a word from gilda radner

I wanted a perfect ending. Now I've learned, the hard way, that some poems don't rhyme, and some stories don't have a clear beginning, middle, and end. Life is about not knowing, having to change, taking the moment and making the best of it, without knowing what's going to happen next. Delicious ambiguity.

to be a person is to have a story to tell.

I love stories. I love hearing the personalized, fractioned portions of human experience told with unfiltered honesty. I found these two stories tonight. Neither are particularly happy, per se, but both are honest. Both stories have been carried. Perhaps some fragmented peace comes by the telling.

danny and annie


germans in the woods

To be a person is to have a story to tell. Isak Dinesen.

if only....

slow art of decay

I was given a rose for valentine's day. typical. It is still in a vase on my nightstand. atypical.

The first thirty-six hours of my possession went well. Said rose was red. Said rose was sweet-smelling. Kind (albeit temporary) pleasures of my dismembered rose bush member. Decay was always inevitable.

Petals still intact. Wrinkled now, submissive. Stem half black half green, have resigned half mulish. I could throw rose away, but let's not rush this.  

forgotten untitled attempts

I watch mountains. Not close
where inconsistency suggests imperfection.
I watch mountains distantly.
Blue, illusively perfect.


You tore into me
              and left
leaving me to gather
what remains
of my guard.

the pull of entropy

I am a notoriously infrequent writer. Notorious to myself, if to no one else. I start writing creatively only to drop it. Or critique it into oblivion. Or forget about its existence full stop. Or in those rarest of instances where I finally write something I'm even marginally proud of, I hide it. I'm very crafty, you see. I have many hiding places. 

I didn't always hide; I was braver before. In my first year of middle school I would write poetry, often. I would dig into whatever recesses existed in my twelve-year-old mind and share my finding with full classrooms without the reserve and embarrassment I would somehow adopt a few months later. Confidence failed, typical of adolescence, I suppose, and poetry failed suit. 

Perhaps I should make amends with the past. 

In an uncharacteristic play on consistency, I intend to write more. Openly. What follows I expect will be both unique and quite mundane. My thoughts, attempts, frustrations, fragmented memories—my disorganized matter. I cannot promise art. I can hardly promise readability, coherency, or logic. I can only promise honesty. 

hated is blind, as well as love. thanks, oscar wilde.

Valentine's day must get picked on by all the other holidays. Or at least by half of them.

I have no qualms with valentine's day. I don't stomp around cursing old lovers or mow down passing couples with well-aimed death stares. I don't comfort-binge. I don't rant. But I don't bedazzle myself with v-day red and pink either.

I've never quite understood the divergent armies that seem to gather around mid-February. On one side of the holiday, an over-armed/under-dressed child-creature gains temporary deity status and love abounds. by law. On the other extreme, "love" becomes an expletive, a 24-hour dirty word that will ruin the party for any "singles awareness" participant.

I think extreme responses to one day is exhausting. Enjoy if you want, ignore, if you please.

Don't bury the world in conversation-heart romance.

Don't begrudge the love.

Truce?