ceruleanpulp

2004-03-01T13:43:00.000-08:00

paint a box within a week to make it mine so I remember it's mine and I want it. this isn't a label from a doctor who doesn't make sense to me, or a woman whose voice still echos in morals I uphold without belief. write the side of a story of a killer to do justice to the victiums who I am shamelessly exploiting for the sake of a grade. if they'd lived would it be less aweful? goddamn, their memories then...

2004-02-29T15:50:00.000-08:00

my to do list isn't that long, but not addressing it makes me paranoid.

2004-02-28T12:51:00.000-08:00

Stacy Wyatt2-28-04Creative Non-FictionTrue Crime: MurderIt is my turn. I take the stand before the lawyers, jurors, judges and audience who have come to see my life weighted against their ideas of “common decency.” They judge me while silently hoping their own actions will never come under such scrutiny—after all, everyone has secrets—and these trained discerners will not get mine, if I can help it. I state my name and age for the record as I’m prompted, “Ian Huntley. Twenty-eight years old.” There is some more reading of documents, “facts,” my police record, national and district. The national, previously entirely uninformative, thus allowing me to start over without the stain of reputation when I moved with Maxine four years ago; while the district record seems to ooze with memory for me whether the incidents I nostalgically favor most were reported or not. Oh those strings of girls, the way they walked without the slightest idea of their bodies in the beginning, and the way that their walk would change later as they began to realize all the lovely things their parents had tried to shield them from, and then their curve-less hips would swing just so, and I knew why. I was why. Ah, yes, here it comes, my turn—to tell of that afternoon, it was such a lovely afternoon. They were ten years old, struggling, not like that year of the fourteen year old harem. They were all so easily convinced, their parents couldn’t press charges, the girls loved me, but then it was so much less satisfying than the struggle and the beautiful shattering in their eyes. If they’re willing you don’t get that, your body is satisfied with their little gifts but you soul will never be content without that wonderful dazzling moment of rupture. “It was about half past six on August 4th of 2002 when I saw Jessica Chapman and Holly Welles walking down the street outside my and Maxine’s home--” “Ms. Carr’s previous home, please,” says Maxine’s stuck up lawyer. “Excuse me, ‘what had previously been the home of Ms. Carr and me,’” I say it as if I were actually apologetic. I still love Maxine, and she has rejected me for my little differences. I had tried to keep her clean of it knowing she wouldn’t love me past it. She was always the romantic, over and over, ‘our love will concur everything.’ Ha. I’ll remind her she loved me every chance I get, to make her remember and love me, or remember and taunt her since she’s forsaken me, my only consolation prize besides my gorgeous memories. As I was saying, “—I saw the girls walking by the house from inside, through the bathroom window, I was brushing our dog. I thought I recognized the girls from a class picture, one of Maxine’s—excuse me, Ms. Carr’s—classes.” Maxine had left in a huff earlier. She could be a bitch sometimes, getting willful, leaving chores undone, talking back. Then the girls walked by. They were so beautiful, even without plaid skirts—that delicious hallmark of feminine education in our fine land—they were still so beautiful with their innocent smiles, their laughter still without self-consciousness, and their almost boyish bodies. Ah, ten years old is a wonderful age. “I didn’t think much of it. I waved at them, it’s a friendly neighborhood.” “As they were walking they were laughing rather hard about something and the darker girl, Holly, began to have a nosebleed. I invited them in to clean up.” They were suspicious at first, such good little girls; they relaxed a little after I confirmed that Maxine lived there, that I was a friend of hers. As they passed me in the doorway I could smell them, their little girl smell—sweat without a deodorant, a sort of out-doors dust and grass smell, a small amount of the mustiness that in larger quantities defines women from girls, and then hiding behind all that a light wisp of baby powder as if their mothers had only very recently ceased caring for the state of their bottoms—, they would have lost it soon, all that vague hinting at their temporary perfection, you could tell they were about to start becoming women in not long at all, maybe a mere few months, that would have been fine, but they were so perfect, the very youngest of mine. “In the bathroom Holly sat on the edge of the tub while I passed her paper towels I was cooling with cold water from the sink. Jessica was sitting on the edge on the other end near the door. There was water in the tub as I’d been about to wash the dog. As I handed Holly a towel I bumped her and she fell into the tub.” I tried to not get them worried right away. I tried to take Holly’s jersey off, saying I would wash the blood off it. She argued with me. I told her she wouldn’t want Maxine to hear her being such a bad argumentative girl. She gave me the jersey, but fumed standing there in her undershirt. I said Jessica had some blood on hers too and she started to take hers off. She was so much less trouble. Holly said there wasn’t any blood on the other jersey. She was going to start arguing again, I shoved her backwards into the dry tub. She hit her head against the other side knocking her unconscious. “Then Jessica began screaming, ‘You pushed her! You pushed her!’ I was afraid a neighbor would hear her and think something was amiss, so I put my hand over her mouth; I’m not sure for how long. Suddenly I realized she was limp and let go. She fell to the floor. I checked both of the girls, neither was breathing.” If that were true the next few hours wouldn’t have been nearly as much fun. Holly knocked out, quiet for the moment. Jessica shut up too once she realized I had not qualms about putting her in the same condition, then she was quiet as any boxed in mouse, not much louder at all. I took her to the bedroom. I had my little delight, her eyes transformed so wonderfully from fright to pain and hopelessness, little cracking crystal mirrors, above my hand on top of her mouth and loosely over her nose. In the midst of that wonderful metronomic squeaking coming from the bed frame, I tightened my hand completely as I slid over her one last time. Small girl, small lungs--it didn’t take long, I watched her eyes go as still as marbles. As she stilled I could hear Holly in the bathroom, just beginning to wake up…such perfect timing. Holly had spirit—kicking, fighting, yelling; I got a few bruises from that one, good study kicks to my legs. It was lucky for me her nails weren’t longer or she might well have shredded up my arms, especially after she saw her friend laying there like a sack of potatoes. Her lack of success certainly wasn’t for lack of trying. I got her down shortly anyway, she wasn’t as small as the other but I got a hold on her. She was the best of it, such eyes she had, brown, almost amber, and all that willfulness, like Maxine, flaming in her eyes, and then the breaking, like a candle being blown out. She wasn’t easy, wouldn’t go quietly like the other, I had to strangle her which is a bit nastier business but I’d do it again to get her eyes like that again, to watch the flame flashing in angry fear and be the one to huff and puff until the flame goes out. She was such a wonderfully spirited girl.Their parents are in the front row, right behind the lawyers. They aren’t buying a word of this, them or the jurors either, not even my own self-righteous lawyer, the idiot. I can feel the eyes of the jury burning into the side of my face. I can’t see the eyes of the mothers,’ their faces are puffy, tears I suppose. The fathers’ faces are unmoving, eyes like ice, but ice with fire behind it. Damn, if only their little bodies had burned better….

2004-02-22T13:22:00.000-08:00

felt so alone this morning up until I got called "my own."have successfull applied to SUNY, but the other needs an essay, and I'm truthful enough but unimspired by the subject, this is why I don't want to write memoir. I have to wind myself into the silly little details of my life that sound boring as shit to me anyway you put it. I'd expected to hear it was all trash, not just the two parts that need rewriting and I'm trying to care enough to do them, but my mind keeps going back to the lack of milk for pancakes and not wanting to leave this room again, even the once felt like too much, but we;re running out of toliet paper and the sink is so full of dishes I had to fill the coffee pot in the bathroom. the dishes aren't mine. you're not here so I can't do them and make it something I'm doing for you/us, without you doing everyone elses dishes feels like an act of cowardice, like bringing up the TP could bring my presence into question. I should probably just go back to bed, but the sun is up and I can't sleep with the list in my head, of things I need to do,too long to be silenced.

posted 2-26-04, but none the less...

2004-02-14T22:47:00.000-08:00

3 reasons: A Poem in Free Verse by E. YoungI’m the luckiest man in New York.The finest woman in Brooklyn lives with me. Mary MacGregor fine.She can fly.I didn’t get to blow bubbles much when I was a kid. She was always so good at it.I am a bubble she blows into and am blessed to be at those lips.She can fly.She has the technology.Look up to see her.Or look in my heart. She lives there.1. Center Box 2. Angel3. Feather#1 (next to box 1)4. Box 15. Box 26. Feather #17. The Butterfly8. Feather #29. Pocket [ed: next to his heart] (Damn, just rereading this I'm melting everywhere...)

2004-02-13T10:04:00.000-08:00

Ten months to get here.I can hear you breathing in the tent.It is so good to wake up everyday and see you next to me. Some mornings the moment I open my eyes all the memories seems to pass through me at once: walking down 5th at 3am; the way you pulled me close to you the first night I stayed; talking with you on the lawn, leaning against a tree listening and shivering; cooking with you and laughing (I love your laughter); watching you sharpening with your file, the way your attention just zooms in; the way it feels when you look at me like that; pearching on my dresser in Washington, curling around a cellphone cause your voice is coming through it and I've been waiting for your voice all day; crying cause you're right and you're always right and the way it feels like it'll just break me sometimes because I sometimes feel like the most juvenile, annoying person you could possiblly be with and I'm too selfish to let you go find someone better; the way you smell when you're awake and they way you smell when you're asleep, they're different; the way you smile when I've just been very straightforward.I love you.

this may be really, really bad. well, someone needs to tell me.

2004-02-12T14:02:00.000-08:00

Walked Brooklyn streets, chocolate on tongue--seventy percent cocoa, slightly bittercoyly veiling the slip of sweetness--behind my lips still molding your mouth,that I can hear swearing love of melast night in our maddening throngs,as the passion of Pacific tides crashedin and between us, as you sent me up,flying to the stars as I'd wished tosince learning to plant my feet down.Finally flying I held you to me--arching, dipping, sighing with pleasure--I held onto the best part of life:all the dreams I'd thought to give up.(See what happens when you send me to Medieval class for the Courtly Love lesson without you...)

2004-02-04T01:04:00.000-08:00

Stacy Wyatt1-27-04Creative Non-FictionFact and fiction are often presented as clear opposites. They are, however, far more complicated than black and white defining either end of a spectrum. More often they are a matter of degree, a way of showing comparison, as one might see a gray, a gray lighter than that gray, and darker than a third gray. Upon further inspection, taking the palette of grays into another room with a brighter, more revealing light source it may be found that one of the grays is vaguely yellow, another—barely, but most definitely—pink tinted, and the third is in fact a pale mint green. If you present these newly revealed colors to a colorblind friend they will see it in their own way. They may be able to tell the difference in colors. Depending on the severity of their colorblindness may be able to tell you what the colors are, though you will remain uncertain of what the difference between your green and theirs is. (Although, if you think about it, there is no guarantee that green or any other color is processed the same way by any two brains… You get the idea.) But back to the supposed grays: these vaguely related shades could continue to reveal even more deviation from each other as they are more closely examined, a process that, with a growing collection of technologies for magnification, separation, and revision, could continue indefinitely. This continual branching out of the “known” is the elusive reality behind the terms of “fact” and “fiction.” Having at this point basically devalued the fore-mentioned terms in the realm of theory, I’d like to point out that that there is still an area of conflict within my own mind and beliefs based on the question of what constitutes fact, as I’ve stated this isn’t necessarily the sort of title of judgment that has a clear, sharp border or exact guidelines for either distinction. Through this crucible items have been judged on either side that may seem in general appearance to have been misjudged. I think fact has more to do with the kind of truth you can put a capital “t” in front of; it’s a kind of truth I’m not even sure I believe in. I do believe in relative truths, that they may in fact even point at a Truth. Regardless of any other person’s values and judgments, I have tried to weigh truths of my own. A mixture of fact and fiction can at times fulfill the necessities of pursuing truths far more than bare facts alone. Fiction allows for examinations of points of view and reasons behind events that we cannot know absolutely, but that may allow us to understand events and actions in a new light, which regardless of weather or not they are True, do allow for an expansion of possibility within our perspective of what the facts may be. If Truth cannot be known the next best thing may be expanding the possibilities we allow ourselves to entertain.With the expansion of possibilities we allow ourselves, comes a secondary function: the necessity of reevaluation items we had previously judged as true or false, tucked comfortably away in cubbies of fact and fiction. Therefore with constantly expanding possibilities there comes a need for constant reevaluation of what we believe we know, and so even our truths are only possibilities. Hence there is no Truth and truths are never left unquestioned, at least not in an ideal state (an ideal state which by definition is not the standard reality for the mass of humanity.) Definitions of fact, fiction, and truth are games intellectuals play while the rest of the world lives. They are questions for everybody; we write and live as if we were sure of our half-answers.

2004-01-29T13:18:00.000-08:00

Leaving is better than staying if you know you're miserable where you are. Staying out of cowardice is no good. Fear that there's nothing better is cowardice. Seek improvement for yourself. It's not as if you were leaving so much behind anyway.

2004-01-29T11:21:00.000-08:00

I am at work, a student is explaining exactly why this isn't working and I want to tell him I know exactly what he means. They aren't going to help him. He wants to like what he's learning. I don't think that should be so hard. Have to remember why movement is nessesary and it will keep me looking for possiblity of something better. There aren't easy answers just possiblity and the choices we make.

2004-01-22T12:54:00.000-08:00

mypetskeleton.comThis website is the online portfolio of visual artist Vincent Marcone. The abiance created by the visuals and soundtrack is intriguing spooky. I found it last year and it reminded me of when I first started wandering around the internet and how exciting and interesting, nearly magical it seemed at first. Even before I saw Marcone’s artwork his site’s styles and intuitive ease had impressed me. Also his artwork’s detail and intensity is entirely captivating.bartleby.comThis website is a pretty decent collection of classic texts (literature, poetry, reference). It has been very useful to me in allowing me to access texts like Gray's Anatomy and selected Hans Christian Anderson tales as well as versatile Oxford Anthologies. It doesn't have everything but it has more than enough to be of use.altx.com/thebody/This site is Shelley Jackson's collection of short written pieces on her memories and relationship with her body. It is often touching and sometimes darkly amusing. It entertains me when I have time to wander.

2004-01-07T20:21:00.000-08:00

"'God knows, lady,' said Owein, 'it can no more be opened to thee from here than thou canst deliver me from there.' 'God knows,' said the maiden, ''twere great pity thou mightst not be delivered. And it were only right for a woman to do thee a good turn. God knows I never saw a better young man for a woman than thou. Hadst thou a woman friend, best of woman's friends wouldst thou be. And so,' said she, 'what deliverance I can for thee, that I will do.'"-from 'The Lady of the Fountain' in the Mabinogion

Blood Sonnets

2004-01-01T20:25:00.000-08:00

The droplets of blood have welled again--bursts of veined pink blossoms suspended invisiblyagainst necessarily porcelain white--for this sight a sigh is permissible, the aesthetic moment an oasisamidst the usual anticipation, then gore.This is assurance that only I dwell here,that 'we' still means two of us, not three,that your ample palm cradling my bellyas if it were a vessel contentsprecious, is instead prizing of the whole, of only myself, not what I carry within.But watching the webbing of red spread and changeI want to freeze the beauty and claim it.Waking I feel the pooling above my pelvis,an internal puddling of blood, a vaguely nauseating fullness,reason to move slowly, fearing waves,splashing--though not to the sheets this morning.As if living a war since childhood I have learned tricks against my own bloody stains:a bar of white soap and my own spitthe mixture rubbed into the clothpushing out globules of life-stained mucusred of a fresh wound, baby shit brown,and wet charcoal black; the compound reekingof too-natural salt, of our very pulsemade gruesome only in parting from the whole.

2004-01-01T15:25:00.000-08:00

Found a box of nail polishes from junior high this morning. I remember picking colors that were good for day dreaming in class.Dark blue for the ocean, lighter for blue skies, pale nearly white blue for clouds. A deep violet or green for changes and secrets. Sparkly things to put on my toes when I was teaching preschoolers' level one, to give them an incentive to put their faces in the water and open their eyes. It worked too.I remember sleepovers. How many times can Fifth Element be seen before it stops seeming so damn good? Painting each other's nails. M chose purples and blues. K, princessy pinks, or reds that implied things we didn't know a damn thing about. Fluffy choosing blue, green, purple, sparkles. Later Smack, I can't remember what she chose, maybe she didn't. I remember when M grew away when she and James were dating. The shock of sex and people we knew. I remember when some boy asked me to varify a rumor and I told him it was none of his buisness and to fuck off. He looked so shocked. I never swore then. If he'd pressed it I thought I would hit him and I think he knew it. I never told M about it, she would have been just as indignet that anyone thought they had a right to ask, or maybe she would have just said, 'yeah. so?' I wonder how she's doing these days. M and I used to tell each other dirty jokes in 5th & 6th when we were at different elementries and had sources besides each other. They didn't mean anything it was just the pleasure of the forbidden, talking about thing we weren't supposed to talk about, or know about, not that we did really. I hope she is well.I painted my nails today. Green on my toes and a fleshy metallic pink on my fingers. Glad that nail polish remover is still under the sink.

6,000 gallon Chevron oil spill in Puget Sound

2003-12-30T22:01:00.000-08:00

local news in the NWI would like to point out that according to all other sources I've read the spill was 2,000 gal. None of those sources are locally based or seem to have talked to the Coast Guard. I feel like screaming expletives, but there is no energy and it wouldn't be the same typed anyway. ...it also snowed today.

2003-12-29T17:17:00.000-08:00

The sweetest-sounding little old lady just called me with a wrong number. She was so stunningly kind-sounding and polite that I sort wish now that I knew her.

2003-12-29T12:24:00.000-08:00

Last night I fell asleep in the middle of a sneeze, wishing I could have been awake enough to talk to you just a little bit longer. I wore your sweartshirt that nearly reaches my knees that I tucked up to my chest, cradling my stomach, waiting for the usual blood. In the night you came and asked me to move just an inch or two over, to uncurl, to make room for you. And I did, glad that you were not going to go try to make a bed on the balconey, that you would instead sleep by me. But I fell asleep before I felt you lay down, and sadly you were gone in the morning when I woke. I know you have been near me. I can feel it in my heart.

Today...

2003-12-28T16:43:00.000-08:00

...Janus has not called back....I am sneezy....I listened to Fluffy's poem about angry boys....I finished binding two books for two mom-people....I watched Amelie....I made a pot of tea....I finished rereading The Handmaid's Tale....I will go to the groccery store because I'm tired of popcorn, oatmeal, and toast (even toast with pesto).

2003-12-26T19:03:00.000-08:00

I hate the mall, and the mall hates me.

2003-12-24T22:04:00.000-08:00

Some Christmas Eve I will refuse to accompany my parents to church and the evening will become less annoying, more pleasent. I am waiting until I am no longer going to college at their expense. In the meantime, that church scares me just a little more every time I visit.Luckily the children were bored and so amused themselves/ annoyed their parents/ amused me. If I'd had bubbles in my bag (the lack thereof was a serious oversight on my part) I'd have passed them to the children and had a truely enjoyable experience. As this stood I was amused when they lost track of their powerpoint & when the minister got visibly overzealous and salvated on his bible, otherwise I gripped the brass key in my coat pocket and tried to zone into the Christmas tree lights, spreading them appart in my minds eye until they looked like stars. Christmas as a practice annoys me. A time of year when people stress out about the right envirment, food, perfect gifts, to prove that love exists. If you mean it the year is enough. Why set aside a day to get so close you step on each others' toes with expectations that are only really a hundred percent fulfilled in fifties movies. Give me a break.

2003-12-23T21:12:00.000-08:00

Literature is news that stays news.Ezra Pound Real education must ultimately be limited to men who insist on knowing, the rest is mere sheep-herding.Ezra Pound When you cannot make up your mind which of two evenly balanced courses of action you should take - choose the bolder.Ezra Pound

2003-12-22T17:49:00.000-08:00

I talked to Fluffy today. She knows thinks now that she did not know. She is sorry I did not tell her about X before. She cried, but I think maybe that she understands alot of things now that she did not understand before.I hadn't meant to tell her but I had to in the midst of explaining why I am learning to be brave and how I have not been and why I do not want to go to the Poulsbohemian right now, even though she says that people are asking after me and are hoping that my writing & art are going well and are so prooud of me for going to NY. I know they mean well but sometimes meaning well is not enough and I don't want to right now. I think though it maybe something to work up to because it used to be a good place to me and it should allowed to be again. I will be brave enough to growl.She, Fluffy, says she remembers how strong I was when she met me. That gives me hope I guess, I had thought I was just too silly to be afraid. *l*

I just thought I was doing so well...

2003-12-22T01:13:00.000-08:00

keeping busy, not letting my self fall into the normal dark little trains of thought, keeping the music (not too dark) going in my room to stave off lonely night thoughts when I might havve worried about so much and instead let the music and the candlelight and the book or the project wash over me and fill my consciousness. On the way from the airport Fluffy told stories about the rapes at her campus and a man who has ben sneaking in girls' rooms at night to watch them, sometimes cut their cloths off them. That sort of thing makes me so aware that I sleep next to a big window. That's been going on far away though, north of Seattle. It's so quiet here at night, I need to keep the music going until after I pass out. I haven't slept more than six hours in a row yet.I wasn't self-depricating until you thought I was falling and that make me suspect that I am, somewhere in the back ground falling, even though I've been so carefully not doubting/blaming myself. I had thought I was being so good and brave.But you think I'm falling apart. So maybe I am.Maybe I'm fine. I shouldn't start doubting myself just because you do.

'Say Hello Wave Goodbye' to WA

2003-12-20T08:49:00.000-08:00

"Take your hands off me, hey,I don’t belong to you, you see,And take a look in my face, for the last time,I never knew you, you never knew me,Say hello goodbye,Say hello and wave goodbye,We tried to make it work, you in a cocktail skirt and me in a suit but it just wasn’t me,You’re used to wearing less, and now your life’s a mess, so insecure you see,I put up with all the scenes, this is one scene that’s goin to be played my wayUnder the deep red light I can see the make-up slidin down,Well hey little girl you will always make up so take off that unbecoming frown,As for me, well I’ll find someone who’s not goin cheap in the sales,A nice little housewife who’ll give me a steady life and not keep goingoff the rails."I'm done with you, your scene, and your ways. I'm done lying so much, backing down so much to keep the peace with my enemies, though there are still things I'd rather not say it's not to save you from the embaressed silence after abrasive honesty. I've been carrying your filth on my feet but I'm washing them and sanding down the hard bits. I want to have baby-soft feet that can still feel the difference in the soil of each land. You will no longer be the veil between me and everything. And you will not claim me just because I'm back in bounds.

Observations from a holiday interspersed with notes to her lover (revised)

2003-12-11T09:45:00.001-08:00

November 26, 200311:25 a.m. My mother met me at the airport. I wanted it to be you even though I left you this morning with sleep in your eyes three states away. It’s been eight hours since the last time I hugged you. I miss your shoulders and your smell and the way we talk in museums. 12:10 p.m. I am here to have Thanksgiving with my biological relatives Thanksgiving is a sham holiday you are my home, and as much family as I could want or need3:40 p.m. my relations went their own way to pay respect to memorials to politicians and their acts of violence I feasted my soul on icons Bodhisattvas and Buddhas 10:15 p.m. I tried to call on beauty there was no answer I played on my drum tonight I had not touched it since summer it is smaller than I remembered fake fire in the fireplace black satin to my toes a not very convincing princess Yesterday was the first time in weeks you turned adjectives to pronouns. “Hey Beautiful. Hey, come here, Amazing.” The words resent you. And I in my angsty self-awareness imagine they resent me for being unworthy of them. You scold me for it. November 27, 20035:30pm the wine is very red everyone is watching football I’ve read all the books I brought I’m waiting for them to go to bed so I can go to bed or for a call to get through P.S. we sure fooled those Indians.10:45 p.m. I want to drum for your anger I want to drum for love of you the rest of the house is sleeping send a prayer to the space and I long for the passionate, raging—sometimes peaceful—magic we weave between us November 28, 20034:40 p.m. Security did not blink at my drum or at my miniscule pocketknife next to my flight it says, “On Time” I want to go home but I’m going to Brooklyn it is home when you are in it soon soon5:35 p.m. the man across the aisle is bald as an egg on top with dark brown fluff all around a taxi will be waiting for me in Queens in Brooklyn I will sleep as long as I canNovember 29, 200312:30 p.m. The man on the subway looks like Yosemite Sam. His voice takes over the car miming a conversation between himself and his mother, “YOU CAN’T SEE HER! Oh please, Momma. I WANT HER SO BAD. NO! Please, oh please, her ass smells SO GOOD, Momma.” I cower despite myself. He stares into my chest, wants to sit next to me and to call me Judy Garland,wants to tell me about how hard his life is.I am not Judy Garland. I care about suffering, but not his. He scares me, if he didn’t I’d give him some of my groceries, but as is I bolt off the G train a stop early. I wish I was carrying the knife you gave me.

'Ceramic Lunes' (revised)

2003-12-10T13:37:00.000-08:00

The clay turns.It's beating against my handsimitating a heartbeat.Thumping, off center--too tired of this yearto center clay.Red, like wounds,but pulling away from edges--another ruined bowl.Plain blue cupmade exactly for my handby my hand.On pants: glaze,clay, and pieces of quietcarried around daily. Gazing into revolution,metal-plastic turntable and slip--there's my peace.Hard to believethe glaze--chalky and milky--becomes glossy bright.I'm too cowardlyto sleep, he said, whenpots need throwing.Words drown me,clay conquers thought, then drownsunder my hands.

having achieved cheeseballness I'll now return to work, or something

2003-12-10T13:33:00.000-08:00

You are Form 3, Unicorn: The Innocent."And The Unicorn knew she wasn't meant to
go into the Dark Wood. Disregarding the advice
given to her by the spirits, Unicorn went
inside and bled silver blood.. For her
misdeed, the world knew evil."Some examples of the Unicorn Form are Eve
(Christian) and Pandora (Greek).The Unicorn is associated with the concept of
innocence, the number 3, and the element of
water.Her sign is the twilight sun.As a member of Form 3, you are a curious
individual. You are drawn to new things and
become fascinated with ideas you've never come
in contact with before. Some people may say
you are too nosey, but it's only because you
like getting to the bottom of things and
solving them. Unicorns are the best friends to
have because they are inquisitive.

Which Mythological Form Are You?
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which reminds me I should get back to the poetry revisions

2003-12-10T13:26:00.000-08:00

You are naturally born with a gift, whether it be
poetry, writing or song. You love beauty and
creativity, and usually are highly intelligent.
Others view you as mysterious and dreamy, yet
also bold since you hold firm in your beliefs.

What Type of Soul Do You Have ?
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I suppose this sort of thing only happens because WA wasn't an option sigh

2003-12-10T13:23:00.000-08:00

Oregon is a nice place, isn't it? Yes, it is. You
should live there. So should I. As of now
it's not crowded, but you never know. So
ummmm, ok...Oregon....yeah.

What State Is Perfect For You?
brought to you by Quizilla

'Home..., or something like it' revised

2003-12-10T12:14:00.000-08:00

a house built into the side of the top of a hill outside the city limits of a fairly average town with a Norwegian namebarking of a dog who fell asleep two summers ago with a needle in his vein and never woke up againa graveyard on a hill by the Pacific where the sun sets like a postcard picture and the stars looks like pin pricks where magic leaks into a world that needs morethe town that curls around Liberty Bay and the coffeehouse that hangs over the boardwalk; the comfortable, maddening trap of town and coffeehousesoccer-mom mini-van breaking speed limits and blasting Brit-Indian technoentering the homes of my friends without knocking because to do otherwise would be unnecessarytwo girls with the same name, Sara(h), one the mother of hearts, one a reader of soulsa girl who is my opposite, "Jazz," my negative reflection, Lilith to my Mary, of Janus because we arecannabis in the backyard with sweet peas, lilies, dahlias, and climbing roses, mosaic goddess dances motionless in the center, fresh eggs from nagging chickenscrumpets from scratch, acid coffee, French onion soup by the light of saint candles (I cut all the onions without shedding a tear, she did everything else, and looked like the Madonna)clouds of brightly-colored paper cranes, a yellow submarine, huge finger-painting, and sunset, all floating overheadtwo bookshelves of fiction and poetry, alphabetized by author, or editor, if it's an anthologyan easel, made of scrap wood by my father when he was an art student, too large and awkward to accompany my own scholastic voyageblanket of pin-pricked night sky beneath five bright Tibetan prayer flags when my roommate is silent, by which I mean, when she is absentthe smell left in a clay-colored sweatshirt that I wore to sleep every night when I slept in my own bed for a changebig hands, big enough for mine to disappear insidea bed that smells the way we do, not just as I do

'Cemetery & Beach' (revised)

2003-12-09T12:10:00.000-08:00

night dancing didn’t end until the sun was risingdidn’t rise until middaysquirmed under the sheets until I woke youtook subway lines I’d never taken beforeN R Wnames at either end of the lines chimed in my ears unfamiliar and off-tuneGreenwood Cemetery seems like it should be closer to Coney Islandthe neighborhoods are of the same moldshould have known the cemetery from all the treesin cities there aren’t room for trees among the livingthe catacombs will remain unopened despite plansthey would have been opened for the first time in 165 yearsstay on the paved roads mostlyavoiding the attention of security guardsclearing overgrowth from low set stones when they aren’t lookingwatch you take pictures of stone shapes and carved recordsnames cut in stone have outlasted the minds and hearts they signifiedwill outlast you and mewhen you return to the earth and I to the oceanmore graves to clear then I can managefeeling like a lost child I try to take your handrebuked for offensive action: disrespecting the deadit isn’t hard to understandbut I hope that when my body is cold I would not begrudge anothersome human warmthit takes so long to reach the gatesmy heart aches by the time we reach the streettravel on to Coney Islandtrying to remember how to breathe without thinking about ityou bought me ice cream walked barefoot to the watertried to convince me to touch dead undersea creaturesit seems so much worse to me than holding hands in a graveyardran into the waves until you stopped chasing mecame back thoughlet you take pictures of me until I was red and bashfulwalked on the boardwalk carrying our shoescould feel every board and nail but didn’t get splintersate a large order of fries from Nathan’s I always forget how large a large serving is on this coastbut half of a large is fineyou tell me that Nathan’s is famous for hotdogsI’ve never heard of themboth vegetarians anywaythe only meats I missed were Polish hot dogs and pastramismells of cooking meat make me nauseous nowwaiting in the train stationyou tickled me until I shriekedwent home the way we had come

panel response

2003-12-04T07:53:00.000-08:00

Stacy WyattDecember 2, 2003Friday Forum Response“You really can put the cattle prod to the butt of the muse.” –David GroffThe discussion panel, ‘Publishing Your First Book (and Staging a One-PersonShow)’ primary point seemed to be to emphasize the value of having a community of fellow artist—particularly other writers—and the necessity of perseverance in order to succeed. These points were repeated many times and through various examples that were sometimes reassuring and sometimes somewhat gut-wrenching. One instance they spoke of that fulfilled both was of an author (I can’t recall her name) who sent out the same book for some seventeen years, while continuing to write. It is an instance that I think will stick with me for some time. It forced me as a writer to think about if I can develop enough confidence in a piece to continue to send it out after it has been rejected time and again, and also if I have enough confidence in myself to continue to produce work while a piece I believe in is being so constnatly rejected over a period of many years. The gravity of the situation is only escalated by my youth. I’m nineteen years old, seventeen years is more of my life than I can consciously remember. I only have one or two ideas that have stayed with me and that I still hold to be true to me over the last ten years, and none of those are personal creations of my own. To someone older, seventeen years, although still a long time, is not a lifetime. The idea of a writing community was an idea that seemed to have most of it’s support with the moderator, Elaine Sexton, with some back-up from David Groff. Sexton talked about her group of poet friends meeting together roughly monthly to read their poems to each other. Groff admitted to having friends read his work and the nessesity of getting honest, possibly harsh feedback. The latter seemed more to my taste, rather than having a large set of people as an audience. The audience-reader setting doesn’t appeal to me as a way to get feedback on an unfinished piece if I do not know the audience, all of it’s members, reasonably well, well enough that is to know what I think of their own writing, personality, and thought process. It comes down to this: it makes no sense to me to take advice from someone who you feel is unqualified to give it. I have a hard time accepting advice on my writing from people whose writing I don’t like, even more so if I dislike the writers they admire, while on the other hand I am always willing to listen to, and give thought to, critisism from persons who do not consider themselves to be writers if they have a literary taste that I agree with or at least have respect for.For the most part I found the panel interesting and informative. It was particularly intriguing to hear the different opinions of various author when faced with a given topic and also to see how those authors interacted with each other.

keep the stars in my ears so I can always wish if I feel like it

2003-12-03T10:44:00.000-08:00

*cough*cough* that is all.

correction for Nov 29 entry

2003-11-30T18:56:00.000-08:00

for "Elmer Fud" substitute "Yosemite Sam" (with full beard and bad teeth).*shrug* whatever. the point is the dude was serious creepy.

2003-11-30T15:44:00.000-08:00

Talking to Janus online while we're both listening to KEXP. Talked to Fluffy this morning who was going to go see Em. In a few days Em will be in NYC. In Spring Fluffy will come here. In a month I'll be there and a little after that the best of here will be there. It just seems for a few minutes that the distance between where I am and where I've been might not be so mind-un-wrappable, heart-un-containable. It is a very sweet feeling.

subway

2003-11-29T12:44:00.000-08:00

Elmer Fud called me Judy Garland.I bolted.

2003-11-25T13:26:00.000-08:00

excellent

2003-11-21T15:10:00.000-08:00

Everything I say feels wrong and I want to not be seen rather than feel seen and ridiculed, even if only feeling ridiculed. I'm a stupid there are plenty of things I don't know, Spanish for instance, and lots of important things about life. I want to cry for nothing at all besides the combination of feeling small and insignifigant while simeltaneously feeling clumbsy, bulky, like I take up too much space, like I need too much space to live outside of my head and I care too god-damned much to just go live there alone. I am trying to live as honestly as I can. Wondering if I'm keeping secrets I get suspicious of myself, search myself for anything I might have forgotten that might matter at all. The truth is though that nothing matters. And I have lived the best as I could as it seemed at any given moment and it hasn't come even close to good enough, pathetically lacking in substance actuallly. This isn't anything, I just need more sleep.

2003-11-19T14:59:00.000-08:00

"take a stroll... streach the wings"I can't fly yet,that's kind of the point. I want to learn.

2003-11-19T14:57:00.000-08:00

bluechit13: hiLockJawEternal: hey there sugabluechit13: :-)bluechit13: I really do think I'm just tiredLockJawEternal: i'm talking to rizzlebluechit13: and all the natural things are dying for the year and thats bound to get one downbluechit13: coolbluechit13: I'll be here reading Passosbluechit13: say hello for meLockJawEternal: not gonna chat with ol' e?bluechit13: sorry, I forgot your multi-talentedbluechit13: *you'reLockJawEternal: both online, no stretchLockJawEternal: my fa crap is far from over..bluechit13: I saw you walking away, lookign unpleasedbluechit13: what's up there?LockJawEternal: just more and more to doLockJawEternal: less money needed this time around though, i don't know whybluechit13: well thats some blessingbluechit13: did you find your note this morningbluechit13: ?LockJawEternal: note?bluechit13: on your desk, picture side upbluechit13: *shrug* it wasn't anythingLockJawEternal: read it now, ya shoulda kissed mebluechit13: would you have noticed?LockJawEternal: i saw the card, but i did not realize there was a note on reverzeLockJawEternal: i would have noticed indeedbluechit13: ...Nark talked to me in the copy room and asked if either of us was leaving yetbluechit13: I said it was an ongoing discussion, I din't know what to sayLockJawEternal: lol, did he really?LockJawEternal: what spurred that?bluechit13: I asked if he'd been better satisfied with our essays en masse than spread out across the semesterbluechit13: we talked about that for a few then he asked if we were leavingLockJawEternal: just like that?bluechit13: well if either of us had reconsidered leavingbluechit13: there was a bywaybluechit13: about if any teachers use blubooksbluechit13: I said history teachers and doloffbluechit13: talked about dolofffLockJawEternal: i still think that was the weirdest suggestion everbluechit13: I said he was good because you knew what you were getting itnto and what would be expected of youbluechit13: to have us leave?LockJawEternal: ayebluechit13: if he hates it here and likes us it makes sense LockJawEternal: aye, i suppose it doesbluechit13: I'll get out of the classes as much as I put into them and I don't want to have to get used to another school and system and placeLockJawEternal: that first logic is flawedLockJawEternal: though the second bit is soundbluechit13: I'd get more out of maggie's class if I did the readings moreLockJawEternal: *gasp, gasp* drumming to theese twins is hardbluechit13: I'm not getting good writing critique from anyone but youLockJawEternal: only what you get from the readings, naught to do with the classbluechit13: and for now thatsbluechit13: alrightbluechit13: there will be other classes next semesterbluechit13: I have thad next semesterbluechit13: and ceramics is cool bluechit13: and I've learned book bindsbluechit13: so I've learned somethingLockJawEternal: lol, good looking at the bright side, beautifulLockJawEternal: we will gab later, maybe take a stroll or somethin' stretch the old wingsbluechit13: a walk would be good maybebluechit13: laterLockJawEternal: later lovely, i'mma go be mute O:-)bluechit13: :-)bluechit13: :-*LockJawEternal signed off at 2:33:59 PM.

2003-11-19T11:30:00.000-08:00

picture of my parents came in the mail with my thanksgiving plane ticket. I want to hybernate through thanksgiving in bed with a stack of non-school related books and a hot pot for tea. two pointed out all the ways my parents in our kitchen are like me or connected to me or whatever. I realize I miss our kitchen, the way even when there is nothing I want to eat there are the comfy counters and a cabinets full of teas and another of old cookbooks and a fridge covered in pictures and word magnets. I want enough room for my easel or any easel at all and enough room to spin with a paintbrush in hand. I want to skip school for a week to paint. I don't have an image burning a hole in my head or anything I just want paint, the naph. red and cobalt blue and yellow like egg yoke. they're in the drawer upstair the room isn't mine enough for painting it seems.

Talked to mom two days ago.

2003-11-12T15:04:00.000-08:00

She wasn't okay. Bob died last tuesday. It's easier to not think about that sort of thing here where no one else knows him and nothing reminds me off him directly. Mom was sad about that and worried about money. She said that she wishes now she hadn't set up Thanksgiving in D.C. but she can't refund any of it either so it's goign to continue as planned. When she was planning it I remember asking a few times if she was sure we'd be able to afford it, etc. *shrug* I wish I could find another way to help with money. I was planning to try for an RA positison again, but as someone pointed out I'd hate it. There's no reason for them to chose me anyway. But if I got it it would help my parents alot. I have to try anyway.

It's Halloween!

2003-10-31T09:23:00.000-08:00

I just sent Nark my midterm and it's crisp but not freezing outside and I have spiffy cool insect-ish wings to wear tonight and enough No-Doz to get me through the day and probably some time for a nap in the afternoon...I love Halloween! It's about the crazy-coolest holidays ever. I was going to make sugar skulls this year but haven't gotten around to it yet. I doubt I'll get so inspired as that this afternoon in the few hours between tech and Parade-going, maybe tomorrow though since Sunday is the Day of the Dead and they're technically a day of the dead treat anyway. I'm in such a ridiculously good mood this morning. Nark papers: done. Kamila Shamsie: read. Ceramics teacher: pacified. And I think maybe I do really really like the poem I took ot studio to workshop yesterday and that is just...well, cool. The roses around campus are still blooming and no one has yelled at me for picking them, I have been being stealth but honestly I'm not very good at it. If I wasn't at work I think I'd put on drummy music and spin around unitl I just fell over. Dang, it's going to be sad when this caffeine rush/ mental high passes, but until then I'l probably continue grinning like an idiot.

dream

2003-10-18T19:27:00.000-07:00

Came back from the city to a blessedly empty room. fell asleep with the part of my mind that controls my ability to sleep placated by the smell of you off of your sweatshirt. I dreamed I was alone on a street corner, sitting on the curb, not sure what for, but waiting anyway for something. A man with some tint in his skin (ethnicity unguessable amoungst shadows) approaches me. He has the hood of his sweatshirt up and it throws all of his features but his chin and sometimes lips into dark. I think I might know him but I am not sure. He offers to give me "something to loosen your head and pass the time while we wait," or something like that. I shake my head. He shrugs then gestures to the other side of the street where the shadows are thicker, presumablely from whence he came. I shake my head, no. He looks at me for a second, shrugs again, says, "well, should you change your mind." I nod. He crosses the street and I loose sight of what is him and what is shadow, there is no doubt he is still there somewhere. I continue sitting on the curb, maybe for a very long time. You come in a sweatshirt, hoody pulled up. I do not have to see your face to know it is you, there is no question at all. You berrate me for not knowing your friend, I'm not sure if it is someone I have met before and should therefore have recognized or if there was some code phrase I did not catch. You are angry and you shake me by the shoulders hard so that my teeth ache from striking aginst each other. Waking I know it did not happen, I wonder what I missed. I am going over to the ceramery now I suppose then maybe I'll go grab some Chinese food. Maybe just Chinese food. *shrug

2003-10-15T11:02:00.000-07:00

I didn't go to studio yesterday. I liked the poem I wrote in my notebook, but then I typed it up and cleaned it up for class and hated it. Trying to have integrity in my poem to not have all these unsaid things, but it is harder knowing I have to read them, having them be read is not as awful. I really want an editor more then I want general opinions. I want to know exactly where and why and how I'm not accomplishing whatever the poem is trying to accomplish. I get it sometimes with some people but I couldn't read this one. Maybe on another day I could have but not then and there. There are reasons now I'm glad I didn't but I'm not going to explain those.I never skip class unless I'm sick and then only if I physically can't, so I guess you're winning. I went to the ceramics lab instead and threw six things on the wheel. Maybe one will fit your goblet wish. The piece I like best I stretched it too far and it busted: Less then three inch diameter, about a foot high. I wouldn't have put any "harsh colored" glazes on it and then I have given it to Mom or Nana. Sooner or later I may start overhearing at family functions how the east--school & people (person)--are taming me. ...or something.Last night I dreamed I was sitting in the corner in the foyer making little metal things. Lots of them. they were in sets of three within sets of nine but some how the nines just never happened and it was always threes. The lamp light was too bright, it made my head hurt. There were so many to make and put in little zip-locs. You came and said I was hungry and took me down to the C-Store but it took up the whole basement and everything in it was strange. And the fancy chocolate cookies looked gross, but they had beautiful Alice in Wonderland cards inside. I didn't want you to spend money on me, but you knew I wanted them. That was all really.

2003-10-07T12:51:00.000-07:00

The truth of the matter is simple:I want to be a bat, drinking hard lemonade,and swing dancing across the skyto Jabberwocky jazz.I want to wake up every morning smelling like the man that stayed,and myself, and—after a few minutes—tasting like freshly brewed coffeewhen I go to kiss him awake.

2003-09-21T21:41:00.000-07:00

There are people who I have not spoken to today who I wish I had. I am wondering how you and you and you are. I am reading Stein who I will probably like as soon as I am finished with her for reasons that are not explainable. It is hot and I am waiting for my coffee to cool off enough to be drinkable. I slept until 2:30 this afternoon, and since then have gone out for more orange juice and have been trying to virtuously finish my studio homework while trying to mentally avoid the question of the writing assignment itself. I keep taking breaks to read Tam Lin and daydream of being an english major at Blackstock, but the truth of the matter is that Nick Tooley was amusing but not wonderful, Thomas Lane was not unlike that which is known, I'm not so good at essays and I get to read plenty here and if Blackstock were an art school it would not be very unlike Pratt even if we don't have a Medeous (we can make plenty of our own problems I suppose). So I will mentally christen myself Janet and pull the branches down some other evening and go back to pseudo-english-major-ousity.

2003-09-20T13:44:00.000-07:00

Walking up Bowery last night could have been one of dozens of nights last year, nights I wandered looking for angels that would glow against the night and hopefully see something glowing in me. I would go out hopeful and ready to meet the world and embrace it, after a while all the people and streets would blend together and the high point of the evening was if I could loose myself enough to not know where or how far the nearest subway stop was. Last night I just wanted to get home, get my boot off my feet. Something about wanting to not be noticed made me noticable apparntly, probably the boots.

2003-09-19T15:49:00.000-07:00

This afternoon at work I was checking my email and low and behold I had a note from crazy-fabulous coffeehouse owner lady who is visiting the city. So tonight we're meeting to go to a reading by the author of The Virgin Suicides. Definately hasn't sunk in yet or I wouldn't be able to sit still long enough to type this. *pirouettes around dorm room*

2003-09-18T11:13:00.000-07:00

laying in his bed I was a mess, a dizzy-headed, snotty-nosed, limp-limbed, useless girl. and he was so good to me my heart went all teary and as runny as my nose as he fetched me my teddy bear from five flights up and gently wiped the fevered sweat from my skin with a damp cloth. no one has ever been so kind to me. no one has ever wanted to give me the world. no one has ever wished they could give me wings. I remember now what I have known since the day we met under the stars: he is too good for me. to spend a life time attempting to live up to his praise would be a life well and sweetly lived, spent pleasing him. may I be allowed to continue trying.

2003-09-12T11:26:00.000-07:00

I am never truthful enough, been lying to myself so long I don't catch them anymore unless you do.

2003-09-09T12:21:00.000-07:00

Hotspur walks among us, and he knows it. In hopes of being truthful I wound who I love. My speech is too blunt, I come from a place where we speak so starkly that what we say is harder than what we mean when we walk in china shops. Aye, I move like a bull. I think I'll just shut-up again.My walls are bare and my bed is strange to me, thorugh it's new softness is sweet. (Thanks for bringing my stuff, Tey.)My secrets made part of the discourse as you flip through pages I'd assumed I could trust to stay closed, though I do understand it. I am not claiming to be a saint. At work I make chains of paper cranes for the sake of wishes. I'm not sure what I'm wishing for anymore.

2003-09-08T22:33:00.000-07:00

tool

2003-09-04T12:01:00.000-07:00

Chill out, space-case mouse-child. Everything will work out, you are not alone, and you have your words, and colors, and rain too. The things that are wrong aren't in your hands and worrying will help nothing.

2003-09-03T09:24:00.000-07:00

Anti-social. No point in denying it really. Funny, from the inside of your head it never really seems so clear cut as that. I suppose thats why labels happen. If you put a name on something it's in a box, it has defined edges, boundries. After that you know where it ends and where people (theoretically) fit, and then you don't have to think about it so much (theoretically). I don't mind. I don't care... except sometimes when I do... It's just the way I'm made, all of it, the caring and also the not caring. They're cutting my hours at the office, not right away it seems, but soon. As if this year wasn't already tight. If I'd kept my religion I wonder if I would have been made a RA last year, then this wouldn't be a problem... ...just spilt milk. right-right-right. It doesn't matter, very little does. Not tears, bruises, or even words. Maybe not anything, nothing at all.

2003-08-28T23:20:00.000-07:00

...k, so I'm still packing, but only cause I know I still have 3.5 hours and I keep getting bored. I have however just done something very very responsible that I've been putting off since winter break: I restarted my hard drive after saving everything of any possible importance. (My dad passed me some bogus photo program to install last november that made it so my laptop wouldn't go into hibernation properly even after I uninstalled everything of it.) Bout time, I mean really who but me would put off something like that for most of a year... jeez-louise, pathetic... 'Course I am still packing so I must have some sort of monopoly on the word at this point. ...In other news I tripped over a stack of library books, slid on Neruda's 100 Sonnets across the carpet and banged my leg on the frame of my bed, the bruise that is now forming seems to be about half and inch wider than my hand and about two inches longer. Sad, just sad. ...yeah, serious lack of motivation over here. I think I'll go make some more coffee.

(practice)

2003-08-27T16:58:00.000-07:00

Which one of Captain Jack Sparrow's bizarre sayings from Pirates of the Caribbean are you?I saw this, made me think of you. I'm hoping desperately that I linked it right.

2003-08-27T13:42:00.000-07:00

Protector

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2003-08-26T19:03:00.000-07:00

"I've changed my mind so much I can't even trust itMy mind changed me so much I can't even trust myself"-'talking shit about a pretty sunset,' Modest Mouse"i miss brooklyn i miss my crewlet's start overi missed my cueguess i just forgotwho i was talking to"-'god's country,' Ani DifrancoI miss where I'm going, I miss where I've been, I even kinda miss where I am, but I still want to be gone. I just want to sleep and I can't sleep here like I did when I was more used to alone. I put CDs on loop all night so I won't miss heartbeats. I fill the bed with pillows and kick them all out in my sleep. I'm just gonna go displace blood with coffee and stay up until I fall on my own.

2003-08-24T14:36:00.000-07:00

Driving through downtown pseudo-hippy/bohemian-definately-aged-yuppy-town in the monolithic soccer-mom mobile vibrating with the base of Brit-Indian techno and pissed-&-yelling Ani Difranco, windows rolled down, thumbs up from the bakery workers (all the workers heavily pierced).Making-faces contests with the bored children of the aged-yuppies while their parents aren't watching. Drinking hard lemonade whilst reading Hans Christian Anderson and losing to yourself at pool.

2003-08-23T07:26:00.000-07:00

would you think me cold hearted if I said leaving books behind breaks my heart?buena vista social club is good in the mornings when the caffeine just won't kick in and I'm falling off my feet.the sweet nothings (very not nothings) still hit me like a mac truck every time.

you get what you paid for, but consider keeping the reciept

2003-08-21T22:28:00.000-07:00

my mother's coworkers are always surprised to meet me, especially at 9am when I am still in my pajamas: boy's boxers with fish & a violently worded tee shirt (I refrain from explaining that it is the title of a book). I am not preppy or perky. somehow going out to dinner my parents are still surprised when I pair converse and a skirt, though I do almost every time. I am still not the daughter they thought they were getting. time apparently teaches nothing.

2003-08-21T00:12:00.000-07:00

I take a deep breath and let the sigh slide the stories, the memories back, back down, where ever they go, until I need to recount them to the ones who deserve to know or until it is night and I am alone, they come then too sometimes. Socks I'm putting at the back of a drawer. I'll find a way to consider later. I just want to let the peaceful memory of his low voice wash over me, let him lend me a little restfulness.

2003-08-19T16:10:00.000-07:00

Bob has been diagnosed with cancer. He's my dad's best friend. Kendra, Bob's wife, is one of my mom's closest friends. I can only barely remember before we knew them. I can't imagine more than once ever seeing either of them not smiling. We'd known he might have it since the fifth. Now it's certain. Bob has been really sick the past few weeks. They're debating chemo and "quality of life."...I can't think of this in terms of anything but facts.

so good

2003-08-18T23:03:00.000-07:00

I found a matchbox car Thunderbird. I found very pink nail polish. Now I have a tiny pink Thunderbird. If you see it drive by remember to make a wish.I will take it with me tomorrow to see my child birthday-twin and her mom. I have an Invader Zim patch for them, been hoarding it for months.

2003-08-17T10:06:00.000-07:00

Cancer. 8-17-03"It may be scary for you to do anything risky for fear of conflict or failure, dear Cancer. Perhaps you have tried to become invisible in different situations so that you can slip through the cracks without being noticed. These defense mechanisms may serve you for a while, but acting from a basis of fear or guilt will never get you where you need to go in life. For you to achieve what you want, you need to act from a solid foundation of confidence, love, and faith."

2003-08-15T22:25:00.000-07:00

I lay in the grass,heart pounding against the ground.I let the fear swallow me:wondering if now he will not hold me--though somewhere in me a clear calm voicewhispers, "that's not what he meant,that can't have been what he meant."I half know it is true, but also half whimper at the thought of even more nightsalone, arms wrapped around; aroundonly myself. Cold--outside & in--as they said once, naming me Ice Queen,unwilling to give away my embrace,not even just a kiss.Somethings are never 'just.'I have always known this too well.

2003-08-14T21:25:00.000-07:00

Janus is back. The air is easier to breathe. It is easier to smile. I can laugh at anything.

"I said what I said, but you know what I mean."

2003-08-13T09:53:00.000-07:00

-Modest Mouse, 'Dramamine'...just more white noise really...

stream-lining words [why not?]

2003-08-12T22:10:00.000-07:00

16 days, give or take a few hours. I keep listening to Modest Mouse, to keep my head straight. (When I can't have Modest Mouse, then it's overly straight forward poetry or unclear fiction. It works.) I'm not sure what I'm keeping it straight from, but when it's off kilter it's less comfortable and as far as I can tell no closer to an answer at this point. I'll let it go later when I at least have some new material to chew on. For the record, possiblity or impossiblity, happiness or sadness, are all irrelevant. I just want to do my work/art/words/colors/stuff and have some good, chill folks about, after that I don't really give a damn. I like to taste my tears too, you know. I didn't expect to get this far, so lets just see where this little boat ride goes anyway. I mean I (may) only get one life, it's all anyone gets. So lets's play. "Play on." Lol & dear god below..."You go out like a riptideYou know that ball has no sidesYou're an angel with an amber haloBlack hair and the devil's pitchforkWind-up anger with the endless view ofThe ground's colorful patchwork"...a going nowhere, nowhere to go night... bowling alley? no thanks, Em. I'm tired of scenesters, scenes, how bout I go where I'm happy, but Jo is asleep and there aren't any breathing poetry readings here that I know of, and my plane isn't going anywhere for sixteen days and nine hours. Maybe should call Erin and see if I can hang with her and my child soul-twin, soon, before I go, before the child forgets me...How does everything keep coming up so simeltaneously sacred and grotesque? I want to put the world on a pedesal and it makes me want to vomit too. The duality is what I love and it is also what I hate most. "I haven't hung out with anyone'Cause if I did, I'd have nothing to sayI didn't feel angry or depressedI didn't feel anything at allI didn't want to go to bedAnd I didn't want to stay up lateWhen youre living your life, well, that's the price you payWhenever I breath out, you're breathing it inWhenever I speak out, you're speaking out"I keep thinking that if I could pin point when I stopped believing in some really beautiful stuff then I could figure out how to fix it. This is probably what they call growing up, but I just wanted to be taller was all. Sometimes it feels so forced and sometimes it just goes. I don't know. I don't know. I don't know.

'...No one has ever seen..." "Stick around, chief. You ain't seen nothing yet."

2003-08-11T13:47:00.000-07:00

"And I said you shouldn't make facts out of opinionsHe said that I was rightYou're right I knew that I wasAnd I'd hate to see anybody thank youBut I'd like to see you fail saying thank you thoughI'm not sure who I amI'm not sure who I am but I know who I've beenAnd I said you can't make everybody happyHe said you'd like to at least make yourself happy thoughI'm not sure who I amI'm not sure who I am but I know who I've been"Sure, try if you like, I will too, but at the very least, at the end of the day, try and make yourself happy. I'll try too; both.Happiness, really, may be an impossibility, but it makes a nice dream."Impossibility is what they call things they haven't seen yet."

2003-08-11T00:37:00.000-07:00

She reminded me it's the silence that gets dangerous. Keep something going, movies, music, something. And I said, "yeah, I know." I do. Daydreams in an afternoon when the batteries died: Lust, then--such torture deemed unhealthy--self annihilation.We both admit it is something in us, not just the town, but the town doesn't help. On the street I dig in my pocket for my school i.d. for reassurance.

breaking eggs/knocking heads

2003-08-08T19:37:00.000-07:00

"How long are you boiling those for?""Ma, the eastcoaster already harassed me for how I make my eggs. Leave it be.""Does he agree with me?""No... I don't need to argue with you too, my eggs are just fine and I haven't gotten any non-cooked food diseases yet, and I'm the only one eating them.""Maybe you need some less feisty friends to keep your head cool.""I'm only 'feisty' with you.""Would your professors agree?""Ma...""I'm just saying.""Jesus.""Your language.""Ugh..."Watched 'Girl Fight' today. Almost makes you want to take up boxing.

purely theoretically...

2003-08-07T23:42:00.000-07:00

It shouldn't have suprised her, it didn't really. He'd always said that he was a drifter. She said she was a troubadour. Since she was his "lover," "maybe soulmate," she'd figured that meant they could wander together, at least for a little while. He called at one o'clock on her day off. He knew it was her day off. Ten seconds:"Hello?" "Hey beautiful, gotta go. Love you. Bye.""Bye."At the time it seemed like just one of his odd, sweet, random phone calls, like the times he'd called just to say 'good morning' when she was working the early bird shift, or to remind her to tell her dad 'Happy Father's Day' from him. In retrospect however it was bigger. The thought didn't even occur to her for a day or two when she hadn't seen him online since the night before he called. Sometimes they missed nights when stuff came up or either of them fell asleep. By the third night she was considering being worried, even though their last online conversation had left her sated and worry-free.A week later she guessed he had either died on the streets or had finally gotten out of the dead-end town; hoped for the latter.

It had not rained since June.

2003-08-05T21:09:00.000-07:00

It is raining. I am soaked. "i could do a lot of things and i do"I walked the waterfront paths through the trees and to the end of the docks. A heron & I walked carefully around each other on the end of a dock, each ready to take flight should there be any sudden moves. There were none. Maybe we were dancing. "and i've gotno illusions about youand guess what?i never didand when i saidwhen i said i'll take iti meant, i meant as is"I spun circles in the puddles in the parking lot between the old tavern and the boat launch and the old men in the bar looked away because my wet energy only made them more tired. The younger crowd did not see me go by as they glued their eyes to the television on their night out at the new sports bar where the biker bar used to be. At least the bikers used to be funny and sweet and loud. The girls closing the italian restaurant in rain slickers glared at me. The boys smoking under a corner of roof called out to me and I kept running. "i'm like a catyeah the kind of cat that you just can't pick upand throw into your lapno, the kind that doesn't mind being heldonly when its her ideayeah, the kind that feels what she decides to feelwhen she is good and ready to feel it"I laughed and sang Ani Difranco lyrics into the wind and danced and spun and was alive.

2003-08-05T15:17:00.000-07:00

Mom just called me. Bob has liver cancer. He has a 2% chance of survival. I can't imagine Kendra without Bob. I can barely remember Dad before Bob. I can't remember Bob not laughing or smiling; I can't imagine him not being around. I can't wrap my heart or head around this.

2003-08-05T13:18:00.000-07:00

"But I fear I have nothing to giveAnd have so much to loseHere in this lonely placeTangled up in our embraceThere's nothing I'd like better than to fallBut I fear I have nothing to give"-Sarah McLachlan

Optomitry

2003-08-05T09:03:00.000-07:00

I sit calmly, missing essential parts.I had said that I'd like to be a bat, but I just wanted to fly,not to be blindas I am now,in a too-straight-backhigh chair, feet hangingoff the floor by inches, without glasses,without contacts.Vision further impairedby clumps of still damp midnightas I clutch my fuzzy green rectanglewith my soft-edged pink claws,tempted to open to white pages and words. Remembering I recoil from disappointmentstill fearing the change of the page, the smudgy gray and black horizontal linesI know they wait inside, words very absent.I remember the old days in classrooms,asked to read, demanded, hopelesslyI blurred the world further with my tears, a long unanswered prayer to understandhow to find letters and words in horizontal smudges. I will not open the book, not until they give me back my eyes.

topless inequality

2003-08-04T09:18:00.000-07:00

As I shall be returning to a summer much warmer than the one I am currently suffering through I figured it was about time I check out the state's take on toplessness..."New York Law: 245.01 Section 245.01.09 - Exposure of a PersonA person is guilty of exposure if he appears in a public place in such a manner that the private or intimate parts of his body are unclothed or exposed. For purposes of this section, the private or intimate parts of a female person shall include that portion of the breast which is below the top of the areola. This section shall not apply to the breastfeeding of infants or to any person entertaining or performing in a play, exhibition, show or entertainment."...so in short I can only go topless if I have a child or am making a living by it. Thanks, but no thanks. In other news I can't figure out exactly what WA's nudity law entails, but presumably it's not usually as hot as this so the idea of going topless is seldom appealing anyway. *shrug*...I'm not sure I'd have the guts for it anyway, but I'd like to think that if I wanted to I could. Some French feminist lawyers need to attack the NY nudity laws with a vengeance.

dream

2003-08-03T07:01:00.000-07:00

pinned down to my bed in the night. doesn't seem like a dream. I can barely breathe under their weight. I know I can't move. I force my eyes open to look at them, to plead with my eyes since my voice doesn't seem to be work. My eyes open and I am awake. my own weight presses me into the waterbed. my own hands grip my shoulders arms crossed against my torso, gripping me down with only my own shape.I am my nightmare.

2003-07-31T16:20:00.000-07:00

Ask me, then. Ask me anything. I will tell you how you were distant. I will tell you how few centimeters it would have taken for me to fall, how easily I can step to the edge of a cliff. I wonder if my fear of asking might come to visit you sooner of later: 'do I really want to know the answer?' You can call me pure, but you don't know how far I've fallen. (And yet anything I say feels small, puritanical, in the face of your life and trials) ...and that's fine. You'd only say it was more theortical purity anyway, cause I've traced all the lines and, yes, sooner of later it all falls back to beginnings, as if it wasn't true of everyone.

much sighing

2003-07-30T23:44:00.000-07:00

There were tons of people at the lake today. None wanted to follow the rules, they aren't even very complicated rules. sigh. Our megaphone is broken. My chest hurts and voice is soft and horse from yelling across the swimming area. There are a least a few people in the county now that would like to see me in great discomfort. One father bawled me out when I told him we'd have to put his kid out of the lake if the kid didn't start following the rules. It was really kinda scary, for a second I was just waiting for him to loose it and hit me, not because I was at all confrontational or harsh, but just because he just seemed so innately angry. He and his dudes kept an eye on me while I was picking up garbage at the end of my shift. That was scary too.The head guard tried to talk religion with me starting with, "If you think this weather is hot, whew, think about hell..." As a guard he's one of the best there are, but I'm glad we usually work different lakes.I'm glad I'm not guarding for a few days and then not at that lake. sigh.And so after that it was good to listen to voiceless music from a friend, and like wise to type, again voicelessly, such a sweet thought after such a day.

2003-07-29T18:40:00.000-07:00

"...And what you thought you came forIs only a shell, a husk of meaningFrom which the purpose breaks only when it is fulfilledIf at all. Either you had no purposeOr the purpose is beyond the end you figuredAnd is altered in fulfillment....You are here to kneel Where prayer has been valid." -T.S. Eliot"Do not now seek the answers, which cannot now be given you because you would not be able to live them. And the point is to live everything. Live the questions now." -Rainer Maria Rilke

2003-07-29T10:20:00.000-07:00

If I can keep reading enough books fast enough I can force the dark thoughts to at least gather where I don't have to entertain them loudly, and if I let Eliot and Rilke recite loudly enough against the chamber walls I will not have to hear the banging at the doors. I t may not be a solution but at this point I'm willing to settle for a long-winded fix if it will keep me from tossing away all semblence of confidence on a passing thought. Why does every good thing become a height I might be inclined to jump from? I'm not gonna jump cause this once there's nothing to escape from just the fear of what may come. I've said it myself (I admit it so you can't turn it on me) you cannot live your life in fear, by which I of course meant you should not and it isn't good for you. But I've always lived that way, except the few days I can fill enough to block the doors and drown out the freezied knocking.

thoughts writtten on my arm after lifeguarding

2003-07-27T19:34:00.000-07:00

The tears you can no longer shed well up in my eyes, threatening to crawl down my cheeks. An overflow of unasked questions. Afraid of getting some answers, hard edge words waiting to cut me open. [You'll ask for meaning, but when I go to look for the questions I can only find the stupid ones that mean nothing at all.]

first slice of day

2003-07-26T05:32:00.000-07:00

I leave the window open to let air move into my cave of color room. In the morning the breeze catches my skin, the sharp edge of morning. Climb the stairs for a cup of heat having forgotten the ache that left me fetally curled around the dark center of a pain I know to be minimal if taken to the scales. It meets me in the morning half way up the stairs, a punch in the gut on a deserted street. I rest on the top step resting my forehead and mind against the hardwood floor, there was a time when walking on it seemed like walking on corpses. But hardly anyone can maintain ideals like that for long, though that was the summer they cut down all the trees and left a wasteland hill. I can hear dad rising from his own bed and raise myself before an attack of questions I do not want to bear. I'm tired of the mundane questioning, I savor the questions stemmed from honest human contact, even more so when they truly hear my answers. thank you.Today is the day of innocence, of Alexander, at least the morning is, then on to a lake. Whee! [just kidding]

2003-07-26T05:27:00.000-07:00

"Innocence can't be lost, it just need to be maintained." -Jewel

2003-07-25T04:16:00.000-07:00

...this is what I see and how I see it, and I'm not sure why it's hard to understand or how things got to be this way, but is just who I am, it is what I am too.

2003-07-24T02:42:00.000-07:00

Fluffy took me with her to the fragrancy shop. I think maybe it would smell good if it did not smell so very much. She smelled flowery stuff and I poked through the clerance bin. I found a bar of clear soap with a little plastic taxi inside. I sat on the floor and made vroom noises. I miss NYC, it makes her sad because she misses me. I think I will have to call and read poetry to her answering machine while she is in class next year. It always made me happy when she did it. "so you're her jollier, less stoic half?" sometimes she's more, sometiems less. we wax and wane.

to X

2003-07-22T21:39:00.000-07:00

How? How? How after all this time? I didn't speak to you & for once you knew better than to speak to me. But you were there, you just were. More than enough. I want to vomit with disgust... fear or self-loathing or whatever the hell it is you inspire. You make me hate that I have to keep living. You make me hate. Hate everything. Nothing seems good when I have to look directly at the fact that you exist. And it isn't you even. I don't hate you. The only person I've ever really hated is myself, and something about you makes my self-loathing the hugest thing in mmy whole world besides maybe how much I love E. But you taint that too. You make me feel unworth of everything even of you and if I am unworthy of you how much more am I unworthy of him?

(falling off my feet)

2003-07-21T21:13:00.000-07:00

I keep falling asleep with crystals in my eyes, off to dream of poetry I haven't read yet & other poetry I'm still looking for the words to write....and today like the day before I went out into the world to prove to it & to me that it cannot make me love it less by being itself, just as I wait up for you & you for me, on nights when the request may or may not be unspoken. yes, as late as we can.

Janus! Whee!

2003-07-21T11:58:00.000-07:00

I just talked to Janus, and she's okay, and with a decent sounding guy, and coming home for a bit in August! Whee!!!

lake lifeguards

2003-07-20T23:02:00.000-07:00

the sun was so bright today that our heads ached. she told me her sins and I wondered if she'd been raised something like Catholic. he explained the practicality of suicide and I got it but my thoughts are moving either too slowly or too quickly to make my interesting any more than purely intellectual, besides he's only reciting anyway, he's never wanted sharp things against his skin. likewise his interest in the story of a girl selling her body for food is purely the study of a curiousity, rather than a serious considereation of tragedy or justice. how can she keep smiling like that? I have a hard time believe the truth of it for so long, it maybe only a social habit picked up in some circles I suppose. the one who returned thinks she is mad for him, but I know she is mad at him. she made him half drown her before she'd allow herself the indignity of be rescued by his pompus ass. the veggie-eater is curiousity unheard of. they ask, "are you? are you really?" and the southerners look at me saddly as if I had just explained that I have a large whole in my heart.

2003-07-20T08:56:00.000-07:00

...well, if nothing else at least I have a ticket back East now. I kinda miss school, but there's so much to do & get done between here & there, so I guess I need the time.I want to be a Buddha without guidelines, an Ani Difranco song without tears or a Dar Williams song without the honkey tonk. I want to be a blue and silver fish and a bat like a fearless, flying mouse. I want to be a very thin glass cup that is absolutely unshatterable.

a mouse makes a very small stand on her own behalf

2003-07-18T15:36:00.000-07:00

X has moved back. Fluffy told me two days ago. I saw him on the street and kept walking. He followed me to the bookstore. He said my name. I turned and looked at him unsurprised, "Yes?""Oh...I didn't think you had recognized me.""No, I did." I walked into the bookstore.I am not afraid or sorry or weirded out. Whew.

the good stuff

2003-07-16T23:05:00.000-07:00

shine on a soap bubble. butterfly wings, angel wings, bat wings.very small wrists.shoulders like the skulls of very small animals.sun-warmed apples.coffee with cream & sugar.sharp mustard on egg salad sandwiches.bright cobalt blue sweater.Fluffy playing Alice's Resterant into my voicemail.the way Banjo used to stay awake until he knew I was in the house, and woke up with me when I had to work the dead-of-morning shift, and how you could always hear him coming because his tags chimed together, and his shit-eat grin when we were chasing him when he lit his ear on fire while investigating the bottle rockets, the texture of his tongue on salty cheeks.big cocoa-powder-&-curry hands. the smell of Smack's hair on my hands after I brush it.Gale's laughter. Dad's I-am-so-proud-of-you smile. Mom's stern I-am-not-going-to-tell-you-again-but-I-don't-approve look. hand-written letters that look like the voice sounds.very-deep-red or sunset-colored roses.fuzzy white dandelions (& their wishes). robed monks (of preferablely eartern denominations) in airports who smile like good-natured children.very soft sweaters & old teddy bears.shards of mirror, or blue glass, or any glass found smoothed by it's enviorment (whether the street or the sea).yummy books.paper cranes.stars.art museums. open-air farmer/craft markets.hugs that are too ardent to worry about being polite.Indian techno mixes with heavy beats. bare feet in warm sand.

you made me think of this last night,

2003-07-15T11:13:00.000-07:00

before things got ugly...your kisses couldn't decide between miso & vanillahow could I ever get enough your fingertips were rose petalsthey could not ever be too roughI want to come to youwith the force of a hurricaneand the passion of a thunderstormbut I come to you like the lightest rainonly whisperingyou take my breath awayI want to write you a book of songs -(6-9-03)

2003-07-14T22:08:00.000-07:00

the ginger-soy-cucumber flavor of my rice rolls is the clever comeback I never thought I'd be brave enoughto say, with eyes sparkling like ice melting in hard lemonade on a too-hot night. I want to lick your lips and leaving you tasting lemon & ginger sweetness on your lips.

Tex's Pick-Ups

2003-07-10T06:55:00.000-07:00

*wince* Tex is a lecherous old man who swims at the pool. He has become infamous for shamelessly hitting on sweet old women & the lifeguards, should they be distinguishably female.Tex's pick up line today;'Let's go fishing!'When the weary female would question further, or try to ignore him, he'd add...'at Fred Myer. It'll be fun!'He has also been known to leave large boxes of raw steak ("home made") around the pool, out of 'generousity.' Quite nauseating. Uggh.

dream:

2003-07-10T00:49:00.000-07:00

(since I am not relishing the idea of going back to sleep)I am walking in a city, kinda resembles the area around the UN in NYC, but as it is on Sunday afternoons--empty, or very nearly so; like 5th Ave at two in the morning on a week night, but without beauty. It feels like the first couple days in Brooklyn--lost. (I rememeber I couldn't even get breakfast the first morning, the cafeteria didn't open until that afternoon cause I'd arrived the night before offical check-in. I kept getting lost on campus, so I figured I'd best not leave by myself yet, gave that up in 24 hours...) ...Any way wandering around this empty city area... I'm lost and I know it, I'm looking for something, a street name, a building number, a sign, something. I find this basement resterant. No one is really paying attention to me so I slide in even though I'm not a customer and have no intention of being one; though I'm hungery I'm also dead broke. In the back of the resterant theres a door way, if their weren't two other doorways marked as bathrooms you'd probably guess it was that. I go through the door way.Through the doorway is a bedroom, like a dorm room, very utilitarial, metal bed frames that sag in the middle, dingy white sheets, florescent lights, gray cement walls and floors, but it also has random personal effeminate touches: a red paper lantern hanging from the corner of a flourescent light fixture, a pink and red throw blanket at the foot of one bed, on the other a green and blue one. Two desks, one messier than the other, more personal items. Tammy is casually sitting on the bed with the pink & red throw. On the other bed is a girl I don't recognize. When I come in Tammy acts as if she's been expecting me and intoduces me to her roommate. At some point I turn my back on the roommate for a moment and when I look back to her she is a different girl entirely. I don't comment because I have the distinct impression that to do so would seem rude. I find myself back on the street. Time has passed, could be hours or days, but I'm still hungery, but I have a crumpled dollar, maybe two. I buy an egg from a dimmly lit groccery shop, the proprieter is distinctly elderly Russian. I carry the egg back to Tammy's. I don't have anywhere else to go. I'm holding the egg very carefully, but as I walk the egg starts to crack and the yolk starts leaking out in my fingers. I started walking faster, nearly running, I know I need this food. Going through the resterant, there is a boy eating with his parents. I can't figure out why he stands out for a moment, but I realize it is because he notices me while everyone else seem to not see me. He wants to ask who I am an where I'm going and what I'm carrying, I know this. I duck into the door in the back before he can excuse himself from his table.Through the doorway the room has changed, still cement walls and floors, but it's a bathroom not a bedroom. Six toilets, three on each wall on either side of the door way, no stalls, just open, no privacy. It hasn't been cleaned in a long time and you can smell it. Two or three of the toilets are plugged and backed up. The smell and view of the room makes me need to vomit. I try to vomit into one of the toilets but it sticks in my mouth as if to suffocate me. I'm still trying desperately to keep the rest of the egg yolk from leaking out on to the floor. I'm really afraid of someone coming in, if they do I know there will be real trouble. I know they will hurt me, badly, really badly. At this point the phone rang and woke me, and I was glad.

ceruleanpulp

posted 2-26-04, but none the less...

this may be really, really bad. well, someone needs to tell me.

Blood Sonnets

6,000 gallon Chevron oil spill in Puget Sound

Today...

I just thought I was doing so well...

'Say Hello Wave Goodbye' to WA

Observations from a holiday interspersed with notes to her lover (revised)

'Ceramic Lunes' (revised)

having achieved cheeseballness I'll now return to work, or something

which reminds me I should get back to the poetry revisions

I suppose this sort of thing only happens because WA wasn't an option *sigh*

'Home..., or something like it' revised

'Cemetery & Beach' (revised)

panel response

keep the stars in my ears so I can always wish if I feel like it

correction for Nov 29 entry

subway

Talked to mom two days ago.

It's Halloween!

dream

(practice)

you get what you paid for, but consider keeping the reciept

so good

"I said what I said, but you know what I mean."

stream-lining words [why not?]

'...No one has ever seen..." "Stick around, chief. You ain't seen nothing yet."

breaking eggs/knocking heads

purely theoretically...

It had not rained since June.

Optomitry

topless inequality

dream

much sighing

thoughts writtten on my arm after lifeguarding

first slice of day

to X

(falling off my feet)

Janus! Whee!

lake lifeguards

a mouse makes a very small stand on her own behalf

the good stuff

you made me think of this last night,

Tex's Pick-Ups

dream:

I suppose this sort of thing only happens because WA wasn't an option sigh