Without makeup too. Lucky you.
21.10.09
3.10.09
ghost girl
My new favorite picture of myself ever. Taken while I was trying to host my own birthday party. Hey, if you don't make the shrimps and margaritas, you don't get the shrimps and margaritas. (Cake is for childrens.)
14.9.09
Being hurt and sick isn't even the beginning. I have no idea where I belong.
I want off this ride. Can't quite find the door though.
I want off this ride. Can't quite find the door though.
10.9.09
In the blog it's like you were almost never here, except you were here all year. We hid under the coffee tables. You sucked my insides out.
In two weeks we start all over again. Wipe slate clean, new numbers granted. I started to try this one on, but it can't be true, can it?
It's just life, you know. Time wasted isn't really wasted. You'll get over this mean trick of a whatchamacalit and we'll prance the fields together, you and me (except you is me).
In two weeks we start all over again. Wipe slate clean, new numbers granted. I started to try this one on, but it can't be true, can it?
It's just life, you know. Time wasted isn't really wasted. You'll get over this mean trick of a whatchamacalit and we'll prance the fields together, you and me (except you is me).
28.7.09
the problem is i try. when i try and it blows up, or it stands still, or it lays down, it feels like trying was a bad idea.
i have a dog who likes to act alpha until she convinces everyone she is alpha, then stands still when she realizes she's the leader.
i am getting sicker because of the year i'm having, which i hoped would be different from last year, which it is, but it's still damaging. i keep waiting for the turnaround, the part that won't make me sick.
last year i looked in the eyes of many demons and i held my she-ra shield and i sat and i meditated and i forgave my rapist and my stalker and the boys who didn't return my phonecalls. i even forgave my grandfather for dying. those people are easy to forgive because i can see them.
this is something like writing though i have characters who are neglected and atrophying. this is something like love except you squash it when it swells. it still swells.
this is the week of the plagues, but with a little revision all things are possible. i will round my flock up in a herd and make them follow me if they'd like. unlike my dog, i will not stand still once i have your attention.
i have a dog who likes to act alpha until she convinces everyone she is alpha, then stands still when she realizes she's the leader.
i am getting sicker because of the year i'm having, which i hoped would be different from last year, which it is, but it's still damaging. i keep waiting for the turnaround, the part that won't make me sick.
last year i looked in the eyes of many demons and i held my she-ra shield and i sat and i meditated and i forgave my rapist and my stalker and the boys who didn't return my phonecalls. i even forgave my grandfather for dying. those people are easy to forgive because i can see them.
this is something like writing though i have characters who are neglected and atrophying. this is something like love except you squash it when it swells. it still swells.
this is the week of the plagues, but with a little revision all things are possible. i will round my flock up in a herd and make them follow me if they'd like. unlike my dog, i will not stand still once i have your attention.
25.7.09
close.
so much is so close and so much is so different. the event changed me, as everyone's varied events change them. i have quiet now, the writer's life i carved for myself without the writing.i stir. crazy.
when i can't run, i lay. my dog gets me out and we try to love the world- moreso when the sun is out. i love the sun, the earth, breathy talk and buzzy energy. i love you when you are here.
the books have always been my friends but even they seem to speak a language i do not understand. last night chigurh growled in the direction of my bookshelf for five solid minutes. you said it was a shadow, but i bet it was a ghost. maybe it was his song, playing on the piano which does not get played.
in the best moments, there is frivolity. video games and reality television and even chocolate. i focus less on impact and the making of it- more on fun, on getting through the day. i did not think it would take me this long to recover, but i also didn't think i needed recovery. i am perfectly able to get out of bed in the morning. it's just the everything-else.
i give myself breaks but i hate to give myself breaks. i buy jewelry when i feel hurt or ignored or deserving or like a career secretary or when nothing quite sparkles enough. i take pictures of strangers, of angles. i fight for it because i still have spirit.i miss the people that i've lost. part of me wants to switch coasts. every day i love them all. love comes easy, in the way that burns my chest physically. fond thoughts, mainly.
i see the sun come up and enjoy the promise of a day and its steady progress into night. i used to worry about what i missed if i did not go out, and now i hesitate to see all that i worried about missing. cocktails that are worth it are expensive, as are running shoes, as are the folks worth keeping around.
purple is still my favorite color, and that remains steady. i like the thought of loving something the way i love purple- since i was a child, attracted to it above other colors, though loving other colors too. it's like that with purple, and calla lillies, and most dogs, and popcorn, and diamonds, and boards of canada, and high heels, and short, sweet, mean poems.love is strange like this, i tell you when you listen. i say it is constant and out of my control. i say it is painful when you burst it. i wish you were like the books, minus the part where my dog growls. i hope one day you can be like purple.
22.5.09
11.5.09
26 Songs About Sex and Death #1: Skin On Skin
(a project, an exercise, a draft, some word salad for you)
The story:
Until we came over the hill I didn’t think it had happened at all. I imagined that there’d be some mania, some psychedelia. Some kind of druggy rush. But there was nothing. A man was alive, and then he wasn’t. Like my dad had always said at funerals to make me feel better, “It’s just a biological process,” which always made me more scared.
Over the hill Shelby turns to me to ask how it felt. Like that. Like we were talking about a new pair of jeans. Or a sneeze. Or the woman at the massage parlor in Gary. He is feverishly enchanted but that is only a degree away from his demeanor when I met him. Floppy haired gentleman, this one, hair imposing on his face there at the moment over the hill with all the windows down.
“You know there’s no speed limits in this state?” He chews on something. Plastic fork?
“Course I know.”
“Course you do.”
Back home I took care of Maribeth because Maribeth needed taking care of. She was so gentle, such a quiet thing most of the time. She held both parts of the cat the same way until it squirmed out of her hand, squirmed right out of her hand. If it’d had claws her forearms woulda been spaghetti. But she held the cat close. That’s how I know her gentle heart, in spite of her fits and rages.
Maribeth met a gentleman. And I am not one of those. One night he told me to leave so they could have a quiet evening and I invited the gents, my type of gent, to go shooting in the backyard. Cans mainly.
Maribeth wasn’t a reason to leave as much as she was a reason not to stay. I have connections to the town in the dirt, I suppose, but it hasn’t been home since the new war started and it won’t be again until all the wars of man end.
Shelby, in the car with all the windows down, he asks if I’d ever seen a woman like that before.
“You mean, naked?” I ask.
“Course I do.”
“Course I have.”
“Course you have. But have you ever seen one so pretty as that?”
“No, no, no. Never in person. Only in magazines.”
“Yeah, she could have been in magazines, too. Pert little thing, though I hate it when they scare and go mute, I do.”
“You think she’ll be alright?”
“I think she’ll recover like a champion. Never speak of it again after she tells her authority I’m sure. But recover she shall.” He reaches over and grabs a pack of cigarettes from the glovie. “Cigarette?” he asks, making eye contact for a full five seconds before returning his gaze to the road.
I take one and we drive.
Queens of the Stone Age—Skin on Skin
Amazon
the song
The story:
Until we came over the hill I didn’t think it had happened at all. I imagined that there’d be some mania, some psychedelia. Some kind of druggy rush. But there was nothing. A man was alive, and then he wasn’t. Like my dad had always said at funerals to make me feel better, “It’s just a biological process,” which always made me more scared.
Over the hill Shelby turns to me to ask how it felt. Like that. Like we were talking about a new pair of jeans. Or a sneeze. Or the woman at the massage parlor in Gary. He is feverishly enchanted but that is only a degree away from his demeanor when I met him. Floppy haired gentleman, this one, hair imposing on his face there at the moment over the hill with all the windows down.“You know there’s no speed limits in this state?” He chews on something. Plastic fork?
“Course I know.”
“Course you do.”
Back home I took care of Maribeth because Maribeth needed taking care of. She was so gentle, such a quiet thing most of the time. She held both parts of the cat the same way until it squirmed out of her hand, squirmed right out of her hand. If it’d had claws her forearms woulda been spaghetti. But she held the cat close. That’s how I know her gentle heart, in spite of her fits and rages.
Maribeth met a gentleman. And I am not one of those. One night he told me to leave so they could have a quiet evening and I invited the gents, my type of gent, to go shooting in the backyard. Cans mainly.
Maribeth wasn’t a reason to leave as much as she was a reason not to stay. I have connections to the town in the dirt, I suppose, but it hasn’t been home since the new war started and it won’t be again until all the wars of man end.
Shelby, in the car with all the windows down, he asks if I’d ever seen a woman like that before.
“You mean, naked?” I ask.
“Course I do.”
“Course I have.”
“Course you have. But have you ever seen one so pretty as that?”
“No, no, no. Never in person. Only in magazines.”
“Yeah, she could have been in magazines, too. Pert little thing, though I hate it when they scare and go mute, I do.”
“You think she’ll be alright?”
“I think she’ll recover like a champion. Never speak of it again after she tells her authority I’m sure. But recover she shall.” He reaches over and grabs a pack of cigarettes from the glovie. “Cigarette?” he asks, making eye contact for a full five seconds before returning his gaze to the road.
I take one and we drive.
Queens of the Stone Age—Skin on Skin
Amazon
the song
14.4.09
Trying to Write Something
Bought a new notebook yesterday.
Had a plan for the month of April- in years past I would write about poems I'd found, but it's probably best to focus on writing again, as the last year has rendered me mute, mostly.
My thought was to read The Making of a Poem: A Norton Anthology of Poetic Forms
(or 'the Strand and Boland' for sorta-short), and pick a form each week to write with. There are other things I'm trying to do, though, like lose a few pounds, keep my dog active, be noticed at work, fall in love again, and make it through the next level of Katamari. Oh, and teach myself Logic Express so I can maybe have something to sing with. So it hasn't quite happened yet.
Whatever, I wrote some crap in the notebook last night with half a glass of wine- mainly elegiac confessional blog prose with line breaks- explorational stuff, barely poem worthy. By the end of the hour I'd dedicated to it I'd come up with a halfway decent metaphor to work with for next time, but the math and the music weren't there. So this morning I turn to page 167 is the Strand and Bolly and sure enough, this week's poetic form is to be an Elegy.
Really? Is this healthy? (Should I be worried about my health anymore, if I dare to write and make things, anyway?)
Elegy it is, though I've never really been a fan. I like the one I just looked at at the poets.org page by Mary Jo Bang, called The Role of Elegy, but otherwise...
Oh man, some googling on Mary Jo Bang and consider me schooled. She's reading The Role of Elegy here in video format. Can't beat that. There's work to do now.
Had a plan for the month of April- in years past I would write about poems I'd found, but it's probably best to focus on writing again, as the last year has rendered me mute, mostly.
My thought was to read The Making of a Poem: A Norton Anthology of Poetic Forms
(or 'the Strand and Boland' for sorta-short), and pick a form each week to write with. There are other things I'm trying to do, though, like lose a few pounds, keep my dog active, be noticed at work, fall in love again, and make it through the next level of Katamari. Oh, and teach myself Logic Express so I can maybe have something to sing with. So it hasn't quite happened yet.
Whatever, I wrote some crap in the notebook last night with half a glass of wine- mainly elegiac confessional blog prose with line breaks- explorational stuff, barely poem worthy. By the end of the hour I'd dedicated to it I'd come up with a halfway decent metaphor to work with for next time, but the math and the music weren't there. So this morning I turn to page 167 is the Strand and Bolly and sure enough, this week's poetic form is to be an Elegy.
Really? Is this healthy? (Should I be worried about my health anymore, if I dare to write and make things, anyway?)
Elegy it is, though I've never really been a fan. I like the one I just looked at at the poets.org page by Mary Jo Bang, called The Role of Elegy, but otherwise...
Oh man, some googling on Mary Jo Bang and consider me schooled. She's reading The Role of Elegy here in video format. Can't beat that. There's work to do now.
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