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

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

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

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.]

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.

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?

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

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.

. . . 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

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]

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.

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.

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.

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!'

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.

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.

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

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.

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 . . .

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.

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.

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.