not sleeping anymore

up thinking

2011-09-08T15:08:00.003-05:00

When the night falls down on the day,
there's nothing left for you to say
you always want what you can't have
(up thinking not sleeping/dreaming)
you always want what you can't have
(up thinking not sleeping/dreaming)

After dark as it starts snowing,
we walk along not yet knowing
before too long we'll be more than friends
Now as we lay beneath the sheets
shadows on the window shade keep me
up with the sound of our hearts beating

wobble

2010-12-29T23:14:00.004-05:00

When I haven't written for awhile, my words feel so wobbly. Like the handlebars of a bike that I'm riding for the first time in years, except that the lack of coordination is intellectual. I force myself to the end of each sentence, regardless of how poorly written it might be. I convince myself I just need to get the ideas down. But later, after I have saved the document and closed the screen, I lay awake in bed, fearful that I will die in my sleep, and this horrible piece of crap will be the last thing that I ever wrote.

cafe con leche

2010-09-13T21:35:00.002-05:00

it's a starting line
drawn in the sand for you to stand behind
plan your course
keep your eyes aside from the ones that pass
you by

it's a starting line
drawn in the sand for you to stand behind
for the fastest time
keep on the goal you have in mind and not those
on the side

new song # 2

2010-06-07T08:04:00.004-05:00

even sunshine, brings rain, when snow melts
down window panes
even sunshine, brings rain, when snow melts
down window panes

I'm worried about the trees.
It's been so long since they've had leaves.
And their not gonna bend,
when the wind comes and shakes their skin.
No their not gonna bend,
when the wind comes and shakes their skin.

I'm not gonna breathe
the air's too cold against my teeth
and I'm not gonna stand
to loose the heat from my hands and feet
and I'm not gonna fall
I've grown as tall as I can grow now
I'm not gonna fall,
I've grown as tall as I can grow now

even sunshine, brings rain, when snow melts
down window panes
even sunshine, brings rain, when snow melts
down window panes

tension then

2008-11-07T09:38:00.002-05:00

i could feel the tension then,
in your fingers bent on my leg,
but it was easier to pretend
you would always stay.

destroying the haiku spirit

2008-11-07T09:35:00.004-05:00

the bell jar descends,
it fits the whole country in
and the sour air sweeps
through the passionless streets.
with an obscured view, you
conform to consume, you
head off to bed-
save your questions for the end

the fresh air ascends
leaving you trapped within
this strip-malled town but the
moneys all run out
what will you buy now
buy now

the waves
push and pull the sand
till your footprint's
swallowed by the land

the end of the day

2008-03-20T14:17:00.001-05:00

I wait for the day to end so I can leave here and return earlier again,
tomorrow. Borrowed phrases get me through simple movements of the day, when hello and goodbye are the only original things I have to say.
outside, the black branches against the white sky are the backdrop for my olan mills,

and even if changing scenery was that easy, I wouldn’t pull the loop attached to the stills to bring me closer to you.

I walk to the elevator that takes me down, then climb stairs to reach the ground, floor. I end where I begin, right there where you and I have been, many times before. Waiting for the engine to turn my car from cold to warm and this song plays while I’m thinking about making love to you. Sometimes when I turn the corner I think I see you shift uncomfortably in the passenger seat.

tell me that you want me to slow down. My glasses have fogged from the heat of my nose beneath.

I talk to you now as if you are dead, the ghost sitting at the foot of my bed listening to the end of my day when I’m taking off my socks and rubbing my feet..

your love

2008-01-05T18:19:00.000-05:00

like a palmful of sand,
slips through my fingers when i
close my hand.

the things that i know

2007-12-14T15:01:00.000-05:00

never been in love and
it doesn’t matter
my heart beats to deliver blood
love doesn’t matter

sometimes i wake to voices in my sleep
conditioning me to believe
guidelines and boundaries
will give my mind more time to think

and the things that i know
don’t give me hope,
and the things that i don’t
still bother me.

every one belongs to every one
every one belongs to every one else
every one belongs to every one
every one belongs to every one else

i dream in color tv
when i dream of you and me
we are breaking from captivity
we wear our hearts on our sleeves
and say love words that we believe

and the things that we know,
give us hope
and the things that we don’t,
keep us from being alone

every one belongs to every one
every one belongs to every one else
every one belongs to every one
every one belongs to every one else

goodbye

2007-12-13T23:43:00.000-05:00

2 sides to every story, they say and we will
0ut live them both.
0pinionated mouths retailing out their
7 cents, but I stop listening

at two.

your side was mostly in your head
except when it came out of your teeth
all broken down and wet on the sidewalk, leaning on the
railing, next to the tree,

outside in the sun
for everyone to see.

divide and conquer, they said and we
expected to win with this strategy.
considered the plan for
every unexpected turn. we were
prepared to meet
the enemy, with thin strips of ourselves.
it seems we had focused
on our own minds, (a little too much) to
notice the instructions were for the both of us.

every one belongs to every one else

2007-09-30T23:04:00.000-05:00

those photographs look like they were taken on a day like today
and they were
and they were

images move over the page like lips moving to say
i know they were
i know they were

it was hard to understand and i wasn’t there until just now
but they were
but they were

you left me for a stella on the roof
every one belongs to every one else
you left me for a stella on the roof
every one belongs to every one else

when we kissed then

2007-09-29T21:07:00.000-05:00

I wanted to ask you several questions
while i was undressing you
“why is there so much pain between us”
for example,
but it didn’t seem appropriate.
Your eyes were closed (always)
so it was difficult to tell if you could hear me
(anyway)
your lips held some tension
when i kissed them.
“Do you remember when it felt like a hot bath”
(for example)
when we kissed then.
It was difficult to attain that same position
(your upper lip between mine)
when your lips were cold and unresponsive
it felt like nothing.
So i repeated myself again
kissing the lips several times
to keep
feeling
nothing.

waltz for someone else

2007-08-29T21:41:00.000-05:00

i beg you to stay but it won't stand in the way
of my lonely bed
and my empty head
so i pushed you away with things i did and didn't say
you stopped listening
anyway

will you hold my heart, held
by this one last thread?

the pride that i've swallowed, now deep inside
i can see
in your brown eyes
as you look to me and sincerely decline
i'll rephrase it
one more time

will you hold my heart, held
by this one last thread?

i beg you to stay but we're at the doorway
of my lonely bed
and my empty head
humility is my disguise tonight
keep me here
where my loneliness dies

will you hold my heart, held
by this one last thread?

an overcast day

2007-08-14T12:45:00.000-05:00

some things,
always feel the same:
like the passage of time
after your hand drops from my side.
i need you
to slip off my ballet shoes.
as i sleep, pull me into you.
eyes open wide,
tears spill the sides.
breathe in and out with me again.

and,
if you have the chance take me for granted.

some things,
always feel the same:
like the water marked ceiling
after your words have lost their meaning.
i need you
to slip off my ballet shoes.
as i sleep, pull me into you.
eyes close down,
tears hit the ground.
breathe in and out with me again.

and,
if you have the chance take me for granted.

you’re a fire that can’t be contained
disguised as an overcast day
you’re a fire that can’t be contained
disguised as an overcast day
you’re a fire that can’t be contained
disguised as an overcast day

that's science!

2007-08-13T16:14:00.000-05:00

x inactivation

the great youth mirage

2007-08-06T14:08:00.000-05:00

as the 25th year of my existence comes to a close, i am forced to add a nightly application of anti-wrinkle cream to my face-washing/tooth-brushing routine and during those extra few minutes reflect on what has now become my full subscription to the lobotomized personality this nation has come to posess. over the past year i’ve watched at least one episode of each and every reality television show aired. which, as you might have noted from my earlier entries, is more television than i’ve been subjected to in the past 5 years. i’ve emerged a slightly less- intelligent person with one conclusion: the single most important value in this country today is youth. as my own deteriorates, i feel compelled to examine the underlying implications of this youth mirage the whole damn country is chasing after. several ideas have sprung: while i initially bashed this country with my holier than though baseball bat over the idea, i eventually came to my senses (probably while applying the wrinkle cream) and was forced to at least mull over my role in its propagation. the youth mirage has invaded all corners of our lives from billboards to tv screens to Friday nights at the local pub when you witness your boyfriend lusting after a girl half your age. my initial repulsion of the youth mirage (especially as it applies to women) is that youth is coincident with ignorance, inexperience, naive insecurity, and basically all the attributes that, when adopted by females, would put an end to the ever pungent reality that we are ultimately the stronger and more efficient sex. indeed if this nation can convince a mature, confident, strong woman that she should mold herself back into an 18 year old girl in order to maintain her attractiveness, it is basically telling her that everything she’s learned and experienced and built herself into is inconsequential and she will progress farther in this life if she can just remained innocent, uninspired, and undeveloped.

of course, here i am, still with all my insight applying the fucking cream!

so i delved a bit deeper into the phenomenon that has become the youth and wanna-be youths of this country. and here is what i’ve decided. all of the manipulations toward younger looking skin and hair (all along the subtle to drastic scale) are just cover up, a metaphor if you will, for what we are all really, desperately after.... that is, a life, a soul, a heart, and a body that remains beautiful, sweet, and generally unaffected by the horror and heartbreak that we’ve all come to face on a daily basis.
and to that, i say, “touche!” and “pass me my wrinkle cream!”

misery loves

2007-07-02T13:53:00.000-05:00

waking to, waking to find
a life that's not mine.
struggle to, struggle to lift
my head from all this shit.
i wish i had your words to run through my head
when it starts sending and receiving again.

"it'll be awhile" you said.
"awhile" you said.
i haven't seen you since then.

misery loves company and your company is misery to me.

the humid, humid air
high-fived
my lovers, lovers goodbye
i wish i had your chest pressed against my face
when i start sleeping through the night again.

"it'll be awhile," you said
"awhile" you said
i haven't seen you since then.

misery loves company, your company is misery to me-
misery loves company, your company is misery to me.

drug love affair

2007-06-06T22:35:00.000-05:00

searching the depths of this mind,
i know your craving.
i’m desperately waiting,
(for something real).
which reminds me, now
why i don’t care much for escaping.

perfectly rendered.

2007-05-29T21:27:00.000-05:00

sunday morning, yellow sun beating on the bed, with a disappointed feeling (staring up at the ceiling) realizing it wasn’t a dream.

april showers

2007-04-17T21:44:00.000-05:00

destroy your umbrella
leaving you with a mutilated mess of metal and
polyester cloth.

april showers

seal your windows
blocking up your room with dust making you
clean with Lysol.

april showers

muddy boots
and wet pant legs, filling up the laundry basket
with time

april showers

clean city streets
and invigorate may flowers with their cold, wet
goodbyes

slick city

2007-04-14T21:02:00.000-05:00

slick city streets
(driving home)
lit up by traffic lights,
on an empty road.
it wasn’t meant to be.

and if I think of you now,
I know I stayed too long.

I moved two years away
and you were not a necessity in transit
now you translate what could be
can these two be disparate?

you always find a way to get to me

A 1

2007-04-13T22:54:00.000-05:00

wet night,
we fell heavy like the sunshine
at the end of day.

recall your decision,
tight around a cigarette.
exhale deep attempts
to dispel your regret.
you’ve already lost me.

wet night,
words cramp in consequence
strained to convey one thing to say.

you pretended to stay,
tight around a cigarette.
exhale deep attempts
to dispel your regret.
you’ve already lost me.

start with my mended heart again.
start with my mended heart again.
start with my mended heart again.
start with my mended heart again.

double helix

2007-04-13T21:11:00.000-05:00

tricky like DNA, distance is exceptionally long

but not at all far away.

waltz #2

2007-04-01T22:29:00.001-05:00

call scene on this memory.
I wrote the parts we played out
and imagined them taking place prior to them actually taking place;
so did you.

call cut on this memory
you told me how it would be
when you asked me to sing you a waltz and I knew then;
so did you.

the waltz

2007-03-15T14:22:00.000-05:00

please don't tell me where you slept last night
or how she whispered in your ear, and said everything just right.
i don't have the means to make my compliments contrived-
when i want your attention, i just look in your eyes

today will be the same
before you and me threw it all away
today will be the same
before you and me threw it all away

please don't tell me where you've been,
don't interrupt the dream i've been living in.
and don't tell me that you don't want me tonight
because you don't think i'd be right by morning light.
i know i'm the woman you fantasize about
not spending your entire life without.

take the points you earned for your honesty
and count them on your couch while you're missing me.
tell your stories to the emptiness you hold tight
so you can have something to sleep beside.

today will be the same
before you and me threw it all away
today will be the same
before you and me threw it all away

my time stretches miles beyond sight
without you interested in my life.
now how will i spend my lonely days
without you there to push away.

number 101

2007-01-25T00:07:00.000-05:00

nighttime,
on the second shelf- nightstand.
pages collect dust,
without my hand
to turn them.
window blinds left opened out, such that someone might see
my eyes closing down two stops.
i’m resting now.
toes so cold-
i’m resting now,
to your song, a shadow on my cheek,
keeping me underneath through winter morning.

ruminate, animate, sublimate, repeat.

2006-11-10T01:07:00.000-05:00

when memories die
you find them dry, paper thin,
like leaves bent beneath your soles-
because the day’s demands force you on top of each,
just to step.
imagine them green and attached,
they appear as a photograph
rather than a feeling between your fingers
or your lips.

we have the facts and we're voting yes

2006-11-07T00:51:00.000-05:00

it rained on election day this year, slightly, enough for my umbrella to stutter awkwardly on the walk to the polls. decidedly, extra precautions can sometimes lead to excess baggage, and excess baggage can sometimes hamper progress... as evidenced by the sunken edges of my ballot against the damp plastic umbrella.
like the process itself, my best efforts turn bittersweet.
I admit, this was my first vote. I did not vote during the presidential election, even though I lied and told everyone that I did.
(yes, I am ashamed at my behavior, I think about it like taking my calcium supplements- I wasn’t before and that was wrong, however I am now and I will make a concerted effort from this point forward now that I am fully aware of the dire consequences of neglecting such responsibilities).
besides, voting didn’t feel right in Florida the way it does here. Hanging chads aside, it doesn’t even smell like democracy there. so, tonight, behind my curtain, I anxiously bubbled my ovals afraid that if I pressed too hard I would take down the whole stand and if I didn’t press hard enough, my votes could be lost in the machine.

and even though I showed proper identification, I felt like a different person, a person that I might rather be tomorrow and maybe even the next day.

goodbye

2006-10-24T22:52:00.000-05:00

the day that you left isn't juxtaposed to the day that you came-
so i propose you stay here 'till the appropriate scene change,
when the snow falls on our faces and the icy street
chases us to our knees.

the day that you left
the cool breeze stuck between the strands of my hair
from the window, backseat.
because you bent to thirds,
i miss you less from there.

(but that's not the same as wanting to say
goodbye.
goodbye.
goodbye.)

time spins steady film on the reel.
when the credits roll you forget how you feel.
but even pedestrians can see
it's from the passenger seat that she takes the wheel
and drives you away

(from me
goodbye.
goodbye.
goodbye.)

rule of thirds

2006-10-03T08:50:00.000-05:00

from accross the room
your smile, the moon on its side
rising on dark day

from beneath blankets
your eyes, bubbles on soap wand
falling down, then gone

from adjacent mind
I sip coffee on cold days
to stop missing you

bad cafeteria days

2006-10-03T08:46:00.000-05:00

dark brown table holds
one large chocolate cookie
beside one Calc book

She said, "show your work-
both sides of the equal sign"
(my favortie part)

dark brown table knows
math homework looks convincing
when lunch's spent alone

one small space

2006-09-18T23:30:00.000-05:00

the weather’s been temperamental today and so have i.
it's cool sometimes, and the breeze pauses behind my knees for a rest.
other times it's hot, and the air just won’t leave me alone.

during the latter, I’ve been using my chinese paper fan to cool myself. my chinese paper fan, purchased with two, maybe three tickets, during one good time. I admit here, in my safe place, I can’t part with it. the others, the ones you left on purpose, have been disposed of. mostly, everything is gone, like your voice, settled into the phone on a late schoolnight. i took your t-shirt and your book and your socks and I dropped them off for someone less fortunate. I deleted your phone number, your emails, your presents, your presence in my life. i didn't waste the time. because you can't get it back after you waste it.

it’s been 6 months.

My Chinese paper fan is useful in several ways: it folds thin, conveniently and can be fastened with this witty plastic strap. the colors are green and pink, my favorites. it's lightweight, small, and fits in most of my purses. on a hot day, it’s there for the using. on a cool day, it doesn’t seem to be taking up any excessive amount of space. the thin paper hasn't broken yet, through several uses.
like i said, although it does take up space,
it doesn’t seem excessive.
not an excessive amount of space-
just a small one.
one small space.

truth about babies.

2006-09-18T23:21:00.000-05:00

it’s but the two month anniversary of cable TV in my living room and I’ve already found my mind feeble for it. between back to back viewings of Rachael Ray’s 30 minute meals (as well as the making of “Rachael Ray’s 30 minute meals”) I’ve managed to watch Dirty Dancing 5 times this past week. Not normally prone to speaking in movie quotes (those of you that know me can attest to my complete lack of this sort of knowledge), I found myself repeating “shoulders back, head up…” in the fitting room today (weekly retail therapy).

Later during table conversation, I had a far off look in my eyes because I was thinking about appropriate ways to insert “Nobody puts Baby in a corner” into the mix.

Now on the walk home, I’m remembering the first time I saw that scene. I was six. Moments after the credits rolled I ran into my bedroom and found this pink nightgown, convinced I looked just like Baby, I twirled around my bedroom.
And so, what’s changed.
I’m thinking.
It’s ironic the way media can make you want all the things you’re not (and you actually don’t want to be… ie why would I ever want to be a “Baby”)
So then, what does Baby have that I don’t?
(awesome: I can develop an inferiority complex against a fictional character).

And now on my walk home, my skinny high heels prick the pavement during each fast paced step (some harder than others). My hips sway beneath upright shoulders, between straightened back, balanced over slender heel (calves tightened), as I’ve determined the only successful posture. From right to left, my hips brush between my vintage blue handbag (weighted by my mag flashlight and tazer) and my guitar case from which my fingers are calloused around the handle.
I wonder how anyone could ever know how small I am inside, when the heels I chose are higher by the day.

How could anyone know that I desperately need to be pulled from the corner, when I’m standing onstage.

broken

2006-07-31T17:24:00.000-05:00

i’m bigger than i look,
not as strong as i seem.
although i can lift heavy machinery;
from time to time,
if need be.

I’m not asking you
to install my
air conditioner

look in my eyes,
when i’m broke inside
and fix me.

it’s august again
it comes around each year for the sentimental appeal.
I don’t always heal,
so I write my own endings, from time
to time
if need be

last night in my dream
i was drowning
beside a boat with my name at the seam
of plastic and sea
although in your will, you left it for me
i couldn’t seem to reach
my hand inside

and like

your chances at forgiveness
i washed away with the tide

if i'm broken inside,
if i'm broken inside.

happiness is

2006-07-31T17:15:00.000-05:00

a) patiently accepting the inevitable (Spinoza)
b) a state of well-being and contentment (Merriam Webster)
c) a warm gun (beatles)

the last snow

2006-07-04T00:16:00.000-05:00

weeks like wet cars pass
with plenty of time
to make their way
from your town to mine

now
that the season has changed

i pull my umbrella back,
but it won't close the way it did
before the wind
bent its metal parts

my hair has gotten wet
walking through streets
where unfamiliar and old intersect
try not to step east of prospect

anymore

when the podium calls
i'm projecting my voice
cause confidence,
is the choice you make
before the show

you referred to today
when you said,
"if we still know eachother then"

it's like you knew
before me

now the trees have grown leaves
for us to stand below
i'll forget you with ease
like winter after the last snow

so, what's changed

2006-06-06T08:28:00.000-05:00

so, what's changed.
I saw your photo on the screen, you still look the same-
bangs brushed with sweat off your face,
swinging your guitar like you're Ben,
but your solo was off pace.
I see you’re chasing your dreams
I’m living mine.
it’s not as good as it seems.

after all these years
I can still write you a song.
blurred images and used words
all i have to go from
so what has changed?

some people write about love

guess I’ll change the words before I'm done.

so, what’s changed.
still get your news from tv and read books about things you can't see?
they all want you so bad.
it always cheapened it for me.
I see your chasing those dreams
I’m living mine
are you as lonely as me?

so, what’s changed.
do you remember my first time,
you came to see me play
I dropped my pick on the first song-
you still clapped. you were good that way
if just that way
I see your chasing your dreams
I’m living mine,

it's not as good as it seems.
some people write about love.

the don't send

2006-06-05T21:36:00.000-05:00

tonight we never
bumped knees under bar tables
I miss you, like (we) did

list 1

2006-06-05T21:23:00.000-05:00

how to become an indie rocker.

1. purchase navy blue hooded zip jacket, one size too small.
2. grow facial hair. beard is not a must, as long as facial hair appears excessive or unruly in some way.
3. wear your under shirt as your over shirt.
4. talk about yourself, your band, your music, your ...
5. be modest about your brilliance.
6. pretend like it's cool to be uncool until you actually see someone being uncool. then treat them like they really are uncool.
7. re-read number 6 replacing the word "uncool" with the word "awkward".
8. sensitivity is key. (well, at least while other people are in the room).
9. note that you aren't actually required to care about the people reffered to in number 8.
10. fall madly in love with one girl. one girl only. this girl should be one that you treated like absolute shit before "tragically" loosing. you will never, never love anyone again.

brilliant redhead

2006-05-30T19:55:00.000-05:00

(and this one wasn't even me)

"I think that one of these days science is going to figure out that there really is no such thing as a 'Y' chromosome. It's just an 'X' with a big chunk missing"

for you (revisited)

2006-03-31T23:35:00.000-05:00

tonight’s crescent moon
only frames a brighter night
like me, without you

I've made my bed—

2006-03-19T13:54:00.000-05:00

(3 times, with clean sheets)

in the morning,
when the yellows make sun of the sky,
I’ll twist my feet beneath the covers, convinced
I can sleep better—
now that you’re gone.

(but the insides will seem so much colder)

in the afternoon,
when the clouds make stripes of the sky,
I’ll get back in and think about all the things
I can devote my time to—
now that you’re gone.

(but the hours will seem so much longer)

in the evening,
when the dark makes dots of the sky,
I’ll stay on top and reach for what’s closest,
I can do what I want—
now that you’re gone.

(but the wants will seem so much farther)

tonight

2006-03-09T23:46:00.000-05:00

i'll play the first 3 notes of various songs that i'm pretending (but not trying at all) to learn. then i'll turn my guitar upside down so its neck is by my knee and its base beneath my propped chin- and i'll pretend it's a violin.
i'm separate.
like the missing bow. so i'll write about it, without much sense. between typings, i'll pause and think sentences mixed with very important things and not at all important things. like, is my memory as deceitful/less deceitful/more deceitful than the truth itself and, i forgot my toothbrush in the car.
and yet, they will be related.
then, i'll sing out of tune because i'm alone. i'll try to figure out how today moved this far past yesterday and this far from tomorrow. i'll think about our time. how it circles and sweats and owns the floor with its last dance. and how i've taken off my shoes even though i'm still afraid of being stepped on, but how i really may have been better off leaving just one behind.

virtual suicide

2006-02-13T18:35:00.000-05:00

"What happened to the good old days, when you'd get to know someone before reading their myspace profile?"

Somewhere circa 1993¹, right around the time I hit puberty², the not so newly invented computer landed its large monitor just left of the TV and right of the kitchen in a new nook termed the “home office”. Unlike its technological cousins, CD players, cell phones, etc. purchasing a computer had little to do with movin’ on up³. The computer wasn’t an upgrade. The new Dell PC didn’t present like frivolous valet parking or salon shampoo, rather it was the T-I 844 calculator- a snazzy but justifiable necessity. Now computers had been standing around for years⁴, but they didn’t seem to matter until America Online went public. Baby world wide web was just 3 years old when internet became the season’s new must have. And it was a must have, launched during a naïve and innocent 1993, a time when 2000 was touchable and yet there were still visions of tin-foil clothing and flying cars dancing in our heads⁵. By 1994, over one million Americans subscribed to AOL. I was one of ‘em (or at least my parents were- I wasn’t even old enough to drive yet).
During that first summer, chatting with friends became a solitary endeavor. I’d sit in my pajamas, blue light reflected on my cheeks, entertaining friends from North Carolina and California and Massachusetts and Alaska. I’d laugh and sometimes cry, find myself enraged and sometimes in love with conversations which cascaded down my screen. I quickly learned how to maintain these friendships with a whole new set of rules. Typing quickly, working on my wit, I improved my response time and thus my friendships. It turned out to be a successful skill, as right around that same time, my high school teachers began requesting all papers be “typed”. This exhausting process involved hand writing the whole paper and then sitting down in front of the computer to “type it”. Fortunately the invention of those plastic protruding paper holders, which clung via Velcro to side of the monitor and dangled the original manuscript along side of the screen buffered the task.
During this transitory period, opinions about technology were as explosive as internet itself. Old folks usually shuttered when they felt like they were “losing it” even faster. Children, with expansively adaptive natures, delighted when they played with the new “toy”. Adults struggled to stay “hip” when they mastered (ever so slowly) the search engine. Amongst the kids in the hall, the ones my age, 2 types of people emerged: those who embraced the computer and took rapidly to its advancements, and those who stopped at Oregon Trail, pretending the new technology would just go away⁶. By the way- I’m a type oner. I got through most of my adolescence with the guidance of google, I learned to play guitar from guitartabs.cc, and I formed relationships via instant messenger, with the emotion of my entire day teetering on the tone of particular away messages posted by particular friends.
Although I’m not too sure what the kids are up to these days, I can reminisce with my generation and the rhythm we possessed. Just old enough to appreciate things like Atari, floppy disks that were actually floppy, and mix tapes, while never “learning” to use new technology. Instead, it seemed to develop right along side us. Regardless, for someone such as myself, who sometimes is just too plain lazy to get up from the couch and use the bathroom, I can't help but wonder why I put forth the effort of investment.
Mostly likely, it was because I had to. When the internet developed, people responded- not because it was futuristic or cool or interesting or even efficient, rather people responded because the internet developed as a social tool. It became necessary for social survival. It became modern evolution. Those that shunned the computer were missing out on new relationships, improved communication, and more generally, they were ignoring a whole other dimension of daily life—the virtual one.
Now I admit, I’m no columnist. So I’ll bring this right back to me⁷. It was, of course, a recent event in my life which forced this heavy realization and philosophical inspection. I found myself, very seriously, contemplating… suicide⁸. I woke up one morning after a virtual rejection⁹ desperately wanting to disappear, and then I realized I could actually make myself disappear. One tap of the mouse over one small square “delete account”. It wasn’t until I found myself debating the repercussions of my potential action, I realized the gravity of the internet. Asking myself questions like:
what will I tell everyone?
Do I inform my friends first?
What will they think when they find my page gone?
What will I be missing?
Will I be missed?
produced a delusional and quasi-suicidal state. I found that when faced with the actual “are you sure you want to delete your account” pop-up, my pointer finger couldn’t find the muscle tension to mouse the “enter” button. I hovered over the screen for quite sometime before I chose the “cancel” option. And I did “cancel’” quite a bit in that moment. There in my virtual self, I could see the evolution of my real self.

1. the same year parents gave “calculator” watches for Christmas and 4th grade math teachers everywhere had to patrol the classroom for misusage of the dreaded "calculator"
2. irrelevant, but true
3. to the east side
4. think DOS
5. well, I guess we weren't too off... there was that Brittney Spear’s video.
6. yea, really. I’ve actually heard this line, “I think the internet is just going to go away”
7. clearly that’s where this was headed
8. Whoa- wait a minute, please read on before notifying the officials
9. I was “not approved” by a potential myspace friend

for you

2006-02-06T15:32:00.000-05:00

sapient sun rays
settled on windowsilled panes
early morning's kiss

where is my mind

2006-01-17T16:54:00.000-05:00

I love the sound of my boots on pavement, on stone, on brick, on concrete sidewalks and chilled corridors, on the speckled ceramic lining of this 30- year- old building. Rhythmic clicking, clacking, scuffing (I always scuff), scraping feels consistent and persistent. Like the sturdy hand of a clock, I’m back.

I can’t be sure where I’m back from- so I regret that I won’t be sharing that with you. I can’t be sure exactly how long I was gone or even where I am now, in other words, where exactly “back” is. I only know objects, pictures, sounds all seemed different there. I felt restless, often angry, and mostly void. Earlier today (before I got back) during my morning commute, in the dinner table of my mind, conversation carried about as follows:

- I now see why different paint brushes might be necessary for different types of paint. Oils are very different from acrylics. I wonder how long it will take for that picture I painted last night to dry...
- why didn’t you ever take a painting class when you were in college? better yet, why the hell didn’t you ever ask any of your absurdly talented painter friends questions? hey, why didn’t you just watch someone paint? shit, your grandma was an artist- why didn't you ask her ?
- I think I just felt stupid. that’s it. that, and I guess I was just as focused on science and school then as I am now, those things probably seemed frivolous.
- what if I became this great painter (and by great I mean that I just painted tons of pictures to fill my house)?
- what if you never make it as a scientist?
- what if I can’t get enough focus to complete one task in life and I never make it as anything?
- what if you hit that car?
- SHIT (I almost hit that car)

Shortly after 3 pm I came back.
I was listening to the story of the action potential- all that is at the very root of neural communication. I was fascinated by my own fascination and by the fact that no matter how many times I hear that story- I will always love it. Then, the action potential made me feel comfortable in my boots- which just then had gotten a little itchy.
The dinner table of my mind faded into an espresso bar, where, hair bunned, glasses bent, I postulated thin air:
- is it possible that a sound (such as boots on stone) can actually make one feel more accomplished?
- as humans, have we evolved so much in the last thousand years that we are no longer able to relate ( I mean deeply, not superficially) to the perceptions of our ancestors, much in the same way that we can't currently relate to the perceptions of a monkey?
- toilet bowls and fine china: both porcelain… interesting

it's good to be home. even when it's not quite clear where that is.

i'm

2005-12-01T14:17:00.000-05:00

watching ticks of a hand like taps of a guitarist’s shoe. numbers are usually
absent on Monday nights. still, beneath circular light, songwriters switch at
intervals set. between ornamental pillars the bartender rolls silverware,
tasting an occasional beer. he smiles, during the change of turn.
i got “smooth” and “soulful”, fortunes from a paper cookie. as i shift, the guy
next gets a few more during the week’s announcements. i smile, set my
guitar juxtaposed to the doorway, and sign up again.

you don't get laid much,

2005-11-28T22:28:00.000-05:00

i can tell by the way you just threw your jacket and your clipboard on the guitar sitting next to me because you wouldn't possibly assume it to be mine.

this time (revisited)

2005-11-17T21:43:00.000-05:00

last night in my dream we were making sweet love
and I called out your name to the stars just above
except it was daylight outside
because even my dreams
lie to me.

you had these strange spots on your face and neck
but I promised to love you even if you were sick
and you called me three times
in the exact same day
just to tell me you love
the way I stayed

strange that you felt so real on my lips
in the morning light I kissed the bone of your hip
and it was perfect just like
something never had
always is

and if you never have it,
it always is

in the morning I woke to that feeling again
like I’m standing outside and I’m looking in
to my own life which
hides and mysteriously
lies to me

all I have is this 2-D face in my mind
like a picture I’ve seen more than you and I find
it’s a different beat that breathes
and follows my feet
this time

this time

and I know now that it was just a dream
a manifestation of the subconscious I bring
to bed each night
so I have something to sleep
beside.

it still moves (revisited)

2005-11-09T16:25:00.000-05:00

the boat rocks in lingering exhaust. i remember when i was 5
and the horizon was just a moving line.
now it's shrinking in the fog settled to the sound
of water foamed at the mouth, swallowing itself down.

i look down at all the leather shoes.
water beads my skin like sugar melted sun.
i hope no one sees
the salt in my eyes,
it still moves.
it still moves.

your eyes are the broken sentences of my mind.
the awkward pauses stretching through the same frame of time
that swept the streets,
with orange colored leaves and left the days
shorter in reply.

can you tell me why
familiar feels so good,
better than good itself sometimes.

LTD

2005-11-08T17:25:00.000-05:00

my skin is pulling back on itself
as a result of increasing elasticity.
I don’t think anyone would notice this but me,
but it is.
right between the freckles.
all over.
when I look at myself in the mirror,
it’s as if I am slowing down the plasticity
enough to watch stimuli bounce nucleus to nucleus,
loop again,
rush the release,
and compromise the potential.
and it’s an odd phenomenon.
these mV are stretching time for me,
for the purpose of my recognition
and I am amazed, I am.
and I am fortunate, I am.
and I am grateful that the opportunity to witness this event has been bestowed upon me,
I am.
also,
I am dampened by the excitation.
by the new parts inserted.
by the strengthening of responsiveness.
by the plastic.

awkward silence

2005-11-07T23:13:00.000-05:00

I’ve never seen anything like these orange colored streets. Everything I look at appears like the face of a postcard, pretty, but transient, and traveling someplace else. I dreamt last night, about them. And I could remember which ones lost their leaves first. But in the daytime, which is grabbing my hand like a tightened wrist- band, I am only worried about the trees losing their leaves because I remember how long it took for them to grow back.
And still they feel warm and soft but dry in their death, sort of like the sea and cake, two things which obviously don’t co-exist and yet seem to taste good anyway.

how many times a day do you think about the end of the world?

2005-10-15T13:52:00.000-05:00

i'm averaging 3.

desperate times.

2005-10-10T21:53:00.000-05:00

girl 1 (to girl 2): i saw the strangest thing today.
girl 2: what was that?
girl 1: i saw this girl actually, purposely, fall down the stairs in order to get a guy's attention.
girl 2: no.
girl 1: yes. she was walking and i saw her look back, check out this hot guy, raise an eyebrow, and then sort of chuck her semi-full plastic bag in front of her and kind of fall to the side of it. right down the stairs.
girl 2: no.
girl 1: yes.
girl 2: are you sure?
girl 1: yes.
girl 2: what was in the plastic bag?
girl 1: possibly clothing.
girl 1: so, the guy comes running over and asks her if she's okay, if he should call someone, he doesn't want to move her if she's really hurt. and then they talk during the whole train ride until he gets off at his stop.
girl 2: he must have been really cute.
girl 1: yes, yes he was.

growing pains

2005-10-04T21:12:00.000-05:00

I’m craving a cigarette. I have been for weeks now. and it even seems fitting.
I don’t smoke (I’ve never even tried a cigarette) and frankly I think smoke is obtrusive. yet still, I sit at my desk, restlessly twist my feet and roll my ankles, and think about how I’d like to take a cigarette break.
I’d like to stand outside on the sidewalk, facing the shrubs at about 3 o’clock in the afternoon, inhale deeply and exhale smoothly and stare at passing traffic. I’d also like to walk down a brick sidewalk in high- heeled shoes and long earrings and feel the inside of my wrist brush my hip as my bent hand balances the smoke between my fingers.
one time, last week, the craving got so bad that I started wondering if, in fact, I’d been a smoker in a past life. worse, maybe I’ve been “sleep smoking” and I haven’t even been aware of my dirty habit. I considered media influences, which might make me think smoking is cool (because a cartoon camel is doing it), but I don’t watch tv (or at least I didn’t before simon).
regardless, a cartoon camel can't explain the persistence of this craving even after yesterday, when I caught a glimpse of a woman who looked a whole lot like me, standing on the street corner smoking a cigarette. before I could cognitively process my visual field, I thought what I always think when I see someone with freckles, smoking—
it’s dirty.
not bad dirty.
not hot dirty.
dirty.
the kind that leaves a strange and pasty and terribly bitter aftertaste.

simon says

2005-10-04T19:48:00.000-05:00

we picked up our new tv, simon, 3 days ago.
i have watched 3 times since then.

1. law and order episode about a middle-aged white man who rapes 11 year old girls and then beats them post mortum because he is "angry"
2. carmen electra: "i did the whole stripper thing and i'm over it, now i'm into fashion" this quote was subsequently followed by another show featuring carmen electra half naked with a guitar between her legs.
3. pillsbury perfect portions commercial, where even muffins have a significant other.

he still thinks

2005-09-19T16:06:00.000-05:00

i like him less than I really do—
and I’ve been using it to my advantage.
plans.
he still thinks
some things will always feel the same.
and I'm the passage of time
in a tiny room
not so far away
from him.
now,
when the sun lights up the tips of his hair
as it stares down on us all from large windows-
spanning larger than anyone in the room,
i can smell my broken heart like the back of his head under my chin.
he still thinks
I like him less than I really do,
it’s easier than
me
still tasting his earlobes on my tongue
in the cold plastic pen cap
between my lips.

catholic school

2005-09-16T23:49:00.000-05:00

today I woke up feeling like a dirty whore.
no, really.
I did.
feeling like a dirty whore is not actually that blatant.
it’s subtle. a granule of sand just underneath the sock, it rubs skin till it’s a little calloused (slightly raw)—
mainly felt.
I’ve shaken myself out, changed, showered and still it remains.
dirty whore.
reminds me of the time I thought was pregnant.
(after a 7 month lapse in sexual activity).

it's not coincidental.

2005-09-15T13:13:00.000-05:00

I once knew a girl
In the years of my youth
With eyes like the summer
All beauty and truth
In the morning I fled
Left a note and it read
Someday you will be loved.

I cannot pretend that I felt any regret
Cause each broken heart will eventually mend
As the blood runs red down the needle and thread
Someday you will be loved

You'll be loved you'll be loved
Like you never have known
The memories of me
Will seem more like bad dreams
Just a series of blurs
Like I never occurred
Someday you will be loved

You may feel alone when you're falling asleep
And everytime tears roll down your cheeks
But I know your heart belongs to someone you've yet to meet
Someday you will be loved

You'll be loved you'll be loved
Like you never have known
The memories of me
Will seem more like bad dreams
Just a series of blurs
Like I never occurred
Someday you will be loved

You'll be loved you'll be loved
Like you never have known
The memories of me
Will seem more like bad dreams
Just a series of blurs
Like I never occurred
Someday you will be loved
Someday you will be loved

that i heard this before it was released.

i found a reason.

2005-09-12T19:51:00.000-05:00

or i might have.
i found myself listening to a mix with this track for the title. it's mixed a slow ride from then to now, and back a few times. i didn’t think about it, as much as i felt it out. one track leads to the next and sometimes it doesn’t really, but you’ll find yourself there anyhow.
and now i couldn’t think about it if i tried.
i can just feel the progression.
and think,
maybe.

between aisles 10 and 24.

2005-09-11T22:52:00.000-05:00

I ran out of dental floss today. And as I slipped the last strip through my molars and into the trash can, I realized that this might be the first time in my life I’ll have to buy more. Now, I do actually floss frequently (at least every other day, almost). I use glide. I like the thin- stringed mint variety, but really I’m not too picky. It’s a damn string that you rub between your teeth to get old, stuck, food out- I mean really. Boxes of dental floss have been showing up at our house for years, even though it’s been years since my dad has lived there. It must be the perk of keeping his last name.

Yesterday I was grocery shopping for things not dental floss, like: pork chops, cornflakes, and hummus. I called my mom, the non-expert authority on matters of food preparation and consumption, to ask her about pork chops. Her advice was solid, but I was still too apprehensive to make the purchase. I get like that about meat. I like to stick with chicken. It’s always a fair cook.
I continued to the cereal aisle as mom continued to pork chop talk. I was staring at the cornflakes when I asked mom if she’d heard from dad, and mentioned that he’d forgotten my birthday.
she says,
“ you know, [insert my name here], your father is very sick. he’s going to die. you’re too old to expect him to call you on your birthday. you should be calling him. he’s lucky if he makes it any longer. at any moment, he could be gone. and once he’s gone, [my name], he’s gone. you’ll never hear his voice again. so anyway, if you’re going to get pork chops, I would pay extra for the leanest meat. It’s always worth it.”
I felt like I had just dumped a whole box of cranberry almond cornflakes on my head, and I was standing in the middle of an embarrassing, inexplicable mess. A Whole Foods apron approached with disdain, knowing somehow that I had done something inappropriate somewhere between aisles 10 and 24.
Although neither of us was sure of exactly what.

burb, burb, burb, the burb's the word

2005-09-06T00:26:00.000-05:00

living in the suburbs is like drinking a glass of water on a Monday morning. It’s clean, clear, refreshing, but really no substitute for a grande nonfat latte. visiting the suburbs however, is like skipping school altogether on a Monday morning. It feels completely wrong, and yet everything around you is so easy it urges you to continue. It reminds me of a few things I almost forgot about:
1. the feeling of concrete beneath bare feet
2. parking in the driveway
3. mini golf

I think that was it.

huh.

2005-09-02T23:05:00.000-05:00

after the end (before the beginning). I think someone famous called it "space between", but I'll just refer to it as

2005-08-29T16:46:00.000-05:00

a particular junction at which it’s easiest to disappear. "Delete" buttons tend to present themselves readily here, and they’re cleaner than erasers because they don’t leave rubber residue. This interstitial period allows for cognitive reconstruction. I’m using it to anatomize people and places like parts and rebuild them like an engine which I will use to drive myself into a new driveway.

smells like popped collar

2005-08-26T12:56:00.000-05:00

I came across an interesting situation this past weekend in which the “popped collar” as much as I despise its presence, actually illustrated an interesting cultural point. While visiting the more southern parts of our country, I was forced into an Abercrombie and Fitch store (quite possible the initiator of popped collars). During this visit, I did what any normal human being would do—
I surreptitiously weaved through mannequins, bending collars back and where they belong. I wiped the beads of sweat dripping off my forehead, and looked around disappointed that I couldn’t get them all. Then I noticed something. I questioned it. It turned out to be true.
Here in the south, only men pop- no female pop-age occurs in these parts.

find out what it means to me

2005-08-25T13:21:00.000-05:00

It was 5:15 when my plane lowered its belly to the ocean and touched down at logan. The family sitting adjacent to me was both nervous and excited about how close we were to the ocean. I remember that excitement- I had it too the first time I watched bushy green trees fade into rows upon rows of paper thin houses. At 5:30 I checked my watch and heard the guy behind me- two earrings (one for each ear) answer his cell phone, “Yeah, we just landed, I’ll meet you at baggage claim,” and all the usual terminal jargon. I looked out the window at the baggage trucks and accepted the feeling of being home- the feeling that no one would be greeting me at baggage claim. The anticipation of vacation was replaced with a vague, comfortable familiarity, which grew along the subway tracks eventually giving way to a full, bright smile, once I stepped onto the street.
I can’t explain why I belong here, other than to simply say: this city has kicked my ass. And for an arrogant, typecast, disorganized, absurd, wicked city- I respect it for just that.

expiration date

2005-08-16T22:36:00.000-05:00

0blong mirror stares at plastic bristles sliding down strands of hair. It’s
8 pm. I’m thanking the sun for setting
16 minutes earlier today than yesterday, reminding me to forget the past
2 minutes— tomorrow they’ll be gone anyway.
0r at least, realize that my father forgot my birthday,
0nly six days after its occurrence. I don’t feel bad. I feel I’m going bad—
5 days past due.

this time

2005-08-15T15:31:00.000-05:00

two years ago I wrote a song about letting go. it was significant for 2 reasons. 1) I did actually let go. I heard my voice for the first time and lost all composure at the sound, and 2) I did actually let go. I wrote my own answers to the questions that kept me up at night.
I played it one night (without composure) for a guitarist I happened to be in love with, at the time. he listened with his eyes closed and when I was finished he told me that my song needed drums.
All your songs need drums he had said. I spent days staring at my metronome and practicing (with tight composure) my foot tapping.

a song takes on new meaning when it’s been dissected into parts. It never comes back together quite the same way. Kind of like deciphering an optical illusion, once you pick out the old lady’s face- you can never look at that picture again without seeing it. (broken social scene is accelerating, in this slow, smooth way.) I wish I could explain what it feels like,
but I don’t have the terminology to articulate.

a few weeks ago, in an un-crowded bar, I heard this band play. it was spontaneous—
the music that is, not me in the audience. the drummer played as though he had time completely pinned down. certain sounds and cymbals subdivided, sharing the song on their own terms. they tapped me on the shoulder once, and questioned my understanding. my former conceptions about their supporting roles are still waiting for callbacks.

this time, drums were the most interesting part. they made up for whatever was missing.
and drums are not at all like interesting guitar; which usually consumes the foreground, blurring the band into a scenic landscape. drums spread out temporally and spatially until the walls are pressed. they demand attention through subtle anticipation. his drumming provoked the other instruments, it seemed to be pushing and pulling and increasing tension on bone so that it could get at something deeper. his drumming was interactive, it played chase with guitar—
chess with bass.
it was always there.

it shook me up.

I felt pulled in and pushed around and briefly taken—
like maybe my heart was beating differently, in this context.
like my pulse wasn’t stuck as much
in awkward pauses.

now I’m thinking about my songs with drums, but disappointment has completely dulled their sound. and while disappointment is busy disappointing itself, I'm uninspired. It seems like something is missing. I worry that people in my audience will think it too.

But I’ve never played with a drummer
and I’ve never had drums in my songs.
and yet,
now I miss something I never had.

I miss something I’ve never even had.

it still moves

2005-08-14T22:31:00.000-05:00

today,
the horizon was dreamlike in the fog—
literally
a movie set.
the ocean waved
and
I was wondering why familiar feels so good—
better than good itself,
sometimes.
my fingers gripped gritty fiberglass
and seawater turned my skin to
sugar melted in sun.
the boat rocked in lingering
exhaust
the same as
when I was 5, in a hot pink
Woodstock life-vest.
water knocked the hull
and foamed at the mouth
before swallowing itself down
smooth.
I hope
the other people with pink noses
and leather shoes
thought it was just salt
in my eyes.

how free is a bird from the chains of the skyway

2005-08-12T12:23:00.000-05:00

I was sitting in the grass today, eating my bbq pulled pork sandwich, feeling incredibly free. there was a moment in which i was so transfixed by the sky that i actually felt like it had invited me in. my first day off- and i actually felt it- it felt like freedom. unfortunately i also felt something crawling on my leg. needless to say this sensation dislodged me from momentary nirvana and catapulted me into a paranoid delusion about a bug infestation. I had to leave at once and take shelter/ a shower to ensure purity.

"neurotransmitters take a holiday"

2005-08-10T21:38:00.000-05:00

i'm starting a HEART cover band.

afternoon nap

2005-08-08T21:12:00.000-05:00

“what’s your goal…” she says to me smiling- or I think she is smiling, but I can’t be sure without my glasses.
“what do you mean?”
“You have to think about this. What’s your goal? How do you want to feel?” She’s empathetic, though I can’t see it in her face.
And I’m thinking…that right there really is the question.
My thoughts take on the shape and sound of a wonder year’s voice over.
“I don’t want to be someone else’s disappointment.”
I wasn’t sure it would come out that way, but once it had, I realized it was true.
I don’t want to be someone else’s disappointment

I'm not much for anniversaries,

2005-08-07T20:47:00.000-05:00

but here's me one year ago exactly, attempting to describe public transportation.

“The Unspoken Irrefutable Ever-Present Social Rules of the T”

Rule 1:
Passengers are to remain quiet at all times. This includes, but is not limited to the following restrictions:

a) no cell phone usage
b) no casual/deep philosophical conversations with passengers related to or traveling with you
c) no talking to strangers
*note: breaking rule 1a-b will result in any/all of the following:
a) scolding glances
b) adjustment of passenger positions on the train
(for breaking rule 1c please see rule # 2)

Rule 2:
Speaking to other passengers is strictly prohibited. There might be certain circumstances for which it seems reasonable to break this rule, but please be advised, in actuality, there are no exceptions. Consider the following examples of reasonable circumstances that are NOT exceptions:

scenario 1. you spot another passenger wearing a sweatshirt with the name of a school 2000+ miles away that you also attended (yes, I actually saw someone with a Stetson sweatshirt)

scenario 2. you need the time

scenario 3. you spot a passenger wearing a sweatshirt with the name of a school you currently attend.

scenario 4. you are waiting at a T-stop with the same one person, everyday, at the same time, and this person is your age and attending your school (or at least wearing the sweatshirt), for over 5 minutes.

note: failure to comply with rule # 2can have disastrous consequences. please be advised, that in the event you mistakenly assume it is okay to speak with strangers, the following are bound to occur:
1. passengers seated/standing around will reposition themselves far away from you.
2. psychologically challenged or homeless individuals will take this opportunity to move closer, as you have now established yourself as one open to speaking with strangers and a violator of social rules.
Rule 3:
Eye contact is strictly forbidden. That’s what all the stupid posters are for. (It’s okay to stare at people though, just as long as they don’t see you do it).

and freud just laughs

2005-08-05T13:46:00.000-05:00

Last night I dreamt I was in a glass elevator. It was dark and full- so full in fact, I didn’t notice it was glass until later. The people on the elevator were all my age, I didn’t know any of them, though it seemed as though I might have known them during the dream. The elevator was rising and we were all happy as it traveled through the stories. Later though, it stuttered, and we all looked at each other in disbelief. Moments later it sharply descended. The sky was light, and blue, as I could now see it through the glass. As we fell, I realized we were outside- on top of the building. And when we crashed, it was onto the roof of the building. The glass broke and pieces of this mechanical atrocity burst and broke and fell into the roof. We stood, in formation, completely unharmed. I could see the impact, but I couldn’t feel anything.

take the "L" out of lover, baby

2005-08-04T12:34:00.000-05:00

9:30 AM
I’m wondering how steady my footing can be when my brain is actually a large vat of oatmeal- thick and rich, warm and sweet, but bearing little direction. my left arm always swings when I walk. when I was six years old my grandma told me to stop swinging, “ it makes you look like a little boy.”
and really, what could be worse.
the weight of this situation has no place on my shoulders- or they don’t feel all that heavy. or at least all, the weight can be attributed to my laptop. instead, thoughts are flickering like strobes of summer storm, then rising and falling like swings on the set.
It’s been 5 months. Despite numerous run ins: whole foods market (5X), reservoir T-stop (1X) and copy room/meeting room/stairway/coffee shop (priceless- I mean countless), no words have been exchanged.
He approaches me and my swinging arm with quite the entitled confrontation. I look up at him and he doesn’t even look real. He talked for a few minutes before I realized a response was warranted. I said the only thing I could say.
“I just totaled my car”
to which he actually laughed at me.
A keystone of our relationship was the superficial attitude he took to all my problems. At the time, I thought he was laughing with me- it being the best medicine and all. Now I know, he actually had me laughing at myself.
My indifference was provocative for him, I could tell by the way that kept talking and walking, always 2 steps ahead.
Now, if I had been able to formulate thoughts at that moment they might have been something of the following:
1. what was the origin of his entitled confrontation?
2. was he really moving back to California?
3. was he still miserable?

I’m curious. but I’ll never be curious enough to ask. Besides, I already got the one answer I needed.

case in point

2005-08-02T11:10:00.000-05:00

Grolier Poetry Book Shop 6 Plympton Street, Cambridge, MA 02138, 617-547-4648, Grolier is the “oldest, continuous poetry bookshop in North America;” as well as featuring book signings, autograph sessions, a yearly poetry contest and poetry readings, this book store also carries little magazines and over fifteen thousand current poetry titles.

to be continued...

2005-07-27T16:39:00.000-05:00

the best moments in life are those in which you, yourself, are dying to know what happens next.

the roaring 20s

2005-07-24T22:02:00.000-05:00

Last night i was certifiably the oldest person there- and everyone knew it. the discomfort was long like the beads around my neck. generally, they add some sophistication, but at times they wrap around random objects and near strangle me to death. it was pointed out, I looked like a flapper in them- someone straight out of the 20s. which oddly enough might have been the most accurate description.

Hey New England,

2005-07-24T21:59:00.000-05:00

Today I drove through MA and came across the following:
1. a stop sign and a green light, together.
2. the first public beach.
3. the oldest and largest restaurant/brewery in north America.
4. the oldest, longest running, first public transit system.
5. a complete absence of road signs on several streets.
6. a pamphlet citing that “market square predates faneuil hall”

and lastly, my personal favorite

7. Massachusetts, “the spirit of America”

get over yourself.

on three windows, offset- same wall.

2005-07-18T22:29:00.000-05:00

framed around dark wooden soldiers- I think that’s what they call them. an “up north” scene I’d only previously visited. strangely inspiring. they remind me of what I thought boston might be like before I moved here.

on going solo

2005-07-18T22:28:00.000-05:00

The strings on my guitar are filthy and they’re making me sneeze (at least I hope it’s the strings- or quite possibly I’ve developed an allergy to my guitar). Some sort of greasy dust has attached itself to that spot just above the bridge and below the sound hole. Cleaning it is almost like flossing. I dread it, but it needs to be done, and it’s usually fairly satisfying once you get into it. I’ve got my chin rested in the nape of the body and I’m staring through the action. This is what I’m thinking. I’m thinking about how dirty my guitar is.
That,
and how terrified I’ve been of the damn thing.
6 days ago someone said, “oh yea, you like zeppelin?” to which I replied, “I listen to fool in the rain everyday” to which this person then responded, “oh yea, what album is that off of?”

and I laughed and said:
“how the hell should I know. first name: led, last name: zeppelin. man, that’s what I though until a few years ago, so how the hell should I know. but really, I love fool in the rain.”

defining moment.

I realized just a bit ago, as I was stumbling through the blues scale, just singing about how bad I’ve been… I’ve been missing.
really, I have.
Playing a solo is like proposing what you want, taking it, and actually getting it. I’ve never done that before… instead I’ve been strung out and anxious about sounding bad. You can’t really get what you want when you don’t even know what it is that you want.
or, depending on the song, you can’t always get what you want.
but (at least) you can try sometimes.

"the longest winter"

2005-04-08T13:42:00.000-05:00

It's bizarre. I am finding new context in my life with the change of seasons. The winter has been something of a bad cold, a lingering cough, a dull headache. It exists in such a capacity that it can't be completely ignored, but it won't be immediately attended to. And I was walking home the other afternoon and a yellow flower tilted its headand reminded me, It was all over. Everything ended. No more coat, no more boots, no more extraneous clothing. Just me. Walking home from school. And without being cheesy (although it can't be helped) I finally felt the relief associated with the loss of disappointment.

st. patrick's day

2005-03-18T11:50:00.000-05:00

I think what makes march so difficult is its transitory position. spring is just so close. I can close my eyes and feel the sun on my shoulders. january was fine- it was january, there was no debating no wondering, I couldn’t even remember what it felt like to sit in the grass. and now my perception is daunted by this combination of sunny skies and icy winds. the dissonance is disgruntling. it leaves me dizzy. it leaves me lost. it leaves it leaves me concluding closer is actually farther away.

and sure you don’t want to hurt me, but you do

2005-03-06T23:51:00.000-05:00

there’s a girl sitting across from me on the way home tonight. Her eyes are tired, like their working hard to hold back. I’m looking, trying to determine if its sadness or just cold air. Testimony to the egocentric nature of human beings is the realization that our interpretation of emotion in others is not a reflection of intuitive ability, but rather an expression of our own projected emotional states. Even the window agrees.
the sun is skipping the trees in rhythm, flickering warmth, like your neck on my cheek. the bus driver’s foot is heavy on the gas. it feels like we are moving forward, even on the way back.
last night, I walked through central park with the gates flapping in the wind. new york city can do anything, including resurrect giant orange structures in the middle of 8 million daily cups of coffee. it was inspiring, but ironically flat. my mind measured dimensions and counted stitches in heavy orange fabric, it was a thoughtful process.
When I reached three burning candles around the word imagine, it was better than thoughtful. fresh strawberries underlined and daisies and tulips surrounded. a homeless man sat on the bench facing the memorial with a woman curled into him, telling stories I couldn’t hear. my heart seemed to beat heavy enough to displace organs.
there’s a girl sitting across from me on the way home tonight. to the right of her face, I see tears on my own reflection.

everybody plays the fool

2005-02-09T10:08:00.000-05:00

sometimes
there's no exception to the rule
listen, baby
it may be factual, it may be cruel
everybody plays the fool

october

2005-02-01T20:57:00.000-05:00

Don’t let me fade.
I was wrong,
Can I love you anyway?
When I’m on stage,
I fantasize about your eyes…
Lighting up the room
Like a full moon,
They’ve got me crazed.
I know what I’m not.
I know what I’m not.
I know what I’m not.
I know what I’m not.
time plays games.
you can count the days,
but the moments won’t change.
when I lie awake,
I count the time
between your zone and mine.
you’ll still love her
when you arrive.
I know what I’m not.
I know what I’m not.
I know what I’m not.
I know what I’m not.
do you say,
I’m a mistake…
I don’t mean the same.
do you say,
you’re to blame…
you promise things will change
do you say,
you’re over me now.
my disappointment let you down.
I still love the sound
of rain on wet leaves.
October always leaves me
bittersweet.
don’t let me fade.
I was wrong,
but can I love you,
anyway?

3 favorite sounds

2005-01-18T21:39:00.000-05:00

1. wet roads
2.fingers sliding across guitar strings
3. lawn mower on a saturday morning

1/01/05

2005-01-04T14:49:00.000-05:00

My sister's new house has a winding driveway. The cars are twisted around like garland on a Christmas tree. It's the first party she's ever thrown. Aunt Helene, my father's first wife's sister in-law, greets me at the door. She looks me up and down and asks, "Which one is she from?" The disgust on her face is thick like her thighs. She rubs her elbows with her fingers when she crosses her arms, "What about that one," pointing to my younger sister, "is she real?"

So this is the new year.

My father, entering the house as if perfectly timed to answer, is already mid-way through a story. He's telling the one about the time I was four and figured out the truth about Santa. I proclaimed, "Daddy, there's no such thing as Santa," as I compared remnants of Santa's wrapping paper and our own. "Well, Santa has to get his wrapping paper from somewhere, he probably got it at the same place mom did" "But, look..." I took the two pieces, each still had its tag fastened to the front, "They match!" And the two pieces, perfectly aligned, were presumably cut one after the other in the same wrapping session. "Well, shit" he pauses for effect, "the little bitch was so smart."

And I don't feel any different.

The conversations multiply and divide and bounce back off the marble floors and 20 foot ceilings. I'm caught between three women: my sister, her friend, and my aunt in a discussion about plastic surgery. My sister is about to go in for another lipo, her friend has abruptly stopped all her psychiatric medications, my aunt thinks my sister needs a lobotomy. The soda is warm. There's one drunk guest, but she doesn't speak english when she toasts.

The clanking of cyrstal.

Another sister of mine breaks the chaos and organizes family portraits featuring members of the family, illegitimate and all. Our smiles are real. I'm the one on the far right in the pink shirt, I'm standing in front of my 9 year old sister who is sitting on the floor in her black leather mini skirt. My dad's mouth is in mid-sentence.

Explosions off in the distance.

I've never met uncle Albert. Not surprisingly he's not actually my uncle. I talk to him nonetheless. He drove down from Long Island. Long drive, they stopped once along the way, but still a long drive. It's a long conversation too, considering I know nothing about the guy. I asked my mom later. "Oh, uncle Albert," she recalls, "when he found out I was pregnant with you he called our house and threatened to cut you out of my stomach."

So this is the new year.

The airlines are calling. They found more baggage.

And I have no resolutions.

I leave the party with goodbyes to a select few. My younger sister and brother not among them. My father somehow makes it in.

For self assigned penance

My christmas present is substantial enough to flush my face with guilt. I can't help but wonder if it was as substantial as Mary's (his Wal-mart friend).

For problems with easy solutions

I glance at my watch. It's 2:00 pm in California.

I wish the world was flat like the old days

The drive home is long enough for me to realize that no drive will ever be long enough. I moved thousands of miles away to discover I'm the problem. The failure is in my own heart. My arteries are clogged and twisted, stretched and bent, tired and useless. The muscle tissue is weak. There's a small section still in use, but it's mostly preoccupied, it beats for its own life.

Then i could travel just by folding a map

I was afraid that I move through life leaving no impression. The cliche isn't true, making a difference in one life isn't enough. I was so intent on feeling real. I never stopped to contemplate the possibility that he would be worse for knowing me.

No more airplanes, or speedtrains, or freeways

The streets are stretched.

There'd be no distance that can hold us back

It takes longer to get home,

There'd be no distance that could hold us back

when I reach it alone.

So this is the new year

dental cement

2004-12-26T22:17:00.000-05:00

Visiting my father is like visiting an old friend.
There is a reason he is an "old" friend, but as he folds himself into my car that reason seems inconsequential. A few words are passed before he begins to fall asleep between sentences leaving long gaps in time for me to meditate upon his words. They're neither choicy nor deliberate but I find myself thinking of them. It's out of necessity. Much like this trip in general is out of necessity (my teeth really needed a cleaning).
The office smells like dental equipment and dental equipment always smells like my dad and the the ladies in scrubs always smile when they say, "Joel, I didn't know you had another daughter!" And I am fascinated by the way it always feels the same.
During the wait we had to get a mango smoothie (he gets weak without sugar). He sat and sipped and told me a story. It wasn't a good one, in fact I have already heard it (10 times) and each time it becomes increasingly more apparent he is really the only character that matters. Also, he confuses my sisters and I and our stories. Which is actually quite sad because we are each 20 and 13 years apart. I am trying, but it's hard to find feelings of love among the pangs of reality jabbing my stomach.
And just before it's time for the hygenist to stab that metal pointed thing between my gums, I give up trying. Because now he is reciting his words with script-like accuracy. Hearing him, is repeating the story of my life. Behind his shoulder, the past waves its hands in the air like a kid desperately sure he has the answer. And before the he is called on my dad steals the glory.
At that moment, on some level, the situation changes. I could be in a Dali painting the scene is so surreal. Things are moving in slow motion. Slow enough that I can actually think of amazing comebacks to each asshole comment out of his mouth.
I say each and every one of them.
No bad words, no mean remarks, no harsh tone of voice, just the truth.
Right then and there as his words are slicing and dicing my insides.
I tell him how badly it hurts.
He starts to cry.
I, of course, don't cry.
It's time for my cleaning (I don't cry during that either, even though it hurts like a bitch). I have to wait 30 minutes after my fluoride treatment before I can eat my sandwich. We chang the subject to more pleasant topics. That feeling I had been struggling to find seems to be breathing just beneath the surface.
I drive him all around town to run errands (his car was totaled in his most recent car accident). I am even listening to stories about "Mary" this woman he likes that works at Wal-mart. He still falls asleep mid-sentence, but this time I didn't mind as much.
And then we pull up to his house. He leaves the broken down Winnebago in the driveway so the IRS will reduce the value of his property. His son comes running out to greet him (we don't make eye contact). A new reality shadows the scene (the one that is happening right now). I remember why it won't ever really work out between us.
Visiting my father is like visiting an old friend-- except that with an old friend, it's relieving to know that you've given up on a relationship that wouldn't have worked out anyway.

won't you

2004-12-15T01:56:00.000-05:00

won't you, sing me to sleep
as light fades away and the sun is erased
won't you, sing me to sleep
my bed's made so deep, I'll never wake
won't you, sing me to sleep
so the sound of your voice fills my ears--
instead of these wet tears

my forehead bares the flame
of fears that burn in my brain
after all, I'm just the same
as everybody else

won't you, sing me to sleep
say goodbye in a melody I can keep
won't you, take me to bed,
so I can cry over words you never said
won't you, tell me yourself
that I'm just a story you'll tell--
in bed with somebody else

I lay here, waste my day
read about a life that threw itself away
envious of his music just the same
as I am of his escape

won't you, lay me to rest
baby, I know it's strange, but please-
it's my last request
sing me to sleep
sing me to sleep
sing me to sleep

2004-12-02T00:13:00.000-05:00

the rain is falling faster
than the rhythm of my shoes
on damp concrete
i'm preoccupied with thoughts
of running water
and nothing covering
our skin beneath

your hands
are all over me
but you can't feel me

i can't catch my breath
my steps fall after
time's lost between
you and me
my thoughts are wet
just like the water
falling on my skin
reaching in and pushing
away

your hands
are all over me
it's all over
you can't feel me
your hands
are so much softer
than they should be
for hands
that can't feel me

mistakes are tasted with
intention
like circumstantial love songs
after you've moved on
lies become compelling truth
but i'd rather live the dream
of you

in dark rooms- you consume
your hands on my skin
move
damp eyelids fall on cold palms
you took what you wanted all along
you took what you wanted all along
you took what you wanted all along
you took what you wanted all along
until it's gone

one less sock sleeping alone tonight

2004-12-01T23:50:00.000-05:00

This morning, 9:43 AM, I'm walking off the bus when I feel something drop behind me. I look down and there on the floor, in a position I would expect to find a hat or a glove, lay a sock. My cheeks sting pink upon recognition. My brown sock is lying on the floor of the bus. Furtively glancing around I 'm hesitating, wondering, realizing the last place I saw this mysterious sock was on my foot, yesterday. Somehow, overnight perhaps, it has managed to escape my laundry bag and follow me here. Had I not turned and noticed it there on the floor, this might have been its final destination. People are pushing past, anxious to get off the bus, as the bus driver yells back to me from the driver's seat, "Is that yours?" I pick it up, confused, embarrassed, somehow satisfied in finding the sock I wasn't even aware I had been missing. "They're little rascals these guys, always disappearing," I reply to the bus driver who gives a knowing smile. Exactly what he knows, I can't be sure, but I do know that there's one less sock sleeping alone tonight.

sweet potato pie

2004-11-14T16:37:00.000-05:00

I went for a walk tonight to get a little fresh air, but the air was so cold and wet it stuck to the buildings. I was listening for the sound of crunchy leaves under my shoes but they've turned into soggy cornflakes under the milky white snow. I tried to build a snow ball, but it just seems inappropriate for this time of year.
I thought about you all night during dinner. The table was rectangular and in the candlelight everyone looked pink. My blood pressure lowered with every bite. And it seems, you are right, food does bring people together. I felt warm and comfortable and a little anxious, like the night we went to the movies and you whispered something to me- but I never heard you because I was too busy feeling your lip brush my ear.
We talked about Boston and I found myself advocating your sentiments, to which everyone agreed. We talked about vacations and Massachusetts beaches and I thought about how, when the weather warms up, we can go together and make fun of what they consider "beautiful" beach here. Someone mentioned that she would be taking at least 1-2 months off during the summer because she had NEVER worked during the summer in her whole life. I was trying not to laugh when someone else at the table told her she would be on the 10 year plan.
We talked about Thanksgivings, and I thought about how warm those tables must be. I thought about how unnatural the 80 degree Thanksgivings I grew up with were. I thought about this snowy Thanksgiving and I realized how much I want you to spend it with me.
We talked about surprises, the disappointment vs. reward pay-off, and speculated about the role of the Nucleus Accumbens. I wonder if you like surprises, though I would guess that you do not.
I heard this story of how one couple came to be. She left at 2 am and drove from CT to IN to surprise him. When he got home, she was actually on the phone with him, sitting in his kitchen. For an instant I saw a glimpse of their life together and I looked around the table, feeling empty and incapable.
At the end of the night I realized that all in all it was a nice dinner (despite a few obnoxious comments and tense glances). It somehow felt lonley without you there- even if you weren't necessarily meant to be there. There is just something about dinner that demands your presence and something your presence that makes the meal comfortable.

green beans for french fries and other fraudulent claims

2004-11-12T17:39:00.000-05:00

I created a diet once, in which I constructed two important levels of caloric restriction. During stage 1, I vowed to cut out everything I deemed to be an “unnecessary” fat. Included in this group were obvious fats like chocolates, cookies, cakes, sweets in general, fried foods, potato chips, etc. Stage 1 was potentially followed by stage 2 in which I reduced not so obvious, minor, unnecessary fats. Included in this group, which I felt to be the main contributors to weight gain, were butter or margarine, mayo, salad dressing, etc. Stage 1 would usually be employed when I suddenly felt a little “chunky”. Stage 2 was only followed through if within 2 weeks, stage 1 had not produced visible signs or even marked feelings of results. On occasion, stage 2 was initiated prior to stage 1 (but this occurred only during situations in which my chocolate consumption was already well under control). The genius of my diet, however, was not the stages (although that part really is beautiful), rather genius lied in my idea of substitution. For every necessary or unnecessary fat I eliminated, I created a “healthier” “less-fat” substitution. Now you might doubt my genius at this point, thinking that my ideas are far from original and perhaps were inspired during a stroll down the “fat-free” section of my grocery store. However I am adamantly against fat-free, low-fat, low sugar, low sodium, low taste foods. The methodology underlying my substitutions has nothing to do with indigestible molecules.
Consider:
carrots for chips (because they are both crunchy)
raisins for chocolate (because they are both sweet and brown)
whipped cream cheese for butter, mayo, etc. (because it has less fat naturally )
ketchup/BBQ sauce for sour cream (I don’t know what inspired that)
rice pudding for ice cream (although I had to use the single serving packs)
and so on.
The simple dogma: if you can’t what you really want to eat, eat something that feels like it.

It’s been a few years since I’ve dieted, but last night while eating dinner, I found myself pretending my green beans were French fries.

2004-11-06T02:53:00.000-05:00

i’m staring into myself,
in the reflection of a downtown train.
the day’s collapsed on itself,
disappointed that we’ve
run out of things to say.

my senses dull from lack of bloodflow
in my paralyzed parts.
i'm sustaining damage from the
breaks in heartbeats
that got this whole thing started

but now it's your sweater that's in my bed
i wrap myself in its discontinous threads
and feel the cold air as it moves through
the holes in your sleeve, like the ease
with which you forget me.

i have a half life of a month and a half,
i'll be out of your system before this
season has past. they'll be
disappointing amounts of me to consume
before you
get the high that you're used to
before you,
get the high that you're used to.

and now it's your sweater that's in my bed
i wrap myself in its discontinuous threads
and feel the cold air as it moves
through the holes in your sleeve, like the ease
with which you forget me

your words have turned out like the map on my wall
they're filled with names and places that mean nothing at all
they don't mean anything at all.

Implications and Interpretations: lessons on data massaging

2004-10-14T20:13:00.000-05:00

Significant vs. Important – pg. 226, Understanding Statistics in the Behavioral Science

The procedure we have been following in assessing the results of an experiment is first to evaluate directly the null hypothesis and then to conclude indirectly with regard to the alternative hypothesis. If we are able to reject the null hypothesis, we say the results are significant. What we mean by significant is that the results are probably not due to chance. Or that the independent variable has a real effect, which can be replicated by repeating the experiment. It might have been better to use the term reliable to convey this meaning. However the usage of significant is well established, so we will have to live with it. The point we wish to make is that we must not confuse significant with important. Significance does not imply importance.

i do

2004-09-26T23:51:00.000-05:00

do you believe that if you repeat something, again and again, it will eventually come true? do you believe that everything psychological is biological- simeltaneously? do you believe the stars are placed with purpose? do you believe that one night underneath them can change everything? do you believe that life needs a soundtrack? do you believe everything means something, especially nothing? do you always want what you can't have? do you ever get it? do you ever tell secrets? do you listen in on other people's conversations? do you pretend about anything? do you eat non-breakfast foods for breakfast? do you eat breakfast for diner? do you feel like you are watching your life on television? do you feel its an interactive video game at best? do you think all your feelings? do you have imaginary conversations? do you believe you know what other people are thinking? do you refer to authors and musicians in casual conversations, as if they've been taking only to you? do you like cream cheese? do you secretly (or not so secretly) eat 2 cans of tuna every day? do you worry about never falling in love? do you worry you already have? do you feel exhausted just thinking about all the things you'd like to learn? do you believe in ghosts? do you believe in things you can't see? do you believe in something you've never seen? do you want something you've never seen? do you believe it's out there somewhere?

An Intellectual Conversation

2004-09-26T23:25:00.000-05:00

“Antonio Damasio is the Dr. Phil of neurology,” he tells me, in a forceful voice. I could have put together an argument, but I’m preoccupied with a memory of third grade, when I tried to defend the existence of Santa Claus. I’ve never met him. I’ve read about him. I’ve thought about him. I’ve heard a couple stories. I've listened to people taller than me. I just believe. I open my mouth to speak, but I say nothing. Inside me, emotion bulges, banging at my chest and varying my breaths. I stare at his name, Antonio Damasio, sideways down the spines on my shelf. I'm suddenly an adult, not because I pay my own rent, but becuase I look up and no one's there.

The truth about cheesecake

2004-09-26T23:23:00.000-05:00

Music is cheesecake. And by this I mean, or they mean, or at least they tell me, music is seductive. It’s a trait that can be added, much like an accessory, to anyone who needs a little sprucing up. Music is seductive. Add it to a pair of intense eyes and worn jeans, and it tastes smooth and thick, like chocolate. It’s warm and a little wet and it lingers. It makes you close your eyes, release your muscles, and when combined with a large glass of wine, it makes you a little smooth and warm and wet yourself. Men who obtain this music, who control it, who wear it like a tight t-shirt, are seductive. They make you close your eyes, release your muscle, and feel a little smooth and warm and wet. They don’t have to feed you cheesecake; you will have sex with them anyway. They know this even if you don’t, even if you’ve never had a slice of cheesecake.

I don't

2004-09-24T22:27:00.000-05:00

There is a woman sitting in front of me on the train. Her profile faces me and her knee is hitting my bag of groceries. Her skin is this incredibly creamy beige color, but her hair is fake. She is wearing a wig. It's tinted slightly red, but it's mostly brown, and it suits her creamy skin quite well. Still, it's fake. I know it, and she knows it, though I don't think she knows I know, nor do I think anyone else knows. I'm worried about her young, unwrinkled, thin, creamy skin. As she turns her head, the hair moves in a solid, unnatural motion. I'm thinking about the chemo treatment she is returning from. Although she too is carrying a bag, I'm worried she isn't eating enough. When she gets up and walks through the sliding doors, I'm worried that I don't care about her anymore.