Update: July 31.

Omar just left to visit a thrift shop with Greg. He promised to buy me a button. Yes, a button. *drools*

But anyway, I've been back from the mall, and I had to eat first (it's a competitor of yours, boyfriend! haha. KFC doesn't kick Popeyes though).

As for clothes I bought a denim pleated mini-skirt (within reasonable length!), a cute tank top that reads "Chester's Bike Shop Rentals - ride all day!", and a green tee with two bowling pins: Pin Pals.

Soon I will be ordering my antique "destroyed" jeans and three other pairs; I have to get it direct online because my size isn't carried in stores. I need like 35'37" inseam and I wear a 3. Some think it a blessing, but my esteem is low, so I really could care less.

Meh. Awaiting a call from Jim...

I wonder if Will-face attempted my number the whole time I was gone?




----

Adieu.




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P.S. Tomorrow = <3

Buzz Around Town

today

Me, Louis, Dad, and Ken went out around northwest Houston this afternoon. We crashed at his townhome, criticizing M-I:2, and then went to Fry's; and a small tool supply shop (I found a fuzzy flannel canteen and a mini-horn! Wow!); the new CompUSA (stole a sheet of paper from an attractive employee. He called me a thief); and a cute art & framing place called "Aaron Brothers". I love that strip on Westheimer. I even spotted a Thai restaraunt and "the upper hand", which appeared to be a thrifty book/cafe-type thing. Oooh.

Another thing I noticed was, during the majority of our driving and conversations, I felt inclined to write. Especially when we passed little convienent marts and gunmetal storage buildings - I thought of clever adjectives and simple sentence structure, even whole paragraphs, a page; to make of the scenery. I wished there were a machine to record my thoughts into text. That would be so much easier. Although, the joy of taking the time to write still would be of lust.

Little stuff: Talk of motorcycles, a purchased magic lollipop wand (slapping powers; took pictures as soon as I got home - it's a yellow lemon pie-flavored star! Mary got a tulip since she spent the night), and the word of the day has been "first class". Some discussion of my future, and my financial situation involving it. I'm probably getting a loan. Sigh.

We also ate lunch at Taqueria Arandas (sp?). Over all a nice day. I now have cool flat-panel sneakers for my computer. Woo! I can't believe it; how it's mid-Saturday, and the weekend isn't nearly complete; usually I sit myself at home and do very little.

List of tasks to complete//possible events*:

1) Me, Omar + William = Bollywood horror flick, bw camera shots*
2) Serious job hunting with Rachel
3) Shopping for school clothing
4) Collab with Will
5) Try to spend night at Stephanie's (almost impossible with everything else happening)*
6) Summer reading; maybe a bite of Lilyfoil + 3 and Controlling Interests


generalized past week

Hmm, how to sum up so many events? Lol. Let's try.

Danae woke me up Friday morning with some nasty raspberry candies. Bleh, and her mother forced me to eat a banana. How sweecy and juit is that? Looks like they aren't moving to a posh complex in New York afterall. That's quite reassuring. I've known her too damn long, through three moves and everything.

Convo with Nick. Spent the night at Rachel's as well - finally watched Invader Zim. Many touching moments with my face.



--------------



Time for shoppin'.

Love in a book

William, there are too many reasons to love you. One being the introduction to this.

My Wicked Wicked Ways: Sandra Cisneros

Misfits

He never cried in front of me before. Nor did his eyes bulge in anticipation, with held-back emotion and all. Today it came out raw and clean, it dripped on my chest and left a translucent patch of moisture on my shirt. The boy made it understood though: "It's not bad."

No, surely not; but the best feeling ever. You could smell pinswirls and your heartbeats would recede, then leap massive leaps like your muscles were springs. I let my fingers linger on my leaf pendant and panted a bit, surprised that my sobs and the heart-shaped music had overwhelmed this body - I opened him. Can I say that? Now that I think on it, yes, that's exactly what I was doing. I was opening his body up. I took the tears into a fist, we strung ourselves on a while to blur out the heat, and eventually he couldn't take it, no - no.

A crystalline bird perched somewhere in the room. Smiles formed out of crackle-paint, and I could feel how skin feels when you cradle a dead person. This isn't like him. It isn't like the world to beat out perfect circles into weary squiggles and to unlatch a swollen, angered beast onto the public. Nobody has that kind of mystic ability or authority. Nobody. But me.

Excruciate

ah, i burned a hole in my cheek
as saliva edges it i feel its fire

i pour the residue of brick walls,
the smell of carseats, ripped fabric

which is rumpled into a homo sapien;
he makes his fetal position, clamber and rain,

this is all poured into different mouths
fill, splash, gurgle, mix well and salt it with marshes.

jaja on the corner, window flaps are heated and they
make a decomposition of crannies.

though the pedestrians aren't delicious, i can eat.
organ - no belly, full, paroxysm making winding passage.

distort and collect me in color and the sepia
so permitted, behind the first glossy coat of an eye.

it shoals, the tiers seem to break into others, no more
currents; i should thank the dead painter tonight.

Frisk, fret, I may

 
 
This place rocks.
 
 
 
 
Between a japanese receit and a mint-condition brown sack, lies -
 
Controlling Interests: Charles Bernstein
Lilyfoil + 3: Elizabeth Treadwell
 
 
 
 
Don't forget the five cents.
 
 

Excerpt - The Crystal Text

 
 
The highlighted section seems to decipher my AIM handle. Funky.
 
 

 
So going around surviving nothing so thinking of you
perfectly slantwise crystal of the middle of my life,
my distance surely kept, enfolded on a slightly
downcast vision. And the world that is not
you, but dangling on, I live by the light
of your density, sharply.

The trumpet says out, so we get up.
I do it, my nights my days, my heart thrumming
in shortening prison, a prism, master of rays
and lefthanded as I am not. Yet.

The world is a baffle that shows through to
you, everywhere. Almost, and pieces of banana
left in nearly empty refrigerator. But for them,
for me the world dials sink, in daily drink
and some respite. Solace is not general.
A joke is not less than what it names
and the crystal at the rim sits on my table,
perfect to the letter, one never sent, or kept either.

Crystal not survivable, but will remain me.
It lives in the sun-tipped palace of my regard,
until. One could place no period after it.
That I will change it, my challenge.
Its challenge, purefoot power of no regard.
In back of the house the washing lines up
with the sun disc, one cold day a life.

But does the light grow yellower in the crystals as I stare
harder, or has it been there as initial stain?
And now that I write this the flavor of its shards
glows again in ice-white.
Do you want to know something?
How? Interest in structure only in terms that a
language exists. Exists and or language,
entrances and exits. The words you have
lift from telling you going on exactly wherein.
The words continue, to reconsider the echo.
And the ersatz follower, you.
He signified that there was always something out there,
always also not in here. With them, all time,
all things, voices saying it and saying again it does,
it has, it will. It has will, said so once,
says so more and further, it was merely wanted
and never appears. So. Lone follower of you.

The brick wall, the grey kiln. The rose and the
specialty letters. You'll never know it green as
its width would. Started again, and then loss
of memory, stop. Entrance to the focal, the vocal fold
blocked. Continue anyway as does a pocket
redness and intermittent speech. The one beside you,
no one beside you, has the language.

To say the snow is all of my mind
to say the trees interruptions
to say the window keeps me
and to keep saying lies
as the base of time.

Colder tonight, cold as full tightness, you're brilliant
with glance, with hold, pact of death with detail,
detail with drink, you leave the emptiness
of all else air with silvered me, headful draught.

I saw you that
you that would not meet me
slantways in the slow
burn of time, close of cold
fronds of air that sew
thoughts needless, beck of pen
to sorts of light that clasp
you are that baffled star that hides not
slips through the palms' tongues, slivers
and reigns
and I whistle the word no longer
your name

A Poet's Groceries

I want:
 
 
Ring of Fire: Lisa Jarnot
Stories in the Worst Way: Gary Lutz
The Crystal Text: Clark Coolidge
paces in the light said to be where one / comes from: Stephen Ratcliffe
Origami Bridges: Diane Ackerman
The Midnight Disease: The Drive to Write, Writer's Block, and the Creative Brain:  Alice W. Flaherty
Birds of America: Lorrie Moore
How to Be An Other Woman: Lorrie Moore
Go Like This: Lorrie Moore
Life of Pi: Yann Martel
Insomnia Diary: Bob Hicok
A Carnage in the Love Trees: Richard Greenfield
The Sleep that Changed everything: Lee Ann Brown
Sugar Pill: Drew Gardner
Apprehend: Elizabeth Robinson
Syrup: Maxx Berry
The Contortionist's Handbook: Craig Clevenger
Diary: A Novel: Chuck Palahniuk

 

i accept the small fluff of bread

browned in the center 

          i lick sugar from my thumb, it

   glistens a silvered hue of skin   

feet passing a table, the paper is kept so well

 

                    a keyboard finds catharsis from 

sticky plastic.

The Garden State

 
 
 
You just don't understand.
 
Natalie Portman as a lead role & Frou Frou singing the theme?
 
I'm going to die.

Book List

I bought some books today. Here are the few articles of literature as of now that are to be read:
 
All Quiet on the Western Front: Erich Maria Remarque
A Street Car Named Desire: Tennessee Williams*
Farewell To Arms: Ernest Hemingway*
Pride & Prejudice: Jane Austen
Wuthering Heights: Emily Bronte
The Good German: Joseph Kanon*

* = newly purchased

Heavy sigh

The downfall of expressionalism is when others are offended by your pieces. It's not necessarily misinterpretation, it's just how they play the words in their head, they create the atmosphere themselves. You can't see color if you're a dog. Meaning, everyone has their own personal view of the world, and I can't alter it nor will I desire to; that isn't my intention.
 
Writing is pretty controversial, and there are so many forms of it - Dada is nonsensical jibberish, which I happen to adore, and then there are things that involve no expression. I'd use persuasion if I wanted to get a point across. Sometimes you just write and only write the non-fiction, the happenings, and you may not cross the emotion aspect. Sometimes it's phrases on your tongue you've been wanting to get out. 

And Rachel, again. I truly apologize for offending you. It didn't have meaning, it didn't lean to one side or the other, but it's fine. I understand.

And so the book opened

I'm crossing street corners, and I'm crossing passersby, and mentally concrete dreams melt in skulls as I wash away from the hard top, and a drunken man stumbles in the lush black night's sidewalk with a beer hat clasped over his head. There are ghosts having sex on my wall and I pry the words from a bleeding socket. I can't see everything, but this is enough, this is enough to make each rain drop turn to an ambulance. It's raining help outside. No longer will you see ads portraying their detergent as spring fresh, no, but aid-fresh. Keeping it together may just save you. Putting it to paper may conquer the messiah.