only love is all maroon

i am horribly limited

"i can never read all the books i want; i can never be all the people i want and live all the lives i want. i can never train myself in all the skills i want. and why do i want? i want to live and feel all the shades, tones and variations of mental and physical experience possible in life. i am horribly limited."

-sylvia plath

some days

i want to quit hollywood and all those ideas and run away.

jamie criss & the boys

sometime soon.

we are utterly thankful

as we drove in our car late saturday, circling around pasadena looking for trader joe's, mackenzie told us to ask the universe for safety and for the things we wanted. we said, "universe, please keep us safe and please give us hummus and please give us vegetables and bread and please pretty please, if it's possible, we'd like something sugary too."

we stood in dumpsters and gathered the wonderfully delicious and perfectly edible foods that trader joe's throws away every night. tightly wound in bags we received armfuls of fish, bread, salad, apples, and best of all, eight triple chocolate mini bunt cakes. yes.

on sunday i was reveling in our accomplishment. having only $0.53 in the bank and i realized, i went dumpster diving out of necessity last night. if we didn't have this food, i would have nothing to eat.

then i wailed to my roommates about unemployment and creative dissatisfaction. mackenzie said, "you need to ask the universe for those things." so i did. i talked to god, or the universe and asked for these things. i asked shawn to ask for them too.

and then i booked three days of shooting in one week. and additionally, the location for filming is nearby, i don't have to trek to a distant beach or a confusing north hollywood location. i continued to eat our free groceries every day. and my father decided to pay for a much needed subscription to backstage west, a tool for actors to receive audition notices. we're having a poetry reading at my house on saturday night and i couldn't be more thrilled. a night dedicated to nothing but the written word. and the invitation out to anyone. not just previously marked and prideful poets among our circle. all voices.

so i'll continue again. universe. mother nature. god. there is debt. and hopes of directing a play. and there is the writer's block, how desperately i've been waiting for something brilliant to come upon me. i'm applying for grad school and applying for artist residencies. i'm trying to pay off lots of debt. to my mother. to citibank and sallie mae. i want to go to europe. i want to help my friends.

oh, how the horizon starts to look clearer.

ah, weekend

..goodfellas
..chocolate bundt cake
..mexican rice
..sailor t-shirt
..to do list
..dumpster diving
..sharing
..group pilates
..episcopalian
..dirty fingernails
..midnight snack
..waiting

1

who are you,little i

(five or six years old)
peering from some high

window;at the gold



of november sunset
(and feeling:that if day
has to become night

this is a beautiful way)

-e.e.cummings

SHIFT artist's collective collection: "a night at work"

unfolding on the stage of LA's historical 16th century spanish venue, el cid's, the SHIFT artists collective will be showing you the "work" of every artist from this last year. all of the collective's californian artists will be featured, starting at 9pm on sunday, september 13th.

(in order)
johanna chase band
mallory ortberg
brother
we, humanity
the denouement
harrison ford
tin santos
jamie criss
robbie delong

don't forget to wear your "work" clothes!

if we could buy a house

we sat up late
and talked about books
"i read that one"
"i didn't read that one"
forgetting to turn out
the light, growing
lazy, eyes growing weighty,
resting on shoulders
until the conversation
dissipated into moon
light of bedroom
on the wall.
we woke up in 9:15
light through slanted
blinds, a rattling window
annoyance and dreamed
about far away cities
like dusseldorf and
copenhagen and
we wondered where things
were like the david and the
sistine chapel and
van gogh's self portrait.
we wondered if we could
stay under the covers and
hide. we wondered if
we could buy a house in
italy. and be happy,
leaving everyone behind.

things that make my face

something wrong with me like i have to see a
doctor maybe always feeling overwhelmed.
one hundred people, too many people. eight
people, too many people. i'm too tired to talk.
making small talk.

hibernating in my room where it's safe always
safe and cool and people don't have to ask me
questions like "how is life?" and "how is your
love life?" and "how is your job?" maybe its
these questions.

i wish we could ask things like "what do you see
in that cloud up there?" and "what are you working
on these days?" and "can you play this game with
me?" and "what impressions can you do? aha!"

i wish we could ask those things.
instead.

things that makes my heart beat.
and things that make my face want
to explode in happiness where i can feel
my eyes hurting and squeezing i just can't
get the words out in time i feel i want to interrupt
you i have so much to say so much i'm feeling.

i get on the edge of my seat and i'm bouncing, us
outside on the porch talking just me and you and
"i've read that book too" and "i like you" and "let's
do something great" and we can help each other
not feel like success is important anymore. it just
isn't important.

my daemon

the poem came hurdling down the hill towards me as i was working in the fields. i ran ran towards the house to grab a pen before it could get to me and swish swished past tall wheat and but then, as my feet hit the dirt the poem caught up to me, overtook my whole, shook and then ran on. hurling forward beyond myself for the next poet to catch it.