a fair trade

and indeed there will be time, he says,

for a hundred decisions and indecisions.

decisions and positions; incisions,

precisions, inflictions,

parades of opinions.

leers and jeers from the powers that be

to turn my "beauty" back around on me.

turning my capabilities into my oppression,

and insecurities in my obsession.

fight or flight; unfathomable plight.

i wonder what it's like to fear that the people

i dominate might actually be better and not inferior.

women are the victims, but we've never played that part.

we've been blamed for our own rape and brushed

off heartache and hate.

we've been trained to think we're weak,

to take what we can get because we just

might be too powerful if we accept anything but defeat.

when nora slammed the door we shut out

domesticity and in return gained our own image

as a commodity. i traded my corset for an eating disorder,

my heart for brains, and we started living our lives in fear.

carrying my most vital organ out in the open air, every

day my self esteem is targeted because my

looks is thing upon which is most important for others to care.*

i am decided upon before i speak,

and that is why i have been silenced,

and that is why i have been weak.

and that is why these things take so much time.

and time running out for beauty will fade,

living in fear of old age.

a hundred decisions and indecisions,

and the words of my beloved poet

stare back at me,

all my indecisions crippling me.

all this time i've wasted, and tasted

only barely the sweetness of coming out on top.

in a cage of double - triple - quadruple standards,

i'm simply told to "try harder."

in a society with a giant wage gap no wonder

women feel worth less.

but i am going to continue functioning as a breathing,

digesting, blood pumping human whether i'm here or there,

whether i'm rich or poor,

whether its fair or unfair,

and whether i like it or not.

and whether or not a standard of beauty is placed upon

me by others or myself.

and no one can help me because you can't get self-confidence

from someone else.

you can't get pretty from a bottle.

you're not even guaranteed happiness from a partner.

you don't become more of a lady by wearing perfume,

and you don't become more of a man by wearing boxers.

try harder but stop trying too hard.

happiness might come when i've learned to

stop worrying and stop controlling unnecessary things

in my life and perhaps

when i can open my arms to the sky and say,

"yes, i can feel you, i hold half of you up!"

*from naomi wolf's the beauty myth

rocklin list/playlist

*roll on, dntel

*cosmic dancer, trex

*brass in pocket, the pretenders

*anything bobdylan

*with arms outstretched, rilo kiley

*all of abbey road

*empty, ray lamontagne

*feelin' alright, traffic

*lazy, daniel johnston

*i'd have you anytime, george harrison

*night moves, bob seger

*me and bobby mcgee, janis joplin

*tire swing, kimya dawson

*diamonds and gold, langhorne slim

*out on the weekend, neil young

*sweet virginia, the rolling stones

lost journal

there are a lot of missed chances; missed things and plans we never do and its how live carrying on and not doing the things we want but still loving life and reveling in the company of friends.

-september 2, 2008

friday morning

i took a walk to

the market

this morning.

this felt like

a hurdle.

a good one.

i put my

produce in my

backpack

and

took the long

way home.

being me

lately all i want to do is read heather busse's blog and wish i wrote the things she did. i suppose lately, all i want is to be other people. feeling uncomfortable in my own skin. the way i look, the job i have, the activities i participate in, the activities i don't. what i've accomplished, or more importantly, what i haven't. and i don't want to be this person. who's obsessed with success, who feels inferior because of the money i make, who feels she doesn't deserve good things. the girl who has voices in her head telling her she's ugly and pitiful and stupid and not good enough. the girl who doesn't let herself have fun or have dreams because she feels she doesn't deserve it and i wonder how i got this way. this is not how i was raised, but maybe its how i've been influenced in my beginning adult years. i sense that as children we are told to have big dreams, the world is at our fingertips. and somewhere between 20 years old and 24, all previous inspirational words become moot. following your dreams and paying off your school loans are no longer synonymous in this world. it's all overwhelming and in the process i think i've forgotten how to be me.

i read books. which i believe is truly my only real self-indulgent thing that is for me and only me.

otherwise, i'm at a friend's house trying to drink too much wine so that i'm fun. or i'm using all my free time applying for some new and "better" job but only by the definition that it makes more money. or i'm picking myself apart, i'm tanning or fixing my hair so that i look like the indie dream girls of los angeles, and less like me. even when it comes to the things i'm looking forward to in the near future, the main reason i'm excited about it has to do with the fact that my boyfriend is a part of it. which isn't bad, but none of it is for me. and me only. i think i'm so far gone from myself i don't even know where to look anymore.

when i took that photo, i was alone. and it was only for me.

i was brave once.

wednesday

) sallie

) rosebud

) bungalow

) henrik

) bazaar

) jimmy page

) barcelona

and indeed there will be time

difference

this is my friend robbie delong

he is playing with the denouement on sunday at the silverlake jubilee

a list for goodbyes

*interim by millay

*kristen

* zucchini

*red riding hood

*photograph

*oregon

*6 days

*adieu

bend

things like

looking long and

hard at a photograph

and

sayin' things like

"i'll see you tomorrow"

waking up to notes of

i'm already on the road

and goodbye.

sweet sounds of

buddhist monks

in the parking lot of

my mind.

equal chances monotony

or escape.

"c'etait un autre epoque"

i told them last week.

it was another time.

i welcome the end

of an era, lonely in

my room. and

wonder how will i

fit all my books in those

boxes.

how will i finish the quilt

meant for my

friends?

how will i stop hating

appearances and love

myself again?

what will become of my

adult summers and

baseball in the street?

how many stamped

letters traveling north and

spoken promises

of visits and hospitality i'm

looking change in the

mirror, moving to

sleeping on couches

and none of my own

photographs and

forgetting things i told

people. dark, sugary

skin, and waiting to come

home again.

oh, heaven.

oh, lies.

oh, spinsecret.

oh, heads rested here and there.

oh, dear ones...goodbye.

oslo

*oslo

*hours

*wien's law

*notebooks

*lost journal

*black ink

*quantum leap!

*composition

*the beginning

cranberry

and freckles

hunched at the

sticky kitchen table

my back hurts.

i'm hunching and

scratching lines,

separating my hair

at inopportune places

twisting the back of

my scalp and feeling

my mouth, hard and dry.

my back is hurting

a long work day,

loud voices, louder

thrusting music

in beats with human

hearts, apparently.

old lady lace curtains

and neon paintings

with heidi as signed

my friends are somewhere

amidst the mist of

hollow smoke and

stumbly drunk wet

feelings, peelings

and cursed eyelashes

spending their

intelligence on an

unimportant conversation.

elation and inflation,

inflate your mind,

half drunken cheap

bottles and the people

outside puffing something

important, talk of time

and god and someone near

me wants doritos.

still fiddling in my

dirty hair i'm the girl at

the party writing a poem

at a table; everyone wants

to know what i'll say.

no one wants to talk to me.

feeling strange and vain

and plagued, comparison

killing, never shedding,

always exposing, always

vulnerable, always hiding

this body, this face

and filtering ideas and

rhymes and glittering

chimes in the doorway

doors opening and drafting

and being out of place,

insecure and prettily

putting the hair

behind my ear its

my charmful thing

being known

to flee thinking

about him and me

thinking about people

i don't know and the

boy with the blue lights

coming from his

fingertips and

the girl with bright hair

and fair skin and

freckles little kisses and

his kisses, my pencil

getting flatter and

duller the dancing

getting bigger and

stronger. little girl faces

entranced at the

movement, their stillness.

all this motion and i don't

really fit in here.

i move fast, my hand,

writing because if i don't,

it will all get lost and all these

moments never happened

except in a faded

drunken nostalgia

of someone's spoken

memory on a porch

over an afternoon

cigarette, always coming,

always going.

and with these moments,

my scribbles, her memories,

so much happily lost

among the world

that lives in the night, that

we barely remember, that

holds the strangest sweet

spot in our hearts we will

sadly and fondly look

back on vaguely tasting

of a thing you tell your

children

not beautiful;

but there.