I'm sitting around waiting for someone to recognize me, and I don't think it's going to happen yet.
things are pretty unrealistic these days. I'm waiting for the boredom and skin to clear; I'm waiting for Friday, and driving to Texas. these are the days that I wish that were over: Monday through Thursday, debating banality with the walls. these are the days that I wish I had perfect vision and green eyes. these are the days that I wish it were summer next year, that my life would fast forward; that I wasn't trapped in this halfway armpit of shit. welcome to the Leap Year of our discontent. welcome to losing your headphones in a snowbank; to running your chair over your wool coat; to kicking the fucking dog; to not preparing for tommorrow. welcome to waiting for the rest of your life to get started, while it's just busy ending one day at a time.
I haven't had a vegetable in a week. I'm failing miserably.
"Watching white moon face,
The stars never feel anger,
Blah, blah, blah, the end."
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Friday, February 22, 2008
today I did this good deed.
I'm not of the opinion that good deeds need to be rewarded or actualized or anything like that. I don't want recognition; it's not that kind of deed. it just made me feel good.
I went to Chicago today to see the Edward Hopper special exhibit at the Art Institute. (it was one badass art exhibit.) on the way back, after narrowly beating rushhour traffic, deciding AGAINST pizza for once, and falling asleep a few times, we stopped to pee at a rest stop. the minute I open my door, the guy next to me opens his and gets out of his car.
he's tall. lanky. plain face, blue eyes. texas longhorns baseball hat. I think he was wearing sweatpants. he starts talking, stumbling over basic shit: I'm almost embarrassed to ask this; well, I am embarrassed really, but I don't know what else to; no one will help me and I'm; I just want to get back to Purdue; etcetera...
I'm skeptical at best. like yeah right. but he puts a hand to his forehead and it's shaking. like bad shaking. and he looks like he's tearing up and I can hear it in his voice, and he just wants 4 or 5 gallons of gas. and I go, yeah I can do 4 or 5. I'll put it on my card.
so Carol and me go to the gas pump with him and he's all grateful: oh thank you thank you I'll pay you back. and I'm going, how are you going to pay me back, you go to Purdue. so I say no, whatever, it's fine. 4 or 5 gallons isn't that much.
and he drives off and I put the receipt in my wallet, and go pee.
I've been feeling very wholesome lately. like green wholesome, like save the planet, do good deeds, whatever. I guess this is one for Karma or statistics or whatever.
I'm not of the opinion that good deeds need to be rewarded or actualized or anything like that. I don't want recognition; it's not that kind of deed. it just made me feel good.
I went to Chicago today to see the Edward Hopper special exhibit at the Art Institute. (it was one badass art exhibit.) on the way back, after narrowly beating rushhour traffic, deciding AGAINST pizza for once, and falling asleep a few times, we stopped to pee at a rest stop. the minute I open my door, the guy next to me opens his and gets out of his car.
he's tall. lanky. plain face, blue eyes. texas longhorns baseball hat. I think he was wearing sweatpants. he starts talking, stumbling over basic shit: I'm almost embarrassed to ask this; well, I am embarrassed really, but I don't know what else to; no one will help me and I'm; I just want to get back to Purdue; etcetera...
I'm skeptical at best. like yeah right. but he puts a hand to his forehead and it's shaking. like bad shaking. and he looks like he's tearing up and I can hear it in his voice, and he just wants 4 or 5 gallons of gas. and I go, yeah I can do 4 or 5. I'll put it on my card.
so Carol and me go to the gas pump with him and he's all grateful: oh thank you thank you I'll pay you back. and I'm going, how are you going to pay me back, you go to Purdue. so I say no, whatever, it's fine. 4 or 5 gallons isn't that much.
and he drives off and I put the receipt in my wallet, and go pee.
I've been feeling very wholesome lately. like green wholesome, like save the planet, do good deeds, whatever. I guess this is one for Karma or statistics or whatever.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
technology is the most frustrating of all fucking frustrations. maybe just short of technology is "people in the mac lab photoshopping strawberries over their faces". there is no use for faces replaced by strawberries, or maybe there are small uses but faceberries are mostly unbeneficial and probably just unapatizing.
the battle of the vegetable continues: I have been eating brocchli salad (I have never eaten brocchli, never mind bothered to write about it, so I have no idea how to spell it) pretty nonstop. just a few days ago, at panera, I ordered a salad. a motherfucking salad in a resteraunt. bells and whistles should have gone off; confetti should have dropped from the ceiling; a full marching band should have blasted through the joint, with shriners zooming around on scooters and beauty queens throwing handfuls of candy to adoring crowds. that is how fucking EPIC this moment was. never before, for the first time in public: that sort of EPIC.
there are just days that I don't get to eat. and I'm okay with that. fortunately there is an airhead, just waiting for me.
airhead in my bag,
bitches in the lab,
this makes my mouth feel funny.
the battle of the vegetable continues: I have been eating brocchli salad (I have never eaten brocchli, never mind bothered to write about it, so I have no idea how to spell it) pretty nonstop. just a few days ago, at panera, I ordered a salad. a motherfucking salad in a resteraunt. bells and whistles should have gone off; confetti should have dropped from the ceiling; a full marching band should have blasted through the joint, with shriners zooming around on scooters and beauty queens throwing handfuls of candy to adoring crowds. that is how fucking EPIC this moment was. never before, for the first time in public: that sort of EPIC.
there are just days that I don't get to eat. and I'm okay with that. fortunately there is an airhead, just waiting for me.
airhead in my bag,
bitches in the lab,
this makes my mouth feel funny.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
be in love
in all of these lit classes, people are obsessed with death. I guess I already knew that because I've read stacks of books in my life. (I guess this doesn't make me any kind of lit expert but it at least makes me into an informed lit opinion.) (sometimes I think about next year and how I won't have any furniture. I get comforted knowing that I can always make furniture out of my books. at least make bookshelves out of books for incoming books that I'm going to eventually buy.) in an interview, one of the authors said she had been "obsessed by death since [she was] five". she
pointed out how weird and twisted it is, that we're all going to die one day, and we all know it. there's no other human condition where we have a preknowledge like that.
so this lit class. as soon as we started talking about the human condition of death, I got stopped by this weird something:
I was tiny. I was probably six. my brother and I were laying across our parent's bed. I know it was forever ago because they had their old bed--pink comforter. carved headboard. white sheets. all that shit that's been outdated forever ago by arts and crafts in my house.
we were laying across their bed. my dad was at work. it was around bedtime because were praying. I was wearing knobby cotton wonderwoman pajamas.
and I don't know how it came up. maybe someone had just died. but my mom was all of a sudden talking about how one day we're all going to die. even Jacob and me. even her and my dad. even baby Maria. brothers and sisters we don't have yet. cousins. aunts. uncles. nana and papa. kids at school. pastor Deck. strangers. friends. people we like and people we don't like. everyone is going to die.
she started talking about heaven then. that we were going to all go to heaven and it would be a big reunion. like a pancake breakfast or the christmas party at aunt marge's. everyone would be there, even people who hadn't died yet; because we all had to be happy, we couldn't be missing anyone.
my family is always realistic about death. it's sad but it's happy. it's a celebration actually because the deceased (that word is awful; awful, awful. english needs something else.) is happy: perfect and whole and well. I like funerals with few sad acceptions.
but that conversation was the first time I knew what death was.
I remember I rolled over toward the crown of the bed, so I was stretched across the pillows. I remember crying while she was talking; I left behind this damp little circle from crying. I remember feeling this weird aching sad pain in my gut that I'd never known or realized before. even while I'm typing this I'm remembering, I'm crying.
I don't know what this is supposed to mean or why I remembered it, or why I didn't ever remember it before now. I don't know why I thought it was important to write it down but I did. I don't want to forget that moment again: I feel like it will be significant one of these days. so don't forget it. keep it.
today is valentine's day. I used to hate this holiday. I'm indifferent now I guess. it's this pretty lame excuse for buying shit. but then my sisters brought me cookies yesterday: the prettiest cookies I've seen in awhile. it made me rethink it; I guess it reminded me not to be too damn bitter.
it could be about just doing nice things for people. like you should always do nice things for people but this could be a day to really do them; because everyone always says that they will and then they don't.
or it could just be about being in love. and the more I think about it, the more I'm like: yeah, I am in love. forget all the bullshit about whatever else love can mean does mean will mean. forget that I get frustrated and fucking bored with the way I live. think about: living in my house with two of my best friends and a little dog that get so excited to see me he trips me everytime I walk in the door. think about how it's going to be springtime and I'll go to the beach every fucking weekend. think about evenings: going to reherals with more of my best friends. think about work, think about sewing and having the time of your life. be in love with that. be in love with my family: my sisters, my brother, my parents; dog and cats and fish. think about next year; be in love with the future. let that make you completely retarded.
& that's when I get happy.
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
some kind of thoughts ( or: green, how much I want you green.)
Q. Tell me what did you think was beautiful.
The snow hanging heavy on the branches was beatiful, the way the limbs shivered and twinkled and blinked in the streetlamp, and the way that you grabbed onto my arm to save me from roaring taxicabs.
That longest night. Walking down the sidewalk with my nose buried in your shoulder, whispering to bones. And how surely if I have ever been in love, it was with you.
Standing still at the end of the shining hallway, listening to whispering: I'll come back for you. A little girl. The neat white line of the part in her hair, a division of pigtail from pigtail. The thickness of her chubby fingers, the way they laced through the bars; the brightness of her eye and of her cheek. Her little white stockings spilled onto the gray floor.
The simple warmth of a hand. The simple warmth of my back. Fingers splayed out, spider webbed against my bare ribs. Supporting. Pushing. I take a breath, I look over my shoulder.
The lucid lines of water, clear and clean. The murmur against the rocks. Washing clean.
Over the lip of the bridge curl your tones, curl your feet. Up the strong line of the leg, drips water.
Am I learning?
I look over my shoulder. Watch you hurdling up stairs. Your long legs arching, reaching. The tendonds of your arms, how clearly they cleave and bend at the elbows, tight and taut.
A neat triangle, dimpling, forming from the muscles on your back while you do a morning stretch, reaching your arms over your head with this sigh.
Your black button hair.
Your hands, unwinding.
Do you remember that couple? Standing under the crouched silver dome. Eyes closed. Feeling. She had a handful of wite lillies; his was busy holding his hat on his head; tis saccharine oblivion--
The thick dot of a mole on your right hand, a skip away from the swelling arch of your wrist.
I am losing the blurred urgency of youth. The urgency you left behind.
Begin here this time: Springtime.
The sound of the carousel, far away. The windows open. The curtains trailing like ghosts over the carpet, whispering. Silent, wordless. Waiting for an answer.
A sinful inkblot on your cheek. The careful field of sandpaper, stubble, roughing your skin.
Do you remember the smell of dandelions? The way your voice felt, low in your throat? The way it tasted; the plush velveteen taste of your mouth?
I am learning to be slow.
I am learning to be more careful, move careful; more carefully.
The unexpected clean beauty of the white sheets stretched across your bed.
The clear stretched miles of your skin. A thousand cuts, abandoned; a real roadmap of scars.
I traced the scars with fingertips, followed behind with lips. I followed along the hard ridge of your thick, around the raised scallop of your hipbone.
Stiff organized hallways. Miles of carpet, endless division: wall floor wall ceiling; repeat.
The thick throb of the walls. The sick sweet smell of the tile. Tasting, lips parting; fingertips.
Two eyes on two: tasting mine, lids parting; the long feathered lines of your eyelashes, brushing.
Butterfly kisses.
Catching ladybugs between barred fingers.
Letting go. The light in your eyes, reflecting.
What are we waiting for if not for now?
And how surely if I have ever been in love, it was with you.
The snow hanging heavy on the branches was beatiful, the way the limbs shivered and twinkled and blinked in the streetlamp, and the way that you grabbed onto my arm to save me from roaring taxicabs.
That longest night. Walking down the sidewalk with my nose buried in your shoulder, whispering to bones. And how surely if I have ever been in love, it was with you.
Standing still at the end of the shining hallway, listening to whispering: I'll come back for you. A little girl. The neat white line of the part in her hair, a division of pigtail from pigtail. The thickness of her chubby fingers, the way they laced through the bars; the brightness of her eye and of her cheek. Her little white stockings spilled onto the gray floor.
The simple warmth of a hand. The simple warmth of my back. Fingers splayed out, spider webbed against my bare ribs. Supporting. Pushing. I take a breath, I look over my shoulder.
The lucid lines of water, clear and clean. The murmur against the rocks. Washing clean.
Over the lip of the bridge curl your tones, curl your feet. Up the strong line of the leg, drips water.
Am I learning?
I look over my shoulder. Watch you hurdling up stairs. Your long legs arching, reaching. The tendonds of your arms, how clearly they cleave and bend at the elbows, tight and taut.
A neat triangle, dimpling, forming from the muscles on your back while you do a morning stretch, reaching your arms over your head with this sigh.
Your black button hair.
Your hands, unwinding.
Do you remember that couple? Standing under the crouched silver dome. Eyes closed. Feeling. She had a handful of wite lillies; his was busy holding his hat on his head; tis saccharine oblivion--
The thick dot of a mole on your right hand, a skip away from the swelling arch of your wrist.
I am losing the blurred urgency of youth. The urgency you left behind.
Begin here this time: Springtime.
The sound of the carousel, far away. The windows open. The curtains trailing like ghosts over the carpet, whispering. Silent, wordless. Waiting for an answer.
A sinful inkblot on your cheek. The careful field of sandpaper, stubble, roughing your skin.
Do you remember the smell of dandelions? The way your voice felt, low in your throat? The way it tasted; the plush velveteen taste of your mouth?
I am learning to be slow.
I am learning to be more careful, move careful; more carefully.
The unexpected clean beauty of the white sheets stretched across your bed.
The clear stretched miles of your skin. A thousand cuts, abandoned; a real roadmap of scars.
I traced the scars with fingertips, followed behind with lips. I followed along the hard ridge of your thick, around the raised scallop of your hipbone.
Stiff organized hallways. Miles of carpet, endless division: wall floor wall ceiling; repeat.
The thick throb of the walls. The sick sweet smell of the tile. Tasting, lips parting; fingertips.
Two eyes on two: tasting mine, lids parting; the long feathered lines of your eyelashes, brushing.
Butterfly kisses.
Catching ladybugs between barred fingers.
Letting go. The light in your eyes, reflecting.
What are we waiting for if not for now?
And how surely if I have ever been in love, it was with you.
_____________________________________
me at my most dull
me at crumpled brown:
me at my most predictible.
(There's a book that I re-reread. Makes me want to change so much about myself, or at least get off my ass and fucking do something. Let's see how long this brief mania lasts.)
pirogies tonight. I'm backsliding.
Thursday, February 7, 2008
new obsessions:
waiting for the snow to melt
the way wet dirt smells
toffee flavored things
the so great Janis Joplin
writing bad haiku.
Another new obsession: celery. Celery with peanut butter. Celery with ranch. The way celery crunches, crispy animal bones in my mouth. Digging out the peanut butter, like digging for bone marrow. Something green that I actually enjoy.
I snuck into C.'s room last night and stood on her scale. Standing there, awkwardly balanced in the corner beside that empty cabinet, one hand splayed against the wall; standing there in the half-dark, looking down at the numbers. Maybe my eyes were playing tricks. Maybe I misread.
(I think there's a girl that hates me. I don't know why she hates me but she sends me these blackhot looks. I think there's a girl that hates me because I didn't cast her in the play that I'm directing. I don't know why she hates me. It's continually amazing whenever I get this lame and anxious.)
waiting for the snow to melt
the way wet dirt smells
toffee flavored things
the so great Janis Joplin
writing bad haiku.
Another new obsession: celery. Celery with peanut butter. Celery with ranch. The way celery crunches, crispy animal bones in my mouth. Digging out the peanut butter, like digging for bone marrow. Something green that I actually enjoy.
I snuck into C.'s room last night and stood on her scale. Standing there, awkwardly balanced in the corner beside that empty cabinet, one hand splayed against the wall; standing there in the half-dark, looking down at the numbers. Maybe my eyes were playing tricks. Maybe I misread.
(I think there's a girl that hates me. I don't know why she hates me but she sends me these blackhot looks. I think there's a girl that hates me because I didn't cast her in the play that I'm directing. I don't know why she hates me. It's continually amazing whenever I get this lame and anxious.)
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