Everyone is having fancy times abroad except me. I'm in the south bay and the ocean is fluorescent yellow.
And Brazilian laptop consumers love me, apparently. Isso é bom.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Friday, July 10, 2009
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Monday, July 6, 2009
Indoor landscapes
Lately I've been looking at a lot of blogs showing peoples' living spaces. I love the shabby chic beach house bedrooms and the work space bookshelves filled with tiny boxes stacked on top of each other. I hope one day I can have a whole cute house of my own, but for now I'm making do with my tiny room.
I remember when I used to write poems.
In my dreams you still look the same, but you've finally started behaving in a more dreamlike manner. Now you make excellent suggestions about our plans for the future and we don't have arguments that end with you stomping off, saying, "Fine, I'll sleep on the murphy bed."
Last week I found catharsis in writing and sending a lengthy letter I'd been composing in my head for nearly two years, only for its response to be one line, an incomplete sentence even. I think, I hope, I can say now that I am finally disenchanted, but ask me in another year and I might be writing the same kind of entries. But if it is true, if it works, maybe I just need to write one more letter, and I will finally be free. I will not be disturbed by billboards and I will see a movie no matter who's in it, and why shouldn't I? Why does one insignificant person have so much affect on my life. They must not be that insignificant then, right? But aren't they? They are. Then why am I still dreaming of them.
Did I say maybe in one year I'll still be writing about the same thing? Maybe even two. A poem from two years ago:
Walking Home Alone at Midnight Barefoot
When once amusement was
failing to scale a fence
in a pencil skirt, it is now
realizing I was a footnote
in one of your chapters
while you were my whole book.
Last week I found catharsis in writing and sending a lengthy letter I'd been composing in my head for nearly two years, only for its response to be one line, an incomplete sentence even. I think, I hope, I can say now that I am finally disenchanted, but ask me in another year and I might be writing the same kind of entries. But if it is true, if it works, maybe I just need to write one more letter, and I will finally be free. I will not be disturbed by billboards and I will see a movie no matter who's in it, and why shouldn't I? Why does one insignificant person have so much affect on my life. They must not be that insignificant then, right? But aren't they? They are. Then why am I still dreaming of them.
Did I say maybe in one year I'll still be writing about the same thing? Maybe even two. A poem from two years ago:
Walking Home Alone at Midnight Barefoot
When once amusement was
failing to scale a fence
in a pencil skirt, it is now
realizing I was a footnote
in one of your chapters
while you were my whole book.
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