directions:
1. eat and sleep less than you're used to for a while.
2. when the change starts to happen, go see closer.
3. get tangled up in something that pulls at your very being.
4. build a fort.
5. put damien rice's "O" in your car stereo, ipod, etc.
6. cry shamelessly at the story of the first four tracks and let it change the fabric of your existence.
7. go write about it. all of it. from the fort or the car or wherever. and then come tell me.
most favorite word at the moment: california.
there's a way people sing about that mystical sunshine state when they have lived / been / loved / had something happen to them there. throw on joni mitchell's version, or even the theme song from the OC. maybe it's the sunset dripping into the ocean, the cliffs, the moments that change the very thread of life... the proverbial drive up the coast? cue a new playlist.
submissions, anyone?
least favorite: colt. it's just not natural for your mouth to form.
therefore this too must be the standard for rejection or choice: whether one is willing to stand guard over the solitude of a person and whether one is inclined to set this same person at the gate of one's own solitude, of which he learns only through that which steps, festively clothed, out of the great darkness.
~rilke on love and other difficulties
it started out innocently enough.
we hunkered down (such a strange combination of words, and while I'm on it, why do we not say "over the weather" when things are going in our favor or if we are healthy? what in the hell does "under the weather" mean, anyway?) for a night of tea and photo loading. in the morning, we had to tuck our pants into our boots just to get down the front steps.
I ran down to the end of the street to get to the beach. prancing ever so gracefully, I leapt into the air over a huge pile of snow. "I'm going to take pictures where the ocean meets the snow! Wheee!"
try WHAM instead.
face first I landed, hands outstretched, snow in my sleeves and socks. fingers so cold it felt like they shattered, and camera under a foot of white. apparently cameras don't really dig being plunged into wet freezing snow, because mine lost all will to live. with moments of battery I trudged to the water's edge, and was glad that I didn't give up for that one freezing shining moment, before the biting wind blew shards of ice in my face, driving me back to the warmth of the car.
as I put it to kristin the other day, I feel like I could flick my fingers and see sparkles come flying off the ends of them. like I'm being assaulted by butterflies, but in the most beautiful and gentle way. coaxing and tickling and nervous and free. I'm exploding with yes and zen and now and touch. I'm eating less and sleeping less and taking pictures of smokestacks at sunset out the car window. I'm crackling and overflowing and awake and alive.
as I sit here at work, putting together a mailer and being blown away by every song on kexp, I just have to take a break to write. I have to take a break to write - do you know how long it's been since that was a need? this is how it felt at nineteen, finding little spots to write where the coffee was good and the lights were dim (specifically, cutting school to have an XL house at the daily around 8 am), searching museum listings for exhibits and clubs for shows and the local theaters for movies that the mainstream missed. problem being then that I got in my own way and forgot about what was important, not every time but enough of the time that it got messy and I lost myself somewhere along the way - although I've somehow managed to land on my feet in such a way that I am positively sure that I'm exactly where I should be. aforementioned messiness and all.
this is a total trip. I'm dying to be saturated, like the sponge dried up on the counter just waiting for fresh warmth and some bubbles. I'm laughing and free and giggling to myself for no reason at all. I'm talking to strangers and taking chances and dammit, I do like dashboard confessional and I'm not going to pretend like I don't.
"If you don't fly, you'll miss out on so much." She told me that all the trouble in the world was caused by unhappy people. As First Lady she'd seen miserable world leaders act out, and she believed personal unhappiness always led to trouble. "You owe it to yourself, as well as the world, to be more happy." Her curiousity for life was boundless, every phone call recommended books and movies. "Oh Darcy, you must go see Chocolat!" Included in her letters from her country place in Massachusetts were book reviews she thought mught be pertinent to my novel. She often signed these missives, written on light-blue paper, "Bon Courage".
Darcey Steinke on Jaqueline Kennedy Onassis, who was her editor at Doubleday and spoke to her of life and writing.
as I stand here in my kitchen, typing these words from the article I taped to the wall because I had to.
what if you took mediocre music away from the words and just looked at the words with fresh eyes? you'd have a very unlikely candidate for a beautifully written song. or maybe it's just that I'm hearing everything differently these days...
Did anyone ever make you a mix tape where the songs didn’t fit completely? I always hated that. It’s like taking one of the world’s most thoughtful gifts that doesn’t require some special talent (like writing a song for someone or something) and then saying, “I really wanted you to feel cared about, but I didn’t care enough to figure out if the songs were going to fit completely” because nobody ever wants a song with 18 seconds of blank space either missing from the song as the tape flips or in between if the person managed to time it right so that the song picks back up...
I’d rather cook someone breakfast, serve it to them, and then spit on it in front of them than make a crappy mix tape (at least that way it’s not a surprise in the middle of it that says “I didn’t care quite enough to make this right”).
'nuff said.
I wonder if tonight will stay with you
like the man in our backyard
stayed with me
from my first days...
you're a little piece of your father
that I'm writing letters to
ice blue eyes all intense
you listened to your mother
you knew what you wanted
as you stood in front of me with
your goldfish and
your intentions
I took a picture
and it was just a blur
you fled the scene
leaving me with
the soft light
and
an old typewriter
and I get to watch him
everything is new
your mom will soften
his hard edges in you
and they'll tell you things
you already knew
because of your name
and because of their truth...
I see the sunrise over mountains
flowers drip on me like
rain
drops
falling down
for you I'd steal the stars from heaven
(yes I would you know I would)
and for this we've gone insane
(alright now)
these are only words...
thanks most joyful of things, for once again knowing exactly what to do... and doing it flawlessly... xoxo
and I keep getting distracted, so
I'm
thinking it's a
sign
that the freckles in our
eyes
are
mirror
images
and
when we kiss
they're perfectly aligned...
what fantastic songwriting that is.
a man needs something to hold on to
a nine pound hammer or
a woman like you
either one of them things will do...
(verse)
a picture of you holding
a picture of me
in the pocket of my blue jeans
I still don't know what love means...
and
there simply were no more dishes left to break
last but not least,
go on and cry, baby, cry
cry, baby, cry
'cause you french-kissed a razor blade
blood tastes like lemonade
now I'm down on my knees
crying please baby, please
come back to me...
can you guess what's in the rotation?
since I won't have my last name for much longer, I thought I should take a moment to document all of my accomplishments (courtesy of google.com)...
(from the rolling stone review of ray lamontagne's "trouble", 7/30/04)
His sandpaper croon sounds like church, Van Morrison and dusty porches.
I couldn't agree more.
also known as, how I cried in front of said Boy while my socks got knocked off by ray lamontagne in boston, and now I'm wondering what the perfect thing to say is.
I had... anticipations of how last night was going to be as we drove towards boston. not expectations so much as a knowing that something exciting was about to happen, some kind of warm hopeful happiness that I can't quite explain. a goodness if you will. even though eve bailed out at the last minute
(it rolled off my pen so perfectly, in this my tiny little book)
so it was just kacia and I left to bond on the three hour drive, overshooting critical exits and searching for places to pee. after a few calls to shea while navigating turns, parking, todds and mimis, we found ourselves gazing at the simulated wood paneled love that is t. anthony's. after the driving, the elation had subsided a bit and suddenly we wondered if we were really in hamden somewhere, the last three hours nothing but a dream. then
shea walked in
I jumped out of my skin
and our evening finally began
and kacia cried out
it's all happening!
it is definitely all happening...
