jacket weather
they walked home the same way but tried not to make eye contact. she would stop every now and then to crack the ice in the gutters and he had to slow himself down to keep behind her.
sometimes she got a ride to school with her friends. they would pass him walking through the park crushing frost covered grass.
she was shy like bruised knees from slipping on the ice [violet and ash]. the chill of winter wind pulled back her scarf and therw her hair in her face, stricking it limply. to get to school she had to walk through a group of snow dead trees with long and crooked limbs exposed without their leaves.
everyday after school she would fall asleep on the vinyl couch with missing buttons to a patric swayze movie. she stretched on the couch and changed the channel until she found "dirty dancing". she would play with her unwashed hair and try to bite the dirt out from underneath her fingernails. picking at her dry skin and biting her cheek. when she would wake up the screen flickered out as she left to take advil.
occasionally they would be on the same bus going downtown. she would watch his reflection in the window. he would run his hand over his chin and tuge slightly on the skin above his adams apple, feeling his acne and ingrown stubble.
other days when she took the bus alone, when the only other people were homeless and old women with grocery bags, she would watch blue light hit flat buildings.
they pretended not to notice each other and became interested in minor personal flaws when crossing paths. they understood the pain of winter, and how it felt when it hit your bones. how that cough comes in november and stayes in the hollows of your ribs until march.
Disclamer:
i realize i could (and have) done better. but i need a story for ellipses and this is the only idea i have. frustrating, i know. believe me, i would ditch it if i had something better. maybe in march?
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Saturday, February 17, 2007
air
"We knew the pain of winter wind rushing up your skirt, and the ache of keeping your knees together in class, and how drab and infuriating it was to jump rope while the boys played baseball...We felt the imprisonment of being a girl, the way it made your mind active and dreamy, and how you ended up knowing which colors went together." --The Virgin Suicides
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
Sunday, January 28, 2007
Saturday, January 13, 2007
the first thing i've written all year. kind of.
the lungs filled like air bags when the boy blew into them at the nine news health fair, showing the effects of smoking.
she had ditched gym and it was the only place to go. her socks had ridden down and the elastic was slack around her ankles, making her three year old sneakers uncomfortable.
she felt dumb in her dirty p.e shorts and avoided eye contact with him on the bleachers.
apparently he had skipped as well and decided against going to the library in sport clothes, just like her.
he came down anyway skipping every other step and took a written test on drunk driving next to her. they were both just doing it for the lolly pop.
he rubbed his eyes because his contacts were bothering him. he put his finger to the iris, trying to adjust it. she shivered and looked down at her chipping nail polish.
where the hell is this going? no where. lets try again.
she had ditched gym and it was the only place to go. her socks had ridden down and the elastic was slack around her ankles, making her three year old sneakers uncomfortable.
she felt dumb in her dirty p.e shorts and avoided eye contact with him on the bleachers.
apparently he had skipped as well and decided against going to the library in sport clothes, just like her.
he came down anyway skipping every other step and took a written test on drunk driving next to her. they were both just doing it for the lolly pop.
he rubbed his eyes because his contacts were bothering him. he put his finger to the iris, trying to adjust it. she shivered and looked down at her chipping nail polish.
where the hell is this going? no where. lets try again.
Tuesday, January 02, 2007
can you tell how hard i am trying to be edgy yet?
"
anything on this earth is bound to have some evil mixed in with it. the white man isnt really together with his own people - to think so is overestimating his power. people who want freedom should consider the white mans weakness. he's insane! he rapes and kills his own, robs his own banks, cheats his own system, ignores his sick and helpless and old. they throw each other into ovens and make lampshades and upholstery from their own hides.
then they lie about these things to each other in their newspapers.
"
charles mingus 'beneath the underdog'
anything on this earth is bound to have some evil mixed in with it. the white man isnt really together with his own people - to think so is overestimating his power. people who want freedom should consider the white mans weakness. he's insane! he rapes and kills his own, robs his own banks, cheats his own system, ignores his sick and helpless and old. they throw each other into ovens and make lampshades and upholstery from their own hides.
charles mingus 'beneath the underdog'
Monday, January 01, 2007
i dont want to think about it
http://www.exxonsecrets.org/
is there hope?
http://www.foe.co.uk/campaigns/climate/case_studies/index.html
is there hope?
http://www.foe.co.uk/campaigns/climate/case_studies/index.html
Sunday, December 24, 2006
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
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.
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.
Thursday, December 07, 2006
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
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.
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.
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
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.
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.
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.
Thursday, November 09, 2006
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.
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.
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