oh, darkness

oh, momma

"i have found the paradox that if i love until it hurts,
then there is no hurt, but only more love."

-mother teresa

things i found today

my first paper for doctor monica ganas. a critical research of john steinbeck. in her notes she said i had "the makings of a tremendous scholar." i found my treasured comparative list of pop culture verses high culture. my old book list. it felt really good to cross four of them off.

i found my journals. i opened a pretty coloured one. it said things like La Pagode 57 rue de Babylone. and Jeu de Paume 1 place de la Concorde. c'etait un autre epoque. 10 fevrier. and its filled with daydreams from my unhappy heart.

i found my birth certificate.

and The Works of Anne Bradstreet.

i found cameroon cards and a letter from robin.

i found myself in my bedroom.

i like

i like breakfast and sundresses. stripes, paint and elephants from stephanie. i like boxes and paper and a fan on the floor. i like our green carpet and happy birthday signs. i like markers. i like clouds and clouds by joni mitchell. i like joni mitchell. i like giant towels and tiny bits of glitter like when you make my insides feel like glitter. i like the way you make me feel. i like the hair on your lip tickle me when you kiss my neck. i like your freckles and your songs. i hate some of your itunes favorites and i hate feeling nervous (nervous sad), i hate when people say "aka," but i love when people refer to something as "the best deal in town." i like old pictures of mom and baby pictures of ryan. i used to like coloured pencils. i like having big wishes but i don't like when they don't come true. i like unexpected things that are good good good. i like bonnets on babies and backpacks on kids and feathers in her hair. i hate ikea and i hate humidity. i hate when you put words in my mouth or throw a tantrum. i like my boston shirt and cold sheets on freshly shaven legs. i like flying but i hate waiting to board. i like abbey road and our tall tall sunflowers. i like kensington gardens, i hate when candles don't fit in candlesticks. i like my dad's stories. i like frank zappa as a person but not his music. i like bringing you soup when you're sick. i like feeling smart (i like feeling smarter than other people). i like george harrison. i hate copycats and brittany's ugly lamp. i like roadtrips and i like when tobin and i notice the sky. i like the wombies and coffee and good sweet love. when you smile as you wake up. when you kiss my shoulder. when you listen to the beatles and when you touch my hair and when you laugh. i like it when you laugh.

italy

topiary trees.
like disneyland and cone shapes.
purple curtains in the windows above
gelson's drug store across
the street.

tobin told me "i miss spain"
and "i have the travel itch"
and i said "tell me about it"

i feel a year of chaos
but shawn says he feels good
change coming.
i hope so.

so many people are starting
up on their feet, starting to
move, to wander. we are making
false promises to visit.

yellow porch umbrellas
pink and purple gladiolas
in giant pots sit out front.

we look at maps of italy and
pictures of vespas and think
about hair blowing in the wind
and ukuleles. pieces of time.

tumbling points

i sat on the grass out front
while the party raged on inside
and disdainfully sighed
"oh help," i said
muggy summer, kool-aid afternoon
i felt tears well up and jaw tighten
and the orange glow of streetlamp
blend with the blue of night
and rays burst through my
watery eyes
"what is the point?" and
"what am i doing here?" and
"when will i be happy again?" and
"why aren't i fun anymore?"
(i have heavy boots - i thought)
but really i feel weight in my
shoulders - in my chest
oh my heart and i thought of
the word hope.
"poppycock," i said.
i hate it here.

it's good to keep lists

the feminine mystique by betty friedan
mama cass didn't choke on a ham sandwich
polish Dell'Arte short story
blueberry mojitos and tobin
long sleeved shirts
frank zappa
italian love
discipline
laurel canyon
brazilian roast
braids
red shoes
cynthia

in the cool room

green and white. grey and blue. cool room and i need a desk. making signs for brittany's birthday. listening to leona naess and george harrison and important words spoken to me. leaving room in the glass and slinking into couch. hearing everyone talk about love and their opinions. ashtrays and petting our dog, cheyenne. you're on my mind. fill up boxes with memories and paper things. play the guitar with the missing string and watch a sad, sad movie. i'm trying not to be depressed, o.k.? i am reading the bluest eye, o.k.? you left your sunglasses behind, they are sitting on my bedside table. art box and supplies and lots of things to start. the broken videocamera, too. wanting for sweaters. thick ones, to pull over the head. van gogh, pronounced correctly. shopping for broccoli and salt and the colour of my bed. writing the same thing over and over again oh i wish my headaches would go away. i'm learning as i go.

home list

,winding roads
,greyhound
,sorry, i have no,
,crunched
,big bed
,words, in writing
,comfort smells
,and comfortable
,heureux
,welcome home

the end of "jason"

she made it all the way.

i want you to feel free

soul earth

oh, i feel like some ancient wiyot girl.
as i crouch on a rock in the middle of the creek.
i feel the grooves with my fingers and loose dirt
underneath, then feeling the shape with my hands
and holding it like a lover.

i am silent.
i am listening to the voices of nature
and what the earth might give me.

what does the shape of a leaf mean?
how will i interpret the sky?
what says the tallest tree?
who will i become when i die?

where does the sand go?
how many tunes does the bird know?

what is a flower?
how many years has the fern been here?
i can feel the earth.
and i can feel wisdom in the sweet bark of
sequoias.

oh, come wiyots i know your sad story.
my skin is not brown. i am native, too.
i am sorry the pages i write on come from
your homes. i did not mean it. and i'm
sorry about the boats.

i am brave
like the good soul earth.
and i am gentle as a child.

i am silent.
i am listening to the voices of nature.
what the earth might give me.

my old man

my old man, he's a singer in the park, he's a walker in the rain, he's a dancer in the dark
we don't need no piece of paper from the city hall
keeping us tied and true, my old man, keeping away my blues

he's my sunshine in the morning, he's my fireworks at the end of the day,
he's the warmest chord I ever heard, play that warm chord

but when hes gone me and them lonesome blues collide
the beds too big the frying pans too wide

coward's march.

by matthew starcher
featuring...my douchebag friends.
hello, august!