Thursday, December 14, 2006

'tis the season to let it snow let it snow let it snow

I bought my Christmas cards this week. I'm pulling addresses together and determining who's been naughty and who's been nice. What a jolly time of year.

A couple of weeks ago, we had our first snow. I love the morning after the first snow of winter, when the day hasn't had a chance to turn everything to dark slush and all of the lines of the world are delicately traced with ice and snow.















Of course, two days later, as I was walking over the ice-covered sidewalk (thanks neighbors! It's called salt!) I said to myself "I am soooo over winter."


The semester is wrapping up. Now, I'm not smart enough to wax poetic about accomplishments or advancements in my writing (or, my goodness, the disappointments and the failures!). I just wanted to acknowledge that time passes and all that. I'll be teaching a class next semester and that will be a shift in my point-of-view of myself. I mean, how do you chastize someone for being late and/or skipping class when, hello, I spent most of my academic career being late and/or skipping class. Do as I say, not as I do, I suppose.


In other news, I don't know if you're aware, but I'm a super-hero (as imagined by a drunk friend):

















PS: CC took care of Bob Ross while I was out of town for Thanksgiving, check out the video!

Wednesday, December 06, 2006

Butterfly in the sky, I can go twice as high































When I was younger than I am now (ah, but I was so much older then), I *loved* the kids show, "Reading Rainbow," hosted by LeVar Burton.

I was always late for things because I just *had* to watch the reviews that the kids had for books that they had just read. My mom would be yelling, yelling for me and I'd be all "just a minute!" (But of course in a really sweet, respectful kind of way.)

What does that have to do with anything? (Other than the thought that if/when I get another cat/and/or/dog I will name him/her LeVar Burton)

Hey, check it out, I've got a story, "I Got Your Back (interlude for the be-fri)," online in the lovely "Word Riot."

























Thursday, November 30, 2006

"Reminders"

My lovely friend, Jac Jemc, has some poetry in the current issue of Elimae (www.elimae.com).

Check it out.

Wednesday, November 29, 2006

yawp

Last night, there was a woman in the alley outside my window and she was howling at the moon.

She woke me up a few times with her dirty language and her loud, confident condemnation of all neighbors who dared to ask her to SHUT UP. She consistently replied "Fuck. You! Fuck. You!" and so on. I'd drift to sleep and then I'd hear "oh, Fuck. You." real loud.

In and out of sleep for three hours, I heard her yowling and mumbling and shouting. The way her voice echoed between the buildings, it sounded like she was floating right outside my window.

When I woke up this morning, I tried to convince myself that it was just a very real-seeming dream, but I knew that it was no subconscious imagining. There really was a mad woman in my alley last night. And three stories down she was having her way with the sounds of night and the directions of sleep.

Friday, November 24, 2006

I thought I saw Icarus

Just a little hanging out at the airport time here. I'm in Minneapolis (or am I in Bloomington?) and I'm just waiting on a plane. I actually like the act of flying. Swooping up and trying to see my house from the sky (which I actually did on the way out of Chicago). I don't like anything else about flying. The people, the hassle, the having to leave the house at 6am so I can be at work by 11. No funsters.

I am currently attempting to cut out the sound of the airport. The people around me chomping on scones and breakfast sandwiches. Kids pointing out the wings of the plane. Business calls. I'm just cruising the internets, downloading music, trying to write something more than rambling here.

I grew up here, in Minnesota, but it never felt like home. Neither did Ithaca, Los Angeles, Boston, or Chicago. So I'll just keep moving around until I find a place I can call my own. Maybe somewhere warm. Maybe somewhere with a porch I can sit on all year round. And I'll get a dog.

pretty song.

Thursday, November 09, 2006

a pen pal would be nice, i think

I'm working on a story about writing a letter. I like this story, It's actually part of an old story that just didn't go anywhere, but a story that I've always really kind of loved. So, now, I'm breaking that old story into bits and pieces and turning those pieces into stories of their own. And currently, I'm writing a story about writing a letter.

People just don't write letters anymore. I'd like to be a person to try to bring it back. But I've never been able to maintain addresses. I think, wouldn't it be nice to send my friends birthday cards, but I don't know all of their birthdays. So, random letters should be fine, right? But I can never maintain the addresses. Everyone's always moving, roaming about, pursuing their dreams and whatnot. But, one day, I'll be a grey haired hag. And I'll have a nifty little writing desk with a nifty little drawer. And in that drawer I'll keep some nifty little stationary and a niftly felt-tip pen. Darling stamps and precious envelopes. And, dear friends, I will write letters.




















On to music.

Some time ago, I was perusing the Internets and I stumbled upon a charming young man with a lot of musical talent. Where can I download his music?! I thought! Because the sounds streaming from his website were so delightful! Nowhere, my computer replied, you have to buy his cd... Do what now? I asked, as I have not bought a cd in over a year, partially due to low finances and partially due to-why buy a cd when I can download? And then, I thought, here's a guy, not too famous, making good music, I should support him. So I wrote his name in my notebook and promised myself that, come next payday, I would purchase the cd...

...As I said, that was some time ago...

...Today, I was listening to 89.3, The Current and I heard a delightful song, I raced to the Current website, where they update the playlist as the songs are on the air and I read the name and I said, hmm, familiar. And then I found the website and I saw the picture and I said. A-ha. And then I looked in my notebook and I said, bad m.lady, you swore to buy the cd. So I promise, I will buy it. As soon as I'm done telling all of you (all 4 of you) that his name is...













Benjy!!!

Wednesday, November 01, 2006

if I was a radio...and who's to say I'm not (part 1)

  • "Bridges and Balloons" The Decemberists (Joanna Newsom cover)
  • "Flyin' " Regina Spektor
  • "Children of the Revolution" T.Rex
  • "Anthems for a Seventeen Year Old Girl" Broken Social Scene
  • "I Don't Feel Like Dancin' " The Scissor Sisters
  • "Are You That Somebody" Alliyah
  • "Human" The 6ths
  • "White Daisy Passing" Rocky Votolato
  • "Standing in the Way of Control" The Gossip
  • " 'Cause I Love Her" The Brian Jonestown Massacre
  • "As Tears Go By" Marianne Faithful
  • "Thinking of Dream I Had" The Walkmen
  • "Always on My Mind" Elvis Presley
  • "The Book of Right-On" Joanna Newsom
  • "Ante Up" MOP
  • "Steady Rollin' " Two Gallants
  • "The Wildwood Flower" The Carter Family
  • "As I Rise" The Decemberists
  • "Van Helsing Boombox" Man Man
  • "Jews for Jesus Blues" Clem Snide
  • "Creep" Damien Rice
  • "Make Out Fall Out Make Up Love is All
  • "A Minor Incident" Badly Drawn Boy
  • "I'm Just Raw" Lyrics Born

Monday, October 23, 2006

drinky drinky makes you stinky stinky

Sorry that it's been a while since I've posted. I know all 4 of my readers are woefully upset. But I'm back!

The last 2ish weeks as been strange.

Here's why:

I can't figure out if I should be writing more
or less

and that's that.

Remember the robot angel that I hung outside my window?
It was just a robot drawn on a piece of lined legal paper.
It lasted through rain, snow, wind.
And then, just as the leaves all around this neighborhood are falling, the robot too fell. Hung out on the window sill for a few days and then, just kind of floated away.


Here's a rough little thing:

Let's consider, for instance, the death of trees.
Or just of the leaves.
Survival requires suffocation. The days turn cold. The sun scarce. And the ornamentation of the trees, once a channel for nourishment, become burdens. Chlorophyll drains from the veins and the reds, oranges, and yellows that had before been cloaked by green are now a show for postcards and tourists. In the last hours of significance they are on display and then they are let go.
Or do the jump? Do the leaves, with the knowledge that winter can be an angry neighbor, surrender and choose to fall? To become a compost for a new green. To wait to be recycled in the spring. Do the leaves choose to be mutilated an mangled by the worms that rustle the dirt and the nearly frozen earth? And do the trees mourn them? Their sacrificed children. Or do they simply concede that these leaves have made room for new faces, new blossoms, and new leaves? Do the trees resign themselves to dreams of the future of seasons and all of the possibilities of spring? And do they hesitate the letting go in that moment when the wind blows cold and the sun hides behind months of overcast skies?



Usually, this is where I add a link to a nifty song, but my computer is being wonky today. So I shall direct you to a myspace page for a band called "Best Actress"

Click on "Touch the Ground"

and dance around your bedroom in your stocking feet using a comb or hairbrush as your microphone.

Bup bup butta bah

http://www.myspace.com/bestactress

Wednesday, October 11, 2006

But it’s the same sun that breaks through the same curtains from number 94 and who can blame me for being confused?

A friend of mine, also a writer, only a successful one, once told me, "I feel like every story I'm working on at the present moment is the best thing that I've ever written." (not verbatim)

I feel the same way, sometimes. Only, I feel I take it a step too far when I look at past prosey things and I think, well this is just crap.

I feel like my mind is working faster than I can keep up and I'm just really lost in the process of trying to make every little piece a strong, lovely little piece of butterscotch.

Currently, I've taken on a new video project. This one requires me to catalogue over 200 photos and use the text in them to write a story and then turn that story into a movie. It's going to take a long time. But it works, because it is requiring me to slow down.

Slow down.

Here is a blurb from a writing exercise I did for a class. I may turn it into something, eventually. What's holding me back is that the piece, when it's a whole piece, is really personal. Yikes.

I keep the keys from the old place, number 727. Little fragments of an old home. I could stop by any time I want, they didn’t change the locks. One day, you’ll ring my doorbell, the one that corresponds to #3 and on your way out I just might give you a parting gift. A small key that used to be my way to get home. One day, you may be walking an unfamiliar neighborhood and you may find, in the street, a small gold key. Pick it up and put it in your pocket. One day, it may take you home.


A while ago, I really dug David Ivar Herman Dune.
And then I forgot all about him.
And now I love him again.

Monday, October 02, 2006

time is on your side

One of the requirements to receive my MFA is that I take 6 credit hours a semester in Graduate Advising. This means I give my advisor (a faculty member) some writings and then every other week we meet for an hour to discuss what I've written.

Now, since a huge part of writing is the fact that you will not be in the room when the
writing is being read, a writer just can't interrupt when a person is interpreting a story/poem/play/etc. You can't say. "Okay, you read that wrong." You just have to sit back and say, well, that interpretation is very interesting.

I respect my advisors, I actually like them very much. I am referring to the fellows of the current semester as well as the fellows of previous semesters.

But sometimes, their interpretations of the prose can only be called interesting. There I said it!













Rough draft of something new:

special.

You say that a turtle, flipped on its back, will suffocate unless it uses the muscles in its neck to right itself.

This one time I’m walking and my heel catches a break in the concrete and I stumble a little bit, I trip. I look around and hope that no one noticed me. But if they did, if anyone saw my break my rhythm, I have to keep walking like nothing happened. I keep up my pace and I go step-step-step down the road. My walk is so steady that any witness to my slip will think that their eyes were playing tricks on them. Because here I'm upright on two feet so consistent and so strong.

We listen to music down on the floor. You’re lying next to me, your arms stretched back and crossed under your head. My hands crossed over my stomach. The speakers face down next to us so the music is more than a sound. It is a vibration. It is a stuttered voice that speaks this floor. It is a shiver. It is shaking our skin, every little cell and every little flake of us is quivering with music. Tickling my neck. Tapping its trace into your arms.

Your thigh shivers and you can't stop it. You put my hand on your leg to feel the tremble that you can't control and I told you so. I told you not to buy that shit from a guy selling on Ash Wednesday. It’s just bad luck I told you and now weÂ’re at the bar and you can’t stop the quake in your leg so we drink until we forget that everything around us is in constant motion and all the way home I’m holding you up so you don’t fall down.

I push you. I push you down so the palms of your hands get cut by gravel. And I’m glad to see you get up and get away.

This one time I trip and this time I fall all the way down and I’m face to the concrete and I’m thinking about staying like this while feet tread on me. And trucks go by and I feel them bump and shiver over urban pavement. Cigarettes are twisted out under rubber soles on my neck. A glove is lost and I tuck it under my arm. Soda spills on me. Dogs piss on me and birds drop shit on me. And the snow gets me blue and shovels scrape me red and sun burns me brown and sun burns me black and rain drains me and wet leaves fall and hang on to my back and in the drought dry up until my skin is a paper mache of dirty golds and reds and brilliant, remarkable orange. Buildings rise around me and levees flood me and a broom sweeps me. Chalk lines are drawn on me and newspapers cover me and feet tread on me like I’m concrete.

You say that a turtle, flipped on its back, will suffocate unless it uses the muscles in its neck to right itself.

This one time I trip and I keep walking like nothing happened.



Lately, I feel like I have no time that is mine and mine alone. Time to just stare out the window. Time to look at the sky. Time to write notes down or to daydream. Time to be alone and be in my own head for a while.

168 hours
-37 hours work
-8 hours class
-14 hours commute
-42 hours sleep (never enough, can't wake up, alarms, ugh)
-7 hours prep
-2 hours "Grey's Anatomy" and "Desperate Housewives"
=58 hours

seems like plenty of time, to me

Monday, September 25, 2006

"we are standing up tall and tippy toe high so we are looking eye to eye with the moon"

Thursday's reading went swimmingly, thanks to all who showed their support!

Thanks to Powells.

Thanks to the Powells North Reading Series.

And, especially, thanks to Peter Markus.


A while ago, I wrote a story, sort of a journey story that follows a young woman, Kate, as she goes from a rock show to an alley to a bar to a waffle house to her apartment, where she finishes the night lying in bed listening to a Bob Dylan song on repeat. It's a nice story, but it never really had any focus, it just sort of twisted around. I decided to break the story up and make it a series of short shorts and, hopefully, create something with heart and a little bit of soul.
















Can’t Sleep at Night and You Wonder Why



"Cerulean"

Blue! blue is the color of Heaven and God is a bass player in a Led Zeppelin t-shirt. And maybe we’re all burning, exploding in the red flames of the stage lights, but it’s okay. I don’t care because at least here I can dance. Here I can jump up and down and laugh, as God points at me and smiles and I shake my head because the music is so hot I can’t stand it. I’d be crazy to stand still. The drums creep up my legs, rattle my knees and echo in my chest, changing the beat of my heart.
Thump pow! I reach for the music and I too am blue, my shirt glows blue off blue. And, ok, azure, sure. But it is cerulean that encompasses me. Cerulean, a word I overheard once; the rest of the day turning the letters over in my mind, playing them over my tongue, sliding the consonants between my teeth, and finally swallowing the whole. The cerulean, the word and all it could hold within itself, absorbed into me. Cerulean, the color of the sky. Not sky blue. No, not that weak, flat tone used in suburban nurseries and rec rooms, but the color of freedom. Of infinity. That swirl of sky that melts into the word thick as paint and deep as any ocean. The word that describes this place; this building. This blue.
Blue. Blue is the color of life, water. Blue is the color of eternity. Sky. Heaven. Blue mood and moon and all the shadows of misery.
But blue! Blue, you’re my gold too; you’re my celebration, my joy. In a suffocating mob, swaying into the stage and away, the colors pouring from the lights and onto the crowd, the color of the tobacco fog, the tint of God’s skin, melting blue beads of sweat. If I could, I would reach inside him. Through his burly chest, past skin and muscle and bone and live in the curves of his veins.
I dance now because, well because damn! this is beautiful! I feel good right now and I've got to hold on to this. This music, this feeling. Concentrate on the sound and feel the color surround and absorb me until my body; my blood, my skin and I too am you, I too am blue and we are all cerulean.


And now, I think it's only fitting to have another Elisson-inspired 11 (yeah, I decided to mix it up) 11 random songs from my itunes library:

1) You You You You You, the 6ths & Katherine Whalen
2) Sound Of Jade Ornaments Filling The Skies, Liang Mingyue
3) Faith to Arise, Terry Reid
4) New Partner, The Frames
5) Bullet with Butterfly Wings, Smashing Pumpkins
6) Rayna's Dream, The Jolly Bankers
7) Romantic, Soulive
8) Everybody Wants to Rule the World, Tears for Fears
9) Jenny, The Mountain Goats
10) Nothing Compares 2 You, Sinead O'Connor
11) It's Alright, Josh Ottum

Well, that's a damn fine mix!

Monday, September 18, 2006

"Any fool can think of words that rhyme."

I don't want to write at music anymore, I just want to write about it. About how the rhythm and the melody and the pain of it all just cuts me. I want to write a song from beginning to end. Break it down and figure out all of the little pieces.

For a while I thought of getting back into music criticism, actually trying to get paid for it this time, but I just don't feel good rating another artist. Giving them a star rating or any other kind of declaration of quality.

What's good, what's bad, who am I to say?

I'm just a girl with a killer crush on a tall dark and handsome named myooooooooooozik.




















New Links!
Check out the Literary links, the Blog links, and the Reading Series links, whoop!

I once remarked to someone, "I don't know how anyone could've made it through high school without Morrissey." They responded, "I don't really like Morrissey."
(gasp!)

Monday, September 11, 2006

Take 2: I drew a picture of that river.

I just read the post that I put up on Monday and it was shitty. I've re-worked it a little bit, here y'go:

A while ago, I posted an essay about memory and the desire to forget.

Forget as in to start over and we all know that to go back to the beginning is impossible. What's impossible? Consciously forgetting. Starting completely over. I could move and change my identity, but I'll still have traces of my former life hanging around. I'll like celery, but hate beets, etc.

Of course, there are those famous cases of amnesia (like that pianist guy found wandering by the ocan), but I've never heard of self-inflicted amnesia. And I'm sure that pianist guy hates avocado and doesn't know why.

So when I say there is a desire to start over. To be born as something else. I mean it is just that: a want. A desire. A request.

It's funny, the ways I've had to defend this essay.
People say to me "but you can't BE born, you're already alive."

To which I say "duh."

And when they (they being those who know who they are) want to know what it is in my life that is so bad that I want to start my life completely over, I say "shrug."

Because this feeling doesn't come from the desperate depressing days or the jump in puddles and laugh all afternoon days. It comes from a kind of confusing melancholy. It comes from the days of wondering "How the hell did I end up here?"

I want to be born.

So, okay, forget the definition of the word "impossible" and consider that you could start over. You could consciously walk out of your door one day and be something/someone completely different with new fears and loves and habits.

Change you name and everything you know about you, just everything about this person you're creating is brand new.

But, see, in order to do that, you have to give up everything that defines you now.

Starting over means starting new new new in this scenario. So give it up. Give it all up.

Click here to read the essay.

This video is just a taste of moments and memories. Most of the pictures have been posted on this blog. Others are from here and there.




Friday, September 08, 2006

I've got the dress and the shoes, now I just need to figure out what I'm going to read.























I'll be doing a reading in a couple of weeks.

Joining me will be my good friend, Lindsay Hunter.

The featured reader for the night will be Peter Markus. I've mentioned Peter in this blog before. I read his chapbook, "The Moon is a Lighthouse" and was so struck by the language that I wrote him an email asking for some reading recommendations. He wrote back and sent a great list of books. Now, I highly recommend writing to someone whose work you enjoy, it can only result in good (especially if you don't expect them to write back).

Check out the Calamari Press website to see more about Peter's work. And buy his books. And come to the reading.

Also, please, check out the link to the reading series that we will be a part of.


I first heard of the phenomenon that is Man Man about six months ago when I heard their cover of Etta James's "I'd Rather Go Blind" which is an *amazing* and perfect song. But now, I'm a little obsessed with this tune of theirs, which they actually wrote themselves.

Monday, September 04, 2006

And, oh, she has a lisp.

















She is eating her ice cream from a tall glass tube with a long silver spoon. No, the spoon itself is actually very small, it is the handle that is long and enables her to dig deep into the glass, delicately turning it by the curved blue handle. She digs through the mint for the chocolate. Scooping out dark brown chunks covered in green saliva.

Absorbed in digging and absent-minded she swings her right leg. Toes up and down as leg sways. Tic. Toc. A pendulum of flesh dangling from beneath her green pleated skirt. Thick, maybe wool, and shouldn’t she be sweating? That’s what the ice cream is for. It is a hot day. The sidewalks are steaming and the citizens are melting one by one, still clutching their warm iced teas.

Fleshy calf losing its rhythm and joining the other leg, foot resting on the bar that supports the weight she is imposing on the narrow stool. She is spilling over the edges of the seat.
She is in the corner, letting go of her waist. Rounding and stretching the fabric of her white shirt. Linen. Testing the strength of the buttons with her breasts. Pulling her hair from its ponytail one strand at a time.

She is letting go in the corner. She is moving in.

She has licked away most of her lipstick. It used to be a pink that wasn’t quite whorish, but still teased. Now, she can’t stop rolling her bottom lip in, gently biting away the dead skin.
And when she turns to look out the window at the crooked intersection that joins three one-way streets I can see that her neck is long. A sleek, elegant line from her jaw to her shoulder. And the way she poses, she knows that this is what should be noted about her. Should be written down and memorized. Should be highlighted and slipped into the pocket of a wallet.

The ice cream is gone. The spoon is clean. The cloudy glass is pushed to the other edge of the counter to make room for her pocketbook, brown and square. She removes a wrinkled dollar and smoothes the bill by rubbing it over the edge of the counter. Slides a corner of it under the glass. Takes her index finger and rubs away a stray drip of mint that was making its way to the dirty green paper. Takes that finger and holds it in her mouth. Tasting the combination of salty skin and smooth, creamy mint.

Monday, August 28, 2006

Lean right. Turn right and now you’re on a bigger road. Lanes are defined. You are another current of the wind.

Days off I sit on the back steps, we call our porch, and write and drink coffee and listen to the radio.




















Sometimes I sit in "silence." The silence of my neighborhood, which is a train rumbling a few blocks away. Church bells. Car doors swinging shut. Car engines starting up and bike tires slicking around corners. Keys jangling to find the right one to open a door. Cabinets squeeking open and slamming shut.

Today, I worked on a story about a bike ride to work. I like it very much and hope it will find a home soon. It occurred to me to pick up this previously abandoned story the other day when, for the first time ever, I took both hands off of the handlebars of my bike and flew a car length or two down a side street not too far from here. Like I was a kid playing at being an airplane. Only I'm 26 and I was playing at being free free free.

A couple of years ago, when I worked at a cafe, a friend of mine and I were talking music "at work." I told him about a cd I was reviewing. The verdict was that the band had listened to the radio and said "we can do that" and did what they heard instead of what they were capable of so the result was disappointing.

The conversation then turned to my need to buy some new music rather than rely on the free cds I had to review. The friend asked what cds I would like to buy and I told him I thought I wanted a Clem Snide cd. He said some unkind remark about Clem Snide and told me that I should use my money for good and not waste it on blah blah blah. He told me to buy a cd by the Stone Roses instead. He did not suggest that I buy the cd, he very nearly demanded that I check this band out. How did I call myself a music fan and not know of the Stone Roses?! And so on. Even as we mopped and swept and carried produce into the walk-in freezer, he continued his argument regarding the Stone Roses. I trusted this friend's musical taste completely and so the next time I was at Newberry Comics, I bought a Stone Roses album.

And I am ever eternally grateful for the suggestion (and the harassment).

However, I still dig Clem Snide.

Monday, August 21, 2006

Ah, sweet progress, my unfinished edges




















There is a light. He knows light. It is as close to any idea of home he has ever known and so he walks toward it. Body in darkness. Eyes forward to the glow.

Dani finally pulled herself from a sleepless bed and made her way to the kitchen . Traced her hand along the wall through the dark hallway and once in the kitchen, turned on a light, a small lamp on the table.

The house is made of brick. He knows brick.

Dani makes herself a cup of black tea even though she doesn't need the caffeine. Adds some milk, honey, and whiskey.

The door is made of glass. He knows glass. And inside there is a light he knows.

He sits at the table, across from Dani. He is naked again. Shivering. "You're Home," she says and pushes the mug across to his side of the table. He holds it with both palms. The mug is warm. She takes off her robe and wraps it over his shoulders and makes another cup of tea. Adds milk, honey, and whiskey.

At the table sits a woman. He knows woman

*************

And now, the Elisson-inspired top 10 from itunes

1) "I'd Rather Be Blind (cover)" Man Man
1+1) "Bad Dreams" Tricky
5-2) "Love Hurts!" Sound Opinions podcast
square root of 16) "Walk Like a Camel" Southern Culture on the Skids
18-13) "Blinuet" Zoot Sims
2 x 3) "Breaking Away" Ratatat
21 divided by 3) "Dead" Pixies
half of 16) "Jesus Be a Fence Around Me" Sam Cooke
3 x 3) "This is the One" The Stone Roses
10) "Just to See You Smile" Will Oldham


It's always the last cigarette in the pack that has the potential of being the last cigarette ever.
And it's always always always the last cigarette in the pack that burns too quickly.

Friday, August 18, 2006

The Joy of Words

I haven't had a good night's sleep in over a week. I won't blame it all on nightmares, I only had one of those, I've been disturbed by what I would call "bad dreams."

But when you're dreaming everything seems very real and then to wake up and try to comfort yourself in a hot dark room where the air is thick and you can't quite catch your breath because the cotton sheet is so damn heavy is not easy.

When you really wake up and you're waiting for the train and you realize that, maybe, you're still a little bit sleeping, what do you do? Go back to bed?

For about an hour, when I was a senior in high school and trying to decide what to do with myself, I considered studying dreams. These nights that I wake up from some dream that I can't quite remember, I lie awake and I imagine myself in some lab wearing a drab white coat watching from the other side of a 2-way mirror while some poor volunteer kicks and punches at dreams.


In other news, I adopted a cat on Wednesday. Meet Bob Ross, he enjoys cuddling, fresh water, and windowsills.















I named him after the only person in the world who can truly make me feel completely at ease.

















I don't know much about The Black Heart Procession, except that I enjoy this song:



Monday, August 07, 2006

but those are just stories

A few months ago, as I was laying in bed, listening to the npr morning chit-chat, I heard an interview with a professor at this or that college discussing the books he was currently reading. I guess this is a regular feature where we discover new works or rediscover the loveliness of known works through the book shelves of smart and/or famous people.

So the professor is chatting away and the host asks him what he is currently reading and the professor says that he is reading a short story collection to which the host responds, but those are just stories, what about books? not verbatim there, but you get the point.

I should've written a letter in response to the host's response. Just stories?!

Stories are infections that nibble our skin. We pick and pry at the scab that traces the rash that has developed because we can't help but scratch. Stories are the scar.


Back in my upstate New York days, or sometime around there, I began to send writing to my brother, an artist in Minneapolis. To my surprise, he put some of my words into his paintings. Knowing that something I created could in some way add or contribute to something to another person's art continually gets me up and writing. He asks me to send him stories, and sometimes I do. Sometimes he uses them, sometimes he doesn't.

This past weekend I visited a gallery that featured several of his pieces and lo and behold, we're a collaboration!

























Visit Eddie's website.


I was just re-reading "Stories in the Worst Way" by Gary Lutz. I find this book amazing. Soul-infusing. A giant scar across my abdomen. You are entitled to your own opinion.


Tuesday, August 01, 2006

To others only heaven

It's no secret that I like math, love math, think about math quite often. But I'm awful at math. I guess I just don't understand it. But that doesn't stop me from loving other things that I don't understand, such as men, my mother, and Descartes.

Would that the world were a triangle and we could just apply a formula to the problem. To understand. And to find a solution.




















above is the poem "Pi, Pythagoras, and I" by Mark Young. It was first published in "word for /word," a wonderful online literary journal. The link to the poem is here.

To borrow a page from Ellison's playbook, I'm going to set my itunes to random and do a little 10 song playlist for the day, here we go:

1) "Don't Need a Drum" Teenage Fanclub
2) "I'm a Changed Man" Otis Redding
3) "Lucky in Love" Teddy Goldstein
4) "Dedicated Follower of Fashion" The Kinks
5) "Dreamed I Saw Soldiers" Neil Halstead
6) "Track 17" Lily's Dad's Soul Mix
7) "A Satisfied Mind" Johnny Cash
8) "Dying" xtc
9) "Man of God" Neil Diamond
10) "Music" Leela James

That was fun! I'm going to do that more, thanks for the idea, Ellison!

Every time I listen to this song, I imagine myself as the lead singer. We're in a dark sweaty bar, it's our first time performing live and it's some kind of battle of the bands thing. We get on stage and the crowd wonders if this m.lady with questionable fashion sense can really compete against the line-up for the night. Then I go and hit that long high note and tear back into the lyrics. Oh, and I'm also playing electric guitar. Snap.

You may recognize this song from "Kill Bill, Vol.2" It's performed by Chingon, a band formed by Robert Rodriquez.

And it's a fucking amazing song.

Monday, July 24, 2006

shape versus shadow

What I mean is that many objects retain their shape, but the definition changes:















(that's Somerville, MA in the background)

So these flowers used to be red or pink or yellow. They used to be soft and filled with moisture. They used to smell sweet and welcome visitors to this house. And now, they are stiff, brittle, and smell sour when you lean in and think that maybe they're still holding on to a little bit of what they used to be. Truth is, like Cobi said, even though they're dead, they're still really beautiful.


This is what I'm working on:
What is sleep when you're already dead? What is dead when you're already dead. What is sleep when you're dead already. You're dead already when sleep is what you're already. What is sleep when dead is sleep what you're already when dead? When you're already dead is sleep what already you're dead when what is sleep? What is what sleep is already dead what is already when dead is sleep? Is sleep dead? Already you're sleep when dead is what already?


I love this band.



Wednesday, July 19, 2006

you forgot to sign your name

Before my trip to cant.go.home.again, I received a postcard. Postmark, Everett, MA.










You forgot to sign it.
















Mystery mailer, who are you?


A song, courtesy of Mooka Motel

Monday, July 10, 2006

Half-full / Time is on my side

I received my second encouraging rejection today. I've always known that choosing to be a writer means choosing to work at a solitary art that requires one to endure much rejection. What I didn't expect was the inspiration that I would get from an encouraging rejection.

How many encouraging rejections does it take to get to an enthusiastic acceptance?

Doesn't matter, I've been writing since I've been able to hold a pen.

Excerpt from a story that I wrote for a friend:
She’ll write a story.
“I’m gonna write a story.”
But when you open the cover and turn the pages all you’ll find are hours. And all you’ll see are days gone by you spent wishing things had been different. But if they had been different you wouldn’t be here right now. Riding in the backseat of a car with the windows rolled down, driving a little too fast with the music a little too loud. But you don’t care because this is the first warm day since a long winter and you barely remember the last blue sky. And you don’t care because, if this is the sum of all your days, you like the math.

















For a while, I was in a deep shade of blue, and then I realized, it takes time to find home.


The Dears are Canadian and this song is amazing and wonderful and would not be out of place at the end of a Hugh Grant romantic comedy when he's running through the streets of London, trying to find his Lady so he can tell her that he, he loves...her. (camera zooms out, music sweeps in, credits begin)

Friday, July 07, 2006

Square Peg

Lately feeling square-ish.

"Sometimes I feel like a motherless child"

Looking for the right time of day to write this story.

Looking for the right desk to sit at to make this essay happen.

Looking for the right room with the right light to make this poem somthing living.

Looking for the right city to call my own.

Looking for the family and the friends that make my net.

Could be I'm looking in all the wrong places.
Could be I'm blind.

Where is the line between intuition and foolishness?


Wednesday, June 28, 2006

and we watched from inside with all the lights turned off so we could watch the lightning split the sky apart

Another sketch for the robot diagrams:




















In revising an essay, I realized that the soul/heart/body/essence was missing.

I went to sleep to get away.
(I do sleep to dream)
Woke up to incredible thunder and lightning.


A friend asked me if I believed in Heaven/Hell.
I told her, No. But I am afraid that they exist.

Wednesday, June 21, 2006

I'm beginning to think that those guys who move to the Alaskan wilderness and get all their supplies (food, tp, etc) air dropped, have the right idea.

The other night, I had three nightmares and one dream. I guess it could be some kind of metaphor for writing, huh?

Maybe, it's just that some nights, a girl has three nightmares and one dream. But when that girl is a writer, she has to attach all kinds of "meaning" to it.

writers.
















A while ago, I started to write a story and, hoo-boy, was I excited about it!
But when I saw what I was writing, no good.
I put it away for a while and worked on other things.

A few months later, I picked up the story and, hoo-boy, was I excited about it!
When I saw my revisions, no good.
I put it away for a while and worked on other things.

A few months later, I picked up the story and, hoo-boy, was I excited about it!
Saw my notes, no good.
Put it away.

Tonight, I thought about the story.
And wrote a few thoughts of one of the characters, even had an a-ha moment.
Tomorrow, I am going to shut myself away in some coffee shop.
And, hoo-boy, am I excited about it!


On my 23rd birthday, I saw Vic Chesnutt play at the *original* house of blues, which then, after it closed, became a bbq joint (the food was only so-so, I hear)

Really, what girl wouldn't want to see a live performance by a quadriplegic folk singer on her birthday?

God, it was a good show.

And "is the actor happy?" is an amazing album. (this song is not on that album)

blah blah blah, m.lady, shut up

Sunday, June 18, 2006

Steal everything you touch

excerpt from a story I call "Kill Me Forever"

If the world revolved around us, would we redefine the galaxy and be two stars burning side-by-side? Or would we be one light, spitting flame until we self-destruct and float in darkness. Content, but cold, searching the universe for a world that revolves around a star and not an ego or two; relieving us of the burden of godliness and gravity.

















All of my library books are overdue and I'm late for work.
My feet hurt from all the walking last night and there's a new zit on my forehead.
My bank account cries whenever I call its name and a new batch of rejection just found its way to my door.
But this song.
This song is good good times.
I am happy that I am alive to hear it.
Oh No! Oh My!
and it's a *live* version.
lucky you.
doodootdootdootdoodoodootdootdoo

Monday, June 12, 2006

If I am lost it's only for a little while

New robot patch!

I made this for the Mousehead. I like the sketch better, she likes the patch better (or so she says).

I'm fond of this idea of mixing definition with art. I'm working on a new piece that blends the technical explanation of an event and the description of the happening, in a fictional way. So now the robots have figure numbers and little defnitions.


sketch:
















patch:




















Currently, I am very fond of the story "Three Places to Stay" by Mark Swartz in the current issue of "Fence." I suggest you check it out.

music.
Band of Horses

Thursday, June 08, 2006

Did the Devil Make the World While God Was Sleeping?

"A Sound Like Breaking"
















The ice melts and makes a sound like breaking. It is falling apart. Becoming something smaller and moving away from what it thought had been holding it together. Holding it together in one form. But in this evolution from solid to liquid, it is moving beyond a holding. It is becoming nothing. No lines drawn to define its shape.
No shape.
The ice is all water now and soon the water will be a cloud turned to rain turned to tears.


Tom Waits, I like.

Monday, June 05, 2006

every story has the same ending

New Video!







I have put links of past videos over there on the right. Enjoy.


Music?
Yes, of course.

the voices you hear are those of Jack Kerouac and Lenny Bruce

Tuesday, May 30, 2006

you stole my heart and that's what really hurts

Many things happening today:

1) I "finished" the newest video. I just need to tweak it a li'l bit and then we'll be all set to rock 'n' roll.

2) The Hunter and I are going to do a reading at Powell's at some point in the near/distant future. wee-ha.

3) I reconciled with an old friend whom I wronged almost 17 months ago. Sometimes saying "sorry" feels really very good.

4) I just discovered that many months ago that I had made the most wonderful mix and buried it on my computer. Currently, I am listening to "Maggie May" as sung by Rod Stewart before he was terrifically lame.

5) I'm a full blown smoker again. Ahh, yes, many many years ago, when I was a misguided youth I used to sneak smokes behind this shed/that shed. It wasn't uncommon for me to climb out of my bedroom window or, heck, walk out the back door and go for a late night stroll. Cigarette in hand. It was my dirty little secret. Made like I was lady non-smoker to all my friends. And then, all through college and the following years smoked maybe the total of a pack of cigarettes, maybe. But now, well, you know, I really like cigarettes.

Totally unrelated, or maybe completely related, some months ago I started work on a story ("Cigarettes Will Kill You" is the title) about a girl smoking cigarettes. I like this story very much so I will share a paragraph with you:

She likes a gentle cigarette. Something clean. So she can concentrate on what’s actually happening to her. Concentrate on the death of her lungs. On the pollution of the cells, the flesh that is dying from the inside out. The loss of bone density. The hardening arteries. The strangulation of her heart. Because she is old enough to know better, she focuses her attention on the effects of the poison that she so enthusiastically seeks out. She carefully considers the smoke that burns her eyes. A nice burn that makes her remember why she started to breathe like this in the first place. She watches the ash of her cigarette extend. Stay red and cling to the body of the stem, barely pinched between her index and middle finger. She gets a little dizzy. Her throat gets a little raw.














This is a post-it note on my wall, it reads "old enough to know better"


And also, here is a link to a wonderful essay by Jeremy Huggins. (This will open a pdf file. It is worth your time to open it.)


song.
new radio dept.
lovely.

Saturday, May 20, 2006

it's the thought that counts

I have to apologize for that last post (of May 17).
It was a pretty lame post.















The above notes are for the nail essay. I took out two of the portions in the above notes.

#2 reads "Once I had a friend." That's a note for:

Once I had a friend and the title that I gave her was Best. We wore this label etched on a silver heart broken in two. Those two parts looped on two delicate chains hung from our necks as jewelry. My read "st ends" and hers "be fri." This was our declaration of permanence.


#3 reads "I'm standing in the moonlight. I'm hanging from a streetlight." That's a note for:

I'm throwing stones at your window. Handfuls of pebbles that, when they hit the glass, make a sound like pat-a-tat-a-titter-dee-tat. But you don't wake up.
I throw rocks that, when they hit the glass, break through.
I throw sticks and fallen branches of various sizes. You don't come to the window. You don't look to see what's causing this racket.
I'm at the door. I'm climbing up the wall. I'm on the roof looking for my own way in. I'm standing in the moonlight. I'm hanging from a streetlight. I'm walking into you with the strangest intentions.
And when you finally do come to the door and take a sleepy step outside, you don't hesitate to ask, "who's there?"


I took them out of the essay because, even though the intention is there, the language isn't. The language is very much not there, but I do love the intention. So, soon enough, I'll figure out what to do with these little bits of prose.


Wow and Flutter, check 'em out.

Wednesday, May 17, 2006

Plus one is no minus

I can write on the bus. I can write on the train. I can write in my bedroom. I can write sitting under a tree. I can write in a coffeeshop. I can write at a music show. I can write in the shower. I can write just before I go to sleep. I can write when I'm sober. I can write when I'm not. I can write by the window. I can write on the street. I can write at work. I can write in the shampoo aisle. I can write in the kitchen. I can write while doing laundry. I can write while I make my lunch. I can write in a big notebook. I can write in a pocket notebook. I can write on a laptop. I can write on a post-it note. I can write in the morning. I can write late at night. I can write on paper. I can write on the wall. I can write in ink. I can write in condiments. I can write upside down and backwards. I can write cursive. I can type very fast. I can write in summer. I can write in snow. I can write in silence. And I can write in the middle of a very loud crowd. Point is, I can't not write.



















wrote that on the 50 going north

  • Travis Morrison used to be the lead singer of the Dismemberment Plan.
  • He was always Travis Morrison.

Saturday, May 13, 2006

yellow balloon flying away

I just finished reading "The Singing Fish" by Peter Markus.
star rating?
I give it a Milky Way

and then what happened was this (on page 68)
"The moon rose like a balloon running away from the hand of a little girl who wanted to know what it would be like to see this balloon rise up and up until, in the sun's heat, it would get so close up, it would get so heated up, that it would break. It's true that the moon was rising up and away from the hand, from the head, of a girl, Girl, who did not eralize that the moon could actually break. When the moon in its rising up, when the moon got too up close to the sun, it was too late for us brothers to stop it from breaking. In the sun's molten light, in this blast furnace fire, the moon, it shattered into a billion pieces. Each broken piece became a star."

Fine example, I think, of writing without fear, yeah?

In my memory essay, I wrote a line "Yellow balloon flying away" and then I read this book and I thought, 'Wow, Markus wrote that same moment that I wrote.'

And it made my stomach tingle in a way like when you've just ordered dinner and at *that moment* you realize that you're really hungry.

I *love* that he wrote the moment of losing a balloon (such a small, simple, ridiculously painful moment) and made it beautiful.

I sure do love the prose.

A while ago I posted a little reading list that had been recommended to me by one Tyehimba Jess.

After reading an earlier Peter Markus book, "The Moon is a Lighthouse," I emailed Peter and asked him for some reading materials:

  • Noy Holland, "The Spectacle of the Body"
  • Rudy Wilson, "The Red Truck"
  • Ben Markus, "The Age of Wire and String"
  • Gertrude Stein, "Ida and To Do"
  • Victoria Redel, "Where the Road Bottoms Out"
  • Gary Lutz, "Stories in the Worst Way"
  • Dawn Raffel, "In the Year of Long Division"
  • David Markson, "Wittgenstein's Mistress"
Time for a song?
Yes



PS: There are new literary links! (look to the right of the screen)

Check out Opium Magazine, Elimae, and Sweet Fancy Moses.

Sunday, May 07, 2006

i know to you it might sound strange / i wish it would rain

I don't know why everyone is so afraid of being wrong.
Of being confused.
Of not understanding the first time around.
Of having to stop. Start. Start over again. Think on it for a minute. And continue.
Of not having it all s-p-e-l-l-e-d o-u-t.

I am wrong about most things.

[Today I did some revision.
and some de-revision.
de-leted what I was told to change.]

Go read "Nobody Knows My Name" by James Baldwin.







































Mr.T and I saw Two Gallants perform the other night.
I may be a writer, but even I know when to shut up and let the music do the talking.

Wednesday, May 03, 2006

something like this is words we never use

Happiness is sold in late night infomercials

and I buy into the idea that I am an

overenthusiastic actor in an ugly sweater

and you are some new invention that will

create juice like I've never seen before

"wow!"

You're the most spectacular thing that I've ever seen!(!!)


--you can't quote me on that--

quotes are what we use when we don't know what we mean
you know what I mean?


Notes in pocket:
  • a few days ago an 83 year old Korean woman started talking to me on the train
  • she told me to work hard becuase writing is "very hard...very hard"
  • A man cried in front of me today, becuase he had just gotten eye drops, but still
  • I stood really really very quite close to Jackson Pollack's "Greyed Rainbow" and I totally and completely understood

This is a still frame from a video I'm working on:
















This song is quite appropriate to this evening (Thanks, Said the Gramophone):

Thursday, April 27, 2006

...that serves no purpose except to excite the mind...

Alice Munro is lovely because she can do this:






Now, what I'm going to do here is post about 1800 words of some prose.
You may

a) read it

or

b) go to the end of this post for a link to a lovely song

So flip a coin and get on it.


I drew a picture of that river.

I want to be born. I want to grow up to become something less like me. Something with a voice that is gentle. A voice that is soft. I want to sing a mellow song with a sweet, subtle melody. And I want to forget. I want to amnesia. All of my senses and everything I know. Disappear and make me all kinds of a fiction. I want to lose my truth. My evidence. My trace. I want to be born. A sunburst in the corner of her eye when she’s trying to watch the road. Or the grooves of a dusty, forgotten record somewhere lost. I want to be born the wind. I want to shake the leaves from their branches and flip wide skirts. I want to go back. To before memory. To before my name. I want to go back to before any definition of me ever existed. I want to forget every moment, every hour, every single second. I want to be born. A spiral notebook. I want to be born an autumn street. I want to be born the blue edge of a very hot flame.

Lose my voice and my skin. The color of my eyes and the length of my hair. The mole on my chest. The boy I loved when I was ten. The small yellow chair. Lose my new dress. My shoes: brown and plain. Lose my sarcasm. The smell of grass, newly cut, the shredded pieces stuck to my calves and ankles. That song. I love that song. Lose my hand wrapped around your waist. Lose my first car and my first set of keys. Lose my jumping in puddles after and during rain. The scratch of your stubble against my cheek. Lose the pennies that I put on train tracks. The salt. The sweet skin of a hot pretzel. Soft and wrapped in paper. Held in one hand and torn to pieces. A knot unfolding and falling apart.

I’ve been asking my friends, and some strangers, to tell me their first memory. The answers are usually quick. Sharing a fragment at first. But I talk with them a little bit more and the details become clear. And then we talk a little bit longer and, for a minute, we’re there again. We’re reliving their history. We’re on the tarmac. In the living room. Running and racing through the tall stalks of wheat.

Lose my spare change, kept in a piggy bank. A piggy bank shaped like an elephant that I shattered to loose the quarters, nickels, dimes. Lose almost being hit by a train when I miscalculated how much time we had. Blisters from a burn spread over my thigh. Lose the four-leaf clover that I found in my own backyard. Flipping the bird. Lose the first time I played the piano. The first song I knew by heart. Some sailor jig. Lose my long red and purple and blue scarf that I wrapped and wrapped and wrapped around me on the coldest days. The shock when you slapped me. When I slapped you back. My nephew kissing my cheek. The sound of a shovel on the sidewalk.

I don’t think it would be a new story for me, another small citizen of another big city, to walk out of my front door one morning. Lock it behind me. Slip my keys into the deep back pocket of my green shoulder bag. Walk to the bus stop. Hand over my fare. And disappear.

Lose swimming in cold water. Lose a lonely morning standing on the edge of the dock watching the sun rise. Lose coffee spiked with brandy. Lose the first time we met. Those were the best hours of us. Lose the joke about the number 8. Lose the shed we broke into. Eye contact. A street filled with blossoms. Linda. Lose the bridge where flowers gathered on the anniversary of his suicide. Lose the walking path. Lose autumn. Lose all the colors of autumn. And lose wildflowers and all the colors of wildflowers. Lose the top of the mountain and the sky that stretched up out and over us. Sunday nights. Lose the hours. Lose sitting by the river. I drew a picture of that river. Lose your shoulders. The Alaskan band in the empty bar. The wind that kicked her veil and made her seem like some kind of angel that day. Lose the night that she sang of September. Lose the lake. Lose your last name.

I just want to misplace me. And all of my history.

Lose the notes I folded and passed. The taste of the glue of the back of a stamp. Sleeping by an open window. Lose the games of hide and seek. Waterfalls we walked behind and streams we waded across. The uniform I wore. Brunch. Saved when I hit the car’s hood with my fist. Spinning on tire swings. Lose learning to read. Being the third wheel. The heat of that summer. Lose the quiz you wrote in my red notebook. In a café somewhere in the lowest corners of New York. Orange slices. Lose listening to records, the volume turned up and the headphones covering the entire side of my head while I’m hidden in a listening cubicle in the corner of the third floor of the library. Lose getting locked inside. Lose my nicknames. Lose holding hands. Lose barely touching the keys of the piano while the swell in my throat warns of tears. I wanted to learn Für Elise. Lose our knees touching under the table. Lose fixing your tie. Lose not making a sound. Lose your yellow notebook.

History shaping my present tense. Remembering a joke we shared last night. But I’m just me on the subway. Daydreaming by the window. The memory though, the thought of it makes me smile and laugh a little. It feels good to remember like this. I look across the train and see another solitary rider’s face turn from a scowl to a smile as he replays some happier moment and he laughs, just kind of chuckles to himself. This is happening everywhere. Every minute. This nice tickle of memory.

Lose the black and white pictures of a forest and trees dying and falling over trees dying. The laughter of my nieces. The sound of the laughter. The sound of it. The nights driving in circles around and out of the city and back home again. Lilacs. Lose my disappointment. My what was I thinking. Lose laughing until we can’t breathe. Lose holding her baby over my head and assuring the infant that she was, in fact, flying. The day I asked your name.

oh.

Lose monkey bars, green paint chipping. The feeling of the metal slipping fingers and all the details of summer and sun and grass and playground pavement criss-crossed with yellow lines. The hideous smell of tacos. Lose the dress I made that didn’t quite fit. Lose the drive, the wheels, the windows, and the maps we kept stacked in the glove compartment. Lose my futile attempt at flirtation. Our practical joke. Lose flannel. Grilled cheese. Acne. An unwelcome tickle on my bare skin on a crowded train. Bare feet. Working our way around it. Saying I’m sorry. Stealing rocks from the top of a mountain in Utah. I took two because I wanted to give one to you as if you were there too. The way you dance. You can’t dance. The way you sing. You can’t sing either. Swingsets. Kicking higher and higher and higher. I got a bulls-eye! Lose your hands, strong and swollen. The crash of thunder that woke me up and sent me running from the bed to the couch where you were watching a movie and we stayed up through the storm while the rain tore at the leaves and the power lines and we watched from inside with all the lights turned off so we could watch the lightning split the sky apart.

This blue of you is not that blue of him. And this red of she is not that red of you. There are thousands of moments, hundreds of yous and hims and hers, a million memories, and there I am.

Lose the lyrics I like in the song I dance to alone in my room. Sitting on the couch and watching helpless as the petals of the pale pink tulips in their wide vase slowly curl and fall. Your initials written on your shirt in permanent marker. Lose singing along. Dare. Double dare. The cut across your hand. Mashed potatoes. Counting down. Photo booths. Lose the last time I saw you, turning a corner and waving to me from the other side of an ivy covered fence.

I need to remember everything. I need to know every moment. I need to consider and hold all of the fragments before I can let them go.

Lose Charlie. Lose my knee, cut and bleeding. Lose the bubbles made by peroxide. Lose the cleaning. Lose sledding by moonlight. The bandage you worried. Grape soda. Hiding your shoe. Riding on the handlebars and closing my eyes. Me gusta. My butterfly wings. Lose the neighbors’ house. Windows lit up and I can see the table set and ready for dinner.

My first memory is of an ear infection. I was maybe two years old. I remember being set in my crib and the pain that shot from one side of my head straight through to the other. I remember the contrast between the darkness of my room and the light in the hall.

Lose rolling down a hill. Cutting my own hair. Sock puppets. Silence on both ends of the phone. Overlapping. Me and you in the shadows of a big oak tree. Lose four square. Communion. Carving pumpkins. Roller skating. Lose the mix tapes I made for you. Is anyone sitting here? I hope I have enough money for a cup of coffee. Lose the hours of us. Lose the chocolates I kept in my desk drawer because I knew he liked chocolate, on occasion. Parallel. What I should have said when I had the chance. Lose shaving my legs. Kickball. Lose your locker combination. I got fired. Again. Lose cologne on the pillow. Lose painting my nails. Lose weeping willows. Yellow balloon flying away. Lose the kiss meant for your cheek that landed on your lips when you turned your head at the last second. Lose your green hat. Pulling your leg. A shared hangover. Sleeping on the floor. Lose blue tiles. Lose climbing in the window. Lose climbing out of the window. Blood in the snow. Lose the tree we sat in. Lose the cattails and the dry swamp bed. Lose sitting on the stairs. Lose riding my bike in the dark when the only sound in the whole city was that of my tire treads making their way over the spare pebbles of the pavement.



Soul Sides is really a lovely blog.
  • Consistently good music.
  • Nice thoughts on the music.
  • No dreamy dreamy stuff.
  • Just music that's good and little paragraphs on why said music is good.
  • The following song was lifted from Soul Sides.
(I don't know if any of that was grammatically correct. But then, I don't care.)

Sunday, April 23, 2006

I'm not crazy. I'm just a little bit bored.

So I've been hearing a lot of "no" lately.

"Your idea of how I'm supposed to write"

Those aren't my words and I think that's why I understand/you understand/we all understand how it feels to not be what your supposed to be.

"supposed to" is almost as awful as "prose poem"
curse words

So, what are we supposed to do with all of these nos?
Accept them, hold them, and hug them.
Cuddle them and kiss them goodnight?

I remember seeing an interview with John Lennon and he was describing the moment he met Yoko Ono. She had an installation that asked the viewer to climb a ladder and use the provided maginfying glass to read what was written on the ceiling.




All that was written was the word "yes."

Now, I don't know what you think of Yoko, but that's some good shit.















m.lady, is this written in your house somewhere?
maybe, yes


T h e R o s e b u d s
This song is very, very pretty
enjoy
pretend your riding your bike at dusk
at the very tip-top end of spring

actually, I'm going to throw out a second Rosebuds song, because they like to mix it up

Wednesday, April 12, 2006

Well happy la-dee-frickin'-dah

Happy Birthday to Me.

26 (number)
From Wikipedia

26 (twenty-six) is the natural number following 25 and preceding 27.

Roman numeral
XXVI


Binary
11010


In mathematics
Twenty-six is a composite number, its proper divisors being 1, 2, and 13. 26 is the only number between a square number and a cube number, the numbers being 25 (5 squared) and 27 (3 cubed).

There is no solution to the equation φ(x) = 26, making 26 a nontotient. Nor is there a solution to x - φ(x) = 26, making 26 a noncototient.

In the classification of finite simple groups there are 26 sporadic groups.


In science
The atomic number of iron


In astronomy

Messier object M26, a magnitude 9.5 open cluster in the constellation Scutum.


In other fields
  • Twenty-six is:
  • The number of letters in the English alphabet, if majuscules are not distinguished from minuscules.
  • The number of spacetime dimensions in bosonic string theory.
  • The number of miles in a marathon rounded down (26 miles and 385 yards).
  • The designation of Interstate 26, a freeway that runs from South Carolina to Tennessee.
  • Michigan is the 26th state to be admitted to the United States of America.
  • m.lady's age as of today


And now, a happy birthday to me song:

  • Victory at Sea is a band from Boston
  • What up, Boston?
  • They also have something to do with homemade stuffed animals
  • That means they're super cute