Sunday, July 26, 2009
" You need to stop being so concerned with collecting beautiful things and start being more concerned with making things beautiful." i wrote this for you (via grayskymorning) via rememo.tumblr.com
Saturday, July 25, 2009
the writer
oh by the way, you inspired my oldest.
she wants a typewriter now
we were out here one night and she heard you typing.
she said what's that sound? and I told her a typewriter.
That you have a few, right, do you still have that one that types cursive?
yes
well she's a writer and we're actually trying to get something of hers published right now.
But now we're kind of looking for a typewriter.
( she's 12 and collects bugs)
she wants a typewriter now
we were out here one night and she heard you typing.
she said what's that sound? and I told her a typewriter.
That you have a few, right, do you still have that one that types cursive?
yes
well she's a writer and we're actually trying to get something of hers published right now.
But now we're kind of looking for a typewriter.
( she's 12 and collects bugs)
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
daily
She considered death daily
The slow release of all that emotion
like the air gently pushing its way out of an old balloon
seems like such relief.
the loneliness, the pain of memory, the torture of anticipated future,
they weighed on her
even as a child
everyone feels this way, she thought
everyone has this moment when they just want to cry
because they are so terribly disappointed by themselves
or by the world
or what they believed was god.
they just won't admit to it.
of course this only fueled her fear, that no, no one else felt this way on a regular basis.
She was not born with thick skin, instead she was born with hardly any skin at all.
She had no easy defenses,
even the wind was a distraction,
she responded to the minute expressions of the adults and children around her.
her mothers slight smirk, fathers wink of a frown, the firm disapproval that washed across grandmothers face like the shadows of clouds, these things scared her as a child.
As an adult she had to learn to build her own thick shell,
to help the things roll off that otherwise would seep right in.
Sometimes it worked, but often it did not.
Everything hurt and everything seemed disappointing in the end.
Lying in bed she would imagine the life slowly leaving her,
all that emotion that welled up inside would slowly drip out her finger tips and onto the floor,
all the thoughts and expectations would float out of her mouth up to the ceiling and out the window.
all the heavy sadness and loneliness would sink and sag through the bedding until it thudded onto the floor like lead weights.
and this was how she survived her every living day.
The slow release of all that emotion
like the air gently pushing its way out of an old balloon
seems like such relief.
the loneliness, the pain of memory, the torture of anticipated future,
they weighed on her
even as a child
everyone feels this way, she thought
everyone has this moment when they just want to cry
because they are so terribly disappointed by themselves
or by the world
or what they believed was god.
they just won't admit to it.
of course this only fueled her fear, that no, no one else felt this way on a regular basis.
She was not born with thick skin, instead she was born with hardly any skin at all.
She had no easy defenses,
even the wind was a distraction,
she responded to the minute expressions of the adults and children around her.
her mothers slight smirk, fathers wink of a frown, the firm disapproval that washed across grandmothers face like the shadows of clouds, these things scared her as a child.
As an adult she had to learn to build her own thick shell,
to help the things roll off that otherwise would seep right in.
Sometimes it worked, but often it did not.
Everything hurt and everything seemed disappointing in the end.
Lying in bed she would imagine the life slowly leaving her,
all that emotion that welled up inside would slowly drip out her finger tips and onto the floor,
all the thoughts and expectations would float out of her mouth up to the ceiling and out the window.
all the heavy sadness and loneliness would sink and sag through the bedding until it thudded onto the floor like lead weights.
and this was how she survived her every living day.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
It would mean a lot
If you wrote back.
If we shared fresh fruit in the park
If we rode our bikes at around 7pm
If you let me carry my typewriter everywhere to make update announcements.
If you left me a message on my desk
If we learned how to make coq au vin together.
If you washed my hair.
If I wore your old dress
If I learned how to swim in the San Joaquin River
If we sat on the curb and counted the cars on the Santa Fe
If we photographed the orchards in bloom
If we drove the entire way with the windows down and sunscreen on and our hair flying everywhere
If we sang along the way.
If we shared fresh fruit in the park
If we rode our bikes at around 7pm
If you let me carry my typewriter everywhere to make update announcements.
If you left me a message on my desk
If we learned how to make coq au vin together.
If you washed my hair.
If I wore your old dress
If I learned how to swim in the San Joaquin River
If we sat on the curb and counted the cars on the Santa Fe
If we photographed the orchards in bloom
If we drove the entire way with the windows down and sunscreen on and our hair flying everywhere
If we sang along the way.
Monday, July 6, 2009
Saturday, July 4, 2009
Last days
I know I have about 6 months left before leaving this city, but I've made a list of things to do before I leave. And I'm trying to check them off regularly. This city has never done me completely right, but it has also never done me completely wrong. And I feel like a majority of the time I was either settling in or just making due, and of course I did suffer a huge loss and spent a large portion of my time in shock and at the very bottom of my well. After 2 years, I will be thoroughly ready to leave.
Mary and I went to La Jolla last week for the sunset. I forget how close we are to the beach, another goal is to go to the beaches regularly.
Yesterday we went to the wild Animal park in Escondido, we stopped at El Zarape for fish tacos and then hit the road in Luz's black VW beetle. It was so hot, but all the animals were out and about.
I'm trying to have thoroughly San Diegan experiences.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Jo Whaley
I went to the MOPA today to see some new photo exhibits and found Jo Whaley's work. Entitled 'the theater of insects' she magically composes vintage photo's and illustrations with a variety of moths and butterflies.
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