blind patriotism hiding within the non-subliminally enforced love affair with our democractic wasteland of a nation. comparing that feeling to how it was when we were young. what changed us? when did we become what we are now? what has happened to those small children, who looked forward to that sultry night in july that was covered in flashing lights, and picnics, and the glorious star-spangled banner. that flag makes me flinch, approaching doors or watching it wave in the wind. i associate it with something else, now. and i do not identify with it in the slightest.
j. there's a mouse in the frying pan.
k. being provocative. awkward. uneasy. outrageous.
l. "i like the way you sing. i can see you, as a young mother, singing to your children." there will be music in my house. always.
there will always be things i miss about the places i've been before. some of them are smallish [standing in the hallway by the drinking fountain. rolling down hills full of leaves. screaming obscenities into the darkness from swingsets and cars.] some of them are much larger [not so much things, but people. and the way we live together. ] but i think that the farther i go outward, the more that will wash over me that i will adore, and it will just build and build until one day i really will burst. i cannot wait for that day. i cannot wait to overflow.
i've got something with me. my soul's kinda gritty. now do i lie or run away. i'll be on my own. it don't matter i'm grown. i won't be singing no sad song. and if i rub you wrong. baby i come on strong. i got no mind to cushion what i say.
Sunday, June 25, 2006
st. elsewhere and his band of maniacal moody monks
. . . flee . . . fly . . . flew . . . fled . . .
i did, she said. and when she could not speak for singing, and his eyes were dancing along with the curve of her hips, there was a
crack
deep beneath the surface of the lake.
because there is something radioactive in that glimmer,
the way she fills his
spaces, interior, with the kind of june blues that only come
from misplaced affection.
she walks ahead, afraid to stray too close in case
he catches on.
to her adoration, that is.
someone might find out, and splinter the fragile
connection they've both come for miles to
wonder at.
i've traveled a long way alone,
she whispers to herself, attempting to justify the hesitation.
but he gives her glow; a piece of night-blooming jasmine that twines along the rusted iron gates on the inside of her head.
she makes him echo.
so there that is, he said.
what is? she slides her arms through the air, spinning oxygen together so that it resembles bits of broken clocks.
this jazz you're singing, he says.
and at once she remembers the melody he is humming.
his voice is falling, deeper into its smoky depths, those places behind his vocal cords that purr until they break, illuminated by their own intensity.
stop, she says. she's crying hard.
there is no room for forgetting anymore.
i swear, if this chariot we're riding ends rotting in the dust. if it dies bleached blinding bright white in the sun,
there will be nothing left of me but this.
who says it will? he asks.
who says it won't?
i promise there will be no forgetting, he says.
you promise?
i do.
she tries to
. . . flee . . . fly . . . flow . . . flood . . .
into the looking glass, but out, his hands spread like oil
and her wings catch between their
opalescence, and
she settles, determined to
remain past the morning.
things to remember:
are you wearing a shirt? i had a girlfriend who wore a shirt once...
coffee talk
applebees.fosters.latenight chats.
amusing rotc stories
rain storms
cmon now
who do you
who do you who do you who do you
think you are?
ha ha ha
bless your soul...
i did, she said. and when she could not speak for singing, and his eyes were dancing along with the curve of her hips, there was a
crack
deep beneath the surface of the lake.
because there is something radioactive in that glimmer,
the way she fills his
spaces, interior, with the kind of june blues that only come
from misplaced affection.
she walks ahead, afraid to stray too close in case
he catches on.
to her adoration, that is.
someone might find out, and splinter the fragile
connection they've both come for miles to
wonder at.
i've traveled a long way alone,
she whispers to herself, attempting to justify the hesitation.
but he gives her glow; a piece of night-blooming jasmine that twines along the rusted iron gates on the inside of her head.
she makes him echo.
so there that is, he said.
what is? she slides her arms through the air, spinning oxygen together so that it resembles bits of broken clocks.
this jazz you're singing, he says.
and at once she remembers the melody he is humming.
his voice is falling, deeper into its smoky depths, those places behind his vocal cords that purr until they break, illuminated by their own intensity.
stop, she says. she's crying hard.
there is no room for forgetting anymore.
i swear, if this chariot we're riding ends rotting in the dust. if it dies bleached blinding bright white in the sun,
there will be nothing left of me but this.
who says it will? he asks.
who says it won't?
i promise there will be no forgetting, he says.
you promise?
i do.
she tries to
. . . flee . . . fly . . . flow . . . flood . . .
into the looking glass, but out, his hands spread like oil
and her wings catch between their
opalescence, and
she settles, determined to
remain past the morning.
things to remember:
are you wearing a shirt? i had a girlfriend who wore a shirt once...
coffee talk
applebees.fosters.latenight chats.
amusing rotc stories
rain storms
cmon now
who do you
who do you who do you who do you
think you are?
ha ha ha
bless your soul...
Monday, June 19, 2006
things to remember
i'm terrified of forgetting. not big things, or people, because i know i will remember those. [i have the memory of an elephant, after all.] what i'm afraid of is forgetting little moments, the tiny spaces between inside jokes and shared words that begin to stitch people into a layer of silk and cement. the combination of the two, that makes us stick to each other, unquestioningly. without explanation. that space i'm afraid of, when it doesn't fill, and i'm even more terrified to forget the feeling that comes with it. on those nights (in kitchens, on driveways, around tables, over coffee, with movies, before doorframes, on sofas) that i just want to cling to, remember every second. literally...i'm not quoting a cliche. i wish i could fill myself with seconds like these.
things to remember:
voice inflections and the manners in which people tell stories.
the reflections of light in the eyes of hippies in the giant living room at dusk.
dancing to techno, drinking gin, making rosemary bread, and being in a bubble.
catalpa is a kind of tree.
the feeling of 'taking note' of your body.
the islands. the accent of the islands.
carrying stargazer lilies through humidity and crowded streets.
the way that the lake sounds so similar to the ocean outside of my window.
soundtrack (thus far) to summer 2006:
walking on broken glass (annie lennox)
leave me to love (imogen heap)
40 years (counting crows)
the other side (david gray)
gone going (black eyed peas feat. jack johnson)
fakin' amnesia (bikeride)
night moves (bob seger)
where there's a road (robbie fulks)
creep (tlc)
stirling brig (the corries)
fever (peggy lee)
send me on my way (rusted root)
don't stop me now (queen)
earthquakes and sharks (brandston)
katmandu (bela fleck)
the islands
GOD: i own you like i own the caves.
THE OCEAN: not a chance. no comparison.
GOD: i made you. i could tame you.
THE OCEAN: at one time, maybe. but not now.
GOD: i will come to you, freeze you, break you.
THE OCEAN: i will spread myself like wings. i am a billion tiny feathers. you have no idea what's happened to me.
things to remember:
voice inflections and the manners in which people tell stories.
the reflections of light in the eyes of hippies in the giant living room at dusk.
dancing to techno, drinking gin, making rosemary bread, and being in a bubble.
catalpa is a kind of tree.
the feeling of 'taking note' of your body.
the islands. the accent of the islands.
carrying stargazer lilies through humidity and crowded streets.
the way that the lake sounds so similar to the ocean outside of my window.
soundtrack (thus far) to summer 2006:
walking on broken glass (annie lennox)
leave me to love (imogen heap)
40 years (counting crows)
the other side (david gray)
gone going (black eyed peas feat. jack johnson)
fakin' amnesia (bikeride)
night moves (bob seger)
where there's a road (robbie fulks)
creep (tlc)
stirling brig (the corries)
fever (peggy lee)
send me on my way (rusted root)
don't stop me now (queen)
earthquakes and sharks (brandston)
katmandu (bela fleck)
the islands
GOD: i own you like i own the caves.
THE OCEAN: not a chance. no comparison.
GOD: i made you. i could tame you.
THE OCEAN: at one time, maybe. but not now.
GOD: i will come to you, freeze you, break you.
THE OCEAN: i will spread myself like wings. i am a billion tiny feathers. you have no idea what's happened to me.
Saturday, June 10, 2006
the spiralling of a thought
all these strings are attaching to me,
and i can't find the scissors. yeah... i can't
remember where i was, i forgot. knitting it all, these holes
that i need, to crawl through a brick wall,
is hard to say the least.
where's that thought,
that thought uncomplicated things?
where's that peace of mind, that peace
that made it easy?
i got you a murky light, tell me what can you see?
tired body. the mind is begging for release, for time to expand and spread like the tentacles of an
ink-spotted squid in the midst of all that ocean, all that water swaying and sinking deeper into the sand so that it becomes
black because there is no other place for light but in the cracks that do not exist.
all that ocean, rushing against the corners of my skull, and it's spilling. if you look closely, stare directly into
the eyes that are buried beneath my lashes [those strands of piano colored wire] that have closed, behind the twisting memory of green and hazel
and gray that interlace the surface of my iris, beneath these lines there is the sea, leaking. beads are forming,
bursting through my skin and howling for ink. these beads are words,
haunting the invisible spaces between oxygen molecules,
seducing my finger tips with the promise of magnetism, then rushing away just before they're caught
in the steel.
so much pressure is building there, beneath the surface of my body. it's swimming through
my veins, filling muscle with sound so quickly, like violin strings shriek when they break. snapping. small. infinitely important to the symphony.
but the words are crammed between crevices, stifled inside the
moments just before i become silent, asleep. because of a tired body.
favorites:
gone going (jack johnson cover by the black eyed peas)
lonelily (damien rice)
jones green apple carbonated candy
the meditation room at the top of the tower in the morning, by the lake, with sunshine.
bob seger and neil young roadtrip repeats
dumpstered bread
tim o'brien
'the birth of something terrible'
rain on the roof, 3rd floor residence.
falling into schedules
pillows that retain scents
perkins and wine
tangent queen 2.0
co-op life
friends at night and cacciato in the morning
limeade, the slowing down of time, and sleep.
i'm sorry if i'm bad at this. i'm really not used to it... that isn't much of an excuse, but i think it scares me a little to finally have to leave me to love. it'll take me awhile, probably too long, it'll spoil, i'm sure. that's what i do. it's just that i'm trying not to this time. i'll try, i swear.
because if you let your eyes disappear from the points at which they are actually looking, things will begin to grow and sway and follow themselves in circles until their shapes have been totally misshappen. there is a constant buzzing, right behind the ears, and your eyes begin to follow things while they trace even though one eye will ineffectually and incompletely close. then the prickles begin, like pepper and cayenne, and they have melted and begun to fade inside your irises. the spinning becomes like the swaying of the ocean, which comes at five along with the sounds of that bell, that beast that rings across the waters like bullets of forgotten ballet-battled ruins.
there are multiple levels, which grow out of any sort of space that is inside or outside the consciousness. colors and shapes begins to collect words and emotions and ideas like the strings of lightning things that grow from the sky out of dust particles. the traces will never remain like they would in deep sand or between waves at night. your ears and eyes jump to twenty-four seconds at once, still beginning to sprout cerulean wrapped skeletons. hallelujah. thoughts begin to follow themselves down into stalagmite tunnels, rocks and hollow furrowings into the spaces of your brain that are all fizzing (like explosions inside ocean waves echoing through the nerve endings in your memories).
and i can't find the scissors. yeah... i can't
remember where i was, i forgot. knitting it all, these holes
that i need, to crawl through a brick wall,
is hard to say the least.
where's that thought,
that thought uncomplicated things?
where's that peace of mind, that peace
that made it easy?
i got you a murky light, tell me what can you see?
tired body. the mind is begging for release, for time to expand and spread like the tentacles of an
ink-spotted squid in the midst of all that ocean, all that water swaying and sinking deeper into the sand so that it becomes
black because there is no other place for light but in the cracks that do not exist.
all that ocean, rushing against the corners of my skull, and it's spilling. if you look closely, stare directly into
the eyes that are buried beneath my lashes [those strands of piano colored wire] that have closed, behind the twisting memory of green and hazel
and gray that interlace the surface of my iris, beneath these lines there is the sea, leaking. beads are forming,
bursting through my skin and howling for ink. these beads are words,
haunting the invisible spaces between oxygen molecules,
seducing my finger tips with the promise of magnetism, then rushing away just before they're caught
in the steel.
so much pressure is building there, beneath the surface of my body. it's swimming through
my veins, filling muscle with sound so quickly, like violin strings shriek when they break. snapping. small. infinitely important to the symphony.
but the words are crammed between crevices, stifled inside the
moments just before i become silent, asleep. because of a tired body.
favorites:
gone going (jack johnson cover by the black eyed peas)
lonelily (damien rice)
jones green apple carbonated candy
the meditation room at the top of the tower in the morning, by the lake, with sunshine.
bob seger and neil young roadtrip repeats
dumpstered bread
tim o'brien
'the birth of something terrible'
rain on the roof, 3rd floor residence.
falling into schedules
pillows that retain scents
perkins and wine
tangent queen 2.0
co-op life
friends at night and cacciato in the morning
limeade, the slowing down of time, and sleep.
i'm sorry if i'm bad at this. i'm really not used to it... that isn't much of an excuse, but i think it scares me a little to finally have to leave me to love. it'll take me awhile, probably too long, it'll spoil, i'm sure. that's what i do. it's just that i'm trying not to this time. i'll try, i swear.
because if you let your eyes disappear from the points at which they are actually looking, things will begin to grow and sway and follow themselves in circles until their shapes have been totally misshappen. there is a constant buzzing, right behind the ears, and your eyes begin to follow things while they trace even though one eye will ineffectually and incompletely close. then the prickles begin, like pepper and cayenne, and they have melted and begun to fade inside your irises. the spinning becomes like the swaying of the ocean, which comes at five along with the sounds of that bell, that beast that rings across the waters like bullets of forgotten ballet-battled ruins.
there are multiple levels, which grow out of any sort of space that is inside or outside the consciousness. colors and shapes begins to collect words and emotions and ideas like the strings of lightning things that grow from the sky out of dust particles. the traces will never remain like they would in deep sand or between waves at night. your ears and eyes jump to twenty-four seconds at once, still beginning to sprout cerulean wrapped skeletons. hallelujah. thoughts begin to follow themselves down into stalagmite tunnels, rocks and hollow furrowings into the spaces of your brain that are all fizzing (like explosions inside ocean waves echoing through the nerve endings in your memories).
Monday, May 29, 2006
bottles of australian chardonnay contain stories on the label.
Six o'clock in the morning
You're the last to hear the warning
You've been tryin' to throw your arms around the world
You've been falling off the sidewalk
Your lips move but you can't talk
Tryin' to throw your arms around the world
my favorites in roch. traveling to wisconsin. a room in a house full of maps and wafting music and mary jane. humidity. finally getting the techno-ballerina some loving. madison by night. and tofu.
and he asked me where i was going
and i said i didn't know for sure
but one thing was obvious
the ocean wasn't going to wait 'til kingdom come,
i said
there's no time like this time
ready or not...
You're the last to hear the warning
You've been tryin' to throw your arms around the world
You've been falling off the sidewalk
Your lips move but you can't talk
Tryin' to throw your arms around the world
my favorites in roch. traveling to wisconsin. a room in a house full of maps and wafting music and mary jane. humidity. finally getting the techno-ballerina some loving. madison by night. and tofu.
and he asked me where i was going
and i said i didn't know for sure
but one thing was obvious
the ocean wasn't going to wait 'til kingdom come,
i said
there's no time like this time
ready or not...
Monday, May 15, 2006
i miss the way you sing low
i give you major
you give me minor
don't fade away
she looks to me all right
Went to descend to ammend for a friend of the channels that had broken down.Now you bring it up, I'm gonna ring it up - just to hear you sing it out.Step from the road to the sea to the sky
favorite things:
techno love songs
$5 skirts
sleeping for 11 hours (guilt free)
the zumbro river under the railroad bridge
kiedis/flea/frusciante harmonies
driving
kahlua
madgab
finding my [kate-made] earring
non-favorite things:
dust + asthma + neverending cold
moving out w/ the parentals [= stressful]
missing o-house
skipping cd players
cowardly lions
being the last one
broken gears
itchiness
and that they hadn't heard us calling. Still do not hear us calling them from out of those rooms... where they went to be alone for all time... and where we will never find the pieces to put them back together.
you give me minor
don't fade away
she looks to me all right
Went to descend to ammend for a friend of the channels that had broken down.Now you bring it up, I'm gonna ring it up - just to hear you sing it out.Step from the road to the sea to the sky
favorite things:
techno love songs
$5 skirts
sleeping for 11 hours (guilt free)
the zumbro river under the railroad bridge
kiedis/flea/frusciante harmonies
driving
kahlua
madgab
finding my [kate-made] earring
non-favorite things:
dust + asthma + neverending cold
moving out w/ the parentals [= stressful]
missing o-house
skipping cd players
cowardly lions
being the last one
broken gears
itchiness
and that they hadn't heard us calling. Still do not hear us calling them from out of those rooms... where they went to be alone for all time... and where we will never find the pieces to put them back together.
Monday, May 08, 2006
what happens when i find things in random places.
i updated forgetting gravity (because the story changed.) it's still under the same post, except it's called forgetting gravity (revised.)...i believe that is around the beginning of march, if you really want to re-read it. i added 3ish pages, edited a lot. hopefully it's better. i dunno.
now here's another piece. aha! much shorter, much more abstract. really very random. apologies.
the way jellyfish slide along glass, and also the reason raleigh talks too much.
i like it when it rains through the windows and everything becomes slightly ravaged by the water, she tells him while riding the bus from Darcy Point to downtown Seattle. She's just met him [just meaning three hours earlier when she'd run to catch the shuttle as the doors were closing on her ankle and he had been the only one with an empty seat. his name was jonas, which did not fit him. his nose was too large for a man named jonas. possibly nelson, or raymond, although neither of those really fit him either. definitely not jonas, though. she does not tell him this.] my favorite kind of paper is always notebook paper, you know, college blue ruled with red margins that feel like boundaries on some sort of strangely radioactive map, like as if the map only shows up when it gets wet, she says. which is why i like it when it rains through the windows. he doesn't say anything, but his eyes move back and forth for a moment, as if he were trying to gather the floating bits of her words from the damp mid-evening air like pieces of electric wire, tangled and caught on the humidity. i'm raleigh, she says, with her face turned away from his, as if it were a side note, like she didn't really want him to hear, because if he heard it that means that he would have some minute piece of her identity to take with him and do what he would. this left him the freedom to ignore her, refuse to acknowledge his recognition of the back of her neck in a crowd, and she would know he was refusing because she knew that he was carrying that little piece in his pocket, twisting it between his thumb and forefinger like a rusty penny, as if he were contemplating whether or not to throw it into the gutter and reveal her to the rats and the concrete, and the mud which gets trapped between the souls of your shoes.
she didn't want him to forget her, like loose change in shallow graves, but she wanted even less for him to discard her like a useless shard of broken glass, as if he were afraid that she would draw blood, slice through the tips of his synapses like a razor in the brain, deathly terrified of the claws masquerading as eyelashes . that is why she whispers her name into the darkening row of uninterested strangers. self-preservation, she thinks. she can't see him anymore, except the silhoutte of his nose and the whites of his eyes when they pass under a glimmering street lamp or an all-night gas station offering a free carton of cigarettes with every fifty pound bag of ice in neon letters like a cheap vegas strip. she can't see him anymore but she knows that he's still listening to her, hearing her insecurities as they seep out like oil through the lines in her face. wondering whether or not to respond, whether or not to become involved and question in return, ask her why she didn't want to let him reject her. she does not give him time. she says, my parents got caught in a hurricane when they were driving to Georgia and they decided the best way to pass the time besides doing their laundry in a seedy motel basement was to have sex on top of the rumbling washing machine. they were in Raleigh - she tells him this and immediately regrets it, knowing that this detail is obvious, that she did not need to elaborate further on a story that was already sufficiently awkward and not the kind of story you tell a stranger on a bus during the night. it is really not a story you tell a stranger on the bus during the day either, but she's never had good timing or a sense of social regulation, and she was really becoming quickly infatuated with jonas. i was adopted, he says. she is horrified. i love you! she bursts out, and immediately regrets it again. she was only trying to make up for the sense of misplaced affection she had decided he felt towards the enigma of his origins, but somehow it only came through as a ridiculously outrageous statement of adoration. he looks at her for the first time, turning his head quickly to find her blushing and biting her lip, although he can see neither clearly because this stretch of highway is dark. thank you, he says, and looks out the window, the rain sliding like jellyfish across the glass, singing indignantly about their loss of memory and about why they couldn't wait to get free from the side of the bus.
you make me really uneasy, she says, and he grimaces. but quickly she stutteres it's not a bad thing, it's like when the waves break sideways and you can tell it's going to rain because of the way your brain prickles. my brain doesn't prickle he says and she says oh, maybe it's just me.
there is an invisible man standing beside you holding a mouse in the palm of his right hand, he says suddenly. how do you know he's holding a mouse if he's invisible? she asks. because the mouse is invisible too, he explaines. but if they're both invisible, how can you see either of them? easy, he says. when the mouse tells me where to look, i let my eyes relax and see through the atmosphere. he's real easy to see once you let the oxygen and the nitrogen return to their natural states. they aren't always so clear, but since that's how we've been told they look, we see through them. that's crazy, she says. maybe. what do i look like then? she asks. he tells her that it depends on the light, but sometimes she reminds him of barbed wire on rose petals, and sometimes she looks more like fire coral. she doesn't know how to take this, so she nods. he says that it is a good thing. then the invisible man puts the mouse on his shoulder and walks away. she still can't see him.
now here's another piece. aha! much shorter, much more abstract. really very random. apologies.
the way jellyfish slide along glass, and also the reason raleigh talks too much.
i like it when it rains through the windows and everything becomes slightly ravaged by the water, she tells him while riding the bus from Darcy Point to downtown Seattle. She's just met him [just meaning three hours earlier when she'd run to catch the shuttle as the doors were closing on her ankle and he had been the only one with an empty seat. his name was jonas, which did not fit him. his nose was too large for a man named jonas. possibly nelson, or raymond, although neither of those really fit him either. definitely not jonas, though. she does not tell him this.] my favorite kind of paper is always notebook paper, you know, college blue ruled with red margins that feel like boundaries on some sort of strangely radioactive map, like as if the map only shows up when it gets wet, she says. which is why i like it when it rains through the windows. he doesn't say anything, but his eyes move back and forth for a moment, as if he were trying to gather the floating bits of her words from the damp mid-evening air like pieces of electric wire, tangled and caught on the humidity. i'm raleigh, she says, with her face turned away from his, as if it were a side note, like she didn't really want him to hear, because if he heard it that means that he would have some minute piece of her identity to take with him and do what he would. this left him the freedom to ignore her, refuse to acknowledge his recognition of the back of her neck in a crowd, and she would know he was refusing because she knew that he was carrying that little piece in his pocket, twisting it between his thumb and forefinger like a rusty penny, as if he were contemplating whether or not to throw it into the gutter and reveal her to the rats and the concrete, and the mud which gets trapped between the souls of your shoes.
she didn't want him to forget her, like loose change in shallow graves, but she wanted even less for him to discard her like a useless shard of broken glass, as if he were afraid that she would draw blood, slice through the tips of his synapses like a razor in the brain, deathly terrified of the claws masquerading as eyelashes . that is why she whispers her name into the darkening row of uninterested strangers. self-preservation, she thinks. she can't see him anymore, except the silhoutte of his nose and the whites of his eyes when they pass under a glimmering street lamp or an all-night gas station offering a free carton of cigarettes with every fifty pound bag of ice in neon letters like a cheap vegas strip. she can't see him anymore but she knows that he's still listening to her, hearing her insecurities as they seep out like oil through the lines in her face. wondering whether or not to respond, whether or not to become involved and question in return, ask her why she didn't want to let him reject her. she does not give him time. she says, my parents got caught in a hurricane when they were driving to Georgia and they decided the best way to pass the time besides doing their laundry in a seedy motel basement was to have sex on top of the rumbling washing machine. they were in Raleigh - she tells him this and immediately regrets it, knowing that this detail is obvious, that she did not need to elaborate further on a story that was already sufficiently awkward and not the kind of story you tell a stranger on a bus during the night. it is really not a story you tell a stranger on the bus during the day either, but she's never had good timing or a sense of social regulation, and she was really becoming quickly infatuated with jonas. i was adopted, he says. she is horrified. i love you! she bursts out, and immediately regrets it again. she was only trying to make up for the sense of misplaced affection she had decided he felt towards the enigma of his origins, but somehow it only came through as a ridiculously outrageous statement of adoration. he looks at her for the first time, turning his head quickly to find her blushing and biting her lip, although he can see neither clearly because this stretch of highway is dark. thank you, he says, and looks out the window, the rain sliding like jellyfish across the glass, singing indignantly about their loss of memory and about why they couldn't wait to get free from the side of the bus.
you make me really uneasy, she says, and he grimaces. but quickly she stutteres it's not a bad thing, it's like when the waves break sideways and you can tell it's going to rain because of the way your brain prickles. my brain doesn't prickle he says and she says oh, maybe it's just me.
there is an invisible man standing beside you holding a mouse in the palm of his right hand, he says suddenly. how do you know he's holding a mouse if he's invisible? she asks. because the mouse is invisible too, he explaines. but if they're both invisible, how can you see either of them? easy, he says. when the mouse tells me where to look, i let my eyes relax and see through the atmosphere. he's real easy to see once you let the oxygen and the nitrogen return to their natural states. they aren't always so clear, but since that's how we've been told they look, we see through them. that's crazy, she says. maybe. what do i look like then? she asks. he tells her that it depends on the light, but sometimes she reminds him of barbed wire on rose petals, and sometimes she looks more like fire coral. she doesn't know how to take this, so she nods. he says that it is a good thing. then the invisible man puts the mouse on his shoulder and walks away. she still can't see him.
Thursday, May 04, 2006
midnight [a meditation on the lotus kids]
The only girl I've ever loved
Was born with roses in her eyes
Now she's a little boy in Spain
Playing pianos filled with flames
On empty rings around the sun
it's so very close to being the end of things. i can feel it in the way we move together, the way our eyes are constantly meeting, hoping to express that constant aching feeling that this is the last time for anything, for everything. it isn't, but we feel that way now, with the urgency of it all. things will be different of course, but when we started all of this mess, it was a different thing for us then as well. and now look at it. now, it is this big beautiful chaotic thing, of all these ridiculous people with their ravenous emotional eyes and their hearts full of bursting turquoise adoration and their ambivalence [strong ambivalence] towards life and where it is that we might be going, it is this big beautiful chaotic thing of all these ridiculous people trying to BE. people are clamoring for room to breathe, and filling all the empty space with words so that they don't waste precious seconds, because this is it, these last days. with the knowledge that we will never be here again...we change. we open, like the magnolia blooms that fell for six days from the sky, and then we let everything in. there is an orgy of souls. there is time spent, and reminiscence, but mostly it is just these people, panicked and terribly desperate that they will lose something of them when everyone else dissipates from their atmospheres, and they've all got their arms wrapped around each other, letting every possible inch of skin and bone and flesh mingle, and melt. so that maybe, just maybe, it will retain. they're afraid to let go, to come apart, unravel. to let in open space, because it will only grow larger, for some. but they are magnetic, these people, and those that have too many gaping holes, too many missing pieces...these people will not lose their fragile grasp once the holes have formed. they will live in them, and under them, floating inside the white noise and empty translucent silences. these holes will be filled with people! we are these people.
Let's do it all this time.Into the shadow showing.Enter the rolling tide.Over the ocean so wide.Let's do it all this time.Everyone wishing well we go and.Everyone knows anything goes.We are the lotus kids.So better take note of this.
Was born with roses in her eyes
Now she's a little boy in Spain
Playing pianos filled with flames
On empty rings around the sun
it's so very close to being the end of things. i can feel it in the way we move together, the way our eyes are constantly meeting, hoping to express that constant aching feeling that this is the last time for anything, for everything. it isn't, but we feel that way now, with the urgency of it all. things will be different of course, but when we started all of this mess, it was a different thing for us then as well. and now look at it. now, it is this big beautiful chaotic thing, of all these ridiculous people with their ravenous emotional eyes and their hearts full of bursting turquoise adoration and their ambivalence [strong ambivalence] towards life and where it is that we might be going, it is this big beautiful chaotic thing of all these ridiculous people trying to BE. people are clamoring for room to breathe, and filling all the empty space with words so that they don't waste precious seconds, because this is it, these last days. with the knowledge that we will never be here again...we change. we open, like the magnolia blooms that fell for six days from the sky, and then we let everything in. there is an orgy of souls. there is time spent, and reminiscence, but mostly it is just these people, panicked and terribly desperate that they will lose something of them when everyone else dissipates from their atmospheres, and they've all got their arms wrapped around each other, letting every possible inch of skin and bone and flesh mingle, and melt. so that maybe, just maybe, it will retain. they're afraid to let go, to come apart, unravel. to let in open space, because it will only grow larger, for some. but they are magnetic, these people, and those that have too many gaping holes, too many missing pieces...these people will not lose their fragile grasp once the holes have formed. they will live in them, and under them, floating inside the white noise and empty translucent silences. these holes will be filled with people! we are these people.
Let's do it all this time.Into the shadow showing.Enter the rolling tide.Over the ocean so wide.Let's do it all this time.Everyone wishing well we go and.Everyone knows anything goes.We are the lotus kids.So better take note of this.
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