Monday
Saturday
33 hours.
33 hours until the show gets hung. I'm not ready.
I was painting all night, people were over. We had some good conversations, mostly about painting.
I dream about painting. I cant sleep.
There are too many people sleeping in my house right now.
Wednesday
'Your very flesh shall be a great poem,
and have the richest fluency not only in it's words,
but in the silent lines of its lips and face and between the lashes of your eyes and in every motion and joint of your body.'
WW
People can fall in love on escalators. In bus terminals, amongst the grimy-booted downtrodden passengers, your heart can be reaching out. Falling in love, in certain instances, has nothing to do with the person. Only the time. I leave love letters here, strategically hidden half-heartedly in fake, fading plants and cracks of crumbling stairwells. Sometimes people just need the hope of love, even a hint of romance can get their minds (and hearts) running-crash-into the next person they meet. This may seem almost cruel, a haphazard way of trying to play cupid. But who's to say it's not just giving fate a hand? Some people need that push, they're just far too dense to see love when he (or she) is staring them in the face.
pan tostado, y galletitas!
Parr is amazing. He made and mailed me espresso brownies!
choka
envoy
tanka
haiku
renga
hokku
kigo
'you know I hate, detest and can't bear a lie; not because I am straighter than the rest of us, but simply because it appalls me. There is a taint of death, a flavor of mortality in lies which is exactly what I hate and detest in the world-what I want to forget.'
'There were moments when ones past came back to one, as it will sometimes when you have not a moment to spare for oneself; but it came in the shape of an unrestful and noisy dream, remembered with wonder among the overwhelming realities of this strange world of plants, and water, and space.'
'He nodded a nod full of mystery and wisdom. 'I tell you,' He cried, 'this man has enlarged my mind.' He opened his arms wide, staring at me with his little blue eyes that were perfectly round.'
-Heart of Darkness
Tuesday
Self Definitive CD 1
1. november
2. 32 flavors (rethink that)
3. across the universe
4. easy to please
5. anna begins
6. fake plastic trees
7. everything means nothing to me
8. bowl of oranges
9. life like weeds
10. bigmouth strikes again
11. am i wrong
12. regret
13. your glasses (rethink that)
15. clark gable
16. crimson and clover
17. I don't know what it is
18. ruby tuesday
19. everybody loves jill (ha!)
Lesson 1-1: Transparency B.
This essay on Blake is good- really good,
the kind of writing that I would like
to be able to write off the top of my head.
And instead I'm thinking smoking is wrong.
When did I ever care when something was wrong?
And I'm thinking I have a heart problem.
I should have applied to at least one grad school;
And I'm thinking I'm one by one chopping
years off my already heart-shortened life.
And I'm thinking I should pay attention,
so I do- and they're discussing porn.
And I'm thinking that I must have missed something good,
but I shouldn't bother listening now-
it isn't as good when you come in
in the middle of a conversation.
And I'm thinking I want to be like
a heroine in a romance novel;
maybe I just want my life to be like that.
Picturesque and smooth, with steamy romance
and me always coming out on top.
And I'm thinking that sometimes I wish that
I could record my life and play it back-
at least all of the most beautiful parts.
Like yesterday, when the sky was heavy
with fog, and I was sitting in my car
down by that ditch in Amanda's driveway.
The Counting Crows were playing really loud,
grey music for a likewise grey day.
And I'm thinking that I like the spelling
of the word "grey" better than the word "gray."
And Steph and Liz were slow dancing next to
the car, and they were all laughing out loud;
And Kate was blowing dying dandelions-
you know, those off-white poofs of cotton fluff?
The ones you wish on? Yeah, she was blowing
those into a cloud aimed at the dancers,
Hundreds of these fragmented wishes stuck
in their hair and clothes and their eyelashes.
They swirled in the air and around the car,
and they were laughing, the music playing;
And I felt like it should be a movie
playing in slow motion-slightly off-focus.
And I know that to you it was stupid,
it was something that happens every day;
but it was beauty--it was a good movie.
And then I was thinking where am I;
in this movie, who writes all of my lines?
And then I was thinking why am I
always the one on the side just watching?
And I'm thinking I want to live beauty,
not just be the one watching it walk by.
the kind of writing that I would like
to be able to write off the top of my head.
And instead I'm thinking smoking is wrong.
When did I ever care when something was wrong?
And I'm thinking I have a heart problem.
I should have applied to at least one grad school;
And I'm thinking I'm one by one chopping
years off my already heart-shortened life.
And I'm thinking I should pay attention,
so I do- and they're discussing porn.
And I'm thinking that I must have missed something good,
but I shouldn't bother listening now-
it isn't as good when you come in
in the middle of a conversation.
And I'm thinking I want to be like
a heroine in a romance novel;
maybe I just want my life to be like that.
Picturesque and smooth, with steamy romance
and me always coming out on top.
And I'm thinking that sometimes I wish that
I could record my life and play it back-
at least all of the most beautiful parts.
Like yesterday, when the sky was heavy
with fog, and I was sitting in my car
down by that ditch in Amanda's driveway.
The Counting Crows were playing really loud,
grey music for a likewise grey day.
And I'm thinking that I like the spelling
of the word "grey" better than the word "gray."
And Steph and Liz were slow dancing next to
the car, and they were all laughing out loud;
And Kate was blowing dying dandelions-
you know, those off-white poofs of cotton fluff?
The ones you wish on? Yeah, she was blowing
those into a cloud aimed at the dancers,
Hundreds of these fragmented wishes stuck
in their hair and clothes and their eyelashes.
They swirled in the air and around the car,
and they were laughing, the music playing;
And I felt like it should be a movie
playing in slow motion-slightly off-focus.
And I know that to you it was stupid,
it was something that happens every day;
but it was beauty--it was a good movie.
And then I was thinking where am I;
in this movie, who writes all of my lines?
And then I was thinking why am I
always the one on the side just watching?
And I'm thinking I want to live beauty,
not just be the one watching it walk by.
Remember July 2002.
Misfits
Common Rider
Saves the Day (x2)
New Found Glory (x2)
Alkaline Trio
Get Up Kids
Bouncing Souls
Catch 22 (x2)
Flogging Molly
Sublime
Less Than Jake
Rancid
Flame Still Burns
Reach The Sky (x2)
Monday
a beginning? a beginning.
Every year about this time I start to think I can take over the world. Right after the winter depression, right before the dawn of spring. Yet I have times like this all throughout the year, so I suppose the season has nothing to do with it. I suppose it's a life-long cycle, a yearlong menstrual cycle that never ends. Beforehand, I always feel so apathetically depressed. I just hate realizing that there really is no point to all of these mundane things that we people do every day. There is no reason for this obsession of objects-how long can you really keep all of this shit anyway? I once knew a woman who hoarded all of her shit in her house, until there was no room for her to live there anymore. She ended up living in a trailer outside, while her junk took precedence over her household and daily life. It wasn't even anything good, nothing of value. This woman saved sticks and bundles of newspaper, for Christ's sake. And was she happy? No. She was a mean old spinster. They're never happy. Take a look at me.
It's not only objects that have no real value-even talents are reduced to shit when you break it all down. Something like learning a new language or how to play an instrument just ends up feeling superfluous and mundane if you think about it. And how can you not think about it? Yippee, you can play a progression of sounds on a piece of shaped metal. You're still going to die. Is that piece of metal going to keep you company on your deathbed? It's not going to help you any in the long run. All I have ever gotten out of life is that there is no point to life at all. All you can do is be as happy as you possibly can, and maybe change the way those proceeding you think or view things. That's it. Hopefully you find someone to love you in your short existence, for if not, your happiness factor is usually down a bit. And you'll waste a whole lot of time looking for someone to love, when you could be putting that time into a cure for cancer or something. But hey, everyone dies from something, right? And you, you're going to die of cancer. But it's not your fault you never found someone to love. At least you found someone to marry, I suppose. That's what counts.
If you ever asked me how I wanted to end up in life, I definitely wouldn't have said that I wanted to get really old, forget whom I was and spend my days sitting on our oldest sons couch, mumbling to myself. That thought never crossed my mind. It didn't even cross my mind when it was happening. By then I was too senile to really think about it. Ask me the same question earlier, maybe when I'm about 24. By this time we've been married for a year, and I'm about to give birth to the aforementioned son. I was so damn ambitious back then. I planned on taking over the world, one kitchen at a time.
Yes, I knew what I had been taught growing up. Men are the masters of the household, I, as a woman, are expected to heed to your every beck and call, all of that bullshit. But back then, I didn't think it really applied to me. No, even when it was happening, it didn't apply to me. Yet I still learned something valuable from that experience, dear. No matter how much you love a man, if you have any dreams, he will proceed to fuck them up. And be happy about it. Unless, of course, your dreams are to make home-cooked meals daily, take care of the kids, keep the house spotless and rub his feet every night. You're welcome to do that without his interference. He'll probably be off on a business trip anyway, or out golfing with the guys. ('Business Trip' will always mean off fucking one of the many cute secretaries with cute names. In ever book you read or movie you watch, this will always be true. This is because it applies to real life. No man will ever be faithful enough to not have sex with another woman when he's away for two nights. Two nights without sex? Unthinkable! Don't worry, he never loved you anyway.)
No woman ever asked or wanted to be treated like shit then abandoned once her used, childbearing body wasn't as attractive and elastic as it once was. All anyone ever wants is to be loved. And I suppose that's why I never got anywhere in life. All I thought about was love-ways to get you, my husband, to love me. My mind was so occupied by that, I had no time to cure cancer. But then again, it's you who died of cancer, not me. If you had given me the love I needed, you wouldn't be dead right now. That's what this all boils down to.
Yes, so I was bitter. I hated you, passionately. I don't anymore, I suppose. You can't really hate anyone who's dead, can you? I mean, they lost. You have to feel sorry for them, the losers. Especially since you've beaten them. Yes, dear, I'm the winner in this game. As senile as I may be, I'm still alive! So no, I don't hate you anymore. But I did-oh, I did! You were a poet, which I thought was romantic at first. Until I realized it was just a waste of life. In your case, anyway. You worked your office job, but your real passion was being a poet. Rather, you wanted to be a poet. All you ever wrote was shit, and it took you years to write a fucking poem, years! And to think your stupid little housewife wrote this in a few months. All in her journal, all about you.
It's not only objects that have no real value-even talents are reduced to shit when you break it all down. Something like learning a new language or how to play an instrument just ends up feeling superfluous and mundane if you think about it. And how can you not think about it? Yippee, you can play a progression of sounds on a piece of shaped metal. You're still going to die. Is that piece of metal going to keep you company on your deathbed? It's not going to help you any in the long run. All I have ever gotten out of life is that there is no point to life at all. All you can do is be as happy as you possibly can, and maybe change the way those proceeding you think or view things. That's it. Hopefully you find someone to love you in your short existence, for if not, your happiness factor is usually down a bit. And you'll waste a whole lot of time looking for someone to love, when you could be putting that time into a cure for cancer or something. But hey, everyone dies from something, right? And you, you're going to die of cancer. But it's not your fault you never found someone to love. At least you found someone to marry, I suppose. That's what counts.
If you ever asked me how I wanted to end up in life, I definitely wouldn't have said that I wanted to get really old, forget whom I was and spend my days sitting on our oldest sons couch, mumbling to myself. That thought never crossed my mind. It didn't even cross my mind when it was happening. By then I was too senile to really think about it. Ask me the same question earlier, maybe when I'm about 24. By this time we've been married for a year, and I'm about to give birth to the aforementioned son. I was so damn ambitious back then. I planned on taking over the world, one kitchen at a time.
Yes, I knew what I had been taught growing up. Men are the masters of the household, I, as a woman, are expected to heed to your every beck and call, all of that bullshit. But back then, I didn't think it really applied to me. No, even when it was happening, it didn't apply to me. Yet I still learned something valuable from that experience, dear. No matter how much you love a man, if you have any dreams, he will proceed to fuck them up. And be happy about it. Unless, of course, your dreams are to make home-cooked meals daily, take care of the kids, keep the house spotless and rub his feet every night. You're welcome to do that without his interference. He'll probably be off on a business trip anyway, or out golfing with the guys. ('Business Trip' will always mean off fucking one of the many cute secretaries with cute names. In ever book you read or movie you watch, this will always be true. This is because it applies to real life. No man will ever be faithful enough to not have sex with another woman when he's away for two nights. Two nights without sex? Unthinkable! Don't worry, he never loved you anyway.)
No woman ever asked or wanted to be treated like shit then abandoned once her used, childbearing body wasn't as attractive and elastic as it once was. All anyone ever wants is to be loved. And I suppose that's why I never got anywhere in life. All I thought about was love-ways to get you, my husband, to love me. My mind was so occupied by that, I had no time to cure cancer. But then again, it's you who died of cancer, not me. If you had given me the love I needed, you wouldn't be dead right now. That's what this all boils down to.
Yes, so I was bitter. I hated you, passionately. I don't anymore, I suppose. You can't really hate anyone who's dead, can you? I mean, they lost. You have to feel sorry for them, the losers. Especially since you've beaten them. Yes, dear, I'm the winner in this game. As senile as I may be, I'm still alive! So no, I don't hate you anymore. But I did-oh, I did! You were a poet, which I thought was romantic at first. Until I realized it was just a waste of life. In your case, anyway. You worked your office job, but your real passion was being a poet. Rather, you wanted to be a poet. All you ever wrote was shit, and it took you years to write a fucking poem, years! And to think your stupid little housewife wrote this in a few months. All in her journal, all about you.
family follows tradition.
today my father tried to talk me into helping him con his friend out of a couple hundred thousand.
I guess he's just keeping up the tradition.
first time doing any sort of drug: with my father.
first time in a jail cell: with my father.
first time stealing: with my father.
first time asked to lie in court: by my father.
Sunday
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