A splinter in the callous of my foot
A C note pulled from a cello
A glass of water set on the table in the living room, still.
My heart aches for simple.
I run for the bus,
away from you,
my hands in my purse, searching,
pulling, not dropping.
Sidewalk below my feet, unmoving,
collecting.
Wind in my hair and the movement is springtime
I frame postcards.
My eyelids do not flutter when I sleep.
If only, lurks in the curtains.
Envelopes, empty, line up like toy soldiers in a box.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Multitasking
My toes are hitting the sides of my shoes. This is a sign of wanderlust. The feet being uncomfortable in places they’ve been for so long. I have fun and skipped and walked quickly and hoped breathlessly and open my eyes in attempt to not see what was before me. A stack of papers and a three hole punch. Only two more binders to do. 7000 new pieces of confetti I will create. This is all fodder for wanderlust. My friend has quit his job for a second time and I am still here in my ergo chair with a ache in my neck and a paperplate as decoration. My cup has the remains of stale coffee. My teeth ache for toothpaste. Travel kits and suitcases. Living with only 2 pairs of pants and 5 pairs of socks. I am always searching for simplicity, but I usually end up in a maze of thought. Websites and paperless airplane tickets purchased digitally, essays typed to the rhythm of the squeaky printer hinges. Its 4.58 according to my computer and 4.55 according to my phone. And I wonder which ticket will be my golden one. The one where the doors open wider than my lungs can breath and when I step I will see the floor appear before my feet. Illusion allusion. I have no idea when I started this quickwrite, but it is almost time to go and I must first read Nam’s quickwrite, so I will stop typing now. My fingers are hesitant to stop as they have not achieved any kind of satisfaction from this quickwrite, the heart is still burdened with the day of accomplishing nothing/ breath and be thankful for the breath. There I have accomplished something.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
QW: Warriors
Warriors. Warriors. I think of amazons. I think of zulu warriors. I think of dancers, dancing on the street corners in paint and feathers in front of the Taco Bell. Hips and wrists moving to the beat of the street noise. A warrior on a rampage, of tears, sleeplessness and apathy shot me in the heart and I can not speak. It was a monotone bullet, a slammed door, a sigh. It was silent and untrying. She was not going to kick it to see if it was dead. She just assumed it was cold and got used to having goose bumps whenever I walked in the room. I appreciate apples now; their sweetness, grapes, mangos, cherries, daydreams, wine, a smile. But I still can’t get the bitter, chalk taste out of my mouth. I’ve washed my water bottle. I have spilled out my pockets. I delete emails one by one with the determination of warrior. One button, one tap of the finger: that’s how easy it is erase history. To forget. Do I don a warrior's outfit? a bullet proof fest, and silver sparkly things that swords can not break through. My quickwrite has been intercepted by work several times that it has turned into a slow write. I need to get out of here. I need to pray. I need to leave this place. I want to scream. I want my scream to make the jungle birds flutter their wings and squack in reply. Tears are creeping out of my eyes. I am not sure I can face tomorrow. Alone.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
edison.
what if it was 11 43 on wednesday night would you be in bed?
what if there was music with an alive beat, smiles smacking through the trumpet and the sax. The up right bassist, was upright. would you move your shoulders, would you move your feet. would you? would you care?
what if the upright bassists was so busy thinking thoughts of himself he could not hear anything else in the room. it was a all a beat for him to speak. would you still move your shoulders would you still move your feet? the death of the author? does that apply to music at a concert?
but man that beat. you just got to move your shoulders, you just got to move your feet.
what if there was music with an alive beat, smiles smacking through the trumpet and the sax. The up right bassist, was upright. would you move your shoulders, would you move your feet. would you? would you care?
what if the upright bassists was so busy thinking thoughts of himself he could not hear anything else in the room. it was a all a beat for him to speak. would you still move your shoulders would you still move your feet? the death of the author? does that apply to music at a concert?
but man that beat. you just got to move your shoulders, you just got to move your feet.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Ridiculousness of Things
1. Today at 4 pm me and my 5 closests cubicle neighbors had to pack up our personal belongings, all things left on top of our desks so that my retarded pint sized cubicle could take a deep breath jump a few inches out in every direction and grow a third wall. Tomorrow will be an exciting day.
I saw where there was much dust, left over things, forgotten things in the cracks, in the places underneath other things.
2. My heart yearns to be like my cubicle, stretching, finding and removing the dust, gaining new perspectives.
3. I am waiting to arrange the words i will invisible in a cloud of breath in a prayer in her ears. I am afraid. I am looking forward to sincerity.
I saw where there was much dust, left over things, forgotten things in the cracks, in the places underneath other things.
2. My heart yearns to be like my cubicle, stretching, finding and removing the dust, gaining new perspectives.
3. I am waiting to arrange the words i will invisible in a cloud of breath in a prayer in her ears. I am afraid. I am looking forward to sincerity.
Monday, September 17, 2007
There is a sadness in my veins. It slows and thickens my blood.
The summer air is thinning. I think about pants.
Time is as clocks do. Round Round round.
Words arranged in certain order determine:
-if we are friends
-if i go to school
-if you get a job
and that seems silly and heavy like a ton of bricks falling from a 3rd story window.
why would bricks do that.
The summer air is thinning. I think about pants.
Time is as clocks do. Round Round round.
Words arranged in certain order determine:
-if we are friends
-if i go to school
-if you get a job
and that seems silly and heavy like a ton of bricks falling from a 3rd story window.
why would bricks do that.
Sunday, September 09, 2007
Disneyland continued
[...after paying 63.00 to enter the gates of the magical kingdom, i feel that i owe myself more words on the place. After sleeping 7 hours, church and a bowl of pasta, i am ready to continue my thoughts...]
1. 90280. There was a man, shaved head, with a wife-beater tank top on. He had 5 numbers tatooed largely across his forhead. 90280. If he ever attempted an armed robbery, he would be easy to choose in a line up. I want to get a tattoo, but not that kind of tattoo. Besides all the obvious reasons that i would not care for a zip code to be permentnly inked on my forhead, I don't know if i could ever feel so loyal to one place. This man audacios. Using the us postal service as a code to aver, "I belong, here. In South Gate." The way his viens run with blood from his mama, his heart beats for south gate. Commendable.
2. It is strange experience your own death. I sat on the pirates of the carribean waiting for my favorite character: the drunk man on the bridge with dirty feet. The detail of the dirty sole just thrills me. Well, it used to. there he was singing the same old song, "yo ho yo ho, the pirates life for me..." and there I was watching. Disappointed at my lack of excitement. I can remember myself on this ride years and years ago, in awe of how it looked like the city was burning down, of the dog that would not give up the key, of the gleaming pirate treasure. But i remember myself like a character from a book, with distance, with a page of letters between now and then. I can live just fine with out this waste of electricity. But still it was sad to loose the excitement of this place.
3. Another sort of death. The death of the author. I am the author who died. I wrote many papers on this in college, but it was new to experience this death. It's a smiley kind of death, amusing. My words departed me. Through my keyboard fingertip tapping they left me for the internet. There they grew legs, and beards, maustaches, and the lilting tones of spoken word. I could see the single beam of light on the otherwise dark stage at the cafe. I hope the coffee there was good.
4. Still yet another death. She left the house for the third time on account of me and things I had told her. I had once been her, I fear, the one whose breath was held in fear. I myself am not free of fear, but trying to take the good advice to live in promises given, to live unfettered. "Take these shackles off my feet so i can dance," we sang at church. My dance feels unappreciated. I saw this one, leaving the room in tears of unnamed things. Was it fear, disappointment, misunderstanding, belief that my feet were taking me down a path of no good. I did not feel loved and i let her go, wondering how many rooms i had left like that, how many people i had left unloved. I will ask her to dance. I will slip my hand in hers and try to listen for the beat. One and two and three and... I am human. This is what my dance tells me. I am human and god has grace with me while i am trying to figure out if i want to do the two step, or the lindy hop or freestyle. I am not a very good dancer, my ears are not usually intune with the music. sometimes i feel like there is several musics waftingin through the windows and I am not sure which lead to follow. I have died. The me who stood on the edge of the dance floor looking on at the dancers. Part of me wishing i could be out there, the other part of me not wanting to stoop so low as having to get sweaty and close to the other dancers to have some fun, to live some metaphor. I once had been comfortable in my airconditioned corner, with my hair pulled back and out of my face. I will ask her to dance and be okay if i get rejected. again.
1. 90280. There was a man, shaved head, with a wife-beater tank top on. He had 5 numbers tatooed largely across his forhead. 90280. If he ever attempted an armed robbery, he would be easy to choose in a line up. I want to get a tattoo, but not that kind of tattoo. Besides all the obvious reasons that i would not care for a zip code to be permentnly inked on my forhead, I don't know if i could ever feel so loyal to one place. This man audacios. Using the us postal service as a code to aver, "I belong, here. In South Gate." The way his viens run with blood from his mama, his heart beats for south gate. Commendable.
2. It is strange experience your own death. I sat on the pirates of the carribean waiting for my favorite character: the drunk man on the bridge with dirty feet. The detail of the dirty sole just thrills me. Well, it used to. there he was singing the same old song, "yo ho yo ho, the pirates life for me..." and there I was watching. Disappointed at my lack of excitement. I can remember myself on this ride years and years ago, in awe of how it looked like the city was burning down, of the dog that would not give up the key, of the gleaming pirate treasure. But i remember myself like a character from a book, with distance, with a page of letters between now and then. I can live just fine with out this waste of electricity. But still it was sad to loose the excitement of this place.
3. Another sort of death. The death of the author. I am the author who died. I wrote many papers on this in college, but it was new to experience this death. It's a smiley kind of death, amusing. My words departed me. Through my keyboard fingertip tapping they left me for the internet. There they grew legs, and beards, maustaches, and the lilting tones of spoken word. I could see the single beam of light on the otherwise dark stage at the cafe. I hope the coffee there was good.
4. Still yet another death. She left the house for the third time on account of me and things I had told her. I had once been her, I fear, the one whose breath was held in fear. I myself am not free of fear, but trying to take the good advice to live in promises given, to live unfettered. "Take these shackles off my feet so i can dance," we sang at church. My dance feels unappreciated. I saw this one, leaving the room in tears of unnamed things. Was it fear, disappointment, misunderstanding, belief that my feet were taking me down a path of no good. I did not feel loved and i let her go, wondering how many rooms i had left like that, how many people i had left unloved. I will ask her to dance. I will slip my hand in hers and try to listen for the beat. One and two and three and... I am human. This is what my dance tells me. I am human and god has grace with me while i am trying to figure out if i want to do the two step, or the lindy hop or freestyle. I am not a very good dancer, my ears are not usually intune with the music. sometimes i feel like there is several musics waftingin through the windows and I am not sure which lead to follow. I have died. The me who stood on the edge of the dance floor looking on at the dancers. Part of me wishing i could be out there, the other part of me not wanting to stoop so low as having to get sweaty and close to the other dancers to have some fun, to live some metaphor. I once had been comfortable in my airconditioned corner, with my hair pulled back and out of my face. I will ask her to dance and be okay if i get rejected. again.
disneylandia y otras cosas
1. Tomorrowland is next to adventureland is next to critter country is next to toon town is next to the realization that disneyland is small and not at all the fantasyland i am looking for. The trees are plastic, everything has been touched by hands of people from all over california, the western u.s., the world.
2. This is a shout out to E.L. & Chanell who can not wear #5 or #45 or any number in between because she is allergic to potions of all kinds, including dust from the atmosphere, the grass that grows at the getty center and anywhere else. E and C and A taught us all that three can work, even at disneyland where most rides come in two.
3. This is a shout out to Tyrone. 36, two kids, (baby momma's drama), who babysits movie stars at the clubs, and old rich white people at museums. The museums have better benefits. His seven year old daughter can do the splits. He has pacificare, lives in the 323, and its his birthday today. He put in his application and it has been rejected.
4. I am in a room and it is dark and there is no one but me. There is a covnersation in the room to my left. and it is deep like the rio grande. How do you decide which country you want to live in, which church to join? The room on the right is home to conversation over the phone in korean. That is where i am.
5. The next person who sends me a text will be maced.
2. This is a shout out to E.L. & Chanell who can not wear #5 or #45 or any number in between because she is allergic to potions of all kinds, including dust from the atmosphere, the grass that grows at the getty center and anywhere else. E and C and A taught us all that three can work, even at disneyland where most rides come in two.
3. This is a shout out to Tyrone. 36, two kids, (baby momma's drama), who babysits movie stars at the clubs, and old rich white people at museums. The museums have better benefits. His seven year old daughter can do the splits. He has pacificare, lives in the 323, and its his birthday today. He put in his application and it has been rejected.
4. I am in a room and it is dark and there is no one but me. There is a covnersation in the room to my left. and it is deep like the rio grande. How do you decide which country you want to live in, which church to join? The room on the right is home to conversation over the phone in korean. That is where i am.
5. The next person who sends me a text will be maced.
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