denver in the summer

from august, honest

SHE CAN’T HARDLY WAIT

I was in the park at a quarter to one with my fingers wrapped around the chain link fence, watching them. There they were, dancing together on the blacktop beneath makeshift spotlight. It was silent, except for the passing cars. The cold went down my spine. I hadn’t seen him all summer, and now here I was, no better than a peeping tom. He always thought I talked too much.
I had to leave the party. I watched from the doorway as they were kissing on the futon, it was too much. I had excused myself politely saying I was going to the bathroom. The front door was open for the smokers; it just looked like I was looking for better conversation. But here I was in the park. I had run all the way down, in the middle of the street because asphalt is supposed to be better for your knees than pavement. On the way I had stopped and sat in a wet front lawn to catch my breath. The park wasn’t any help, I couldn’t forget things I wanted to and seeing the shadows of their dancing just reminded me of more things I didn’t want to remember.
So I went to the supermarket.
It was full of cardboard boxes for restocking. All the workers with kneepads were stoned. There were only four other shoppers. Once there I didn’t know what to do. I asked where the Fritos were. Seventh aisle, snacking goods. I bought them and sat outside on one of the concrete picnic tables trying to figure out my next move, and my future. At first I planed on going to Denny’s and staying there until it was late enough in the morning to go home. But I had spent my coffee money on the salty Fritos. Cursing myself for not getting a drink I decided I would go to college but only after a year off. Maybe I could sneak in through the window, but I had too much energy to sleep. I would live in a big city.
I considered if he wasn’t real while crumpling the bag, and looked down at my sneakers.
I spotted the meth couple from inside leaving and decided to follow them. They took the shopping cart all the way to their apartment complex two blocks away. I think their names were Reggie and Fred. Fred had a strong jaw and intimidating eyes and would be attractive if he didn’t have a mullet he pulled back into a ponytail. Reggie had big dyed red hair that was turning orange at the tips. I sat in the stairwell and listened to them bicker over the radio. ‘California Dreamin’ came on and all the arguing stopped, all I heard was the man say, “Shh…listen”. The song echoed down my staircase.
After that I walked home.
On the way I kicked a dumpster and saw the girl who flashed everyone at the football game. At home I peeled dried glue off my hand and thought about how he had ripped the cover off my favorite book.

farts and crafts

black swan II - ending

Black swan
They thought he was a real psycho, the kind that would go postal and shoot up the school; and even though he had held a knife to my throat and told me I was beautiful, I didn’t believe him because it was a dull blade. Of coarse we knew better and that his crazy eyes were just an act, and the way he went off on people was just his way of blowing off steam. They kept an eye on him though, and after one of the copycat bomb threats they got even more suspicious.
He was a runner, that’s for sure. And he ran fast. We all knew what he was running from. Technically we were all running from the same thing. His friends would sit on the sides of the tracks smoking cigarettes and clocking him, usually as far away from the flimsy bleachers as possible. He probably would’ve shot us all if he didn’t have his running. Everyday in the late afternoon he would go out and run. Afterwards he’d come off the tracks panting with his head down like a dog and go to the showers, not looking at anyone. The one time he wouldn’t look you directly in the eye. He moved here from Ohio in his second year of high school and didn’t seem to have a problem fitting in. I think that surprised his teachers the most. I had no idea whether he was a good student or not, all I knew was that he could run. Everyone knew, even the track coaches who were constantly trying to get him to join, even with his reputation. Somehow the librarians seemed to hate him the most; it was like he went there just to get kicked out. I think it was them, with their black beady eyes and tight buns that "tipped them off". I don’t think he was particularly close to anyone but he had a lot of friends. The way he ran you knew something more was going on in his head.
I sat with his friends that I didn’t know to well and listened to the quiet thumping and slapping of his sneakers on the Astroturf that must’ve matched his heartbeat. It would get louder and quieter each time he came around. And even though his chuck taylors would slowly get looser and unlaced, he didn’t stop. The focus he had made you think he really was insane. Everyone secretly wondered about him, although no one besides the teachers ever said anything.
He hated school. You could tell he was trying to out run everything. Early morning, late at night, whenever anything started to get to him he’d go running. Thinking: “I can’t make myself believe the next ones any better. Is the next one better?”
He lasted until April. In the afternoon we went to see him run, as usual. And he didn’t stop, he didn’t even slow down. He just kept going around the track, beating out the lub dubs in his chest. We waited for him to collapse from dehydration, but even that didn’t stop him. This confirmed our suspicions that he was sub-human, or on steroids. After sundown someone had turned on their headlights so he could see the track lines.
Soon enough everybody just got bored and went home to watch TV.
It wasn’t ‘till a month later when we realized no one had seen him out on the tracks since then. Eventually we just figured he ran away. I guess he never stopped running.
You just can’t forget something like that.

vif

posts from years of yore

Thursday, December 01, 2005

i swear, my hair tangles every chance it gets. its so cold it goes straight to your bone. i'm not giong to be warm again until may. i hate waking up when its dark outside. my skin is so dry its like its been frozen and is cracking like ice does when you step on it. even my lips are dry, but i love the dead skin on your lips you peel off with your teeth when your bored and biting your lip in class. i just wish it would finally snow.

Sunday, January 08, 2006

I know every nook and krany of boulder city. This, sadly, is not a feat of any kind. I feel shellshocked, horrified, and culture clashed all at the same time. Boulder sucks, Colorado sucks. The first Saturday since I got back I felt bored, for the first time in 3 weeks, within three hours of waking. There is nothing to do, nothing to see, nothing to experience that hasn't been done a hundred times before. The monotony of school as dribbled into the weekend. Everything is the same and systematic. I want something new! Something fresh! This happened to me around the same time last year and I regretted every choice I made to make it exciting again, so I am a little hesitant to do anything about it, but I cant go on like this for much longer!



interesting that i feel exactly the same way now. stupid small towns.

No Shadows

potential continuation of story?

Winter was cold and blue, with amazing sunsets made by the condensed pollution. Even though he could see his breath and the cold air stung his lungs he kept running. Everyday after school. He would still take showers afterwards, letting his damp hair dry while he waited for the bus, threatening pneumonia. With his grades slipping it was obvious that few things mattered to him. We had kissed that day I was at his house at September, and he had just become another person who I would only think about in passing. Somehow we continued to gravitate towards each other, and the familiar feeling wouldn’t go away.The winter gave me chapped lips, and reminded me of Picassos blue period.


nevermind. i dont think i like the direction its taking.

L

His name was Mark and he was addicted to meth. He had a girlfriend with pale pasty skin who always reminded him that he was an asshole. Whenever she told him this, Mark would just scratch his shaved head and walk away, he knew she was just coming down. She had loved him once, if that was possible, but now all mystery had been stripped away and that was why she knew the truth about him, that he was just an asshole.
His brother was a construction worker and still had a life to live. He would leave early in the morning at an hour Mark was never awake, unless he was high. They all lived together, Mark, his brother Joe, and his girlfriend Suzie, in a small trailer. Joe got the bedroom (he paid rent) and Mark and Suzie would share a mattress on the floor that was splitting at the seams. It was a wonder Joe hadn’t kicked them out yet, all they’d do was bicker and get high. Joe and Mark barely talked anymore, Joe didn’t want to get roped in to Marks world, and Mark couldn’t face the shame in Joes eyes. They had never been particularly close as children.
Sometimes Joe would come “home” for lunch; the new mall he was working on was just a few blocks away. Mark and Suzie would still be passed out on the mattress, with the broken Venetian blinds spilling jagged light on their bodies. Suzie lay there, topless, sprawled out on her belly with her holey underwear riding up. Joe never stayed long, even though he found the scene peaceful.
Finally, after several months of Mark and Suzies fighting getting worse and worse, Joe just gave the damn thing to Mark and moved into an apartment complex with asbestos paint and thin walls. Mark never respected Joe, he knew all he did at work was whistle at young girls, and when Joe had tried to get him a job, Mark had rejected it knowing Joe had done it out of pity. Now, sitting shirtless on the end of the mattress with Suzies heavy breathing and the broken fan in the background, staring at the ripped screen door and smelling urine, all Mark wanted to do was get high.

Mark drove the shitty old ford down to Safeway. He sped there, and when he parked by the corner his breaks squealed. Mark had a headache and wiped his sweaty palms on his stained jeans. He walked towards the grocery store in a hurry. His slouching, heavy walk. Mark was thinking about Suzie.
He went in and bought a box of crayons and a large pad of paper. In line he asked Billy the bag boy where he could find some “L”.
“Out back,” Billy said, “from the Mexicans”.
Suzie was an acid freak. She would trip for hours, lying on her stomach in her underwear drawing what she saw with crayons. It was the only time she left Mark alone. This was when he would get high. While Suzie drew her multi-colored muscular figures on the floor of the trailer, Mark would sit in the corner with his fathers old typewriter and pound out letters. He would type a page, crumple it up, toss it to the side and type another page. When Suzie and Mark both came down they would hit the mattress and sleep for days. Marks crumpled paper would look like tissues from someone with a bad cold. Suzies drawing scared mark a little, he often wondered what she thought about and the things she saw. She could draw very well, but all she would do was doodle on diner napkins or when she was hallucinating.
Sometimes Suzie would wake up before Mark. She would quietly uncrumple the sheets and read what he wrote, then crumple them up again. His writing was mostly a blur but here and there there would be words or phrases that would make Suzie wonder about the asshole she spent every night next to.
Mark went behind Safeway. There were two Latino men next to the dumpsters, like Billy said, smoking cigarettes and spitting.
“Uh, Billy said you guys have some acid?” Mark said, shifting his weight.
The two men stood up straight and put their hands in their pockets. They pointed their chins out and looked down their noses.
“What are you? Narc?” one said through a thick accent.
Mark scratched his head and slouched a little.
In the end he got it, but it had been an uncomfortable interaction.
Around five am the next morning, Suzie had stabbed Mark to death, she had had a bad trip.

black swan

They thought he was a real psycho, the kind that would go postal and shoot up the school; and even though he had held a knife to my throat and told me I was beautiful, I didn’t believe him because it was a dull blade. Of coarse we knew better and that his crazy eyes were just an act, and the way he went off on people was just his way of blowing off steam. They kept an eye on him though, and after one of the copycat bomb threats they got even more suspicious.
He was a runner, that’s for sure. And he ran fast. We all knew what he was running from. Technically we were all running from the same thing. His friends would sit on the sides of the tracks smoking cigarettes and clocking him, usually as far away from the flimsy bleachers as possible. He probably would’ve shot us all if he didn’t have his running. Everyday in the late afternoon he would go out and run. Afterwards he’d come off the tracks panting with his head down and go to the showers, not looking at anyone. The one time he wouldn’t look you directly in the eye. He moved here from Ohio in his second year of high school and didn’t seem to have a problem fitting in. I think that surprised his teachers the most. I had no idea whether he was a good student or not, all I knew was that he could run. Everyone knew, even the track coaches who were constantly trying to get him to join, even with his reputation. Somehow the librarians seemed to hate him the most; it was like he went there just to get kicked out. I think it was them, with their black beady eyes and tight buns who "tipped them off". I don’t think he was particularly close to anyone but he had a lot of friends. The way he ran you knew something more was going on in his head.
I sat with his friends that I didn’t know to well and listened to the quiet thumping and slapping of his sneakers on the Astroturf that must’ve matched his heartbeat. It would get louder and quieter each time he came around. And even though his chuck taylors would slowly get looser and unlaced, he didn’t stop. The focus he had made you think he really was insane. Everyone secretly wondered about him, although no one besides the teachers ever said anything.
I don’t know how he felt about girls, he never took them seriously.

I had gone over to his house once, a real shit hole with a broken screen door. The nubby beige carpet had stains that looked like continents. We sat in the kitchen; the walls were stained with his mothers cigarette smoke. We had a couple of cokes and just sat on the linoleum floor. I ran my fingers over the dents in the tiles from his mothers’ heels while he talked about something I didn’t listening to. He said there was nothing to do so he’d make trouble. It gave him things to run from. The aluminum from the coke can gave me a metallic aftertaste.

star wars

today i was wearing my target bought star wars t-shirt. at the end of french class, the geekboy just short of a rat tail caught my attention. he asked me "have you ever read any of the star wars books, or have you just seen the movies?"
i should probably mention his voice cracked.

a short term effect (lets base this on real life)

he did not recognize a single face when he walked into the room and sat down in the hard plastic chair. everyone was a stranger, and the feeling of never seeing so many people before was new to him. he was from a small town, and wherever he had gone he always recognized at least someone he had met at least once or twice at a party or something. thats when we shook hands and introduced ourselves. we became close once we realized we were both tired of talking about the weather.

we went to the back of the school and lay in the damp football field.
one year earlier a thirteen year old boy had died there. we had gone to the memorial even though we didnt know the kid. there were candles and flowers and crayon drawings. everything about it was morbidly fascinating and we shared the guilt of being there, somewhere we didnt belong. i remember the crying parents, and the girl with the words "we shall never forget" written with a pen on her thin wrist. i had made fun of it and he looked at me like i was a bitch, because all i am is a dumb bitch.
the damp had seeped into our clothes. we got in his car and drove past the hospital and up the mountain. i wasnt wearing my seatbelt and he was driving fast. i had flashes of us flying off the road, and it thrilled me. the music was to loud and filled the hollows of our bodies.





i give up.

lostnfound

Edie

kira.yells.

gang of four

factory setting

kaiandtristan

school + postmodernism = 5

i know what you're thinking

They sat in the dry grass with limbs tangled. Pollen was being carried in the air and she would sneeze occasionally, trying to hide as her face crinkled, giving a flash of the future, with her delicate hand. After teasing her she told him to get lost, and he did. He got up and went to the bus stop, and she did not go after him. She got up and rode her bike home. She could not explain her feelings rationally and as much as she hated him, daydreams of them together always snuck in. she rode her bike absentmindedly and almost got hit by a car. This did not bother her. At home she took some Claritin and rubbed her eyes. He called her later that night inviting her out, but she denied for whatever reason she gave herself. Instead she went to bed and pretended nothing was there. A couple days later at school he came up to her and her friend, but instead of acknowledging him she turned to her friend and became extremely interested in nail polish. He was neither ugly nor handsome, she felt she could do better. Her friend pointed out there was nothing wrong with him and nothing else had more potential. She took this into account and decided she was not ready for a "relationship" full of sweaty palms and awkward glances. this decision stopped nothing. it did not solve the glances he would give her, and the feeling she got from them.

i feel very cut off from humanity out here in the boonies of south boulder.

a classroom setting

he sat there, in the back left of the class popping his knuckles and chewing on a black pen cap. he was tired and it showed. in his eyes, in his face. he looked awkward sitting in the desk. his large figure was much to big for the molded blue plastic chair attached to fake wood. he wasnt listening to the teacher. no one was. a class of 40 and almost everyone had their head on the textbook in front of them. thats the only reason i noticed him, i was able to see him for the first time. he was staring at something just beyond the clock with no expression. he wasnt even blinking.

SOPHIE HATES

sophie hates school.

how amusing

dorkdorkdork

Plato's Symposium:

"People were hermaphrodites until God split them in two, and now all the halves wander the world over seeking one another. Love is the longing for the half of ourselves we have lost."

Your standards will kill yourself.

i dont know what to do.

She cant hardly wait

I was in the park at a quarter to one. I watched them through the chain link fence with my fingers wrapped around it.
they were dancing together under the spotlight on the blacktop. It was silent, except for the cars passing by.
I felt the cold go down my spine. I hadn't seen him all summer, and here I was, no better then a peeping tom. He always thought I talked to much.
I was in the park because I had to leave the party. I watched them kiss on the futon from the doorway and I couldn't take it. I had excused myself politely saying I was going to the bathroom. The front door was open for the smokers, so I think people just thought I was going to find a better conversation. But here I was in the park. I had run all the way down there, in the middle of the street because asphalt is supposed to be better for your knees then pavement. I stopped and sat in a front lawn to catch my breath on the way. The park wasn't any help, I couldn't forget things I wanted to and seeing the shadows of their dancing just reminded me of more things I didn't want to remember.
so I went to the supermarket.
it was full of boxes for restalking and all the workers were stoned. There were only four other shoppers and all looked sufficiently intoxicated. Once I was there I didn't know what to do. I decided to ask where the fritos where. I bought them and left. I ate the fritos outside on one of the concrete picnic tables trying to figure out my next move, and my future. At first I planed on going to dennys and staying there until it was late enough in the morning to go home. But I had spent my coffee money on the salty fritos, I cursed myself for not getting a drink. I decided I would go to college but only after a year off. Maybe I could sneak in through my window, but I had to much energy to go to sleep. I would live in a big city.
I considered if he wasn't real while I crumpled the bag and looked down at my sneakers.
I spotted the meth couple I saw inside leaving and decided to follow them. They took the shopping cart all the way to their apartment building two blocks away. I sat in the stairwell and listened to them bicker over the radio. 'California dreamin'' came on and all I heard was the man say "shh...listen", and the song filled the air. I think there names were reggie and Fred. Fred had a strong jaw and piercing blue eyes and would be attractive if he didn't have a mullet that he pulled back into a pony tail. reggie had big red hair.
after that I walked home.
on my way I kicked a dumpster and saw the girl who flashed everyone at the football game. I went home and peeled dried glue off my hand and thought about how he had ripped off the cover of my favorite book.

my least favorite month is august

i feel like we used to have fun.
i am tired of being bored. arent you?



sometimes i forget to hate myself.

tapioca

i love tapioca pudding, but i rarely get to eat it. i always get long periods of cravings for it, ever since i was a child. i leap for joy each time the rare possibility of available tapioca pudding. well, i caved in. i bought tapioca mix and decided to make it myself. i burnt it. all pudding is difficult to make. but i was still determind. i ate spoonfulls of the burnt pudding. it was disgusting. i just wanted that sweet pudding so badly. later as i was developing calouses from scouring the pot i realized what i had been reduced to.
well today i tried again and i won. the tapioca is cooling in the fridge as i write this. you have no idea of the self satisfation that i am feeling right now.

why i love alicia (even when shes crippled)

this is a post taken from january; enjoy, i certainly did.
Obsession.
obsession: A recurring, unwanted idea that cannot be eliminated. Obsessive ideas are often unreasonable and disturbing. Preoccupation with an obsessive idea can interfere with normal daily activities.


my obsessions (or rather things that only point to me being OCD):

-sophie's house
-sophie's mom
-coffee
-cigarettes
-sophie's perfume
-grilled cheese
-cheese in general
-sandwiches in general
-myspace
-labeling things with my label maker
-washing my hands
-shredding paper
-drunken sluts
-following a perfect routine every morning
-making sure public bathroom doors are locked before i pee
-eating pistachios
-quarters
-daily seinfeld references

so much more... and so little motivation.



HAHA!
love
sophie

The MAN Trip

Frank

frank. frank runs a hot dog stand. "franks franks". it is on the corner of 35th and blaine. somehow, this hot dog stand makes his taxes complicated. frank has a heavy accent. lets say its chicago. ok, frank is from chicago illinois. his hot dog stand is a living. it is franks full time job. frank is not particularly friendly, but all hes selling is hot dogs and the occaisional pepsi. he would sell coke, but pepsi cuts hot dog venders a deal. frank is 52. he has been running the hot dog stand about 15 years, and has gained 50 pounds. personally, he likes mustard on his hot dogs, thats it. he doesnt have much of a fondness for relish. frank is balding. his wife left him years ago, but he still has his dog.
frank is unhappy.

it was in our dead suburbia
during the tv land dryspell
beneath the yellowing
of the streetlamps
and jumping out of headlights
that we discovered
the surreal
and the people of dennys
we felt the gravel as we slipped on our shoes
and climed out the window
feeling insomnia like red bull
at times we considered early
and learned how to sleep on a futon.

"Pot bellies make a man look either oafish, or like a gorilla. But on a woman, a pot belly is very sexy. The rest of you is normal. Normal face, normal legs, normal hips, normal ass, but with a big, perfectly round pot belly. If I had one, I'd wear a tee-shirt two sizes too small to accentuate it. I don't give a damn what men find attractive. It's unfortunate what we find pleasing to the touch and pleasing to the eye is seldom the same."

dead fiction

i swear this wont be a photo blog.

faye