Tuesday, September 18, 2007

ginsberg yelled at me from the countertop

Sitting cross legged on the counter-top and letting the sounds of the street wander into my ears, while Ginsberg stares at me, melancholy from the cover.

“you aren’t trying hard enough”
He is shaking his head as he says it, because he knows how I’ve been wasting my time.

“at least, if you’re going to let the summer roll by like it happens every day as easy, write it down. at least, goddamit.”

I know he’s saying it like he’s gonna cry, and I’m gonna cry, too, but not for the same reason. maybe it is…I can’t read his mind. but it’s a soft warning, making me turn the spotlight on myself even though the cord is plugged in to the back of my head, and when it spins the hot phosphorescent glow through my eyelids, the base of my neck tightens with the pressure. the self-deprecation is amusing, I think, to the passersby. Can everyone see my pretense? my loss of purpose, of the shallow quality my day in existence has been driven to?
“no. now you’re just being egotistical. No one pays attention. Even the barista in the cafĂ© who was shouting about the degradation of the whole ‘goddamn fucking universe!’ That’s the problem, see. people will fight for the grandeur because they see the results, the glory of their sacrifice. but no one loves enough beyond the fragment. the title they can place on it. ‘I’m an activist. I fight for the rights of the downtrodden.’ What the fuck does that mean? Seriously, where is the definition of your life in that sentence? Nowhere. So you say activist. That could mean any number of things. You could write pages for pamphlets on free trade wage thieving and pass them out on the corner during the sidewalk sales. But that’s not what you meant, because you’ve never worked for fair trade, you usually lend your extra time on Thursday afternoons to women’s health education services; and now people will be confused, and when you try to explain you will be misinterpreted, leading to your embattled, righteous, holier-than-the-taxi driver personal vendetta to enlighten the world. but you are bitter for it, for the weight. that the charge of the universe has been passed to you in a paper bag, instead of the bottle of wine you were promised. well, the fuck to you, it’s your own fault for taking it on. Stop complaining, and get to work.”

quite the rant, but he's right. i'm still sitting on the countertop.

she sings it for me, the reason why I kept trying with this. because I adore you. that’s all, really. the truest reason. I don’t have another one, because everything else that comes to mind is a contradiction. you don’t really fight for things the way that I do; maybe it’s because I know how fast they can be taken, how fast they are ripped away (this makes me cling, but not with my hands, or with a wailing plea; I remember everything with a fury born of grief). you don’t really seem to care either way. I’d like to think otherwise, but many better women have fallen at the feet of the apathetic fools who knew they were the lording kings of beating hearts.

[july 23]

I ran away. In the dark. by myself. To drift into my room and savour in my irie. I am hiding. but you gave up. I lose myself in songs and my words fight to escape soon enough, like butterflies spilling into my mouth up from my throat, but my lips are stuck tight. This is repression. I am repressing things. I think I’m having a mental breakdown of sorts, because I am questioning everything I do lately, and I feel like I’m changing so many habits out of fear that they are destroying what I want my life to be instead of what it actually IS. I don’t want to be afraid like this for the rest of my life; questioning every decision I will ever make again? I need to stop this, I’m freaking out. [district and the calming gospel of chick rock]

Because I am only out for the good ness in life, and as long as the negatives do not topple their weight over across the gracious and witty and absolute spectacular moments, everything is okay by me. perhaps I could say I am an opportunist in search of hedonism; ready to jump from the train as it curves at seventy-five miles an hour around the cliff. I will fly, and it will be like gravity evaporating as I fly towards the sun, ready to dismiss the myth of icarus. You have finally pushed me hard enough so that the energy builds beneath my bones, I take flight. I try not to hate, because it just ends up making me angrier, and then I become like a balloon about to bust. I will, at times. In the end, however, it will only be unabashed, illogical, adoration that I hold in my chest.
[september 9]

Oh tell me a secret and tell me a story
Lets make up plans that will never come true
This is delicious, hey thanks for the dinner
hey you know, all the stars that shoot in the sky
They're falling in love with the sun (mirah)

Saturday, September 15, 2007

welcome to the 2 1 9

honestly, i'm trying to be better here. i really am. sometimes though, you just sneak back in. and i hate you! i hate you. i'm sorry, i don't actually i hate you.

the little green house
on this busy bustling barbarous corner
[there are gang fights and street riots - just like i said.
on pickney street! do you
is full of windows and wood floors and
too much noise.
the pots and pans are crooked sometimes, and the
wine glasses are cracked.
the stairwell will probably break bones before
the end of next summer, and the garbage disposal is
forever and hopelessly clogged.
but we sit on those stairs and tell stories about
hearts and
old soccer jerseys and
how the wine glasses got cracked to begin with. we eat
peanut butter and chocolate
just as often as we eat
roasted squash and sundried tomatoes and black beans.
the lights in the living room are mismatched paper lanterns, but they
are perfectly aligned with the
melted candle rack which sits in the fireplace
during dinner.
the boys who work at the market
across the street are beginning to recognize us
as the girls who need
ben & jerry's at midnight, but
the girls in this little green house on this
busy bustling barbarous corner are
fighters. we fight back.

september 1 - september 14.
1. we're both so sorry : mirah & the weeds
2. house by the sea : iron & wine
3. a case of you : joni mitchell
4. inkwell : the blue scholars
5. change is gonna come : otis redding
6. slow west vultures : the mountain goats
7. god's country : ani difranco
8. fidelity : regina spektor
9. asthenia : blink-182
10. something pretty : patrick park
11. nothing better : the postal service
12. dolores : miles davis
13. hey ya : obadiah parker
14. me and julio down by the schoolyard : paul simon

"we passed a teenage couple in leather and studs, she with
a mohawk and he with shaved head, his dented bruise-blue
skull covered in messages rendered in ink the color of raw
mo got a running start and - 'HiYA!' she yelled - kicked
the man in the thigh. he was shocked. hand and i were less
shocked. the girls were learning karate at school, and
liked to try it out on people who looked combative.
'daaaaamn... freak,' the skull man said, wiping the
footprint off his jeans. i apologized. i gave hand a look,
making sure he didn't start talking.
'they're not well,' hand explained."

Sunday, September 02, 2007


I am evening the score
I am cutting the umbilical cord
curled with my teeth against my knees
I am scratching at my consciousness
like a bitch with fleas
I think you'll be greatly pleased
to learn that yours was the hardest
itch to relieve

this is me
without my hair
welcome to my open stare
I got nothing to hide no more
why disguise what isn't there
I am an eyesore
I am a detour
you can find me crying on
the shoulder of the road
and I will tell you
what you want to hear
before you go
and that is that
yours was the hardest itch to relieve
yours was the hardest itch to relieve

I've mapped out my course
looks like it's all uphill
I've got a heavy heart to carry
but a very strong will
it's just hard to travel
in the shadow
of regret
in fact it's so hard
that I haven't actually left yet

i can't believe i ever thought it was a good idea.