The Hipster Brigade
my dog is in love with me. it's true.
he sleeps with me everynight, and i if i don't leave the door open for him, he yowls till i do. he also follows me around everywhere i go around the house. it's quite disturbing. i go to the bathroom and open the door and he's lying outside waiting. i walk to the other side of the house to get a book, and he's walking behind me. it gives me the creeps. every morning he is there next to me in bed.
seriously, cut it out. stop being so loyal.
not that he reads my blog, but he might. which would creep me out even more.
i'm not sure how i feel about my dog being in love with me. often i try to imagine him as a human and what he would be like. i often imagine him being gay for some reason, and i don't know why. he doesn't seem very social, and he likes to pee on other dogs. my dog is kinky, perhaps. now i'm grossing myself out.
i want to be close to my dog. but
summer time when the living is easy
i am going to hell.
why, you ask.
because there were some baby crickets
in the bathtub
and i washed them down the drainy drain
without even a second thought.
in other news:
-forgot today was saturday
-watched red sox lose
-went on a walk
-said hello to a black lab and golden retriever while my eddie dog peed on their fence
-grandmother warned me that not eating meat causes me to have no energy and that i must eat meat!
-took nudes in the bathroom to show off trashy 70s wallpaper
-got tired at 10:00pm
i'm turning into such an old lady.
nothing under rocks
i can never find what i'm looking for.
-blah notebook and pens
it takes me awhile to get used to things.
last night, i couldn't sleep
craving for some human interaction
and noodle soup
cured me for one night
but will i survive more
without his arm resting lightly
on my stomach.
i hope so.
i never thought it would be this hard
or that a notebook could mean so much.
finding good pens is such a curse
for a writer.
pens have to be fast
smooth gliding across paper
i'm still experimenting.
life at home
i cannot stand being here.
here in desoto, texas.
my grandma has her eye on me.
she watches every move i make
and thus, i spend extra minutes
backtracking every move i make
making sure to cover up tracks
she may erase or change in the morning.
it's not unusual to wake up
to an entirely different house layout
she's like that.
i like small corners
and tiny tables.
i need to unclutter everything
because i'm scared of losing anything
and if i'm the one throwing it away
then i know it's in a same place
i lost a fresh spiral notebook
yesterday at the airport
no one's turned it in
a maroon notebook
with my words and handwriting
and somehow i feel like a tiny
piece of me is gone now
and it's going to be so much
harder to reclaim it
tomorrow, i start again
with a new notebook.
and a new pen.
[more boys should write IMs like this]
boy: hi hi
boy: alright I'm off to nh for the weekend
Auto response from a rusted pillow: sandwich in the shower.
boy: yes I know about your sordid shower sandwichs
boy: keeping me on the tip of jealousy I see
boy: well I am sorry you've had a shitty couple days, I send a warm hug and a pat on the ass for baseball good/pervert luck. no really I send my heart felt reassurance that you are lovely and that things will be ok. good luck at home my dear and I'll see you online...
InAHighTree signed off at 1:36:31 PM.
[sometimes days can't get much worse]
i wake up doomed.
eyes puffy from too much drinking
not enough sleep
and here i am awake at 2pm
on a saturday.
i can't imagine it any other way.
where i'm lost in tile floors
and porcelain gods.
i start crying
not because i need to
but because it feels right
and sometimes my eyes
are storing too much
for their own good
and i stain shirt and shirt
and my sheets are flooded
i call for mops
and i wonder what went right
to have me end up like this
[like crashing rusted metal]
i swear i was going to drown. it was just so deep that every time i thought i was above the waves, another one would come and hit me HARD in the face.
it went like this for an hour. he kept grabbing my hand and stroking my back and telling me "it's okay" and giving me the sympathy look. i kept scrunching up my nose and going under and just seeing knees and feet. over and over. i'd just be making it up to the top where he'd lay another look on me and it would disappear again in a watery mess. back under with the sea turtles and squid.
i kept trying to fight it. the fury. the waves. like being slapped in the face by a jealous lover that just wouldn't stop. wouldn't believe me. again and again. slap slap slap. i'd get up from the floor, from the knees, shins and toes and slap.
i hate when i lose. defeated by something i should have control over. something that i can't fight that lives inside of me. it's strange to think i lost to myself. like the angel vs. the devil upon silky shoulders.
your lover will never
wish to leave.
lucky numbers: 12, 14, 16, 23, 25, 31
LEARN CHINESE - Friend
[she can't help it]
i've been neglecting my duties here
for quite awhile.
i'm never sure what's appropriate anymore
but if i was taking any cues
i could post anything
i'm never sure about flocks
or the publicity
i always feel so lost in traffic
blinded by lights
i've become overly dramatic
since my final days in boston
are coming to a close
and nights in dallas
i'm just a tease.
i'd never give up
[i write haikus: aka brackets = new titling system]
seeking the sunshine
in unlit moons and candles
there under his shoe
lies sticky slugs and leeches
coming for my heart
my veins have been tapped
beer keg to lonely boy types
looking for a high
there goes a song like:
companionship ruins me
but there's free food here
she hides in circles
of cat whiskers and silk scarves
waiting for your hand
somedays are like moths
dusty pale-colored drab nights
dance under light bulbs
never can decide
which ways are best up or down
thus choosing middle
He is the little boy lost in the candy store. He is a cliche. For weeks he pays off small increments, so he can take home this stupid red bike. I'm selfish. I'm wondering if the bike will change things between us, because boys like gadgets and maybe my vagina won't do it for him any longer. He got off on the bike. I remember getting that first call, where he told me he was almost blown over on the light frame but that just riding it he felt like he was flying. HE FELT FLYING! That a stupid red bike could do that for him. He was lost in paradise.
He's had that bike for over a month. Just barely. Weeks of paychecks. I've seen him happy, yes, but there was something different about him with that bike. I felt like he gained something from it. Something that I couldn't give him. The ability to fly. It sounds cheesy, but every boy has a dream. His was Peter Pan.
Now, it's gone. Just this morning. Some Boston fuckhead is selling his bike for parts or flying down the streets of JP. I can't stand the thought of someone else flying on his stupid red bike.
Barely a month and it's gone. It's stupid. Stupid and sad. Such a pretty bike in someone undeserving hands.
This is a cry for help!
Bike fund. Donate.
ooh, so much symbolism
i might be ready to throw in the towel.
the things i think about before going to bed and what the turn me into
at night, i lie in bed and between tossing and turning, i'm afraid of closing my eyes. i'm afraid if i don't do every little thing i'm thinking about right this instant, that i might explode. that if i don't do them before i go to sleep, i may never wake up again to do them. sometimes in bed, i lie there for hours thinking of things i could be doing instead of sleeping. all of them involve art. i could be learning japanese. i could be painting. i could be sculping. i want to be creating. always. never stopping.
i am so afraid of not waking up that i can't get to sleep. i'm in a frenzy and i fight twisted sheets for seconds minutes hours days. i can't tell anymore. but always i wake up the next morning and i'm still here and i still write haikus and prose and silly journal entries. i get dressed. i forgot to eat. too busy to eat. too busy for anything but daydreaming.
i always leave room for twizzlers. twizzlers and tea. i think if i could live on those things forever, i would be all set. except twizzlers are too sweet. so maybe just once a week. tea five times a day. and bagels. tea and bagels.
i'm always thinking about what i should be doing while i'm doing something else things i could be doing instead of what i'm doing. i could be reading. i could be sleeping. i could be creating. i should be writing.
always the answer is: i should be writing.
i am always writing.
my dreams become stories.
i can't even sleep without inventing stories.
i've become manic with fairy tales and horror stories and comedies and dramas. everything is such a farse. but at least, i'm dying in art. drowned in art. swamped in art. up to here with art. words and fragments and sentences. i'm floating in them. i'm wading in words.
24 hours a day seems so short. how does anyone get anything done?
i need an interpretation
welcome to lazyland
i promise to bring good news in the following days, but since i'm out of words for the time being. you should go here
(also, linked in the waste time section of my site) to justin's
mp3 blog. i cannot stop listening to "peach, plum, pear" by joanna newsom, but he also has pinback and beck on there as well. if anything, always trust justin's opinion because he knows what's best in the world of music. seriously. in short, he's a genius.
without a bang!
once again i missed the fireworks.
no lights for the end of the year.
one more year to go
and i wonder if there is such a job as professional