I dream in color. Really tacky color.

January 25, 2011 § Leave a comment


I had this dream last night that I could skateboard. I was hanging out in this small room that was set up for street skating. There were steps and ledges and rocky faces and stuff. So they call my name cuz we’re doing runs or whatever and I’m all like : “I’VE GOT THIS.” (Except in the dream I’m outside of myself looking at myself going: “I hope you can pull this off Rebecca!”) I’m with a bunch of older teenage boys who aren’t ripping hard- but they are shredding decent. Bailed tricks. So I’m at the top of the run and I look over at them and I start skating. Except I FEEL it. The gravelly pocks under my wheels. WOAH. I’m bumping along kind of rough but handling the balance of the room okay.
So I just make it from the top to the bottom. I go over the stairs and stick it fine and wind up out of breath in a neon pink shirt next to these sweaty bros. They are just impressed that I made it down. The announcer calls the next guy and I say loudly: “I don’t even know one trick. That’s right I just stick to the board, man.”
How lame is that! I tell them I suck! Then I elaborate by saying that I get bored and skate around sometimes. So weird.
I told E about this dream and she was like: “pshhh I can skateboard, I do it all the time!”

I didn’t want to tell her that this dream was probably the castoff of sitting for hours by TSX and various other skateparks watching ledge tricks and mini ramp shit. When I think back on those days I’m always wearing sunglasses with pink arms. I know this can’t be true. Also, I am always wearing jean shorts. That is pretty true.

Okay: {PART TWO}

I am in a room that is like a Christmas dinner and I hate everyone. There are many jokes that aren’t funny and I can’t laugh. I am incapable of faking it. I crawl under the table and somehow through some tan leather cushions. I find a gold necklace that is dripping my name. I see two other girls my age (I guess I am maybe like 19 in this?) and they don’t make conversation with me and I am wiggling my eyebrows kind of like: I can’t wait to get out of these stockings. A small dog escapes and everyone goes nuts. It is assumed that it is dead. I feel nothing and stand by the refrigerator as people cry.
So I’m a skate fake who likes gold jewelry, has menial social skills, is incapable of laughing, and feels no emotion over a cute dead dog.

Once I saw Billy Rohan on the subway and recognized him and wanted to tweet it but realized no one I knew would know who he was.
I guess I should start submitting to places? I don’t ever have a finished piece. I looked back at old published stuff and wanted to cheese grate my index fingers. UGH.

I have a few ideas for some serialized poems. I have this umbrella concept and its all specific to my life because I am a poet and you are feeling everything through me goddamnit so you must know me. Just kidding. So with those kind of themed series I get really into it and then three poems later I lose interest. I have all of these half finished projects.

I just ordered a desk! Which means that I will automatically be productive. People don’t usually believe me when I say there is one chair in my apartment. Well guess what!? I bought ANOTHER. A desk chair. And I assembled it. That’s right. And I even carried it and dropped it many times from the elevator to the door.

So my goals… to do list?: Start finishing poems. Start finishing series. I journal on average 4 out of 7 days a week which is pretty good. I have all sorts of soggy fish food clumping to the bottom just waiting to get pecked at and eventually flushed.

My life has no drama. Things happened last year! Breakup(s)! Drunken confessions! Binge eating with besties. My last semester of undergrad.

This year?
Pleasant dinner and beers with friends. People telling me I am pretty in a sincere way. A new duvet cover. A switched gym membership. Cleaning snow off of my car. Watching Twin Peaks with talented young poets.

Oh. Great. I’m not asking to be mugged or to get into another car accident or to have my job end and for me to miss City Island daily and bloom my CI portfolio out. NO.
Maybe if someone new could come on the scene? Or I could decide if I want to teach or go for an MFA (My bones are so weary from CUNY though. OH G-D).

I used to get great satisfaction while painting to public access television or taking ambien and realizing I had so much to write before I went to sleep. I always had more to write.

What am I doing now? Looking at a beautiful vase of roses and drinking a seltzer on my clean new duvet. How trite.


Coastal Jigsaw

January 10, 2011 § Leave a comment

I am listening to Smog (Bill Callahan) which makes me think of Sandra and in turn she makes me think of Atlanta. Atlanta makes me think of road trips which makes me think of driving in the desert at night and seeing America’s biggest cross. Driving in the desert at night makes me think of what its like to come upon Vegas completely exhausted and seeing lights but not wanting to stay in an overpriced drug den on the outskirts which makes me think about pushing on to LA which makes me think of California as a whole. And then I think of that all marble shower somewhere off Sunset. And the signs that say “Do not rent by the hour” and how waking up to sun really beats the shit out of this gray slant-light that sneaks through all the cracks only to dimly illuminate whatever it infests.
So I suppose I should move or travel? I like sitting in this room with this voice though.

room made of bookshelves.

January 7, 2011 § 3 Comments

One of my goals since I “retired” is to get my shit looking right. After last semester my bookage was a little out of control. I decided to start with organizing (at least a little bit) the bookcase in my room. (There is a facing bookshelf that was built for me by my father that I also “organized” but alas- photos only of the big one.)

Here is the before:

And here is the after:

Can you tell the difference? Maybe yes maybe no. More prominently celebrated is Brian Galderisi’s work (I’m sure you can spot the pieces). Many books got rearranged or moved (promoted…demoted). I think my major concern was that there wouldn’t be room for Nelson’s Anthology on the poetry shelf. For some reason I can’t move Lowell to rung two. Yap yap yap. I also wanted to stick No More Masks! on the first shelf. Of course… Muriel Rukeyser also needs her proper place. Sorry for sticking you next to Plath! (Considering what you wrote about her Muriel— tsk. ::Correct quote coming soon**::)

There are some books I can’t bear to part with. I better just have a house made out of bookshelves one day. Do you guys keep all of your notes and tabs in books after you’ve finished? Sometimes when I re-read Walden I’m so happy I wrote footnotes and my thoughts at the time in pencil on the pages.


January 6, 2011 § 1 Comment

I have been writing lately. Some sort of New Years Day ambush of the senses. Let’s be honest: I was hungover and mostly naked thinking: “this can only end wonderfully.”

The next day I had it. I had taken over 6000 steps dancing the night before and my calves were rippling and I had danced in a peculiar way in the morning as well. So my body couldn’t make up its mind if it was hot or cold and I hate when that happens. Its my auto immune disease sneaking up on me under the wooly blanket that insists its gross rose color upon my livingroom couch and thighs. It all came to me then. So sore and blissful. Everything timed like a perfect egg.


You know when you write a poem and you vibrate out of your skin because it has successfully encased all of the good meat like a dumpling of integrity? I wanted to share so I sent my creation to Crystal Rivera. She liked it. Now I keep sending her more because more channels through somehow even though I am doing the usual music listening and The Wire watching. And Moby Dick reading. Also some working… but anyway.

Things have started right: things have started.

to plant: our disrobed christmas tree.

January 3, 2011 § 1 Comment

a continued positivity amongst a sea of negative blowfish.

2011 > 2010? TBD.

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