I'm just writing to write, because I can't write about Global Village or progressive book stores or homosexuality in modern Korea. I need to push something out to convince myself that there I can still form words by pressing on keys.
I have been thinking too much lately about things like this:
You can tell a lot about a person by his/her ___. Fill in the blank please, pour everything you've got into it: hair color, favorite wine, big toe, etc. You can tell a lot about a guy by the length of his dick/how he likes his steak/the color of his eyes. ETC. Et cetera. And so on. And so forth.
How can we classify people? I'm easy, I guess. I sleep on my stomach. My hair circles clockwise. My shoes oscillate somewhere between sizes 10 and 12. I love snow in December and hate it in March. I always wake up early. I listen to Ashlee Simpson and Elvis and Bon Iver and the Mavericks. I cannot listen to two trains of thought at once.
I can't hear what I'm not listening to.
Excuse me while I wax nostalgic.
Saturday, March 22, 2008
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Oh Great Sights
Thinking outrageously, I write in cursive.
I hide in my bed with the lights on the floor.
Wearing three layers of coats and leg warmers,
I see my own breath on the face of the door.
I think I've used that quote from Sufjan before, but I like to repeat my stories. Most days, I talk so loud, because I don't feel like anyone is listening (if you're listening, sing it back, etc).
It feels like someone has placed my time in an envelope and then in a tiny, wooden music box with the spinning ballerina inside that an elephant munched down like circus peanuts. I can hear the music (I think it's someone singing Azure Ray or Death Cab for Cutie), and I know I have some time here somewhere for progress or change or positivity, but I would much rather just watch re-runs of Will and Grace and listen to old Relient K and never change from exactly the person who I am right now. This is how I am when I feel like this:
For the past few days, I have woken up in the perfect atmosphere to lay with someone else. It's just a little too warm and the sheets are slanted with morning sunlight that wakes me gently. Jack Johnson plays somewhere in the background: Bubble Toes, probably. My legs are tangled in sheets and pillows, though, not other legs; it's not an arm making my neck ache. I move free from fear of waking someone from their even breathing.
It isn't a person I miss. I think that's the scariest part of all. I don't want anyone specific there (here, I mean), and I don't know if I ever really have. I just like the evenness of matched breaths and my stomach on anyone's back. That's a paradigm that I always feel safe discussing.
It's funny when I ask myself if I'm happy. I am nearly certain that I am happy, and that I have always been happy, and that I will always be happy. I'm not joyous or ecstatic; these things take tequila... or other things that leave me waking up with regret, like Mr. Last-nameless from almost forever ago. This is always the second I know that I have not been in that Bohemian l.o.v.e. that just makes the world around you fuzzy and mushy like butter that your roommate left out of the fridge for an entire weekend.
I'm still believing that when I find that sort of extended happiness, I won't experience this car-towing espresso karmic whiplash that tries to handcuff me to some cat or Taylor Swift song. I'm not coming back. Those people are rocks and hard places, baby, and I have some control over the voices in my head. "The opposite of love is not hate. It's indifference," and I just don't/can't care anymore.
Oh, I am not quite sleeping.
Oh, I am fast in bed...
Is it March 14th yet?
I hide in my bed with the lights on the floor.
Wearing three layers of coats and leg warmers,
I see my own breath on the face of the door.
I think I've used that quote from Sufjan before, but I like to repeat my stories. Most days, I talk so loud, because I don't feel like anyone is listening (if you're listening, sing it back, etc).
It feels like someone has placed my time in an envelope and then in a tiny, wooden music box with the spinning ballerina inside that an elephant munched down like circus peanuts. I can hear the music (I think it's someone singing Azure Ray or Death Cab for Cutie), and I know I have some time here somewhere for progress or change or positivity, but I would much rather just watch re-runs of Will and Grace and listen to old Relient K and never change from exactly the person who I am right now. This is how I am when I feel like this:
For the past few days, I have woken up in the perfect atmosphere to lay with someone else. It's just a little too warm and the sheets are slanted with morning sunlight that wakes me gently. Jack Johnson plays somewhere in the background: Bubble Toes, probably. My legs are tangled in sheets and pillows, though, not other legs; it's not an arm making my neck ache. I move free from fear of waking someone from their even breathing.
It isn't a person I miss. I think that's the scariest part of all. I don't want anyone specific there (here, I mean), and I don't know if I ever really have. I just like the evenness of matched breaths and my stomach on anyone's back. That's a paradigm that I always feel safe discussing.
It's funny when I ask myself if I'm happy. I am nearly certain that I am happy, and that I have always been happy, and that I will always be happy. I'm not joyous or ecstatic; these things take tequila... or other things that leave me waking up with regret, like Mr. Last-nameless from almost forever ago. This is always the second I know that I have not been in that Bohemian l.o.v.e. that just makes the world around you fuzzy and mushy like butter that your roommate left out of the fridge for an entire weekend.
I'm still believing that when I find that sort of extended happiness, I won't experience this car-towing espresso karmic whiplash that tries to handcuff me to some cat or Taylor Swift song. I'm not coming back. Those people are rocks and hard places, baby, and I have some control over the voices in my head. "The opposite of love is not hate. It's indifference," and I just don't/can't care anymore.
Oh, I am not quite sleeping.
Oh, I am fast in bed...
Is it March 14th yet?
Wednesday, January 02, 2008
I Don't Feel Any Different
The clanking of crystal.
So, everybody, out your best suit or dress on.
Let's make believe we are wealthy for just this once.
=== === === ===
Manhattan.
Two thousand eight. It sounds so ominous.
Let's take a moment to reflect on my two thousand seven. Look back before you look forward (etc.) I can't even remember how I rang it in. The events were as follows:
franklin ave, the cities every weekend, hot tubbing in cedars 94, taste of minnesota, dg feed, dg formal, relationship-single-faux.dating-together-not.together-single, chicago, new york, alone for spring break, watching stars, middle river, a very sweet v-day, leaderquest, the mayo clinic & a.f then banana republic then maybe the daily, jose cuervo, barbie hoes, cheap vodka (karkov, silver wolf, etc), miller high life, uv blue, xmas sweater parties, cry, cry cry,
and laughter.
So, everybody, out your best suit or dress on.
Let's make believe we are wealthy for just this once.
=== === === ===
Manhattan.
Two thousand eight. It sounds so ominous.
Let's take a moment to reflect on my two thousand seven. Look back before you look forward (etc.) I can't even remember how I rang it in. The events were as follows:
franklin ave, the cities every weekend, hot tubbing in cedars 94, taste of minnesota, dg feed, dg formal, relationship-single-faux.dating-together-not.together-single, chicago, new york, alone for spring break, watching stars, middle river, a very sweet v-day, leaderquest, the mayo clinic & a.f then banana republic then maybe the daily, jose cuervo, barbie hoes, cheap vodka (karkov, silver wolf, etc), miller high life, uv blue, xmas sweater parties, cry, cry cry,
and laughter.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
I Smoke Myself to Sleep.
This day is possibly the most perfect fall day weather that I have ever experienced: sixty-something with no clouds in the sky, and I was lucky enough to score an outside seat at Espresso Royale, where I sit in my raddest hipster-outfit... writing on my angsty blog. Sometimes I am just too much for myself! Artsy and such with lots of exposed calf-muscles.
Of course, the man to the left of me was just as lucky with his large pack of mentholated Newports that he insists on smoking incessantly. The woman next to me is smoking as well and "not well" as she (a landlord, I gather) is on the phone with her lawyer. The wind is changing directions and either way just results in ashes on my jeans. I have turned up Joshua Radin to irritate them away and, thus far, have failed in my attempts.
I don't have much to say, but sometimes I just enjoy letting my thoughts flow obnoxiously long (like the voicemails i leave on ridiculous answering machines).
Interesting tidbits in the life of John:
Xu (my accounting TA-guy) decided to announce when our first surprise quiz is occurring. However, he wouldn't tell us what it would cover... except that we should "pay attention to chapter 8 and make sure to look over pages 396-411 in our textbook." Oh Xu, you are so sneaky. How will I ever decipher your cryptic emails? I'm surely doomed to fail your course. However, your simple class is leaving me with an A- sitting at 95%. There is something illogical about those curve numbers.
Someone chose to "deface" the phone book attached to the pay phone in front of me, changing "Dex" to "Dextrose". If that isn't offensive, I don't know what is. Note to science-nerds (I'm not claiming immunity): when you choose to deface anything, try to throw in some sort of racist or sexist slur coupled with a signature marking your territory. It will convince people that you are actually hardcore... and spreading ignorance. Isn't that the point of graffiti? No, I think not.
On top of that, an Escalade driver is trying her very best to parallel park into a spot clearly only wide enough for a Prius.
I am now officially into changing into a completely new outfit at about 11:30 every day. I just can't stay out of my own closet!
I got the new Dashboard CD (and it's like they put a new one out every time I start a new relationship). That's a weird thought, actually, because it's actually about right the more I think of it. "Would it kill you breathe?" Maybe it would, Chris. Maybe it would.
"Don't pull that bullshit with me. Canadian twenty? This is America." I enjoy catching tidbits of cell phone conversations.
I want a daffodil. I want to always roll my pants up, because it makes people wonder if I actually bike or if I'm just a big douchebag. I would obviously regret to inform that it was a little bit of btoh. I want a Cabernet Sauvignon-fueled dance party. I want to be able to weave together a Halloween costume in the nick of time. I want people to wonder why I'm wearing a tie. I want to be notorious like James Dean and JFK and Elvis. I want to be so famous that I have to have my babies in Africa. I want denim and denim and denim and True Religion and Rock and Republic Seven for all Mankind and other brands that sound like social uprisings or post-hardcore bands. I want to not be asked on a date at work. I want to be so alive that it feels like my pores are splitting and giving life to everything around me. I want to reek of awe and wonder and Thanksgiving dinners. I want to be the colored-page of the newspaper, even if that means that I have to pose as the funny-page. I want a week off. I want to be credit-card debt free and decaffeinated and fueled by something other than grande lattes and franzia and anxiety.
"and I want life in every word to the extent that it's absurd."
I believe in clean breaks. Chris just made me think of that. I have recently said (and maybe always known) that I can never promise anyone I'll always be in their life as long as possible. I'm not like that. I'm a train who constantly switches tracks. I'm more of a helicopter: loud, roaming, all-seeing? Maybe not, but I'm trying to gain some perspective or something.
I believe in spirituality and karma and karma and religion that is more of a guideline than a hard-fast rule. I think everyone understands their own religion completely, especially those that just don't believe in religion at all. I believe that you can appreciate what you have without ever losing it. I believe that not everything happens for a reason. Somethings just happen. I believe in emo haircuts and self expression and leopard print and maybe even juicy couture sweatsuits and Uggs. I believe in forging your own style. Julie told me today that even though I don't match I was "starting my own trend." Maybe that's the key. Maybe, you always match and you always know what's going on... because at least you know that you don't know.
Scratch that helicopter thought. I'm more like a grasshopper. See how small my line of vision is? Every now and then I can jump to see so much more, but never everything... just everything I see.
Style is about being confident. If you think you're pulling it off, you're pulling it off. That's probably the only thing Banana Republic will teach me. If you think your shoulders look big in that blouse, they do. If you think combat boots match with caramel cashmere dresses, well they probably do.
I think that I'm done for now. Sometimes, I just need things like this to be stable and all-encompassing and karmically-inclined and open. Glasnost. Etc.
Close your eyes and I'll kiss you. Tomorrow I'll miss you. Remember I'll always be true, and, dear, while I'm away I'll write home everyday... and I'll send all my loving to you.
All my loving.
Of course, the man to the left of me was just as lucky with his large pack of mentholated Newports that he insists on smoking incessantly. The woman next to me is smoking as well and "not well" as she (a landlord, I gather) is on the phone with her lawyer. The wind is changing directions and either way just results in ashes on my jeans. I have turned up Joshua Radin to irritate them away and, thus far, have failed in my attempts.
I don't have much to say, but sometimes I just enjoy letting my thoughts flow obnoxiously long (like the voicemails i leave on ridiculous answering machines).
Interesting tidbits in the life of John:
Xu (my accounting TA-guy) decided to announce when our first surprise quiz is occurring. However, he wouldn't tell us what it would cover... except that we should "pay attention to chapter 8 and make sure to look over pages 396-411 in our textbook." Oh Xu, you are so sneaky. How will I ever decipher your cryptic emails? I'm surely doomed to fail your course. However, your simple class is leaving me with an A- sitting at 95%. There is something illogical about those curve numbers.
Someone chose to "deface" the phone book attached to the pay phone in front of me, changing "Dex" to "Dextrose". If that isn't offensive, I don't know what is. Note to science-nerds (I'm not claiming immunity): when you choose to deface anything, try to throw in some sort of racist or sexist slur coupled with a signature marking your territory. It will convince people that you are actually hardcore... and spreading ignorance. Isn't that the point of graffiti? No, I think not.
On top of that, an Escalade driver is trying her very best to parallel park into a spot clearly only wide enough for a Prius.
I am now officially into changing into a completely new outfit at about 11:30 every day. I just can't stay out of my own closet!
I got the new Dashboard CD (and it's like they put a new one out every time I start a new relationship). That's a weird thought, actually, because it's actually about right the more I think of it. "Would it kill you breathe?" Maybe it would, Chris. Maybe it would.
"Don't pull that bullshit with me. Canadian twenty? This is America." I enjoy catching tidbits of cell phone conversations.
I want a daffodil. I want to always roll my pants up, because it makes people wonder if I actually bike or if I'm just a big douchebag. I would obviously regret to inform that it was a little bit of btoh. I want a Cabernet Sauvignon-fueled dance party. I want to be able to weave together a Halloween costume in the nick of time. I want people to wonder why I'm wearing a tie. I want to be notorious like James Dean and JFK and Elvis. I want to be so famous that I have to have my babies in Africa. I want denim and denim and denim and True Religion and Rock and Republic Seven for all Mankind and other brands that sound like social uprisings or post-hardcore bands. I want to not be asked on a date at work. I want to be so alive that it feels like my pores are splitting and giving life to everything around me. I want to reek of awe and wonder and Thanksgiving dinners. I want to be the colored-page of the newspaper, even if that means that I have to pose as the funny-page. I want a week off. I want to be credit-card debt free and decaffeinated and fueled by something other than grande lattes and franzia and anxiety.
"and I want life in every word to the extent that it's absurd."
I believe in clean breaks. Chris just made me think of that. I have recently said (and maybe always known) that I can never promise anyone I'll always be in their life as long as possible. I'm not like that. I'm a train who constantly switches tracks. I'm more of a helicopter: loud, roaming, all-seeing? Maybe not, but I'm trying to gain some perspective or something.
I believe in spirituality and karma and karma and religion that is more of a guideline than a hard-fast rule. I think everyone understands their own religion completely, especially those that just don't believe in religion at all. I believe that you can appreciate what you have without ever losing it. I believe that not everything happens for a reason. Somethings just happen. I believe in emo haircuts and self expression and leopard print and maybe even juicy couture sweatsuits and Uggs. I believe in forging your own style. Julie told me today that even though I don't match I was "starting my own trend." Maybe that's the key. Maybe, you always match and you always know what's going on... because at least you know that you don't know.
Scratch that helicopter thought. I'm more like a grasshopper. See how small my line of vision is? Every now and then I can jump to see so much more, but never everything... just everything I see.
Style is about being confident. If you think you're pulling it off, you're pulling it off. That's probably the only thing Banana Republic will teach me. If you think your shoulders look big in that blouse, they do. If you think combat boots match with caramel cashmere dresses, well they probably do.
I think that I'm done for now. Sometimes, I just need things like this to be stable and all-encompassing and karmically-inclined and open. Glasnost. Etc.
Close your eyes and I'll kiss you. Tomorrow I'll miss you. Remember I'll always be true, and, dear, while I'm away I'll write home everyday... and I'll send all my loving to you.
All my loving.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
Wonderful Or Something
1 :: I will not frown just because I feel like frowning.
Lately, I haven't been able to breathe for more than a minute each day, and I'm not sure if this lack of spare time is really such an awful thing. I'm not happy unless I'm on the verge of something (whether it be a vacation or a mental break down). I always need something to look forward to.
I am looking forward to halloween and notre dame and losing to wisconsin and first paychecks all over again and christmas and rainy day mixes and my wife's notes and being home for the weekend and crying during movies and new york and my dad making me coffee again. These are the things I think of when my oxygen supply seems to be dwindling.
Otherwise, I just consume an obnoxious amount of caffeine and it seems to get me through.
2 :: I will do things that make me smile.
I am learning how to smile when I want to. I can sing michael buble at the top of my lungs while riding through the rain. So, maybe I will. And just maybe I will drink campagne and throw dance parties all by myself. Expect phone calls and listening to me using up my family's rollover minutes, because why would I want to call you only during nights and weekends?
I will stop buying things to feel better, maybe. I will pretend that I am Kara Nesvig and wear leopard print whenever I feel like it... even if it is just a pair of leopard print underwear. I will reveal too much to people that I don't know, because I like to feel exhibitionistic. I will stop fearing bright colors.
3 :: I will never stop checking my hair in semi-reflective surfaces... even if I go bald.
Lately, I haven't been able to breathe for more than a minute each day, and I'm not sure if this lack of spare time is really such an awful thing. I'm not happy unless I'm on the verge of something (whether it be a vacation or a mental break down). I always need something to look forward to.
I am looking forward to halloween and notre dame and losing to wisconsin and first paychecks all over again and christmas and rainy day mixes and my wife's notes and being home for the weekend and crying during movies and new york and my dad making me coffee again. These are the things I think of when my oxygen supply seems to be dwindling.
Otherwise, I just consume an obnoxious amount of caffeine and it seems to get me through.
2 :: I will do things that make me smile.
I am learning how to smile when I want to. I can sing michael buble at the top of my lungs while riding through the rain. So, maybe I will. And just maybe I will drink campagne and throw dance parties all by myself. Expect phone calls and listening to me using up my family's rollover minutes, because why would I want to call you only during nights and weekends?
I will stop buying things to feel better, maybe. I will pretend that I am Kara Nesvig and wear leopard print whenever I feel like it... even if it is just a pair of leopard print underwear. I will reveal too much to people that I don't know, because I like to feel exhibitionistic. I will stop fearing bright colors.
3 :: I will never stop checking my hair in semi-reflective surfaces... even if I go bald.
Saturday, October 13, 2007
Constant As A Northern Star
I have been boiling with impatience this week (the emotion, not the simple flowers that remind me of my mother). I am not tolerant of ignorance or defense mechanisms or joy.
I am this turbulent hurricane of emotion, and right now I'm standing in the eye of the storm. There is an eerie calmness about the silence of my kitchen at this time in the morning. Of course, at some point, my roommates will stumble in loudly and break another of my cheap possessions. Regardless, I feel like I can absorb all things from all directions (empathetic as follows: the way I imagine sea turtles to be [arms outstretched and such]).
I do this to myself every now and then (but mostly now). I, exhausted, have stretched myself thin into the night (with a strand of several long days behind me, and longer ones ahead) to accomplish nothing but almost-perfect peanut butter cookies from scratch and darker black circles under my eyes. Nights like this wax and wane introspection with a slight emphasis on my ego. It is Saturday night (or Sunday morning, for the nit-picky) and I have opted to ride my bike to Lund's (more details later) to bake. Why? I wanted to bake. I wanted to be Giada De Laurentiis whipping up some gelato for the surprise dinner party I happen to be throwing tomorrow night.
On my bike... (on the way to Lund's of course, because I feel glamorous there), a number of odd things happened in the fifty-block-total ride through one of the worst neighborhoods in Minneapolis. 1) I was called Lance Armstrong; 2) I was offered a blowjob (from three drunk girls, undeniably freshman looking for a ride); 3) I was almost hit by a car; 4) I was told by pedestrians to get off the sidewalks; 5) and by cars to get off the road; 6) I got two bad feelings (one each way in the same spot, in between 12th and 13th on University).
I hate fucking up. Probably more than anything, because I'm a real Virgo: critic, narcissist, perfectionist, constantly unhappy. I hate A minuses and cookies that are crunchy in an unpleasant way and dirty kitchens and fumbling over my words and shoes that don't match and not opening up credit cards. In review, if it isn't perfect, I'm not really a fan. At least I can acknowledge my flaws (though, if I fail to attempt to change, is it acknowledgment at all?) I confess. Virgo, Libra rising.
I believe that everything happens in threes.
I was asked on three dates today. None of them very conventional.
- To learn chopstick fluency at a sushi bar.
- To try on cowboy boots at some store on Lake Street (seriously.)
- To an opera (the only one I considered, before I realized the nature of the excursion).
Right now I only want three things:
I want to wear a scarf and not look stupid.
I want a four-point-oh.
I want to feel like I don't need caffeine to transfer oxygen to my bloodstream.
"I could drink a case of you, darling, and still be on my feet."
I am this turbulent hurricane of emotion, and right now I'm standing in the eye of the storm. There is an eerie calmness about the silence of my kitchen at this time in the morning. Of course, at some point, my roommates will stumble in loudly and break another of my cheap possessions. Regardless, I feel like I can absorb all things from all directions (empathetic as follows: the way I imagine sea turtles to be [arms outstretched and such]).
I do this to myself every now and then (but mostly now). I, exhausted, have stretched myself thin into the night (with a strand of several long days behind me, and longer ones ahead) to accomplish nothing but almost-perfect peanut butter cookies from scratch and darker black circles under my eyes. Nights like this wax and wane introspection with a slight emphasis on my ego. It is Saturday night (or Sunday morning, for the nit-picky) and I have opted to ride my bike to Lund's (more details later) to bake. Why? I wanted to bake. I wanted to be Giada De Laurentiis whipping up some gelato for the surprise dinner party I happen to be throwing tomorrow night.
On my bike... (on the way to Lund's of course, because I feel glamorous there), a number of odd things happened in the fifty-block-total ride through one of the worst neighborhoods in Minneapolis. 1) I was called Lance Armstrong; 2) I was offered a blowjob (from three drunk girls, undeniably freshman looking for a ride); 3) I was almost hit by a car; 4) I was told by pedestrians to get off the sidewalks; 5) and by cars to get off the road; 6) I got two bad feelings (one each way in the same spot, in between 12th and 13th on University).
I hate fucking up. Probably more than anything, because I'm a real Virgo: critic, narcissist, perfectionist, constantly unhappy. I hate A minuses and cookies that are crunchy in an unpleasant way and dirty kitchens and fumbling over my words and shoes that don't match and not opening up credit cards. In review, if it isn't perfect, I'm not really a fan. At least I can acknowledge my flaws (though, if I fail to attempt to change, is it acknowledgment at all?) I confess. Virgo, Libra rising.
I believe that everything happens in threes.
I was asked on three dates today. None of them very conventional.
- To learn chopstick fluency at a sushi bar.
- To try on cowboy boots at some store on Lake Street (seriously.)
- To an opera (the only one I considered, before I realized the nature of the excursion).
Right now I only want three things:
I want to wear a scarf and not look stupid.
I want a four-point-oh.
I want to feel like I don't need caffeine to transfer oxygen to my bloodstream.
"I could drink a case of you, darling, and still be on my feet."
Wednesday, October 03, 2007
We're Busy Still Saying Please
So. Thirty minutes until accounting.
My 'karma for the day' was simply "play."
I wrote and re-wrote this twice, but syllables are failing me. I am overwhelmingly happy and sad and not even sure that's possible, but I'm ready to take on the world's problems and remain tranquil and spread more happiness than sadness and bake more and hug more and smile more and shrug less.
Oh, how I would love to shrug less and speak more.
Today, I will dress for success.
Today, I will get involved.
Today, I will give a damn about something
(or nothing as long as it's something).
In other news, I don't like being twenty.
It is pretentious and pompous and makes me feel the same.
I'm already ready for Botox and collagen injections, but barely out of diapers.
My 'karma for the day' was simply "play."
I wrote and re-wrote this twice, but syllables are failing me. I am overwhelmingly happy and sad and not even sure that's possible, but I'm ready to take on the world's problems and remain tranquil and spread more happiness than sadness and bake more and hug more and smile more and shrug less.
Oh, how I would love to shrug less and speak more.
Today, I will dress for success.
Today, I will get involved.
Today, I will give a damn about something
(or nothing as long as it's something).
In other news, I don't like being twenty.
It is pretentious and pompous and makes me feel the same.
I'm already ready for Botox and collagen injections, but barely out of diapers.
Thursday, September 13, 2007
All You Need is Uggs.
This wind and my resume and the way
you look at me on Nicollet mall
and in your mirror
(my shirt is still on)
are pins
on ties
on shirts
on chests.
This button?
Unbutton!!button.button.
You are argyle
and I am plaid
and together we are adventurous
like high fashion magazines
and those boys in the cafe
pressing fingers on knees
pressing eyes into eyes
and thighs into thighs.
Those boys were youandi
who just happen to match
without planning.
like salesmen and workers at Williams-Sonoma.
you look at me on Nicollet mall
and in your mirror
(my shirt is still on)
are pins
on ties
on shirts
on chests.
This button?
Unbutton!!button.button.
You are argyle
and I am plaid
and together we are adventurous
like high fashion magazines
and those boys in the cafe
pressing fingers on knees
pressing eyes into eyes
and thighs into thighs.
Those boys were youandi
who just happen to match
without planning.
like salesmen and workers at Williams-Sonoma.
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Mood Rings, Bracelets, Beads
I've been reading back through a few of the letters that I wrote last summer, and while I'm so different I'm totally and completely the same. It's like no matter how much I grow up, I'm just a grown up version of my younger self. If that sounds confusing, it is. I am ready to be someone new.
Autumn.Autumn.Fall.Fall.
F-A-L-L
I'm READY for fall and different colored leaves and different colo[[red]] hair and windy Washington smoke-filled Avenue air. I'm ready for coffee shops and listening to my iPod too loud and not remembering everything and waking up backwards on my bed. I'm ready for Williams Sonoma and Pottery Barn and TJ Maxx and Salvation Army and Everyday People and Paper Denim and True Religion and Cole Haan and Nicollet. I'm ready for Stone Arch and the Format and the number twenty and Christmas music and kisses whenever I want them and As and Cs and forgetting to do assignments. I'm ready for writing things like this twice a week and getting text messages and dressing up to go out and staying in to watch Mean Girls.
I'm ready for dates and italian restaurants and chopsticks and Burberry keychains and Jonathan Adler and Michelle's bangs and orange and black 'I.D' cupcakes and buying shoes at thrift shops and wholesale and less pipetting and more latte-making. I'm ready for matchy-matchy and full-size beds and striped sheets and making you pancakes in the morning.
I'm ready for fitting rooms and rooftops and backseats of cars and golf courses and your bathroom and my shower and your roommate's bed and the balcony of every hotel and apartment in the tri-state area. I'm ready for nicotine and caffeine and angsty music and coffee with my wife and sugar-free vanilla lattes and being able to say "grande" and "venti" on a regular basis.
I'm ready... I'm READY[exclamat!!on po!!nt] . YdAeR m'I. I'm RE(a)Dy[insert question mark here] Yes, I think so.
And with three days to go I've got lists of things to pack and things to buy and things to miss and things to sing out loud and things to look forward to and things to make lists of.
*** {asterisk}{asterisk}{asterisk} ***
"So, whatever, I'm spilling my guts as usual. Uninvited, but it's like therapy for me... In a weird, let's-talk-about-our-feelings sort of way. So, you don't have to listen or try to understand. It's really disjointed, because I keep thinking of points I want to add, so I just go back and stick them in randomly, hoping it will sound smooth (it doesn't)." [[07.24.06]]
Autumn.Autumn.Fall.Fall.
F-A-L-L
I'm READY for fall and different colored leaves and different colo[[red]] hair and windy Washington smoke-filled Avenue air. I'm ready for coffee shops and listening to my iPod too loud and not remembering everything and waking up backwards on my bed. I'm ready for Williams Sonoma and Pottery Barn and TJ Maxx and Salvation Army and Everyday People and Paper Denim and True Religion and Cole Haan and Nicollet. I'm ready for Stone Arch and the Format and the number twenty and Christmas music and kisses whenever I want them and As and Cs and forgetting to do assignments. I'm ready for writing things like this twice a week and getting text messages and dressing up to go out and staying in to watch Mean Girls.
I'm ready for dates and italian restaurants and chopsticks and Burberry keychains and Jonathan Adler and Michelle's bangs and orange and black 'I.D' cupcakes and buying shoes at thrift shops and wholesale and less pipetting and more latte-making. I'm ready for matchy-matchy and full-size beds and striped sheets and making you pancakes in the morning.
I'm ready for fitting rooms and rooftops and backseats of cars and golf courses and your bathroom and my shower and your roommate's bed and the balcony of every hotel and apartment in the tri-state area. I'm ready for nicotine and caffeine and angsty music and coffee with my wife and sugar-free vanilla lattes and being able to say "grande" and "venti" on a regular basis.
I'm ready... I'm READY[exclamat!!on po!!nt] . YdAeR m'I. I'm RE(a)Dy[insert question mark here] Yes, I think so.
And with three days to go I've got lists of things to pack and things to buy and things to miss and things to sing out loud and things to look forward to and things to make lists of.
"So, whatever, I'm spilling my guts as usual. Uninvited, but it's like therapy for me... In a weird, let's-talk-about-our-feelings sort of way. So, you don't have to listen or try to understand. It's really disjointed, because I keep thinking of points I want to add, so I just go back and stick them in randomly, hoping it will sound smooth (it doesn't)." [[07.24.06]]
Saturday, August 04, 2007
Lilies and Such
Things that make me happy ::
Getting pictures in the mail, voicemails from someone I love in New Zealand, running in the rain, resurrecting near-death flowers, lists of unparallel items, matching fish, driving for three hours to see someone for two, laying around on gloomy days when you never have to feel bad about being unproductive, kissing quickly and checking to see if anyone saw, laughing to yourself, getting flowers, giving flowers, growing flowers, singing lyrics that don't make you sound ridiculous, one-hour road-trips, cobra lilies and jack johnson (preferably in conjunction with one another), wovens for nineteen-ninety, leaving the fitch on august 17th, etc.
There are so very few things that can make me feel as perfect as I do when I'm peeling off wet clothes after a run in the rain.
Things that make me feel like crying ::
The number thirty five and the letter double you.
Em. Eye. Ess. Ess. Eye. Ess. Ess. Eye. Pea. Pea. Eye.
Seventy hour work weeks.
So, when the things that make me happy grossly outweigh the things that make me sad, why do I still feel a little sick to my stomach?
Getting pictures in the mail, voicemails from someone I love in New Zealand, running in the rain, resurrecting near-death flowers, lists of unparallel items, matching fish, driving for three hours to see someone for two, laying around on gloomy days when you never have to feel bad about being unproductive, kissing quickly and checking to see if anyone saw, laughing to yourself, getting flowers, giving flowers, growing flowers, singing lyrics that don't make you sound ridiculous, one-hour road-trips, cobra lilies and jack johnson (preferably in conjunction with one another), wovens for nineteen-ninety, leaving the fitch on august 17th, etc.
There are so very few things that can make me feel as perfect as I do when I'm peeling off wet clothes after a run in the rain.
Things that make me feel like crying ::
The number thirty five and the letter double you.
Em. Eye. Ess. Ess. Eye. Ess. Ess. Eye. Pea. Pea. Eye.
Seventy hour work weeks.
So, when the things that make me happy grossly outweigh the things that make me sad, why do I still feel a little sick to my stomach?
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