Wednesday, January 31, 2007

A little bit of calm

Reading till the words get blurry. Writing till the words get silly.
An academic hush. Responsible. Mostly.
Take care of yourself they say: sleep and food and happiness.
I'm allright at all three, but there's always room for improvement.

My dad always tells me that if I want to be successful and have a life full of variety (when I'm older) don't:
Drink, smoke, or have sex until you are done with school.

I don't know about that (I love my papi, he means well), BUT I do know I have committed two of those variety squelching sins, and it's only Wednesday!
Hopefully I will still be experiencing new things when I'm forty.

I have beautiful people in my life. That's nice. Real nice. I wish time could slow down just a tiny bit, so I can enjoy it a little more. Calm. I think it's the kind after the storm, which is nice.

I overheard this very serious conversation the other day:
"I need a magic bullet."
"Why? To kill werewolves?"
"No, to quickly blend things."

It made me giggle for minutes. Keep warm. Think warm. Cover your extremities. And remember no matter what your daddy says "Variety is the spice of life."

oh yeah, you should get involved in local politics too ...

Sunday, January 28, 2007

State of the Union

I do believe this is the longest I've been without posting since I've acquired this beauty. Eeech.
Sorry my lovelies, you have all been in my thoughts. This will be the longest catch up post in all of the world. I have been busy living life. It's pretty time consuming. But I missed you all. How shall I start, big or small?

Well let's be academic, I recently read an article about conceptual poetry, by super poet man Kenneth Goldsmith . Concepetual poetry in a nut-shell is literature that is less about feeling and more about concept and construction. Meaning and metaphor take a back seat to innovation. Often conceptual poets will take already published works or "found" material and manipulate it. Goldsmith talks about the valuelessness of conceptual poetry in an already struggling industry:
"Language as material, language as process, language as something to be shoveled into a machine and spread across pages, only to be discarded and recycled once again. Language as junk, language as detritus. Nutritionless language, meaningless language, unloved language, entartete sprache, everyday speech, illegibility, unreadability, machinistic repetition. Obsessive archiving & cataloging, the debased language of media & advertising; language more concerned with quantity than quality. How much did you say that paragraph weighed?
And although its practitioners often come from disciplines outside of literature, the work is framed through the discourse and economy of poetry: these works are received by, written about, and studied by readers of poetry. Freed from the market constraints of the art world or the commercial constraints of the computing & science worlds, the non-economics of poetry create a perfectly valueless space in which these valueless works can flourish."
Literature is funny like that and interesting. My first thought was, yeah, why the hell does conceptual poetry exist? What kind of person writes emotionless poems? In class we kind of talked about why we write. No one could exactly answer the question. Is it for others entertainment? Is it out of an insatiable need? Ego? Well Goldsmith tends to think that for conceptual poets it's all about ego, and boredom. Why do I write? I suppose it's in my bones and my head. I mean fuck, sometimes I can't understand how I even feel. When that happens how the hell am I supposed to make someone else understand me? Writing is a sort of synthesis. When I get out all the wildness in front of me, I can begin to put it back together so mayhaps it will make sense to others, and myself. Yeah, a part of me also wants to entertain and teach. I used to think that was a terrible thing wanting to write for others, but the more I write the more comfortable I am with the concept. As long as there is an element of sincerity always present I think I'll be okay. Anyway I can't really draw, can't really sing, got no rhythm, I need some kind of artistic endeavor to call my own. So basically don't get avant-garde and conceptual poetry mixed up. One is good and one is lame. ALSO read my stuff and enjoy it, but don't talk to me about it; because I will get that deer in the headlights flushed face look and run away.

Moving on.
Yes, that's what I'm trying to do.
*Ex-lover you don't deserve any of this. This time in my head. When I've got boat-loads of reasons to insert apples, candies, and outstanding punctuation; Instead of dumb rewound ghost feelings. I am establishing a life so independent of you it’s painful. Painful? Maybe not, I feel better about me than ever. Why no, it's not pain, just work. Lots of work. But still people keep saying, oh that ex-lover you two are so funny, made for each other give it time. It's just how you two operate. I don't believe that for a second, and I don't find anything funny about the whole damned thing, and I really don't know how (or why) people keep giving you the benefit of the doubt. But this psychic link that you garner, somehow magically popping up just as soon as I've successfully blocked you out of my psyche. Well, it's bizarre. Come in or get out. Though just to let you know this time: "([you] Don't Stand) A Ghost Chance With [me]." Remember the Monk metaphor? That man is good at articulating our relations. If friendship is what you want then act like a friend, otherwise forget you ever knew me.

We both know it ain't me babe, oh no it ain't me you're looking for.

Though I've let so much go, I can't shake some of your up-scale baggage. Thanks to you I've programmed myself to expect the worse. Maybe I don't even understand what "good" is anymore. My love was a kind of blind love. We were nothing, that was everything. I don't trust others and I don't trust myself. And now, NOW I expect lies and insults - yelling matches and waterworks - three awful nights for one good night - selfish and unforgiving - jealous and cold - insecurity and anger, yet somehow I have gotten the inverse of all this.

now I have to feel awful and ask myself silly questions like:

What the hell am I supposed to do with warmth and honesty? When is he going to inexplicably get pissed and pack his bags in the middle of the night and threaten to trot off to his mother's place? I'll know exactly how to handle that. That's what would make these interactions feel normal. Harsh? Well let's not begin to dance around those ancient french quarters.

You've had your chance and your fun now let me have mine.
now I have to make declarations like:

I don't want to be a steel wool scratch pad. I'm tired of holding this ice-pose. And I hope you can dig this and keep hugging me like you mean it, cause I mean it. Ignore the cold stare and frightened glazed over look I may acquire when times get a little thick. Sometimes self-preservation is of the utmost importance. Though I don't know if I'm trustable quite yet. Quite yet, I'm a messy mess. But I promise I clean up nicely.

Pleasant Surprise:
You knew all the words and what I like most is the only difference when we're sober is that our clothes end up in nice piles.

*By the time I finished writing this, I realized the harsh tones still in my heart. It's not all brass knuckles and forget me nots. I do miss your stories and etc (all the things that don't make me want to yell and throw things at you). I mean I still care a ton, but try to understand what I'm attempting to establish, and how very hard it is to forgive and forget. I won't go back and delete everything I feel, even with your laissez-faire attitude.

On a lighter note, I love when things come full-circle. Best friend Conneticut turned me on to the clapping barrier. Physical limitations etc. A very frustrating and beautiful thing. Something that since its inception has completely fascinated me. I talked in great length about this with an old friend last night, and today I discovered a poem about the very same phenomenon. The poem was "Theory of Sublime" (only an excerpt) by Mark Doty. My favorite lines are, "and then at the height of my clapping,/ when I can push no further into the thinning air ... at the limit of praise, when the flesh/begins to reassert that it is welded/to the giddy soul trying to get out from the top of the head" Well thank you mister Doty for not only articulating a grand physical phenomena, but for quietly answering for me the question: Why do I write?

and I thought poetry was dead.

it's all about connection baby. Life is worth living and running around and discovering new ways to think and love and experience and all that sappy exciting giddyness.

Be present folks, and send out good vibes.

Sunday, January 21, 2007

Hear This and Then I'll Go

Shattered glass, facial hair, doubled profit, and a whole lot of liquor.
Successful party.
I guess my PR skills are kind of handy.
Love connections were made, and that kind of shit makes me so jolly.
Everyone should be in a precious little dyad.
Serious about school, and other things. I'm all nervous about other things.

Good nervous. Le Sigh.

Thursday, January 18, 2007

Tired Legalities

Thinking about naps has become a daily part of my regimen. Makes me feel tired. This weather makes me feel angry. Cold air can shove it. Oh now that's not very articulate, nor is it very nice. Everything is connected and that cold air has a purpose. Who cares. Yeah, I said it, I despise the cold as Hitler hated the jews. Let's eradicate WINTER!

Today at school I talked about the exorbitant price of textbooks on television. Weird. Then I ran into my friend and we talked about doing various illegal drugs, camera still pointed at me. Ooops. Last Unicorn, why the fascination with deviant substances so much today and not yesterday? Always a fascination my dearies. Never an urge. Oddly enough higher academics has awakened my urge for mind-altering experiences. Or perhaps I've traveled the flight-fancy within the realms of my un-altered mind, and have hit a rest-stop of sorts? Who knows, could just be old age.

By and by I come, but if you don't call, I'll leave straightaway. And on these journeys I promise to always carry a notebook and a sharpened Ticonderoga.

Wednesday, January 17, 2007

That Ghost Just Isn't Holy Anymore

And this is all easier than I thought. Yeah that. And I'm stuck smiling. And I think I think you're helping it along. I'd say thanks if you could understand. Code-words mark our conversations, and I always wanted to create a secret world. From the begining I didn't know what I was doing, and I still don't. That's perfect clarity. Hope that you feel the same as I. Hope that we feel the same, which is almost impossible. Misallignment is an innate characteristic of human-kind (that's us). Though sometimes maybe we're something more, misanthropic demi-gods. We're a color balanced pair of giggling pirates. Trouble is what we are, and that's how I like it. That's how I intend to keep it. I just can't help but want to be all wrapped up in you. YOU heartless scoundrel.

All in all an exciting start. Classes are tough, but amazing. I'm going to learn a lot this semester. My PR (last PR class I will ever take in my entire life thank'ya jesus!) professor is a stuffed shirt typical shiny shoed three piece suit schmoozer. Tough man who knows his stuff. If I'd planned to work in PR he'd be my god. Luckily I chose writing enter two lovely, quirky, and disturbingly knowledgeable men. Fuck the corporate color scheme, I've got my men.

Life is back in full swing and I'm reading like a scholar, quickly devouring the classics and beyond. If I manage to stay out of trouble, while still letting loose every now and then. We'll be allright. Let the madness commence.

I leave you with this delightful trailer for a wonderful movie that comes highly recommended. I'd love to see it unfortunately I am in the middle of nowhere, so virtually no decent movies come to a "theater near me." The interesting thing about this trailer is how it is marketed. The movie is in Spanish with English sub-titles. The full-length trailer is just a scene montage set to background music, and a cheesy American voice over. Absolutely no mention of sub-titles or even the fact that the film is set in rural Spain . Also, the voice-over announces that the film is brought to you by Picture house, but a graphic flashes on the screen that says "Brought to you by Picture House AND Telecinco." Do Americans hate sub-titles that much? Or is it perhaps the Spanish language? Next thing you know our street signs will be en espanol!!

Pan's Labrynith, catch it if you don't live in the boooonies:

Monday, January 15, 2007

Sometimes "Red" Doesn't Capture the "Feeling"

Started making a premature Valentine, which is funny because I usually could care less about the day. I guess I'm funny like that, and hopeless. I'm also making a homemade calendar so maybe I'm just in a crafty mood? I feel like a youngin counting down the minutes to her first day of high-school. I'm really fucking excited about this semester. Really really.

Sunday, January 14, 2007


Last night I fell in love with a drummer. A fatal error. Oh not really, but someone who smiled and meant it. Dressed all in black. I miss genuine catch and release games. Don't worry I'm conscious of the delicate eco-systems. I also said some honest words that came off as purely rotten. I mean well, but I'm not so good at relaying that. You, it's like harnessing the power of perpetual motion. Perfect if it could be done, but near impossible. I meant what I said though.

Decided to try a new "thing." Writing with a specific person in mind, a sort of dedicatory poem if you will. As of now it's just ideas, half-formed and floating, but enough to make me excited. I can't well decide if the poem is a vehicle in which I feel comfortable, or even a place I long to deposit my emotions. Nonetheless this is where I'm going.

Yellow is her Power Color
Portrait of Winter as a Young Man
S is Like a Snake

Can you tell I've been reading Joyce and Rich lately? Can you guess which one is you? I got the syllabus for my independent study and I am both thrilled and terrified. It's cold out, but my heart and hands are all fired up.

This lovely song has been stuck in my head for weeks Enjoy!

Thursday, January 11, 2007

Shopping for a new point of view ...

I just spent an exorbitant amount of money restocking my bare pantry. Sensitive stomachs are expensive to feed. But I'm excited. Let's get the ball rolling. I'm counting down the days till school starts.

In a past life I think I was a dancer. Cold and graceful. I was the master of the arabesque, and the queen of the grand plie. As a result in this life I pay pennance by being clumsy. Now, I must make a concerted effort to stand straight and not be so icy to those who I intend to keep close. No one cares for a frost-bitten embrace.

*Hurry up and come back to me. I want to see if you still make me feel all warm and rebellious.

the colors are changing in front of my very eyes.

New Year's Resolutions (short form):
Read more for pleasure.
Get more sleep.
Use less toilet paper.
Get over the boy once and for all.
Eat more fiber.

Mantra (due to the straight A's I must achieve)
Work Hard Play Hard

Tuesday, January 09, 2007

Cognitive Science and Sunny Days

Reading "Second Nature" by Gerald M. Edleman, and I'm absolutely loving the mish moshing of philosophy, religion, and cognitive science. The brain is such an ugly and magnificent organ. I'm begining to feel inspired and beautiful again. The sun is obscenely streaming through my front bay window. Damn I love it, and the song I'm listening to is all acoustic, sunny, and innocent-like. I'm such a baby this is the mildest winter ever, and all I can think about is when I can break my sundresses out again. I put the song on repeat.

I really need a hair-trim.
I kind of hate self-promotion. err. Self promoters.

I'm deciding whether or not I should wipe you off every list I own. Start fresh, like my culture tells me too. But I think that would be giving up a whole lot of wasted time. You, like a magnet are the epi-center of my wasted time. Quiet moments. Lost sleep. Daydreams. No, we're not impressed, but it's cognitive science. All the potential energy comes back to you. Luckily come a week from now, I won't have any potential to spare.

and no I don't feel like a fool. foolish maybe, but that's why I can see your good.

OH an exciting trip. Last Unicorn breaks out of the Midwest brief stint to ... THE WEST! That's right if everything works out as planned (which it never does) I will be heading out to Portland at the end of July for a writer's workshop with FC2 Colletive! Wahooo graduation road-trip with lovely hippy! Maybe I'll even get to climb some rocks!

I'll never understand the birds and the bees.

Actually getting a lot of writing done this week. If it stays sunny I wager to say I can double my productivity. Maybe not, but I really want it to stay sunny. And I'm already planning my design scheme for the fall. It's called "The color wheel and how to use less t.p. in an urban setting." If I die before semester ends you can use it.

Don't kid yourself, I know exactly who you are.

On loathed winter:
In my end is my beginning.
- T.S. Eliot

la la laaa la la la laa, la laaaaaaaaaaa sing along ...

Friday, January 05, 2007

Going Home?

I don't know what to call my home anymore. The location where my family resides, my house.
Bedroom = Guest room. This place brings about feelings of frustration, isolation, help and hopelessness. Good to touch blood, but glad I don't have to wade through my parents mis-communications and lost glances. Ouch. I need models for love and harmony. I need veggie corn dogs instead of kfc. I'm sorry, but I don't care that another girl was mugged on the Chicago El. I don't want you to look down on me, because I'm 22 and not married. I want you to believe in whatever it is I need to do to make me happy. I need you to hug me when I'm sad, and yell at me when I'm being ridiculous.

At school, my home. Colored like my mind. My domestic sphere. My life-support. A place in which I can run around naked, laugh uncontrollably, puke, cry, yell, sing, sleep, stay out late, or sautee mushrooms at 4 a.m. The place where I can exeriment with drugs just as much as spaghetti recipes. I can bring you home and make you breakfast, or I can watch the entire season of Freaks & Geeks in one sitting; And I won't be condemned for either. I can learn from others, and not be inundated with familial and world misgivings. I can grow fifty feet tall and not be cut-down by halve-nots. We are all different, and I love that. I don't even care if we don't have a dishwasher. I miss my girls.

Break is pretty much over. I'm going back to work and back to the apartment. My time there is limited, and I must make the best of it. The semester ahead of me is sure to be the most trying of all. I think I'm ready for the challenge. Regardless I'm scared. The future is bright and I must focus on that.

Tonight I sat with him. Many hours and many words. In the car at the end of my drive-way. Like high-school kids not wanting to let go. He chain-smoked, but I didn't care. We talked about old times, new times, love, deviance, depression and the infinity of the universe. We talked about that quiet night with fog and bikes. We rode till our lungs burned. Careful of the frogs. We stopped at the park, next to the field where he shielded me from slugs. He said, "You look like mother earth in the moonlight." I squeezed so tight my knuckles turned white. On swings we talked about our shortcomings, and he laid his head in my lap and sobbed. "What a dope you must of thought me," he said. I shook my head resolutely trying not to inhale too much smoke. I didn't tell him, but that was the night I thought I could love him. Of course I wasn't ready. So I trumped everyone of his love cards. A bitter boy he was to become. In that car playing catch up, well It wasn't all seriousness. He told me about how mad he was that I wouldn't put-out that one time he drove so far for my warmth. I started laughing and so did he. I told him, "sorry for galavanting like a tease in my green frilly undies, but Vincent Gallo had my heart that night! You thought we were going to have sex that night?" At once the car became still. No doubt we were both trying to remember the grade-school curves of one-another's bodies. We aren't those kids anymore. Kids, yes, but not those same. I apologized again for being one of the terribles. Told him I was broken, and I hadn't gotten better. He asked about ex-lover and I just began laughing. The laugh of inner desperation. He nodded, added his own laugh, said, "I know what you mean. I hated him you know. The very fact that he existed twisted my soul. But I'm more mature now, I must say ... I bet you two looked like a couple of near-sighted Hummels; precious and costly." I wanted to laugh, but I agreed too much. All of it was true and too close to my soft spots. So I quick changed the subject. Wrong subject. He knew me too well. Prodded and poked at me till I turned the tables. Wrong subjects. Will this make us feel better? So we switched to something safe. Oh this weather oh this drug oh that movie. Oh yeah sir I miss you. I miss our lofty universe talks. I miss how you hated reading, but insisted I read to you over the phone. I miss falling asleep to you playing video-games. I miss talking to your dad and eating your mom's food. I miss how everyone thought we were the most outta-sight couple that they'd ever seen. I miss your intense gaze as you banged away on stage. I miss bonding over awkwardness, anxiety, and hating most everyone we came into contact with. I miss the comfort, and I miss your friendship. I'm glad I saw you tonight, but I'm even happier we've both moved on. I wish I would have appreciated the fragility of your heart. Tonight you helped me to realize that this relationship, whether or not love thrived meant more to me than I give credit.

On-again off-again you told me you believed I wasn't broken, and that meant a lot. When and if the time comes again, and someone throws their heart fully in my direction I promise to take your advice:
  1. Don't be so self-absorbed. (yeah yeah)
  2. Don't play dumb. (What me?)
  3. Put-out. (ha ha)
  4. Say what you mean. Mean what you say. (trite but true)
  5. Make time for the person you care about. (more time than you think)
  6. Make room for the person you care about in your daily life. (harder than it seems)
  7. It's okay to think long-term. (is it? I know I know...)
Yeah, I've matured too, and I'm tired of picking up hitchhikers just to pass the time. Look for more frequent posting, come tomorrow no more dial-up!!! weeeee!

Tuesday, January 02, 2007

I feel the earth move ...

It shifts right along with my moods.
New years was a blast.
I actually behaved myself for once.(mostly)
Lot's of resolutions, and this is the year to stick to 'em. The future has a gaping wide whole. It's calling me, and I can't drag my feet any longer. If you'd just apply yourself, won't exist within these arterial walls. I'm going to live in truth. End. Stop. GO. I'm going to hug harder. Read smarter. Sleep Sounder etc.

Last night tragicboy gave me some insight into our shared plight:

"My ego is based on my very hard work at maintaining who I am and the ideals I hold up."

So we're not cut from the same kittens, but very similar breeds. Where is the the island of Last Unicorns? Strike that from the record, a whole island of Last Unicorn's would be maddening. It was a nice bonding experience nonetheless. But don't call me old-fashioned.

Last night I discovered these three things:
1) I love the poetry of Adrienne Rich
2) My sister and I are obscenely competitive
3) The wrath of editorial freedom

During finals, to procrastinate, of course I wrote a short story for Crawlspace Magazine. It's a MySpace based E-zine that's actually pretty well done. The topic was Robot Sex. So I wrote a story about someone having sex with a robot. I rather liked the story, and it was written in my usual "style." Well my story is the first one featured for the issue! Yeah, third piece of work published. It feels really good to see my story and name featured at the top of the page. But I read my story and I freaked out. The editor exercised her editorial "freedoms" quite excessively. They changed a few verbs and left out a few sentences. I was in love with those verbs and sentences. But the thing that really irked me was that they added a few words. I mean all in all it's very much my story, but being a new writer I had never experienced the phenomena of "editorial freedom." I know most of the changes were probably for clarity but ... they added the word bulletproof, really for no reason. I would never use "bullet proof." Where did my period go, and what about my sassy semi-colon? Okay I'm done with my rant if you'd like to view my story here's my story "1812x4"! I really like the zine, and I trust that they know their readers better than I. Most importantly I'm really glad to have written something that people want to read (even if, in a slightly altered state).

Today momma said that I should have something to fall back on. As if an international PR degree isn't enough. She's wondering when people are going to pay me to write.
"Well mom. You have to write a lot, and publish a ton before anyone will remember your name. Unless you want me writing smut novels I won't get paid for a very long time. Anyway I'm going to grad school for my phd. I'll be a professor." Her reply?
"No one will take you seriously as a professor. Your face and voice are too tiny."
Hmm. No wonder it took me so long. I'll be writing regardless of wether people decide to throw me a few alms or not. I can command a lot of respect when I want. Oh well, my momma also thinks that watching America's Next Top Model is dangerous for someone as young and impressionable as me.

Break is more than half-way through. I can't wait to get back, but I know once I start I'll be wishing for days off. It's time for me to start living my life for me and not anyone else.