Saturday, March 31, 2007
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
Thursday, March 22, 2007
afterthought
it isnt important how, or where, or when, just that it happened, and every time i smell bubble gum or talcum powder i see your feet after a bath and the bubbles you popped too loudly in the movie theater. how you bit your nails with that silly expression on your face, your eyebrows in a knot looking as serious as a politician. you bit pens to, leaving tiny teeth marks, little dents that reminded me of the dime-sized ones ladies pumps left in linolium tiled floors. i try not to think of you then, when teen age girls laugh and smell the way you did-your shampoo and too sweet bubble gum. your breaths that would go in and out of being light and heavy. sighing, like you did, when Marlon Brando came on screen, and grabbing my hand with a sweaty palm underneath the velvet seat that was rough with all the other bodies. you were a feeling too strong to hold on to, dream-like, and i'm forgetting you. the places where freckles were, or the long slow line of your colar bone. soon you'll be a cancelled tv show, fuzzy images i'll only remember when reminded by something else. again your laugh. whether fast or slow, loud or soft, it always came from deep inside and you'd open your red mouth big and wide, we'd catch glimpses of your silver capped molar at dinner parties.
Sunday, March 04, 2007
inspired by recent events
Every Thursday during lunch we would watch them from the library windows as they went to smoke pot in the trees down by the lake.
Even on the day of the arrest.
Even in the winter, which caused them to develop 3 month long coughs that started from the bottoms of their chests and ripped through their lungs. They would come back just in time for science shaking there unwashed hair (which was the waxy texture of a bar of soap) and stomping the snow off their shoes with hazy looks in their eyes (that were not their eyes).
We sometimes talked to the less intimidating ones in our math classes, gathering details that would latter be pieced together as clues.
The nicer one, Laura, we had all seen her out smoking cigarettes in the morning and during breaks, had dark red hair. We had all read the headlines of the day before, the mystery of her mothers death and how her stoner boyfriend was arrested.it was on one of those Thursdays when they arrested her, took her into custody just after history. The local paper made it clear that no one really knew about anything that was going on. The state bureau of investigation had gotten involved, and clips of their interviews with the neighbors had been leaked, saying that neither Mrs. Roberts or Mr. Sawer had seen the mother for weeks, and the cigarette butts kept gathering on the front lawn. The paper made Laura and her steady boyfriend of five months to be rowdy and disconcerted youth.
Laura never particularly interested us, we just talked to her in a futile attempt to understand why her and her friends were so determined to distract themselves. we knew and had experienced their desperate attempt to escape suburban reality, but the excess of their apathy for one another always made us wonder if we were the same way but didn't know it yet.
we watched them, jaded and emotionally detached, like a television show. our friends were not our friends, and the ups and downs of their reality tv never really affected us. we only realized our lack of empathy after the murder. as the news articles became smaller and moved from the front page slowly to the back, and then disappeared completely, so did our interest in the girl who laughed heavily at Mr. Lawson, the English teachers, bad jokes.
Even on the day of the arrest.
Even in the winter, which caused them to develop 3 month long coughs that started from the bottoms of their chests and ripped through their lungs. They would come back just in time for science shaking there unwashed hair (which was the waxy texture of a bar of soap) and stomping the snow off their shoes with hazy looks in their eyes (that were not their eyes).
We sometimes talked to the less intimidating ones in our math classes, gathering details that would latter be pieced together as clues.
The nicer one, Laura, we had all seen her out smoking cigarettes in the morning and during breaks, had dark red hair. We had all read the headlines of the day before, the mystery of her mothers death and how her stoner boyfriend was arrested.it was on one of those Thursdays when they arrested her, took her into custody just after history. The local paper made it clear that no one really knew about anything that was going on. The state bureau of investigation had gotten involved, and clips of their interviews with the neighbors had been leaked, saying that neither Mrs. Roberts or Mr. Sawer had seen the mother for weeks, and the cigarette butts kept gathering on the front lawn. The paper made Laura and her steady boyfriend of five months to be rowdy and disconcerted youth.
Laura never particularly interested us, we just talked to her in a futile attempt to understand why her and her friends were so determined to distract themselves. we knew and had experienced their desperate attempt to escape suburban reality, but the excess of their apathy for one another always made us wonder if we were the same way but didn't know it yet.
we watched them, jaded and emotionally detached, like a television show. our friends were not our friends, and the ups and downs of their reality tv never really affected us. we only realized our lack of empathy after the murder. as the news articles became smaller and moved from the front page slowly to the back, and then disappeared completely, so did our interest in the girl who laughed heavily at Mr. Lawson, the English teachers, bad jokes.
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
renewed
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?
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 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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)