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.