Tuesday, June 28, 2011


Cleared a path through the unusual snowfall
Our hands were cold, our hearts warm in the wet snow

Asked me if I still believe in Santa Claus
Well, Santa Claus is a very fine fellow

When we reached that frozen lake,
I thought it looked like it was strong enough to stand on
Held your hand as we softly took the first step
Ignoring cracks, bubbles, we're strong swimmers
We'd be walking on water in the summer

Held our ground through low clouds and dark skies
Clothes were damp and our skins cold to the touch, touch

Asked ourselves if we still believe in old tales
Stories come and they go but they come from somewhere

When we jumped through that frozen lake
I thought the fire was a lovely thing to lean on
Kissed your cheek and said "Darling, we're strong swimmers but
if I go down you better call Holly to save me"

We'd be buried in the water in the summer
We'd be leaning on lake tides and lilies

We've got the biggest hearts
At a big love

And we're all strong swimmers

We've got the biggest hearts
At a big love

We've got the biggest hearts

And we're all
And we're all
And we're all
Strong swimmers

Some beautiful wisdom from Said the Whale.

The wind is a million miles an hour.

Sunday, June 26, 2011

Wincing the night away

If I was the story telling type I could probably tell you some interesting stories. I find, though, that stories really aren't my thing. Maybe I'm not creative enough, it probably boils down to my lack of patience. I just can't seem to think up a story that would be in any way worth reading or telling. When things happen to me I have hard time putting them in a story like format. I work better with fragments. Plot lines are too linear.

The master of random ramblings (as well as my own personal hero) is Kurt Vonnegut. He tells stories in such an un-story like way. Please, help yourself out and read Slaughterhouse-Five. When you're finished with that, I reccomend A Man Without a Country.

Listen here:

"There was a still life on Billy's bedside table-two pills, an ashtray with three lipstick-stained cigarettes in it, one cigarette still burning, and a glass of water. The water was dead. So it goes. Air was trying to get out of the dead water. Bubbles were clinging to the walls of the glass, too weak to climb out."

"I want to stand as close to the edge as I can without going over. Out on the edge you see all the kinds of things you can't see from the center."

"If I should ever die, God forbid, let this be my epitaph: THE ONLY PROOF HE NEEDED FOR THE EXISTENCE OF GOD WAS MUSIC"

"Here we are, trapped in the amber of the moment. There is no why."

"And Lot's wife, of course, was told not to look back where all those people and their homes had been. But she did look back, and I love her for that, because it was so human. So she was turned into a pillar of salt. So it goes."

"I was a victim of a series of accidents, as are we all."

"Unusual travel suggestions are dancing lessons from God."

"I am eternally grateful for my knack of finding in great books, some of them very funny books, reason enough to feel honored to be alive, no matter what else might be going on."

"All right - I'll tell you what you did for me: you went for happy, silly, beautiful walks with me."

"If you want to really hurt your parents, and you don't have the nerve to be gay, the least you can do is go into the arts. I'm not kidding. The arts are not a way to make a living. They are a very human way of making life more bearable. Practicing an art, no matter how well or badly, is a way to make your soul grow, for heaven's sake. Sing in the shower. Dance to the radio. Tell stories. Write a poem to a friend, even a lousy poem. Do it as well as you possibly can. You will get an enormous reward. You will have created something."

There's much much more where that came from. Do yourself a favor and read yourself a book.

Monday, June 20, 2011

Once I lost everything on my ipod.

And I cried.

Damn computers and their confusing questions and severe and untimely consequences of accidental button clicks. Now all my precious music is floating around somewhere in oblivion and little fragments of it are entering unsuspecting heads. If you find yourself humming random bits of Ra Ra Riot or The Cure or perhaps quietly singing, "gold teeth and a curse for this town are all in my mouth..." then I may be the one to blame. Sometimes fate is an ugly design. I want my music back.

And off we went to Canada.

Wednesday, June 15, 2011

In exactly 3 hours and 45 minutes I leave to trek across Wyoming...

In the meantime, aren't these guys (THE STROKES) cool? What is it with boys in bands?

The room is on fire as she's fixing her hair.

Tuesday, June 14, 2011

Friday, June 10, 2011

The curious incident of the dog in the nightime

I LOVE _____* with all my heart.

(Thrift shopping is my safe place.)

Today for lunch I had chocolate cake and for dinner I had mint ice cream.

*name omitted for neccessary purposes.

Thursday, June 9, 2011


I imagine the perfect way things should go or should have gone. Even little interactions tweaked just a bit, or perhaps a whole lot, until they are the way I wish. Sometimes it's whole dialogues I play out in my head. Other times it's a matter of the seemingly insignificant details.

I can always think of the perfectly right thing to say. I can always be perfectly placed:book in lap, hair in face, sitting cross-legged. It happens in parks or at bookstores or in my third period math class. The conversation is always perfectly balanced, as we play off eachother with ease.

Mostly though things happen in the dark on the curb in front of a friends house or in my crappy basement or at Wendys. My hair bun is always a little lopsided, I stutter over my words, I call him back when I should let him get in the car. I'm never the right amount of mysterious. The second party of the conversation doesn't follow the script. I don't say the perfectly right things.

We were 20,000 underneath the sea.

Tuesday, June 7, 2011

That's what I miss Cordelia: not something that's gone, but something that will never happen.

I'm not happy nor sad. I'm sitting on a fence in between and it's spiky and barbed and uncomfortable as hell. It's nice to be happy and have fun and laugh and dance around. It's nice to be sad and lonely and write sad poetry and read books. I don't like the fence thing. The fence thing is like a bunch of pretty paints all mixed together so it turns an ugly sort of brown.

Right now I feel like an ugly sort of brown. I feel like the murky water in the cup after you've washed your paint brush in it lots of times. I feel like the weather when its drizzling/slightly cloudy and you feel like hiding in the basement until it clears up or just starts pouring rain. I feel like the milk at the bottom of my bowl of finished coco puffs.

Remember those elementary school posters that show kids with their faces portraying some sort of emotion and are labeled "happy, sad, mad, excited" and so on? I wish I had one of those, maybe I could figure out my emotions after analyzing my facial expression in the mirror.
What happens when I'm all of them? Do they all together equal "confused"? Or maybe just "certifiably insane", where's the cute little kid for that?

Monsters eat them up

Waking in the morning

running up the stairs

flicking on the lightbulb

to find your brain is bare.

Your dreams have been poured out

like an empty, upturned cup

and are swirling down the bath drain

where imagined monsters eat them up.

Monday, June 6, 2011

"The truth about the world, he said, is that anything is possible. Had you not seen it all from birth and thereby bled it of its strangeness it would appear to you for what it is, a hat trick in a medicine show, a fevered dream, a trance bepopulate with chimeras having neither analogue nor precedent, an itinerant carnival, a migratory tentshow whose ultimate destination after many a pitch in many a mudded field is unspeakable and calamitous beyond reckoning.

The universe is no narrow thing and the order within it is not constrained by any latitude in its conception to repeat what exists in one part in any other part. Even in this world more things exist without our knowledge than with it and the order in creation which you see is that which you have put there, like a string in a maze, so that you shall not lose your way. For existence has its own order and that no man's mind can compass, that mind itself being but a fact among others."

- Cormac McCarthy

Ah, the way his words pull on my bones.

June 6, 2011

On this day, June 6, exactly 16 years ago it snowed.

Oh and also, I was born.

I'm lucky you're the defendant in the cosmos courtroom.