tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-80268730021128097382024-03-14T00:42:23.009-04:00a-whaling, mostly."That many had ventured farther and done so in finer style bothered me not.
My journey was my own and I found it to be quite spectacular." -Markus PiersonUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger92125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8026873002112809738.post-9434246088967513312012-08-27T18:31:00.000-04:002009-10-03T15:23:40.652-04:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://i4.photobucket.com/albums/y124/slyzucchinio/82cf1a8d.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://i4.photobucket.com/albums/y124/slyzucchinio/82cf1a8d.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8026873002112809738.post-56049277127379843132009-10-03T15:02:00.005-04:002009-10-03T15:21:02.442-04:00Fonts and FontsI woke up in the middle of the night one night last week, and couldn't fall asleep again, so I started writing out the poem by Max Ehrmann (posted below), and this is what it turned into:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://i4.photobucket.com/albums/y124/slyzucchinio/IMG_3951-1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 498px; height: 638px;" src="http://i4.photobucket.com/albums/y124/slyzucchinio/IMG_3951-1.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br><br><br /><br />Details:<br /><br><br><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://i4.photobucket.com/albums/y124/slyzucchinio/IMG_3950_2_2-1-1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 450px; height: 280px;" src="http://i4.photobucket.com/albums/y124/slyzucchinio/IMG_3950_2_2-1-1.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://i4.photobucket.com/albums/y124/slyzucchinio/IMG_3951_2-1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 450px; height: 259px;" src="http://i4.photobucket.com/albums/y124/slyzucchinio/IMG_3951_2-1.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://i4.photobucket.com/albums/y124/slyzucchinio/IMG_3951_4_2-1-1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 450px; height: 278px;" src="http://i4.photobucket.com/albums/y124/slyzucchinio/IMG_3951_4_2-1-1.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8026873002112809738.post-78851260721226866852009-05-27T15:14:00.005-04:002011-03-14T17:37:02.135-04:00Even MORE things that I love:Typography Prints<br />Cold showers after a long run on a hot day<br />Broccoli and Ricotta Cheese Pizza<br />Peacock Blue, Turquoise, and Teal<br />Little Houses with Big Windows and Wood Floors<br />Brightly-colored Dresses<br />Doing Crossword Puzzles with a Friend<br />The stillness of the yoga studio in the early morning<br />Slouchy Boots<br />Songs with Hand Claps<br />Red Lipstick<br />Long Car Trips with <a href="http://toutescesfenetres.blogspot.com/"/>Christopher</a><br />Anemones in Big Bouquets<br />The Giant Mirrored Bean in Chicago <br />Flower hairbands<br /><a href="http://bigskycandy.com/gummi7medd.jpg">Raspberry and Blackberry Gummy Candy</a><br />Overstuffed Armchairs<br />Trader Joe's Greek-Style Honey Yogurt<br />Maggie's Fuzzy Leopard Print Belly<br />People with Deep Smile Lines<br />Pasta al Dente (REALLY al Dente)Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8026873002112809738.post-5453338130374459952009-03-14T17:22:00.003-04:002009-05-27T17:25:18.948-04:00<b><big><big>"Dear God,"</big></big> she prayed, </b><br><br /><br /></br>"Let me be something every minute of every hour of my life. Let me be gay; let me be sad. Let me be cold; let me be warm. Let me be hungry... have too much to eat. Let me be ragged or well dressed. Let me be sincere - be deceitful. Let me be truthful; let me be a liar. Let me be honorable and let me sin. Only let me be something every blessed minute. And when I sleep, let me dream all the time so that not one little piece of living is ever lost." <br /><br><br /><br /></br><b>Betty Smith (<u>A Tree Grows in Brooklyn</u>)</b>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8026873002112809738.post-955253854147714522009-02-01T14:49:00.002-05:002009-03-31T07:15:15.347-04:00True Stories<small><br />I’m ambidextrous because of my first grade teacher, Mrs. Stear, who made me sit on my left hand to stop me from writing with it. I guess she wanted to save me from the pain of using scissors awkwardly later in life. Anyway, it only half-worked: I now write with my right hand, but I do nearly everything else with my left.<br /><br />When I was younger, one of my relatives mentioned that some of our family came from Bohemia (as in, pre-Germany, pre-Prussia), and for years I thought that “Bohemian Rhapsody” was some freakish musical documentary of my relatives’ struggle for happiness.<br /><br />I have a terrible sense of smell. Don’t ask me to identify things by smell; I’ll punch you in the head.<br /><br />I’ve had a favorite Beatles song for every academic year (August – July) of my life since third grade, and I can still tell you what each one was. This year is “Carry that Weight.”<br /><br />I can control nearly every single muscle in my face, including wiggling my ears and my nose and make my pupils shake, and I can curl my lip (only on one side, though) and roll my tongue up all sorts of ways and raise each eyebrow independently. I can also stick my tongue up my nose from inside my mouth. All of these life skills can be chalked up to having far too much free time as a child.<br /><br />We call my mother “Marmot,” and people think that it’s because one of us couldn’t say “Momma” as a child or something, but it isn’t; I started calling her that when I was fourteen as a joke to make her mad and it totally stuck. If I ever have kids, I will absolutely make them call her “Gramarmot.”<br /><br />My dad is a doctor, but I have reason to believe that he is ACTUALLY a spy. Here are the facts: He was an infectious disease specialist. He now works as a Dean at FSU’s Medical School, where he teaches classes on Bio-Terrorism. Despite the fact that I attended FSU, my dad and I almost NEVER saw each other on campus. This is because any time I would wander down to his office for things like lunch money, his secretary would greet me at the door and say something like, “Oh, your dad’s not here; he’s in Kazakhstan for the next month.” UM WHAT? He used to be in politics, was a State Representative for years, and then became the Florida Secretary of Health -- BUT -- he turned down the offers to be the U.S. Secretary of Health and head of the CDC. My guess is that they are too time-intensive, and he wouldn’t be as free to do spy-things. Oh, did I mention that he speaks German and Russian, and that I didn’t find out about the Russian thing until I was _13_???? My dad is totally a spy.<br /><br />In fifth grade, we all had to join band, and the teacher gave me a trombone. Unfortunately, I was so small that I couldn’t stretch my arm out long enough to reach the notes at the bottom of the slide. I developed a technique of hooking the spit valve under my shoelace and kicking my foot out quickly any time there was a note that I couldn’t quite get. I think it’s why my right leg is longer than my left leg now. Also, I switched to trumpet the year after that.<br /><br />I cannot watch the video of Paul Potts’ first “Britain’s Got Talent” audition (<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1k08yxu57NA">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1k08yxu57NA</a>) without SOBBING. Like, becoming a complete mess of a person. Someone sent me a link to it online one day and I watched it at least five times and just cried and cried. Sean sat behind me, completely incredulous. Other things that make me cry: The movie Ratatouille, the song “Both Sides” by Joni Mitchell (the “older Joni” version), and that part in Transformers when Optimus Prime first transforms in the alley. Also, the scene in Dumbo where the mother elephant reaches out to Dumbo through the bars of her jail cell and he climbs up into her little trunk-swing and “Baby of Mine” plays in the background and I completely lose my mind.<br /><br />I am horribly afraid that someday I’m going to have to have something amputated or go blind/deaf/mute. Seriously. It’s my number one fear in life. When I was little, for YEARS I would pray the same thing over and over again every night, and I always included following: “I pray that my eyes don’t fall out and that none of my body parts will break off.” There was also a part about praying for “the Poor, the Sick, and the People Who Smoke,” that they would “Get Richer, Get Better, and Stop Smoking.” Aww.<br /><br />I’ve had four concussions, and each one is, looking back, a pretty epic and hilarious story. Two of the stories involve glass doors, one involves a snowboard and a pack of small children on skiis, and one involves a Swiss street sign.<br /><br />If I don’t get a nap every afternoon, I become completely belligerent. It doesn’t even matter how long the “nap” is – I could just lay on the bed for five minutes – but I HAVE to do it or I will turn evil and destroy everything in sight.<br /><br />I’ve had a crush on Adrien Brody since I was seven years-old. My whole family went to see “Angels in the Outfield” at the theater, and I made them all sit through the credits until I found out who Danny Hemmerling was. When I was in middle school, I found a picture of him in a newspaper (his mother was a photographer for the Village Voice) and I put it in a tiny heart-shaped picture frame and carried it with me EVERYWHERE.<br /><br />When I was really little, I liked to sing the song “Natural Woman” to show off for people at parties, but I didn’t want to LOOK like a show-off, so I would pull my sister aside and beg her to ask me to do it in front of everyone. I have since given up on discretion (and Lani started demanding bribes).<br /><br />Once, I memorized Pi to the 120th digit because I am SO EMBARRASINGLY BAD AT MATH that it was the only thing I could do to get extra credit.<br /><br />I live with two British women who, while being completely opposite each other, are totally wonderful, and have unexpectedly begun to sway my speech patterns. I catch myself dragging the inflection up at the end of questions, and sometimes I even slip and say things like “bruvah” (“brother” – one is from London) or “summat” (“something” – the other is from Manchester). I’m gonna be a total linguistic nightmare when I’m released back into the wild.<br /><br />I hate cooked salmon with a fierce, burning passion. I will sit at the dinner table until four in the morning. I have done it many, many times. I am not eating that shit.<br /><br />I have actually had all of the following: e.Coli, Scarlet Fever, Conjuctivitus, Chicken Pox, Ascorbic Acid Deficiency (that’s SCURVY, to you laymen), GPC (the one that made me go blind for a day!), and Ebola. Okay, kidding about that last one. But really, how much of a coincidence is it that I got all these outrageous ailments, and my dad is an INFECTIOUS DISEASE specialist? He is totally testing out new strains on the Middle Kid. Thanks, dad.<br /><br />I changed my major seventeen times in college. Seven of those times were in January of my freshman year alone. The woman in the Registrar’s office would see me coming in the door and scowl, then she’d pull the “Major Change Request Form” out of her drawer and just shove it across the desk without looking at me. Whatever, I still made it out in four years, and with two degrees, to boot.<br /><br />I’m a terrible cook because I’m really, really impatient, but also, I generally like things to be raw/undercooked anyway. I love sushi, of course, but I mean weird things like pizza and cake. You can just give me a ball of pizza dough. It’s fine. I’ll eat it. I really like waffle batter, too. Hello, I beat e.Coli; Salmonella is a big freaking joke.<br /><br />As a kid, I wanted to be the person who made sound effects for shows like Rugrats and Doug. I do an awesome clown car horn, a pretty good lasso sound, a mean water-drop, and various other noises that are totally useless in polite society.<br /><br />I used to drink a lot of coffee, and so to compensate and ensure that my mouth didn’t turn black, I became totally obsessed with brushing my teeth. However, despite eighteen long, hard-earned years of being an upstanding member of the No Cavities Club, my two front teeth finally failed me during my sophomore year of college, and succumbed to the very first (and hopefully, last) cavity to enter my little post-pubescent mouth, which, according to my dentist, was caused by drinking sweet liquids through a straw. It was for this monstrosity that I underwent my first dental filling, a process which I pray I may never again be forced to endure for ever and ever amen, especially because I am afraid of shots and therefore didn't want the needle bearing anesthesia to enter my gums until I had already borne the pain of the primary drill and actually simultaneously screamed and sort of half-threw up in my mouth when the slow-moving drill was brought out. So now I floss five times a day instead of my usual three.<br /><br />I love fruit. I eat way more fruit than most people. One night, I ate a pound and a half of cherries on my own while watching a movie with my family, to the horror of my parents, who explained that it was dangerous to do that because cherries contain free radicals. Of course, being around seven or eight and unable to remember the term “free radical,” I preached against the threat of cherries to all my friends who would listen at lunchtime, claiming they would give you “a rebel alliance.”<br /><br />This is the meanest thing I have ever admitted: sometimes in college when I was having a bad day or feeling particularly vicious, I used to like to get out my car keys and stroll around the floors of one of the busier parking garages, ignoring the people driving one mile an hour behind me trying to get the parking spot I didn't actually have.<br /><br />I got into a cappella by accident, because I went into the wrong classroom on my first day at FSU, and it turned out to be an audition. I pretended like I had planned on being there all along, and sang “Part of your World” from The Little Mermaid because it was the only thing I could think of in my complete panic. Four years and three consecutive ICCA finals appearances later, my group is now ranked #2 in the WORLD, and I’m hooked on this a cappella business for life.</small>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8026873002112809738.post-54415293087269372492009-01-12T13:58:00.022-05:002009-01-12T14:40:52.430-05:00Working on a new painting<font face="Times New Roman"><br />Started (but didn't quite finish) a new painting last week. <br />Sister was kind enough to document the process.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://i4.photobucket.com/albums/y124/slyzucchinio/447753131_ZkUTx-XL.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 374px; height: 590px;" src="http://i4.photobucket.com/albums/y124/slyzucchinio/447753131_ZkUTx-XL.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://i4.photobucket.com/albums/y124/slyzucchinio/447754888_Ucif8-XL.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 375px; height: 250px;" src="http://i4.photobucket.com/albums/y124/slyzucchinio/447754888_Ucif8-XL.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://i4.photobucket.com/albums/y124/slyzucchinio/447758348_6sJmT-XL.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 424px; height: 283px;" src="http://i4.photobucket.com/albums/y124/slyzucchinio/447758348_6sJmT-XL.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://i4.photobucket.com/albums/y124/slyzucchinio/447757779_V753e-XL.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="http://i4.photobucket.com/albums/y124/slyzucchinio/447757779_V753e-XL.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br><br></br></br><br />Nearly as tall as I am!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://i4.photobucket.com/albums/y124/slyzucchinio/447755707_fwy9o-XL.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 375px; height: 250px;" src="http://i4.photobucket.com/albums/y124/slyzucchinio/447755707_fwy9o-XL.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br /><br><br></br></br><br />The <i>almost</i> finished version:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://i4.photobucket.com/albums/y124/slyzucchinio/IMG_2396_2.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 374px; height: 450px;" src="http://i4.photobucket.com/albums/y124/slyzucchinio/IMG_2396_2.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br><br></br></br><br /><br />Sadly, I had to leave it behind in Florida, since I couldn't very well make the drive back to Chapel Hill with it strapped to the top of my car. Maybe next time I'm home, I'll pull it out again.<br><br></br></br></font>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8026873002112809738.post-74086097247492385972008-11-16T22:53:00.001-05:002008-11-16T22:53:48.130-05:00DesiderataGo placidly amid the noise and the haste,<br />and remember what peace there may be in silence.<br /><br />As far as possible, without surrender,<br />be on good terms with all persons.<br />Speak your truth quietly and clearly;<br />and listen to others,<br />even to the dull and the ignorant;<br />they too have their story.<br />Avoid loud and aggressive persons;<br />they are vexatious to the spirit.<br /><br />If you compare yourself with others,<br />you may become vain or bitter,<br />for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.<br />Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.<br />Keep interested in your own career, however humble;<br />it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.<br /><br />Exercise caution in your business affairs,<br />for the world is full of trickery.<br />But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;<br />many persons strive for high ideals,<br />and everywhere life is full of heroism.<br />Be yourself. Especially do not feign affection.<br />Neither be cynical about love,<br />for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment,<br />it is as perennial as the grass.<br /><br />Take kindly the counsel of the years,<br />gracefully surrendering the things of youth.<br />Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.<br />But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.<br />Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.<br /><br />Beyond a wholesome discipline,<br />be gentle with yourself.<br />You are a child of the universe<br />no less than the trees and the stars;<br />you have a right to be here.<br />And whether or not it is clear to you,<br />no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.<br /><br />Therefore be at peace with God,<br />whatever you conceive Him to be.<br />And whatever your labors and aspirations,<br />in the noisy confusion of life,<br />keep peace in your soul.<br /><br />With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,<br />it is still a beautiful world.<br />Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.<br /><br /><br /><br />-Max EhrmannUnknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8026873002112809738.post-64416745227759277352008-10-13T02:22:00.002-04:002008-10-13T02:23:57.390-04:00Last PerformanceDave finally put up the videos of my last-ever concert with my college a cappella group:<center><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://www.msplinks.com/MDFodHRwOi8vd3d3LnlvdXR1YmUuY29tL3dhdGNoP3Y9SUJYek44U2xOZHM="><b>All-Night Yahtzee-- Villains</b></a><br /><a style="font-size:smaller; font-weight:normal;" href="http://www.msplinks.com/MDFodHRwOi8vd3d3LnlvdXR1YmUuY29tL3dhdGNoP3Y9SUJYek44U2xOZHM=">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IBXzN8SlNds</a><p><object type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowScriptAccess="never" allowNetworking="internal" height="355" width="425" data="http://www.youtube.com/v/IBXzN8SlNds&hl=en&rel=0"><br /> <param name="allowScriptAccess" value="never" /><br /> <param name="allowNetworking" value="internal" /><br /> <param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/IBXzN8SlNds&hl=en&rel=0" /><br /></object></p></center><br /><br /><a href="http://www.allnightyahtzee.com">www.allnightyahtzee.com</a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8026873002112809738.post-23342168052194225792008-09-18T00:58:00.001-04:002008-09-18T00:58:51.039-04:00Tattoo for a Friend.<center><br /><br /><br /><img src="http://i4.photobucket.com/albums/y124/slyzucchinio/23.jpg"/><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></center>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8026873002112809738.post-60579145967727413342008-09-14T00:07:00.004-04:002008-09-21T09:17:08.530-04:00Foxes.<small><b>Yesterday, I dreamt that you met my mother. You offered her one of your cigarettes. The yellow stain of habit near the tips of your fingers, </b>creases in your corners. <b>Mostly, he is sand.</b> I opened some floodgates, sifted my fingers through the ash to find… what? Pointed. It slipped out of my grasp. <br /><br /><b>Fox-sly. For all your cleverness, you have no subtlety</b> (ripe though he may have been [for the harvest]). <b> You are two purple eye sockets, more an idea of a person, a shadow of a man. All dreams and no bones, or all bones and no meat. </b> (Shoddy craftsmanship. <b> Baby teeth. </b>) Pungent smoke smog smell, the thick reek, the smoldering cloud that hangs overhead whenever you are near. Heady and biting. It was biting. Pointed incisors, gleaming teeth in white lines. <b>Curved like a wolf. </b>Lip in a constant sneer/scowl. Swarthy. <br /><br />[[ BUT -- <b> I salivate at the memory of his profile. </b> Sharp angles, a pair of languid eyes. His cracked knuckles and haphazard freckles huddled together on each shoulder. And the way he approached, magnetic. A captivating (compelling) stance. Trance. <b>His hangdog look (the longing emblazoned in my mind) </b>: brows pushed up in the center, mouth slightly open. <b>A beggar. Starving/Something he would die without. </b><br /><br />Sometimes, the moon purrs whispered words at you, delivers dreams that were born somewhere else/somewhere other than the back alleys of the mind. <b>She reached her arms out to him drunkenly, heavily. </b> Wound themselves together. <b>Lofty. </b> (With no prior incentive) She lifted her shirt daringly/improvised the moves. [<b>Sometimes, when I look at you for too long/too closely, I (feel as if I) can see your blood cells mingle. </b> Each tiny coil that retracts – the space between each strand of hair. Penny dreams coated in a fine layer of sweat, beading and pooling in pockets of flesh. Your pores contract. Lavish.] <br /><br /> <b> “THIS,” he said. “THESE.” Curl of a cat paw. Slid his hands down over her hips, the way a sliver slides in/beneath the skin, the sigh of a wound expanding</b>. Fleshed out in the thought/the touch ><b> flesh made thought. The swell of his ribs against mine.<br /><br />The sky was sallow-skinned and lit with anticipation, with the prickle of a week-old shave. </b>Tip of a pointed tongue, the flush, the embrace. Piercing star gaze. A puncture wound. <b> A tangle of fingertips. </b> Hands gripping flesh, sinking in teeth, dropping through the mattress, through the floorboards, through the foundation of the earth. <b>The moon wiped the condensation off her brow and called out, “Break him down, girl.” </b>]]<br /><br />These missiles, projecting themselves into my thoughts/my arms. <b> You are a soul-and-belly-ache/aching heartache. A nagging affliction that makes the ridges on the roof of my mouth ripple with discontent. </b> I find you more volcanic/volatile than ever. Each protruding hip joint was a bullet. Temptation winding my hair around his fingers, giving me a sharp tug backwards. <b>He leaves red imprints on your jaw and shakes you up and leaves your chest cavity resonating/ringing with the force of a blow. </b>Supersensory (& wildly out of place.) <b> “Honey,” said my Dream-Mother, “Sometimes you just have to take your vices and run with them.” </b> (in a Southern accent, something my mother would never say). The cigarette he offered her dangled between her fingers as if it had been there always. <b> “And you shouldn’t trust any thing that never lost/keeps/kept its baby teeth. The better to scam us with.” <br /><br />I woke up on the wrong side of the bed that morning and decided: I can’t help you find inner peace. You were the worst dream I ever had. </b>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8026873002112809738.post-9830230231589921382008-08-25T00:43:00.007-04:002009-06-18T03:40:22.717-04:00More Things I Love.A few I forgot:<br /><br />Rainbow Sorbet<br />Funky Retro High-heeled Shoes<br />Copper Pots and Pans and Tea Kettles<br />The Eggplant/Goat Cheese Sandwich at <a href="http://sandwhich.biz/blog/">Sandwhich</a>. OM NOM.<br />San Pellegrino<br />Stylized Bathroom Fixtures<br />An Abundance of Houseplants<br />Detailed Embroidery on Pillows and Blankets<br />Bear Naked Chocolate Granola<br />Nesting<br />Steampunk Illustration<br />American Sign Language<br />A Rock Opera<br />Southern France<br />Glass Lanterns<br /><a href="http://www.teavana.com/">Teavana Teas</a><br />Fancy Stamps<br />Oversized Cups and Bowls<br />Big Drum Lampshades<br />Cooking Stir-fry in a Giant Wok<br />The Smell of Lemons and Oranges being sliced<br />Rock Candy<br />Bay windows<br />Apple Products<br /><a href="http://www.ilovelocopops.com/">LocoPops!</a><br />Mermaids<br />Comparative Linguistics<br />Robots with Hearts/Personalities<br />Irish Drinking SongsUnknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8026873002112809738.post-73824032425525715642008-06-20T22:52:00.000-04:002008-09-28T11:55:37.852-04:0018 years ago?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://i4.photobucket.com/albums/y124/slyzucchinio/flower2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://i4.photobucket.com/albums/y124/slyzucchinio/flower2.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><center><small>omg I was so tiny.</small><br /><br /><br /><br /></center>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8026873002112809738.post-74272832354981043872008-04-26T17:13:00.002-04:002008-09-14T00:57:54.908-04:00<span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_uceiCpYOZd8/SMyZuuA1PDI/AAAAAAAAAFk/GdB497iu4pc/s1600-h/DSC01039_2_2.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_uceiCpYOZd8/SMyZuuA1PDI/AAAAAAAAAFk/GdB497iu4pc/s400/DSC01039_2_2.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5245736693884337202" /></a><br /><center><br /><br /><br /><br /><big>DONE.</big><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></span></center>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8026873002112809738.post-15218035325688535202008-04-09T18:45:00.005-04:002009-01-12T12:31:45.538-05:00The Hard Way<b><br /><br /><br /><br />Sometimes I pray for a heart of stone.</b> <small>For a colder, uncaring heart. It isn't forgiveness that I'm looking for: I need something to smash my heart into a thousand pieces, so I can pick through the shards and shape the ones I want into a new, mosaic version: a heart that learns from its mistakes and never cries while driving.<br /><br /><i>A lover for your life, and nothing more/</i><br /><br /><br />--------------------------------------<br /><br /><b>There isn’t enough space here.</b> [<i>world enough/ and time</i>]<br />I suffocate slowly, fingers wrapping tightly/blue veins (in vain). [[The tongue takes on the attack, the machinations begin with each blip in the brain.]] I fill your head with these notions when I can't (bring myself to) endure them (alone). <b>I'm in the Business of Despair</b> (which is cyclical/I cycle through/recycling)/(to put in a quarter and come out shiny and clean) <b>& have always done everything the hard way. </b><br /><br />There are { } <i>regrets</i> and there are { } <i>Regrets</i>. <b>I, recurring: to learn how to learn from old mistakes. </b> Still can’t pull my fingers away from old war wounds. <b>I am a chronic destroyer of self. </b>It was never enough to be half-in/half-loved/half-done. [I make myself sick with these thoughts.] Haven’t known Peace in a long time. <br /><br />But still, <b>to have regrets is not the same as to have made mistakes</b>. To misspeak. You were not mine (but still I try to test your metal). <br /><br /><i>I loved your son for his sturdy arms/ we both learned to cradle, then live without/</i><br /><br /><b>You were my Mourning/Morning Glory. </b> [is there any glory in mourning?]<br />We killed each other at first sight. <i>Don’t you know?</i> <b>I waste away in those arms, wither in the warmth of your shadow</b> (still retreat into this cave again). <b>You are terrible in your magnificence</b> (& shake me to my very core). <b>prophesizing our own destruction, the sensational demise of an atomic romance</b>. He is not the docile sapling I recall.<br /><br /><b>She sprouted from a seed of unknown origin, flighty and borne aloft by the slightest whim/wind. blown where the wind blows. She ripened slowly on the vine, tended to by a constant hand. </b> (It took nearly ten gardeners just to pull back the weeds). <b>He took his time/cultivated her slowly. </b> Tended tenderly/<b>Tried & True, until [ ]. (She was one autumn afternoon drive away from destruction.) </b>Then, tried & tired, he turned from her (garden/stalk) and gave her up for all the tea in China (& she died that day). <br /><br /><b>I’m in love with my own preconceived notions. </b> (can break myself down easily enough. never learned to read his mind, and he never needed to read mine [but we would never starve together. <b> I’m not afraid of the famine, but I tremble at the thought of a flood].) [[If the person I was then saw the person I am now, she would just never stop throwing up.]] </b> foaming at the mouth/not a sane thought in this skull. Dream at night of all the things you’ll leave behind, <b>the pieces to save when you go. </b> A box of memories to pour over, to take “just like a woman." The thought of having only your picture to look at/to look after me in my old age – <b>you always/only break my heart. </b><br /><br />I have been <b>used (up) and left (out) (to dry). </b> I feel now, more certain than ever, that it was not meant for me to have or to hold, but instead to long for and never find, for as long as I live/all the days of my life. <b>Ours is a (violently/brutally/fiercely) tragic romance</b>. (heartbreak follows, nips at the heels.) He was the very embodiment of Calamity. <b><u>You annihilate me.</u></b> All your inconsistencies, they raze me down. <b>My lungs recoil, tight as any fist, and ready to fly. </b> You take away my very breath, and never give it back. <br /><br /><b> (I remember the story of how he almost died in the river that day, undercurrent strong and tender as any death grip/lover’s touch). Eased into oblivion, nothingness, somethingness? <br /><br />We are all the same. Nothing ever changes. </b><br />The lost stumble -- the brave survive. We do what we need to do to ensure that our hearts continue beating. <b>I will lose you to your own battles </b> (but) I am growing a heart as calloused as a river man – gnarled patches, rough with defiance. Teaching myself to inhale the smoke, to fight/kick my way upstream. To keep my head above water. You think it would be lying to each other if we tell those secrets we’ve hidden for so long, well,<b><i> Boy, you’re gonna carry that Weight a long time.</i></b></small><br /><br /><b>It is quite the trick, to detach one’s self. <br />Should we all be so lucky as to know the hollowness of our own bodies/chests/hearts at least once every lifetime or so.</b><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><b></b>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8026873002112809738.post-91541787279241419832008-04-01T01:01:00.000-04:002008-09-18T01:02:56.968-04:00My Life Motto<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_uceiCpYOZd8/SNHgvANgZdI/AAAAAAAAAFs/qzy5-VYw8GE/s1600-h/anthonyburrilldotcom.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_uceiCpYOZd8/SNHgvANgZdI/AAAAAAAAAFs/qzy5-VYw8GE/s400/anthonyburrilldotcom.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5247222138978461138" /></a><br /><br />Print by Anthony Burrill.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8026873002112809738.post-31003797309446449442008-03-28T04:05:00.003-04:002008-03-28T04:12:41.990-04:00I have to stop procrastinating.<FONT FACE="Times New Roman"><br /><br />Sometimes, when I stay up really late writing papers that I should have done weeks ago, I suddenly realize that I've been unconsciously inserting words and phrases in other languages because they are longer and take up more room. Just now was the fourth time I've caught myself trying to slip "rappresentazione" into my dramaturgy paper, which has sixteen letters, as opposed to "play," with its measly four. Now what used to be a eleven-page paper has been agonizingly reduced to a sorry nine, and I'm pretty sure some of the replacements I used to cover those blunders aren't actually English cognates of the French and Italian words like I think they are, and therefore those will eventually have to go, too. I'm gonna be in trouble when I finally do move to California and start using my Spanish again -- although I can't imagine trying to summon that part of my brain again under the rest of this mess. At this hour, I don't even remember where I put it. <br /><br /><br />I liken this trouble I have (writing papers alarmingly close to their deadlines) to playing Scrabble. Sean gets mad when I won't let him have "Ent" (as in the <i>fictional</i>, however awe-inspiring race of trees on Middle Earth), but he won't give me "beaux," and <i>clearly</i> that gets a nod in <u>Harry Potter</u>. You can't acknowledge one fantasy series and completely disregard the next! He also says that even if I were to somehow cheat and have enough tiles to spell it, he will <i>never</i> give me points for "Agamemnomonic." Which, as pretty much everyone knows, means "using mythological Greek heroes as a memory aid." I see no problem with that. Just like I should be allowed to find some way to use "deinstitutionalization" and "counterrevolutionaries" in this paper, since they are the two longest words I can think of that are not completely ridiculous (twenty-two letters each). <br /><br /><br />The play I am dramaturgy-ing at the moment actually has less than nothing to do with Greeks, ancient or otherwise. I did, however, just learn the word "Hellenologophobia," which has seventeen letters and means "Fear of Greek terms or complex scientific terminology." It's a crying shame that more professors don't award points for creativity, because I would have this Magna Cum Laude thing <b>locked. up.</b><br /><br /><br /></FONT FACE>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8026873002112809738.post-92049015539955324712008-03-21T16:30:00.002-04:002008-04-08T03:29:32.915-04:00Skeletons.<FONT FACE="Times New Roman"><br /><br /><big><b>I’ve got that unholy ache</b></big> in between every finger, around each joint, and in the black space on the back of my eyelids. Back then I filled up on dreams and let them slosh around carelessly/lazily in too deep a well. These days each heartbeat is met with the resounding clang of a tin interior filled with too many metallic organs. <b>That stillness, as full as the moon, settling slowly into the bottom of the stomach.</b> (“I’m feeling restless,” she said.) <b>Her courage curled up in a ball and surrendered. The heart retreats</b> (a moral retreat?)<b>. Like a sink full of water, spilling over. <br /><br /><u>My ghost lover, he haunts me still.</u></b><br />I slip/downward spiral – how familiar you are to me. <b>The treachery of my own soul/heart, </b> its familiarity (longing) to the touch of those hands. I speak his language fluently. <b> (Those warning signs still spill over lips [now colder (pressed tighter) with age]. </b> It is well with my soul!) This phantom, he does something to the very fabric of my being/upsets the delicate inner balance. He makes the fine hairs on the back of my neck stand on end/leaves my mouth dry & tongue thick and heavy. I have a <b>poisonous adoration for you</b>/a reverence for your malicious ways. <br /><br /><b><big>You are Always mine, and Never. </big> [[</b>He’s never been so thin before. I whimper into your heaving frame and <b>my cries echo, skeletal. </b> (Such brittle bones and paper skin and the sickness of your shade. Spider threads, dripping over your arms in strings, cobwebs that <b>no amount of sweeping could tidy. </b> A tangible network/the path your blood takes = further evidence of the lifestyle that was loved and left behind.) <b>]] We set down roots in the same place, and our different seeds grew upwards in the same direction. </b>I meditate on the length of your limbs and in these dreams, I contemplate the slender line of your back.<br /><br />He is changed from The Last Time. <b>I have to begin again, committing him to memory</b> {to have drawn him from every angle possible, and spent a lifetime counting his marks & branding/adding new ones to the pot. (<i>Leaving two capital As in the valleys of your clavicles</i>)}. <b>I sometimes ponder the ratio between <i>Time Spent Staring Into Each Other’s Eyes</i> versus <i>The Rest of the Time.</i> </b>Those images singed/scorched into my mind – the things I was able to make out in the blackness/black hole/bleak hole into which we retreated (which grew into our own personal outer space/<b> a darkness beyond contemplation.) </b>our solitary light/our solitude was the most beautiful _____. <br /><br /><i>And it’s Time, Time, Time/</i><br /><br />It is comparable to seeing, for the first time, a person whom you’ve had pictures of all your life. <i>The things I can’t remember tell the things I can’t forget.</i> The thrust of your hips/<b>Contemptuous and sensuous was our love. </b> [The staring/Soul-searching: it <b>gives us away (our daily bed)</b>]. <br /><br />I’m afraid that I could Love you blindly or without reason. I’m afraid that I could Love you against everything I believe in. <b>This resolute emotion that fights back, all teeth and claws. The Love that shakes itself awake, and sometimes screams (at you). Never wanted anything so much, with so much desperation, </b>as to maintain a cataclysmic union – collapsing into bed, breathless, at night, uncertain and restless and ferociously glad to not have to be without the other. <b><u>You are going to be my downfall.</u> Hard times are ahead. </b><br /><br />All the same:<br /><big><b>If I have to die, at least let it be at your hand. <br />Take me with you when/however you go. </b></big><br /><br /><br /></FONT FACE>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8026873002112809738.post-86703116583196162462008-02-05T18:35:00.002-05:002008-10-19T14:38:52.927-04:00Love.<FONT FACE="Times New Roman"><br /><br /><br /><big><big><b>Things I love (in no order):</b></big></big><br /><br /><br />Lazy Saturday mornings spent watching movies and playing Scrabble<br />Telling and re-telling my favorite jokes, and adding new ones to my arsenal<br />The uncomplicated joy of putting a record on<br />Looking through stacks of old family photos<br />Going on Adventures/Picnics/Explorations<br />Running away excitedly after lighting a firework<br />Afternoons and Evenings at Black Dog<br />Grocery Shopping<br />Unusual Skirts and Dresses<br />A Cappella<br />Touching all of the paintbrushes in the display at the art supply store<br />Humpback Whales<br />Admiring well-crafted children’s books<br />Affectionately poking around Pa’s leather bound book library & Marmot’s teapot collection<br />Searching for The Most Wonderful Tree House in the World<br />Window-Shopping at Park Avenue in Orlando<br />Getting stopped at the top of the Ferris wheel<br />Singing Along/Singing Alone <br />Swimming very very slowly through clear water<br />Listening to old people recount their lives<br />Squeezing clay slip through loose fists<br />Windsor Newton Watercolor in Cobalt Blue 178<br />Having tea parties as often as possible<br />Climbing up things (furniture, trees, boulders) to get a different perspective<br />The tiny brass turtle with the secret compartment that sits on Marmot’s desk<br />The sweet stringy feeling of biting into a ripe mango or fig<br />Gospel Choirs<br />Crafting days<br />The way firewood looks all stacked up in a neat pile<br />The important feeling I get when I line up all the sushi ingredients in a row along the counter<br />Mystery Science Theater 3000 (Favorite Episode : “A Touch of Satan”)<br />Eating in loud restaurants with a small group of friends<br />Oil paintings of ships with big sails<br />Watching Nature Documentaries (The <i>Lives of Mammals</i> series is best)<br />Admiring a job well-done <br />Camaraderie<br />The gentle, dignified voice of David Attenborough<br />Smelling all the soaps at the Saturday morning Downtown Marketplace<br />Wearing silk slips<br />Figuring out how things work by taking them apart<br />Maggie crawling into my lap for snugs<br />Huge bushes of Blue Hydrangeas<br />Midnight golf course adventures with Kimmy<br />Touching Violin Rosin <br />The way sunlight looks from inside a greenhouse<br />People-Watching on park benches<br />Playing piano with all the lights turned off<br />Appreciating extravagant beards (<a href=http://www.worldbeardchampionships.com/>The World Beard Championships</a>) <br />Fall evenings playing basketball with Pa and Little Brother<br />The pride of finishing a painting<br />Picking apart hot edamame<br />The weight of a brand-new, unread book in my hand<br />Elaborate Costume Parties<br />Puns about fruits and vegetables<br />Vast stretches of wilderness<br />Peruvian Spanish<br />Spontaneous Girl Dates<br />Finding pets who really do look like their owners (or just watching that scene from <i>101 Dalmations</i>)) <br />Sweet potato tempura<br />“Abbey Road,” “In the Aeroplane Over the Sea,” and “The Slow Wonder” in their entirety<br />Giving Little Brother new albums/artists/songs to listen to<br />Decorating Christmas cookies<br />Going to the symphony on the weekends and closing my eyes<br />Great Danes<br />Winter coats with big buttons (especially when there is money in the pocket from last February!)<br />Kool Beanz café on Thursdays with Holly<br />Cleaning, re-arranging, and re-decorating the house in the middle of the night<br />Reciting Shel Silverstein and Edward Gorey poems aloud<br />Flying dreams <br />Inventing nicknames for family members/friends/complete strangers<br />Receiving CD compilations from friends<br />Wiggling fingers into Marmot’s big canisters of rice and beans<br />Discovering new fonts and lettering styles <br />Painting murals with huge brushes<br />The soft warm weight of Maggie curled up on my chest<br />Splurging on an entire crate of Clementines<br />Reading design blogs with a cup of tea early in the morning <br /><a href="http://on-my-desk.blogspot.com/">On My Desk</a><br />Tiny picture frames<br />Typing out poems or love notes on my typewriter<br />Going on dates with Sister<br />The low vibration of a Cello <br />Women who wear big fancy hats to church <br />Clock-Collecting <br />Being able to speak to someone in his/her native tongue<br />Owls, Crows, Sparrows, & Finches<br />Argyle sweaters all year-round<br />Jackie’s midnight pasta in our apartment’s tiny kitchen in Firenze<br />Ornate china teacups with gilded edges and matching saucers<br />Every Decemberists concert I have ever attended<br />Snails and slugs sprinkled liberally over the landscape after a big storm<br />The pangs of longing I get in <a href="http://www.williams-sonoma.com/">Williams-Sonoma</a> stores <br />Catastrophically large chandeliers<br />Getting letters in the mail<br />Sitting on bales of straw around a backyard bonfire<br />Hand-Holding<br />Fancy umbrellas that curve to a point at the top<br />First Friday at Railroad Square<br />Refrigerator magnets, including magnetic poetry, which, I admit, can keep my occupied for at least an hour at a time<br />Intricate Paper Cutouts<br />Making homemade goat cheese pizza and eating it while it’s still gooey<br />I’cche C’e’ C’e’ <br />Hopping birds under park benches and on café tables<br />That room at Sister/Brother-in-Law’s house with all the tiny things!<br />Sculpture Gardens<br />Enormous old libraries (with spiral staircases)<br />Pen and Ink drawings of Bicycles<br /><a href="http://www.anthropologie.com/anthro/index.jsp">Anthropologie</a><br />Taking whole afternoons off to go shopping by myself<br />Selecting the perfect produce at the Wednesday farmer’s market<br />Playing dress-up<br />The first look at a treasure trove attic as you reach the top of the stairs<br />The quiet humming murmurs of visitors in an art gallery<br />The Golden Age of Disney Animation under <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Disney%27s_Nine_Old_Men">The Nine Old Men</a><br />Watching foreign films at the movie theater<br />Fancy doorknobs and drawer pulls<br />Goldfish prints<br />Playing Super Mariokart and actually getting the shortcuts<br />Inventing<br />The sound the tea tin makes when I pop it open first thing in the morning<br />Science Friday with Ira Flato on NPR<br />Old Hymns<br />Banana Runts<br />Rocking chairs on porches<br />Watching <a href="http://www.airguitarworldchampionships.com/home">The Air Guitar World Championships</a><br />Painting with the windows open and music playing in the background<br />Open Windows in General<br />Old maps<br />The smell of pipe smoke <br />The Grace of God<br />Birdhouses hanging from tree limbs<br />Thunderstorms and Power Outages<br />Reading the following books over and over and over again:<br /><u>Cien Años de Soledad</u>, <br /><u>Le Petit Prince</u>, <br /><u>Everything is Illuminated</u>, <br /><u>Lolita</u>, <br /><u>Alice's Adventures in Wonderland</u> & <u>Through the Looking Glass (And What Alice Found There) </u>, <br />The entire <u>Harry Potter</u> series, <br /><u>A Heart-Breaking Work of Staggering Genius</u>, <br />and <u>The Time Traveler's Wife</u><br />and, of course<br />Making long lists and then checking things off<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></FONT FACE>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8026873002112809738.post-53301970950209211452008-01-30T23:02:00.000-05:002008-12-11T10:04:33.576-05:00Dr. Zombie<center><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_uceiCpYOZd8/R0cm9freJBI/AAAAAAAAADE/uq9qebA3SpQ/s1600-h/n5202210_35354015_2341.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_uceiCpYOZd8/R0cm9freJBI/AAAAAAAAADE/uq9qebA3SpQ/s400/n5202210_35354015_2341.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5136116737957045266" /></a><br /><br /><small>Yeah, I did that whole "zombie" thing once.</small><br /><br /><br /></center>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8026873002112809738.post-25704880677194890782007-12-31T22:43:00.000-05:002008-01-31T22:45:01.789-05:00<FONT FACE="Times New Roman"><br /><br /><b><big><big><big>I</big></big></big> rise as no giant.</b> This blood-thirsty heart, these tumbleweed bones. I recall with some fondness the day those beliefs fell, crumbling. Ashes to ashes and dust to dust to tiny particles inhaled with each blessed breath. <br /><br /><b>It was the year of erasing words from my vocabulary.</b> <br /><br />There are Weights who never disappear [completely]. Some days we press our fingers to the wound, not wanting to heal, but instead, attempting to gauge its depth. I find that when I run my hardest, I am most conscious of the mad beating in my chest. Do you imagine, sometimes, in the quiet of your body, that you feel a sort of detonation? I had a sad, sickly love once, and it ached between my lungs for months. <br /><br /><b>{</b>He was a dark, sullen boy. He lacked roots [the pair of them]. <br />This unfinished part, this liquid soul. I lusted after a man with no mother [broke off bits], completed his thoughts. You were raised from the very core of the Earth /came to her aid. Like a heavy angel he tumbled to pieces. It was always our fate/our faith to fall [we fell].<br /><br />Once, there was someone like the sea. He was an entire herd of wild horses. Trampled, lean: a fit like careworn gloves [only to weep at night over the loss of it all]. Opened her up and turned her pages (in despair). He turned around in the road and tried (to change his mind.) [[We would not mend for the want of a father's love.]] [<i>Quant'e' bella giovinezza /Che si fugge tuttavia!</i>] <b>We were very brave, and in those days chose to make nothingness out of the vast somethingness we were given.</b> <br /><br />And there were others: the ones who widened the veins and raced around the bloodstream. They closed up their own boxes long ago and made no grand <i>to-do</i> about the departure. Gave me up for all the tea in China. (Still to dream about clove cigarettes and peaches. There are times when even the musty smell of the attic brings my stomach up to my mouth. Sticky, wet thoughts & damp with condensation. A turnstile in the mind, all mildew and/or rust.)<br /><br />We held our own dead bodies, open like drawers. [sent you diseases in each letter.] This infectiousness & these felicitations / to climb your trellis. Gape heaving raw, clawing at. Relegated to deeper depths. He got under my skin/peeled apart [the ever-exploding man]. He was a little boy when he knew her, and in many ways, there remains a fleeting glimpse in every batted lash. I saw these corpses in a row and counted my blessings and fears on each. Some are even quite rational. (A small thing, a Soul.) <i>I tend to capitalize on your superlatives.</i> Cleverness escaped from the tips of their tongues/ it was the very guise that bound them together. Adam and Eve preferred to be naked, after all.<b>}</b><br /><br />This part of my life is where I remember to forget. Those few who lived in/were part of this life: I have nearly lost them [to lose trust like some careless child / mistrust like any bad archer]. You, a wooden nickel of a girl, who races for everything. Tempted to tempt the Lord thy God. I still haven't decided which shelf to place you on.<br /><br />The next nest will have stronger walls/making everyone an unwelcomed guest. [Mankind, the biggest liars of creation!] What fine strands connect us to each other are sliced [as easily as ___]. I am trying to learn the difference between WANT and NEED. <br /><br />Ask and ye shall receive, not what you wanted, or even what you thought you wanted, but that which you lacked the wisdom to know you needed, and that which all those vain enemies tried to keep you from knowing you could have, and that tiny, fleeting thing shall be heaped upon you with guilt, and pride, and pity, and some condescension, and thou shalt weep for the shame of getting what thou did not ask for and everyone goes home in the end.<br /><br />If I were to create a self-portrait for every day of the year, I would paint closed eyes on every even day and open eyes on every odd day, and when I finished, I would flip through this blinking book of my own wondrous creation and feel very, <i>very</i> tired.<br /><br /><b>Resolution:<br />Reclaim thyself.</b><br /><br />More than knowing thyself, more than loving thyself, accepting thyself, or bearing thyself. Resolve to reclaim the self we had and the self we were becoming. <br /><br />I hereby re-plant myself, inside of these words and within this skin and without these walls.<br />I am a product of the most supernatural selection,<br />and I am growing into a very. mighty. oak.<br /><br /><br /><br /></FONT FACE>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8026873002112809738.post-16019652456993352182007-11-13T07:49:00.000-05:002008-12-11T10:04:33.825-05:00trying something new<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_uceiCpYOZd8/R0cu6freJFI/AAAAAAAAADk/RbvcK0eDWzc/s1600-h/n5202210_41048807_4379.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_uceiCpYOZd8/R0cu6freJFI/AAAAAAAAADk/RbvcK0eDWzc/s400/n5202210_41048807_4379.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5136125482510459986" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8026873002112809738.post-2248867929915846412007-10-27T16:37:00.000-04:002008-12-11T10:04:34.396-05:00Homecoming & Pow Wow<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_uceiCpYOZd8/R0ch7PreI5I/AAAAAAAAACE/UAKtMhQpBiQ/s1600-h/n5202210_40809144_816.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_uceiCpYOZd8/R0ch7PreI5I/AAAAAAAAACE/UAKtMhQpBiQ/s400/n5202210_40809144_816.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5136111201744200594" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_uceiCpYOZd8/R0cewvreI4I/AAAAAAAAAB8/j5aCtZ9W_PM/s1600-h/n5202210_40809161_8838.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_uceiCpYOZd8/R0cewvreI4I/AAAAAAAAAB8/j5aCtZ9W_PM/s400/n5202210_40809161_8838.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5136107722820690818" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8026873002112809738.post-11950688544054839982007-08-09T18:42:00.000-04:002008-12-11T10:04:34.685-05:00For Holly Bees.<center><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_uceiCpYOZd8/R0ctY_reJDI/AAAAAAAAADU/9ytHoCkPINI/s1600-h/n5202210_39294568_7655.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_uceiCpYOZd8/R0ctY_reJDI/AAAAAAAAADU/9ytHoCkPINI/s400/n5202210_39294568_7655.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5136123807473214514" /></a><br /><br /><small>"I find you very a-peeling."</small><br /><br /><br /></center>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8026873002112809738.post-6354073418981424482007-08-08T14:03:00.000-04:002008-12-11T10:04:35.312-05:00<small>Christopher did a photoshoot of me!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_uceiCpYOZd8/R0ckCPreI6I/AAAAAAAAACM/hGAvVXzcvm0/s1600-h/n5212793_39244994_5883.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_uceiCpYOZd8/R0ckCPreI6I/AAAAAAAAACM/hGAvVXzcvm0/s400/n5212793_39244994_5883.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5136113521026540450" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_uceiCpYOZd8/R0ckCvreI8I/AAAAAAAAACc/fAvD5Kq_pXc/s1600-h/n5212793_39244996_6691.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_uceiCpYOZd8/R0ckCvreI8I/AAAAAAAAACc/fAvD5Kq_pXc/s400/n5212793_39244996_6691.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5136113529616475074" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_uceiCpYOZd8/R0ckCPreI7I/AAAAAAAAACU/xrZaBnzz9u4/s1600-h/n5212793_39244995_6326.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_uceiCpYOZd8/R0ckCPreI7I/AAAAAAAAACU/xrZaBnzz9u4/s400/n5212793_39244995_6326.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5136113521026540466" /></a><br /><br /><br />credit: Christopher M. Diaz<br /><br /></small>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8026873002112809738.post-35699575163616953442007-07-05T14:48:00.000-04:002008-12-11T10:04:35.494-05:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_uceiCpYOZd8/R0cut_reJEI/AAAAAAAAADc/tga5-T-zW8U/s1600-h/n5202210_39295557_2163.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_uceiCpYOZd8/R0cut_reJEI/AAAAAAAAADc/tga5-T-zW8U/s400/n5202210_39295557_2163.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5136125267762095170" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0