i'll let you know when i get there

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

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?

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.

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 no...

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, w...

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 takes one to no one.

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.

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

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"

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.

"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.

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

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. ch...

a dull anger. has it always been?

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.

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 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 ...

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

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.

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 boo...

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.

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.

"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.

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.

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

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:.

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.

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 ...

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...

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 do...

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.

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.

learning

a fix makes me feel like something is broken breaking.

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.

"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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

the quiet space before words are said sometimes I look away because "I'm scared" is hard to say.

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.

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 priv...

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

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 cours...

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.

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.

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

'tis

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.

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?

"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."

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."

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 acti...

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

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 som...

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 than pretty 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.

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.

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...

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 ugl...

you do when you have to.

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

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.

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.

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

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

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.

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.

"It came to you to be yourself . Your fellow- actor s' 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

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 r...

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?

to close to release is longer and not so close

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.

violin strings move the moment to catharsis every time.

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?

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.

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 so...

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...

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.)

Youtube: One Art in Cairo

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

"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

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 ...

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

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 "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 friend...

Via text from the mother Another death in the family... Maybelline stopped selling my lipstick shade. The nerve!

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.)

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.

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

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

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 D...

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.

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

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 & mull...