Tuesday, February 16, 2010


"what should i write about?"
"whats it for?" he asks
"for thinking about something other than my film."
"im telling you, blog about me." she says from the next chair. we're all sitting in easy chairs in starbucks, all behind our matching apple logos. we're sharing one charger cord. we're both at 19% battery.
"why?" i ask her. "why should i blog about you?"
"im ferociously inspiring. do it..." i read that line, '"im ferociously inspiring. do it...' out loud, back to her, as i i type it here.
"tell me you typed that and didnt just recount it from memory."
"no" I say and type at the same time "the only things i can recount from memory are Gandalf monologues."
"do one."
"are you serious?"
i cant bring myself to say it out loud so ill type it here: "so do all who live to see such times but that is not for them to decide. all you have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to you...
"what did you do to your hand?" i ask him, out loud.
"i cut my hand with a hatchet, while chopping wood. isnt that the most manly injury ever?"
"getting shot is the most manly... no. they're like on the same level." that was the boy on the next couch. hes trying to write a poem for an application. "im not a poet." hes staring into space, i wander if hes thinking in witty rhyming cuplets. hes the only Dell around our short flat table. "how do you spell damaged?" he asks the girl in the blue rain boots whos reading a hardcover book without a jacket and playing with a piece of her blonde ponytail.
"op. katie i want that car." shes looking out the window, "look behind you, the yellow jeep. a yellow jeep with all the jeep accessories. thats my dream car."

theres a girl on the starbucks line wearing a short orange jacket and skinny jeans. she has long dirty blond hair thats kind of wavy and thrown over her shoulder and coght in her orange hood.
shes standing with all her weight on one foot and holding her wallet in the hand thats hanging by her side.
im watching her and pretending she is sophia.
all that, all that description, that all looks like sophia...
sophia moved to san francisco this year.
she defferred all her college admissions and moved to San Francisco.
"what are you going to do?" we asked her.
"work. make money. build up my portfolio."
...be a real perosn.

i throw that phrase around.
"a real person."
basically what ive decided constitutes reality has a lot to do with independence and fast moving decision making. spontinaity.

"how do you spell spontinaity?"
"i dont know."
"its okay. i never spell things right on my blog. my readers dont expect it from me." i smile in a pretentious way
"i could never blog."
"i could never blog. i dont have that thirst to connect with other people."
"by the way im typing everything you say" i say and type.
"o i figured that out. thats why im not going to tell you the saddest story of my life... cuz youll write it down... what if i stop talking?"
"i dont know."
shes stopped talking.

"uhhh. im so hunry." she begins again. "theoretically if a person eats a chip they shouldnt be hungry anymore."

there are two acting students rehearsing a scene behind me.
as they memorize more and more of the diologue its gets more and more bizzare to listen to them. right now the girl is putting on her jacket, theyre getting ready to leave but shes still rattling off some argumentitive outburst, completely contrasting to the way shes nonchalantly zipping up her zipper.


  1. if a tree falls in the forest, does it make a sound if there is no one there to hear it? if a blogger casts her words out into the sphere, do they ripple the surface of the world if no one knows the blog is there? does the ripple count if someone (me) reads most of your posts, but hasn't commented until now? you never know. you never know. at least you have the courage to tell everyon your words are out there. I wonder if (I'm pretty sure) this makes you braver than the person (me?) who has left her spiral notebook journals carelessly about the house, strategically hidden under years of old mail or outgrouwn t-shirts....

  2. i used to write stories about elves and fairies, fold them up and put them into the crack in my bedroom doorway where the sheet rock had warped away from the molding.

    oddly, hiding my stories in that dusty hole, gave me the same feeling of sending myself out into nowhere and everywhere that blogging gives me now.

    i think as soon as you write something down its, at the moment, everywhere...

  3. you're welcome :)

    thanks for writing, for writing words that make me look. and listen.
    and come back, again and again


  4. "basically what ive decided constitutes reality has a lot to do with independence and fast moving decision making. spontinaity."

    I'm not sure about that spontaneity. I think it has a lot to do with bearing with things we don't like, accepting things that we realize are bigger than we are, and creating things between the cracks of all the other things that are bigger than we are.

  5. things dont feel bigger than me unless i want them.
    and if i want them i refuse to believe that they are bigger than me.

    and if i live as though i believe that

    then it tends to work out that way

    and then i feel real.

  6. and big bad things dont feel bigger than me.
    they just feel big and bad but they dont touch me.

    and i can look at them from far away. and maybe even try to do things that will shrink them and make them less big and bad...
    but they dont have to touch me.

  7. I think some things still are bigger. Age. Time. Lifespan. They seem to become more present the more we accomplish, or hope to accomplish. And memory both shrinks and grows.