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?