Sunday, November 26, 2006
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
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
trust me | there is no answer that could
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
things to remember:
flying black russians
quiet stovetop conversation
the dirty three
2-for-1 caramel macchiatos
alliances, and throwing a martini in my eye.
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 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.