Friday, July 3


My best friend and i did a lot of drugs in high school. (and even before that if we're really counting.)

Her name was a month and people often mistook us for twins, though if you looked at all you would see that she had freckles, blue eyes and a huge, laughing mouth next to my narrow nose, hazel eyes and perpetually worried brow. We wore a lot of bracelets (and she, necklaces) and painted our fingernails religiously and often. i carried all of my stuff around in a paper lunch sack because no one ever really taught me what a purse was. When folks realized i was carrying around playing cards, cigarettes, makeup and a hackey sack in that crumpled brown bag instead of a sandwich and a piece of fruit there was always just the slightest hitch in the corner of their smile and a very particular tiny flicker over their eyes– so infinitesmally brief, but i never didn't see it.

(shame was a constant undercurrent)

We drank beer behind the businesses on the main street near our homes, cut class as many times a day as we possibly could, and tripped out in the grocery store, on the railroad tracks, up in trees, in the parks... But maybe my favorite time was the night that i snuck over to her house (through the window, like ever and always) after bedtime and she and i dropped acid in her room. We laid on our backs in the pure and pulsing darkness, listening to (no: feeling) Led Zeppelin and waving sticks of incense around in the vast depths above our heads, watching the glowing ember-trails for hours, endless hours... sometimes we would smoke cigarettes and exhale up into that darkness, sensing the plume of smoke rather than actually seeing it. i think there was laughter but it was that quiet, awe-hushed almost-giggly kind.

One cloudy afternoon she and i dropped some hits and then set out for the 7-11 to buy some candy (Lemonheads, always with the Lemonheads. Still can't look at those boxes straight). The tabs hit us way quicker than usual, and within blocks we were saying 'whoa' a lot and looking at each other, alternately bug-eyed and half-lidded. The air gradually became sweeter, and we filled our lungs with what felt like euphoric sugar sunshine every time we took a breath. Palms, sweating. Tongues, tasty. Treetops rustled, and lilted gauzily while roots grew down, way deep down in the dark and acrid earth.

Then suddenly: Waitwaitwait– stop. She put her arm out in front of my chest, standing next to me. i exhaled contentedly and let my eyes close, smiling a small stupid smile. Hmmm?

Did you feel that?

Feel what? (i was feeling lots of everything)

That– that wind.
i slowly turned my head, puzzled.

i don't....... know? i offered, unsure. (i did not really know anything)

She seemed suspicious, of It All.

(As i opened my eyes the sun fractured through the clouds, sparkling all around us. Cautious birds slowly began to chirp again, and the grass swooned and bloomed into new and greener hues. i smelled a warm rosebush and watched as an airplane swam in silence through the clouds very far away, then heard someone singing along loudly to a song in their car while they crossed the Golden Gate Bridge, which was nowhere near us. Life was happening all over, and it was good. i wanted to rise up, up into the steadily blueing and cottony sky and enjoy all of that life, in that exact moment and every single one thereafter. It was so much, but just enough.)

After a few moments of looking about us guardedly, she lowered her arm. Ok, come on. The coast was clear, i guess. i snapped back down to the rough concrete sidewalk and ticking sprinkler on the lawn next to us. The hedges pulsed, and seemed to titter.

i took a deep breath, grabbed her hand and began to move, almost on tiptoe, suddenly concerned with the possibility of confronting this unknown force.
And within two steps i felt it.

That wind.

We looked at each other, startled, and stopped moving again. The wind abruptly ceased. We waited, then took a few tentative steps, got back into a pace, and by gum there it was again. So it was us! We were doing it! (i felt lighter than air itself. were my feet on the ground?)

In a blink, everything changed. This was a pure, clear, joyful breeze. It danced around us and caressed our bare arms playfully. It was happy to be here; only benevolence existed. We held hands and laughed and laughed, and continued on our merry way, smiling with the new knowledge that we were creating the wind. All else around us still existed, but was washed and faded into a background. It was only us, with that sweet rush of air following along.

We were powerful, and kind.

(All we ever wanted was happiness)

Saturday, June 13

i step through the hazy angle of a cloud shadow
and out from the safety of the sun,
into the murky half-dark
that milky ecliptic light
settling in uneasily all around me–
pooling into crevices and caressing startled surfaces
like an icky cling film shrinking and tightening
on all of us, every thing

(if you could measure the temperature this light would be tepid)

my boots rush and whoosh through the lengthening grass
hurry, now
can’t escape this chalky, opaque light
the wateriness gently chokes me
i swim, while drowning.

Friday, June 5

Hickory dickory dock

There was once a lengthy period of my life during which i always existed twenty minutes ahead, in the future.

i was late a lot. (Well, we were late a lot.) We knew we would always be late. So why was it so hard to move faster, or start earlier, and thereby fix the problem? Seemed insurmountable as obstacles go. So one day we set out to trick ourselves. First it was five, then ten, and before long every clock in the apartment was set twenty minutes fast. (why did we stop there? no one knows.) Bathroom, bedroom, microwave, living room... our computer and mp3 players were normal time zones, so there really wasn't very much temporal continuity. When i would get to work (sometimes still, late) the clock there did not match my iPod's.

How does anyone ever really know what time it is?

(Airplanes are full of time-travelers.)

Tuesday, June 2


an actual angel arrived.

besotted, billy bowed

clarions clamoring,

din developed...

everyone else elbowed

for first–

groping, groveling.

his heart hastened,

ichor ischemic.

jubilance jettisoned.

kids kicking

lapsed, lulled.

massive mountains moaned–

near & 'neath nebulous

old oak outcried of

protest; portentous paroxysms

quickly & quietly quelled.

rather rapacious realities rested.

so senses shook

truly to the taproot, & tempered

unrest, upheaval underneath

vast, verdant valleys.

well worn, we waited

extemporaneous, xeric.

you, youth–

zealous zoomorphs

Tuesday, January 13

Totall recall

Do oil painters remember each stroke, each independent mix of colors, each region of each canvas? The time they pressed hard enough for some of the pain to wrap around the edge of the canvas, or the time they didn't lay enough paint down but left it that way?

More urgently to me just now is: do authors remember all of their prose?

A few years ago i read a book that was written by a fond acquaintance of mine. She was kind enough to send me a copy with a personal handwritten note in the front jacket. It was an enjoyable read, and felt more than a little autobiographical (hey– write what you know, right?). There was a cold grey Northern California beach, a teacher, and a murder. The one thing i remember most about it, though, was this phrase: 'concrete apron'. As in, 'he looked out across the concrete apron of his driveway to the street beyond'. i immediately felt a small thrill; i was thirty years old and an avid reader, but had never once heard the word 'apron' used that way.

Five years later, i still remember this phrase. It pops into my head every so often and i marvel at it, turning it around to look at it from every angle. And i always remember the story (it was early in the book, too– first chapter even, maybe), and then the girl who wrote it. But then one day i wondered:

Does she remember it?

Does she remember writing it? Did it pop into her head randomly one day while out driving, or did she crack open a thesaurus some rainy afternoon while writing her rough draft and hunt for a synonym to the word 'driveway'? Or did she perhaps know someone who laid concrete for a living and heard them use the word in passing while discussing a recent job site? Does she even remember that it is in there? i don't know why these thoughts obsess me. i could easily send her a message on Facebook and ask her about those two little words... but then, if she had forgotten them, i would be making her once again privy to my own little secret pleasure.

Although if we're being honest, she is the one who gave me that treasure in the first place– i may as well hand it back to her.


And speaking of handing back: i woke up the other day with the phrase 'Mrs. Jessop handed her the pen' ringing in my brain; to my knowledge i did not read it anywhere and it was just some random unique string of words that coalesced in the folds of my brain for some reason. i immediately pictured some beautiful old drawing room, with portraits on the wall and ferns everywhere, dust motes falling gently through the sunlight streaming in that breaks up the darkness. Mrs. Jessop has her hair up in a large loose poofy bun and is wearing Victorian clothing. Her face is hurried and shows a bit of distaste as she hands the pen off to [        ], who i am drawing a complete blank on. Funny how that works.


A super creepy dream i woke from about four mornings ago:
i was explaining to someone, 'here is what happens when i blink:' [i somehow illustrate/convey to them the idea of an afterimage] ' has a history of sadness in Sweden.'

Yes, yes of course. The Swedes. They would totally find afterimages melancholy. ?!?

It should also be mentioned that just before i went to sleep i was lying on my bed staring at the light on the ceiling (had thrown my back out and was trying to stretch it) and kept zoning out on it for too long then tearing my eyes away abruptly to the clean slate of the ceiling only to see the inverse-color version of the light fixture. This happened over and over again. Enough, apparently, to burn deep into my psyche (and, likely, my retinas).


Lost two of my absolute favorite buttons in 2014 (the first one just this most recent new year's eve):

i'd open up my heart, but then all of the hostile undertones would escape


i've stopped worrying... and that has me worried!

...of course i want to try and find replacements but then it occurred to me: as hilarious as these sentiments are, maybe i lost them for a reason. (Is it possible to read too much into the reading into of things? Lordy.) Let 2015 be better. Please, please let it be better. It is already too much and it's not even February yet.