Monday, March 14, 2011
It's weird to me, that little bits of my writing are floating around cyber space and reappearing here and again.
Also, I have reread some of these posts and it's crazy awesome how much my writing has improved. Not only am I more lyrical. But, I think I make more sense. I write different types of things. I understand more.
Woo. If you want to read better stuff. By me and others, go here.
Sorry I've forgotten you, blogspot.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
My eyelashes kiss my bottom lids. Just as I feel the soft tremble of REM, a door barks open, bell clanging like it had mistaken itself for something much more grand. Two girls walk in. They are wearing skirts that look painted on, taut leather stretched across severe hips. Their shirts dip down low enough to see the pale flesh of two dove like breasts. They are drunk. And it is two in the afternoon. I remember that I am two streets from the Bourbon and watch quietly as one of the girls pukes into a broken washer. I listen to them mewling and moaning, I do not move.
The girls are leaving now. I hope they learn just as I did. Don't plant sunflowers while the house is on fire. Don't wish on damned stars, twinkling like smiling babies and just as useless. Don't give anything away, especially yourself, especially yourself.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
During my lunch break, Vince and I walk to the café just down the road—the same café where I met Finn. He loops my arm through his and pretends I am his daughter, never mind that I have almond eyes and fire hair. He orders a double and I ask for Chai, but wish for a beer. Clanking, the cooler still sits wedged in the corner, though all the windows are closed today. A few locals sit on barstools, a man with a map and a Mac sits in the corner, his crinkled poncho crunched under his ass. Vince and I don't talk. He holds my hand and that says "It'll be alright." His eyes are bright and he is winking back something, maybe a tear. That says, "I love you."
I shouldn't be such a hypocrite. I know it. But, when I look at Vince I see football and meatloaf, a man with an arm around my mother's waist, hair grayed at the temple. I see a family without fracture. No Audreys or Aubreys or Step-Ford, Platinum card women with high heels and high almighty sentiment.
The last fragment of day shimmers by in a drugged fog. I move about the kitchen like the undead and serve up orders with Barbie's stolen plastic smile. The rain soaks through my jacket, leaves my hair clinging to my cheeks, and my hands purple. When I reach my apartment, I hear Sullivan yowling. The door is open, my TV gone, my windows smashed, rainwater puddled up and around like a retention pond.
I reach for the phone and find it disconnected. My computer is gone as well.
"Two months of revisions."
"All of my grad school samples."
I want to cry. I want to scream and hit things with knives and stab people with baseball bats. I want the world to stop spinning and drop like a broken elevator into an endless shaft. Everyone stupid would be crushed underneath, trapped between Antarctica and hell. Death by cold or death by fire.
It is the summer of 1994 and I am 5. We live in California. Sunshine drips from the sky, soaking through my porcelain skin, drenching it with color. I am running through cool sprinklers, then I am alone in the rose garden. My grandfather planted eighty-five bushes in honor of my grandmother—the one he beat to death. At dusk, I like to wander in and around the blooming plants in search of fairies. I never find any. When I am twelve, I realize that nothing is magical. I begin to plan my future. My father loses his job, our minivan is repossessed, my mother begins working at Wal-Mart, and my brother is regularly harassed by a neighborhood bully. Fights and boys and bad ideas seem to flock toward me. I am vindictive, cruel, beautiful.
Here, in this city. Now, in 2010.
Nothing is real. Yet, people have you believe that they tell the truth. They want you to love them, to love the autumn sky, to sing and drink and sink to the lowest depths. They want you to be on their level. I try. I tried. I am trying. I tell Finn.
I tell him, "I don't believe you."
Sometimes, I think the world is flat. Not the whole world, just my little piece. When I seal that envelope with the payment for my college loans inside, I think I am falling. Then I remember the world is round, and everything begins again. It doesn't have to be money—though that slips through my fingers like hot sand. Other times, the sensation is induced by the squealing of squad cars moving rapidly up the cobble stone, or the feeling of cold porcelain against my skin after a rough night. I am always falling.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Don't sit around and think
Talk and sit and suck smoke from stems of roses
When we walk don't touch me
Don't brush your cold body against me
You remind me of my grandfather's dentures: useful but dead
Square lights and jagged teeth or houses
Cats call at us and ask why our legs aren't bare
And we ignore, vapid, empty people
And we inhale the whole world
I imagine we could swish blue vapor through our teeth
learn from it, taste infinity
Our brains would shake our hands
In summer sunrises seem too melancholy
Sunset senses the broken day
When I stand with my hands in the air
I think about trees
Spindly, reaching, wrenching the sky apart
There are a lot of shitty bathrooms
In the mid West
Words scrawled on walls, the smell of rebirth
We are wild life in a world of muses
Handle on the stopped up drain
Shards of splintered fingers dot the sink
My hands are fractured
The pen slips from my grasp
Blood and viscous ink, black and red, my high school
I smell piss, I taste it
I live in the bowels of the universe
In light of fecal perceptions
There isn't really much light
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Who am I?
Never before have I asked myself this question. I suppose I took for granted that I've just known... To be honest, I'm slightly excited to discover the answer to this question. However, the trials of discovery are beginning to wear on me.
Don't fret. I'll survive. But, I may be persnickety, so beware.
I've been writing in the music room.
I've been writing.
I've been complacent.
I've been waiting for April 10th!
I've been busy.
I've been dancing.
I've been tired.
I've been eating Reeses.
I've been drawing. Poorly.
I've been to meetings.
I've been missing New Orleans.
I've been thinking about cats.
I've been playing basketball.
I don't know what to say.