on writing and being home.

I haven't felt inspired to write anything in awhile, and I'm almost tired of talking about my book, or explaining what prose poetry is. It's a wonderful feeling when someone tells me how much they enjoyed the book, or what their favorite poems were (usually Lemonade or the long one about nights in IV), but some of those poems have been with me for three years. I'm tired of them and I want new ones, but nothing comes. And all of a sudden I feel like whatever I write, people will be reading and judging, like I have to come up with an instant hit. Maybe I'll go back to my paper journals for awhile.

There probably won't be anymore lovely photos from out at sea since someone crashed the boat into the breakwater (not me!), but I've been swimming at the pool with giggly little girls who are thrilled at the prospect of Hello Kitty goggles, building IKEA furniture, reorganizing my bedroom and trying to make my clothes fit in it somehow, working off my east coast paleness at the beach with Michael, rocking the bells with Age, watching the Olympics and wondering why I was never concerned with actually swimming fast when I was on the swim team in high school.

I hope someone will want to go to UG tomorrow night.

home, finally.

nothing new.

I wonder what I have inside me that makes me optimistic in the face of inevitable doom and makes me believe the impossible can happen. Actually, I think I know.

another one.

Staples is trying to ruin my life, or just my literary career. I'm sorry if you get a book and the cover is a bit too small. Hand making 40 books is fun! waaah...

The dreams are still coming. Last night you were in my sister's old room, the one that used to be the "den." (Why are you always renting out rooms from my mom in my dreams?) You told me you missed me and we watched Family Matters together. It was a Christmas episode, everyone was in sweaters and it was snowing outside. In real life, the weather is disgusting and the dream has been with me all day.

old things

It feels good to get rid of old things. I'd been driving around with a PC and a dozen lit mags in the trunk of my car for almost three years. Also gone now are tons of old clothes, like fleece footed PJs an ex's mom gave me and winter scarves I never wore and HK purses and bags (not that I don't like HK anymore, whoa who whoa, I definitely am still in love, just look at my bathroom for crying out loud), and jeans I am just too fat for now. In figuring out how I'll move back home, I've been tempted to sell or give away most of my things and fill two suitcases with the things I really want to keep. One of them would be this guy, of course:

Last night in a dream my apartment was on fire so I grabbed him and ran out. I wish that was the only thing I had to pack, but I'm bringing back so much more.

I don't think you have them, too.

I can't say for sure why I've gone back to almost normal within the past week. These days I don't know what comes from what, but I won't spend too much time thinking about this one. All I know is things are rolling right off me when before they clung to me like barnacles. Standing around at work listening to the lyrics in Littlest Things I was fine, I went back to reconfiguring the whole room after a second. But in my latest dream, you were in my brothers' bedroom in our old house across from the island, lying in bed with the covers pulled over your head as usual. I sneaked in and sat next to you and told you I was moving back to California and you said that you didn't care, that we weren't even friends. I cried retelling it to Meg, but it was nothing like weeks before when I found the little things I wasn't looking for. Someone asked me to look forward to something better, and I think my whole problem while living here has been that I could never see anything better. It always seemed that even as I was scraping the bottom of the barrel, this was as good as it was going to get. I know that when I'm home I'll be better, and maybe that'll mean less sad poems and more poems about dolphins that talk or other things that aren't supposed to happen, like Steve said.

my favorite right now. "Bag of Hammers" by Thao and the Get Down, Stay Down