if you come looking...

Peeka: Lucky Charms?
Igby: What?
Peeka: Fucking - Lucky - Charms!
Igby: I don't know.

i get this reeediculous urge to watch Igby Goes Down approximately every two months. i have no idea why. absolutely no idea. i've seen the movie about 14 times, but i never get sick of it. maybe its because igby reminds me so much of holden caulfield, or because kieran culkin is adorable. possibly also because of the soundtrack [which i love. stones:coldplay, the weight:travis. the two that come to mind. ] regardless, i can promise you i'll be tempted to watch it at least three times in the next week. whether or not i actually do so, all depends on the busyness of my schedule. which looks like its going to eat me for breakfast three times before thursday at the moment, so yea. we'll see how that goes.

wrists, ankles, neck. you want me? that's where i'll be. get my attention. you're half way there if you come looking...

. stargazer lilies .
. raspberry cocopuffs .
. serpentine: ani difranco .
. people who wear BRIGHT GREEN .
. thirty-two minute naps on the floor, no pillow, on my stomache .
. watching love actually instead of doing my homework .
. sophisticated grown up food, old worn in stains, 137 gilman .
. tanzanite bobbypins .
. frappuchinos .
. full house at lunch, specifically uncle jesse .

But I would not sleep
in this bed of lies
So toss me out
and turn in
And there'll be no rest
for these tired eyes

pieces

wracked by aches...i can feel each and every one of my bones when i move.
prickles - shivers, drive the hairs along the back of my neck into oblivion.
the hard back of the chair is pressing my ribcage into my lungs... wracked by aches.

lying on the ground, attempting to get comfortable - knees up, arms bent, hands on my stomache. legs unshaven, sleep too vital. ants crawling, making their little black way into my little black pants. ants in my pants! and a smallish green beetle...green and orange, which glows like an oil spill.

the chewer by the elm tree...packing and glinting in anticipation. the blue tin lying in the grass, i can almost smell it from here. disgusting.

wait...that's not tobacco... it's tuna. he's not a chewer, he's a hippie making a tunafish sandwich on the hill. funny how your impressions can change so quickly.

black ink stained into the skin like its become your very blood...staring out at the world from the inside of your wrist, quietly waiting to declare its presence - when shirt sleeves are lifted, when the hand is extended to shake, when arms are flung wide in expectation of a hug. it'll begin to fade, never fear. eventually the water will wear away, taking bits of the black when you least imagine. and it's over time, really... the grand canyon wasn't made in a day. but what am i saying...tattoos have nothing to do with rocks.

our relationship consisted of opening doors - that's it. that's it...opening doors. the span of human interaction is fascinating. conversations and love affairs, friendship and kindness on the bus, right down to the smallest of gestures. made with the glance of an eye or the upward twitch of the lips... how complex we primates of the metropolis really are.

i have irrational fears about my health. i'm liable to claim i'm coming down with a bone disease when my shins whince, and any sniffle or tickle in my throat quickly morphs into a horrendous case of yellow fever. call me a hypochondriac, but sometimes i think i might be right, that for some reason my immune system has obtained super-molecular powers, and i have managed to fend off any number of dreadful diseases. i can feel my t-cells at work, armed to the teeth and snarling in the general direction of any virus they come across while traversing my bloodstream. it fucking hurts! when they battle, i mean. sort of gives me an empathetic view of conflict - i'm inside the body of a civil war victim.

'cause when I look down,
I miss all the good stuff,
and when I look up,
I just trip over things.
- ani.

invisible blackbirds

"In his time, the old man had often seen paradise: jagged panes, lightning angles, the unformulated glory of smashed leaded glass. In Paris in 1924 he had watched a workman accidentally drop from a second-story scaffolding a windowpane, which had broken on the stones of the Quai Voltaire. The shattered glass on the sidewalk contained the geometrical shapes of paradise: transparent isosceles edges, razors: glass made beautiful by fracture and accidents of force. He had wanted his poems to be as beautiful as that broken glass. He wanted them to cut into the skin and evoke the bloodflow."
- Charles Baxter, excerpt from The Old Fascist in Retirement.

may possibly be the most beautifully depressing short story i've ever read. gabriel garcia marquez does often evoke such emotion in me that i am unable to explain myself in words...but baxter's story about the struggle of old Ezra Pound and his circling descent into dementia even managed to describe the sensation of being without words; there is a passage in the story which depicts the actual inability to speak...the writer's worst torture.

to the beautiful man who looks similar to omar epps: do not be so melancholy. your eyes carry with them a certain levity that cannot be escaped, and i felt in me a desire to erase every hurt in your body. it passed eventually, after you had been gone for awhile. its funny how someone i've only even seen once can have such a great impact on my whole day - mentioned in my online outpouring of thought, even. there was the faintest hint of cigarette smoke hanging in the air along observatory dr. last afternoon. it stirred memories that did not exist; nose in the air, eyes closed, breathe in and in and in...in the smoke that contained so many years of wishing for something better. ironic, because i've never wanted to smoke. at least not tangibly...but somehow it seems like the cigarette-smoking boys always have more intriguing words spilling from their mouths. perhaps it's just the husky-voiced vibrato that lingers behind in my ears after they've explained why the vacant field had more soul when it was covered with invisible blackbirds. and instead of being blackbirds, they were men. men in black woolen suit jackets, carrying black umbrellas through blackened naked forests. the light was shifting, squinting and blinking between the crooks of the branches, leaving a lasting impression of orange and yellow on the skeleton of the trees nearest the fading sun. the men never had faces. they were all striding towards a staircase, which was crumbling and missing three steps. cobwebs. a door at the top...no one ever opened the door. they all just stood in a line, staring towards the ceiling, which had been gone since 1973. this is the story smoky-voiced boys tell me from time to time. the details change a bit every now and again... but the men never have faces. and they always start off being blackbirds.

favorites:
- having random spanish conversations with a grizzled old cuban man on a bicycle in the middle of state street
-dark chocolate covered raspberries
- ani difranco's 'looking for the holes'
-literature raptures and philosophical quandries on porches in the evening ['you buy my book and i'll buy yours!']
-dance parties and singalongs
-death cab for cutie's new cd, specifically 'i will follow you into the dark'
-rum and coke(s)
-being excited for the following upcoming events...
a) All About My Mother (Todo sobre mi madre), Rize, and Me and You and Everyone We Know coming to the Play Circle Theatre
b) ben folds on october 26th
c) the visit of kristen marie barnes to madison, WI.
- green apple gum

this was a work in progress. of approximately three days. forgive us, we're rather flaky. [and also apparently schizophrenic. ]

If heaven and hell decide That they both are satisfied Illuminate the no's on their vacancy signs If there's no one beside you When your soul embarks Then I'll follow you into the dark

to newport beach we go, post haste.

can i just say amazing?

yes. i can. The OC returneth, and oh how wonderfully the trumpets blazed upon its entrance. introduction of glorious new music that will be spinning about in my head for days? check. reference to the [other] show which makes my life complete? check. (justincases you hadn't realized to what i am referring, this means sex. or, to those even more ignorant, sex and the city. carrie bradshaw is my hero. my heart rests in New York.) cohen and his adorkable self making witty retorts at every turn, including self deprecating idioms and a mention of chrismukkah? check! and the high point... of the whole episode... at which moment i fell completely head over heels in love with the show all over again...

"cohen... i can't believe you did that cohen"

ryan atwood makes a joke! and he's grinning! ryan atwood is grinning! and making jokes! oh goodness. the emotions! the intrigue! the rollarcoaster of drama and chaos and melodic human interaction! julie cooper is still the most psychotic evil beyatch on television; and it appears she has been joined by her evil blonde stepsister/pseudo twin, come to ruin the lives of sandy and kirsten cohen. trey and his heart-wrenching guilt...cue hide and seek:

mmm whatcha say
mm that you only meant well
well, of course you did

lordy! those few moments are only the most astounding in a veritable hour of healing for my sanity. now that The OC is back, happy thursdays have returned. and if nothing else, i have this to look forward to.

you think i'm crazy. i know you do. 'anyone who refers to a television show in such great detail, as though she actually knew the characters - emphasis on characters - is obviously crazy.' and you've caught me doing it not once, but twice. for two different shows, one of which is no longer even on the air. well, if this is the case, i raise my hands in defeat. they are stained with the rouge and burgandy of the SoCal sunset [thereby making me...redhanded. you've caught me redhanded. eh? eh?] i would rather be named a lunatic than give up my reeediculous adoration for The OC. that is all.

"well you gotta admit Coop, no matter what happens - Ryan facing off with Trey to avenge your honor? It's pretty freaking hot. In like, a mythic biblical samurai western kind of way." - summer, on the tragic events of season 2.

seeing passed the decrepit palaces

...that the sky has been so neatly reflected in
the waters of the lake
means nothing.
perhaps man finds beauty in this merely
because it allows him to feel
that
much
closer
to the heavens.
But. this is a ruse, an illusion...
an Allusion to the vast expanse
of the universe in the microcosm
created by pooling water. here,
between the bends of the trees
[covered in cobwebs, filled
with moving,
brimming with life unseen]
the lake appears to go on for miles.
not unlike the ocean.
if one neglects to admit the horizon,
refusing to acknowledge
that there are boundaries, definitions,
actual spatial limitations --
it could be believed that this bend
in the trees is the corner of
eternity.
But! this is a ruse, an illusion...
no man has stood at the edge and shouted,
fearing no depths, finding no end to his vision.
at least, not yet.

tentatively, [the ruse of reflecting or the ephemeral quality of the cosmos. ]

i wrote! my brain feels better now. as does my fine point black sharpie marker. (things always look better when i handwrite them in fine point black sharpie on plain white paper. perhaps if i ever publish anything...they will allow me to publish in handwritten black sharpie. although my writing can become slightly difficult to read (for all except emily, who always manages to decipher it, somehow.) i think this is a sign that i'm settling down again. always have a hard time writing anything that isn't shit when i'm surrounded by chaos, which is frustrating really, as those are usually the times in which i need it most. but the words just won't come, and so i wait. it's really more physical dysfunction that smites writer's block on my hand and on my head, rather than chaos in the more personal world of everyday life. moving. disruptive things like that. good thing i wasn't born an army brat, or i'd be screwed. all sorts of thoughts and no way to make them come out...my head'd come near to bursting! or maybe i could just talk to kristen all the time, as she usually gives me some peace of sanity to carry around as brickwall of sorts so as to fend off ugly monsters rearing their wretchedness [i know i used the wrong form of that word...i meant it as such. leave me alone.]

"she is a friend of my mind. she gather me, man. the pieces i am, she gather them and give them back to me in all the right order. it's good, you know, when you got a... friend of your mind." - toni morrison, beloved

maybe this just means we're used... no longer new.

...off a boulder where he'd been invisible,
or just longevity reflecting on itself
between the sky clouding over and the lightly ruffled
water.
this was the morning after your dream of dying, of being held
and told it didn't matter.

- eamon grennan.

green twining like a mass of snarled poofy hair, attention drifts to aluminum accented by the sprinkling of red and orange lights. through the crack in the glass, beyond the height, lies one...tall. along the ledge inside... here is green tea and gray tea, sicilian bergamot earl pure leaf tea. herbal and black tea, vanilla and chai tea, rooibos red african blend tea. manhattan and the sarangheti meet in the middle, telling tales of taxi cabs and waterholes, although the parallels between the two are almost invisible upon first glance. scribbles. black ink dripping in to pages...curling like barbed wire and wrought iron gates.

i'm all sorts of off balance. although usually when this happens i get this sort of uneasy i think i might vom but maybe i'll just be uncomfortable for two and a half hours feeling...the type that causes me to become painfully obviously anxious at social functions and in the midst of ice breakers. but i'm not getting that feeling right now! its sort of weirding me out. i'm still in the awkward situations. still don't like meeting new people [not the actual knowing them...the meeting them part.] and i definitely haven't become more talkative than i used to be. but i'm so much more comfortable in my uncomfortability, it isn't freaking me out nearly as much as it used to. i think i'm off balance because of a) the transition to sophomore year [which is inherently uneven... do i or don't i want to major in this? will i or won't i finally find a place on campus? is this or isn't this what i want to do with the rest of my life?!] and b) the realizations that i've made about myself over the past three months. i think i changed more over the summer than i did over the course of my first year of college, although without those nine months, none of the changes would have taken place, as they did lead to most of the influence that caused them. but being back in the roch, with the people that i am most familiar, caused me to recognize the truest parts of my personality and the aspects of others that i respect most. so now that i'm back in madison [tangent: isn't it strange how you can say 'i'm back...' in reference to two different places and mean basically the same thing? how can one have two homes and not attain an identity crisis? the application of andrew largeman's wisdom in garden state is becoming even more glaringly obvious...] i feel like i can really get what i want out of the illusive college experience, if only because i sort of know what i'm looking for. at least on some level, the definitions of my dreams are clearer. the pixels have become smaller, the view has become wider, and when i look out on library mall, i don't see a photograph in a pamphlet, i see minutes and hours and days of my life. which is pretty mind-blowing, when you really think about it. to be able to see whole bits of your life in a photograph. a moment, captured in a flash of light on reddish-bronze film. but that moment can mean whole years to your existence, depending on the epiphanies that you can have inside them.

three things i'd like to say blatantly:
my hair looks sexy when i've got it pushed back with bobby pins and a headband, tied in little pigtails at the base of my neck. especially when the part is a little crooked and chunks are coming out every which way. also... i look hot with an eyebrow(n) ring, and no one can deny that. [ a) i'm not conceited, i promise. i just love my little silver facial piercing. its what i've been looking for to complete my face for my whole life. and b) i called it an eyebrow(n) because my father likes to remind me that i referred to my eyebrows as such when i was small...amusing him, and therefore, amusing me in my wisened old age. and by old age, i mean approximately two decades.]
i want my book back, dammit. this means a heartbreaking work of staggering genius. if anyone knows me at all, they know that i am obsessed with that book. and it's been missing from my possession for over three months now. causing me to have heart palpitations and small seizures. dave eggers is my god! i need his satiric wit and charming, effortless observations back in my life. and also all musings about toph are hysterical, thereby causing me to laugh, thereby causing me to live longer. (it's been proven that if you laugh more often, you add years to your life.) i'm dying sooner everyday that the book is missing from my being!
i have a green thumb. my bamboo plant is huge, the oregano plant i bought for a dollar fifteen at shopko has turned into a small mess of vines on my window sill, and don't even get me started about the spiderplant i raised in a milk carton from the tender age of five til approximately fifteen. professor sprout would be begging me to be her assistant if i were to be taking herbology. [is it bad that i just referred to harry potter as though it were a real place? is it worse that i doubted its existence?!]


I don't know what's happening to me. I seemed to be unraveling.

somehow we've become like the library of congress.

"This guy named Fritz something was eating a lot of Twinkies. Fritz's girlfriend was talking to him about women's rights, and he kept saying, 'I know, baby.'"

and there was just something about the way we fit; similar to the way all books end up looking just fine in the same size bookshelf, even though they're all totally different...especially when it comes down to the words. i guess the whole thing can be attributed to a metaphor about library books, really. we are the books. and so we attain certain qualities that define them. and we read each other just as we would 'catcher in the rye' or 'watership down.' checked out for the year, we've been hiding under stacks of newspapers, sitting on desks, stuffed between the cushions of couches. there are dog earred corners, rings left on our covers by coffee mugs, and maybe even a few missing pages. the pink ink of a highlighter has left indelibile stains in the paper, running through to the other side accidentally and revealing strange new coincidences about the use of the letters "L" and "E". specifically together. we've got these barcodes stuck to the backs of our [necks], which are supposed to identify us in an instance, but really...they're so old now that it seems like half the numbers don't make sense anymore and the lines really are just lines.

we are the books, and others are our books. sometimes to re-read the old stories just doesn't feel right, as if your eyes won't stay focused on the words long enough to comprehend the subject and end up skipping around to find audience with flashes of light or a mosquito bite itch. a search and rescue party will be attempted [carrying the book back and forth in the front seat of your car, explaining to yourself that you will read it tomorrow.] eventually these books will be re-read, or discovered by another, but for now, they'll sit on shelves and gather that most amazing smell of must and old paper. the worst case is often the most amicable on the surface, which may cause even greater suffering upon the realization of the unfortunate state in which the book lies. this is when one returns to a comfortable favorite, or a story that floats fondly in the reminiscence of your childhood. that kind of book that you always remembered adoring when you were younger, but never found the time to pick up again. or the one you read over and over, just because it was there and because nothing better had ever taken your heart as thoroughly as that had one particular summer. you return to its pages out of habit, and comfort...not that either is a negative, just that the inspiration disappeared steadily from the experience until reading the words had become like walking; entirely acceptable and enjoyable, but not quite the same as skipping. when glancing over these books in the 'recently returned' bin, your eyes will light up and, immediately, the urge to lounge around in a bathrobe with a banana smoothie overcomes all other responsibility. you've been parted so long with your darling novel, the change is not immediately noticeable. but the longer you read, the more distasteful it becomes. this is not what you remember! what happened to the intrigue, and the quirky humor, and the charming wit? when did it become so awkward and contradictory to your opinions, and dare you think it...meaningless? you'll try to enjoy it like you once did, but somehow, it won't quite ever be the same.

before you dismiss the library as a place of misfortune, sit down on a couch and pick up one of those old favorites that used to make your brain simmer with anticipation for every word. at least three of them have just been left in the box, go quick before they're taken! as you flip through the first few pages, scanning for familiar sentences and more slowly recalling character flaws, you'll find that some of those books you loved so much before you were checked out last year still hold as much of your love as they did before. before you were covered in coffee stains and scribbled on with black ink...before your pages were bent and warped by the rain...before your spine was cracked twice too many and the lines of age began to show in your face...these were the ones who were stacked by you on the shelf. but as it turns out...returning you to the same shelf isn't such a bad idea, and re-reading and being re-read isn't such a bad idea either. somehow, the comfort clung to the pages along with the travelling wear of the new places you've all been. but the excitement hasn't disappeared, and those lines you found so amusing and endearing and intelligent before are still just as good!

love to my loves. hide and seek, josianas, polaroids, ice cream, paint, sleep deprivation, sunburn, thespians, the opposite sex. swing sets, river beds, cocktails, roadtrips, head phones, equilateral triangles, windows, cake! it's time for bed, so long for now.
ps. i still adore you.



i found this outside an elementary school. i like to think it's a preliminary outline of some kid's ambitious, world-altering plot. -found.

a nightmare on cascade street

bibbsy and i get into a lot of uncomfortable situations when wandering around rochester at night. usually directly after having very thorough, very interesting conversations. and also usually after eating ice cream. we sat on a bench in the darkness, illumination coming from two sources: 1- the street light hovering over the cascade street cul-de-sac and 2- the house next to the park on cascade street. deep in conversation, neither of us realize the advance of two middle aged, mustachioed, tank top wearing, beer swilling individuals. men. who would approach two young women, in a park, at night, but them? you say we should know better. of course we should. bibbsy's mother had warned her minutes prior (via cellphone) that something may happen in a park at night. to which my dear friend responded:

"it's rochester."

i thought it was a good point at the time. apparently, we were both mistaken.

"where's matty?"
"we don't know matty."
"oh, we thought he was over here."
"nope. he's not."
"how old are you girls?"
"19."
"nah. you're not 19. they 19?"
"nah. but where's matty?"
"you're 19?"
"we're 19. we don't know matty."
"you're like 16..." -mumbling- "so where's matty?"
"we don't know matty."
"you're not 19. 17 maybe..."

the above conversation ensued, with the second said man staying much longer than necessary, hovering much too close for comfort and clearly slurring [clearly slurring? oxymoronic? i think so, but appropriate] his words until they were a total mess of sounds, indecipherable to even the greatest of linguists. after rather large anxiety attacks, in which we both envisioned horror movie plotlines and SVU coldcase files, our thumping hearts were calmed when the men (with beer in hand) returned to their illuminated, intoxicated household. we looked at each other, laughed nervously, and continued on with our previous conversation. bad idea. we should have left when the cop car stopped at the corner to 'watch for speeders.' that's bullshit. he was watching us. too bad he didn't come out and tell us to "get yourselves inside, ladies. it's awfully late for two young women to be hanging around in a dark area as this." or some other sage wisdom that his doubtless experience has provided him. we were daring. we remained, proclaiming our right as legal, law abiding citizens to express our desire to sit on a public bench at night. but, unfortunately (in hind sight), the cop drove off, and we were still afforded the right of free loitering in a public rest area. so we did just that. bad idea.

20 minute interlude

and then it happened. bibbsy was talking, i was listening. and then i heard something else, something behind us. i turned to look, seeing the Budweiser twins returneth with a third, stumbling friend. maybe this was matty? who knows. one of them appeared to be holding a shotgun, although this may just be my overactive imagination remembering faulty, more frightening details in the after-effects of my terror. nervous as this trio had me, i turned back to the conversation at hand. yet again, i heard something else behind me. the rattle of a chain against cement. the padding feet of a quadraped. the panting tongue of a monster.

-enter scary doberman. growling. tied to small tree by chain. and leaping, as if about to successfully break from said chain.

my head turned slowly, my eyes focused dimly in the darkness, and i swear to whatever else on earth, i saw the pupils of the beast, glowing. time to go. the minute we stepped off the bench, this massive dog began to bark. and snarl, and lunge, and leap against the only feeble restraint that held it away from us. in the dark, this chain was invisible. we could not tell if it had the capability to come running at us or not. and it certainly tried. oh yes. weaving back and forth in the yard, ready to rip us limb from limb, lusting for massacre. i have never been afraid of a dog in my life, not german sheperds nor terriers nor great danes. not even other dobermans that i have come across. but there is something in the sound of a dog's bark. the tone changes somehow, and the ear can hear the difference between a bark that says "hello! what's going on? who are you? pay attention to me! what's this? what now?" and a bark that says "i want your blood." and this dog had the second one down to a t. not to mention the growling, snapping, snarling fangs that were offset by the gleam in its blackened eyes.

"they've got a doberman."
"oh my god."
"oh my god."
"i think it's about that time."
"i think it is, yes. they've got a doberman. fucker."
"it's going to attack us."
"i don't want to get eaten by a doberman. i don't want to get eaten by a fucking doberman."
"is it still on the chain?"
"don't look at it. no visual contact. looking at it will only provoke it."

-viscious barking, snarling, and chain-rattling-

"i don't want to get eaten by a fucking doberman."
"maybe my mother was right. it's crazy out here. never again. never again at night."


we walked as far away from that thing as possible. at a right angle to the house, instead of in a diagonal across the grass. single file on the sidewalk, right up against the edge of the ditch. single file! at night! could these men not see the extreme measures we were taking to avoid this dog? could they not understand the terror that was striking into our hearts at the mere thought that we might be bitten, much less approached by their canine companion? no. no such luck. i do believe that, in the event of such a horrific occurence, these men would have been too drunk to fully comprehend the consequences, and therefore be striken totally useless in any effort to halt such an attack. and so, after the longest half-a-block walk of our lives, we found refuge in the steel-framed, silver body of my trusty little escort. do not let the inanimate punctuation of the above conversations fool you into believing that we were not hysterical. although our voices were never fully raised in fear or alarm, let me assure you ... we were both seconds from dying of panic.

At what age does it become socially unacceptable to hide under your bed?

that dreamers often lie.

second time around : yo yo ma, edgar meyer, and mark o'connor

listen to that. over and over and over again. it'll break your heart, i swear. then eat some ben & jerry's dublin mudslide [hell, eat the whole pint in ten minutes. what the fuck else are you living for, if not to eat as much ice cream as your caffeine-racing heart desires? oh wait, that's only me. still...eat it.] watch reediculous amounts of sex & the city, special victims unit, and the kratt bros' be the creature. wear sweatpants around your house, use the f-word as much as possible [fuck!] and hit the snooze button at least three times too many.

lazy days. or maybe just the recipe to make me morbidly obese. semantics. i'll be done with it by week's end, as that is the arrival of my return to the mad city. back to the tiny rooms, microwavable food, laundry sundays, and overpriced convenience stores [walgreens]. back to trekking up bascom, reading pages of bullshit, melodramatic boy troubles, and missing my favorite people. back to pretentious professors, adorable but married TA's [patrick murphy!] communal bathrooms, and sweltering september evenings without air conditioning. but i am oh so excited to return! beyond all of that, there are so many things that i'd never give up, and sometimes even those obnoxious shortcomings that come with being a poor college student can actually be sort of ... endearing.

tempio sommerso
look for me beyond the sea,
right below the surface.
can you see all those
copper threads and the fired
bronze waves
in my hair? please say
that you'll love me
for the rest of my days.
i'm begging you. why not
take as much as you
can carry...
there's no reason not to
fill yourself up to the brim.
keep a hold while the
strings twist and
buckle, snapping and
singing. in agony.
they break, they break.
the singing will be all
the more sweet when it
comes to rest in your ears ;
can you still hear it beneath
those curtains made of
ocean? like some cavernous
pressure had come
from behind... the ribcage
of the memories had been lost,
again.
faint trails of truth make
ripples like oil spills,
shimmering with glassy
reflection, grasping for
any remaining light.
open your eyes...


I will never be the woman with the perfect hair, who can wear white and not spill on it.

all things shining

ooh. that was noisy. please don't come back from the moon, i'm begging you. there is no room left here, on this plane, in this space. i tried to warn you...too late now, love. this is flowing up, over the brim...flowing over with interior space.

perhaps here i'll find some peace of mind, some respite from the swirling and the chaos. there is so much of it these days, all bundled up inside my head and waiting for to spill from my lips; i could go on for hours about why the cool of the early morning air and the soft light of the dawning makes waking up so soon not so bad. about how my wanderlust grows stronger whenever my television flashes national geographic, whenever my ears are filled with the sweeping ephiphanies of cellos and strings, whenever the reminiscence of an airport terminal crosses my mind. about how the government of zimbabwe is wrenching its people from the dirt and throwing them towards the ditches, sending them out from hell with nothing into a great expanse of even more eternal emptiness, creating a void, a plague of the waking dead where breath and blood used to radiate. i could go on for hours about where i see my feet traversing, and why i'll finally find a resting place... when i've found one. about the moment i realized that several pieces of my broken heart had been given back to me, and how i hadn't even felt them fall back into place. about how i long for arms and eyes and lips to wrap themselves around me, those connected to the body of man filled with music and question and the promise of comfort, but also of independence.

about how i feel so right exactly where i'm at.
it's taken me a long time to get back to this...at least four years, if not more. although i've found what i had, it isn't the same anymore. older and wiser and more difficult to stretch, yet its begging me to with voices made of equal parts steel and liquid silk. can you imagine the blending of steel and silk? strength in cold, dark metal...wrapped in that something, something so flowing that the boundaries you attempt to define diminish with each passing moment, lost at the edges that were never there to begin with.

[i can see it. me, green coat clad, scarfed, sneakered. mittens made of faded navy, clutching that thing. that beautiful machine! eyes closed, lips mouthing words only i can hear. rosy nose chilled by the frost, feet finding paths quickly towards the warmth of the indoors. but i have those moments saved somewhere deep...even when i hate them in the present tense, i'll find them happily upon a later time.]

the floor will eat us alive. i love you.