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a little blue bird tasted my blood
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| i know your heart can't grieve what your eyes won't see... |
[27 Jul 2008|01:22am] |
i simply can't wait to come back from Chicago on the other side of all of this.
i'm so proud of him facing all of this.
i can only imagine how scared he must be.
[in lighter news:]
www.librarything.com
if any of you out there are half as batty as me, then you have you moments when you remember only details about a book but neither author nor title--this site is a library which functions on key words and user tags!
i hope you all are safe and loved,
sarah
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(1 Fainted | Make that Elvis face)
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[23 Jul 2008|01:38pm] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
 giddy |
] |
| [ |
music |
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share and tell radio |
] |
just about two months from today
i'll be here
behind a loom.
i'm already weak-at-the-knees
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(4 Fainted | Make that Elvis face)
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[19 Jun 2008|03:58am] |
"The smell of most things sent her retching, except the moldy fragrance of ancient ink and dissolving paper, which she relished so much that I frankly suspected her of nibbling away at small fragments of the town's judicial legacy."
--"Lele"- Edwidge Danticat
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(Make that Elvis face)
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[30 May 2008|08:09am] |
i know how silly it sounds...but there was there was this piece of me that was looking forward to being in the nursing home together, to our newfound aged buddies wheeling their wheelchairs over,
"how'd you two meet?"
"ooooh.... well.... we were both bouncers at this punk club"
silence.
there was no need to ask why suddenly no one fucked with our pudding, stole our extra blankets or bedpans.
no need to question the instantaneous abdication of the prime lay-z-boy.
oh yes.
life at ol' folks home would be sweet, with a past like ours.
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(Make that Elvis face)
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[30 May 2008|05:18am] |
dear omaha,
you have one mission, m'dear.
make that boy deliriously happy.
pretty please.
love,
sarah.
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(Make that Elvis face)
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[13 May 2008|03:24am] |
laying there, blankets, pillows, and rolled up sweatshirts attempting to contour and support my aching body
space-heater pumping
water leaking and bubbling up under latex paint
knocked over water glasses
dirty laundry
cat litter and chewed up toys
pictures peeling off the walls
the malaise still sloppily dripping from the sky
that awful moment of readjustment when you realize you've been sleep-accomplishing the task that's been tormenting you
accommodating the contours of my body, i fell into a deep meditation of sorts
i knew i needed to be productive
i knew i only have a few days left
but to feel some of pain seep out of my body
to feel supported and safe
i wanted to lay there forever
reading a beautiful graphic novel
tangled up in a thick warmth and snickering tasks
dreading the moment i sit up
and it all returns
in startling courier silhouette.
i need to let go.
i think i'm ready to let go of all it represents.
i'm just scared (no i'm not allowed to use that word anymore)
i'm concerned if i push too hard to finish it up--that i'll relapse
that i'll break and seek the very thing i fought so hard to exorcise.
so i lay here staring at the birds on the telephone wires, tangled with my scars
i trace the indiscretions
loving each and everyone
loving the braille undertones of my life
i made it through my pop's cancer without adding footnotes
like hell will this be my moment of weakness
i may not be able to sit up right now
but i'm mothafuckin' resolved.
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(Make that Elvis face)
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| i was searching through my mailbox and found this essay from a few years back.... |
[22 Apr 2008|05:02pm] |
"But say I could repent and could obtain,
By act of grace my former state; how soon
Would height recall high thoughts, how soon unsay
What feign'd submission swore; ease would recant
Vows made in pain, as violent and void.
Fore never can true reconcilement grow,
Where wounds of deadly hate have pierc'd so deep;
Which would but lead me to a worse relapse
And heavier fall:"
--Paradise Lost: IV (93-101)
January 19, 2006
If Only To Linger Undefined
Hidden in the closet, Monopoly and Pretty Pretty Princess proving to be rather awkward cushions, I listened as my sister's counting "1—2—3…" dissipated with disinterest. Why wasn't I enough for her? I wanted to be older, to be better. Yet at the same time, as I picked at the forgotten carpet, lining the closet, I knew that I had to love being a kid, because everywhere I went, I heard big kids and big people telling me how "lucky" I was—I was still little.
I would stand on my tippy-toes in front of the hall mirror, my chin straining, I could see only a tiny tuft of blonde. I would get so flustered, trying to be happy; trying to not label what I was feeling. I think I knew that there was some mentality that you only got one chance at, one which I have now learned to call the blissful naivety of youth. I would lie for hours on my bed, an insomniac since birth, petrified to fall asleep. I was always terrified of losing my youth. What if when I wake, I look in the mirror and find I am an old man, that I dreamt this entire life, this entire girl. I spent hours rewinding my lullaby tape in my red-plastic tapedeck and acting out plays with sleep-deprived stuffed animals; then I would take all my books and stack them on my bed—my parents were so relieved if in the middle of the night they heard a succession of loud thumps, for they knew I had finally fallen asleep and my books were flying off my turbulent bed.
My sister became a womyn when I was six. She still looked the same, she was still addicted to tetherball, and wore her thick plastic, lavender glasses, and scrunchies and gigantic t-shirts with hotpants. She still had the same friends and the same secret languages. I didn't really notice much of anything change, except the way my Mom looked at her, the way my Pop gave her some space, awkwardly. When I was six and still an insomniac, I became convinced I didn't exist. My newest rampage against sleep was that if I were to fall asleep, I would fall out of existence.
I would sit on the edge of our faded couch, like a warden, as my sister took her second nap of the day. I watched every movement of her eyeball to make sure she wouldn't disappear.
I hold my cousin's dress, jealously, as she skips down the street, her nakedness unstigmatized. Where does the cut-off of when we should become ashamed of our bodies reside? So many hours I spent trying to look older, and act older so that I would finally be "cool enough" for my sister. And I would spend the rest of my life trying to reclaim what I had hoped to abandon.
Once I realized I had forsaken the beauty of youth and innocence, I spun into a schizophrenic self-definition. I convinced myself that I should devote my identity to finding the remnants of childhood's whimsy, so as to weave some semblance of an innocent self. I proclaimed that I was not proud of the child I had been, and the person I had become, so I was playing the playground, special edition, do-over card. This entailed being a bit offbeat, not going out a lot, not being into "sexy fashions", not watching the "fresh" new TV shows, loathing foot cages, loving nature, ladybugs, and rainbows, loving my braces to death (hey, they were magnetic, super shiny, and whenever I ate anything—well, there is always the built in leftovers-mechanism, a.k.a. "save the best for last!"), being a bit shy (especially of strangers), steering clear of boys in that sense, never cursing, never doing drugs, being giddy and always happy, being extremely uncomfortable with all issues/mentions of sexual anything, and being immune to puberty.
But like everything else I've ever procrastinated in my life, puberty came with a vengeance, accompanied by one of inevitability's infamous: "I TOLD YOU SO!"s. First there were the girls staring at hairy legs, then the swim team making fun of the fact I didn't wear a bra. Endless accounts of awkwardness ensued, but none compared to the shame I felt. My sister, five years older than me, got her period in fifth grade and had been bonded to my mother in "womynhood" ever since.
I was the baby.
I was scared that there was not supposed to be an expiration date on the innocent babe persona.
When the massacre came between my thighs, I felt like my child had been slaughtered.
Despite crackly '80s health class informational video's assurance, I was convinced I would somehow be able to evade the shameful tangle of puberty. I remember watching "Ma Vie en Rose", getting your period was supposed to be something sacred. So why was I so distraught? Staring vacantly at this stain in my pink eeyore undies, my eyes glazed and it all flexed and stretched into a surreal blur. I dealt with it the way I had seen thousands of awkward teenagers in movies deal with it, except I skipped the whole "mom I got my period" bit. I was constantly paranoid that I would leak through my pants. I was not afraid of the embarrassment you read about in trashy magazines, but of their seeing, and finding me out. I don't really understand why I now have to buy men's shoes to accommodate my size twelve feet, or the odd, awkward constellations of hair that have fleeced my body. I don't know why I now have to strap down my chest or why I get cat-called on my way to school. I catch my reflection perpetually off-handed. I see vague definition of who I believe myself to be. But somehow I always expect to see a little four year old with messy white-blonde hair, and breathing spaces between her teeth. But that me, is a me gleaned from pictures, I never remember a me I saw in the mirror.
I found ways to avoid going to the doctor for a year. Eventually on the highway, these conversations always take place in moving vehicles, my mom brought up going to the doctor, and this time it came out. It was easier than I expected to finally say, it just kind of spilled out of my mouth. She swerved out of her lane, then re-gained control and was silent. The rumble of the treading below sent goosebumps rippling over my body. Then she began to cry, staring straight ahead, the tears leaked down her clenched jaw. I try to speak to her but she can't or she won't respond.
I was so worried about losing my childhood, I hadn't thought about the fact I was stealing my womynhood from my mother. I sit on the stairs, I hear my mother's voice for the first time,
"I'm a horrible mother."
I wish I could say that if I could rewind time with my red plastic tapedeck, that I would have found the courage and insight to remedy this moment. I wish I could say that when I saw the pain I had cause my mother that I had suddenly seen my error. All I would have had to do was to tell her, one simple sentence.
But if I could go back, I think I would fall prey to the same mindset; I lost control of my aging, I was forced to grow up, I think I needed to decide I was a womyn before society's interpretation of biology deemed me so.
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(Make that Elvis face)
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| Post 9-11... |
[12 Feb 2008|12:38am] |
there were many stages of response and reaction.
some understandable (borderline sensible) some disastrous (arguably--though i don't condone the ranking of tragedies--worse than the catalyst).
but some responses were downright bizarre:
e.g. high school principals asking the boys who thought they might make varsity baseball to raise their hands, and then designating them the school protectors...
fairly commonplace, though, was the increase of Emergency Boxes.
the boxes that would have everything you needed in case of catastrophe... roman candles, blankets, flashlights, matches, tons of water, and food that doesn't spoil....
well, i was down in my parents' basement today when i found their emergency box, curious as to what they found preeminent when it came to survival, i took a peek, and found:
-boxes. boxes upon boxes of ziplock bags. small, medium, large, big foot size... plastic bags.
so a few options occurred to me:
a.) my parents have designated themselves an unimaginably admirable task:
in case of emergency, clearly, they are going to become the ultimate dichotomists!!! they will go out and bag a male and female of every species they encounter...record, classify, and perserve!
b.) they plan on weaving a gigantic hermetically-sealed plastic dome
c.) they know something i don't about the human body's ability to survive solely on plastic
d.) in case of disaster, they're effin' screwed
e.) perhaps they're privy to the fact that in case of real danger, there isn't much an Emergency Box will do for them.
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(4 Fainted | Make that Elvis face)
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| and then she woke up... |
[01 Feb 2008|05:41pm] |
within these asparagus green walls--partitioned by recycled bedsheets and memories...
cat power on the turntable
camus curled up on my feet--
i too, snuggled deep beneath quilts and cowboy sheets
embracing the fifth of the Sandman series
embraced by Dream and his realm
incense tugging at my nostrils,
smoking cigarettes out the window,
staring down at the wash of traffic slipping through the rainy evening
boots knocked askew on the floor, abandoned upon worn-out city papers
and i miss my boy
but there is a certain smirking quiet
knowing i'm moving
on
or maybe, even just knowing
i'm moving eventually
in increments
the cold air slips through my thin windows
biting it's way up my spine
camus paws at the quilt
the mattress softly rocks, accommodating his amusement
and we know we're home.
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(Make that Elvis face)
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| "Smoking with Thom: Episode 1" |
[30 Oct 2007|09:07pm] |
So I guess lately, my journal's been all about who's caught me smoking at the black cat (e.g. www.randomactsofcupcake.com) which is a shame, but this was too funny not to post:
a few months ago I did money for a bad called Small Sins at the cat, and on a cigarette break they asked me if I'd mind being filmed for their first episode of "Smoking with Thom" a take-off on "Fishing with John"... I said why not.
For some reason I ended up rambling about Bread & Puppet, hence my goofy-ass grin and hand gestures.
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(15 Fainted | Make that Elvis face)
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| Cupcakes and Radio |
[23 Oct 2007|12:21am] |
Jeremy and I got cupcaked!!!! Those sneaky (FANTASTIC) randomactsofcupcake.com folk!
in other news:
-My landlord's selling my house... moving in with two vegan boys, painted the living asparagus green... i mention this, because half of the living is where i'm living.
-I started a play while it was slow at the bookstore the other day.
-I'm sewing a corset for Laura... somehow I ended up back on costume's crew?
-DISCORDANT LULLABIES PREMIERES TOMORROW: tune into radio cpr (97.5) if you're in the dc area, every 2nd and 4th Tuesday of the month from 9pm to llpm, to hear bed-time stories for insomniacs young and old and some rad fucking music! cuddled in deep...and turn keep the dial on the dl!
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(7 Fainted | Make that Elvis face)
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| Sept. 1, 2007: 6 AM |
[01 Sep 2007|02:13pm] |
| [ |
music |
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the ice of boston: d-plan |
] |
As I rang up yet another GW student's books
$93.53
the envy began to set in
6-20(some) stunning pieces of literature
they not only knew they were going to read
but they knew they would dissect, unpack
thoroughly digest
in a smattering of months
As much as I pride myself on the self-education I've been anal as hell about
it has horrific inadequacies.
And in the end, the number of people I've slept with
trumps the books
I've finished.
As September sets in, the eerie blue
and a thoroughly crisp morning
unabashedly co-inhabiting a sky with straggling stars
I begin to wonder,
how do I account for this year?
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(3 Fainted | Make that Elvis face)
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[13 Aug 2007|04:30pm] |
having spent months trying to figure things out with my manager from the diner...i finally realized that despite how tender everything had been, despite the incredibly dorky-sweet nights of swimming in creeks, wee-hour dance parties, late-night mustard eating contests and curling up buck naked on the couch smoking--watching campy sci-fi, egg sandwiches in the morning at the spanish market, and early morning cartoons...
despite you taking care of my bill everytime i went into the diner, despite you taking me aside at the black cat to kiss me...
we are not what the other needs in their lives.
it's so silly, there's so much potential to be so good for one another, but it doesn't matter, because things should happen organically.
either they do or they don't.
the hypothetical stretch doesn't really matter.
Nothing Came Out-The Moldy Peaches
Just because I don't say anything
Doesn't mean I don't like you.
I open my mouth and I try and i try
But no words come out.
Without 40 ounces of social skills
I'm just an ass in the crack of humanity.
I'm just a huge manitee.
A huge manitee.
And besides you're probably holding hands
With some skinny, pretty girl that likes to
Talk about bands, and
All I wanna do is ride bikes with you
And stay up late and watch cartoons.
Duck Tales, shirt tails, Talespin, Sailor Moon, GI Joe, Robotech, Ron Jeremy, Schmoo.
I wanna watch cartons with you.
Josie and the Pussycats and Scooby Do,
I want you to watch cartoons with me.
He-man, Voltron and Hong-Kong-Fui
I tried to ask you to your face,
But no words came out.
I put on my hood and walked away.
That doosn't mean I don't like you.
And besides you're probably holding hands
With some skinny, pretty girl that likes to
Talk about bands, and
All I wanna do is ride bikes with you
And stay up late and maybe spoon.
Just becase I dont say anything
Doesn't mean I dont like you, no.
I opened my mouth and i tried and i tried.
And besides you're probably holding hands
With some skiny, pretty girl that likes to
Talk about bands and
All I wanna do is ride bikes with you
And stay up late and maybe spoon.
I'm just your average Thundercats ho.
my buddy came over at three in the morning--we've been reading "The Pushcart War" together, we got through a few chapters, 'til we were too snuggled in to read...in the morning i woke up with an incredibly cute boy in my bed... we put on a dylan record, made some pancakes and coffee, curled up on the ungodly sunny porch for a smoke and off he went...
it was just so nice to be tucked in and held last night...no strings
just comfy literature and profound coziness.
really, that's all i want right now, someone to curl up with, reading, listening to records...someone to go on adventures and lock my bike up with.
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(3 Fainted | Make that Elvis face)
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| i get around... |
[13 Aug 2007|01:36pm] |
after falling asleep to the news, i awoke to this:
(i kind of like the creepiness of this pirated version--it just emphasizes how incredibley unnerving this commercial is)
"it's a great ride and it didn't cost me a penny"--unlike those skanky whores the other night
"no cost, no obligation"--ahh the life
man, and there are those who claimed that tom cruise just went downhill after Risky Business, check this shit out! everyone's a critic.
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(4 Fainted | Make that Elvis face)
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[30 Jul 2007|06:38pm] |
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it is terrifically difficult to differentiate between those people who you want to sleep with and those people who you want to be a character in the next great american novel.
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(8 Fainted | Make that Elvis face)
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sawibawi's journal
