Psycho killer, Quest Que Cest? fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fa far better

The scene I’m about to post was derived in my reading and writing short stories class during one of my professors crazy activities. She thoroughly enjoys tossing us into these creative writing fits and this is another one of her “I’ve been sniffing glue” activities.

This is how it goes: two characters taken from different stories written for the class- a random setting in Des Moines-two random desires fitted for each character.

Setting: Des Moines airport security check-in the weekend before thanksgiving in 2001

Character/Desire: Clay-to go to sleep and Anonymous psycho killer- to meet jesus

Of course, the security check-in attendant choose me to randomly search. He groped the seams of my Wrangler jeans; I stared straight ahead vacantly at his name tag: Hello my name is Clay. In the aftermath of September 11th the number of Clays swarming around the airport terminal had doubled. He glanced suspiciously at the image displayed on the x-ray screen. It was probably ill-advised to be toting around a bag of human hair, but I wanted to take them with me wherever I go. Lucky for me Clay just raised his eyebrow, confiscated my citrus fruit, and waved me along unenthusiastically.

“Sir, can you please put your bag in the overhead compartment and place your tray in the upright and locked…”

At this point the stewardess noticed the French braids growing in my lap with my shirt collar up over my nose. The petite black woman in the aisle seat stared at me woozily and stumbled to the bathroom. The stewardess opened her mouth to admonish me for my craft project and I shoved the chloroform soaked braid  in her mouth like a horse bit. Battling through the throng of fainting passengers I thrust open  the cockpit door and  shouted “take me to  jesus.”

“Sir, you’re already on your way to Las Vegas.”

Measuring cups

She didn’t have any measuring cups so I had to use my hands. I remember growing up here in between these walls of secrets and lies, this little blue house on the corner, the place where I buried my cat and my innocence in the dirt. Her cupboards were a barren country with only the scattered remnants of quaker oats veiling the surface area. Her only nourishment came from the nicotine in her cigarettes, every single one meaning to be her last. She was a habitual quitter who could never really quit, but somehow she managed to be a failure her entire life. My fingernails scratched the bottom of the bag and there was only enough mix for a couple of blueberry pancakes. I could have just poured the mix out of the bag, sure, but sometimes I just needed to feel an emptiness that I knew could be refilled. I hated blueberry pancakes and still do. They remind me of her and the part of her that’s in me. She assumed I liked Krustez blueberry pancakes because I always ate them. Because they were the only thing we had. One hundred forty nine calories, seventeen from fat. I often wondered how many calories could be knocked off if I sifted the blue flavored masses out. One hundred forty nine calories, seventeen from fat, still. I do blame her, still. Sometimes but for small things other times for everything. Often I like to think that I got nothing from her, but then I’m reminded that I too am a habitual quitter. I’ve been trying to quit her for years.

I just don’t like the woman

First of all she’s losing in the polls and in delegate numbers. Now she’s talking about obliterating Iran. Take a cue from the guys in It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia- she hates freedom.

DROP OUT OF THE RACE ALREADY, please.

With love,

An Obama supporter

Why, oh why, oh why?

Now that it’s too darn late I can’t help but ask myself why on earth I’m not inebriated by the sound waves rolling off the hills of the coachella valley? Why am I in Iowa and not California on this weekend of all weekends? I just had to say it. Coachella, I miss you and I missed you.

Throwing punches at the night air

I’ve been going through a miniature version of writers block. Although I must admit that what’s really happening is much more a version of motivational lack than any true block of inspiration or lack of words to say. I did stay up late last night and conjured up a short short. It’s nothing to write home about (gotta love cliches!), but with all the windows open wide in my room I found inspiration from the thundering footsteps of strangers. This is what happens when the air conditioning fails you and the noise of drunk college students meandering home fills your dreams at night. Oh, and when you watch Dexter before sleeping. That show makes you think all sorts of sinister thoughts.

The Things in the Night

In the night I hear footsteps. I can feel every tread crash into the walls and send shockwaves throughout my nervous system. I haven’t left my bed in days, in weeks. It seems I’ve forgotten how to wake, how to eradicate my dreams and the ticks laced in my unwashed sheets that nibble on my flakey flesh. No one, not a single person loves me. If they did they would have found me lying here 15 days, 7 hours, and 22 minutes ago trapped in limbo. If I knew what happened I would tell you, but that night, tonight, tomorrow night, they are all a blur to my 20/20 vision. The one thing I can tell you though is that at least I know why I’m here, numb to everything but what surrounds me. I got here because I used psalms to roll my weed and when I was twelve I told my youth pastor to go fuck himself. I don’t think I’d take either of those things back, but if given the chance I would definitely have told Dante to go fuck himself too. He really messed with my image of hell. If I would’ve known that hell was just like life maybe I would’ve recited my hail marys. Maybe.

Tomb and womb summarizes all writing

Tonight for the first time I read my writing to an audience. I picked one of my short-shorts partially because it was one of my favorites recommended by a professor and partially because I am a firm believer that the best things come in small packages. So tonight I read and the feeling was one both familiar and ethereal. I was reminded of the old high I could only find at the end of a finish line. It’s an odd thing to go searching for a feeling and to only find it in an unlikely place; in the front of a crowd reading something you’ve read aloud to yourself almost a hundred times. I love that feeling and experiencing it tonight was just another reminder of why I’m treading this path, becoming a writer.

That’s another thing I’ve been thinking about lately, the innumerable accidents that brought me to this point in which my fate is sealed by ink and paper. Had life happened differently would I still have been slated with the fate of a writer? Do we all simply become writers through a web of accidents and miscalculations? Or am I foolish for even deeming my own fate? I have no idea. All I really know is that when I write I feel alive and as though life has some deeper meaning that has yet to reveal itself.

I spent six years of my life running. I ran for the feeling, for an escape, and even at one point for greatness. Now I’ve stopped running. Now I write. I write for pleasure, for release, for comfort, and for a hopeful reassurance that somewhere hidden behind these words there lies something greater than myself. I write because I have a story and because once, a long time ago, someone told me I could create magic with words. I didn’t believe them then, but I do believe them now. All it took was for this seafaring woman to open up her eyes and look around at the murky waters that occupy the space in her head.

For my birthday I received a Tree of Smoke

I love Denis Johnson. As in I love his words, his phrases, his characters, his plots, his honesty, his irony, his description, his voice, and every little shred that molds together to form his work. If I can simply be half the writer he is I will be pleased.

So I just turned twenty roughly ten minutes ago. I welcome this year with arms uncomfortably open for a handful of reasons. I’m supposing that this year will be a good one, though this is mostly because two is my lucky number. Twenty also happens to terrify me. Why you may ask? Well a lot of it has to do with my fear of growing old and despite the fact that being twenty still gives me youngster cred I’m a third way through my predicted sixty year existence. PAUSE.

(Sidenote: for those of you that know me well, you know that I don’t want to live past sixty. For those unaware of this fact, it all stems back to my grandmother. One day we made blackberry pie and her frail blue-veined hands began to quiver as she took hold of mine and made me promise to never grow old. This scared the shit out of me seeing as I was only six and that memory stuck with me ever since. I asked her how old old was and she answered sixty. Hence the reason I don’t want to live past sixty.)

RETURN. So here I am, on my aqua futon making my silly little predictions for the upcoming year and listening to forever young, another tradition of mine. Here’s to another year of adventure and seafaring.

Final thought: “The god I want to believe in has a voice and a sense of humor like Denis Johnson” -Johnathan Franzen. Yes, he really is that good.

Not only do I feel it all, but..

I also feel slightly egocentric and vain when I continually talk about my ridiculously sweet internship for the summer so instead I’m going to brag about it in my blog in a not so modest manner.

I’M WORKING FOR PASTE MAGAZINE!!!!!  YAYER! ATL HERE I COME.

Whoa, I’m glad I finally got that out of my system.

I feel it all

I was recently conversing with a professor who told me that all great writers struggle to go home. He said that these writers spend their careers writing pieces of the Utopian home that doesn’t exist anywhere else but on paper. All of the great writers, he said, write about escaping from their homes and the impossibility of returning to it.

This is for my home, my city, the place that my green heart belongs to.

Portland, Oregon
The trees here climb up the hills and cover every inch of visible land as if they were protecting the soil from some threatening prey. Above, the sky remains a dull shade of grey that remains constant from October through April until one fine day when grey fades to blue and the sky is illuminated with remarkable color. Those first blue days in spring, the days when the sun looks down on us making our skin smile from the abundance of vitamin D, illicit a child like behavior as city dwellers, cyclists and indie kids marvel at the strange and unfamiliar sight they had almost forgotten. Main features of the city lie within its distinct sectors all of which exude unique characteristics and strike different emotions depending on who you’re talking to. The buildings, unlike most major cities, do not reach for the clouds here, but rather they lay low to protect the distant view of the snow-capped Mt. Hood. Connecting downtown to its uber cool counterparts are a multitude of bridges that lie parallel to one another and grow in size as you move down the river towards Vancouver. These bridges, almost as peculiar as the cities inhabitants, are themselves works of art featuring brilliant arches and frames of muscular steel. To any stranger of this city it would appear as if cyclists rule the land as they weave in and out of traffic, some brave and bold riding their ‘fixies’ and some serious and determined to race with the real boys. Coffee shops line every corner and drench the air with a caffeinated aroma that give you the jitters just by inhaling. Litter on the streets is almost as rare as a sunny day in winter and green virtually covers the city from its streets to its hills to its people’s thumbs. Everywhere you look, even in the downpour, you see smiling faces and not once a sign of an umbrella. The people here are weird, but friendly. The streets in some parts freshly paved and in others still the old brick from the days of shanghaiing. Hippies, homeless and habitual drinkers can be found mingling the streets at almost any hour adding to a perplexing personality that can’t quite be matched. Both dark and dreary as well as hopeful and beautiful, this is the city I love.

Georgia on my mind

Things I am obsessed with:

1. Microfiction- I love it. I write it. It’s just another example of why “smallness” is lovely and wonderful.

2. Diving Bell- Not the movie, although it was good. I’m talking about the image, it is beautiful and sea themed like me. Plus, my friend Annie Danger bought me a necklace featuring my new favorite icon so I’m quite pleased.

3. Debating what was just about the ending of Gone Baby Gone- I won’t spoil it, but let’s just say the ending is debatable and a hefty debate at that.

4. For sale: baby shoes, never worn- This ties into number 1.

5. Paper Planes- Both the objects themselves, fun to throw and sometimes lethal, and also the song by M.I.A.