Thursday, December 13, 2007


If you think you say it too much, you should bear in mind
that it's in every sigh (and i don't think i need to tell you how
often i sigh).

Friday, November 2, 2007

Bad Drugs/Sleep Deprived

Sometimes I lose so much sleep that it feels like a bad drug experience. Like I bought the wrong kind of DXM, the kind with pseudoephedrine in it, and I drank an entire bottle. Typically, I would swim under the ocean with penguins, fly around the solar system and around glaciers, around snowy mountains. I would be a robot. My muscles would tell me their name is Tyrese and I would wake up thinking I'd been run over by a bus. Some side affects aren't so linear with sleep deprivation though. For instance, going deaf repeatedly, or being sick over the following couple of days. But, in any case, if anyone ever takes and audio record of my synapses interacting, this is what it would sound like:

Synapse #1: What's the worst thing you can think of?

Synapse #2: Well, you know how responsibility -- wait, what did you say?

Synapse #1: Uhh... what? Did you say something?

Synapse #2: I feel like someone hit me on the head with a... what was I talking about? Did we just have a conversation?

Synapse #1: What? Did you say something?

In other news: I'm feeling fine. I'm remembering a lot of the past lately (of course, I don't tend to remember things of the future) and by past I mean early childhood and then two years ago when things were so different and seemed so permanent. Here I am, beginning again, and enjoying every second of it. Sleep deprived or not.

Saturday, October 6, 2007

How Do You Stop Living Out of Boxes?

Cartography. Entomology. Truncated. Intrinsicate.

Are you able to pinpoint the exact moment when you fess up to your consciousness and make a change? Can you feel your life as before and after, like an apple sliced down the middle? That which was looks the same as what is, but they are separate now.

(here is where I explain the moment, but you'll have to forgive me; my descriptive muscle is rusty.)

My halved apple smells like a brand new car, but it runs just the same as before.

I know why I started living in boxes, but I don't want to keep doing it anymore.

Friday, October 5, 2007

Boot To Face

It is so easy to let others' stories distract you from your own.

Until you start to wonder where the last three days went, and where were you when they happened?

Will they ever come back?

Friday, August 31, 2007


This morning there was lighting and scattered sprinkling rain. And yet, my world is not aclatter with rain. Sometimes I feel like the universe is split: two parallel universes, one always wet, one always dry, and we merely fit between the two at appropriate times. When the clouds crack open, we are ripped into the wet world, which is brimming with umbrellas and umbrageous people crouching in doorways, running here or there, covering their heads. People act unusual and disioriented by this change of worlds, and they act accordingly; they run to windows eagerly and write sappy poetry or light fires in the fireplaces and snuggle. Sometimes the rain will make you grab the hand of someone you don't know very well, the rainy world is crazy; you must be careful with the rain's weird powers!
Personally, I love. The rain. My bones creak and crack with premonition, the world is wet and waterlogged and dreamy. Diamond drops are sliding down the twisted electric lines in my parking lot, gathering bulk until they fall, too gluttonous to stay. In the rainy world people are placid, and subdued, and they notice their surroundigs. And then we singularly drip back into the old, dry world, where things are normal again.
The sun is shining bright today through a sky less patchy with clouds than I would like. I've just gone on a jog and the water from the morning dew dripped from tree leaves to my face and sometimes it's nice to imagine that I am in a world where people are soft and sweet like marshmallows. These people only exist when the moon is exactly aligned with the echoes in my heart. These people never exist.

Saturday, August 25, 2007

Millions Now Living will Never Die

Usually my mind is on my money and my money's on my mind, but I've been thinking so much of people lately. At four thirty this morning I was lying down in the park under a rotting tree, drinking some very cooled down Darjeeling tea, and I felt like the only living human, the only breathing person, the only thing stirring in the whole world. My brother, Ale, had shown up on my doorstep with two raggedy friends caressing a large watermelon, hours before. I lead them to the new DVDs in our cabinet and proceeded to my bedroom. I feel like people are squeezing and suffocating, breathing my air, speaking their thoughts, arguing amongst themselves. I don't want to be a part of it.

Underneath the hushed, halcyon surface of the gene pool where Wal-mart workers and slave-wage earners ripple gently in the cosmic breeze, there are crags and crevices, uneven places from which unusual genes spring. Rossini and Faure immediately leap to mind, but there are so many I've never heard of and might never know. I read books and watch movies, but what do I really know about the lives of others, of epidurals and starvation and declaring bankruptcy and suicide? I am trapped inside of myself, governing my own rules for empathy, filtering all of the thoughts that come in and out, I might as well have John Ashcroft for a brain. I always thought that a true religious conversion would be like seeing outside of myself for the first time, but I find that consolation in sleep-deprivation, not God. Blah blah Holden Caulfield, blah blah Esther Greenwood, blah blah my petty problems. I'm mawkish and maudlin, there is an Ayn Rand perched pushily on my left shoulder, and a Saint Francis on my right, and I have no internal moral compass, no way of knowing what is truly right or wrong.

Friday, August 10, 2007

Everything In The World Matters To Me

I am alive and eaten alive by a busy lifestyle. Livid and living, but to you I do not exist. This is why I haven't written myself into existence lately: I like to play with words that can be sculptured, words that are substantial and defined in their dreaminess, in their inherit, abstractly physical qualities. Words that are real and weighted. Words that are written down with your hand. When I read the dim, limed words that are projected glowingly from my computer screen, I feel pressure on the front of my brain, as though every thought is sliding forward, pushing, pressing. Words printed on paper seem to have a palpable crispness to them, like you could gather them up and crumble them in your hands. But the words that appear onscreen due to technological processes that are a mystery to me seem insubstantially delicate and filmy, undefined like wet newsprint, magnified from a hazy, fishbowled computer screen. But enough silliness about words, which aren't even real!

I want to think in friendly ways, in wistful and wonderful ways, in ways of colorful flashes and splashes.
There is a pretty, platitudinous party going on, but I can't be a part of it. I don't want to be a part of it, another mechanical machine, talking about mundane things. Sometimes I am the only friend i want to have. A girl threw herself into the pool and expected someone to provide her with pants, and that is what I cannot stand and that is what I cannot live for.

I forget sometimes, that I live for love. And I won't give up, but I think it's time to forget about it, to set it in the back of my brain crumbled underneath old thoughts, images and memories. It's time to not be so set up and let down.

World, stop encouraging me!

Saturday, August 4, 2007

Lack Of

I feel like a violin with strings too tight; a few more turns and I will pop.

Stomach Chords, Gears And Gadgets!

Last night I dreamt that I woke up one morning and was made of newspaper. A particularly interesting news story was blocked and wrapped around my thighs, and I tried to turn round to read the other side of my leg when it occurred to me that I might be unfortunately fragile. I stuck my finger in my mouth and when I pulled it out it was smudged, damp and soggy. My dreams and my waking life used to exist on tectonic plates transiting miles apart, but they met on the other side of the world, crashed into each other, made mountains of confusion. There are inchoate, undefined memories I have that I can't attribute to my dreams or to reality with absolute certainty. Oaosiureaosiuar. Can't find the words. Feel lost.

It's funny how silly it seems to want a hug, because it seems such a silly thing to ask for when you are an adult. But that embrace between two people forms a connection. "yes, i understand your pain." "no, i don't understand your pain, but i care about you and would like to understand your pain, maybe take it off your shoulders for a bit"

I need a hug. Epic.

Up there are photos of my hands and the new addition to my small family of pets... Ceratophrys Cranwelli, or Argentine Horned Pac Man Frog. He is currently nameless. I'm working on that.

Monday, July 30, 2007

I named my vagina nimic pomeni, which, in Romanian means "nothing happens".

Wednesday, July 18, 2007

Life Studies

It's been too hot outside to leave the house to go downtown to the museums and stand among Park Blvd. and it's been too hot inside to focus on anything more than just a few of Jean Stafford's short stories or a few of Robert Lowell's letters or a few of Wallace Steven's poems at once and instead I have been watching movies (all of i <3 huckabees along with my mother's nurse) and thinking it would be better if I were in love and it would be better if I were five hundred miles north and it would be better if I were better and didn't fit all nine criteria in the DSM-IV for borderline personality disorder and didn't have to worry about what might happen when the five hundred miles north comes down here to me and when I fall in love again.

I'm worried for him and I'm worried for his head and heart and my own head and heart and now there are things between us. All of everything aside from closure and steady ground.

What is happening?

Sunday, July 15, 2007

Pudding Comet

French toast.

Apple juice:

I don't mean to sound like another Miriam Leivers, but I want to feel. I want to feel how it feels through your skin, through your brain, with your feelings. And I know 99.99999 percent of everything that has ever happened has happened to someone who isn't you, who isn't me and who is centuries dead. Yet, I am self-centered, I am stupid, I am smug, I can only analyze my patterns of thought using my patterns of thought. I am a Turing machine, fed a program that is symbiotically equal to the description of myself processing myself. It always comes back around to me, me, me. Me.

Although each thought that gestates in our minds might have been conceived with uniqueness, with altruism, with kindness... its birth in the world, through our mouth or our hands, is bloodied and bruised with ego, with conceit. Every scene that springs from a ripe writer's mind is pushed through a solipsistic, five-sense filter. But I guess the bargain between the writer and the reader is this: although everything written by the writer risks being a horrible hubris, in concession the writer at least will be interesting, engaging, palpable and persuasive. Otherwise, the writer will not be read and the words that he/she has poured out will be orphaned.

And, having said that, let me just say that sometimes you just don't want to know what people really think about you. It hurts. It bruises your soul. Maybe more than once I have had the feeling that my journal could be more discreet, more discerning. Perhaps I should gingerly tiptoe over how I really feel, and while recounting the meaningless moments of my life, slap slabs of cool detachment all over it. I can't langourously, linearly list the bullshit in my life like it matters. As if in the future someone will really give a fuck about whether I had eggs or pancakes for breakfast, when I drank coffee, what I watched on T.V. and I'm tired of justifying myself. This stuff is scraped off from the inside of my brain. This is me. This is how I feel. That's all.

Thursday, July 12, 2007

I Could Not Make This Shit Up

classmate one: I've never seen a slaughterhouse movie.

classmate two: The only one I've heard of is Slaughterhouse Five.

classmate one: Is that like Friday the 13th?

classmate two: Well, I've only heard of Slaughterhouse Five but I assume there's a slaughterhouse one through four, also.

Friday, June 29, 2007

My Cup is Being Filled.

Life here (in terms of time, not physical place) is daunting, delicate, full of dirt and grit and wry passed smiles. God, I don't even feel like I belong here, but then I brew my tea and say 'kalinichta' and wriggle between writhing masses. The brown crowd of dirt and dust. I belong, temporal, surviving and surging. Blood pulsing.

And here's why:

Running into the sweetest person (my 10 year old cousin) you will ever meet on the trolley in the morning before class:

In my Phil 100 class:

One of my best friends - this photo was taken just after he whispered, "Norma, I'm glad you exist. Thank God you exist.":

If there is one thing that I appreciate with all my heart, it is altitude.
It is altitude for its earthly visions and backgrounds and being so high in the world that I can feel myself mist and melt and really become part of it.

Hence the rooftops:

Ben Berger, misting and melting right along with me:

And if you ever needed to know, this is who I am:

It is quite difficult to type on a hyper mind and tired body, I'm shaking, shaping and shifting. Take it from your fair-weather friend, fumbling with these wacky words. Oh they can mean so many different things.

Summer courage, weak words... this is all I have!

Friday, June 22, 2007


My brother, Alejandro. Age 14:

Once nice thing about having a younger sibling is that I can tug at him, toy with him, dress him up and take pictures. "Look over to the right. No, my right. Make me smile."

I don't have to tell him to make the perfect faces.


"No, look coy." Snap crackle pop. Here I sit, tea cup in hand, back from Golden Hill; I may possibly go back Sunday evening for all of its loveliness. Until then, I'll be having dreams of ghosts and fish, and love and love and love...

Scarce words, scarred words, things I do not say... pink clouds-clots anishing. I live in the thin line between night and day.

Oh, also I started summer classes earlier this week. Wheee x 450. Me:

Thursday, June 21, 2007

I Love This

My breath tastes like cherries.

My breath tastes like cherries because I drank two whirley Shirley Temples (and some champagne, too).

I can feel my heart fluttering against my cheeks. I am listening to the chatter of the house, music, and laughter. The sound is giving me a hug... I feel loved by music. Blah blah. Who knws how this will read when I am sober. The words on the screen look thin and brittle and breakable and jagged and jarring. Where am I?

I am, here.

I am here and my breathe tastes like cherries. I feel like a cherry, so pulpy and pressed outwards against a rosy surface. I just went deaf in one ear.

I feel illuminated, flickering... like a candle in a pumpkin. I'm laughing. I just said 'a candle in a pumpkin.' it's getting too hard to type.

And so I...
say goodbye and good night.

Sunday, April 22, 2007

In Doors & Out Poems

This afternoon I tried eating my way out of feeling blue with the aid of an entire box of crackers, but of course it only lead me to feeling a bit queasy. Oh Spring, I know it's not your fault but I kind of hate you this time around. There's something about having the time to catch my breath that only makes me feel more out of breath, I can't go on I'll go on, I know I've already said this stuff before, but sometimes the ordinary seems so terrible, impossible, I'm not ready to face the work that needs to be done.

So many harsh incidents and happenings that cannot go undone, miserably unavoidable. My heart and head are numb and all I have are dead thoughts with absent instinct. I feel horrible for not feeling a whole lot of anything, and I assume a lot of my friends are upset with my absense and lack of phonecalls/text messages/communication. I don't know what to say.

It's strange to me that last Spring was probably the best Spring I have ever had, or maybe the one I like remembering the best, Sunset Cliffs with my two best friends, a night out for sushi, the wonderful drive to Venice Beach, sleepovers at Richard's, making fun of the food he had left for Buddha, loving the Southern California weather for the first time in a long time, I mean, really appreciating it.

Ages ago I felt mystified when I found out that Joseph Cornell used his diary simply to record mundane, daily events, and even more perplexed that Dorothy Wordsworth felt it necessary to use hers to record weather reports. Who cares about that junk, I sniffed, not thinking about just what sort of hierarchy I was buying into here, thinking that I had the ability or right to judge what's important or worth recording.

Now, though, I understand the attraction.

Friday, April 13, 2007

"How Nice-

-To Feel Nothing, And Still Get Full Credit For Being Alive."

Lame, but R.I.P. all the same.

Wednesday, April 11, 2007

Poetic Somethings

I found myself using Google in order to try to find emotions, throwing in phrases fitting of the moment to scoop up what sticks to queries like "hate everything sometimes" or "love like this".

I don't find what I'm looking for usually. Maybe there's a database pooling poetic somethings and nothings that I can cast my net in that I don't know about.

I find myself missing an old lover lately. Even if it means missing the hard times as well as the grand times. I'm not sure what this means or can mean, but either way, it is very heavy on my heart and thick in my thoughts.

Wednesday, February 21, 2007

The Feces Fairy?

The one I really don't get is when people are walking their dogs, go to clean up after their dogs, put the shit into a bag, tie it off, and leave the plastic bag right on the sidewalk.

What's supposed to happen next?

Thursday, February 15, 2007


Today, a bit out of nowhere, a boy I don't know terribly well told me he felt like he understood me. This probably sounds really presumptuous and obnoxious, but it wasn't, actually, at least not coming from him. Just sort of nice. May have something to do with once overhearing him say he also went through a phase of dressing like Elliott Smith in middle school.

By the way, I've been meaning to ask you if you've ever read Bernadette Mayer's "The Way to Keep Going in Antarctica." It's an awfully good poem to read and remember, to carry the words around with you in case of emergency.

Wednesday, February 14, 2007

So It Goes

Lately writing here feels a bit like a crossword puzzle or a magic trick; it's something that wants to be solved. Wondering whether or not there is a graceful way of uncovering secrets, and how to tell you everything without letting my insides hang out.

This probably sounds terribly negative, but I promise I don't mean it that way at all.

Happy Valentine's Day.

Sunday, February 4, 2007

Forwards & Backwards

Can we play the 'this time last year" game?

Can I tell you how much I miss Blondie's Pizza and the haunted heater that didn't particularly work and the Saturday morning walks to the Farmer's Market on Center St. and (very briefly) living in the same city as Love At First Bite and free museums and walking around downtwon and so many bookstores (not to mention the best post card store in the whole wide world) and the architecture and the cherry blossoms and the greatest bread pudding and the fun rain and taking long walks and riding the B.A.R.T. under the water and the fact that getting out of class at 530 meant truly being done for the day (without stress hangovers that induce headaches) and renting very cool movies and a very cool video rental store and walking to such beautiful theatres and eating at so many great restaurants (not to mention the take out!) and the hockey games and actually having enough time to cook and feeling like it was entirely impossible to ever get tired of any of it.

I know what you're thinking. At first maybe it was cute and charming, but now this shtick is getting a bit old. How can you see anything ahead of you if you are constantly looking over your shoulder?

I know nostalgia can look an awful lot like melancholy, but that isn't it. There are lots of things I don't miss, and there are lots of things here that are so much better, so many things that I'd lose track trying to count them on my fingers. And this isn't about not wanting to be here or even about wanting to be there. I think, quite simply, it's just a feeling of amazement that this life is so very different from the last one.

Monday, January 29, 2007

No Subject

On the back of my copy of Unto This Last there is a quote by Gandhi in which he states that the book "captured me and transformed my life."

I have read about forty pages so far, which I think is probably enough to know that I should put aside any hopes of being captured or transformed.

Is it very unreasonable of me that I'd prefer to see some other kind of quotes on book covers? A snippet insisting on a book's profound effect on a critic's personal life or its importance/superiority in relation to any and every other book on the face of the planet doesn't make me eager to read it so much as it makes me feel slightly cranky and let down when I don't end up being able to experience the same thing. I think the silliest quote of all time that has ever been used to promote a book was one that on my old copy of Trainspotting, in which a reviewer declared that "it's better than the Bible!"

Because, you know, the defining text of Christianity and a pop book about a group of Scottish heroin addicts are totally comparable.

And while I'm sort of on the subject, I'm also not a terribly big fan of anyone who tells you that a certain age/situation/experience will be the best time of your life. There is too much pressure, too many expectations in that sort of statement. For awhile, lately, I've been thinking an awful lot about this, about how so many people seem to feel that their "best time" was childhood or college or even (oh dear) high school. I had been feeling a bit anxious and behind schedule until I realized that knowing that the best time of your life still hasn't been lived just yet is probably the best place to be.

Friday, January 26, 2007

I Don't Know Where These Things Come From

I remember once hearing somewhere that during her prime Hedy Lamarr would spend hours roaming from room to room in her Beverly Hills mansion weeping inconsolably, a beautiful girl haunted by the vague but inevitable fear of getting old and losing her looks.

I think about this a lot. Sometimes I think I can understand it perfectly, simply because I too have a knack for worrying about things a whole lifetime before they will ever happen.