Alpaca Son and the History of Half-Truths

New Blog

2011-03-21T07:37:00.000-05:00

My dearest wombats and penny-pinchers:

For some time now, I've been blogging at an new address. Would you like to know where?

http://itslulutoyou.wordpress.com/

See ya there!

Day 3- A song that makes you happy.

2010-12-03T12:40:00.000-06:00

Oh, the lame slide shows are killing me!

I could go forever....

Try It! - Gemanicha

2010-12-02T14:40:00.000-06:00

I am so lucky to have cultured friends. Recently, one of them introduced me to something truly unique. Genmaicha. Guess what it is! It's green tea, with roasted brown rice. Apparently, it's very popular in Japan, but I had never heard of it. My friend gave me some she got from Teavana. Schmancy!

I'm too poor and too annoyed with Teavana's aggressive sales strategy to buy from them, but when I noticed it at the international market, I bought a box. It's not as lovely, but it's still very good and a wonderful departure from normal teas. Commonly referred to a "popcorn tea", it has a roasted ricey flavor that may make you crave sushi. Green on the front end, ricey on the back end, it's a savory departure from flora, fruity and sweeter noted tea.

If you're an avid tea-drinker, check out your local international store and get yourself some. You might hate it. You might love it. Let me know which.

Photo from: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Genmaicha.jpg

Day 2 - Least Favorite Song

2010-12-02T10:11:00.002-06:00

Because I actually enjoyed hearing little girls singing "I kissed a girl and I liked it".
Because this is considered a duet?
Because I hate pastels.
Because I really do like Katy Perry. And Snoop Dogg.
Because "Girl" is spelled with a "u".
Because I hate the lyrics, and that weird, shrill vocal abortion in the chorus.

G-L-O-R-I-A

2010-12-01T10:24:00.001-06:00

I'm not usually one for blog challenges. A friend posted one that peaked my interest. It has to do with 30 days of posting personal top music videos. We'll give this a try.

Day 1 - Your Favorite Song

I give you, the queen of punk rock, one of my favorite people who has stayed cool. Someone who has kept her brain cracked open, learning, yearning, over the years. The sexiest man you'll ever know and the sexiest woman you'll ever know (Micheal Stipe said that one). Patti Smith.

Live version:

Album version with lame slideshow:

True, this is partially a cover, but this song changed my life. I first heard in my dear friend's (Hi Josh) car, cruising south Springfield with my best friends in college. It left me numb and tingling, scrambling to scoop my brains off the car seat. Stifling my boner. Trying to focus my eyes. Dizzy. Hungry. Drunk. Destructive. Forever and ever, amen.

If I ever have a child and it's a girl child, her name will be Gloria. Yeah, that much.

How does one even pick a favorite song? I have tons of favorite songs from just about ever genre. But this. This one changed me. Who can deny the immensity of this woman?

Have One On Me

2010-11-30T11:08:00.000-06:00

I think I’ll need to listen to the new Joanna Newsom teenager style. Laying on the floor, blasted, headphones, lyrics in-hand. I find the three discs distracting and very un-car friendly. I supposed this is why people buy them newfangled iPods. I really am trying to get all the way through, but the first disc alone is so dense, I’m not ready to move on.

I really like it. It’s decomposed where Ys was highly composed. It’s got a broken down quality that I actually like because it usually comes back together. I may have more thoughts on this later. I am picturing you scratching your head, thinking –What does that even mean?

I have found myself obsessing about each of the songs on first disc, which is a good sign. Here is what my 45 minute commute was full of this morning:

I really like how this one has a Billy Joel, Fleetwood Mac, deceptively happy pop drive, but it still builds upon what she’s previously done. Her close harmonizing with layers of her own voice is my favorite of her trademarks that I’m glad to see in this song. She still has the amazing ability to make you dance around and then rip your heart straight out your chest and show it to you. (See at about 3:20 minutes “And I know what you meant to show the extent to which you gave a goddang—you ranged real hot and real cold, but I’m sold. I am at home on that range.”)

I tried not to read any reviews, but I’m having trouble locating my place in this album. I feel it has a bit of an identity crisis. I thought maybe there was some grand theme I needed to know about. True, I haven’t made it through the album yet, so I imagine it has some secret, thrilling symmetry I’ve yet to discover. I read the music critic in the Washington Post called this her magnum opus…She also called this album her most accessible album. Then I found out that she’s been with Andy Sandberg for years (ps I had no idea who that was…Thanks Wikipedia!). Then I remembered why I don’t read reviews anymore. Joanna is like my little Jiminy and I have no desire to tamper with that myth. I just want her to stand on my shoulder and whisper poetry in my ear and ride around my breast pocket.

I suppose I may have more to say soon….

Have you heard the album? What do you think of it?

LOVE

2010-11-18T15:32:00.002-06:00

From a Friend Who Knows Me

2010-11-17T08:23:00.002-06:00

Things to love about yoga:

2010-11-15T11:44:00.004-06:00

Peace of mind (or giving it a go): Peace of mind is is the white unicorn of yoga. Every body’s after it, few people find it, even fewer can hang on to it. The point is try. And if you can’t think about nothing, think about your lungs. Think about your heart. Think about each of your ribs.

The clothes!: Typical female, right? As I sit here at my desk, I am thinking about my yoga pants. From the moment I get dressed in the morning to the time I get home, I am yearning for these pants. I found a perfect pair (that are actually long enough) at TJ Maxx, so there is no need to go Lululemon up your wardrobe (unless you are independently wealthy and can afford to). The yoga industry is booming, but what you really need to look for is low cost, comfort, form fitting. Can’t be flashing your classmates! Loose shirts are hard to manage in yoga. Eco-friendly is also a plus.

Mindfulness: Thinking about each thing you do makes you feel powerful. Think about the benefits of what you are doing. Think about what can harm you. In yoga, you listen to your body. You don’t over-do it. You don’t hurt yourself. Your teacher will remind you constantly listen to what your body wants. Life often renders us powerless, but if you are mindful about your actions; you have control.

Ain't That Some Shit!

2010-11-12T14:22:00.003-06:00

Epic Funk

2010-11-11T10:58:00.000-06:00

I’m having one of those days where I don’t feel like doing anything good for myself. I want to go home, go back to bed with a jar of salsa and tortilla chips and sleep until dinner time. Then I wake to wake up, eat a shit load of chinese food, wash it down with a bottle of wine and watch reality TV untill I pass into a food baby coma. These are days when I have to just go through the motions of what I normally do – Work, workout, go home, eat a wholesome dinner and spend quality time with the family until bed time. And not think about it too much. Days like this make self-preservation seem like such a chore.

How do you pull yourself out of days like this?

Logistics

2010-11-04T10:47:00.000-05:00

If you're like me, you might be intimidated by starting new things. Here's what got me started.

Resources:

Though going to a studio is a fulfilling experience, not everyone can afford studio yoga. I bought my first 5 classes on Groupon. 5 classes for 25 dollars, I think. Take the basics class a few times and get to know your tastes. Then you can move on to other resources. Yoga Journal is a wonderful tool. Not only do they have yoga-related content (articles and blogs) they also have free 20 minute podcast videos. I don’t have fancy technology, but I do have a computer. I saved them all on my desktop in a folder and am working my way through them.

I recommend starting with the Morning Wake Up routine and following it up with the Evening Relaxation Routine. If you have never done yoga, you will feel these. Also, that’s 40 minutes of free yoga right there! Move on to other videos when you feel like you’ve mastered these. Please be warned that some of the videos are intermediate. Be careful when attempting some of these poses. There’s a difference between discomfort and pain in yoga. Avoid pain at all costs.

Another great resource I have found is called iYogaLife.com. They have slide shows that explain each pose. Step-by-step. Not to mention a wealth of other content to feed your yoga monster .

Tools:

For your home practice, you will need/want a couple things.

A mat: Pick one in a color you like. You’ll be looking at it a lot. If you need an extra long one, they are available online. I have a default length one and it works perfectly for me.

A strap: Usually looks like a cotton belt. If you don’t want to buy a strap, use an old tie. Just as good.

A block: These foam blocks are a great tool. There is no hurry to stand on your head, or press your body into poses you aren’t ready for. A block helps you deepen each pose without hurting yourself by over extending.

A note about resources: Don’t go to Dicks or any sporting goods stores for your items. Cruise through your local Marshal’s or TJ Maxx. You’ll get everything much cheaper.

Think you'll give it a try?

Confessions of an Agnostic Yogini

2010-11-03T09:32:00.001-05:00

Yes, it may be a little premature to call myself a yogini. My yoga teacher would say, “You are not a beginner. You are a novice.” And a yogini all the same. Plus, I just like that word.
This yoga thing sure has produced a lot of hype. A national phenomenon, yuppies across the States are downward-dogging their way to sexy yoga bodies (It works! You should see my shoulders!). Long, lean and flexible <---HOT

It’s true. From my first yoga class, I am totally taken with the central concepts (more on this later). I sat down for opening meditation, closed my eyes and felt a surge of emotion well up inside me. It’s amazing what sitting with yourself brings up, all those raw nerves you deaden with daily distraction alive and burning in your chest. Those wounds are real.

I can see my atheist friends cringing. I can hear them thinking – On no…Lulu got her woo-woo back. They are all probably expecting me to toss my pervious viewpoints, join club Buddha, and start saving for my first trip to India.

Not so, dear friends! Doing brief, basic research, will tell you- Yoga as we practice it in the States is much different than it was at its conception. Its evolution is debatable. Its history is convoluted. And I just can’t bring myself to care enough to get to the bottom of it in any hurry.

Take, for instance, the film Enlighten Up!- A yoga novice and atheist enters the world of yoga on the West Coast, trying it’s various forms and introducing us to some serious characters along the way. It all looks…Well, it looks totally ridiculous.

It’s a perfect film for someone like me who certainly feels the positive effects of yoga, but doesn’t necessarily get the crazies over seeking enlightenment (whatever that is…). I won’t even attempt to understand it all right now, but I’m in a place where I want to seek light, contentment and happiness. And yoga, for me, is all about casting out internal dualities for the sake of unity. Letting go of past regrets, future anxieties. Bringing my “monkey mind” into my body. Giving myself the same compassion I give others. Being here now. Am I channelling Buddhist teachings in my practice? Probably. Do I appreciate what they can do for me? Of course! Am I going to get rid of all my stuff and become a nun? Hell no! I love sex and food and family way too much for that kind of zeal. As I continue my practice, I will continue to enjoy feeling worshipful without actually having to worship anything. Many yogis and gurus will say that God will come to me as I continue my practice. I’ll be sure to let you know if that happens, but I think it’s pretty unlikely.

I hope to explore what it means to be a modern yogini in our real world. An agnostic one, that has little interest in the strange, funny, sometimes cultish, larger yoga community. After all, yoga is about my own physical and mental well-being, isn’t it?

Love/Hate

2010-11-03T09:30:00.001-05:00

At first my absence was unintentional, then it became intentional. I waffle between wanting to write and wanting to keep my thoughts private. I suppose the colder weather is drawing the sentimental and introspective feelings out of me. Here we go again.

One Book a Month

2010-01-07T10:30:00.002-06:00

I’m not really one to make any sort of resolution. Ever. This is generally because I am flaky and I find it hard to stick to things.

Reading is a lot like exercising for me. I like to do it. I feel good about myself when I’ve done it, but I can usually find other things to occupy my mind and time (*ahem* TV on DVD).

This year I want to focus on being more reliable and involving myself in more positive activities. A dear writer friend of mine (Hi Abby!) had the brilliant idea of making creative resolutions. I decided that I would make a new set of smaller resolutions each month that are easy to stick to.

1. Read one book.

This may not seem like a big deal to some of you, but since college, I have found it impossible to make through an entire book without abandoning it. So, my book collection grows because I do WANT to read, but I never read them.

2. Get a St. Charles County Library card.

This will mean that I have library cards in the city of STL, the county in STL, the county of St. Charles. It’s a collection. I want to start taking in some audio books and having access to free DVDs to rent. I may also join a book club.

3. Make shirts for people I’ve promised them to.

Jess (I miss you!), my mom, my brother, my boyfriend’s brother

That seems doable right? Right.

The first book I picked is one that everyone was reading in college. Lovely Bones. I didn’t even know what it was about until I heard an interview with Alice Sebold on NPR. She read the rape/murder scene in the book, and it got me interested. Morbid, I know. I want to do a book/movie comparison on this one. So far, I have noticed some really beautiful language and am really enjoying the voyeurist perspective of the main character, who is narrating from heaven. She gets to look in on everyone and it’s thrilling.

I tried to melt into my seat.

2009-12-22T14:27:00.000-06:00

I had been waiting and waiting to see Julie and Julia. I missed it in the movie theater (I’m cheap). So, you can imagine how excited I was to sit myself down in the comfort of my own home and take in the movie.

I had heard mixed reviews-the sections with Meryl Streep were magical, brilliantly-acted, and that the Amy Adam’s character, Julie Powell, was insufferable, annoying, and afflicted. Ungrateful and whiny.

And it was true. I wanted to live in Julia Child land. She was joyful and interested. I cried thinking of that kind of happiness. Julie Powell WAS afflicted. I did start feeling a little defensive for her. After all, I am a would-be writer, working a (non-writing) desk job, a quarterlifer….

Then it hit me.

Let me set it up for you-

JP just spilled about four hours of work on the floor. She is crying and sinking to the floor. By the end of the scene, she is sobbing, laying on the floor IN the food.

This may seem like a fit worthy of the sassiest three-year-old you know, but, believe it, a 26-year-old. Epic tantrum. While many of you cannot identify with that at all, I, on the other hand, realized that I have had this fit. I’m a slammer and a thrower and I am just like Julie Powell- Unhappy, ungrateful and searching for my joy and pissed as hell when it doesn’t work out. Embarrassing.

This is not to say I enjoyed Julie Powell (there were a few absolutely intolerable schmaltzy parts), but I would like to speak to critics everywhere who belittled the character- we’re out here, Mr. Blow, with a temper tantrum on deck, just for you.

Lately, I have found that acceptance is a wonderful little trick. I find that I am getting better at it as I put effort in to it. Sure, life hasn’t exactly taken me where I want to go at the moment. 2009 was a bitch of a year, but unhappy, ungrateful and afflicted isn’t something I ever wanted to be. I’m afraid I can’t see with this sort of clarity every day, but hopefully, the harder I try, the closer they’ll be to each other until, one day, I can stop acting like a total brat.

*pound of butter*

False Starts, Stops

2009-11-17T09:46:00.004-06:00

What is it about being a girl having an unhealthy reliance on our mother’s approval? There have been books written about this and I still don’t quite understand why this is such a universal experience. I’ve recently realized that I’ve been using my mother as a litmus test that would look a little like this-

Light pink Dark red

I---------------------------------I-------------------------------------I

(Initial criticism followed by (Harsh and general criticism acquiescence) of the nonverbal kind)

A light pink response would be ideal, yielding only a small shoulder shrug, moderate discouragement and light annoyance. The darker the paper (I keep getting the image of a little piece of tissue you plug a shaving wound with), the worse I end up feeling. At this point I usually lash out with some sort of exhibit of adolescent behavior, thus vindicating her and setting her free from accountability and hurtfulness that could have occurred previously and ultimately making her feel bad, too. It’s science.

I think most adults grow out of this sooner than I have, but I guess it wasn’t until recently that I realized how much it has had a hold on my life and my actions. It was a rather embarrassing scene in which I was buying seat covers for my car with my mom. I picked what I thought SHE would pick to avoid a “that doesn’t match” or a “you picked black?” only to find that she would have made the choice I originally wanted me make. She then proceeded to tell me that she appreciated that her opinion meant so much to me, but that I was being a little hard on myself about it. Yes, straight from the mouth of the originator of this relationship.

So, this means I have to get used to her criticism and accept it as a valid place holder on the action plan spectrum? It has to be.

Today, I am moving forward on a plan that she has not approved. I tried to tell her about it but she was watching Sarah Palin on Oprah. It’s a big decision that will ultimately affect all of my personal time for the next eleven months. Literally all of it.

Growing pains today. It kinda feels like riding a two wheeler for the first time. I’m scared, yet still able to bail and fall over sideways on the grass, but excited, smiling like crazy to myself.

What sort of harsh realizations have you had about your parents as you’ve grown older? How did you deal with it? What sort of parallels are there between men and their sons?

What is that thing? A merry go round?

2009-11-04T09:17:00.000-06:00

I haven't seen one of these since I was a kid. Back then, they were probably 5 times the size of this one and would hold 15 or 20 kids if they were packed on. I hate modern play grounds. The fun was in the danger- The knocking heads, running dizzy across the field, falling helplessly under the spinning sky.

My Gift to You

2009-11-04T09:11:00.001-06:00

Salted Brown Butter Crispy Treats
Makes 16 2-inch squares or 32 1- x 2-inch small bars
4 ounces (1/4 pound or 1 stick) unsalted butter, plus extra for the pan
1 10-ounce bag marshmallows
Heaping 1/4 teaspoon coarse sea salt
6 cups Rice Krispies cereal (about half a 12-ounce box)

Butter (or coat with non-stick spray) an 8-inch square cake pan with 2-inch sides.

In a large pot, melt butter over medium-low heat. It will melt, then foam, then turn clear golden and finally start to turn brown and smell nutty. Stir frequently, scraping up any bits from the bottom as you do. Butter is really easy to burn, so do not pour yourself a glass of wine. Watch the pot.

As soon as the butter takes on a nutty color, move off the heat and stir in the marshmallows. The residual heat from the melted butter should melt them, but it didn't I put the pot back on low heat and stirred with a wooden spoon.

Remove from heat again. Stir in the salt and cereal together. Spread into prepared pan.

Unacceptable!

2009-11-03T11:01:00.001-06:00

The Splendid Table is the most thrillingly nerdy foodie postcast ever. The show just oozes kitsch, which puts some people off, but I find it comforting. There is a segment that a Jane and Michael Stern do for the show about interesting places to eat across the country. These people are prolific food writers and critics.

As I was poking around the Splendid Table website, I noticed they published a "Where We Eat" guide, separated by region. Naturally, I went to see where they had stopped in St. Louis.

To walk you through my horror, I'd like to send you the site itself. Now scroll through to the Midwest. Notice as you scroll through the many Chicago locations they've hit, the Kansas, Kansas City, and finally St. Louis. And here they are, telling me that the best and most interesting food St. Louis has to offer is a random Chinese food place on Hampton and their St. Paul Sandwich. Now, either St. Louis really sucks at being original, or the Sterns have neglected my fine city. Either way, I had to share. What places in St. Louis would you put on their list? What about your home town? Where you live now? We can make our own list.

The Fall of Our Discontent

2009-11-03T08:36:00.005-06:00

The moment I get used to being happy with what I have, something falls out of the sky, clunks me on the head, and then I spend the rest of the day with it in my hand, looking up at the sky, wondering where it came from.

Ira Glass on Good Taste

2009-10-20T11:19:00.003-05:00

Silver fox!

What Real Men Do on Sundays

2009-10-19T22:16:00.000-05:00

Some of the time I didn't think it could be real. There is land between Jefferson City and Columbia.

Playing Ketchup

2009-10-15T08:28:00.000-05:00

This is what the last days of my summer have looked like-

My favorite farmer's market stand. I am pleased to say that I did not purchase one item of produce from a chian grocery store in July or August.

Experimenting with yeast

May I, once again, profess my love for heirloom tomatoes?

Summer fresh heirloom tomato pie with grilled local corn, free range eggs and homemade mayo. Holler!

I'm crying right now.

Foraged dove

The Things I Do When I’m Angry at You

2009-10-15T08:09:00.001-05:00

I’ve gotten e-mails from more people than I expected about making Alpaca Son private. I’ve been getting some irritating Japanese spam on my X-Mas in July posts. I’ve been spending some time rethinking my privacy and my internet blast radius. Also, someone pissed me off and I didn’t think he should have the right to look in on me.

Truth be told, I’ve been blog-free for less than a month and I miss it. What can I say? Write in a journal, you say? I have pages and pages of hand-written gibberish and the editor in me just cannot STAND this disorganized chaos.

Personal issues with previously mentioned lurker have blown over and my impulse to broadcast my business has won out. Welcome me back, fuzzy friends!

Plug - Do Not Read If You Hate Activists

2009-09-04T13:26:00.000-05:00

Hey fancy friends! I just wanted to take a sec and plug a worthy cause. Food issues have always been near and dear to my heart. I started reading up on food activism and I discovered an awesome group called Slow Food USA. From the looks of it, Slow Food has an international arm as well.

This Monday, Slow Food STL is sponsoring an eat-in at the Bottleworks. Think sit-in…with food. People are eating-in to raise awareness about food that is served in public schools which is pretty much jail food. I don’t know if you remember a while back when the press discovered that slaughter houses were processing sick cows and selling off the meat. Do you remember where they found most of the contaminated meat? Schools. This isn’t a plug for vegetarianism. It’s a plug for better food to go into the tummy of our babies.

I’d hate to bore you with details, so I will present a barrage of links so you can decide if this is something you’d like to put your hands on.
Also, if you like the sound of this group, they are offering a special this month. You can get a membership for ANY donation. The minimum donation is usually 60.00, so this is a great opportunity for you starving artists to put your pocket change to good use.

Oo, So Sexy...

2009-09-03T09:16:00.000-05:00

As I sit here and wish summer away, the signs of early fall are reminding me what I will miss about all these days I've complained about the heat.

First off, I have a feeling the thing that will offend me the most about moving into the colder months is that I will have less opportunities to wear my precious Kate Spade sunglasses. At 7:30 last night, I had to switch to my normal glasses and my heart sank a little. I remebered that temperate days are too short. And apperantly less stylish.

Second, while in Kansas City, I hit the City Market with loved ones. It's small compared to Soulard in St. Louis, but as I walked down the rows with my hunny at my hip, I grieved the bounty of fresh produce and creamed myself over the heirloom tomatoes.

My absloute favortie thing to make this summer is a chopped up version of the caprese salad and what a gorgeous one I pulled out of that market. It's so simple. Onions, tomato, fresh italian basil, fresh mozzerlla and a simple basalmic vinigerette dressing. It's a delight and you better try it out soon because it will be a sad day when you try it with tomatos that are out of season. Consider yourself warned.

Essie Jain

2009-08-18T08:09:00.000-05:00

I went to check out her Myspace and found her studio tracks to be a little deperate and contrived. This is amazing, though.

Nomnom Nom Nom

2009-08-17T14:35:00.001-05:00

Food Porn!

2009-08-17T08:45:00.000-05:00

One step closer to bringing you a perfected brunch-
Quiches (I've learned) are one of those things you need a standard recipe for. I love that because that means I get to pimp it out in my own way. The thing to remember is, the more stuff you add, the more egg you need to hold it together. This little pretty here has spinach, basil, goat cheese, red onion and tomatoes on top. I wanted to have roasted asparagus, but they were so slimy, I couldn't bring myself to buy such nasty-looking produce, so I got some tarts and made chocolate covered strawberries bites. To top it off, I made Mimosas with orange pineapple juice. The result? The quiche was a tad runny. The strawberry bites were amazing. I just (on the suggestion of a friend) melted high quality chocolate chips and spooned on a little at a time. Then throw it in the fridge to harden. I made bites because I find the whole strawberry a little cumbersome, and messy to eat.

I love these pictures because they look like their straight of a ladies magazine from the 50s.

Fall Sampler

2009-08-14T08:18:00.000-05:00

Today's addition to what is turning out to be somewhat of a fall music sampler has Sufjan Stevens all over it. I was talking to one of my dearest, trying to explain what I take away from the catalogue of Sufjan Stevens.

To me, Sufjan is a bit soft and a bit annoying. If I saw him public, I'd probably brush him off as some feral hipster that escaped some suburban basement, while slyly snapping a photo of him for Look at this Fucking Hipster. From various sources, I've half-heartedly gathered the following information-

1) He's a good Christian boy from the Midwest.
2) He knits.
3) He wears wings on stage. Like...butterfly wings.
4) His name is Persian.
5) His parents were hippies.

My utter distain for the appearance of this queer little man, gets promptly rubbed in my face by his highly composed, orchestrated, cerebral music. I feel he writes about nostalgia in the way Arcade Fire wishes they could. His songs sound rooted in physical landscape. What you get is that beautiful mixture of what makes the world so beautiful and so very sad. Sufjan is perfect for: driving, sitting and staring at the wall, singing, quiet time.

By far one of my favorites. This is a live version and totally worth your time.-

Gives me a literary boner-

I encourage you to seek out the lyrics of these songs. Any of his songs, really. He's quite an amazing poet. (see John Wayne Gacy, Jr. from Come on Feel the Illinoise)

Brain Snacks - Beirut

2009-08-13T10:20:00.001-05:00

Yes, this reminds me of you.

Brain Snacks - Yeasayer

2009-08-13T10:18:00.000-05:00

Brain Snacks - Fleet Foxes

2009-08-13T10:17:00.000-05:00

Brain Snacks - Bon Iver

2009-08-13T10:15:00.000-05:00

Secret Pieces of Magic

2009-08-12T13:40:00.000-05:00

To the finest of my friends-

If one could will it to be fall, the days would be shortening right now because of me. I’m ready for softer edges and shorter days, a time when I can finally think and not worry. This fall beckons in changes and I welcome it. I need it.

How cheesy is it to say I lost my zen? Either way, I found it again. Nothing like a good, long vacation to find it nestled in the sand with sea turtle eggs, in the shell of a sea mollusk, the faces of people with full bellies and happy hearts.

This change, I will not resist. It's really hard for me to get away from feeling that this whole past year was a waste of time. Hopefully a little time will bring some perspective. Once I'm done feeling embarrassed, bitter, embarrassed.

Post-Show Muse

2009-07-13T10:37:00.000-05:00

So, the show went really, really well! Better than I expected.

I sold 7 shirts and took three pre-orders. Quite inspiring.

I had people asking me for cards and website info. And if I'm on Etsy yet. All of these things are really huge and require an investment. I think I'm going to hold off on internet sales and fix my eyes on another show. Lots of things in the works and even though it stressed me the hell out, the pay off was incredible.

Here are some photos of the finished products.

The Kind of Accident You Can Smile About

2009-07-09T09:02:00.000-05:00

The most thrilling thing about creating is that it is full of happy accidents.

Last night, I hit the ground running on the first layer of treatment to my shirts. I think overall it was successful. With each shirt, I learned a new method of what Sydney calls my ‘hand airbrushing’ (makes it sound so official!).
I’m putting a lot of effort into keeping it simple. I want my designs to project garishness in a manner that normal (hahahahahah) people can still accesses. My other important goal with these guys is to use materials that anyone would have access to. Accessibility is key.

So, I did the math and the shirts come up to 20.00 a piece. I’ll make the ones I don’t sell available to you after the show. Of course the people that come get first dibs.

Tonight, now that they’ve all been washed and dryed once, the shirts will be ready for the real fun. Paint! The first level of treatment took so well, I can only hope that I don’t ruin the things with additional layers.

My plan is to only treat the shirts I think need another level of quality before it’s something I, personally, would wear. The black shirts turned out incredibly well, so I won’t do much to them. The yellow and pink left me wanting a little more, so I will either throw a stencil up and little color.

Other things I’ve learned:

I will buy bigger shirts. I have a connect (heart!) who works at retailer at the mall and their sizes run small. She helped me out with the initial investment by buying them with her discount for me.
I need more pants hangers.

I need some rubber gloves and to wear pants and maybe a facemask when I do the initial treatment. Owie.

Stay with me for tomorrow’s update on how the actual painting goes. I’m so nervous and excited.

Here are a couple of examples of the first layer of treatment.

HOLYFUCKINGSHIT!

2009-07-08T08:43:00.000-05:00

Ok, don’t tell Sydney this, but I haven’t even started on my shirts yet. I have the supplies and now the shirts. And tonight the clusterfuck begins.
I’m a little stressed about completing 13 shirts, plus tags, signage and folding by Saturday, so if you get in my way, have empty hands, I will put something in them for you to do.

Naturally, I’m being a little overdramatic. I’m very excited and work best under pressure, so if you see me on the streets, looking rather feral with adrenaline, do not be alarmed. Just smile knowingly and don’t be insulted if I’m scatterbrained and forget who you are.

This is exactly the kick in the ass I need to get Lulusplosion up and running.
Come back and visit, my chicklets! There will be things for your eyes to feast on and many messes to be made!

Christmas in July will be hosted at Sydney’s house from 1-3 on July 11th.
4205 Utah St.
St. Louis, MO 63116 US

I want to see your beautiful fucking face.

One thing I have to note. I didn’t purchase any men’s shirts to be sold. I had limited resources (dolla, dolla bill, ya’ll) to purchase anything more than woman’s sizes. HOWEVER, if you are a man (or if you are a woman and want a mens-style shirt), and you want to buy one, you can pre-order, and I will make one for your snazzy ass. SPECIAL.

Pricing and other boring things will soon follow. Like tomorrow morning.

Christmas in July Preview

2009-06-03T08:47:00.000-05:00

I was invited by an artist friend to be a part of a in-house show case to debut my t-shirts. I wanted to tone the subject matter down a bit, so these will be more design-oriented than message-oriented. This is a preview of what I'll be sellin'. Feedback?

I was thinking of adding little phrases that express sentiment or nostalgia (i.e. 'We have a history'). I'm not crazy about the way the words turned out on this particular shirt, so I'm going to keep testing the paint pen on fabrics.

Grad School

2009-04-24T09:56:00.001-05:00

I'm in!

I had a fucking shitty night last night.

2009-04-16T08:56:00.000-05:00

But this makes me happy.

BROADSIDES ARE ON, BITCH!

2009-03-27T08:58:00.001-05:00

Broadside
1)the side of a ship; the battery of cannon on one side of a warship; or their simultaneous (or near simultaneous) fire in naval warfare
2)any strong or comprehensive attack, as by criticism
3)a sheet of paper printed on one or both sides, as for distribution or posting
4)to collide with or run into the side of (a vehicle, object, person, etc.)

I bought these little guys off of Etsy last week and they came in yesterday. I wasn't quite sure what to expect because each full set of the alphabet was $2.25. The seller was super nice and I can't recommend her enough! *glee*

In the Hole

2009-03-27T08:36:00.000-05:00

This was a bright red wrap that I never wore. So, I repurposed it with some bleach. The blue dye is taking care of a gross stained duvet cover my mom gave me. I'm not happy with that navy at all, but I plan to get some green and dye over the blue.

The Great Fabricator Has Spoken!

2009-03-26T14:07:00.000-05:00

A Crazy Wind, A Love Story

You and me lay naked like walruses in the sun. Those unapologetic sunbathers. Scarred and cracked, bare our skin to the sky, pay homage to the midday sun. We are beasts and blights, not supple-skinned, not bubble butted.

Heathens and sun worshipers, like whiskered angels, once God's own, but dismissed to earth, massive slugs and symbols of his spite.

Whipped and twisted, our flesh is the map of our tortures. We roll around in our mud-colored suits, shit and spray in the same place we lay. We howl in unison in pain and pleasure, a pulsating mound of foamy excretions. Fulfilling our disgusting prophecy, we are ice goblins and nasty royalty of the sea.

Shield your eyes from the whipping dicks and shanking tusks. Forget us in our exile and take care to plug your nose in the Northern wind, with it brings the memory of us, creatures that can live happily like this.

3.15.09

We Are Not Words

2009-03-22T21:29:00.000-05:00

You are currently witnessing the first thing I've written with a computer at my desk. I usually am hunkering over a pillow on my lap working on my hunchback, scrawling feverishly a work that I will not be able to read later and only remember being heavily struck, blinded even by the fury of creation. It's terrible like an almost-sneeze.

I kept very busy this weekend. Extended family time! When I'm sitting amidst a chaos of screaming from the youngest of us, to the oldest, I could very easily fall into an episode of hysterics, either laugh or crying.

I took this energy out on my living environment in the form of sharpie pen, navy blue Rit Dye, and a fuck load of elbow grease. I was all of a sudden entirely dissatisfied with my space. It was feeling old and stagnant. These are times when I usually do something drastic to my hair, but I really don't think my head could handle another one of my hack-fests. So, I unleashed on my space. It's not finished, it isn't exactly what I was hoping for, but it's a start, a reason to smile by myself.

And you've also noticed the new projects, yet another facet of this overhaul.

I will explain this to you in an attempt to understand it myself-
Even though I write this feeling more positive and excited than I have in a long time, I am motivated by my extreme dissatisfaction with pretty much everything. This has given way to a nonchalance that I have never been able to otherwise achieve. I'm glad about it because I no longer feel pinned down by any pervading philosophy. Shaking myself loose has been a strange and graceless walk across a field of gumballs.

I had a very dark winter. I brooded, spent hours mulling over conundrums and art that provokes feelings other than pleasantry. Allowing myself to think the thoughts that I was told to repress. It is indeed liberating. What kind of place do I come from that makes me afraid to have a thought? Like in some way I'm going to be held accountable for it. I won't attempt a further discussion of this yet. Just know that it has gifted my spring with a sassy positivity that is making me want to explode ugly brightness everywhere.

Accompanying this mindset is a need to create some good-humored nastiness and provoke some dumbfoundedness. The art hole is vacuous and demanding. I realized I have nothing to ruin, and I like to be sneaky.

The Stencil Experiment

2009-03-17T08:33:00.000-05:00

Here are some preliminary mock-ups of some stencils I'm working on. I haven’t tested anything yet, but the hope is that I can make a limited run of t-shirts with these guys. They’re just on card stock, so I can’t imagine they’ll hold up for very many before pooping out. I might switch to a more durable material when I see how this goes.

This is the first instillation of set of projects I’m working on under a fledgling press that I'm looking to launch myself. The hope is to create a set of moveable art pieces, more of a art-for-art's-sake demonstration.

My 'o' got jacked up on this one and I don't think I care.

You Will Know What Happend

2009-03-12T07:48:00.000-05:00

His Days

He exhales hard and long, sings along with the breathy song that's playing. Do do ba dee dooo, only as old men do. He adds the words, a lonely whispered ballad; he is very far away.

It goes like this-He pulls her close in the dance hall. Her blue eyes electric in the even bluer lights. Their nimble knees slide with grace, well-oiled machines made for slow moves. He leads without thinking, together gliding like water around rocks. Later, he'd walk her home through city streets, his jacket hanging from her bare shoulders, throwing rocks at empty milk bottles, laughing at the sound of glass breaking. The night air of summer is cool in comparison to their skin, their smiles stuck despite their aching faces.

He watches her as she walks up the porch, steps, opens the door. Keeps his eye on her until the last supple calf disappears. This time, she won't come back out of the house. This time, there is no house, just a whole lifetime evaporated, absorbed.

Grandpa likes the blue lights. They shine like cold stars, but they do warm the room a bit. Endless room--there are only more lights on the other side, clustered like galaxies. He has sunk into his chair in clothes that used to have color. Bleached navy socks that are now purple. He rubs his knees as he would babies' heads or bowling balls with both hands, sober hands that silently wish for beers and not knees.

12.23.08

Eat that you self-indulgent Burroughsian cocksuckers!

This piece didn't get accepted, so I can post it. Thanks to all of you that helped me workshop it! I'm not really sure why it didn't make it, nor do I really care that much. I'm not all that dazzled by it, anyway. I must not have the word 'cunt' in there enough. Or maybe my bio didn't convince them that my accolades were prestigious enough for their ZINE...I mean...LITERARY JOURNAL. I mean, the fact that I live in St. Louis isn't convincing enough? (<--sarcasm that may not translate)

Next time, this is what I will write-
Lulu Westbrook started the infamous crocodile fights of 1998 in rural Costa Rica. She has had 23 children all of which she mercilessly fed to her reptiles. She is visited nightly by tongueless demons with goat dicks, who rape her repeatedly with Joesph Stalin dildos. To cope, she does lots and lots of drugs and nothing can save her now.

This got me thinkin'-
How important is the bio? Is it another method of convincing subjective eyes to pick your piece? What say you, cowardly lurkers?

Onward, onward, onward. There are darker things to come. Art not to be sold separately. Broadsides. Perverts. Vandalism. Art holes.

Your only Lulu

Sad News

2009-01-15T10:21:00.001-06:00

Learning about the death of a great poet is a terrible way to start the day. Pulitzer Prize winner, WD Snodgrass, died of lung cancer the morning of the 13th.

I was fortunate enough to see him read as a part of Drury's English Department Lecture series. I also got a chance to speak with him as I was working on a story about the event for the university website. His writing has been influential in my own development; he was a master at altering common-held perspectives (I think of his poems about Hitler's girlfriend) and writing accessably (as in "Farm Kids", posted below). Tonight, I drink to WD.

Farm Kids

Our neighbor’s slim rag doll of a daughter (not,
we’re told, of his own getting) breathed out: "You’ve got
so many cookbooks!" – each eye a startled O
as it skimmed our kitchen shelves – "And so
much food!" Later, straight-faced, she said her mother
lives now with her new boyfriend in another
county. Hard up for farm jobs, her "Dad" has to drive
60 miles to the factory, getting up at 5
AM to leave them where his folks watch after them
until he gets back home – sometimes 5 PM.

We go for long walks every evening. If we pass
their trailer, they all tumble out shouting, "Snodgrass!
Snodgrass!" The slim, straight-faced one is thought slow
by her teachers. There’s much she’d do well not to know.
The cool offspring of our city friends are driven
to special schools, sports dates, parties, given
phones, computers, cars, the insatiate stuff
that will guarantee they can’t ever get enough.
Our neighbors’ less keen hungers and kinder drives
make sure they’ll make nothing of their lives but lives.

APR, Vol. 32, #3, May/June 2003, pp 7-8.

Would You Fuckin' Believe It?

2009-01-12T13:59:00.000-06:00

I'm goin' back to school.

I Only Sort of Lied

2009-01-07T15:55:00.000-06:00

I wrote you something beautiful. But I cannot post it here because I want to submit it to a new literary journal in St. Louis.

I would like some opinions, though. It's my first submission to a themed issue of a journal and I had some trouble with it. It is also the first time I am not forcing myself to break my poem up into lines, so it's a real, live prose poem, my little squids! You should e-mail me if you want to read it. I would like it if you read it.

I encourage you, writer, to check out the call for submissions and help support this little baby in St. Louis.

Other things-
I read some fantastic news! St. Louis is the 8th most literate city in the country! Wowwee! Above even New York and Chicago, who didn't even make it on the list! That makes me happy.

I have recently discovered the sharpie pen. I heard a Barry White song in my head and made love to the package in the pen isle at Target. They are amazing. No bleeding, just pure smooth, felt-tipped baby-makin' love. Seriously. Why did the world stop making felt-tipped pens? Uni-pissmeoff-balls never cease to annoy me with their inconsistency.

Please let me know if I can inflict my submission on you. I can't post it because it's technically considered publishing if I post it on here for workshopping.

I think they call this stagnat

2008-12-03T14:40:00.000-06:00

My sunroom on a day like today
Warming up my sun room on a day like today
Secretly critical
Critical, but it ain't no secret
Something to write that people can read in the future
International grocery stores
Hiding from the public
Cups and cups of tea
The pants I want out of
Recluse, recluse, recluse,

I will write you something soon. My day starts in an hour and a half.

A Little Something From The Past

2008-09-11T09:50:00.000-05:00

Birding
A siren wails and flashes
panties through the
patterns of her curtains-

and if a man were a boomerang,
he would sail around her, fixate
on her swinging breasts as she
smooths over long and limbered legs.

She oils them. And it sounds like
violins sailing through the window
that glows, backlit with fire.

Her figure passes behind it,
hanging wet panties around her nest,
like she's fussing with her feathers,
laying sweaters flat on her sewing table.

Her song softens as she quits her laundry.
He stands so still because the smallest
sound would startle her and in a flutter,
off she'd fly with the light.

I Want to See Your Face!

2008-09-09T09:52:00.000-05:00

It's time for Taste for Tunes 2008!

What: Taste for Tunes is a community event held to raise money for the KDHX radio and television station. If you dine at one of the designated restaurants, a portion of the proceeds will go to the station.

Why: You should go to Yemanja Brazil for dinner that night. You should go there because I will be hosting there. Come and see me. Eat some DELICIOUS Brazilian food. Support your local entrepreneurs and community radio! You should also bring all of your friends.

When: Will see you September 9th, 2008. I will be milling around harassing the eaters from 7p.m. to 10p.m/when they stop serving food.

Where: Yemanja Brazil

They also have a great website you can visit if you feel like perusing the menu ahead of time. http://www.brazildinin...

To spoon feed you just a little more, here is a map. It's a bit off the beaten path, but who lets that deter them from amazing dining?! Not you, my foodie friend!
http://maps.google.com...
It's at the corner of Pestalozzi and Missouri right off Jefferson.

If you have any questions or need more information, give me a call or shoot me an e-mail/message.

Are you coming?!

You Know it Looks so Good Tonight

2008-09-05T14:23:00.001-05:00

They Called Me Fitness Girl

2008-08-07T10:32:00.000-05:00

“…Adaptation is a profound process. Means you figure out how to thrive in the world.”

“Yeah but it's easier for plants. I mean they have no memory. They just move on to whatever's next. With a person though, adapting almost shameful. It's like running away.”

------------------------

Oh, where to begin. Let me start here—Becoming a runner is hard. As the last kid in from the mile-run every single gym class, I can say this with authority. And as most people who are deprived of abilities, I craved being a runner. I craved the ease in which the exerted themselves on the hottest days of summer. In the rain. In the snow. I coveted their slender bodies. Endurance. Self-discipline. I played the violin instead.

The past two years of my life (yes, this day exactly) have turned me in to a seat-surfer. Enough said.

The one taking the elevator when they should be taking the stairs. The mindless eater. The bottom of the bag scraper. How many times have your co-workers walked in on you with the Cheez-it bag stuck on your face?

Isn’t it all just an outward manifestation of inner train wreck? The unplucked eyebrows, unironed clothes, makeupless face, uncombed hair. And with a presupposition of leanin’ on “the juice”…

Most people like to call this growing pains. But I prefer fiery bullshit hell.

So, the next logical step? I have two options and I don’t want to be looking longingly at the elevator anymore. Become something I’ve never been, but have always wanted to be. Run.

If it hurts, do it anyway. Smile at the other runners. Support your carriage. It is too much like everything else. It has been amazing to me how readily my body has accepted the change. I do not run with ease, but each week is easier. I am slowly learning why people write essays called “On Running”. I’ve learned why people do it—it’s a loose community built up of people who know what it means to push back, sweat a little, not get knocked over so easily.

The funny thing is, when I’m out there and I get passed up by an 80-year-old man, I think, I’m slow now, but when I’m eighty, I’ll smile when I run.

Happy desk job anniversary to me.

Seedless Watermelon

2008-08-05T12:15:00.000-05:00

She casts her
hands over the crest,
her belly.

Holds it like
a bowling ball in
her two palms.

A stranger’s
smile and knowing
sympathy.

She is bitter.
She drinks a beer. She
hits herself.

A hollow knock-
Like silence in a
seashell, but

still praying
for waves. A joke. A
fruitless flesh.

Expecting
eternally. Her
damnation.

Forever
pregnant, with no seeds
to spit out.

-Lulu 8.5.08
(Appreantly...I only write about pregnant things...I don't like this title)

A New Project

2008-06-26T10:38:00.000-05:00

“While conventional notions of the avant-garde suggest work which is groundbreaking, confrontational and even impenetrable, this panel seeks to investigate poetry and poetics which adhere to a narrower sense of the term—namely, Peter Burger's conception of the avant-garde as work which "demand[s] that art becomes practical once again," or returns art to the praxis of everyday life. Understood this way, Burger's avant-garde aesthetic changes the ways in which an audience interacts with art, calling for personal action, and provides new, democratized inroads to the creative process.” - Michael Hennessey as seen on Fanzine

This is something I’ve been thinking on a lot lately. I found this excerpt on an online zine and it was the first I’d heard of Paul Burger’s work. I went searching and found his book, so I’ll be able to outline more for you after I dig in.

I’m excited to explore these ideas in a structured environment, because in my head they are faceless, floating idea zygotes. They need faces. They deserve faces because I find something inherently wrong about most experimental art. I appreciate the distinction between avant-guard and experimental. Avant-guard does infer some sort of organized, intentional framework, not some graphic, exploitative, explosive demonstration of chaos. I think it definitely tips its hat to chaos, but it also acknowledges that art is thoughtful, a process, calculated and loved. I think it may be more akin to my developing personal artistic aesthetic. I’m absolutely exhausted with the deconstruction of art. I’m fine with the act of destroying art, but there has to be art to destroy in the first place. The art that is being destroyed now are the fathers, grandfathers, great-grandfathers of destroyed art. It all lacks foundation and cause for me. It reminds of me a baby that makes noise purely because it can. This thought is totally contrary to my entire artistic background. I haven’t had the language to speak on this topic because it is so different from the punk-rock aesthetic I was born into, but that isn’t going to stop me from trying. This is surely a work that I will and plan to amend as needed.

To continue, I felt wrong for having these ideas because punk-rock is SO opinionated. Religiously. The anti-structure, which is also a faith, the stubborn opposition to the structure-obsessed academics. Which means that I was afraid of having these ideas because modern punk-rock told me not to? Fuck that retro shtick! (If you feel an essay relating the fanaticism of art and the fanaticism of religion coming on. You are correct!) God bless Annie Dillard. I don’t fully relate to Dillard as an artist because she comes from a highly critical/academic background. But in her book, The Writing Life, she talks about the freedom to make art. She says, “you may not let it rip.” Is that not exactly what punks tell you to do? What say you, Neo-beat poets? What art do you have if you may not gizz all over it?

Don’t get me wrong, I still also feel that the high art of yore is something to rebel against. Especially the attitude. That’s definitely not me either being as I reject the scholarly pull towards academia. In fact, I fear and resist any thing that is structure obsessed. I am a student on my own terms and I don’t know why you have to be a graduate student to participate in critical work. I’m not going to pay for that community of hard-nosed exclusivity and, honestly, I believe community is what that boils down to.

I’m not going to conclude this because the point is unfinished. I have research to do. But the general conclusion here will explore my path as an artist, but to also comment on the current artistic climate of my environment. More to come, precious ones! These ideas will have faces.

Recognize

2008-05-28T08:16:00.000-05:00

I know I’ve seen you somewhere before.
Maybe it was at the park. It was threatening to
rain, so we had to play fast. The wet sand,

perfect for packing into buckets. Crenellated
castles quickly dashed by bare feet. A frantic
swing on moist monkey bars. We ran and ran

until we were slipping in the wet grass. Not
afraid of stepping on bees. Our mothers calling
for us to collect our toys. I wish I could place you.

Maybe it was at the movie theater, asking for extra
butter, clutching soaking grease bags, wiping hands
on jeans. Or jaywalking in a small town, where I

know cars will stop for pedestrians, but you wait
your turn on the curb. Was that you? Damn. I know
you! It was that one time when our moms bumped

bellies at the grocery store. You were weaving your
fingers through the pink, gooey light, touching the
muted prisms. And I thought you were waving at me.

So I waved back. Totally embarrassing. You looked
awesome, though. All your fingers and toes and skin.
I felt naked. You seeing me missing things, a little fish,

looking lacking. But I see we are still fish! We are full
and old, but we are still weaving our fingers through the
light. We are really waving at each other.

Never Try to Pee in a Wine Glass

2008-05-09T09:15:00.000-05:00

Confessions-
1. I have more empty notebooks than full ones.
2. I think about writing more than I actually do it.
3. I am discouraged until I go take in some shitty verse, shitty verse with ego. And then I am inspired.
4. I finally write a shitty something and quit.
5. I don’t think you or your poems are the shit. But you are brave and that is what I like about you.

Soup Spoon
I listen to jazz when I cook.
I invite the cat to dance,
and I know what that makes me.
Instead of running to the burning
stove, I glide, a graceful way
to quell sweltering chaos.

This song doesn’t go with scorched
soup, but it is like scorched soup.
If you scrape the bottom,it will stir
the burned part through the pot.
Scrape it, or don't scrape it,
it's the same as strange sounds to ears.

Jazz isn't like tea concentrate, the smoke
detector, or the sharp pitch of the running
faucet. This shit is syncopated at best. Mostly
behind the beat in a foreign tongue. We are the
master creators. We make things out of nothing.

And my tiptoes,never stepping on cracks, stirring
up a steamy Latin number, a sultry spicy bit, thick
and cheesy, or something chilled. A homespun creation
from evening minds and weeknight drinks and never
read from a page. It is glory for the leftovers.
It is everything I want you to smell at my door.
-Lu, 5.7.08

Possibly Inspiration for the Future:
The Jazz Age
Great Depression
Shift + F7
This is not slam poetry
St. Louis celebrities
Rootlets
Inferior olives
Being an orange. Getting pealed.
Simpleton
“Off her rocker”
Glow-worms
Your giant child

These Are Not My Homies

2008-04-24T11:04:00.000-05:00

Turkeys and Gutterballs-
What a month April has been. I feel like I've been celebrating my birthday all month.

I've been writing, but nothing worth posting. My problem is generally due to the fact that I'm a great, big scaredy cat. Lately, I've been trying to think about poetry as if it were a sport. I don't do sports. But most athletes have to work really hard to get to the skill level they want to play at. It's rare that people are automatically good. If I were an athelet, I would be a shitty one. I'd give up if I fell on my face. I'd give up if I missed a play. I'd give up if I couldn't pull off my sexy moves. I'd give up if my coach yelled at me. I'd probably cry a lot and begin to hate it because I couldn't naturally do it perfectly.

Write fearlessly. It's my mantra. I write it on everything hoping that if I say, write it enough, it will happen. I've been reading this local poet, Aaron Belz (linked under St.Louis Creates). He is a really hard worker and posts maybe 3-4 poems a week. When I read his poems, I think, wow...that was brave. I want to be that brave. He plays. He's serious. He's not serious. Keep working...

Since I've been stuck, I've been bulking up on some classic literature. Feel free to stalk around on my goodreads page (linked under Creative) to see what I've been up to in that regard. I have to say though, that I picked up Tender Buttons by Gertrude Stein. Great Cubist! I loved it! I think it changed my life. I can't wait to employ some of her tactics. I can't wait to read more of her stuff.

Without further adieu! A prematurely posted poem!

Baseball Mom

Sunburned shoulders,
my sunspots surface.
Freckle-face heroes
warm up throwing arms.
The air is a serpent,
heat that slithers
and we can't breathe snakes.
We are not too old to cry.
Clink-bat to knuckles,
bat to ball, bat to fence-
It's ok to scream your name.
All these, a field of my children.

A ball is a face.
A mean face, a yelling face.
An elbow is a wound rubbed to
the nail biter's quick.
A nose is a burn, pressed to an oven door.
A hat is a flag they could snipe you for showing.
You wave it anyway.
Even under calloused leaders.
Blind, unyielding, squealing pride.

Lions in the bleachers. Lions in a field.
We will hunt you down and eat you alive.
Pick your sinew from our teeth with
shards of your beaten bones.
It's just a game. It's not just a game.
A secret weapon. Mine's up to bat.
My baby wants big chew.

Graft, Simpleton, Rural

2008-04-23T11:30:00.000-05:00

I'm going to the park today. I hope to have something for you soon. I've got a bad case of the try-too-hards. I've got a bad case of the birthdays. I've got a bad case of the new boy. I've got a bad case of the almost lunch time.

The new look was inspired by a house I love in Benton Park. The colors are opposite, though. More white than blue.

Also, you can buy alpacas on my blog. If you want one, let me know. They're cheaper if you buy in bulk.

I Really Needed That

2008-04-05T20:55:00.000-05:00

3 hours at the park. I've always loved companion poems. I don't think my poem is any good without her's.

Dear Muse by Stevie Smith
Dear Muse, the happy hours we have spent together.
I love you so much in wet or fine weather.
I only wish sometimes you would speak louder.
But perhaps you will do so when you are prouder.
I often think that this will be the next instead.
Meanwhile, I am your most obliging confidant.

Response:

Dear Muse
You really loved me, or so you said.
And then you bit my lip 'til it bled.
You touched me in ways I thought to be myth.
Then you slapped me and told me it was a gift.
Dear Muse, you know I'll beg you back when you leave.
I'm a slave. I've accepted I'll never be free.

-Lu 4.5.2008, edited 4.7.2008

(Can I rhyme 'leave' and 'free'?)

I Smell Like Your House

2008-04-02T09:37:00.000-05:00

My Dearest Bluebirds and Goldfinches:
I wrote a poem in a traffic jam on Highway 44. I had some things to say to my soul. I love your thoughts.

Note to Self
Oh, Intuition, the Midwest winter
is a lonely one. It's too blurry. I hate the
cool smears of the countryside. Full
days plus all the land on a
dimmer, a switch God plays with.
A joke-Like when little brother turned
the basement lights out on Candyland with
friends. It's all flying game
pieces and bumping heads. We all scream.
A game-Turn us all the way down
until we're almost fucking dead.
But it pulsates a small surge, the
very thing that kept Christopher Reeve
alive. Laugh and poke at our deflating bodies.
Kick your toe at the piles of skin and leaves.
Our eyes can see how you are, but our
bodies are useless. So cruel!
But think, if they turned the lights all the
way off on us. Emitting no inkling of electric.
All the birches would die. The great giants of
the earth would fall and spring would
only be ankle high forever.
3.30.08

Break Up Albums Abound

2008-03-25T12:02:00.001-05:00

I found something you might like. Alpacareviews!

Breakfasts Alone and Gold Mines

2008-03-17T07:56:00.000-05:00

If you stepped on a land mine and gold exploded out of it, you would be happy in your pain. Hopefully you wouldn't die and the shrapnel lodged in your skin would buy the you the best medical care in the world. This morning, I am picking pieces of gold out of my legs and elbows.

Flakes and Steaks, I give to you LibriVox. "Acoustical liberation of books in the public domain". Need more? It is a free library of audio books available online. My biggest worry, before I went to open the first chapter of Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte, was that it would require some random player that I wouldn't be able to download because of my company's firewall. Now, I know there are better players, but what's more universal than Windows Media Player? This is going to be fun. So fun it hurts.

---and---

Just Infatuated
A collection of abstract art by children,
I see the letters that spell 'love'.
At first, I think, they must have learned
of love inspired art and then rendered
it themselves. But at a closer look, I see
it can't be this at all. And it was not my
brain that filled in the meaning of each space.

This had to be a unit on shapes. This is a
circle, this is a square, yes, you are
right, a triangle. No, it is not love. It's
messy, alternating black and white.
Absence of color to excess of color. The heart
of extreme. This is not an art that will stand
the test of time, but it was done with care,
which made it lovely.
3.16.2008

Do you understand? (evoking Jess here. :) )

Meet Your Maker

2008-03-04T09:46:00.000-06:00

for Joe, but mostly Jan

I confess.
I didn’t really know you,
but I think your voice sounds like the

underside of freshwater waves or like
something woven.
A Christmas wreath dropped
in a pond for the fish:
to hide, to snack, to spawn. Or
a winter wreath, made from winter walks
for the buck-naked brick above the fireplace.
Dead and dying made new. Not totally alive,

but not totally dead, either. It is too much
like you. A circle, your heart’s favorite

shape. It is something I will find

some day at thebottom of the lake.

A safe place to sleep, a twig to tooth,

an anchor for my babies.

You said, “Your love is not big enough.” I would believe anything said with your voice.

TALTALTALTAL

2007-12-03T12:19:00.000-06:00

Hello All-
I swear to God, this radio show is my salvation some days. It’s sad to me that more people don’t listen to the radio because there is some really amazing work out there.

Some of you know this already: I have a base core of movies that I like to watch often. They aren’t good movies. I come back to them over and over and over especially when I’m sick or it’s raining or snowing or just cloudy. They usually involve battle scenes, car chases and Hollywood budgets. These movies include The Bourne Identity, various episodes of the first year of Law and Order: Special Victim’s Unit, Fargo, any of the Lord of the Rings movies (although I prefer the first), and last but definitely most important….Jurassic Park. I can’t really explain my draw to the movies besides dark atmosphere that I can nap to…and the comfort of knowing what I’m getting myself into…

I’m finding that the more I listen to radio, there are a few that I come back to over and over…like those movies. Pieces of radio (lately on This American Life) that I visit over and over…stories I look to for comfort. I feel like the host, Ira Glass, is somehow my estranged Jewish uncle, sending me messages to open my eyes to the bigger world..

I wanted to sort of archive them here. I wish you would listen to them, but I know you probably won’t. But if one day, you want to listen to some good radio, you can get some…

The Breakup
I don’t love this one because there’s a picture of Stevie Nicks on the opening page. It’s because Starlee Kline, one of their contributors, talks about her break up and her relationship with sad songs during post-break up crap. She actually talks to Phil Collins about break ups and writes her own break up song. Love it. I really identify with her. Number one favorite piece of radio. Ever.

“If I thought I had been in Phil Collins phase before, it was nothing compared to what came next. I was no longer listening to a song for pleasure, but for pain. They were break up songs and hearing them was the only thing that made me feel better and by better, I mean worse. There’s something so satisfying about listening to sad songs. They’re like how you would actually be spending your day if you were allowed to just break down and sob and grab hold of everyone you met. They make you feel less alone with your crazy thoughts. They don’t judge you. In fact, they understand you. A break up song will never suggest you start online dating or that you’re better off without him. They tell you that you’re worse without him, which is exactly what you want to hear because that’s how you feel. I didn’t want to be cheered up. I didn’t wanna’ bounce back. I didn’t wanna’ meet some one new. I wanted to wallow. Big time and deeply and with the least amount of perspective possible. And the only way to do that was by turning off my phone and turning on the sad, sad songs….Once you’re heartbroken, you see it everywhere.”

Act V
A prison program where inmates get to participate in a Shakespeare production. A drama program that puts poetry in the hands of inmates. Amazing.

Habeas Schmabeas 2007
An updated version of our episode "Habeas Schmabeas," which won a 2006 Peabody Award. Talks about Habeas Corpus and how the War on Terror has completely nixed this long-standing pre-American policy…

Babysitting
Hilarious and scary.

Music Lessons
The inspiration for my new obsession with Sarah Vowell. David Sedaris, Sarah Vowell and Anne Lamott read live, before a cheering audience in San Francisco. Sarah rocked the crowd so hard that afterwards, David announced to anyone who'd listen: "She must be destroyed."

Testosterone
While putting this show together about the link between personality traits and testosterone, the staff of TAL decided to examine their own personalities and guess who has the most testosterone. Then we all got tested. Not the smartest thing for a group of co-workers to do with each other.

It is so interesting to hear them all in a room together laughing at each others amounts of testosterone. This is a really great examination of what testosterone is. And how it affects us.

Poultry Slam 2007
Their holiday specials are SO interesting. This one is about the relationship between humans and their food, namely meat. Act Four is AMAZING, written by David Rakoff. “The Meaning of a Bird”…very moving.

“So…off I headed to the orchard. I know sound like the central casting New Yorker if turned myself into with single-minded determination when I say this, but the main problem with working the fields is the sun is just always shining. That and the Northerner that I am, it became apparent that I am completely unsuited to work out side and I was moved around to the kibbutz’s various interior jobs the furniture factory, the metal irrigation parts factory, the kitchen… assured all the while by the group leader that there was nothing emasculating by being moved inside…After all, each according to his needs, each according to his abilities. My abilities seem to lie in passing out from heat stroke after a scant two hours in an orchard.”

The This American Life Holiday Spectacular
The TAL contributors all write their own Christmas fables. I absolutely love this episode.

This American's Life's Holiday Gift-Giving Guide
“The vexing difficulty of finding the perfect gift, illustrated in three acts.” Hilarious.

I See That Alpacas Are Loved

2007-11-27T09:31:00.000-06:00

Savage Chicken

I Am One of those Women.

2007-11-08T15:12:00.000-06:00

No I Will Not Go To Hooters or The Pink Slip. And here’s why-
I am forced to suppress my primal urges all day. I suppress my primal urge to rip off the faces of my co-workers and eat their eye balls while they’re still alive. I suppress the urge to hold my breasts in public. I suppress the urge to binge eat Indian Food every day. I suppress the urge to show my feelings to you. Or let you know that the most recent episode of This American Life sent me into weepy tears in the privacy of my cube. I did not get my tears all over you. You did not know about my tears.

I will not debate with you the philosophy of whether are not we live to be suppressed. I will discuss with you the current climate of the suppression this year 2007 day. There are holes in this argument. Onward!

I do not want to know about your sexual urges. The presence of strip clubs is the body that encourages, praises men to avoid suppressing their urges and show you their sexuality…publicly. Don’t get me wrong. I would LOVE to cry in front of you. I would love to stop caring about my weight and eat at Gokul (vegetarian Indian Food buffet *dies*) all day. I would love act on my various urges of maternal instinct when I see kids making fun of my little brothers. But I don’t because in this society, there are certain things we sacrifice to be able to take advantage of the loveliness that living in a community is.

Urges aside—I can’t forget to mention that it’s a system based on objectification. We do not objectify people of different races. In fact, that is frowned upon. We don’t objectify children. Talk about taboo. But these are houses of objectification.

We can also talk about the varying sexual interests of men and women—women being mental and men being visual…What a world we would live in, if a woman could go to a comfy place and make mental love to an interested man in the dark that knew what she actually wanted sexually. Oh, we can dream!

And you could say, there are male strip clubs. But I have never known a woman who would want to go look at greased men in banana hammocks. I am sure there are ways in which men are objectified in this country, but could it really be argued that the problem is as socially acceptable or as widespread? I wouldn’t personally say so.

It hurts me to hear about women who condone this behavior. To me, it seems like a desperate ploy to tag along with the boys club while continually aligning themselves with the male dominated paradigm of sex and sexiness. (Sorry, ladies. Just one woman’s opinion here.)

I am a vegetarian. Many of you know this about me. It is not something I push on others. It’s a conversation I will have with you if you want to have it with me. This comment is not far off from the subject matter of this post. As a personal choice, I do my best to avoid treating living things like objects, something I can buy, own and trash at will.

Those breasts that are bouncing around in your face. They are there because they were bought. You owned them for maybe 5 minutes and when you leave, they are as important to you as the wrapper left after the burger you ate for dinner. It’s trash. Cheap, cheap trash. People should not be treated as objects. Animals should not be treated as objects. Living things are not objects.

This is an opinion I will not push on you. In fact, if I ran the world, I would not outlaw strip clubs. But I will be disappointed in my society if this was something they chose for themselves. Disappointment stings.

Where's All Your Kids?

2007-10-29T14:28:00.000-05:00

May be and maybe are similar words. Maybe. What a non-committal piece of crap word. Usually when I say it, I mean…no, I won’t go to the movies with you but I don’t want to hurt your feelings so I’ll get your hopes up by looking positive about the idea while saying this word. (Oh, love prepositions! Love them like you love yourself!)

May be is equally vague. In some situations, I use this word in this way- I may be the person you are looking for. Or, this may be a chunk of ground beef in my hair. Still. Non-committal.

If I held both words up to the light, examined them for quality and practicailty (um...like shopping?) I would buy 'may be'. I can get behind that. Now that I think of it, I when I mean to use the word 'maybe' I say it as if I was saying 'may be'.

So, we all can be non-committal in two forms of speech. With the same letters…the only difference being a space. (English is full of this shit!).

When I was a kid, maybe meant ‘yes’ most of the time. Here is a scenario for you-
Children: “Mom, can we play on the train tracks today. Plllllllllleeeasseeee? Please. Please…..[mom thinks]… Please…[mom says nothing]… Please…[still nothing] Please….”
Mom: “Maybe. [children rejoice] That doesn’t mean yes.” [Children continue to rejoice but on the inside this time because they know it really means yes…most of the time.]

Little brother number two and little brother number three also know this. In fact, I heard this exact exchange a few weeks ago when I went home.

Maybe I will do this to my children. My children may be smarter than that.

When Will It Be January Again?

2007-10-09T15:13:00.000-05:00

I am so damn tired of the sun. It just shines all the time and it doesn't care that I want it to go bug someone else.

In January, the weather will brood with me.

My mom openly wept when she saw my new tattoos. Well, when she saw the new tattoo on my arm. "Lindsay" she said. "You aren't always going to feel dark."

At this point in my life, I felt my mother shined all the time and didn't care that I wanted her to go bug someone else.

I wouldn't have ever described this as darkness. It's pretty bright around here, whether I'm in the mood for it or not...

I forgot that when you're a mom, you can be openly critical of your child whenever you want. Well, it's possible that we had a few words at Wal-mart when she made me go that Saturday. It's possible that I went to sleep at 8 o'clock that night.

It's also possible that when I left, I didn't mind the shining sun. I think I need to go home again soon.

I don’t wanna talk about it anymore

2007-09-28T14:49:00.001-05:00

Tonight, I travel to visit my family (have I ever told you how much I hate the phrase “the fam”. Uh, don’t say it around me). I am thoroughly looking forward to the unconditionally open arms of my little brother wrapped around my neck.

My trips home are getting further apart and wonder if I ever will end up like my mother, making time once a year to go home and see her family. I hope I never get so wrapped up in my life that the only time I see my family is Christmas. By then, it’s a show. Like people who go to church twice a year. I mean, isn’t it time to just cut the cord? Everyone can see through the disingenuous attempt to show some sort of outward care to that community. I’m embarrassed for her sometimes when she hugs her mom for the first and last time for the year. I’m embarrassed for my future self. And my future once a-year-hug.

I know for a fact that this won’t happen to me. This is really personal—my mom had a really bad home life. If you looked at her side of the family, you really wouldn’t be able to tell unless you looked at my uncle Joe and his prison tattoos and his trailer, but he doesn’t come around much. It’s a past that has been smothered out by years of denial, but still boils beneath the skin of my mother and her siblings.

Inevitably, someone cracks. Usually because my grandfather criticizes one or the other’s parenting skills, a hard thing to swallow when fed to the child he himself neglected and beat.

This is the eighth time I’ve been home this year. I have nothing boiling under my skin, no painful history. But my mom is critical like yours. So, we'll see how my patience holds up.

A New Obsession

2007-09-27T08:28:00.001-05:00

Call me cynical, but I'm seriously beginning to think that life is nothing but series of obsessions. Some of us are lucky enough to have obsessions that are fulfilling, others well, I don't need to say it. Maybe its cultural thing. Maybe that's why the divorce rate in this country is so high...

I sit in front of a computer all day. Often times, radio on the Internet is one of the only things that gets me through the day without running for the Lackland bridge.

NPR is great. But sometimes the news really gets me down. So, I was looking through looking for some other radio to listen to and I remembered hearing a show called This American Life on NPR or PRI (Public Radio International). I googled it and...gold mine...hours of great stories at my finger tips. It's such a great show. It's frank and honest and accessible.

If you want a place to start, I found the episode on Unconditional Love very moving. I also really liked Break-Up. Because we all know what that's like.

Also, I go through so many movies and so much music, I started to feel nervous that, if I didn't start recording some of it, I would forget what I knew and what I'd learned and what I'd felt. So I created a reviews site. Go see it! It's the first link in my link list.

The Osprey-A Unique Flying Machine

2007-09-24T09:29:00.000-05:00

(Yes, I made him that pimp hat)

I am getting sick. Not just sick of my job. Not just sick of my debilitating fears, lack of direction, motivation. Sore throat. A runny nose, ear aches, a physical sickness that will compound my mental illness. Stand back!

It wouldn’t cure my cold, but I’m thinking a move will cure my other problems. The only thing I hate about this is…My family is horribly, inextricably tied to Missouri and even more tied to the Midwest. And if you know me, you know that out of my soft spots, the one for my brothers, my mother and father is the one you could stick your finger through. It’s full of warm and brown apple-ie goo. A mess I’d rather not break open, but will if I must.

In other news, I didn’t go to a movie alone. I didn’t take myself out to eat alone. But over the weekend, I went to the grocery store, cooked a big meal alone. I’m getting the hang of this. I have a horrible fear of being alone. A fear, I know is irrational and ridiculous and keeping me from experiences. So, I’m going to make it a gift to myself to once a week. Do something alone.

This weekend, I spent a lot of time coveting Marty’s Mr. Bento. And looking at Mr. Bento Porn. I also spent a 100.00 at Target. And cleaned with vinegar. And lurked around on random blogs. And listened to the Stereolab CDs I bought a Reckless Records last weekend. And sleeping.

Edit: I am still obessesed with Arcade Fire's Funeral. I don't know what that makes me.

The Red List

2007-09-20T10:09:00.000-05:00

When I smell the air, I want to look how you looked that one day. You were crossing the street, when you opened your arms, when you let its crispness cover you up like a clean sheet.

I want to look like you when I walk down the street. I want to look at the trees and think what I want about them and I don’t want to listen to him tell me that it doesn’t look like an old man, it looks like a house.

I’ll fight to keep my language alive. Although want to speak his tongue, mine is endangered and it can’t die forever, or hide itself in the humid stomach of the Amazon rain forest.

I don’t want to worry if I’m pronouncing his words right or if I sound authentic or if the way I say it offends him.

The dialect I speak sounds familiar. It sounds like yours and his as Spanish is to Italian. When I speak in my language you can understand me in yours. But if I looked more like you, I wouldn't be working so hard on my accent.

**to be continued...I can't hear myself think** Tonight, I'm going to a movie alone. I find this utterly depressing. I'll tell you about it tomorrow.

Oh yeah, I'm going to the Regina Specktor show in November. I am not going alone.

Super interesting-Sustainable Cleaning
The best way to clean your vegetables

The best way to clean your smooth-skinned vegetables and fruit-
Out of a study that compared anti-bacterial soap (least recommended), breath/sleeve method, veggie wash and vinegar, the cleaning method that worked the best was the diluted vinegar rinse. It removed 98 percent of the bacteria.
To do: Put 3 cups water, 1 cup distilled white vinegar in a spray bottle and spray down food. Then rinse with cold water.

The best way to clean your multi-layered, creviced vegetables and fruit (lettuce and broccoli)-
Soak in vinegar solution for 2 mins. (three parts water, one part vinegar). If you don't have the time for that--Bacteria and dirt usually get trapped in the blossom and stem of fruits and veggies, chop off the top and bottom and wash before you eat.

Note I: The gov't food safety people don't like this method, because then the bacteria gets in your sink...well...just clean your sink afterwards...I usually do that after I cook anyway...

Note II: Scientists did not find those expensive veggie washes necessary or particularly helpful!

I mopped the floor with a vinegar/water solution this week. It worked so well, I don't think I'll ever use anything else...It stinks for a while, but if you turn a fan or open a window, it goes right away. I just sprayed the sink and counters with Simple Green, which made the place smell nice and clean.

Has Anyone Ever Told You that St. Louis is Getting Smaller?

2007-09-17T11:54:00.000-05:00

Chicago was wonderful. I think I want to live there. Or another place with better public transportation. It's nice to get to know the world through the eyes of public transit. Rush hour was crazy. While St. Louisans veil their humanity under windshields and drive their cars like ass holes, Chicagoans have to look at each other and actually face other people when they are trying to get home. So, they act like assholes during rush hour. I act like an asshole during rush hour.

The Chicago air is relatively fresh. Chicagoans are nice enough. In fact, they are mostly willing to help and let you know when you’re walking the wrong way to get to the train station or if you are about sit and talk through your bus stop.

Owls, squids, sad cup cakes, octopuses, birds-
The fair was pretty cool. It was a lot of the same stuff though. Cutesy indie crafty stuff that generally made me want to throw up in my mouth. Nothing for men. Annoyed me for all the artistic males out there. There were some cool screenprinted shirts, but seriously, what man do you know that is ready and willing to pay 45$ for a t-shirt. I know none, personally. Where’s the edge you renegades?! I heard someone on the bus say, that one day, the fair will no longer be renegade...I think it's already happened. Aside from the grunge kids on the side walk offering free spray piant+cardboard+exacto knives, yelling "Make your OWN art!", the festival was pretty much a bust, in my opinion.

The thing I love about Chicago is that you can get on a train and it will take you to any part of the city. It feels accessable. Everything feels like it's in reach. Centralized. St. Louis being a comparative mess. I can't imagine what it would have been like to be a teenager in that city...I may have gotten in a lot more trouble than I did with my carless self.

Short: I wasn’t too disappointed in the craft fair because I didn’t spend all my savings, which means only one thing! Ink. This time on my feet. I decided this in Chicago.

Could that be writing?

2007-09-13T09:14:00.000-05:00

Prodigal

I don’t know why I love alpacas. But I think that I could get one and pass it off as a large cat. Before the Bosnians moved here, I could have pulled this off. But St. Louisians are skeptical now of livestock in back yards. In South City, I think people forget that in some countries, when you have an animal in the backyard, it is dinner not a jogging companion.

“That’s horrible.” They’d say to their goat bitten children running in the house crying. “That’s horrible.” When they see the dust-land a chain link across from their watered lawns. “That’s horrible.” From behind their blinds at the sight of bloody cutlery.

I wouldn’t eat my alpaca, so don’t get any ideas. Don’t bring your butcher knives over when you come to visit. Because my alpaca will be my jogging companion.

To make a long story shorter, having livestock is illegal for backyards here in the city. I think they used to say the same things about dogs. Now, there are lists of places where you can bring them, restaurants that would happily tolerate your animal friend. And if they’re good they get a treat.

I’m sure they would say "no" to alpacas and I can see why. Then they would have to learn what a treat is to an alpaca. And if they gave us this special attention, there would be no end to the learning of treats for all animals.

****

In other news, this weekend, I will travel to Chicago. I will read three chapters of Absolom! Absolom! to catch up for the No Name Book Club. I will hopefully finish The Bell Jar and begin a book that will help me survive the business world. Other than reading, I will be slimming the Renegade Craft Fair with all of my drool and buying handmade things from independent artists. I do like the color of green you have turned. It brings out the color in your eyes.

I have linked The Smoking Poet, an E-Zine in my linkage. Please visit. There is some dynamic stuff on there.

I Hide Things From Myself

2007-09-11T09:35:00.000-05:00

I was surfing the site of my favorite news source and stumbled upon an interesting article entitled “Why Women Read More Than Men”. I read through it and had to read it again. Since I haven’t posted in a couple months, I thought I’d highlight article for you so 1) I could wrap my mind around this and 2) see what you guys think.

The article opens with a completely unscientific study done by author, Ian McEwan. He walked around with his son giving away free books to the result of--

“Nearly all of the takers were women, who were "eager and grateful" for the freebies while the men "frowned in suspicion, or distaste." The inevitable conclusion, wrote McEwan in The Guardian newspaper: "When women stop reading, the novel will be dead."

Whoa. Fucking whoa.

And more-
-“A poll released last month by The Associated Press and Ipsos, a market-research firm, found that the typical American read only four books last year, and one in four adults read no books at all.”
-“…observes Lakshmi Chaudhry in the magazine In These Times. "Unlike the gods of the literary establishment who remain predominately male—both as writers and critics—their humble readers are overwhelmingly female."
-“Book groups consist almost entirely of women, and the spate of new literary blogs are also populated mainly by women.”
-“…Carla Cohen, owner of the Politics & Prose bookstore in Washington, D.C. "Women head straight for the fiction section and men head for nonfiction."

And why?
-At a young age, girls can sit still for much longer periods of time than boys, says Louann Brizendine, author of The Female Brain.
-“…women are more empathetic than men, and possess a greater emotional range—traits that make fiction more appealing to them.”

Let’s talk about this literary world that women so dominantly read. Does the romance section count as fiction? Don’t get me started on the Shopaholic Series…or the Boleyn Girl series…or how they are preparing young girls to read trashy fiction with the Gossip Girl young adult series…You definitely don’t see all women walking through holding great works of fiction in their arms…(Unless Oprah suggests it…I still laugh when Oprah had her readers buying Faulkner...). I can’t even think of a series of fiction/lit that is generally *for* men.

Furthermore…men do read works of fiction. In fact, when I was working Borders, I recognized more men were coming in to buy books more consistently. The books they were buying don’t fall into the “fiction/lit” category either. Men buy genre books: Mystery/Thrillers, Sci/Fi, Westerns. Men buy magazines. And yes, men read a lot of history and biographies and other non-fiction. And usually, men buy one book at a time, read it, and come in for another. Women are the ones that walk up with arm loads…that doesn’t mean they actually read all of those books. The article seems to pay closer attention to the buying habits of women and men rather than books actually read.

When you walk through the fiction/lit section, you can see that those books aren’t marketed to men. I can barely hold back illness when I have to look at the trash that is overtaking the LITERATURE section. I think we have some bigger, “genre” oriented problems here. The article says that women walk to fiction, men walk to non-fiction. Are the genre sections included in this article? They could be, but to be completely honest, I don’t think this article acknowledges the quality of the “literature” these women are reading…Maybe what men read is better for them. Or maybe not reading at all is better for you than reading \the male equivalent of what the majority of women read...

I think the real problem is that *people* in this country don’t read.

Which brings me to another issue I have with this article, the author cites British, Canadian AND North American studies conducted in the area of literacy...Talk about cultural gap and variance...With so little coherence and solid evidence, can this article actually assert that, in the whole world, women read more than men? Really? Maybe we should go look at the literacy rates in other countries and see the percentage of women in the world who CAN read...

So what will we conclude from all of this? To the people who fear for the life of the novel...I don’t think that authors of thought-provoking, artistic, interesting fiction have anything to worry about. The seekers of beauty will continue to see beauty. The rest just want to escape.

Here is the full story if you're interested.

Good Reads

2007-07-25T09:53:00.000-05:00

Cohorts!

I’m on Good Reads. Are you?

A Forced Writing: I Made Me Do This

2007-07-18T12:50:00.000-05:00

Because the Sky Is Yours and It Is Mine*

So now my wrists are tired with wires and not the vines in which Tarzan flew. A prediction I had not made. Love can clog you up in ways only love can. So can bread. So can pollen. But not the way aftershave can. Not like recycled air. No, this dance is not the same. You can’t move in front of green screen light the way you can in full moonlight. I have moved my limbs from Southeast to Northwest to show you the ways the wind blows and it is nothing like a licked finger extended towards the sky.

*This poem is a 100 word poem inspired by the “Writer’s Block”. One of the prompts told the read to write a something as if you became what you wanted to “be when you grow up”. The title was inspired by a line in the Pablo Neruda poem, “Ode to Common Things”. This poem is the first thing I’ve forced myself to write in a while. I wanted to give up on it, but I forced myself through it and had quite a time with it. I wouldn’t say it’s the best of anything, but there are good things about it. And I made it through.

On Growing it Out

2007-05-09T15:05:00.000-05:00

Jamie likes pain, which is why she keeps doing this to herself. Shake your sad head. Oh, how it sags as you stare into her sheepish and satisfied face. She likes it one way. She likes it the other way. And she likes it this way. Do you understand? And she was in a rut. And you can see in her face that lonely dusk room, how the smell of steel makes her eyes well with lazy want. No one could say no. Not even you. And she felt better.

She ran her fingers along the scar with a look − one half regret and one half relief. And you find pity for her even though last time was the last you had for her, when enough was finally enough. You touch it yourself. It’s quite clean and quite done. She promises again. You make her promise it again. She will thank you later. You promise.

And you brace yourself for more coaxing through the middle stages, that’s neither here nor there, through agony, through impulse. You can tell she is reaching for you because she smiles. You can look her in the eyes − this is a hand in her hand and a vow to squeeze back.

For Old Time’s Sake: It Was the Summer I Tasted my Dad’s Beer

2007-03-26T08:34:00.000-05:00

I laughed when you held the locus wing up to the light and looked through it as if it were a lens. You said, “through it, the light looks aquatic or hot, rippling or steaming.” You held each wing up to each of your eyes and tried to walk in a straight line.

Smashing big bugs isn’t like smashing the little ones. You can feel a bigger bug beneath your shoe. You can hear its guts squeezing through its exoskeleton. But that wing--it was something to covet. And something we could take by force.

You held the disembodied cicada in your hand the same way you would have if it had been alive, eased it into the pond so we could see a sunfish swim to the surface for an easy snack.

You handed me the wing and I put it in the book, our collection.

In the summer a while ago, we would sing songs we both knew, swing from the rope that we burned our palms on often.

We used to get grass stains on our knees and elbows at the base of the slide where there is now a worn spot. We scraped away all the grass with the bottoms of our feet so, when we sprayed the slide with the sprinkler, it turned to mud and my brother told us it would give us parasites. We didn’t know what that meant, so he told us it’d be like bugs that would get in through our souls. Bugs that would eat our souls.

We freaked out and in its place, we put the kiddie-pool, to splash into the hose-water cold. The blue plastic was hard. And doesn’t like knocking on watermelons when you land the way the dusty bald spot did.

That same summer, we lost interest in slides and parasites because there was a plague of cicadas. We took to slapping them out of the air with my brother’s wiffle-ball bat and collecting the wings, setting their bodies to sail in the pond we weren’t allowed to play in. My brother told us about looters. We felt like that, snatching the valuables of fallen soldiers on a war field, stealing away in the humid dusk, scratching our mosquito bites, going in for dinner.

-----------------------------------------

Dear friends and seekers,

Maybe you could tell. This is my first post after a long hiatus. Maybe it's something in the Spring air. And like the Spring air, it lacks edge, but it's something. And it definitely didn't come easily. It is what it is.

-Your Precious Puddin' Pie

Never Trust A Cherry Tomato

2007-02-02T15:18:00.000-06:00

Rollin’ in your hand,
a pair of dice that will settle
out onto the red tongue table.

Blow on them for good luck
while you mull around the
consequences of the game.

Warm them up in your little hands.
Blow on them for good luck.
Let them tumble to the table.

And that hope I see on your face,
not a poker face. Even though we
aren’t even playing poker. And, still, you

hope that Monty (sitting next to you)
gets the bad hand and not you.
And it’s not like hoping will help

your chances of coming out on top.
The suspense clamps your head into a
vice like teeth with the climax of the roll.

When all the cards are
down, you can only wait
for the bitter or rotten reply.

And by sneaking looks, we can see each unleashed
poker face seated around the table and that
Georgie (sitting next to me) won this round.

Dental Floss

2007-01-23T11:45:00.001-06:00

I have something stuck in my teeth. It’s green and embarrassing. I used a piece of my hair to get it out, which is gross. I can’t be quite sure what it is. The color of this thing is the same as the satin nightgown I wore the other night. If I wore them together they would match exactly.

Held out to the light-there it sits on the end of my finger in a puddle of spittle and blood. My dentist says that if I flossed more often, my gums wouldn’t bleed. Phil is his name. And he talks to me while he has his hands in my mouth. The smell of latex gloves makes me gag, so you’d think I’d floss with something else besides my hair. You’d think I liked that chair and those arm rests and that plastic thing you have to lay your head on.

I want to punch Phil for talking about sports when drilling. But I can tell he is lonely and he only has the things in teeth for company. And he doesn’t really care if I like the Rams or the Chiefs. Or if the heat fuming from the parking lot asphalt bothers me, giving me a sunburn on my nose.

My teeth make bad company, but his eyes say bad company is still company. He tries to blind me with his blue mask and light, but I can see through it. I want to touch the back of my hand to his cheek and tell him, “you should never name things that are going to be killed”. He would tell me that he knew that in his head but not in his heart. But he wouldn’t understand me anyway. He is working.

Some Things I Meant to Say to You

2007-01-12T14:10:00.000-06:00

I wanted to eat the last pear. You may have mistaken it for an apple if saw you it in your periphery. That was before I swiped it and tucked it away to ripen. I put it in a paper bag for three days. Now the bag smells like a pear. Gentle squeezes and a sand filled balloon with the thinnest skin. This pear would make an awful balloon.

But how can I tell you why I didn’t eat it? How can I explain why I left it on the counter instead of in the fruit bowl?

Once, we walked on the train tracks. And threw rocks at the trains. If we were brave, we would have jumped on like my uncles did. Breaking the rules like breaking a fever. Sweating with nerves, licking our lips. We would have to say a prayer before we jumped. Because, like you said, we would smash like ripest pears, wheels slip into our our skin. But it wouldn’t smell so good. It wouldn’t make us happy.

A Good Home is Hard to Find

2007-01-04T08:33:00.000-06:00

If I was a goose, I would have to fly in circles. And I could hear you say, “well, that’s a random goose.” I could also hear you wonder why I wasn’t the back corner of some
squaking fleet.

I would have to sing you songs while I flew above your heads. I would have to lay by the road. I would have to poop on the sidewalk. And if you told me to go, I would fly and find another road by which to lay my eggs.

If I knew you and we were both geese, I would take you to all my secret places. I would take you to the cove where the turtles go. We could watch them for a while. And wish together, we could both submerge our bodies like that, with just our little heads breeching the surface of the sun-warmed water.

I think I would like to sing you songs, too. But I wouldn’t lay by the road anymore. You’ll probably show me a safer place to roost.

Spelunking, Shagged Rocks Are Alive In Missouri

2006-12-19T08:25:00.000-06:00

I could hear him telling the saddest story by the way his head rested on the book case. I couldn’t hear because of the way he said things in downward slope. One I could hear-

“And it’s nice to have the bed to myself.”

When I unroll my windows in the middle of winter, I like to think about mountains. Two places in the settled ground that have rubbed together like the warming of cold hands. Or maybe it’s more violent. Maybe it’s like the paper that cuts your skin where skin resists and rises against the cut. Bloody mountains, icy mountains, things that are soaked and momentarily alive.

Someone once told me the oldest mountains in the world are in the Ozarks. Mountains that are ancient- craggy trails, the beige winter hikes, the twiny pines shedding their summer coats and ragged shavings of the sediments. But my skeptical face inverted as I thought about the worn-down nubs that kneed the southern Missouri countryside and the artifacts that are nestled inside, tucked in and sleeping tight.

________________________________________________

Last evening, I was off work. And naturally, danced around my room and listened to music that I don’t usually get to listen to. Which inspired a top ten list-

Top Albums: Based on, what I feel, is my limited knowledge of music. Subject to change.

10. When the Pawn-Fiona Apple
I don’t care what you say, Fiona Apple is cool. Although in this album, she was entering the era of drum and clap machines (which I don’t love), it passionately clings to soulful devotion to being in a constant state of a crumbling relationships. A total break-up album. The break-up album.

9. The Presidents of the United States of America-Self Titled
“Flies like to fly ‘cause they don’t like to stay”! These guys rock. This album rocks.

8. Illinoise- Sufjan Stevens
Where did this guy come from?! It’s like Zeus and Joni Mitchell had a baby. Sufjan is scary talented lyrically.

7. Mellon collie and the Infinite Sadness- The Smashing Pumpkins
Ok, I will admit it; I came on to this one REALLY late. But every time I listen to it, it amazes me more. The reason? Listen to Thirty-Three and In the Arms of Sleep, Tales from a Scorched Earth. Read the lyrics, too.

Words I want to say about it that I don’t care to put into complete sentences.
Clean, precise, diverse, and scary.

Every time I watch live footage of their stuff, I cannot believe they produce the sounds the do. And Darcy is just hot. I have never seen another rock n’ roll woman who seemed to be creating her own female physical responses to the music rather than tailoring it to the masculine response. (Don’t get me started on that one…)

6. Under the Pink-Tori Amos
Tori Amos is scary, too. A wild, gyrating, growling fury. The way she subverts church hymns in her songs makes me feel like I said ‘fuck’ in church (hand covering mouth, eyes looking to see if anyone heard!).

5. Ok Computer-Radiohead
Man, I don’t really think I can really say anything about this album that you don’t know already. No Surprises is one of the most beautiful songs I’ve ever heard.

4. Milk Eyed Mender-Joanna Newsom
My newest favorite. I always thought that Joanna was really weird. Like Stevie Nicks. And that was before I heard her say in an interview that, when she was in high school, there was a good span of time when she vowed to listen only to Fleetwood Mac. She has the most interesting set of influences. I really didn’t know how to place her that way.

Apparently, which makes sense now that I know, she has been forged from early Randy Newman, Fleetwood Mac (repeat!) and Sandy Denny.

I think you already know I that I am in love with her.

3. Dolittle-Pixies
Even though I have a particular, personal attachment to this album (totally nostalgic, Josh!), I think it’s one of the greatest things I’ve ever heard. Lyrically respectable. Musically…these guys were way ahead of their time. And haven’t you heard? Kurt Cobain said that Smells like Teen Spirit was his lame attempt to write a Pixies song.

And I mean, who wouldn’t love a blad headed fat mad in flannel making rock n’ roll. Oh, Black Francis.

2. Midnight Vultures-Beck
I’m pretty sure this album is a work of genius. Or god.

1.Aeroplane over the Sea-Neutral Milk Hotel
This album is just too amazing. Unfortunately I haven’t heard their preceding album, which I really need to change because I’ve heard amazing things about it.

It’s completely surreal. It takes me to a place we can all relate to. Again, lyrically astounding.

.5. Deloused in the Cromatorium-The Mars Volta
Ok, I had 11 on my list, and I couldn't knock one off.

Holy hell, this album changed my life. For those of you who have known me for a while, you know that I have a not so attractive history with jam bands and reggae. This album took my perception of music and murdered it. And then resurrected it. And birthed it again. I'm pretty sure I had to scoop my brains off the floor into a dust pan so I could pour them back into my head after I was the first time I heard it.

Misc.

2006-12-07T08:53:00.000-06:00

Catnip

Claw marks strike across the sky like where God’s tabby dug her nails into the world’s curtain. He chases her to the window. She darts off, hiding elsewhere. Lifting the ragged pieces dangling beside each hole, it reminds him of the time long ago (when he was little) and he threw her off the back porch to see if she’d really land on her feet. She caught hold of his arm, left gashes like those in the sky. And he wonders, when do cats calm down? When do they become lazy?

Mopac: 1965

He still watches trains, goes to the window when he hears one coming. He thinks about mornings in the winter dark of 3am-sleeping towns, tumbling coal. And when he goes to the train yard he thinks about how it used to be-trains like toys in lines like wrinkles or the way worms eat through trees. They made sense to him.

At night he pretends like his head is on the pillow his daughter made him. The soft one with the plaid hearts. And on rainy days he would watch the droplets clean little streaks in the train’s dusty windows. He’d follow them with is finger like the train followed the tracks.

He’d close up his windows and set sail through the midland hills, drunk on whiskey and winter decay, drunk on life on autopilot, where he didn’t have to feel just smell and snooze.

And because I know you care about my opinion-

I’ve been listening to Joanna Newsom's new album, Ys, on a loop and have decided a few things about this thing. I have changed my mind many times. I started out feeling rather cold about it, but have come to one steady conclusion-though different, its quality actually is comparable to that of its preceding album, Milk Eyed-Mender, which climbs higher into my top ten every time I listen to it (hot!).

To side track for a moment, let me describe to you Milk Eyed Mender in a few words for you-poetic experimental folk. For those of you who haven't heard her, her voice is an acquired taste. She has a weird voice...now get over it!

In Ys, she employs a full orchestra (including a saw, accordion, mouth organ (or whatever that buzzing mouth thing is)). I saw her at the Duck Room in St. Louis, which was amazing. She brought a small version of her full orchestra/band and plays the new album from start to finish. And in Ys, she sticks with her harp handiwork (playing a Healy style 11 petal harp), which is gorgeously highlighted in this album, rather than diverging into harpsichord or piano as she did in MEM.

This album is sprawling; it has subtle themes that shimmer and are easily missed in the first listen, which I would say is Ys’ greatest strength and weakness. Listen to it more than once to find a string to pull through it. She almost lost me, but I'm pretty much devoted to her judgment and quickly saw that it’s worth the work because this album, though not as lyrically interesting (example: O, morning without warning like a hole, and I watch you go. /There are some mornings when the sky looks like a road./There are some dragons who were built to have and hold./And some machines are dropped from great heights lovingly./ And some bellies ache with many bumblebees. [and they sting so terribly]-MEM: Clam, Cockle, Cowrie), it exudes a musical quality that MEM lacks. Ys is symphonic, full of unexpected tempo changes (that will shake your brain!),layered voices and instruments and evokes emotional journey that you'd want to go on along with her. This album is almost a work of escapism, another place where you can go where people play harps, dance around like elves, feathers fall to the earth like snow...(ok, that may be just me..)

So, I'm sure you could guess my hope for Ms. Newsom's future albums--that she will combine the strengths of each album, roll 'em up, roll em' up and stick 'em in a pan!

Key track: Only Skin, Emily

Wendy Wanders Through Wears, Wares, Where’s

2006-11-28T13:41:00.000-06:00

I’ve got another book on hold.
You looked at me over your
glasses because you disapprove.
I bought a book on Monday.
I bought a book yesterday. And
I will buy a book today. “You can’t
keep up with the books you buy.
Like you’ve peeled too many yams
than your willing to cut and candy.”

But I like the insides of books.
I like the insides of yams.
Orangey and warm-Something I could
take a giant bite out of even if it was raw or
when I’m old and all my teeth have fallen out,
I can cook and eat, mull it around between
my receding gums. Suck on the pulpy pieces until
they slide like butter down the gullet.

I could wear it and walk it down the runway,
trip on the mess it leaves behind, fall and slip n’
slide on my belly into your back yard, trying to avoid the
dog poop that’s turning to mud under the tinkle of the
sprinkler.We could climb a tree to get away and
when you take the knife your Dad gave you to
the tree, you’ll see that on the inside
it looks like books and yams.

Warm and orange. Your mom will be mad
about the gashes in her Dogwood and look at
us above her glasses. The way you do. Saying
the things you say now, scanning the
unread books on the shelf.

Mah-mah-mah-mammals

2006-11-21T08:33:00.000-06:00

Steven doesn’t like the wide rule paper that he has to write his letters on. The red lines want him to walk between them. Lines can tie you up, wrap you in knots you can’t untie and leave you on the railroad tracks for the oncoming traffic.

He doesn’t like the way his teacher makes him sound out his words, “pah-pah-pah-tiger”. “Oh, no…” says his teacher. “Tuh. Tuh. Tuh. Here we use ‘tuh’.” Teachers mostly like straight lines or gentle curves.

Steven learns best with shadow puppets, things you can spell with your fingers, fingers that swim between the light and dark (tickling the border between the two worlds! Worlds and no red lines where your y’s can hang dangle and sweep up the a’s and lower case r’s, catapult them through the city!).

His fingers feel accomplished. Digits that can dance along with his dad’s and don’t have stand on his toes to know the steps. 1-2-3: make your own, pictures that mean more than letters. Pictures like cold hands on your feverish forehead or a warm bath after playing in the snow.

Not

2006-11-14T15:24:00.001-06:00

Her shoes are always untied. I like to think about if it would be inappropriate to stoop and tie them for her. I would like to stop her in her path, crouch slowly to her feet. Slow to keep from scaring her. Slow to keep her attention. In the middle of the hallway, with one knee on the grey carpet, we might feel a little strange about people seeing this act of such intimacy. I think I could tie them just right. So they would never come untied. They will be tied when she listens to the news. They will be tied when she checks the mail. They will even stay tied when she goes to the bathroom. And then she would have to come find me when she wanted to take off her shoes.

See, certain laces require different knots for fastened shoes. Round laces are the most stubborn. They have no give. Nor do they conform to the knot. What I heard is, you have to get them wet before you tie them. Flat, cotton laces stay tied and I suggest them. One knot is usually fine, but two are better. They can work together that way. If one gives out, there is a back up.

“Lindsay,” you might say to me. “Are you cheating on me? Are you tying other knots for other people?” And I might say yes.

You Don’t Look at Me Like I’m Crazy/Massage.

2006-11-14T15:21:00.002-06:00

Last night, I fell asleep while you were still telling me about your day. I know that today you might be mad at me. I imagine you put your hand on my hip, put your ear to my face to see if I was sleep breathing. You probably curled up behind me and squeezed me in the middle. You went to sleep, too.

Not that you're boring. It's like, watching someone get a massage. Just watching. It can put one to sleep. Your voice, even in lists, puts me to sleep. Yes, like a massage.

I think curtains are the most unused canvas in the world. You give me a culture that puts art on their curtains and I'll give you a cookie. I mean, it's a big wall of cloth, for God's sake!

I have plans to sew pockets onto my curtains. I am making gifts right now, so it'll be a while, but when there are pockets on my curtains, I will fill them with feathers and small stones. Precious things that are only precious to me. I will appliqué birds and squares, mixtures of organic and modern structures. Asymmetrical objects that are somehow related. A little finger that can reach into your brain and massage a part of that is never used. Maybe like abstract universality. Or…Universal Abstraction (I don't even know what I'm talking about anymore!). Your brain will like my curtains

How Did Women Sleep With Their Hair in Rollers?

2006-11-14T15:21:00.001-06:00

I put curlers in my hair last night and said we should get separate beds. You said no. And I laughed. You didn't think it was that funny. I wrapped my head in a scarf, tied it on top of my head. I put on my silk night gown and tried to sleep. I didn't ask you if you thought my curlers were sexy. I didn't care what you thought about them because I thought they complemented my curves.

I kept waking up scared, but when I rolled over to get comfy again, a roller jabbed my temple. Getting comfortable again was a lot of work. The last time I woke up, you weren't there. You came back with a glass of milk and you smiled at me even though you were sleepy. You understand why I did this to my head.

Other people might ask me, 'Lindsay, why do you wear that silk and roll your hair into curlers?' And so I will tell them with questions, 'Why do you fold your towels? Why do you were trouser socks with brown shoes?'

Here's a different thought-
It's something like how I sometimes like to think about lily pads. I would like to spin from pad to pad and sings songs about dragon flies, carve fables into them with a sharp rock. As you can imagine I would do this naked. 'Lindsay!' a stranger would shout. 'Put on some clothes! Aren't you ashamed.' And I would answer with questions, 'Why do you fold your towels? Why do you were trouser socks with brown shoes?' And by the look the stranger's face I know I don't need to say, of course I'm not ashamed.

It Was Me Who Stole Your Rug

2006-11-14T15:20:00.002-06:00

These past months I have endured the most agonizing writer's block. Yesterday, I wrote. Here is my first attempt back. You may recognize some of the lines from my posts.
Hancock

John has the best pens.
He has pens you can use and
pens he wouldn't't trust you to touch.

In the evenings, he draws lines.
Lines with pens. Lines of words.
Straight lines. Curved ones.

Horizontal lines you could climb
up to the heaven he drew.
Sketched clouds you can ride,

sail downwards to the core of
the earthy lines. Dust blue off
your butt, wipe at wet ink puddles.

It's smeared on your face.
Dive in to the darkest night line,
into the most remote pond.

Swim laps in the smoothest scribble from
his most secret pen and build
towers with the words he writes.

11/1/2006

So Much for Tuesday Blogs

2006-11-14T15:20:00.001-06:00

You have the only wife in the world that would cut up the credit card that she applied for as soon as she got it. By cut up, I mean, put it in a drawer for a rainy day.

I know you don't want me to get a second job. I know you didn't want me to get a credit card, either. But I did it anyway. I was afraid of the thing and was afraid to open the letter when I got it.

Dr. Mongoose and Enid are my new best friends. I know you think I'm ridiculous for loving ceramic owls, but you have to admit, they're fucking cute. I especially like their little blue eyes.

It's sometimes hard for me to admit when you're right and I'm wrong. You were right about the loafers. I gave up. Witches have squared feet and/or toes. That's how I felt in those things. Like I had square toes in pointy shoes. You asked me about them and I lied. I told you I forgot them at work. You knew I was lying. I knew you knew I was lying. We just smiled at each other.

I'm trying to cover my walls with words. They are like bars I'd want to climb on and swing from. I would climb them as high as they did. I'm glad that English isn't written vertically. Because then wouldn't lines of words seem like jail? Something you can peak through, but not really climb on.

I write on the walled words and change them even though the poems aren't mine. There are little things that bother me. You don't think grammar should exist because you don't like rules. You don't like it when I tell you-You can't have a sentence without a verb. You can't begin a sentence with 'because'. Maybe the thing that bothers you so much is it's matter of preference. That scrutiny isn't always consistent. I understand the urge to capitalize nouns. But most of the time I'd rather just let things go than fight it.

I'm done cooking for extra people. It's nice to exchange meals, but I'd rather just take care of myself and you. I am also looking to move. While, it was nice living where I am, I've grown tired of it and it's been my policy to endure until I'm uncomfortable. I'm uncomfortable and so is everyone else.

I will find a small place were we can be private. In this place I won't have to pretend or help or be nice. I will do what I want in this place and enjoy my freedoms from and freedoms to. I will cook you pasta on cold nights. Serve you many glasses of boxed Chianti. We will walk around naked, spilling the wine on our chests and laughing at the stains that it leaves on our skin.

No, You Can't Bring A Tumble Weed Home.

2006-11-14T15:18:00.000-06:00

Well, well, well. It's Tuesday again. If I can't write on any day of the week, I can write on a Tuesday. Seems to me, I have a friend who wrote about only writing on Tuesdays. She likes that word and I think I like it, too. Saying it makes the day better. Tuesday tastes good.

And if you were to marry me today, I would have an additional pair of loafers, a desk, a blossom hat, random yards of random fabrics and two tiny ceramic owls for the house. You may not want these things, but they would make me happy and lord knows you want a happy wife.

The loafers are too small. I wish my feet were smaller, so I buy shoes that don't fit. Maybe one day they might actually shrink and I will be the first person to have successfully willed their feet to be smaller. They are leather and I am trying to stretch them out. Chances are, I will give up and make you massage my sore toes in the evenings while we listen to our records. You will probably throw these loafers in the trash when I'm not looking.

I ripped out the cow print contact paper out of the drawers. I spray painted my new desk green. A minty green I'd like to lick. Since my owls don't seems to want to move around, they sit on the desk and tell me about their kooky friends, funny things to put in my poems.

I want to wear the hat with the flower on the side of my head and maybe it will look like something that it isn't. Maybe like something from the 20s. Or 30s. Just not early 90s.

I daydream about making aprons. Aprons with ruffles. Aprons for girls. Aprons for women. Artists. Cooks. The fashion forward. I collect these fabrics because one day, I will make many messes with my sewing. And you will nap on the couch lulled by the hum of my machine.

Also, in case you were wondering, no I don't have names for my new little owl friends. I am willing to take suggestions, but don't be offended if I don't like yours. They are darling and only 80 cents for the two of them. I wish they were real and would want to sit on my shoulders, accompany me to the grocery store.