August 4, 2017 § Leave a comment
The other night, I was standing and eating Cap’n Crunch. I have some tarot cards on top of the bookcase and sometimes I stand there and pull one card out and announce it’s the day’s theme or something. I love the images and reading into them, and they might be reading me back.
I received the queen of pentacles, or, as it’s called in my splendid weirdo feminist witch deck, the priestess of discs. I imagine a glorious topless pothead with a frisbee, for sure my alter ego.
The book I have that explains the art in the cards pointed out that this lady in this card is the mistress of craft, the money queen, an earth goddess of compassion. “She respects her body as a vehicle,” book whispered.
Dis lady is sitting in front of a marijuana bush with a fucking parrot in it, dis lady got a baby just sitting on the ground. She takes care of her body– I’m laughing with a sloppy mouth full of Cap’n Corn — till I read that she is called Corn Mother. You know how it goes with da cards.
The cards don’t want to be mocked. They know that when it comes to trusting them, I’m half a single raised eyebrow and half a stoned parrot in a mystical tree.
But let’s be for real here. The highest truth is in play. That’s why all my characters tend to cry and fart in equal measure. AND why I eat Cap’n Crontz when I’m contemplating the void. You can roll around on the floor dying all you want, but you add a pair of rollerblades, and baby, you’ve got a stew going!
February 25, 2017 § Leave a comment
the question isn’t why was he such an embarrassing artist and so terrible to you, but why did you let such an embarrassing terrible person inside you? you were so worried about what he was worried about, his peepee. standing curved over, knees bent, wearing his birthday suit and a hemp choker. a catch for the ages, the paragon.
the ladies before he existed and the ladies born after his ashes turn to ashes–they don’t know what they were missing with his humped back, bare feet on the tile and the vanity lights half burned out.
understandably, it’s hard to know what you’re doing with your life when you’re concerned with how much your pubic hair has grown back. you can’t see at all. i mean see the situation with him for what it is, but also the pubic hair that’s hiding from the mirror hung on the back of the bedroom door. and if you try and lay on your back on the bed halfway across the room, if you try to crane up and see your valley’s forest layout in the mirror, you won’t get the details you’re looking for, only an image of a wounded animal knocked on its back with its legs curled up, rocking itself to get back on its feet.
he was such an unrepentant pyschopath it’s a wonder the universe has forgiven you at all for shtupping so low. even all these years later you’re still trying to figure out what about all that could have possibly felt right.
May 22, 2016 § Leave a comment
Angel Olsen is killing me. today all of a sudden not really i remembered music and how that is. we drove to the library today. the whole ipod on shuffle, liberal with the skip.
the other thing was that earlier i looked through every photo of me on facebook in hopes of finding a new profile picture. to re-enter the fray. but why look to the past to represent the present, if a profile picture represents anything, anyway? no answer yet. i saw a picture i drew on mspaint of a moment i had with julian casablancas during a strokes show. we all agreed it was very much a moment, that his dead eyes and stylish husk stopped longer than normal in front of me, and the bouncer was very kind to let me touch his hair.
so today somewhere towards the library the strokes came on. that combined with the mspaint scene. i remembered who i was when i was 19. i am not that person anymore so here is an elegy to that scattered mess of a proto-woman who loved with her whole body but directed said love like an orange rolling blindly down a curb gutter. that person who schemed in her pea coat and new balances and crafted aim away messages for the boy in irish literature who never seemed to do any work but tucked his shirt in.
a person liberal with the eyebrow tweezer. dedicated to and untalented with her nikon camera, steadfast to film, not that digital crap. who tried on a cancer wig and saw the rough arc of the human experience in 7 months and rode the bus to the hospital. who illustrated vulvas on t-shirts for the upcoming performance of the vagina monologues.
that girl drank a lot of dasani, drank whatever else was available, wore a black tanga, made forts, slept on uncapped pens. feng shui-ed the dorm. schemed and schemed. signed an ex-nothing up for scat porn emails. lived in a thick layer of self-hatred, charmed her way around, begged for suggestions as to what to do with her appearance. saw silence of the lambs and secretary. none of her various idolized tools deserved her but she persisted anyway thinking perhaps the right man had taken the form of a pretentious gaslighting asshat.
she was an underbaked shiksa blogger (called livejournaler?) with doughy promise and such squeezing, pressing unmet needs. a sloppy wobbling superstitious ingénue. such an unrolled, obvious, glowing idiot. you were quite a sight.
May 15, 2016 § Leave a comment
Holy moly driving around, a warm breeze coming from all directions. i write every twelfth thought. something like that is only half-grounded anyway. if it was full-grounded: what a shudder. i have not the constitution.
my skin gets darker in the summer, let the beat drop and hold the prayer close — even the permanent marker on the t-shirt fades. overall, nothing is permanent, not even that buzzing sound coming from underneath your clothes.
it does not feel like the end of the year, because the weather is such a disappointing person. this year i wrote “ugh” and “sigh” on papers that i’ll never give out, realized students do not know my writing. does not matter.
the way the t-shirt hangs. where it drapes is like an invitation.
January 20, 2016 § Leave a comment
your potpourri dreams, tablescapes with swan napkins and a blonde wood pepper grinder. your dream is underfoot, is flattened under the weight of this new bamboo placemat made from sustainable eco-goats.
the chair pull itself out and asks, where have you been?
i did the budget today and felt how easy it was. it was so easy. i logged in and thought, this is tedious busywork that i enjoy, and all this time i have mistaken it for a challenge. what is a challenge? how do people stay on track? how do people not dive roll out of moving cars all the time?
i’m going to write a cookbook and name it Gross Recipes from the 70s. i want cottage cheese to make a comeback, egg noodles and golden raisins. i don’t understand the colors from then, because it means that my colors from now have the potential to be putrid and embarrassing.
avocado, mustard, orange
dove, emerald, cobalt.
i want to get back into the gut, stick my hand in the blender and over-enunciate FRAPPE
quinoa chevre bacon sriacha asiago pomegranate streettaco. acai kale flatbread
i’ll see you at the book signing
June 23, 2015 § Leave a comment
up late again, reading reviews of marshmallows. oh boy.
i bear down like i want the horse to get there, yesterday. no one gives a fuck about your table numbers.
truth talk. that’s my wedding theme: no one gives a fuck. they just want free food. and favors, that’s a thing. “thanks for being my friend!” i sort of thought renting 12 cabins was a favor. “they’ll be so glad!”
you think you can do it differently, but that’s just a single pearlescent bead on your vintage heirloom bracelet of majestic delusions.
the centerpiece titanic blue heart charm, bought from pandora’s box of thoughtlessly named stores, is the idea that you yourself don’t care about all this. “ha ha!” (drinks tap water from a pyrex measuring cup) “i don’t care about such frippery!”
“it’s a celebration of our love.”
the fuck it is. i love him every day, anyway. the cat bears witness. a wedding is a poorly designed delivery system. more parts there are, more parts can break.
elopement disappoints others, and people say they have regrets, but those are seafaring tales. there’s no way to go through the fire without regret. i’ll tell my child to elope her heart out. o child, shut the computer. i wasted my summer looking at sticks and jars, and making guest lists that turned out just to be camouflaged magic eye pictures of disappointment.