a writer

"in utter loneliness, a writer tries 

to explain the inexplicable." 

~john steinbeck

(yeah, it's like that)

the way we are to people is complicated.

and i like to run away.  you can't have

problems with people when they aren't

around.              that's a lie.

i want to be in europa right now. 

with.   amy and tobs.

like we live there, somewhere.

                    and there is happiness and

          no money and there is wallpaper

and its falling off and long walks in the

park and dark alleys behind theatres and

stage makeup and fuzzy curls around cheeks

and paper lanterns and cocktails and maybe

we'll have a bunny and maybe we'll go live in 

the bookstore.    the stories will fall into our

heads while we sleep and we'll wake up with 

prince's kisses on our cheeks.       and maybe.    

 shakespeare's ghost himself will come to spout 

sonnets to his own

                       ancient lover.

mars

"wanna go to mars?" they say.  but i, i'd rather 

stay here, whistling past dark noon i've been to 

hell red planet demons and back before. 

clash-cram-ban-ban-woop!-woop!      all the

overwhelming sounds and i, i drove the drum.

i shot a pistol through his whiskey and threw it

back.    black track tan fan looking at the fan.

spinning while matt makes his selection. 

comfortably comfortably sink into couches. matt silent.

gives his words through our music, resting cross-

legged on the floor, like a master.  

swords and whips-i slay her with my gaze.

i shamefully look away. 

all of us cold, hunched, sharing leather jackets,

damp seats, brackets, lighters, filters, whisper

we help him score the blonde. 

but nothing lasts here.

the highs come low.   the drunks too slow.

it's dark and freezing; ipod electronica never

held my soul.       

        but still, we have laughed here.    and when

he picked that one song i knew he was my friend.

i lay on the carpet, L is near me.  we red lips 

making shapes our limbs and i miss him.

cell phones chime answer back flash and hurl

words like fire.

we sang and we ran and we pulled up the sun.

not forever long ago or until,    we rest heads on 

brotherly shoulders.  ask, "wanna go to mars?"

it's good to keep lists

& johanna
& leon + brittany
& rce
& brothers of mine
& a tape of voices

those. are my friends. --->
and they are doing
important
things.



and someday, we'll eat bread from our table (our
children will too) with these important things that we do.

"emmy" he said.

"she wasn't there.  he turned away, his spirits dropping into some low, sorrowful place."

wedding day for a friend

her name is brittany.

his name is blake.

and they are getting married.       today. 

this is a happy and good thing.

girls can't be poets

girls can't be poets

they're too busy cleaning.

wiping the sweat from you shoulders

and the misery from your brow.

they're too busy playing games.

dancing like fireflies and

dodging your bullets.

they're too busy planning superfluous activities.

your birthday party and

a camel back trek to marrakech.

they're too rash and hasty.

they'll hop in a car and drive to oregon.

they'll sleep on anyone's couch.

they won't take the time 

to write anything down.

they remember.        everything.

they're too busy primping

finger twisting their hair

zipping into your favorite blue dress.

and they're always late. 

she was listening to her favorite song,

heart pounding, how she melts every time.

they're too busy crafting shit.

knitting you a blanket

painting a mural; colors in shapes of people; you.

they're unhealthy beings,

smoking a cigarette from a jade holder.

sipping your gin.

girls can't be poets,

they don't know the meaning of art.

they can find art anywhere!

even the gutter of the street. 

they're too busy giving advice,

making you stand up for yourself.

"tell her" she says and it makes

 you say "i love you"

they're too busy cooking,

sauteeing meals from cans

to feed your children.

they're too busy lighting candles,

taking photos of friends,

writing letters to lost ones,

or studying portugese

to be a poet.

they're too busy fornicating with their lovers.

the ones who adore the lashing curve of her spine,

the taste of her skin; her need for it on the full moon.

they're too busy nurturing your seed

folded in her womb. 

cells splitting, multiplying,

round head, tiny fingers.

she makes a human being

with your hazel eyes,

her complexion,

and both of your tempers.

girls can't be poets,

they're too busy studying.

breastfeeding, breathing,

raising, comforting, disciplining,

as she whispers lullabies to her belly

her magic potion child growing.

they're busy birthing 

new generation,

mother earth,

mother eagle,

mothering us all.

girls can't be poets.

because their lives are poetry.  

-august 2008

the first time i fell in love

and this is what it looked like

the internet

i'm at work. inside a tiny room of cream walls and barred windows feeling something like a mexican prison and realize: i'm getting paid (modestly) to check my plethora of online communities and pursue other promising futures and paychecks by emailing music venues for my boyfriend's band, searching for local auditions and drafting an online resume of theatre works, frequently switching from tab to tab, gmail, facebook, the troubadour, backstage west, blogger, etc. all the while, praying i don't become wholly apathetic which is a legitimate fear, even at 22.

this isn't a new realization. it comes and goes here in the box office. between the bush-ly economy and overpriced mediocre theatre tickets, we just aren't selling, making it quiet around these parts. we're either diving for the phone when it actually rings, or getting irritated when there is finally something work-related to do since it is interrupting our precious facebook stalking time. "they broke up?"

anyway. what depresses me is exactly how much time i spend on the internet. i spend my entire work day at the computer. processing orders in provenue and flipping back to the internet in between calls and direct sales order sheets. on slow days, like today, i can spend quite a bit of solid time writing emails, updating blogs, watching monkey's blow their nose on youtube... just to drive home and open up my more comfortable mac and once again, login to facebook, check gmail, etcetera etcetera. i can usually justify it. i stay pretty productive on the internet doing things that are worthwhile or reading blogs of my favorite poet friends whom i believe are truly brilliant and far far smarter than me.

but somehow it still depresses me to think of how much time i waste (and a lot of other people too) on the internet. the other day, shawn played me a new song he just wrote, for the first time. and as he's playing i'm leaning over looking at who else just posted on my wall. seriously? whoa, jamie. not even giving him my full attention as he's sharing something new and personal. that's sad and really really gross.

you would assume that i would end this with a promise to not spend so much time on the internet. no such promise. i mean, i would like to but i'm just not into making promises i can only average about a week in keeping. maybe i will try harder, but i'm certainly not going to post here on the internet for people to read and keep me accountable that i promise to take more time smelling the flowers and reading out of real books or actually listening to my boyfriend. i don't really have any other points to wrap up with or a closing argument about any of this. i just thought i should write a post so that i didn't feel totally useless and unproductive between now and when my shift ends. so there you have it.

seven sad forests

i'm standing there in the aisle holding a copy of memoirs of my melancholy whores and he texts me 'it wasn't like that just know that o.k.?' and then i pick up rimbaud and study the french. then burroughs and i feel the pages of food. what if i could eat books for breakfast and that was how i read? i text him back 'yeah'

she was there

and i was so uncomfortable. she stirs the most awful feeling in my soul.

i'm shaking it off.

because i saw moni yesterday.

and i like her. and

she stirs the best feeling

in my soul.

even though life can be scary. with her,

we all know. its going to be o.k.

truth. & art. & hope.

& we're trying.

and that matters.

so we matter.

its good to keep lists

-audition. shorts.

-needlepoint, but a different one.

-the naked form

-words

-paul mccartney

*arrested

*published

*debt cancellation

*fields, oh the fields

*playing pretend

i'm trying to be brave.

funny. "...without the colour peach."

because sometimes.

he calls me peach.

and i like that.

desolation angels

"and for the first time i realize it's really autumn and another year is dead- and that faint not-painful nostalgia of autumn hangs like smoke in the evening air..."

~jack kerouac

phone customers

"playhouse box office this is jamie how can i help you?"

"who am i speaking to?"

"jamie"

"tilly?"

"jaamie"

"seely?"

"no, ma'am. jamie"

"oh hi amy"





"hi"

i remembered a dream. but prolly just this once.

last night i dreamed i was in paris. with angelina jolie and her mom. i had a bastard child with a black kid who promised to bring in some paychecks to help. my mom mostly took care of the baby, a girl, who was not black at all. i was scheduled to audition for a selection of different ballet companies on a certain date along with tobin, doug and a bunch of other apu students i recognized. all carrying their black bloch bags. i recieved a few phone calls the day of the audition to hang out. forgetting about the audition, i was excited to finally feel like i had friends in this city. one call from dereau to come to a bar on grande boulevard and one from megan olson but the connection was bad so i was unsure of where to meet her. i almost went but remembered the audition i didn’t prepare for at all and bumped into angelina jolie and her mother and we raced to the dance building downtown. we tried to take a short cut but ended up winding through some building’s interior chute system and had to back track our way out to the street...then sprinting to the building we enter only to find hundreds of frenchies holding up huge signs that were enormous tabloid looking pictures of all of us foreigners explaining how we were dangerous. they were angry and threatened. photocopies made of passports, compromising photos in dangerous situations. doug started shouting and creating a ruckus and i don’t remember anything after that though i assume we were immediately deported.

#3

the magnolia tree

peeps out its blossomed flowers

to look at us

and envy our feet

but not our faces

poetrygift

To Jamie, from Tobin. August 20, 1964

The lure of the open road

is more than I can bear.

Whatever ties me to this land

I just don't seem to care...

Adventure lies within you, she said

a question and a claim.

but i've got this itch

the 'here' can't scratch

got to move to flee the same,

mundane

domain.

Gypsy-hearted birth name.

Living life in a moving frame.

( To what end? They ask )

( God only knows )

don't matter. just go.

I'll risk the world before i remain

in the dull of the same

create myself a refrain. of

mystery.

You come to me,or my backup 4...

We'll preach it -All you need is love-

We'll teach it. beat it.

beat the skepticism of-

the safe.

All you need is love*

a few scraps of clothes and guitar

I'll take you with me...

don't forget the camera

and we'll go singing somewhere far.

september sixteenth two thousand eight

i don't write as much because i am happy and not so much confused. and life is beautiful again just like i knew it would be and will be. someday. today and tomorrow. brian wilson, sunday. hollywoodbowl. fireworks. kisses. la parapluie. a girl is in europe. i have a friend in new orleans. and soon, my amy will be in chile. and i want someone to hold me. maintenant and good. please don't spoil my day. just lay by my side, à côté de moi and be you, my relief, the end of a long day coming down.

its good to keep lists

-cassis

-finland

-new york

~the pumpkin

~heavy rotation

~needlepoint

~chewey

~autumn

~"backseat"

~blues riffs

reading...desolation angels

underlining...."the moon is a piece of me"

listening...iron & wine

its a soft music phase of life

*meditations on elderly sex

*#3

*the party

*howl

next time

"next time,

we'll find a ceilingless room,

and dance all the way up."

~patrick

a friendship over wine

vulnerability

"acting is standing up naked and turning

around very slowly." ~rosalind russell

last october

red shoes and them, we stumble

and rough house to the floor

false purple eyelashes on the corners

theatrical staging and

wood grain

sour kiss when the timing's right wrong

there are apples not on

the tree

comfort, that is,

elevated time step kung-fu

tennessee's folly was to write it down for me

highway 580

brown earth sparrow sky

and the rows and rows and rows

left behind

the mirror turns back around

girls weave

and short sleeve

mountain pubescent breasts

filler, melt

windmill legs & arms

paul whispers wisdom thru

the radio

bladder control out

willow & lilac

in the backseat but close

chevron,arco

dirty tile

effervescence for tobin

and and hippie names

rosewood guitars bring the music

the sweet music

whistle, peep,

marlboro packs snap crackle

orange the godawful orange

prison down the road

kerouac dreams acid dreams

tailgating the girl stevie rae

words, the pen

musical notes & voices

record crackles, sizzles

mono, stereo

book bindings

yellow tinted images of

narrowly specific moments

the map of the city

the state

the country

the countries

the world

-27 october 2007, east bay california

yeah, its like that

to learn and to write

"and by the way, everything in life is writable about if you have the outgoing guts to do it, and the imagination to improvise. the worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt." ~sylvia plath

oh, shoot. i'm really trying to learn from this.

i'm trying. really.

"elle" and

journals and/or poetry

my friends are smarter than me.

my friends are smarter than me. i am not. so brilliant.

their ideas are better. solid. and mine are wary. and strange.

i can't talk about theology. i don't think much about jesus. i won't ponder

the cosmos i've yet to read any thoreau.

sometimes. i write poems. sometimes they're cheesy.

i have wishywashy opinions. and i feel things too much.

i can be brave. but i am not smart.

i am not intellectual.

i am not scholarly.

literary.

but maybe

i know things

like why revolver is better than rubber soul.

or

how to love.

i can't say it eloquently. with the words and revisions of my friends.

but maybe

i just know

we all have things we've had for a long long time.

HOPE

"...built by working men and women who dug into what little savings they had to give five dollars and ten dollars and twenty dollars to this cause. it grew strength from the young people who rejected the myth of their generation’s apathy; who left their homes and their families for jobs that offered little pay and less sleep...

...and to all those watching tonight from beyond our shores, from parliaments and palaces to those who are huddled around radios in the forgotten corners of our world –- our stories are singular, but our destiny is shared, and a new dawn of american leadership is at hand. to those who would tear this world down –- we will defeat you...

..to those who seek peace and security -– we support you. and to all those who have wondered if america’s beacon still burns as bright –- tonight we proved once more that the true strength of our nation comes not from our the might of our arms or the scale of our wealth, but from the enduring power of our ideals: democracy, liberty, opportunity, and unyielding hope. "

-barack obama

she said

"i wish that every human life

might be pure, transparent

freedom."

-simone de beauvoir

..prolly not.

just be patient.

they say

4 AUG 08.

ugly-unhealthy-unemployed-

somebody help me.

everyday i wait for a large anonymous

check to come for me. everyday i hope

to get one scrap of mail. today in the

mailbox - a battery charger for my

camera. and maybe soon, something

from erin. but most days, nothing. and

especially not money.

just be patient.

they say

i am supposed to read some of these private

things, oh noe.

shhhh pretty baby

she says.

missing people

people far away and people

close by.

it was the other night, we had pillow

talk, she and i, and she said "that needlepoint

is a picture of weeds" "go figure" i said "it

looks like our front yard" and photos next

to it. allie hugging john lennon. tobs and i

at the library.

everyone at the kitchen table. there's perfume

on my windowsill. and a book about hippies. an

old checkbook. a dish quel dit "j'aime Paris"

sometimes, girls are tooooo much.

just give me a pack of cigarettes

and boys who want to talk about

authors. thing is...

i need a hug.

i missed hugs in europe. if it were up to me, we'd

never stop holding one another. holding hands,

linking elbows, resting heads on shoulders, we'd

just keep going. monica says to live in the world

you wish existed. if i never stopped holding you,

would you think me

crazy?

it was october sixteenth.

when i went to san francisco.

the days and the nights were long, but there was good friends, good wine, sunshine, drives, bars, alleys, books, and a very pretty boy whom i really (really) like.

route 5.

city lights.

sitting on jack's words.

driving away from san francisco is the saddest drive.

its good to keep lists

-stephen chbosky

-jack kerouac

-lindsay eller

-billy collins

,abbey road

,tahoe

,times square countdown

,visiting peter pan

,the eagle & child

rereading is important.

>on the road

>of mice and men

la parapluie

i was remembering a street.

november 1

today i saw a young girl, maybe my age, maybe a little younger, standing at the corner where the homeless man usually stands right off the freeway on lake avenue. jeans and a warm coat. thin blonde hair blowing across her face in november wind.

her cardboard read "TRAVELING need spare change."

and i got a flash forward vision of myself only i'm in albuquerque or firenze. those american freeway offramps selling flowers holding signs; the tourist crowded market square and the smell of italian ham and sitting against a wall with erin or tobin or shawn or amy or one of those. and we've dug in the dumpster and put our change together to buy a large marker, shivering colder in the american purple sky. taking turns sleeping on the sidewalk of a tiny european street in the heat of summer, playing harmonica til dawn and the tip of a hat, currency from five different nations gathering on our blanket where i sell my jewelry and offer to write love letters for a cost. i rip out bits of my journal, pieces of sentence and with pretty edges, sell them. we speak in gnarled accents to americans who might pay for us to get to siena or paris or carson city or just the border of tennessee, fare to cross a bridge to the other side of the bay where our friends are waiting. scarves are pulled tight, knotted, over damp and dirty hair, dark dark eyes and weathered smile lines are the marks of a traveler. tired but not weary. poor but not needing. we move forward or we stay for awhile, neither matters much. stop for 5cent coffee, overnight sleeping bag desert sky side of the road bus stop route 66 french train hard back chair passport check ticket check and we roll into the sunset finding home.

economy plummets as does morale

a sudden motivation to research theatre jobs in europe. for some reason the cold rainy overcast weather makes me think of europe. and wet sidewalks too. always wet sidewalks.

i'm not making ends meet now, how could i possibly make ends meet over there? without direction, pursuing: nothing in particular. i'm barely making rent on my own now. the ever constant threat of moving home hanging in the air (ah! the horror!) $100/month on gas, $50-60/month on utilities in a house i'm never in because i'm working overtime in a mediocre minimum wage paying job. squeeze in money for a few groceries, although taco bell is faring over everything lately, it really is more cost efficient. i've also got about $2,000 i owe my parents. another $5,000 from the first time i went to europe. parking tickets, speeding tickets, and too much money wasted on cigarettes and wine to help get me through this difficult time. the list goes on concluding, of course, over $100,000 to the fool who let me go to apu and have the best time of my life. idiots.

i am literally dropping mere pennies in my pink piggy bank so that i might buy a plane ticket in hmmm, lets see...2018?

i'm currently in the midsts of my second (okay...sixth) failed attempt at living in europe. i'd settle for a visit at this point. please? anyone?

i'm texting shawn as i'm thinking this telling him i'm depressed that money equals freedom. and he says, "imagination equals freedom." and i suddenly feel impassioned to cry because of course i should've known better but i still feel trapped and bound and bitter because

$1700 would get me to paris by monday and $0 would not.