4.30.2002

i want to run away with swifty.
stank-o and i goofed off in stores and ate candy melted by texas heat. and as the sun grew lower in the west, my hands grew multicolored with spray paint. makin' shirts with j. cisneros in the backyard. the grass has a hot pink splotch.
i like the tables near the window so the sunlight stretches across soft wooden boards. the soup spoon fits to the contours of my mouth and wild rice soup plays with the tastebuds. sipping hibiscus tea in bright scarlet with a freshly squeezed lemon floating amongst the ice.
matty and sam and i solved yesterday's jumble because we're genius kids.
i can't believe it came out of his mouth. toni morrison is not racist, you rich white boy. lord, i try not to feel jaded by the lack of smarts people have but jesus. cristina told me i'm not white. and that made me happy.
my summer plan: sit on a beach lounge chair in the front yard and squirt passersby with a water hose while drinking some cheeky drink and fanning myself.
currently spinning: swollen members: bring it on ft. moka only

4.28.2002

damion and i sat on rocks yesterday under the texas sun talking philospophically. at least i think it was philosophical. sun exposure to brain. nests of daddy long legs huddled in shady crevices and a snake slithering into the bush. the sun makes our bodies soft and humid and warm to the touch. skipping rocks and looking at roly pollies and fuzzy caterpillars. i like it with you.
moving to the rhythm of drums and guitars. we danced to beulah at the mercury. and benny smiled and i saw him sing. golden trumpet reflecting onto the paradise backdrop of palm trees. here there floats an island. smiles and melting into the floor. the room was crimson in lighting with sighing wooden floorboards. i don't know about god, but i believe in you. johnny's hot for teacher. it's a tornado of good music, swirling with the sunshine and the moonlight, the surf, the shade and a picnic basket.
the moon shines blonde and hazy, drowning in a foggy sky dripping with humidity.

4.25.2002

the wind skims skin surface as passing cars or gentle after rain breeze. lights streak and blend in soaked pavement.
highlight for today: justin butt close up. we laughed for an hour.
currently spinning: modest mouse: you're the good things
highlights for today include:
a blue gumball from a quarter machine and a chewable adult vitamin in orange flavor (my favorite).
as an afterthought, i called her ugly.
benny and i and the "fam" ate a a vietnamese place that overtakes a steak place at five o'clock on weekday afternoons.
a few people singing about l.a. looks gel and how hollywood it made them.
oddville and pounded
(from yesterday) my english teacher claimed she didn't want her children to marry as virgins.

4.24.2002

it's strawberry banana juice flowing down the throat and it feels like a slide.
i leave and the music is on loud, reverberating and shaking tears loose from wells deep inside. they crawl in rivulets down virgin cheeks and i reach for the ones under my chin and bring them up to my lips with fingertips. the salt is me. salt water brought clarity at one instance. river of salt dries into pores and evaporates into empty air, leaving behind a stiff stinging bed. it comes with the blank stare and parted lips. a moth on the other side of the glass. i fall into the music and through the windshield, shattering glass when i bridge the gap and skin peels away to fresh red not stong enough to exit the wound. the asphalt matches the sky in gray. the lights before me are red and pulsing and parallel in opposite force are the white lights appearing to call for salvation. but i am not the same direction.

4.23.2002

i opened the front door into the darkness with street lamps, and the sound of sleep intermingled with the restful breathing of outdoors. there's shuffle of sweeping denim and a rustle in the breeze, but i am met with silence warm in spring humidity. nothing echoes in the distance nor do cars disturb into waves the solitude. the train approaches from a distance when i enter back inside. it rumbles along the track, a low hum like earthen thunder. it smells of cinnamon, of dirt and sweat and steam with mechanical arms rolling its' giant wheels along a path.
i undress in front of the bathroom mirror, preparing for steaming water to prune my body and melt my insides. and when each layer of cotton is removed, i find my shoulders soft and my breasts warm from being hugged all day by the sunlight . the fan overhead moved cool air in a slow motion tornado around my skin, yet i am still glowing internally. and cheeks now grow rosy in the room seperated by a closed door. and i succumb.

4.21.2002

we fell asleep last night to the fumes of spray paint. one nice and fulfilling evening of debauchery. go check for our signs of hootnanny in color on walls and poles and abandoned garbage cans. we sprayed the skull. first the colors of the tagging and then the swirling lights of the city and then the flashing commercialized grocery store we clamber inside for ice cream. loud and lively bunch we are.
emily and i met for lunch at schlotzsky's, alive and bustling with the after church crowd. it's the future and it lies there before us. but for now, we enjoy sitting at a carved in picnic table, flaking red paint. and above us not only sky but the stretching limbs of an ancient tree with dark moist bark and green leavy canopy.

4.20.2002

what can you count on these days?
the only thing that is a near certain occurance is that the sun will rise and fall.
and after that, who knows.
currently spinning: forty second scandals: the fireworks, for now

4.18.2002

i'm tired, sooooo tired. when i scratch my head, things don't change. b/c it's a velvet underground song that pops up. go figure. and death cab likes to beat out the rhythm of wheels spinning rotations on the road away from here. leaves are already sunburned in mid-april. the magnolia tree is burning from the inside out. and fingertip prints are heated away until there is no identification.
come on and baby, let the good times roll. slinky, silky, sleek, moisture driven, walking body. imprint invisibly.
i told cristina we should start a club called project adventure. the name is supposed to be ironic in a city sort of way. i want to videotape our pizza party.
i am climbing out of pools of water, out of the pool of beginnings and endings. and the sun creates heat waves that swagger in the distance and everything is overexposed to sensitive eyes placed inside bronzed skin. i squinch up my eyes and feel that it's not the sun that burns me, but the tears salty as they slip upon my tongue through opened lips.
and restless dreams i walked alone.
currently spinning: simon and garfunkel: sound of silence

4.17.2002

an indian paintbrush. it begins with that, i suppose. and two people i don't know.
i try to write real and i begin to feel the emotions of the girl in the short story i just finished reading huddled up on the couch. solid gold. i'm on the couch. i'm sending my arms out to touch the air and feel it slip through my fingers and away...away. it's in the hilly cat litter by the animal door, a valley of excrement near yesterday's laundry. and i tried to finish the crossword puzzle during honors physics, blocking out all possible information about the transition of heat energy. i am heat energy. you can see me in infrared if you cannot see me in yellow green light of the sun or the harsh unnatural flourescent rods humming in tiled hallways. i am breathing, always breathing. chest cavity raises when i inhale in because i am not a deep breather. my abdomen goes down when oxygen comes in. my temperature is ninety-seven point four. constantly, unless i am sick. and i told someone yesterday that nothing is constant. nothing. i read about the women that spend more than i'd make in a year in a day. my gross income for two thousand and on was two hundred and forty two dollars. how do you feel now? i like to dance, and i like to tell people that. my body becomes liquid in the action of heat of fusion. vaporizing into a gas that condenses onto other bodies. an orgy of stages. do you feel my heartbeat when i pass by you on the street, in the hallway, on the sidewalk, in an aisle? do you? my neck surges with a pulse and moves molecules in a wave. there's a dollar in my pocket that has wrinkled from the groping of american hands. and sometimes i am handled. fold me over in the wallet that grows sweaty from warm tissue and stiff blue jean and pass me off into the palm of another. rehash my cash value with the stock market. i started biting my nails again. thin fingers topped with uncouth cuticles and slivers of white moon nails. tooth nail tooth knawing while caressing with pinked lips that probe for feel. lips are the most senstive part of the body. maybe that's why i feel the need to kiss your and make my sense familiar with you textures.
lovely lovely nameless megalomaniac.
currently spinning: it is silent

4.15.2002

i guess it's hard to find the right words for something that made you feel good in your gut after having endured two days of hell right afterwards. came back on a nine hour bus ride and came back to a physics test about stuff i had learned the prevous week and not picked up since then. stuff gets springed on you at the last minute and i guess i have to learn how to beat that shit with a racket.
new orleans was green. a green that shattered the brown water of the mississipi and the pale blue sky. blinding almost. we seached for alligators on a boat in the river, spanish moss grazing the top while we grazed the water. wind breathing chilly and marshmallow bombarding the other boats came down to feeding a gator some chicken and holding a baby in my palms, feeling calm breathing and gazing into green flecked eyes. back on land, little caterpillars with fuzzy points inched along picnic tables left to the shade and the sun.
beignets under a roof surrounded by the square spilling powdered sugar. laughing about the whiny clown outside the gate and contemplating showing the sax player just what he could be playing. the streets were living with other people. and high above, the painted yellow and gray and pale blue walls of ornate buildings echo with the music and the voices. we've heard stories of hauntings and know which shutters hide what is behind. he told us last night, while we huddled in a mass giggling at magic tricks and frozen in awe listening to the evidence for vampires and hearing singing voices in the rain. bourbon street equal sign seedy, grainy, etc. enough drunk people at five for my taste. we walked under gas lanterns and passed shoes tapping out rhythms as crushed tin cans meet pavement.
i pet a shark and some starfish at the aquarium. and saw an orangutan toss a barrel over the wall. we sat on gnarled roots underneath a southern tree dripping with pride while eating lunch. the albino alligator has blue eyes.
aafter a meal of red beans and rice, gumbo, and bread pudding with rum sauce dancers crept out onto the floor towards a cajun band played zydeco for our feet. bodies moving, line dancing ensuing, sweat dripping down faces and creating damp circles on the smalls of people's backs. it's almost tribal and i feel free. panties and natush and i created an anti-line dance when it got to be too much.
she was crying and i was the one there to comfort her. it's weird to see how much you know flow out when someone you care about gets hurt. later on we had a water fight in the fitness room of the hotel and gossiped the juicy stuff with the other ladies while watching pride and prejudice.
the red paddle gave sanctuary of breeze and mist to our bodies defeated by a brutal sun. yes, we ride horses to our one room school houses down there in good ol' texas. never heard of this music that y'all dance to with the claps and the ass shakin'. i fancy a ride on my horse blackie much more. stupid floridians and minnesota kids, thinking that be the truth. the wind blew my hair out towards the river.
currently spinning: the new amsterdams: goodbye

4.10.2002

well i'll be in good ol' new orleans until sunday. so until i get back watch out for mating birds of springtime and keep dancing that dance dance revolution.
visit the sexies on the link page while i'm away.

4.08.2002

i wonder how many people i annoy. i wonder how many i annoy on a daily basis. like give us our day our daily bread.
the gray sky yesterday caused green leaves to bloom into a jungle of swirl in the wind. dark rain soaked trunks and branches, slick water concrete we paddle upon in one ton boats of steel. it rained horizontally while i waited inside. the aftermath of suck storms leave eerily calm dripping plants groaning to move and flourish. roots and feet meld into the wet damp coffee bean soil that is pungent with freshness and musk.
i make mistakes and i worry too much over ken's donuts and stolen orange juice. i am easily melted into the stained bed covers watching like a wallflower the argument spawned by tequila anger. and johnny flails about above us. i don't know i don't know. i listen without music.
sad and empty and it's temporary like most things, i know.

4.04.2002

my mother is watching a movie about whores that want to travel out to oregon.
sometimes i feel nauseous with life as i pass under concrete bridges that i occasionally admire for their smooth and sleek appearance. but today, they were ugly. and i wonder why the fuck. it's when i start thinking about that big picture rather than the picture of my life that it gets ludicrous.
crisitna and i went searching for the cuckoo's nest at book stores while the clock struck ten. we found kesey, but also found a world of young adult books about budding sexuality and cyber sex as well as classy journals for the prententious with their pastel stripes or diamonds and gold lettering. who are they people that adore me? simply everyone. the shopping experience i had that made me feel that nearly every piece of clothing was custom made for me...the shoes that i love so much, i've nearly worn them out. my my, the i'm fabulous journal really got me feeling rich and snooty. love me love me love me.
it's cold again and i want to stay warm.
i feel a little gypped that i never got to have the exciting life of the kids in coming-of-age movies. no being tracked down by the hot senior on my sister's wedding day, no adventures towards the discovery of a dead body, no buying into corporate america, no giving my diamond earings to the rebel (except damion said we could do that sometime), no being chased by hercules, no falling in love with my ex-step brother or gettin' it on in jamaica. just sitting here eating my terry's chocolate orange that i got to whack on the table in a fit of mini-rage. i'm still waiting for that adventure, or at least someone to write a movie about that stuff that did happen to me and dramatize it so it sells. hopefully the road trip to california this summer will bring oodles of fun that do not, in any way, shape or form, resemble britney spears' shit of a movie.
i've got friends for life though. i really don't need anything else. b/c even if i fail miserably, they'll let me stay with them for a little while.
this just in, they did make it to oregon.
i want to bury my cheek upon your chest and take care of you. we could sit on top of rocks outside near the stream and talk underneath the sky with the sun bright and white overhead. darling, get well soon.
i get to sashay myself to the bathroom for a bath and grapevine my way up the stairs into bed.

4.02.2002

clear ice in a glass cup full of water. benny and i drew ugly pictures at five oh three coffee shop on oltorf. i look through the glass and the colors of the lights streak.

4.01.2002

my pretty face is sick. so yesterday, i went to comfort him. and by comfort him, i mean hold him in bed. maybe it's you being delirious paired up with me on hormone overdose but i would love to be the oompa loompa to your willy wonka. ba doom ching. that was the sound of a trap set laughing.
we wear clothes that let the breeze in. and the wind blows the grass in waves up and down the hill while we wait for the light to change. matty k, mahassen, stink and i sat at a metal table with wooden chairs underneath the overhang. i don't know how you can drink so much water and piss so many rivers. it must be a jesus sort of thing. pickitup.pickitup. it's nice to know we're almost done. and i can still laugh and point my ogre fingers.
baby, i want your sugar poured over my body like a steaming bottle of your love.