tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-40300712009-02-21T02:54:45.895-08:00mel * 21st-century loxm.http://www.blogger.com/profile/03272611310132797230noreply@blogger.comBlogger78125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4030071.post-15968944957264863432008-11-10T22:37:00.005-08:002008-11-10T23:00:04.822-08:00My mortal beloved.The life expectancy for American women is just a fraction less than 80 years, twice what it was 100 years ago and 5 years higher than contemporary American men. Assuming I achieve that overripe old age, I'll have enjoyed 65 years of sex, 62 years of voting and 59 years of (legal) drinking. Not to mention 56 years of post-bac career achievements that I can only hope will merit m.http://www.blogger.com/profile/03272611310132797230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4030071.post-35388648310373044652008-08-31T02:55:00.024-07:002008-08-31T05:43:12.316-07:00Number nine.The Man burned tonight. Saturday. I watched it on a fuzzy full-screen livecast in my friend's basement, idly fingering the playa dust surfacing on the thighs of my Levi's as I shifted on her black leather sofa, wondering whether I'd leave a mark and whether, if I did, she'd be glad of it. Three fingers wept blood, not from sharp rebar or pinching tent poles but from the clips holding m.http://www.blogger.com/profile/03272611310132797230noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4030071.post-31210858750454282982008-08-04T23:34:00.013-07:002008-08-05T00:15:21.434-07:00Craft(y) polyamory.If I had any sense I'd keep my knitting needles far from my loom, my loom miles from my sewing machine and my sewing machine all the way across town from my paint brushes. But because I err on the side of openness, they all occupy small spaces on my crowded dining room table, competing for attention on weekends and random Wednesdays.I vacillate between respecting my ability to m.http://www.blogger.com/profile/03272611310132797230noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4030071.post-40357681006756955542008-07-04T18:51:00.001-07:002008-07-05T04:07:11.617-07:00I belong.In preparation for my formal entrance in the world of part-time bicycle commuters, I took a "halfway to work and back" ride last weekend, to get a better sense of the blind commitment I'd made. I never wear skirts in real life but it seemed very Portlandish in that moment, the better to straddle the U-frame of my neo-post-retro-modern commuter bike (atop totally inappropriate footwear, m.http://www.blogger.com/profile/03272611310132797230noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4030071.post-38229712117225168332008-05-18T22:28:00.007-07:002008-05-18T23:00:10.760-07:00We are gathered here today.I flew home from New York on Friday night and I noticed everything. At least for the first 20 minutes, anyway, every little bump and shudder registered in my conscious. The increasing speed of the plane's taxi woke me unexpectedly from my crossword slumber, the comfortingly distracted place I live (intellectually and emotionally) every time I'm in take-off. I'm not usedm.http://www.blogger.com/profile/03272611310132797230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4030071.post-4877024710687378982008-05-05T23:03:00.003-07:002008-05-06T01:35:40.116-07:00We're too good for stupid angels.Benicia: bedroom window, porches, cowpunk.Alameda: dance floor, New Year's Eve, angry chairs.NYC: Sticky Mike's Frog Bar, redhead, bathroom.Headlands: hillside tents, fog, rocks in our shoes.SF: Richmond, push-pull, coffee grounds.SF: Cole Valley, push-pull, coffee grounds.SF: Valencia, push-pull, coffee grounds.SF: Castro, push-pull.Parties and parties and m.http://www.blogger.com/profile/03272611310132797230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4030071.post-61877535893064198182008-04-27T23:51:00.001-07:002008-04-30T20:28:53.654-07:00Songs of love and loss. Songs of forgiveness.I made a muxtape recently. It felt perfectly natural to make it, assembling meaningful songs, poignant songs, songs that make me lock up and feel something. But when I listened to it the next day I caught the narrative... It's chock-full of people I've loved, lost, unloved, hated, unhated, forgiven, missed, miss. It's really fucking sad, this m.http://www.blogger.com/profile/03272611310132797230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4030071.post-63301048188577495602008-04-27T23:02:00.009-07:002008-04-28T21:34:41.114-07:00If laundry falls on an empty floor, does it really need washing?Sometimes being single is about giving myself permission NOT to do things. I DON'T need to get up for brunch. I DON'T need to put on make-up on Saturday. I can do the dishes TOMORROW instead of today. It's self-indulgent, yes, but it's also freeing. Relaxed. Left to its own devices, life paints an honest picture. Unimpeded by m.http://www.blogger.com/profile/03272611310132797230noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4030071.post-29688859072473081802008-04-26T00:02:00.001-07:002008-05-01T23:44:01.389-07:00"So, what, he gets a medal for correctly identifying a feeling?"What's an apology worth? When does "I'm sorry, and I learned something" give way to "I know better but I fucked things up anyway"? It depends on the recipient's particular flavor of co-dependency, their propensity to think, "This will be the last time; it will all change with me." Sometimes it's about a person's sense of self-worth: m.http://www.blogger.com/profile/03272611310132797230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4030071.post-64743739672243814202008-04-17T20:22:00.004-07:002008-04-17T20:27:42.200-07:00Build it."I must create a system or be enslaved by another man's."-William Blake"...escape well-established patterns of behavior, especially the ones that are no damn good for you."-Rob Breszny"Always accept yourself the way you are."-Fortune in a cookie from S. Dynasty, New York City, NY"May you lead an interesting life."-Chinese cursem.http://www.blogger.com/profile/03272611310132797230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4030071.post-27862590364393515532008-04-16T17:57:00.013-07:002008-04-16T18:31:37.728-07:00What dreams may come (redux)I don't know what we fought about that day or if we were always just fighting. I don't know why I left him alone in my house but I did, returning shortly after to find him at the end of a rampage that had gouged and bloodied walls in almost every room. Hammers, pipes and bats had left welts and holes and cracks. Columns and rows of wounds were eerily aligned. Windows m.http://www.blogger.com/profile/03272611310132797230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4030071.post-80306867216004220432008-04-02T23:04:00.021-07:002008-04-17T20:28:46.600-07:00On staying in the game"One of the most important of the rules that make improv possible...is the idea of agreement, the notion that a very simple way to create a story--or humor--is to have characters accept everything that happens to them."-Malcolm Gladwell, "Blink"Well, goddamn if I haven't been mulling over this very concept for the past three years, and some improv team (parsed by Gladwell) m.http://www.blogger.com/profile/03272611310132797230noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4030071.post-3591770469875520442008-03-24T00:32:00.002-07:002008-03-24T00:56:36.286-07:00What you feel now*Moving slower than normalLoving instruments rarely playedWearing really old shoesLetting sane friends go crazyLiving with clean sofas and dirty bathroomsBeing happily aloneDrinking champagne straight from the bottleRunning towards and away, a little at a timeLetting my roots showChoosing my dog over my friendsEmbracing three-drink idealism AND three-drink realismWearing m.http://www.blogger.com/profile/03272611310132797230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4030071.post-37455955861177934492008-02-29T21:26:00.004-08:002008-03-03T22:10:29.846-08:00Gum wrappers and old receipts.This time, I'm really throwing it all away. My basement, my attic, and every room in between. It's literal and it's figurative but mostly it's just real. How did everything get so damn heavy? My house is heavy--I'm donating my stuff to charity. My body, heavy--I'm losing weight. Even my hair felt heavy, so I chopped it off. It's like cleaning out a pocket or a purse m.http://www.blogger.com/profile/03272611310132797230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4030071.post-14541492470834709602008-01-03T21:21:00.000-08:002008-02-25T20:31:01.155-08:00Maximum capacity.When I was really young, maybe four, I saw a black-and-white version of Frankenstein, probably James Whales' 1931 rendition (kudos to Wikipedia for holding so much meaningful trivia at the ready). Unremarkably tame by today's standards, it nonetheless set my histrionic imagination on fire, causing me no end of nightmares and daydreams about gargoyles and giant flies tromping m.http://www.blogger.com/profile/03272611310132797230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4030071.post-1168402599942982122007-01-09T20:06:00.000-08:002007-02-04T03:38:08.253-08:00Dog days.Re-reading old posts, I can watch myself prattle on from a safe distance. Searching for the thoughts that shaped each one. Wondering how I managed to find so many 10-cent words in so few days, months. Reliving exoteric moments that may, perhaps, have been better left in a pocket next to a cigarette butt and a few forgotten coins. Reflecting on the agonizing crusade that is the eternal m.http://www.blogger.com/profile/03272611310132797230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4030071.post-1166363809039530852006-12-17T05:56:00.000-08:002006-12-17T17:30:37.773-08:00Singing my life back to me.While brushing my teeth as a young girl, I used to angle the mirrored medicine cabinet door so that it reflected the opposing mirror on the wall. Between them would appear an infinite number of new mirrors, a strange, green hallway with no discernible end. Fancying myself a modern-day Alice, I would step through the suburban looking glass into an otherly world whose m.http://www.blogger.com/profile/03272611310132797230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4030071.post-1164781323325103042006-11-28T21:39:00.000-08:002006-11-28T22:22:03.416-08:00Recharge.Shoes that fit when nothing else does.An auction that ends just after you bid.A dog that loves you and only you.A kiss just because you ask for it.The song stuck in your head, playing on the radio.Flowers blooming in snow.An attentive waitress.The best blanket tucked just beneath your head.A friend who calls right before you do.Leftovers.Waking up a minute after the alarm.A compliment, m.http://www.blogger.com/profile/03272611310132797230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4030071.post-1157693128764083212006-09-07T21:55:00.000-07:002006-09-08T20:43:49.316-07:00Aminals.Sadie wraps her small, grey body around my wrist like an armwarmer, a fluffy doughnut that purrs and scratches as it squirms for purchase against crooked fingers. Barney cares for nothing if a curled cow tendon is within reach. I stare longingly at my stack of style books, desperately wishing to read but feeling a betrayer of the droll sitcom rerun that acts as a barbituate against yet m.http://www.blogger.com/profile/03272611310132797230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4030071.post-1150622844388556882006-06-18T02:10:00.000-07:002006-08-13T20:42:54.776-07:00I knew a girl.Her name was Melia. I met her in the dorms in college, in San Francisco, and she was beautiful and mysterious and shy. She had soft blondish-brown hair, and she was slender and naturally beautiful in that quirky way I always find so intriguing. I wanted to follow her around like a puppy dog, holding her water bottle and lighting her cigarettes, but I was too shy. Too unsure of my m.http://www.blogger.com/profile/03272611310132797230noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4030071.post-1150267116168381362006-06-13T23:16:00.000-07:002006-06-13T23:49:37.086-07:00Hyper-allergenic.It had nothing to do with foreign bodies in my nose, as it turns out. Okay, maybe there's a random tissue in there. Perhaps some pollen during the on-season. Carpet lint. The usual suspects.The real problem, though, turned out to be far more pernicious and inconspicuous. Care to take a guess? Global warming, that's probably your first guess. Peak oil seems like a reasonable m.http://www.blogger.com/profile/03272611310132797230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4030071.post-1145050543851784692006-04-14T14:35:00.000-07:002006-04-18T01:17:37.780-07:00Nose job.I've been sick. Not stuck-in-bed-for-weeks draw-the-blinds dying-of-Victorian-ennui sick. Illness that extreme presents things to handily medicate or to stick needles into. No, this is far more sneaky and pervasive, a ninja sick. The kind of sick that keeps a feather in its pocket and uses it to tickle my upper lip while I'm working, interrupting me (and every other writer within 20 m.http://www.blogger.com/profile/03272611310132797230noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4030071.post-1139296288034408272006-02-06T22:36:00.000-08:002006-02-06T23:11:28.080-08:00Yeah, it's you. It's definitely you.What's that quote... about craftspeople and their tools and how crappy tools can be made to serve a skilled artisan and all of that jazz. I can't be bothered to Google it because I really don't care much about the actual quote. It just provides context for the humbling lesson I learned while spending five days in bed with a raging head cold and a jumbo box of m.http://www.blogger.com/profile/03272611310132797230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4030071.post-1137652766753359402006-01-18T23:12:00.000-08:002006-07-23T00:25:00.393-07:00I might be free.I sat in a smoky pub tonight and never lit a cigarette. I didn't even want one. Was I thinking about cigarettes? Of course I was. Smoke swam around me in great gusts and fluid wisps. Further down the bar, a bearded man sat down and immediately pulled a tattered paperback from one coat pocket and a pack of Dunhill's from the other, slapping both down on the counter with firm m.http://www.blogger.com/profile/03272611310132797230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4030071.post-1093851040026060842004-08-30T00:46:00.000-07:002004-08-30T00:49:12.276-07:00Where the hell have I been?
I fell in love with a painting over breakfast and took the artist's number - does that particular piece mean as much to him if I never call? It's a strange phenomen: the more you make your thoughts public, the more you doubt they actually exist when you opt to privatize. I'd be lying if I said that I write soley for myself. If that were true, I'd put it in a journal m.http://www.blogger.com/profile/03272611310132797230noreply@blogger.com0