like the dentist.

hey, kids.
when i turn twenty one, y'all owe me some dd'ing.
just sayin'.


just hand me down

there's nothing quite like having a good conversation with a familiar friend while listening to familiar music on a familiar road.

life is changing quickly, and it's good to hang on to some things, at least for a little while.


up late many nights in a row; thankfully many of those nights i was up with people, at parties, talking and laughing and analyzing and reading and being.

i have been more alive on this break than i have been for a while.

i am in my twenties and i am finally figuring shit out.

big post later this week, although i am enjoying spending so much time away from the internet.


first world problems

i always feel just twenty pounds away from beautiful.

(everyone tries to find someone to blame for these sorts of feelings,
but i know that, in the end, it always comes back around to me.)



so generally, i complain in this blog about my lack of writing. however, looking over this past semester, i've written a lot of songs. at least ten. and that's pretty good, considering what a wash the summer was as far as writing goes.

i've written a song suite that i'm proud of. there's a video on youtube. here is a link if you'd like to watch it. the mixing is poor and i did the recording between midnight and three in the morning, but otherwise i think it's pretty alright. the photographs were taken by my friend satpreet. you can find links to her stuff in the video description; she's magnificently talented.

i also wrote the sexiest/coolest song i've ever written this semester. it's this shuffle-y minor thing in three with an electric guitar and organ and stuff. i dunno. kind of out of character in comparison to the pale-blue piano/vocal mainstays. this is a bit darker, a bit richer. i don't have a link at the moment, as it ought to be mixed properly, but i'm not opposed to sharing with those who inquire.

so i'm growing as a musician. i need a band. i need to get my shit together in that arena. but it feels good to realize that i've been writing. and a lot, at that.

in other news, home for the holidays.
but that's for a personal post; that's for another day.
(i have lots of days, now, in which to write about whatever i choose)


the last leaf

i never intended for this to become a blog for my music, but i feel like sharing this track for some reason. i just wrote it, recorded it quickly and inefficiently, and have been posting it on the internet. it's something different than i normally do, and i feel like it might signal a change for me and my writing. who knows. i've been writing more lately. it's good. it feels good.


song here.


corner pieces.

currently reading the new kings of nonfiction. it's full of wonderful stuff; i'm a bit sad that i will have to return it to the library.

now is time to start writing essays, probably.
themes and ideas i've been kicking around:
showers. (they're so solitary; those hotel commercials where they advertised good ideas from their showers; tobias funke's tears)
the "me" generation. (the internet has provided us with ways to connect to the rest of the world, and yet our biggest worry is how we look in our profile picture; formspring; blogs)
lighthouses. (something about teenagerdom in west michigan; collectors)
the rendezvous and other "family restaurants." (why are family restaurants always filled with teenagers and never with families?)
my family. (this one is complicated and difficult to navigate; it probably will be put on hold)
the student loan crisis. (nearly all of my friends and i are going to be trapped in debt; sadly, i don't currently have the contacts or experience of an investigative journalist)
my brother. (a smaller subsection of my family; i've been learning more about his life lately and it's pretty interesting to say the least)
my father. (again, a smaller section, possibly easier to deal with than the whole; harder to deal with than many other things)
healthcare. (i've been writing an essay in my head for months/years now explaining why universal healthcare is the most christian idea in existence, and questioning why it's mostly "christians" who are against it)

there are more things i could write about, probably. i'm just now learning how to see things differently, how to approach things differently, in order to write about them properly.
thank god for reading.


baa baa black sheep

my family is downstairs watching football, talking about sports and black friday shopping.
i am in my bedroom, charging my phone, wishing i could stay up here and read.

i love them, i do, i just really like alone time and quiet and conversations about things that aren't sports. but all good books are about misfits and outcasts. not that i don't fit in...i don't know. i just feel different than them, some days. and i am.

they just don't really like public radio or good music or reading the kinds of books i read or anything.

also, all i wanted to do this thanksgiving was talk about how sad the beginning of our country is, but i know better than that.

blah blah blah. i should be spending time with my family. my current mantra is "when you are somewhere, be there," so i should be here, with my family, spending time with them. not sitting in my room alone. no more being anti-social!


pat on the back

i had a dream where i explained to someone why i'm happy with myself.

thanks, subconscious, for reminding me.


all dolled up

i need somebody to teach me how to dress myself properly.



i've got to start making lists of pros and cons of places to live again.
graduation is haunting me.

minneapolis is cold with long winters, but i know people here, which means work.
chicago is where i wanted to go to college, close to my family, and might contain my best friend, but i don't want to just follow.
new york is the city with everything, but i could easily get lost in the fray, and it scares me.
milwaukee is sitting in the midwest, unexplored, closer to michigan but still cold.
detroit is not an option.
colorado is beautiful and active, but so far from places i could play.
california is far but warm, full of different cities and places to pick.
canada has healthcare. ...toronto?

these winter, blues, man. these winter blues.
and these decisions. things are hard and there are a lot of places.


bears, beets, birthdays, etc

this picture makes me laugh and also cry a little bit.


birthday run-down.

waking up too early (unhappy). texting the family (they're glad i'm around). bookstore (unsuccessful in terms of purchasing, successful in terms of wasting time and holding books). ihop (little boy singing "baby," and then telling me about his spiderman shirt). mall of america (the microsoft store is a bizarre land). grocery shopping (sample day). library (dad called). cookie-baking (so much sugar). friends, movies, youtube videos, the game of things (much better). not studying or doing homework (back to feeling nervous, strange, and a bit unhappy).

[what am i supposed to do with myself?]


loops and hurdles

i'm on the verge of a new decade. twenty years isn't too long in the grand scheme of human lifespans (and is but half a second in the span of human existence, and less than that in the span of the existence of existence).

i spent my last day as a teenager working, going to the library, and sitting around my apartment. it's a saturday night. i am drinking hot chocolate and reading about how to undo writer's block. i'd rather read "the new kings of nonfiction" or "a mind of its own: a cultural history of the penis" or "siddartha" or any of the other things i checked out today, but i know this is good for me. i know that reading without writing is like drinking without peeing; it'll all get stored up and then i'll wet myself in public and cry. not to mention the kidney failure and various other implications. so, piss i must.

the reason i'm not writing is procrastination. i make everything an excuse not to write—and i make writing an excuse not to do other things. it's pathological. currently, i'm writing here instead of writing songs, or cleaning, or reading that book on writer's block.

the other reason i'm not writing is because writing is a way to deal with things, and i just don't want to lately. this is dumb. but looking at oneself and one's life and all of the inherent madness is difficult. it always is. but it needs to be done, sooner or later. (i'm just making it later out of fear of some sort.)

i suppose i'm also not writing out of a lack of confidence. there are so many writers in the world; how do i suspect to join their ranks? not just songwriters, but nonfiction writers and novelists and journalists and essayists. i want to be one of those. but it seems that there are so many of them—who am i to compete? who am i to do anything, really? and why pick writing, out of all of the things i could do, when there are obviously many other options with less competition? it's difficult.

music is rough. words are rough. i hope to be part time next semester so i can spend more time working on my craft and making money and less time feeling stressed about not writing and not making money.

this blog is just here to prove to myself that i can still put words together, i think. i know it never really had an audience beside the occasional lurker and the ever-present spambots. but that's a good thing. less pressure. i don't have to write for anyone but myself.

the public library has books on smallpox, politics, poverty, and poetry. i want to live there. maybe i should've gotten a degree in library science and lived a quiet, sensible life, just reading everything and doing nothing.

but i can't do that, now.


i am a secret.

i am a piece of paper under a chair leg, slowly becoming a part of the carpet.


shut up, shut up, shut up.

i keep getting spam comments on old entries of this blog. i'm not sure how to make it stop. are there key words that bots are trawling for?

whatever the case may be, they'd better stop soon.


reduce, reuse, recycle.

who are you to say
that i have to stay

who am i to go
i didn't know

i grew these wings but i fell to the sea
i tried to swim but sank to the deep
the feathers are heavy and i am not strong
they pulled me back out and said i was wrong

who are you to stay
that i have to stay

who am i to go
i didn't know

(working on lyrics;
rewriting, rewriting, rewriting.
learning to lower my standards for rough drafts.)

a thousand times yes

i've gotta stop doing shit like this.

(i've gotta stop thinking too much.)


please don't.

it would be nice if relationships started a few years in,
so we could immediately know best friends,
and have prepackaged remember whens.


i only write when i am supposed to be doing other things, and when i am supposed to be writing i start doing other things. this must mean something.

how much do i really care about this?
a lot, when i am allowed to separate myself from it.

there is a nervousness in my belly that i haven't felt in years. i don't know how to eat, lately. i am channeling characters from books and remembering how it feels to stand on bridges.

(why can't i just interact with people on my own terms?)

i have nothing to show for any of this.


i've ignored this blog.

i don't make time for writing and i know it's a problem. i know that it's stupid and irresponsible and that i waste too much time on the internet or doing stupid things. but writing means having to look at things and feel things and be things and i am just tired, right now.

i've been reading viktor frankl's "man's search for meaning." it's his account of surviving the holocaust. at work on thursday, i spent an hour going through wikipedia pages about concentration camps and ss leaders and terrible, terrible things. it's hard to believe that humanity is capable of anything remotely capable of making up for the shit we do. and it's not like genocide is news to us, either. it's been going on for thousands of years and is continuing now. not to mention the reality of modern-day slavery and all of the homosexuals who are being beaten to death in africa right now.

we're terrible. really.

if there's anything i've learned by studying history, it's that human beings are terrible, terrible creatures and i hope that we get our shit together before the aliens come. or perhaps they've already made a visit and have decided that we're too horrible to stay. the things we do to each other...are beyond words.

and all of it will probably happen again. it's what we do.

maybe we should just destroy this planet until it is past human habitation, all die out, and let the earth take itself back where it needs to be. maybe that discovery channel (history channel?) special was an accurate prediction of the future...and maybe it is a good thing.

i don't know.

i'm just feeling sick. and no good seems good enough to make up for this.



i am constantly embarrassed

i want to quit school i want to quit school i want to quit school i want to quit school just two more semesters just two more and it's done i want to quit school i want to quit school

(it wasn't my fault!)



i think i'd rather love someone unrequitedly than have someone else unrequitedly love me.

also, i hate people who, in conversation, are not listening, but waiting for their turn to talk some more.



woke up at exactly five this morning, coughing.
felt angry at my body; i don't have time to get sick.

i know i shouldn't be mad at the poor thing, though. it's getting attacked from the inside. what it needs now is love, instead, but i can't help but feel bitter when its defenses fail and i am stuck finding the softest foods in the pantry because it hurts to swallow.

(my journal has been keeping track of themes in my life, it seems.
last week was money, the economy, and attractiveness.
all the weeks before were loneliness.)



i want to be back in my apartment.



looking through old journal/diary/livejournal/blog entries and realizing that many people love me
and yet i still (through my own inaction) spend much time alone.


ink stains

i've decided to keep a real-life journal and try to write in it on a regular basis. no offense to you, blog, but you are on the internet which is full of the distractions that often keep me from writing.

i cut my finger while cooking dinner a few days ago. i got ink in the wound today. my cut is dyed black.

(if you don't listen to joe purdy, start. as soon as you can.)


i always realize what i want when there is not enough time left to get it.

(my to-do list is consistently abandoned. i do not know what i do with my days. maybe i needed this break, but i am still upset about it. i feel uninspired, unmotivated, unsure, unwilling. i am many un-s.)

hiked through lake harbor park as the sun was setting. scraped up my legs. climbed a tree. sap all over my hands, dirt all over my feet. breathing heavily. climbing dunes is still difficult. for every step one takes, the sand slides back. one must run to get to the top.

a little bit of my blood dripped from my leg into lake michigan. i feel, now, that somehow my veins and the great lakes are sharing something. scientifically, this is unhygienic and disgusting, but if i take a step back, it is beautiful and poetic.

i need to read more, see more, learn more, watch more, touch more, listen more.

what am i doing with my time?

i need to love more.



so many women here collect lighthouses. they put the little statuettes in their kitchens, buy the dishtowels with iron-ons. some of them have little lighthouses in the gardens in their front yards, as if calling their children into harbor once the streetlights turn on.

[this will become something, eventually.]



i am terrible at seeing people; i am terrible at caring.


through the night

jesse harris' new album is out (new albums are out).

i'm disturbingly nostalgic, and i'm getting upset at myself from about five years ago. i call mulligan. i want high school back. i want to redo, do-over, try again. i am upset that i wasn't reckless enough, wasn't really young enough sometimes.

i am upset that i am still in an awkward stage. that i still don't know how to dress myself, really. that i still don't know what i am supposed to look or act like. i still haven't grown into myself or whatever it is you do in high school and college.

things to do in the next two weeks:
less internet, less sitting around, more outside, more reading, more writing, more exploits.
god and exploits.
god and exploits.
i have nothing to talk of lately.


uphill, both ways

i want to be able to run far and fast, lift heavy things, be a primal and useful human being.

i'd also like to read more, think more, sit around and intellectualize.

i worry that i can't always use all the parts of me to their fullest potential without losing parts of the ones i'm ignoring.

somehow i will have to convince myself that braun requires brain. or something.

in other news, i am back in michigan, i am feeling the calm within the storm. i have big scratches on my arms from dog claws and i have meatless meatloaf in my belly. it is apparently my job to change the way my family moves and eats and lives, to make them healthier, to make them better, when this is something i'm not always sure how to do. we'll see how this goes. more walks are definitely in order.

i'd like to wear dresses more often. i don't know how to do that.

i'm taking some new steps towards sustainability. hopefully i don't become one of those people who talks your ear off about them. i know i'm a sorry hypocrite at least seventy percent of the time, but that other thirty percent...i'll try to convert you.

my life, as always, is a combination of guilt, tranquility, and worry. i've got three weeks off to think about things. hopefully i'll come here and share some of them. no promises, though.

(poor blog, getting neglected more often lately.
it's not you; it's me.
i'm getting burnt out.)


have you heard this song?

nobody falls in love with the manic pixie dream girl.

they write movies about her, they idolize her in scripts and on film and in novels, but in real life, nobody falls in love with the manic pixie dream girl.

she's a total basket case, you know?
normal people don't go outside to watch lightening at midnight.
normal people don't run their hands over every single fabric while clothes shopping.
normal people don't put things back into strangers' grocery carts after they're dropped.
normal people don't pace around the room in attempts to make shapes in the carpet.
people fall in love with normal people, it seems.

not that these normal people aren't extraordinary in their own ways. the doctors, the lawyers, the physicists; the painters, the poets, the musicians; the outspoken, the ambitious, the driven; the kind, the caring, the ever-lastingly-loving. but they aren't as frighteningly spontaneous, as simultaneously neurotic and carefree, as everything and nothing as the manic pixie dream girl.

they want to fall in love with her, they really do, but the upkeep is too much. it's too stressful to constantly worry if she's getting herself into danger, and too taxing to constantly read her wild love poems and listen to her late-night phone calls. and she will call. two in the morning is prime time for the manic pixie dream girl, and she wants you to listen and needs you to talk. they just can't keep up with the late nights and urging to stay up 'til sunrise because it's just so beautiful.

sometimes they just want to fall in love with a girl who reads nice books, writes nice letters, has nice ambitions, and goes to sleep at night. of course she can call late at night, but only so often, and only in situations that warrant it. she can have problems and neuroses and joy and pain and a range of emotions, but she can't live the full ups and downs of the manic pixie dream girl. they just want to fall in love with someone easy to handle.

(wrote this too late at night, on trace amounts of caffeine, trying to make sense of this stereotyped character and what she means for our generation and society, but only got this. i apologize; i'm sure it's a let down. i must go to bed now.)



memories are tar pits and i am a dinosaur, slowly sinking.

i'll be in them forever.


steering wheel

i both laughed and cried uncontrollably today with little to no impetus, with little to no thought during. it was as if my body had decided to become an emotion without the help of my brain, completely and totally converted.

or maybe it was just trying to say, "it's okay. you don't have to be in control all the time."



i haven't been writing much of anything at all, so for the next fifteen minutes, i'm going to write here. possibly about not writing. possibly about nothing at all. i have to do this, though, to prove to myself that i still have words in me and that i am still capable of utilizing language.

i've been thinking about putting together some essays in a sort of sedaris-esque form, except i won't claim to be as funny or good or any other adjective he is. i've been toying around with the idea of writing sketches of different moments from my adolescence (and, more specifically, my parents' divorce and the inherent confusion) and getting a head start on memoirs before i hit twenty. you never know when you're going to die, is what i say.

i've also been thinking about fiction, but i feel the creativity has been sucked out of me, what with going to school for music and writing and constantly having to create in order to pass. i can't think of characters or plots or anything unique or interesting or even remotely original. toying with this idea, too, i have realized that i don't know if i would want to have a main character that's a woman. i feel like, since i'm a woman, it would be assumed that making the main character a woman implies me asserting my woman-ness, that writing from a woman's perspective will make the book more about being a woman than about being a human being, that i would have to fight to say "this is about x, not about feminism." if i wrote as a man, though, the book could be about "x" and not about being a man, not about masculinity, not about the state of being a man today. this is just a thought i had, though - i don't know if there is any reality in that claim. i just feel like there is.

i'm starting to get my crap together for an ep, and by "get my crap together" i mean that i'm getting other people involved so i'll feel guilty enough to work on it. i'm part jewish and part roman catholic. i'm a guilt-making machine.

i'm not a songwriting machine anymore, though. this is sad to me. i just. can't. write. i can edit, with help. i can make a verse and then quit. but the days of a song in half an hour are waning. when is the wax? come back to me, passion, insistency, oh-my-god-these-words-are-popping-out-of-me. i am afraid of losing my powers. i feel like delilah has cut off my hair and has left me speechless.

maybe it's because i don't go outside enough anymore. i'm constantly cooped up. classes and work during the summer are a great idea in the long run but a depressing situation right now. also, this perpetual lack of close friends that are also in close proximity. i can safely say i have one of those on a regular basis. well, maybe one and a half. but my other friends are mostly superficial, or at least ten hours in a car from a good real-life conversation. maybe i need to combine going outside and finding people. maybe i should just walk around college campuses in the area, striking up conversations with people who seem intelligent. hang out in the english departments, ask people what they think about the brothers karamazov. look as pretentious as possible. make friends with astronomy majors and watch carl sagan together. (i miss real college.)

there are no poems in my head and no songs in my heart these days, but if i force prose out of my body then perhaps they will slide back in. i'm hoping so. not that prose is a bad thing - i very much like it - it's just that i can only write the driest of words with only the barest of reasons.

so the fifteen minutes end. there you go.



i ought to write more.

but i should also go out and experience things to write about.



i am not good with the youth. i am not good with people my own age, with people half my age, with people twice my age. i am not good with people. i love them. they love me. we don't love each other (the right way, the way i want).

i am perplexed by cell phones and too flustered for letters. i am caught up with strangers but too afraid to talk to those i know. i watch people from a distance in the park, but i don't have the confidence to walk up to an artist at a show. never, never.

how do people make friends?
i don't know if i am any good at it.
i am scared of people; i am shy.
i am lonely.
i have a lot of good in me.

i just talk too loudly.
i just hide in the corner with my mouth shut.
i just don't know what to do with my awkward body.
i just haven't done this in so long.

(i miss people i still talk to.
we change. we change. we change.)


lucky in cards

unlucky in love.

i've been winning at gin rummy lately.

i need to write a song about it, probably.
it's just that everyone writes about this shit.
but i guess it's because everyone likes to sing along.

on a different note, the smartest thing i've ever written in a freewrite:
"we begin and end crying."


father's day

sent a card, called. felt like this:

i know, i know, internet memes. (it's where i spend my time these days, anyway.)

missed nick drake's birthday, but i guess i always do, on accident. listening to clem snide's "nick drake tape," now.

i should be writing a paper, but i'm too busy feeling.


thumbs up and out

oh, hello, self-medication-through-eating.

you were the worst possible hitchhiker i could've picked up on my road to (what was supposed to be) success. but now you've hopped into the passenger seat, here to convince me that eating five handfuls of goldfish-cracker ripoffs called "whales" is a positive solution to looking at swimsuits for the past few days and feeling like a beached whale myself. you operate entirely in the ironic, don't you?

well, tomorrow. tomorrow i will conquer you. i will vanquish you with sensible portion sizes and fruits and vegetables. i will begin working out instead of eating up.


today i will finish off a few more cherries and then whine for a little while about this research paper.

(the rain...the rain is bringing me down, man.)


home improvement

i want this to be the summer i am happy with myself.

here is a list of things.
i am sort of hoping the public-shaming technique might work out for me.

- get down to a weight i feel good about
- dress better (i.e., abandon the t-shirt most of the time)
- take more walks
- go out and about and explore more
- go to more shows
- spend less time on the internet
- spend more time consuming art
- start putting videos of my songs/cover songs online
- record more songs
- write more poems
- participate in at least one slam
- make a few more friends
- stop saying "but i can't because"


not yet awake

dreams about the river, the ocean, tornadoes on the 18th floor hitting the window, knocking on the door.

what material things are important to me?
what would i save in an emergency?
i didn't know.

also, poetry slams are intensely enjoyable but also make me feel inadequate.


oh, man, guys.

all i can think about is quitting school, finding some sort of this-can-pay-the-bills job (hopefully involving some sort of appropriate nerdery) and just reading and writing all day, and making music when i can. i could do that without going into debt for it. i could do that without a school. i could do that on my own. whatever.

my insides are nervous - i'm doing that thing where i'm not getting things done, where i'm not taking care of my personal life. i'm doing that thing where i procrastinate and it makes me feel sick. i'm doing that thing where i'm very worried but simultaneously telling myself that everything always works out, and then telling myself that sometimes things don't work out. i don't know what part of me is lying and what part is telling the truth. maybe both of them.

i'm sitting on my hands, and not going to financial aid, not figuring out my car situation, not talking to my family about important things. not doing, not doing, not doing. i wish i were just being. (when is it my turn to float down a river? i want to train my body to know that. i want to feel that sort of calm, that kind of adrenaline rush, that wash of peace.)

but i don't know. i don't know.

i just worry that i've lost my passion for this. i don't care as much about music as i did four years ago. i like writing songs. i like playing with my little band. but i don't know if i can do this as myself, if this is what should happen, if i will be happy here. i don't know if i want to stand up in front of people every week and ask for their attention with a song. i don't know if i can go through that constantly and call it a career. this is all probably just pre-graduation nerves, a quarter-life crisis. but they scare me, these doubts. what on earth am i supposed to do? barrel on through, i suppose.

(good things happen to good people, right?)



gonna tell him all i can.

it's so good to see good friends, so good to hear incredible stories, so good to eat bad-for-you food, so sad to see dreams fall apart like the seats of canoes.


listing, listening

things i've been writing lately:

pieces of poems
beginnings of unsent letters
songs about death
songs about home
songs about wanting
mostly unfinished songs

mostly unfinished things


out of sight

we haven't talked
(written, emailed, called, texted, sung, laughed, met eyes, spoken, understood, caught up, shaken hands, told stories, contacted one another in any way)
in four months.

it's eating me up.
it's setting me free.

somebody, somebody
please tell me if i am right or wrong
so i can stop thinking about it so much.

he is my father in some ways, but not all ways.
i cannot forget that.
(please don't tell him.)


gender studies.

remembering, now:
i like being friends with women just as much as i like being friends with men.
it's just that i like being friends with intelligent people more than dull, uninteresting people
and i have just been finding more interesting men than women lately, is all.


liquid life.

i pulled the sink's handle towards me;
instinctively grabbing "hot," although
i always forget
which is left and which is right.

my family is yelling across the house at one another
the water runs smooth into my hands,
hot on my face,
drowning them out.


the teabag stayed in too long,
so to remedy the situation,
i will just add more and more water
until it tastes just right.


looking at pictures of the ocean.
it seems big.

looking at pictures of the galaxy.
it seems bigger.


just one

i had forgotten.

should've, could've, would've - i won't indulge in any of these.
i am okay with the way things turned out.

i wish i were so many things.
i wish i knew.

(out of many, never one.)

spent a mid-week-weekend catching up with people.
it's funny who we love, who we grow out of. who we should've called and who we should've ignored. (these "we"s are gradually becoming "i"s. also, i forget how to pluralize words.)
wrote a poem on the back of someone else's bank receipt about a taking a piss with a cat rubbing up against my legs. forgot it in someone else's bedroom. he will probably throw it away and it will be lost forever.

i don't lead a poetical life, but i try to write about it, anyway. i need more exploits.


boxed salads.

my friends are my family.

and like family, we often fall out of touch, have obligatory phone calls, and then either feel awkward or remember how much we love one another.

i am going to write a lot, being back here.



(strangest in the afternoon)

school is done. had a lucid dream last night. i always fly when i am lucid dreaming; why not?
i have marvelously talented friends across a wide range of fields, and it makes me excited for the things we could make. also, i think some of my teachers may also be my friends, and that's a good feeling.

i'm very stressed about some things i haven't taken care of. very much so.
but i'm also glad that classes are now over. i will go back to michigan for two weeks, do everything i can there, and then come back to school. (i am excited to see how things turn out. i'm a horrible planner, but i do believe that things that are supposed to happen, do.)

passive, passive always. that's alright, sometimes.

time to go work for a few hours and read a lot. everyone seems to like hemingway when i bring him up. i like him a lot, too. sometime, though, i will write a small dissertation on how boys who read books want to be with girls like the ones in the books, but then don't know what to do when they find them. or at least amongst the small sampling i've found.

until next time, faithful reader(s). (whomever you may be.)



reading hemingway, bukowski.
talking to men about women.

i am pretty sure i understand some things now, about myself in relation to them.



i've been putting books between pages of other books as placeholders;
reminders; remember this poem using other poems.


you should run

women are hard to make friends with. i like them well enough, but men.
oh man, men.
they make more sense for me. more of them stick around, more of them talk about the things i like to talk about, more of them seem to be genuine and more of them seem to know what they're about.
i do have female friends, and i do love them, but there seem to be less of them.

(or maybe it's just hard to make friends with women here?
the selection is much smaller.)

i worry, though, that this not-really-getting-women thing is bad. am i getting sectioned off from my peer group? should i be searching out women to befriend? should i want "girl talk" with people? (i mean, that's just relationships and other stuff i could talk about with the boys if i really wanted to.) i know there isn't really a "should" here, but sometimes i feel strange. i am always the girl who hangs out with boys.
(but i love them, i do.
and they don't even make me cry.)



sometimes i think,
"i should start wearing makeup.
there are enough reasons to."

but then i realize,
"oh. i would have to buy it.
and learn how to put it on."

so it probably won't happen.


rhyme schemes

been writing a lot (so many poems)
been reading a little (and listening a little, too)
been ignoring everything else

always tired, often sleeping
hardly hungry, sometimes eating

too much work to do
not enough time, attention span, enthusiasm.
not enough to make me want to.

when can i quit?



i look down and get overwhelmed that my existence is tied to this thing;
that i have to have a body to stick around.

i have never met anyone else who has admitted to having this feeling, but i feel strange having to live in here, sometimes.
i feel strange having legs and arms and other things so far away from my head, sometimes.
i feel, sometimes.


with my little eye

two shy people dancing.



i wrote this a few weeks ago. i want to type it up to keep it, and to share, i suppose. here is some freewriting, blog. (it will have caps because that is how it is on the page. this blog is reverting to proper grammar, little by little. i am resistant.) i will say that i am very proud of the last line.

I wanted so much to create something lovely, to do something good, but right now I am feeling like the way seaweed feels under your feet, except now I am the seaweed, and I know I am making people very uncomfortable (at least this is how I perceive myself) I am squishy and malleable and easy to toss right back into the water without a second thought. I distrust myself. I have nothing to say about other people at the moment; they bore, tire, overwhelm, and amaze me. I am sickened by them in the way children are after eating too much candy, and the way children are when they first see a bird get hit by a car. I watched the bird go down with a lollipop in my hand and there was nothing to do but sit down and think.

Nobody is quiet enough anymore. I think, anyway. Quiet is good. There are too many cars and stores and people. The quiet I want so much is so very loud. Water, water, water and animals.

Jump right in.

Pillows make me feel old and my head gets heavy and I get weak and I can't help but subscribe to whatever magazine they're selling. The sleep isn't great but the dreams are delicious.

Changing clothes like walking on water like eating dust like cutting hair like smelling skin like peeling oranges. It is all the same; one like the other.

I have nothing to offer.

Words can't carry me very far but I hop on their broken backs anyway, yelling apologies and throwing my fists towards the sun.


right round, baby, right round.

it's reached ten and i still haven't done my homework; i still don't really care.

today i remembered that i like to write songs, though, and i like to play piano. so that's nice.

winter makes me sad and summer makes me anxious. every time.

i am seasons.


station wagon in the ballroom.

had a dream about a crazy high school reunion. the girls from honors english had a movie made about their lives (i wasn't in it, but i was invited to the screening). most of the choir was there, too, for some reason, and we sang. almost left early, in the fashion of myself in high school, but stuck around and enjoyed it.

i think i also had a puppy with me, which can't hurt.

and then, all of a sudden, some of my mcnally friends showed up.

my life is all blending together; i like it.


in halves.

one of my poems is going to be on the brickmelon podcast this week.
website here - BrickMelon

(i mean, i guess i am a co-producer/writer for the show, but let's pretend like it got there by some accomplishment instead of the rules of "who you know.")



i often get worried that people i know these days or people i don't know well will find this old blog, and read my old words.

then i realize how little that matters.

ok, that was me, and this is me now.

(besides, anything actually incriminating is held in the vault of the unpublished posts.)

i'm not sure if i'll ever use capital letters, anyway. it seems like a strange transition to make, now, although in every other facet of the internet i have embraced truly proper grammar.


less is more.

i will hold my tongue.


weary eyes

too much computer screen;
not enough books.

always hungry.

i love playing music with people, especially with people so like-minded.
i love my teachers (with the exception of those i do not even like).
i love long distances, i love short-sightedly.

oh, life is good.
i'm just not doing homework right now.
i'm sure you understand.

i hope this podcast takes off, and this wonderful band stays wonderful.
things are looking up for ol' liz lemon.

(also, i keep getting this psuedo-spam-bot comments about my "articles" and it is very strange and confusing. go away spam-bots! i am not interested in what you are selling, or whatever it is you are doing. i would just like to write on the internet without incident!)



my eye hurts. a whole lot.
i hope this isn't a big deal.

sometimes i get worried that ridiculous things will happen, like i'll go blind in one eye or something. of course, it's probably not that bad. if it is...well, consider this my moment of irony.

(an eye patch would be pretty cool, though.)


& other poems

there's not a lot going on at work. (is there ever? i have only had one job that required actual work more than 30% of the time. i know this is lucky; i'm just pointing out the consistency in my employment. i often get paid to read.)

pablo picasso wrote poetry. did you know that? i bought his book of poems at a record store. (i'm a musician who buys books at record stores.) it's very bizarre, very abstract, very much like his paintings. i'm not sure if i'll get through the book. i'm trying out lots of books this days, getting through most, but not all, of them. this is the year to become exceptionally well-read, among other things.

tomorrow is valentine's day, and i have never been more apathetic towards a holiday, and it's not in that single-person's-angst kind of way. it's just that i don't think i would even remember about its existence if other people didn't talk about it. (much like groundhog's day - i am never aware of when that shit goes down.)

someday i'll get a job where it's perfectly okay to read and absorb information all day with no repercussions. where that's actually my job. and then i'll just spit it out as songs, as poetry, as whatever.

oh, dreams.


i should, i should.

i am nothing if not perplexed.

i wish i understood.

i, i, i - i am ashamed of my constant egotism.


too much?

twenty years old and i'm tired/you say it's sad, but it's true/two decades behind me, and five to the future/how am i supposed to get through?/(is this all there is?)

probably going to cut that. writing a song for a deadline is hard, anyway, and adding to much dramatic angst isn't going to help my case.

had a bad weekend. would rather not talk about it, but also would love to tell stories. you know that feeling? where something embarrassing but funny but maybe a little sad happened? yeah, one of those.

i'm not even twenty - who am i trying to fool?


wild thing

temporarily obsessed with chris mccandless, climbing mountains, and living without constraint.

also fully aware that i am not physically or mentally capable of doing anything like that.



there have been more fictional characters than real-life interactions in my life the past couple of days.
this is not how break should be going.

but oh, well. storytelling is such an important facet of society, and humor is altogether necessary when i'm so preoccupied with very unfunny things.

maybe i need less tv shows, though.
this weekend will be good. a visit to the old stomping grounds. (i spent two years there. how odd, to think about it now. two whole years. i'm so much older now than i was at the beginning. i will be much, much older in two more years.)

time to go mother my mother, record a song, and write a little.

[also, i've decided i don't like the fat-acceptance movement in its totality.
and i'm finally going to get myself in shape, after 7 years of procrastination.]