In seventh grade, I sprouted breasts. In the eighth grade, the most eligible boy in my class wanted to go steady with me. I was so excited. My mom and I didn’t relate on much so the scoring of high quality boy attention was prime pre-Prime Time TV conversation.
Mom, can I go to the movies this weekend?
Who with?
Lou.
Lou?
Yeah.
Oh, honey.
What?
You can’t go out with him.
Why not?
You’ll give Pappy a heart attack.
Look out, she’s got the red dress on. The dress I wear when I don’t give a fuck. My clothes meant for the Emperor lost in translation.
So many feats of architechture, illusion, smoke… covering up the natural beauty being. Just be. It’s not good or bad. Don’t ask if the dress makes you look fat – ask if it makes you feel good.
Too much ego is bad for the spine.
These squinty eyes of mine. They may look glassy. My expression one of cow-brained ignorance.
That’s just what I look like when I can’t hear.
Sometimes the chaos around me is so loud I can’t take it anymore. I just let all noise wash over me and fight my urge to fly.
I want to be there. I want to engage. At some point
the centre cannot hold.
Read the book An Unquiet Mind. There are revelations there.
I’m going back in. See ya on the flip side.
I published a poem in the school literature book in 3rd grade.
I jotted it on a piece of paper during lunch hour. It describes the way someone feels when they are getting stared at. I used the same free form bullshit I’m spewing now but I’m pretty sure it rhymed. As with all my work, the title introduces the piece so we don’t have to waste time with context.
In the final printing of the book my poem The Stare is titled The Stove. It still kinda worked. At least, everyone said they got it. Whatever. I wish that boy would just talk to me.
I’m at the P&H enjoying the unwitting company of strangers. Mosquitoes finding me inside the bar. Shadows walking up on my left. Passing me by, most every time. Nothing can really phase me once I’m sliced open. The shock alone grants me an amiable demeanor.
Music has a way of smoothing over every situation. Next stop, Dave Cousar at the Buccaneer.
I know a wise Canadian name Gwarsbane that lives by a simple rule. If a game isn’t 5$ or under, he probably won’t buy it. Nothing personal against all the people that want to pay more. He finds that it’s more fun to play many cheap games where he periodically finds gold nuggets instead of investing in the one polished gem. At least, that’s how I see it.
I feel the same way about entertainment. Not sure if I mentioned a 5$ lifestyle last summer, but it was definitely on my mind. I look at the options before me and think about what I’d get for a Lincoln. Not a lot in most parts of the city. However, if you just want to buy a coke, roughly 2$, you can be the bartender’s best friend with that $5. Or barista, ahem, for that matter.
Then it comes down to the ambiance. Always with the ambiance! Why do people want to be there. Me? I look for spots you’d find in postapocalyptic Frost poetry.
I did many things today.
I am a singular person and a walking cliche.
I move through the line
Aware of the appearance
Still wondering
How far I can go.
Self awareness is not comfortable
It averages out well if you
stay true and humble
What I think of me matters
In search of healthy conflict
I know the key to surviving
is wrapped in acceptance
Loving east as I move west.
It warms my heart
Enveloped in the bestDaily life I’ve ever known
Alone for the first time.
Today I was the eye of the storm. I that means I only stopped to think twice. I feel bad for anyone caught up in the shit storm surrounding me.
My dad came out mostly unscathed. For Father’s Day, I helped him move furniture. If it were up to me, said furniture would probably have been sold in the great purge of 2015. It will be meted out to my two sisters and favorite relatives eventually, unless I score a moving truck when I head west. But that’s something for future me to worry about. Right now, I’m stoked
Now I’m at the Lamp to catch a punk show. It’s just me and another girl who knows the band and the band. Still the eye of the storm, I drew innocent souls into battle without warning. I understand people are real but that doesn’t stop me from being me.
Good band. I miss Shirley burgers.
I’m at the P&H Cafe in Memphis listening to Zeke Johnson play the blues. He writes songs and tells stories. Plays guitar like a teenager sends a text – casually accurate.
Following him is Rum Rebellion. I’m a fan.
These two artists may never appear on the same stage again. You’re missing a great time.