Tuesday, September 1, 2009

Feign Boredom

I am so tired. It is 9pm but deep in my bones I could swear it is actually midnight (note: Marrow is clearly not an accurate keeper of time. Defer to sundials when in doubt. When it's dark, consult the moon's craters. When it's dark and cloudy just ask the soil.). The soles of my feet are sore from being the base of my pillar all day. I had a dream on the way home (presumably somewhere between Coronado Island and Imperial Beach) that I was being given an expert foot-massage. I am afraid of ghosts, but I think I'd be ok with having a ghost here if it would give me supernaturally great foot rubs while I hovered between sleep and unsleep. I suppose a boyfriend might be a more practical tool for such a thing, but there is far more drawback for me with the latter. Funny that I could possess a greater aversion to the concept of boyfriend than ghost....

In other news, I will be moving out as soon as a reasonably priced residency becomes available. This will save me a lot of sanity and the people I'm going to move in with are the nice creative types, one of whom is my wonderful goddaughter. Yet ever since this was decided to happen, I have been having a hard time sleeping. I think the amount of stress that permeates this frequently is healthy only for bona fide gypsies and migratory birds.

Also: as I passed by The Salvation Army on my way home tonight--the night dark and crowded round the illuminated windows full of racks (a labyrinth of value)--I pondered what it would be like to work there, as opposed to my current working status (unemployed). "It would be like dealing with the molted skins of past lives of myriad strangers," I thought. And isn't it really so: all those rejected shirts and pants and shoes, once held so close to the pumping circulating blood of our lives, once deemed part of our persona, at some point shed like a skin that no longer could contain us properly.... and how peculiar to think that we, as a species, delight in adopting the molted parts of others.... (are we not hermit crabs? we are devo...).

It's time to let things go. I have a night to relax into.

Saturday, August 8, 2009

I Worry Less

Gravity to this latitude and longitude has struck me down this year. Life is swift and sneaky and will take you by surprise when you least want/expect it to. I have secrets that stick heavy under my ribs marked by the same architecture. They aren't wrong-doings of any sort, but feelings I could probably never expose to anyone other than my reflection in the mirror.

Do you ever find yourself relearning the same lessons again but in a richer context? This year has, so far, served as a new game board for the same old challenges that have steeped a while. The speed of things are different, friendships move slower packed in during the weekend or somewhere in the 6-10.

I've been able to embrace my sense of humor around people I know, without worrying about how dry or dark it may be. I've reset. It seems as though I've gotten caught up with things more material; I measure and weigh. Hunt down the details. A shift in study is needed and this semester begins in less than three weeks. I am unnecessarily bewildered by so many things. I've been thinking, really thinking, about just being for a while.

I've met a friend. I've met a friend months ago through a cafe job (loved and lost) and have recently re-met this friend through coffee and dinners and good beer and conversation and good company. We've re-met in this way and September 3rd calls for a dress and a bow tie.

Sometimes Nothing happens and sometimes Nothing is needed.

Monday, July 6, 2009

Doyle, Sir Arthur Conan

My mind rebels at stagnation. Give me problems, give me work, give me the most abstruse cryptogram, or the most intricate analysis, and I am in my own proper atmosphere. I can dispense then with artificial stimulants. But I abhor the dull routine of existence. I crave for mental exaltation.

Monday, May 18, 2009


I am an adrenaline junkie.

I work best under pressure. Back when I had to write papers for classes, I would sit down at my computer at around 8pm and write a paragraph. Then I'd get distracted, watch Se7en and Memento, and soon it would be an hour before the paper was due and I'd love it. Every minute of frantic typing and running to the classroom made college worth it, because I sure as hell didn't learn anything.

Heart-pounding. Gut-wrenching. The heroes of our stories find themselves in situations described with these words. I specifically put myself in these situations, because I don't feel alive unless my pulse is doubling and I have those butterflies trying to burst out.

There are some times in life when you just need to figure out something or, as Kurt Vonnegut Jr. says, "the excrement will hit the air conditioning." When you pace the same five-foot line on your floor, saying, "Oh crap, oh crap, holy hell what the hell do I do? Oh crap this is not good." I work myself into a frenzy thinking about worst case scenarios and how to deal with them. Just to feel something that isn't complacency.

I'm losing myself.

*I rationalize. I explain it away. I remind myself that the feeling I'm feeling doesn't actually exist. It's not real. It's the response to a probability, a statistic, a possibility, but never reality. I confront the situation to avoid the sensation. I never hid under the covers. I wanted to see what was coming to get me. When nothing ever came, I gave up fear.

Monday, May 4, 2009

100 Seconds of Solitude

You do this, right? Get home after a long day that isn't over yet and purposely miss your bus stop, or sit in your driveway or garage or wherever you park before you get home, and just sit, or stand or lean, quietly, with the car off, maybe the seat belt off, or standing next to your bike, or leaning on a wall, for minutes of solitude and silence, no cell phone, no iPod, no email, no dishes, no computers, no chores, no bed reminding you of the sleep you're not getting, no piles of projects waiting patiently for you to be inspired, no guilt, no shame, no happiness, no ecstasy, no I should be, no Why don't I, no Maybe it's time to. Just peace.

Just you, breathing, eyes open but not looking at anything, every sound tick-tickering around you, settling down, hanging onto those few moments before your life becomes a never-ending series of musts and wants and needs all over again.

You should do this, if you don't already.

Friday, May 1, 2009


I say "I want to sled right through this." I want it to turn from ice to snow, to form powder around the windowsills, to be capable of blowing away when the sky sneezes. I want it to be meltable by the sun's unavoidable warmth. Yes, there is a glacier in my chest. Last night, through the tinkering dark streets near the bus stop, it started to shift and break apart; shards of migrating ice pressed against the gaps in my ribcage and made it difficult to breathe. When I made it onto the bus and the hugs and hands no longer cluttered my mind and my mouth was free to stop muttering words of betrayal and hurt, the dizziness overtook me, the sadness expanded so palpably in my chest that I marveled I was still standing. Thick breath and tears conspired to exit my body simultaneously. I took a seat and felt the floor of the bus beneath my cold feet, felt the way my toes filled the space of my shoes, and it stabilized my thoughts. But the sadness did not ebb. I really get the phrase 'sad sack' now because there seems to be a viscousness to sadness and it lives in the body in this way that makes the flesh literally a cellular sack containing it. I want to have it drained from this sack of mine, to create a little tear in one corner (perhaps where my heel meets my ankle, so often chafed by inflexible indifferent shoes) and as I walk around the streets in these bleak nights, devoid of verdant anything, I will leave a trail of wetness that is black as tar and as dense as imploded galaxies. With each step my heart will have more room to expand, 'till by the time I reach my home I will float straight through the locked gates and into my bedroom, my body a zeppelin so full of air and light and hope.

Monday, April 27, 2009

An Entry About Jeopardy!

Hello hello,

I've been watching a lot of Jeopardy! lately and man, I like that show, but parts of it just make me laugh. Alex Trebek came out at the start the other evening and his first comment was how he was the only person onstage whose last name didn't end in the letter L. See, now why do people act like Jeopardy! is for smart people when the main topic of discussion is the fact that all the contestants' last names end in the letter L?

See, that's my other problem with Jeopardy! (you can't forget the exclamation mark after it!), how it's supposed to be for really smart people, but it isn't. They throw in that ridiculous thing about phrasing everything in the form of a question, but who actually forms questions that way? I'm not a smart girl (or good-looking, well-spoken, nice smelling.. the list goes on), but when someone asks me "Who is Barney Miller?" I don't say "Abe Vigoda's short-lived series Fish was a spinoff of this sitcom!". (By the way, the fact that I used a Barney Miller spinoff as my example for a Jeopardy! question instead of some bit of Greek mythology should show you exactly how bad I would be on Jeopardy!).

Anyway, so yeah, I guess my point is, if you want to have some cheap fun, whenever someone asks you a question, phrase your answer like a Jeopardy! clue. Examples:

someone: "What is The Pink Panther?"

me: "This series of comedy films features the bumbling French police detective, Jacques Clouseau and was later its own series of animated cartoons."

someone: "What is that stain on your shirt?"

me: "This icing was left by one of the many cupcakes Norma has enjoyed in her lifetime"

Okay, I can't really come up with very good examples, but you get my general drift eh?

In other news, I ate the most memorable red-velvet cupcake the other day in that new cupcake eatery Downtown. I'm going to go make one or more pancakes. Who else wants breakfast?

Sunday, April 26, 2009

Hugs Don't Grow On Trees

Today, I purposely lost myself in the grocery store.

Sometimes I remember never being rescued at the swings during the summer of 2006; I seem to have been swinging away these past three years. The tears still fall with the same velocity and my voice gets smaller and smaller.

Friday, April 24, 2009

Oh, And Happy Birthday, Richard.

This has been my mind for the past several days.

I have something to say, but your guess is as good as mine.

Wednesday, April 15, 2009

We Refuse Science or Logic or Sleep

Instead we fumble through broken sentences, through gasps and tears and are unable to draw even a single conclusion. We are not lost. We are not found. We are floating through space and we are not connecting with anything solid, anymore. Like Whitman, I know these filaments will connect somewhere, somehow. There is not much left to do.

Tuesday, April 14, 2009

Someone Take Me To Massachusetts

There are still places, right, where children wear short pants and people tend to their flowerboxes?

My life can be marked with immersions in poetry. 10 was Dickinson; 12 was Plath; 13 was Ginsberg, Kerouac, Corso, DiPrima and there were others before these bay-dwellers and their pep talks about geese, femininity, freedom and fucking. I feel like I could show up on their doorsteps, hard-sided suitcase in hand and collapse into their hammocks and after they've restored my faith in things, generally, we could retire to some delicious pizza parlor where I would marvel at the way the wall of bottles gleaming in the sun (that's how they decorate those, right?).

Saturday, April 11, 2009

I Declare

My love is like...

...a bitter cliff, gnawed by waves.
...the moment one's glasses slide from one's face!
...the clammy grip of a banana peel.
...a mattress that has been abandoned in a field.