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i thought once how theocritus had sung

of the sweet years, the dear and wished-for years,

who each one in a gracious hand appears

to bear a gift for mortals, old or young:

and, as i mused it in his antique tongue,

i saw, in gradual vision through my tears,

the sweet, sad years, the melancholy years.

those of my own life, who by turns had flung

a shadow across me. straightway i was 'ware,

so weeping, how a mystic shape did move

behind me, and drew backward by the hair;

and a voice said in mastery, while i strove,-

"guess now who holds thee?" - "death," i said. but there,

the silver answer rang,- "not death, but love."

-elizabeth barrett browning, sonnets from the portugese

o holy night

i spent my christmas eve sitting in the back of a tiny cathedral in midtown sacramento, with large boughs of fragrant fir draping themselves along the pillars of the brick and stained glass building on either side of the rows of wooden pews. altar boys lit candles as a handbell choir performed quietly in the minutes leading up to the service, and at the close, the room went dark, save for those few candles while silent night was sung and the clock struck midnight. liturgy always brings me back to my childhood when we used to go to mass faithfully. there is a sense of awe and magic in the reverence and tradition of these services. i feel connected to it. i feel peaceful. i feel human. i feel thankful being able to look at a diverse congregation and take communion from a shared cup. i feel at home here.

you know how to whistle dontcha steve

lately, i've been incredibly inspired by these women.

lauren bacall

rita hayworth

marlene dietrich

katharine hepburn

ingrid bergman

and tallulah bankhead, who took shit from no one.

speak plainly diana

currently listening to:

joe pug, nation of heat

bob dylan, the freewheelin'

first aid kit, ghost town ep &

i am the reindeer xmas mixtape, by shawn morones. get it here.

writer's block

*two buck merlot

*joe pug

*czeslaw milosz

*gold chair

*mother's little helper

*oregon

*braceleted

*writer's block

alys, columbus circle

the ballerina project

new york

at the chateaux

regards

in everything i have, i am grateful.

in everything i don't, i give it no thought.

olive street

hallelujah songs about love

the storm has passed and now the sky is clear

and the starry sky on the dark drive home from

yuba city might be one of my favorite things about

living here. the calm and the quiet. i can feel my

flushed cheeks from the car heater and hallelujah

songs i sing to. i wonder what your move to LA

will look like, kristina says and me too. i like not

knowing, i say. i keep slips of paper with book

titles on them and letters from friends on my

bedside table and i wake up very groggy every

day wondering what time is it, where's my phone,

who has tried to reach me in the night, and often

its no one but now and again werner sends me jokes,

punchlines with puns and bad words or people saying

when will i see you again? i really don't know but

i'll be oregon bound on the twenty-ninth and noah

was in my dream last night he worked at a bank

and wore ripped jeans and i've been thinking about

lambrusco and auld lang syne and a boy's arm around

my shoulder and singing my hallelujah songs about

love.

the timber of my heart

found things

welcome to the blog world, allie zee.

things upon things. (click)

cruzcampo

in spain

glad for

i am not unhappy.

i feel blank,

nothing,

numb.

i feel thankful.

i am thankful.

i rejoice in solitude.

comfort in aloneness.

count my blessings.

glad for time and

glad for space and

glad for the things

of the future.

that now can happen

because of my present

aloneness.

i have hope.

my red balloon of hope.

string attached.

brooklyn

or BK4Lyf

i have this brooklyner friend & he's been using a 35mm since his digital camera broke. (he should keep taking photos, yes? let's encourage this)

i asked him to take some pictures of brooklyn that evoked the true feeling of the place since i've never been there. i personally love how they turned out.

the first time i came to brooklyn, i stayed in a very industrial part (the part where i now live) and factories and lofts are what define my surroundings and initial memories here.

my friends and i are always arguing about if BK is better than manhattan. i was trying to find something that showed this divide. BK4Lyf.

my friend kim's apartment in kensington is amazing. this is her kitchen.

this is how i feel every time i think about my life in new york in general. everything will be ok... maybe.

people are always blatantly ignoring parking signs that aren't put there by the city. the clothesline adds to the charm.

photo cred: jonathan smith

and

"love suffer and work you dumb old bourgeois bag"

-jack kerouac

litany

you are the bread and the knife,
the crystal goblet and the wine.
you are the dew on the morning grass
and the burning wheel of the sun.
you are the white apron of the baker,
and the marsh birds suddenly in flight.

however, you are not the wind in the orchard,
the plums on the counter,
or the house of cards.
and you are certainly not the pine-scented air.
there is just no way that you are the pine-scented air.

it is possible that you are the fish under the bridge,
maybe even the pigeon on the general's head,
but you are not even close
to being the field of cornflowers at dusk.

and a quick look in the mirror will show
that you are neither the boots in the corner
nor the boat asleep in its boathouse.

it might interest you to know,
speaking of the plentiful imagery of the world,
that i am the sound of rain on the roof.

i also happen to be the shooting star,
the evening paper blowing down an alley
and the basket of chestnuts on the kitchen table.

i am also the moon in the trees
and the blind woman's tea cup.
but don't worry, i'm not the bread and the knife.
you are still the bread and the knife.
you will always be the bread and the knife,
not to mention the crystal goblet and--somehow--the wine.

-litany, by billy collins

i swear i can be better.

'gentinean

i just keep thinking about argentina. and how much i'd like to wear a woven poncho or something silky and dance a slow tango on a dark night.

on sunday evening

last night i drove to midtown to see some LA friends, some of them are now sacramento friends, they're going to be living in a house, raisin' a baby. we sat and wore coats and blankets and scarves, kept warm in the cold living room and rum and laughin' then walked down some blocks to a place with music that had a latin beat behind everything, a lousy bartender and an elevated portion of the dark dark dance floor with black light posters and we danced. i closed my eyes and i danced. and being with these hippie friends of mine with dirty hair and comfy clothes and spirits that jump up and down and yell, we learn how to dance with wild abandon and i think to myself, when was the last time i actually closed my eyes and let the music take me completely and let my body do whatever it wants to do? and i think to myself, i might be getting some of these things i've been wanting.

cold fingers

indeed, i do not dare.

reading jane austen,

at twenty-four, for

myself.

my cold fingers in

an unheated bedroom.

a lonely desk where

no one visits.

slumped in oversized

chairs at crowded

bookstores.

my rings are falling off

because hands are too

tiny now in winter.

the color peach and

no more blossoms;

or raisins, always hidden.

just clocking hours

and watching the little

ones play winnie the pooh.

watching the older ones

grow and singing to myself

in the car on into roseville.

going fast and deep into rain,

into lauren's house, into

small town breweries.

into thinking nothing and

everything. into losing words

and blocking out the things

that make me go sour.

not wishing, not praying,

not hoping; mechanical

and being happy in bed alone

by myself.

thankslist

*friends episodes

*electric heater

*chamomile tea

*the stones

*coffee

*fall in sacramento

*job promotion

*tofurky

*zinfandel

*scrabble games

*fireplace

*long monday drives

*wombies

*strong women

*vitamins

*books

*healthcare

rampling or dancing

puffing and globbering they drugged theyselves rampling or dancing with wild abdomen, stubbing in wild postumes amongst themselves...

-john lennon, in his own write

lolie

my weekend plans involve this little dream:

bones

i was just telling him the other day,

fall has not come to the north yet;

but in the very next breath

fall came and sister winter with him.

cold rain and sunday's

national public radio show.

dressed up in sweats and silently

sitting and thinking about the

holidays coming. soup on the stove

for to soothe the broken heart

and empty shell of bones keeping

this body together; the weather.

rain water runs down the plane glass of

my window where nearby my neighbors

tree thrashes violently from winter's

wind come to us so suddenly.

the pain of becoming more and more

who you are; and without anyone's

help which is something to be thankful

for but not yet; not yet.

forming shapes out of the air and

opinions from my hair. and lonely

is absurd to dream of the forgotten

world, hands holdin' in greece and

the peace you find from alone in

your bed, the texture of a plaster

wall with postcards and ticket stubs

and notes from old friends, your

value forgotten again and

physical touch, the ache of an

absence relaxes us. fluttering

eyelids that long for sleep to

last too long so that months may

go by a little faster and rapture

once more when i hold you in

my arms again.

change happens

i think of this ^

every time i hear about bureaucratic bullshit happening

on apu's campus.

give 'em the finger kids.

(change happens where there are passionate people - dr. ganas)

remember the lesson you forgot

i'm listening to bob dylan's nashville skyline album; loud. girl from north country. he sings "remember me" and the words echo. lauren has sent me mail. purple letters scribbled on magazine paper, pictures of trees; from kerouac's selected letters, it reads:

"hearing your voice at night over the phone, in a hotel where i'd gone to hide out to work, was like a strange & beautiful dream. you sounded warmer and more mature. you will always be a great woman. i have a lot of things to teach you now, in case we ever meet, concerning the message that was transmitted to me under a pine tree in north carolina on a cold winter moonlit night. it said that nothing ever happened, so don't worry. it's all like a dream. everything is ecstasy, inside. we just don't know it because of our thinking-right forever and forever and forever. close your eyes, let your hands and nerve-ends drop, stop breathing for 3 seconds, listen to the silence inside the illusion of the world, and you will remember the lesson you forgot, which was taught in immense milky ways of cloudy innumerable worlds long ago and not even at all. it is all one vast awakened thing."

buenos aires

the fox & goose english pub in midtown with ryn. newcastle and talkin' raunchy and laughin'. robbie's music loud on the dark and fast drive home, i feel young, strong; independent. i'm craving istanbul and buenos aires. i can't stop listening to the stones and, to go fashion on you for a second, i'm currently lusting after these looks:

i wonder if alex turpin could find me a sweatshirt like this.

secret projects

i have a few exciting projects up my sleeve. one individual and one very collaborative. you will just have to wait and see. hints: one will have a binding and one will have a voice.

the drunken boat

But, truly, I have wept too much! The Dawns are heartbreaking.
Every moon is atrocious and every sun bitter:
Sharp love has swollen me up with heady langours.
O let my keel split! O let me sink to the bottom!

If there is one water in Europe I want, it is the
Black cold pool where into the scented twilight
A child squatting full of sadness, launches
A boat as fragile as a butterfly in May.

I can no more, bathed in your langours, O waves,
Sail in the wake of the carriers of cottons,
Nor undergo the pride of the flags and pennants,
Nor pull past the horrible eyes of the hulks.

-Arthur Rimbaud

waking up

i'm studying storytelling through movement via mia.michaels.

something like this...

comrade

everything feels new again

solitude and heart

new beginnings and open

doors; possibilities

i now see the world

afresh

and

anew

in a hushed quiet

solitude and heart

beating one with

the universe.

i have a small

blue cool center

that is content

and peace

and i put my hand

to my chest,

breathe deeply,

and find it.

daily hiccups

and

nuances

all tied

with a pretty pink

bow. i shut my eyes,

let the fear push away

say okay

yes.

i feel only forward

motion.

it's being beat and down on the world

it's good to keep lists

*danielle & alumni

*cut/paste

*switzerland

*teapot

*wingback

*les etoiles

*a.a. milne

*injun

electric slide

hydrangea

virginia woolf

1923

james

jealousy is simply and clearly the fear that you do not have value. jealousy scans for evidence to prove the point - that others will be preferred and rewarded more than you. there is only one alternative - self value. ~jennifer james

the meadow-sweet

in silence mole rowed steadily, and soon they came to a point where the river divided, a long backwater branching off to one side. with a slight movement of his head rat, who had long dropped the rudder-lines, directed the rower to take the backwater. the creeping tide of light gained and gained, and now they could see the colour of the flowers that gemmed the water's edge.

"clearer and nearer still," cried the rat joyously. "now you must surely hear it! ah - at last - i see you do!"

breathless and transfixed the mole stopped rowing as the liquid run of that glad piping broke on him like a wave, caught him up, and possessed him utterly. he saw the tears on his comrade's cheeks, and bowed his head and understood. for a space they hung there, brushed by the purple loose-strife that fringed the bank; then the clear imperious summons that marched hand-in-hand with the intoxicating melody imposed its will on mole, and mechanically he bent to his oars again. and the light grew steadily stronger, but no birds sang, as they were wont to do at the approach of dawn; and but for the heavenly music all was marvelously still.

-the wind in the willows

pablo neruda

november

mrs. dalloway said she would buy the flowers

herself, i whisper with morning breath into

bedsheets with soft gray glow just coming in

over eyelids, crusty goop in the corners

smelling of sweet christmas dreams, the

dawn of november rising behind windows

with curtains drawn, stiff joints and turning

crisp pages, the story advances, septimus

considers killing himself. blue hydrangeas

in shade pockets against large houses.

filmy teeth, chapped lips in want for kisses.

sounds from two places: cars and birds

out there beyond curtain drawn windows

where november has just risen in cold

and gray and i want nothing to do with it.

only seed, only time, only time passing,

they tell me. while i seek nothing but

yellowed pages that have some other

answer, virginia woolf scolding me in

my dreams at night then comforts me

telling me what plays i will write and oh,

heaven sent some martyr of time, of

wristwatches, of clocks, of big ben.

old portland street and marylebone

station, these places haunting me,

lodging on york terrace and regent's

park all flooding in while yes! i shall

get the flowers myself, i say, i whisper

into my bedsheets in late morning

where the gray london sky outside

beckons me beyond curtain drawn

windows of a november i want nothing

to do with.

beckett's play

the first time i saw this version of play was in an exhibition at the jeu de paume in paris. i'm in love with these actors and their exquisite performance. your thoughts on beckett's play?

list

maybe life always takes you where you never

thought you'd go but i refuse to believe that

desires don't matter. a friend told me once

to make a list of all the things that make

you unhappy and then start crossing them

off your list. we have the ability to eliminate

the toxic things in our life. so far, i have yet

to replace that list with things that do make

me happy but that is okay. i am okay. and i

am very brave. we are braver than we believe.

ahoy the salty sea air

bonnie

from the freeland archives, an old relative of mine.

tea and postcards

lying on my stomach, with my feet

in the air like a teenager, kicking my

thoughts around, listening to dinah

washington singing the blues, telling

the truth in my room where it's safe,

in my room where it's just me and the

record player and nothing else.

sometimes carl sandburg or hafiz or t.s.

eliot but that's it and it's only us in here

dreaming and scheming and

wondering; figuring it all out, all of

life with coffee and tea and postcards

from belgium from france; from

san francisco from sydney. pretending

they are tiny windows, looking out

my windows and seeing across the

horizon to a place far far away,

dinah washington singing all the time.

the trumpet player wailing all the time.

brushing my hair, kicking my thoughts

in the air, dreaming and scheming

and wondering all the time.

dig

we are very different

via retrofuturs

theme in yellow

by carl sandburg

i spot the hills

with yellow balls in autumn.

i light the prairie cornfields

orange and tawny gold clusters

and i am called pumpkins.

on the last of october

when dusk is fallen

children join hands

and circle round me

singing ghost songs

and love to the harvest moon;

i am a jack-o-lantern

with terrible teeth

and the children know

i am fooling

best coast

i saw best coast for the first time a year...maybe a year and a half ago at spaceland in LA with some free tickets that shawn won. i'd never heard of them and after the show we met frontlady bethany cosentino in front of the venue, giggling like a teenager and super nice. at the time, they were just a local LA band. since then we've watched her skyrocket to the top. best coast is easily the coolest new thing and she and the band have been experiencing a whirlwind of international success with tours, music vids and popular zine appearances. here are two versions of their new music video for "boyfriend." enjoy.

happy tuesday!

we need a woman's touch

i take tea at three