Welcome to my blog. I document my adventures in travel, style, and food. Hope you have a nice stay!

washing the weekend away

so here I sit out alone in the living room, quiet, frames, a mix tape I made on the background -

alone. really and completely. no parents, occupied friends, the ticking of a clock near a television that's off, cat in the other room. no job. nobody left to keep tabs on me but me.

I hope that's not coming across as morbid, I don't mean to imply that no one cares or that this is in some way tragic. it's not. and they do. but when you get stripped of everything, down to your last hundred bucks, you're alright for a few weeks still, the cat's fed, there's clothes on your back and a suit hanging in the closet, all hopeful and waiting for an interview - but it's getting down to my bones now. no boys. no distractions. there's me, a notebook, my scars, and a silent living room.

I'm writing this out in an email because it seems like it should be a letter to him, or to someone, so it seems like the right format, but I know it's just me. and on that note - at least it all got me writing. it always does, and it was the same interactions and a little less at a little faster pace, but it was just the same, and it did the trick. my veins are open, and my heart is full of black ink. and that's how I like it, that's how the words happen, that's how it's supposed to be.

I'll allow myself a momentary tangent, I guess, to lament over boys and things, too many words sometimes and not enough words sometimes - it's not purely situational, but there's this huge discouragement hanging in a fishing net from the ceiling, the cold reality that there are no moviescript moments kissing in the rain under trees, and that most times if there is it's just a game anyways, and that there is no showing up at the window too late on a weeknight to a Boy on the sidewalk who was just nowhere near your neighborhood. there's no mixtapes that say it all the way the ones I make do, there's just songs that leave me guessing and moments that don't add up. but then I don't know how to tell the truth, in either case. saying or discerning or otherwise. but see - the thing is, all these beautiful words start to come out. words like a thumb just so on a cheekbone right before a kiss happens, like aching in front of speakers for another moment... and on top of the words there's the momentary glimpses of everything I ever wanted. as long as I don't try to pull back the curtain on it. and then from that, there is hope, just like the cards said there would be.

so, at this part of the movie scene, it seems like there's nothing left - but really, it's the beginning of everything. there's power and glasses and eyelet skirts and heartwrenching moments in kristin's arms where we know just by the fact that there's words for things that they've happened already, and so there's no more loneliness. because if no one got me, and everyone was scared to engage, I wouldn't have people in my life for real, all wrapped up close to my heart, that know me, really - really and truly. right now there's only like, one or two, and a bunch of awkward interactions with a Boy doesn't undo all of that. it can't. I'm too strong for that to be my reality.

I might be broken, but I'm still amazing. every jagged little bleeding part of me. I've got pages and pages to prove it, but I don't need to.

I want to paint. big sweeping canvases, and I want to use my arms and legs to make masterpieces. like, all covered in paint, all tortured by it on the floor, doing whatever it takes to get it right. I want to blow up big superimposed prints of perfect pictures I've taken and blow myself away. I want to sing with someone and have it mean something. I want to be understood, dammit, I'm tired of trying to do all the understanding.

all biting my lip on the couch on a sunday night, half expecting - whatever
not really expecting anything

I want a job, so I'm going to go and get one. I can't stand relationships, so I'm not going to engage in any except for the one that goes on in this apartment (well, ones, if you include taking care of the girls) and I'm going to stay all east coast and unapproachable, because it's going to save my ass. I'll send long-winded emails and say the quiet parts out loud and I don't care who doesn't want to hear what - if you don't like my lyrics, you can press fast forward. or throw the whole thing out the window. because at the end of the weekend, in an apartment like this in the nighttime, it's me on those pages in my notebooks, nobody else. no one is going to do this for me. well, I mean, kristin is helping with alot, but I kind of put that in the category of me being sick and cracked out and her taking care of me, only it's all mostly my insides that need the help - but I sit here on this furry couch and it's just me. there's no packing up to go anywhere, and there's no one to put words in those paisley midnight skies.

this is my life. and this is my shot. I'm getting amazing emails and texts, people throwing me flowers (I guess I'm not as well / as I had hoped) and saying things like, it's your time to shine. I have to find some kind of empowerment in being all stripped away. it's either that, or give up. and I'm not giving up.

I wish I could walk into jobs and give them my real resume. all the moments and the courage and the words and the real parts, the smashed up beautiful parts - I'm all stuck on this awkward representation of myself that I've got to conjure up. kristin has been pretty consistent with her opinions about that. must wear jacket, must have sensible shoes, must not show cleavage. must learn power point. must wear pearls, if applicable.

songs just stop me in my fucking tracks. really. you should be able to make a job out of that moment I just had just then.

I watch
the patchwork farms
slow fade
into the ocean's arms
and from here
they can't see me stare
the stale taste
of recycled air...

so calm down
release your cares
the stale taste
of recycled air...

I've got to keep telling myself that this is the truth, that it's not all waking up to wet sweaters on a sunday morning that make you wish you could rewind your saturday. I have to hang onto something. it just has to be all this everything else that I hope it is. if it's anything else, if everyone is lying and just trying to be nice, I'm doomed. and I can't be doomed. there's too many good shows coming up to be doomed. I mean, seriously, fall tour is around the corner, and I'm living in seattle now.



blowing kisses out into the quiet, empty nighttime -

live journal

I'm just going to stop talking (typing)