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ink on sheets: 95

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Thursday, October 20, 2011. Pulled onto 95 outside of Boston today and I was the only one on the road. It was one of those rare moments when you're by yourself in a place usually swollen with people and somehow you feel safe. It was a ghost town, and I noticed the trees and pavement and dirt and sky and leaves falling all around and for one moment, it was mine. Subscribe to: Post Comments (Atom). View my complete profile. What it's all about. You only fail if you stop writing". On The Come Up.

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ink on sheets: on a walk one night before the rain

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Thursday, August 04, 2011. On a walk one night before the rain. Books are in the back, coffee up front. you walk in empty, you leave full. you walk in heavy, you leave light. eternal return. you look for glimpses of what you’ve been waiting for, but it’s never there when you expect it. Gutted building, broken windows, first floor rented out for real cheap. it took so many years to get here, this used to be a mill, you know. now it’s for ghosts and beggars and it's just where you want to be. On The Come Up.

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ink on sheets: the people sitting beside me at the bookstore

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Wednesday, October 05, 2011. The people sitting beside me at the bookstore. Middle-aged woman, large patchwork bag slung over her shoulder. She smells like baby powder and milk and pulls a homemade muffin from her bag discretely. She sits and eats the muffin, staring vacantly at something above my shoulder, then leaves. Subscribe to: Post Comments (Atom). View my complete profile. What it's all about. You only fail if you stop writing". The people sitting beside me at the bookstore. On The Come Up.

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ink on sheets: (Part II) The things left behind

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Thursday, April 28, 2011. Part II) The things left behind. Or maybe it's a way to be remembered. I wonder how to go about losing people. And how to differentiate memories from things left behind. Subscribe to: Post Comments (Atom). View my complete profile. What it's all about. You only fail if you stop writing". Part II) The things left behind. Part I) Why I write this blog. Exploration of my Cookin' Skillz. Girl Meets Girl (& Other Peculiar Love Songs). Miss Media: A Road Map to the Entertainment World.

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ink on sheets: React

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Monday, May 02, 2011. Given the news in the last 24 hours, I'd like to encourage anyone celebrating to check themselves. Celebrate the end of one era of American fear. Don't celebrate the death of one human being. Rejoicing in death was his way. Peace, all." - CDS. My thoughts exactly, but not my words. Words from a wise friend. Words not spoken for this occasion specifically, but meant for times like this. Subscribe to: Post Comments (Atom). View my complete profile. What it's all about. On The Come Up.

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ink on sheets: Things left in the hallway outside my neighbor's door

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Friday, June 10, 2011. Things left in the hallway outside my neighbor's door. The stem of a rose. First it was green and strong, recently clipped. Now it has rolled in between the carpet and the baseboard, gray and forgotten. An earring, tiny blue charm. Maybe slipped off in a rush to work or the bedroom. Not pretty enough to miss, or to even notice on the floor. A Q-Tip, yellowed and pulling apart like milkweed. July 8, 2011 at 5:15 PM. Subscribe to: Post Comments (Atom). View my complete profile.

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ink on sheets: free flowers before closing, if you don't mind daisies mixed with roses.

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Wednesday, August 10, 2011. Free flowers before closing, if you don't mind daisies mixed with roses. It starts raining, that warm summer kind. so you stand under a tree. talks of lucid dreams and ethics in board games. they want a donation, take two worn dollars from your pocket. they'll play bluegrass all night if you can find them a bowl. stemless wineglass, overpriced art, a bartender that winks at you. Subscribe to: Post Comments (Atom). View my complete profile. What it's all about. On The Come Up.

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ink on sheets: bakery

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Tuesday, August 02, 2011. Did you walk by my apartment? She asks. I heard you through my window. Were you going to The Church? I'm on the top floor, above the bakery. I thought I heard you. I thought I heard your voice. She sounds fragile now, after all these years. It must be nice,. I say Living above a bakery. It makes life too sweet, everything seems to be covered in sugar now. Everything. My fingers, my chairs, my thoughts. She coughs on the other end. It was nice talking to you,. What it's all about.

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ink on sheets: on the morning drive, every day

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Sunday, September 25, 2011. On the morning drive, every day. Boy in purple denim, riding his scooter to school. Swerves on and off the sidewalk; never looks for cars; never zips his backpack. Pencils and papers float behind him. Long white fence, flowers of every color reaching high and in every direction. She thinks they're Cosmos, he thinks they're wildflowers, the tallest weeds. Child's car seat, abandoned. Moss growing in the seat, seatbelt rusting, tipped over and irrelevant now. What it's all about.