The Curious Feeling of a Stranger

Feb. 15th

2012-02-15T19:46:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I wonder what all of this is for. Perhaps that sounds dismal but it's something I think of often. The more I try to educate myself, the more jaded I become about academia, the poetry canon, human nature. And during times when I take a hiatus from academia, I feel restless, useless, as if I should be consuming knowledge, writing always. I wonder if I'll ever be satisfied. Maybe there's something I haven't discovered yet, something that will make all of this more clear. Or maybe I just need to put things into perspective.

I worry that I want too much.

Between the lines

2012-02-13T11:52:00.000-08:00

New dress from Target, new haircut by my friend Jessica:

"A red bone in the throat, a red nail on the tongue"

2012-02-12T10:42:00.000-08:00

Inspiration:

Photos taken from Forever 21, Ruche, YesStyle, and Lookbook.

"You are to me like a very, very wild thing"

2012-02-10T12:12:00.000-08:00

My reading actually went really well! It was nice sharing my work in a room full of attentive writers. And Jason's story was fantastic (there were lots of mention of vulvas--hilarious). He has this really impressive way of writing about something absurd and imbuing it with really confident language and social/historical contexts. I really admire his work.

Me and Stephenie out for drinks after the reading :)

This is the easiest hairdo EVER. I accidentally discovered it while playing with my hair.

My dry winter skin makes me look an old lady :-x

The sky suddenly would fall in love with you

2012-02-07T16:50:00.000-08:00

Today has been stagnant in personal productivity. Ohhhhhhh man. It's like breaking my own arm to grade student essays and lesson plan and revise poems. So instead of catching up, I'm writing this entry. My poetry reading is this Thursday and I'm a lot more nervous than I thought I'd be. Before any other reading in my undergraduate career, I was happy and excited, but now I'm just nervous and anxious. I feel like my poems have to be perfect so I'm putting unnecessary weight on revisions this week. I can't figure out why this reading is different. Perhaps because I'm going to school for poetry so I feel as if there's a heightened expectation? Regardless, I'm one big knot right now.

A little while ago, I went to a potluck at a friend's house and made some pasta salad. It actually turned out really well for just throwing a bunch of stuff in a bowl.

Cavatappi noodles, red onion, green pepper, kalamata olives, black olives, almond slices, Gardein chicken, pepper, basil, parsley, cilantro, oregano, balsamic vinaigrette

Also, I've been obsessed with turban hats/head wraps lately.

Turban head wrap- ASOS

"A terrific noise invented her"

2012-02-01T04:03:00.000-08:00

If you've never read any poetry by Laura Kasischke, do it. She's fantastic. Her language is normally rather simple (but she has such a command for language that it doesn't appear superficial), and then she has these intense lines that alter your entire view on humanity. I've been reading her latest book, Space, in Chains and I'm smitten.

After a couple weeks of feeling rather discouraged about my writing, I completely revamped a couple of old poems (one from about a year ago and the other from two years ago), and I'm feeling a lot more pleased with them. During poetry workshop, Larissa quoted Albert Camus--"Always go too far, because that's where you'll find the truth"--and it stuck with me. I think I captured a lot more in both of the poems than I'd originally even hoped to accomplish (and I hope I found "the truth," whatever that means).

Feeling good.

"...I spoke you together & then back apart."

2012-01-25T15:39:00.000-08:00

I've decided to stop posting poems on here, for a couple of reasons: 1. Some journals won't accept submissions of any work that's been posted online (even personal blogs). 2. Every time I post something, I end up revising it into a completely different poem, and the poem that remains on here just appears as a smear on the screen.

So. That means this will be dedicated to fashion, food, writing processes, personal essays, brain clippings, perhaps the occasional fragment of a poem, and whatever else I feel like sharing.

I've been wearing leggings a lot lately:

Slouchy shirt- Target, Wool socks- Kent Food Co-Op, Ankle boots- JCPenney

Sweater- Goodwill, Nordic leggings- Yesstyle

1-18-12

2012-01-18T14:46:00.000-08:00

My actions are betraying me. I can't shake this aching.
I hope you know I love you.

Tights- Gap, Ankle boots- JCPenney

Turban hat- Amazon, Dress- Target, Tights- Gap, Wool socks- Kent Food Co-Op, Boots- Amazon

First day back

2012-01-09T09:26:00.000-08:00

My first day back teaching actually went really well. :) All of my students seem friendly. How's everyone else's new semester (for those of you still in school)?

Cropped top- Wet Seal

We see the skin peel behind your ears

2012-01-08T15:44:00.000-08:00

Back in good ol' Bowling Green. I had a mini meltdown last night because I missed my family and friends in Kent so much (on top of stressing about school stuff, particularly a bit of a tiff I had with the department of the General Studies Writing program). But I woke up this morning feeling a lot better and uber productive!

I visited a farm today that sells local eggs (although it's not so much a farm as a husband and wife with a chicken coop in their backyard). The couple is really nice and the chickens are treated well. Plus, a dozen eggs are only $1.50! I'll definitely be going back.

Dennis and I made some good mashed potatoes and veggies pre-winter break at my apartment.

Sheet o' veggies

And we also got some photos together. :)

I wore this to a small gathering with friends last night after I got back to BG. I'm getting over a cold so I wanted to wear something slouchy/comfortable.

Hat- Target, Striped pants- given to me by a friend, Ankle boots- JCPenney, Elephant necklace- Walmart

1-4-12

2012-01-04T12:45:00.000-08:00

Winter break is quickly coming to an end (much to my unhappiness). I wouldn't mind going back to school if I didn't have to teach. Unfortunately, I've come to dread it, which makes me want to half-ass all of my lesson plans, which isn't fair to my students, which makes me dread it even more. Maybe I just need a more positive attitude about the whole thing.

I've basically been spending break making really good food (all kinds of soups/stews/chilis, mini vegan pizzas, giant omelettes, etc.), watching Rocko's Modern Life, reading a little, planning for my class next semester, and sleeping way too much. But, I did discover today that I'm actually quasi-happy with 30 of my poems! A step away from my usual Well I guess I might like one of them (which I'll hate in a week). Grad school may be beneficial after all.

How's everyone else's break? Relaxing I hope?

P.S. Some inspiration photos:

I had to. I was obsessed with everything she wore in The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo.

I've been obsessed with turbans, giant scarves and capes lately. <3

http://ams-la-la-land.blogspot.com/

Also, Nordic print.

And long skirts.

http://www.strangeambition.com/

I would probably never wear anything from this outfit (except for the hair color), but I love it!

**Update-- Some photos of the food I mentioned earlier:

Vegan potato, kale and corn soup

Vegetarian french onion soup

Mushroom, onion, Daiya vegan cheese

Onion, feta

Mushroom, onion, feta

Mushroom, onion, spinach, feta

Spinach, tomato, feta

Omelette with kale, onion, green pepper

Omelette with Tofurkey kielbasa sausage, spinach, onion, green onion, feta

12-15-11

2011-12-15T15:00:00.000-08:00

Just some new outfits. Hope all is well with everyone. :)

Slouchy shirt- Target, Boots- Amazon, Fish necklace- Wal Mart

Coat- Gap, Scarf- knitted by my friend Jessica! It feels like clouds

Knit collar mint green dress- yesstyle.com, Wine-colored lipstain- Meijer

"Intelligence is about pain and unteaching"

2011-12-13T10:34:00.000-08:00

This has been the easiest end-of-the-semester I think I've ever had. I've had a few deadlines for things spread out over the past week, but mostly I've had a lot of time to read, write, watch movies, spend time with the other poets in the program, and--most importantly--sleep (which consists of a lot of bizarre dreams, which is good for my dream poem series!).

I'm currently reading/working on writing a review for this book: http://www.fenceportal.org/?page_id=401. And, if they like the review, it will be published here!: http://www.rufouscityreview.com/. I'm pretty excited as this is my first book review and my first publication outside of Kent State (even if it is an independent journal and the editor is one of the girls in the MFA program here). The book is fantastic so far--I hope I do it justice.

Due to my staying home a lot, I haven't really been putting too much effort in making myself up. But I did try out a new lipstain color. And I've been wearing a lot of leggings/big comfy shirts/tall warm socks combos.

The difference between emotional and logical language

2011-12-10T18:14:00.001-08:00

Aprofessor of mine said something a few years ago that stuck with me. He said, “Youcan’t argue against a feeling.” In this case, he was referring to his wife’surge to adopt another child. No matter what he told her, no matter what logicalbacking he used to refute her push for another child (e.g., already havingtwo children, lacking money, getting too old to raise another child, etc.),she remained adamant. When he finally asked her why she wouldn’t let it go, shesaid, “I feel like I need to do this. I won’t feel whole if I don’t haveanother child.” She attributed it to her maternal instincts and to a distinct,immutable feeling, and despite himself, he couldn’t argue against it.

Thelanguage of emotion is, rather obviously, much different than the language oflogic. Think of it in terms of your mother (or a close family member). We loveour mothers not because of some list of criteria or reasoning, but because we feelbonded to her. It’s a bond that’s been written about and portrayed through alarge number of mediums (poetry, prose, film, music, etc.). We can read a poem dedicatedto one’s mother or watch a film based on the relationship between a mother anddaughter, and see the same words and the same events happening before us. Butwe all contribute different feelings toward the piece and toward our ownmothers. I don’t think any of us could adequately describe the love we hold forthem. It’s something that goes beyond traditional language.

Thesame can be said with romantic partners. We don’t fall in love with someonebecause of a catalog of positive attributes (we may like to brag about these tofriends but in regards to our genuine feeling of love toward him or her, thesehave little to do with it), nor do we attribute this love to a lack of flaws inthe other person. If we did this, we’d be searching for the “perfect match” ourentire lives. This kind of romantic love, rather, is the ability to lovesomeone despite their flaws. It’s amatter of achieving a level of intimacy with someone that you understand theway they think and, even if you don’t agree with some of it, you love themanyway.

Thisis why we can’t apply terms of logical or referential backing to strong emotions.We’re unable to make conclusions such as “I love my son because of a, b and c,”nor can we say things like “Anger is anger (i.e., that the same definition ofanger holds for everyone—unlike “a collarbone is a collarbone,” which, more orless, has the same scientific definition for everyone).

It’sthis language of emotion that makes poetry so captivating. The poet and thereader are able to speak to each other on a deeper, more psychologically rootedlevel rather than a level fixed in logic. Even if a poem syntactically orconceptually doesn’t make sense, if the reader feels something poignant afterreading it, then the poem succeeds, or makes sense, on an emotional level. Wetrust the poet’s words, just like we trust the writhing movements or head lashingof an admired musician on stage. No matter how outlandish something seems, ifthere is a tangible emotional response, we trust it.

LiliTaylor, in a short essay published in Poetrymagazine, wrote “A poet told me that the job description of the poet is to saythe unsayable. Another poet said no matter which way you cut it poems are aboutemotion. They are about deep emotion.” Later, when referring to her acting, shesaid “In a way, I am trying to name things with my emotions.” It is this “naming”that makes emotion a language, not something to be prescribed as purelyillogical. When we feel something on an intense level, we name or define thingsin our world through the lens of this feeling or of multiple feelings. It’ssomething extremely personal but also very absolute. In the individual’s mind, she’sright in the way she feels. And, in a way, she’s accurate in thinking this way. We take comfort in the fact that everyone’s mind isdifferent. In our heightened emotions lies a more concentrated level ofperceptivity, and it would be hasty to disregard them. In their chaos, there isreason.

Overwhelmed by humanity

2011-12-07T20:59:00.001-08:00

I could turn this post into a twenty-paragraph rant about animal rights, but I'll keep it short because frankly, I'm exhausted from arguing with people.

Animals are not commodities, and they should not be treated as such. Period. We would be such a more well-fed, healthier, happier world if factory farming (as well as animal testing, over-fishing, whaling, fur farms, leather farms, etc.) didn't exist. We once lived in a way that did not mistreat animals in these ways, and it's possible to live this way again.

This movie is incredibly informative and inspiring: http://www.earthlings.com/ And Temple Grandin is my new favorite role model. Also, I might be going vegan. I'm tired of trying to be middle-of-the-road or unbiased about animal rights. And I'm even more tired of being sympathetic toward those who prefer convenience or the sole well-being of humans over animals. I don't care if I sound like a self-righteous animal lover. This is something I'm whole-heartedly invested in.

Striped pants

2011-12-02T10:58:00.001-08:00

Hat- Target, Striped pants- given to me by a friend (thanks Erin!), Fish necklace- Wal Mart

It's a nice, brisk autumn day today. Once I get some graded papers under my belt, I think I'll reward myself with a long walk. Apparently, there's a good trail somewhere in Bowling Green.

Hope all is well with everyone!

My dream self dies upon waking

2011-11-29T11:52:00.001-08:00

I had a breakthrough in my first dream poem during my Techniques of Poetry class last night. Larissa Szporluck is the most perceptive reader of poetry I've ever met. I'm fairly certain that she pulls more meaning out of my poetry than I do. I hope one day that I'll be able to tap into whatever realm she's in.

Other than that, the rain continues. The semester is winding down very quickly, then it's time for building snowmen and curling up under blankets with hot cocoa.

(Sorry this is so blurry)

Pleated long-sleeve shirt- yesstyle.com, Elephant necklace- Wal Mart, Rope belt- thrifted, Knit lace shorts- yessstyle.com, Moccasins- Roots

These are what the shorts look like close up.

Let me back in

2011-11-22T10:54:00.001-08:00

I've reopened by obsession with Explosion in the Sky's newest album, Take Care, Take Care, Take Care. Good cold/rainy/windy day music.

My go-to autumn/winter outfit (over-sized sweater, leggings, and boots):

Sweater- thrifted, Boots- Amazon?

Coat- Gap, Circle scarf- American Apparel

"How easily bored I am without pain as proof"

2011-11-21T12:31:00.001-08:00

Bowling Green's (specifically Mid-American Review's) yearly writing festival, Winter Wheat, was this past weekend and I was asked to participate by helping at the registration table, attending panels, and--leading my own panel! It was really great (albeit hectic and exhausting). It felt to me like a mini version of AWP--same basic structure. I felt closer to everyone in the creative writing programs, met some wonderful new writers, and started a couple poems that I'm pretty excited about. Karissa and I did a panel on Anatomical and Neurological Language in Poetry, and I think it went really well. We got on some great discussions about merging body and mind/science and lyricism, using textbook terms to add dynamism to your poetry, how to write a death or autopsy poem when the mind is detached from the body, and quite a bit more (if anyone is interested in seeing the notes for the panel, I'd be glad to send it to you). It was great getting up in front of a room of writers and talking about something we were passionate about (even though prior to our research, we knew little to nothing about anatomical terms!).

The literary journal, Hobart, that was positioned next to the Wick Poetry Center table at AWP last year was also there! I bought Mary Miller's book Big World from them, which I'm obsessed with. The guy at the table recognized me and we talked for quite a while about their journal and my switch from Kent to BG and this year's upcoming AWP. I also saw a friend of Ted Lyons' whom I talked to for a little bit. There were readings by Kyle Minor, Ann Townsend, and Seth Fried (seriously impressed by all of them!). Overall, great experience. But because I was so busy with Winter Wheat festivities Thursday-Saturday, I left nearly all of my paper grading for Sunday. But I got them all done! 14 essays in one day (phew). I think the festival refreshed me in a way that I very much needed, which helped clear my mind for all that grading.

I'm very much looking forward to Thanksgiving break. I could definitely use the time off (even though I'll be grading a new batch of essays over break). If anyone is around the Kent area this Wednesday through Sunday, I'd love to catch up. :)

Also, a new outfit (I wear these shoes and this dress a lot. I think it's time to get more creative.):

Long-sleeve shirt- Wal-Mart?, Pleated dress- yesstyle.com, Oxfords- thrifted, Heart necklace- Target?

"Consider the rooms that outlast us"

2011-11-17T06:40:00.001-08:00

Felt impulsive. Cut my bangs.

Also, I'm currently working on a series of dream poems. I also need to sit down and make some serious revisions to all of my poetry. Perhaps I'll post something soon. Hope all is well with everyone. :)

**Update: Just a new outfit.

Oversized sweater- thrifted, Blue leggings- Target, Boots- Amazon, Necklace- H&M, Watch and ring- Meijer

Some thoughts on prose/narrative poetry

2011-11-15T18:35:00.001-08:00

We had an abridged conversation in workshop tonight about prose/narrative poetry (I say "abridged" because it was truncated in that it didn't seem to go anywhere and we had quite a few more poems to critique). It started on a question I had for the class--when is narrative, or prose, form appropriate in poetry? I wasn't looking for a formulaic answer about when to use prose form over lyrical form, but rather, I wanted to hear some insights from the class. As someone who is very drawn to prose poetry (e.g., prose, paragraph blocks, etc.), it's something I'm really interested in discussing and researching (although I can't seem to find any essays on the subject online).

It seems as if many poets, when critiquing a poem, often feel the need to cut out articles, prepositions, "prosey" language, punctuation, etc. in an attempt to make the poem sound more lyrical, more rhythmic, perhaps more mysterious. I admit, these components can appear clunky or discordant in certain parts of poems or in a poem that is otherwise musical in its language. However, I think we are too quick to cut out articles or prepositions or lengthy lines just because it doesn't have the fragmented phraseology that is indicative in so much poetry. Is it so terrible to write a poem in full sentences? To write one in paragraph form?

The beauty of writing as an art form is that it can take on many forms. By way of this, different forms can influence each other. Prose can intermingle with poetry and vice versa. By writing a poem in a narrative form, we are at once telling a story and enlivening it with poetic imagination. Writing in prose does not equate to prosaic language. In other words, writing in a traditional manner does not make the writing dull or unimaginative. It's a way to add dynamism to the poem. Readers can say, Yes, I'm reading a narrative. But is there more? That being said, some poems written in full sentences or block form do not always take on a traditional narrative. For instance, Franz Wright's poem Imago or many poems in Elizabeth Willis' Meteoric Flowers are both very whimsical in their content but are presented on the page in blocks and full clauses. We see fiction writers merge mediums as well--Gabriel Garcia Marquez's fiction is palpable with whimsical, poetic language; the short stories in Mary Miller's Big World combine mundane scenarios with heightened peaks of larger perception. There is something rich and idiosyncratic in the coagulation of styles.

I find myself continually reasserting my hesitance in taking on that which is so indicative of poetry workshops--the impulse to cut. We have to first determine the heart of the poem, what it wants to be, where it wants to go, before we decide to omit anything (even parts as simple as articles or prepositions). Because of the hyper-inclination to revise or "clean up" the poem, I fear that this may be inhibiting the growth of more narrative or prose forms. By appropriating a classic form with our own fresh, strange themes or diction, we may be able to break open something entirely new.

**Update: Really great essay on Russell Edson/prose poetry--> http://www.believermag.com/issues/200403/?read=article_manguso

"I’ve watched words flower sideways across your mouth"

2011-11-07T14:19:00.000-08:00

It's always a little strange going into the week after an illuminated weekend, as if the world should take notice, should give me time to seep myself into those three days some more. I feel like I'm in a dream.

Dennis and I made some more delicious food (as we do every weekend), and took a walk in the cemetery near my apartment. It's really beautiful and has some gravestones dating back before 1800. I didn't get any photos of the cemetery, but I did get a couple of la comida. :)

Farfalle, crushed tomatoes, artichoke hearts, garlic, onion, crushed red pepper, sugar, basil, white wine, parmesan cheese, garlic bread

Eggs, avocado, hash browns, toast

Halloween poem

2011-11-01T06:23:00.000-07:00

BLOOD-FOLD

hecan’t see me in the dim bar light.

he is smiling at someone else.

someone else is hidden.

someone else is meaningless.

are my edges beginning to fade,

with nothing to drape my organs?

I become a platelet, spilled on concrete.

eat me with a fork and swallow.

he is a blur of black-and-white face paint—

a ghoul, a shadow, a sharp-toothed reminder.

why do I always construct myself

from other people’s skeletons?

this trust has run dry.

this marrow contains no water.

the room pulses like a vein

and I am suddenly aware of myself.

Istep out into a throng of strangers.

thenight tangles its breath on my coat.

this ache hangs like a web.

"A plant is said to be dead if it doesn't grow"

2011-10-31T19:54:00.000-07:00

I've been feeling unbelievably unmotivated lately. I wish only to curl up under blankets, watch movies, and eat good winter food like chili or stew. But, on goes school. And on goes teaching. I hope you all are being more productive than I am.

An outfit I wore out to dinner with Dennis:

Everything was thrifted except for the necklace (H&M), the watch (Meijer), and the tights (Target)

Also, the sun coming in through the window looked beautiful last week. I think it may be contributing to my dreamy mood.

I am nonsense

2011-10-26T21:07:00.001-07:00

This is what this weeks feel like:

New poems

2011-10-24T06:22:00.000-07:00

Just a couple of new poems. I'm still revising them (am I ever finished revising anything?) but I thought I'd share anyway. Comments/critiques are appreciated.

HOURS

The hours gather wildly at the end ofthe day

then calm themselves

and fall asleep in the dim lamp light

It is during these times I often think:

I am wrong about everything

Crack-throated and weary, I collapse—

a heavy mass of bone-waves and weepingskin

Buried in soil, disconnected at thelimbs

I want someone to comfort me,

pull me up by the roots and kiss me

The day proceeds like an agingalcoholic

too wet and slow to escape from its owndrunkenness

I don’t know how true this is

but I don’t question much these days

YOUWITHOUT BOUNDARIES

Yourhands are two moonflowers,
blooming in dark rooms

Thehush and push of your petal-fingers

extinguish me like a dying flame

Yourteeth click like cracked shells,

thegrooves flowing, flowing

Listen:

itis the heart that keeps us grounded, not the legs

Outside,the trees uproot themselves

andfall around us

Youreyes turn to water,

yourflower hands turn to water

Andthe hinges of your mouth

releaseme like a chorus

Rainy days

2011-10-20T12:09:00.000-07:00

It's been super rainy/windy over the past few days. As a result, I've become more of a homebody than I already am. Just thought I'd update with a couple more outfits.

Grey blazer- Sears, Shirt- thrifted, Skirt- thrifted (Wet Seal), Rope belt- thrifted, Pink converse- Journey's

Black blazer- JCPenney, Ring & bracelets- thrifted, Necklace- H&M, Black skinny jeans- thrifted, Mary Jane heels- thrifted

"To float you must float from within"

2011-10-18T18:11:00.000-07:00

I feel that in the short amount of time I've been enrolled in the MFA program at Bowling Green, I've learned so much about poetry and about what it is I really want to accomplish in my own writing. I've written more poems that mean something to me over the past eight weeks than I think I ever have. I'm going to spend some time this weekend on revising so, hopefully, I'll post a couple new poems sometime next week (I should probably be posting poetry on a blog that originated as a creative writing blog, right?).

In other news, Karissa and I had a successful afternoon of thrifting today. I found quite a few items of clothing that I've been looking for. I'm sure I'll have photo evidence soon. For now, what I wore yesterday:

Shirt- Target, Spandex skirt- thrifted, Skinny belt- Target, Sweater tights- gift, Oxford shoes- thrifted, Locket necklace- H&M, Orange ring- thrifted, Cropped jacket- thrifted, Scarf- Target, Sunglasses- thrifted

"Let us never be rescued from this mess"

2011-10-14T22:09:00.000-07:00

I'd like to preface this with something about the title of thispost. It's a line from AimeeNezhukumatathil's poem "Baked Goods" (she has a crazy name, right?).I was just recently introduced to her by my workshop professor, Jennifer Chang,a couple weeks ago. After reading a few of her poems, I was so arrested by her work, I bought her newest book, Lucky Fish (which has a beautiful cover--you should look it up). While still in mygiddiness-in-discovering-a-wonderful-new-poet phase, shecame to read at Bowling Green this past Thursday. Her reading was just ascaptivating as her writing--she has a strange voice in a lot of her poems, herreading was really lively and funny, and I connected with a lot of what she said.Needless to say, I had her sign my book and talked with her for a few minutes(turns out we both have a love for oxford shoes and Naomi Shihab Nye). Afterthe reading, Jennifer had a reception at her house which was equally asilluminating. Lots of good company.

But. On to the rest of the entry: I've found myself obsessing over tattoo ideas lately. So I thought I'd share a few.

The tattoo I plan on getting in the very near future is a couple of lines from a Yehuda Amichai poem (translated by Chana Bloch). I started reading Yehuda last year and fell in love with his work. I identify a lot with these particular lines, mainly the acuteness of everything.

(on my upper ribs)

The second is, yes, a band tattoo. But I think it's obscure enough that I don't think I would regret getting it. I just recently came up with this idea so I may sit on it for a bit. It's the symbol/album cover for Disconnect From Desire by School of Seven Bells. SOSB are easily one of favorite bands--the whimsical, haunting lyrics/vocals/instruments are unlike anything else I've heard. And seeing them play live only solidified my respect and love for them and their deep, dream-like quality of music.

(underneath my armpit, like Rihanna's gun tattoo http://images.eonline.com/eol_images/Entire_Site/20090326/293.rihanna.lc.032609.jpg)

The third is one I've been sitting on for a while and I'm still not sure if I want it. It's a damask design, just because I love how it looks.

(front of thigh)

The fourth is one that if I don't get the damask design, I will get this instead (or perhaps on the other leg?). It would be the same concept as this--a landscape of trees positioned horizontally--except instead of along my side, it would be on the side of my thigh. I've always loved tree tattoos (even if they are done a lot), nature, hiking, the outdoors (all that lofty, liberal poetic stuff). Plus, I love the sideways orientation of this.

Soooo who wants to get a tattoo with me? :D

Sink your teeth in

2011-09-29T20:57:00.000-07:00

I'm going to do something I've never done. I'm going to share a really new poem (I mean, REALLY new--I just got done writing it). I've been working on it here and there since last night so it's very rough. But I haven't shared anything in a while. Comments/critiques are appreciated.

CHIROPTERA

Sinkyour teeth into me

Letthe sour skin dangle from your lips

You fly above me in

staggered formation,

steadfast in your romance

with the wind—

black seraph, hairy demon,

necromancer

You speak in a tongue

no one understands,

liminal echoes,

pocked flesh recoiled

in your ribcage

Little flittermouse, little prophet,

the things you could do

if you had hands,

ones, I mean, without claws

The things you could do

if your bones were stronger,

unlike twigs softened by fire

under thin membrane

Yet

your hand, look how large it is

look how it takes everything in,

drinks everything slowly,

(takes me in, drinks me slowly)

look how you are everything I am not

Tangleyourself in my hair

Showme how to see without eyes

Also, another outfit (I kind of feel like a Jedi in this):

Circle scarf- thrifted, Long sweater- I really don't remember (Kohl's?), Rope belt- thrifted, Sweater tights- gift, Wrap boots- Toms

Your teeth click like cracked shells

2011-09-26T12:11:00.000-07:00

I update this blog way too often. But, one gets lonely when living alone (therefore, I resort to the internet for interaction with old friends--but, who knows who reads this thing anyway?). Admittedly, I feel like a bit of a narcissist posting photos and random ramblings/poetry on here, but I suppose the concept of a personal blog is pretty vain in nature. So I'm embracing it.

I've been doing quite a bit of writing in small bursts over the past week, so I don't have anything cohesive to share right now. But I will soon, very soon.

I converted some storage space into a reading cubby this weekend. I love it! A good place to cuddle up, nest and read. I just need more blankets and some decorations.

And, another outfit. My hair is finally long enough to braid! (kind of)

Necklace- Target, Collared shirt- thrifted, Spandex skirt- thrifted, Moccasins- Roots

I rarely ever wear lipstick--it felt foreign and heavy on my lips. But it made me feel fancy.

9-22-11

2011-09-22T07:52:00.000-07:00

I will be listening to "Rolled Together" by The Antlers on loop today, reading, writing, and making lesson plans (wish I could omit that last one). It has become a fervent desire of mine lately to write a poem that I don't hate two months later. Wish me luck.

The outfit I wore to the "Celebrating Our Own" reading:

Tunic- thrifted, Elephant necklace- Walmart, Skinny belt- Target, Leggings- Target, Boots- Amazon

Another teaching outfit:

Collared shirt- thrifted, Skinny jeans- Target, Blue flats- thrifted

Fall weather, good food

2011-09-15T12:26:00.000-07:00

I have so many student papers to comment on. But! I thought I'd procrastinate some more and write an entry. I've been pretty damn pleased with what I've been making to eat lately so I thought I'd share. I've been playing around with food a bit over the past couple of weeks (there is no rhyme or reason to it--I'm probably breaking every culinary rule) but it's been fun and everything I make somehow turns out tasting good. To name a few, I made some red pepper bruschetta, various kinds of stir fries, stuffed pepper, and all kinds of omelets. Below is what I've been putting into my belly lately. :D

Stir-fry with red peppers, onion, tomato & basil MorningStar burger (chopped up), basil, crushed red pepper

Mushroom & herb couscous, tofu, egg, onion, basil, cilantro

Hash browns, locally bought eggs with Daiya vegan cheese on toast, avocado (sliced)

Stuffed green pepper with garlic & herb couscous, tofu, basil

I can't take credit for this--Dennis made it-- and it was amazing! Poached pears simmered in black tea, melted dark chocolate, mint leaves and vanilla ice cream

Also, this is unrelated to food, but here's another outfit inspired by the chilly weather.

Circle scarf- gift, Half jacket- thrifted, Long-sleeve shirt- Target, Blue skinny jeans- thrifted, Oxfords- thrifted

Weekend

2011-09-11T10:09:00.000-07:00

It's been a strange weekend. I've more or less been a hermit the past few days. I've been doing nothing but drinking, making lesson plans/assignments, writing, and watching Battlestar Galactica (Seriously, if you've never watched this show, START. It's one of the most intuitive shows I've ever seen. It says so much about human nature and religion.)

I haven't had time to go shopping, therefore, I've been wearing a lot of the same stuff (it's difficult to be inventive with clothing with slim pickings).

But anyway, an outfit I wore the other day and my new hurr color (it's basically jet black--I feel like I'm in high school again).-->

Floral shirt- Meijer, Black leggings- Target, Knee-high socks- Target?, Boots- Amazon

The air has changed with my mood

2011-09-06T11:29:00.000-07:00

The air is cooler today and I'm getting a handle on a lot of things that I've been grappling with lately (new school/town/job, difficulties with writing/self-identity/self-worth/relationships, and on and on). I tend to speak a lot in terms of clarity and confusion. I have to follow this by saying that there is never a time in my life when I am capable of experiencing ultimate lucidity. I'm afraid that I overthink too much without doing very much analysis (this makes me wonder what it is I think about in the first place if I seem to get so little out of it). It helps me tremendously to write things down--I realize things I wouldn't have known without putting it on paper--but yet, I am still never certain about anything it seems.

How did this post become so self-deprecating? Despite everything I said, I'm actually writing this post because for the first time in months, I am genuinely happy. I discovered a lot about myself over the weekend and over the preceding couple of weeks. I feel fulfilled in many ways, prepared. I understand this post is very vague but I guess I just wanted to write this all down. I'm looking forward to the months that follow.

Also, my writing rut has ended! I wrote a poem over the weekend, and, although I don't feel ready to share the entire thing yet, I'll share the first two stanzas (something I've never done before).

UNTITLED

There is no reason for this, only
a starved dog's logic about bones

-MargaretAtwood

Iworry that everything will fall out of me at once like

many small knives. Theother woman inside of me

protests through steely throat and tongue—all red

hairand sour nerves. I can’t shake this feeling of

being filled up, filled up, filled up (there must be rooms in

my chest Ihaven’t discovered yet).

Lastweek, a hard, black kernel settled itself beneath

my ribcage. No matter howmany times I cough, it

doesn’t go away. It grows heavier each morning—I

think it’s been fattening itself up onpieces of my

diaphragm. I keep telling it to leave but it doesn’t

speakmy language.

Chapbook's done!

2011-08-09T22:49:00.001-07:00

The chapbook is done! I'll be selling them for $2 a piece until this Sunday when I move to Bowling Green (although I'll leave some with my sisters in case anyone would like to have one after I move).

Front and back covers (designed by my sister Courtney):

It's been a long, long time

2011-08-02T18:46:00.000-07:00

One.) Two weeks until Dennis returns from Germany. It'll be really nice to see him again.

Two.) I have one more poem that I'm in the middle of writing/revising until my chapbook is finished. SO CLOSE. I have the beginning and the end of the poem. I just need the middle. This type of thing seems to happen a lot when I write. Always missing the middle.

Three.) My mum took me shopping yesterday for things I need for my new apartment since I'm poor. And while we were at Target, she bought me a dress! So here it is (as well as my new hair color). My sister Courtney called this my "teacher dress."

The feeling of turning into someone else

2011-07-28T17:14:00.000-07:00

I finished reading No Impact Man today and got restless after all that sitting around. Sooo I played around with some new/old pieces of clothing.

I've been recently trying to play with layering (although I haven't been able to too much due to the heat). It's funny the things you can do with fashion that you've never even thought of doing before until you see it on someone else (like wearing a skirt under a dress that sort of acts as a petticoat).

Hat- Target, Pleated dress- yesstyle.com, Floral skirt- thrifted, Necklace- Wal Mart, Oxfords- thrifted

I've also been trying to find more professional clothing, for two reasons: 1. To look less like a fifteen-year-old, 2. To look more like a professor (when I start teaching in a month)

Blazer- JCPenney, 3/4 sleeve shirt- thrifted, Skinny jeans- Macy's, Heels- Deb

I've also been all about really simple outfits. I tend to like them better than over-complicated outfits with a billion accessories.

Striped shirt- yesstyle.com, Capris- Target?, Necklace- Wal Mart, Brown flats- thrifted

I am also really happy that I found these shorts. They're suuuuuper comfy and good for summer or lounging around.

Shirt- Wal Mart (men's cropped), Necklace- H&M, Shorts- JCPenney, Black flats- thrifted

Side note: I'm almost finished with my summer chapbook! I need to buckle down and sit with it for a few hours tomorrow to make all of the final revisions. Then, I just have to collaborate with my sister in designing it and get them printed. I'm excited/I hope everyone likes it!

Side side note: Just ordered these (in the cafe creme color). http://us.asos.com/ASOS-ASOS-Tailored-Low-Slung-Mans-Peg-Leg-Pant/uo94s/?iid=1249704&MID=35718&affid=2134&siteID=0RpXOIXA500-1Br45Pw_DtfP8.bHZLxI3g&r=1&mk=VOID&mporgp=L2NvdW50cnlpZC8xL0FTT1MvQVNPUy1UYWlsb3JlZC1Mb3ctU2x1bmctTWFucy1QZWctTGVnLVRyb3VzZXIvUHJvZC8. Super pumped.

Yes yes yes

2011-07-24T18:43:00.000-07:00

One of the best conversations I've had all year. Unconditionally and unabashedly happy right now. :))))

On a side note, my hair has turned into an interesting color during its fading process.

More heat than light

2011-07-22T14:48:00.000-07:00

I've been updating a lot lately. I can't bring myself to do much of anything in this 100 degree weather. It's also been extremely difficult to keep up with my appearance when I'm swimming in my own sweat all the time. But, I did manage to look semi-decent today with a new dress. Hope you're all finding ways to stay cool.

Pleated dress- yesstyle.com, Oxford shoes- thrifted

Shedding

2011-07-22T11:45:00.000-07:00

It's interesting the things you discover about yourself after you force yourself to shed away a few layers. All that build-up has been holding me down. I feel like I finally have some clarity. Does it feel good? No. But it doesn't feel bad either.

Change is coming. I hope I'm ready.

Jenny Holzer

July 18, 2011

2011-07-18T09:35:00.000-07:00

Everything is coming to me all at once.

Not to say that there is any clarity in it but rather, I am aware of it and feel it all inside me like too much air.

Ultimately, I'm left with one question. Do I choose the option that is complex, beautiful, ugly and transient? Or do I choose the option with burgeoning possibilities, skepticism, new enthusiasm and potential permanence?

I fear I want too much all the time. Letting go is hard.

Like A Fever

2011-07-11T11:52:00.000-07:00

So! I am currently working on a summer chapbook to distribute among friends. I was pretty wary about it at first (I haven't been very confident about my writing lately) but now that I'm putting everything together and making revisions, I'm pretty pleased with it. I'll be selling them near the beginning of August if anyone is interested. :)

Also, a couple new outfits.

Blazer- Sears, Shirt- Wal-Mart (men's cropped), Locket necklace- H&M, Faux leather panel leggings- Yesstyle.com, Oxfords- thrifted

Shirt- my sister's (not sure where she got it), Nylon skirt- Dillard's, Sandals- Target

"The most beautiful bodies are like transparent glass"

2011-06-30T19:34:00.000-07:00

After a small resurgence of creativity over the past week, I finally wrote a few poems. They're in need of revision, so for this reason, I won't post them yet. But, they exist nonetheless. Feeling optimistic.

Also, Sandra Dieckmann's illustrations are great.

http://www.sandradieckmann.com/

Happy Padre Day!

2011-06-19T12:36:00.000-07:00

Happy Father's Day everyone! I'm off to visit my dad shortly. Just a quick update.

I watched Blue Valentine for the first time last night. When I finished watching it, I was speechless, I was so awe struck. A movie hasn't impacted me in such an immense way in a long time. I think I'm just beginning to gather the words for why I liked it so much, so once I have something clear and cogent put together, I'll post my thoughts of the film.

Also, thought I'd share another outfit.

Scarf (used as head wrap)- Target, Shawl- City Buddha, Fish necklace- Wal-Mart, Grey cotton dress- thrifted, Sandals- Target

My new-found love for fashion

2011-06-18T17:06:00.000-07:00

Due to boredom and just now figuring out how to use the self-timer device on my camera, I decided to take some photos of a few of my favorite outfits/items of clothing. I thought about creating a fashion blog but figured I'd just combine my fashion and writing into one. So here they are!

I have an obsession with scarves

Shoes!

Bling

New shoes! From yesstyle.com

Sunglasses- Five Below, Olive green circle scarf- American Apparel, Long sweater- I don't remember!, Maroon pants,-thrifted, Boots- Amazon, Purse- Target

Mixed stitch pullover sweater- Urban Outfitters, Elephant necklace- Wal-Mart, Spandex skirt- thrifted, Sweater tights- gift, Knee highs- Wal-Mart, Boots- Amazon

Babydoll- Kohl's? (who says I can't wear lingerie out in public? :D), Nylon skirt- Dillard's, Pointy toed flats- Target?... Excuse my dirty laundry

Shirt- thrifted, Locket necklace- H&M, Skirt-H&M, Skinny belt- Target?, Oxford heels- thrifted

Shirt- Wal-Mart (men's, cropped), Tangle necklace- Wal-Mart, Harem pants- yesstyle.com, Flats- thrifted

V-neck shirt- Target, Nylon skirt- Dillard's (I've been using this skirt a lotttt), Oxford shoes- thrifted

Shirt- Wal-Mart (men's, cropped), Fish necklace- Wal-Mart, Nylon skirt- Dillard's, Heels- Deb

Tank top- Target?, Cardigan- Target, Fake pearl necklace- Wal-Mart, Skirt- I don't remember, Ankle moccasins- Roots

Hopefully more to come!

Edward Sharpe / new poem

2011-06-03T18:45:00.000-07:00

Last night, me, my sisters and a couple friends drove to Buffalo to see Edward Sharpe & The Magnetic Zeros. It was a free show! Which I still don't believe. It was wonderful. The weather was a bit chilly but other than that, I had no complaints. Alexander, Jade and the rest of the band were very nice/welcoming/close to each other and the crowd. Their set neared almost two hours long but it flew by. They all seemed so intimate on stage together. It was more of a collaboration or a poetry reading or a group of friends playing music for the hell of it rather than a show. I think I enjoyed it so much because it was evident that they genuinely had a love for the music they played and enjoyed doing it. Before playing each song, Alexander would announce which band member wrote the song so the crowd would know whose work we were about to hear. They were all extremely talented and it was a wonderful thing to experience their music live--definitely one of my favorite shows.

Besides the show, I've been trying desperately to write new poems/stories and read more from my stack of books. It's so difficult to get motivated in the summer. Everything is so lax, no deadlines, no stress. It messes up my normal writing flow. But me, my sister Courtney and my friend Josh have concocted a plan in which we are going to show new material to each other every Friday to kick-start our productivity for the summer. Today (finally!) I finished a poem. It's brand new, so undoubtedly very raw, very rough right now, but I thought I'd share it anyway. Any comments/critiques would be very helpful. It's nice to have a new set of eyes on my writing. So here it is.

FOR THOSE UNSURE OF WHAT THEY WANT

She walked through the door without knocking.
She started doing it a few days ago after he told her
he didn’t like surprises. In one hand was a McDonald’s bag
crumpled between her fingers and in the other, a half eaten parfait.

“Hey, how are ya?” she asked, sitting down and throwing
the bag on the coffee table. He knew she would leave it there
until he threw it away.

She was nuts.
He knew this but kept allowing her to come over.

“I’m fine.” Her hair looked different.
Lighter. As if she’d been spending a lot of time outside.
“You?”

She shrugged in response. Leaning against the arm
of the couch, she ate the remains of the parfait.
After she had sufficiently scraped the bottom
of the plastic cup, she slowly extended her arm out in front of her
and dropped the spoon to the carpet in an exaggerated fashion.
She would leave that there too.
There was something else in her movements though,
something he couldn’t quite determine. Like desperation, but not.

She turned to him and smiled.
He hated when she smiled. The way one of her front molars
turns slightly inward as if to hide behind the other.
Her lips thick, pink, pleading attention. The way the skin
under her eyes lift themselves up to be closer to her eyelashes.
He thought, Maybe that’s why I keep her around,
but discarded the thought because it was ridiculous.

They sat in silence for quite a while
like they do on occasion. She stared at her toes
spread and close and spread and close against the edge
of the table. He was attempting to read the next paragraph
from Chapter 3 of the General Physics book he had to read for class
but kept looking at her toes.

“Hey, can you stop that?”
“Stop what?” she said without taking her eyes from her feet.
He sighed and shut his book. “So what do you want to do?”
She turned to him, flipped her hair across her shoulder.
“How about a movie?”
“Okay.”

He got up and rummaged through the plastic storage bin
containing the few movies he owned, most uninspired,
most there for entertainment but those are the ones he liked.
“How about Pirates of the Caribbean?”
“Which one?”
“The first one.”
“Okay.”
He slid the disc into his Xbox and sat back down on the couch.
She scooted across the cushions until she was next to him
and laid her head on his shoulder.
He thought, You feel warm, but didn’t say it out loud.

“I think you’d be a good husband.” She said while Jack Sparrow
and Will Turner were sparring.
“Don’t say that.”
“Why not?”
“Come on, I’ve only known you two weeks.”
“I’m not saying you’d be my husband. Just someone’s husband.
And you’d be good at it.”
“Why do you think I’d be a good husband?”
“You have strong arms.” She reached over and pinched the skin

above his wrist. “And you don’t get angry.”
“I get plenty angry sometimes. You’ve just never seen it.”
“Don’t lie. You’re incapable of getting mad.”
“Just watch the movie, alright?”

By the time the end credits rolled, she had fallen asleep
on his lap. He looked down at the profile of her face—
her mouth slightly open, a few strands of blonde hair

falling against her forehead, her skin pale

underneath the fluttering black and white light

from the TV screen.
He leaned his head back to sleep, thinking about
how fragile she looked.

He woke to the sound of his neighbor’s drum set.
His head felt heavy, awkward. She had already left.
He leaned forward, rubbed his eyes, adjusted his eyesight.
The empty bag and plastic cup were gone.

Dust settled on the couch like barnacles.

The drumming stopped.

New poem

2011-04-30T13:30:00.001-07:00

Still needs a lot of work but let me know what you think please.

REPTILE

You told me

I had amphibian eyes—

something yellow,

inhuman,

striking in their clarity

And what I hadn't realized

then

was that I had been

growing scales for years,

the complexity of the pattern

too small for the human eye

I had to teach myself, again,

how to see

Your eyes looked cool—

calm and intense

like the ocean;

the salt in them

washed over us

in rhythmic, shrugging waves

It was then that I smelled

the erosion of skin

and realized

it was my own

So much of it

was lifted away

I thought the water

would reach its

malleable fingers

into the muscle

then the bone

and soon,

there would be

nothing left of me

The structure of you

stayed the same

(how could it have changed

when you've lived in water

your whole life?)

I told you

your shoulders felt like pearls

even though I've never felt

a pearl before

You said,

that's alright, honey,

I've never been so close

to something with

so much cold

in their blood

Beginning of the end

2011-04-24T21:55:00.000-07:00

Two more weeks of my undergraduate career! I'm very excited/stressed/relieved, and looking forward to summer. I also wrote a couple half-poems at work today (the first time I've written any poetry since January!). Both are going to be part of a chapbook that I hope to have finished by the end of the summer (as well as another chapbook). So I'm hoping to have two full chapbooks done by mid-August to distribute among friends. It feels good to be writing poetry again. I've been so bogged down from this semester; I feel so much lighter when I write.

I also signed the lease yesterday to my new apartment in Bowling Green! I am very excited/terrified to be out on my own for the first time (not to mention 2.5 hours away from everyone). But I have the whole summer to enjoy everyone's company before I'm thrust into isolation/grad school. I took a few photos of the place with my mom's phone camera. I couldn't fit the entirety of the rooms in the frame of the tiny lens so they're actually bigger than they look. But either way, I posted the photos below. Already starting to think about how to decorate. :D I'm excited because it seems ridiculously cheap for how much is included/how close it is to campus. Not to mention, I won't even need to have a job next year because of the teaching assistantship stipend, which I am very happy about. It will give me more time to concentrate on writing, teaching, reading, etc.

Umm more exciting plans for the summer--getting a tattoo (possibly multiple), going on a mini road trip on an undetermined route if I have the money for it, growing vegetables, and lots of reading/writing.

(I just noticed how many parentheses, hyphens, and slashes I use in my blog posts. Not really sure why I do that.) Anyway, I hope to see many of you (whoever actually reads this thing) as well as all of my other friends before I move away in August. Hope all is well with everyone!

The Young Man with Wrinkled Hands

2011-04-05T17:07:00.000-07:00

A short story I recently turned in for my fiction class. Still revising, but let me know what you think (don't mind the formatting errors from copying and pasting).

The Young Man with Wrinkled Hands

His feet fell heavy and lethargic like a pair of cigarette butts smothering themselves on the pavement. They led him as autonomous beings, familiar with each crack in the sidewalk like a lover’s hand, knew when to turn, when to stop, when—occasionally—to hesitate, and when to continue forward. They knew the smells of the afternoon street vendors—steam from the bratwurst, spicy mustard seed, sweat from the stained t-shirt of the Indian merchant on 47^th. They knew the scent of passing feet—the sterile, tactile leather from the businessmen’s Rockport dress shoes; the cheap perfume soaked into high heels from party girls, dancers and whores; the earthy, musty odor from the poor’s dirty, torn tennishoes. They even knew the smells of the weather—the way the sun tastes like copper on their tongues; the bitter tug of the wind; the earthy, lingering nostalgia of rain. Everything in its place.

When he looked up, the clouds seemed to sag toward the earth, as if to say, I want to taste soil. The buildings responded by stretching skyward, saying, I want to taste air devoid of gravity. His feet, the man, and his thoughts stopped at the building with the sign reading TIME SHOPPE and walked in.

…

In his bedroom that morning, he had awoken from a dream that his face and hands turned into those of a clock. They transformed from flesh, bone, blood, ligaments to plastic, glass, metal, cogs. He felt the ticking in his ears. He believed it to be real.

The characters 1, 1, 4, 9 jeered at him through red teeth on the table side. He thought, She would never mock me like they do, and got out of bed. On his kitchen table sat an opened package of generic cookies, a bowl of stale fruit, three rent statements, and an eviction warning. He ate a cookie, looked at the neat, typed letter from his landlord and thought, She would let me stay at her place. This was when he slipped into his shoes and headed out the door.

…

“Hello, Mr. Martin,” the shopkeeper said.

“Hello,” he said.

The shopkeeper—Gordon Kingsley, a man in his late forties—was one accustomed to a lot of manners, often wore sweaters slightly too large for his frame with a pair of thin-rimmed glasses sitting on his nose, a rigid posture, slender hands, and a voice that could calm a tornado.

Gordon looked at him with sad eyes, drooping much like the clouds, and struggled with what to say.

“Listen, Mr. Mart—”

“Please. Richard.”

“Sorry…Richard, um, I know we’ve had this talk before. You’ve been coming in here every Monday.” He paused, letting the sentence hang in the air, keeping his eyes on Richard’s. “Just think of the time you waste walking here.”

Richard stood with his hands in his pockets, fingering a loose piece of string along the stitching.

“Mr. Kingsley, right now I know no other way of living. Are you asking me to abandon the only thing that is keeping me alive?”

“Richard, you haven’t been alive for months. Look at yourself. The bags under your eyes have worsened, your hair is falling out, you’re losing the color in your skin, you’ve been wearing the same two outfits for weeks. For God’s sake, your hands are even starting to wrinkle.”

Richard sighed and dug his hands deeper into his pockets. In what he said next, he spoke with slow deliberation, as if laying every word out to be examined on the check-out counter.

“I know you are concerned, Mr. Kingsley, but you have nothing to worry about. I’m fine. I’ll find what I’m looking for.” His eyes seemed to lose some of their tiredness, his cheeks flushed blithely to an almost unnoticeable amount. “Besides, time heals everything, right?” And with this last remark, he curled his lips slightly into a smile.

Mr. Kingsley fidgeted with his watch and the lines in his forehead deepened until finally, he said,

“Alright. The usual, Richard?”

“Yes. The usual.”

“A seven-day time reversal and a seven-day time extender/concealment package—separate bags?”

“Yes. Don’t want the two rubbing elbows. Who knows what they’d do to each other in there, eh Mr. Kingsley?” He laughed and it sounded like gravel.

The shopkeeper bagged the items, swiped Richard’s credit card and said, “Goodbye, Mr. Martin. Have a good one.”

When he returned to his apartment, Richard indulged himself with a glass of scotch and sat down on the small sofa in his living room. He opened the first bag, inhaled, brought the tiny orange pill to his mouth, dropped it on his tongue, and swallowed.

…

“You look like the gears of a machine,” she said. “You even talk like one.”

“I’ve been going through some changes.”

She seemed strangely still. She sat on the stool placed in front of an empty canvas of a painting he’d been meaning to start. She was wearing her favorite dress, the pale yellow one with the flower print. Richard wondered if she wore the dress for the occasion of the end of their relationship. He wondered if women thought about those kinds of things. Her thin, black hair was tied up in a loose ponytail at the back of her head. Her bangs hung lazily over her eyebrows. She hadn’t shaved her legs in a few days and tiny, rigid hairs began to appear like small black houses on her calves. Her right hand was curled up in front of her lips with her elbow resting on her knee, blocking the escape of any words struggling to break free. And when she finally moved her hand down to her lap, her lips looked smooth and pink and wet. Freckles from the renewal of the sun emerged on the tops of her cheeks. Her eyes looked torpid and serpentine like flames. He knew she was going to speak soon—precisely in twenty seconds—he knew this because he lived this scene many times. He knew every inch of her and every inch of this conversation. And this time, he was sure of it, things would be different. He was almighty and through his ancient hands, he would bring deliverance.

“Richard, you and I are in completely different worlds right now.”

“But Lily, I’ve changed. Don’t you see? I could live forever inside your eyes.”

“But what about me? Where will I live?”

“You can live in my ribcage, right underneath my heart. I’ve made room for you.”

She sighed. “But I have no room in mine. Don’t you see how old you’ve become? We have nothing in common.”

Richard stood a few feet away from her, leaning against the doorway to his kitchen. His hands ached in his pockets. They wanted only to touch her face.

“I’m sorry, Richard. It’s over.” And with this, she stood up, gave him one last sorrowful glance and walked past him. Her scent stung in his nostrils. His muscles threatened to burst from his skin for want of reaching out to her. She walked out the door.

He stood in that spot for a while, the familiar pang of loss moving through him in slow, painful waves. He felt like crying but knew he didn’t have the energy. Finally, he moved to the stool and sat down. No matter how many times he’d lived this scene over, the restless feeling in his stomach never settled. Life outside of his apartment felt distant like a dream.

He grasped the second brown bag from his pocket and retrieved the two remaining pills—one blue and quite large, the other yellow and rather small. They sat in his palm like stones. He closed his eyes, relinquished the air from his lungs, brought them to his mouth, and tilted his head back.

…

When he opened his eyes, the air was thick. It covered everything in a viscous layer of seconds. His bones felt heavy. The dust danced in front of the window as if through water, slow and deadly like asteroids. He knew where he had to go.

He stepped out onto the stoop and the sun pushed its tired hands on his shoulders. He looked down at the absence of his shadow and pushed his feet against the ground. Like last week and the week before, everything appeared in slow motion. Legs moved up, out, down, up, out, down—coquettish and unabashed in their leisurely cycles. The tires of cars met the pavement like wet skin. Everything was washed in syrup. He, a ghost in the city, walked along the streets with purpose. Twenty minutes (twenty seconds to everyone else), he arrived at the apartment with the black 137 above the door. He walked in soundlessly.

She was there where she always was, lying on the couch. He walked over and knelt beside her. Her right arm was draped over the top of her head, her knee propped up at an angle, the folds in her dress light against her form. She looked more tired than he had remembered. The skin under her eyes looked wilted; her freckles seemed to fall underneath her skin. But it didn’t matter. In a dying world, she was the only thing left alive.

This went on, as it always had, for seven days. He followed her unobserved from the couch to the bathroom where her dress fell from her shoulders before stepping into the shower; the laundromat where the clothing danced in the washers; the coffee shop two blocks away where she always ordered a large vanilla latte; the local diner where she met with friends for tomato and mozzarella sandwiches and conversation; and her bedroom that smelled like lavender where she disappeared under her sheets at night. Lily’s routine hadn’t changed and his was constantly reinventing itself. But no matter what he did, it always ended the same. Time would catch up with itself, the eighth morning would come and Richard would once again be visible to the world. And invisible to Lily.

“Hello, Richard.”

“Morning, Gordon.” He smiled, despite the energy it took to do it. “Same as last week.”

Some of Mr. Kingsley’s composure was gone today. He looked sullen, skeletal. His arms were folded across his chest like a lock.

“Richard, how long do you wish to keep this going?”

“As long as it takes.”

“And how many variations of time alterations do you intend to try?”

“As many as it takes.”

Mr. Kingsley sighed. He made a low grunting noise in his throat.

“You began by buying more time to distract yourself. Then, when your tenuous career as a painter fell through, you reversed back two months to try to salvage the relationship. And after a few months when that didn’t work, you tried reversing back a month then a week then a day. Eventually, you became so desperate, you thought you could save it on the day she left you. But I don’t think you believed that for a second. Why else would you torture yourself following her around for a week? You’re still miserable, you’re deteriorating, and you’ve lost the truth of the whole situation.”

“And what, Mr. Kingsley, is the truth?”

“Lily no longer loves you.” And he responded so quickly and bluntly, Richard’s ribs rattled from the vibrations in his voice. The two men stood, separated by the counter, and looked into each other’s faces, neither unsure of what to say next.

Then, what felt like the first time in years, Richard took his hands out of his pockets. He leapt over the counter, thrust open the large cabinet that held the pills, grabbed the ones he needed and catapulted himself back over the counter. He ran out of the door, away from Mr. Kingsley, his dying manners, and his fading shouts. He ran all the way back to his apartment, his feet expelling muffled protests. He burst in through the door as if there was no other way of entering and marched into his living room, clutching the pills tightly in his hand. He didn’t notice the tears against his face. Without thinking or breathing, he swallowed them all.

…

The first thing he heard was silence. The kind of silence that hurts. It seemed to last forever. And suddenly, the air clicked and stuttered around him in segmented rhythms. The limbs of molecules were tearing themselves apart around him. The furniture in his apartment took on new forms. The couch turned into his favorite toy boat as a child; the coffee table into his mother’s laughter; the television into his father’s crooked teeth; the stool into the breasts of the first girl he made love to; the empty canvas into the colors of his longing. He was trapped in a luminous, horrible phantasmagoria—everything was destroying itself. Thousands of little deaths. He shut his eyes.

Whether they were shut for an hour, a month, a century, he didn’t know. Nor did he know how he gathered the strength to finally lift his eyelids—they felt as if they weighed an immeasurable amount, too large to describe. And the first thing he saw was white. So much white that for a moment, he forgot what color looked like. Then flowers. Then skin.

“Lily.” He said it so quietly, he wasn’t sure if he’d spoken at all.

“Richard,” she said and walked on the white toward him.

“I thought I lost you,” he said. The words fell clumsily from his lips. She smiled.

“You just weren’t looking in the right places.”

“I’m worried that the world is dead,” he said.

She placed his left hand over her heart and his right hand over his own heart, and the two little organs pounded with the tenacity of novae.

“How can the world be dead when we’re still alive?”

He placed his hand in the flowers on her hipbone and looked into her eyes. He would examine her face but he already had it memorized.

“Lily, how much do you love me?”

She stood before him thinking for a moment, letting her eyes rest on the curve of his jaw. It looked as if she already knew the answer. Eventually, her eyes returned to his.

“When we’re together, I feel like there are one-hundred of you. And all one-hundred of you are inside of me at once and I feel like I could burst at any moment.”

Richard looked at her and knew she was telling the truth. He held her close like a pearl and ran his fingers through her hair.

“You look like Aphrodite in this light,” he said. She smiled and ran her fingers down his arm like a song until her fingers reached his.

“Your hands are soft,” she said.

He looked down and realized she was right. His fingers felt like skin and silk, no longer like metal. He couldn’t remember what metal felt like; it had never existed to begin with. The wrinkles had smoothed themselves away. His body felt lucid, unperturbed, weightless. And everything stood still. The blood in his veins stopped flowing, his heart stopped pumping, the hair on his arms fell gently on his skin like infinitesimal feathers, the clouds whispered one last inaudible prayer in his ear before slipping away into some place filled with nothing. And the only thing left moving were the flames in her eyes. He rested his hand in the spot where her neck met her collar bone and sighed breathlessly. And everything was at such a terrible ease.

Diagnosis by Eric Weinstein

2011-03-06T18:14:00.000-08:00

I have an unhealthy attraction

to hospitals.

I come in and unbutton my shirt,

insist that something is wrong with me,

beat on the triage nurse's desk,

on the glass door to the trauma unit.

Four hours later I am informed

there are pieces missing,

whole organs, removed like batteries,

and yet my blood still moves.

The doctors wash in and out.

Lub-dub. Lub-dub.

E pur. E pur.

(And yet. And yet.)

Four days later, at my kitchen table

the phone rings.

Good news, they say. You're missing

just four chambers of your heart,

four base pairs in your DNA

(adenine, thymine, cytosine, guanine),

at most four fingers from each hand.

--Oh yes, the facts are in

and you can live without your heart.

(We have machines for that.)

Beginnings

2011-02-14T05:58:00.001-08:00

From a toothy graveyard,

words emerge like ghosts

And we seem so far away

from the earth's orbit

We are, all of us,

still children

Can't stop listening

2011-02-10T01:21:00.000-08:00

to UNKLE.

Also, I haven't written a poem that I was satisfied with in a while. Any prompt ideas anyone would like to throw at me?

School of Seven Bells

2011-01-22T11:07:00.000-08:00

Amazing, amazing show. They seemed so in tune with and a part of their music. It was quite beautiful.

1-18-11

2011-01-18T05:05:00.000-08:00

I'm a terrible person for making him feel this way... I wish I could learn to calm my restless bones. Or at the very least, make things right (whatever that means).

Tunes

2011-01-15T17:35:00.000-08:00

Been really into Gregor Samsa and Phantogram lately.

Imago by Franz Wright

2011-01-12T21:36:00.000-08:00

Although I don't fully understand this poem yet, I still understand it. It impacted me in a way I haven't felt in a while.

From my cell I was staring at a cloud, a dog decaying in the woods, etc., as I took up the long-awaited sequel to my Confessions. By this time my hand was so far away that it looked like a small hairless spider whose progress I could hardly help but follow, from the corner of one eye, as it went on filling page after page in a notebook the size of a stamp with words too small for anyone to read. I looked up and noticed my bars had turned to gold. And before I forget, I’d like to be the first to congratulate everyone who has not committed suicide up until now. Camouflaged and lightless congregation, the world will never know your names, never know of its debt to you, or what you suffered; with what uncomplaining anguish you sacrificed the one thing all hold most dear, most have in common, the sense of being completely different from anybody else—it just vanished at some point, having attained its sexually mature and winged stage. You had a great vision about it, but told no one. We have misnamed death life and life death. You saw another world, and it was precisely the same as this one. This time you told everyone, until someone asked you very nicely to quiet down. And the weather—everything you have heard on that subject is a serious understatement. The scarlet horrors were preparing to file in for my ignominious obsequies, already they swarmed freely over my body. Then, there was no weather. I can’t tell you how perfect that was. As it happens I had been gazing up at the dusk stars, as I can be found doing more or less day and night, for I like to think they are growing younger as I die, come by some time and tell me what you think. Under torture—some atrocious form of tickling, for example—I guess I’d describe myself as a fairly good egg in hot water. Family motto roughly translates, April wizards bring May blizzards. We tend to be apprehended eventually, after a futile but all the more spirited attempt at first degree self-impersonation; however, this is not the time for levity, we happen to be speaking of a serious medical goodnight kiss. Traditionally, we are then detained at a local mental facility known for its celebrated alumni, though in recent decades secret and permanent socialist elements in the government have seen to it that the lowest scum of humanity now appear to have open access to those once hallowed halls smeared with our shit and vomit. What I’m getting at is this: after a relatively brief stay, we are invariably released with some deranged doctor’s or other’s blessing, a mixture of relief and disgust on the part of the staff, and the secret eye-signal that will get you into any movie house in Milwaukee free for the next year. Some of us like to get together once a day, rain or shine, and gather furtively at the picnic grounds under those tall wavering candleflame pines, where neither moth nor rust can reach, nor faintest scream, and exchange ribald tales verging on satanic perversion, each drawing his iridescent injection from the same oceanic martini, very dry, about two tears’ worth of vermouth, in an unremembered dream.

1-13-11

2011-01-12T21:31:00.000-08:00

Your voice like smoke--

Come here

so I can smell your hair

and press my limbs

against yours

Here

2011-01-11T05:11:00.000-08:00

In the afternoon,

the pillow sits

against the arm of the couch

like a deflated thing,

a reminder to any visitors--

there is suffering here

Dream - January 7, 2011

2011-01-07T14:40:00.000-08:00

This is kind of long, but very bizarre and I'd say, worth the read:

Me, my sisters, Shaun, Alex and Nate move into a big house together. There’s a large pool in the backyard. Me, Shaun, Court, Nate and Penny are sitting up on what looks like a very, very tall lifeguard station. I try to get down but get tangled. Shaun helps me loose and we both jump with Penny into the water. We move through the air as if in slow motion and slide easily into the water. There’s hardly any resistance. The water was clear before but as we swim around more, we realize how dirty it is. We all emerge from the water, including Alex who seems to have appeared out of nowhere. We walk back to the house. I pause for a moment in the small woods on the way back as if unable to move and Alex has to lead me back.

Later, we’re out by the pool again trying to decide if one of the driveways in the back is ours or the neighbors’. One of the neighbors from the yellow house emerges and starts talking to us. He looks like a zombie—his skin is blue and pale and peeling, his eyes are bloodshot, his teeth are yellow, his clothes are ratty. Then two more of them walk out looking the same. They talk normally though, making small talk with us, but they seem a little off. I whisper to Hilary that I think our neighbors are zombies or aliens. Then they invite us to go for a ride in their car. It’s a mint green color and looks vintage. Hilary somehow disappears (I think she went back into the house) and everyone else but me gets into the car. I run after the car, worried that they’re taking Shaun captive. I keep up with it at first but it slowly drives faster. A police car is chasing after me but then it turns suddenly and stops the pursuit. By this time, I’ve lost the car and it’s turned into night. Suddenly, there are scattered bright lights as if coming from no direction. People and pine trees covered in gold and silver tinsel begin appearing in the field I’m in. I’m worried because I don’t see Shaun. A few minutes later, I get a text from him that says “Where are you?”

Suddenly, the scene shifts to someone’s house. There are a lot of people—it looks like a party. There are couches and drinks and people decorating a Christmas tree. A guy who looks a lot like my friend Teddy is helping decorate. I know a lot of people there, including Grace B and Jessica K from high school. I suddenly become worried because I can’t find Amanda, although she hasn’t appeared in the dream before. I’m worried that she was abducted too.

I don’t really know how to describe it but there are periodical shifts in the party where the wind picks up (even though we’re inside) and new people appear or disappear and everyone is in a temporary state of euphoria. The strange thing is though, everything that appears is in their current living state, except for one—Jessica K’s dog who had recently died (in the dream) but now returned in puppy form. Grace and I surround the puppy and pet him in our euphoric state. But once the shift ends, I become worried again, wondering where Shaun and Amanda are. Then Amanda suddenly walks into the room and Grace points her out. I run up and give her a hug. She says hello like nothing happened. Then I remember the text Shaun sent me and open my phone. I start to type, “I’m near the Christmas tree,” but when I look up, I realize the room has expanded and there are two Christmas trees now. I become discouraged, but then I see him across the room and run up and hug him, relieved.

There’s a time lapse and a lot of the people have filtered out. There’s a guy sitting on one couch and a couple sitting on the couch across from them. We are all trying to figure out how we got here. Then I remember that I was dreaming about the guy on the couch, telling him that we couldn’t be together because I didn’t like him that much, it was just my mom who wanted us together (although this doesn’t seem to fit with the earlier part of the dream). The guy remembers (I think his name is Jeff or Jerry and he looks a lot like Paul Rudd). He says “Well, if this is all just a dream or another dimension, then I’m just a guy and you’re just a girl, so it doesn’t matter if we don’t like each other.” By this time, the couple on the other couch start unbuttoning their shirts and kissing each other. The guy looks at me salaciously and I’m tempted to start taking my clothes off too, but I decide against it.

I don’t quite remember how the dream ends. I think I see Shaun again and leave the house with him. The neighbors are nowhere to be seen.

In a dream the previous night, I dreamt that me, my sisters and a large group of other people were attacked by tigers in the backyard of my grandma’s house. But later in the dream, the tigers transform into people, barbaric and confused.

I should really start having my dreams analyzed.

Winter break

2010-12-21T18:32:00.000-08:00

With violence brings life.

My life's been pretty interesting lately. Lots of drinking, long nights and feelings of restlessness. But the strange type of happiness I've been feeling overrules the restlessness. I haven't had much of an appetite either-- my stomach's been dancing a lot.

Glad for the semester to be over though! Now on to applying to grad schools (which is quite a feat in itself), then home for Christmas, Cleveland trips, yoga, reading and more drinking. I'm looking forward to the rest of this break. Hope all is well with everyone. :)

Today

2010-12-02T07:09:00.001-08:00

Things are looking up.

Last night

2010-11-30T01:04:00.001-08:00

You know, you can be so confident in a decision, that it's the right thing to do. For some reason, you think it will be easy. But when it comes down to it and you actually take the leap, you always feel so. Unsure.

Lately

2010-11-27T10:41:00.000-08:00

Thoughts behind my eyes, oil in the brain.

http://yayeveryday.com/post/12712

Portfolio Intro

2010-11-09T13:04:00.001-08:00

This is what I have so far for the introduction for my senior writing portfolio. Comments/suggestions?

--Introduction

The longing of a stranger is a universal thing. As Walt Whitman describes so beautifully in a number of his poems, there is something inherently mysterious about them. We have no conceptions of who these people are, other than their physical appearances or perhaps a few stolen spoken words. They aren’t muddled with previous notions of things they’ve done or said or things they will do or will say. Be it the love for a stranger across a room or coffee shop, the admiration of a stranger from across the street or subway, or a simple curiosity toward the way a stranger walks or talks or simply is, the theme resurges again and again in classical and modern poetry.

At a poetry reading I attended a few weeks ago, a woman told us of her daughter who was traveling in France. Her daughter told her over the phone how much she missed human physical contact. Wherever she went, she would see strangers she wanted to hug or kiss. There was something about certain people, even in another country, that made her feel so intimate.

I chose to break my manuscript into two parts, the “Real” and the “(Un)real,” because I believe, in the fascination of strangers, there is an element of realness to it (their appearance, the inflection of their voice if you are close enough, their facial expressions) and an element of fantasy (their families, their job, their sex life, what they prefer in their coffee, what god they believe in, who they’re going home to tonight). Similar to Charles Baudelaire’s Flowers of Evil, I like to play around with the blurring of edges between reality and fantasy, good and evil, real and unreal. Even in stories of the most whimsical kind, there are still hints of truth in them. We wouldn’t read them unless we felt connected to them in one way or another.

Like dreams, I believe that my fictional poems arise directly from my psyche. They are a part of me, as are the stories in them, even if I did not realize it when writing them down. In the poems directly stemming from my life, I wish to convey a richer perception of life and the world around me. I don’t believe that what we see around us is all there is. Like the strangers we see on the street, there is more to them than what we see on the outside, so much more. And in this world, this universe, there is so much more.

In Naomi Shihab Nye’s poem, “Wandering Around an Albuquerque Airport Terminal,” she describes an event in her life when she meets an Arabic woman at an airport who becomes distraught after thinking that her flight has been canceled. Nye approaches the woman and speaks to her in Arabic, explaining to her that it has only been delayed, not canceled. Eventually, they become close—Nye calls friends to talk to the woman, the woman shares cookies from her bag with all of the women at the terminal, and soon the two are holding hands. Nye realizes that things like this still can happen, strangers can hold hands, people from all over the world can share cookies together, and “not everything is lost.”

Shadow Baby

2010-11-03T21:24:00.000-07:00

I know
that you are pregnant
I knew it
the moment it happened
I heard you humming
sensed your feet
become heavier
felt your breath
on my shoulder

shadow, what will your baby
look like?
will she have hair?
will she have my eyes
or yours?
will she look like me?

I always thought of shadows
as being cold
but how can they
when they exist
only through sunlight?

shadow, what will you teach
your baby?
will you teach her loyalty
love
how to hum with the wind?

that’s how
you will speak to her
isn’t it, shadow?
through hums and clicks
her tiny, leaf-like fingers
wrapped around
your wrist
when you hold her
for the first time

shadow, please tell me
when she is born
I know she is a girl
because I can feel it
in my bones
my blood
the skin on my back

and shadow, when she does arrive
on a sunny day
after a string of cloudy ones
when she does arrive
will you let me hold her?
I only wish to sleep
inside her eyes
once
and to smell her scent
of soil
and light

Still have a lot of tweaking to do with this. Let me know what you think.

The Non-Living

2010-10-16T14:54:00.000-07:00

On a black table
outside in the sun
a strand of blonde hair
moves, jerky
as if a living thing
struggling to breathe
against the wind—
wild, savage

I pinch the hair tight
between index finger
and thumb
and kill it

I remember earlier
under tiles
how the pipes sighed
and the sinks moaned
trying to speak

And on my way to lunch
three flats of roses
sat in the backseat of a car
windows rolled down
so they could breathe

And in our bed
last night—
how closely I wrapped
my arms around you
as if afraid to
let go

and when you
looked at me
how your eyes looked
so lifeless

First poem I've written in a while.

Theories of Time and Space

2010-09-21T22:18:00.000-07:00

Theories of Time and Space

by Natasha Trethewey

You can get there from here, though
there's no going home.

Everywhere you go will be somewhere
you've never been. Try this:

head south on Mississippi 49, one-
by-one mile markers ticking off

another minute of your life. Follow this
to its natural conclusion – dead end

at the coast, the pier at Gulfport where
riggings of shrimp boats are loose stitches

in a sky threatening rain. Cross over
the man-made beach, 26 miles of sand

dumped on the mangrove swamp – buried
terrain of the past. Bring only

what you must carry – tome of memory,
its random blank pages. On the dock

where you board the boat for Ship Island,
someone will take your picture:

the photograph – who you were—
will be waiting when you return.

Good weekend, bad writing

2010-09-13T17:46:00.000-07:00

I went to the West Side Market and Coventry for my and Shaun's two year mark. It was great--we walked around and talked to some of the vendors, and I bought a ring, earrings, necklace, scarf, shirt, shawl, homemade soap, and vanilla incense. We had some really good sushi for dinner then came back, drank, ate fudge and watched old music videos. Overall, great weekend. :)

Now I am attempting to write my first story for Fiction Writing I with Ted Lyons. Since he gives no prompts in the class, it took me a few days just to come up with an idea. I have five sentences written. Maybe if I fold my laundry or wash my face, I can concentrate better. Whenever I get stuck on my writing, I always end up washing my face. Or cleaning my room. Maybe I'm trying to wash away all the bad and restart. Or more likely, I'm looking for an excuse to do something other than write.

I feel like so far, the story in my head reflects a lot about myself. Maybe I'll share it when it's finished, but prose is really not my forte, which is probably why I'm having such difficulty writing it. Bahhhh.

I really need to start working on my writing portfolio. My mind feels so bogged down lately, as if there's a barrier preventing me from writing or revising.

nice whip darlin.

2010-09-02T21:24:00.000-07:00

When I came out of my evening Creative Non-Fiction class today, I found this folded up in the hole in the seat of my bike. It made my day.

(excuse the crappy cell phone camera quality)

In other news, I'm really pleased with all of my classes so far and I am actually looking forward to the rest of the semester. Let's just hope I have enough motivation to put together a kick-ass writing portfolio!

Calm night

2010-08-23T23:04:00.000-07:00

Haven't written in a while. Thought I'd update.

I haven't been up to much this summer. Work and with friends for most of it, bumming around and vacationing in Charleston, SC for the rest. It was great- lots of laughing, drinking, sunbathing, historical tours, boat rides- all the musts. South Carolina is a beautiful state.

Today, I've been running errands, baking cookies, backing up everything on my computer, and preparing for the fall semester of my senior year. It's a bit overwhelming but I'm excited regardless. I've been trying to motivate myself to write, submit my work to journals, exercise, embark on more cultural outings, etc. but I've been finding it difficult to do. I just want to sleep in until noon, watch movies and drink with friends. Just gotta give myself a kick in the ass I guess.

How are you all? Any exciting developments? Hope all is well with everyone.

Feeling

2010-08-03T13:56:00.000-07:00

Do you ever hear something with which you've had no experience but you still know exactly what that person is talking about and exactly how they're feeling for just one second or one minute? And even if the feeling vanishes, you still have this indescribable knowledge of the experience? That's how I felt last night. It folded over into today.

22

2010-05-26T08:52:00.000-07:00

She watches as dust particles dance in the thin strip of sun near the window. Death lingers under her eyes.

Prompts

2010-05-23T04:47:00.001-07:00

Anyone have any ideas for a writing prompt? It can be anything- a line, a word, an object, a concept, whatever. I'll return the favor! Let's keep some ideas going.

(Photo unrelated. I just have an undying love for orange kitties.)

Summer is here

2010-05-17T22:31:00.000-07:00

I haven't written in a while so I thought I'd update. I'm enjoying my week off in the hiatus period between school and work (although I wish the weather were nicer).

Due to the rainy weather today and a general feeling of laziness, I've been reading a lot of Joyce Carol Oates' short stories and watching Anthony Bourdain's "No Reservations" so I have a pretty heinous headache right now. But on the bright side, I've expanded my vocabulary (due to Oates' extensive use of words) and I am even more proud to be a vegetarian (due to some of the pretty beastly foods I saw, especially from Mongolia). Hah. I also went to a vegan restaurant today in Akron called Ms. Julie's Kitchen with my sisters and some friends. It had a very pleasant atmosphere and the food was really good. I guess the woman who founded the place lost 125 pounds from switching to a raw diet. Pretty nifty.

Let's see, what else have I been up to... The end of the semester party was a jolly good time! I think everyone enjoyed themselves. I watched Ponyo with Shaun last night (which was adorable) although I'd be curious to see the Japanese version. I'm trying my damnedest not to let the lethargy of summer soak in too much so I can keep a steady writing pace. I'm also going to submit some poetry to various journals this week. I'm determined to get something published by the time fall comes around.

I guess that's about it. I'll be in Kent tomorrow afternoon if anyone's around, probably hanging out at Scribbles for a bit. Hope all is well with everyone! I'll hopefully update with new work soon.

What a strange, beautiful world

2010-04-29T09:57:00.000-07:00

I drove out to Chicago with my boyfriend, Shaun, on Tuesday morning. I can't even explain how amazing that city is. We didn't have time to do much site seeing since when we got to the hotel, we had to leave for the Jónsi show. But what I did see of the city made me want to stay. We grabbed some really good slices of pizza on the way and ran into the Vic Theater.

The show was great. Jónsi's voice was beautiful (he sounded like a recording), the set-up was beautiful, the entire experience was beautiful. After the show, Shaun and I took the elevator to the 22nd floor of the hotel and stood out on the terrace to see the city at night. Everything was peaceful. Even the clouds the day after the show were calm.

I've more or less been inside my head since I got back.

Since I didn't get any photos or videos of the show, here's what the show looked like:

jónsi - sinking friendships (live) from Jónsi on Vimeo.

New poem

2010-04-17T15:43:00.000-07:00

This is based off of a painting from a Vietnamese child. The Wick Poetry Center has a really great project going with these children's paintings and poets from across the country. Here's the website if you're interested: http://dept.kent.edu/wick/Outreach/Projects.html

And here's the link to see the painting I referred to (it's #14):

http://docs.google.com/leaf?id=0B5X_Yzy_S6C8Y2FkOWVmMmEtZWI5Ni00ZGYyLTkyYjgtMDZiN2QwZDk1YWZi&hl=en

Extermination
After war painting #14 – “Extermination”

The man directly
to the right of me
is shot first
His left index finger
lands at my feet

Shards of glass
from the market
beside me
falls from the sky
like broken leaves

The sun is so bright
I can’t see the helicopter
only the body
and my own
shaking arms

The shot hits
before I hear it
The bag of groceries
I was carrying falls
to the ground

Clouds like mushrooms
rise from the dirt
like the ones my wife
cooks for dinner
on days she’s feeling lonely

Sophie

2010-04-14T14:40:00.000-07:00

I don't have a title for this one yet. When I first wrote it, I was pretty pleased with it but now that I'm re-reading/editing, I'm not sure how I feel about it. Comments/critiques appreciated.

Sophie cut two large zinnias
over the femoral vein of each thigh
with a razor when her neighbor
found her, walking in

to borrow a tablespoon of lemon juice

Her neighbor had to catch a plane to Austria
and the hospital let Sophie go
a few hours later after discovering
that she did not have health insurance

Sophie walked to the fresh market
across the street, bought
three eggplants and walked back
to her apartment

After cleaning the blood from the bathroom
Sophie went to the kitchen, peeled
one of the eggplants in stripes, cut it into cubes,
lightly salted it, and fried it in oil
for about twenty minutes

After she was done eating, she read
fifteen more pages of Diderot’sJacques le fataliste (in French)
and went to bed

The next morning,
she ate another eggplant for breakfast,
added some leaves and bumblebees
to the zinnias on her thighs
and took a bus to the hospital
after realizing that she still had
thirty-two pages of the novel to read

On the way back,
she stopped by the market again
to buy a pair of thick gardening gloves
and seven packets of seeds
(green peppers, strawberries, tomatoes,
sunflowers, squash, zinnias and eggplants)

Sophie planted the flowers
and the eggplants in the small garden
on her balcony and went inside
to make some raspberry lemonade,
sit in her mustard yellow armchair
and read the last thirty-two pages

P.S. I have a new hair cut. Here's a photo (click for full size):

4-5-10

2010-04-05T06:12:00.000-07:00

New York was great! I didn't want to leave. We didn't really do any touristy kinds of things, considering I did all that the first few times I was there and we're all broke. We mainly just walked around, ate and drank.

But now back to school. I'm setting some goals for myself for the rest of the semester. I'm going to try to exercise at least twice a week (yoga, bike riding, jogging), eat more (I think this may be contributing to my 24/7 exhaustion), write a poem a week, and start thinking seriously about what to do after graduation. I'm also conducting a little experiment with myself. I've always had problems with stomachaches. I feel like everything I eat upsets my stomach. My mom is hypoglycemic, has thyroid problems, and has dairy and wheat allergies (which means all of these lovely things were probably passed down to me). So this week, I'm eating no dairy to see how I react. Then next week, no wheat. If my belly still hates me, I may have to go to a doctor and/or nutritionist. Bahhh.

But on the bright side, there's only six weeks left until summer. Can't wait.

A day of art, music, delicious food and good company

2010-03-25T18:45:00.001-07:00

Today was a very good day. I got up bright and early to go teach the 3rd graders with Elizabeth. We taught them how to write alphabet poems and I think it went really well! One of the girls even wrote about me and Elizabeth in her poem. It was so precious and touching.

Right after teaching, I picked up Jaime and we headed out to the Andy Warhol Museum in Pittsburgh for our 1960s Lit and Culture class. Only our teacher and a few other people from our class went but while we were there, we met Jaime's grandpa and aunt. The museum was great.

Then after the museum we met her other aunt at Kaya, a fantastic "island cuisine" restaurant/bar. I got curry vegetables and rice which was DELICIOUS. We ate and talked for quite a while. I found out that her aunt is getting married to her girlfriend in the summer and that they're making each other's wedding rings at a craft place (how cute is that??).

After dinner we went to the craft/art store since it was right across the street. It had tons of amazing art including glass, ceramics, jewelry, charms and other such things. I wanted to buy everything there (but it was all very expensive.)

Then we said goodbye and started heading back to Ohio. We listened/sang along to nothing but The Beatles the whole ride back.

When I got back to Ohio, me, my mom and the siblings went out to Aladdin's for dinner. And now I'm sitting here at the apartment drinking wine and writing a poem for tomorrow. Good day.

Born from the Wind

2010-03-22T21:10:00.000-07:00

Born from the wind,
we moved through air
like grass

Our hair clicked
against our earlobes,
bare breasts brushed
against t-shirts,
naked feet pounded
the earth like bombs-
but instead of leaving ruin,
we left words,
music,
flowers

We raised our arms
to the sky
to pull the clouds
a little closer,
to make the earth
a little softer

We flew on
each other’s backs
from New York
to LA
and back to New York

We handed out flyers,
even if no one wanted them
held signs until
our arms melted from the pain,
shouted milky protests
from broken throats,
asked passersby
Can you dig it?

Well, what exactly are you digging?
a straight once asked me
and I told him-

We are digging
for knowledge,
for self-acceptance,
for a world
that doesn’t know
the meaning of a bomb
but the meaning of a smile

People need to
get with the words,
hear some lingo,
talk
to each other

Loaded on language,
loaded on drugs
we kept on haulin’

Kept on haulin’
‘til the clouds
floated back to the sky,
‘til the drugs wore off,
‘til the edges of the flyers
folded and browned,
and all that was left
of the groove
was the tug of the wind
in our bones

The aftermath

2010-03-21T20:18:00.000-07:00

I stole three rings from Target today. I need to stop doing that. I feel like karma's going to come and nip me in the ass one of these days.

But my birthday weekend was great. Quite a few of my friends came out to the Professor's Pub on Friday, and the party last night was full of dancing and laughing and drinking and more dancing. Our wine rack is actually full for once and the apartment is (surprisingly) still clean. All in all, good weekend. :)

But my birthday has thrown me off track of writing, so I'll probably be a bit of a recluse the next week-ish to catch up.

Hope all is well with everyone.

February '10

2010-03-05T08:16:00.000-08:00

After two months of neglect, I've started up my monthly poems again! I'm not sure I like this one very much but here's February '10:

Blood oozes from the thumb like lipstick
I slouch toward the sky
We stain our hands with stones
I was left in the kitchen with broken pieces of your shoulder
I heard her speaking but no words came out
She dries her feet to step in water
Lies between thighs
Eating an emotion leaves a strange feeling in the belly
She melts in the bathwater in a puddle of anomalies

Is it possible for words to be unvocal?

3-4-10

2010-03-04T14:37:00.001-08:00

I read some poetry today at the Women's Resource Center for Women's History Month (as well as Bri, Demi and quite a few other girls whom I wasn't too familiar with). It was such a nice experience! The room we were in was very quaint and cozy, everyone was really nice and polite, it was really interesting to hear the range of poets, and I was really glad that Kat Blackbird chose me to be a part of it. Not to mention, today has been the first sunny, semi-warm days in months. Thank goodness! Hope everyone's enjoying the sunshine.

I will melt

2010-03-01T08:15:00.001-08:00

(click to enlarge)

I'm sick of feeling buried by the snow.

I'm ready for spring.

Back in the swing of things

2010-02-17T14:50:00.000-08:00

I met with Kim Winebrenner today and decided that I'm going to graduate by next spring (very terrifying!). So seeing that I need to have an extensive writing portfolio finished by next year (especially if I want to apply for an MFA program), I need to start writing and reading a lot more. I've decided to start up my monthly poems again and I'm going to try to give myself a writing prompt or ask friends to give me a prompt every week. I also want to get back into drawing/photography so I have something else to woo the people who look at my writing collection.

Blah blah blah busy busy busy. No sleep for me next year.

Brian and Jon (pantoum)

2010-02-17T12:03:00.000-08:00

This night will kill us both, Jon says
He rubs his bleeding thumb on a rock
Brian shrugs and pulls some grass from the riverbed
The moon hums to the beat of their eardrums

He rubs his bleeding thumb on a rock
Brian hears nothing but the blood in his chest
The moon hums to the beat of their eardrums
Jon washes his hand in the river

Brian hears nothing but the blood in his chest
Jon’s eyes are heady with wine
Jon washes his hand in the river
The dew of Brian’s lips is on Jon’s shoulder

Jon’s eyes are heady with wine
They stained their hands with stone
The dew of Brian’s lips is on Jon’s shoulder
Jon holds the bleeding rock, afraid to let it go

The pupils in their eyes are as far as Orion's Belt
Brian shrugs and pulls some grass from the riverbed
The color in their eyes is as close as Orion's Belt
This night will kill us both, Jon says

Skin (haiku)

2010-02-04T09:03:00.001-08:00

Pink paint chips and falls
From the railing like dead skin
On a pillowcase

I dive into your skin

2010-02-04T08:52:00.000-08:00

I dive into your skin like liquid
burrow in the cracks
of your hands
slide across the dip
near your collar bone
oh how nice it feels!

on the tip of my nose

I hold the color in your eyes
(the golden honey crater orbs)
and whisper,
I want you most on the weekends
at 6 o’clock in the evening

your hair curls around
my brain like
sugar-sweet tentacles
tickling my thoughts

the small white scar
on the divot of your back
reminds me you are human
reminds me you are mine

but does that make you
a possession, saying
“you are mine”?

because you are not
something to own
nor a liquid
nor even a person

but a small, twinkling idea
settled on the bottom
of my ribcage
sending sporadic bursts
of sunlight warmth
through my light, white body

Really old, really embarrassing photos

2010-02-02T20:00:00.001-08:00

Circa 2006

Children

2010-01-26T10:35:00.000-08:00

Children already
Know everything
Without actually
Realizing it

Motivation

2010-01-19T05:58:00.000-08:00

I haven't written in a while and thought it appropriate since classes start today that I get back into the swing of things. I didn't write much over break but I'll be posting what little I have soon for critique/comments. I'm taking two poetry classes this semester so hopefully that gives me plenty of ammunition to write more!

Break was good for me in the sense that I've become closer to some people and not so close to others. But I take both as good things. Since last semester, I sort of have this new appreciation for negative things that happen in my life. I guess I like to see the "beauty" in everything (or whatever you even call it).

My lethargy, however, is bogging me down. I need a schedule again. I need to wake up earlier than 1 in the afternoon. I think this semester will go really well.

Moon

2009-11-25T12:27:00.000-08:00

The night the moon
Lost its light

Something it never had
From the beginning

Silence has a sound

2009-11-15T13:02:00.000-08:00

Foreign words speak
From tiny, helpless lips

Foreign actions speak
From strange, marred bodies

A small, red grain
In a field of tan

The eye's corner catches it
Where most aren't looking

The only sounds are heard
Through queer ears

As people shout creaky protests
From steel pipe vocal chords

She lifts her head...

2009-11-04T14:24:00.000-08:00

from the thin fabric,
tired of hearing the rustling
of microscopic men
on her pillowcase
and the constant touch
of the sheets draping themselves
across her arms,
legs,
breasts

more than he’s touched her
in two weeks
“alone with the alone”
except the alone is not with her
only herself,
and trivial things-
needles from the fluorescent light
stabbing her eyes,
and the long, stiff armrest
of the dried-dirt-colored chair
she sits on

picking balls of concentrated lint
off the gut of her sweatshirt,
she wonders if it would be different
if they lived in another era,
she clad in a long gown,
and he in a dark suit,
drinking red wine
from extravagant stemware

or in another world,
her the
purple, dancing, feathered leaves
to his
liquid, gyrating trunk

Series Johanna VI by Alexander Bergström

October '09

2009-11-01T21:01:00.000-08:00

Mimicking the letter “O” with lips
An invisible person in a bathroom stall
The harsh S’s of whispered voices
A red plastic cups sits at the end of a row of glasses
as if waiting to be washed with the others
The wrinkles around her eyes
match the crinkled tissue in her hand
“Sparkling coffin”
Feel for the right grooves
Peel away layers of skin

Holy kiwi

Literature for the young mind

2009-10-21T15:19:00.000-07:00

It’s twilight.
At the west side, a young artist’s dog has a curious look to him,
Waiting for night-time to arrive.
A piece of chocolate sits dangerously close to the edge of a table.
Behind a portrait of Romeo & Juliet, an invisible war
Is stirring between the ghosts and the angels.
But it is merely a game, a game of different worlds,
A story of what happens in a young man’s home
When he isn’t listening.

Stranger

2009-10-21T15:17:00.000-07:00

Strawberry-blonde hair

A relative stranger,
Other than a few
Spaced-out sentences
And stories of
Fallen bra straps

September '09

2009-10-21T15:08:00.000-07:00

Scribbled lists and thick-rimmed glasses
Two identical cars
parked next to each other
in a parking lot
Emotion needs no grammar
Black trees against a backdrop of storm cloud-peach
Beehive ceilings
Stagnant goodbyes
That curious fluttering feeling
when a stranger walks close to you
Her body moves like air, as if born from the wind
Swimming in burlap
Daylight fades like an old photograph
Linear bruises against white skin
The awful crunch of an apple between sensitive teeth
A guy with a limp and a girl with hair as long as she is
Taking blood from the vein of an arm
like siphoning gasoline from a car
The feeling of walking at night
when no one is around
as if humankind ceases to exist
The sudden impulse to taste or smell or feel a person
rather than see them
The soft, sultry way smoke rises from a cigarette
like a question

August '09

2009-10-21T15:07:00.001-07:00

Ripples on water // Reflections on cars
Wet hair, tangled sheets
Water splatters the windshield like blood exiting a bullet wound
Walking with dream ghosts
The urge for something new