quelque fois

i just really want to know what
you're obsessed with these days..

tell me.

and i'll tell you mine.

the weekend

or how he greeted me

spain earrings
and spain graffiti spotted
i wish i was more
like one girl
or another.
or i wish i had different
hair.
"are you perpetually
excited about tobacco?"
he said.
this is what it's like,
going through the same
things, alone.
like parallel lines.
i've written some lousy
poetry lately.
but shakespeare did too.
many sad hearts
beating
out there,
in here.
so many defeats
so many cheats
and easy quits
living for the weekend
vignettes
and greetings
and african trees
and chilean postage.
glimmers for me.
they come on a very red balloon
tied to a string, or on yellow
umbrellas, for to sing
or on right arms
of a one.

this is my friend taylor.

and he likes to write.

this is my friend busse.

and he likes to do graffiti. (click)

1,000 places to see before you die

all officially from the book of the same title.

done:
..vieux lyon
..marche aux puces de clignancourt
..bastille day
..grande place, bruxelles
..british museum
..monterey peninsula
..sf cable cars
..radio city
..kensington
..west end


to do:
..cesky krumlov
..sahara
..the camargue and gypsy pilgrimage
..giverny
..aran islands
..isle of skye
..loch ness
..new orleans
..taj mahal
..climb kilimanjaro
..victoria falls
..capri

and...unofficially..
done:
*house party southern paris
*a rainy bus to oxford via reading
*graffiti spain
*film a birth, cameroon
*get treated for malaria, west africa
*wash down belgian waffles with belgian beer
*refuse sex on the streets of nice
*watch fireworks under the eiffel tower
*serve lunch to homeless, invalides

this is my friend mack.

and she likes to stencil things. (click)

what if we gave
everything we
had? without
grabbing at
what we thought
was ours.

valentines list

<3 peach & rust roses
<3 realize
<3 words, no words
<3 four pages,
<3 dean martin & the kitchen
<3 i'm sorry
<3 dear
<3 i'm sorry, i'm trying, i
<3 jokes and the couch
<3 menthol
<3 bundle
<3 better days
<3 bending, stretching
<3 hair waves
<3 cabernet & community
<3 springsteen
<3 kiss

<3 i'm ashamed to be me some days

this is my friend shawn.

and he likes to make music. (click)

explosion

really!
(it always
seems like
too much
to really
describe
or even
scribe)

ce soir c'etait un bon soir.
c'est tous.

i do.

do you remember when we talked about the moon?
i do.

do you remember
talking about nail polish?
and you not letting me be someone's wife?
and when i when i went to england and france?
and spain and belgium?
and we talked about john lennon or someone?
i do.

do you remember your sideways glance?
when we said no, but did it anyways?
i do.

do you remember sparkly flowers?
and green sheets?
and cigarette butts?
and coffee cups of wine?
i do.

do you remember scrabble on the floor?
and teaching poker?
and the little tv in the little room?
and the loft bed?
and peter pan?
i do.

do you remember sitting by the river?
and spray painting in alleys?
and eating croquetas?
and seeing flamenco in the bar?
i do.

do you remember the stack of records?
and dancing on the table?
and the day of melancholy?
i do.

do you remember when i cried?
do you remember telling me things?
and making me happier?
and laying on soft carpet?
with hammers on heads?
i do.


i remember; you.
i do.
i do.

this is my friend tobin.

and she likes to piece things together. (click)

this is my friend allie.

and she likes to paint.

it's good to keep lists

womb
ahead
charles and the ghost
golden red
mes amis
tous les soirs


passion ( ici )
unlearn
crowded
learn
a guitar
green
willy wonka
speaking
possibly grateful

the works of anne bradstreet
the screwtape letters
the caucasian chalk circle
oleanna

pieces of san fran, or the way it was

tiny colored houses on a hill. we enter the city destroyer on the radio. city music he says. tts a trip down market and angled streets to city lights. warm air bright sun. up hill. down hill. to our place we meet our friends. last night still lingers in pain. i have a hangover. chinatown crazies seedy dark small streets of tenderloin there are so many lost and hidden places in san francisco. its rough to play here, parking’s a bitch. but i love this city. this grand small city where i was born. they say all of life is a coming home. and it is. it is. and then day turns into night.


weary on wine, we went to mission district to pick up lauren’s friend...dancing at a club someplace. its the one with the pink sparkly door and fifty people outside. we wait against the wall around the corner, heat pouring out from barred windows. burns, me, shawn, crouched like bums, cross-legged on the sidewalk. a guy with a backpack comes up to us, “you want some whiskey?” “no thanks man.” the friendliest corner. i liked him. to our left up the street a bit were latinas in ill-fitting tight black clothes and down on the right, hipster kids in plaid, black tights and vests, oxfords, hats. lolie and mike come and sit with us. a girl from norway, miata, comes and bums a light says how much she loves the city, doesn’t want to go back to oslo. a guy comments on shawn’s shades. our harmonica plays some dylan and others lolie and i shake our noses at each other bouncing our hair. warm night, indian summer.

tell my mother not to worry

please, remember me
happily
by the rosebush laughing
with bruises on my chin
the time when
we counted every black car passing
your house beneath the hill
and up until
someone caught us in the kitchen
with maps, a mountain range,
a piggy bank
a vision too removed to mention
but

please, remember me
fondly
i heard from someone you're still pretty
and then
they went on to say
that the pearly gates
had some eloquent graffiti
like 'we'll meet again'
and 'fuck the man'
and 'tell my mother not to worry'
and angels with their gray
handshakes
were always done in such a hurry


soft music, and sewing, and thinking about road trips.

and the sad sweet melancholy of desolation angels,
a tired kerouac, done with it all, and ready to rest,
in his little cottage with memere. ti jean! she says.

"there's a great deal of resemblance between the dope fiend so called and the artist so called, they like to be alone and comfortable provided they have what they want- they don't go mad running around looking for things to do 'cause they got it all inside, they can sit for hours without movin. they're sensitive, so called, and dont turn away from the study of good books.."

and it makes me a little sad.

"every night i still ask the lord, 'why?' and i haven't heard a decent answer yet."

dancing at lughnasa

jennifer carbajal as aggie and katie elsaesser as rose

lauren mayfield as maggie


a gorgeous production.
and i shall someday be reading this play for my own further character study.
(by brian friel)

i'll just, ya know, add it to the list..

it was a year ago

and i've just been thinking about it, as wednesday slipped into thursday.

the best laid plans of mice and men, oft go awry.

for comfort's sake

lately i’ve taken to eating food in bed
for comfort’s sake
while watching friends on youtube
and wearing legwarmers on my ankles

especially when i’m sad because i’m not pretty
and i’m really tired of my long hair
and when i feel like people don’t want me around
and when i feel like everyone’s happy but me

sometimes i get very attached to plans
even little ones for a day
but when everything goes to shit
and people let you down

i take to eating food in bed
for comfort’s sake

stage (f)right.

it's important to keep lists

especially when they’re things that keep you sane like:

.a better son/daughter, this is sometimes the only thing that gets me out of bed
.touching the book bindings on my shelf
.the smell of burberry on fabric
.words like that one night (he)
.remembering things oh
.songs with “everything is gonna be alright”
.text messages while i’m at work
.too many people by paul mccartney, these days
.shawn’s new song about us, especially the last line. especially all the lines.

& you people have no idea how far your basic coffee black words of encouragement go

said the owl to the girl

day defeated.
day of hope.
constantly traversing.
and that's prolly the wrong word.
but it fits for me, i look like a dirty gypsy,
and this is a defeated day so
i don't care.

my red balloon of hope comes and goes.
in and out. here then gone.
so many things to pay off.
lots of missed chances because of finances.
and then encouragement from people who've been here.

(if you are a person out there that i owe money to.
just remember, i haven't forgotten.
i just don't have it.
and i'm sorry.)

i hope in the meantime, our friendship is sufficient.
but know that i understand, these are all hard times.

and weekends full of friends aren't even
withstanding me these days. which is sad.
but i'll say oh well, like always.

some days, oh so content in my little crowded bedroom
with my bed on the floor and magnolias and owls and
tiny versions of former roommates staring at me.
old coffee cups not rinsed out.
masking tape. and postcards. and poems. and flutes.
and books and my scarves that drape above me and
sometimes sit under the covers with me. and the papers
and journals and scribbles that live in my bed i sleep
next to these words and the pencil drawing of the large,
naked, nameless women and my piggy bank holding nothing.
i can be happy.

and other days are long days in the box office where i sit behind
barred windows, speaking to ungrateful patrons and backstage
to get food i walk past actresses with their hair and makeup and
silky robes warming their voices and i miss that world so much
but my break is over i have to go upstairs and later clock out,
drive home, change, look in the fridge, none of that food is mine,
and drive to azusa and watch seinfeld say goodnight and drive home
again to dark house finding my sweats with the light from my cell
phone don't bother to wash off the eyeliner i'm tired but i could
keep going if i had to. and i have to. and i know i can't pay rent
tomorrow. and that's when i get a text from (him) and it says
something like you're beautiful or remember when.. and it's
enough to get me to sleep so i can start over soon.

and she said, "we should write a book about post-grad life."
and i said, "please." and thought please can we go back in
time and i could read it before i graduate?