i got caught trying.

wow my fears.  i slur my words more and more and think words are sharp and can't make it here.

today i was peeling bark off of a madrona tree in the cold, clear by sun day, and did something awful.  i hadn't meant to, but a chrysalis?  one underneath.  what if i slept, and woke on the ledge of a building.  i doubt it would mean much.  too much meaning in such a rambunctious young mind. 

i rang myself the other day.  i breathed heavily on the other end and told myself a dirty joke and then hung up.  i didn't know what it meant and so i slept on it. 

hello world, i peeked at myself with one eye, unfolded myself gently.  did my reading.  had spelling bee fantasies.  and then slept some more.

this eye of this needle.  such a beautiful curve.  what a lull. 

people walk by with bags slung on hips, rainslick, and they interrupt shadows.

this comes down to me.  child life specialist.  art therapist.  i'm trying.  whereabouts will be known.

7:57 PM - 4 Comments - 8 Kudos - Add Comment

6.33 minutes of thinkin'

how to make a dinner with the gusto and prime courage like somebody that has a boyfriend that always knows what side of the bed to sleep on.

5:39 PM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

special me.

I tell myself that I was born to write.  Indirectly, i was.  But I theorize that I was actually born to be this chaotic thinker.  Ive always got picture within picture within picture going on in my head at once.

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Imagine if you were watching a movie.  In a dark movie theater.  But the people to your right are also listening to the radio.  You can hear it clearly and its in Spanish.  You dont understand it completely, but you understand enough to sort of be able to subconsciously follow it.  You took four years of Spanish in high school, and another 2 quarters in college.  But it doesnt matter, b/c youre trying to pay attention to the movie.  Unfortunately, you understand just enough of the radiofeed to realize youre instinctively trying to figure out whats being said.  Its annoying and you wonder why the hell theyve brought a radio into the movie theater anyways.  But nobody else seems to be bothered by it, so you sit and try to ignore it.  You dont want to make a scene.  But you can feel yourself getting flustered by it.  Behind you, there is a person that keeps sighing heavily.  Irregularly, but often enough to be an interruption.  In fact, its the irregularity that drives you to become even more annoyed by it.  You cant even decipher a pattern to it, causing you to be caught off guard each time the guy heaves in and out.  SIGH.  You know breathing is nothing to get excited about.  Your cheeks are getting hot and red with all the internal disorganization going on.  Did they turn the radio Up just now?  Something about shopping with a bike?  how does that make sense?  But youre watching a movie!  The movie, the movie, the movie!  Its what you are supposed to be doing.  Watching the movie.  Oh!  Its shopping FOR a bike.  That makes more sense.  SIGH.  Youd gotten your vocabulary mixed up.  What was that one teachers name that you had in the 9^th grade?  You always get all the Spanish teachers mixed up.  Finally, theyve mentioned whats been pretty obvious to everybody but the two main characters since the opening scene (in the movie.)  you dont want this movie to have a happy ending, you just decided, it would be unrealistic.  I have a bike.  But I never use it.  I should sell it.  Is that guy on a ventilator or something, jesus Christ, he keeps sighing like hes gotta build up oxygen reserves or something.  What would happen if I turned the radio off?  Just walked over and turned it off?  What would people do?  Nobody seems bothered by it though, remember andrea?  It would be rude to do that.  You shouldnt touch other peoples stuff.  You have to go to the bathroom.  You can wait.  Remember when you were afraid to ask to go to the bathroom in Spanish class b/c you had to ask in Spanish and you could never remember how to say it?  Did he just kick my chair?  Now hes sighing AND kicking my chair?  Maybe it was an accident.  Maybe it wont happen again.  Besides, your real enemies are the jokers next to you that brought the friggin radio in with them. wait.  who's the enemy?  why does there have to be an adversary?  b/c you're angry.  it's either yourself, or them.  i vote for them.  well of course you do, it's self-preservation.  judge and jury.  judge AND jury?  the movie is graded a "B."  cuba is calling.     

Its constant, the barrage of stimuli.

i fear boredom.  i don't fear IT.  i fear the experience of being bored.  somehow, this is different.  i don't know how.  being "bored" doesn't seem all that ominous.  i think i can do it.  but at the first hints of boredom, i jump, headfirst into something far, far away from bored.  the child "andrea" would spend countless sunday afternoons traipsing around the house, making rounds, digging, trying to conjure something fresh.  my mother would invariably be sitting at the dining room table, most of it covered with weekend work.  i'd skulk up, on the way practicing my monologue.  i knew that my predisposition to boredom-induced anxiety was not normal.  but i imagined that if i could manage to present my case in jsut the right way, not too whiny nor too sedate, maybe she'd give me a solution.  i balanced my tone.  i chose my words.  nothing too extreme, my mother didn't like to be broadside a dilemma.  i had to be careful to not be too generic either.  in order for me to be granted my mother's attention, i needed to be interesting enough to keep her attention long enough to get results before she realized i'd broken in.  she was unpredictable.  there were times it was like she was only pretending to do her work, in reality waiting for me to go to her and ask her for a good jolt.  other days, she barely registered my voice.

3:35 PM - 3 Comments - 4 Kudos - Add Comment

untitled.

Recall, in that room,..:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" />

With nothing between us

But her---

                                                                             final resting.

I felt ashamed,

That death for the grieving

Is sacrificial but---

                                                         never poetic.

The world spins us to farewell.

Absent our intuition

We'd never---

                                                                             know it.

The sun sinks,

Full and heavy with fiery teeth;

It sinks to sleep in---

                                                                             that ocean.

The moon crowns,

Brought on by invitational silence;

It crowns to court---

                                                         our thoughts.

          Fluid movements yours

Pastel colors yours

          Plucked from images yours---

                                                          my memories.

2:29 PM - 1 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

pattern change ink-hit-lick!

i will soon have a new job.

this job will be an easy one.

easy in that it will not be particularly gruesome.

no more knowledge of sadness in society than most others have to know.

retreat to a normal type of state of mind.

can i complain still?

i won't be "doing anything about it".

instead of ranting, i might be whining.

soon.

11:41 AM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

for apparition of the boy that used to be: clocked.

dusted with that golden soot: guilt.  you're afraid to swim in the clear, clean waters of an everyday.  worried it'll swallow you with its proclavity for sand, sinking.

you've got wallpaper on your windows.  cut a slit for the door.  only you know where it is, and you feel your way everytime.

i can't shake this alliteration.  it's all i want.  but nothing more.

you cut out your own heart.  found your way to a strip mall, with the horrid stench of the greediest types of incense hanging in the air.  african beads made in the phillipines.  metal bowls made from plastic.  words in languages that have no country to stem its origins.  cheap, bought for the price of cheaper.  only the quick will do.  for you, it's never enough.  you pick the lightest box, of balsam wood, and carry it home in a plastic bag that says, "thank you!"

to your room, you pull a mason jelly jar from under your bed.  filled with acorns, chosen for their similar sizes.  these acorns knock around and pour into the box.  you carve out your own heart, and replace it with the square possibilities of "thing within thing".  this balsam wood box, with its very own next steps from nature.  you wait for that organic feeling you heard about from others.  it doesn't come right away.  you aren't done.

you still had your eyes.  in a neighbor's yard, the 16th of june, you rummaged through the flowerbeds in search of creatures you can desecrate, two fold.  first, with the pious, inoculate nature onl a boy's pluck can muster, you sweetened your fingertips with your wrecking tongue.  the stilness around you meted out the temperature.  first one, then a second, a third.  three fingers for an unfair battle to take place right now.  you rushed your thumb into the snail's respite, and only missed a smile by sheer coincidence.  another snail, your decision to double hte pleasure.  for art's sake.  symmetry is godliness.  you've got two eyes.  two snails.  now, shells, that you've since stuffed with wallpaper.  swung.  you take your eyes and fill the sockets with these greasy shells. 

that does it for now.

ahhh.  these are my writing notes from last night.  what should we do next people?

6:08 PM - 2 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

dog walker thoughts.

the branches, like loose thread
in my pocket.
my hand glows
in the light of the current.
silvery sound and shadowy thoughts
pull towards an infinite variation.
i've got nothing to say.

i woke up the other day with this question: "why does my hand glow in the light of the current?"  i was like, andrea, what the hell is it this time?  (you know, 'cause i was talking to myself?)  i did laundry, and it looped, over and over.  i bent over to put clean water in the dog's drinking bowl.  "why does my hand glow in the light of the current?"  what current?  a water current?  an electrical current?  water/electricity?  light?  light bleeds like water.  maybe i meant light?  but, "why does my hand glow in the light of the light?" doesn't make any sense.  went to other room to answer phone.  i said "hello?", but meant, "why does my hand glow in the light of the current?"  da da dada da da da dada da dada?  i went through the rest of my day.  it became a rhythmic monster.  i began to theorize i'd soon be unable to control it, would be requesting that others recite it along with me, that my nonsense was only just plain nonsense after all.  i closed my day, read in bed.  warm orange light.  i looked for clues.  i heard absolutely nothing outside; the best time of 24 hours.  got re-dressed.  leashed kiki and georgie-porgie.  locked my front door behind us.  crept around the buildings, onto the trail, saw that our favorite fallen tree had been sliced to hell.  felt irritated that nobody asked me first, thought of hte last time i balanced on it, a silly girl in the nighttime, keeping pace with two other creatures.  it had been months since i'd kicked debris off of it, tucked the blackberry branches under or around it, and inspected it for new inhabitants.  this tree, so pregnant in death, now, truly gone.  this part of the trail swings outside the reach of electric light, and the treetops, when you look up, sway like loose threads.  of current.  the moon styles itself in waves, of current.  movement and light and quiet and me, thinking. 

1:20 PM - 1 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

outline gold tennessee light.

water coated in moonlight chandelier spelling bad worse well good.  something to be said about tracing with vision.  sculpt from memory.

obsessive thought of a tree i see everyday, for years.  never like that, caught by surprise.

keep it simple.  branches evenly splayed, has an upside-down look.  clear sky, but rained earlier.  nighttime quiet cold, not even a breeze.  the motion detecting light saw me, lit.  i turned my head to the right, actually gasped from that moment, could have sworn it'd been rehearsed.  of course it hadn't.  it wore: wet slick, dipped in ink, until i took a step and then it wore: glass over wet ink.  it stood perfectly still in a spotlight.  i lost it.  i keep studying it b/c i want it to do it again.  

1:47 PM - 1 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

kristy already read this, i tell you.

interestingly, i never hid anything under my mattress or bed. i know that i "lost" things under the bed. which is odd, b/c it's not like the underneath ofmy bed was a size even remotely comparable with the arctic expanse or anything. but everytime i was forced, and i mean forced (with the threat of any number of privileges being revoked), to clean my room, the biggest feats were the tidying of "under the bed" and "the closet." it would take me hours every few months, and i'd find things that seemed to be pretty important, yet had somehow found their way into either of the abysses. i think about the grown-up versions of these objects of significant value (keys, books, pets, shoes) and know they'd never get lost in either place these days. which makes me wonder what the hell was going on all those years? was i sleepwalking when i put these really superduper important things in these netherworlds...? childhood is weird.

6:06 PM - 2 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

aqua aqua aqua.

please list to me the most recent of your family's deaths.  do you understand my point of view?  i'm sorry to keep calling you and bugging you but i don't have anybody else to talk to.  nobody wants to deal with this.  this isn't a crisis line issue, it's something i need to work on!  nobody better blame me for this being my fault.  all i'm doing is eating, sleeping, and going for a walk, like i was trained to do.

------->

he's got relapse abandonment fear hunger needs see me and relax.  he likes to set fires and call me and run away to punish.  he's on the paper, in the paper, waiting in line.

-------->

please list to me the most recent of your family's deaths

to understand my point of view.

4:42 PM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment