Calling All Alley Cats

Birthday Cat

2012-02-07T07:29:00.000-08:00

Happy Birthday, Happy Birthday, Happy Birthday to me.

approaching 30

2012-01-29T16:34:00.000-08:00

All the things I can remember about Adam:

He made me laugh.
He made everyone laugh.
He acted out his rendition of "The Gay Werewolf."
He was a drunk driver.
He drove backwards through the intersection once to make Molly and I like him.
He liked hiking.
He liked adventures.
He held my hand.
He kissed me more than once.
He kissed lots of girls.
He liked music.
The last songs he played for me was "Why Can't I Touch It" and "Golden Brown."
He liked jukeboxes.
He was rarely embarrassed, but was ashamed of mine and Nicole's karaoke version of "Tiny Dancer."
He was good at pool.
He was excellent at foosball.
He was my foosball partner at a boring party once. We kicked ass.
He sat with me on a patio swing and told me he liked me.
He loved his friends. A lot.
His dad lived in motels when he was little. He didn't know what that meant. He thought he was on vacation because he got to swim in a pool.
He had a wolf tattoo on his shoulder.
He liked Blondie.
We rode bikes from Florida and Garfield to Harbor House Cafe on PCH at midnight when I was 18.
He liked alcohol.
He passed out on the bathroom floor once and my mom thought it was a dead body. She couldn't fully open the door to see who it was. It scared me.
He took me to the bluffs in Huntington Beach during sunset. He said he was taking the long way home.
He gave Laurie and I a handful of one dollar bills and told us to go to the bar and wait for him. He never showed. He was meeting a girl. Turns out, all those dollar bills added up to $11. Joke. On. Us.
He had pretty hands. He called them feminine.
He snored when he slept.
He played Connect Four with my four-year-old sister and lost--every time.
When he walked into a room, everything began.
He liked to flip open his leather wallet and pretend it was a phone. Wallet to ear, he would say, "Hello? Kutcher?"
He was 24.

So many other things I can't remember. Missing him always.

Floating on and up and over

2012-01-25T12:37:00.001-08:00

And sometimes the days are warm and all the talking makes sense and sleeping comes easily. And that old wound starts to scab over and there is no need to pick at it, to undo what's been done. And consolation becomes a secret thing and is quiet and there is no need to tear out your eyelashes or thrash at your own skin because it feels good to just be.

because you said it best, Trick.

2012-01-19T17:03:00.000-08:00

"Life, right now, is a whirlwind. Dreams of moving to the midwest paired with nights and hand stamps and walking three blocks to houses unknown and sharing stalls and teaching critical thinking on wednesdays and doubting my own critical thinking in the process. And my days are coupled with loneliness and people and people and people. There’s talk in all the corners. My bed is full of laughs. And despite it all, I think I’m succeeding, I must be succeeding. Had my tarot cards read on Sunday and she thinks it’s Chicago. And it very well could be, which frightens-excites me beyond belief. I make a lot of dinners with friends. There has been too much champagne. And sick. My god have I been sick! It wouldn’t be enough to say I’m tired. It wouldn’t be enough to say I need some sleep. If I stop now, I would be way too sad. I can’t decide if this is getting older or just more resisting."

Via http://www.speakeasyso.tumblr.com

mine.

2012-01-15T12:50:00.000-08:00

“There is in the soul a desire for not thinking.
For being still. Coupled with this
a desire to be strict, yes, and rigorous.
But the soul is also a smooth son of a bitch,
not always trustworthy. And I forgot that.”

― Raymond Carver, All of Us: The Collected Poems

Referring to Addiction

2012-01-14T11:44:00.000-08:00

Tiny desk, tiny instruments, tiny musicians, tiny voices, like an arrow that goes straight into my tiny heart.

writing practice

2012-01-12T21:15:00.000-08:00

communication

The young girl asks him, what's in your hand?
He says, something for you.
She knows that he has nothing, that his hands are empty, but she plays along.
Is it from a tree? she asks.
No, it's not from a tree, he says.
Does it taste sweet? she asks.
No. Yes. That's debatable, he says.
She thinks for a bit, rolling her eyes up toward the sky while he's watching her. He is excited.
Is it small? she finally says.
Yes, he says. It's very small.
Did you work very hard to get it? she says.
Yes, I did, he says. I've worked like a dog for weeks. Slave labor almost.
Did it take you a long time to find it? she says.
It took some time, he says. But not very long.
Yes, but is it exotic? she asks.
No, not really, he says.
Well, it must be rare, she says.
Rare?
Yes, it is one of a kind, isn't it? she says.
His forehead wrinkles and he thinks to himself.
Not too rare, he says.
Is it expensive? she asks.
No, no. It's not expensive, he says. His head falls forward.
Well, it must be special, she says.
Maybe, he says.
Did you make it with your own two hands? she asks.
No.
Can I have it now? she asks.
He opens his hand to show the girl that it is empty.

And like this, their relationship remains.

...and in comes 2012.

2012-01-01T10:22:00.000-08:00

"We can never know what to want, because, living only one life, we can neither compare it with our previous lives nor perfect it in our lives to come."

--From Unbearable Lightness of Being by Milan Kundera

I've resisted the urge to spend too long dwelling on the past year, mostly because it was tough trying to find a balance between extremes. If I've learned anything, it's that growing up slowly and gracefully feels all right, that I'm not a passive person, that patience is not something that I can learn and that I'll never really have much of it. I've learned that I don't give up easily, especially on my relationships with people, and that defending others usually gets me nowhere--it's time to mind my own bizzznizzz.

If I had to predict what I'll learn for 2012 in one word, I'd say: Focus.

My list of Best Intentions for 2012 is concise, as I don't really like to put anything out there unless I very-well-goddamn-intend to make it happen. And I don't make promises that I can't keep. Here goes:

1. Complete--write, revise, revise, revise, revise, revise...and send out--3 stories.

2. Read Anna Karenina.

3. Teach my nephews to do crafts and to bake.

4. Take my little sister on an overnight camping adventure.

5. Stick to my budget--save more money.

Now that I'm looking at this list, it's much too sensible. Booorrrriiing. And yet, I feel like I've lived my whole life with my toes dangling over the edge of something sky-high. And in this time of my life, I'm trying to back the eff up--slow down, find some peace, some patience and acceptance for the mundane. Hopefully I'll learn to enjoy what I have instead of constantly racing and raging for what's around the bend.

So, after all this, in the words of my brilliant little sister, "Hi there, 2012. Please behave and be good to my family and friends."

2012, come and come quickly

2011-12-31T16:42:00.000-08:00

2011-12-25T00:08:00.000-08:00

shit's cray.

2011-12-17T11:40:00.000-08:00

I mean, I don't think it gets any better than this. I love e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g about this video. The marketing worked. I'm sold. Have to own the whole album. Now.

**A side note:

El Camino, the name of this album, reminds me of this: When I was five, my mom drove me and my older sister to school in her boyfriend's white El Camino. I never sat in the passenger seat, preferring to straddle the middle console nearest to her. In those days, there was no time for breakfast. Mornings came and went too quickly for a single mom. She brushed, tugged and ripped through my hair, pulled it all back into a high, tight pony tail, and let me pick an outfit--purple denim vest, matching skirt and white cowboy boots. Meanwhile, mom slathered a slice of white bread with peanut butter and sent warning calls to my sister and I to get into the El Camino now, her voice strained and high pitched, her permed hair teased so well that it nearly brushed the walls of the hallway when she stomped down it in her turquoise pumps, her yelling at us to hurry up it's 7:30, we should've left fifteen minutes ago, what's wrong with you, get in the car, get in, get in, and then buckle up, buckle up.

The car is so cold, the leather seats burn the backs of our naked legs, and my older sister and I can see each other's breath. Of course we pretend to smoke invisible cigarettes, and act all Daaawwwling, siiiimpleeeee maaaahhhhvaluss, and our smoke fills the car and mom's smoke does too. Her cigarette wagging, her fingertips dipped outside the window, the one she had rolled down only a crack to keep out the the wind and the condensation that drips and blows onto her lap.

And there I sit, in the middle, high atop the console listening to The Cure or Zeppelin or whatever mom loves that morning, her singing to us, me feeling so cool and so big and so part of this female trio whom I call family--we are bundled together, shoulder to shoulder, and finally beginning to feel warmer and warmer...

The quest for a little inhibition

2011-12-04T22:41:00.001-08:00

feels a little like this:

and a little like that:

More from Pan

2011-12-04T02:58:00.000-08:00

You remember a book named Pan, one you had always meant to read while at college. And since you were required to read 25 books a semester, you never got around to it. Then one day, while you peruse the stacks of the library, you remember it. Pan. Simple.

But when you get to the isle where Hamsun's books are kept, only Hunger is there, and you've read it. You think about re-reading it, giving up on the one you really wanted.

After much searching, you find it at another library. It is small. The cover art is from an era before you were born. You start to have doubts about 19th Century European Literature--the rambling thoughts and descriptions, the focus on class systems or gender politics disguised as love stories, long-winded stories, transparent and centered around a controlled meaning. Ugh.

But just before you give up
you think about Fante.
you think about his title
"Ask the Dust"
and you know it must mean something.

And now, you are happy to have read it. You wish you it were possible to go back and read it again for the first time--the first time one million times in a row.

From chapter 8

"Was Pan sitting in a tree watching to see how I would act? And was his belly open; and was he crouching so that he seemed to sit and drink from his own belly? But all this he did just to keep one eye cocked on me; and the whole tree shook with his silent laughter when he saw all my thoughts running away with me. In the forest there was rustling everywhere; animals snuffled, birds called to each other, their cries filled the air....And Iselin would lure Diderik over to a tree and say: 'Stand here, Diderik, and watch, keep guard over Iselin; that hunter shall tie my shoe-lace.'

And I am that hunter and she will sign to me with her eyes to that I may understand. And when she comes, my heart understands all and it no longer beats, it booms. And she is naked under her dress from head to foot and I place my hand on her.

'Tie my shoe-lace!' she says with flaming cheeks. And in a little while she whispers against my mouth, against my lips: 'Oh, you are not tying my shoe-lace, you my dearest heart, you are not tying...not tying my...'

But the sun dips his face into the sea and comes up again, red, refreshed, as if he had been down to drink. And the air is filled with whispers.

An hour later she says against my mouth: 'Now i must leave you.'

And she waves back to me as she goes and her face is flaming, her face is tender and ecstatic. Again she turns to me and waves.

But Diderik steps forth from the tree and says: 'Iselin, what were you doing? I saw you.'

She answers: 'Diderik, what did you see? I did nothing.'

'Iselin, I saw you do it,' he says again. 'I saw.'

Then her loud and happy laughter sounds through the forest and she walks with him, exulting and sinful from head to foot. And where did she go? To the next one, a hunter in the forest."

speak easy, so we can hear you

2011-11-29T09:20:00.000-08:00

Read this:

http://speakeasyso.tumblr.com/

She is my friend, some say lesbian lover, though we are not lesbians, just two girls who think we're too clever. She has incomparable taste in everything around her and is the best writer I know in real life.

Do it.

$%@@#&!!!

2011-11-27T20:42:00.000-08:00

I am trying to finish a story. It is taking a very long time. I have made many revisions. Just when I think I am working on a final draft, I realize that I no longer recognize it. Maybe it makes no sense. Maybe I can't write. Maybe I quit.

Then I say lots of curse words.

Then I tear up the paper draft.

Then I eat the pieces.

Then I listen to a good song and wait.

Pill Bugs

2011-11-21T22:52:00.000-08:00

He imagines his mother before the bruises, the crying, the shouting, the way she must have been as a girl. Like him, she found pill bugs underneath stones and loose bricks in the neighbor’s abandoned yard. She rolled them into balls with her mud-crusted fingers.
A bug waits rolled up like that, feelers hidden from her gaze, from her intentions to crush it. It waits like that still, patient.
She waits too.
Still.
And when it thinks her merciful, it opens, rotating on its shelled back, legs flailing, shiny underside exposed. She giggles.
Moving down to her knees, she puts the bug back into the dirt. Curious, she presses her foot down, twisting until she hears the crunch. She doesn’t feel a thing.
The boy imagines.

Featured in Spot Literary Magazine 3.2 (Fall 2009)

Time to get more stuff out there, me thinks.

Tough times for cookie

2011-11-20T18:16:00.000-08:00

The season for dreaming

2011-11-13T09:25:00.000-08:00

I hate waking up and thinking, did I even sleep at all. This is why I so often gauge my overall health based on dreaming.

Good sleep, they say, is dream sleep.

Still, what if your dreams don't keep you asleep. Or they keep you dreamy, even when you're supposed to be teaching writing to privileged 19-year-olds whose thoughts are: what time is it & when will she stop talking?

Even more...

What if these dreams mean something? Something more than, you were sleeping--sleeping well. What if they were literal stories set in the backdrop of your real life?

Let's make it so.

1. I am carrying someone else's baby on my hip. I am walking around wondering to myself who the hell does this baby belong to?

2. This man, the one whose letter I have in my hand, cannot--will not--for any reason, step out of his vehicle. And so I sit on the curb--the way I did when I was 9 and still part of the neighborhood--and talk to him through the open passenger window.

3. My house is on fire! Why, why, why won't this staircase ever end, so that I can get outside to safety?

4. There are rare ones, the funny ones where I wake up laughing, though I can never remember their plots--these are the most puzzling of all.

5. Beer pong, loud music, dancing, and here we are in the midst of it. On the couch watching a movie. He lets me lay my head against his shoulder. He likes to laugh at me, at my tiny feet and hands, at the way I ask questions, at how I am shrinking each time he laughs until I can fit into his calloused hand. And when he asks me to leave, when I decide to go for good, I walk down the cobblestone driveway, and I think you better come after me.

6. Again, I am holding a baby. It's a girl. And she's kind of cute. Maybe I will keep her. Should I get a collar?

7. He's after me, that big man with the long red beard. No matter where I hide, he can find me. So, I guess I'll just keep running.

8. No one expects to meet someone special while camping. But I did. He's the boy on the bicycle. Over there. The one who's looking at me now. Smiling....oh god. hold on. He has no teeth. all gums. nevermind.

9. I've lost the baby. I can't find her. him. her. it. What's it's name? I was just holding it, now it's missing. I hope no one notices. HELP.

10. There is touching. Lots of touching. I love you, I say. I know I shouldn't have. Too much, too soon. I say it again: I love you. He speaks, but there is no sound. He turns into an opossum and scurries away before I can get out the words what'd you say?

11. The man with the long red beard finds me on the ground of a filthy public restroom, crouched beside the porcelain toilet bowl, arms covering my head, hiding. I know what's coming. I can't scream, but I know what's coming.

12. At the top of the ship (the Queen Mary I think) it's dark, damp and windy. My coat keeps blowing open and my eyes are dry and achy. We can see the city lights and we talk about them. The ship sways, right to left and right again. Are we supposed to feel that? he asks. I don't think we are--the ship's too big. We see the magnificent swell rolling in and he says, oh my god. what's happening? But he is smiling and I feel safe because of it.

I will take my dreaming to mean only actions, nothing more, nothing deeper. How can I shake them off of me if I let them speak? So, these dreams are tiny stories minus the underlying moral. Besides--morals are for suckers.

To end this, I say this is the season for dreaming.

Enjoy.

From me, with love

2011-11-07T19:12:00.000-08:00

Enjoy these little lovelies, these perfect pieces of insight.

For Desire, by Kim Addonizio

Give me the strongest cheese, the one that stinks best;
and I want the good wine, the swirl in crystal
surrendering the bruised scent of blackberries,
or cherries, the rich spurt in the back
of the throat, the holding it there before swallowing.
Give me the lover who yanks open the door
of his house and presses me to the wall
in the dim hallway, and keeps me there until I'm drenched
and shaking, whose kisses arrive by boatload
and begin their delicious diaspora
through the cities and small towns of my body.
To hell with the saints, with the martyrs
of my childhood meant to instruct me
in the power of endurance and faith,
to hell with the next world and its pallid angels
swooning and sighing like Victorian girls.
I want this world. I want to walk into
the ocean and feel it trying to drag me along
like I'm nothing but a broken bit of scratched glass,
and I want to resit it. I want to go
staggering and flailing my way
through the bars and back rooms,
through the gleaming hotels and weedy
lots of abandoned sunflowers and the parks
where dogs are let off their leashes
in spite of the signs, where they sniff each
other and roll together in the grass, I want to
lie down somewhere and suffer for love until
it nearly kills me, and then I want to get up again
and put on that little black dress and wait
for you, yes you, to come over here
and get down on your knees and tell me
just how fucking good I look.

How I Like It, by Stephen Dobyns

2011-11-07T18:40:00.000-08:00

These are the first days of fall. The wind
at evening smells of roads still to be traveled,
while the sound of leaves blowing across the lawns
is like an unsettled feeling in the blood,
the desire to get in a car and just keep driving.
A man and a dog descend their front steps.
The dog says, Let's go downtown and get crazy drunk.
Let's tip over all the trash cans we find.
This is how dogs deal with the prospect of change.
But in his sense of the season, the man is struck
by the oppressiveness of his past, how his memories
which are shifting and fluid have grown more solid
until it seems he can see remembered faces
caught up among the dark places in the trees.
The dog says, Let's pick up some girls and just
rip off their clothes. Let's dig holes everywhere.
Above his house, the man notices wisps of cloud
crossing the face of the moon. Like in a movie,
he says to himself, a movie about a person
leaving on a journey. He looks down the street
to the hills outside of town and finds the cut
where the road heads north. He thinks of driving
on that road and the dusty smell of the car
heater, which hasn't been used since last winter.
The dog says, Let's go down to the diner and sniff
people's legs. Let's stuff ourselves on burgers.
In the man's mind, the road is empty and dark.
Pine trees press down to the edge of the shoulder,
where the eyes of animals, fixed in his headlights,
shine like small cautions against the night.
Sometimes a passing truck makes his whole car shake.
The dog says, Let's go to sleep. Let's lie down
by the fire and put our tails over our noses.
But the man wants to drive all night, crossing
one state line after another, and never stop
until the sun creeps into his rearview mirror.
Then he'll pull over and rest awhile before
starting again, and at dusk he'll crest a hill
and there, filling a valley, will be the lights
of a city entirely new to him.
But the dogs says, Let's just go back inside.
Let's not do anything tonight. So they
walk back up the sidewalk to the front steps.
How is it possible to want so many things
and still want nothing? The man wants to sleep
and wants to hit his head again and again
against a wall. Why is it all so difficult?
But the dog says, Let's go make a sandwich.
Let's make the tallest sandwich anyone's ever seen.
And that's what they do and that's where the man's
wife finds him, staring into the refrigerator
as if into the place where the answers are kept--
the ones telling why you get up in the morning
and how it is possible to sleep at night,
answers to what comes next and how to like it.

Why Ask Why

2011-11-02T22:03:00.000-07:00

"A girl sat captive in a stone tower. She loved a lord. Why? Ask the winds and the stars, ask the God of life, for there is none that knows such things. The lord was her friend and lover; but time went on, and one fine day he saw another and his likings changed.

Like a youth he loved his maid. Often he called her his blessing and his dove, and said: "Give me your heart!" And she did so. He said: "May I ask for something, love?" And, wild with joy, she answered "Yes." And she gave him all, and yet he did not thank her.

The other he loved as a slave, as a madman and a beggar. Why? Ask the dust of the road and the leaves that fall, ask the mysterious God of life, for there is no other that knows such things. She gave him nothing--no, nothing did she give him--and yet he thanked her. She said, "Give me your peace and your understanding!" and he was only sorry that she did not ask his life.

electricity is back again

2011-11-02T20:57:00.000-07:00

After being away from my home for four seasons, it's nice to feel the spark of electricity that comes with the wind. It's in my hair and on my fingertips, it dries my lips and teary eyes. Southern Californian's have named this wind "The Santa Anas." Today, the Santa Anas returned, as they do every September, October and November to warm us up one last time before a chill, before the fires and the mud slides.

And though I don't know where I'll settle, or if I can, today I can say confidently that I love where I come from.

2011-10-01T12:08:00.001-07:00

and tonight, jim harrison.

2011-09-30T22:58:00.000-07:00

On writing:

"I like grit, I like love and death, I'm tired of irony...a lot of good fiction is sentimental...the novelist who refuses sentiment refuses the full spectrum of human behavior, and then he just dries up...I would rather give full vent to all human loves and disappointments, and take a chance on being corny, than die a smartass."

In writing:

"People finally don't have much affection for questions, especially one so leprous as the apparent lack of a fair system of rewards and punishments on earth. The question is not less gnawing and unpleasant for being so otiose, so naive. And we are not concerned with the grander issues: say the Nez Perce children receiving the hail of calvary fire in their sleeping tents. Nothing is quite so grotesque as the meeting of a child and a bullet. And what distances in comprehension: the press at the time insisted we had won. We would like to think that the whole starry universe would curdle at such a monstrosity: the conjunctions of Orion twisted askew, the arms of the Southern Cross drooping. Of course not: immutable is immutable and everyone in his own private manner dashes his brains against the long-suffering question that is so luminously obvious. Even gods aren't exempt: note Jesus's howl of despair as he stepped rather tentatively into eternity. And we can't seem to go from large to small because everything is the same size. Everyone's skin is so particular and we are so largely unimaginable to one another."

From Legends of the Fall

these dreams of you

2011-09-26T22:41:00.000-07:00

It is 4am and your face is blue. Almost purple. I'm looking down at you from my bed, your face up at me, eyes closed, mouth slightly open, your arms in an X across your chest, the way they looked when you were lowered into the ground. You are still wearing your blue jeans with the hole in the knee and your T-shirt with red dots across the stomach where you had spilt your wine when you finished the punch line to a joke.

Get up, I say. You're taking too long.

Your lips are dry and still deep with color.

Please, I whisper. I can't wait anymore.

Your eyes open and you say, too you love I. You twist onto your stomach, then onto your hands and knees. You bark, but the sound is sucked from the air into your mouth and you swallow it whole. I laugh. With the weight of your hands and knees, you fly backwards onto your feet.

where are you going? I ask.

away run let's, you say. You are walking backwards and when you get to the door, you hold the knob in your hand, the one that's hidden behind your back. You are looking at me in the dark, half in darkness, halfway lit, and you are smiling.

stay, I say. There is a thud from your foot against the door and your knee flies out in front of you. In one quick motion you take a step forward and the door is now open. I throw my head back and giggle.

seriously, I say. this time I want you to stay.

The hallway light is bright and I cover my face. In comes the music. The laughter of our friends, their yelling over one another's voices, their chanting "sleep when we're dead, sleep when we're dead," their bottles and pills and smoke filled pipes, all coming from the floor below us and now sliding through the crack in the door.

time much have don't I but, freedom my have I, you sing.

You walk into the hallway, your back to the light, chin up, swaying from side to side, shoulder grazing the door frame. Your arm pulling the knob with you as you leave once more.

For Adam 2/6/2004.

a tuesday in september

2011-09-20T21:31:00.000-07:00

Work, write, work, write, work, write...and so on and so forth. To battle the mundane, I. must. keep. going. To not think about this or that, the ouch or the yay and then the ouches that follow the yays. To not shut my eyes once. To find adventure somewhere, anywhere.

"The supermarket is still open; it won't close till midnight. It is brilliantly bright. Its brightness offers sanctuary from loneliness and the dark. You could spend hours of your life here, in a state of suspended insecurity, meditating on the multiplicity of things to eat. Oh dear, there is so much! So many brands in shiny boxes, all of them promising you good appetite. Every article on the shelves cries out to you, Take me, take me; and the mere competition of their appeals can make you imagine yourself wanted, even loved. But beware-when you get back to your empty room, you'll find that the false flattering elf of the advertisment has eluded you; what remains is only cardboard, cellophane and food. And you have lost the heart to be hungry."

--Christopher Isherwood, A Single Man

submission time?

2011-09-14T21:32:00.000-07:00

So many stories to finish, ones to write, ones still coming into focus. I'm beginning to feel the ole itch to start sharing them with far-away shadow figures, the ones whom all writers try to please. I've got new energy and no idea where it came from.

Away we go, I guess.

Falling Man

2011-09-11T09:54:00.000-07:00

This morning I woke up to a woman yelling at her child who was crying for something. The woman's voice so shrill and forced it scratched and clawed it's way out. The little girl waiting, crying, yelling, kicking from behind the car window, her mother slamming the car doors to make a point.

And when I spoke to my mom this morning, she took me down memory lane, where we were ten years ago today.

"I woke you," she said. "The second plane hit while I was on the phone with your uncle. We were worried because your other uncle had planned his birthday breakfast in the restaurant of the twin towers. And we didn't know."

And we, all of us awake people, didn't know a lot of things.

I saw the falling man on tv. I saw a lot of falling men that morning. Not jumping, but falling, for we know now the dangerously shaded area that we meander when we don't choose our words carefully.

I read every name that slid across the bottom of the screen, the ages, the flight numbers. Ages starting from birth to winter, and it made me think of my sister who was four years old, and how might I explain...and what if she and I were....and what do we do now...

After all this, I'm feeling pretty tired again. The woman outside has stopped yelling, her daughter no longer crying. There seems to be peace down there where they were, which is about all that matters now.

Back to sleep.

If only every day...

2011-09-09T20:07:00.000-07:00

Today I sat curbside and watched the sunset. I obsessively replayed the day's events over in my mind, bewildered at how perfect it was. Every once in awhile, a day comes along and takes you out to breakfast, takes a long walk through a meadow with you and then, ever so softly, tucks you in at night with a kiss on the forehead. All of these things are the makings of falling in love. Therefore, I will resist the urge to think about tomorrow.

back to basics: a writing exercise

2011-09-05T20:01:00.000-07:00

Creeper

There is a tree branch tapping on my bedroom window. There is moonlight casting shadows on the walls and floor. There is a man in my bed, one I had loved. There is the sound of nighttime traffic, comforting like crashing waves or thunderstorms.

And there are fingers with nails so long they curve under. There are hands reaching around the edge of my window.

There is the jingle of my dog’s collar when he readjusts in his sleep. There is a memory of the family dog I had as a kid, the one who was run over after my dad left us for the Martial Islands. There is the groan from the man who is sleeping next to me.

There is the hairless arm of the one who is creeping through my window and into my bedroom. There is a hiss from its mouth after it says my name. There is an impulse to hide.

There is the heat from another August in LA. There is the sticky skin of the man sleeping next to me. There is a damp spot between us on the sheets whenever he rolls over. There is a photo magnet of him and me on the fridge, the first wedding we attended together four years ago. There is a glass of wine in his hand and an inflatable saxophone in the other, the reed between his lips, dark sunglasses to add affect.

There is a dark shadow, a bent creature crawling up my wall, and now crouching in the darkest corner. There is the sound of its skin sticking to the wall, like rubber soles on wet concrete.

There are dogs barking in the distance, but their cries come and go without consistency. There are glass bottles clanking in the alley below my window where teenaged boys without parents sit and drink beer. There are echoes and whispers and muffled giggles of the drunk teenaged girls who cling to them. There is the undeniable scent of marijuana followed by silence.

There are unkept promises. There are mine and his and everybody else’s. There is an unopened bottle of red wine on the kitchen counter. There is another bottle of red wine in my stomach. There is the taste of cigarette smoke and Altoids and toothpaste and mouthwash in my mouth.

There is the scratch of its nails as it slides its way down my walls onto my bedroom floor. There is a slow creak from the floorboards when it, hunched like a raccoon at midnight, crawls closer to the foot of my bed.

There is a necklace that does not belong to me in the pocket of my coat. There is a crack between the couch cushions where I found it. There is loose change and a bobby pin there too. There is a memory of him and me counting the coins we found in the cushions together because we were hungry and short on money and wanted burritos and ice cold beer.

There is a tug on the sheet. There is the sound of my name whispered a million times in a million little voices, all from one place. There is the pinch of its nails digging into my shins, my calves, my thighs. There is the sting of its burning flesh against my naked stomach. There is the stench of spoiled meat when it speaks into my ear. There is the sound of her name, the one who left the necklace. There is the sting of excitement inside me.

There is a man who sleeps next to me, one I had loved. There is his hand inside my underwear and his nose in the space between my neck and my shoulder. There is a familiar rhythm, the hiss of pleasure. There is the realization that I am afraid.

Sounds of Silence

2011-07-18T22:27:00.000-07:00

And there were people, lots of people, hundreds, standing and sitting. They were talking, but without sound. Each of them, humming from the backs of their throats.

They used their hands to shape their ideas, their visions, their feelings. Quickly and without pause, each looked into the eyes of the other.

We watched them. A crowd of people communicating so many things in absolute silence.

Surprises

2011-07-18T22:26:00.001-07:00

"Los Angeles, give me some of you..."

2011-06-27T20:15:00.000-07:00

Dear self,

Find more stuff like this. It makes you want to write again.

Thank you.

An Alteration

2011-01-16T14:01:00.001-08:00

When I cleaned out his drawer, the one he gave to me, I found them. A beautiful pair of lips swollen and sweet. The lips of his last girl lay there hidden in the dark corner of the emptied drawer. She had left them for him, like a lingering kiss, like a memory she knew he would want to keep. I held them on my palm, studying their creases and their perfectly pink color. I imagined him studying them too. Eager to kiss them, full and tempting. I put her lips to mine and I kissed them. They were still warm. I kissed them a second time, but now with my eyes closed. I saw her lips whispering to him in the dark, her breath passing through the tiny opening between them. His eyes searching for her lips, moving his closer to hers and closer and closer yet, until he felt them, warm and soft, and full of promise.

I opened my eyes. In the mirror, I saw my mouth, lipless and tired. Used mostly for telling and begging, I wondered how my lips had ever been seen. I put her lips on mine to cover my shameful ones. They were big and awkward, discolored against my skin. And then I waited for him to come home and kiss me...

...To Be Continued...

Look at me!

2010-12-31T10:21:00.000-08:00

I'm in Ireland now. I've been here awhile and I'm making my way around the calendar, setting journey home in April. I've traveled all over the country visiting students of all ages, begging on all fours for them to visit the US-A. camped in the wilderness of a Swedish island and tramped through Oslo. Felt romance in the dark lanes of Edinburgh and now hope to see Paris.

What will I bring home with me?

Suppose I'll do what I do best. Start again.

total and complete neglect

2010-01-13T23:09:00.000-08:00

Dear Alley Cats and Feral Kids alike,

I realize that I have neglected you. I'm pretty sure no one reads this blog anymore, and yet I feel a strong duty to keep you. You see, it's not that I've forgotten you or my will to continue writing. It's just that I've been busy trying to finish a short story with a choose-your-own-adventure type ending. It's taken a lot out of me, and so has life. Job, then no job. Job again, and then again, no job. Each job has taken a little more wind from my sails, and I find it tiring to maintain anything for too long. Stick with me and I promise to make you strong and happy again. I am likely to repeat this mantra:

"Los Angeles, give me some of you."

Thank you for understanding.

This is what I'm made of

2009-11-15T10:24:00.000-08:00

Tall grass that blows on the cliffs off the coast of Cork. Walking through it with my palms open downward, feeling it brush against my fingertips. Talking about this and that, the weather, the job I abandoned to sit and wonder, the gentle men in my past.

I am not made of the dirty plates of left over food I take away from glutenous patrons at a restaurant or the students of broken English to which I am assigned.

Free bird instincts. A drive to get back to that which I left there when I rested my head on the dirt among the weeds. Soon.

the man who lives in my pocket

2009-10-29T21:42:00.000-07:00

There is a little man who lives in the pocket of my pea coat. He is rude and he tells me that I am a failure. He whistles and dances around in there as if he is freely roaming the planet. As if he is not suffocating from the wool exterior of the place he calls home. When I am sick and tired of hearing him, I graze his bald head with my fingernail just to remind him that I am big and he is small. But I am afraid to kill him while he is not afraid to die. "To the death!" he cries and again proceeds to mock me. One of these days I will squeeze him in my pocket, in my fist, just to feel him squirm.

Mama

2009-10-03T23:21:00.000-07:00

It is almost 10pm and your mom calls you crying. She is upset because you have made a major life decision to move away to Europe for 12 months on a work visa. You sprung it on her, your decision, while you were still at the airport because you were afraid of her reaction, that she might cry, that she might think you are crazy. So, when she calls you crying, you are not surprised, though you were caught off guard. "Why would you leave the people who love you?" she says. "Don't you love me?" And though her worries are absurd, her crackling voice is not. You wish that you had never answered the call. "I'm afraid that you will search and search for whatever it is you're looking for and you will never be satisfied with your life," she says. And you are afraid too of the very same thing. But because you are young, or at least feel young, you will go on to search and search and perhaps never feel satisfied. It's all part of the excitement. You hear her sobs, her clearing her nose and throat when she tries to speak, but you are quiet. Your mother cries for you, for the pain of having to let you go on without her, and so you hear the trees cry, and the walls of your borrowed room cry too, and the moon, the ants, the street lamps and the planted tomatoes in the yard. They all cry, saying, "what about me?" But because you are young and self-centered and hungry for life, all you can do is ask them the very same question.

I'm a Hobo

2009-10-03T11:05:00.000-07:00

I'm Hobo.

2009-10-02T17:42:00.000-07:00

Lover, Be Scorned

2009-10-01T18:55:00.000-07:00

You are probably on the couch rolling cigarettes and chain smoking. I am in a café trying to piece together what I must have looked like last night, sitting in a chair, spewing my opinions or lack of them.

You insulted me. You said, you’re drunk. You said, you’re ignorant. You made me cry in the dark, while a candle burned away from us, while I sat in that stupid chair, while the smoke from your cigarette burned my pupils. I will not let you see me feel badly about myself or my ignorance. It is mine and not your’s to judge.

Today I woke up with the smoke from your cigarette in my hair and on my skin.

You have left me behind.

I will not follow you.

Low-Down, Dirty Brown

2009-09-29T13:02:00.000-07:00

I hate when I turn a corner and things have burned to the ground. I had a job, but now I don't. I had an apartment, but now I'm in my dad's place. I smoke, I drink, I curse, and I'm using the internet more than I did when I was in high school searching for chat sites about music. I don't have petrol or money to buy any. I've decided food is out. I'm surprised I wake up in the morning and think about showering. The one thing I did do was brush my teeth, cleaned my mouth of all the nasty things I've ever said. Mama's got the blues real bad. Gotta catch the next boxcar out of town.

why couldn't I just be a scientist?

2009-08-31T11:20:00.000-07:00

As of now I am in my tiny room trying to work on my "novella" (in a deep, pretentious voice), but I'm realizing how freaking hard it is. I mean, I know writing is not like picking one's nose, that it's grueling and whatever. But holy christ! If I continue to write at this rate (roughly one sentence every hour), it'll take me 548,678,359,678 years to finish and then people will expect something good!

I was thinking that if staring at my computer screen or googling useless information like DJ AM's wikipedia biography could produce a novella, I'd be finished by now. I mean, I'm really good at using google. And I was actually told after the age of 8 that I have a staring problem. Since when has staring been dysfunctional?? Oh yeah. When I'm trying to write a stupid novella.

love is a fire

2009-08-31T04:34:00.001-07:00

By Leonard Cohen

Love is a fire

It burns everyone

It disfigures everyone

It is the world's excuse

for being ugly

Grumpster in the Dumpster

2009-08-28T04:29:00.000-07:00

Don't you hate it when you're on the dance floor and your arms are flailing around like a drowning baby*, and you give someone's full pint of beer a smack down and then when it hits the wooden dance floor, the beer flies all over your sandals and the bottoms of your new jeans? Yeah. I hate that too. Because it means that I smell like someone else's beer and I have to buy that person a new one. Also, it really sucks if the washing machine, a very important appliance that draws in renters, is broken. Stupid red flashing light that doesn't mean anything. Now I have to carry my dirty clothing around town like a hobo looking for somewhere to rinse them since the sinks in this crappy joint are much to small. There is a canal outside...

*So what if I dance like a drowning baby? Eat it.

Oh, Jesus.

2009-08-27T00:11:00.000-07:00

After a a 14 hour flight from California to Ireland (it is the 90's after all), and a two hour wait for my new "landlord," I finally stepped into my new flat. And almost gagged. So, it's not the nicest of all flats, but it will have to do for now. There are three bedrooms, one bathroom, a washing machine and no dryer, and the vacuum is broken so the carpet might be full of scabies. There is a general scent of urine lurking everywhere except for my bedroom. Yay! My bedroom has a pretty little window and the sun shines in on my bed. It's very small and quaint. A perfect place to write (which I did start this morning at 6:30 am when I couldn't sleep anymore).

Today I will get a sim card for my phone and a crapload of cleaning solution and scrub brushes to clean this place and two candles to hopefully get the smell out.

I feel a little bit lonely, but have high hopes for the best.

Dublin, my temporary home

2009-08-21T01:22:00.000-07:00

Tuesday is quickly approaching and I will be long gone once Tuesday afternoon hits. I have the usual jitters, nothing prescription valium can't alleviate. I am going away for one month to work on a novella, lay in parks, take long walks in the rain, visit museums, fish along the coast of Galway, take a ghost hunting tour in Dublin and have dance parties with myself when I realize how hard it is to sit down and write. I will miss my home when it is too cold for me to wear a T-shirt and a skirt, but will soon learn how important it is for me to learn the bus routes in a different city. If I do not have your email address, now is the time to send it to me. Also, if you would like to celebrate my going away, come to George's on Pine on Friday night (8/21) and later watch the busking festival.

Dancing in Pairs

2009-08-14T09:38:00.001-07:00

Last night was a night for dancing. $3 wine at the Vine on 4th turned into an impromptu dance party. And because we were surrounded by cases of expensive wine, it was a polite dance party. Shuffling my feet amidst conversation with an Italian traveler, a slight shimmy of the shoulder and maybe a body sway. Once it was lights out at the Vine, we moved to a loud bar, not worth mentioning. However, the DJ who was playing music with lots of bass granted my wish to hear The Boss and when I heard my tune, I nearly dropped my glass on the floor to get to the open- space-turned-dance-floor. Thank God for Prow. Praise His name. She stopped what she was doing and boogied with me. I'm pretty sure we looked like the old drunk rocker chicks at Tom Petty concerts in comparison to the too-cool-to-groove hipsters. Ah well. It was good exercise!

But at some point our individual arms-flailing-jumping-shimmying-kind-of-wild-dancing turned into a couple's dance when a mystery man took my arms and began to lead me, quite smoothly I should add. I said it had been a very long time since I've danced that way, that I might be a little rusty and unable to read his lead. He said that it was very sad that people don't dance in this way anymore and I agreed. He twirled me, spinned around, pulled away, then pulled me back in. It was lovely.

However much I love dancing alone, separate from others, dancing in pairs is always better.

Man and Wife

2009-08-11T19:09:00.000-07:00

A man and his wife have lived together in the same small apartment for six years. They had lived two years in blissful sin, two years in hardship and two years in the quietness of emotional separation. The woman began having emotional affairs even before the marriage began, but found safety in simply telling herself that she was just flirtatious. The man, however, had grown tired of trying to find a cure for his broken heart and felt most comfortable using sex as a way of feeling less alone. Three years after he married his wife, almost exactly one year before this particular day, the man had an affair. Although it was brief, it was sexually satisfying. She, the “other” woman, was the sister of an old college buddy. He had never erased the woman's phone number from his list of contacts. Rather, he filed her number under “Roy." The man never told his wife and she never asked.

Today, the man and his wife are making the bed. Together.

Because the woman was born with eyes that can see the hearts of men, she has always tested her husband's love for her by studying his purplish beating heart. Men in her past had had withered hearts, grey and aching, tiny or frail. But in the early days of her love and her husband's love for her, his heart was tight, nearly tearing in half with love for her, a kind of love similar to rage.

Now the woman can see his heart beating and it beats faster when he is afraid of what she is going to say. He tries to please her, but on days like today, the bed was not made and he forgot to call the credit card company to lower the interest and he didn't even call and say he missed her and now she sees that his teeth are a little bit crooked, something she had never paid attention to before because his lips were perfect. But now, she notices, his lips are chapped.

And all of this makes him feel nervous, like she is starting to fade, like she might have lost interest in him. And when she orders him to fluff the pillow on his side, he does it. He fluffs without looking at her, and his heart is racing, and she sees it vibrating because it’s moving at such a rate.

She tells him, fluff that pillow there. No. Not mine, yours. And he does it and his heart makes small beats but fast faster, fast faster. And after she finishes straightening out the covers, she sits down and reaches for him.

He says, I love you and I'm sorry that I can't make you happy. And she says, I know I can see your heart.

He thinks this is a matter of speech and he sits down next to her trying to interpret the metaphor. But they both know that things can never go back to the way they were because now she thinks he is a coward. She knows the kind of terror that he feels when she says she is disappointed in him for not acting in a responsible manner. After all, the credit cards won't pay themselves. And there is terror in him because he knows that what she is really saying is, I am unhappy with you.

He rests his freckled hand on her knee. Freckles never used to bother her any. But now they remind her of a spotted countertop and when she sees them she gets the urge to clean. To clean him right up.

She stands up, but he remains still. She brushes the bed where she sat and walks toward the bedroom door. When she looks back at him, she sees his crooked shoulders trembling, unable to remember if his shoulders had always seemed so crooked.

a GD break through

2009-08-08T16:30:00.000-07:00

I have just been informed that my story "Pill Bugs" will be included in the Fall 2009 publication of Spot Literary Magazine! I couldn't be more thrilled and honored. The journal will be available in December, so keep your eyes peeled!

New Post

2009-08-06T18:29:00.000-07:00

Today is a nice day. It is not too hot like it was yesterday. I went to work, but was sent home early because there was nothing for me to do. Especially since instead of working, I was checking my email every 4.5 seconds in hopes of receiving an email from an Irish landlord telling me that I can rent his apartment for one month. Then, I drove in my car all the way home and found a soft spot on my couch. That is where I have been for the last hour or so. Now I am writing this post that proves my inability to articulate anything worthwhile. Give it time. That's what they all tell me.

Phil Hendrie: A comedy genuis

2009-08-05T23:37:00.000-07:00

make a wish

2009-07-30T16:25:00.000-07:00

so many reasons why I will never run a country

2009-07-21T17:22:00.000-07:00

Girl: I'd marry Obama. For a second.

Boy: Then divorce him?

G: No. That marry bullshit was just bad phrasing. But I would go on a romantic pizza date with him.

B: I imagine he's got terrible breath. I have no foundation for this theory, but I believe it to be true.

G: That's rude.

B: Shut up. Now that's rude. [Pause] He might have bad breath.

G: No way. His breath smells like candy.

B: Fair enough. I'm not the one who'll have to kiss him. Ole arse-breath Obama.

PB&J

2009-07-14T17:26:00.000-07:00

Peanut butter and Jelly sandwiches are delicious, though I could do without the sandwich part. I've come to the conclusion that bread is only a device which holds the peanut butter until it gets to my mouth. Also, spoons can do that too. Which means I should make peanut butter and jelly spoon-fulls?

My Wonderful Stoop

2009-07-11T14:25:00.000-07:00

Balconies are over rated. While I can see parts of the city from my apartment's upper deck, my front stoop is right in the mix. I like to share a tall can with my friends while the sun is setting. I smile at the alcoholics who buy books from the AA bookstore next door or wave at the overly talkative drunk man who owns the apartment building next to mine. He likes my dog. He calls him princess, though I have told him many times that my dog's name is Cash. He is missing his front tooth and he wears tank tops. He also likes to be in the mix. When I walk by late at night, he calls to me from his front balcony where he is in the process of getting drunker. I love that man. While I'm sure porches and stoops are common in most cities, many Southern California cities have neglected the beauty of community, the beauty of the stoop, the beauty of porch sitting. So, urban people, let's embrace the stoop. Always remember to give a friendly "hello" to a porch sitter or a stooper.

My morning work out

2009-07-07T00:34:00.000-07:00

Monday Again...

2009-07-06T18:12:00.000-07:00

Is This Thing On?

2009-07-03T09:21:00.000-07:00

When I drive by the airport, I become terribly jealous. I wish it were me with 100 heavy bags on my back, at my ankles, on my shoulders. I wish I were going to a new place. How does one settle down? I haven't learned all the answers yet.

Shout Out Loud

2009-07-01T14:59:00.000-07:00

So there are these people, friends, idols, loved ones, etc., to whom I wish I could write letters/emails/text messages of love. Each day I open my email, I look at their myspace pages/blogs/telephone numbers in my very short list of contacts, and wish that I could say something. Sometimes I try and make something up to say just so I can say something, anything. I have even reduced all my feelings/thoughts to single words like "honey" or "lost?" or "hi." There are those that I want to write a fanatic/creepy letter of appreciation telling them how happy I am that they are alive. What would I say? How to say it...

I think I'll start making lists. That seems pretty easy. I'll make lists of stuff, anything, and I'll send them instead of sentences or single words meant to be decoded.

Here's one to start:

1. I am sunburnt

2. I have typed "Buttface" into google image to see what came up

3. I practiced spanish last night, but was frustrated when still I did not know how to say a goddamn single sentence of importance. (Los hombres nadan)

4. I check my phone and my email every 15 seconds to see if I have a message

5. Like #4, I check my mailbox each day in hopes of receiving a package from someone/somewhere...usually something I didn't order or pay for.

6. I love the writing of Sheila Heti and Kendra Grant Malone. Should I write them fan letters?

7. Where my Irish pals at? Lost? Hopefully not dead.

Novella on the Brain

2009-06-28T10:08:00.000-07:00

It's been a couple weeks now that I've wanted to start work on a novella. In fact, I already have a thirty page skeleton to work from. I think about it and think about it and think about it. When people ask me if I've been writing, I tell them I want to write a novella.

They say, "That's great!"

"Yes," I say.

"How much have you written?"

"I've been writing it in my head," I say.

"Oh," they say with averted eyes.

It's not that I'm lazy. Well, yes, yes, I am lazy, but in a different context. My trouble comes mostly from hesitation. Take eating an Oreo cookie as a nice comparison. Many people twist apart the cookie and lick and the frosting and then eat the cookies to finish. Why? Because the cookie is the best part (or is it because the frosting is the best part? wait....). Nevermind all that. Let me get back to my original thought.

I am not writing because I feel as if it will all come out, the story, the characters, the place, the soul, THE SPIRITS (a hint, just a little hint) once I start. But before I can begin, I want to hold it all in for as long as possible to build some tension in me, some urgency.

Also, I am lazy.

Bloomsday June 16

2009-06-17T20:10:00.000-07:00

For the past two years, I spent Bloomsday in Dublin, and although its a silly literary holiday that most Dubliners don't even know exists, it means a lot to me to be there. But this year I didn't make it over, so I felt as though I had to do something equally as great.

A few of us had a picnic at the Korean Bell in San Pedro.

We packed tiny gorgonzola sandwiches and burgundy, ipod speakers, and blankets and we sat up on the giant hill overlooking the sea. Catalina Island was clearly visible, as was Palos Verdes.

I looked at all the old houses and thought about the first people to have lived in them.

It was nice to lay in the sun and drink wine with my friends.

Later, we met up for drinks at Gallaghers.I couldn't decide whether I wanted to drink whiskey or beer, but by default I chose whiskey. In the end it was a perfect day. No work. No hassle. Just fun and laughing and drinking and Joyce.

The Ghost of Bobby Dunbar

2009-06-07T01:01:00.000-07:00

If you have a free hour on your hands and want to listen to a fascinating non-fiction story, give a listen to "The Ghost of Bobby Dunbar."

http://www.thisamericanlife.org/Radio_Archive.aspx

I need job.

2009-06-02T20:51:00.000-07:00

Anyone want to give me a job?

I've Got the Ex-MFA Writerly Blues

2009-05-27T13:18:00.000-07:00

I see now that this blog thing has become a place where I whine publicly about a great many things that nobody other than myself cares about. However, since this is my blog, I'll do as I choose. And I choose to whine.

So...I've been thinking a lot lately about where I am in life, and while I'm overly enthused about graduating and leaving behind literature paper and presentation deadlines, I've been feeling really sad too. I don't think I'm one of those self-proclaimed-academic-masochists, and I couldn't be happier that I don't ever have to write thought-provoking rhetoric anymore. I guess what I'm feeling blue over has more to do with how I view reading and writing now.

I used to think of writing in the same way I think about tap dancing. Let me splain:

Yesterday afternoon I drove by Payless Shoes and stopped in to try on a pair of tap shoes (as I have no job and am still searching for ways to spend every last penny on worthless crap to ease my anxiety about not having a job...twisted, I know. I picture myself as Jim Carrey in Dumb and Dumber...oversized cowboy hat, hands full of dollar store prizes like paddle ball). I've wanted to take a tap dancing class for ages now and enrolled in one a few semesters ago only to drop it after discovering that it was a class on the theory of tap dancing and not an actual dance class. After reading Derrida and Foucault for the last five years, I shutter at the word "theory." Anyhow, I spent a few minutes trying on the tap shoes in the kid's section of the store and when I saw no one was around, I tapped my feet lightly on the tile. I pretended that I knew a few moves, because it may in fact be more fun to pretend than to really know a thing. Although I intend on taking tap dance classes with elderly blue-haired ladies in the future, for now, I have a joy at the thought of learning how to use my feet to make pretty noises.

To wrap this whole whine up, before attending fiction workshop classes, writing was play, pretend, escape. Now when I write all I can hear are phrases like "there are many lost opportunities in your story" and "I'm not sure that the story has earned this ending." It was much more fun to imagine an interview with Oprah about my new novel, or to write stories to show my friends. Some argue that if one is a "serious" writer, he or she should learn how to take criticism. I'm not completely sure what I had expected to learn from an MFA program, but I'm for certain that I did not want to leave feeling sad. I know I didn't want to feel as if writing was for "serious" writers only.

Ah well. It's all over. Now I've got to find my way to like my stories again, to love making up stories and to feel playful when I write.

Poor People Bologna

2009-05-14T09:17:00.000-07:00

In order to get to my point, I first have to make a confession. On Monday and Wednesday afternoons, I take a break from writing my papers to watch Oprah. Since I'm tired of watching stale interviews with actors and am only interested in homosexual-psychopathic-father-killing-politicians, I rarely watch her show anymore. However, yesterday she interviewed comedian George Lopez and I watched a good fifteen minutes of the show (another fact that I'm ashamed of...Is George Lopez even funny?) Anyway, GL made a comment about the difference between his daughter, who apparently whines by saying "there's nothing to eat" when there are no "fruit roll-ups" left in the cupboards, and his experience as a kid frying up "poor people bologna" as a snack. He explained that "poor people bologna" is the bologna with the red string around the edges.

I knew what he was talking about.

When I was a kid, my grandparents (children of the depression) only bought "poor people" food, bologna included. Instead of grocery shopping at Von's, my grandparents shopped bi-weekly at Jon's, where tiny flies circled and landed on the fruit and vegetables. We (my sister and I) ate the generic brand of unsweetened Smacks, the puffed rice cereal, that came in a giant plastic bag. If were lucky, my grandparents bought generic brand Oreo cookies, the ones where the sugar crunches between your teeth whenever you chew. We ate liver and onions and liverwurst and mustard on white bread.

But I'm glad that I had that experience growing up. Back then I was embarrassed when I was around other kids who had fruit snacks and juice boxes in their lunches. No one wanted to trade me their lunches in exchange for a mayonnaise and tomato sandwich and a couple of saltine crackers with butter on them. It makes me laugh now. My memories with "poor people" food, as sweet Dave Naughton would say, makes me more colorful. I hope.

Anyone want to be my friend?

Happy 100th Birthday, Mr. John Fante

2009-04-08T16:09:00.000-07:00

"Ah, Camilla! When I was a kid back home in Colorado it was Smith and Parker and Jones who hurt me with their hideous names, called me Wop and Dago and Greaser, and their children hurt me, just as I hurt you tonight. They hurt me so much I could never become one of them, drove me to the books, drove me within myself, drove me to run away from that Colorado town, and sometimes, Camillia, when I see their faces I feel the hurt all over again, the old ache there, and sometimes I am glad they are here, dying in the sun, uprooted, tricked by their heartlessness, the same faces the same set, hard mouth, faces from my home town, fulfilling the emptiness of their lives under a blazing sun...I have vomited at their newspapers, read their literature, observed their customs, eaten their food, desired their women, gaped at their art. But I am poor, and my name ends with a soft vowel, and they hate me and my father, and my father's father, and they would have my blood and put me down, but they are old now, dying in the sun and in the hot dust of the road, and I am young and full of hope and love for my country and my times, and when I say Greaser to you it is not my heart that speaks, but the quivering of an old wound, and I am ashamed of the terrible thing I have done." --- John Fante's Ask the Dust

And I love him. Happy birthday, Old Sport.

Leaving for Boston

2009-03-23T17:57:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow I am leaving on an airplane. I will fly to Boston to present at a conference. The ACLA conference. This year Harvard happens to be hosting the ACLA conference. I have no idea how or why I am reading there, but I'm hoping that it brings me lots of money and happiness and good fortune. Maybe someone will give me a job.

The title of my paper is "The Hole Story: The Gutter as Visual Representation of Attempted Closure in Art Spiegelman's Maus I & II." In the paper I discuss how the gutter spaces allow us to see missing information, such as lost memories, lost narratives and inexplicable experiences, making it impossible to assign closure to the Holocaust narrative within Maus.

My paper is about a lot of other stuff actually. But for now, that is all.

I am going to pack my bag now. I'm crossing my fingers, my toes, my eyes, my arms and my legs. I really hope I don't choke, stutter, trip or pass out. I painted my nails so that I look like a lady and not a twelve year old girl.

Good-bye, Long Beach!

A Happy Day

2009-03-19T20:12:00.000-07:00

Today I handed in my thesis. It is no longer in my hands. 108 pages all finished and ready to be printed and bound. There is much celebrating up ahead. Yay for me!

At Night

2009-03-08T14:21:00.000-07:00

By Franz Kafka

(From The Complete Stories, edited by Nahum N. Glatzer)

Deeply lost in the night. Just as one sometimes lowers one's head to reflect, thus to be utterly lost in the night. All around people are asleep. It's just play acting, an innocent self-deception, that they sleep in houses, in safe beds, under a safe roof, stretched out or curled up on mattresses, in sheets, under blankets; in reality they have flocked together as they had once upon a time and again later in a deserted region, a camp in the open, a countless number of men, an army, a people, under a cold sky on cold earth, collapsed where once they had stood, forehead pressed on the arm, face on the ground, breathing quietly. And you are watching, are one of the watchmen, you find the next one by brandishing a burning stick from the brushwood pile beside you. Why are you watching? Someone must watch, it is said. Someone must be there.

Translated by Tania and James Stern

The Sign

2009-03-06T19:54:00.001-08:00

By Christa Westaway

24-hour love

2009-03-04T18:48:00.000-08:00

I hate days like today.

Waking up the morning after,

unsure of what I did last night.

Why did I spend so much time,

focused and passionate,

on That?

I hate today.

I hate working hard

to write a goddamn story,

glued to my couch, ignoring phone calls,

until it gets darker and darker,

and as the sun goes down,

my computer screen makes

everything in my apartment blue.

I love you I confess to my story,

and to the characters in it too.

I love you, I say before turning in for the night.

I fall asleep, slight smile on my face,

proud of me.

All those assholes in workshop

will eat their words, I think.

But in the morning,

I do not feel the same.

I look at my story,

the one that I thought

would earn me accolades.

I am embarrassed.

I am ashamed.

It's all crap.

Start again.

The Lovely Wainwrights Singing Judy Garland

2009-02-28T23:51:00.000-08:00

Dear Martha Wainwright

2009-02-28T23:20:00.000-08:00

I attended your show tonight at the Getty Museum in Los Angeles. You looked gorgeous, as always, and your red heels were very charming. To be honest, your voice sounded ten million times better live than it does in the recordings. It must be a "here and now" type thing. I want to tell you that listening to you sing with such simplicity and range, made all the stuff in my life that seems to weigh much more than I can carry, seem meaningless. In fact, none of the negative day-to-day stuff existed at all for the hour and a half that you sang to us.

I'm writing to you to ask a specific question. I would like to know the reason(s) why you did not perform my favorite song "Bloody Mother-Fucking Asshole." My friend, Laurie who is awesome by the way, whispered to me, "I hope she plays BMFA." However, Laurie did not use the acronym, because as anyone who has heard the song before knows, singing the words to "bloody mother-fucking asshole" feels good and they even have a nice sing-song sort of ring to them. Anyway, Laurie and I were hoping you'd sing our tune, and even the strange woman behind us was screaming out for you to play it. When Laurie and I turned around to give her assurance that her hollering was justified because BMFA is just that good of a song, she did not look pleased. In fact, she had a grumpy face. But don't worry. I'm sure her frown face had nothing to do with your show, because like I said, it was beautiful.

Tell me, did you not play BMFA because you thought it was inappropriate for an audience that attends a concert at the Getty Museum? That maybe we don't appreciate curse words? I surely do. And so does Laurie and the grumpy woman behind us. But I suppose we were only three in a crowd of hundreds.

I thank you for playing a brilliant show, and also I assure you that your rendition of "Stormy Weather" was sung with such soul and longing that it took the place of BMFA in my heart.

Please come again. Soon.

Sincerely,

Weirdo in the center with the red wine stained teeth.

Wah.

2009-02-28T13:38:00.001-08:00

One of the most hasty decisions that I have made in my life (and believe me there were/are plenty of them) was joining a writing program. I can remember graduating from college and feeling that I wasn't finished. My parents had never finished college, and the same goes for all of my family members, cousins and siblings included. I'm pretty sure my decision had a lot to do with ambition, arrogance and confusion as to what I would do with my life once I was finished with school. I did what many people do when they graduate. I applied to more schools, crossing my fingers that in the two years that it takes to earn a graduate degree, I'd have a plan.

When I entered into the program, I thought writing was all kittens and rainbows and butterflies and unicorns. I loved to write because I could express myself with writing or some other kind of bullshit. In hindsight, I know that I was writing because there wasn't much else that I could do well enough to get recognized and I liked the way it felt to write. I liked that it was secretive and honest. I liked that the characters I made were all based on real people and I could, in some freudian-mind-trick way, change the path of what had really happened.

In no way did I ever feel like my writing was where I wanted it to be, and maybe now that is my biggest problem. If I like my writing, who gives a shit what other people think, right? Sometimes that works. I have a bad case of guilt, and with that comes checks and balances--humility, humility, humility. When I start to like something, I must at all costs, find the downside and remember that I am scum. Thanks Calvary Chapel!

All the writers in my program are talented and dedicated writers. They blow me away with their understanding of the craft, and yet, I am not impressed with their attitudes toward their peers. I have heard some call it "ego." But I have an ego too, albeit a small one. It can't contest with other egos in the room, nor can my writing skills. I suppose, knowing that the other writers know that I know that I am not a very good writer makes me feel insecure and unable to connect to my writing. I mean, what's worse? All of us putting on a show for each other, pretending that we are all wonderful writers with bright futures in academics or singling out those who are successful and leaving out those who aren't? If you haven't noticed, I'm in the last group--the nerds, the punks and the theater geeks.

I'm supposed to be working on a story right now. I started out really strong, knowing where I was going with the characters, even knowing the characters really well. Now as I write, I have lost track of who the characters are and why they exist where they do. If I'm to finish this story within a week, I have to find them again. I have to stop caring if something is "working" or not. I have twelve little people in my head telling me all different ways to take my story. Wha. Wha. Wha. And so on and so on...

I realize now that this entire entry is just one long whine. I apologize.

Oh How I Laugh

2009-02-26T23:16:00.000-08:00

Three things made this a beautiful memory: Stick on mustaches from the 2 Euro store, a rainy day, my camera.

Bitch, Please!

2009-02-26T22:15:00.000-08:00

Sometimes it would be nice if I could just talk with my fists. Instead of saying how I feel or what I want, I would just give everyone two knuckle sandwiches. Pow! Pow! Right in the mouth. There are some people whose mouths don't say anything worthwhile. They make noise, sometimes loud noises from across the room. But nothing that makes any sense comes out of them. I do have small fists, and let's be honest, they would suffer when slamming into people's jaws.

I just wish that people would start using their mouths to speak instead of their asses.

I am a robot

2009-02-25T09:17:00.000-08:00

So, I've realized that I can't sleep off everything, which is a real bummer. I had learned how not to get up when my tummy was rumbling for food, or when I had to pee. I'd learned how far to stand away from people while they talked at me, because I just didn't care about brushing my teeth all the effing time. Showering? Not so much. Deodorant worked just as well. I bought dry shampoo, which allowed me to spray away any critters or tangles that lurked near my scalp. I simply did not have the energy to look through a closet and find something that matched or even mismatched for that matter, and so I wore my pjs everyday, everywhere I went. But not to worry, friends. They were stylish pjs. American Apparel. The hippest of all pjs. Just put on sunglasses when I walked the dog and all was just as it should be. But then I realized that if I didn't leave my house, that I wouldn't have to run into all those annoying, smiling people that I only knew in passing. How are you? What have you been up to? Haven't see you in awhile. You look tired. Are you ok? I quit my job so I didn't have to see the people that I knew more than "in passing," so that I could take naps all day all alone, no fear of seeing, hearing, speaking. Just sleeping. Dreaming.

It's all passed now. Well, kind of. The only difference now is that I have to go to school in order to receive my degree. And even that's up in the air as something I want or need. This going-to-school thing seems overrated and possibly meaningless in the larger scope of all that I want out of life. But alas, I do as I should, for I am a robot. A robot who happens to like wearing pjs and sleeping a whole lot.

Blankets pt. 2

2009-01-14T11:39:00.000-08:00

This is just a short follow-up. I finished blankets approximately a day after I wrote the previous blog and I have to say...I recant my last statement about not having a soul. The first part took me in. But somewhere near the middle, the boy grew up into a teenager and, while the story was very good, I couldn't help but constantly turn pages wondering if he would lose his virginity. That's just sad. With each page, I looked first at the pictures and then read the words, whereas at the beginning, I wanted to see visually what had been written. Either way, I'm glad I read it and will happy to read it again.

I love books

2008-12-17T00:06:00.000-08:00

I just started reading Blankets by Craig Thompson, and I am already overwhelmed. It beautifully portrays the child's perspective of the brutal world in which he lives. In Thompson's world, adults tower over children and sometimes use trickery to manipulate them sexually, bullies are physically and emotionally aggressive, and parents, the child's supposed security, are ignorant of everything. The children dream and dream. The older brother carries the guilt of being a kid who is unable to protect his younger sibling from the cruel world he knows exists. Although I've only just started, this is the story that I've been trying to write. It is possible that I am the last person on Earth to not have read Blankets, but if there is anyone out there...out there...out there (that's my echo) that has not read this book, please give it a try. If you do not like it, you will know that you do not have a soul.

More to come...

Sleepyhead Mahgee: A Graduate Student's Alter Ego

2008-12-11T10:39:00.000-08:00

I am taking a class about comic books. I mean, the class is about reading and thinking about comic books. Some people are pretentious and they call them graphic novels. I stick with the common word, same ole, same ole, books. And the word comic complicates things, especially when the story is not comical, or what we mean when we say comical.

Anyway, my class got me thinking about what my superhero identity would be. Some say 'what my superhero identity is,' but of course, we do not live in a world in which superheroes actually exist. So, I say 'would be,' and that is that.

So, I thought that my name would be "Lingo" and I would have the power of understanding. I would speak and comprehend all the languages of the world. When a dispute between two countries arises, Lingo would save the day with diplomacy. How very fucking American, I know. Although, we all know how diplomatic the US can be in such situations; perhaps we do need a Lingo to save what my mom calls 'the last days' of the world.

The other students in the class questioned me.

"What superpower would you have?" they asked.
"Uuuuhhhh....Diplomacy!" I said. "Language and also diplomacy!"
"Weak," they said. "You'll get your ass kicked."

Well, first of all, I won't be getting my ass kicked, because I am not in fact, Lingo. She does not exist. Secondly, it has been called to my attention that there is a cartoon character on PBS with the name "Word Girl." She saves the world with conversation and she teaches toddlers vocabulary words. Weak. Word Girl jump-kicked my imagination in the face.

So, I've come up with a new superhero identity. If superheroes existed, that is. I've realized during finals that my greatest power as a graduate student is my power to sleep when things get sticky. While other students drink coffee and smoke cigarettes and eat sugar to keep them awake, I rest my head anywhere (even the doctor's office if necessary) and shut out the maddening world around me. I am very good at denial and avoidance. My superhero power would be simply to sleep off danger and awake when things settle down, if they ever can. And if they can't, well then, I will simply dream about them getting better for a very long time.

I'm a bad puppy mama

2008-12-06T17:47:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I want to leave my dog in the alley behind my apartment. I want to walk him by his leash and let him bounce, tongue hanging, tail wagging, him lifting his little pomeranian paws in the air with glee because he thinks that we are going somewhere special. And when we get to the alley, I will unhook his leash and run back home.

I know that this is not the usual way to feel about one's dog, and yet I cannot help but fantasize about the irresponsible act of unburdening myself of him. No more feeding him. No more walks. No more taking him out for a midnight piss. Just me and me and me. All me.

And that's what it comes down to, right? I want to be selfish and guilt-free in my neglect of all others around me.

Of course, I am not serious about dropping my dog in a dumpster, but it does make for a great daydream when I am feeling overburdened or cruel.

Yay for Gays!

2008-12-03T19:25:00.000-08:00

This needs no introduction.

See more Jack Black videos at Funny or Die

Palm Tree Leaning

2008-11-16T10:30:00.000-08:00

The palm tree in your backyard

leans over your house

like a rainbow

like its kissing the shingles of your roof

like its watching us touch between your garage

and the neighbor's wooden fence.

There is no telling how old

or how wise it is.

There is no telling how often

it has heard you cry from your bed.

All the times you cursed your family

or yourself.

All the times your dad stayed out for the night.

All the times you dreamt of being

bigger, taller, stronger.

The palm tree leaning over your house

had once, perhaps, stretched for the sun,

thirsty in the desert where it is foreign, exotic.

But now it arches forward

like a hunched back-gypsy mother.

Betty Boop in Snow White featuring Cab Calloway

2008-11-03T22:14:00.000-08:00

When I was three or four, my mom left me alone to watch episode after episode of Betty Boop. I couldn't get enough of her. She fostered in me a love of music and dance, and who better to learn from than a cartoon woman who wears a garter day and night and can't help but to continusously wag her hips.

An extended hiatus

2008-11-03T21:53:00.000-08:00

Due to an overwhelming amount of grad school work, I am taking a short break. In the next few weeks I will again be posting my every thought and practicing writing.

School is hard work.

Can't a girl catch a break?

Fairy Tale Mind

2008-10-12T21:23:00.000-07:00

Sheila Heti's The Middle Stories has to be one of the biggest illusions in all of the short stories I've read in my life. The stories are short. The sentences are simple. Even the quirks appear quite easy to mimic. But I've discovered over the last two hours as I've tried to write a short story that is as magical and raw as Sheila Heti's are, that she has a fairy tale mind. Her mind must express, explain, articulate life as a series of metaphors that can be broken down into stories with titles like "The Girl Who Was Blind All The Time," "The Favorite Monkey" and "Mermaid In A Jar."

During the time that I tried to write a "simple" story with a "simple" plot that can kick emotional balls, my three personas debated.

The grown up in me says as I write, "No, no, no. That can't be!"

The writer in me says, "Yes, but it could be."

The child in me says, "It is."

Sheila Heti's stories operate in the last voice. If a man can fall in love with a female monkey, a new couple can feel resentment toward one another after only one weekend together, and a teenage giant can travel to France to find solace, then her stories remind us that whatever our imaginations can create is possible.

I would hope that I can learn to quiet the grown up and the writer in me long enough to allow the child some time to bask in possibility. This seems to me, the only way to really write an honest story.

"Red"

2008-10-10T19:41:00.000-07:00

By Tracy Pitts

The boy who lives across the street now has red hair and takes off his

clothes for me when our blinds are open. He touches his nose or

maybe his ear first and likes to see if I'll follow him down to mine.

He walks up and down the street in black shorts without shoes or

socks or a shirt, dangling a rusty machete against his legs that have

been eaten by mosquitoes. When I don't come outside, he throws

his machete into my lawn-and pulls it out.

He whispers through the fence when I'm alone in the backyard and

asks if I want to drink beer. He climbs up to lean over and lets me

taste his hands, soaked under his parents' tap in the garage.

From, ZYZZYVA

Fall 2008 Volume XXIV, number 2

www.zyzzyva.org

One of many attempts at poetry.

2008-10-08T23:41:00.000-07:00

Skipping Stones

You skipped stones at the beach that day.

I clapped my hands

with each bounce

of the stone

upon the water.

The day was overcast and the sand was not soft.

It scratched our skin.

And when we lay down to make shapes in the clouds,

tiny bugs flew into our hair,

our eyes,

our mouths.

We counted the sea birds looking down on us,

on our backs,

on the sand

looking up at them.

The sea crept closer,

inching up near our toes.

And while you emptied your shoes of sand,

I found five smooth stones

to give to you.

For keeps, I said.

I accept all types of rejections!

2008-10-07T23:10:00.001-07:00

Today I got two, count 'em, boys, two rejection letters from The Missouri Review. I even had to ride my bike to the post office at 8:25am just to get them. Knowing that I had a twelve hour day following my departure of the post office, I felt excited. I pushed my legs up hills and over loose gravel. I dodged moving cars. I fiddled with my broken bike lock. I swore at it, jiggled it, unlocked and re-locked it. Then I, wiping the sweat from off my brows and upper lip, held my head up high as I ran up the stairs to work.

It's pretty amazing how badly I wanted to see my rejection. Each and every rejection letter has its own way of letting me down. Some are encouraging, some are blank, some handwritten, others typed and photo copied.

But today, one of my letters was handwritten in pencil. Messy handwriting. In a hurry. Probably a graduate student like me encouraging another "creative writer." Good character development. Well-written. Lacks an effective ending. Please continue to submit.

I won, I thought. Handwriting means I won.

More Tunes

2008-10-05T21:37:00.001-07:00

Daniel Johnston's "True Love Will Find You in the End"

Biology

2008-10-05T18:09:00.000-07:00

I was just a (Golgi) body

And you were a little acidic

But still we had

organelles

in common.

By Laura Fraser

How did I Not Think of This Before Him?

2008-10-04T09:34:00.001-07:00

Where the Hell is Matt? (2008) from Matthew Harding on Vimeo.

Horse and Buggy

2008-10-03T18:31:00.000-07:00

Timothy and Roc sat on Roc's old porch swing watching the sky in the late afternoon. Timothy lit a cigarette and offered one to Roc.

"I had to quit, man," he said shaking off the cigarette box.

"When'd that happen?" Timothy asked. His cigarette hung from his mouth as he brought the flame to it.

"Can't afford it anymore, man." Roc used his feet to swing them. Timothy found the rhythm and did the same.

"I know what you mean. Gas and stuff." Timothy sucked on his cigarette and then flicked it.

"Driving thirty miles every day to work is out of hand, man." Roc said. "It's just too much." He crossed his arms on his stomach. "You know what I thought about the other day? I mean, it was a good thought and stuff."

"What'd you think?" Timothy asked.

"What if we all just went back to horse and buggies? Like we just rode horses and shit. No more cars. No more gas." Roc looked at Timothy. Timothy flicked his lit cigarette.

"It'd take you forever to get to work. It'd take you forever to get anywhere."

"Yeah, but so. Think about it, man. Think about sleeping under the stars and tying up your horse in front of the grocery store and shit." Roc stopped swinging.

Timothy stopped swinging too.

"Ok, but think about guns and stuff. Dude, you couldn't sleep under the stars without getting mugged at gun point. What are you gonna do about guns?" Timothy tried to swing again, but Roc lifted his feet while he thought.

"I'd carry a gun, man. I'd carry a gun and wear a bullet proof vest. Maybe a helmet," he leaned down and grabbed his beer can. "Do they make bullet proof helmets?"

"Probably," Timothy said shrugging. He took out another cigarette. "But you'd probably need a suit. Not just a vest and a helmet. More like a suit or something."

"Yeah, I think they make those too." Roc drank from can. Timothy lit his second cigarette and put the box back into his pocket. Roc took another drink from his can. Timothy sucked on his cigarette and flicked the ashes.

"I guess I'll take one of those, man." Roc reached out his hand and his fingers formed to hold a cigarette. Timothy smiled and reached into his pocket, finding the box of cigarettes and handed them to Roc. Above them, the sky was purple and orange. Once Roc lit his cigarette, they used their feet to swing again.

No talk. Just tunes.

2008-10-02T22:16:00.000-07:00

Ray Charles on the Johnny Cash Show

I've still got time

2008-10-01T19:43:00.000-07:00

"Beginning a story without knowing all the terrain is not a comfortable feeling...The single largest advantage a veteran writer has over the beginner is this tolerance for not knowing. It's not style or skill, or any other dexterity. An experienced writer has been in those woods before and is willing to be lost; she knows that being lost is necessary for the discoveries to come."

Ron Carlson, Ron Carlson Writes a Story

Writing feels like dancing. I was just a little girl, tiny in fact when I watched my mom dance to drum beats, her feet beating against the ground, her torso crouched down, her arms stretched and swinging, her hands graceful and fluid. Her orange and black and green skirt brushed the ground when she bent her body forward in rhythm with the wooden drums. She lifted her head back, her eyes wide open to the sky. She danced and pounded her feet and raised her arms into a "V." The image of her moving freely in response to the music, her body in the shape of what she is made of, is what I need to recall when I write.

"Blog." "Post." What the?

2008-09-30T23:35:00.000-07:00

It's always nice to take a long walk with a good pal and everything is going well and you're talking about biology and planets and books too and somewhere in your peripheral you see a spiritual message that confirms you're in the right place at the right time. Especially if the message is written in black spray paint on the brick wall of an elementary school.