Archive for August, 2009

Ft. Mason Bathroom

August 20, 2009

Haiku for a Sparkly:

Lovely green sequin
Hiding in a bathroom drain,
You captivate me.
A drain in a Ft. Mason bathroom

A drain in a Ft. Mason bathroom

Home, distracted

August 16, 2009

I just found an old piece of graph paper that I found in 2004 in the first rest-stop in Florida, just across the Georgia border. I should really scan it, but for now, a transcription.

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Delaware – 10:26. Rolling Stones is the ultimate Gonzo Allyallie.

11:something AM, SomeWhere in America. Waltzing for Zizi little by little till we find our way. My smile has turned to habitual clenching of the jaw.

A culture born from the Nhile river, the cradle of civiliz evolved and blamed it all on pot. Weed is a synthetic response to all of life’s problems.

“Waves of paranoia. Creeping down my spine.” It’s 2 PM now and we’re well on our way. We’ve pushed confusion aside and swallowed paranoia. It’s not easy to avoid when your in a foreign state with a trunkload of drugs. But for now these thoughts of unsettling nature can rest; we’ve got Rage to calm us. Not calm. Sedate. Ever since I first discovered music, I’ve put it on so I wouldn’t need to talk. Vanishing is fun. The majority of this day was spent on I95 South, staring at the sky and communicating like never before. Road trips kick ass.

4:16 – We’re in South Carolina? Maybe? We’re being sleeted on. Jesus Christ Almighty. We’re coming nearer and nearer to our stated destination and there’s snow fucking everywhere! We have been continuously passing discarded cars, colored by some fanatic soccer moms in their menopause.

I just saw a crane flapping in a puddle of its own shit.

Still on I95 – Sting and the Police are soothing us now. He’s hel You all should thank him, he’s the reason I still retain the ability to write (breath, function, live; all with a human head) I, myself, am fine. AO-fuckin-KAY! but him? he’s fucking loosing it. He took too much to compensate for the loss of sleep. He’s driving after all. Now is not the time for that, not with a 3-ton steel box moving at 80 mph at his fingertips. Ha Ha, I trust him though – even if it is with my life. Edobz, don’t let me down.

“If by some fucking miracle we made it there alive… we’d have so much fun” – the help

No More Snow! We’re close. Green Life! We’re closer. 3 hundred and 33 and 3 tenths – reads the ‘trip’ meter.

We might actually… the sunset. It’s beautiful. I haven’t seen something so beautiful since I can remember. – – Red sky @ night, sailors delight.

Wait, I didn’t tell my parents I was coming here, did I? Is it 6 PM? feh, my body.

Home, sick.

August 15, 2009

Oh dear. “Last Opened: Jan 13, 2009.” That’s not good. Admittedly, I was working on several other writing projects, but still. This is the biggie. I feel sheepish.

Jumping Jack Flash

August 15, 2009

I’m taking a break from the best romantic suspense comedy featuring Whoopi Goldberg ever written. Seriously, what was it about the eighties that allowed them to try casting Whoopi and Jonathan Pryce as romantic leads? Or was it just Penny Marshall that was so badass?

Either way, it makes for good strep throat sicky watching. “I was raised by two lesbians…. Mick, Mick, Mick… Speak English!”

I’m thinking this whole strep thing is my body telling me I’m not writing enough. Or, you know, I’m not sitting on my ass resting enough, but I prefer to think my body is a little more proactive than that. So. It’s time to start up. The juices are there, the desire is there, the only problem has been the whole distraction thingie.

I mean, really. Between Robin Hood at the Paramount, BANG treasure hunts, labor history walks, folk music hootenannies, road trips, garage sales, new guys… There’s just been too much fun in town recently. And I’m just a girl who cain’t say no.

So my body started talkin’ louder. “Enough. You’re not actually a social animal, though I’m impressed you put forth the effort. You are, in fact, a scribbling loner that prefers to sit in the corner of a dark bar and type away. So get back to it!”

I’m a gettin’, I’m a gettin’. Armed with my chloraspetic spray and homemade seltzer, ignoring the micey little squeeks from the bathroom that tell me that my holiest of holy places, the immaculate bathtub, is being violated, I’m a gettin’.

Tomorrow and the next day I am ignoring the Rubik’s Cube National Championships (free), an outdoor Kamikaze Girls screening (free),  the National Women’s Rugby Championships, Hit and Run Hula, and the goddamn Anarchist Olympics, all free. Helluva fucking weekend for my body to remind me I’m a writer, not a socialite. Damn it.

Online

August 8, 2009

Why I’m not writing.

‘Nuff said. There’s too much cool stuff on the internet recently, and I have too little willpower. Sigh.