"After which, obviously, he will become president of the United Nations, train a flock of African gray parrots to perform free colonoscopies in the developing world, and launch himself into space in order to explain the human heart to aliens living at the pulsing core of interstellar quasars."
this is my lockbox. wrap it up and throw it in the river, rusted shut til kingdom come, water-proof lockbox.
self-medicating.
wind storms that grow dreams about pema chodron and snorkeling on the shell collector's beach. hesitant steps forward, yoga steps back (at least the shakti flows freely when i live this close to the center). tall lanky ones and plaid cranky ones, mustached and bearded and telling me stories about things that i've heard somewhere else before. yamuna ramakrishnananda clouds. self-editing. maybe i'm looking at everything that makes a sound. or maybe there is something else beneath the surface. studies in lady love, and it making sense in light of my personal philosophy on beauty - i've always declared that it is possible in everyone; why not now? still rabbit-hearted and falling for the wrong ones, but maybe this is the karma i deserve. genuine and generous of heart: teach me how to love indiscriminately. big sounds - there was a crack in the planet - and big moves. heart chakras and root chakras opening wide up and out blasting like cosmic breath into the atmosphere.
distracted and distracting (myself) with svarga dvidasana and bakasana. hamstar refugees. reese's pieces and bhujapidasana. baking and brewing and drinking gnarly head (oh gnarly head). planning to run half-marathons. nepalese travels with farsi for lunch. jade 50. exploring the bounds of a binary identity. i think it’s not so much the gender of a person but the person that inhabits the body, and that making all the difference. changing my whole world view. giving me the spark that i needed to restart.
at night this house sounds like a humpbacked whale. sea songs stuck to the inside of my head, echoing around the caverns and corners of the foggy gray cave. it'll get eaten some day, by rotting bricks and mouse hole tunnels and the city building inspector, but it'll live here in me forever. a return to 2006?
in penelope cruz' spanish curled english: i am a pleasure delayer.
teaching myself to trust my instincts. breathe in, breathe out. i have to follow my ribcage to concentrate, but it helps. oh, i have lived for ages i'm a thousand turns of tides | i got sixteen hundred tigers now tied to silver strings | oh the mighty heart will sing | oh, the mighty heart will sing. just when i thought that i was going home. i tried. i really did. {i feel like this no longer applies. which is a good thing, right?}
pleasure delayers with a bit of social anxiety won't always end up as old maids. this is my social mantra. fuck, i'm taking up mantras for everything. this is where we put the butter; kitchen mantra. teach yourself to play piano; fruitless pipe dream mantra. writing so as not to feel so toxic; anxiety mantra. (i knew it would come out eventually). speak nice, think nice, think global, act local; humanitarian mantra.
dolla pints, vintage style. red frenchies at barriques. green amber with dinner. regina spektor is a raging feminist with a different kind of voice to shout with.
talking bear mountain picnic massacre blues [bobby d]
get rid of me [dj khaled]
love [parachute]
love & mathematics [broken social scene]
favorite food [tokyo police club]
with a heart attack on your plate | you were lookin' back on your days | how you spent them all in a blur | when they asked if you were for sure | i'm into the woods | i'm down on my life |
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Thursday, April 1, 2010
big goddamn river blues
cried all night til there was nothing more
what use am i | as a heap on the floor?
o-o-old habits die hard
oh, when you got | when you got a sentimental heart.
that, and luda. billy bragg. sara b.
songs of the week.
hearing from: the jungle. mr. habermann. my own personal puerto rican diaz and the girl who wrote the lightbulb story (or maybe she's the one with the circus in the forest). sethela. running with happy dogs who jump up and down and stay by your side. wall-e and eeeeeva. walking home on e street. protests in the square.
angry red scratches from prickly bush branches in the west virginian mountains. climbing in altitude til we get to the sky [muir and whitman were right - the restless and rattled and un-nerved folk will return when we need to feel the sun beams in all of their full-dazzling] drinking too much in the nighttime on rooftops where you can see the monuments on all sides. peanut butter and banana smores. stream beds and reminiscing over the sidewalk revolutionaries (forever in my head with amsterdam and the lord of war, up in the heavy air, down on the street yellow lights flashing, leaning in on the dock with the thunder rip rolling along the lake, river floats and river kisses; rivers, generally speaking.) van morrison.
shorts - not the pants kind, but the story kind, the movie kind, the life kind. salsa dancing with crazy m under an eritrean moon. jumping the trolley rail on H. saki and sushi. strawberry tea. thinking maybe i already had my chance and it didn't work out so i won't get another and contemplating eating egg salad sandwiches by myself until i'm the same age as betty white (88) even though i probably won't live much passed 43 and then who will eat egg salad sandwiches when i'm gone?
jumping from bridges.
what use am i | as a heap on the floor?
o-o-old habits die hard
oh, when you got | when you got a sentimental heart.
that, and luda. billy bragg. sara b.
songs of the week.
hearing from: the jungle. mr. habermann. my own personal puerto rican diaz and the girl who wrote the lightbulb story (or maybe she's the one with the circus in the forest). sethela. running with happy dogs who jump up and down and stay by your side. wall-e and eeeeeva. walking home on e street. protests in the square.
angry red scratches from prickly bush branches in the west virginian mountains. climbing in altitude til we get to the sky [muir and whitman were right - the restless and rattled and un-nerved folk will return when we need to feel the sun beams in all of their full-dazzling] drinking too much in the nighttime on rooftops where you can see the monuments on all sides. peanut butter and banana smores. stream beds and reminiscing over the sidewalk revolutionaries (forever in my head with amsterdam and the lord of war, up in the heavy air, down on the street yellow lights flashing, leaning in on the dock with the thunder rip rolling along the lake, river floats and river kisses; rivers, generally speaking.) van morrison.
shorts - not the pants kind, but the story kind, the movie kind, the life kind. salsa dancing with crazy m under an eritrean moon. jumping the trolley rail on H. saki and sushi. strawberry tea. thinking maybe i already had my chance and it didn't work out so i won't get another and contemplating eating egg salad sandwiches by myself until i'm the same age as betty white (88) even though i probably won't live much passed 43 and then who will eat egg salad sandwiches when i'm gone?
jumping from bridges.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
re: stacks
And don't get me wrong, dear,
in general I'm doing quite fine
It's just when it's summer in the city,
and you're so long gone
from the city
I start to miss you,
baby,
sometimes
screwing and biting to get back at something i never really got to have in the first place. being okay around old friends that disappeared for a while. buying plane tickets and paying for workshop classes (god, i hope that one is worth it...) wearing the fleece, and flip flops.
the history of bop (hey pork pie pork pie, hey pork pie) his imperialistic kingdoms are coming. more likely on the pavings of the city under tragic rainy telelphone poles suddenly realizing that life is strange, the three stooges do exist, that in 10,000 years that all the goofs he felt in him were justified in the outside world and he had nothing to reproach himself for
bonk. boing. crash!
skiddly-boom. pow-slam.
bang BOOM. wham blam crack.
frap.
kerplunk clatter
clap flap plap slap map splatcrunchcrouchbongsplatsplat! BONG.
It's the sound of the unlocking
and the lift away
[if only i would have told you]
Your love will be
Safe with me.
[i love allen ginsberg. let that be recorded in heaven's unchangeable heart.]
in general I'm doing quite fine
It's just when it's summer in the city,
and you're so long gone
from the city
I start to miss you,
baby,
sometimes
screwing and biting to get back at something i never really got to have in the first place. being okay around old friends that disappeared for a while. buying plane tickets and paying for workshop classes (god, i hope that one is worth it...) wearing the fleece, and flip flops.
the history of bop (hey pork pie pork pie, hey pork pie) his imperialistic kingdoms are coming. more likely on the pavings of the city under tragic rainy telelphone poles suddenly realizing that life is strange, the three stooges do exist, that in 10,000 years that all the goofs he felt in him were justified in the outside world and he had nothing to reproach himself for
bonk. boing. crash!
skiddly-boom. pow-slam.
bang BOOM. wham blam crack.
frap.
kerplunk clatter
clap flap plap slap map splatcrunchcrouchbongsplatsplat! BONG.
It's the sound of the unlocking
and the lift away
[if only i would have told you]
Your love will be
Safe with me.
[i love allen ginsberg. let that be recorded in heaven's unchangeable heart.]
Sunday, February 14, 2010
held together by water
and to know you is hardly wonder | to know you all wrong, we were | (OOoooooooooo | (OOoooooooooo) | really too late to call, so we wait for | morning
i ran on your name today. you, fucker.
sometimes i run because the weather is so warm (after a long winter) that i am intoxicated - like all the mitochondria, in my skin and my feet and on the inside of my lungs, they've all turned the sunlight into wine, just like galilei said. sometimes i run because i don't know what else to do with my limbs. sometimes i am sad and sometimes i am angry and sometimes i just need to push myself forward. today it was you. smashed the souls of my shoes into the snow. up and around and over the banks, in front of cars that were in a hurry to get somewhere else, away from my house and back again even though it still doesn't feel much like home and more like a prison in the middle of a prison-city. and then when i was done running, i walked. cause otherwise i'd be down on the sidewalk [curled with my teeth against my knees | scratching at my consciousness | like a bitch with fleas]
stretching angles and elbows around ankles until the muscles are straight and i can feel my self center. breathing the beautiful ache into releasing (mind over matter). sleepy dogs who love me regardless of my emotional dysfunction. lonely lonely, here with me. really early morning on highway 70e. saturday mornings that remind me of state street. the sound of nighttime snowplows.
who knows | who knows? | i may come home | yeah, i may return
[the funeral ] - liz lee
[beautiful girls] - deertick
[itch] - ani
[skinny love] - bon iver
[california pt. 2] - vampire weekend
it was lost in the street;
says, i huffed and i puffed | and i shooed him away
hell, i stopped the sunset in the middle of the day | i watched him grow wings,
fly away
i ran on your name today. you, fucker.
sometimes i run because the weather is so warm (after a long winter) that i am intoxicated - like all the mitochondria, in my skin and my feet and on the inside of my lungs, they've all turned the sunlight into wine, just like galilei said. sometimes i run because i don't know what else to do with my limbs. sometimes i am sad and sometimes i am angry and sometimes i just need to push myself forward. today it was you. smashed the souls of my shoes into the snow. up and around and over the banks, in front of cars that were in a hurry to get somewhere else, away from my house and back again even though it still doesn't feel much like home and more like a prison in the middle of a prison-city. and then when i was done running, i walked. cause otherwise i'd be down on the sidewalk [curled with my teeth against my knees | scratching at my consciousness | like a bitch with fleas]
stretching angles and elbows around ankles until the muscles are straight and i can feel my self center. breathing the beautiful ache into releasing (mind over matter). sleepy dogs who love me regardless of my emotional dysfunction. lonely lonely, here with me. really early morning on highway 70e. saturday mornings that remind me of state street. the sound of nighttime snowplows.
who knows | who knows? | i may come home | yeah, i may return
[the funeral ] - liz lee
[beautiful girls] - deertick
[itch] - ani
[skinny love] - bon iver
[california pt. 2] - vampire weekend
it was lost in the street;
says, i huffed and i puffed | and i shooed him away
hell, i stopped the sunset in the middle of the day | i watched him grow wings,
fly away
Sunday, February 7, 2010
akimbo
If you call me | I won't be home
I'm hiding from the kingdom come
hiding across the street from the abandoned police station. from a perfectly interesting possibility (because i'm still stuck beside the one 200 miles to the north, 1200 miles to the west, across two oceans and several continents) and away from the snow. wearing heels every day and staying up compulsively late. working -by association - for big pharm, combustible cars, dangerous oil. the media king, a midnight radio monopolist with his fingers in every dirty pot of gold. yoga, unless i'm lazy. too much coffee, not enough sunlight. coconut skins, vampire weekend, and cosmic love in a blizzard, for the brokenhearted two years too late.
[they cared, right? i'm not crazy?]
distracted and wordless.
wishing i were on a different continent because it might have changed everything this time.
pulling my hair out by the roots.
falling asleep on my back, limbs akimbo.
MFA v. PC (i live in a land of non-lucrative acronyms).
put me back in a place where i've no option. clearly my self-control is kicking in for all the wrong reasons. take the world away from my finger tips and make me fight for it again. every day. hot and out of my element and fresh-faced from the lack of an alternative.
surviving. survive(d) paradise.
I'm hiding from the kingdom come
hiding across the street from the abandoned police station. from a perfectly interesting possibility (because i'm still stuck beside the one 200 miles to the north, 1200 miles to the west, across two oceans and several continents) and away from the snow. wearing heels every day and staying up compulsively late. working -by association - for big pharm, combustible cars, dangerous oil. the media king, a midnight radio monopolist with his fingers in every dirty pot of gold. yoga, unless i'm lazy. too much coffee, not enough sunlight. coconut skins, vampire weekend, and cosmic love in a blizzard, for the brokenhearted two years too late.
[they cared, right? i'm not crazy?]
distracted and wordless.
wishing i were on a different continent because it might have changed everything this time.
pulling my hair out by the roots.
falling asleep on my back, limbs akimbo.
MFA v. PC (i live in a land of non-lucrative acronyms).
put me back in a place where i've no option. clearly my self-control is kicking in for all the wrong reasons. take the world away from my finger tips and make me fight for it again. every day. hot and out of my element and fresh-faced from the lack of an alternative.
surviving. survive(d) paradise.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
trickle down
selling my soul for the rent:
it has come to this
finally.
or, so soon?
i am stretched thin, faltering far from a body of water that matters (no lakes no nothing no salt & the sea in my sleep)
and writing little
to none.
social miscast
sitting on the outside | hands dry | eyes wide | quiet, because the cat | got my tongue and took | my fingertips with it.
i don't think i like DC, in the end. when i realized that i've been living on lakeshores and seashores consistently for five years, this made sense to me: there is no water. the potomac doesn't count for shit and i'm drowning in dry land. people are beaten down or they are the ones who have been doing the beating, and i'm not interested in wielding a bat or a broom or anything else that would blossom and bruise [on your skin]. friendless, in a social climbing city. (500) days i've been uncomfortable in my own bones and i'm tired of it. tired of tolerating. i want to be in love with a place again.
where is doctor parnassus?
he's been hidden away like mcwatt and
the devil,
and the three of them must be having some kind of raucous discussion because
man!
what i wouldn't give to low and twist in the gravitational winds, to dive
and deliver, my wings at great
dystopian
dizzying heights (meaning mountains and gravity, minus the fall).
off to find a wellspring.
it has come to this
finally.
or, so soon?
i am stretched thin, faltering far from a body of water that matters (no lakes no nothing no salt & the sea in my sleep)
and writing little
to none.
social miscast
sitting on the outside | hands dry | eyes wide | quiet, because the cat | got my tongue and took | my fingertips with it.
i don't think i like DC, in the end. when i realized that i've been living on lakeshores and seashores consistently for five years, this made sense to me: there is no water. the potomac doesn't count for shit and i'm drowning in dry land. people are beaten down or they are the ones who have been doing the beating, and i'm not interested in wielding a bat or a broom or anything else that would blossom and bruise [on your skin]. friendless, in a social climbing city. (500) days i've been uncomfortable in my own bones and i'm tired of it. tired of tolerating. i want to be in love with a place again.
where is doctor parnassus?
he's been hidden away like mcwatt and
the devil,
and the three of them must be having some kind of raucous discussion because
man!
what i wouldn't give to low and twist in the gravitational winds, to dive
and deliver, my wings at great
dystopian
dizzying heights (meaning mountains and gravity, minus the fall).
off to find a wellspring.
Friday, November 27, 2009
just a gambler at heart
The brick front outside my window | is unraveled like a fault line crawled up its spine | and now that the sugar maple shed all its | squirming starfish leaves, | they crawl and shimmy | in the puddles between | the stones, looking
for
their
missing
legs.
they gon’ put you out on the streets lorena | they gonna sing and dance upon your grave
sassy DJ flirting disasters. realizing that i am the owner of a marshallese heart. samantha power on the subway. electric dreams [it’s weird how much i miss you sometimes]. being restless and uneasy because i can’t find a coffee shop; i might have found a coffee shop...the potter's house. rosemary & garlic mashed potatoes + gin & mango juice = thanksgiving dinner. yumberry grapefruit yogurt. trans-atlantic african phone calls. the OC season four, and all the music that came with it. tutoring for t.i. and speaking espanol with carlos. dangerous almost missed messages.
k'naan. jambo. wander.
winter doesn't know where i been. neither do you, and it makes me want to break through the walls. speak it all out loud, every word. every night time minute under those goddamned stars, the songs that stuck to the underside of the pandanus leaves, the intense sense of melancholy that comes over a person when we begin to embody an island. how every breath was hot and crowded and why i never quite recovered from kabul's and that i carried it half way across the world and how angry it still makes me to know that. tension mounts when i hear howling from the walls, the ceiling, around a corner, and the fucker about that is really knowing she's still there being smashed against the window pane. my bones ached in fever for 3 hundred and twenty-four days and NOW. now they don't know how to be warm anymore.
i don't know how, anymore.
i am still underneath that tin roof, rain drumming a ruckus out and the hermit crabs crawling in the walls, looking for someone who was ready to leave and never did. the island ate me up it loved me so. the chorus rises up when i walk around in the dark, but no one is going anywhere together, no one is going to sing. we move [night moves] for different reasons here.
and i miss my friend.
i miss the baby and kuuj jidikdik and wotje and how he went spearfishing for us even though he still needs help with algebra. drinking shitty coffee in the sun. dancing at adma's. kejanjan ukulele. riding the beachcruiser to the airport in a rain storm. memorizing the bends in the road [this is what i miss of everywhere i've ever been]. what worries me, you see, is that i will make sense to no one no how never will now that this has taken part of my soul and changed it. i was and now i am something else.
but that sea is just a gambler at heart | tossed aside the weary
for
their
missing
legs.
they gon’ put you out on the streets lorena | they gonna sing and dance upon your grave
sassy DJ flirting disasters. realizing that i am the owner of a marshallese heart. samantha power on the subway. electric dreams [it’s weird how much i miss you sometimes]. being restless and uneasy because i can’t find a coffee shop; i might have found a coffee shop...the potter's house. rosemary & garlic mashed potatoes + gin & mango juice = thanksgiving dinner. yumberry grapefruit yogurt. trans-atlantic african phone calls. the OC season four, and all the music that came with it. tutoring for t.i. and speaking espanol with carlos. dangerous almost missed messages.
k'naan. jambo. wander.
winter doesn't know where i been. neither do you, and it makes me want to break through the walls. speak it all out loud, every word. every night time minute under those goddamned stars, the songs that stuck to the underside of the pandanus leaves, the intense sense of melancholy that comes over a person when we begin to embody an island. how every breath was hot and crowded and why i never quite recovered from kabul's and that i carried it half way across the world and how angry it still makes me to know that. tension mounts when i hear howling from the walls, the ceiling, around a corner, and the fucker about that is really knowing she's still there being smashed against the window pane. my bones ached in fever for 3 hundred and twenty-four days and NOW. now they don't know how to be warm anymore.
i don't know how, anymore.
i am still underneath that tin roof, rain drumming a ruckus out and the hermit crabs crawling in the walls, looking for someone who was ready to leave and never did. the island ate me up it loved me so. the chorus rises up when i walk around in the dark, but no one is going anywhere together, no one is going to sing. we move [night moves] for different reasons here.
and i miss my friend.
i miss the baby and kuuj jidikdik and wotje and how he went spearfishing for us even though he still needs help with algebra. drinking shitty coffee in the sun. dancing at adma's. kejanjan ukulele. riding the beachcruiser to the airport in a rain storm. memorizing the bends in the road [this is what i miss of everywhere i've ever been]. what worries me, you see, is that i will make sense to no one no how never will now that this has taken part of my soul and changed it. i was and now i am something else.
but that sea is just a gambler at heart | tossed aside the weary
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
jack kerouac & the streakers are making faces at me
GIRLTALK is BACK.
funny how things change so quickly.
i don't think i'm going to be a barista after all (which makes me sad)
i don't have to take out my eyebrow ring (which is really the only upside to all this)
i remain fiscally unstable.
and this tutoring business...
[i missed my kids a lot today, though. even the upstarts.]
night yoga. garlic couscous. F.R.I.E.N.D.S. thanksgiving. battle studies for real life.
they say that DC will eat you alive if you don't scratch your way in. walking passed a house in columbia heights where a little boy was shot is surreal because it was growing to be an ordinary part of my mornings. before, i never used to believe that a tragedy like that could ever return to normalcy. except in this monster of a city, it has to. people wouldn't survive if they didn't keep moving. you can see that just from riding the subway. some days. some days, you know? i just wanted my life to start, that's all. that's all anybody really wants, right? i mean, besides the babies and the diamonds. cover me in bling, baby. really little things are getting me. the woman on the 15th/columbia intersection who decided to speak to me en espanol. the scraggily charming clerk who followed me around in assistance at staples. the caribbean woman whose cafe smelled like himal + jolly bob's and whose directions eventually saved my life. the adorable mountainman/dirty hippie who was carrying homemade macrame lampshades (with manatees!) on the metro. when i get a paycheck + an apartment (and maybe a second job...) i am going back to that bookstore at eastern market and i am going to browse for hours. if i have nothing in my room except my yoga mat, a pile of books, white christmas lights, and that collage of jack kerouac & the streakers, i wouldn't be terribly sad. which is probably a good thing, because i don't think i'm going to have much of a choice.
reconnecting, and not with the people i would have thought.
another little thing? dwight schrute. and so i leave you with {the office}
What is my perfect crime? I break into Tiffany's at midnight. Do I go for the vault? No. I go for the chandelier. It's priceless. As I'm taking it down, a woman catches me. She tells me to stop. It's her father's business. She's Tiffany. I say no. We make love all night. In the morning cops come and I escape in one of their uniforms. I tell her to meet me in Mexico, but I go to Canada. I don't trust her. Besides, I like the cold. Thirty years later I get a postcard. I have a son, and he's the chief of police. This is where the story gets interesting: I tell Tiffany to meet me in Paris by the Trocadaro. She's been waiting for me all these years, she's never taken another lover. I don't care, I don't show up. I go to Berlin. That's where I stashed the chandelier.
funny how things change so quickly.
i don't think i'm going to be a barista after all (which makes me sad)
i don't have to take out my eyebrow ring (which is really the only upside to all this)
i remain fiscally unstable.
and this tutoring business...
[i missed my kids a lot today, though. even the upstarts.]
night yoga. garlic couscous. F.R.I.E.N.D.S. thanksgiving. battle studies for real life.
they say that DC will eat you alive if you don't scratch your way in. walking passed a house in columbia heights where a little boy was shot is surreal because it was growing to be an ordinary part of my mornings. before, i never used to believe that a tragedy like that could ever return to normalcy. except in this monster of a city, it has to. people wouldn't survive if they didn't keep moving. you can see that just from riding the subway. some days. some days, you know? i just wanted my life to start, that's all. that's all anybody really wants, right? i mean, besides the babies and the diamonds. cover me in bling, baby. really little things are getting me. the woman on the 15th/columbia intersection who decided to speak to me en espanol. the scraggily charming clerk who followed me around in assistance at staples. the caribbean woman whose cafe smelled like himal + jolly bob's and whose directions eventually saved my life. the adorable mountainman/dirty hippie who was carrying homemade macrame lampshades (with manatees!) on the metro. when i get a paycheck + an apartment (and maybe a second job...) i am going back to that bookstore at eastern market and i am going to browse for hours. if i have nothing in my room except my yoga mat, a pile of books, white christmas lights, and that collage of jack kerouac & the streakers, i wouldn't be terribly sad. which is probably a good thing, because i don't think i'm going to have much of a choice.
reconnecting, and not with the people i would have thought.
another little thing? dwight schrute. and so i leave you with {the office}
What is my perfect crime? I break into Tiffany's at midnight. Do I go for the vault? No. I go for the chandelier. It's priceless. As I'm taking it down, a woman catches me. She tells me to stop. It's her father's business. She's Tiffany. I say no. We make love all night. In the morning cops come and I escape in one of their uniforms. I tell her to meet me in Mexico, but I go to Canada. I don't trust her. Besides, I like the cold. Thirty years later I get a postcard. I have a son, and he's the chief of police. This is where the story gets interesting: I tell Tiffany to meet me in Paris by the Trocadaro. She's been waiting for me all these years, she's never taken another lover. I don't care, I don't show up. I go to Berlin. That's where I stashed the chandelier.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
vos beaux mots
four things:
i am going to be a barista [this makes sense to me].
i have to take out my eyebrow ring [this makes me melancholy].
i can only be a barista if i take out my eyebrow ring.
i can't get it out!
wading through months of district lists and meeting minutes and the rabbit hole that is Tanzania & the Dar es Salaam port authority. and i LOVE it. is this whole DC thing actually going to work? i like the city. i like the people. but there just aren't enough cafes and thrift stores for my granola self. too much business, not enough hippie. maybe i just live in the wrong part of town. adams-morgan shows some promise, as does u-street. i want curving staircases and lion-footed bath tubs and a room full of canvas covered in oil paints. ethiopian + nepali + margherita pizza + basil + sangria + sushi. that's what i want. a haunt. i always do better when i have a haunt. maybe i should be a ghost - all the ethereal habits and none of the rattling chains.
speaking of chains
i threw them all away. gone. on the ground, rusting. even as i begin to configure a regular schedule, with an office and dress pants and all that business, i can DO anything i want, in the end. full use of my independent choice. and the choosing to do! oh, the places i'll go, and the things that i'll see. i feel like goddamn dr. suess.
grilled cheese with brie.
vos beaux mots d'Afrique.
i'm a new soul | in this very strange world | finding myself making | every possible mistake
i am going to be a barista [this makes sense to me].
i have to take out my eyebrow ring [this makes me melancholy].
i can only be a barista if i take out my eyebrow ring.
i can't get it out!
wading through months of district lists and meeting minutes and the rabbit hole that is Tanzania & the Dar es Salaam port authority. and i LOVE it. is this whole DC thing actually going to work? i like the city. i like the people. but there just aren't enough cafes and thrift stores for my granola self. too much business, not enough hippie. maybe i just live in the wrong part of town. adams-morgan shows some promise, as does u-street. i want curving staircases and lion-footed bath tubs and a room full of canvas covered in oil paints. ethiopian + nepali + margherita pizza + basil + sangria + sushi. that's what i want. a haunt. i always do better when i have a haunt. maybe i should be a ghost - all the ethereal habits and none of the rattling chains.
speaking of chains
i threw them all away. gone. on the ground, rusting. even as i begin to configure a regular schedule, with an office and dress pants and all that business, i can DO anything i want, in the end. full use of my independent choice. and the choosing to do! oh, the places i'll go, and the things that i'll see. i feel like goddamn dr. suess.
grilled cheese with brie.
vos beaux mots d'Afrique.
i'm a new soul | in this very strange world | finding myself making | every possible mistake
Friday, November 6, 2009
eleven days later
lorena {b. schneider}
dog days are over {florence + the machine}
keep it loose, keep it tight {a. lee}
before it breaks {b. carlile}
raising cain {g. alan isakov}
pills are harder to swallow these days. arguing with efficiency is exhausting (keep on, keep on). i promise you : never will i want respectable to mean that i forgot about all of this. [the] rebel yell carries on a clarion call a message a beat. write me a letter, will you? don't you miss me yet? if i know anything about anything, it's that we all come back around. paint the goddamn walls red if you want.
i believe in life before death.
in mistakes.
expressing spontaneous thought.
drinking coffee after five PM.
just because it doesn't work like that doesn't mean it shouldn't make you angry. there is a difference between naivete and idealism.
inform yourself, fight back.
1. pumpkin squash ravioli.
2. the idea of working for a woman who calls me 'hun' over the phone.
3. finally finishing The One With Phoebe's Wedding (5 years later)
4. lavender shampoo & peppermint soap.
5. riding the metro with bon
6. filling my days up.
7. all of that. that out there. that’s what i love.
[Once in awhile
when it's good
it'll feel like it should]
grocery shopping as celebration – brie and eco-merlot and sweet potatoes and the wrong kind of raspberry jam. the thing is, grocery shopping makes me just about as happy as eating spinach quiche with apple cider, or cool ranch doritos & cherry coke, or kwonjin ippan alal im lime. other things that make me this happy:
- remembering the lines of the metro without looking at the map
- buying books
- dancing around in tinkerbell wings and being unwieldy in a crowd full of strangers
- las posibilidades, and moving forward again.
For future reference: the escalator at Bethesda is unnecessarily tall and induces an irrational fear of infrastructural collapse within me. working somewhere with boxes and scattered photographs and a kitchen of the retro variety are all rather appealing. if the urge strikes you, walk down the alley; you might meet an adorable brasilian man peering in the window.
who’d you think you were dealing with | yeah, you underestimate me just a little bit | going in, going all, going off again
dog days are over {florence + the machine}
keep it loose, keep it tight {a. lee}
before it breaks {b. carlile}
raising cain {g. alan isakov}
pills are harder to swallow these days. arguing with efficiency is exhausting (keep on, keep on). i promise you : never will i want respectable to mean that i forgot about all of this. [the] rebel yell carries on a clarion call a message a beat. write me a letter, will you? don't you miss me yet? if i know anything about anything, it's that we all come back around. paint the goddamn walls red if you want.
i believe in life before death.
in mistakes.
expressing spontaneous thought.
drinking coffee after five PM.
just because it doesn't work like that doesn't mean it shouldn't make you angry. there is a difference between naivete and idealism.
inform yourself, fight back.
1. pumpkin squash ravioli.
2. the idea of working for a woman who calls me 'hun' over the phone.
3. finally finishing The One With Phoebe's Wedding (5 years later)
4. lavender shampoo & peppermint soap.
5. riding the metro with bon
6. filling my days up.
7. all of that. that out there. that’s what i love.
[Once in awhile
when it's good
it'll feel like it should]
grocery shopping as celebration – brie and eco-merlot and sweet potatoes and the wrong kind of raspberry jam. the thing is, grocery shopping makes me just about as happy as eating spinach quiche with apple cider, or cool ranch doritos & cherry coke, or kwonjin ippan alal im lime. other things that make me this happy:
- remembering the lines of the metro without looking at the map
- buying books
- dancing around in tinkerbell wings and being unwieldy in a crowd full of strangers
- las posibilidades, and moving forward again.
For future reference: the escalator at Bethesda is unnecessarily tall and induces an irrational fear of infrastructural collapse within me. working somewhere with boxes and scattered photographs and a kitchen of the retro variety are all rather appealing. if the urge strikes you, walk down the alley; you might meet an adorable brasilian man peering in the window.
who’d you think you were dealing with | yeah, you underestimate me just a little bit | going in, going all, going off again
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
the chronicle of a life foretold
your ex-lover is dead [stars]
remedy [j. mraz, acoustic]
good love is on the way [j. mayer]
madison, briefly.
sentry, for old times' sake. autumn on east j. americanos on the capitol with girls from the beginning. still running into artists and thieves and undercover lovers. attempting to remember what it was like not to know every inch, and failing miserably. the fancy pinkus. accidentally driving to middleton and knowing where i was all the same. spotted cow.
a visit to the chi-burbs & michigan avenue.
tollroads. rain, and coral & gold & clementine, and reading the onion. five years. paint wars in the new house. crate & barrel, carol (and the wild things), cold weather blues. to the train! a gonzo journalist infusion and (more) dreams about cats in the cradle jumping over[under] the [full]moon. an exit. adieu.
the corolla and i go way back.
into the city and out the other side. over the bridge, or how the interstate hwy made me surrender my seed money. i like pennsylvania. i hate pennsylvania (really only in the dark). the 70E debacle and the miracle entrance into maryland. and then
coming out of the woods
and onto the mall
to see the
washington monument lit up like a beacon which has been saying all along,
"there you are.
we knew you'd get here
someday.
we've been waiting.
breathe."
a museum or six,
and a wrought-iron gate.
brooklyn & the Q.
blue moon.
i'm in the city again and the streets eat me up (they love me so), while the fog hovers and hopes around the chrysler and everyone we've ever been has come forward in the rain to see through THESE NEW EYES.
new days.
everyday.
all of that, and ice cream for dinner.
remedy [j. mraz, acoustic]
good love is on the way [j. mayer]
madison, briefly.
sentry, for old times' sake. autumn on east j. americanos on the capitol with girls from the beginning. still running into artists and thieves and undercover lovers. attempting to remember what it was like not to know every inch, and failing miserably. the fancy pinkus. accidentally driving to middleton and knowing where i was all the same. spotted cow.
a visit to the chi-burbs & michigan avenue.
tollroads. rain, and coral & gold & clementine, and reading the onion. five years. paint wars in the new house. crate & barrel, carol (and the wild things), cold weather blues. to the train! a gonzo journalist infusion and (more) dreams about cats in the cradle jumping over[under] the [full]moon. an exit. adieu.
the corolla and i go way back.
into the city and out the other side. over the bridge, or how the interstate hwy made me surrender my seed money. i like pennsylvania. i hate pennsylvania (really only in the dark). the 70E debacle and the miracle entrance into maryland. and then
coming out of the woods
and onto the mall
to see the
washington monument lit up like a beacon which has been saying all along,
"there you are.
we knew you'd get here
someday.
we've been waiting.
breathe."
a museum or six,
and a wrought-iron gate.
brooklyn & the Q.
blue moon.
i'm in the city again and the streets eat me up (they love me so), while the fog hovers and hopes around the chrysler and everyone we've ever been has come forward in the rain to see through THESE NEW EYES.
new days.
everyday.
all of that, and ice cream for dinner.
Monday, October 19, 2009
the way i romanticize my life makes me sound like a hipster.
fifteen things i miss about before:
1. dinner parties that revolve into dance parties that end on the kitchen floor, hysterically.
2. having a spot, and a sandwich, and recognizing everyone who comes into Espresso.
3. talking to eclectic strangers about Ganesha. and smoky quartz. and listening to Allen Ginsberg recordings at work. sitting on counter tops and watching the world come in and out.
4. sleeping on your couch. walking home in the cold.
5. the light in the kitchen during summer rainstorms, whilst learning how to fry tofu in tamari.
6. workshops.
7. riding my bike in a city with a scarf on.
8. tension over banana waffles, served with a smart mouth and a side of anarchy.
9. staying up 'til it gets light with the whole sick crew.
10. jambo with etri. math in the nighttime with wotje. jolok-ing iien with belisa & wilpina & batrick. watching baulina & limama & lowa walk around on their hands for half an hour. making angel food cake with sera. biking to the airport, coconut potholes, oogling lakatus, rabid canines and all. birthday parties at adma's.
11. drinking tea on the steps while bigote makes breakfast.
12. bird observing on the river bank.
13. riding around in boats (anywhere).
14. taking the horses out after the lessons are done. talking to Ben, humoring Willa, and watching Sox try to flirt with all the girls. Wren & Dover. Agatha. eating ramen in the clubhouse, covered in mud and half-numb. Dom, always.
15. singing in the nighttime. and then eating crab and roasted coconut. and then walking home in the dark, covered in marshallese love.
2. having a spot, and a sandwich, and recognizing everyone who comes into Espresso.
3. talking to eclectic strangers about Ganesha. and smoky quartz. and listening to Allen Ginsberg recordings at work. sitting on counter tops and watching the world come in and out.
4. sleeping on your couch. walking home in the cold.
5. the light in the kitchen during summer rainstorms, whilst learning how to fry tofu in tamari.
6. workshops.
7. riding my bike in a city with a scarf on.
8. tension over banana waffles, served with a smart mouth and a side of anarchy.
9. staying up 'til it gets light with the whole sick crew.
10. jambo with etri. math in the nighttime with wotje. jolok-ing iien with belisa & wilpina & batrick. watching baulina & limama & lowa walk around on their hands for half an hour. making angel food cake with sera. biking to the airport, coconut potholes, oogling lakatus, rabid canines and all. birthday parties at adma's.
11. drinking tea on the steps while bigote makes breakfast.
12. bird observing on the river bank.
13. riding around in boats (anywhere).
14. taking the horses out after the lessons are done. talking to Ben, humoring Willa, and watching Sox try to flirt with all the girls. Wren & Dover. Agatha. eating ramen in the clubhouse, covered in mud and half-numb. Dom, always.
15. singing in the nighttime. and then eating crab and roasted coconut. and then walking home in the dark, covered in marshallese love.
{well, this time tomorrow |where will we be?
in a space ship somewhere, sailing across an empty sea?
this time tomorrow | what will we be?}
Sunday, October 11, 2009
stalemate
{yeah the city's old but it never seems to get tired
no sally don't get down, cuz I've been lookin all over town
for a brand new set of wings}
shed a little light (foy vance)
moonshiner (r. zimmerman)
slim slow slider (van morrison)
where we gonna go from here (mat kearney)
love (the coup)
darlin' do not fear (brett dennen)
i shall not walk alone (blind boys of alabama)
ohio (damien jurado)
we are the lost generation. lost to the wayside, the rest stop, the porchlight, the backdown alley. say hello, little girl. we ate all our ideas and walked home every night under the drunken golden street lamps of philosophy, mentally framing each square of cement because
we'd stood there, once
and it had to be remembered when
the world got
light
again.
our blood thrummed.
but we couldn't run around forever, feet free and walking on water.
which of us will learn to swim?
they'll dig up our bones, and call us the
lost generation
because you can't grow a bleeding heart back.
drinking too much coffee. getting my heart broken by the twinkies. sleeping in yellow sheets. reading tom robbins. wearing houndstooth and trying not to be too cold. giving in. counting woolly bears. pretending not to notice. contemplating life as a townie. reverting. missing jendrik in the nighttime. living the way we do in october.
tell it everywhere you go | you're outta reach
no sally don't get down, cuz I've been lookin all over town
for a brand new set of wings}
shed a little light (foy vance)
moonshiner (r. zimmerman)
slim slow slider (van morrison)
where we gonna go from here (mat kearney)
love (the coup)
darlin' do not fear (brett dennen)
i shall not walk alone (blind boys of alabama)
ohio (damien jurado)
we are the lost generation. lost to the wayside, the rest stop, the porchlight, the backdown alley. say hello, little girl. we ate all our ideas and walked home every night under the drunken golden street lamps of philosophy, mentally framing each square of cement because
we'd stood there, once
and it had to be remembered when
the world got
light
again.
our blood thrummed.
but we couldn't run around forever, feet free and walking on water.
which of us will learn to swim?
they'll dig up our bones, and call us the
lost generation
because you can't grow a bleeding heart back.
drinking too much coffee. getting my heart broken by the twinkies. sleeping in yellow sheets. reading tom robbins. wearing houndstooth and trying not to be too cold. giving in. counting woolly bears. pretending not to notice. contemplating life as a townie. reverting. missing jendrik in the nighttime. living the way we do in october.
tell it everywhere you go | you're outta reach
Friday, August 14, 2009
new beginnings
so this is where we begin again.
all my life, i don't know what this means. how to do this. where to go from here. i want to be one of those people in the crowd on the sidewalk, moving forward down the street with a blue cloud of cold air escaping all around me. since i was fourteen, this is all i ever wanted.
okay, so maybe that isn't true. but that's where i always figured it would start. my real life, i mean. on that sidewalk, in that city. with the cold air, and too many people, and the hum of the underground trains buzzing between my bones. i have to get there! i have to. i am wilting here. angry, in a silent way. i am wilting, stuck in this city.
this city is dangerous, and here is why:
the curve in the road on west river parkway. especially at night, when the moon is big.
the ease of settling.
small, cluttered yoga (physically)
a lack of establishments resembling: genna's. himal. nachtspiel. the terrace. montmarte.
and, a severe case of writer's block.
i am bored, and mulling, and growing rather numb. will an exodus help me to escape what i have become? i don't like who i am anymore; i am dull inside my own skin. even my taste in music seems to have gone to pot. what i wouldn't give for a little...just to hear a few symphonies emanate from the ordinary, you know what i mean? it's like i'm on mute or something. i can hardly breathe the world is so quiet. what i wouldn't give for a little crack in the planet.
things that are still the same
only skin & emily [ j. newsom]
my person and our lovely 60 [thank god]
a penchant for black clothes, black cloves, black russians, blue soul.
things that are different
everyone else.
driving at night.
me.
all my life, i don't know what this means. how to do this. where to go from here. i want to be one of those people in the crowd on the sidewalk, moving forward down the street with a blue cloud of cold air escaping all around me. since i was fourteen, this is all i ever wanted.
okay, so maybe that isn't true. but that's where i always figured it would start. my real life, i mean. on that sidewalk, in that city. with the cold air, and too many people, and the hum of the underground trains buzzing between my bones. i have to get there! i have to. i am wilting here. angry, in a silent way. i am wilting, stuck in this city.
this city is dangerous, and here is why:
the curve in the road on west river parkway. especially at night, when the moon is big.
the ease of settling.
small, cluttered yoga (physically)
a lack of establishments resembling: genna's. himal. nachtspiel. the terrace. montmarte.
and, a severe case of writer's block.
i am bored, and mulling, and growing rather numb. will an exodus help me to escape what i have become? i don't like who i am anymore; i am dull inside my own skin. even my taste in music seems to have gone to pot. what i wouldn't give for a little...just to hear a few symphonies emanate from the ordinary, you know what i mean? it's like i'm on mute or something. i can hardly breathe the world is so quiet. what i wouldn't give for a little crack in the planet.
things that are still the same
only skin & emily [ j. newsom]
my person and our lovely 60 [thank god]
a penchant for black clothes, black cloves, black russians, blue soul.
things that are different
everyone else.
driving at night.
me.
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