goodbye.

here's to lovelorn women,
fiesty pugs,
crippled language,
anxious walks,
interrupted phone calls,
panic school mornings,
la bou dreams,
genet nightgowns,
baldwin tease,
singing and screaming,
having and losing,
crying and smiling,
black death
and evergreen life.

2009.

(i am grateful)

ode to 09.

i'm stuck in a hotel lobby with screaming Turkish children and men who hate women. 

needless to say, i am contemplating my life and all of the events that have occurred in 2009. 

falling in love with jordyn happened in '08 but the fact that we were able to spend last New Years together (on my couch in my old living room because I was sick and could not go out) means so much to me. the fact that we will be spending another New Years tomorrow together makes me insanely grateful. that girl is legit. 

i fell in love with another girl in '09-but this one was pretty hairy and snores a lot. Ophelia, the boss bitch. she is my daughter. i love that pug. 

i turned 24 this year ( a number that i have always been slightly afraid of). the birthday was great-close friends, mexican food, and intoxication. 

i went back to school this year and finally felt focused and prepared. 

music was the most progressive this year (hoping that this will continues onto 2010).  genaro and nicholas were added, we all fell in love with one another (despite a few verbal spats and whatnot). we went on tour, went to snoop dogg's house (sort of) and raided a liquor store. we also played the most shows ever this year and signed onto Manimal. 

i stopped working at the fucking hell job (peets coffee) and started working at a hotel. i am now free of long lines of coffee snobs and the boss from hell but am still a little lost with working at a place that my heart is not into.

a lot of people have died this year. 

it's fucking sad and always a hard thing to see or hear. 

besides the obvious mega stars that died this, the recent death of Brittany Murphy has me still reeling. it's strange because i am not crazy into movies but her death has not settled well with me. she was young and beautiful and seemed really sweet. 

another death that got to me was singer vic chesnutt. he was 45 when he committed suicide on christmas day. even though, i don't know much of his music, his story really got to me. he seemed like a really hardworking, genuine man and musician. 

people, please. stop dying. 

this world needs you. 

if i've learned anything this year, i've learned mostly that i do not want to die. 

i want to live. 

i know this may seem strange to say but in the past ( and i think we all do this to some extent), i thought about death a lot. probably a lot more than i should have. 

this year, i've learned to really respect life and to appreciate what each moment can teach you. 

and all of this might sound cheesy but it's what i've learned. 

one rough month or day can change with a phone call or by simply walking outside of your front door. 

my life has changed a lot this year and i'm learning this.

i don't think i made too many new friends this year. 

i tried to keep the ones that i have had.

i am excited for 2010. i am actually looking forward to this year more so than any other. 

let there be what will come. 

i am not afraid. 

express.

i feel strangely out of place at work today.
like an imposter in the blue blazer, trying her hardest to fit in in order to not get caught.
i don't know what i'm doing here.

swallow.

(there's nothing that i'm gonna say

until the death of two 

equals you

and when you come back

i'll praise the day

scream to the walls

prayers in attack,

alas...

thank god, she's come back)

all my life, oh i can't take it. on my own.

it's christmas and all that i want to do right now is listen to Warpaint and stare at either the blank of the ceiling or the black of the sky.

brittney murphy, 90s beauty queen.

i'm still really bothered by brittney murphy's death.
i don't really know why (i never met the girl) but it's affecting me more than i guess i thought it would.
i don't know.
i guess, it's just that she was so young.
it's unsettling.
she was also a favorite of mine because of "clueless", what can I say, that movie is a fucking 90's classic.


uhg. i'm bummed.
so many people died this year.
people stop it, please!
stop dying.
please.

i am closed until the 31st.

Los Angeles was amazing. good friends, barry manilow hotel room, fucking amazing coffee, L.A. Record XMAS Party with FLYING LOTUS!, finally met Paul and the Manimal crew, good talks with the VV girls, met Jenny from WARPAINT, met some nice people, played such a great show with the sc fam, and it snowed on our way through the grapevine!

i miss my friends already.
i'm at work today, back to reality so far.
it's not bad by any means, but it was nice being with my family and friends for 4 days straight.

this year is ending.
let's make it good.
it's already been so memorable.


oh, 2010. be good to everyone.

tom waits.

next year, i am determined to improve.
with my interactions with others, with my friendships, with stressing out.
it's a bit early to be making promises but
i'm eager.
working at this job makes you think a lot. too much probably.
in a mere 8 hours you can create overwhelming dilemmas for yourself
only to realize the next day that it was all made up.
i have become even more a recluse,
and not hte fun, mysterious kind.
i've become a rather extreme introvert and i sometimes love it, sometimes hate it.
i feel like i'm in high school all over again.
trying to maintain a sense of what i want to do while trying to appease others by not being too overbearing.
and it all won't even matter in a few years, let alone maybe a few months.
but this town is fucking small so it's easy to either be scrutinized or ignored.
concerned with this when it doesn't really matter.
this kind of talk is so self-absorbed.
but what are blogs for anyway?
it's nothing discreet,
let your loathing shine!

but to be honest, all i want is simle challenges
with a few friends to talk to about the loses and the winnings.
nothing else really matters.

tom waits said "we're all gonna be, just dirt in the ground" .
word brother word.

happy holiday (ssssss)

tonight is very slow at the hotel.
i think i have heard these christmas songs atleast 50 times recycled over.
mixes, different variations, electronic/acoustic/ some classic/ some pop trash.
oh, it's the holidays!
(yikes)

i can't say that I don't love the holidays. I am with someone who perhaps love this time of year more than anyone i have ever known. and it's infectious. it's fun to celebrate when you around others who find joy in it. I think she lives for Christmas. She glows...

i am not quite used to this. my father never celebrated any holiday (yes, he was once of those) and so when my brother and i would live with him, we were never taught the traditions that come with this holiday (let alone, any other holiday). we were taught that pagan holidays were full of sin so we relunctantly agreed to just forget about Santa and presents and holiday music (all the things that my mother had told us to embrace).

my father is a strange man. he grew up living in a small riot, the whirlwind of a life without his own father and a fiesty bible thumper mother. she was hot in the 60s and wore a huge beehive hairdo. my father was a typical teenage boy at the time...into motorcycles, girls, drugs, and music. he started working at a depot when he was 14 (illegally) with his uncle Clyde. One day, my father was packing boxes near the trucks loading dock when he got run over by a big rig that was backing up. apparently, the big rig didn't see my father. at age 14, my father was prounounced dead 3 times by the doctor, only to keep on coming back to life. he broke his back in 3 places, shattered both his legs, and crushed his chest. all at the ripe age of 14 1/2. i don't know much about the accident because i'm not very close to my father and even if i was, he probably wouldn't tell me the details. he is very into privacy and doesn't really like to talk about this particular incident. all i know is the one day when i was about 8 or so, i stumbled onto a picture of him in the hospital bed, with dozens of tubes coming out of his face and arms and chest. he looked so helpless. so fragile. so vulnerable. like he would tell you anything you would ever want to know about him. he looked innocent. i've never seen him that way since. i know that he had to re-learn how to walk completly and stayed at the Stanford hospital with trainers and specialists for nearly 2 years. At age 16, he was out of the hospital with mearly a small limp and a huge scar on his chest. He then began dating my mother (they had known each other for 2 years prior) and had me at the ripe old age of 18. My mother being 18, my father 19. He cheated on her endlessly and bought every cool car and motorcycle there was at the time (i forgot to mention that he was offered a huge settlement from the company after my grandmother sued them for allowing him to work underage. he is a millionaire and will be for the rest of his life).
anyway, wow. what a tangent. all i was meaning to do was just say how strange he is, but i guess the past is where you really learn about a person's characterists and heart and mind so it's all relative. my father, the great hero my father the great dissapointment.

the reason i probably wrote about him is because he probably reminds me of christmas.
the reaon why it took me a while to get back into the whole holiday thing until i met jordyn. her family loves christmas so much it's hard to not fall in love with it.
i remember last year, crying in the parking lot of a "Hollywood Video" after talking to Jordyn about my family. She was so cute. She listened and then told me that she would pick out any movie I wanted, popcorn included.
anyway, jordyn's family loves christmas and it's fun to experience the holidays with them. they participate in a lot of events, parties, gift exchanges, card exchanges, different room themes. I mean, we have 4 christmas trees in our house right now! it's crazy but comforting.

something so calming about a tree at night.
small candles everywhere.

opera.

i want to spend time in a room with red lights,
constant commons, cumulus clouds, concerning karma,
and lie down on a blanket and study opera.
i've been restless for a few weeks now,
wanting to study music.
and by this, i don't mean the orchestration of chords
or melodies.
i want to fucking swallow someone's vocal chords.

static.

and i just don't go out.
something of a recluse for forever,
it's getting much worse.
i can't seem to look people in the eyes for a long period of time.
it's ok.
i probably don't need to.
i like huddling.

but i watched a documentary on Donny Hathaway and he became a paranoid schizo after he stared at static for too long.

could i be on my way?

de ce m ber.

i guess, this time around we were made to think.
and to be stressed is only flexing our muscels.
i am singing
to no one
to everyone.
you are drawing
on the sidewalk of shoulders,
careful to use just enough ink -never wasteful.
and this month has been a long 10 day sigh.
constant coming and going,
crying,
bleeding,
losing and gaining.
and 2010 will come to find everyone changed and smiling,
but now we are frowing.
some of us casting it ouside of ourselves,
some of us keeping it in.
hidden.
no one lacks a sudden mystery.

3.

fuck.
today has been busy.
to go the last few days with little happening can make you question yourself and what you are doing with your life
and then to have your whole life sped up and absorbed for the next few months, all in a matter of less than 1 hour.

and i am manic.
i accept this.

if nothing occurs for even a day, i start to question things.
it's never been a good trait of mine.
a therapist would probably have a million reasons for all of this,
but it's not likely that I will ever want to know why this is.
I'd rather just stay busy.

December will be gone soon.
January will be soon.
February will be a flood.

siren

my girlfriend said to me today that she doesn't like to buy me things because i would never use them. 

and she is mostly right. 

i had my laptop for a year before i turned it on. 

i had a wonderful friend give me a dr. sample machine for my birthday (last march) and i have only recently been trying to figure it out.

my new clothes hang in the closet, tags on and waiting. 

i don't know why i do this. 

she is right. 

mostly. 

but it's only because i feel that having a bunch of things only can only weigh down a person.

it's true. 

the other night, jordyn and I were at the hardware store looking for surge adapters for the christmas lights. the lady at the store warned us to be careful because so many houses burn down. as she said this, i thought to myself that i was mildly calm about that fact because all that i would want out of that burning house would be for my family to be out safe, my dog, and maybe my laptop. well, yes my laptop. i didn't have to think about the plasma tv's that i don't have or the modern furniture or the italian suits or shoes. 

because i have nothing. 

i have some thrift store clothes, old shoes from high school that i still wear and some musical instruments. 

not saying that i don't care about any of these things-i do- but i was able to walk away with a small breath of relief that i would not have to tear myself away relunctly from the burning house because of all that expensive thousands of dollars of plastic. 

i'm not condemning materials or people who enjoy them. 

i could care either way i guess.

to each their own, truly. 

but i've had 1 house burn down along with every toy, piece of clothing, and whatnot when i was younger

and 1 house get destroyed by a flood a few years back

so i've learned that nothing is permanent. 

geez. i hope i don't jinx myself and come by on this thing a few days from now and say "fuck! i meant none of this!" 

but if it were to be so be it. 

i guess, i 'm just writing this to reassure myself that it's ok to not want many things.

christmas time is here and with that, 

the usual questions of what people want, 

the long lists of items 

and the common stress and expectation.

could i use alot of things? 

of course.

but it's not needed. 

the bed, the clothes, 

the pug, the girlfriend, 

the music, the family, 

the books

(are)

burnout hour 1

i've become some simple stir, the lost recluse in the small house to the right of the middle school. 

i bury myself in the backyard/only to have my dog sniff me out.

well, this weekend i am screaming nothing

and i want to burn my hands into the dollars that fall from the pockets

of a man I will never known in Los Angeles,

of a woman I will never greet in Japan. 

I want to make music, bad. 

I want to stay on top of things.

I want to stop stressing out about others. 

Those who don't even stress out about themselves. 

And all of this makes me sound so unhappy.

But I've been smiling all week. 

i just want to feel like I am progressing. 

It's a very simple thing. 

listless.

this morning did not start off exactly the way i would have liked it to,

but a good cry, Tycho, and a small shopping spree at your local record store 

should fix it. 

i'm frustrated with work.

hello, i'm all of America. 

the clown

it was simpler.
when he and i would sit in a room and talk about jazz
all night.
there were no windows in the room
so we never knew how much time had passed.
just tugging at my shirt sleeves, my hands would ache
as we spoke about music that moved us.
and i wanted in.
i miss that.
when names of musicians would fall off my tougne
and i'd shake
my shoulders shivering as the first note fumbled out of the speaker.
there is no grace in this.
it's dirty
and sexless
everyone is jealous of everyone
and the malice is almost embarrassing
because it's so calculated.
nothing is really happenening
no one is here.

black nest.

but it's so clear
that you're a sinner
(i said to myself) and to her, a chasm cloud. and as for him...
the whole world is shifting,
you could tell by your teeth
it's the only thing to see.
no smear could tear
the guilt
and now the candle in your hair
is giving your words
someone if mumbling just
the only objection is
hiding beneath
your mouth
but your mouth
your mouth
but your mouth
won't let go of me.

blood + coffee.

finals are coming up and with that, the sinking regrets of all the lost time
that you spent,
bored and calculated,
twidling your thumbs all the while when you could have been studying
or writing essays
or finsihing extra credit.
ah, yes
the american child.
well, i am tired and it's 32 hour workweeks along with 3 classes that i will
hesitantly retire with a less than perfect grade,
not due to lack of effort but
to time dwindling away.
the week has just began
yet i feel it slipping away.
without the proper numberical input that i needed to give.

oh, but don't you know.
the world feeds off of stress and blood and coffee.

..12th..

goodbye November.

you've been good.














and now, mayhem.

(reverse)

well, i'm thinking...

snow and blood.
three strangers following.
all of us dressed in black.
the one with maybe gold around.
fog.
trees.
dark and dusk.
the pretty lights.

stage fright.

black. colors. solar.

i'm starting to understand that there is no co-pilot,
that working for days in a row makes me depressed.
the only solar color i see is black and
that it is.
the smile on your face was never so genuine.
i've hidden my hands in the first attempt,
your round collar is futile
and i've never seen you weep.
the ugly choke, the pretty blood
the veins i swallowed.
all meant nothing to me.
(once)

a hundred affections.

and we are all cynics. the skinny mexican who thinks that his last name is best.
holds a candle in his hand, never seeing the dark.
it's his way of dealing with the dead
or the trivial.

the meeting of enemies, the sudden oath, the blows and fall...
the impassive stones that recieve and return so many echoes,
what groan's of over-fed or half-starved who fall sunstruck or in fits,
what living and burried speech is always vibrating here.

and roll head over heels and tangle my hair in wisps.

ever.long.

my mother found a box of old recordings that i did on tape.
some were awful, embarrasing logs of myself
singing or creating tv commercials.
i was 10 years old and sighing.
something about kodak video camera ads and the nicotine patch.
and then audio of me in a church basement
singing along with my first band
in high school to the pixies, no doubt, and mars volta.
i lost my voice for 4 days after screaming "televators".

happy native americans /shoshone/ sioux/ black bear

i have to say that i am in such a better state than i've ever been lately.

i am so in love that it's overwhelming most of the time.
and to know that this is not some fleeting, secretive, rushed emotion-no it's over a year old and i'm still floored by the mere opening my eyes to see her eyelids (hushed over in some slumber) or the mere opening of her mouth, voice lifted -
her voice makes me ache.
ache. ache. ache.
i'm so gratful for her. nothing i say will ever really matter or even halfway be articulated the way i would like it to be
but you know the feeling when you hear your favorite song for the first time and you just keep on playing it on repeat because it's the only thing that you want and need at that moment ?
well, that's how it is with her, only it's been nonstop for over 500 days or so and i'm still obsessed.

whew.

today is thanksgiving and for this, i give thanks for the people in my life.
although, i like to think that we would all do this everyday not just for some American celebration. but either way, i love all of my friends and family.
they know that. i know it. i am blessed to have the people in my life.
they are beautiful and loving, talented, genuine, and inspiring.
so thank you.

yes, you.



p.s. i really miss my grandmother. i realized this today when i was playing guitar for 5 seconds. i need to call her.
i also miss my cousin Gary. he and i were best friends growing up. i get to see him tomorrow before work. oh, glory.

SC.

p.s. Sister Crayon got a write up in LA WEEKLY.





thank you, Angeles.

1990's mariah carey, you know-with the big hair

christmas music is now playing in the hotel lobby.
complete with all of your Frank Sinatra to Britney Spears favorites.

god, give me ella and billie and elvis and work would be a lot more enjoyable.







p.s. old mariah carey was the finest.

voices voices

this hotel is getting creepier as each night goes on.

i've been stumbling every other hour over my slippers behind this counter.

i haven't listened to music for almost a week straight until I found the new Voices Voices EP.

it's perfect, some sort of lullaby assassin music.


p.s. does anyone even read this anymore?

evil eye.

oh, i've been neglectful of this blog.
but it seems like others have as well.
i think i may make a tumbler.
the written word is failing.

i have started answering my phone a lot more.
i am used to never picking it up.

ophelia is scaring me with how attached she is to jordyn.
she won't even let me kiss her when she is around.

she gives me the evil eye.

charla.

it seems like at a time when things should be joyous
they are instead ill and sullen.

there are worse things, true that could have happened.

after watching Charla's story last night, everything must be put into perspective.

the world is not ending.

curtis mayfield.

tonight is very slow at the hotel.
people are seeming to be not as genuine as i thought they were.
and nina simone is on my mind.

hypatia.

it all seems so hectic and graphic.

i wrote a letter to one of my best friends.

he gave me his address.

let's see if i send it.

...

i'm trying to read a biography on walt whitman
(fascinating man that he is)
i cannot focus.
yesterday had me shaking with the news that Manimal Vinyl Records is interested in helping us release our album next year.
i've been discouraged a bit due to the lack of vocal support from others,
so the call yesterday from Paul really justified all of this hard work.

if this thing happens,
it's going to be a whirlwind next year.

henry mailer.

who the fuck cares about your little feelings that pang silently in your chest?
violence means nothing.
there are more important things to learn about.

like Freud's Oedipal Complex.

edgar allen.

jealousy knows nothing underneath the microscope.


tonight, i am fumbling in between the rake and saw.





thank you.

fleet.

high hopes on fridays always seem to occur as of late.
i saw one of my closest friends today,
30 mins of coffee and retrieving information.
a relief, a moment needed.
i am thankful.

life is gonna throw you some shit.
it will also lay down for you.
gotta remember to bow to it all sometimes,
the remnants can be so beautiful.

colorblind. .

and the case will be called "the reds",
a brief listing of names with lengthy discriptions
of all the bisexual tendancies in human beings.

it will be a destroyer,
hind sight
and multiplier.

p.s.

amy rose, get back to me when you can.
i happen to miss you.

love,
your selfish fiend.

minimal and the 30 minute phone call.

reading emerson's "self-reliance" made me want to run all the way home,
off to some mountain and scream "thank you! thank you ralph! "
because, quite simply, he told me living a simple life is indeed just and right.
i have been fairly optimistic lately and i believe it is from
my certain awareness that i desire nothing (material, that is).
machu and i screamed at each other on the phone for a half hour (the longest conversation i've had in a while on the phone)
about the greatness of minimalism. she mentioned Ghandi and I, Emerson and
I felt relieved that i still have some people in my life who believe in all of that.
I actually know quite a few and it's beautiful.

i like all of my old sweaters.
i love my simple pair of shoes that all look the same.
i even love my faded one pair of black jeans.

and i love my books.
fuck.
i love them.

rhetoric.

son lux in my ears for the next millionth day,
remember when i wrote and it all made no certain sense.
but there were marvels within the slopes of cursive,
and let us all admit
we are all slight fans of the written relic.

no need for adversaries,
the simplest of conversations i am dwelling on tonight.
and in the morning,
some calm will come
because the next few days
will be less caustic,
you
destroyer.

sober.

woke up with aching hands,
something was pulling me back,
i kept saying that i didn't understand.
and everything was double
or even twice as that.
i honestly thought, ok,
this is what death finally feels like.


substances and i do not mix .
why do i even try?
here's to a long day of deciphering.

hyper-bolic.

my boss is a redneck from texas
(machu calls her "texas trailer trash).
she makes me very tense when she is around.
i don't know if she understands this.

of talk.

it is morning
and on the freeway, it was sigur ros and i.
the sky was mostly black with small spects of red.
i was planning on getting coffee and becoming a host once again.
and here i am.

**
plans of opening up old boxes and finding half junk and half treasures of my past in my mother's garage is always kinda fun.
old love letters, diaries, dirty shoes, clothes, pictures, etc etc.
makes you remember who you once were
makes you forget what you thought you'd be.

**
october!
so much is happening, yet at the same time sometimes i feel the lull.
but more so, i feel the change that is going to come
or the transformation that is already occuring.
within everyone.


hmmm.
i'm excited.

beautiful.

here's to the last 7 minutes of your shift.
your mind has seen a lot today.

rednecks, weave, and the token fool.

sociology class was frustrating today.
a lot of the kids in that class are just that, kids.
they are small minded, ignorant individuals who rally in defense behind nothing but roles and what celebrities tell them is cool.
they are the reason why stereotypes perpetuate.
it's hard to sit in class and keep my mouth shut.
sometimes, i do
and just shake my head at the discriminating things they say
but most times
i simply raise my hand and tell them to 1. read a history book 2. read a dictionary and 3. live a life a bit more open minded to different races/sexes/orientations/memberships/etc.

today was hard.
it was a redneck girl with weave who felt the need to verbally fight with an ignorant boy who believed that all women should cook and clean still.
now, i admit...his statements were pretty stupid.
but everyone knew he was stupid, mostly everyone just shooed him away and paid him no mind. he wants attention. that is the only reason he makes those statements, right? i mean, i'm pulling for him still. i'm not giving hope on him yet. i still want to believe that somewhere he is a half intelligent man boy.
but no, midway through the teacher's lecture,
she had to scream at him from across the room,
saying something about her 2 children that she raises alone and then she doesn't "need no man to help me and mine out" .
she then proceeded to make some jokes about his mom
and it was all over from there.
the teacher never had control over the classroom after that.
a couple of times, i just wanted to walk out of the room.
it's a waste of time to try to possibly learn in that kind of
high school environment,
where everyone is 16 again and nothing makes sense
and everyone thinks they know everything
and boys treat women like they own them
and they are a walking stereotype
but they can't help it.
it's all they know.


sacramento city college. there is a reason i didn't go to you after high school.
financial aid, let me back into sacramento state.
please.

paine.

and it's really all perspective.
i see amy rose living an entirely different life,
we are not even on the same spectrum.
i am proud of her.
those pictures you take are so full of color/love is something you are born with.
a smile so hard it can never be messed with/fused into semi-color.

***
in order news, Thomas Paine was a damn good writer.
that man could write so well , he could (and did) win any argument.
it makes me very interested in becoming a better writer because i've always believed that words are the most effective weapons-
that if you could write well,
then maybe you were that much closer to speaking well,
and then if you got those both down,
you would be unstoppable.
like some weathered force, a wall that no one could knock down.
and i want that but lately, i feel a blank in my words, whether writing or speaking.
i probably just need to read more.
read a book and you'd be surprised how articulate you can become.

here's to t. paine.

october bleeds velvet.

so, yesterday jordyn turned 20.
it was a great day, filled with her family, food, pugs and a baby.
she is a beauty, that one.

october seems to be filling up quite fast,
it's already the 2nd and i want to freeze frame
this month so that it doesn't up and go so quickly.
i want this month to lay in between my teeth,
i love it so much.

so much has always happened during october.
it never fails,
someone is always being born,
celebrating their birth,
changing,
growing,
falling in love-moving, learning, etc, etc.

fall makes my chest explode,
waking up to damp air and dark clouds makes me want to cry.
thank you october,
you reliable one.

ankle.

turns out i broke my ankle.

jordyn is asleep next to me.

vicodin and crutches to my right. 

 

i'm really excited for next month. 

love you all. 

stretch.

the condensation between air ducts disarmed me.
i was sitting in geography class thinking about everything else.
the value between a good day and a harmful one is slight,
the mere action of waking up,
how someone is greeted,
not falling down the stairs,
getting an answer right,
obtaining monetary means,
eating something healthy,
simply breathing.
all of this can make or break a day.
we all know this.
to realize this and own it
everyday
is the thing that needs to be materialized.

walking down three flights of stairs every morning without falling
can be something to be proud of.

confession.

i love.

richie + margot.

and this was the greatest love affair.
the love between two neurotic people.

impression.

but she breathed.

to feel that knock against the base of your own back

you could almost feel your own lungs at that moment

and at one moment she had,
the time when she took acid with her friends
in the woods
on that bench
near the water
in the dark
andallshesawwaslight.

but back!
tilting her neck to the side
ajusting the lapel to the right.

first.

"rosaries have never been my thing, really"

the floral imprint
graced her skin
and the cross,
oh! the cross
swung silently between her breasts.
she did not want pity,
nor a smile.
she was walking
or maybe she was driving
she no longer rememered things
like that
because the destination was all the same.
somewhere on a street
she was to be at work
soon
so soon
and to wear that blazer
and to comment on elder's dress
and to sympathize with wealth's laments.







10 minutes til showtime.

introduction.

goodbye, period.

"hello. i am a 26 year old catechism.
i have brown hair and brown eyes."



"horrifically awkward.
has a tendency to cry a lot.
crumbles under pressure in workplace situations.
has a paper tounge,
seldom follows through with things".

"passionate but misguided,
a self doubter."

"kind to an extent,
often looks puzzled,
not very good with confrontation"

you can tell she is really 24.

i'm your pusher.

i am returning to the "old me",
one in which inspiration was a daily thing
and there was always music playing.

it's just an injustice to wake up without your favorite song blaring.

"bored to death" is a new show on HBO that i can easily find myself obsessed with.
the characters are awkward, self-indulgent, neaurotic,
and heartbroken.
it airs sunday nights at 9:30 if you are ever in the mood for that sort of thing.

i am begining to smile a lot more lately and i think it has something to do
with the notion that i'm tired of complaining.
everyone has it hard. big fucking deal. get over it.
it takes a lot to change.
but honestly, i'm trying to understand that things are going to come and things are going to go.
as well as us.
so while we are here, we might as well be smiling.

hmmm...last night i watched a documentary on gangs in oakland, ca.
i don't think i could ever truly be in a gang,
although when i was in 6th grade i formed a gang with my friends.
i forget what we called ourselves but i remember we wore black
hoodies and listened to bone thugs.
it was great.

oh, and chelsea is going to meet sofia coppola.

my focus.

so, today my boss told me that i needed to figure out my priorities.
and he is right.
he said this after i told him that i would love to give another employee
(in need of hours)
one of my shifts.
after our 5 minute conversation
(and my profuse apologies after every few seconds),
he left and i thought about what he said.

and it's true.
it's about time that i acknowledge that music is all that i really want to do.
but oh! god, when you make statments like that,
failure can a heartbrake.
but what if failure is not the only option?
well, then...you may live your life in false starts,
sad hesitance,
and a lifelong thought of "what if".
oh, and we all know this
but i am tired of feeling inspired, only then to curl myself into a
huge ball of self-doubt.
there are plenty of reasons to live the "safe life"...
i know a lot of people who are doing it pretty well and who are living
very happily.
i just have to come to terms with the fact that i am not one of them.
never have been.
doesnt have to be a bad thing at all,
it just means that i have to be more assertive with the things
that i do want to achieve,
the plans (however lofty they may be)
that i want to put into effect.

and you can ask youself "well, who am i?"
but honestly
who are you not?

i don't want to be a millionaire
nor the next MTV superstar.
i would love to just be able to travel and play music
and affect someone.
paying the bills is always a plus and maybe having some clothes without holes and a bed.
but honestly, who am i kidding?
i've never wanted a huge house, mutiple cars, etc etc.
nothing against it but those aren't the items i dream about.

like jeff buckley once said "i'm not trying to be elvis".
i honestly do not know who or what i am trying to be.

the only thing that i know is that music is the only thing that i feel truly comfortable in,
the only thing that provides mutual and consistent happiness
(of course, besides my friends and loved ones)
it's something that i'm confident in.

so, my boss wanted my focus
and so here it is.
for all the 9 people who may read this
to see...

i want to make music.
i'm saying it.
i'm writing it.
so now it is real.
and now it is concrete.
and if failure comes, then so be it.
my god, even if i stopped singing tomorrow
the experiences already have shown me more than most.
but i woulnd't mind 20 more years of experiences.

school is definatly another priority.
i am almost done with college,
i want to and will graduate.
but i have to be honest with myself
and know that i will put school off to tour.
my goal is to finish by the time i turn 26 or 27,
and although that may seem a bit older to graduate,
i think that experience far outwieghs textbook
anyday.

from there on, who knows what life will be like.
my boss tried to say that i should consider what kind of job
i will have when i am 30
if i keep on touring and whatnot,
and honestly i have no idea.
i know for a fact that i do not see myself in the hotel field for the rest of my life.
i abhor it after just 6 months,
how the hell could i stand it for 10 years?


if anything,
i am a passionate person.
that has to count for something.

as you can.

if you don't have a point to make,
dont sweat it.
you'll make a sharp one,
being so kind.
and i do appreciate it.



if you don't have a date,
celebrate.
go out and sit on the lawn and
do nothing.
because that's just what you must do.
nobody does it anymore.

mid september.

there are some things that remind me of you.
jagged words
the soft shaved corners of the slopes of
cursive t's.
or certain sidewalks of new york city
which i have never seen
but dream of all too readily.
you slept on my floor
in the smallest room i've ever owned,
in fear of others knowing.
when we were almost children-
yet full grown.

machu.

can i tell you
that you are the closest thing to family that i have ever known?
the person who has been around for longer than i can remember,
almost as long as the boys
or music?
not talking to you for more than a few days
makes me anxious.
make that a few weeks and my whole body aches.
and you could call me sensitive
or needy,
but with you my friend i am awfully a child.

because.

i've become some
haphazard recluse,
more momentary than
before.
turn the phone off-
block the front door-
hide under my hair-
kind of sick
girl.

tip my hat to you in earnest.

so it seems that i have fallen back somewhere,
say in the year 2003
where all i did was ruminate over her music
and watch Magnolia dozens of times a week
and read interviews of fiona apple.
and that is ok with me
because this is the first time in weeks i have felt
inspired artistically.

the 4 months of lying on my carpet floor,
singing to the cieling
missing out on nothing
studying her voice (along with billie holiday and ella fitzgareld)
long beach sky never turns fully dark.
(i will never forget that)

once again, she has inspired me to look up writers i have not
read before.

jonathan ames
tobias wolff
charles baxter.

i am grateful because i have been in a rut for weeks now.
i know it happens to everyone,
writer's block, depression, anxiety, listlessness, etc etc etc
but i have been in a complete and total black space for a while
and the few days have been amazing.
but today, i feel inspired to read and then write and then hopefully create
and that mere feeling of being "stuck" on something,
excited about something,
is a relief.

so, once again fiona apple
you never fail.

103rd st, please.

lately,
i have been daydreaming about New York.
being that i have never been there,
most of my thoughts are cinema-inspired, novel romantized,
breath taking (maybe even myths?) images
of that elusive and exhaustive city.
nevertheless, i am so intrigued by that place and want nothing more
than to spend a winter there.
i want to be bundled in an old coat, with heavy scarves and headphones on-
walking through neighborhoods-in awe
of all the people, buildings, life.
and i know exactly what song i would listen to first
during my exploring there.
i know that the city may not be a big city of dreams,
but i have some vision of being there
(atleast for only a while).
it will be cold.
it will be inspiring.
it will be slightly miserable at times.
it will be fucking amazing.

swordfish.

wes anderson,
i love you.

dear natalie

dear natalie,

reading your blog has inspired me. knowing that you are also in a "quarter-life crisis" relieves me. i say this in the most loving way possible, but knowing that someone else out there is as confused as i am as to what they want or need to do in life, makes me sigh outloud.
it seems as if many people our age are kind of lost and just reading your words comforts me and calms me for a good while after reading it.
just know that i love and appreciate you.
your being lost gives me some sort of direction.

love,
terra

anna jimenez.

third grade.
the boys hated that i was fairly competent in basketball
so they pushed me on the asphalt one recess.
i remember blood on my knees,
some hot anger rushing through my skin.
i wanted to fight them,
to pull thier teeth
to grab their arms.
i was violent back then.
instead, i turned to my friend Anna
who if i remember correctly,
was so soft spoken,
most times i could never hear her.
she was pretty
and loyal.
i respected her loyalty,
i needed it,
even back then.
she put her tiny arms around me and walked me to the bench
and grabbed those harsh, stiff paper towels
that elementary schools buy because they are cheap
but this was back in the 90's
before things got really bad.
but anyways, that is me digressing...
she took the paper towels and wiped the blood from my knee,
cleaning it
and pretending that she was a mother.
or maybe she was,
meant to be a mother
so she was showing her instincts early.

but i remember her.
she was my first experience with loyalty.

micheal jordan.

3 to 11.

yep.

thomas jefferson.

but because i refuse to cry again at this hotel,
i will pretend that i am someone else.
another person, possibly male this time
who is not here, who is not held accountable for anything,
and who smiles as he walks,
confident of everthing.

because i have a friend in another country who left everything
just because she could.
because i have a friend somewhere in the ocean who committed
himself to an organization because he knew that sacramento
would give nothing but dead winters.

because i am alive.

hiawatha.

to the me that was merely 20 minutes ago,
you are spoiled
yet honest.
spoiled in the fact that you have a job,
honest in that you hate it.

it's me vs. me
for 8 hours
4 times a week
32 hours a week
with nothing else but my thoughts
and your words
and elevator music to pursue this frenzied chase.
and i'm never ready for the repercussions
of being in my head all fucking day.

don't cry.
you're at work.

thomas paine.

something here tells me that there are no boundaries here.
i'm standing here, wanting to pull my hair out.
if you think boredom is a word that shouldn't exist,
then you obviously have never worked at a hotel front desk.
and i am not complaining outright,
nor do i think that this is the worst place possible...
but it's becoming the thing that keeps me up at night,
the mere thought of putting that blue blazer on again
and answering phones
and lying to people, acting as if i care.

here is the truth.
i don't care.
i am 24 years old.
and i have much bigger goals than to be someone's servant.
oh but everyone must pay thier dues,
i knowiknowiknowthisiknowthisiknowthis
but i'm tired.
i haven't slept in 3 days
and i'm just exhausted.

couldn't the world be a bit more generous and just make everything go away for a few days?
i'd give you anything.

xxx.

fire.

works.

xxy.

the lethal kind.

st(e)m.

give me your hips, please.
you don't need them,
be honest
give my your hips, please
you don't need them
be honest

silence rose
(like the others)
count it, it's easy

because you're so perfect
i'm building your stem

because
you can count it,
it's easy
it's like mouth mathmatics

i can't defend your spine
when it's not mine

blood is your blood
is my blood is my blood
and it's obvious.

mecca.

saturday nights at the hotel are always a bit strange.
the tension is palpable,
everyone is eager to either sleep with someone,
drink with someone,
eat with someone,
get away from someone,
or reuinte with someone.
some are spoiled,
some are kind,
some are memorable,
and some i won't remember five minutes after checking them in.

i wonder what guests are secretly gay.
or who is a prostitute.
or who is making a baby at this very moment.
or if anyone is getting murdered,
falling in love,
breaking up,
or simply just watching tv.

this hotel is not just simply that.
it's a four story mecca of emotions.

goodbye holiday.

this hotel is making me like humans a lot less.








it's time to leave.

canal.

in an effort to run away from things,
i write about old times
and old things
and old faces
and old bodies
and old hearts
and old music
and old houses
and old carpet
and old, old, old.

until i finally have no memories left,
and i have to confront that same old dance.
solitaire
and your mistress.
the empty cavity.
root canal gone wrong.

sparien.

but wait,
you're not a sparrow?

and my father said,
"when life gets hard, it's only testing your metal".

stem.

and forever.
september.
the walks to work in the rain or ash.
on my ears, heavy headphones where everything was ultimatly blocked out.
thank god.
i could not hear you.
when all i did was think of a stranger who was beautiful but
beyond anything i could ever handle...
neverending
i was 18.

and october.
lying in my room with the low lights on
and music music music
always staring at me.
the carpet was a part of my skin,
i held it close and worshiped the strands left imprinted on my cheek.
i took some drugs back then
and called her on the phone
trying to describe the muscles of my chest
or my collarbone,
in other words secretly wishing that they would come over.
i was 22.

november.
the whole world had came crashing down.
at a time when age meant nothing.
and sunsets were my favorite thing,
i
owned
them.
i did. and i had proof, i tell you.
_____ and i , we would drive on the freeway, telling lies
screaming verbs into the air
our arms scaling the sky.

and i would go to the bookstore, alot that fall.
and search out for hungry readers so that we could pick apart each other.

give me your hips, please.
give me them.
give me your lips, please.
you don't need them.
because you are so perfect,
i'm building your stem.

brothel, anyone?

so, it's come to this.

i am willing to sell myself for money to go to spain.

make an offer.

we can negotiate.

(i'm awfully awkward and terribly shy, but if you're into deafening silences, this can work).







**all morning, i've been stressing out about money.
it's overwhelming.

not ready.

to split yourself in two.
the slow and steady process of growing up,
here are the halves
do what you will with them.

one woman wants to be just that,
a woman with things to show for working hard.
need they be simple, yes...
but items nevertheless.
say, maybe a house of her own,
a decent dependable car,
clothes that don't all look the same
and maybe a few extra dollars to walk around in her pocket.
nothing fancy,
just honest.

the other woman wants adventure,
unpredicability,
small fame even (but why?)
traveling,
stories to tell her grandchildren,
memories to write about,
something to be proud of.

to follow your dreams is one big fucking task.
it almost seems like a chore or a job sometimes.
doing what you love always becomes what you are known for,
and in doing that
heavy expectations are set.
you are no longer the girl walking down the street,
you are the girl who sings walking down the street.
no longer just the awkward lesbian who lives next door to you,
you are the awkward lesbian neighbor who in is leaving for 2 months
to go sing in Spain.
never get called just by your first name either.

oh, but who are you to complain?
i mean, isin't this what you wanted?

(and honestly, this is small time scale right now)

5.

no matter what anyone says,
the hotel business is simply just that.
a business.
don't let anyone tell you otherwise.
this hotel business is a counter culture.
a number zero.
one who thrives on the mutual success of others,
an umbrella of blood sucking amatures who yearn to be professionals,
an army of blue vested semi-attractive zombies who nod their heads in
false sympathetic waves and speak in robotic-like directions.
"i am here for you" is the mimicry,
the stout stance that is well under developed.
the guests who are my novacaine,
the directors of my paycheck,
the absent father or petrified lover,
otherwise known as the
mistress chasm.
or more familiarly,
the revered hole in the head.

can't you tell i just love my title?

4.

Stagnero went to the coffee table and picked up the shoelace.
It was brand new, hardly a strand out of place.
He slowly rubbed his fingers against the plastic tip,
his feeble attempt to begin the slow understatement of
death.
After a few seconds passed, he got bored and
rumaged through the magazines on the table.
All of these faces I will never kiss, he thought.
All of these women I will never own.
When in reality, he was the one who wanted to feel "owned",
the man tied up in the realms of a real, suffocating presence.
To be needed.
To be desired.
And he was on page 34, when Tendon woke up.

3.

standing next to the mirror, Maria once stroked my face gently and said
"if only you would allow me to love you
the way that i want to".

i avoided looking her in the eyes from then on.

2.

I got the call one afternoon from Maria that Tendon had overdosed again.
I say again, because I was expecting this call.
You see, Maria and I have a routine.
Some may call it sick, I call it pretty simplistic.
Tendon will go unnanounced one morning "mysteriously" ,
the backdoor to his house will be unlocked,
Maria will get some faint "intuition" and call him.
The call will go unanswered,
she will then call Stagnero frantically,
who will then proceed to make the drive over to Tendon's house.
Upon arrival,
Stagnero will grab the mail from the mailbox,
unlatch the backyard fence,
and come through the unlocked back door.
Finding Tendon is never an easy thing to do,
but Stagnero has gotten rather good at it.
There on the table in the kitchen will be a notepad with a number on it,
a fresh bowl of fruit and a shoelace.
Tendon will either be in 1. his room 2. the kitchen or 3. his laundry room.
(Tendon will never be found in the bathroom because in his own words "it's just not a dignified place for someone to die").
His mouth will be slightly blue and his face a bit pale.
Either in a fetal position or arms folded across his chest,
Tendon will always be wearing his favorite green sweater.

1.

Before I met Tendon, pretending to be sincere was my most accessible trait.
I smiled past pain and anger with a frequent noncommitable urgency.
Breathe once internally, that last gap for air between your ribs and your stomach-take one swallow-and look the stranger in the eye...
stare intently on them (make sure you look like you're listening)
nod your head once,
open mouth
answer
close mouth.
nod your head one more time
and
smile.
Being polite was never necessary,
staying silent was key.
And I did this, for 5 and a half years
as a Front Desk Agent for one of the biggest hotel chains in America.

************************************************************************

tendons.(part 1)

-loyal friend.
-happy friend.
-tragic yet not urgent friend (you can say somewhat of a wimp).
and
-suicidal friend who attempts but is unsuccessful every time.

a dark comedy.

characters (as is):

reggie, the loyal friend who is also the narrator. hates confrontation therefore analyzes everything and everyone. works at a hotel but is planning to quit.

stagnero, the happy friend who is only called by his last name (it's been like this since he was 8). now 26, only wears pastel colors and has an obsession with odd numbers. secretly hates (abhors!) his job but is obsessed with keeping his happy demeanor (it's all he knows).

maria (possibly will change name), the tragic yet non commital friend who has OCD, mainly to do with her hands and the items she touches. has a fascination with rings and bracelets, marbles, pins, etc (pretty much anything small that is a bin or jar). often plays the victim in her relationships, which turn out to be pathetic attempts at love (criss crossing btwn men and women). pretty much a social phobe yet becomes quite the slut when drunk or high.

tendon, the suicidal friend who attempts but is unsuccesful every time. his attempts do not any longer scare nor bother his friends. they are looked upon as natural and when he no longer tries to kill himself, only then do his friends think something is wrong with him.

reggie is the narrator of the story.
tendon is the most realistic character
whereas maria is frightening and hilarious.
stagnero is borderline annoying (?)

dimes.

we watched the weather as we held thumbs
yours was bigger than mine of course,
you being the machine.
and you ran your fingers down my neck and said
"i am waiting to see your menacing side"
to which i replied
"well, you'll die before that occurs"
to which you placed a dagger in your side
and bled to death
right there,
on those steps
where we once used to sit and watch sky flare
or where dinner was a mainstay.
and you were right, when you said that nothing was going to go away.

but after reading Baldwin, all of these blank scenarios and dialouge keep
plummaging my head
repeating themselves into my skull.

he was kind
he wore button up shirts
with blue lapel pants.
weathered skin
and a sex drive to match.

she had no sympthany for the tired nor the absent minded.
she was a modern day whore turned pacifist turned into again
a dreary soul
who cleaned sidewalks,
scouring for drugs
or dimes
or loose teeth.

one day, with her head down
she bumped into his feet.

knuckles.

her long long hair keeps getting in the way
as she brushes her teeth.
salt mixes with blood mixes with water
and paste
all devoured in her mouth,
pressed against her tounge
until she is ready to pull it out.
but she allows it all to sit for a while,
beneath her gums
waiting for some trial to begin or maybe some explosion.

"well, i'm just waiting for someone to come and sweep me off my feet", she says in some muffled gleam.
"well, aren't we all just waiting for that same destiny?" , the other asked sneering.
"yes, but you see, it's going to happen to me", she said in a total state of indifference.

later on that day, she noticed a small cut on her lip.
the proof was there but the motive was not.
she stared at her knuckles for too long
and realized that blood was the first sign
of failure.
but i don't think she was looking for success.

teeth.

her long long hair gets in the way of her walk.
side stepping along the sidewalk,
concrete looks good against her skin.
and her smile is a memorable trait,
mixed somewhere between porcelain and black and white tattoos.
in the realm of you.
you, lying on the floor
are male at best.
and numbers fill her eyes wide with surprise
but she loves the taste of blood
and cannot wait to kiss her right there
in the wound.
where pain ceases after care is given,
if only for that moment.
my god, she is beautiful.
she is a stranger.
she is not.
hardly having a name,
it is downtown and there are buildings that resemble the mouths of open mothers,
drunk daughters
and stern stern (oh very stern) fathers.
and a sister and a brother
is to whom she owes her illustrious point of view.
"are you calling me callous?", she asks me in a state of repose.
"why no, how could i ever use that word and your name in the same sentence?", the me (who was not the me, not the actual me but the self maybe a year ago)

and then blood on the ground.
coming from your mouth.
the traces on my knuckles,
the tears on my sleeve.

"you should be careful, dear. you live your life as if it was a weapon", I said to him.

"how else are you to live it?" he said as he was brushing his teeth.

(scene 1)
but itallmakesnosense
but keep it coming
repeat repeat.

flying lotus.

listened to flying lotus yesterday
the whole house was mine
for an hour.
it felt amazing.
to be naked without shame,
humming as i walked from room to room with time to kill and
nothing to do.
no obligations for 40 minutes,
no faces to apologize to,
no meetings to catch,
no phone to ring.

babe, it was just me and you.
low end beats and your sirens crashing.
i kept you on repeat,
writhing and writhing.

and then later on in the car,
while listening to more
i realized what i lacked
and what simple thing made me feel like me again.
(and i know, we all have "this",
that "thing" that makes us feel sane, safe, young again)
and for me,
it is hip-hop.
simple and repeitive
good
ol'
slurring of the words,
rotation and rotation
hip-hop.

another country.

vocals chords sliding against skin
blood in your blood can equal my blood
equal my blood in your head can equal my skin
can be blood can be blood can be blood.

and you're life before seems so rustic,
seemed so eventful and slightly surface
yet sophisicated in the respect that no one dared to touch you.
you were admired and never belittled,
with a chest ten feet high and your arms always in the clouds.

there is no motivation here.
as i come hide beneath my feet,
i cling to some stranger's legs
and push my tounge onto your teeth.

static.
wanting to unfold in front of all of them
with reverb hitting against your breasts,
feedback agaisnt our skulls.

there are 100 pages left
and i am determined to see through all this dirt and mess.

trains.

lucas johnson never fails.
he keeps on living in relapse
and texts with sweet precision.
the days of glory are over my dear honey
now they are filled with 1,000 miles between us
and very planned out excursions.
but your constant understanding of the stuff no one should understand
makes you vital and rare.
you speak in rythmns that i dream in,
i love you like i love my brother,
my mother
and my pessoa book.

and last night, i listened to the songs that were sung in that old living room
you know,
the one with the 3 windows and the beat up doors.
and there was kyle's voice
(ohgodhowmuchofagodheoncewas, if only for a few months but stilllllllllllllllllll)
and there was eric's sadness
(hero hero hero)
and there was jimmy's stories
(such a sucker on that sidewalk i was)
and there was chelsea's cries
(newnewnewnewnew)
and there was lucas's gestures
(forever on that couch)
and then there was i
(rustic voice trampled on by trains).

thank you, old man.

speaking to an older man
one who has experience
and knows what it is like to love
one person for 35 years,
to only really desire one body
to know that fighting and bickering
is a natural occurance among lovers
and that life is one full of highs and lows,
made me smile and realize
that what i have is
incredible.

sophia loren.

oh, and the back window! the back window! the back window!
and the living room, the living room
my room.
and you
on the floor
near the nightstand.
and all of this happened roughly 2 years ago.
you in your blue sweater.
it was soft and it was kind and
i wanted to borrow it.
(i never did).

and mouths shattered
lights outside exploded
and Tycho played
and feet shuffled
and the stairs were so dirty once we entered.

the floors a mess
once we had decieded to leave.
and all those knives on the stove
halfway burnt in order to feel good

the couch that he slept on.
the tv i never had.

and the door was set up in a barricade
the night you came over.
the boys wanted to play a trick on us.
but we didnt laugh.
well, yes we did.
he had a face that resembled Sophia Loren
and then he had a face that mutated colors.
and she had a face that crushed matter
and i had no eyes, only eager limbs.

and in that room, standing in the center
for the first time
i felt my spine.

baldwin.

james balwin is lying on his bed.
collar shirt, unbuttoned and stale.
his pale lips, cracked in the Harlem heat
his huge eyes staring upside down
at this lover.
Valentino is 6 feet tall and some change.
He loves James' body but is not in love with him
(although his counterpart pleads for this exchange of emotions).
he will not budge.
he loves his satired life too much.

the two men remember last night in moments.
in the morning, the small details remain.
the blanket on the floor, the pants on the chair
the pillows sunk in
from the head of his lover
the stains
the blood
the words pressed to the hardwood floor.
and his tie
stolen
now in the right hand pocket of
his lover's pants.
"think that he won't love me,
well, i'll take a part of him somehow".
human/human/human.

the window is open with the blind half cracked.
it is summer
and it is now afternoon.
the door to his apartment is dirty with regrets
and his room is so full of enemies and strangers.

carnival.

nicholas is nearly 90 miles away and
yet he still texts to say good morning
and to ask how everything is.
(besides music)

the people here at work are all strangers
and i guess i find a lot of comfort in that
my quick introduction and greeting
will be forgotten as soon as they enter that elevator door.
and that is good because
i don't want to be remembered.

emotions are something that when i was younger
(even just 2 years ago)
i worshiped and thought as one of my best qualities:
the ability to feel (hard)
and to embrace those feelings.

i'm starting to question thier intent and even thier
place in being there.

would it be better to be a hollow body
with a hollow chest
with a hollow head?

carnival inside is getting tiresome.

thank you amy rose.

and amy rose's blogs
put everything into perspective.

i seriously have nothing to cry over.

things haven't even started yet.

work is a brothel.

i am a whore.
for the hotel.

and


iced coffee can fuck you up sometimes.
if you are not careful, it's as powerful as any other medium.

i want heavy pulses
empty beds
to hit the walls
and slide across the floor.

bodies writhing (?)
returned texts
accepted phone calls
and
finished projects.

the trip to another country can be supplied
if you plan it well.

5 more months behind this desk
is do-able.

but it's so hard to feel content here when so much else is going on
and you have to read about it
while you twiddle your thumbs
and stare blankly
at your blue blazer
in the diamond shaped mirror.

reverb.

somewhere,
lost in between your thighs
and your sound
was a fragility
that could never be placed.
nor named.
the weight of your face was panned to the left and to the right
hungry yet still smiling
your chest on mine.

and i get so distracted with my head.
it comes and goes and comes again.
but loving you has never changed.
i was born to live like in the womb
(of you).

you should cast spells.

this morning was stressful.
i woke up frantic from a dream where i was being murdered and
all my friends either ran away or where murdered too.
i was wearing some old band t-shirt from the 80's.
it was red and you couldn't really see my blood because of it.

i was restless after that and wanted to run away from my house, in the
hopes of somehow running into a few thousand dollars so that she
could just relax and stop thinking about her age or lack thereof.

this afternoon was a waste.

this night is gonna be too long.

i want september to hurry along so that october rolls right over
me and
the cold wind starts to make me love blankets again
and
jackets are a necessity
and gloves are always in my bag
and
you can see your breath in still frame
lingering long after your short
words do.
theyare simplyspells waiting forsomeone to careabout what yousay.

(you should cast spells)

it was on her t-shirt.

your blood was not.

shuttle.

and she said
"but i have weak wrists. i'm not strong enough to pull you"
to which she replied
"sex is nothing more than ample time, a loving thought and music to fall behind"

ok.
ok?
i said ok.

and she tore her hat off her brown hair and it fell to the floor in her same breath.
she was busy watching the men outside her window
in New York City's atmosphere,
where the dead keep on living
and the living wish they were dead.

do you wish you were dead?
the little boy asked his own mother.

"sometimes. sometimes."
she replied in between breaths

cocaine.

i realize that she and i got along so well because she was not on drugs.

and a car just crashed in front of my work.
it was loud and sounded like some
blood curling scream and an explosion.
the cars, flipped over on thier sides
and bodies hopping out.

made me sick to my stomach to think that
life can be that drastic.

you're telling your wife that you will be home in a few minutes
and then
you turn the corner
just to bend into metal
and melt into
plastic.

suitcase.

so i miss her like i missed my mother when i was younger.

10 am.

there is silence in the house.

no one is awake.

a half open case of muffins on the table, 

a bowl of berries.

the trip has been very memorable.

the weather has been indecisive. 

i am hardly able to drink this hot coffee.

i should know better. 

i should not stray.

the woman in the other room in sacramento is beautiful.

she has crazy hair and frantic eyes

and thinks about death a lot. 

her legs are strong and her lungs unhealthy,

her chest bound to the bed

where i love to sleep in.

it's tour and strange how we are sleeping in.

strange how late we stay up

strange how distance is like a shield.

where the sky misbehaves and you sit on the curb of 

some street you've never been on

and hum and hum and hum

about everything you've done wrong.

but yet, you smile in the morning

because sleep somehow erases 

mistakes.

fingernails.

i cut my fingernails today. 

cut them clean off,

straight and focused. 

(don't regret don't regret don't regret)

in the morning in LA is a bit surreal.

no noise

no loud cars

all my friends are still asleep.

except genaro who is cooking breakfast.

i want coffee more than i think i've ever wanted before.

the sun is coming on strong

and the couch bed i made for us to sleep on last night

was still comfortable when i woke up.

i slid off to the left 

so Dani could have the whole.

chelsea was awake, like always

she is a beautiful machine.

i don't think her mind will allow her to sleep much

because it's hounded by creativity.

and i am in small track shorts, thinking of books i will read

when i get home. 

i am selfish.

the hardwood floor will be the place i rest on tonight.

with the door wide open

let the Angeles lights flicker on and off

and on again

until it hits you,

you the one girl in her bedroom

that she shares with me,

me

the one girl who can't believe that she could be so lucky.

yes,

let the lights hit you square in the eye

where you will be stalled if for only a moment

and think of me,

me 

the girl who is so in love with you,

you

the one girl that was made for only me. 

in a suburb bed.

the girls are drunk and loud at the foot of the bed. 

laughing about boring people and food.

genaro is asleep while chelsea is poking at his face.

nicholas is keeping us entertained while switching on the lamp light off and on.

i am happy. 

yet a bit sad. 

i was fine during the day but now at night it freaks me out that jordyn is not here.

i'll share a bed with chelsea tonight and 

wake up to nick's pug in the morning.

(dontthinkabouthome dontremember just forget)

suffice.

today is much better.
there's something about waking up early that makes a difference.
driving alone on the freeway with anthony green
watching the sun
the cold air through the sunroof.
then you get coffee and there is no line
because you are up early and the rest of the world is sleeping
and then you sit down and realize that
not everything has
to be so overwhelming.
and you nearly faint with
relief.

one on one.

the same song on repeat
for atleast 103 times.
don' question it
(you don't have to)
because you are alone.
and alone is what you never wanted.
or was it?

on the carpet floor, a daydream sleep all i hear is the sound of the boys feet shuffling or
lucas's mind rolling
down
the st
airs

(c'mon, i'm empty and i want you).

fast forward to 2 and a half years
and all i do is see her in her brown apron
i want that apron
so i could feel closer to her.
her hair is shorter then
and eyes dash right to left
i want them center
i want them near

(c'mon call it possesive and i want you)

loud screams of silent desire i throw at you
as you turned your back at the bar
as you sleep now at night.
i hold my questions tight in a small manner of keeping things ok.
but i am worthless in restaint
and i hate the word "i"
yet it's all i know
and i hate the feeling of needing someone.
yet it's all i know.


hands feel like someone is pulling on them too tight
wrists are a shattered mess

fingers tapping one on one.

let her sleep on.

i would love if the tour just started already.
i'm sick of the anticipation,
i'm tired of thinking about it.
i 'm also tired of missing things and people and my dog (more than anything).

i think i need fresh air, different faces, and the countryside.
i need to be cramped inside a car with my friends,
uncomfortable and sleep deprived.
i need it.

i also think i need distance in order to justify the way i feel right now.
because otherwise, i feel like a baby who cries too easily.

i'm kinda tired of myself.
want to hide out and scream and then wake up and be alive again.

my blood jet.

and this weekend will be a blur.
end of thursday and it's already starting.
take me silently, throw me into rythmn
i want her mouth on mine for 12 days
i don't want her absence.
i know that i will sit and stare out the car window and
see her.
it's inevitable.
she is in my blood.


my jordyn faith, will you always make me ache?
(i pray so)

5 days.

9 months, 9 months!
and she still adores me.
(i'm a lucky mess)

last week was fucked. i'm glad it's over.
being a woman can be horrible sometimes, esp. when you have all kinds of hormones
making you feel all kinds of things.

this week has been amazing so far.
it's so simple but waking up with a smile on your face
can make your days so much better.

i'm lucky i have good friends who have good advice.
and who don't mind me calling them up frantic.
(thank you)

oh, well. not much to say.
tour in 5 days.
excited yet anxious and a little hesitant to leave my comfort.

we the living is a new favorite.

why don't you stay?

i have come to the conclusion that a therapist is probably the best solution. 

i'm tired.

and i know that not a lot of people read this thing.

so i don't feel afraid to say it.

(to the best times of my life). -----------------------

the tv died.

and i guess there is no one else to blame.
you chose the way that you live.
right?






saturday nights mean nothing to me.
they blend into the same threshold of mondays or sundays.

sometimes, i forget that i'm 24.
sometimes, i forget what that even means.

mouth mathmatics.

people love anything free.
food of all kinds, even red apples in a blue basket.
counter top coupons and ammenities.
thier demeanor changes rapidly at the mere word
"free".
you see this, you realize how your words (if calculated right)
can persuade them
to do what they normally would not.
people love anything free.
you just speak forthright with no fine print
indicated
and they will gladly take your hand, your latest promotion
or the contest of a lifetime!
it is at this moment that you realize that speech really is the
biggest contender in life.
and that you better shape your speech,
feel the words out
round in your mouth
before laying it all out.
prepare some sort of
message that could not be resisited

because a tounge is the most feared weapon.

we the living

i can't seem to kick it but i guess it's a good habit: reading.
now onto ayn rand's "we the living".
i'm only in about 10 pages deep (including the introduction and forward) so
i have no idea what the story is about other than the preface rand included herself
"it's not about soviet russia. it's about dictatorship all over the world.
it's about man vs. state"

so, seems interesting.
some kind of grand underdog story.

in other news, i'm a broke motherfucker again.
it happens. it doesn't.
it's just not my time right now.
it's ok.
it's not alot of people's times right now, i guess.

the hemingway way.

an ode to the ones with self-inflicted gunshot wounds.

lately it seems that i have been reading about very morbid things such as:
suicides
suicide attempts
drug addictions
morphine
abuse
insanity
hysteria
and
on
and
on.

i don't know why but it all intrigues me.
it's a fast read or an entertaining documentary to watch.

naked lunch.

biographies are becoming a slight obsession of mine.
genet, buckley, sexton.
i am fresh out of them in my small collection.

william s. burrough's "naked lunch" is my next read.
he was an odd fellow.

i'm pretty sure he won't dissapoint.

72 hours of sleep.

i would like to sleep for 72 hours straight.









i also want to erase a lot of the things that i have written.

summer and glass.

all i remember is the constant trembling i felt
before her.
standing in front of me or sitting to the left of me on the porch on I st.
she was beautiful.
she was not mine.
her hair was different but it was growing.
i would lie on my living room floor and think of her while
listening to the cd's she suggested.
yes. it was all very dramatic.
yes. falling in love is very dramatic.

and that night when she came over in that blue and white dress,
my heart fell to her hands
my eyes closed shut
to the right.
i needed no more sight.
this was enough.
this will always be enough.
(i hope)

and last summer was nothing but repetition and glass.
full of odd endings and departures for the night.
she was sleeping in the next room
beside me.
pressed chests to the same floor boards, never knowing.

and i wanted to eat that glass.
keep it inside of me whole.

tender and empty.
violent and wordless.

i remember touching her skin for the first time.

i remember falling fast asleep.

lost baggage.

my back to you,
lying still
with your sister's soft whispers to her cousin i just recently met.
i see the light in the loft flicker
exhaustingly
on and off.
i wish it was off.
it stays that way the whole night

my back to you,
not meaning to
but this meer gesture can be taken in so many ways.

and this morning, i wake
with aching shoulder blades
and a headache,
purple chest and a lion's jealously.
for what? i do not know.

manic is all that i own.
it's all i've ever owned.
as a child, i lived in my bedroom
tears on the books i read
neverknowingthat thisis what theycall
(...)

i still don't know.
i am needy at times and wholly a contradiction.
i wear wounds on my sleeve and fight off
friends.
i like being alone yet cannot stand to be in that house without her.

contradictions.

what can i say? i love the smell of the past.
it's tempting and furtive
like the blankets of her old bedset.
and i hardly knew her.

at the time. i think we are well worn into each other now.

last sounds.

i've been reading this anne sexton biography and it is making me more manic than ever.
i fear that i allow things i read (or listen to or watch for that matter) affect me far greater
than they should.
if i am reading a story that is sad, i am sad.
happy, happy.
manic depressive, manic depressive and so forth.
i don't want to give up on this book.
i'm halfway through
and she scandals enthrall me
but she was a crazy bitch
and i think that by reading her book
it is making me into a crazy bitch.

not that i am not one already.
i am a fucking mess.
but i mean, she was hurtful and evil at times
and i know for a fact that i am not either of those things
(atleast not intentionally).
she would cheat on her husband numerous times just to do it, just to feel the
comfort of being needed, maybe to feel another's skin.
she would abuse her children.
she would do a lot of crazy shit.

i don't know. i want to try to finish this book so that i can learn about her life
before making hasty judgments.
i know the horrible things she had done
but i want to know why.

also, i deeply admire her poetry.
she may have been a bad person (unintentionally at most times)
but she was insanely honest and wrote with an unheard of fury.

to prove her worth?
to her family?
to her children?
to the literary world?
to men?
to women?

to herself.

memphis.

last night i had a revelation of sorts. 

i want to go to memphis. 

it's not that this is the first time that i have felt inclined to go to this beautiful place

(i've wanted to since i was little and  was infatuated with Elvis). 

but this time around, at the age of 24

i want to go for very different reasons. 

it's funny, although i am now infatuated with a different person

i still want to go see this new land for the same reason:

obsession.

i have been obsessed with Jeff Buckley for the past 2 years. 

I happened to fumble upon him while flipping through the artist cards at my old job, Dimple Records. 

I had certainly heard of him and was instantly attracted to his album cover (his face and body donned "Elvis 1960's")

but had never heard him sing. 

once i heard him sing, i was fucking thrown into a whole other realm where no one else 

existed (for a good few months).

he was all i wanted to think about, read about, listen to, 

dream about. 

fast forward to 2 years and this hasan't gone away. i can listen to him for days on end.

i try to look through my ipod while on walks, searching for a new sound, but end up 

excited (yet again) for when his name scrawls on the screen. 

nothing excites me like his music does. 

i want to go to memphis to see where he last lived. the house (yes) even. 

but i am more looking to go to Wolf River, the place where he died.

some may say that this is morose, childish even

but i am really set on visiting this place. 

i do not know why i feel so compelled.

maybe it's why people visit grave sites religiously

or why mothers keep their deceased children's rooms intact,

but i feel like i have to go to this place

to pay some sort of silent respect.

also, it will become more real to me that this body of water

could truly be 

his unlikely assassin. 

drama, drama.

tonight has been very busy at the hotel.
i have finally finished reading that huge 650+ page book on jean genet
and am now in the early stages of reading the new jeff buckley biography.
which leads me to thinking
that i have always been more interested (consumed even)
in reading about other people's lives (real, cold hard sad lives)
rather than about fairytales or fiction.

give me real deaths or murders
diseases
absent fathers
drug addict mothers
lovers cheating on lovers
family
drama

anyday over cinderella or vampire tales.

sorry kids, but the sad was made for me.

taxi driver.

so, i have to be honest and say that i have never looked at myself as someone who is beautiful. looking into the mirror is the last place that i would ever utter the word "pretty".
and i am saying this with the most honest intentions. i am not looking for comments of reassurance or compliments. please, no.
i am saying this merely just to say it (to myself even)

beauty has always been such an easy thing for me to fall for.
all my life, i've seen so much in so many things.
people, objects, words...
it's always here.
i think the most fascinating thing is that there are so many different perspectives and realms that underlie the very thought of something being
beautiful, that everyone has an opinion on this subject.
no one single person can or will go throughout thier life not having
an opinion or say in this.
it fascinates me.
it overwhelms me.

who knows. your future wife could be a sumo wrestler or a model
drug addict or librarian.
musician or mother of 5.
doctor or tattoo artist.
taxi driver or dentist.


or a 19 year old homebody.

alcatraz.

i swear, sometimes this hotel feels like i'm living in a wes anderson film.
the characters are the same, just wearing different uniforms and working different positions.
the cook is the hostess
the lobby maid is the bartender
the front desk associate is the busser.
i am wearing a blue blazer with a collar shirt and a tired grin
staring at the woman who is unhappy with her room
on the phone nearing an hour.
i am writing this in front of her.
(i am calm)

i miss the days in high school when i would be dropped off at my friend monica's house and lie upside down on her bed while watching "basketball diaries" and think for hours about my long 5 year high school crush (a boy, nevertheless)
and strum haphazardly on her out of tune guitar
singing about the alcatraz poster on her bedroom wall
or talking endlessly about what our little lives would
become.

drama ensued (like it always does)
and we no longer talk.
and good thing
'fore we are two entirely different people.

but yes. good ol' 90's leonardo dicaprio.