So we’re lost,
we’re lost out here on the plains, my love
It’s only wind and ice
and trees that wave from above
But when the cold, the dark,
and the silence come
it’s like a sudden rush of water
through your heart and lungs
What stuck with me most out of all the things gran ever said was when she told me when I was 17 and foolish, “You’re an artist, you have to get used to walking alone,” .
She meant it as a jest, of course. I had been bugging mom to drive me to the market so early in the morning so I could talk to some people for this short film I was working on.
I appreciate her words now more than ever. I still want to pursue art. Maybe she meant there are just things that have got to be done eyes closed, tummy in, breath held tight against the aftertaste, maybe. Like cough syrup when you were seven. And we can only hope one day, there’s a good reason for all of it.
There’s a chance she couldn’t have meant that, exactly but I take comfort in romanticizing her little jest.
Lola was one of the most loving people I’ve ever had in my life and we miss her dearly especially today, exactly a year since she passed.
Last night, I asked for some clarity. Or even maybe a bit of foolish happiness my way soon-ish, if clarity’s too much to ask for specially at this awkweird phase and age. (I was watching Lars and The Real Girl before bed and I found it suddenly depressing that I owned a mannequin, I guess)
But I just got a couple of messages from two dear friends over tumblr and facebook that made me quite thankful, inspired and actually, quite touched. At least now I know I have a couple of people excited to see me have at my dreams if not now, soon.
Thank you Ella and Dang. I miss you Dangkiroo and can’t wait to meet you in person, teacher Ella! You two have teacher blood in you, I can tell.
Oregano, Basil, Provolone, Toast.
Cooked up some pasta over the weekend because I was feeling a bit
fridgehomesick. I thought I missed mommy’s pasta but after realizing I’ve had two or three forkfuls of my copycat version and munched my way 3 slices short of an entire baguette afterwards…
All I wanted was toast, demmet. I went through all the trouble of doing the groceries, cooking, dishes when I could’ve just toasted some bread, sat on my belly, watched Devious Maids and lived jolly.
I miss parking lots at night
They look of youth
Lanky shadows towards hand-me-down cars
Dim-witted conversations I suspect we’ll look back on one day
as one of the last brilliant exchanges we’ll ever have
I miss electropop,
the unmistakeable smell of day-stale fries,
I miss places that become
when the clutter of day has packed itself up and gone to bed
and we have enough change for takeout.
I miss having time enough to rest eyes on stars, intelligent stuff;
making out if the concrete’s really orange or blue or indigo
and just as easily dismissing everything as gray.
Then the “So,
where we headed?”
when nobody really cares.
Yep. I miss parking lots at night.
I guess I miss youth.
Scribbled this down on my notebook when I got home from work Monday last week. I was getting down with the fever in the cab and I had been looking longingly at all three drive-thrus along the ride home for comfort in the form of slowdigesting food.
“It is a curious thing, but as one travels the world getting older and older, it appears that happiness is easier to get used to than despair. The second time you have a root beer float, for instance, your happiness at sipping the delicious concoction may not be quite as enormous as when you first had a root beer float, and the twelfth time your happiness may be still less enormous, until root beer floats begin to offer you very little happiness at all, because you have become used to the taste of vanilla ice cream and root beer mixed together. However, the second time you find a thumbtack in your root beer float, your despair is much greater than the first time, when you dismissed the thumbtack as a freak accident rather than part of the scheme of a soda jerk, a phrase which here means “ice cream shop employee who is trying to injure your tongue,” and by the twelfth time you find a thumbtack, your despair is even greater still, until you can hardly utter the phrase “root beer float” without bursting into tears. It is almost as if happiness is an acquired taste, like coconut cordial or ceviche, to which you can eventually become accustomed, but despair is something surprising each time you encounter it.”
― Lemony Snicket, The End
I was within and without. Simultaneously enchanted and repelled by the inexhaustible variety of life.
Awful lot of effort just to say I’m so glad NBS finally restocked on fixative spray today. If I’ve been counting correctly, they do so every six months.
Now to try saving the pastel and charcoal drawings I’ve done over my entire stay here.
I feel like a winner today. Finished the last of my antibiotics (which is a relief because I eat like a redneck whenever I’m on those), got off work early to meet friends and got to talk about the cosmos over fastfood, plus this.
Thank you, Monday!
Fever’s gone downhill since Monday when the office AC got busted on top of this PMS weather which says it wants to be summer one day and says the exact opposite the next.
OR it’s that the moons and stars starting towards a new alignment now that it’s almost birthday month and my powers are just getting too strong for me to control that my body went autobanana.
I was made for sunny days. Remind me how proper adults should bottle up summer feels and go to work? Conceal, don’t feel don’t let them knoooow?
Enemies - Fierce Pit Bosses
Source: SoundCloud / enemiesmusic
After 12, on a
school night week night.
Hotel penthouse bars,
tabs open and running for liquor we make a show of pronouncing,
trying to feel like the movers and shakers that
we’re sorry we’re going to have to one day step up to be.
Should the world really be left to us twenty-somethings,
our apologies .
Phoenix - (You Can’t Blame It On) Anybody
Caught myself grooving in my swivel chair. Embarassing habit.
I’m reading this big-ass Intro to Literature textbook - proving to be quite an anthology of great classic short stories and poems - slowly but happily on mornings since the start of the year.
I never got Cummings’ poetry when we had his works for class back in High School or college, wassit? I was like why does he bother to fragment his lines this way? since feeling is first used to read like broken glass to me. I didn’t get it.
I got the hang of it though. she being Brand reads quite nicely, I enjoyed it. I like how he broke the phrases up that it actually managed to capture that 20’s fascination for cars and what usually comes when you put girls into that mix, if you know what I mean. It reminds me of that other poem by Cummings that my friends and I loved because it was read by Tom HIddleston. Quite racy. HAHA
she being Brand
she being Brand
know consequently a
little stiff i was
careful of her and(having
thoroughly oiled the universal
joint tested my gas felt of
her radiator made sure her springs were O.
K.)i went right to it flooded-the-carburetor cranked her
clutch(and then somehow got into reverse she
minute i was back in neutral tried and
again slo-wly;bare,ly nudg. ing(my
oh and her gears being in
A 1 shape passed
from low through
greasedlightning)just as we turned the corner of Divinity
avenue i touched the accelerator and give
her the juice,good
was the first ride and believe i we was
happy to see how nice she acted right up to
the last minute coming back down by the Public
Gardens i slammed on
brakes Bothatonce and
brought allofher tremB