piaf, candy cane, boosh, ocean

This was a good weekend.

Though Lost Weekend tricked us into desperately yearning for the Mighty Boosh and then cruelly claimed they had no such video. The over-sized candy cane that we found on the walk home afterwards provided some consolation.

Dancing was, as always, a good idea and Leia got a finger-puppet mustache (though I really want that word to be spelled moustache). My new boots are green- huzzah.

The best part of those short few days was, by far, our excursion to the beach. On a day that was half rainy half beautiful and clear, we decided the ocean was calling to us and we had to obey. Dr. X, DanDan, and I got into that tiny car (without even a frisbee!) and hurled ourselves water-ward. When we got there the air was full. The waves crashed in huge, bass-bellowing explosions and the little sand-pipers skedaddled around here and there playing tag with the full foam that pushed itself onto the shore. We drew in the sand, took photos, beheld the sea and, eventually, I took off my new green platypus bills and ran in to touch the water with my toes, only to be drenched (knees down) in the salty brine. I don't remember the last time I felt that good.

I've recently been asked if I am in love. The answer is: yes yes yes. Life is too full and too beautiful for me to not be head-over-heels with it, with the bridge, with the people that ebb and flow around me, with the cracks in the streets, with my cold fingertips, with stuffed peppers, with the knowledge that everything is within grasp as soon as we realize that our arms are made out of expandable rubber, not flesh and bone. All we have to do is learn how to reach.

anticipation

It is a good life that I have. In between the cracks courses blood that looks so much like gold and often we never want to stop. It were like magic how words found spaces to fill and how we tumbled in after them so willingly until we were swimming in something that must be divine- the ultimate creation. And the air in my head is all static cling- endless activity of something possible. Something utterly inevitable. Men walk down the street singing (la la la lalala ladidilala) to no one in particular which I think is great. Reflections of everything that is. Happening. The Books sing to me and make me feel balloons of energy climbing through my windpipes and through my nose. I hope to sing to you like this for always.

2:02:03

Instead of working right now I would very much like to be painting. But it's cold outside. And rainy. And I don't think there's anywhere else where I can have turpentine.

home and such

So today Gilly and I began looking at lots of photos from wherever we call home and I tried desperately to convince her that Cleveland and Ann Arbor were infinitely better than anywhere in Scotland (which is hard enough to lie to myself about let alone convincing another person) and I tried looking up photos of these glorious spots in the midwest and ended up with a lot of photos of fires. Which, when I think of it, makes sense. I feel like there were a lot of fires in Cleveland. And I never really thought about it before. I don't know that I would say it's like a defining trait or anything...but I guess things do burn down with some level of consistency.

Anyway-looking at these photos made me think about these places. And the way the air feels that first warm day when spring is about to come and there's still patches of snow on the ground but you still bike around in your t-shirt and you're pretty cold but feeling pretty great at the same time and there's a chill in your lungs that is simply delicious.

Cleveland: finding those strange moments of the city where it looks utterly beautiful in its sad post-steel days. The moss over the bridges. The ever-elusive "art bridge" where it was written that "gray is an ugly color" after everything got painted over. The top of the parking lot where kate and i read rude 14th century poetry. The west side where I feel like I'm not in the same city anymore and where you can find that random art gallery and see Birth for the first time. Lake View Cemetery and every minute I used to spend with my mother when she would take me from school because it was "too beautiful to sit in class" and we'd have lunch sitting next to beautiful monuments to those who have passed.

Ann Arbor: Walking down Liberty and that one block that makes you think that you might actually be in a city. The old West Side and the houses that look nothing if not comfortable. house shows and local musicians. Being the "normie" in a group of an ex-boyfriend's friends...awkward but priceless nonetheless. Brick streets. discounts and free coffee. October streets with Matt. Springtime with Fattie. Snow. Being Hermia in the Arboretum and Luke's twin sister in the Mendelssohn. The Bang and randomly running into Lucas and dancing all night and being utterly disgusting. Nathan and other randoms from the WCBN library. The Alleyway of Delight and (though I never thought I'd say this) 115 E. Kingsley St. Walking around town with Shawn drinking gin and tonic.

I love you both and miss you.

your fixie makes you looks fat

Fixed gears are damn sexy bikes. I feel guilty about this. I feel like the nerdy girl who agrees with all her friends that Mike Dexter is a total asshole and, god, who even CARES about football. But deep down, she has a huge crush on him and in her diary, she's written dozens of different combinations of their names with a liberal use of little cartoon hearts. I know that fixed gear bicycles are, "like totally it" right now and all that...but they're such attractive pieces of equipment. They're so thin, yet sturdy, sleek and minimal, shiny and effective. And here in the Mission people do amazing things with their fixed gears. They spend money to get little frame warmers- different color rims and handle bars. I find myself secretly coveting dozens of bikes on almost every walk I take and each one, I feel a little more for than just aesthetic satisfaction...I feel a little turned on. Usually having nothing to do with the skinny hipsters atop said bicycles. Though I do fantasize, from time to time, about having that fixed-gear-sweetie, who takes you to Tartine in the morning and Pops at night. Of course I am simultaneously disgusted with myself for such utterly cool aspirations...but sometimes, hipsterdom is a little like Starbucks coffee...you know it's goes against your morality, but damn don't those posters of machiatos look so tasty?

It's just a bad movie...

Recently I've been feeling catastrophe hanging around every corner I turn. I look up and expect to see wheelchaired sparrows hurling themselves to the hard concrete embrace below. Buddhist monks drawing red lines through the tender flesh of their beautiful throats. (I wonder- did they regret it at the end? Yearn to cry out "WAIT- I made a mistake!" What would have happened if that pool of life hadn't peeked from beneath the door- revealing the terrifying secret within- would that be one more friend to have disappeared or did he not cut through enough in the first place.) I expect bikers to be taken under grills, purses to be snatched, young men to be shot on the street, the golden gate bridge to let loose it's fine cables and snatch the entire city up in its claws and hold our heads under the water. I've been expecting disaster.

But today- a few days into the dry weather, I felt the beauty of people's smiles and the heat of the sun and the dry clay under my fingernails. Things didn't seem quite so menacing.

And- just so I publicly admit it: I can hardly stop listening to In Rainbows. I maintain that I still have reservations in terms of the larger scale of Radiohead albums. But, damn, it's hard to tear away from it.

And- to the world- I love you, please refrain from doing more stupid things. You've set me quite on edge.

football

The half-time shows at the super bowl always depress me. Granted, I'm usually never watching the super bowl. But there are those key moments, from year to year when I glimpse the height of American stupidity. I guess it's not even that i think football is stupid, or that people are stupid for wanting to watch sports...it's just such an amazing thing that SO MANY Americans, who can't get their act to do anything together. Who don't vote, who won't speak up against things they find deplorable- they WILL sit at home (or at a bar) and yell at rapidly moving images. Make commentary as if they, themselves, were the coaches. And then comes half-time. When Bono can open up his jacket to reveal the American Flag sewn inside while the names of 9/11 victims scroll behind him. Where Tom Petty can live off of the laurels of a hit he wrote however many years ago and dance about on a stage shaped like a guitar which he doesn't even play. It depresses me. That this is considered music. The people screaming in the audience don't care so much that it's Tom Petty just that they got to come down onto the field and maybe, if they're lucky, the camera will catch them singing along and, wouldn't that be magical. Maybe I'm being too critical, too elitist. After all, what's wrong with fame, Liza? What's wrong with "making it"? I guess nothing. But there's nothing particularly exciting about it either. Especially when it means catering to the exact companies and ideologies that seem so....disgusting to me. And putting on a half-hearted show and having it not matter because anything you do will be larger than life and people will cheer no matter what. It all feels like such a joke- such a strange compilation of facades that is supposed to convey a sense of "success" that really is just a bunch of bullshit.

Ooops- I think my coffee is done.

So the wind...

Did I mention the wind. A surge of temporal butter that swept over the all of us and there goes another umbrella and again someone stumbles over a fallen branch.

The wind that day.

She brought in secrets and rough blankets to cover over yesterday. Things that once were became rearranged to be here again. She though of clever tricks too. Shoelaces of razors and candy that dissolves to powder before the sugar can hit your tongue.

The wind poured heartbeats into people's mouths so we all spoke in pounding and one man couldn't help but go around town singing songs that he'd never heard.

I sat, tucked behind the ears of a beautiful moment, and I watched with eyes on my elbows the majesty of the today wind and tomorrow maybe someday.

hottt chocolate

with whiskey. Is soooo fiiiiine. Especially this hott chocolate and this whiskey. Delicious. Fanks Gilly.
Cock.

first batch

So. For some reason I was reminded this morning of my friend Becca. Becca worked at Espresso Royal in Ann Arbor on Main Street. One night, just as she was getting ready to close up, a bandit came in and held her up for the money in her drawer. Gun in the pocket and everything. Now, most people would very willingly give up the contents of their cash register. Becca, however, because she's a super hero, said she couldn't give him the money in the till, but she'd happily give to him the contents of the tip jar.

What a bad-ass...or a complete idiot. I go back and forth depending on the day.

Last night was fantastic. Everyone should listen to and love The Blow and Mirah. Granted Mirah didn't put on the bestest show in the world, but I still have a large place in my heart reserved for just her. The Blow kicked it up to 11 for sure though.

I slept in too late today. But it was very delicious. On my walk to work I saw a very tall, thin woman walking with her son. And it was crazy because she looked just like my friend Jan (aka Fattie) and the thought of Jen walking her son to school made me realize that shit goes down and soon enough she could have kids. And hey, maybe I will too. Apanda might as well. The future is crazy that way.

Puff Pastry Petites

Are the devil. I would like to here and now apologize to my wonderful friends who brought me to Dosa to eat delicious food and on whom I totally bailed because of those damn frozen treats. I was just so hungry! And I couldn't stop eating them. And then all that Indian food. Oh god...I had a stomach ache all frikken night. Goddamn puff pastry petites. I think they gave me nightmares. Anyway- this morning I feel fine. But the thought of how many of those things I ate still makes me feel a bit queasy.

Anyway. That's all from me.

It is 10:35

and I am excited about having a little bit of time to set my life straight. Yay for the openings of plays that thereby free up your Saturday afternoons.

On the bus today I sat across from two guys with the suits and the backpacks and the name tags and the bibles. It made me wonder, as a loud high school girl talked loudly about sex and drugs a few seats away from us, what do those people think about in large groups? Do they pray for us? Do they feel pity? Hatred? Or are they simply wondering whether or not they remembered to put their wash in the dryer? Another thing I always wondered about is the whole sex thing. Like, if they saw someone they found attractive, do you think they would purposely avoid them or would they use the whole Jesus thing to try to get some digits? The whole thing confuses me- there are just so many layers.

Plus, in addition to, furthermore and consecutively; It was my birthday yesterday and I have found that as I get older, the ages I reach seem to be younger than I had always thought them to be. For example. At 16, 18 seemed so much older, more mature, together, sexier, adult, etc. At 18 I still felt like I was 15 except the government could pretend to count my vote. Now that I am the ripe young age of 23 I still feel like...well, like I'm 15 except with additional things that I should have accomplished and life goals I should have already figured out. Sometimes I don't even really feel like I've left home. I still have this expectation of "growing up" even though all the evidence I have gathered seems to indicate that it's one of the bigger lies we've ever been told. Which is actually kind of a nice thing (that growing up is a lie, I mean) because still feeling like a 15 year old is pretty fun. And if I actually lived the way I expected a 23-year-old to live, I don't think I'd be nearly as happy as I am right now. And I'm pretty fucking happy.

Well, that's enough from me. Goodnight moon.

The thing about myspace...

...is that once you delete your account, all record of you vanishes. So, before my account was successfully deleted, I got three messages from a old friend and only one of them was I able to read because soon after the messages were sent, the profile was deleted and the other two messages were lost forever. Now I have no account either (happy day!). Is it true that you have to have one in order to comment on my page? Please respond.

To the past, with love...

...I saw you once in Cleveland. You were getting out of your car and I was getting on my bike. We looked at each other and I rode away. Trying to pretend that I didn't recognize you and failing. I felt rude afterwards and remembered evenings of discovering Nick Drake and Iron and Wine and that painting that you had by your bed and every so often I look at my arms and remember that "legs are too utilitarian" but arms - arms are beautiful. You once told me that you wanted me to end like "Lost in Translation" and so, I suppose that means all that we'll ever get of memory is that little pinprick that won't let us forget. A stumbled-upon blog here, a false myspace account there. Poetic, to the extent the cyber-world can be...poetic and intimidatingly frustrating. Then again, maybe the frustrating part would be running out of things to say. I still remember you with wings. And a mother whom you loved.

Thank you for wishing me well. I hope that you are too.

things i want

eric satie music, yoga mat, yoga class, mattress, excellent travel coffee mug that i can put in my bag and that won't spill, more sea shanties and union songs, a theater company, a big art studio and lots and lots of canvas, to sleep in.

And so it was...

...that I left behind the world of Myspace. Boldly shouting out behind me that "I believe online social networks make us lazy in our friendships and I believe they only function as a method of procrastination and I'd like to waste my time more constructively." Or something to that effect. I took a cab home tonight (after being simply horrified by the neon "57 min" that flashed at me from the MUNI stop) and the cabby started singing along to Stairway to Heaven. And I should have started singing along too because then it could've been a glorious symphony of awkward social moment.

I have been finding recently that I desperately want to watch such movies as "French Kiss," "Circle of Friends," and the like. I am tired for sleep.

It is now 2008

There is a mattress on the couch in my living room. Flower is passed out. The Christmas Tree lights are a-twinkling. And I'm not sure whether or not I want to watch a movie. Back in Cleveland the bad ideas of 2007 were sent to their final resting place with Rabbis and Puppets and snow storms and here I'm not sure if the bad ideas are to end, or if maybe they're just beginning. Hopefully a little of both and the bad ideas that are to come will bring me entertaining stories. I'd very much appreciate a positive change in president. I'd very much appreciate if all religious fanatics decided to return back to their holes in the ground and leave the rest of us to enjoy the lives that we have been able to put together for ourselves. I'd appreciate travel. And love. And friends. And creativity. Art. Music. Picnics. Bike rides. Adventures. Etc. Etc. Etc. "And let me tell you that motherfucker's dangerous."

I have tricks up my sleeve. and I am smiling mischievously.

grapefruit is better with brown sugar

Esther heard soft exclamations from her parents as they scuttled around here and there, grabbing keys, opening doors, starting cars, driving down streets. The house grew uncommonly quiet and the silence seemed to crawl up Esther's spine and twirl her hair with slow, terrifying movements. Esther pulled the covers tighter to her chin. She closed her eyes as tight as she could and repeated over and over, through trembling lips "fall asleep, just fall asleep." As she balanced on the ledge that separated sleep from waking, Esther saw her grandmother walk into her room and sit at the edge of her bed. "Let's see here," muttered the old woman who had died two years before. She began to pat her hands down her body, as if she was looking for a lost pair of car keys. Her fingers, which seemed too many for each hand, climbed up to her wrinkled face and began to scratch at her eyes. To Esther's surprise the fingernails started peeling away layers and layers of skin which her grandmother calmly put into the pocket of her grey shawl. The woman peeled and peeled, murmuring things like "mhm, quite" and "just about there now." Finally, she said "Oh good, we've arrived" as one of her twenty fingers wiped away a thin layer of murky water. Almost instantaneously the woman's eyes began to shine bright like halogen lights on the moon. She reached into her pockets and brought out handfulls upon handfulls of the skin she had peeled from her eyes. She held out both hands to Esther; "See," the woman radiated, "just like onions." And she started to laugh. Without knowing why, Esther began to laugh too. "Yes," she giggled, "like onions." The two laughed and laughed and the grandmother began to throw fistfulls of the shredded skin into the air like wedding rice. The confetti skin sumersaulted and began arranging itself into a smooth, milky ladder in the middle of Esther's room. The ladder went up and up until it broke through the ceiling and into the sky. "Come on," said her grandmother with lamp eyes. "Let us fall through the cushion of the earth." And with that the woman threw off her shawl to reveal the body of a brown newt and with her twenty fingers and fourteen toes she climbed the stairs through the roof. "Yes, let's" Esther muttered and she settled futher into her warm pillow.

strange....

http://www.landdog.blogpsot.com/


who knew?

Mixed Tapes

So I'm listening to a lot of mixed tapes recently. And almost all of the ones I have are from boys. which is interesting. even more interesting is actually listening to the lyrics. Cory's new tape seems to be able "the one that got away." Lucas' tape seems to be all about lovers leaving. So my question is: what do mixed tapes mean? Are they like little musical letters? Are they totally un-related to things? DO people not realize that they put more into them then meets the eye? I can't decide. And I doubt it really matters. It's just an interesting thing...people and how they relate to music.

Speaking of which, I feel like something is wrong with me. I'm not as "into" music as I've always been. I was listening to the new Radiohead album and realized that it was only the second time I had listened to it, even though I've had it for a few months. I remember when Hail to the Thief came out, I was the first person at the record store and I listened to it nonstop for what seemed like ever. Maybe it's because I don't think In Rainbows is as good...not sure. When did I stop being crazy about music? Maybe I just have to find a new good band...

Alright...here I come Trader Joe's.