Sunday, February 27, 2011

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.

Sunday, February 20, 2011

my stop

missing paris isn't something that goes away.
it's something you live with.

Friday, February 18, 2011

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.

Thursday, February 17, 2011


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 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

Wednesday, February 16, 2011

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

Tuesday, February 15, 2011



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.

Monday, February 14, 2011


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.

Friday, February 11, 2011

it's good to keep lists

_pierrot le fou
_los angeles
_oscar buzz

Wednesday, February 9, 2011

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.

Tuesday, February 8, 2011


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.

Saturday, February 5, 2011

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,
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.

Thursday, February 3, 2011

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!

Wednesday, February 2, 2011

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