on a wednesday

insert: a walk and then a food and then a nap

blogger

whenever i feel extra adventurous and hit the NEXT BLOG button, a little spark of hope that i might get inspired runs through me. for about .03 seconds. when i actually begin to browse, i inevitably find a revolving door of the following blog types:
craft people
religion people
family with little babies people

now, don't get me wrong. i love crafty crafts as much as anyone, i certainly have a lot to say about religion, and i am no stranger to families with little humans but... none of their approaches has anything to do with... me.

a thought:
perhaps i should consider a relocation.

a question:
is there a way to search for existential crisis/ lone wolf in their 20s blogs?

thoughts?

over everything

sometimes i just want to be unabashedly repulsive. i want to sit around in yesterday's clothes, hair greased back and harnessed by 47 bobby pins. i want to gulp soda really loudly and send really repulsive noises out into the universe. i want to let my face contort really strangely- let my eyes bug- or stare with that face that make me look like i'm dead. i want to not tend to body hair for whole weeks. i want to let gaping pores and fresh pimples reign freely all over my face. a day without penciled in eyebrows. i want to hum whole songs in really off keys and walk around all day baby talking to my cats. i want to eat 20 kinds of dip and not bother to wipe remnants from my face or chip crumbs from my clothes. i want to fall asleep every few hours for a deep sleep cat nap where my mouth hangs open and makes me look like a toothless old hag. drool all over everything.

and without apology.

inside or outside

these months invite introspection. holidays and time markers always make me think back- for better or worse. usually i relate past holiday seasons to hair color or styles... like they are some kind of concrete indicators of whatever else was going on inside or outside at the time. some kind of hazy blur.

we gather with family and try to remember how we fit into where we came from. we reconnect with friends and try to remember where we are. now. at present.
like who we are can be a memory, forgotten sometimes
or like it is ever any given, nameable thing.

read Identity over Christmas. thoughts.
finished Jitterbug Perfume before that. yes.

entered some poetry into contests. all rejection so far, which doesn't faze me. the point is in the doing- the trying.

i want to do more of that this year- doing and trying.

i imagine how my life could be different in a million ways... choices and paths... locations and people... yeses and nos. i am happy and unhappy right now- which really doesn't matter at all- but the deal is, i don't want to find myself too comfortable- too sleepy-eyed or complacent about this whole existing thing.

where does the battle against ennui take place? in the day to day drives and familiar destinations? in the little hermit hole of solitude? in new places, still surrounded by the same collective humanity? inside or outside?

inside with the door open, curtains tied up, i suppose. purple and gold.

it is tuesday- and there is a special on burgers. choices. gets cold at night. a relative term, like so many.

relatively speaking, i am happy and unhappy.

this is me, on a tuesday.

one robot at a time, sans french toast

i woke up at 4:30 a.m. from a vivid dream in which i was an actress in an improv group. i had just finished a scene in which i had deactivated a robot disguised as a 40 something housewife. then i began to rehash the situation with my improv group. at 4:30 in the morning, this was hilarious to me. and it made absolute sense. it went like this (pretty much exactly like this, because i woke up and scribbled it down through squinty eyes):

"killed a 40 year old housewife robot the other day. yeah, dumped some glue down her shirt and she short-circuited. why is it that when we find ourselves in a situation like this, our first instinct is to kill? It's never, you know, 'yo, bitch, make me french toast every morning for the next 45 years.' it's always kill. and always with something completely inept like a colored pencil or something. 'you will not conquer me. I WILL NOW STAB YOUR ROBOT HEART WITH A COLORED PENCIL.' colored pencil, elmer's glue, whatever. Fuck. you can't think to negotiate 45 years worth of french toast, but you think you can end a robot take over with a colored pencil?!"
...
guess you had to be there.

regarding cat leashes

I bought a little harness and leash for the littles. I had these visions of frolicking together- bounding down the sidewalk- eagerly moving from new curiousity in the new wold to new curiosity in the new world.

Instead- the little turds just slouch down as close to the ground as they can get- sniff around the same spot on the sidewalk for 20 minutes- move really slowly like old people.

it is all too much- and they know it, too. as soon as they are confronted with the big picture- they lay right down where they are. proceed with caution.

cats know.

belly to the ground.

sometimes knowing

sometimes knowing
takes
one
to
no
one.

a tough call to make

14 layers of confusion on 2.5 hours sleep.
i've got it
i'll get back to it
clean it up, bit by bit
inspect it carefully
own it
accept & reject
verbify compassion
turn
learn
get back to that girl.

outline

aren't we all just older versions of ourselves?
palpitations like rapports
the kick back will throw you
odd angles
resting on concrete
cracking
a habit of splitting infinitives
two cats
i'm alright i'm alright
and sometimes that's unethical
to loudly silence

just waiting for the passing
say something in the meantime

improved

rebellion just makes sense
rebellion is all we can do
it's rebellion or deevolution
rebellion against some too long stay
rebellion against old genes
rebellion against what we used to know for sure

and in the process we age.

fact

fact: sometimes when teachers stay up too late watching motorcycle tv shows, they take naps behind their desk during lunch.

ancient wisdom

and they wore red coats
and that is not a good sign
this isn't going to be good.

and you will know them by their shells.
you will think you know them well.

clam up for a spell
just to spit it out
the shell of a worm
left rotting

maybe the bare bones are less like facts and more like
spirits

rising

"yet the frame held up:
we passed the flame: we wonder
what saved us? what for?"
-h.d. "The Walls do not Fall"

tiger tiger lady

feeding raccoons cat food out of his hands.
sister janet, disgusted, picking up trash with tissues.
no substance to settle this.
sugar and weight.
but in the middle of the night, the day doesn't matter---
the day doesn't restless at all.
doubt is the safest net
catch those childhood dreams.

snippets

"does this in-class essay count as a grade?"
new class rules: stop raising your hand. stop being weird.
strange meat and unlaundered clothes
is everything NATURAL good? define good. innately neutral, morally ambiguous.
"i've never seen an ouija board in real life."
"i saw one once at a birthday party. but we also rode in a limo."

brian wilson
post coma
weeping like a baby.

when i'm happy and try to write

life is good
everything's fine
i like stuff
baby baby
everyone is cool
foreva
baby

casa whatever

And that man and that woman at Casa whatever. That woman. toothless, gaping mouth. bug eyes, glazed. out of her goddamned mind and barely functioning.

i honest to god had to stop eating for awhile after i looked at her for a few seconds. just her presence disturbed me. made me uneasy. disgusted and ashamed for being disgusted. tried to smile at her then felt ridiculous for smiling at her. like the effort was so obvious. could she even see me?

and that man! that goddamn man! who fed his wife or whoever bite by bite. helped her drink from a fucking sippycup. and fucking smiled all the while and caught my eye and just beamed at me. just beamed.

how the hell does he conquer even one day?

i suppose you just do.

But, smiling?

and as we leave he smiled toward me again- can hardly help but speak (desperate for interaction? genuine?). "how'd you get to be so lucky?" he calls to J. chuckle. beam. "Or, what's wrong with you?" to me. chuckle chuckle.

That is some question.

and he just smiled and beamed next to his decrepit wife or whoever. and i smiled a stupid smile and couldn't even find one word to say. couldn't even verbalize one thought (like someone else at his table. (horror)).

and what i should have done is hugged him. or asked his name. but, genuine or desperate or genuinely desperate, i didn't trust him. automatically suspicious. leery of motives. i don't trust anyone much anymore.

what is wrong with me.

day 3

a dull anger.
has it always been?

abruptly

I was cruising through the day, feeling good and productive, when allasudden WHAM, I got grumpy and hated people. so abruptly, too. like a hiccup or a pothole.

.

.

awakening

quiet now,
discouragement
the futility of his efforts

attempted
tottering
tempered

bouts
that melted into one another
and, melting,
did not break
but grew daring and reckless,

a feeling held away from her

and the strains reached them heavy.

She had not lost herself.
but, in realizing power,
she had fallen
overestimating her strength.

there was no weight of wonder
in solitude
swim out away from her unaccustomed vision

sleep lightly

swam
swum

lolita in the backseat

lolita in the backseat
so still
if you don't look, you almost forget she's there
taciturn by choice
i am not sure she has a voice at all.
shield those eyes, lollipop, because they are everywhere.
impossible to tell, really,
which are just shadows in the brake light
and which are the true forms to fear.
what we need here is an
amplification of muffled sobs
a new leaf
what we fear here
is here
what we need here
is a slow crawl to some
redemption altar alternative
where we bloody up in
sacrifice and stumble
away with the weight of freedom
on our breath.
what we need here
is public profession
and a community of watchers.
what we need here is
fear here is
here it is

time to learn a life of unlearning
stretching out in fake yawns--
so bored. so eager.
eternal youth strapped in and
aided by blind drivers.

even the syllables smolder.
we make symbols out of people
and we choose not to use our words.
some other art in the backseat and silent.

what we have here is a failure to

poison

a collection of quiet deaths
poison sought
poison found
lacing everything
in its wake

morning

what happens when novelty goes? when walking out of a room is expected and unseen? growing pains like i never had but who knows what's even happened here? the evidence is gone. find yourself forever. crawl out of the window. look for a knife and an eraser. hear your voice in the echoes of the screams from the alley.

thread and dead skin

In the beginning was THE ABSURD,
and THE ABSURD was made flesh
and the flesh did obnoxious things like put bumper stickers on cars &
pierced their genitals &
wore high heels &
cheated on tests (rather obviously)&
on more than one occasion (accidently) donated important and irreplacable items to goodwill.

& the flesh spoke in passive aggressive codes as little (pathetic) cries for attention
& ignored rules (when it was convenient)
& judged others for ignoring rules (when it was convenient)
& refused to eat leftovers
& pooped itself for a year or two (daily and without apology)
& spent a good deal of late adulthood fearing the very same act
& picked at blemishes until they bled
& acted phony on dates
& sometimes through whole marriages
& ignored phone calls
& sent money to random companies to buy vitamins for people on tv
& took really long showers despite water shortages or people waiting
& wiped boogers all over car seats
& stood in front of the ocean (why in front? why not behind?)
& had some kind of revelation or important moment (sometimes)
& stood in front of the ocean
& pretended to have some kind of revelation or important moment (on other occasions when others seemed to be having moments)
& sent flowers to lay on dirt mounds
& looked for themselves first in every picture
& said "thank you" when there was no gratitude, really
& did and said a lot of things that were not meant at all
& meant just as many things that were never spoken
& pictured all different kinds of people
naked.

& the flesh would recycle itself every few years
& that old casing would land softly on pillow cases and mattresses
& be wedged and smashed and smothered,
adding pounds of dead flesh to every known thing
(dead?)
(was it alive?)
doubling its weight over the course of some years,
mingling with small bed creatures with very short life spans who
never knew a universe outside that bed or that pillow case-
never knew a landscape ouside that thread and dead skin

and while that dead skin was falling
like fall out and dusting up
the whole polluted world,
fresh skin was always popping up beneath,
a resurrection of sorts,
was taking place- on the outside!-
no cave to hide the magic!
underneath that weight was more newness,
a million miracles a day!
flesh attached to something
still going through cycles
still a resurrection each morning
and a building up
and regenerating
and work to be done!
(and if the bed bugs don't kill you, the economy sure will!)

new little skins springing into being or forming or however that happens to work
a transistion so intact that the replacement is hardly distinuishable
(ladies & gentlemen, today the role of your skin will be played by NEW SKIN!) !!!

and under that skin (that flesh!)
are nerve endings and sensory perceptors and cancerous clots and acid pools and hormonal surges that cause
the growth of armpit hair and
reflux &
morning erections &
hiccups &
sudden infant death &
hospital bills

and all of that cause is changing too, being replaced by new
clots and cells and tremors
the source is shifting! the source is the same!
&
somewhere contained by or surrounding it all is THE ABSURD

and the absurd is with us
the absurd is in us
& dwells among us
and the flesh was where it started
and the flesh was where we felt it
and the flesh was what controlled us
and the flesh was changing
and the flesh was dying
and flesh marks the spot.

see saw

seven year olds drinking nonsense by the see saw
she has crossed them off her list
twist
into braids
fish braids
french braids
french twists
come later

invited to the birthday party
the shock of other people's lives
and rooms and small places
and taking home little boxes
(consolation prizes for not knowing her best)
little plastic boxes to put
rings and things
that girls are supposed to have
in

birthday parties
pool parties
slumber parties
come later

you are this name
this is your seat
gulp what you can
but there are people waiting
line up
cross your legs
and listen

spit it all out at the
see saw
and guess about the rest.

requirements

this requires a dedication
& an introduction
consisting of
at least hours
if not
a complete hiberation.

this requires a shirking off
and closing door
and withdrawn eyes
and a sinking in

a solitary sinking in.

forget

"Sometimes.
We forget.
things.
people.
moments.
Don't forget me.
the end."

and I said I wouldn't

but,
upon further thought,
people do forget.
people are forgotten.
even sometimes,
the most important
become names from old stories
sometimes.
But.
But still,

I have not forgotten.

consent

A: how u
L: sick of work
A: so sick of work too. and we have so many yrs left.
L: seriously. why. why is it necessary? this is life.
A: it's ridiculous. nobody told us this nonsense at birth.
L: i do not remember signing consent.
A: exactly. "Hello baby. You are here to work. Deal with it." "NO."
L: woulda crawled the fuck back in and rotted there.

L: and people are like, "but your job is meaningful. you get to help people." really, I don't give a DAMN about making a difference most days. if someone paid me more money to go back to burger king, i would. i'd go back to burger king and "help people." that's just being real. jobs are for making money or meeting people to distract from loneliness like the old people at walmart.

reasons

if i never attempt to get published, i attribute it to the residual effects of middle school rejection.
i blame adam bartlett.

blood

phone calls sound like business meetings
:What are you doing with your life?: injected into every question
disapproval coating every comment
money work school car whenareyoucominghome

but i do not wear your brand of adulthood
no size to fit me
cannot be contained

i listen to your arterial ups and downs
but i do not hear the same beat
attempts to interject in vain
my blood runs free and contained
over here
in me

i bite my tongue at the way jesus pours out of your mouth
as the reason and cause and effect of every thing
i bite my tongue until it bleeds
through the phone line and across the distance
silent
like i wish you would sometimes think to be
hail mary
til it bleeds
and in my own way it is-
let that be-
the way i say
:love:.

middle times

we write during middle times.
either other side brings
a dizzied state of living
snarling or laughing but not forming words.

in the middle state
words bubble up from either other end
and we catch them
splatter them
squash them
freeze them
onto paper pinatas

stretching------
exaggerating the now.

natural as

i am no fool.
i know that those things we feel
are not unique to us-
chemistry has rhythm and rhyme-
natural as a -
and as mapped out as a
table of elements--
columns of caresses
periodic and cyclical
the ebb and flow
the pulling in and pushing away
as known as the way home
or the address of the house where you spent your formative years.

A home in a million places
formed from a million mothers and stand-ins
needing them all; rejecting them all
being needed by them
being rejected by them
and I know I am a home
now, too

but i am no fool

there is the beginning of knowing
and then the aftermath of undoing all the assumptions

a move toward seeing as is
without the distraction of long lashes
without drunkenness from kissing new breath
without the judgement of slowly accumulated resentments
to see as is
and as is always shifting
changing moving toward some new development
a catastrophe or renewal
waiting at the end of
each calendar week
or month
or year
or hour

knowing full well that none of this has much to do
with me being me or you being you

that this deep breath
this shipyard knot
this one face in a sea of other blurs
is unique to me and shared by everyone.

i am no fool.

catfish

three things that have moved me in the past week:
1. on Thursday, Frost "After Apple Picking" and "Stopping by the Woods...". There is a tension there, an exhaustion, a restraint, a disappointment, the terrible play between expectation and reality. attempts at reflection, cut short by promises to keep.

2. a stimulating conversation with a real live person. it involved adult babies, serial killers, and pubic hair.

3. The movie Catfish: "And there are those people who are catfish in life. And they keep you on your toes. They keep you guessing, they keep you thinking, they keep you fresh. And I thank god for the catfish because we would all be droll, boring, and dull if we didn't have somebody nipping at our fin." The movie in general, made me feel repulsed by and so sad for and a deep love for humanity.

i am thankful for the catfish
i am thankful that at least one of the above experiences involved interaction with another human being

expectations/reality
intrigue and depth/bar swimming full of shallow faces

i would like to move more. i am offering. i am ready. i would like to be moved.
calling all catfish.

mingling

That repulsive smell of too many lunches mingling in the faculty room.
Little lunches. Big lunches. Lunches planned with excruciating detail. Lunches warmed in the microwave. Lunches raised from the air tight near dead of little tupperware coffins. Garlic. Low Fat Low Nonsense Dressing. Pasta noodles. God, so much pasta.

Individually, they might be alright. That garlic bread or Mexican dish might smell good on its own. But together, it's just too much. Like a floral headache from Macy's.

Little lunches in plastic bags. Lunches from houses filled with little screaming children. Lunches from houses full of fat people who eat salad every day. Lunches from people who *gasp* live in sin with their significant others. Lunches from houses whose people choose every piece of deli meat with care- eyeing the ounces- forming the curls and folds of honey roasted ham like some kind of private art. From houses full of cat hair. Lunches for people who won't keep it down. Lunches from houses full of fighting and lunches from houses full of too much nothing.

Houses full of little lives and big lives and pungent smells that, together, are just too much.

whitman

of the entire lecture and discussion-
the barbaric yawp and the circle of life and loafing and boot soles and all that celebration-
what they remember about whitman
is that he was gay.

the end of september

an effort.
the placement of desperation
a pity
a shame
d
own the spiral staircase of doubt
unwanted for reasons unknown
the help is in the trying
an unveiled effort
an effort.
to express gratitude
or release a sob.

still

learning

breaking

a fix makes
me feel like
something is
broken

breaking.

eternal whine of the daily grind

ever notice how there's nothing really too grindy about the daily grind? i think most of the mental or physical exhaustion comes from having to be somewhere for a given time each day. the fact that i am not free to nap right now multiplies my fatigue x3. we just walk around all bitter about that, dragging our feet through the day. marking hours by trips to the bathroom, organizing desk drawers, making copies. logging in and out of various distrating websites. having silly contrived conversations with people desperate to fill their hours too. we feel all worn out because we know subconciously that what we get paid for each day could probably be accomplished in 45 minutes, and will some day probably be accomplished by robots in 45 seconds. so, that's kind of grindy. just let's not fool ourselves into thinking any of this is all that taxing.

necessities

"I'm thankful for my past. It's made me who I am today."

Of course it did. That is the definition of past. It is a before in an order that ends in after and points to now. Of course the past was necessary. But THAT past? THOSE choices? THAT life? Who the hell knows? How can anyone ever claim to know that their choices were for the better or worse?

free agent

it feels less stable... the walls less soundproof... but to look it all in the face and say
THIS IS ALL SUBJECT TO CHANGE
feels more satisfying in the honest kind of way.

less energy spent trying to protect the things you think you know for sure. Content and allowing contentedness without needing to understand its implications or lock down the source or scrutinize the possible effects of choices today ten minutes twenty days thirty years from now.

because it all just keeps going, you know? men and women and cats and tired weeks and awake weeks and filling up gas tanks and wondering what will be next and thinking about and forgetting the details of what was then. judging others and judging our past selves and mostly thinking our present self above reproach

i am today, and subject to change.

fabrication

hard to hear
you like this
choose those apples
one can spoil
one will spoil
drained and draining.

Everyone loves to mingle with ancient shapes- translucent and hovering- transparent voices echoing up and forward from old presents that you classify and categorize
(though who can remember what a day was like? what a waking up and a single thought was like?)
like you can know, somehow, how it changed or shaped you.
like you can really know what you miss
what you do not regret
like you can know
how or why it mattered
to you then
why you think about or have forgotten it now.
like you are a product,
finished.

flight

an image of my wandering

A Desolation by Allen Ginsberg

Now mind is clear
as a cloudless sky.
Time then to make a
home in wilderness.

What have I done but
wander with my eyes
in the trees? So I
will build: wife,
family, and seek
for neighbors.

Or I
perish of lonesomeness
or want of food or
lightning or the bear
(must tame the hart
and wear the bear).

And maybe make an image
of my wandering, a little
image—shrine by the
roadside to signify
to traveler that I live
here in the wilderness
awake and at home.

somewhere in the middle

furniture's worn. it conforms to you.
you can move it around, but it won't be new.
the walls and ennui and me and you-
you know how it goes in familiar rooms.

this feels a little familiar.
the same old story, somewhere in the middle.
familiar rooms and i'm looking around.
familiar rooms and i'm looking out.

hard to say

the quiet space before words are said

sometimes I look away
because "I'm scared"
is hard to say.

you say you do

but you don't.

how many pictures of other people's children can I take? what am I supposed to do with these things?

suppose we are all stardust. suppose we let that perspective dry our starry eyes? there is nothing to concern ourselves with here. all reruns and minute patterns. there is nothing to do but hold on, really. catch what can be caught of a view. because though this may be cyclical, it certainly has a direction. it certainly is headed somewhere.

gets closer every day.

cult classic

they are singing in unison

faculty and staff squeezed into ill fitting polyblend dresses
eyes scanning the crowd for dissension
praise for peace
mouthing words like incantations
watch
on the clock

parents cranking their heads to witness the spectacle
of hundreds of students singing
craning to record the miracle on smartphones
just beside themselves
at this display of dedication
this display of faith
so civilized
this is the hope and the proof and the miracle!
their babies might remain naive forever!

"and i'll abandon happily the earth/ surrender all i am in this rebirth/ you lead the way and i will follow"

listen.
if these happy chanters actually mean what they are singing,
we are one poison koolaid pitcher away from a mass suicide
another exodus
a cult classic

amazing what we'll do for a little sense of approval.
amazing what we'll believe for a sense of purpose.

there was a time when i thought of religious martyrdom as a high privilege. swear to god, i was ENVIOUS of all the real and imaginary saints who marched their way to glorious suicide
in the name of the father
who let them die.
the unknown god who nodded in all-powerful approval
when they refused to utter words that might save their life
when they trumped reason with indoctrinated subservience.
when they were scanning that crowd for approval so intently that they stopped listening to the words they were singing.
praise for peace and pretty school pictures.

let us discuss the value of life and tell me when it is and is not permissible to walk into death willingly.

happens

also, i happen to be very happy
which happens to be an excellent distraction.

feelings

a few very short thoughts:

strange that we usually do not have a problem teaching novels that portray rape, but if consensual sex is depicted, the novels are more likely to be contested by parents.

redid the place. basically felt like moving in to the same address. i feel like i have a home for the first time in a few years.

regarding the evolutionary function of feelings: feelings distract us from the sheer banality of existence. were we to look existence in the face consistently for any given amount of time and realize what a wretched and utterly pointless mess it is, we would probably all off ourselves. a small terror to really consider the fact that all the things that we think are so special or unique to us are just cookie cutter, text book medleys of psychosis and traits that have been and will be repeated... all going through the same damn phases... having the same revelations... making the same mistakes... all predictably... predetermined by no one, but set on a course still. fatal.

humans are silly creatures who only continue to exist because we are distracted from suicide by emotions.

how does that make you feel?

up close

we are all so gross
up close
isolate those little places
the ashy dead foot skin
cellulite visible right through the pants
those ear hairs just reaching out to be noticed
pores collecting grease
acne scars
pale, unhealthy gums
rogue eyebrows
blotchy skin so irritated it looks angry
strange folds and
double chins
and veins running blue like high traffic highways
isolate those feet after a good run and they might belong to anyone-
a middle aged overweight man, say.

but we look so nice from far away.

fit

pants are like so many things.
they fit so well for awhile
then they lose their shape. worn out.
need washing again
like so many things.

asking

awkward in the asking.
i don't, always,
and this is why.

it is not separate for me. things are not separate for me.
everything is everything
nothing effects everything just like an actual something
because it's like little unseen webs or threads or a pebble dropped across the water
oh i feel it
oh it is felt

splashing around looking for a source and the whole body gets worked up again

still on top
little legs treading under water
effort required to stay where you are
calm on top
still

isn't it grand?

'tis

we

what does it mean to only gulp air in little moments
for weeks?
what does it mean to remain submerged?

I couldn't stop saying we. I could not stop saying we.

shouted like neon
worn like a seat belt.
snug and bound at once.

we
sometimes I know what that means.

music

unless you are falling in love or out of it or pining for it or wildly single, music has nothing to say about your love life. or lack thereof. and maybe that's just it. is the middle of love just some long silence in between songs?

naked

"there was an awful lot to be said for familiarity, if you thought about it. it was an extremely underrated virtue, ignorable until the very moment that you were in danger of losing whatever or whoever it was that was familiar- a house, a view, a partner."

ham on rye

today my dad met and loves charles bukowski
and I just love that so much.
"I was just a 50-cent turd floating around in the green ocean of life."

dreamy

What function do dreams serve in evolutionary terms?

a warning
a reminder
a stubborn refusal to forget
a way of keeping past fear close?

terrible, terrible dreams.

http://www.epjournal.net/filestore/ep035978.pdf

"Threat Rehearsal
    When awoken abruptly from a terrifying nightmare, it is easy to understand the strength dream imagery has in generating both physiological and cognitive responses. In the case of a nightmare, heart rate is accelerated, sweating occurs, and a general feeling of fear and anxiety can extend for some time after the dream has finished (Mellman et al., 1985). Even though dreams are a form of mental representation, in the sense that perception is not tied to stimuli in the environment, they are generally experienced as real and the content is perceptually indistinguishable from waking perception (Freud, 1900).
     If merely imagining an event has the power to better prepare us for an actual event by physically activating comparable brain regions, then it should follow that the more realistic the simulation of events, the more the brain treats the information as real. Also, if this capacity to simulate an environment allows us to be optimally prepared to deal with challenges in a real environment, it should affect fitness and be naturally selected for across generations (Darwin, 1995). The threat-simulation hypothesis of dreaming argues that this is the purpose of dreams and the reason why dreaming has evolved (Revonsuo, 2000). It is suggested by this theory that dreams serve the purpose of allowing for the rehearsal of threatening scenarios in order to better prepare an individual for real-life."

peace in the middle west

life is blinders and distractions.
tonight,
tonight i am choosing well.

and then you do

backdated from June 8:
I feel like this hiking log may be of use to anyone planning to hike Mount San Gorgonio- Vivian Creek Trail in the near future.

5 something a.m.: Apple Jacks & 7-ll coffee breakfast

7:20: not an alpine, but an early start.

every 5 minutes or so: "look, a beautiful tree! i will take a beautiful picture." "look, a beautiful rock! i will take a beautiful picture."

a few hours in: fantasizing about cheeseburgers (pickles, crunch, heavy mayo) and nachos (guac, sour cream, some real mexican cheese)

a few hours later: i notice the uncomfortable presence of an unwelcome companion. he goes by the name of poop.

on and on: the mind goes to funny places after a few miles. serious places. light places. strange places. for a good stretch of the path, i was trying to remember if my cousin/uncle/relative Tom was alive anymore or not. then brevity. legacy. what matters (the usual). then back to cheeseburgers. then some random church songs from elementary school.

a few miles from summit: run out of water

3:22 p.m.: i can see the top, but it is impossible to reach. my legs are angry. i sit on a rock and pout for awhile "i am overwhelmed. i can't conceive of how this is possible." it has taken us over 8 hours, and we aren't even to summit. we are out of water. i have to poop. so many overwhelming things. in these situations, j become optimistic. in these situations, i become angry.

4:30 p.m.: summit. turns out, it was possible. you can't always believe your legs. or your mind. or your wants. sometimes you just say, "quiet, you." and those things you didn't think could be done... sometimes you just do.

somewhere on the descent: once my body realizes it isn't going to get what it thinks it wants or needs, it takes on this superhuman kind of ability. i can walk for the rest of my life. i can lift cars off small trapped babies. i can go for months without cheeseburgers. or pooping. i am not thinking of anything, and still i have found a cure for cancer and am close to understanding the language of the trees.

sometime estimated around 8:43 p.m. (no watch, both phone batteries dead at summit): headlamp. dark. blister on the back of my heel bursts. shooting pain. slow to a crawl. superhuman powers brought down by a blister.

20 minutes later: adrenaline or some mysterious body hormone kicks in. heel tolerable.
the stars are out. by the light of the moon. so quiet. so still.

9:50 p.m. THE CAR.

helen, hear our prayer

talk soup
and i happen to dislike every single person on tv.
summer threatens to bring out naked tan backs and
legs that do not end.
parade.
navigating west coast sidewalks in hiking boots
breaking them in
breaking in
and thinking about sustainability.
we are missing so much at any given time
singing with choir
"dear jesus, please bless those whose homes were destroyed by the tornados"
but heaven forbid he actually do anything about the tornado.
mysterious ways.
we say "lord hear our prayer"
we say "lord hear our prayer"
not deaf. no ears.
helen keller would do better to respond.
92% of people that seem intriguing at first are, in fact, not.

a series of small yesses is worse thanpretty much a no.

how is your father? how is your heart?
he was a baby once and no one really thought much about the fact that he might die. not then.

and what now? but what now?

how is your father? how is your heart?

I'm pretty sure nothing means anything, really.
interpret as you will.

3 hour assembly. all of then are starting to blur. they all wear ridiculous heels. girls winning more awards than they can carry. who are these little robot children? these little doers? what will they need in ten years?

nothing. they will never need anything. they will have ski weekends with their ivy fiances and take the lift up. of course, they will take the lift up and admire the view where the trashy men and coked up women in the city are smaller than little snowflakes, and really all the same. people die. pain is relative. people can be kind. poor people rich people. so what. mountains don't give a damn.

substance & shadows

because the pendulum is tiring. terrifying in its slow consistency. the middle just never sticks. of course, when we have to, we do. do you even know your own glow? you must. just stuck on the shadow at the now.

that's what's so irritating. there is only substance and shadow. there is only ever the something and the nothing and I hate that.

i am angry that we only ever get one shot. that i will only ever be me. not that i don't lovemyselfyaddyyaddy... it's just... unbearable lightness. i am angry about ugly babies. i don't know what to think about the fact that we will all be robot cyborgs someday. these things matter to me. because i don't know what matters. i don't know what is substance. where to while my hours. where to place my bets.

isn't it pretty? it is nice to share a shadow.

stakes

THE STAKES ARE EVERYTHING.
SO, EXECUTIONERS,
STATE YOUR INTENT.

full of holes, she wobbles-
to-walk
wobbles-to-walk

almost
brave
almost


what does enough
feel like?


the passing lane's
a dangerous
and difficult place
for those who secretly want
proof.

all living along the fault line,
careful planners
and mindless dreamers
constantly collide--
and ricochet.

and i-- i throw my fate
like confetti;
because uncertainty
is time

and i was always last in line
when it came to making plans
and contingency plans

caught between
the picket lines
of wanting
solid ground
and room
to move around.

is it the longing
or belonging--

which is the mistake?

armed with losers' luck
and a gambler's
smile,
squandering chances &
weathering (whethering) loss
alone,
and all the hunger it implies,
bred
and butterless.

freefalls and u-turns
midwiving seedbeds
of altering trajectories--->


Let SEEM Be The Operative Word!
Let Seem Be THE Operative Word!
LET Seem Be The Operative Word!
Let Seem Be The OPERATIVE Word!
Let Seem BE The Operative Word!
Let Seem Be The Operative WORD!


room for doubt
always houses
that
tension,
without which
hope
and growth

and hope
for growth,

and every extraneous,
beautiful thing
become
orphaned--

or worse, latch-key.

the riddle's
in the rhyme,
the jester screams--

echoing perhaps, perhaps,
the fear
is in the finding,
the losing
in the choosing? echoes, echoes.

but there are traces of something there,
(it's) the cadence
of his voice

halfway down,
i don't trust it.

& this piecemeal tango
of longing
&

practicing cues
&
come-ons,

with
audible sighs,

no longer covers
the miscarried silence.

pulsing
it is pulsing, this empty.
pulsing


(i am) now (frantically) wire-walking
this threshold
like a (blind) man
in a tool-shed,

where (varying) degrees of indifference
haunt the in-betweens
loose in the footfalls
of peaks and valleys

peaks
and
valleys

forced to play maid and mistress to
half-baked cartographers
whose songs of
ill-defined signposts
articulate winds of change
in the form of
immaterial counter-bet(s),

drowning everything,

every_thing,
everything,

in symphonic ruin.

what makes us fall?
what makes us stay?

do you like the word linger?
in one of its many costumes. (hope, candor, love),e.g.

what makes us fall?
what makes us stay?

(fake) certificates of authenticity(?).

what makes us fall?
what makes us stay?

the song's brevity is its stage.
so he knows only driftwood,
and muddy water.

all else is quicksand.

what makes us fall?
what makes us stay?

she undoes.
in varying shades of nonchalance.
she undoes.

seeks comfort
in common ground,
however rootless.

fetal in the corner, humming,
without hint of cessation:

"we walk the plank with strangers. nurse regret with hard liquor. cradle the light."
"we walk the plank with strangers. nurse regret with hard liquor. cradle the light."
"we walked the plank with strangers. darling, we survived the fall. nurse regret with hard liquor. cradle the light."

"...cradle the light."

-poet friend

ugly babies

You know what bums me out?
Thoughts like, "What about the ugly babies?"
There are ugly people in grown up form, and there are some seriously ugly babies. And that is just the way it is. And you know what? Even when they're babies, they get talked about for their ugliness. I know. I've done it. I, a full grown woman, have snickered and psst pssted about a number of small ugly humans. And that baby is just laying there being ugly, or all smush faced in a picture with no idea that a whole lifetime of discrimination is lined up to meet them just as soon as they reach self awareness.

And this is not fair. Something about this is stupid. Something tears at me when I think about how someone can live their whole life focusing a ridiculous percentage of their attention on a particularly hideous body part (that the whole world is focused on too). It depresses me that there are people who will never have a comfortable sexual encounter. ever. Because they are ugly and they know it. This seems unconstitutional.

But there is something else that bums me out. This whole "designer baby" notion that all my girls want to write research papers on. Thinking about the implications of designing your own offspring makes me... tired. Not sad. More like a really quiet surrender.

So in five hundred years we'll be computerhuman hybrids who can design little computerhuman babies who will never ever run the risk of being ugly. So what. Why? And what matters? And what does it mean to be a human and what is purpose and who am i and who is in charge of ratifications to the constitution of day to day living and breathing and pretending we have some grasp on anything?

what it comes down to is

you do
when you have to.

*

"We are here on earth to fart around. Don't let anybody tell you any different." -Kurt Vonnegut

another russian prophet

russian woman with nine teeth and a cart. needs directions. walks with me for four slow blocks. she doesn't need directions. you have a warm aura. this location is not for you. when i smile she inspects my gums and derives from their shade that god has saved me many times. picking up little scraps of paper along the way. messages, they're all messages, love. jesus cured her cancer. he told her in a dream not to eat livestock and to preach. and to preach. when she preaches to people, she makes stalled busses start again. i remind her of her daughter sarah because i have dimple and a a vein on my neck. by the way, do i want to be her caretaker for ten dollars an hour? another russian prophet trying to tell me how i am. no matter how disheveled, i am apparently way too approachable to walk in peace.

the road

humanity comes from fire,
no metaphor.

breakdown post apocalyptic scenarios challenge everything
suicide or survival
isn't suicide more practical?
there is no argument.

morality socially constructed
and FRAGILE
so fragile.
yet we cling to it like it's solid concrete,
a skyscraper landmark
to buy souvenirs of
and to look for on the horizon.

There is no monument that cannot crumble.
Find a shrine within yourself
and navigate the streets,
wary of cracks.

gestures & words

wants balance
feels like crawling into some kind of den
away from eyes and invitation
whittle it down
rest in peace

we're all so beautiful
we're all too beautiful
and misunderstood

let's get one thing straight:
mobius strip paradox
how can we ever judge?
aren't we all responsible?

probably capable. may or may not.

we're all just army crawling
through another fast decade
fingernails clawing new terrors
toward some distant answer
to a familiar longing

possible to gesture toward
impossible to name

breakfast at tiffany's

we both
kind of
each other
what good is having got that?
a powerful distraction
unnamed friend
you never took to titles
and i could chase you, find you in the streets
but that's not how the book ends.
conclusion. resolution.
"Oh, Jesus God" (109).
gogogo heavy heart
lightly like being free (unbearable)
a different kind of freedom
curled up next to a familiar fear.

"love a wild thing, end up looking at the sky"
i left the window open.
the window was always open,
my huckleberry friend.
the mean reds.
the book ends.

google first link: breakfast at tiffany's critical analysis

to my face

liarliar, pants on fire
that exact moment when tension moves to danger
things we convince ourselves
honesty has to be practiced in the smallest ways to be the first thought when it matters most. practice.
let's not pretend
let's not act like real life when it's only reciting lines
while the truth curls into
some kind of shell

you tend the horse, i will grow a garden.

ny

closed my red eyes jet blue didn't sleep but woke up at 5am new york time felt every muscle scream. taxi. people sleeping in public places (vulnerable beautiful) train, trained too long. princeton in the humid. slept on park bench slept in dorm study. wake up wake up. bird shit on shoulder. endingsbeginnings. 57 flights and free. the glory that is mmm. can you tell that I've been drinking? sorrysorrysorry. harmonize with me on a quiet roof in a crowded city. open all night. eyes adjust. the light, the heat. take it in. sometimes this city sleeps til one. dodging rain. beets. comforttensiondanger. beautiful in honesty. coffee and crosswords and central park through a lens. I could live and die in this haven of a room. (some people live lives of such. sleep in piles. pour yourself into. I want to bottle it. deserving.) eight word story: city of driftwood in love from a distance.

as if they were real

"It came to you to be yourself. Your fellow-actors' courage failed; as if they had been caged with a pantheress, they crept along the wings and spoke what they had to, only not to irritate you. But you drew them forward, and you posed them and dealt with them as if they were real. Those limp doors, those simulated curtains, those objects that had no reverse side, drove you to protest. You felt how your heart intensified unceasingly toward an immense reality and, frightened, you tried once more to take people's gaze off you like long gossamer threads-: but now, in their fear of the worst, they were already breaking into applause: as though at the last moment to ward off something that would compel them to change their life."
-Rilke, The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge

performance anxiety

modern vs. postmodern
genderation x vs. y
on the cusp
on the cusp
born on the cusp
a decade of fragile
a few years of wandering

"if we give up the idea that it's based in essence, then we have to recognize that it's performace- based on performance. all we have is performance." -Hart

Right? but what about that feeling of essence, that sense of underlying reality. Is it just willing someone into a role? ourselves into a place we would like to fit? Is it based on anything authentic other than circumstances and projection? Ever?

Is there freedom in recognizing/EMBRACING(?) the idea that THIS IS ALL AN ACT? even in transcendence? temporary roles.

sometimes we act for so long, we believe.
___ choose parts carefully
___ ad lib with reckless abandon
___ know the quick way to the exit

is it better to take on one role or ressurect for each act as something new? The role of a lifetime or a constant movement through bit parts that force you to remember that you are a performer performing
and that a costume change waits (always) in the wings.

(but we are thinking beings. what is behind there that is aware and what does it want?)

is that why people have such a hard time with living? they start to believe too much? they refuse to change costumes, or make their exit, or give up the stage even when their role has been played out?

the lights come up, inevitably, whether or not you miss your cue. at some point you face the audience. at some point you are stripped. at some point, if you lose yourself(?) too much, the other its on stage will stare through you and wonder why you are still there.

here's to the way

for every word i don't say-
the suggestion toward hope i meant to give-
i wish i could see past myself far enough to draw you in.
the way months turn into years-
and the way you waited on the other side of the line-
the way you'd repeat what i didn't hear-
and the way what was ours was mostly mine.

it's a relative term you've only seen one side of
a line you can cross but not uncross
a knowing you can't get rid of with time-
did it change you?
do you wake up every day with a question on your mind?

close

to close

to release is longer
and not so
close

or

Retreat and return.
Return and retreat.
The Exit and The Welcome
indicating home
something fixed
outside or inside
(or. or.)
door.
a step is a choice.
The wide world or
very familiar rooms.

for me

violin strings move the moment to catharsis
every time.

goodbye wave

how many people washed away with that wave?
how much money and time and carefully arranged furniture and files filed
in
alpha
beti
cal

order?

how many
wave
goodbye
without
an
answer
for
why?

i feel it all

someday, when i am being interviewed by Michael Silverblatt,
i wonder if i will look back on this day when, driving home from work,
it seemed so real i could taste it.
i will try to ignore the annoying nasal of his voice, because he really does ask good questions.

a sense of urgency and a sense of taking my time
both.

i feel it all. i feel it all.

turning and turning

Yeats believed that history worked in cone shaped, widening spirals. A major, world changing event would take place that would change everything. Intensity. Passion. Conviction. All of humanity responding intensely to the new way of seeing the world (i.e. Christ's life and it's effect). But over time, the focus would get lost somehow. Intensity would wane. There would be a forgetting and a loss of focus. A restlessness

until at some point the focus would get so far removed from the source, that history would be ripe for some new epiphany to take its place. Some revelation. Something different, or the same under the guise of new. To bring about order again. To bring about a sense of purpose and focus.

Don't hearts work that way, too? After awhile, we lack focus. After awhile, we don't remember quite what it was we were centering around. After awhile, it takes some great event to deliver a sense of purpose. Passion. Conviction.

To return us to some source.

(don't they?)

these are some things

i get to learn:
sometimes my job feels like a fantastic book club. we learn from each other. this week, Their Eyes Were Watching God.

Insightful Student A: "But why did Janie wait 20 years to say how she felt? That bothers me. Doesn't that make it her fault in a way?"

and a few days, few chapters (few lifetimes) later...

Insightful Student B: "This is the first time Janie is actually listening to her gut and trusting herself. And standing up for herself. She's stronger than before because now, when she feels like something isn't right with Tea Cake, she says something and she doesn't feel bad about how she feels."
Insightful Student C: "And that's why Tea Cake is different from Logan or Jody. Even though they fight, they're learning how to communicate. With Jody, she was never brave enough to stand up for her feelings, and he never valued her feelings anyway."

i get to teach:
walked by Ignorant Student A's desk and noticed that she had taken another girl's quiz from the turn-in box (to copy from). I took the other girl's work off her desk. Gave ISA a death stare, and continued my rounds.

A few minutes later, I watch from across the room as ISA goes back to the inbox, fumbles around noticeably, trying to act as if she has understandable and acceptable intentions, and grabs another quiz from the box and takes it back to her seat.

I walk over. Grab paper.
Me: "No. No, no, no. I don't know what you think you're doing, but it's not cool." Walk away.

ISA: "But, uhhh... Ms. I... isn't this w;kjdajiebelivkemalie (nonsensicle babbling, trying to make it sound like there is a justifiable reason for what she was doing)

Me: "Stop it. Stop. Don't try to cover it up. Just do better. Do better."

I realized upon waking

Perhaps it's not quite time for sober dreams.

(but there have been these moments... These moments of transcendence in all this where I can view it all from a great distance. Such calm. Clarity. Grace, not from some outside place, but encoded in my core. Where even the confusion seems simple enough. Where I can hear my own song so clearly. Where just knowing that I am singing at all becomes this precious, important thing. Louder and louder and breaking through some block that was but is no more. Listen and you'll hear it. Try to understand.)

write it

Youtube: One Art in Cairo

freeze/burn

Penguin lost my song in the breeze.
Lost to some other melodies.

what i hate the most

is the falling asleep.
what i hate the second most is the waking up.

shut up/shut down

but if that's the worst, it's not so bad.
i can make molehills out of mountains
and i can write like judy blume.

sit tight

choices will lead to choices that you cannot anticipate
so sit tight
sit calm
strangle your sight
with the light of a dim,
distant star.
sit tight.
sit calm.
there's no way to anticipate where any of it goes.

stick wants stuck

Is it spring yet and is there life growing somewhere? Is all that buried potential brave enough to reach. up. out. winter brings lazy and a certain ennui. hibernation, and i suppose that is part of a cycle.

but my eyes are strained from big picture attempts. focus is lacking. perspective is limited to this little moment

where restless sleep and spiking emotions make me tired of the reaching. tired of exploration. i pull my empty hand back to myself. what i touch doesn't follow me back. what i reach for doesn't seem to see a home in me. achy for something known and constant to curl up around.

nothing is, though. nothing is.
stuck wants stick
and vice versa.

blah

even when there are weeks and weeks
of nothing new
and winter brings blue,
i am in the habit of living
and so i do.

libations to america

"It is only in isolate flecks that
something is given off

No one
to witness
and adjust, no one to drive the car."
-WCW "Spring and All" XVIII

tangental gripe and a dream

i might be tired of people.
and just... living.
balance is lost to the fact
that there is never balance, really.
if there is balance for a minute, it is such an exception
so rare
that it becomes unusual, and not a balance at all.

owe so much on a student loan for experience that i've had to, for the most part, unlearn.
managers at starbucks make more money than me.
money is stupid.

can't really remember how life used to be before.
no idea how i would like it to be or how to know.
i would like to curl up (too).

(in the dream we were curled up in that room. we were preparing for a storm. (there is a storm, there is really a storm out there.) even in the dream i could tell that his skin was not yours. (loosehardlyanypressurecaughtoffguard,but still i knew) even in the dream i knew).

i would take a day off, but i have no idea what i'd do with myself all day.

curse.
america better hurry the curse up
and it'd better be recognizable.
it'd better be worth something.
even if it's just america for you
as long as it's worth something,
i'll glean direction vicariously.

here we are

So here we are, trying to make meaning out of particles.
But what else is there to do?

all

i don't know if i've arrived
or departed
from something.
the sound from the heels of my boots are proof
of a move.

i think the tragedy of Julius Caesar is not that friends might deceive us,
(et tu?)
or that people are not always what they seem to be-
but that just as often
we do not even know ourselves so well.
he thought he was constant as a northern star,
but julius wavered with the rest of them.

all stars
dancing or dying
we waver
edges not so defined.

MMM

MMM
"When a life is over,
the one you were living for,
where do you go?

I'll work nights.
I'll dance in the city.
I'll wear red for a burning.
I'll look at the Charles very carefully,
wearing its long legs of neon.
And the cars will go by.
The cars will go by.
And there'll be no scream
from the lady in the red dress
dancing on her own Ellis Island,
who turns in circles,
dancing alone
as the cars go by."

L
"How do you divorce ennui
When you have no motivation to fight?

Get nostalgic
Make lists about anything
Anything
Take classes in the name of a career you could give a shit less about by the time you get the degree.
Art. Disappear into projects that demand and consume.
Stop asking questions.
Treat everything like a giant fucking joke.
Fall in love
But do not ask questions.
"Run mad as often as you choose,
But do not faint."
Where am I going.
Where am I going.
I have a lot of friends.
I have so many friends
But I miss you in a special way.
Love
And
An
Open
Invitation."

Death by Maybelline

Via text from the mother

Another death in the family... Maybelline stopped selling my lipstick shade. The nerve!

Death by conversation in 13 minutes

Via text

11:10 me.
Save new?
Me?

11:11 she.
Save new? Huh? What?

11:18 me.
Anime. Savemwcome Dyyyying

11:23 me.
Dead. I am dead.

(anime kids will be the death of me. Mark it.)

Lackadaisical

I just kind of want to lie around and stare at the ceiling for about three days. Then (maybe) I will rise again.

What if Jesus was just really tired? Kind of bored, maybe. Maybe he just spent those three days kind of staring at the ceiling of the cave. Maybe on the third day he just decided he didn't want to be bothered with humanity and went into hiding for the rest of his life.

State of the Union: Lackadaisical.
Also: It is only Tuesday.

To that woman in the restaurant, so frail a word might blow her over. And smiling. Smiling.

Do you wake up every day with a question on your mind?

say his name

"but you don't believe in meant to be, linds."
"well, i don't believe in god, but I say his name sometimes."

make it

Sometimes when I am posing for a picture, I consciously think to myself right before the flash goes off, "This is the happiest moment of my life." As though that can make my face believe it. As though the Sears Family Portrait Studio could actually be the setting of the happiest moment of my life.

Sometimes I pretend I am in a movie during a particularly poignant moment, when you either feel bad for the girl or care for her deeply- you are falling in love with her at that very moment- just to make moments seem a little more interesting and my face to look a little less tired of it all.

Or tired in a beautiful way.

As though watching an airplane move slowly across the night sky could be the fucking door to an epiphany.
Or something.

sometimes usually, everything actually begins to take on some important glow when i cast myself into a role for long enough. and not like after-school-special glow... like, real. like, Good Will Hunting when Robin Williams and Matt Damon are talking on that bench.

BE PASSIONATE! BE PASSIONATE, WHATEVER YOU DO.
passionate in motion, passionate in calm.
take nothing seriously
except beauty
and finding it in
this moment right now.
now.
now.
now.


now.

now.
now.


now.

pendulum

You can't rush
this art.
It is a four
letter word
like
time
to come home
is wasted
on waiting and better spent on
gluing pieces
together
like heart strings
to a pendulum
until
everything is just a means to creation
and feels about the same as anything.

as well as

To Brautigan:

I wish you were still alive
(you are dead, aren't you?)
so I could kiss your brain
and suck on your words.

Next weekend: a piece of my art will be hanging on a public wall.

Also: visiting the dentist gives me phantom loose teeth.

Furthermore: http://aware.diaryland.com/

as well as: Hyperbole and a Half

free bird

From the "At Work" Collection of L-

Summary of the Lynrd Skynrd Concert
July 18, 2001

Overall, an alright, all-american (well, Southern) rock & roll band. Fat men singing and waving confederate flags around. Drunk 20-50-somethings throwing their fists in the air slow motion, spilling beer on millions & millions of cigarette butts on brown grass. Lighters go up for a song only the first 20 rows know the words to. I lay on my back and listen to people appreciating something I can't understand.

My best friend is crying because her boy has wronged her again. It's become so habitual that we can't do much but watch. We all take turns whispering words that don't help & kissing her forehead-hoping somehow we can transfer some sort of brave. We'll pray she gets hit with a reason to leave but tonight we can't do much but watch people walk around our island of a grass covered blanket. Where a few mintues ago there were thighs & mullets, there is an emptiness cluttered with $3 bottles and beer glasses. Someone let the water out.

We're all looking for someone to define this feeling inside us... this craving for more than what we've found. As hard as we try to find it in words or pictures or addiction-definition is always one step out of reach. It comes without being asked and it goes without saying. And no matter what we do to escape it, it's always the last thought of the day. It's always written somewhere behind our eyes or in that unsettled feeling that never leaves your stomach anymore. And no matter how far we go to chase it, there's always something lacking in that one thing that was supposed to make us happy.

We walk away in no real hurry. The show is done & we're still waiting to feel something. I watch her walk & smoke & I feel helpless. It's easy for people to tell her to walk away, but these are very real chains we're talking about. That's asking for an end to a circle. And she's stronger than some will ever have to be-not because she's got everything together, but because she's surviving with what she's got.


I sing for a while & change the words for her. On the way home we visit a few close calls and a payphone. We leave all of them feeling changed but not different.

And I know there are people everywhere, but I can't help feeling alone. Like life is happening without me. I stood on that blanket & drove & made stupid conversation-but all the time I was standing outside of myself. Reliving days and emotions and wondering if I might lose myself forever. I was not me, but a million mes that came before the me I am today. I was the girl in the movie who couldn't cry until she got angry-and then the whole world stopped to catch her tear. I was the girl who couldn't figure out how to fit into her body. Cheese slices and mustard and that was only the beginning. I was the girl with 2 left feet and too too many mixed drinks in her blood to make it over the balcony. I was the girl walking past midnight-sobbing hysterical looking stung out but dying inside for a pain of a love that was never right in the first place. Below freezing temperatures but I was the girl huddled around her cup of cold coffee she could barely afford. The girl who could barely control her sobs. I was the girl who was crippled by the discomfort of living. Pale turned purple with no blue in sight. I was the girl who picked nerds for friends. Secret codes and priorities got all flip flopped into frisbee football and anything but sleep. I was the girl laughing so hard she spit milk all over the kitchen table. Her mom just rolled her eyes and walked away.

I was the girl. I AM the girl. I am a collection of a million hers and for once I'd like to stop looking for a finished product in all this. For once I wish I would stop chasing after the she I'd like to be. There is no rest in a system where happiness starts in the future which is perpetually a day away. I am lost again. Recalling the past & momentarily forgetting that someday today will be a past I might find myself lost in. I could have stood there forever. Maybe I stand there still...

We sit on the hood of my car & play the "I Want" game. Thinking that if we can name it, it might become real. With all the talk of family & white teeth & surfers, it's all coming down to the realization that the moment is perfect just as it is. No more talk about imperfection as long as Sharon Sanders exists.

And maybe unexceptional nights like this are the most important of them all. They form your character. They force you to remember who you are & who you've been. They remind you (again) that there's no point in wishing you were someone or somewhere else. That journey and destination thing comes to mind, but it's not worth quoting. We've heard it so many times we forget that it means something. It's like, the one gigantic point to life that everyone is always forgetting. And it's more than surviving. And it's not about having everything together. It's about enjoying what you've got and where you're at. Seeing the forest for the trees. Seeing the future as something that doesn't even exist.

But if it did, it would start right now...