08.31.10 good luck needles
07.06.10 cherielovesyou
07.05.10 follow that dream pkwy
05.17.10 lets go here
05.17.10 hello i love you
04.25.10 Long Live Sam The Lion
04.15.10 I hear this restaurant has hot waitresses
04.14.10 Russell called me names and I hit em, hit em in the gut.
03.25.10 cuddling with broken necks
03.25.10 sofia
03.23.10 flower child
03.23.10
03.22.10 I’m 23 now will I ever live to see 24
It is the first day of my creative writing class. I secretly hope it is like the one from My Girl.
I walk in the classroom, no dice. The chairs are, however, in a nice inviting circle. I am sure the teacher considers himself a renegade. Breaking social norms. We will not have our chairs in rows!! I sit along the circumference and take out my notebook. We were supposed to come to the first day of class with one page, one wild page about anything we want.
After the teacher introduces himself and I believe considers sitting Indian style on his desk but restrains (maybe for a later class, after we all feel more connected) he asks a few of us to read what we brought. After an ex Suicide Girl rambles through some dark poetry and some dweeb to my right regales us with his grandmother’s death, it’s my turn.
I clear my throat and make a big deal of smoothing the page in my notebook.
“As I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I take a look at my life and realize there’s nothing left.”
I take a pause for emphasis.
“Cause I’ve been blasting and laughing so long, that even my mama thinks that my mind is gone.”
My voice grows stronger and louder. It is difficult to deny the rhythm but I read on.
“I ain’t never crossed a man that didn’t deserve it. Me be treated like a punk? You know that’s unheard of.”
People look at each other with confusion. I finish the song. No one laughs. I thought it was funny. Maybe I should’ve gone with the Weird Al version.
03.16.10 dreamy lady
03.15.10 what a beautiful feeling
03.11.10 And then I see a darkness…
Majorie watched from the porch as her father’s pickup truck weaved along the rolling roads towards home. She took long slow drags on her unfiltered cigarette. He would kill her if he saw. She liked to play this game. To wait until the last possible moment to put it out. Spinning in frantic circles as he noisily pulled in to air out her long dress.
He never understood why she danced alone.
The cotton is fading from the sky, the unending and uniform blue before the black.
03.11.10
03.11.10
Fuck fuck fuck a duck, screw a kangaroo, finger bang an orangutan and now you’re at the zoo!
You hear that one time in 7th grade and when you least expect it it creeps back into your consciousness. Slow and quiet at first, at the back. The back of your brain, the older boys at the back of the bus. Then loud and joyous, half crazed and walking down Houston because who cares if you are screaming? You don’t know these people. You are what they want, the violin player on the subway, ragged and tired, calloused fingers and unwashed clothes. He doesn’t get off between stops, instead finishes his song. This breaks you and you put in a dollar. The tag on the underside of his fifty nine fifty is shiny and untarnished. Hack.
Feel like Holden Caufield, walk around 17 and bitter and smarter than the world. Smile back at old men who call you beautiful. Scream Leona Lewis and Op Ivy at crosswalks. Hop Scotch on old chalk and cross the street to walk on the sunny side. Take deep breaths of oncoming spring and get excited about lighter jackets and gelato.
Go home and feel small and alone. Open your window and listen to the symphony of day turning into night. Try not to drown before the ice cream men return.
03.06.10 like life
A KISS ABOUT APPLE PIE A LA MODE WITH THE VANILLA CREAMINESS MELTING IN THE PIE HEAT. A KISS ABOUT CHOCOLATE, WHEN YOU HAVEN’T EATEN CHOCOLATE IN A YEAR. A KISS ABOUT PALM TREES SPEEDING BY, TRAILING PINK CLOUDS WHEN YOU DRIVE DOWN THE STRIP SIZZLING WITH CHAMPAGNE. A KISS ABOUT SPOTLIGHTS FANNING THE SKY AND THE SWOLLEN SEA SPILLING LIKE TEARS ALL OVER YOUR LEGS. ~FRANCESCA LIA BLOCK
The walls were bare, save for a halfway hung kate moss poster. The room was full of love so I didn’t notice.
02.19.10 I’ve decided to start writing in cursive and cutting my sandwiches in fours.
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