i'm bein' followed

the plan

feeling my stomach in knots,

not knowing what i want,

being asked questions like

defining love and what's my

dream job and curling up in the

cold and pretty basement,

my artsy friends so happy

here but me i'm screaming

silently waking up every

day and confused and my

stomach in knots, not knowing

what i want and trying to plan,

trying to save, throwing away

the plan for a grown up job

and casting myself as the

perpetual bartender, agent seeker,

audition goer, line memorizer,

meisner lover, pavement hitter.

still not feeling whole. feeling

empty and angry, angsty and

feisty. and wanting to be cool,

i want so bad to be cool, like the

cool kids who are singers,

band drinkers, with cool pants

and shirts and cool shoes and

hats and long hair and tatts.

lush's, addicts, strung out but

cool. they're cool. they don't

care, they're feelings never

get hurt, they only remember

because the photos on facebook.

over exposed bright flash, they're

pale skin and dark rimmed glasses.

i hate them and want to be them.

not caring. non chalant. crazy.

and i am going crazy. crazy.

living where nothing ever happens

and no one ever sees you,

everything tastes bland, the grass,

the sand and my screaming.

my stomach in knots, not knowing

what i want, confused, light

headed, being asked questions

and questions, questions.

los angeles, my question.

currently recommending

my stop

missing paris isn't something that goes away.

it's something you live with.

big sis

also, it's my big sister's birthday today.

happy 35th amy.

lotus flower

surprise to all, new radiohead drops a day early.
enjoy thom's interpretive dance.

voici:

so full of you

nina. they say this place is bohemian....they were frightened i might become an actress....but i ache to return to this lake, as if i were a sea gull....my heart is full, so full of you. [looks around.]

treplyov. we are completely alone.

nina. i thought i heard someone...

treplyov. no one. [a kiss.]

-the seagull, anton chekhov

currently recommending

if you like to read

but you haven't read any plays, i recommend you do. for the non-theatre artist i believe they can remain quite an untapped avenue of literature that many readers never get to. and you're missing out on so much. here are my favorites:

-a streetcar named desire, tennessee williams

-the glass menagerie, tennessee williams

-27 wagons full of cotton & other plays, tennessee williams

-waiting for godot, samuel beckett

-the caucasian chalk circle, bertolt brecht

-death of a salesman, arthur miller

-master harold and the boys, athol fugard

-a doll's house, henrik ibsen

-medea, euripides

-lysistrata, aristophanes

-miss julie, august strindberg

-the heidi chronicles, wendy wasserstein

-oleanna, david mamet

-the hairy ape, eugene o'neill

-dinner with friends, donald margulies

number one: if it's by tennessee williams you can bet i already love it. i love everything by tennessee williams. number two: this is by no means an exhaustive list. i could go on and on. number three: keep an open mind, reading plays is much different than reading novels. number four: try to do a rapid bit of research about the play and the time it was written before you read it. many of these plays, while they seem dry now, were extremely revolutionary and racy for their time. this kind of thing is quite important to know.

if you do not

if you do not breathe through writing, if you do not cry out in writing, or sing in writing, then don't write, because our culture has no use for it.

~anais nin

brahms

sabbatical

watching movies in bed,

scheming for things like

looking at bank statements

and keeping track, making

plans, getting sick of roseville,

being nice and content,

being strong and soft and jamie.

feeling the season of solitude

wearing off, envisioning a life

back where life is and leaving

this nothingness. leaving these

open wide roads of industrial

neighborhoods and new

buildings, big churches, big malls.

looking at my wall with postcards

taped near my window and tiny

notes with "to my sweet baby

james" and tickets for bon iver

at sunrise, hollywood forever.

san francisco, paris, allie's art

show, swiss folk paintings,

british flags, erin's gift to me.

feeling like i've been on sabbatical.

feeling like jack kerouac in his

mum's house after his adventures

just on the back porch, in seclusion

with a typewriter and dope.

scribbling in creative frenzy all

that has happened, but more

beautiful of course. writing all

poetic the sad, mystical thing of

loss. great loss. and finding yourself

again. feeling like jack kerouac. yes.

v-day

it's v-day, which means you should get thyself to your nearest production of the vagina monologues which will be performed in theaters, school halls, parks and living rooms all over the country.

you should also watch THIS, author of the vagina monologues' eve ensler's ted talk on embracing your inner girl.

don't worry now

longface

wishful thinking

it's good to keep lists

_pierrot le fou

_sudafed

_chapeau

_blustery

_strindberg

_status

_los angeles

_manicure

_neighborhood

_vipassana

_oscar buzz

miss julie

echoing voice

several months ago my heart was not at peace. everything was telling me to get rid of the toxic things in my life, embrace change, throw myself into uncomfortable situations and places and, at the risk of sounding cliche, go find myself.

now at the start of february i seem to be getting another strong echoing voice from the universe saying fresh start, build again, come home. though it still may be a process and take time, i think i am ready for that. fresh start, build again, come home.

meow

my current acting assignment is requiring me to master the art of sexual tension, as beautifully exampled in this scene where blanche and stanley meet for the first time. god they're good.

1 passage st. sebastien, M' st. sebastien-froissart

j'ai vécu ici.

paris, fr

russian rouletting

and what could be said?

or what could be heard?

through thin as paper walls,

icy sheets of snow, dark

distances, blanketed

telephone receivers with

no end. staring blankly

at computer screens,

empty; or quite filled

with people staring. dirty

bedsheets, open books,

cold foggy early morn

air and the air. stolen

bracelets, colored fingertips,

the writing on my arm,

my hand cursing my mouth

and the circled students

saying first impressions

with hats and glasses;

campuses. green jacketed

livres of love poems with

cute phrases and "oh i miss

thee." come with me.

internet chats and stifled

speaking, breathing heavily,

anticipation, waiting,

balancing, concentration,

meditation, mindfully

praying. legs bent, hands to

heart and sweating.

russian orthodox wedding and

russian rouletting.

cold and hot fever; february

receiver. betty friedan sits on

the bedside table saying,

solitude.

tiny moving pictures, projections

on a wall. blonde headed children

and memories flashing; blinking,

in super eight millimeter.

packing up portraits, moving

out of the house on camden road.

the moon coming in my window,

like a good luck charm.

laying and swaying; the void.

i saw the music, like layers of

lace on top of each other.

kneeling by tree stumps,

with bundles of white alysum,

scuffing my feet, wishing not

to be seen. oh, holy empires,

oh, holy wonders. dark eyes,

configures, confinement

and ultimately freedom.

doing things slowly, opening

lockets, reaching hands out

of pockets. lemonade stand

pictures, unfocused,

remembering home; thyself.

and ultimately freedom.

kool-aid and kisses, sparkles,

scuffed knees and hold me.

collecting small paychecks and

watching time come coolly for

ultimately freedom.

via the basement city review

archives

charles & bonita

the basement city review

some friends of mine started a new online publication

called the basement city review, featuring short fiction,

artwork and poetry. they were kind enough to feature

a new, unreleased poem of mine. the first issue is out

today. check them out & follow their blog!

free writes

i've been doing free writes.

unedited, unabashed,

honest, ugly, open.

adjectives of my

surroundings, my gut

feelings, scribbled

quotes of late night

readings. things i

cannot say on a blog

and that is okay because

sometimes this arena

makes us lose the

ability to write for

ourselves. we are

always writing for

an audience. well now,

i have things you will

never see, thoughts you

won't know, bad poems,

good poems, not poems

at all. i had forgotten

how to do this, but now

i am back.

in many different ways,

i am back.

currently recommending

bangolan