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


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."

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.