inside/outside: transitioning the personal lens.

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.

Old faces:
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,
arced whale:
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
in motion.

Olympus XA 35mm / December 2010

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.

Nikon FG 35mm


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.


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§ One Response to inside/outside: transitioning the personal lens.

  • Crystal R. says:

    I think that some of your pieces are only cryptic (abstract maybe?) to those who are lazy readers. (Was that mean? whtvr). I don’t see myself questioning what you mean because I think that I can always tell. The mood(s), the sounds, the line breaks, the fantastic combination of words that you create..all of this pushes images and meaning(s)..there’s no need to stumble upon a line and say, WTF? espeically when I always find myself saying, “fuckkkk, that was great.” … timespout of words almost fluid in / tailwhips of a tired hand.
    oyyyy, ❤

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