Tuesday, August 27, 2013


She likes the way after a cry, the liquid  acts as a shield between her eye and the outside air. The sheen fits tightly like a glass cupboard, holding up her lids. Before that, she enjoys the art of water and salt mixing with dead skin and sweat, snot, and makeup making a tornado of ingredients. It's a water color on her face, or maybe a delicate assemblage. What are tears anyway? An emotional science experiment, Changing forms and shapes? Traveling through the mind as a feeling and out of the machinery of the body, tangible, and wet.  What's actually leaving your body with tears? The face gets all red and warm. You're like a tea kettle. Sometimes when crying, she could no longer breathe through her nose. The snot rose up her hot head, congesting her thoughts, and tried to escape in any way. Other times, she lost her speech. The 'frog in her throat' halted words from forming. She hated this term, much too ugly of an analogy. She preferred envisioning a woman whose head was maybe wrapped in a colorful scarf and hunched in the trenches of her esophagus. The woman was in fact sitting at a loom, warping the yarn of her throat. 

Saturday, August 10, 2013

naivety is a fucking stupid word.

Oh, I hear you menacing voice
You build my home
I draw on your walls

You whisper

Everyone you love will diminish you
You whisper

Daggers when you exhale

You’re a fool if you’re not na├»ve
You whisper

If you hear me clearly, your perception is flawed
You whisper

There is only me

Thursday, June 6, 2013

'Getting Ready' as Performance

I want to touch on my relationship with make up, the act of getting ready, and clothing.

Women must navigate for themselves how they wish to appear. You can manipulate; you can look different every single day. This now involves many decisions and ways to express oneself, coinciding with a scale of femininity to androgyny to masculinity. Women's appearance is constantly debated and discussed. There are certain norms widely accepted and followed, while some women seek to actively break these boxes. Should women wear make up and how much should they wear? What are repercussions, if any, to wearing/not wearing make up? There is power in being able to transform one's face, to make yourself look the way you wish for yourself. There is an even greater power, I think, in transforming your gender or blurring the line of genders with makeup and/or clothing. On the other hand, it is refreshing, freeing even, to wear no makeup what so ever.

Putting on makeup is of course, an art form. All the basic elements of design are there: color, line, shape. I prefer to sit on the ground, cross-legged in front of the mirror. It's a meditation on action. Music most often is playing. There is such great comfort in knowing a process and system. I relish in the act, taking my time whenever possible, making sure to get everything just right. I am by no means a conniseur of this I might add. Clean face. Toner. SPF moisturizer. Eye-lid primer. My go to color's for eyeshdow include a light shimmer for the base and purple to shade. I am a huge proponent of the cat eye with liquid eye liner. My advice for this has always been keep your hand as steady as possible and get as close to the mirror as you can. It is an artisanship. I have no brand loyalty, and I like it being so. I am a trial and error/there are pros and cons to everything kind of gal.The exception to this is Maybeline's Great Lashes--you know the one, neon pink and green tube. This goes on next. Then blush. Blush and mascara are magical wands of beauty that do most of the work. Depending on occasion, I may put on lipstick and/or a face powder last. It's tried and true, it may not be perfect but it is mine. I helped create these steps for myself.

Perfume is my cohesion. I love smelling good. As a sweaty backpacker, I would admire women who were well put together and just looked like they smelled good. Smell of course is the largest memory inducer and I am sentimental.

Are these things like the fluffing of our peacock's feathers? If these things make you feel good, then do it. If not, don't.

In regards to clothing, I hate being a slave to fashion. Yet I love the personal adaption available. I can borrow from time periods and trends for expression. Most of all, I love the inherent tacitility of clothing. With fine arts like painting, sculpture, or even textiles, you are forbidden from feeling the tempting allure. Fashion welcomes not only your touch but your entire body. The ingenuity of clothing is beautiful. These clothes began simply pieces of cloth. 

Is this like, an actual blog post turned on it's head? A play on "what's in your bag; What's your beauty regimen?" I like shouting in the abyss of the internet. It's not that I want someone to care but rather I simply want to shout things and thoughts, even if it's just to hear my own echo.

Tuesday, May 14, 2013


Sometimes I feel like I can run a fucking million miles.
Then I step outside and I can run about 3/4th of a mile.
I have no idea what 3/4th is because I don’t know fractions.
I imagine it’s not much and a very short distance.
Also, it might not be th.

If I were a dog I would howl all night.
If I had big boobs I would wear nipple tassels.
If I were a man I would shake my dick around.

I enjoy drinking wine, writing and giggling. Alone.
It’s always awkward with company because they ask, “what are you doing.”

When I stand I always have a bit of a tilt because I think a straight body is strange.
I balance my foot against my thigh and say, “I’m a ballerina.”

I stare at blank screens with this line blinking over
And over
And over.

I feel accomplished when a word doesn’t underline itself in red.
I feel slightly intoxicated when it underlines itself in red.

I dance with my dogs because they make great partners.
I dance alone because I know myself best.
I draw alone because I know myself best.
I write alone because I know myself best.
I dwell because I know I don’t fucking know myself best.

I’m not manipulative.

I am who you portray me to be.
Put me on your fucking pedestal.
I will always crawl down.

Tuesday, April 30, 2013

Others have said it better.

"We seem to have evolved into a society of mourned and misplaced creativity. A world where people have simply surrendered to (or been beaten into submission by) the sleepwalk of work, domesticity, mortgage repayments, junk food, junk TV, junk everything, angry ex-wives, ADHD kids and the lure of eating chicken from a bucket while emailing clients at 8pm on a weekend."

I have a deep need for creative catharsis. Mediocre talent and laziness get in the way more often than I'd like to admit. Articulating my thoughts onto something/anything external always precedes being "good" at something or even my desire to be well liked. The most frustrating thing to me is the break down of this articulation, when I cannot find the write words, vision. etc. Ideas sound better in my head and I allow them to turn stale and stagnant to where seeing the product is nauseating. This failure to get my head out into the world in one way or another can be very heart breaking. It is like my self worth can be tied to something no one else will ever lay eyes on. I doubt that I have found my medium, that is to say I have one/some. The jig is up. Is the self-effacing shit only keeping me married to the status quo? I want to fight against myself to get.it.out just in case. There is unequivocal beauty in the world, like curtains blowing in breeze, and I would like to contribute a sliver to the pile.

1. 2. (read this)

Sunday, April 28, 2013

I do obsess

It's Sunday. I keep looking at the clock, anxiously. Sometimes I'm scared to go to sleep.
Sleep has me feeling so vulnerable. Why do I have to define all my dreams?

I often dream about: malls, hot dog stands, dogs, riding in cars, blow jobs, work, the past, physical fights.
When I dream, I feel: anxious, betrayed, confused, hungry, physically strong.

When I look in the mirror I imagine fingertips in place of my teeth.
I would love to paint my finger teeth.

Draw because I can't write.
Write because I can't draw.

I'm dreading every second. of. this.

Thursday, April 11, 2013

Here's your silver lining

I drink water until I can no longer breathe
I often wonder, “is this what it feels like to drown?”

How do I grow when our roots are entwined?

Inhale because the walls are breathing.
Exhale because I quickly forget.

Balancing the spinning plates.
Forward is a motion, not an emotion.

I am inferior.

How the fuck do I grow?

Wednesday, April 10, 2013

Pubic / Public

Fist blog post and I'm nervous. I'm a very private person. I don't share what I don't have to. I hide. Obscure. Smile. The goal for me is to be open and honest. Hello, I am a dweller. Hello, I so very much want you to like me. Fucking hello alright! Great! Now let's make my pubic public...

Tuesday, March 26, 2013

Because these are my thoughts at night

I will crawl underneath the nail bed of your big toe
I will creep across your shins
Pay no attention to me as I slither through your thighs

I will swim through your intestines
I’m the captain of your bowels (!)


I will scrape my way to your brain
I will scratch
I will eat

I will shit

I will encompass you

Sleep is for the Weeks

Will I always be tired? I look so tired. I am beginning to look old and tired; I can feel my face sag with gravity. I looked at myself on a train in the countryside and said to myself, alone, "I look old(er). I look different." My reflection was moving fast and time was escaping quickly at the momentum of the train. It was as if in that moment I saw all of the sleepless nights and stress and travel nestled underneath my eyelids. As if time was clinging to my pores. You can see the smiles and grimaces of the past. Nothing could be hidden. Nothing could be changed at this point. I had already smoked too many cigarettes and hadn't worn enough sunscreen--the damage had been done. The damage is done. I will always be tired. I want to sleep. Sleep is an escape from my reality even though I always remember my dreams. My anxiety seems validated there. Sometimes in my dreams, I am too tired to see. Am I resigning myself, instead of grasping onto a refusal to give in?

Wednesday, March 20, 2013

I wonder a lot of things.
I wonder how that woman reporter on CNN could read from her telepromter that stated how two rapists were "so promising..."  etc. and could keep a straight face.
I wonder how women (and men), but mostly young girls, can survive without believing in feminism and/or calling themselves a feminist. How women go out of their way to say they are not a feminist.

I like words and even like to write them down on paper/screen. I'm also extremely sentimental and enjoy memory. It's a shame I am a bad storyteller.

Sunday, March 17, 2013

Shitting while dancing

It's difficult to write while listening to music.
Too easily influenced.

I try to listen to listen to new music and feel uncomfortable by the unfamiliar. I was able to spell unfamiliar without my screen underlining it.
I read over my sentences in different voices because it makes me feel comedic. I said listen to twice.

My mind is quickly manipulative. Right before I switch there's a tingling sensation that runs through my head and down my back. My skull feels like it's pulsating.
When I was a baby I used to "lightly" bang my head against the crib (it was probably a pillow, details are sketchy) until I fell asleep. I was probably bored. Being a baby is fucking boring.

I don't like going back to the memories that make me feel like I might shit my emotions.
Used to and use to. I need clarification on that.

Tuesday, March 5, 2013


I googled it. It's supposed to be inadequate.
When I'm driving, random words pop into my mind and I try to figure out why they happen to come out. I talk to myself, I pick my nose, I sing. I refuse to look over at whoever is driving next to me because I pick my nose without realizing it. Have you ever eaten your own booger? I haven't. I was just asking.

Today at work I tried to say homicide and it came out as homo-cide.

Society me is stupid.

Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night to look up health symptoms. This week I was convinced I had TSS.
Obviously I survived.

From 7am-11pm I feel inadequate.
I'm only adequate in my dreams.

Friday, January 11, 2013

Vanitose Vanity

On December 21, 2012 the world was supposed to end. Instead of doing anything remotely excitable or festive, I sat on a pile of clothes (because I am not responsible enough to ever put them away despite my age) in my childhood bedroom and took dumb photos of my self on my computer in between reading Lydia Davis. I wasn't even getting laid or drinking a tall can, which may sound juvenile but also like an easy enough vehicle to celebrate my own mortality. At least, I knew I existed in those last moments on Earth. That's the sad thing about the 'digital age,' that there or no physical time capsules we can leave to aliens, or our 50 year old selves, or they are limited in that sense. The difference between the two is lost to me. Pixels, bookmarks, digital music, blogs, and status updates are equally as fleeting as decaying photos and paper, I suppose. Alas, the world did not end and I am happy.

I feel like a glorified 15-year-old most often, unfortunately sans neon hair dyes...
I have come to terms that I am the girl who trips at least once daily, spills various perfumes and liquids in my purse, spills on myself or others, breaks glassware, break telephones, drop phones in pools, and gets phone stolen in Europe, etc.

A lot of my male friends have or have had death wishes, but lately their wishes have been being granted.

I relate with

Ah, a moment of clarity.
Listening to music while the tv is on mute. It's accidental but it works.
High without drugs.
Never make resolutions because
I sometimes find myself trying to use the word indifferent. then I google it because I doubt I use it correctly.
Feeling indifferent today.

Illustrations I relate with:


A song I don't relate with but was once obsessed with. I was 10. I don't care.