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.
Monday, November 29, 2010
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.
Friday, November 26, 2010
indeed, i do not dare.
reading jane austen,
at twenty-four, for
my cold fingers in
an unheated bedroom.
a lonely desk where
no one visits.
slumped in oversized
chairs at crowded
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
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Monday, November 22, 2010
Friday, November 19, 2010
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.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
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."
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
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.
Monday, November 15, 2010
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.
Friday, November 12, 2010
new beginnings and open
i now see the world
in a hushed quiet
solitude and heart
beating one with
i have a small
blue cool center
that is content
and i put my hand
to my chest,
and find it.
with a pretty pink
bow. i shut my eyes,
let the fear push away
i feel only forward
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
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
Monday, November 1, 2010
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.