December 18, 2010 § 1 Comment
Things have been really amazing on a production end. I’m taking photos and composing new worlds on the page.
went shopping with exboyfriend for his mother’s christmas gift. he took me to dinner and we had the standard chat.
“I want to be at your wedding and read a poem for you” I said.
“Sure Rebecca… but will anyone understand it?” He replied, glasses perched purposely in a fashion that gave me the gigglefits.
It was an inside joke concerning my somewhat cryptic placement of details upon the page. No temporal order: all backwards sequencing into a place of feeling. I keep thinking I’ve changed that- then I wake up and see what I’ve written at two a.m.
It’s a breached birth,
timespout of words almost fluid in
tailwhips of a tired hand.
Last night I drove Lucille (named after the Chuck Berry song) down Main Street. I took a few backroads too and from. Curves that pinned my shoulder to the seat frame. I could’ve been in Woodstock. I could’ve been where the light doesn’t leak, pollute, and hover in a drowned glow.
I’ll never leave,
I’ll never leave. And yet-
it’s when I become
I use myself to warm myself
I just read These Blocks, Not Square by Thomas Glave. The descriptions of the Northern Bronx, City Island, and Pelham Manor really tugged on this chord that I usually find inharmonious amongst the symphony of people who live here. Being his reader made me feel really blessed at moments.
I just pulled a Mitch Hedburg and put a sweet potato in the toaster oven- knowing that after a shower and some writing I’d be hungry. This apartment has too much static electricity. I may go write at Slave to the Grind tomorrow- then off to a writing date with Emz.
December 8, 2010 § 2 Comments
I feel like my insides are about to crush. This is how diamonds are made.
There are oddly acting carbon atoms arranging themselves into the unbreakable.
Etched in my abdomen backwards:
“I overpower, I tame.”
(but in traditional Greek that seems more like the smooth clawing of something that has just grown fingernails).
I want to photograph the curly haired girls.
I wish I had learned color developing. I want to ruin the chemical pool with summer Cyan.
I wish I had the resources to do this. (Gone are the days of smoke breaks and the SUNY Purchase photo labs: Brian on my hip and the Hutchinson River Parkway sending the speeding student into hydroplanes.)
I wish women were not so controlled by over-analytic misconstructions of past scenarios and realize the present was not meant for them if they can’t brightside their best prompters into a positive space. We are supposed to be each others support and advocates. No one is going to actively seek the company of a a gnarled tooth that mimics a weak root. Your teeth are pretty bad: we’ve all heard you complain. We are not your teeth: we borrow from more aggressive animals.
Do you see what I mean about over-analytic?
There are so many things that need to be oiled… so many precious things that need to be photographed before they die.
Working on a project that is filling me up and bursting my capillaries while I sleep. A good nosebleed means I must have had a good dream.