today at camp i ran the poetry hobby.
my group and i walked behind the other hobby groups who were on their way to see the chickens or walking in the stream, looking for bugs.
i told my group 'hide in the trees, eavesdrop and write down interesting things that people say."
here are some things i wrote... im not sure if theyre poems. maybe just thoughts pretending (by way of line breaks) to be poems.
Free Swim
Today while we were swimming,
I noticed the way the water moved around the children.
And the way it moved around me was different.
The water and the day adjusted their color and texture or temperature
as they moved between us they knew
how to be the children's present, and all at once,
my past.
We stood on the bridge and they walked below us, their crocks in the stream, looking at bugs, we leaned on the railings and listened to them
I hear a crinkling water bottle that someone is crushing in their hands
it matches exactly the sound of wet sticks breaking under thier feet.
"who are you?"
"we're poetry"
...walking in the stream like they are doing is called 'mucking'
"are you going to write about us?" he asks looking right at me, i smile.
They muck away, their voices and splashes fade.
The little girl wearing the yellow crocheed top
does not belong to the camp.
she's all alone
no one is ever alone here
we take a buddy and councilor to move an inch away from the group
The little girl is hanging from the higher railing and swinging her legs
back and forth, dangerously teetering on the edge of the bridge.
I see my fellow councilor swallow her warning, 'this girl does not belong to us.'
and then the little outsider darts away, following the call of a mother who i didnt hear and cannot see but who
im sure, is just out of site, at the top of the stairs on the bank... hiding up a tree...
overheard:
(i love taking things out of context)
"hey, over here. i have a perfect one for it."
"if you have a net please hand it off now to someone who does not have a net."
"i have a dead one and a live one eating a dead one!"
"look. i got bug bites. no. thats pen i drew on my bug bites."
"they look like nature people"
"fake plastic rubber bands"
"here come the chicken people"
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Thursday, June 24, 2010
The Sneetches, by Dr. Seuss
Now, the Star-Bell Sneetches had bellies with stars.
The Plain-Belly Sneetches had none upon thars.
Those stars weren’t so big. They were really so small.
You might think such a thing wouldn’t matter at all.
But, because they had stars, all the Star-Belly Sneetches
Would brag, “We’re the best kind of Sneetch on the beaches.”
With their snoots in the air, they would sniff and they’d snort
“We’ll have nothing to do with the Plain-Belly sort!”
And, whenever they met some, when they were out walking,
They’d hike right on past them without even talking.
When the Star-Belly children went out to play ball,
Could a Plain Belly get in the game? Not at all.
You only could play if your bellies had stars
And the Plain-Belly children had none upon thars.
When the Star Belly Sneetches had frankfurter roasts
Or picnics or parties or marshmallow toasts,
They never invited the Plain-Belly Sneetches
They left them out cold, in the dark of the beaches.
They kept them away. Never let them come near.
And that’s how they treated them year after year.
Then ONE day, it seems while the Plain-Belly Sneetches
Were moping and doping alone on the beaches,
Just sitting there wishing their bellies had stars,
A stranger zipped up in the strangest of cars!
“My friends”, he announced in a voice clear and keen,
“My name is Sylvester McMonkey McBean.
And I’ve heard of Your troubles. I’ve heard you’re unhappy.
But I can fix that, I’m the Fix-It-Up Chappie.
I’ve come here to help you.
I have what you need.
And my prices are low. And I work with great speed.
And my work is one hundred per cent guaranteed!”
Then, quickly, Sylvester McMonkey McBean
Put together a very peculiar machine.
And he said, “You want stars like a Star-Belly Sneetch?
My friends, you can have them for three dollars each!”
“Just pay me your money and hop right aboard!”
So they clambered inside. Then the big machine roared.
And it klonked. And it bonked. And it jerked. And it berked.
And it bopped them about. But the thing really worked!
When the Plain-Belly Sneetches popped out, they had stars!
They actually did. They had stars upon thars!
Then they yelled at the ones who had stars at the start,
"We're exactly like you! You cant tell us apart.
we're all just the same now you snooty old smarties!
and now we can come to your frankfurter parties."
"Good Greif!" groaned the ones who had stars at the first
“We’re still the best Sneetches and they are the worst.
But now, how in the world will we know”, they all frowned,
“If which kind is what, or the other way round?”
Then up came McBean with a very sly wink.
And he said, “Things are not quite as bad as you think.
So you don’t know who’s who. That is perfectly true.
But come with me, friends. Do you know what I’ll do?
I’ll make you, again, the best Sneetches on the beaches.
And all it will cost you is ten dollars eaches.”
“Belly stars are no longer in style”, said McBean.
“What you need is a trip through my Star-Off Machine.
This wondrous contraption will take OFF your stars
so you won’t look like Sneetches that have them on thars.”
And that handy machine
working very precisely
Removed all the stars from their tummies quite nicely.
Then, with snoots in the air, they paraded about.
And they opened their beaks and they let out a shout,
“We know who is who! Now there Isn’t a doubt.
The best kind of Sneetches are Sneetches without!”
Then, of course, those with stars got all frightfully mad.
To be wearing a star was frightfully bad.
Then, of course, old Sylvester McMonkey McBean
invited THEM into his Star-Off Machine.
Then, of course from THEN on, as you probably guess,
Things really got into a horrible mess.
All the rest of that day, on those wild screaming beaches,
The Fix-It-Up Chappie kept fixing up Sneetches.
Off again! On again!
In again! Out again!
Through the machines they raced round and about again,
Changing their stars every minute or two. They kept paying money.
They kept running through until the Plain nor the Star-Bellies knew
Whether this one was that one or that one was this one. Or which one
Was what one or what one was who.
Then, when every last cent of their money was spent,
The Fix-It-Up Chappie packed up. And he went.
And he laughed as he drove In his car up the beach,
“They never will learn. No. You can’t Teach a Sneetch!”
But McBean was quite wrong. I’m quite happy to say.
That the Sneetches got really quite smart on that day.
The day they decided that Sneetches are Sneetches.
And no kind of Sneetch is the best on the beaches.
That day, all the Sneetches forgot about stars and whether
They had one, or not, upon thars.
The Plain-Belly Sneetches had none upon thars.
Those stars weren’t so big. They were really so small.
You might think such a thing wouldn’t matter at all.
But, because they had stars, all the Star-Belly Sneetches
Would brag, “We’re the best kind of Sneetch on the beaches.”
With their snoots in the air, they would sniff and they’d snort
“We’ll have nothing to do with the Plain-Belly sort!”
And, whenever they met some, when they were out walking,
They’d hike right on past them without even talking.
When the Star-Belly children went out to play ball,
Could a Plain Belly get in the game? Not at all.
You only could play if your bellies had stars
And the Plain-Belly children had none upon thars.
When the Star Belly Sneetches had frankfurter roasts
Or picnics or parties or marshmallow toasts,
They never invited the Plain-Belly Sneetches
They left them out cold, in the dark of the beaches.
They kept them away. Never let them come near.
And that’s how they treated them year after year.
Then ONE day, it seems while the Plain-Belly Sneetches
Were moping and doping alone on the beaches,
Just sitting there wishing their bellies had stars,
A stranger zipped up in the strangest of cars!
“My friends”, he announced in a voice clear and keen,
“My name is Sylvester McMonkey McBean.
And I’ve heard of Your troubles. I’ve heard you’re unhappy.
But I can fix that, I’m the Fix-It-Up Chappie.
I’ve come here to help you.
I have what you need.
And my prices are low. And I work with great speed.
And my work is one hundred per cent guaranteed!”
Then, quickly, Sylvester McMonkey McBean
Put together a very peculiar machine.
And he said, “You want stars like a Star-Belly Sneetch?
My friends, you can have them for three dollars each!”
“Just pay me your money and hop right aboard!”
So they clambered inside. Then the big machine roared.
And it klonked. And it bonked. And it jerked. And it berked.
And it bopped them about. But the thing really worked!
When the Plain-Belly Sneetches popped out, they had stars!
They actually did. They had stars upon thars!
Then they yelled at the ones who had stars at the start,
"We're exactly like you! You cant tell us apart.
we're all just the same now you snooty old smarties!
and now we can come to your frankfurter parties."
"Good Greif!" groaned the ones who had stars at the first
“We’re still the best Sneetches and they are the worst.
But now, how in the world will we know”, they all frowned,
“If which kind is what, or the other way round?”
Then up came McBean with a very sly wink.
And he said, “Things are not quite as bad as you think.
So you don’t know who’s who. That is perfectly true.
But come with me, friends. Do you know what I’ll do?
I’ll make you, again, the best Sneetches on the beaches.
And all it will cost you is ten dollars eaches.”
“Belly stars are no longer in style”, said McBean.
“What you need is a trip through my Star-Off Machine.
This wondrous contraption will take OFF your stars
so you won’t look like Sneetches that have them on thars.”
And that handy machine
working very precisely
Removed all the stars from their tummies quite nicely.
Then, with snoots in the air, they paraded about.
And they opened their beaks and they let out a shout,
“We know who is who! Now there Isn’t a doubt.
The best kind of Sneetches are Sneetches without!”
Then, of course, those with stars got all frightfully mad.
To be wearing a star was frightfully bad.
Then, of course, old Sylvester McMonkey McBean
invited THEM into his Star-Off Machine.
Then, of course from THEN on, as you probably guess,
Things really got into a horrible mess.
All the rest of that day, on those wild screaming beaches,
The Fix-It-Up Chappie kept fixing up Sneetches.
Off again! On again!
In again! Out again!
Through the machines they raced round and about again,
Changing their stars every minute or two. They kept paying money.
They kept running through until the Plain nor the Star-Bellies knew
Whether this one was that one or that one was this one. Or which one
Was what one or what one was who.
Then, when every last cent of their money was spent,
The Fix-It-Up Chappie packed up. And he went.
And he laughed as he drove In his car up the beach,
“They never will learn. No. You can’t Teach a Sneetch!”
But McBean was quite wrong. I’m quite happy to say. That the Sneetches got really quite smart on that day.
The day they decided that Sneetches are Sneetches.
And no kind of Sneetch is the best on the beaches.
That day, all the Sneetches forgot about stars and whether
They had one, or not, upon thars.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
God
My little universe of rainbow rocks,
that I collected all day
and arranged in a pleasing gradient,
washed away
with the tide.
And I felt like God
watching civilization dissolve.
but really-
Because it was sunny
and I was kind of light headed
and having trippy thoughts like:
'This is what God does,
watches and waits
for things to disappear;
but not in a bad way
because they came
from the ocean anyway..."
But there was garbage-
a balloon, cigarette butt,
bit of a bottle- in my rock collage
and I thought:
"I'm going to let this pollution go out to sea...
because I'm not allowed to interfere
with the integrity of my creation...
just because its being washed away
doesnt mean I have to dismantle it in any way..."
and that was God too.
And then I felt bad
because my philosophical meditation
probably killed a fish...
and that was God too...
(Photo of me: Molly Pelavin)
that I collected all day
and arranged in a pleasing gradient,
washed away
with the tide.
And I felt like God
watching civilization dissolve.
but really-
Because it was sunny
and I was kind of light headed
and having trippy thoughts like:
'This is what God does,
watches and waits
for things to disappear;
but not in a bad way
because they came
from the ocean anyway..."
But there was garbage-
a balloon, cigarette butt,
bit of a bottle- in my rock collage
and I thought:
"I'm going to let this pollution go out to sea...
because I'm not allowed to interfere
with the integrity of my creation...
just because its being washed away
doesnt mean I have to dismantle it in any way..."
and that was God too.
And then I felt bad because my philosophical meditation
probably killed a fish...
and that was God too...
(Photo of me: Molly Pelavin)
Sunday, June 20, 2010
I just sit here and am sort of content. And I boil inside but I never boil over.
This is the opening monologue.
so the only way that it will matter that I wrote this is if I tell you my story so that this pointlessness will matter to you.
So that I will matter to you.
So the movie/play that follows will be all about me and then somehow the fact that that opening monologue is so ‘me like’ will become genius writing.
Who are you? Who, katie, who are you talking to????!!!!
If
A
Tree
Falls
In the woods
And no one is there to here it
Does
It
Make
a
sound???!!!!
If a tree falls in the woods and no one is there to hear it and it hears a bird while its falling…. Does that bird make a sound?... that is the question.
I am the falling tree and I am about to hit the ground without making a sound…. Actually, in fact, I think that I don’t even have to fall, physics don’t have to apply to me now… im just, fallen. The next person who arrives and sees me will see a fallen tree not a standing one but I never fell. I just… what?.
Nothing.
The next person who sees me will name me ‘fallen’
And the last person who saw me had named me ‘standing’
No
No
That’s not it either….
I am not standing tree or fallen tree. I am not anything…
The passing person will see ‘standing’
The next passing person will see ‘fallen.’
I am not anything at all if I cannot hear myself and solipsize myself into existence by being the tree that heard the tree fall in the forest…
I am now listening to, and bringing into existence, the sound of the air conditioner. The sound of my keys typing. I love the sound of keys typing.
I also hate it. It reminds me of being ignored.
The sound of birds outside the window, the sound of… I pause to listen…. I hear the air conditioner and birds outside the window.
I’m editing the timing of your listening, your reading. Do you get it? I’m using ellipses. Don’t ignore them…
that’s right….
Pause… yes.
There, I mean they’re, important.
This should be a movie.
A movie? What is happening on the screen right now?
Is the screen just the shot of the text, curser ticking, letters appearing…
Is the image of me, my face, my eyes ticking over the words as they tick across the page?
Intercut between the two?
Or is the image just the curser ticking and the letters appearing and the main subject of the scene (besides the meaning that you are assigning to these symbols as you read, besides what you take from the text), the thing that you are watching, the character that is being developed in front of you is not me, not the me that is the one you are learning about through your careful interpreting of letters.
No
The subject of this scene is the letters W R I T E
Being backspaces sloppily and replaced with the letters R I G H T about a paragraph ago, where I wrote, what is happening on the screen write… w-r-i-t w- r- I w-r w r r-i r-i-g r-i-g-h r-i-g-h-t now.
Gosh that took me way to long to figure out how to format so that you would get it.
Because its not a movie.
I’ve already decided that this will be a blog.
I’ve already decided to leave my desk and go back to my bedroom, where my internet wire is, and hook myself up to internet and put this on my blog.
I guess I've figured out who ‘you’ are.
I guess you are some combination of Mollly, John and my mother… and hopefully the rest of you, who look like that shot I described earlier- eyes ticking across a screen interpreting symbols and gaining meaning… you look like little lights that tick on in the dark when I post this….
For some reason the way i imagine you is: sitting at desks in sunlight…
Ill just let you know that I've deleted the particularly narcissistic beginning of this so that none of you will know how ridiculous I feel. I’ve also deleted most of the curses… except the completely necessary ones…
Dear mommy,
I’m sorry I didn’t call you back this morning
I was busy watching ‘the pursuit of happyness’ because I got it from swaptree(great site. Get one!) but I have to send it back because I gave the book that I was supposed to swap it for to goodwill.
If I had a car I would go to goodwill and buy the book for three dollars and swap it because I really want to keep that movie now… because of the special features mostly… it was directed by an Italian man who Will Smith sought out and hired to direct the film because Will Smith saw some of this man’s movies and wanted the ‘emotional tone’ that this Italian director incorporated… and so Will hired him…
And I like that…
Dear john…
Ha! That’s the title of that chick flick movie that was out for like one second because no one went to see it… even though it had Amanda seyfried in it and she looks like a baby and I have this theory that we think people are beautiful the more childlike they look and she looks like a baby… like actually…
Anyway…
John, lets go to six flags… molly has to go before the weekend….
Dear mollly,
In our dorm room we will have starry ceilings and we will have all sorts of odd light fixtures that we will become pros at dismantling in time for each room inspection… and we will tell each other our dreams and we will have a toaster in the closet.
There’s a black plastic bag nodding its head in the air conditioner breeze… it looks like a duck, that’s why it has a head. the duck bag is sitting right next to…
Dear john
…the sword you gave me for my birthday…
this is a rock that i found on the beach in Peconic.
i think it looks like a bloody anatomical heart... as opposed to a valentine.
so the only way that it will matter that I wrote this is if I tell you my story so that this pointlessness will matter to you.
So that I will matter to you.
So the movie/play that follows will be all about me and then somehow the fact that that opening monologue is so ‘me like’ will become genius writing.
Who are you? Who, katie, who are you talking to????!!!!
If
A
Tree
Falls
In the woods
And no one is there to here it
Does
It
Make
a
sound???!!!!
If a tree falls in the woods and no one is there to hear it and it hears a bird while its falling…. Does that bird make a sound?... that is the question.
I am the falling tree and I am about to hit the ground without making a sound…. Actually, in fact, I think that I don’t even have to fall, physics don’t have to apply to me now… im just, fallen. The next person who arrives and sees me will see a fallen tree not a standing one but I never fell. I just… what?.
Nothing.
The next person who sees me will name me ‘fallen’
And the last person who saw me had named me ‘standing’
No
No
That’s not it either….
I am not standing tree or fallen tree. I am not anything…
The passing person will see ‘standing’
The next passing person will see ‘fallen.’
I am not anything at all if I cannot hear myself and solipsize myself into existence by being the tree that heard the tree fall in the forest…
I am now listening to, and bringing into existence, the sound of the air conditioner. The sound of my keys typing. I love the sound of keys typing.
I also hate it. It reminds me of being ignored.
The sound of birds outside the window, the sound of… I pause to listen…. I hear the air conditioner and birds outside the window.
I’m editing the timing of your listening, your reading. Do you get it? I’m using ellipses. Don’t ignore them…
that’s right….
Pause… yes.
There, I mean they’re, important.
This should be a movie.
A movie? What is happening on the screen right now?
Is the screen just the shot of the text, curser ticking, letters appearing…
Is the image of me, my face, my eyes ticking over the words as they tick across the page?
Intercut between the two?
Or is the image just the curser ticking and the letters appearing and the main subject of the scene (besides the meaning that you are assigning to these symbols as you read, besides what you take from the text), the thing that you are watching, the character that is being developed in front of you is not me, not the me that is the one you are learning about through your careful interpreting of letters.
No
The subject of this scene is the letters W R I T E
Being backspaces sloppily and replaced with the letters R I G H T about a paragraph ago, where I wrote, what is happening on the screen write… w-r-i-t w- r- I w-r w r r-i r-i-g r-i-g-h r-i-g-h-t now.
Gosh that took me way to long to figure out how to format so that you would get it.
Because its not a movie.
I’ve already decided that this will be a blog.
I’ve already decided to leave my desk and go back to my bedroom, where my internet wire is, and hook myself up to internet and put this on my blog.
I guess I've figured out who ‘you’ are.
I guess you are some combination of Mollly, John and my mother… and hopefully the rest of you, who look like that shot I described earlier- eyes ticking across a screen interpreting symbols and gaining meaning… you look like little lights that tick on in the dark when I post this….
For some reason the way i imagine you is: sitting at desks in sunlight…
Ill just let you know that I've deleted the particularly narcissistic beginning of this so that none of you will know how ridiculous I feel. I’ve also deleted most of the curses… except the completely necessary ones…
Dear mommy,
I’m sorry I didn’t call you back this morning
I was busy watching ‘the pursuit of happyness’ because I got it from swaptree(great site. Get one!) but I have to send it back because I gave the book that I was supposed to swap it for to goodwill.
If I had a car I would go to goodwill and buy the book for three dollars and swap it because I really want to keep that movie now… because of the special features mostly… it was directed by an Italian man who Will Smith sought out and hired to direct the film because Will Smith saw some of this man’s movies and wanted the ‘emotional tone’ that this Italian director incorporated… and so Will hired him…
And I like that…
Dear john…
Ha! That’s the title of that chick flick movie that was out for like one second because no one went to see it… even though it had Amanda seyfried in it and she looks like a baby and I have this theory that we think people are beautiful the more childlike they look and she looks like a baby… like actually…
Anyway…
John, lets go to six flags… molly has to go before the weekend….
Dear mollly,
In our dorm room we will have starry ceilings and we will have all sorts of odd light fixtures that we will become pros at dismantling in time for each room inspection… and we will tell each other our dreams and we will have a toaster in the closet.
There’s a black plastic bag nodding its head in the air conditioner breeze… it looks like a duck, that’s why it has a head. the duck bag is sitting right next to…
Dear john
…the sword you gave me for my birthday…
this is a rock that i found on the beach in Peconic.
i think it looks like a bloody anatomical heart... as opposed to a valentine.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Aimee Bender's short story 'Fugue"
I close Aimee's book with my finger inside it and put my chin on the top of the book and look over and ask
"Want to hear the best two sentences ever?" i sort of stutter it because halfway through i wonder if its actually two sentences and i realize that 'two sentences' doesnt sound like such a short thing. i want her to think its a short thing so shell let me tell it to her.
she looks up so i tell her.
"i think, maybe he hasn't even noticed that I'm gone. But I have."
(It is two sentences!)
She likes it. She smiles.
"She wrote a story called 'fugue'"
"bugs?"
"fugue." i think this is the best title ever... or most poignant one.
"okay," she says "go back in." she means 'into the book' she means 'stop making me pretend to be listening to you.'
this doesnt really bother me... i promise.
so i open my notebook and write this. and about ten minutes later, I'm now typing it up. Its been about thirteen minutes now in which i haven't had to talk...
its strange that june is the sixth month.
six months seems like a longer amount of time than i feel like I've spent in 2010.
dash- oh still flows out of my pen before i remember that its now dash- one- oh. In theory, it seems like six months should be long enough to cure me of that...
"Want to hear the best two sentences ever?" i sort of stutter it because halfway through i wonder if its actually two sentences and i realize that 'two sentences' doesnt sound like such a short thing. i want her to think its a short thing so shell let me tell it to her.
she looks up so i tell her.
"i think, maybe he hasn't even noticed that I'm gone. But I have."
(It is two sentences!)
She likes it. She smiles.
"She wrote a story called 'fugue'"
"bugs?"
"fugue." i think this is the best title ever... or most poignant one.
"okay," she says "go back in." she means 'into the book' she means 'stop making me pretend to be listening to you.'
this doesnt really bother me... i promise.
so i open my notebook and write this. and about ten minutes later, I'm now typing it up. Its been about thirteen minutes now in which i haven't had to talk...
its strange that june is the sixth month.
six months seems like a longer amount of time than i feel like I've spent in 2010.
dash- oh still flows out of my pen before i remember that its now dash- one- oh. In theory, it seems like six months should be long enough to cure me of that...
Monday, June 14, 2010
New Book
i discovered Aimee Bender this afternoon.
Hello. i said to Aimee.
Aimee, blue and papery and between two floppy covers, did not answer directly, instead she looked at me out of the corner of her yellow-font eye and confessed to having a boy named paul locked in her closet
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Monday, June 7, 2010
quite well... crazy actually
Im sewing a Duvet cover. Ive spread the quilt-like patturn out on the floor.
its made of two sheets. one sheet is white and has some white embroidery and some white lace...
one sheet is white with small blue flowers... the sheet with blue flowers is flannel and old... so soft because its flannel and so soft because its old.
i cut them up, into squares and rectangles and stripes and arranged them like a queen size comforter sized collage on the floor.
and this will be the second day that im spending sitting in the collage with a seam of it turned backwards and upside down across my lap.
The needle that im sewing with is blackened on the tip; no doubt because my mom used it at one point to remove a splinter from my brothers or my finger...
At some point in my training as a human being i picked up the piece of subtlety that tells me that this should be symbolic... this blackened, sterilized, poisen, or pain removing tool
that im using now to build a blanket.
that im using now to build a thing.
to entertain myself
to put something into my days
to put a splinter back into my finger
because thats where the interest is...
Dont worry im not pricking my fingers with it on purpose...
im entertaining myself with the idea of fourteen year old brides to be, sewing wedding sheets and wedding shoes and wedding gifts, for their doweries, out of silk, for their husbands, for their children, for their beds.
the truth is that these thoughts float by me while i sew.
i see the thoughts, i put them in neat words, i think about maybe blogging about them
but as soon as i do
they become lies
isnt that odd.
maybe that will change one day.
but for now,
that fact that i think in words, and sometimes in diologue
that fact that i think in themes
and sometimes in rhyms
or rythym
or alliteration
...though never in spelling or punctuation
these facts make everything quite... well crazy actually.
who am i thinking for?
and thats why i sew.
and paint the walls.
painting the walls is the best...
i painted the walls while i waited to hear from purchase, to hear weather or not i had gottan in.
and when i got waitlisted i kept painting
and when i got accepted i stopped.
and the the kitchen was white.
and now people visit and say 'you know, your house feels like a beach house.'
and now theyll visit my bedroom and say 'i like your quilt.' and ill say 'thank you, i made it.' and they'll say 'no way!'
or maybe ill wait for them to sit on my bed.
theyll lie down and their toe or maybe a clip in their hair will get snagged on my loose stitching
and then theyll say "omgod did you make this?!" and ill smile with my lips together in that way that makes me feel like a little girl, and ill nod and get into the bed with them.
...and as long as we're being comoletely truthful, after that i will probably bring my laptop under the covers with us and read them this blog post... and depending on how truthful im feeling that day, i will either omit this last bit, or leave in it.
its made of two sheets. one sheet is white and has some white embroidery and some white lace...
one sheet is white with small blue flowers... the sheet with blue flowers is flannel and old... so soft because its flannel and so soft because its old.
i cut them up, into squares and rectangles and stripes and arranged them like a queen size comforter sized collage on the floor.
and this will be the second day that im spending sitting in the collage with a seam of it turned backwards and upside down across my lap.
The needle that im sewing with is blackened on the tip; no doubt because my mom used it at one point to remove a splinter from my brothers or my finger...
At some point in my training as a human being i picked up the piece of subtlety that tells me that this should be symbolic... this blackened, sterilized, poisen, or pain removing tool
that im using now to build a blanket.
that im using now to build a thing.
to entertain myself
to put something into my days
to put a splinter back into my finger
because thats where the interest is...
Dont worry im not pricking my fingers with it on purpose...
im entertaining myself with the idea of fourteen year old brides to be, sewing wedding sheets and wedding shoes and wedding gifts, for their doweries, out of silk, for their husbands, for their children, for their beds.
the truth is that these thoughts float by me while i sew.
i see the thoughts, i put them in neat words, i think about maybe blogging about them
but as soon as i do
they become lies
isnt that odd.
maybe that will change one day.
but for now,
that fact that i think in words, and sometimes in diologue
that fact that i think in themes
and sometimes in rhyms
or rythym
or alliteration
...though never in spelling or punctuation
these facts make everything quite... well crazy actually.
who am i thinking for?
and thats why i sew.
and paint the walls.
painting the walls is the best...
i painted the walls while i waited to hear from purchase, to hear weather or not i had gottan in.
and when i got waitlisted i kept painting
and when i got accepted i stopped.
and the the kitchen was white.
and now people visit and say 'you know, your house feels like a beach house.'
and now theyll visit my bedroom and say 'i like your quilt.' and ill say 'thank you, i made it.' and they'll say 'no way!'
or maybe ill wait for them to sit on my bed.
theyll lie down and their toe or maybe a clip in their hair will get snagged on my loose stitching
and then theyll say "omgod did you make this?!" and ill smile with my lips together in that way that makes me feel like a little girl, and ill nod and get into the bed with them.
...and as long as we're being comoletely truthful, after that i will probably bring my laptop under the covers with us and read them this blog post... and depending on how truthful im feeling that day, i will either omit this last bit, or leave in it.
Friday, June 4, 2010
At Gloaming
INT. CAR- 5:00.
KATRINA:we're going to have like one hour of lake.
KATIE: but we'll be there at sunset.
KATRINA:Gloaming
KATIE: magic hour. its the best time to film, there's skylight not sunlight... wait. is gloaming a real word?
KATRINA:yes.
KATIE: use it in a sentence.
KATRINA:...
KATIE: is it like 'at the gloaming?' or 'at the gloaming of the day?' or... like 'in the morning.' is it 'in the gloaming?'
KATRINA:..at gloaming.
KATIE: at the gloaming?
KATRINA: at gloaming.
(first of all... dont have characters named katrina and katie in the same screenplay.)
EXT. LAKE- AT GLOAMING
She floats on her back and looks at the sky. All she can see is sky.
(never say that in a screenplay... it doesnt mean anything... 'all she can see..' how do we know that thats all she can see? how are you going to show it in an image? All-she-can-see is not a thing... i suppose saying:
POINT OF VIEW SHOT: up at the sky, only the sky, nothing but sky... that might be acceptable.)
she has positioned herself directly in this spot, with much arm paddling and eye focusing (i suppose this could be narration...)
NARRATOR: she has positioned herself intentionally in this spot, in the center of this bit of lake, a good distance away from the shore, and a equal distance from the little rock island.
HIGH ANGLE- shes floating on her back, squinting at the pink and blue and white sky.
HER, V.O. Floating in a reflection of the sky is almost as good as floating in the sky. i like it when i think about water and realize that its strange. i like realizing that things are strange.
KATIE: put your face really close to the surface
they swam towards the shore,
KATIE:see how it looks?...
It looks like glass... but that’s not new.
It looks like hot moving liquid glass, but you know that... but think about it.
How completely impossible is water?
There's so much of it... and it moves and you can fall through it...
and then back on the shore, on the sheet, eating pasta with our fingers, quickly before the others get back from the tiny rock island. eating with our fingers
KATRINA: before civilization returns.
and we ate cheese and ginger snaps and someone defined the term: Metafiction
'...more than fiction. beyond fiction' she said
EXT. THE END OF A PIER- DAY
They sit as far forward on the edge of the platform as they dare.
they have not removed their shoes.
they rest thier shoes on the top of the water and let the water float the rubber souls , and their feet go up and down. the water feels like plastic, like a fabric parachute or a trampoline
and she imagines how much more room there would be in the world if we could walk on water.
KATRINA:we're going to have like one hour of lake.
KATIE: but we'll be there at sunset.
KATRINA:Gloaming
KATIE: magic hour. its the best time to film, there's skylight not sunlight... wait. is gloaming a real word?
KATRINA:yes.
KATIE: use it in a sentence.
KATRINA:...
KATIE: is it like 'at the gloaming?' or 'at the gloaming of the day?' or... like 'in the morning.' is it 'in the gloaming?'
KATRINA:..at gloaming.
KATIE: at the gloaming?
KATRINA: at gloaming.
(first of all... dont have characters named katrina and katie in the same screenplay.)
EXT. LAKE- AT GLOAMING
She floats on her back and looks at the sky. All she can see is sky.
(never say that in a screenplay... it doesnt mean anything... 'all she can see..' how do we know that thats all she can see? how are you going to show it in an image? All-she-can-see is not a thing... i suppose saying:
POINT OF VIEW SHOT: up at the sky, only the sky, nothing but sky... that might be acceptable.)
she has positioned herself directly in this spot, with much arm paddling and eye focusing (i suppose this could be narration...)
NARRATOR: she has positioned herself intentionally in this spot, in the center of this bit of lake, a good distance away from the shore, and a equal distance from the little rock island.
HIGH ANGLE- shes floating on her back, squinting at the pink and blue and white sky.
HER, V.O. Floating in a reflection of the sky is almost as good as floating in the sky. i like it when i think about water and realize that its strange. i like realizing that things are strange.
KATIE: put your face really close to the surface
they swam towards the shore,
KATIE:see how it looks?...
It looks like glass... but that’s not new.
It looks like hot moving liquid glass, but you know that... but think about it.
How completely impossible is water?
There's so much of it... and it moves and you can fall through it...
and then back on the shore, on the sheet, eating pasta with our fingers, quickly before the others get back from the tiny rock island. eating with our fingers
KATRINA: before civilization returns.
and we ate cheese and ginger snaps and someone defined the term: Metafiction
'...more than fiction. beyond fiction' she said
EXT. THE END OF A PIER- DAY
They sit as far forward on the edge of the platform as they dare.
they have not removed their shoes.
they rest thier shoes on the top of the water and let the water float the rubber souls , and their feet go up and down. the water feels like plastic, like a fabric parachute or a trampoline
and she imagines how much more room there would be in the world if we could walk on water.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Artificial Intelligence
She stands at the top of the hill. Below her there are bulldozers digging the foundation for a new holiday inn. The same lot used to house a roller rink; the kind of charming 90’s attraction that was a perfect place for birthday parties, where charming 90’s children wearing floral leggings with stretched out baggy knees, raced around in circles, staring at the flapping stretched out sleeves of the of the 90’s boys who always remained the same distance ahead.
There were girls who realized that they could turn around, catch their targets by skating in the opposite direction. Those girls were the first to be kissed... suddenly, like crashing, as the boys came around the turn.
They Circled around the skinny little girls with the muscular arms and legs, the ones who were flat chested even at fourteen. They wore tight clothes and were probably figure skaters, here to show off their spins and arabesques, protected from the others by orange traffic cones. They should have looked clumsy in their chunky roller blades but instead they looked balanced out, their strong arms matched their heavy feet.
There was a concession stand and a dark arcade. There were signs that recommended that you take off your skates before entering the arcade and if a staff member cought you skating on the rug you’d have to sit down where you were, take off your skates, and walk around in your white socks which glowed like your teeth in the black light.
She remembers how the wheels of her skates felt different against the bottoms of her feet when she skated on the carpet. Like walking on the grass feels different after jumping on a trampoline for hours.
She liked to imagine that the arcade had a wood floor and the rink had a rug, or, better yet: there should be many different rinks all with different textured floors. And the skaters would be blindfolded and have to guess what they were skating over.
She watches the construction and decides that she blames video games. Video games are why everyone stopped going to the roller rink, that’s why it was closed and abandoned.
There was a sign on the fence that marked it as a condemned building. There was a hole in the fence that was easy to climb through and a broken window leading into an office where the door was off its hinges and then you were inside. Inside a huge black space, empty except for the disconnected black wires poking out of the floor and walls where all the machines had been removed, and once you’d gone there were beer bottles, broken glass and graffiti.
The bulldozer down below pauses, mid way through lifting its loud of dusty dirt. The machines head, on its long jointed neck, looks up at the girl.
This is the moment, she realizes, when it has developed artificial intelligence. Inside its brain of pure logic and reason, it now knows that, for the safety of the planet, all humans must be eliminated.
The girl does not have time to escape. Behind the eyes of the dragon-like killing machine, a computer screen that sees everything in a scale of dark reds and light reds, zooms in, onto the image of the girl. Little numbers and arrows appear all around her, indicating her heart rate, temperature, eye movement, turning her to a diagram.
The girl begins to run. She’s not in very good shape and right away she knows she wont get far.
The machine untangles itself, calmly, all joints, all elbows and shoulders. It bounds forward towards the bottom of the hill, weaving between the piles of dirt that turned to hills when grass sprouted all over them, when construction was halted last summer.
The machine weaves or rolls around, towards the girl, up the hill. Machines never hurry. They calculate how fast they have to go to gain on you and they maintain that speed until they catch you.
And maybe this is the way its supposed to be, she thinks, as her sandels, not at all made for running, slap against the sidewalk and then slap against her heels, maybe we're supposed to be caught.
There were girls who realized that they could turn around, catch their targets by skating in the opposite direction. Those girls were the first to be kissed... suddenly, like crashing, as the boys came around the turn.
They Circled around the skinny little girls with the muscular arms and legs, the ones who were flat chested even at fourteen. They wore tight clothes and were probably figure skaters, here to show off their spins and arabesques, protected from the others by orange traffic cones. They should have looked clumsy in their chunky roller blades but instead they looked balanced out, their strong arms matched their heavy feet.
There was a concession stand and a dark arcade. There were signs that recommended that you take off your skates before entering the arcade and if a staff member cought you skating on the rug you’d have to sit down where you were, take off your skates, and walk around in your white socks which glowed like your teeth in the black light.
She remembers how the wheels of her skates felt different against the bottoms of her feet when she skated on the carpet. Like walking on the grass feels different after jumping on a trampoline for hours.
She liked to imagine that the arcade had a wood floor and the rink had a rug, or, better yet: there should be many different rinks all with different textured floors. And the skaters would be blindfolded and have to guess what they were skating over.
She watches the construction and decides that she blames video games. Video games are why everyone stopped going to the roller rink, that’s why it was closed and abandoned.
There was a sign on the fence that marked it as a condemned building. There was a hole in the fence that was easy to climb through and a broken window leading into an office where the door was off its hinges and then you were inside. Inside a huge black space, empty except for the disconnected black wires poking out of the floor and walls where all the machines had been removed, and once you’d gone there were beer bottles, broken glass and graffiti.
The bulldozer down below pauses, mid way through lifting its loud of dusty dirt. The machines head, on its long jointed neck, looks up at the girl.
This is the moment, she realizes, when it has developed artificial intelligence. Inside its brain of pure logic and reason, it now knows that, for the safety of the planet, all humans must be eliminated.
The girl does not have time to escape. Behind the eyes of the dragon-like killing machine, a computer screen that sees everything in a scale of dark reds and light reds, zooms in, onto the image of the girl. Little numbers and arrows appear all around her, indicating her heart rate, temperature, eye movement, turning her to a diagram.
The girl begins to run. She’s not in very good shape and right away she knows she wont get far.
The machine untangles itself, calmly, all joints, all elbows and shoulders. It bounds forward towards the bottom of the hill, weaving between the piles of dirt that turned to hills when grass sprouted all over them, when construction was halted last summer.
The machine weaves or rolls around, towards the girl, up the hill. Machines never hurry. They calculate how fast they have to go to gain on you and they maintain that speed until they catch you.
And maybe this is the way its supposed to be, she thinks, as her sandels, not at all made for running, slap against the sidewalk and then slap against her heels, maybe we're supposed to be caught.
Saturday, May 15, 2010
Stop Motion For The Summer
int. Bedroom- night
A thin man lies on his back on the floor. the floor is sand. the man's whole body glows. He is looking at the ceiling where faces and hands protrude from the plaster like there are people trapped inside it. Wherever his eyes look there is a spotlight. When he blinks everything goes dark.
he sits up and looks at the wall and the light reveals a door. He stands and goes to the door, opens it and walks away into a void.
ext. void
He walks. his feet are in sand. a BLACK THING comes and walks beside him. It's eyes are shiny.
BLACK THING: excuse me.
the glowing man looks at him.
BLACK THING: sorry. but would you mind looking up?...
the glowing man looks up and sees stars.
BLACK THING: thank you.
the glowing man looks back at him.
BLACK THING: no no. please. just a few moments more.
the glowing man looks up again and the black thing turns to look up at the stars.
BLACK THING: I knew they were there. Will you look at them, for me, forever?
the glowing man looks back at the black thing, surprised and scared. he shakes his head. then he runs away. the black thing calls after him. and runs after him.
BLACK THING: no! stop!
the black thing grabs the glowing man around the neck and holds his face pointing his eyes up.
the glowing man breaks away and runs away. the black thing falls to his knees and cries as the light dissapears he dissapears.
INT. BEDROOM- NIGHT
the glowing man opens the door and runs in. closes the door behind him. and leans against it. he slides down to the ground and pulls his eyes shut with his hands.
ext. house
the house is glowing from the inside the light blinks. flickers.
INT. BEDROOM- NIGHT
the glowing man is digging into the sand. he digs a hole and goes into it. his light fades as he gets deeper and deeper.
EXT. HOUSE
the light fades.
INT. BEDROOM- NIGHT
THe hole in the floor is glowing but the light is fading and then finally it is gone.
The trapped faces and bodies in the walls and ceiling stare, unseeing.
fin.
A thin man lies on his back on the floor. the floor is sand. the man's whole body glows. He is looking at the ceiling where faces and hands protrude from the plaster like there are people trapped inside it. Wherever his eyes look there is a spotlight. When he blinks everything goes dark.
he sits up and looks at the wall and the light reveals a door. He stands and goes to the door, opens it and walks away into a void.
ext. void
He walks. his feet are in sand. a BLACK THING comes and walks beside him. It's eyes are shiny.
BLACK THING: excuse me.
the glowing man looks at him.
BLACK THING: sorry. but would you mind looking up?...
the glowing man looks up and sees stars.
BLACK THING: thank you.
the glowing man looks back at him.
BLACK THING: no no. please. just a few moments more.
the glowing man looks up again and the black thing turns to look up at the stars.
BLACK THING: I knew they were there. Will you look at them, for me, forever?
the glowing man looks back at the black thing, surprised and scared. he shakes his head. then he runs away. the black thing calls after him. and runs after him.
BLACK THING: no! stop!
the black thing grabs the glowing man around the neck and holds his face pointing his eyes up.
the glowing man breaks away and runs away. the black thing falls to his knees and cries as the light dissapears he dissapears.
INT. BEDROOM- NIGHT
the glowing man opens the door and runs in. closes the door behind him. and leans against it. he slides down to the ground and pulls his eyes shut with his hands.
ext. house
the house is glowing from the inside the light blinks. flickers.
INT. BEDROOM- NIGHT
the glowing man is digging into the sand. he digs a hole and goes into it. his light fades as he gets deeper and deeper.
EXT. HOUSE
the light fades.
INT. BEDROOM- NIGHT
THe hole in the floor is glowing but the light is fading and then finally it is gone.
The trapped faces and bodies in the walls and ceiling stare, unseeing.
fin.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
The Day After
Theyre all slumped in easy chairs or standing on the rediculously long line line, waiting for coffee, swaying from side to side, leaning their heads on their shoulders and rolling their red eyes at the panicking baristas.
Theyre blinking in the f22 sunlight, groaning and slowly remembering where each of their bruises came from.
So many of them were on drugs last night... I hear little pieces of their conversations- little tale-tale phrases.
"my first, first time? or my first time getting high?"
"I really like intellectual girls." says the smelly looking boy with the stained sweatshirt. He's slouched in his chair holding his coffee on his lap. "I like girls who control me... It must have been really obvious cuz I had a huge grin on my face, but I wish she didnt live in New Hampshire..."
The actress-girl sitting at the high table next to the toaster is wearing fake glasses... I think. I've never seen her wear glasses before.
A tall boy enters, makes his way over to the couple thats seated at the table behind me. I can't see his face as he begins to recount his last night's adventures. "...dropped my keys down the fucking elevator shaft. I didn't even know that that was possible."
"how do you spell pretentious?" Molly asks me across the table. I tell her that i don't know. just wing it.
"Boys, girls anything... he would hook up with anything!"
"He was so funny. We were on our way to ihop and he kept turning around and asking me 'how many kids do you want to have?'"
"Down the fucking elevator shaft!" "I've never heard of that..."
"he has to form a conversation, he can't just say something."
"i dont care anymore."
"honestly?"
"...its his swag! He just stands there and doesnt say anything!"
"last night was the first time i heard him say more than three things."
"I wasnt faking it. I just felt it."
Everytime two people enter, walking close together, I cant help but assume that they just woke up in the same bed.
They might not actually know each other. Maybe one just held the door for the other and then as they walked in they seemed to be arriving as a pair... I have no idea, but I imagine them lying on the same pillow ten minutes ago, an inch away from the other's face. Girls and boys, boys and boys, girls and girls... They all might have spent the night with the person walking beside them now.
"Right back there and make a right." A girl just got directions to the bathroom. Now I know she doesn't go to school here.
Theyre blinking in the f22 sunlight, groaning and slowly remembering where each of their bruises came from.
So many of them were on drugs last night... I hear little pieces of their conversations- little tale-tale phrases.
"my first, first time? or my first time getting high?"
"I really like intellectual girls." says the smelly looking boy with the stained sweatshirt. He's slouched in his chair holding his coffee on his lap. "I like girls who control me... It must have been really obvious cuz I had a huge grin on my face, but I wish she didnt live in New Hampshire..."
The actress-girl sitting at the high table next to the toaster is wearing fake glasses... I think. I've never seen her wear glasses before.
A tall boy enters, makes his way over to the couple thats seated at the table behind me. I can't see his face as he begins to recount his last night's adventures. "...dropped my keys down the fucking elevator shaft. I didn't even know that that was possible."
"how do you spell pretentious?" Molly asks me across the table. I tell her that i don't know. just wing it.
"Boys, girls anything... he would hook up with anything!"
"He was so funny. We were on our way to ihop and he kept turning around and asking me 'how many kids do you want to have?'"
"Down the fucking elevator shaft!" "I've never heard of that..."
"he has to form a conversation, he can't just say something."
"i dont care anymore."
"honestly?"
"...its his swag! He just stands there and doesnt say anything!"
"last night was the first time i heard him say more than three things."
"I wasnt faking it. I just felt it."
Everytime two people enter, walking close together, I cant help but assume that they just woke up in the same bed.
They might not actually know each other. Maybe one just held the door for the other and then as they walked in they seemed to be arriving as a pair... I have no idea, but I imagine them lying on the same pillow ten minutes ago, an inch away from the other's face. Girls and boys, boys and boys, girls and girls... They all might have spent the night with the person walking beside them now.
"Right back there and make a right." A girl just got directions to the bathroom. Now I know she doesn't go to school here.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Done
Im done and my room is almost empty.
my mom came yesterday and i sent three bins of clothes and suitcase of books home with her.
im moving out sunday and ill have a lot less stuff cuz one trip has been made already.
my closet is empty.
a lot of things that should be hanging in it are in drawers because i sent all my hangers home.
im done with all my work.
my one final is done. i analyzed Won Kar Wei (sp?)'s In The Mood For Love and said that the cigarette he was smoking was like the truth he was speaking and said that as the smoke blew from his lips and filled the air, the filmmaker focused on it and showed us shots of it because it was a metephore for 'the truth.' i wrote four and half pages in my blue book.
I forgot the title of Igmar Bergmen's 'Persona' i wrote "perception' oops.
im done.
i have to transfer my film to digital.
its strange that if i dont transfer it and i take it home on film it will be stuck there until next year.
i mean... its there but i dont have a projector at home so i have no way to let it out so it might as well not exist.
i have to transfer it.
'your class has cinematography down." said the sophmore after watching mine and molly's films.
thank you sophmore. i appreciate that.
'your film would be the best one in the class if you reedited it." said a different sophmore. she said shed help me.
"it doesnt make sense but i like the tone. i like it i just dont know what happened" said another upperclassmen.
i love that. i like that my work can stand on its own without even something as nessisary as sense... its still a thing.
"if that was a filmfestival you would win." Said my friend, not a film student but i appreciate it anyway... heh.
gah.
sophmore year... video...
video!!! im scared.
im asleep.
goodnite.
my mom came yesterday and i sent three bins of clothes and suitcase of books home with her.
im moving out sunday and ill have a lot less stuff cuz one trip has been made already.
my closet is empty.
a lot of things that should be hanging in it are in drawers because i sent all my hangers home.
im done with all my work.
my one final is done. i analyzed Won Kar Wei (sp?)'s In The Mood For Love and said that the cigarette he was smoking was like the truth he was speaking and said that as the smoke blew from his lips and filled the air, the filmmaker focused on it and showed us shots of it because it was a metephore for 'the truth.' i wrote four and half pages in my blue book.
I forgot the title of Igmar Bergmen's 'Persona' i wrote "perception' oops.
im done.
i have to transfer my film to digital.
its strange that if i dont transfer it and i take it home on film it will be stuck there until next year.
i mean... its there but i dont have a projector at home so i have no way to let it out so it might as well not exist.
i have to transfer it.
'your class has cinematography down." said the sophmore after watching mine and molly's films.
thank you sophmore. i appreciate that.
'your film would be the best one in the class if you reedited it." said a different sophmore. she said shed help me.
"it doesnt make sense but i like the tone. i like it i just dont know what happened" said another upperclassmen.
i love that. i like that my work can stand on its own without even something as nessisary as sense... its still a thing.
"if that was a filmfestival you would win." Said my friend, not a film student but i appreciate it anyway... heh.
gah.
sophmore year... video...
video!!! im scared.
im asleep.
goodnite.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
film scars
once upon a time
i did that thing that theyve been telling us from the very begining not to do
and i tried to stop the split reel with my hand and i sliced my finger in two places.
but i like it
cuz ill have a scar to show next years freshmen. "look," ill say "dont try to stop a rewind with your hand. youll loose a finger."
and i also like it cuz i get to wear a blue band aid on it.
but it hurt.
i did that thing that theyve been telling us from the very begining not to do
and i tried to stop the split reel with my hand and i sliced my finger in two places.
but i like it
cuz ill have a scar to show next years freshmen. "look," ill say "dont try to stop a rewind with your hand. youll loose a finger."
and i also like it cuz i get to wear a blue band aid on it.
but it hurt.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Friday, April 9, 2010
Not Editing
Behind a sign on the door that says "im editing in here. go away" i am actually not editing. i am sitting on the editing room floor, writing this poem.
Small Teeth
There's this place in a city somewhere
The part of the city where
The buildings are tight together
And the washing hangs on lines like street fair banners
From your window to my window on a pulley that if pulled the right way
Brings my clothes to me
And the wrong way sends my clothes to you.
It's spring in this part of the city and
Cherry trees that only wish they were cherry trees
They're not really
They're really just pink
which cherries aren't
The cherry trees drop petals but it's fine
They always have more... always.
And the the petals get everywhere
But mostly they gather
In piles in the corners
That the trash cans make with the walls.
After you buzz up and I buzz you inside.
I grin so widely that
I have to cover my mouth even though
There's no one to see
I'm afraid you'll notice how small my teeth are.
And the minute you open the door you can smell
The sweet and stale smell of emulsion on reversal film
Which i know I've told you before
Reminds me of 'The Day After'
Spent in a basement room, looking at the projection screen
Or at the back of the boy's head.
Wondering if he knew that that had been my first kiss
And wondering what I was supposed to do.
And you hand me my whites
Which had ended up through your window
"Thats really just my excuse
For coming to see you." you say
And I smile and show you all my small teeth
Small Teeth
There's this place in a city somewhere
The part of the city where
The buildings are tight together
And the washing hangs on lines like street fair banners
From your window to my window on a pulley that if pulled the right way
Brings my clothes to me
And the wrong way sends my clothes to you.
It's spring in this part of the city and
Cherry trees that only wish they were cherry trees
They're not really
They're really just pink
which cherries aren't
The cherry trees drop petals but it's fine
They always have more... always.
And the the petals get everywhere
But mostly they gather
In piles in the corners
That the trash cans make with the walls.
After you buzz up and I buzz you inside.
I grin so widely that
I have to cover my mouth even though
There's no one to see
I'm afraid you'll notice how small my teeth are.
And the minute you open the door you can smell
The sweet and stale smell of emulsion on reversal film
Which i know I've told you before
Reminds me of 'The Day After'
Spent in a basement room, looking at the projection screen
Or at the back of the boy's head.
Wondering if he knew that that had been my first kiss
And wondering what I was supposed to do.
And you hand me my whites
Which had ended up through your window
"Thats really just my excuse
For coming to see you." you say
And I smile and show you all my small teeth
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Jumpsuit
In this highly hypothetical situation a hypothetical person bought a blue and white striped romper/jumper/ one-piece piece of clothing at the salvation army.
she, the hypothetical person, is wearing it right now.
she likes it.
it looks like summer and a sailboat in the 50's.
when she sits down on the floor and leans over to type on her laptop which is also on the floor in front of her, the jumpsuit, being one piece, does not reveal any part of her but crack.
all in all is quite a wonderful article of clothing apart from the two tiny suspiciously brown stains on hem of the left leg.
but.
the reason i am telling her story, the hypothetical girl's story, is because she is afraid to wear the jumpsuit.
shes afraid of wearing a lot of things.
even things that look good.
its not that she is afraid of looking bad. its quite the opposite actually.
for some reason, that she has begun recently to blame on certain converstations and experiences with women in her childhood- this hypothetical girl is afraid of looking good.
isnt that odd?
i think so.
the sound of the thoughts that accompany this fear are mostly about people noticing that she is trying to look good.
or trying in any way to be anything really.
whats wrong with trying? i asked her quite recently and she said that she didnt think that there was anything wrong with trying. that in fact she loves people who try. it makes them seem alive when they try, try to look good, try to climb a mountain, try to dive off a high dive...
anything that they cannot do that they are trying to do is beautiful to the girl. but somehow in herself... even though shes gottan over most of the problems with looking like shes trying... for instance: she cannot climb a mountain but would not be embarressed for you to see her try to climb a mountain or paint with oil paint of load a bolex camera...
for some reason clothing is still hard...
but
just like 'fat ankels" being her least favorite thing about herself
she supposes that
being afraid to wear a jumpsuit is not the worst thing to be afraid of.
for instance... shed rather feel this fear than a fear of spiders..
or a fear of feet.
she knows people who are afraid of feet and she knows people who are afraid of spiders..
she wonders if effects thier sunny days just as overpoweringly as fear of trying to look good and actually... she doubts that it does.
she, the hypothetical person, is wearing it right now.
she likes it.
it looks like summer and a sailboat in the 50's.
when she sits down on the floor and leans over to type on her laptop which is also on the floor in front of her, the jumpsuit, being one piece, does not reveal any part of her but crack.
all in all is quite a wonderful article of clothing apart from the two tiny suspiciously brown stains on hem of the left leg.
but.
the reason i am telling her story, the hypothetical girl's story, is because she is afraid to wear the jumpsuit.
shes afraid of wearing a lot of things.
even things that look good.
its not that she is afraid of looking bad. its quite the opposite actually.
for some reason, that she has begun recently to blame on certain converstations and experiences with women in her childhood- this hypothetical girl is afraid of looking good.
isnt that odd?
i think so.
the sound of the thoughts that accompany this fear are mostly about people noticing that she is trying to look good.
or trying in any way to be anything really.
whats wrong with trying? i asked her quite recently and she said that she didnt think that there was anything wrong with trying. that in fact she loves people who try. it makes them seem alive when they try, try to look good, try to climb a mountain, try to dive off a high dive...
anything that they cannot do that they are trying to do is beautiful to the girl. but somehow in herself... even though shes gottan over most of the problems with looking like shes trying... for instance: she cannot climb a mountain but would not be embarressed for you to see her try to climb a mountain or paint with oil paint of load a bolex camera...
for some reason clothing is still hard...
but
just like 'fat ankels" being her least favorite thing about herself
she supposes that
being afraid to wear a jumpsuit is not the worst thing to be afraid of.
for instance... shed rather feel this fear than a fear of spiders..
or a fear of feet.
she knows people who are afraid of feet and she knows people who are afraid of spiders..
she wonders if effects thier sunny days just as overpoweringly as fear of trying to look good and actually... she doubts that it does.
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Making the Monster
im typing on my white mac keys with black fingers... ive been making a monster.
a huge black monster with hands where its eyes should be.
and angel wings... white feathers hot glued to chicken wire attached on hinges to a harness that looks like a gun holster.
im making a movie...
the movie is about a play.
my main character is the costume designer/ creature designer for the play.
the character/ the filmmaker (heh me) makes these creatures and brings them to the theater and the actors try on their wings and devil horns and yeah....
i ran out of hot glue so i have to wait to get a ride to AC more the get more.
i really need to learn to drive.
i used to say i didnt need a license because i got along so well with my parents that i could always ride int eh car with them... that was a stupid thing to say.
because now im nineteen and i dont have a license and i need more hot glue.
"and i do believe its true that there are roads left in both of our shoes and if the silence takes you then i hope it takes me too."
im listening to last years playlists on my computer. because i havent been on this computer in like a year because ive had my lap top at school with me...
"i want to float higher above waves of electric wire and stare down onto the street. i see you drunk with cute glazed eyes. telling me about the girl i should meet someday."
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