Resist your mouth. There are no words to say to make it better. Like a pencil drawing, that been too much mussed over, no more pencil marks can make it appear more beautiful or more accurate. Sit and agonize in the misplaced lines that will always be there. Music pumped rhyming emotion into the car, while I wished I could join the sky in the endless, a place my lungs have often longed for, when I have allowed them deep breaths.
At Lulu Carpenter’s the music was just right: nostalgia beaten out of guitars in a way that makes it not hurt so much. Three girls sat, triangled, like points on a graph, lines that intersect for now, but with different trajectories and speed, we race towards heaven. Time being, until the coffee shop closes, we are a photograph, with laughing lips and lighted eyes, we try to describe the lines we are living.
From the wavering forest seen from the balcony at the Merrill Apts, to the white caps in the bay the wind blew with a large appetite, trying to swallow me whole. Rolling up my pants legs and wrapping my sweater about me, I laid my head on a bench in the sun and soak up the sun like tree leaves.
The Red Room is busy, when we arrived at midnight, staking out some cushioned chairs in this public living room, some friends brought back drinks. My eyes search the shadowy crowds. They are shadowy because of the dim lighting, and because the faces in the crowd lick my memory, whetting an appetite for familiar, reminding me of Once Upon A Time. Besides the cold sweaty glass in my hand, there is nothing to hang onto. The conversations buzz about me like trapeze artists, I relax into this circus.
I had no right to go metalingual, metaliteral; to repeat any of the lyrics. I’m sorry. I lost that right when I took the lid off the pressure cooker. I woke with guilt lodged in my throat like down comforter. I tossed and turned, trying to breath through the feathers. A poem I wrote in ninth grade came back to me word for word:
“I want to build an army
A thousand apologies strong,
March it through my past,
Say I’m sorry too many times.
But they will ask what is feeding my soldiers
And I won’t open that grab bag of worries."
I fell asleep again, when I remembered that it is always darkest before the dawn, and when morning came, perhaps it would be better.
I think I got drunk on Santa Cruz. The sparkling ocean. The breathable forest. The blue sky that was blue. Rich foods, eating out with friends in restaurants haunted with memory. Hug after hug after hug.
Now I am hung-over, in smoggy, sun dried LA. My stomach gnarls with a hunger I have no desire to satiate. I am reminding myself that is as wonderful and real as everything that came before.
Tuesday, May 30, 2006
Sunday, May 28, 2006
B is for Between
Somewhere between the vodka and the cranberry, I saw God’s grace.
Somewhere between the nod hello, and the how are you, I saw God’s grace.
Somewhere between the guitars dancing with silence, I saw God’s grace.
Somewhere between the constellation of an audience and the stage I saw God’s grace.
B is for between. Between the parking and the bowling, I saw the makeuped faces of American Idol, in a crowd of enthusiasm and lust, I just wanted through. Between the bowling and the knitting factory, I walked in moment of solitude. Hollywood blvd is a strange place to be between places. I saw a little black girl, no more than 4 selling Kit Kats and King sized Reese’s Pieces; there is not much between LA and Tijuana where the street kids sells chicle, except the size of their candy. I browsed the tourist markets of postcards and t-shirts without interest, nor boredom. I sat on a stair for a moment to rest my feet and wondered if I looked like a runaway. I pulled out my cell phone when someone passed so they would not know I was just looking at the way the sun came down even to Hollywood blvd, and danced with the not so distant mountain tops. And I saw God’s grace in that.
The music came into my body and touched places that had long been untouched: The inner ear; the space between internal organs, between the lungs and heart, between the stomach and liver—they vibrated with the loudspeakers. And I allowed myself to move, to be moved, by the words I could not understand, by the earnestness with which the musicians played. By the drummer who beat out the backbone of the song with one hand, shook the egg shaped percussion with the other hand and sang the back up into the lip-level mike.
Somewhere between the darkness and the loudness, between the ear plugs and the listening, between the soap bubbles and the beer bottles, between the drive home and the opening of the door, between the Wednesday night and the Thursday morning, between the see-you-later and the walk away, between the old faces I never thought I’d see again and the new faces I probably will never see again, some where between the pieces and the whole picture, I saw the grace of God
Somewhere between the nod hello, and the how are you, I saw God’s grace.
Somewhere between the guitars dancing with silence, I saw God’s grace.
Somewhere between the constellation of an audience and the stage I saw God’s grace.
B is for between. Between the parking and the bowling, I saw the makeuped faces of American Idol, in a crowd of enthusiasm and lust, I just wanted through. Between the bowling and the knitting factory, I walked in moment of solitude. Hollywood blvd is a strange place to be between places. I saw a little black girl, no more than 4 selling Kit Kats and King sized Reese’s Pieces; there is not much between LA and Tijuana where the street kids sells chicle, except the size of their candy. I browsed the tourist markets of postcards and t-shirts without interest, nor boredom. I sat on a stair for a moment to rest my feet and wondered if I looked like a runaway. I pulled out my cell phone when someone passed so they would not know I was just looking at the way the sun came down even to Hollywood blvd, and danced with the not so distant mountain tops. And I saw God’s grace in that.
The music came into my body and touched places that had long been untouched: The inner ear; the space between internal organs, between the lungs and heart, between the stomach and liver—they vibrated with the loudspeakers. And I allowed myself to move, to be moved, by the words I could not understand, by the earnestness with which the musicians played. By the drummer who beat out the backbone of the song with one hand, shook the egg shaped percussion with the other hand and sang the back up into the lip-level mike.
Somewhere between the darkness and the loudness, between the ear plugs and the listening, between the soap bubbles and the beer bottles, between the drive home and the opening of the door, between the Wednesday night and the Thursday morning, between the see-you-later and the walk away, between the old faces I never thought I’d see again and the new faces I probably will never see again, some where between the pieces and the whole picture, I saw the grace of God
Tuesday, May 23, 2006
Digestive Disease Week 2006
Its digestive diseases week and people walk around downtown with purple satchels advertising medicines; they call this a convention.
I stand near the corner of Ninth and Figueroa, because this is where the buildings part enough to let the sunlight down. I think _ _ _ _ must be a digestive disease, and part of me wants to ask for a purple bag so I adverstise too. I watch the stilled machinery of gentrification, the large cranes, cement blocks and other expensive things. I think about heart and hurts and heart of hearts and hearts of hurt and Hallelujahs. The Los Angeles morning is whirring with anticipation, w-w-work that must be done. I am as still as the unused machinery across the street in the dirt lot where there will be a building one day. Crayola never named a crayon after Los Angeles blue sky morning, because even at its most brilliant there is something muted about it, like a breath that has been breathed too many times.
It’s 8:06 and I am now on company time. There is no time for hurts and hearts. I must begin to whir with the rest of them.
I stand near the corner of Ninth and Figueroa, because this is where the buildings part enough to let the sunlight down. I think _ _ _ _ must be a digestive disease, and part of me wants to ask for a purple bag so I adverstise too. I watch the stilled machinery of gentrification, the large cranes, cement blocks and other expensive things. I think about heart and hurts and heart of hearts and hearts of hurt and Hallelujahs. The Los Angeles morning is whirring with anticipation, w-w-work that must be done. I am as still as the unused machinery across the street in the dirt lot where there will be a building one day. Crayola never named a crayon after Los Angeles blue sky morning, because even at its most brilliant there is something muted about it, like a breath that has been breathed too many times.
It’s 8:06 and I am now on company time. There is no time for hurts and hearts. I must begin to whir with the rest of them.
Monday, May 15, 2006
Funny Bone
“This is Jim Stewart; I keep calling and no one is answering, I tried Mary earlier, Please call me back. I am getting frustrated. I have an urgent situation”
I dial the number and listen to the ring, bracing myself for anger.
A Receptionist answers. I respond, surprised Jim is not yet yelling at me, “Hi, This is Alessandra calling from Blue Cross, returning Jim Stewarts call”
The receptionist calls me Alexandra, but I don’t correct her, what do I care what she calls me? I am put on hold, 3 times, and asked to clarify who I am three times before Jim answers the phone:
“Hello?”
“Is this Jim?” I ask trying to sound professional and capable.
There is a millisecond of silence “This is Alessandra from Blue Cross” I say quickly as though my name was the gold he had been looking for.
“Oh, I thought you were my daughter Alexandra”
This time it is me who pauses, and he who fills the silence.
“Let me take care of this call on the other line” I am put on hold again.
I am someone’s daughter; I relish the hello he first said, the hello of a father, a business man father, who puts his client on hold to say hello to his daughter. “Hello” I try to remember the tone, but no, its gone, in the noise of everything else. But for a moment I had it. The hello of a father who loves his daughter.
Jim Stewart returns to the phone. He is no longer a father, but a frustrated broker, I transfer his call to Mary’s cell phone and pray she will answer when I see he will not be satisfied with me taking a message. I want to assuage his frustration like the presence of his daughter.
I am no longer a beloved daughter. Like a doctor testing my reflexes, his hello struck my funny bone.
I dial the number and listen to the ring, bracing myself for anger.
A Receptionist answers. I respond, surprised Jim is not yet yelling at me, “Hi, This is Alessandra calling from Blue Cross, returning Jim Stewarts call”
The receptionist calls me Alexandra, but I don’t correct her, what do I care what she calls me? I am put on hold, 3 times, and asked to clarify who I am three times before Jim answers the phone:
“Hello?”
“Is this Jim?” I ask trying to sound professional and capable.
There is a millisecond of silence “This is Alessandra from Blue Cross” I say quickly as though my name was the gold he had been looking for.
“Oh, I thought you were my daughter Alexandra”
This time it is me who pauses, and he who fills the silence.
“Let me take care of this call on the other line” I am put on hold again.
I am someone’s daughter; I relish the hello he first said, the hello of a father, a business man father, who puts his client on hold to say hello to his daughter. “Hello” I try to remember the tone, but no, its gone, in the noise of everything else. But for a moment I had it. The hello of a father who loves his daughter.
Jim Stewart returns to the phone. He is no longer a father, but a frustrated broker, I transfer his call to Mary’s cell phone and pray she will answer when I see he will not be satisfied with me taking a message. I want to assuage his frustration like the presence of his daughter.
I am no longer a beloved daughter. Like a doctor testing my reflexes, his hello struck my funny bone.
Saturday, May 06, 2006
seven 25-cent thoughts
1. On Centipedes and Domestic Partnership Coverage:
There was a little creature probably an inch long with many many millions of legs in my desk plant... where did it come from? At first I was going to leave it there to be my friend... but then I got a picture of millions of these leggy-worms infesting my plant eating it and me, so I scooped it up with a paper clip and threw it away. I did not kill it, but I hope that it can not climb out of the slippery plastic trash liner. I looked in my trashcan and did not see it. I hope that its still there and not crawling along to the floor to my pant leg. I threw some orange peels into the trash. I am sure he will like to nuzzle with them. People take life too seriously about the wrong things: What kind of Domestic Partnership coverage does BlaBla Group have? If you don’t tell me in the next five minutes my desk will explode killing me and then how will I get my job done? I try to calm them down with niceties... “Okay, I will look into that and call you back” I use my sugar voice implying “don’t worry honey-child things will be just fine”. People are so busy trying to figure out CA domestic partnership laws and other useless things that they have no more brainspace to think about death life and salvation. So this is not completely true... I am exaggerating... hyperbolating... but I think it is somewhat true. Perhaps its not just DP laws, but how much does it cost to build a building, how do I beat the 405 traffic, how do I find a higher paying job, what kind of hair cut would look sexiest with my face shape. Truth be told these are all not just mundane things, but temporary. I get caught in them too. But its easier to see when it’s a broker yelling at me about Domestic Partnership coverage.
2. On Potty Training and Road Trips:
I was potty trained on a road trip. I had my little plastic potty and when I needed to use the potty we pulled over on the road some where between Los Angeles and the Dakotas. My mom would pull out the plastic potty out of the car, put it on the side of the road. And I would sit and pee, cars going by. I don’t remember this, but I’ve seen the pictures and in the pictures I’m smiling. Apparently potty training on the side of the road was quite enjoyable. I wonder if this explains why I get desirous for certain kinds of instability: new places, moving or traveling, furniture rearrangements, new journals, new backgrounds on my computer. Each morning my routine is different. However, I still have my need for the familiar, the stable, like my blanket on my bed. I do love my bed and prefer to sleep there, however I can sleep just about anywhere if I have my blanket or something equally as flannel.
3. A poem for Hey You
What’s it take to become a freeway running every direction, time zone, era
Rainbow man with leather hands. He spoke from slave ships to birth when they put you in this room windows to How long you been in LA. I just got here this morning every morning I wake up and I just get here. I don’t got no name ewyoqi vnaot ot thw [alnce K Everybody’s got a name. qoeiur gbwl ;q some woman calls :powqieurq;ljxczvo kaldjf sometime someone baby, call me fella, hey you, yeah hey you I come to LA what that word when you don’t want anybody to know yeah anonymous railroad run over your girl they kill you a nigg* want you dead in the old gangs could be one there they look nice well fed caiur a castrate you once met aeij a;ewpri aab;new someone nice in front of that building rent me a room something about F * C K and then apeori t;owhet owng. Oue the. Aoepr cuz its not real Don’t a;eir;iakdm I learn how to undress em with your eyes. My wife before she fell in love with me I from there by the turnpike when I was jail 15 16 years old work permit. You jewish. Or your anglo saxon. Your great great great grandfather was a pirate on the slaves ship steal the money then let them go sell the slaves to make up for it. He’s chewing on his sandwich strong bites cuz he only got the lower front teeth washing it down with milk he spits and smiles when he talks he asks the passer bys for money even though were sitting a table in subway. I didn’t say nothing about aower owht o he gsotre ptn ba k pmal drugs I said medicine a policea weri laq[ l got shot and took perkadin I need vicadin the pain. Could you spare me a few dollars how bout you you got some okay a salami sandwhich He knew Subway had garlic bread but then opted for the jalepeno. He had two kinds of cheese and foot long instead of twelve and looked at me every time the sandwich maker said it would cost more. He knew exactly how to open the milk plastic bottle and pulled out the half smoked cigarette when we left the restaurant stretching feeling his belly thank you stomach feels good. He stretched out his hand to shake aoe qhet opt ehwo fosr for law mewoiut now. Oieur laien p[q[m .a iuer l ...
4. On Body Heat
The Air conditioning is broken in our building. I don’t know if this is true, they might have just not turned it on today. There were fire trucks outside and my account manager said there was flooding in the parking garage. She said they valet parked her car because of it. So today the building is running on half. I guess I will not report the blinking fluorescent light above my desk to maintenance, the flooding sounds a bit more urgent. Today we must deal with our body heat. It’s the first time in a long time I have not needed a jacket while I sit and stare at my desk. The windows don’t open. Without the air condition, I am reminded of this high-rise truth. I am aware of my skin today and where it ends. It makes me feel a bit claustrophobic.
5. A poem for Celeste
53 and homeless I never thought I would be.
I was staying with my mom in Fontana. She died six months ago. Everything fell apart.
My mother turning in her grave if she knew I was holding this sign, begging:
“Everything Helps. Blessings to you.” Written on the back of a poster for a new Tom Cruise movie.
They make me feel so small. I don’t know what to say. Thank you for stopping today.
No one ever does. No one even looks. I got a secret, walk with me, I can’t tell everybody this.
More than lunch, I want underwear and socks. I’ve been in these clothes so long. I don’t want to tell you girls.
We got to be out of the shelters at 5:30am.
Pray that I get a home. Pray that I get a job.
I’ll just stand here if they let me. I got to make money. I also want new pants.
Am I doing something wrong? Tell me, am I doing something wrong?
I don’t know. I don’t know.
We walk away from Celeste and she turns into a statue, with her sign and her bag.
Her eyes stare off at some invisible thing like the drawbridge between her and the sidewalk throngs.
6. On Elevators
You’d think in the last 100 years or so since elevators have been around, we would have found some way to deal with them besides awkard silence.
The elevator stops and you get on there is someone already on. You walk in as far from the person as the elevator permits and turn and face the doors/buttons. You may cough once just to break the silence. If you daring you might make a comment on the weather, or compliment the other persons shoes. They will grunt a yes or a thank you. You turn back into social beings once outside the moving box.
7. I feel sad. My Friday balloon has been burst. Which is rather ironic because there was a “pep rally” today with free cookies and announcements and free money for hard workers and actual balloons with helium. The management gave the announcement the one co. one team came up with. I felt a bit stolen. Then I got an email that my email privacy taken away from me (my supervisor is going to have access to me inbox). Also, starting next week I will have three account managers to assist rather than just two. Two is very manageable. Three makes me feel like I’m in a whirlwind. The Account Manager I am getting is a whirlwind herself. She uses clichés she to talk up a storm. She prints every email, well actually she prints everything that is printable. And since she has become a senior account manager she has a printer at her desk! She is very friendly and knowledgeable, though, at least she is not perverse nor scary.
There was a little creature probably an inch long with many many millions of legs in my desk plant... where did it come from? At first I was going to leave it there to be my friend... but then I got a picture of millions of these leggy-worms infesting my plant eating it and me, so I scooped it up with a paper clip and threw it away. I did not kill it, but I hope that it can not climb out of the slippery plastic trash liner. I looked in my trashcan and did not see it. I hope that its still there and not crawling along to the floor to my pant leg. I threw some orange peels into the trash. I am sure he will like to nuzzle with them. People take life too seriously about the wrong things: What kind of Domestic Partnership coverage does BlaBla Group have? If you don’t tell me in the next five minutes my desk will explode killing me and then how will I get my job done? I try to calm them down with niceties... “Okay, I will look into that and call you back” I use my sugar voice implying “don’t worry honey-child things will be just fine”. People are so busy trying to figure out CA domestic partnership laws and other useless things that they have no more brainspace to think about death life and salvation. So this is not completely true... I am exaggerating... hyperbolating... but I think it is somewhat true. Perhaps its not just DP laws, but how much does it cost to build a building, how do I beat the 405 traffic, how do I find a higher paying job, what kind of hair cut would look sexiest with my face shape. Truth be told these are all not just mundane things, but temporary. I get caught in them too. But its easier to see when it’s a broker yelling at me about Domestic Partnership coverage.
2. On Potty Training and Road Trips:
I was potty trained on a road trip. I had my little plastic potty and when I needed to use the potty we pulled over on the road some where between Los Angeles and the Dakotas. My mom would pull out the plastic potty out of the car, put it on the side of the road. And I would sit and pee, cars going by. I don’t remember this, but I’ve seen the pictures and in the pictures I’m smiling. Apparently potty training on the side of the road was quite enjoyable. I wonder if this explains why I get desirous for certain kinds of instability: new places, moving or traveling, furniture rearrangements, new journals, new backgrounds on my computer. Each morning my routine is different. However, I still have my need for the familiar, the stable, like my blanket on my bed. I do love my bed and prefer to sleep there, however I can sleep just about anywhere if I have my blanket or something equally as flannel.
3. A poem for Hey You
What’s it take to become a freeway running every direction, time zone, era
Rainbow man with leather hands. He spoke from slave ships to birth when they put you in this room windows to How long you been in LA. I just got here this morning every morning I wake up and I just get here. I don’t got no name ewyoqi vnaot ot thw [alnce K Everybody’s got a name. qoeiur gbwl ;q some woman calls :powqieurq;ljxczvo kaldjf sometime someone baby, call me fella, hey you, yeah hey you I come to LA what that word when you don’t want anybody to know yeah anonymous railroad run over your girl they kill you a nigg* want you dead in the old gangs could be one there they look nice well fed caiur a castrate you once met aeij a;ewpri aab;new someone nice in front of that building rent me a room something about F * C K and then apeori t;owhet owng. Oue the. Aoepr cuz its not real Don’t a;eir;iakdm I learn how to undress em with your eyes. My wife before she fell in love with me I from there by the turnpike when I was jail 15 16 years old work permit. You jewish. Or your anglo saxon. Your great great great grandfather was a pirate on the slaves ship steal the money then let them go sell the slaves to make up for it. He’s chewing on his sandwich strong bites cuz he only got the lower front teeth washing it down with milk he spits and smiles when he talks he asks the passer bys for money even though were sitting a table in subway. I didn’t say nothing about aower owht o he gsotre ptn ba k pmal drugs I said medicine a policea weri laq[ l got shot and took perkadin I need vicadin the pain. Could you spare me a few dollars how bout you you got some okay a salami sandwhich He knew Subway had garlic bread but then opted for the jalepeno. He had two kinds of cheese and foot long instead of twelve and looked at me every time the sandwich maker said it would cost more. He knew exactly how to open the milk plastic bottle and pulled out the half smoked cigarette when we left the restaurant stretching feeling his belly thank you stomach feels good. He stretched out his hand to shake aoe qhet opt ehwo fosr for law mewoiut now. Oieur laien p[q[m .a iuer l ...
4. On Body Heat
The Air conditioning is broken in our building. I don’t know if this is true, they might have just not turned it on today. There were fire trucks outside and my account manager said there was flooding in the parking garage. She said they valet parked her car because of it. So today the building is running on half. I guess I will not report the blinking fluorescent light above my desk to maintenance, the flooding sounds a bit more urgent. Today we must deal with our body heat. It’s the first time in a long time I have not needed a jacket while I sit and stare at my desk. The windows don’t open. Without the air condition, I am reminded of this high-rise truth. I am aware of my skin today and where it ends. It makes me feel a bit claustrophobic.
5. A poem for Celeste
53 and homeless I never thought I would be.
I was staying with my mom in Fontana. She died six months ago. Everything fell apart.
My mother turning in her grave if she knew I was holding this sign, begging:
“Everything Helps. Blessings to you.” Written on the back of a poster for a new Tom Cruise movie.
They make me feel so small. I don’t know what to say. Thank you for stopping today.
No one ever does. No one even looks. I got a secret, walk with me, I can’t tell everybody this.
More than lunch, I want underwear and socks. I’ve been in these clothes so long. I don’t want to tell you girls.
We got to be out of the shelters at 5:30am.
Pray that I get a home. Pray that I get a job.
I’ll just stand here if they let me. I got to make money. I also want new pants.
Am I doing something wrong? Tell me, am I doing something wrong?
I don’t know. I don’t know.
We walk away from Celeste and she turns into a statue, with her sign and her bag.
Her eyes stare off at some invisible thing like the drawbridge between her and the sidewalk throngs.
6. On Elevators
You’d think in the last 100 years or so since elevators have been around, we would have found some way to deal with them besides awkard silence.
The elevator stops and you get on there is someone already on. You walk in as far from the person as the elevator permits and turn and face the doors/buttons. You may cough once just to break the silence. If you daring you might make a comment on the weather, or compliment the other persons shoes. They will grunt a yes or a thank you. You turn back into social beings once outside the moving box.
7. I feel sad. My Friday balloon has been burst. Which is rather ironic because there was a “pep rally” today with free cookies and announcements and free money for hard workers and actual balloons with helium. The management gave the announcement the one co. one team came up with. I felt a bit stolen. Then I got an email that my email privacy taken away from me (my supervisor is going to have access to me inbox). Also, starting next week I will have three account managers to assist rather than just two. Two is very manageable. Three makes me feel like I’m in a whirlwind. The Account Manager I am getting is a whirlwind herself. She uses clichés she to talk up a storm. She prints every email, well actually she prints everything that is printable. And since she has become a senior account manager she has a printer at her desk! She is very friendly and knowledgeable, though, at least she is not perverse nor scary.
Wednesday, May 03, 2006
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
Technology destroyed me the way BBQ sauce soaks into marinating meat.
My purpose was to turn letters, to reveal the mysteries on Wheel of Fortune
Back when 6,000 dollars was a lot of money to win, before they digitalized.
The Hollywood cliché is like a cookie cutter; my name, my face the excess dough.
The stage lights bake me. My hands callous from clapping. My teeth wear thin from smiling.
My elbows no longer bend. Barefoot, I only tip toe.
At the end of the day I am thrown into my dream house.
I lay still and think about the dress I will wear tomorrow;
the hands that will come dress me, zip me, comb my hair, and prop me in my place
to wait for the lights to turn on.
My purpose was to turn letters, to reveal the mysteries on Wheel of Fortune
Back when 6,000 dollars was a lot of money to win, before they digitalized.
The Hollywood cliché is like a cookie cutter; my name, my face the excess dough.
The stage lights bake me. My hands callous from clapping. My teeth wear thin from smiling.
My elbows no longer bend. Barefoot, I only tip toe.
At the end of the day I am thrown into my dream house.
I lay still and think about the dress I will wear tomorrow;
the hands that will come dress me, zip me, comb my hair, and prop me in my place
to wait for the lights to turn on.
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