some old thangs

I miss writing poetry.  I recently bought a small pack of moleskine “mini journals” to begin writing poems again.
I used to be decent… I think…
I’ve always preferred short, simple poems with depth over long, detailed ones.  The challenge of being able to press incredibly deep emotions in to so few lines is amazing when done properly, plus, it’s easier to maintain the interest of the poem-reader.  Something Emily Dickinson knew how to do well.  I’m not claiming that I’ve done this all the right way, but this explains the length of the poems.

Here are a few poems from the past:

The match meets the box
The wick has browned
It’s remainder dances
But dwindles down

xx not title xx
To feel so much –
There is no better thought to humble –
The turmoil of it’s darkest hour.

The Plague
Through the many suns
Does love exist?
A colossal feeling
of pain and bliss.

Hold little,
but fill large bellies.
All upon a gesture.
How swell!
An arm –
To be so humble,
To fill my needs
Even when the taste is foul.

The storm drew back
a hell of breath
That blew rain across the open fields
It licked low-
To the thirst of the bare
And I still know not why-
I weep with despair

xx no title xx
Love, like a balloon
Slowly losing air
Soft and soggy
Though sharp edges become less threatening
The shape loses it’s will
And becomes submissive

I like to pretend
That I am very clever
But mostly, I’m not


Writers Block/Writing Tips?

I’ve discovered the best way to find out if you’re a convincing writer is to put personal ads on Craigslist.
I have created 14 different people so far, and even the “character” I put the least effort in to ( a 37 year old being kicked out of his house by his mother) received nasty responses from people who thought it was a legitimate rant in the rants and raves.
Immature or not, it doesn’t really bother me, it’s an amazing way to practice your writing skills because each person needs a different voice.


There are no words for the emotional maturity that has blossomed inside of me.  For as long as my mind stretches into the past, I have struggled to balance my emotions, thoughts and reality.   Like the moon pulls the tides, I have struggled to resist the pull of my emotions, but I have finally learned how to maintain my balance in the trough of the waves.
I have, of course, been assisted by many great minds through the years; Nietzsche, Whitman, Rilke, Dickinson, Harper Lee and most recently — Dickens.  All of these great writers and thinkers (and so many more) have comforted me when I was held captive by my emotional turmoil and held a flame for both warmth and light in the velvet darkness.
Of course, music and friends/family have served as a lifeboat as well, but there is something about books — how you can wrap yourself in the world of someone else and escape your own while somehow pressing the two worlds together.  I’m not really sure I’m capable of fully expressing the love and appreciation I have for reading and the gracious impact the words have had on me, but I will never stop trying.
It is only within the past couple of months that I have noticed the deep, solid change that has taken place inside of me.  Not like the spurts of positivity that I have been showered with and then disappointed by.  This is a deep rooted change that has put me in control of how I let circumstances affect me.   I have not grown cold, but focused.  I have stopped trying to change what I do not like and simply accepted that it is alright to be recognizably flawed.  In fact, I enjoy my flaws, I no longer feel ashamed about my desire to be introverted, but I enjoy it almost to the point of overzealousness.  I no longer feel guilty or wounded by sudden changes in behavior of someone I considered myself to be on good-terms with (obviously an isolated incident).  In fact, I quit caring about so many small things because I started accepting myself ENTIRELY, not piece by piece, and I started believing more in the good-natured part of myself and believed that no matter what, the good in me would prevail.
I still consider myself in the threshold of this change, but this is concrete.  This is the milestone I’ve been struggling to reach for the past 5 years and it has greeted my life with incredible warmth and sincerity.
Normally this is where I would say something along the lines of, “I hope this feeling lasts forever” but for the first time in as long as I can remember, I know this is one of the building blocks to the person I’m growing up to be and I really, really love and respect her.

How I’m Going to Avoid Being a Loser for the Rest of My Life

I am a frustrated twenty-seven-year-old failure.  I am a slave to the chronic ritual of a Monday-Friday job that leaves me felling empty and pointless.  In fact, falling in sync with the ritual is a reoccurring thing within itself.  The most time I’ve spent at one job was the 2.5 years I gave to Starbucks.  I don’t even think I made it to the .5, maybe the .2.
It’s around the first year mark that I begin to get jittery and cynical.  I truly do feel something is fucked about bestowing our loyalties to the company we work for, yet fear losing our job when passion or desire meet occupational priority, but that’s a different story and I’m choosing a different path this time.
The problem here is that it’s not just my job, it’s everything in my life.  I’ve been playing by the same rules that have set me back since before they started setting me back.  Take this blog, for example.  It’s full of random accounts of a life that even I’m not interested in hearing about.  Full of bitter “truths” and failed “revelations”.
I spend hours thinking about life and what I think is wrong with other people, what’s wrong with me, and what philosophy best suits my life.  The thing is, I have no life to suit a philosophy to.  And though I have no qualms when it comes to being honest with myself, it’s a pointless ability if you don’t enforce the necessary change that such a knowledge requires.
My problem is, I have no goals to live up to in my family.  I have one brother who, by honest comparison, I’m actually doing better than.   With that “hovering”, I have absolutely no motivation.   I have nothing to look at and say “wow, what the fuck am I doing?”.
It’s a comfortable backdrop for personal excuses and it’s gone on too long.  I’m almost thirty. Thirty.  T H I R T Y.
There is no excuse good enough anymore.
I’m tired of the self-loathing that constantly consumes me, tired of feeling like shit about the beige outlook I have – I’m just tired.  It’s much harder to make excuses than to actually get off of my ass and do something about my “plight”.

So, I reapplied with FAFSA, purchased the study guide for the placement test and researched the necessary requirements for Nursing.  Nursing, right?  Not journalism, I know.  However, I’m not copping out on my dreams, I’m actually making them easier to achieve.  For someone who strives for independence, applying for financial aid and spending money going to school for a career that’s oversaturated and filled with competition for positions that pay little and don’t even interest me, that actually puts a worse feeling in my stomach than not going to school at all.
Firstly, there is always a demand for nurses – it’s a field of work that assures a job.  Secondly, it gives me the freedom to move just about anywhere I please.  Thirdly, my cousin, who is an RN (and only two years older than me),  just bought a house.  Not even thirty and bought a house.
And to anyone who wants to tell me that I have no idea what I’m in for, I know.  Trust me, I know.  My best friend was a CNA for about 2 years and showered me with all of the gory details of what nursing entails.  But that’s okay.  Cleaning someone’s shit off the sheets has nothing on feeling like a piece of shit every day. Nothing.
It’s also important to consider that my patience and rationality are at best when someone is genuinely in need of care or patience.  And anything that makes me feel like I’m good person actually makes me a better person.  When I feel like a good person, I take better care of myself, and when I take better care of myself, I’m happy and when I’m happy… well, I don’t know because I can’t say that I’ve ever been truly happy long enough to know what my potential is capable of.  And that’s not a self-served pity statement, it’s the truth.

So, how is this not copping out on my dream to write?  Because I don’t need anything on paper to freelance.  I will have to bedazzle the fuck out of someone with actual writing (not this blog shit), but I’m willing to accept that challenge.   I don’t want a job that requires a desk, a computer and editing skills.  I don’t want a job that doesn’t give me creative room. If I rely entirely on a journalism degree, I know that’s the sort of job I’m looking at.  However, I still plan on getting a degree in journalism to make my dream of writing easier to attain, the only difference is, I’m not resting my entire future on that particular piece of paper.  I don’t have to be a journalist to write a book or research something and write about it.   The way I see it, Nursing is a respectable career that pays well and can provide me with plenty of opportunity.  Opportunity to pursue whatever I please.  For obvious reasons, it also gives me something to write about.

Even if it’s not what I really want to do with my life, it’s not a desk job, or retail or a food industry job.  It’s not boring, repetitive and habit-forming.  I would actually have to remain alert and focused and aware of what I was doing.  That can only have a positive affect on everything else I suck at.  Despite the fact that I’ll have to experience death and immeasurable sadness (I am extremely susceptible to the emotions of those around me); I’ve built so much of my philosophy of life on emotional happenings and emotional survival, that it can only strengthen my character while simultaneously bringing me to my knees.  And the idea that all of that pain could actually find it’s way to my pen… I just…. well, I feel terrible for saying that but it personally confirms that this “career decision” is a positive move.  I haven’t even come close to taking a step in the right direction since… I don’t know when.

I honestly haven’t felt this motivated EVER.  And regardless of the many things you’ve read on here about “I’m going to do this” or “I’m going to change this time” or whatever the fuck I felt like writing that day, this is something I’ve never felt in my entire life.  I think a lot of it has to do with the fact that getting a CNA doesn’t require a degree, it’s a program and it’s something I can do.  I know that the real “financial support” lies in becoming an RN, but I have no problem building my way up to that.  Especially if it gets me out of whatever the fuck I’ve been doing with my life the past ten years.

Anyhow, there is a point to all of this.  I am giving in to the path less traveled.  I am tired of saying I’m going to do something with no intention of actually doing it.  I am tired of how I feel about myself and how I feel about other people.  I am saying goodbye to the person I am and becoming someone entirely new.  I would like to have respect for myself and feel free from personal burden.
But most of all, I would like to lay down at night and welcome positive thoughts to my pillow rather than feeling like a piece of shit failure, because I am not one.

something wonderfully said

The ideas and conclusions expressed in this work are mine alone. It is possible that one or more conclusions may be wrong.
The purpose of this book is to convince you (the reader) that something is terribly wrong. It is my hope that this work will
inspire you to begin an earnest search for the truth. Your conclusions may be different but together maybe we can build a
better world.”


This is one of the best introductions to a book that I have ever read.


When I was about 17, I was sure She’s a Rainbow by The Rolling Stones was written specifically for someone like myself in mind.  I’m not really sure why, but it fit the bill from my frame of mind.  Don’t mind the fact that the lyrics have absolutely nothing to do with growing-up or anything of real value, but I felt like a parade of enthusiasm and inspiration and was sure other’s wanted to be like me.   Surely, you can guess I was delusional, no one wanted to be the 220 lb blob of dark eye makeup that put 7 salt packets on 25 french fries during lunch everyday.  Surely, I should have known better, right?  Looking back, I cringe and wish it was simply over the bad fashion of the era, but punk rock and fat girl were not meant to be fused together and I tried so desperately to make it so.  Needless to day, my high school days were only survived by the simple fact that I had more confidence than I should have.

Eventually, She’s a Rainbow didn’t quite give off the same flare and then Ruby Tuesday became my life’s meaning.  I was 19 nearing 20,  I had had my heart broken for the first time, I was in the middle of drug exploration, I had lost 60 pounds and felt good about myself, I was living on a couch near a college campus and I wasn’t ready to be tied down to anything. Ruby Tuesday was like the paint-by-numbers kit to my life.  All I had to do was function within it’s boundaries and I felt secure and safe.  When my roommate pissed me off with his high-education and condescending tone, I fucked someone one his floor while he was in class.  When the re-bound from my heartbreak showed up at midnight telling me I broke his heart, I laughed and shut the door in his face.  When my neighbor came over and asked us to keep it down a bit, I asked if he wanted some mushrooms.  When I discovered my other roommates were interracial nudists, I let my friends fuck in the kitchen when we did X.  It was a life I had dreamed about because it was the life my mother made sure I wouldn’t have.

These days, I get the same sensation when  I listen to songs like She Smiled Sweetly,  As Tears Go By or You Can’t Always Get What You Want.  Which, at this point in my life, I can assume is the result of entertaining a certain idea of love and being disappointed by the reality of it.  However, now, with all the emotional hoshposh of failures, I get to handle it the mature way; getting drunk and scribbling in a journal.
But even looking back, I don’t regret that much of all the stupid shit I did.  I had a lot of fun and I killed off demons that I know would haunt me to this day had I not found ways to exploit the remainder of my youth.

Like David Bowie, Billie Holiday, Otis Redding, Elliott Smith, David Bazan and many, many, many others, The Rolling Stones will probably stick with me throughout the rest of my life.  The prospect of  any situations that might call for Sympathy for the Devil or 19th Nervous Breakdown genuinely terrifies me, but at least I’ll armored with good music.


I have been drinking caffeine all day long.   It’s great, it’s good; it makes me feel like a writer.   I envision a writer (the kind I ‘d like to be) as a cigarette smoking, coffee drinking, alcoholic who can’t keep a steady hand and pours their emotions out over a typewriter.   Something about it seems so tragically glamorous and if I didn’t have a job and bills, I’d surely sell myself to the life in a heartbeat.  I’d listen to jazz, soul, psychedelic and R&B records all day and fall asleep with a scotch glass in my hand.  Everyone has some idea of the person they secretly wish they could be and mine is the tragic writer that eventually becomes a southern lush on a wrap-around porch. Whispering about the neighbors and then waving at them.

I’ve fallen in love with this sort of Allen Ginsberg/Jack Kerouac hybrid but, you know, with a vagina.  I’d love some secret log cabin buried deep in the woods with a small town up the way and a wrinkled clerk at the general store who asks me questions like “think it’ll rain today” and nothing more personal.
I would dine with my misery and sleep with the ghosts of bad decisions and somehow, I wouldn’t be affected by the frowns of society because I wouldn’t have to face their judgmental stares and I would have a secret life that only greeted holidays and family functions.  I could invite one of the five friends I’d still have over and they wouldn’t mention the stench of failure because somehow, my name would circulate among the avid readers and any royalties I received from my paperbacks would be enough to get by on.

Maybe, somehow along the way, I acquired musician friends who would stop by to get away from whatever “fame” they felt they were tortured by and we could record songs in my cabin.  And then, somehow, those songs would surface (maybe like a Gary Higgins sort of thing without the 30+ year gap between recording the music and other people hearing it) or perhaps the song(s) might make it to an album of these friends and I could develop some obscure, cult following that wanted to hear what my emotions could really do.  Thus would begin my music-recording career, no tours or anything like that, unquestionably.  I’d, of course, want to be some folksy woman like Vashti Bunyun or Sibylle Baier (minus her acting career and belated recognition) but with no face to put to the name, only a voice.
Perhaps somewhere in my late thirties, I’d meet a man and decide I wouldn’t mind his company and we’d decide to have children so we’d have to move somewhere closer to civilization, but wouldn’t, under any circumstances, sell the cabin.

We’d have to live close to a big city because I wouldn’t want to deny my children of a “normal” life and I’ve known too many people who grew up in small towns to know that it keeps you out of touch with the sad reality of what’s going on in the world.  As much as I’d like to raise children in some creepy cabin in the woods, it’s not fair to push my agenda on to them — they deserve the options.  I have no doubt that motherhood would change me and force me to socialize, which I’d do and eventually my writing would reflect whatever happiness I would be feeling which would create all sorts of conflicts in my mind.  But whatever, right?  I’d have a very comfortable and happy life with plenty of love.  So eventually, the children would grow up and I imagine I’d be somewhere in my sixties which would mean I’d start reflecting on my life and realize I didn’t do all the things I wanted to and spent too many years drinking alone and writing in cabin, so I’d travel with my husband/life partner (not too keen on marriage yet), if he’s still living, and maybe do a bit of sky-diving or go on a few luxurious cruises and drink Bloody Mary’s and Mimosas.

Eventually, I’d get too tired to travel or do much more than sit and look at pictures, so I’d take up some hobby or maybe start writing again until my mind shut down or I got too old to take care of myself.  But damn that, I’m dying in my own home with my own things.  And that’d be it.
That is the life I want and fantasize about when I can’t handle the reality of my real life.  It’s pretty simple, uneventful and quiet.  I guess it’s pretty attainable, however, I have to write a book that sells first to even reach the cusp of it’s possibilities.
I know how awful and miserable and unglamorous it may seem, but sincerely; it’s the life I covet.

What The Hell Happened

I just read 128 entries from an old blog and realized, wow… I’ve really turned to shit with my writing.  I’ve become careless, boring and even… unemotional.  OH, THE TRAVESTY!

I blame it on my iPhone. Before I had a smart phone, I was left to wander the boredom of my mind with curiosities.  While the curiosities still remain, they’re not nearly as invading as they were before.  However, I never thought my writing would suffer like this.

The past two years have been a blur for me really.  Where I used to find colors has been bleached out by the boredom of living in a desert.  Life here is a big, tan nothingness.  The people are boring and rude — there’s nothing to do but drink or go to the movies.  The Mexican food is insulting and there’s nothing really remarkable about it.  It’s a boring brown suburb, on a big, colorful map.  And I’m right in the center of it.

And amid all of this shit-talk happening right now, I realized that I haven’t written anything positive in quite a while.