moving pictures

i cleaned yesterday.
i did my dishes. i picked things up and stacked them in nice piles, the largest book on the bottom.

i now have beer everywhere. it smells like pizza in here, i even saved the garlic things so maybe my instant brown rice, the only eat item i have left besides black olives will taste like something else besides really nasty teriyaki sauce or shit, garlic. damnit.

i sit here on sundays and i really try to care. i mean everyone feels the same way and we get done whats due tomorrow and laugh when we think about all the extra tasks that wore hope like a blue ribbon with bright eyes sometime before friday fell to the dogs. They got DQed in the end. Never made it to the top spot on the award stand. Maybe next time they'll work real hard for a maroon one. pink? mint green. you know you're a loser when they're handing out pastels.

lets shoot for bold people. Let's win this three-legged race. Lets get the flowers and the photos.

happy freaking valentines day by the way.

yes well, look out the window. that blue means

its morning.
i lie in an early bed thinking late thoughts waiting for the black to replace my blue...
and then she talks about something love like. is that all we have to replace this shit? i guess so.
and THAT is depressing.

to all of you that have never been in love
me neither. it doesnt happen. prepare yourself if you think you're there, its all going to come to an end. im sorry, im not morbid, im just being real. unless you want to sign a contract...with ring fingers and such and that all happens under god and wow, you're giving up a lot in that case. in that case, well...jesus, stamina will never feel the same. take a sponge and some vinegar with that vodka tonic and you will feel the same in the morning.

to all of you that have never had sex.
i know you have. anyone reading...well christ, if you found this link and you haven't then i have killed the innocence with my fingertips. its just words to you so i dont have to apologize. good luck when you get there. have a lot, thats my advice. suck it raw so in the end you learn that passion does not lie between the sheets or the attempts. open your ears before you open your legs. youll understand. especially if youve given up on darwin. wonder what his sex life was like.

please love though. i mean i just said not to, but if youve been through it all...if well, muffin, too bad, you're that good. read honest in eloquence.

yup well blog blue wont let me do that. want to know? its called comments. do it. she can explain it better than i.

im doomed.

so im sitting in hyena, kofenya or whatever the hell its called doing my damn linguistics work. im sitting in one of those bar chairs against the front picture window and this middle aged dude sits down, no coffee, nothing. after a few minutes he, of course, opens his mouth.
now dont get me wrong, i love strangers. i love register people and the "socrates of oxford" that i see everywhere whom i formally introduced myself to last night. its that big guy, he rides the green route a lot. I love these people. but i dont love these people when i dont get to leave.
"it must be hard to study in here, it being so loud and all" he says to me.
(in the back of my mind, i look around. people are studying. its a college coffee shop. This is a conducive environment for studying.)
No, i say, its not bad. i like it here. (well i did, until now.)
"your place must pretty bad then, pretty loud?"
No, its too quiet actually.

so it goes on like this, chatting, him intruding my sphere, but i listen. its not like i dont want to listen but its the fact that its going somewhere...you can see it. desperation is in the eyes and when you spot it, conversation doesnt matter anymore.

i keep trying to go about my work, structuring phrases into trees. he thinks its science. (no, its life in formula.) he talks about P&G, where he works. he talks about how he used to play gutiar, i think about my dad. we talk about jobs and creative outlets and he asks that god damn question.
"so are you going to write books or something?"
no, im not. but if i were to, you would be in it. so can i please have your writen consent, because i want this to be about truth. and you are so blatantly true.

johnny calls thank god for johnny. i turn in my chair, the other direction and i dont think about it because im involved in a wonderful conversation but as soon as i know the hang up is coming i know what else is on its way.

"sounds like a friend with girl troubles."
yes, you fuck and did you happen to pick up on the fact that i have sexual relations with girls? or did that one slip by you? i mean i know it was a 30 minute coversation and you would feel strange taking notes right? what the hell do you want from me and why the hell do i have to feel bad about honesty?

i pack my shit before i get off the phone. im leaving now. what now.

"so it was nice meeting you. do you want to exchange numbers?"

i dont know you. i dont want to know more than i already do. im more terrible to the people i know best so why do i feel so bad about you?

"um...well (this is called reading body language/facial expressions...o wait im sorry, those aren't that OBVIOUS because im not saying anything right? you mother fucker you have no idea what youre doing to me.) yea, i guess we could do that or something."
hello???? Hesitation? Is that your desperation? i cant do anything for you now, you're in this on your own and im sorry huney, but thats not my problem. This is the only time i advocate being a liar and you're not doing a good job. Start faking it and take it elsewhere.

he gives me his number. mike. 245-1886. says something about the answering machine. i wasnt listening at this point. i havent been listening for awhile. i leave. i walk quickly.

but this is the thing.
im sitting in a coffee shop and im listening to everyone. im even listening to the conversations on the other side of the glass. im thinking about these people i'm not having direct contact with. im just as creepy. but as soon as you say something, as soon as language, your voice, leaves your head in the same voice it was contrived, you've given it away. this is the point when mystery becomes ash and this is the point when you become more than just a stranger, this is the point when your intentions become scary and no one wants to know what you want.

well then.

Let's try a new font to make up for my lack of creativity today.

i am a huge wench. i woke up and made a few hundred apologies. that is not good. if i cant be smart at least be decent. nope, strike three. i belong on the bench.

speaking of, what makes you mad? i mean furious. what memory do you have that makes you absolutely steam? mine is Mr. Dillon, my sophomore year of varsity softball. why the hell did he want me there? all my friends were having fun PLAYING with Mr. Watts and I got to wear pinstripes. Whoopdeefrinkindo. christ, i sucked. i mean i really sucked. he ruined me. he made me put on gear to catch for chiristine rubik. i was so fucking scared i couldnt even throw the ball back. what's that movie? major league? the catcher that had to think of playboy bunnies in order to get the ball back to the pitcher. yea, that didn't work either. in warm-ups i looked like a chicken, a pink one, something ridiculous. i hit jenny rounds in the back of the head with a very very very bad throw to third base. he made a fool out of me. for three innings. then he laughed. i want to murder Mr. Dillon.

why, why why do i do these things to myself. god, my high school and most people in it would be ash right now if i learned the lesson earlier. my nickname in australia was murder. Murder. yes, i look that happy. what the hell is wrong with me.

im a terrible friend. im in this for myself i think, since i cant contribute anything else.
im sorry johnny, i didn't know it was happening. i didn't mean to be so drunk. i didn't mean to arouse a hug when you're the one that needed one.
im sorry steve, i didnt mean to wake up the neighborhood. i didnt mean to call you a liar. im sorry you have to look at me everyday.
im sorry amy and amanda and neely and cat.
im sorry jamie. i morphed into every man i hate.
and to the rest of you, im sorry. I'm sorry you have to be on the receiving end of my loud mouth.

im going back to bed.

the horror, that horror

just a few moments ago...

main window: The Desert Eagle
second tab: Jabberwocky
Google search bar: menopause

put them in whatever order you like. obscurity bleeds just the same.

on the replay. Va bene!

He knows how to blow things up.

I find this an admirable quality in a man. Damion would rave at me about exhaust pipes and batteries and the neighbor's M3 - the black one with the license plate that said "hers". Yea, sure. He would pace like his green beret father then squat on his desk chair typing in hysteria, pulling up formulas that i saw in 8th grade chemistry when i lit my hand on fire with a pack of matches while trying to light a bunsen burner. If he were there then he would have explained that too.

Gas knows how to blow things up and Gas is a chain smoker. A diagonal line at the pump only means half price to Gas.

My father knows how to blow things up, but he only reacts with one thing and thats the bitch. The bitch doesn't know shit about chemical equations but she knows about physics. She knows that she has three inches of skid room before she hits the wall when thrown from the top step. She knows that shit happens though and i guess you could call that a chemical equation.

I know you can't put foil in the microwave, that magnesium makes bright lights, and that i am a buffer for boys.
I know that bleach can be ingested in small doses, that meth is a popular cooking channel and that my brain and i enjoy a good firefight.
I prefer small bic lighters, she prefers nuclear weapons.

at the end of three days past

Toad King speaking something sounding like too toffe stoped and asked the well wisher
"where would you be right now if you could be anywhere?"

the well wisher had thoughts, but never answered. This is what the well wisher thought:

father wisher wrapping her in blankets before she went to bed. the last things she said was hehehe before she drifted off to sleep.
the womb.
the beach. which one? she doesnt know. thats not good enough. the beach. please. makes her want to say everywhere.

but these are the things she decided on after the Toad King stepped down from the throne and passed the throne down to the 6th generation never removed:

on the back of a swan.
creamsicle pond.

and thats all she thought. no trees. no monkeys. no sky no sounds no sun. but there would be light because all she can think about is the color.

Somewhere a Triangle in a Square

this is my third attempt at learning.

jesus, its not hard. All the information is right there, that's the way it is. What's wrong with you?

my mind just...goes away.
It's not like i am thinking about anything
more important
or more interesting
its just that where it goes
i follow.

i become this little pudgy baby
sitting on my bottom in the green grass
sucking my thumb and watching it
flutter overhead like a pretty butterfly.
weee, pretty butterfly.

see, you see that don't you?

and after 20 40 60 years of those pictures
i snap out of it and realize
what's wrong with you?
you're supposed to be here...

with this book in your lap
that you're supposed to finish
and think about in that critical manner,
but i dont ever get that far
before i start thinking in that useless manner.

how about a baby in my lap
looking up at ME
squat and saying
"Yo Ma, what the fuck?"
but by that time
the baby is blue.

think of trainspotting.
see, you see that too don't you?

forget the needles. just give me three words, half a page
a window. a floor.
the man that keeps walking back and forth.
a map of the piano and little B.
the things that come out of a center of a tree.
back and forth split screen lives interacts.

i had a girl last year
and i told her, coming the closest i could
that it makes me cry to think
no one is ever going to see this but me.

she ended up yelling at me.

unfortunately it seems
its not the way it is.

up at Four.

the worst is when i wish i would shut up
after ive said it all.
thats the worst.

dead bolt

if my door is locked
it means i was dancing last night
but if i answer
the music wont be as loud.

take into account
that i am a woman.
does that happen
when its seamless?
wait, wait
does that happen?

haha, no.
and thats why im laughing.

the only reason i believe in a god
is because something has to see this.
o read it
yea fuck off
see it, some movie....
oh yes do you know how much time that takes?
even if yes again
affirmative
yes doesnt mean i am telling the truth

kerry powell will know all
but he'll never forget my letter.

i want to die inside a broccoli cart.
cooked or raw?
bite the taste change
how does that happen
someone knows
but im the one thats eating it.

you all with your fucking music.
make it. be a ...............................composer.
say it outloud with just you and then
tell me about your fucking music.

hey shit man
this album doesnt come out till march
but i got it.
and i love it.
and i fuck the people in the ass who make it.
god i love it.
i go to shows
yea maybe thats how they make it
they dont care about you
but ill idolize them
and think about me
in front of my god damn box
reliving the same things
i felt
for free.

it costs nothing.
you know youre on top.
one leg left
one right
rocking it back and forth
wishing the drop outside the window
before it comes.

ever pause
at planes
at sirens
at the emergency
yes of course you do

(elapsed time)

Crescendo, my friends and i will hear you around 2am

after that, pp with someone please?

No, i honestly dont think so.
There is an ice cream cone: fresh strawberry from a hand-cranked churn in the middle of a sunny california field.
Italio Marchiony asks me if i would like to have this ice cream cone.
I say sure, why not.
He hands it to me and I lap it up .

Did i really want that ice cream cone?
No, i didn't really want it, but it was there and it seemed yummy so i thought
sure, why not.

I have absolutely no idea what im talking about
because i started reading about the history of ice cream.

My point
is stuck in my eye.

I'm saying i haven't desired a relationship in a long time, but if something is offered
sure, why not.
i think i am heartless. I dont know
i care a lot more about ice cream than i do about this.

so anyway, lets get off track and a little more abstract because that's where im at.
drop it like its hot.
yes, that makes sense.

ok no. more talking. i wanted to say that i was drunk last night:
vodka+cranberry juice. vodka+ginger soda. beer.
vodka and ginger soda alone do not taste that great together. Think of this combination then throw in some more sauces. then tell me what you came up with.
which you wont, but that's ok im just writing anyway.

hey, what's up.
oh ok...yea, keep walking.
right. it's all in my head anyway.


i wanted to say that i was so damn proud of the shit i put on here last night while i was gingered up and then i woke up this morning and read it again and i wonder, little elfkin man, how do you run my brain when i'm drunk to make me think so godly of myself?
i stopped to think and now im tired of this subject. I can't wait for the elfkin man to come back and take the place of my cognizance. i didn't know that was spelled with a z. oh yes, i can hear his little push cart coming up the drive now.

anyway, im going to eat:
garlic pepper potatoes and sweet onion with a tomato bacon dipping sauce.
(kroger sliced potatoes in a can with sprinkling from a bottle and kroger tomato bacon salad dressing. The sweet onion is for real though)

peace.

love

i just gave an invisible audience
an audible lecture
on love
in technological terms

if you have a prejudice against video games
please update your flashplayer
or whatever has updated that since then.

i have all the mum albums
and im going to be oinked out of the pigpen
for my love
of theft
and walking around, plugged in and out of
it.

so if you see me
you'll understand.

if you love
and let them
you'll also understand.

im sorry world

since i dont have an image to upload upon some thoughts...

i'm sorry world
that i steal from the artists
because i am broke
and bored
and that coming home means coming home to
the endless world of being a pirate
stealing from the ones i have sought to become.

this says a lot about self sacrafice
says a lot about why
says a lot about the virtue of passing time
because that's the only thing that seems right.

but i still do
sitting here, sifting through endless files with endless particles of
Kb KB Mb MB Gb and GB
how am i ever gonna get this right
ill still byte the bits
with skinned teeth and the help
of someone that knows more
than i do. puts me in a place between me and you.

i lost my favorite
black velvet tipped pen
so long ago that i still remember
but it came up as the last thing
klunk klunking in the dryer.
i took it out,
astonished like the last note i left john lewis
that was never found on some doorstep in florida

uncapped it
made two marks on
the skin of my left hand
just above the part you can pull
between the horizon and the vertical
of the L
where most people place the pen
to write.
its called a 'less than sign'

but left or right
i write with my finger tips
and i wonder if i could ever truly be
a liberalist.

no dead cells!

kellen wise is the nicest human on earth.
but he will not bum you a smoke.

reflecting upon this day of walking and talking and leaving and returning to places...

i want you to ask yourself why you are friends with the people you are friends with.

would they strain themselves to pull you out of a lava pit filled with leeches?
would they bash a croc on the head if your leg was stuck in the whirly twirlly clenches of its jaw?
would they fall through the second floor of a burning building just to re-climb whats left of the stairs and wrap you up and jump out the window into a dumpster full of broken glass vodka bottles?

or do they know you well enough to cross their arms and shake their heads and say
"lucky bastard."

im kidding. ive waited my whole life to find out what happens outside the safety of the system. I'm afraid of putting air into tires, but this is the real deal here, its no rubber.
pre-school
kindergarden
elementary school
middle school
high school
college
major

SPLAT.
jackson pollock across the world.
and if then the end-
ill have it no other way.

one big stupid grin.
some dirty hands.
and a stench that will never be forgotten.

mds

BOOBER

rah rah rah B bop

you know what i really dont like?

my mom told me i was a happy baby. I was chill. Nipple and all. Is that weird? Sorry, but its true.
at one point in my life i was uber superficially gorgeous. i was sexually attracted to myself.
i was such a good student. i got lots of A's and felt special in my honors classes.
i went to state meets and wore pin-striped jerseys and they all told me anything is possible if you put your mind to it.
so i did.
and now i cant get enough.

no, actually i didn't...i laughed at them and i let people win. Why? Well, i get really strong impulses to hang myself over the banister. Not in a suicidal way, i just want to. We worked a lot on visualization techniques during my swim career. I can clearly visualize mistakes before they happen and i laugh and carry through because how else would i know that i was right? I like being right, i'm not often right. I say don't make the same mistake twice because variety is the spice of life. Right? Right.

and everything happens for a reason.
yes, a bad one.

i have an idea.
you idolize me and i'll idolize you
then we'll shake hands and get on seperate trains
and i'll blow a kiss and you can blow the whistle
and we'll meet head on in a catastrophic clash
of contorted shiny metal.

I'm sorry world
i just dont know what to do for you.

leave me a note and tell me what your favorite instrument is.

normal size

i hate the smell of urine.
absolutely hate it.
my laundry room smells like piss...beach towels to soak up the mess in the back bathroom. They've been sitting there since saturday. No one wants to go to the store for laundry detergent. We used skin so soft hand soap instead. Now we need more towels.

the days are passing by. My sister wants to join the Red Cross. My dad wants to be like me. Says "You're Flexible." I say "just dont want to make any decisions."

There is a neon green plastic crocodile on my back porch, sitting still and pondering the ways of the weather. He was born of a chocolate egg someone bought for me on the bus ride into Kununurra. Now its winter in Chicago and he's not moving. We're not moving.

If i could make a living out of sharing a window with a train or bus, i would be delighted. Happy almost. An industrial sloth, five toes instead of three. Success and Riches. 'My Witness is the Empty Sky'

One big dumb smile.
have a nice one.

ive just discovered how easy it is to stalk people.
just - yea you assholes, i know, technology and shit, but i would like to think that the mystery of the world is still in tact.

they're like celebrities...people that you know, but because of some unspoken custom in prententious plastic america, cannot talk to...what am i talking about? i dont know, but you know what i mean. See. Humble and Mysterious. Can they exist on the same plane?
ive never been very articulate.
but there is a reason for everything...cough spit cough

my mom came to terms with the fact that my sister and i are "alchy daughters" this evening at dinner. After sharing a smoke with Meg outside the garage door we decided that fame would grace us with golden dust by the Guiness Book - how quickly a family of four can take down multiple bottles of wine. I think the same speed can be set for how quickly we end up in different rooms after all has been consumed.

O christ.

that's all. i need one myself.

O hi O

right. I just put this link on my AIM profile so I thought I should add a few more thoughts, you know, pretend I matter. And I’m sorry everyone, especially the younger ones. We must remember that I am now a “writer” so for the first time I am aloud to be fictitious.

I went to see The Life Aquatic with God, I mean Bill Murray, I mean Steve Zissou last night with my sister. I haven’t been to the crestwood Lowe’s in awhile, nor the mall so actually my break has been filled with uberly painful excitement. Anyway, I decided to go to film school in California. But I won’t say goodbye, I’ll say Bon Voyage.

Before that I was in Indiana for Christmas No. 2, visiting my mom’s side of the family, whom collectively, no one cares about. That’s not true, mom, they just move a little slower. You all know how that is…Indiana and all. We cut them off with witty punch lines in the middle of the story, laugh, they laugh, they continue. It takes patience to listen to a story you’ve heard before, especially when it’s not very good…at all. They live on a farm, white flat lined landscape, broken dark windows in the barns sitting just before the shadows of my Uncle’s hunting grounds. I can hear the deer breathing while their hind legs are being bound. Drug through the snow. But I don’t think about these things because this break has been checked off on the list of firsts. My family is emotional hell, selfish crazy and pretending to care. I just laugh now, I don’t know how to do anything else.
It’s hard though, when your dad’s side of the family hits the drinks hard, leaves the kids to my Aunt passed out in the chair and with red party cups in hand sways down the street on a sub-zero stroll. My dad became a bartender earlier in the year. He was showing me how to make a cosmo after I asked where the lid to the martini shaker was. The shot glass was small; he was dumping in vodka with the force of the Niagra, sticky Russian hairspray smell everywhere. He flipped the empty beer glass over and stuck it inside the metal shaker as he told me not to jam it in too tight. Three minutes later six people are standing around the sink running the glass under hot water. My dad has the clenched jaw thing going, which means he’s pissed but more embarrassed, when he comes into the kitchen. He holds up a brand new martini shaker with a strainer lid. Gram Lob gave it to him for his 53rd birthday thirty seconds ago.

this is funny if you’re a lobsinger.

That’s Lob (e) singer.

goodbye

I would think, after talking to people that aren’t really there for so many years, that I would start listening to what they have to say.
but I don’t.

there’s my daughter sitting there, across from me at our kitchen table. We’re having the conversation…about why she shouldn’t have sex. I watched Fast Times at Ridgemont High last night; I’m thinking about this as her eyes shift up and to the right, fixated on a spot just beyond my head. I stare at the corner of her eye, where she sees me, where the stage is set under her feet, and get up. I walk around the island in the kitchen open a drawer and now she’s curious. I return, look at her, and place a pair of metal tongs on the battlefield between us.

I say nothing.
Why? Because the scene is set in my own kitchen, the same lighting the same island. My best friend’s mom was there for me when I discovered that there was another hole. Mom managed to ask if I had any questions. I looked at her; my own mother sitting in the other room watching her American Dreams on DVD.

I’m not pregnant, but I imagine healing the womb child before it breaks free. It’s a problem that keeps reoccurring – motherhood.

And no one is ever going to get it quite right.