Fake Bright Plastic Food

may.22-23.2011

2011-05-23T22:32:00.001-07:00

often, i am not thinking about my family

and then becoming a monster, both of us

creative,

a mother once pausing

with bad thoughts

that stick

in relation to whiter things,

what we consider teeth

children don’t know about wind or leaning

but they get to feel their own personal weight

& we can put more sections in

that involve my adult steps behind yours

our shoulders humming together

it is not easy to start thinking about gravity

& what it wants,

picture rows of feet and how

the height of a body

makes pavement a lot less

of traveling

it’s this kind of stacking that

i wish i knew,

how to weep

or at least

pile myself big enough

to hurt people

often i am proud of the things

that come out

but forget about

their leaving

so i eat unusual foods

outside

or near grass

so that i can

feel different

toward you

when we’re in the same room

you remind me of

that [one] time

you were so good,

you said

what

about my family

or my name, once inhabited

by little balls of light

& i said

let’s be more like shoulders

i would never kick anyone

in the ribs

but only because

i cannot reach them

may.22.2011

2011-05-23T12:59:00.001-07:00

I apologize ahead of time for all the

photographs that have never

been written

for the limbs

we talk about frequently

bcuz

we have a lot of them

they can’t distinguish each other

little categories, sure

but just

blowing into empty space

slowly

& it’s been a very

complicated

relationship

with my

anything really weighing

on my

last time i honestly can’t

really start meeting folks, how i relate to mine

the only way i can ever really see you

through displacement,

you, or glasses of old cabernet

you, or windows with dirty hand signals

you: (a little bit) tricky long-distance

from/manipulation/or/that time we knew about walking home

i would sleep

/if i were something else/

stop being fooled by

constant breathing

so i could

harness

peripheries

in getting lost

if i could just be

and

sleepy

but instead,

i am not moving at all until

the week before i am comfortable,

since there are things i just can’t say,

but what if i just deep down

remove the years ago parts,

and remember the good fortune

standing between us

and what it looks like

to be a daughter

when i finally think i can

stick my hearing around

the corners of your mailbox

or tell you about

the risk of changing topics

the fucking conversations

you might compare me to

if my ears became bobcats

and i stopped saying thank you

but first, i wanted to

get all this down,

so i took my right leg

and then i took my left one

then my right

She wanted second-hand smoke the way his mouth said “hi”

2011-05-02T01:05:00.001-07:00

the ocean is not a good idea. is around 6 years old. is full of freckles.

the ocean embarrasses me. low-income, squirming.

makes me feel different around people in tshirts, with long legs,

or else if i pretended to write a letter

and it only spilled out, raw sewage all over,

on the airplane’s descent. the vulnerable anthropologist.

the ocean is confidently predicted by my embarrassing hunger.

the way we made pretend ocean using ropes and finger-sized breath.

an embarrassment of riches. (yes, i did say many…

but i retextured all the little swimming holes. the fish,

held in place. movement and the needles, a sewing that makes thread get thicker. time

becomes a decoration, or a paperweight. the ocean unravels into paper, just the same,

children splashing at the water basin, the enamel continuous and shoulder-like.

there’s a way you can rent water for these kinds of things,

said one child dancing on cold circles, ignited and strands dripping, pulled.

the entire scene shifts and focuses on one tiny anchor,

keeping the boat

in place, fifty men caught pushing their least

favorite months into the burning engine.

there’s never been a water cooler more easily filled.

if i could step into it, or you, like so many before me,

putting water on my face with my palms

laid out together as if to tell you

i like the weight, the water pulling our hair

into thick globs of rope, infinite fish,

the one child still under her umbrella,

listening to the circles blown out of your mouth.

April 27th, 192011

2011-04-27T00:51:00.001-07:00

i write “Derrick” in a love poem,

thinking this means people may fall

for,

thinking people other than me are,

sometimes sideways and once,

a small placing like hands or chalk lines,

once tipping over like names that don’t come from,

once naming something inside a person who feels empty.

one time, “maybe people will fall in love with you.”

somewhere, buried in my closet.

somewhere, only my cat knows how to arrive.

sometime, forgetting who it really was.

a certain kind of shimmy, once two-fold, once the better half.

the name, only halfway.

Day Twenty Five/seven/4

2011-04-27T00:21:00.000-07:00

as far as formulas go

it is the capacity

of things in slices

mostly

where i understand

the importance

of literal meaning

how we

sometimes

walk into

all of it, at once

no sudden basements

or positing, like

chains or family units,

pluralities of

neither pointing

backwards

nor recognizing numbers that shift

this is why language needs:

without soft understanding,

my legs are no less likely

than foreign

words, kind of

couches that suggest themselves,

by no means comic

editorial

overinsightfulness

lost within armchair

&terrible cruelty

here, a first sentence

is like a strange face:

burdened with the responses

of lonely dogs,

not necessarily

completely

realized,

but a similar

craving than

horizon,

was once inspected geography, was often

the ground,

approaching our hands and

and all anyone can be

is where the sunset may happen

thirty years later,

our legs

continually

bending backwards,

trying to remember

once

fitting our knees

in appropriate categories

or a right angle that

used to be something,

pretty

after K

Day, something

2011-04-21T03:20:00.000-07:00

I’m being forced to write something. The sun’s pictures of dead and dying fans squashed against the railings. I’m not making it into cheapskate lemonade or authoritative figures, not just for dead people but for all images: they’ve no problem with making someone look a bit prettier or more appropriate for the grass photos of stepmother sin. Do you know that almost all dead people are making some common home decorating mistakes that may make our home look wasted? They were in and have been scooped up by the river side, not by wealth but understanding. How ‘bout pictures of really, really large dead people? Because more children are making it to adulthood, more people are putting up pictures in the house. So compared to what people have been talking about here the pictures are quite candid. Does anyone have any advice on making a Catholic Advance Directive? Who owns the copyright to images of famous dead people? Chances are they’re making a nice home for themselves in black issues or the naked photos; people have to speak! How do they embalm people? By making a purchase of 25% of each journal. I’ve seen so many creepy pictures. I’m not totally opposed to making fun of dead people, as long as they’re from Italy, certainly, and the effect of this promiscuous and indecent splashing down into so many wells just makes out a sliver of all the ignorant people. Is it OK or not? The importance of making a bunny of yourself involves allegedly trading pictures of people beneath interstate 4. When I was in high school a quasi-friend died in a car accident; these are the best beauty tips and perhaps, at that time, your understanding of the photos shows little understanding of how people are still dying. After all, making the desert bloom, carefully laid out and circulating people, nearly 3,000 of them, means you have the authority of the days growing shorter and people still looking for mischief and instrument. Mt. Everest has around 2,000 dead bodies; the air is so thin that there is no margin for error. I bet those people must feel like God, like 200 pics of almost everything posted to a Swedish or German website: taking up the information and spreading it along, making censorship next to impossible.

Day (Sixteen).2

2011-04-17T10:20:00.000-07:00

“I thought I would die if my name didn't

touch me, or only with its very end, leaving

the inside open to so many feelers

like chance rain pouring down from the clouds."

~Rosmarie Waldrop, CURVES TO THE APPLE

it was always about choosing

up or down

it became a filled in space

where my thoughts didn’t breed,

sufficient already

like babies who don’t know about their own

swimming

i became aquainted with stairs

couldn’t move through them slowly

i have to get them over with

i just felt spoken

once too many times

in places where

rain is still surprising,

my lack of thirst gathering me

troubled and wanting looks,

when fingertips are all i know to write with

so i sometimes

turn them inside out

make them bigger, bent up slightly

talk them through a

good deal on

baskets of fruit, places they can

curve around, if that can be

like getting at wholeness

i just felt knocked over

monstrous

a little too much like tires

or a professor of warmth in

the middle

of bathing

a day free of seasons,

trying to count the ways

people go home

trying to be more like

real things,

hands around glasses,

things we sleep close to and

press out of ourselves

in the morning,

the times when you sturdy, filled with pewter

became my

[despite myself]

rather than a bed,

prone now to weirdness

in large areas, fields, big numbers like death

or taking off my bandages

before

setting them down in your

estimated

fire

Day (Sixteen)

2011-04-17T10:15:00.000-07:00

“I thought I would die if my name didn't

touch me, or only with its very end, leaving

the inside open to so many feelers

like chance rain pouring down from the clouds."

~Rosmarie Waldrop, CURVES TO THE APPLE

it is eating me up alive, it is hard

to recognize,

i can barely remember my own face

if it touches me, it’s like nursing

a wounded hero and describing the battle

from the thieves point of view

it is very muscular, strong, funny, smart

but also can make no mistakes

about carrying me away

i can’t figure out if it’s

really touching me or not,

but doesn’t every girl

at some point

let someone else figure it out

don’t let anyone touch, use, or even mess

with your name, it gets fuzzy,

looks like a blemish people

can’t take their eyes off of

i can’t let it touch me or it may be real

that’s why i do this

that’s why my hands are turning clear,

when i fold clean laundry, my name

becomes dirty all over again

i think i should really rewrite it

and make it clearer or more heartfelt,

less arthritic, double plastic, it’s creepy:

i get gaggy and sick and heated and

i wanna puke, i’m more comfortable

with the glue on most stickers

i can’t get over my fear of small, dirty

pieces of paper, letters—god

help me—i recognize it

Day Fifteen

2011-04-15T17:03:00.000-07:00

“whatever you choose to claim of me

is always yours: nothing is truly mine

except my name.”

~NaPoWriMo tweet

unless we break it into two parts,

the way your voice hears me

or is it

radio voices, actuality

no longer anything like

little contained pieces, just

a bunch of fluttering

what it feels like

embarrassment postponed,

accidentally large

and getting rid of jackets

they

come pouring out of me

what belongs to us, something of

metal,

of my arms beyond freeway off-ramps,

of all the places

my name has gone and left me

such as perfect,

consequential moments, let go

in the sense of

your nickname, slow and meaningless,

also, numbers i don’t count to

only days able to be piled

onto charts,

fingertips left

of combustion,

my own dream of horrible sailing

unbending, with cushion

large and open like

wet hair

becoming plausible, noise-filled,

like your terms, throwing sounds at

dust or living space, easiest

to let things stay round,

bright, or

a bit damp

when they allow small boxes to close

what it would feel

to crumble

in your mouth

i’m like a seahorse

saying things

through a radio wave

or backwards and outside love

with

something dry, your hands,

nowhere to go but toward less touching

factories turned upside down

like China,

where parts of us invent

reasons

for no longer being

spoken

held in place

yellow

why colors

were invented so quickly:

for our hunger,

how we know

when things are ripe.

Day Eleven

2011-04-11T22:56:00.000-07:00

I don't wanna stop talking           I have to keep
it going          with you talking,      I wanna see
how long this is going,                 I love

                                         sarah

I love louis, I love my kind

       of lots of things, mostly       terribly

in my keys   in the raw silk
you, very very                           cute
I love my phone unlocked
                     I wanna send it          sarah, love
listening to this later                 how much can I keep

talking it                 still going
                                                      can you believe that

it's okay, I got it
                                     would last a long time

I think I could keep safe

lastly, Day Ten

2011-04-10T17:34:00.000-07:00

looking at pictures

feeling so anxious

left out

& always a wanting

& always nothing more than going back

makes me ache like sign posts, alphabet, pronouns

like mommy, daddy, love

tender, sitting inside the outside places

accommodation, pretty explanations

& even when they don’t, much more than hunter&prey

my mouth resembling a child

discomfort in that

it wants what has already been

mentioned, before, only pretend houses,

now, much stronger

because of places where i slept,

weather i may or may not have imagined

how doodles make everything

lighter, look more like

meaning versus sound, how my same mouth

holds

my r’s and l’s, confusing them

the colors only making me

they’re nothing like tears, amounts of water

though they end up erasing

earlier lines

places i walked but now keep

inside borders,

all the days i’d

collect things,

gathering, as if to say

i once knew something

about weight

for Jp

& Day Ten

2011-04-10T17:32:00.000-07:00

I want to say that I’m sharing. There is darling, and there’s unfortunate. The parts are needless, to say. I’ve encouraged them, also. Just falling over, just falling out of my chair. It is completely sudden and useless. I say things that I only mean in opposite moments. Like stigma, but with a better punchline. Always a certain point, and good is irrelevant. Good is irrelevant when the material can’t echo. Not knowing how to write them. Wanting to be inside the car with you, the window, a way of seeing out. Something besides myself, waiting.

and Day Ten

2011-04-10T17:31:00.000-07:00

early wooden shapes breathing,

something like combustion

pensive charting, notes about your fingers

muscles,

colors remembering

directions i would have taken

were i not shadowing you

and how to keep from ever getting there

bottom words, cartoonish filling up

with & full on how i can’t

ever

hear my isolation

without remembering

certain times of year, certain calendars

so random

aimless

whatever

i could never fit in with tumbleweeds

that put in me

people i forgot

places, burning & edged in teeth

the last way that i ever saw a man, smiling

& swinging movements, so deceitful

i never trusted back and forth

until opposites became

the only sentences

i could double check

having to stop exactly right, here

so as to

not let happiness overstay your boundaries

without letting go (letting go of origins), you

and the things we make up,

we are like buses

lots of them

in rows, no obvious movement

just similarities of what people assume about us

your face once more, too big

and a lot or a little bit

of never looking until

my address can match my name

Day Ten

2011-04-10T17:29:00.000-07:00

in an effort to hold galaxies still

i would like to sort of

highlight

the difference between

perfect and so necessary

the things

that simulate rambling

the pitches different & accommodating

your body parts

not thinking there has

been something

not a recognition & faces

the kind that say things

grab onto

other ones

sooner, glances that

look precious, dueling,

constant secrets involving

collars & shapes

and not eating, partitioned mouths in little

sometimes revolving

habitats, breathing by location

rumbling and counting down

lists are good for

bending your head

getting patterns, snapshots

of the things

that parent other things you know

space without discernable speech

like habits, flat teeth,

certain parts of the body

& more important

processing the face into the sound

of the face

unless we can become smaller &

more like rocks

i don’t think

necessarily grey

but a lot of holding,

best described as folks knowing,

protection

maybe things living

under us, a little stuck

you and i, and all alike, superficial

for the sake of having something

that everyone can see

Day Eight

2011-04-08T21:34:00.001-07:00

heir presumptive

of rectangles i say: bricks

hot suns spreading themselves thin

i kept notebooks filled with

my pretend importants: weights, lines i couldn’t step on,

the places i hid books, hoping the words wouldn’t haunt me at night

dirt, that could be wet but not necessary

futility, explanatory loveliness

i couldn’t stop, not for death

or porcelain filled trees,

how badly everything needs to be cleaned

i forgot how to say pallor, your pronoun

you, 2 and 3 years older than the oldest

person

i’ve ever caught scooping up

weeds and rock salt, trying to be

my clothes

your stillness, all the showing skin

not even enough to bathe in.

someday, my body parts will be so far away

from each other, they won’t know

where the other ones are.

Day Six (written, but not posted, on time)

2011-04-08T20:56:00.000-07:00

i didn’t have the heart to

every time i open

begin the slow process

of staggering like the weather

so i took sharpies & i found people

living in their pockets

i was taking a break from good

crazy excited

for the tips of your hair, diving and rattling into

length,

for now

i was born institutional

along the lines of

what it would sound like

to swallow your ear.

sometimes

i can’t tell the difference

between

thinking and being quiet,

you, like daily bread

so big when i think about how you got here

Day Five

2011-04-05T17:19:00.000-07:00

the best kind of foot to be

on pavement

is hush

going up trees

before

coming back down them

the way the Spanish lie down

before they sleep

there are trucks made

for becoming more like the underneath

of table clothes, and just like

the rest of us

mixing up the differences

between throat and sink

a good guess will represent body parts

like chest, legs, immaculate penmanship

all things worthy of being inside

paper cups,

labeled,

not to drink but for setting places

a good piece of advice

the next time your hand finds itself reaching

past birds and snow chains and bear traps,

things that palm readings resemble

the will to scoop hands into your lap,

to count yourself

by the number of umbrellas

you would carry down the street, were you

little

more than a handful

of paper towels

Day Four

2011-04-04T01:06:00.000-07:00

for Maurice

one time i had horses

millions of them

until floating became something

small enough

to slip into people’s drinks,

my knees suddenly too weak

to be held onto,

too many foot noises

and my own wandering

grip

people are too lonely

and mountain like

to be neighbors

so many drinks hugging skin, slipping

beneath my seat

long hair is not even that pretty

just as

a poem needs to throw up

a little

sometimes,

we find out the accuracy

of liquids

I am no longer of identity,

better

than grasshoppers and ants

these things aren’t important,

but they’re enough to be

like sleeping again,

of the waking up

habits of birdlife,

suddenly, cold bathwater

and guns lying around,

i could maybe

shoot melting snow, running

water, dripping

icicles

if that ever happened,

i can go like this and

roll right onto you,

but i have a hard time

keeping the letters flat

around here,

words share the properties

poorly cut metal, misplaced napkins, water

more ice cubes than one breath could reach

and that’s life without kissing, anyway,

just my face

pushing up

against

your face

Day Three

2011-04-03T11:23:00.000-07:00

“The most elementary mode of expansion occurs through one’s father, the first presence of an outsider in an infant’s life.” “But men as fathers also play roles of long-lasting importance in their babies.” In this way, each infant born is both physically and socially identified. Within a particular public, its mother and “not its father” belong. When a child is born, its “father” finds a name from practice, [the] child usually called by [a] name that it receives from its “father.” The removal of the name, however, is a time to live continued, or on her own. No loan to be well taken care of. The child can pass the name. His child, her baby, she and with her parents, and no one public about being husbandless or about a child being “fatherless.” Yet the situation is not without emotion. A child “without a father,” even though denied a necessary noting, is socially disadvantaged. Not to have a “father” is to lose the contribution, is so important, but also represented by the similarities in oneself, by its mother, social potential. To gain from the ties [made] available. To be “fatherless” is to be socially essential parts. When a married couple has a baby, the claim of the “father’s” is that it is not expressed as necessary growth, to the fetus at birth, physical between infant and “father.” When necessary, how much the “father resembles” the infant. “In the case of Sara’s “fatherless” baby, there was no public discussion about whom it resembled, although in private I heard how much it looked like its mother’s former lover.”

Day Two

2011-04-02T16:55:00.000-07:00

a little ways back

i remember you

stirring, stirring

feeling odd about fathers, money, long fences

where people stick their faces

and weep downward

thinking about wrapping up backgrounds

in other colors

like pink, leather, bad conclusions,

always a kind of adjusting

always about money, too expensive

i escape the bills

by paying them in curls of hair

erasing the parts about me or

sending them little conversations

about weight, my fear of

sitting down with mirrors, distraction, practicing my

little girl legs, so much uncrossing involved

and by bills, i mean recollection

the things i owe you

for displacement

for the chair next to me

where my name sat (my will to stomp)

for saying, break these in half again,

to see them little parts

and it gets easier

also, to leave

the things that get stuck between fingers, teeth,

two lonely people

names become the stuck in between pieces

other faces

we never think about

anything, but

hugs and puking and

removing the pieces,

all the women who don’t know me

who are a few years older than me

and the mirrors, disgusting like axe blades, i wanted to try them on

but

people keep taking off their reflections

it becomes the only thing i can’t look away from

near your face,

not always easy to distinguish you from

without becoming your
little handfuls
of bones

Day One

2011-04-01T20:54:00.000-07:00

everything i know somehow

feels like warm metal

the opposite of nesting

the texture of stuttering, still trying to shut the window

before i have a chance to

squint

the way you do, the cold air coming in

or in public,

i only remember what not to wear

not to be spherical, not round like

things i’d secretly give away

ornaments without names

it doesn’t bother me when they disappear

or when ice cream goes away

but i sometimes reach back too far,

try to instead of undoing

try to wait

so as to take the things that could

get me something

but

i get upset

about money, dirty water, & cover designs

people whose alarm clocks

add letters

to the places i already stand near

a pushing, a push, or nothing

down

like the lack of time given

to the people

with the dirtiest hands

so much time disgusts me

how you offer things

like: words, sentences, whole letters

you’ll send them out for me, whatever

i need more room

for being late,

the audience

already moving toward goodbye,

my knees shaking hours

before i’m even thought about,

the house flinching, always nervous

always waiting, how it can be so full

of chlorine,

it is so much of

why I sleep

living things

2011-03-30T22:35:00.000-07:00

I was recently email-discussing the idea of poems being finished...the anxiety of the "THIS IS DONE" thing, I believe is how it went. And I thought about a reading at this last AWP, where Sawako Nakayasu read--among other things--a couple of my favorite poems from her latest book, Texture Notes. At one point, she spoke about how she believes poems are these constantly living, changing things, even after they've been published. She then read a piece originally in English, except when she read it, there were lines of Japanese glittered throughout. It was a beautiful meshing that was read so skillfully that even a trained ear surely struggled to draw lines between the two languages--let alone my own amateur self trying to recognize even a portion of her Japanese. I knew enough to notice that opposites were at play between the two languages, but that's besides the point; the point is, I often feel like I'm off limits from messing with something once it's been printed, maybe even once it's been shared with a certain group of people. And while I found Sawako's thoughts to be inspiring and assuring, I still struggle with an obsessive type of attachment to certain states of poems.

And then these last few days happened, and I started hearing about NaPoWriMo, a lot. Everybody's plans, sites where poems will be shared. And while I've lingered back and forth regarding what I'm gonna do with the poems I plan on writing everyday throughout April, I found myself coming back to this blog and wanting to revamp it and post them here. But a lot of things have changed in my life since I was blogging here; I'm reminded of that by almost every entry. So I started feeling the need to edit the old entries, reword things, and possibly delete a few posts altogether. It's not at all a blocking out, or a sort of hiding. I just think there's a need to feel like I'm in an appropriate space, to feel comfortable based on my life, right now, in this place where I'll be sharing things. It'll probably seem a bit sad, even, taking certain stuff away, and remembering how I felt when I was first compiling these words and pictures. And for that, I'm gonna leave a lot of old things up. But as I found myself opening posts and changing a word here, a word there, I remembered my less digital, more physical instincts, and Sawako's words, and my struggle with where I stand regarding them. And I thought about how funny it seems that I have no problem changing something on a blog, but would not be able to perform these same actions on these same exact sets of words and ideas and photos, were they physically resting in my hands. And I mean that literally and emotionally. I couldn't do it.

I recently got my first acceptance to have a poem published. It's an online journal, and while the email thrilled me, I find myself wondering how different I would feel--how much more "legitimate" it may seem to tell people--were it a copy I could hand directly to someone. (And how much of that really is based on the "people," on the others who I will share the news with, which branches off into this idea of "recognition" and another email talk I've been having recently which, I suppose, is a different post altogether). Half the email responses I get these days have "sent from my iphone" at the end of them, some kind of miniature, contracted version of the already filtered online selves we present to people. It's not unusual to feel like I find out more about my friends through Facebook than anywhere else. And so often it's the really intricately personal details that come about online. Or the random, meaningless statements that aren't trying to belong to a particular part of someone's heteroglossia, which can end up feeling very intimate and revealing. Although "Facebook speech" could surely be argued as one portion of heteroglossia in itself. I guess the safety in the distance created online is nothing new. But I'm wondering when we will begin to question the things that do have physicality to them, things that have weight, that can be placed on shelves. How far away is the time when I will tell someone I've got a new poem somewhere, and go to hand them a copy of its existence, only to find that I'm given a strange, suspicious look...

I am NOT going to delete anything that was a part of my original goal; this will be my constraint. But I may edit. I've got older poems up here that I read now and have no idea how to feel about. I have a filter that automatically pops up, telling me that this is something I would not have written today. I start wanting to translate myself into the 2011 version, although even within a year, where I'm at in this distinct world of poetry that I tend to grab onto varies so incredibly much. And I'm still trying to figure out how to deal with that, what kind of sense to make of things outside this moment. How can I write this poem, this essay, this exact post in a way that will still feel friendly and comfortable a year from today? But even more than that, I would like to find the charm within that sort of self-uncomfortableness.

at the AWP in denver, colorado

2010-04-17T11:12:00.000-07:00

some things i realized while i was there:

1. more is not always better when it comes to books.

2. more is often better when it comes to rainbows.

3. i have drinking limits

4. language is only and even a material

5. the letter "u" can be really dirty

6. i will probably always be a starbucks yuppy

7. alone-time is underrated

8. expensive hotels can be really nice

9. there are a lot of things i'm not sure about

10. there is something to be said about fake plastic dripping blood

11. books are much heavier than clothes

12. language is everywhere

13. language is everywhere

14. people are very similar in many ways

Poem as magnetic field

2010-04-15T08:38:00.000-07:00

he hates the feel of work
her father
growing money in the garden
all wrapped up in paper and canary gold
foil and pretty looks in the pictures
she'd wake up on the driveway eating
radishes in red teeth
her mother drove
death like wind carrying pearls like
they do in high fashion
magazines
like girls wear pinecones
inside their hair and talk to each other
in opposites
she thanked death's
sway and taught people to feed camels
the sea foamed at night
when she traced water onto scratch-paper
absorbing expression and the
grass fleeing when it got too wet
now she freezes midway among
ornaments hanging in the attic
she waits for the sea
like her camels coming home.

Poem as Gentle Riot

2010-03-18T09:31:00.000-07:00

1

Strictly speaking, there is a narrow definition: the fauna communicate in automatic modes of speech through an understanding that there are certain conversations to be avoided, not speaking of the ones they never had nor would they completely draw a person they’ve never met, but the practicality is heavy without taking its place; you, sitting across the street near a phone booth, regret not approaching such icicles of speech, but hey—throwing paper airplanes in a churchyard can be pleasing and a little wish.

2

Keep that hot head away from your daughters, because years later it will all feel the same, strictly speaking. The boring words slack on the page and the big houses live on water; the antelopes are glistening in their finely tuned hammocks. You’ve finally made it and you’re playing footsies with money to entertain your wanderlust. Question: how can you turn a squid into a mustache? Answer: design a new way to feed the rich.

3

It’s like those kids on a football field stealing the football, and then they cut it in half and flip it upside down, and they turn it into a boat and some of them are pouring out everyone's Gatorade and making a gigantic lake, and then they sail the football from one side of the lake to the other, and all the football players and coaches and cheerleaders are confused and freezing, and the football in two parts is now two sailboats and everyone is thirsty and extremely careful, you could call it a gentle riot.

like Silverstein, but different

2010-03-15T23:20:00.000-07:00

I'm on an anagram binge as part of an exercise to get me thinking differently.

I Won't Hatch!

by Shel Silverstein

Oh I am a chickie who lives in an egg,
But I will not hatch, I will not hatch.
The hens they all cackle, the roosters all beg,
But I will not hatch, I will not hatch.
For I hear all the talk of pollution and war
As the people all shout and the airplanes roar,
So I'm staying in here where it's safe and it's warm,
And I Will Not Hatch!

****

Oh, a Twitch

(by me)

I tell her as I watch a streetcar go by,
I watch at smoke dripping by,
I tell a small troll holla
until the troll can't see the walk
or the phallic innuendo
or the hollowing out.
He clinches her shawl and pieces a
vanilla whatnot on the habitat;
wait for the ash thing which is normal,
of low finite kind: a nail, a hue, a hiss.

arrgh!

2010-03-09T23:05:00.000-08:00

never a bad time for a good pirate reference.

question:

2010-03-09T22:24:00.000-08:00

are new versions meant to replace the old ones, or is it possible for all varieties to exist peacefully together? do "rough drafts" somehow weaken the point of the finished product? or is it some sort of humble/helpful reminder for anyone to see where anyone else has come from?

when we replace things, is it ever possible for us to not be hiding something?

re~place \ri-'plas\ transitive verb substitute a person or thing for another that is broken, inefficient, lost, no longer working, or no longer yielding what is expected; switch seemingly equivalent items.

----------

i am learning to end things sooner, as in now.

words at their best

2010-02-07T00:54:00.000-08:00

definition of the day: poignant \'poi-nyent\ adjective
sharp-pointed, keen, incisive, penetrating, neat, eloquent, applicable, relevant; evoking strong mental sensation, to the point of distress.

renaissance cats

2010-01-29T10:25:00.000-08:00

my cats are the epitome of cool. while boots stays up to date on all the technological advances...

...he also knows how to appreciate a good old-fashioned book.

and maika, well, he's got his own agenda...

xmas break reading list - in case you were wondering...

2010-01-19T23:46:00.000-08:00

and the final count is

1. Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas by Hunter S. Thompson
2. ~~John Steinbeck - The Chrysanthemums and~~ ~~Cannery Row~~
3. Aldous Huxley - Brave New World
4. Writing Down the Bones: Freeing the Writer Within by Natalie Goldberg
5. The Dream Songs - John Berryman
6. Roald Dahl's Skin and other Stories
7. something magical = L. Frank Baum's The Wonderful Wizard of Oz

not bad, eh? #6 is on my bookshelf as we speak, waiting anxiously to be read, while i admit a slight amount of defeat in that i never even looked for #'s 4 or 5. perhaps my spring break reading list will reign in completed triumph...

mindtrip of the day

2010-01-19T23:34:00.000-08:00

"Think long thoughts in short sentences."

27 grand things i did in 2009

2010-01-18T11:01:00.000-08:00

1. participated in a worldwide race.

2. watched It's a Wonderful Life in color.

3. discovered that i really love to dress up.

4. helped teach a parakeet to be fearless.

5. started taking classes at a real university.

6. got a new tattoo.

7. started scanning my own film.

8. rescued a cat.

9. went to a poetry reading that changed things.

10. spent an evening being a pirate...for the second time.

11. discovered the value of list-making.

12. got rid of a bunch of things.

13. saw my favorite comedian, my favorite violinist, and one of my favorite bands live.

14. started drawing again.

15. completed a "happy 10th" one year project.

16. watched a movie in theaters and cried the entire time.

17. had photos published in an online magazine and their 2010 calendar.

18. bought tickets to see one of my favorite authors this spring.

19. moved myself and my boyfriend into a better space.

20. listened to Hedwig's Theme performed by an orchestra and got chills.

21. finally went on a portland road trip with my friends.

22. became intimately acquainted with a photobooth.

23. received a crazy big amount of love from a couple of cats.

24. made and fully completed a winter break goal.

25. danced in public.

26. inspired a painting by a lovely artist.

27. stalked a poet through a dark alley in the rain.

denotations

2010-01-09T12:13:00.000-08:00

today's word: suave \'swav\ adjective smoothly agreeable.

from "Song of Myself" by Walt Whitman

2010-01-06T23:47:00.000-08:00

Backward I see in my own days where I sweated through fog with
linguists and contenders,
I have no mockings or arguments, I witness and wait.

an end in the form of a beginning

2010-01-03T19:16:00.000-08:00

today i have officially completed the goal i set just over a month ago. i posted to this blog everyday - at least once - since the first day of winter break from school. now, tomorrow i return for a new term where poetry and photography and soy chai latte breaks will surely be plentiful. in the meantime, i am ready for whatever 2010 has in store for me and my blog.

good times will always be remembered. wa-hoo!

p.s. rest in peace petunia chan, part of our home from june of 2008 until january of 2010.

homemade fonts

2010-01-02T23:54:00.001-08:00

10-24

2010-01-01T13:34:00.001-08:00

the new gallery is up. i am pleased to be a part of it.

resolutions for the new year

2010-01-01T13:12:00.000-08:00

it is 2010 now. these are the things i am hoping to accomplish:

take it easy.

step outside the boundaries of what i'm comfortable with in photography.

save enough money to go to korea in may. or japan.

ride my bike more.

find this window and photograph it again.

give a little bit more love.

eat more fruits and veggies.

find some nice flowers.

happy new year!

stream of thought

2009-12-31T15:49:00.000-08:00

some last minute 2009 rambling.

happy new year's eve!

#65 (100 ideas)

2009-12-30T19:23:00.000-08:00

100 ideas by Keri Smith

xmas break reading list (a work in progress) - update

2009-12-30T16:53:00.000-08:00

1. Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas by Hunter S. Thompson
2. ~~John Steinbeck - The Chrysanthemums and~~ ~~Cannery Row~~
3. Aldous Huxley - Brave New World
4. Writing Down the Bones: Freeing the Writer Within by Natalie Goldberg
5. The Dream Songs - John Berryman
6. Roald Dahl's Skin and other Stories
7. something magical = L. Frank Baum's The Wonderful Wizard of Oz

xmas break reading list (a work in progress) - update

2009-12-29T14:44:00.000-08:00

1. Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas by Hunter S. Thompson
2. John Steinbeck - The Chrysanthemums and ~~Cannery Row~~
3. Aldous Huxley - Brave New World
4. Writing Down the Bones: Freeing the Writer Within by Natalie Goldberg
5. The Dream Songs - John Berryman
6. Roald Dahl's Skin and other Stories

waiting with the dead

2009-12-28T19:56:00.000-08:00

"drive through 4,000 luminaries, Dec. 18th, dusk till dawn" read the banner hanging outside the cemetery across the street from our apartment. with every square inch lit up other than the usual path through the gravestones, grass and decor, we entered at the beginning to a "turn off lights" sign, followed the orders, and began our nighttime journey. i didn't count the lights myself, but i believe the number: luminaries surrounded our car in every direction, laid out in such compact rows that it was easy to forget you were still just driving through a cemetery and not transcending into the gates of heaven; there was an intensely strange peacefulness about the entire atmosphere. my photographic tendencies of course wanted to capture the sight, but i've always found it awkward taking a photo of nothing more than small bundles of light in a pitch black setting. i told anthony to slow down the car and snapped a few here and there, sometimes resting the camera on the dashboard for stability, but the 50 iso film loaded in my camera at the time was not cooperating, nor should i have expected it to. i knew this would require a long exposure, and with nothing but me and my camera - no tripod, cable release, or helpful accessory of any kind - i knew some old-fashioned waiting was called for, too.

then i got out of the car.

at first a wave of realization hit me: i was, no matter how i looked at it, standing in the middle of a graveyard at night. it was cold. i wasn't properly dressed for the occasion. i positioned myself on the nearby curb, held the camera against the ground and, with both hands mounted, pushed the shutter release.

then the waiting sank in.

what felt like a few minutes went by and the shutter still hadn't closed. the camera in hand was my lc-a, and i sat there waiting for the infamous second click only to have 2 cars pass by my lens before finally giving up.

streaking headlights on my half-attempted long exposure

now, i didn't want a 5 minute long exposure that was simply blurred with car lights and motion; however, i didn't want to wait the 5 minutes regardless. i tried it again.

more headlights

no luck. there were too many cars passing by, and their presence started making me uneasy: did they think i was crazy, as they passed by our car and saw a young girl hunched over on the ground a few feet away? i got back in the car and we drove on.

at this point, i reached for another camera - my canon - and decided that the faster, black & white film loaded in this somewhat more professional camera would make for a better weapon at this point. i took a couple shots, never waiting any longer than 10 seconds (and that's at an exagerrated most), hopped back in the car, and continued along the ride feeling strangely unsatisfied.

my black & white stand-in...just not good enough

it wasn't that i didn't think the shots would turn out - in fact i felt pretty confident that they'd be as good as it could get; it was the disappointment i felt in myself for not being able to wait for the others. i blamed it on the passing cars, but i knew somewhere in me that their presence was simply a relief of my duty of sitting there, waiting for that second click.

we finished the route, drove across the street to our home, and turned the engine off. then i thought of something.

solution?

"would it be weird if i took a long exposure by steadying the camera on those coffins over there?" i asked.

"i'm pretty sure no one's in them" replied anthony.

"yeah..."

i had noticed this strange and random group of coffins a few days earlier, maybe 2 or 3 different styles of them, sitting in a bundle near the end of the cemetery closest to our house; i had even taken a couple shots of them, 1 of which made it into my 100 photo challenge set. i saw them off in the distance that evening, and beyond them saw the sea of luminaries in one perfectly centered frame. i marched fearlessly across the street, reached my destination, pulled out my lc-a, and began the inevitable.

i placed the lc-a on top of one of the goldish caskets, steadied it in between my right and my left hand, and pressed the shutter button.

and then i waited.

the seconds quickly began stretching themselves out, expanding so that each passing one seemed to increase exponentially. i tried counting them, an instinctual way to hurry the clock and distract myself, but the lengthening time of each wouldn't let me keep a steady rhythm and i quickly lost track of what i was doing.

i thought about my friend jeff and his project that i am so shamefully taking part in, as i sat there squirming and fidgeting and hardly able to wait for one lousy long exposure, despite my usual stubbornness and need to complete what i set my mind at doing.

i thought about ipdegirl and her blog post that i had read earlier that day in which she talked about waiting in traffic with her kids before kismetly arriving home to find an invitation from "the art of waiting" project. i had laughed to myself at such fate of hers, and commended her mentally for her patience with herself and her kids. and now i was sitting on a coffin in the dark and could hardly stand myself, desperately trying to ignore my desire to let go and walk home.

i thought about the person that may or may not end up in this heavy object that i was currently placing my weight on, and wondered what they'd think of my doings; would they feel excited to have indirectly taken part in my goal, that my actions were necessary or even noble, some sort of divine photographic blessing from an analogue soul? i heard a voice off in the distance and tilted my head slightly, trying to imagine the possibility of it coming from beneath the lid below me.

i thought about the albino pac man frog i once had when i was younger, and how the loss of him was so devastating that i'd had him cremated at the very same place that i was standing.

i thought about all of my thoughts collectively, and about my decision to steady the camera with both hands rather than leaving 1 free so that i could write down such thoughts rather than digging for mental loopholes as to how i could remember all of them by the time i got home.

and then, "click."

what came from me then can only be described as ecstatic glee. i was standing in a cemetery late at night, in the dark, poorly dressed, leaning on a coffin, and laughing like a hysterical madwoman. i practically skipped home, camera in hand, my boyfriend trailing behind thinking god know's what. i frantically grabbed my journal and wrote down as many notes as i could before having to rush off to make it on time to a date we had with some friends.

.......

today i developed my film.

my victory shot, including the shadow of me and my camera

i now have a long-exposure shot that i can truly be proud of. i am ready for the next one. i am ready for the new year. and i am ready to wait.

success

2009-12-28T15:21:00.000-08:00

there is no greater feeling than doing things you planned on doing, when you planned on doing them.

playing dress-up: new yorkers

2009-12-27T22:15:00.000-08:00

somebody get Mr. DeMille.

preppin the tresses.

composing himself.

practicing his taxi hail.

a little light reading.

a quick touch-up.

contemplating my next artistic move.

the camera loves you, dahling.

new york, here we come...

...that is, if they let us in.

the art of pre-waiting

2009-12-26T21:31:00.000-08:00

some brainstorming in my journal for next year's upcoming project.

merry christmas

2009-12-25T23:40:00.000-08:00

we all got everything we wanted...

...maybe even a little catnip, too.

the aftermath...

...and some of the glory;

possibly my favorite presents!

some recurring motifs: all things kittenish and sour candy.

a decorative candy cane stuck in the bottom of boyfriend's hot chocolate.

petunia enjoyed herself greatly as well.

like i said, everything we wanted.

merry christmas!

xmas cards

2009-12-24T22:41:00.000-08:00

this year's cat photoshoot: polaroid style. then scanned and printed in batches (since i can't bear to part with the real things) and applied to handmade cards with witty and/or sentimental messages.

merry christmas eve!

xmas break reading list (a work in progress) - update

2009-12-24T21:59:00.000-08:00

1. Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas by Hunter S. Thompson
2. some John Steinbeck short stories or Cannery Row
3. Aldous Huxley - Brave New World
4. Writing Down the Bones: Freeing the Writer Within by Natalie Goldberg
5. The Dream Songs - John Berryman
6. something magical

our tree

2009-12-23T22:27:00.000-08:00

possibly the coolest thing, ever.

a day in the life: polaroids

2009-12-21T20:45:00.000-08:00

some topics found on our bookshelves include detoxing, Deathnote, a meditation bible, and some alternative vegetarian cookbooks.

i really do cut the skin off of my tomatoes

above the dresser in our bedroom hangs something we simply call our "board." shopping lists and reminders go on it, sure, but also random funny lines, catch phrases and inside jokes, until it is covered with utter nonsense and we dissect the scribbles to reveal the fulfilled and entertaining lives we are lucky enough to have.

this is petunia. she gets expired polaroid light leaks on her photo. lucky girl.

i regret to say that the persimmon hiding underneath the tomatoes went bad before i was able to eat it.

this is my boyfriend. no, not thom yorke...the silly boy holding the magazine in front of his face. i told him to do it, anyways.

craft project: homemade magnets

2009-12-20T23:50:00.000-08:00

one of my ongoing craft projects reached a more tangible state this evening, albeit an amateurish one. rubber cement, self-adhesive magnetic sheets, and some random magazine clippings combined with equal amounts of boredom and creativity can lead to miraculous things. here i come, etsy!

a year of happy 10th: polaroid project

2009-12-17T21:47:00.000-08:00

sometime during the end of 2008 i decided that i wanted to document "happy 10th" day every month for 1 full year, starting in 2009.

what is happy 10th? well, it's nothing more than the date when anthony and i became a couple in May of 2007, an excuse to - for 1 extra day every month - feel a little more festive than normal, or a reason to try and go out to dinner, slow things down, and talk.

it started out quite simple: i love polaroids and had gotten anthony's mom's old one-step camera for a passed down xmas present, and somewhere in some random moment the idea came to me. anthony said "sure...sounds fun," and the project was officially underway.

making sure i had polaroid film on me during each 10th became a monthly challenge, a fun little race that sometimes left me anxiously checking the mailbox during the 1st through the 9th since i was almost always relying on ebay for my supply.

even so, my tendency to snap up polaroids once i've got a fresh pack of 10 sometimes left me with few or no pictures, and i'd often be ordering back-up packages during odd hours of the night.

we'd always take at least 2 or 3 different shots (assuming we had enough film) and then select the one we liked the most, pin it up to our bulletin board, and watch the calendar grow.

early on in the year, we started brainstorming different poses and themes for each photo, wanting the line of shots to be varied and colorful. we also noticed a pattern of me always showing up on the right side of the photo - standing to anthony's left - and tried to break that pattern during the 2nd half of the year.

by the end of the year, we realized we had done something much greater than we'd planned on doing. on the 10th of December, late in the evening, we took our last official photo and pinned it up with all the rest; then we sat on our bed and reminisced about the wonderful year together. looking at the collection all at once we realized how much fun we had, how happy we are, and how important it is to enjoy those little moments in life: the spontaneous dinners, the clear and sunny days at the park, hanging out next to each other on our computers - our minds in different worlds but our feet playfully touching - and even the occasional donut breakfasts. we contemplated January 10th of 2010 and how weird it'll be not taking a photo. and then we realized that this project was never just a 1 year deal to begin with; this is our life.

we will take another photo on 1-10-10, and we may even designate a new camera for the new year. either way, i am grateful for my insane love of film and how it has inadvertently caused me to document my life.

i like polaroids, i like stories, and i like alternate endings.

#65 (100 ideas)

2009-12-16T18:55:00.000-08:00

100 ideas by Keri Smith

i, too, am waiting

2009-12-16T15:04:00.000-08:00

waiting - 2 a.m., Black Friday, 2009

a photobooth story

2009-12-15T23:59:00.000-08:00

ohayou gozaimasu

2009-12-14T10:37:00.000-08:00

a little bit of yesterday's productivity: Petunia with a sampling of her signature noises.

good day

2009-12-13T23:59:00.000-08:00

today was a wonderfully productive day off. first: drawing, reading, laundry and cat-entertaining (look for a tuckered out Boots); followed by gettin' my merry on with the first official present-wrapping session of the season, complete with christmas decor, lights and candles to set the appropriate mood; finally, a lovely dinner that merged Indian and Asian cuisine beautifully, care of boyfriend.

xmas break reading list (a work in progress)

2009-12-13T11:48:00.000-08:00

edible art

2009-12-12T12:00:00.000-08:00

last night's boredom-inspired creativiy, via down time at work. did i mention i'm a sushi waitress?

my best therapy

2009-12-11T22:38:00.000-08:00

i have read somewhere, during my lifelong venture of random and excessive word consumption, that a cat will press the bridge of his nose up against whatever he may be laying near - say the arm of a couch or the back of a chair - so as to slightly cut off the flow of oxygen and immerse himself more quickly into the deepest state of sleep.

there is nothing better than sitting on the carpet on my knees and plopping myself forward until the top of my head is almost flat on the floor, wherein my cat presses his face against the side of mine, nose in my ear, purring and rumbling as if to tell me all his kittenish secrets.

they follow their instincts; i follow mine.

day one

2009-12-11T22:27:00.000-08:00

let's begin at the beginning...

countdown...

2009-12-10T00:08:00.000-08:00

it's almost midnight...almost. i am drinking a dark beer that says "Hum Bug" on the label and cheersing myself to extreme fatigue due to the completion of my FINAL final project for Fall term. at 3pm tomorrow i will officially have no more homework to turn in for an entire glorious month, which means my first "real" post will commence sometime on the 11th. and 12th. and 13th...

my goal...

2009-12-02T23:12:00.000-08:00

school is out. almost. and only temporarily. but on my list of things to do, including read Fear and Loathing and catch up on my 100 Photo Challenge, is to post something to this blog everyday during the winter break. it's my own version of this. so the next few days will be spent not only finishing a final project - an annotated bibliography centered around this favorite lady of mine - but preparing for my initiation into the world of blogging...