hi

W

i like seeing how our hair changes.

hearts don't change.

blue christmas

holding

an etsy christmas

so instead of buying big business this christmas,
why not instead buy small business?

support the folks who are trying to make a living doing

what they love and with an entrepreneurial spirit.
a more personal touch with a handmade gift
(your hands or someone else's),
or a unique vintage piece.
my own shop is here: peach vintage + homemade.

personally, i'm after these hairbows from nostalgia bows.

red or mustard yellow please!

here are my other favorite shops:

- wooden cut-out home decor from decoy lab

- huge selection of vintage clothes from time bomb vintage

- paintings and collages by lindsay eller of littleaches

- more unique vintages pieces from my friend brittan at the sylists own

happy shopping!

i heart people by maxey fish & sea

these are some of my friends!

pretty neato.

ouvrir

i am a love

i am a love.

you are a lovely.

i am a bug.

you are bugging me.

i am a leaf.

you are the stem.

if i break off in the wind,

i promise to find you again.

the prince

a favorite.

happy reading to you and yours.

a paddle in the river

i've been drawing the taj mahal for you

in my class that i'm quitting.

because you are you and i am me.

and there's all this stuff floating around

in the air, unspoken. all these unsaid things,

sentiments, beliefs. breathing in largely,

wholly, slowly, safely. with the bottoms rims

of my eyes burning like onions

looking at my red knuckles while sitting still,

completely unmoving, perched, fingers curved,

at the piano ready then lifted in mid-air in the

sigh before the concerto begins.

fingertips spreading fast over capital letters

and punctuation and pupils that move side

to side. i keep wishing i could look at myself

from outside my body and give her a good

little pep talk, the kind i know i need.

but instead i look out of the colored glass

window and think about nothing at all.

i keep wishing i could trade something

to have nadyne back like some bargain like

some little kid who'd make any deal, feels

guilty for being bad. i swear i'd bring her back.

listening to african percussion, feel my lips

congeal with spit, try to swallow take a

deep breath, fill my lungs though its my

heart that feels its full, no more room in here.

all my one liners i thought of in the car

gone now which makes my nose scrunch up.

and then i'm criticizing myself again and getting

angry. and i can't articulate myself and getting

angry. i don't think i could explain the

kind of headache that comes from death.

or the way in which you turn your face to the

sun and decide to be happy anyways.

and oh, nadyne again. and is it strange that

after halloween i thought about how i'd love

for her to visit me but she was in my dream

where i held her like a baby.

its like you keep showing up.

just like i keep waking up.

but this room feels brown and like a soft

brush against my cheek with sniffles in the night.

this room reminds me of christmas and

sitting cuddled on the floor admiring the

books, putting my fingers in between pages

and feeling the weight of 200 more and the pressing

of a book cover

and peeking at typefont. the letter A.

this room reminds me of cartoons and sober

late nights with few words and the piano,

again, from down the hall, in the distance,

unfamiliar notes as something is created.

creation. my hearts desire. the envy of.

ability. skill. hearts in motion. hand's devotion.

creation.

and i see my life's purpose like a paddle in a river,

like a deep pull through clear water, pushing

and gaining and finding the truth.

in a novel when you feel overwhelmed,

when you forget the people in this play

are actors on a stage and

what will the poet next will say:

your moment of truth -

a millisecond

but its under your skin

and deep in your pupils

its circulating your veins

and forever in your brain.

and this is what it feels like, in this room

like an early morning shower or the

way my sweater slipped over my head

sleeping with clocks ticking and eating

food on a bench.

and so not only to create,

but to find.

to look for; seek.

like death, like a room, like a book,

like my picture of the taj mahal i'm

drawing you. like quitting.

and i'm always giving myself this pep talk

and trying to be more forgiving.

where every wretched moment is a valid one

and puts me closer to the truth.

what i'm seeking.

where i'm paddling to: truth.

a real second of time

that comes in the form of an honest

reaction. instinct.

your impulse, something real which is

why we are breathing in largely.

wholly, slowly, safely.

last week i took up painting.

for nadyne. and for my truth.

reality bites

"and when he found out that he had cancer he decided to bring me here and he gave me this big pink seashell and he says to me 'son, the answers are all inside of this.' and i'm all like 'what?' but then i realize, i realize that the shell is empty, there's no point to any of this, its all just a random lottery of meaningless tragedy and a series of near escapes. so i take pleasure in the details, you know? a quarter pounder with cheese, those are good. the sky about ten minutes before it starts to rain. the moment where your laughter becomes a cackle. and i sit back and i, i smoke my camel straights, and i ride my own mountain." - troy, reality bites

the kind of things

i need for myself. and you probably do too.

beaujolais. beauty & the beast on mute. big bands on vinyl.

"our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. it is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. we ask ourselves, who am i to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? actually, who are you not to be? you are a child of god. your playing small does not serve the world. there is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. we are all meant to shine, as children do. we were born to make manifest the glory of god that is within us. it's not just in some of us; it's in everyone. and as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. as we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others." - marianne williamson

"i wish i could show you when you are lonely or in darkness, the astonishing light of your own being." - hafiz of persia

"live in the world you wish existed." - monica ganas

stockins

life has been really hard for three years.
wtf.

untitled

among some talk of you and me

with mint tea at my lips and

strong hands at my back like we were

humming in the dark, together; deeply.

the color of a nighttime ocean.

always telling myself

to stop thinking so much, while rifling through

the one dollar book bin with chipped fingernails

and broken sunglasses, heaved sighs for standing

up and holding a long blink to let the violet

settle in and i saw that moonbeam again and

"and." yes, "and." i think my favorite words is and.

and ain't no worry, it won't be long, she sang,

yes won't be long til

we're drowned at the bottom of the soft blue sea

with heads on seaweed pillows, there for eternity

where your golden mouth will sing forever to me

and amen.

walking up the street again,

and i can smell you on my sleeve like you were

here with me, again the long blink

and amen.

she asked me if my painting was of jacaranda trees

"yes, they are" she said. putting her hair behind her

ear and walked into the kitchen.

warm mint tea.

cascade.

open fist.

nadyne.

sweeping.

running in place like the dirt ground in a faulkner

novel. muddy alleyways and death.

muddy waters.

faces of deep south and wringing out aprons

on porches.

heaven.

oh, purple jacaranda tree,

bending softly to me.

black bark and feeling moss on

the northfacing trunk of

oh guide me home.

repeating my name to

stop thinking so much.

hunched over a one dollar book bin,

chipped nailpolish and broken sunglasses.

standing up. feeling novels between my ears

and clinking bracelets of the cashier.

darkness come early,

the sincerity of whispers,

cooling hot meals, oven mitts.

the color orange.

among this talk of you and me.

among my failed attempts at villanelle's

and sweeping sonnets to the street.

no.

i won't have fake candles or skip chapters;

no, you won't go to paris without me.

no, now i know you'll miss it here.

you'll miss me.

like how i smell you on my sleeve

while standing in the street.

like photocopied pages and tiny

notes in the mail.

verses.

chanel no. 5.

fabric.

fingertips.

cassette tapes.

cardboard cutouts of flowers and

hanging wreaths.

just talk of you and me. mysteries.

skulls and poison, the last lesson.

and my sleeve.

wngs

on loss

i am listening to tchaikovsky quartet no. 1 in D by the borodin string quartet on vinyl in my living room. jane austen sits next to me as well as the letter and poems typed out on one of those vintage type writers written by a friend probably on his floor late in the night. he is talking to me about my "writer's block" problem and at the end of the letter he tells me to do what i want in the moment all the time no matter what, and not just with writing either. i think i know what he means but then again i think i don't. (he probably imagines me having the urge to write and then resisting it due to self-consciousness or something like that but really the urge is never there anymore). but there are these poems and some of them say the word "she" and whenever anybody says the word she in a poem i always imagine the she is me. i imagine that i affected their life so profoundly, even for a flickering instant, that they wrote about me. subtley. i think i like to have that affect on people, floating in the background like a ghost. not important enough to remember always, or to be invited to the party but, looking back at me with retrospect, worthy of a small mention in a simple poem.

i just got off the phone with him actually. we talked about the recent death of my friend, nadyne. we talked about my writing. i told him i've taken the pressure off of me. that to experience loss is allow all the words to drain out of me. and without judgement on myself, without any pressure or expectation, i wait for this so called "writer's block", perhaps just a myth, to be gone from me. if even just for a moment, for one poem, for one sentence, for one word. for the right word at the right moment could mean everything. like cash's chapters in as i lay dying. short and perhaps the most meaningful. and so i am letting myself empty. i am letting grief play its part in my living life and my written life. what do you say when your friend falls 30 feet to their death? nothing. you don't say anything. because i can't even begin.

i forgot

what are these?

i hope

when you come here, it feels like a living room.

the ambience of love

we all

sit in his orchestra,

some play their

fiddles,

some wield their

clubs.

tonight is worthy of music.

let's get loose

with

compassion.

let's drown in the delicious

ambience of

love.

- hafiz of persia

caddy

She smelled like trees.

sunday mornin'

music & book pairings.

a little southern gothic with Faulkner's

The Sound & the Fury to the sounds of

*The Louis Armstrong Story Volume 3 - Louis Armstrong and Earl Hines

*Harry James plays the songs that sold a million

i could be in london

by tomorrow

graveyards, or today

this perpetual smell of burnt rubber

on my way home and walking down the

street to latino market on the corner

near my house. my LA of burnt stars and

burnt street signs, weathered tail lights

and gaze eyes; weathered sighs.

in the backseat i looked back at her

in my rear view mirror responded to her

question "why?"

"why" she said and i said "i don't know i don't

think hollywood is for me, man."

and julia too, with her face toward the open window

of an alvarado/sunset breeze says it's all so diluted,

so far away from the point.

sailing down the boulevard, catching all the greens,

getting in bed late after spin the

bottle, after skirting up the alleyway to my

friend's tiny house where i left my

wine bottle in the kitchen, my portrait

on the kitchen wall and we await nick who'll

be arriving by bus on thursday afternoon and

not a day too soon and it's alright - it's ok, it's all just

for a season anyway and we write letters everyday.

and it's been a time warp of backwards

and forwards but who cares anyway

because you can't take it with you and each time

i compare myself to someone else i lose

a little bit of my soul so i made a deal i

wouldn't do that anymore. i'd rather sell

the shit i don't need to make ends meet than

be stuck in your cubicle six days a week.

and aren't we all just waitin' for things to turn

around? occupy LA is hollerin' just

ten minutes away,

but it's also right here - right where i'm standing

and don't you ever want to walk up to some

people and say "it must be nice to be you"

but we are all fighting great battles

and if it's not this one it's that one,

if it's not here it's there,

and soon the first will be last,

and you can't run away from it jamie i keep

saying and "i'm hangin' by a thread" she keeps

saying and me too.

drivin' across the 10 freeway with those

looming blue black clouds over pasadena

mountains - hollywood sign, griffith

observatory shining under heavenly golden

sun, green hills where i hear my old souls

of past days that sing through the night,

through the graveyards, through the

chainlinked fences, the parking lots

and the small groups waiting for buses in

the dark. and i'm saying fuck this nostalgia

and embrace the morning.

new eyes and new jaw

and a new way to feel your tongue in

your mouth and a new way to smile and

a new reason to smile,

and is it ok to feel ok?

and i've been thinking what is this place

about anyway, these streets, these homes,

everyone tryin' to make it out on top,

or to come out even. to be discovered.

yes and maybe i'll be discovered in the

food 4 less on western, maybe the liquor

store by robbie's house. maybe. maybe.

but maybe the point is we live and die here.

we eat and love here. get married and

baptized here. smoke and drink here.

everyday wake here.

grieve here.

and getting discovered

in the in between.

i'm discovering me. and the best thing i

can do in this season is keep revealing

my self to myself.

i gave a different kind of kiss today

and sold my guitar today.

i don't need them.

i saw a bird fly away today and the sea

calm it's waves today.

my feet hurt today.

i was an open field today.

i buried my friend today.

i closed my eyes and the cement

became one in my veins,

rushing like fast mad traffic,

like intersections about to

explode, like blurring streetlights

of red, yellow, green and every

color in between and the whish,

breeze of the color in me and

slow down, breathe

and

walk with your arms sideways and

play a new game and see the winds

change and be a new brave.

and oh my city, be still my heart.

protect me under the lamplight

by my parked car.

remind me that each moment is truth,

that love can find you.

that definitions are sometimes needless,

that your books hold seeds,

that you need less.

remind me of the boldness that i have

or that sweet is sometimes sad.

oh, remind me that i still have more

to say, that he will find a way.

be still my heart and protect me under

the lamplight by my parked car in

my city while i wait for a change

gon' come.

things i don't need

i just can't seem to keep up i don't know
which album is the newest and greatest thing
to listen to nor do i know the silhouette of
the season or if my hair should be lighter or
darker. i like waking up early even though my

roommate thinks i'm crazy. i want to wear big

sweaters every day and listen to the same iron

& wine album when i fall asleep. i'm selling all the

things i don't need and loading the film in my

camera properly. i'm wearing jeans to cover up

my bruises and purposely trying not to text you.

i'm hoping i make friends at my new job because

i just couldn't bear the loneliness of shifts without

talking. i have a problem with collecting striped

shirts. i am crossing my fingers my film doesn't

come out blank. i'm making sketches for paintings.

my classmate said i should give hollywood a go.

i scrunched my nose at her.

i am trying to be most truthful.

today i thought, at least my life isn't boring.

whale sounds to sleep to

swimmer with humpback whale

by wayne levin

adventure clothes.

i don't usually comment on fashion.

but for me, it's more about an entire mood or feeling.

clothes help me get into character or discover specific parts of myself.

and since i tend to get a little obsessive (a song, a color, a poet), i'm feeling a little obsessive about my "costumes." especially when it affects my mood so significantly.

so, lately i've been drawn to the following: mixed patterns, oversized sweaters (along with the idea of just being comfortable; tossing out the high waisted pants) and what i've been calling "adventure clothes." or, travel clothes if you will. denim, cotton, faux fur, distressed leather, layers. mix matched. durable. pioneer man. vagabond traveler. gypsy wayfarer. chipewa chief.

maybe it just happens to be the season.

everytime the first rains begin to come, i think about le marais.

i'm remembering the yaounde floods. and sore feet. and my UK ripped jeans.

happy travels.

hope

i like to think of red balloons as my own secret little sign of hope.

you could do the same.

i hope you find hope in the most unexpected of places.

el centro

driving up western at 6 o'clock in

october the sun is sideways to my

left and up el centro i see the purple

moon large and harvest with

orange salt and sky rings,

fingernail wishes

and coke dreams.

the twenty-somethings head

to acting class in 99 seat theaters,

santa monica boulevard and tiny

caves of black boxes and hollywood

agents.

palm tree sunsets and notecards,

aspect ratios with numbers of

birthdays.

late nights getting darker

and say hello to the wet gutters,

the skip to the beat, the boys in the

street.

poor choices but holding hands, head

falling on ever gracious pillow,

hardwood floors to bare feet and

spinning records on an unemployed

tuesday. same routine.

meditating on timothy leary, feng

shui furniture, cross legged yoga pose,

and sketches in the morning.

dark wood on four walls,

cave-like statues and tableau's

spread out length-wise on the bed.

goodbye.

goodbye bed.

goodbye in the mornin' with sketches

and dark wood floor and rolling over

on stiff joints.

goodbye you'll drive away in your

car and i in mine.

to santa monica blvd.

to el centro.

where my dark cave waits for me.

hallows

sunday evenin'

MUSIC & BOOK PAIRINGS:

jane austen's persuasion with tchaikovsky's quartet no. 1 in d.

happy reading to you and yours.

panic. panic.

don't panic.

or definition

i think that we are always looking to label everything. to define words with more words.

i also think

that without labels or definition, we can (maybe) be free to really live in the moment.

and (maybe) love can happen even when you don't say it.

facebook wants me to label all the people in my life but

i'm sorry,

i just can't do that.

maybe

he will sing to me

maybe it doesn't matter

the haves and the have nots

"it's a hard country on man; it's hard. eight miles of the sweat of his body washed up outen the lord's earth, where the lord himself told him to put it. nowhere in this sinful world can a honest, hardworking man profit. it takes them that runs the stores in the towns, doing no sweating, living off of them that sweats. it aint the hardworking man, the farmer. sometimes i wonder why we keep at it. it's because there is a reward for us above, where they cant take their autos and such. every man will be equal there and it will be taken from them that have and give to them that have not by the lord."

-william faulkner, as i lay dying

modigliani

dance

throughout my miserable existence

i haplessly stumbled over

my own big feet.

the demanding daily

issues of life crippled my psyche

and dragged me to the floor.

with cautious optimism

out the door,

this insane wave of focus

and questionable synapse

narrowly escaped

this bleek moment of time.

what, for god's sake, is next?

as i sat waiting for the next

napalm bomb to drop,

i found shelter....assurant shelter,

refuge from the storm.

i sat unscathed,

with his loving arms

around me all along,

as he taught me

to dance in the rain.

-roger criss

nadyne janette qirreh

yesterday, our dear friend nadyne left us.

in a freak rock climbing accident, an intelligent, beautiful, bright, joyful woman

fell to her death and our wonderful friend is suddenly gone.

nadyne, you are a light.

no one could have imagined you wouldn't make it to 24.

i don't know what happens after this life, but i hope i see you again.

thank you for living your life to the fullest, even in your few short years.

nadyne janette qirreh

april 4, 1988 - september 26, 2011

aigle, switzerland

i don't care much for hemingway.

but at the end of a farewell to arms,

our main characters are living in switzerland;

traveling from town to town, places i've been.

all i'm saying is, i miss you switzerland.

portraits

reading in bed.

portraits in ink.

birthday parties.

writer's block feels like breaking up.

autumn

eleven thirty am on a saturday morning still

cold and gray outside and one hour ago i put

my prayered hands to my heart, bent my

head, prayed thanks autumn for coming again

and maybe my favorite season isn't fall or spring

but it's those few weeks at the start of each,

the anticipated time of transition when the previous

season is getting too repetitious. the end of summer

when the heat is too much, the thought of hats

and coats gives you a rush or with the first icy snow

brings the smell of christmas you say farewell to the

leaves and hello to the cold.

then after long months of rain and soaking wet feet

you welcome the spring, the sun's first heat.

the flowers start to bloom and then pretty soon

you're getting ready for baseball games and days

at the beach, barbeques and intense summer heat.

right now i welcome the fall with open sweatered

arms and remember that autumn too is about new

beginnings, the harvest and moons and feasts

wrapping warm socks around chilly toed feet.

so i fold my hands to my heart, close my eyes

and pray thanks autumn for returning again.

whitney

just about a year ago, my friends erin & chad got married. and keeping good on a promise made by allie to erin, the other wombies joined her in singing "i will always love you."

we were pretty damn good if i do say so myself.

hidey ho

summer heat

(these are a few of my favorite things)

summer heat

summer heat

a wave

"'listen, don't hate me because i can't remember some person immediately. especially when they look like everybody else, and talk and dress and act like everybody else.' franny made her voice stop. it sounded to her cavilling and bitchy, and she felt a wave of self-hatred that, quite literally, made her forehead begin to perspire again. but her voice picked up again, in spite of herself."

-franny & zooey

mish

i feel invisible

cheers

i feel like i'm back in that 08/09 livin' for the weekend mentality

tightrope

lately, it's been things like endless record

playing and taking turns.

muted vhs tapes and hallowed

out words.

boys smoking cigarettes in the

living room, yelling at each other

through the telephone.

summer is typified in late treehouse

nights with taylor and shawn.

seeing bob dylan and quitting

my job.

mondays in echo park with the

view of city lights, sleepovers

and hot mornings

and a kiss before goodbye.

and lately, it's been learning how

to manifest good.

believing things will happen,

knowing that they should.

choosing not to worry,

letting go,

being happy.

talking about things like

tattoos and balloons and how

to write without nostalgia.

cookie sheets and long dinner

tables, chapstick and plums

and again - the record player.

hoping that summer will

leave soon and my water

will boil fast.

rocks stuck in cement cracks.

phone calls with nick from

el paso, texas and i'm trying to

figure out how to write and that

i can never say it right.

but then it's dusk again and there

are texts about plans but i'm

tightrope walking on the planks

of my floor and i never saw you

before and i'm busy,

i'm learning how to tightrope walk

on the floor.

colouring

i think i would be delighted if

my hair was this colour

dee lite

the end of summer is near

working on my own collection

newest additions

big sweaters & fine details