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.

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 shock waves 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 flaky 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.

I have an interview with Paste…

…and to commemorate this special occasion I’m going to paste some music lists in this here blog of mine

Top 5 songs played in iTunes:

1. The Mistress Witch From McClure- Sufjan Stevens

2. Plasticities- Andrew Bird

3. I Will Light You on Fire- Golden Shoulders

4. Intervention- The Arcade Fire

5. Here it Comes- Modest Mouse

Top 5 songs played on Catalina (old ipod):

1. I Know, I Know, I Know- Tegan and Sara

2. On the Radio- Regina Spektor

3. Champagne High- Sister Hazel

4. Aaron and Maria- American Analog Set

5. I Will Follow You Into the Dark- Death Cab for Cutie

Top 5 songs on Carlos (Catalina’s lover):

1. Hide and Seek- Imogen Heap

2. Trouble- Elliott Smith

3. Kids- MGMT

4. High and Dry- Radiohead

5. Wild Horses- The Rolling Stones

My Personal Favorites  (in no particular order!)

1. After the Curtain- Beirut

2. For the Widows in Paradise, For the Fatherless in Ypsilanti- Sufjan Stevens

3. Mambo Sun- T.Rex

4. The Mistress Witch From McClure- Sufjan Stevens

5. A Comet Appears- The Shins

6. Consequence of Sound- Regina Spektor

7. Let Down- Radiohead

8. Island in the Sun- Weezer

9. Some Kinda Love- The Velvet Underground

10. Look Up- Stars

11. A Sunday Smile- Beirut

12. Gigantic and Where is My Mind- Pixies

13. Ceremony- New Order

14. Lit Up- The National

15. Woke Up New- The Mountain Goats

16. For the Actor- Mates of State

17. Intervention- The Arcade Fire

18. Hold on I’m Comin’- Sam and Dave

19. Blowin’ in the Wind- Bob Dylan

20. Transatlanticism- Death Cab for Cutie

21. Red Right Ankle- The Decemberists

22. 2:45 am- Elliott Smith

23. Petals- The Honorary Title

24. Jezebel- Iron and Wine

25. Born Secular- Jenny Lewis

Re-write– Let’s Get Magical!

My Pleading Eyes
The walls were barren and coated with a sallow white that reflected the sense of sickness that every patient reeked not so secretly. Everything was plain and predictable, from the bedrooms to the hallways to the doctors. There were always people sitting on the couches aimlessly staring forward into the television perhaps with the hope of exchanging lives with a character of a sitcom or made for T.V drama, but who knows what was going on in their heads. It took me some time to realize that they weren’t just looking at the t.v., but rather the unicorn that resided in the corner.
The furniture, which took up an awkward amount of space, was dull and mismatched as if they were all purchased at a salvation army for $15.00 each piece. The unicorn often took hold of the couch near the window and groomed its fluorescent hair and sometimes etched his horn against the wall making a loud screeching noise that echoed through the hall. People seemed to be scattered everywhere concerned about this and that, but no matter what occupied their attention they were always aware of the creature watching them in the corner. A few ladies anxiously paced the carpeted hallways pretending they were walking along a sidewalk while a few others voiced their frustrations with the high pitched cry of a falcon at the missing puzzle pieces that would have completed their master piece. That was another thing, there was an obscene amount of board games, cards and puzzles all of which had missing pieces. No wonder they were all crazy, they were all going mad looking for those damn missing pieces.
Anyways, there were a lot of things I could note about that hospital, like the way the rooms always smelt sour like a perfume of formaldehyde and spoiled milk. It smelt like death, but none of us were dying, at least not in that urgent hospital sense of dying. In fact, most of us were just trying to live the way we used to, before the meds, lab coats and therapy. Just trying to live normal lives before that day when we noticed the unicorn in the room. Lucky for us there were windows, some even in our rooms, that allowed us to peer out at the world we left behind, the reality we strayed away from at least momentarily. In my room there were two beds, two desks, two chairs and a bathroom that could have easily been host to the shooting of a scene in a horror film. Unlike the other rooms, in mine there hung a single framed picture. It was of a rose in a delicate shade of pink that read below it ‘Blossom’. That picture, framed in a fake gold metal, was the most pathetic excuse for art that I had ever seen and on top of that it was cliché. One night I was astonished to find the unicorn on my bed, sleeping soundly and, despite it being quiet hours, I let it remain there the entire evening for I was too frightened to find out whether my eyes were being honest or not. That evening I slept in the main room on the couch were I found strands of silver hair too long to belong to any one of us.
This whole mess of a place, this institution meant to make us whole again, was tearing our minds apart and if you were there you could’ve seen it in our eyes as they screamed and pleaded for mercy, for escape, and for freedom. None of us did anything though, we just kept injecting ourselves with the pills they handed us and kept our pleading eyes attached to the television screen praying that maybe, just maybe we would trade lives and hoping that someday that unicorn in the corner would disappear.