im laughing hysterically, teeth chattering and neck sweating, my hand is holding yours and you pull me down dark streets and fog comes over the look tower of the museum. as dusk falls around orange flowers and trees laden with blossoms you look at me and say, the only thing i smell is you and its an unreal night in the city once again. im biting the inside of my cheek this time, not my tongue, i can say out loud one thousand times, i love you i love you i love you i love you without whispering, without being afraid, without being unsure of what comes next. its 8:00 on a tuesday and my inability to ride with no hands makes you smile. you look back behind at me every other second, tell me, ride close, youre listening to your "feel good music" on your ipod and were screaming brown eyed girl at the top of our lungs riding down oak street. im pulling over to talk into my recorder and his eyes are shiny, ive lost a little bit of that nervous brow, my heart less shaded with worry, i dont feel the need to pull into myself, my smile is easier, my hands dont shake at the thought of being without you, of waking up alone. when you turn in bed in the middle of the night i dont lie awake for hours waiting for you to reach back. i fall asleep and somehow its morning and youve found me, weve found ourselves.
in the hours in between, during the constant drill of construction, my brain is like a fire escape, im sitting over polk street and its a constant hum, i cant write things fast enough, im spinning circles and weaving my fingers in and out until the next time i touch a pen, steady myself against my drink or run my hands over your face. this summer has lit me on fire, has pushed the sky open into breathy sunsets out a window, cold air pushing up under the couch and my eyes, fastened on yours.
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Friday, August 29, 2008
sweet pea
copied directly from printer paper found in my purse this morning, the morning after...
these little moments
what causes change
is there a hero?
taxi driver
pimp
relation to art
writing of the will
money-having it, lack of
defining
white suburban kids
where people came from
with roots
how people have lived
you find yourself talking to randoms at the bar, his name is joe, theyre slipping you their phone numbers on napkins because you say you like that sort of thing and youve never felt so alive. the walk home youre smiling, youve taken a half day and gone shopping with your best friends boyfriend and didnt buy a thing except drinks at the gold dust in between sport coats and silk blend pants. the whiskey tasted somewhat like dead fish and sweat but it does the trick and you and he are laughing through tourists and sweat forms on your brow like a crown.
at 1030 you find yourself outside, alone, smoking a cigarette while your friends talk to boys at the bar and youre sitting on an overpass above kearney and sutter when all the sudden youre 16 at CSSSA crossing the freeway above mcbean pkway for the first time and it strikes you that youre still trying to figure it all out.
at 1045 all you want to do is touch your boys face. you think of how long its been since your mouth smelled like his and youve been wearing his shirt to bed at night but its losing his smell and becoming yours. night and time will do that, you know.
after trin leaves things feel quiet and you take the bus to work listening to old songs and the last five days arent even real.
these little moments
what causes change
is there a hero?
taxi driver
pimp
relation to art
writing of the will
money-having it, lack of
defining
white suburban kids
where people came from
with roots
how people have lived
you find yourself talking to randoms at the bar, his name is joe, theyre slipping you their phone numbers on napkins because you say you like that sort of thing and youve never felt so alive. the walk home youre smiling, youve taken a half day and gone shopping with your best friends boyfriend and didnt buy a thing except drinks at the gold dust in between sport coats and silk blend pants. the whiskey tasted somewhat like dead fish and sweat but it does the trick and you and he are laughing through tourists and sweat forms on your brow like a crown.
at 1030 you find yourself outside, alone, smoking a cigarette while your friends talk to boys at the bar and youre sitting on an overpass above kearney and sutter when all the sudden youre 16 at CSSSA crossing the freeway above mcbean pkway for the first time and it strikes you that youre still trying to figure it all out.
at 1045 all you want to do is touch your boys face. you think of how long its been since your mouth smelled like his and youve been wearing his shirt to bed at night but its losing his smell and becoming yours. night and time will do that, you know.
after trin leaves things feel quiet and you take the bus to work listening to old songs and the last five days arent even real.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
swedish furniture and a '59 Bel Air
something i picked up along the way...
It doesn't interest me what you do for a living.
I want to know what you ache for,
and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart's longing.
It doesn't interest me how old you are.
I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love,
for your dreams, for the adventure of being alive.
It doesn't interest me what planets are squaring your moon...
I want to know if you have touched the center of your sorrow.
If you have been opened by life's betrayals or if you have become
shriveled and closed from the fear of future pain!
I want to know if you can sit with pain; mine or your own,
without moving to hide it, or fade it, or fix it.
I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own.
If you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you
to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful,
realistic, or to remember the limitations of being human.
It doesn't interest me if the "story" you are telling me is true.
I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself.
If you can bare the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul.
If you can be faithful and, therefore, be trustworthy.
I want to know if you can see beauty even when it is not present everyday.
And, if you can source your own life from its presence.
I want to know if you can live with failure; yours and mine,
and still stand on the edge of the lake
and shout to the silver of the full moon, "Yes"!
It doesn't interest me to know where you live
or how much money you have. I want to know if you can get
up after a night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone
and do what needs to be done for the children.
It doesn't interest me who you know or how you came to be here. I want to know if you will stand in the center of the fire with me
and
not shrink back.
im feeling lonely today. its so hot out and everythings melting and sweaty and sticky and i love that summer has settled on the back of my neck and the places between fabric and skin, like a bond. i come home from my grandma's house in oakland, my bag full of notes and photos of her and my grandfather who i never met, smiling in black and white. my dad and i sit in the backyard and i used to love to sit with him in the garden in calistoga while he watered on hot nights, whats this flower, whats that tree and in those quiet ways my dad and i learned each other and that smell of dirt on his skin is something i will never forget.
i collect things, im a collector. drawers and boxes and scraps of paper written on in some bar in some city in some drawling scrawl litter my floor, my jeans pockets, my heart. there is room enough for all of it, these momentos that we hold onto for whatever reason, or for whatever reason they hold us.
It doesn't interest me what you do for a living.
I want to know what you ache for,
and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart's longing.
It doesn't interest me how old you are.
I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love,
for your dreams, for the adventure of being alive.
It doesn't interest me what planets are squaring your moon...
I want to know if you have touched the center of your sorrow.
If you have been opened by life's betrayals or if you have become
shriveled and closed from the fear of future pain!
I want to know if you can sit with pain; mine or your own,
without moving to hide it, or fade it, or fix it.
I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own.
If you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you
to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful,
realistic, or to remember the limitations of being human.
It doesn't interest me if the "story" you are telling me is true.
I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself.
If you can bare the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul.
If you can be faithful and, therefore, be trustworthy.
I want to know if you can see beauty even when it is not present everyday.
And, if you can source your own life from its presence.
I want to know if you can live with failure; yours and mine,
and still stand on the edge of the lake
and shout to the silver of the full moon, "Yes"!
It doesn't interest me to know where you live
or how much money you have. I want to know if you can get
up after a night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone
and do what needs to be done for the children.
It doesn't interest me who you know or how you came to be here. I want to know if you will stand in the center of the fire with me
and
not shrink back.
im feeling lonely today. its so hot out and everythings melting and sweaty and sticky and i love that summer has settled on the back of my neck and the places between fabric and skin, like a bond. i come home from my grandma's house in oakland, my bag full of notes and photos of her and my grandfather who i never met, smiling in black and white. my dad and i sit in the backyard and i used to love to sit with him in the garden in calistoga while he watered on hot nights, whats this flower, whats that tree and in those quiet ways my dad and i learned each other and that smell of dirt on his skin is something i will never forget.
i collect things, im a collector. drawers and boxes and scraps of paper written on in some bar in some city in some drawling scrawl litter my floor, my jeans pockets, my heart. there is room enough for all of it, these momentos that we hold onto for whatever reason, or for whatever reason they hold us.
Saturday, August 23, 2008
my first time
this morning i woke up having a dream that my best friend was retarded and in a wheelchair and getting beaten up by a big hairy man on the bus and i wasnt doing anything to stop it. i told b and after i could hear him through my laughter, he said i should write it down.
im taking things slow. slow like ice cream cups outside a corner store in the richmond, apple juice and hennisey on a phone booth, bike rides at night, leaning up against a car that isnt yours, leaning into your boys sweatshirt and breathing in, slow like saturday, slow like tracing circles on his arm in the morning before hes awake, slow, slow, slow.
i figure we should talk about firsts...since this is one, here, right now.
my first memory, easy enough, is of being held. thomas and i are napping. it smells like a nest, of organic things, twigs and dirt and bread baking. it smells like crush in the valley, and the back of my neck is sweaty. i have straight across bangs. my moms skin is cool, and shes brushing back my hair. eyes open, eyes shut, eyes open, eyes shut. sleep.
my first fat lip was electric. i got hit in the mouth with a baseball in little league. i cried like hell. but i was much more adventurous after that, i was less afraid of getting hurt.
my first kiss. were watching a horror movie on halloween at shane hastings moms house before i was allowed to go to boy/girl parties. i sat next to jason tamagni and i could barely let my leg rest up against his without dying. when carries mom came to pick us up he kind of leaned over and put his tongue in my mouth as i was getting up from the couch. it was weird but i remember being excited for weeks.
my first heartbreak was real. i slept and starved and pulled all inside. i became these horrible things i didnt know i was capable of being and thinking and wanting. i remember reading something that changed it all for me, to the point where laying in bed and running steely eyed through the streets didnt make sense anymore. my heartache was real because i was capable of loving and that made me happier than i expected. so i bought a frozen yogurt and got the fuck over it.
my first stoned bike ride with b in the richmond was last night. it was absolutely amazing. i scraped up against so many walls hoping he wouldnt see but not really caring if he did. i laughed so much im raspier that normal this morning. i woke up tired but not exhausted. firsts are good. firsts pave way for more, for you to figure it out, to get it right.
im trying to get this right.
heres someone who got it right.
im taking things slow. slow like ice cream cups outside a corner store in the richmond, apple juice and hennisey on a phone booth, bike rides at night, leaning up against a car that isnt yours, leaning into your boys sweatshirt and breathing in, slow like saturday, slow like tracing circles on his arm in the morning before hes awake, slow, slow, slow.
i figure we should talk about firsts...since this is one, here, right now.
my first memory, easy enough, is of being held. thomas and i are napping. it smells like a nest, of organic things, twigs and dirt and bread baking. it smells like crush in the valley, and the back of my neck is sweaty. i have straight across bangs. my moms skin is cool, and shes brushing back my hair. eyes open, eyes shut, eyes open, eyes shut. sleep.
my first fat lip was electric. i got hit in the mouth with a baseball in little league. i cried like hell. but i was much more adventurous after that, i was less afraid of getting hurt.
my first kiss. were watching a horror movie on halloween at shane hastings moms house before i was allowed to go to boy/girl parties. i sat next to jason tamagni and i could barely let my leg rest up against his without dying. when carries mom came to pick us up he kind of leaned over and put his tongue in my mouth as i was getting up from the couch. it was weird but i remember being excited for weeks.
my first heartbreak was real. i slept and starved and pulled all inside. i became these horrible things i didnt know i was capable of being and thinking and wanting. i remember reading something that changed it all for me, to the point where laying in bed and running steely eyed through the streets didnt make sense anymore. my heartache was real because i was capable of loving and that made me happier than i expected. so i bought a frozen yogurt and got the fuck over it.
my first stoned bike ride with b in the richmond was last night. it was absolutely amazing. i scraped up against so many walls hoping he wouldnt see but not really caring if he did. i laughed so much im raspier that normal this morning. i woke up tired but not exhausted. firsts are good. firsts pave way for more, for you to figure it out, to get it right.
im trying to get this right.
heres someone who got it right.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
