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Saturday, October 15th, 2005
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8:42 pm
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self portrait
moon faced, pale
a curtain of hair
strong legs, weak arms
dark circles
raw, quick breath
eyes green, or blue or gray
freckles
tomorrow i will hop a train to canada to spend wonderes nights in the woods full of stars and remember how to live with this earth.
i want to be true to what i have heard.
it was so sweet to hear music last night.
there was so much joy in being afraid of the world together.
she sent me tatted pieces of her mind on paper.
i am in love with her memory.
imagine the rickty confused stories i would tell
if i grew up and wrote a book.
current mood:  calm
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(4 comments | comment on this)
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| Wednesday, June 15th, 2005
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10:15 pm - zen
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| Friday, January 28th, 2005
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12:21 am
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1. Reply with your name and I will write something about you.
2. I will then tell what song(s) remind me of you.
3. Next, I will tell you who you remind me of, celebrity/animated or otherwise.
4. Last, I will try to name a single word that best describes you.
5. Now put this in your journal.
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(29 comments | comment on this)
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| Tuesday, November 16th, 2004
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6:52 pm - seeing him now makes me wanna live
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nineteen years ago my mother held me against her heart for the first time. yesterday i read rattled words on a page filled with so many beautiful intentions. so many hopes for her daughter named after a woman who dared to sit down on a bus; in one moment changing time forever. i am slowly learning how to cry, eyes slowly gone to a another mode of living. initially reluctant i have started modeling for figure study classes. i lied on the cold wood today; eyes studying my knees spine shoulders breasts. she told me my sink was bursting utterly with happiness. joe left his drawing tied to my handlebars with a purple string, my eyes examining the contour lines not able to realize that i was looking in a memoir. never before have i felt so tragically beautiful. my fingers tracing the textured page, a pear. it felt just like a pear.
i wonder in all my disappointments to her if my mother realizes how she helped create such a strong human being. knoxy perhaps. i feel myself becoming a person who recognizes what is intolerable for humans and acts accordingly. as i drove amandla home i stopped a hundred feet from the drive way, standing in the ditch and kiss the deaf child sing my parents once put there in hopes of protecting their family from the speed of the world. sometimes i pray to remember, other times i pray to forget.
current mood:  creative
current music: beck- paper tiger
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(8 comments | comment on this)
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| Saturday, July 10th, 2004
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12:07 pm - grief is the temporary shaking up of a mind that has settled in
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the more we are the richer everything we experience is.
i have a new home which contains among other things: adrianne, derrick, opheim, melodica and rain boots.
adrianne's hair color changes with the season. she has long forgotten the original color buried underneath the bleach and dye, at the moment it's as black as the kahlua bottles that once lined irises cellar. adrianne has a poise of beauty that surrounds her. adriana leaves notes full of kind words on my pillow in the morning. she has dreams of homeschooling her nephew gavin, don's decision to feed her drug habit even while pregnant with her son is something gavin must bear the rest of his life. my room has a window facing the train tracks; this room is bigger than i know what to do with. my things appear to take up space, yet this room is draped with emptiness. i know little of derrick other than what kind of herb he smokes and his political views. adrianna and derrick are additively in love.
my father has prostate cancer. papa has surgery in twelve days. it makes my stomach hurt so bad. my mother has put me through more pain than a soul should have to bear; simultaneously forcing me to see beauty that i am trying to become. yesterday feels like a climax of moments allowed to resume their place after years of limbo. cody wrapped her arms around me as i cried. i shall cheat the government out of one more year of free college in the coming year; i have hopes of transferring to minneapolis college of art and design second semester. next year i will leave for countries not yet known to me unless MCAD inspires me more than the west coast.
so many humans attempt to simply avoid pain and get comfortable. “if we’re committed to comfort at any cost, as soon as we come up against the least edge of pain we’re going to run; we’ll never know what’s beyond that particular barrier or wall or fearful thing.” amen miss chodrun. we must realize we can endure a lot of pain and pleasure for the sake of finding out who we are and what the world can be.
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(8 comments | comment on this)
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| Monday, July 5th, 2004
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11:39 am - stressed? jesus is peace
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they sell jesus here like they do a diet pill. for a percentage of your monthly income you are allotted one day a week to forget that the terrorist alert level is back up to orange and convince yourself that your definition of democracy is liberation. that the flag you raise every morning above your two car garage is something other than a blanket of your fear. you want to find god? look in the next fucking room. he's waring harry potter glasses; eskimo boots and a peach swimming suit. that's the closest thing that resembles a god i'll ever come to know.
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(2 comments | comment on this)
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| Friday, May 21st, 2004
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5:35 pm - we don't see the world as it is...we see the world as we are.
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time moves slowly, but passes quickly. veinte y uno credits came to an end on tuesday. cuatro menos uno B and tres plus oun A.
someday sean and i will go to brazil together and the children will laugh at my red hat and we will play soccer in the streets. sean will save children with his hands. i shall attempt to impact them with words and paint.
moments have turned into memories that have resided into that little place i keep them in my brain. and exams and facts are what have occupied my mind as of late. classrooms are still such a foreign place for me. i wish to touch things, not look at them in a textbook. yet i am learn and so hope to use what i learn to change the world someday. amandla affects everything i do in such a beautiful way.
sitting across a campfire; the orange flames being consumed by the night. my sister cody and her boyfriend came down from montreal to stay with me. kit is sitting on an overturned bucket which once held lima beans; kit is a boy who makes hats out of yarn and sandals from old tires. cody is thoughtful in her drunkenness, occasionally snapping back to consciousness; kissing me on the check as she grabs kit's hand out of habit. their love gives me hope for moments and love i have not yet experienced. i'm going to kansas city misery to teach a painting workshop at an unschooling conference on wednesday. i wish a few certains from the cheese state would ride in my white truck beside me through hundreds of corn fields.
someday i'm going to be a painter and color the world as i wish it was. someday i'm going to write a book about a palestinian father who shouldn’t of had to carry his dead son from a protest that was raided by israeli troops looking for weapons. how amandla and i once
counted all the stars in the sky, and about that one night we jumped on the train that said i love maya on the side with pink graffetti. how my mother has stayed in her bed for the last six days and calls us up to her room like cattle. how bush's attack on iraq was based on lies and violated international law. how i bite my bottom lip when i'm nervous, yet not attractively, i become unaware of it until i puncture the skin and taste iron in my mouth. how i used to ride my goat named oliver and as i held on to his mane he would jump over logs as if he were a shetland pony. 'how if the human brain was simple enough for us to understand, we would still be so stupid that we couldn't understand it.'
i’m going to miss you like i miss the ocean when i sleep.
current mood:  hopeful
current music: good news for anyone who loves bad news
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(6 comments | comment on this)
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| Monday, April 19th, 2004
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4:39 pm - Comfort the disturbed...Disturb the Comfortable
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“I am not against killing. I’ve been there.” Irwin sits slouched over, his shoulders caved in around his chest, as if protecting his heart. One arm rests on the cold metal armrest, which sticks like an arrow out of the tan foldout lawn chair which is occupying him. He slowly rolls his lit cigar within his clenched hand, the other out stretched as if reaching for something. “Anyone who would have an abortion! That kind of disregard for life you better expect that same person to put a bullet in your heart in a sticky situation.” He had convinced himself of this by now; otherwise, how could Justine have done that to him? Yes, she was unstable. He refused the thought that she could even be human. His mind lingered on that name, Justine… the most beautiful women he had ever laid eyes on, the only women he had ever made the mistake of loving. Yes, the whole thing had been a mistake, he told himself for the millionth time. She had once been pregnant with his child, their child. Their affair had lasted fifteen months, affair… how he hated that word, yet it would be the proper word. She was married, and married people have affairs not relationships. She had been married to a man she did not love. Justine hadn’t wanted a child; she had never wanted to be a mother. She had known all along she would be neglectful mother, just like her mother before. A baby would have complicated things to a point of chaos. But a doctor visit would “fix” that. When she repeated those words to Irwin, he had broken her jaw and three of her ribs. He did not visit her in her hospital room with pink and white curtains and flowers on the windowsill; her husband filled that position.
Irwin was happy he put her there; she could abort her baby and mend her broken ribs on the same visit.
The last memory he had of her, she was unconscious on the kitchen floor, her face mangled unrecognizably, appearing artificial. She looked so out of place on the green and blue checkered tile floor. What was once a beautiful face had been distorted now looking monstrous. One of his knuckles was split. He had rolled his salmon dress shirt up past his elbows, her blood lingering of his forearm hairs which were beginning to stand on end. He sat there looking at her for so long. She deserved this; she was evil just like Eve, a woman temptress. God had made him do this to her; she was going to kill a human life, their life. She had made him bite into the sparkling apple just like Adam. Her jaw jutted out, appearing plastic; her dark green eyes still open, unblinking. He remembers thinking how appropriate it would be if he had almonds to place like a puzzle piece in her sad eyes. He never again spoke to Justine. He talked to God instead…
The bell would ring in nineteen minutes. Mr. Coleslaw was squeaking about geometry as if numbers would soon save the world. Logan watched his snakelike lips move in slow motion. She felt a strange fondness toward him and his dreams for this world. He had faith that human nature would prevail and that wonderful things were possible. She had no such hope for human kind. She rubbed her left eye, willing away her exhaustion, to no avail. So she resided in her everyday habit of swirling her left wrist, she was fascinated by the way her bones pieced together. She could see thin blue veins tracing the duration of her forearm, ending their destination under her smooth palm. She would rotate her knuckles in a figure eight, stopping abruptly in mid circle, mesmerized by the contracting of her bones. Logan was a year ahead for her age, one of those kids who were capable of amazing things; she would be seventeen in November. Mr. Coleslaw’s voice echoed in her head bringing her back to consciousness. Everyone’s head was turned toward Naomi, the girl in the skin tight red shirt in an attempt emphasized her large breasts. “Fourth-two,” she spoke in little more than a whisper. Mr. Coleslaw didn’t even bother to respond and instead turned toward Austin, an asshole who happened to see numbers as a language in his head. He spoke this language fluently. “Sixty-two,” he replied to Mr. Coleslaw's glance, “Indeed, sixty-two” He enthusiastically dragged his feet back to the blackboard. “He is bastard,” Naomi whispered in Logan’s direction. Logan didn’t even bother to look up from her palm. “A hot one though,” Naomi continued. “Austin wants to put his dick inside you. Every fucking boy on the football team wants you.” She paused for a moment seeming to lose interest. Logan adjusted her black cardigan which was cropping up, showing the thick scar she had acquired from her lovely father three years prior. He had thrown her against the wood stove, yet she had deserved it. Logan had broken his unopened bottle of Jack Daniels on his immaculate wood floor. Naomi, seeing movement went back to her one-sided conversation. “So you’re not even going to take him up on it?”
“Who?” Logan replied bored with the conversation.
“Jesus, I thought you were supposed to be smart or some shit,” Naomi muttered as she leaned back in her desk, her attention bitterly fading. Logan flinched as the bell rang; people rose from their seats at its command as if in a factory or prison. Her classmates filled the halls like cattle, and she found her place within the crowd, lightly dragging her Converse, leaving as many scuff marks as possible…
Irwin’s church appeared Victorian, with sandstone brick walls. Icicles were constantly accumulating on the ledge just above the door as if warding people away. Yet they came in mobs. Regulars to the church would often boast they had the best services in the county, maybe even in Washington State. Irwin thrived off the time he spent within these sandstone walls. Four stained glass windows shined like God on each wall. He rarely let himself think of women anymore, after Justine. “Thinking of something is the same as doing it.” Pastor Samuel’s words echoed in his mind. He visited peep shows occasionally, paying whores to suck his cock. But he did not touch them; it was they who were doing it to him, forcing themselves on him. Two month ago was the last time it happened. He had kicked the whore with red pigtails in the stomach after he had cum. He did it to teach her a lesson from God--sex was evil--whores are evil. When he went to service the next day, he would pray for them. He would save them…
Logan stepped on as many cracks as possible on her way to the bus stop; she limped slightly on her left leg. It was her duty to run the bath every night when Greg stumbled home from the bar, regardless of how far the hands on the clock crept to. The night before last, she had given in to exhaustion at three-thirty in the morning. She filled the tub with steaming hot water; Logan had watched the mist accumulate on the bathroom window. She had taken her finger and traced the word “live” on the dewy layer, then reversed the letters tracing “evil” on the bottom of the sill. “How appropriate,” she had muttered, “how fucking perfect,” pondering the congruity of the two words. She had been woken up to Greg fingers intertwined in her long brown hair. He dragged her by it into the bathroom, picking her small body up and dropping her into the cold water, holding her head beneath it, forcing her inside the suffocation, the vibrations from his mouth becoming ingested by the water. “I deserve cold water, do I? Being the whore that your mother once was, I find quite fitting, since you were the cause of her death.” She had perfected the art of not feeling. Indifference was a powerful thing. He hated her and always had, she didn’t blame him for that. She had killed his wife. Her mother had died giving birth to her. Greg was not her father, and it had never crossed her mind to expect anything from him. He provides a roof to live under. That was all he had to give. Logan had never loved anyone. No one had ever loved her. She had grown up being afraid of Greg, craving approval, yet never getting it. When he spoke to her, she often flinched. She flinched at any human contact. Years of abuse will do that to you. She used to dream of a life outside the shell she now occupied. But life is not as it should be, and she derived no pleasure in fantasy anymore. When she was seven, she saw pictures of Italy from a family vacation Emily, her third grade friend, had brought to gain approval. It appeared utopian. The first moment she laid eyes on the streets laid in stone, the feathery hats, the flowers planted next to the lamppost, Logan had been transfixed by this place that lay across the ocean. Her walls from then on were covered in brightly covered maps of Europe. She had picked the town she would live in outside of Rome. She had once drawn the apartment she would occupy on a cardboard box, picked out the books that would fill the shelves as if burying her alive. She could feel the softness of the lilac satin sheets that would be piled in heaps on her small bed, the paint that would discolor her hands. If she closed her eyes, she could feel the sun coming through her open window, making everything glow with yellow light while simultaneously stinging her beautiful almond shaped eyes. She would walk barefoot along the cold stoned sidewalk, a magic brick road which would lead her to any destination, yet she would not have one. She would just let her olive skin soak up the sun, and her feet the energy from the cold stone. She would have breakfast on the stone bridge, sometimes sharing her mango with Bob, a bum whose occupation was fishing. He would sit on a turned over bucket which was once filled with lima beans. They would talk about philosophy, love, death, genocide, and Gods. She would be surprised at how much she would have in common with a sixty-eight year old bum who fished all day.
Logan arrived at the bus shelter, thankful for refuge from the wind. A man in a salmon dress shirt, looking about late fifties, was sitting directly in the center of the bench. He smelled of old milk and lies. She looked at him for a moment, anticipating movement. She did not wish for human contact, and to sit on either side of him would be assuring that. He slides slightly to the left, and she sit down, her right leg plastered against the rail. Logan gazed directly in front of her. A couple, each wearing conflicting shades of red, walked in front of her hand in hand as if going to war. She could feel heat radiating slowly off the stranger’s leg. Her body didn’t know what to do with the heat yet soaks it up in an attempt for it not to be lost. Her lungs ached as she breathed in the fierce air. It was a far-away ache, she was past the point of feeling real pain. “Cold night,” the man to her left commented. She took in another deep breath of frozen air, trapping secrets in her ribcage…
He feels the cold clammy concrete that was molded together to make a protrusion in the ground. It’s a protrusion with large slits that run along the seat, making it less comfortable than the asphalt to sleep on, bum--control. A girl appears in front of him, the look of dissatisfaction plastered on her face. Her face strains as if she wants something from him. As he slides his bony ass across the bench, he thinks about how all women want things, how they are all greedy and come from the devil, just like Justine. He looks at the girl sitting beside him, her leg propped upon the bench, appearing bird-like. He studies her knee which is protruding through her blue jeans. He wracks his brain for something to say to her. “Cold night,” he speaks in a steady voice. She doesn’t even bother to respond. He surveys her body with his crisp eyes, lean. Her breasts are small, perky, but that’s how he likes them, hand size, just like Justine’s. He gazes at her olive skin which is stretched hiding her bones beneath it. He feels blood start to rush to the Corus spongiosum, the spongy walls of his penis. He absorbs her. She appears stoic, as if she is covered in plaster. His forearm hairs begin to stand on end. Air stings his lungs as he breathes in.
He wants to be inside her; his shoulders are stiff from the cold air. A bus approaches the light stings his eyes, yet she doesn’t get on. She must like his company “You’re quite a pretty girl… do you want to have some fun tonight?” He reaches for her leg. The girl jerks away. She tries to jump up while looking directly into his eyes, something she does seldom. There is fear in her eyes, yet he has seen those eyes before…dark green with yellow spiral in the center. They’re Justine’s eyes…God has brought her back to him.. Confusion washes over him like a typhoon. She is just precisely as he remembers her…only younger. He lunges for her as the word “Justine” escapes in a whisper form his lips. She pulls away in a panic from his grip, kicking him above the shin. He is on the ground now, grasping one of her legs. She kicks him in the torso with her free leg, almost tumbling over. His fingers hold on, intertwined in her shoelaces. She kicks him a third time, this time hitting him in the face. His hand lets go in reflex…
She doesn’t scream, just runs. Her feet hit the sidewalk effortlessly. She can not feel her body and never wishes to again. She runs towards Grindstone Bridge. There is no scream, just a distant splash that will go unheard, except by a bum named Bob…
Irwin picks himself up off of the pavement, takes the next bus, sleep in his bed, the covers tucked around him protecting him from reality. He will wake up and go to church, filling his head with pretty lies, unaware of everything except the icicles that hang like dead piñatas from the church roof, unaware that he once had a daughter.
current mood: artistic
current music: the pixies
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(3 comments | comment on this)
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| Friday, February 6th, 2004
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6:41 pm
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filling my head with what seems at times like such fruitless knowledge, longing for the familiarities of the radio as houses pass with their perfectly plowed driveways. arriving home to a lovely cd from a boy hundreds of states away, mixed in with envelopes filled with numbers and words reminding me of obligations and wasted money. thank you zen. music i heard with you was more than music.
loneliness is more acutely felt with other people.
current mood: creative
current music: a song to pass the time
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(comment on this)
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| Wednesday, February 4th, 2004
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9:48 pm - stay with me for the night, tell the wolves are away
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I remember sitting in the front seat of our 89 red Ford pick-up squished between my older brother Keya and the big rusty door. A red-cheeked five year old, I had ridden with my father to the general store for milk, red delicious apples, and the Sunday paper. The newspaper I carried seeming huge compared to my chicken legs sticking awkwardly out like two arrows, my thighs lacking the five more inches needed to enable my knees to bend properly off the bench seat. My yellow rain boots peeked out at me like a pair of snake eyes. As we rounded the last sharp bend before our driveway, we saw red flashing lights appear through the passing trees.
After that, all I remember is my mother being carried out on a stretcher, and blood, lots of blood. Running through the snow back to the pick-up, my dad beat the ambulance to the hospital, my older brother Che later boasted proudly. My little brother was born six weeks premature, with Down syndrome, and with two holes in his heart, one the size of a quarter, the other a dime.
I didn’t realize at the time how profoundly my world would change after that cold winter day in December. I would never again look at anything in the same light. The following year was filled with a blur of medical tubes, hospitals, and long nights. Winters were always the worst for him, pneumonia became more than a word I heard in stories about the old days. It was something Amandla had to deal with for the first three years of his life. There were times when he would stop breathing in his sleep. I remember vividly my parents filling up the bathtub with piping hot water and putting towels in the crevasses under the door; the steam would become so thick that you couldn’t see the mirror above the sink. Steam helped clear the congestion in his lungs and was one of the most effective treatments for pneumonia we had found.
It was February eighteenth 1991, I was six years old, and today was a particularly bad day. I had begun the habit of sitting beside my parent’s queen-sized futon as Amandla slept in fear that he would not wake. When I couldn’t hear his labored breathing anymore I would take my index finger and softly track his pea-sized toes until he would stir enough to satisfy my fear of the unspeakable. But this time he did not budge, and as I held my ear to his chest fear cut through me like a knife as silent tears streamed down my cheeks. My mother was able to get him to open his brown eyes. My father raced down Goose Creek Road sliding occasionally on the layer of ice beneath the snow covered road in our beige woody station wagon, the same station wagon that used to bring me embarrassment due to the fact that when we turned left the horn would honk for the duration of the turn. My four siblings were nervously piled around me. I remember the anxious whispers exchanged between my parents failing to keep the fear out of their voices, and the decision to travel farther for the better hospital. I counted the telephone poles as we neared Chicago County Medical Center convincing myself the larger the count crept to, the less lay ahead. As we pulled left into the parking lot the horn screeching in our ears, I watched the red double doors close in slow motion behind my mother. My two older brothers and I were told to stay in the car; we watched the minutes pass suspended in time. I gazed through the iced windows mesmerized by the lit HOSPITAL sign, the H burnt out, yet phasing to life occasionally as if we were appearing in a Saturday night movie. I could see my breath as I exhaled, shifting occasionally as my thighs became numb against the hard plastic seats, my torn jeans seeming to soak up the cold while simultaneously reminding me of the numbness I had begun to feel. One hundred and seven minutes later my father approached the car, informing us in an nearly emotionless voice that Amandla was stable for the moment and in the intensive care unit. He would soon be airlifted by helicopter to the Children’s Hospital in St, Paul; he would be all right. I remember pinching my arm in an attempt to keep from crying.
I found out later that by the time we had arrived at the hospital in our woody station full of kids, his heart had stopped beating. He had been DOA: dead on arrival.
The hardships that I have always prayed would please not happen, not to him, have changed me in the deep reaches of myself and given something to my soul that will never be lost.
current mood:  contemplative
current music: bright eyes
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(3 comments | comment on this)
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| Saturday, January 31st, 2004
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4:13 pm - We can't teach what we don't know
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School consumes me and Amandla makes living here bearable. Talk of traveling and hopping trains with Adrianne makes the days pass with a bit less loneness. I long to sit across from Cody and discuss our worries and how we will change the world. Yet March will come before too long and I will get my wish.
Amandla woke me with hopes of sledding at three in the morning. But I could hear him breathing all the way from the door by way of the congestion in his lungs, so indeed going outside would be risking too much. So we laid upon our backs and closed our eyes; I described the sled in such detail that he said he could feel it beneath him, and we went sledding for hours in our dreams. When we woke up, he told me I had frostbitten my nose; I could almost feel the snowflakes accumulating upon my eyelids.
current mood:  drained
current music: Cursive
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(3 comments | comment on this)
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| Thursday, January 8th, 2004
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1:34 am - coffee and cheap wine
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a nervous kiss from a boy placed upon the cheek of a girl. and the look on their faces i will not soon forget.
it couldn't have been longer then thirty seconds the first time he grabbed my hand, yet long enough for my finger tips to memorize the creases of his palm. the feeling of him lingers as i touch the keyboard.
black garbage bags wrapped tightly around our thighs as we slid not so eloquently down the snow. gabrielle and her fur hat. raspberry custard shared over pretty photographs. logan with her little hands and wise thoughts. a snow angel made imperfect by a single footprint. the feel of carpet under my back. the way the sun shown in rianna's room and hurt my eyes, yet was simultaneously lovely. zen hitting his head on the alders bath room wall. pomegranates and lemon peels. maya despising adrian's mustache so. i lost my ring at the beach, yet my boots acquired many a rock. portland was full of memories of the person i once was. we danced like rockers at the dayton show.
i left zen's plush leather truck seat for one in a boeing 757 to sit beside a sixty-eight year old women named gertude. she talked of wasted hours spent in front of an electric box. she muttered that i was perhaps a fool for traveling so far for only a few real moments shared. i replied that it saddened me that she would look at the world in such a way. after a moments pause, she seemed to entirely forget out previous conversation and preceded to tell me stories of hunting and baby smiles.
current mood: randy
current music: elliott smith - ballad of big nothing
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(4 comments | comment on this)
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| Thursday, December 18th, 2003
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4:46 pm - you and you alone and lonely
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the boy in the corner with the leather jacket sucks down his bitter coffee, slowly picking out the grounds that accumulate on his tongue. flipping through the paper full of such pretty lies. just like the one's his father told him so long ago. yet only the ripest truth interests him now is what he tells himself riding home on the bus two seats away from the pretty girl with no front teeth, who makes ugly art of peoples mouths. she watches the christmas lights pass through the window, and thinks about masturbating, and the mouse that lives in her ceiling that she has been unsuccessfully trying to kill for the past four months. she has a two year old with blue eyes who lives in a big house in michigan with her new mom and dad. whose perfect teeth have been created by metal wire, rubber bands, and bleach. too bad they will know nothing of each other because there just the kind of teeth she loves to paint.
my last final is in one hundred and twenty-two minutes. anthropology. i have had a total of eighty-eight minutes of sleep on average the past six day. my paper shall be full of odd, complete sentences. amamdla has become fairly sick, i shall take him to the children's hospital following
class.
a mr.greg campbell picked three painting i did recently to appear in his art show at cafe caffeine on friday. i am gluttonously happy. as
well as violently nervous. cody is leaving me for montreal and kit soon. i will miss her more than anyone. she is a girl i wish to be near everyday. an article i wrote about global warming appeared in the paper. as well as a picture of me appearing to be a strung out refugee in rain boots. i find it quite fitting.
im so fucked up. wish you were here.
current mood:  accomplished
current music: jet
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(6 comments | comment on this)
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| Thursday, November 20th, 2003
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9:40 pm - solos with piano or not...
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it was my birthday on saturday, i bought porn.
driving home from attempting to teach a group of thirty forth graders the mechanics of snowboarding. the boy with bright red ears. because a hat would have messed up his "stees." the pound of VO5 hair gel did form a bit of a see through plastic head gear. i hit a cow, lightly.
i'm so lonely lately unless i have someone laying next to me to wrap me up tight. it seems so fruitless, but so easily achieved.
i've been working lately on a painting of this woman's hands, she has most beautiful hands. they don't look like hands so much, more like some sort of sublime shape, i could study them forever.
"I believe in tragic stories and I think truth is always half sad and half hilarious and always kind of enlightening. I like to see that replicated in art."
current mood:  devious
current music: Jet
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(5 comments | comment on this)
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| Monday, November 3rd, 2003
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5:48 pm - beat the donkey
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This house is full of nothing but vivid memories
*
*
*
I know a dog who sat on his tail
And they sent time to jail
For making me smile
And you knew a man as slow as a snail
But he spoke about war
So they listened some more
And there was a girl who I couldn’t ignore
Cause she spoke like a bird
And she fell from the sky
And if you see me talking to a train
While its starting to rain
I’m probable just fine
We’re all spinning round and round
The saddest clown
Is starting to smile
We’re all miles beneath the ground
And we’re heading straight down
And we’re drowning in steele
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(2 comments | comment on this)
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| Sunday, October 26th, 2003
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1:47 am - a-striker cheeta jumps
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so..... getting lost in the dark.
let's elaborate. the woods. the lake. the scary monsters.. a combination worth recreating? i think... no. i personally, don't like scary monsters. this is simply a personal feeling. maybe you like scary monsters. it's all up to your personal preference. damn this lemonade is good.
delicious. like carrot cake. kind of. unly more citrusy. less vegetabley.
do you like snow? see, this fist snow of the entire season (aka, TODAY) was witnessed by a certain a-strike cheetah and a certain iron-cheetah. where were the christmas carols? there was a certain, christmasy atmosphere, provided by those carols (aka Ruldolph the Red Nosed Reindeer) that was missing from this " first snow experiance ".. also. that cat in the hat. can i tell you how much this book just lights my fire? holy hell.
alright. as a-strike cheetah signing out unacommpanied by any help ( especially not that of iron cheetah... iron like the competition. iron-man... ring a bell?)
alright. that's all from the home-front of rosa a-strik cheetah.
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(comment on this)
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| Sunday, October 19th, 2003
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5:53 pm - Multi-talented. that's right I know!
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| Sunday, September 28th, 2003
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9:49 pm - my beauty queen that i loved has been turned into a streetwalker
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Today I watched the sunrise on the steps with my checkered blanket wrapped around me, tight enough to cut off circulation. People passed with wet hair and flesh-toned power plastered to their face. I saw a girl running home after perhaps waking up in a strangers bed, the person lying next to her had a nose just like her uncles and teeth like an orc. Her uncle had raised her since his darling sister overdosed on speed when she was two. On her fourteen birthday he was killed walking home from a 7 11 by a drunk driver. Hit and run. She has never truly loved anyone since him.
I moved in with Cody, and Sonja, her pink-haired lesbian roommate. It's been far to long since I've been this happy. I am going to a painter conference/workshop this wednesday for "advanced students" I get to paint naked ladies all day long.
Every morning I drive to school and the roads are white with frost, on my hands are green mittens, my feet red shoes.
After hours of persuasion by Josiah, I caved and joined the student senate.
I petitioned and so on, pitched it to the board, and consequently they passed a bill to start a recycling program at the college. The bill has my name in it, man oh man, I rock.
My psychology teacher constantly hits on me, after ever class I have to fight the urge to kick him profusely in the balls.
I miss Zen and the Wisconsin kindergarten girls like peach tea.
Also, the rumors are true, I am the president of the chess club, man alive i'm cool.
p.s. I like a boy.
p.p.s. If you happen to get a really ginormous postcard, will you sent it to Bob? Thanks.
current mood: accomplished
current music: yellow card
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| Thursday, August 28th, 2003
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11:21 pm - real sex fisting
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11:04 pm - darling darling, you look like a piñata
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we got rear-ended in ontario. fell in love with the boy in a red hat in montreal. danced a irish jig. pierced my lip. montreal was full of sneaking into concerts and walking around with orange mittens. consumed entirely to much alcohol and coffee. had a bagel and ran through cornfields with amy in vermont. played soccer for eight hours in Boston. went skinny-dipping in the pond. danced with matt. took a picture of a ladybug. slept on maggie's couch, she is lovely lovely. lost kit in new york city for seven hours. fell asleep on the side walk in quebec. swam in the ocean and watched the seagulls in newfoundland. felt the spray of niagara falls. so beautiful. drew a picture of carl in Detroit. drove for thirty-eight hours straight.
current mood:  jubilant
current music: bright eyes
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