it's been a long, long time.

i haven't written here in ages. a longer post will come later; for now, i need to take my brother christmas shopping.
list of things you should know:
- i am living in detroit and enjoying it
- i'm working 50-some hour weeks and okay with that (mostly)
- my roommates and friends have formed a strange little family
- my boyfriend has a toothbrush at my apartment
- there are constantly people at my place; we have the gathering spot
- i do not write much anymore, but have resolved to change that
- i don't know where to live next year (a common theme in my life)

that's it for now. brother is insistent on leaving. good-bye!



i wish i could write reminders all over my hands and arms without anyone else noticing.

i wouldn't have to buy a planner or anything.


recycling again

and oh i creak like floorboards under
all the weight of you
and when you walk around, i mutter
all that we've been through

also, found a way to rhyme "crackle" and "black hole," which is one of my prouder songwriting moments.
this new song is still unfinished, though, as of yet. needs another two verses and possibly a bridge.
i have been writing verse-chorus instead of AABA lately. it comes and goes in phases, i guess.


big old house, on a hill

a place to live! a place to live!
for a year, at least.

it's very old and very quirky, but that's what makes it interesting and charming. i hope this is it. i hope this works out. fingers crossed, people.


saturday night

the beer in lingering in my nostrils
the wind is lingering in my hair


everything floats down here

anything that sinks from up there
floats down here

i miss msp.
i miss it as a representation of the cusp of psuedo-adulthood for me.
i miss many more things about it but i just don't feel like writing it all out right now. there's not really much to do with that information other than wallow in it, and i don't really want to do that right now.



when it comes to singing these days, i only really want to whisper or yell.

neither of these things are good for your throat.

but fuck the gray area, right?



the internet has ruined my ability to read a book.
well, not ruined.
just made it much more difficult.

shut the computer, self. shut it. read words on paper.
or at least on the kindle. come on.
you have the attention span to get through a novel.
you've done it so many times before.

"the root of depression is being too self-involved, and the cure is to read."

keep out

it is friday night.
i am in my living room with the television on;
i like to think the noise will cover up my loneliness.
that the talk with ease the noise in my head.

earlier i took a drive around my hometown.
i used to be too anxious to drive.
now i am too anxious to stay home.

i drove through the neighborhoods i used to live in.
i couldn't drive past the houses.

there are more churches than liquor stores here.
the stoplights are placed in seemingly sporadic locations.
streetlights line the bridge, and, in the winter,
are covered in christmas decorations.

i don't know how to write poems anymore.

i want to sit in empty churches;
stand on bridges.
gnaw off each of my fingers, individually,
knuckle by knuckle;
claw my face off.
drink and drink and drink and vomit.


stopped up

i keep having dreams about screaming



i would rather go to sleep
than keep scheduled appointments

i'll blame the pills and all of that stuff for now


what does it mean

it is very confusing
to love this hard
to not be able to say it
(why not? who said?)
to want to yell loudly

to try to understand its place

(it is very confusing
to feel so strongly
about anything at all)


i even ordered decaf

when i am too caffeinated and/or undernourished, my arms feel like they are made of plastic bags and pudding, like they might slip off of my bones at any second, like if i shake them parts of them might fall out.

i want to do hundreds of pushups
and also sleep forever and ever.



life is a continual emptying;
i feel, lately, like i am constantly gouging out my stomach
and letting the cold air come in.

(i feel, lately, like i am too melodramatic about everything.
i might be seventeen years old again.)



existing is rough, sometimes.
but we all get through it,
until we don't.


acting out

love is the most confusing concept and i have no idea how it works most days.



topics of conversation:

what foods are good
what foods are bad
weight loss
who is thin
who is fat
how fat makes you feel
why the scale was hidden
why the scale should be out
what foods you can eat
what foods you can't eat
getting rid of junk food
what to eat today
what to eat tomorrow
what to eat this week
what other people are eating
how many pounds you've lost
how many pounds you've gained
how to lose more

...i am going crazy.


please just give me a crystal ball

is it even possible to get a job for just two months?

(i would like to have a summer but i also need the money very much.)



i should be happy while i'm here. the lake is so big and my room is so full and my family has so much food. i have more friends than i remembered. it will all be okay.

(right now, though, i feel suffocated by heat and boxes and obligations.
and that pesky feeling of not really knowing where i am, sometimes.)


scrubbed raw

everything is clean.

i could go.

i'm just not, right now.

(this is harder than i thought it would be.)


just trying every angle, while i still can.

i wish my hands worked the way i wanted them to.


closing up shop

i want to cry but there are too many people here—



fuck fuck fuck fuck

(i would like to stand on the side of a bridge and scream,
spit into the mississippi,
light something on fire,
shake uncontrollably)


the cafe is closing

stayed out until two last night, walking around the streets of st paul with a friend.
ate pizza and ice cream and (mostly) didn't give a fuck.
should have done this more in college.
need to remember to do this more, post-college.

i like people.
i like people and they like me.

i move this sunday. we leave at night, drive straight through, and get back to muskegon just as everyone will begin to wake up.


fuck phones

i just gotta get the fuck over this;
it is so very hard to interact with anyone, some days.

(it's that feeling you get when you know that you need to call strangers to set up an appointment with strangers to interact with strangers and although you'll never see them again, you worry about what they'll think of you. there are so many things to get wrong. there are so many words that will come out incorrectly, so many moments in which to appear too ignorant or too vulnerable or too "blonde" or too anything. there are so many things that other people can think about you.
but a person cannot be completely invincible. a person cannot be completely anything. gotta remember that.)

i need a script in order to talk to most people.
maybe that's why i like books so much.

wear your nicest bathrobe

i'm thinking about starting a depressed writers' club. i could invite all my closest friends.

"the sad kids writing club:
we'd have meetings if we could leave our apartments."



i have very few close friends.
i think all of my close friends know this, and sometimes i worry they feel some sort of pressure from that knowledge. i hope they don't. but either way, i am so glad for them, so thankful for them, so amazed that i have found people to really, truly care about when i am so often afraid to even look at anything. it's beautiful that they exist and that we found each other.
it is also wonderful to feel understood. that only comes along every once in a while.
i sometimes worry about coming on too strong. it's just that i want these people to know that i really appreciate their existence. mostly, it's that a phone call or a long walk can make life considerably more bearable in a way i couldn't have fathomed.

some things:
reading hemingway short stories (i only seem to read hemingway in the summer)
saying psuedo-goodbyes
having more frequent and more vivid (and sometimes more violent) dreams
screaming slightly less at night
drinking occasionally, but don't tell anyone
moving in less than a week
driving all through the night to get home
feeling more detached
listening to music occasionally, but still not often
writing rarely, poorly, ineffectively. not giving a shit about that, right now.

some days i just want to mash the keyboard; i feel like that would suitably describe some of my emotions.


blood money

listening to tom waits; thinking more about the darker things instead of hiding from them.
maybe this will make me stronger.

i am writing songs that i am not sure about.
i don't know how i feel about the way i am spending my time.

i move back to my mom's house in two weeks;
i move to detroit in two and a half months.

i move so much.
i don't know if i want to any more.

please, hand me down
give me a place to be


this thing

it's just that sometimes, i feel like it's a puppy that i only let out to play for a little while and then lock it back up. why should it be stuck in a cage now? i want to let it run free for a while. i've never let it past the front lawn, but i want to take it to the park. go to the beach. run through the woods. sure, its teeth are sharp and its eyes are cruel, but its fur is soft and it just looks so cute sometimes.

"allye, you have to put that puppy in a blender." - a reminder. thank god for friends.

tomorrow i start drinking whiskey and start chopping up that damn dog.


bright like lightning

i'll miss living on the eighteenth floor.


sameness, weakness, aloneness

most illicit substances make me feel the same;
i laugh and then i get very quiet.

i am currently unemployed (until august; the decision has been made to move to detroit) and sitting around my apartment for the next three weeks or so. it feels good and bad and many things. i am constantly many things.

the saddest thing about leaving here is realizing all the friends i didn't make.
the second saddest thing is leaving the friends i did make.
the third saddest thing is that i am always leaving.

things come in threes.

i don't know why i'm going to detroit, honestly. i think it's just because it's something, and i needed something, and it was so easy to believe in. and i couldn't stay here. not really. i want to, sometimes, but it would be lonely and i feel like i have already failed here, somehow. i sit on my hands too often. i become afraid of phones and people and too many other things, but maybe if i move i won't be afraid of those things anymore (i tell myself every two years). besides, moving is adventurous and i can't disappoint anyone that way, in my head. plus, detroit is in michigan and i love michigan. and detroit is dying and maybe if i believe in detroit's aliveness, i can believe in my own aliveness. something has to be good there. something has to be good.

i just wish i could nurture the few friendships that i made here. i just wish that i could keep people in jars and carry them with me. i just wish letter-writing were still a common practice. i just wish i didn't lose people so easily, like i did last time and worry i will this time.

i took a walk for hours today. i don't know how many. there were so many things to look at and so many things to find. i smell just slightly sweaty. the sun set and i was still miles from home; i don't know where i went or how i got back from parts of it. it felt so good. i do this when i know i am going to leave a place; i say goodbye by exploring.

it is so sad. the world is so beautiful and sad and delicate and a hundred other things and it is occasionally upsetting, unsettling, a hundred other things. it has always been this way. summer always sinks in and laughs at you, nudging you into nostalgia and pestering you to make new memories to feel nostalgic about. i want none of it. (i want all of it.)

i would like to start writing essays...and perhaps spoken word pieces.

the screams have come back.


lesch-nyhan syndrome

what is it that makes some of us want to destroy ourselves?


paper cuts

watching the cars out of my window, realizing that i will be doing this for the rest of my life
and nobody will be there to put their hands on my shoulders.




i feel good. people said nice things. i felt nice. i didn't even know what was going on, but i sang and sang and played and everything was wonderful.

some days i feel like a special person. some days.



family is here for the weekend.
my anxiety level is consistently hovering between a 7 and 9.
there is not time to be alone.
they are asking questions about what i'm doing after graduation.
they are forgetting to ask me to spend time with them.
i have to babysit my little brother.
i have to babysit my grandparents.
i do not want to live at home this summer; i need to save money.
never did call him.

things are very hard right now, it seems.
and i know this transition is hard for everyone.
i just have a few other ones to make at the same time, and it's so hard to let go. of people, of habits, of places, of things. of ideas and feelings.
i am scared, always.

(you love everything i'm not//where am i supposed to go when you're gone)


and the kitchen sink

it's monday morning. i tried to start a free write, but i'm at work and easily distracted by requests, people, books, conversations.

two more weeks and then I have a bachelor's degree. not quite sure what that means.

started packing up books. it's lonely, looking at empty shelves. i don't know where i'm going. and nobody does, sure, and i keep talking to people about that, but it'd be nice to know where i am going to be in three months. jesus.

fuck it.



i dreamt about my father last night;
i've lost three pounds this week.

i've been craving mint;
i bought tea and gum.

the weather here comes in contractions;
spring is an orgasm that lasts three weeks.

i want consistency, normalcy, a leveling out.
this is unrealistic.


easter, 1999.

a pot full of hard-boiled eggs, color stained hands,
a phone off its hook.
the air is thick with egg-smell, dial-tone,
that beeping sound when the cradle is empty too long;

the closet under the stairs is filled with board games,
but it can still (just barely) fit a beanbag and a girl of eight.
the cord for the light is in reach if you're sitting on something.
the only sound is the hum of the water heater
and the buzz of the lightbulb.

the only sound is the hum of the water heater.

tiny patches of brown-black snow that hold on through spring.
the last one in the neighborhood is in front of our house.
it leaves a tiny pile of dirt and litter at the end of the driveway;
it washes away by the end of April.

the air is thick with emptiness, dial-tone.

beep. beep. beep.
beep. beep. beep.



i can't figure out what it is i am not.
(all the things i am not.)

longer update coming later; it is nearly 2 AM. i haven't been here in so long. i am not ready.


harsh truth

i need to get out from under you.

ripped up

i have a hundred reasons to stay here, and a hundred reasons to go.
this is all i can think about these days.



the after-graduation living choice is now stuck between the twin cities and detroit.

there are so many factors going into this. making this decision is like some sort of intricate project, like gluing a fragile vase back together, like writing on a grain of rice. i want to make sure every piece lines up right.



the first step is admitting you have a problem, right?
but right now it feels like trying to take a single step over a gaping chasm.

please, build me a bridge; give me a few hours and the chance to put my feet in front of one another a few more times. then, perhaps, i can get to you.

i have not been screaming at night. i have been tensing up, letting out a nervous "oh," but leaving the frightened exclamations somewhere else. (maybe it is because i know nobody can hear me; maybe it is because i am in my mother's house; maybe it is because things might be getting better; maybe it is because i am gaining control)


spring break 98

i'm back at my mom's house.

i'm not entirely sure that i want to be.
somebody please convince me.

(i am sleep deprived and restless;
i am upset at the loss of a grocery list;
i am becoming obsessive and consumed;
i am making a bad decision, writing about my personal life on the internet.)



i didn't scream last night. i could've; i felt one; i didn't.

lessons learned: no more caffeine (at all, probably), no screens at least a half an hour before bed. more decaf/herbal tea, more books.

i'm writing a fifteen-minute song suite on eating disorders. i've been doing research to make sure i get things right. it's beginning to consume me. books, tv shows, articles...most things say the same thing, but i always want to know more. right now i'm reading a book on how to talk to a friend or family member who is hurting themselves.

all i've been writing about lately is mental illness. the song suite on suicide, a recent tune i wrote from the perspective of a mentally ill inmate, and now this. but that amount of internal torture and conflict is compelling. i don't care as much anymore about pop love songs, about the conversations between two people that we've heard before. i care much more about the conversation within a person, as well as the conversations that we are afraid to have with other people. i care more about depression, anxiety, fear, pain, struggle. i care about working through that and finding some answers at the other end, or at least figuring out when i have answers or when i don't. maybe a lot of this is taking aspects of my personality, blowing them up to an extreme, picking them apart, and them working through them. (i do feel much saner, much more put-together when i write about mental illness.)

i was just going to make a small note as i ate my breakfast, but this turned into a few paragraphs. oh, well. better i said something than nothing, i suppose.



i've started screaming at night as i'm going to sleep. it's like that feeling of falling some people get that jerks them awake, except it's not falling. it's more like a lightning bolt that flashes across my head. i'm never really scared, and i'm getting more annoyed than anything. i don't know why it's happening.

i'm worried, though, that it'll start happening during the day. i can feel it creep in sometimes. it would be so hard to explain to other people. "naw, i just yell like this sometimes. totally okay."

maybe it's time to research sleep disorders.


movie quotes

"you'll be amazed by how many times you fall in love"

i am saddened by all of the lost chances.



i wanna be in your club! c'mon; please?


not really a poem

to my brother on his 18th birthday.

we've been in the same room, not speaking.
we've been in the same car, not speaking.
we have lived lives separate but equal;
parallel and intersecting.

now you are "old enough," arbitrarily a member of adulthood;
but today, i will remember when you were smaller than me,
leaning your head against my shoulder and falling asleep on long car rides.
i was so glad, then, for you to be quiet.
i am so glad, now, that i had a chance to hold you.


catch up

i haven't written in here in almost a month.

here are some bullet points.

- i love vince guaraldi
- music that swings is almost definitely the best music of all
- hip hop everywhere
- i've already read four books this year (although they were short, it still counts)
- also read a play
- school has only been in session a week and it already feels like ages
- can't wait to graduate; terrified of graduation; same old story
- my directed study proposal was denied, which was shitty
- my new directed study was proposed for me, but it should be okay, i guess
- been reading about songwriting
- checked out the complete lyrics of johnny mercer from the library
- i want to spend my life in the library
- it was 15 below yesterday

i am contemplating writing a rather lengthy entry about food, but i'm not sure i'm up to the task. i've been watching this show called "supersize v. superskinny," and i've become, for a lack of a better word, obsessed. i've always been obsessed with bodies and food and what food does to bodies. who knows. we'll see.

i'm at work and it's boring, so i don't want to leave this entry just yet. i'd like to keep going, if only to have something to do. i'm pretty much here alone with my thoughts (and my homework), so...basically i'm doing nothing.

but. off to study beethoven. this is the semester of productivity (i hope).



while cleaning my room at my mom's house, i found a poem i wrote a few years ago mimicking "The Pool Players. Seven at the Golden Shovel."

The Gang Members. Seven Waiting for their Bail Bonds.

We got hoes. We
ain't broke. We

Fuck shit. We
Take hits. We

Real thugs. We
sell drugs. We

Need bail. We
In jail.

i've also found some terrible poetry, some mediocre poetry, and a lot of notebook pages filled with the kind of existential lamenting only a fifteen year old could come up with.



this is the year that i graduate from college, that i am legally able to buy a drink, that i have to "grow up and get a job," that i am free to move where i please, that i become shackled by student debt.

i am going to read a lot this year, move a lot this year, write a lot this year, laugh a lot this year, sing a lot this year. i am going to meet lots of people and love lots of people.

everything is full of uncertainties. i don't know where i'm going to be living in a few months. i don't know what i'll be doing to afford where i'm living. i don't know how music is going to be working out. but it will be okay.

it doesn't feel like a "new year," but marking the passage of time has never been my specialty.

of course, to follow along with tradition, i will make a list of goals:
finish the EP
find a drummer and bassist
record with the marxists
get a job
meet more people; specifically, writers and musicians
be able to do a few pull-ups
be able to run and run and run
get some radio play (what)
participate in a slam (but don't feel guilty if i don't)
write more spoken word stuff
plan an album
maintain pen pal relationships
go hiking somewhere around the cities
write. write. write.

my posts are boring and unpoetic lately; i will give you something better later.