ATTN: Anyone who reads these writings without my explicit knowledge.
I have no problem with you scrolling through this content and reading any or all of it. However, you should know that a) it is mostly hastily written, sketched out nonsense of little to no literary merit and b) it gets worse the farther back you go.

The vast majority of the entries are protected behind a "friends only" screen (this means that I have to "friend" you in order for you to read it). Some sensitive content is public; most of it is not.

This website is also home to an ongoing nonfiction work that may or may not be published--the collaborative and subversive nature of this project means that while I would like to get more people involved, its content cannot be discussed publicly.

For more information, send me an email (ryan.defranco@gmail.com) or contact me via facebook.

"Do not offer me a contract
Got no use for a house by the sea
All I ask for is a warm body
To keep this winter from killing me

Everytime you close your eyes and lie still
You look just like a dead man
Dead man, dead man, I'll sing your story
Dead man come to live again

Scan the skies for signs of heaven
Heaven, what use is heaven for you?
Spend your time instead
Spend your time with us, us."

To the assembled words of the English language--

I love every one of you. you've served me through casual tongueplay and intense letterthought--you've let me touch you, squeeze you, throw you up against one another in strange and awkward ways. you've been very kind.

but tonight, you were nothing. you shrunk back in awe you buckled in the dirt you stood in your trenches and watched. not that I blame you--hell I was barely able to keep together, and I'm made of cells and rules and bone. still, your uselessness was painfully obvious. you're all getting an honorary discharge. thank you for your years of valiant service--now go home, we've got no use for you here.

I am strapped to a lovetobaggon on an almost-too-fast slope I am making less than $7.50/hr at my dream job I am keeping gauze around the finger because in truth, I really like telling the story I am going to try to listen to people more when I'm with Timmy (sometimes I just get lost in crazy-marvelous thoughts) speaking of him, I am seeing him even less often now, the city is just too much ahhh FUKK the city, I have never heard the human chorus roar so loud.

I am on better terms with the mirror I am completely out of contact with way too many people I am trying to get some sort of telephone I am more than moved when I read about swirling dirt I am probably thinking about ms. darkforestkiss too much but really, can you blame me I am surrounded by women and men who give off a glow so strong I've been blinking almost every half-second I am going to get up tomorrow and buy an aquarium-ish cage for Pablo Escobar I am as exhausted as I have ever been I am hopped up on adrenaline and random kindness I am going to go to sleep some time soon hi, my name is Ryan DeFranco and I'm addicted to the human race.

Q: "When re-selling an already purchased product, it's nearly impossible to make more than 80 or--at the most--90% of the purchase price. Is there a secret way to get people to pay MORE than retail value??"

A: Yup, it's called trust. Prospective buyers will like you if you offer them detailed information, extra service and, above all, security. Make them feel safe and loved and they will spend their money on you.

Case in point. (Average sell price on eBay = $270-$290)

how very strange. the world is slowly dissolving, losing pixels sinking down, every action has become cool subtraction someone is taxing meaning out of everything and while it might be okay if it was fixed-rate normal, lately, they've gotten greedy

don't believe me? look, you can see it in the writing. it's shit. my time is slowly being consumed by gingersnaps and mango-soy-sorbet the hours slip by and I grow more comfortable in the fallow field of wall-to-wall carpeting and pubic hair ache.

I'm watching television again, the commercials are no longer alien and surreal, just a notsosoft soundtrack for the cling-notcling cling-notcling cycle I can't seem to shake. can't see caroline, she's going to miami. this is terrible news. see grace? god, I hope. I hope I hope I hope.

amaretta does very little hoping, she has taken to nuzzling my face and walking away. I realize now that this is far more depressing than it should be: allow me to repeat, I am not unhappy, I just get to feel so heavy now and then, I suddenly feel the weight of water in every cell. if these nucleotides would braid themselves legible I could get a handle on what's gone wrong, but it's nowhere near bad enough to stress over and besides--stumbling sober through this lucid maze is starting to get interesting. the trees tremble and bend while my fingernail darkens into bark

all my letters are unfinished or unstarted but I'm beginning to think I'm gripping the past a bit too tightly, why am I obsessing over this idea of letting everyone know just where they stand when winter whiskey with sam is just around the corner, when the welcome week orgy is almost ready to begin? south american treasures are at our beck and call, I couldn't have scripted this better, this is going to be the time of my fucking life

Tom and I are falling apart. His wheelbase is way off one tire is terribly out of alignment and the driver's side brakes are so fucked that every rotation sounds like the sharpening of knives (WHIcha-kaka,WHIcha-kaka,WHIcha-kaka!). Slowing down makes him shudder like a dreaming dog; the brake pedal pants, the chassis shakes and if I so much as think of making a sharp turn, a loud ARREEEEEDA-EEE-EEE-EEE-EEE lets me know I'm out of line.

Me, I don't know what the fuck's wrong with me.

I'm not unhappy, just occasionally empty. I'm not ready for college, I have nothing prepared, I don't even know what states & cities I'm going to be in the next three weeks. (Cincinnati, I hope; Detroit, probably not). I can't seem to accomplish anything--letters, poems, meditating, it never seems to get done. I know what you're thinking (POT!) but you're wrong, I haven't used any for so long I've lost count of the days.
Anyone who knows about the time "Duck" Steven screwed Patrick and I will know how betrayed and awful I felt afterward; I guess I've got a bit of that hanging around (see below), but could Ms. David's hurt really inspire such a vicarious reciprocal?

No I suppose there is no grand answer, I'm just once-in-a-while-broken, just like I'm once-in-a-while bubbly bubbly happy: thanks go to Grace Bertsch, Pete Tontillo, Jenna Rosenberg and Patrick Wilson for makin those moments happen. Also the corsetted high school darlings of the Bristol Co. Renaissance Fair. I don't think I've ever been hit on by a more beautiful gaggle of gift shop sexpots.

haha which reminds me, know what makes me happy? this:



yup.

a poem about almost

silent anger sunk into bonnie's bitter black
(poor guy, it's the ex again)
so a baked apple seemed in order.
as the butterknife fucked the fiji's core
my thoughts were in albany, not anderson--
this is the only way he can eat them, he's terribly allergic.
but oven door down, oven door up, 350 degrees later WHAM
there it is!
a herald on the drawbridge.

dirty sonofabitch crept between sweet cinnamon & clove
grinning like a bastard, screamin GOTCHA!
and he had a right to smile--I was genuinely afraid
after weeks of nothing but disgust here was something dangerous,
hypocrisy seemed at hand. I actually believed I might see her
(brown juice dribbling down her front, ice cream smeared across one cheek)
if I turned round and looked.

no. no ghost no dream no fleeting thoughts
any interest was baked with the allergens
my dick and my heart did the exact same thing:
hmm, how do I say this.
earlier today, my dog saw a bug
(usually she eats them; usually I react to these memories).
not even a sniff. she looked for all of two seconds
then turned
and licked her ass.

edit: god I feel like such an ass, why do I keep doing this, allowing myself to write things with practically no consideration for who other people really are?? al;sjdfjsakvmsadf the world is not my plastic playground, I have no fucking right, it was so easy to poke fun at "the so-very-different" roommate just because of a few stupid groups.

we just messaged each another and he was extraordinarily considerate--I cannot fucking WAIT to meet someone this kind and helpful, why the hell was I so judgmental when I decided to log on and write this ugly shit.

revised fantastical-dream-based-on-almost-no-interaction-whatsoever: this is going to work out really, really well.

okay, so I thought my roommate was Eddie Chu, a biology/east asian studies major whose minimalist facebook presence included little more than an expertly-exposed photo of his frail form beneath a breathtaking sunset

this was very exciting for me, as my gen ed class is in the east asian studies department and I have love for anyone who spits in the face of facebook.

wellll as it turns out that Eddie Chu is a senior, my Eddie Chu is quiiiite a different sort of darling... he's a premed whose groups include "nerdy pickup lines" "1 million people = boy piercing both nipples" (310 members) "eating healthy is for squares" and "above the influence." his two albums abound with individualism and artistry ("PROM <3" and "PROM PART II"), his notes tackle difficult subjects with hard-hitting tact ("WTF Buying stuff online is gay") and his only posted info is his work history (librarian's assistant at his highschool, march of '07 - present)

alright, as much as I would love to continue this cruel little venture into the bonanza that is the rest of his page (fortune cookies horoscopeZ and "random play," oh my), I feel like now's a good time to stop. beneath all this fizzle and flam there is an Eddie Chu, a real Eddie Chu, and there is a good chance that he is in fact a kind and curious human being. there will obviously be some difficulties ("above the influence," shit), but if I go into this with high-handed assholery that will only make it worse. I refuse to make judgments based on a facebook profile, I refuse to think of this as miserable or unlucky, I refuse to request a roommate change any earlier than october.

my "original" roommates (the amazing-holyshityouguysarefuckingawesome boys from hackettstown nj) share a room together; the three of us + eddie are in a suite. as far as our dorm goes, it's by union square, it has a courtyard a darkroom a theatre free coffee and it seems that somehow, all the terribly interesting guys and gals have tumbled into it too. scroll down a bit and you'll realize how happy this makes me.

and besides, as long as Eddie doesn't mind a few plants and a golden pavilion, I think we'll be cool.

You are, by definition, a terribly beautiful person. I say this without consideration, without hesitation, without any doubt in my mind at all--you are a valley lit by lightning, a shopping center on fire, an aurora in my backyard.

But despite all your poetic qualifications you are still a woman, cluttered and real. Your Buddha nature is no greater than mine or Christ's or Jane LaPointe's, and while the three of us combined couldn't come close to matching your physical charm, I think we're all old enough to realize the worthlessness of flesh. In short, my dear, you're just like the rest of us.

So while it is extraordinarily easy and socially acceptable to equate my sudden smile with a desperate wink, I must ask you to refrain. I understand your motive (as far as status symbols go, a love-crazed old flame ranks somewhere between an iPhone and a yacht), but I'm afraid it's correlation without causation. Unless otherwise notified, you can safely assume that I am no longer desperately in love with you. Please take for granted your personal safety in my company--the last however-many months or years have not reduced me to sex fiend stay-tus (say it with me now); I am not dredging my childhood romances for a new "hot piece of ass."

(*) Should you receive an unexpected phone call notifying you of my continued ownership of your old letters and my recent perusal of their contents, you may rest safe and sound knowing that I am not, in fact, trying to get in your pants.

(*) Should you discover a package on your doorstep with an unexpected gift inside, it does not mean I want to do it "like we used to, remember" (even if the aforementioned gift is extremely unusual and in wildly bad taste).

(*) Should you find yourself in the unfortunate position of actually receiving a letter penned in my scrawl, it does not necessarily reveal any ongoing attraction or previous crush--no matter how many years have passed without postal correspondence.

While it is probable and even likely that I still find you very, very attractive, I am certainly not inclined to act on that attraction, regardless of how strong or two-sided it may seem. I promise you, my outstretched kindness is not a clever ploy or a foot in the door; as suspicious as my benevolence might appear, it is 100% made-in-Wisconsin real. I miss you. I miss the feeling of being loved, I miss knowing that someone cares a whole lot about whether I live or die. I miss having someone to dream about, I miss having someone to kiss... and rather than turn one of you into a propped-up doll I'd rather stave off some Dukkha and spend summer showin' everybody a lil' love.

Gifts, phone calls, letters--these are just my little happiness-highs, the things I do to pass the time, the breaths that wring the cancer from my lungs. Forgive my indulgence. It is only because I have so much respect for who you are and what you've undoubtedly done for me; it is only my way of saying "hey, let's keep being nice to each other, that was working really well."

:::

As deliciously fun as that was I am beginning to get very worried, especially after today. Am I going way over the line here, is this nasty creep-compassion, do I have any right to invade? The letter I am about to write is ridiculous, unforgivable, and the ones I'm planning on penning are just as obscene. And what about calling Isha, how do I explain that one away, my orange envelope confessional was NOT what any tuftsgirl-athlete needs to hear. And yet. She loves our conversation, spits memories as fast as I can speak, texts me tonight about some film I shouldn't remember... jesus, Johnny Depp, how funny the past can be.

Enough. If you see me in public smack me in my fucking face and tell me to write the golden-green poem about lost gold, mud mountains, nightmares between dunes, all those crazy doves.

I bear bitterness born from betrayal--too many friends are slipping butterknives between my ribs. it's not horrid, just embarrassing. I trip through conversations like an awkward child, edging around the glaring ugliness of his or her untruth.* eighty dollars here, harrypotter-homework there, these people fling me stale dead fish and I click and I click and I jump through the hoop with their beach ball on my nose.

for the first time in nine or ten years I find myself trusting more in my family than in the "world outside." these backyard betrayals start to smell so bad that the mequon metta becomes heavenish in comparison. it's nice here: the streets are insanely wide there's a potted park around every turn and when the lake throws her arms around me I can collapse and smile and piss. wisconsin, I <3 thee.

little alessandra has a boyfriend. he's proud to be her little bitch; I find her dominance endearing. we are having a magnificent time together--alessandra amaretta and I--there are bluffs that beg for our feet and bikes that take us for miles. also: I fucking hate chicago, that city doesn't deserve to lick my dog's paw.

people I would like to see:
toni tamer!
sarahallisonjoyce
caroline david
ritchell van dams
sean jack
chris kneale
bill scull
donnie mcknight
gary m. taylor
et. al

how's that for your benevolent aristocracy mr, forrester

this is merely a cultural device, it is my way of avoiding the misogynistic plagues of Western society, the three alluded-to individuals are all male.

it is also worth noting that because one of them is a homeless recently released ex-convict, one of them is a videogames (then) drugs (now) friend from the way-back-when of Michigan and one of them is patrick wilson, none of them stood to be wounded by something they couldn't see. this "victimless crime" has now hurt maggie (who read herself into it) and me (because I feel bad for Maggie, because Patrick complllletely proved me wrong about his "betrayal" by changing my life yesterday afternoon, and because stephen needed that money a whole lot more than either of us did.)

when I originally wrote decided to write this, it was supposed to go in the direction of "my desire for them to be what I idealize them as--the old friend who will not make up a cheap lie, the gary m. taylor of the south loop, the best friend who will enjoy the outdoorsy-ness of WI"--is unfulfilled, this desire is the mother of my suffering, why am I fostering her growth by being self-obsessed and unrealistic about my expectations??"

but I was high, and the shitty "bitterness born from betrayal" alliteration proved to be too much of a distraction. breathe with me everyone, I love and respect you, sandpipers and crabs, sandpipers and crabs, om shanti.

-ryan

because I have a portable source of refuge, a home for meditation and now--a catalyst for insight. tonight I watched as soft insights floated into my skull simply because I was on the cushion. part of it is physical--the intimacy with the ground provokes many good things--but I'm pretty sure that the strength of the connection lies in the mental associations between "cushion" and "mindfulness."

and this makes sense, right? cushion goes with meditate ergo cushion goes with Buddhist-oriented thoughts.

it works out well. this evening, reid left the candles kept burning the raccoon scurried off into the woods and I put my cigarette out in the field--coming back, side B of Blue, a cannabis vacation. collapsed onto the cushions I found myself in the middle of a gorgeous, gorgeous piece of insight: some nagging thought had been unwrinkled by an easy application of Buddhist belief.

of course, I don't remember what it was. though an hour has gone by, I'm still under the influence, and please there's no need for worry I know just how pathetic that excuse is, I would invest concern if my forgetfulness wasn't perfectly okay as it stands... nonattachment. "if you see something horrible, don't cling to it; if you see something beautiful, don't cling to it." oh thank you Allen, oh thank you Lama Dudjom Rinpoche, your forgiveness is so sincere.

(because in realizing it, I found joy; a worry slipped away and the striated muscles in my heart grew a little less tense. no need to rehash, no need to cling and apply and blow out of proportion; it was there, it spawned goodness, it is gone.)

oh but watch, it continues: still stoned, I join computer and flickering wax. I want to share this little adventure in consciousness, livejournal begs for attention, I'm nowhere near tired enough for a 7:00 wake-up call. what comes first? facebook. tripping between comments and photos and messages and (holy fuck) way too many applications, I discover Christian's discontent and strangers' continued kindness and Maggies--here it comes--wall-to-wall.

I wanted to find the Old Joy statistics Patrick sent me last week, which meant search box >> patrick wilson >> patrick's profile >> "my wall to wall with Patrick Wilson" (I love this clinical precision, it's fucking ridiculous). only I never got that far, I didn't make it to the last step, I was too distracted by the pixelated fairy who graced the top of the wall. my eyes absorbed, my neurons exploded, hormones flared and everywhere, everything tightened... click.

as the page loaded, my mind released twenty-two metric tonnes of anxious tension. the progress bar swirled and my thoughts slid to a resigned sort-of halt: "well fuck, this is going to hurt." and it did, ohhhhh yes you bet it did, each paragraph a Pan's Labyrinth bottle-to-the-nose. sadness hushed jealousy and I sunk into my chair, falling off the famous cliff (down down we go, into the funk that ruins the night and infests our hair with whispers and midnight moans. you know it's your selfish fuckup and your cruel prophecy that pushed you over the edge, and that only makes it worse, you've got nothing to lean on here except your semi-solid promise: respectful silence, this is adulthood, leave her be. (a note on the cruel prophecy: I only said I wanted to slip her into every best friend's arms because we did it twice already, I was never expecting the whitewashed foreskin of patrick wilson to venture anywhere near quivering body)

but wait!! here'comes the quiet insight. after crawling through my brain's backdoor, it curled up in my lap, nuzzled my arms and released me from samsara: this is beautiful!! the same admiration I felt for ritchell's ATM-machine dance I felt again for Patrick's zealous charm. look at her cast that line, admire his graceful volley, revel in the way nonattachment unravels all distress. it feels so good to kiss my jealousy on the cheek and bid it farewell ("you are appreciation for her indelible beauty, and for that I love you); it feels soooo fucking good to step into the interconnectedness of men, women, dust, flags, semen and deer--this lets me let go of the paused plans and dead dreams that would otherwise breed guilt and desire and lust. maggie returns to what she is, the friend who deserves my "respectful silence," the firefly who will flare up again, the collection of bones and thoughts and adipose that has done a great many wrongs and shown a great deal of love, as I have, as Patrick has, as we all have.

see? cushions good. I don't want to give the cushions too much credit, but they definitely deserve the word "catalyst." I questioned them at first--I wondered if the expensive purchase was headstrong or selfish or at the very least, premature. reasonable concerns but thankfully unwarranted, it was well worth the individualistic investment.

enough endless text!! tomorrow, a few pictures from the aloe-hammock den; maybe that something pretty, see how it goes. reid is creating the greatest gift ever conceived, I will be sure to photograph it when it is done.

She is beside me and I am beside her and we are lost in a lithograph, untangling layered images and contorted symbols we are peeling away each allusion and stripping metaphors down to tenors and spare parts. Ten minutes later and we're finally able to tear our eyes away from the recycled-paper canvas--the first thing she sees is me and the first thing I see is her and I grin and she grins and I fail to think of something clever and and in a little while we're walking through Williamsburg, gaping at the ocher-purple clouds as the sidewalk smiles underfoot.

She is reading aloud from Saramago or Neruda or Márquez or Bolaño or anyone, anyone she adores (she need not be obsessed with Spanish literature; I just like the way those four sound). We could be beside the Central Park lake, we could be lost in Inwood seeking shelter in some cafe I don't know, perhaps this is a quiet afternoon in her dorm room, perhaps she is resting her head in that comfortable spot beneath my shoulder as my eyes bounce from the ceiling to the walls to the tresses of her hair and perhaps I am suddenly feeling guilty for spending the last seventeen seconds reveling in the moment instead of listening to her read. I close my eyes and slip back into the stream of words, forsaking self-scolding for an additional six and a half seconds of unadulterated bliss.

She is breathless. We are seated on the ground in a way that is hard to describe--her back against my chest, her legs pressed against my legs, my hands bold and swift and deep but above all, gentle. I can tell she is close when her thighs tense and her breath catches and God knows that the inside/outside fingerplacement is perfect, I can feel what is about to happen I know what I have done but this is not what I am thinking about no this is not even on my mind because my lips my lips have found the just-noticeable curve between spine and shoulder and a warm flush of blood has met my unhesitant kiss and suddenly the world shatters. For her and I both.

::

(there are close to a dozen wonderfully interesting women whom I would be honoured to slip into this "she" and while one of them has "stolen my heart" that is simply a joke, a speck of self-parody for she is only composite and fantasy nothing tangible nothing real she is not "she" but the hope of what anyone might one day become; this is not about her or anyone else this is about my childish belief in my inability to fail this is dream and desire and genuine hope this is relief from the hell of that house this is what the Davids gave on Monday this is comfort this is refuge this is not too much to ask)

Grace will tell you--I used to be an accomplished liar. Almost as soon as I discovered the small twists and gentle tugs that could mold truth to my liking, I set out to become an expert. (This was somewhere in the middle of 6th grade.) A certain sort of smile, a bit of encouraging body language, imperceptible shows of kindness buried in tone and retina and tongue--I was good. I could construct believable explanations given only half a second to prepare; I could shower authority figures in subtle expressions of trust whenever the need arose. My trade allowed me to get away with ridiculous feats of disobedience, first at the Valley School (Christ, what a place) and then at DCD. By the end of 8th grade, a shining "1st in state" trophy announced my lying prowess to the world.

Well, mostly to me. Placed beside my NCTE "Promising Young Writer" award, it represented a glorious future that I dared not imagine. At the time, my skills had only two outlets: home, where a well-constructed lie could save me from physical pain, and school, where the everyday lie kept me buoyant and happy and safe. My parents were also liars, but they were never as talented as I was. Unfortunately, they had the belt and the police on their side, neither of whom ever sided with me. Still, I got by. Despite handcuffs and hospital visits, I was pretty much okay, and I was proud of that fact. I had trained myself to be very good at the one thing that could protect me and keep me sane--I reveled in my success, in my own ability to survive.

The following three years taught me some sense. The safety and comfort provided by a lie are transient and cold. They are shades, aping qualities they see in the counterparts that only truth can create. Little lies are like ravenous ants, sucking and eating and breeding with a ferocity that hides beneath a still and smiling rock. You tell one and it makes you sound like a better person; you tell another and you're twice as pleased by the way the recipient responds. It's so easy! You get better and better at it until eventually, you know no other way. Sure, you get a bit guilty when anyone uses the words "honesty" or "truthfulness," but over time you grow numb to even that. Who needs to be trustworthy when you can lie your way out of anything?

Little pincers, dedicated and sharp, nibble-nibble nibble-nibble. Each falsehood is a little bite, a harmless bit of self removed reconstructed and returned to the outside world. Yes, it's also a quiet "love me?", but very few people have hearing good enough to notice that sound. Eventually there's less of you and more of the lie; eventually you get to the point where you wake up and someone else is lying in your bed. They're lying there, wearing your clothes and your fake smile and your false sense of security and screaming GUESS WHAT MOTHERFUCKER, YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHO YOU ARE.

It's not pretty. Big lies are just as bad--they pretend not to be big, they pretend to be vital, necessary and kind. You tell yourself "it's what's best" and then there you are, lying your ass off, letting the words tumble out as some small part of you questions whether or not this makes any sense at all. At night that small part of you will don camouflage and warpaint and come crashing through the undergrowth of your subconscious, brandishing desperate desire and an M-16 carbine. Three hand grenades later you're awake and staring into the darkness between you and the window wondering what's truth and what's wreckage, second-guessing every daylight decision and sinking into the space between your sweat and your remorse.

This is drawing on and on, I know. I'll speed it up, leave out the personal examples, omit the present-day parallels and skip to the winded conclusion: lying fucking blows. I have lost all interest in inflection and twist--I want no part of any of it, the very concept terrifies me, it's almost as bad as reckless driving. Everytime Patrick gets a bit too close to the guardrail my eyes squeeze tight and my forehead screams NO because of last November seventh; this is exactly the same. If half a ton of compacted metal has never forced your head into an airbag's firm embrace, you cannot know that feeling--if you've never been devoured by your own dishonesty, you cannot know how I feel now.

My closest friends are telling wicked, wicked lies to each other and to themselves and all I can do is bite my lip.

I looked down and watched a dragonfly
leap between shadows and leaves
the watersnake slid off my ankle but the bug was unconcerned
each reflection deserved a silver kiss,
her larvae were breathless and afraid.
Hung in still suspension, sunk in rice-like sacks,
I watched them tremble with the wind.
Cotton clung to a branch beside me.
Barely attached to its pinecone moor, it burst
into 8,000 squirming legs.
"Not cotton," I thought, "Salutations!", screamed the spiders
and I didn't have the heart to say goodbye.
In a sacristy three towns away, a machine clicked on
"church bells" rang and the sparrow on my shoulder
devoured the infants on the branch. Again my eyes fell to the ground
as the bank dissolved and my chair gave way--
not Damascus, but close--and I found myself naked underwater
the dust tickled, the larvae shat in my ear,
and some form of moss crawled up the small of my back and said
"it's me, don't you remember, there's nothing wrong with lust."
The water shook with what I took to be a viking moses bassline
but what turned out to be the thunk.thunk.thunk
of your feet, striking the surface
through a paddleboat made of paint--I looked up,
thought "nonattachment,"
and swam through the stillness of your wake.

Plenty of poets have praised the early-morning hard on
but I find myself more attracted to the early-morning piss:
an alarm clock blares, the testicles spring into action and up you go
lumbering towards a loch in the bathroom where blinding light and falling shorts herald
the coming of a beast. His purple head bulges, the one eye leers
he spits at the sun and unleashes uncoordinated genocide
on tile, carpet, and the bold look of kohler.

After a few seconds, you begin to breathe again
the ongoing catharsis starts sounding a bit like a aum
so you relax, breathing deeply, allowing last night's bloodstream
to waft up from the bowl:
citrus clove and chlorophyll
digested hops and remalted barley
it all melts into a backdrop of waste oil and coffee
meanwhile memories clang about each smell
beating drums and chests and children as Paroheth rips and the piss roars on--
this is punctuated equilibrium, ugly and bright.

Lost in the middle of all this, you'll cough and scratch your thigh
maybe spell-check each dream to weed out the skeletons
that crawled from the sticky viscous pathways between bladder and amygdala
(stomachs caved, wombs barren, faces bearing orgasm and saline and death).
But by the time your last bit of urine is raining on porcelain
you'll have realized that none of this matters, now that it's purged,
for as soon as you hit that handle the contents are flushed into darkness--
alongside tampons condoms and storm drain styrofoam,
your liquid yesterday is drained across concrete slick with pepsi and blood
crushed through screens and tanks and processing vats
and then picked apart by anaerobic vultures with reverse osmosis antennae
in massive underground plants. Nothing endures, everything survives--
each speck and sin is rent asunder
by the chemical divinity inherent in hydrogen, oxygen,
and slow sand filtration. Eventually it all gets reassembled
packaged for the suburbs and taxed by the state
a dash of fluoride and dark matter and it's ready to stand still
waiting in listless silence while silicon levers prepare fiberglass gates
that will send water rushing through tunnels and tubes and taps...

Of course, your thoughts aren't quite so extended--the only critical thinking needed now
concerns the likelihood of vomiting and the temperature of the shower
which you stumble into, still squinting, half-blind enough to miss the inscription
on the drain--CINCINNATI WATER BUREAU--but aware enough to scrub your balls
and wash your hair. To you the droplets pelting your back are nothing like
piss or shit or industrial waste, they are warm flakes of amniotic fluid
cushioning your sore arms, embracing your wrinkled dick,
streaming across your pockmarked skin screaming
"alive, alive, wake up you sack of shit
you are alive!"

this took several hours to re-write. the original version was about half as long and to be honest I don't know if I ruined it by extending it so much.
any thoughts or critiques would be very much appreciated; if you're interested in the original, it was originally posted here.

thank you for reading my poem.

Elmo, trail blanket, white dress: acceptable.
ankle, arch, heat, shift: well done.
backrub?, no, cousin, inappropriate, besides, you're not him: top marks.

RESULTloyalty: [******* ]

interaction may continue.
next checkpoint 4.22 at 0100.

We lose a voice recorder, find a voice recorder, buy gold schlager and find ourselves out of a lighter. We run into a steamboat (which turns out not to be a restaurant), fail to find the matches we'd hoped would be there and feel terribly rushed and worried and un-high. We unearth Prometheus--a grizzled old dockkeeper who refuses my dollar bills--and lacrosse-sprint through Deerslayer.

We see "The Lookout," which turns out to be just bearable (blind Jeff Daniels saves the film from a contrived plot and a lackluster ending), while (unbeknownst to me) my mom finds "Brick" in her DVD player and watches it. She analyzes the fuck out of the story and explains a sub-plot I never even caught on to.
           ("Lookout" stars Joseph Gordon-Levitt)

Anshul turns out to be a closet Damien Rice fanboy--on the ride home, "I Remember" plays.
           (we pass over a certain well-lit curve near the Ft. Wright exit)

I'm used to coincindences joining hands with events I can't control; I'm just not used to being so damn happy about it. I don't think I stopped smiling once tonight. I'm tempted to chalk it up to the company I kept... but that seems unwise. Given how perfect everything's been going lately, I've got reason to question whether or not anshul's spunky optimism was the only force at work this evening.

 
I have been happier, but I have never been so indefinably stable.

Ritchell's "Thank you, on repeat."
Grace's "Goodnight, Ryan..."
Maggie's "I think you need that now."
Caroline's "Me too."
Lily's "Ryan, I am here."
Christian's "Absolutely not!"

There is a unique way in which these people said these things to me today. Each phrase was uttered with such subtle empathy and deliberate concern that it struck me, hung in my mind, and stayed around 'till the end of the day. In a few minutes I'll drift off to sleep, and I know that these words will rest behind my earlobe and whisper as I dream.

They are presented here, unadorned with description or explanation, as a small reminder of how wrong I was last night--how silly I was to think in terms of "alone" and "not-alone," when I can reach out in any direction and touch kindness, devotion, and love.

(comments are screened)

Hello again.

I should be honest with you, I haven't thought of you that often--you stopped by in July and stayed for a spell but like always, we parted on the worst of terms. I think I saw you a few times in the winter--wasn't that you, outside "Volver," and wasn't that you, on that side street behind the lower school playground? I knew it! I swore I saw your face when I bent down to unfold the blanket.

It's good to see you again. You look healthy, have you been working out? Jogging? I've never seen you so strong. Wait! I take that back. Do you remember the time when you stood in front of my mother's car on Ivy Gate Lane and stopped it with one hand? Christ, you're a beast.

Okay, okay, enough bullshit, I should just say what I've been thinking: I'm sorry. For the last five years you've been dropping in out of nowhere with your bags and your peculiar sense of humor and every time I put out grapes and shrimp cocktail but the thing is, I never really listen to you. There is so much I could learn from the shapes your mouth makes but I spend all my time watching you dance around my kitchen and thus I miss every word; I hear pounding bass and screaming treble but no legible mid. By the time you prance out the door, I'm left with upturned furniture the luggage you left behind and no memory of what you tried to say.

I promise: that will never happen again. This time, I'm listening. Sit down in my wicker chair (I'll take the black cushions), tell me everything I never wanted to hear. Your constructive criticism is the only hope I have left--behind your grey eyes lies the truth I've been trying to find. You can stay as long as you want (I have saganaki, mango ice cream, mushroom soup, and three bags of frozen shrimp). Take whatever you find pleasing, leave whatever you find holy, my head is yours--teach me how to keep you gone for good.

When you leave, I'll kiss your left cheek once and your right cheek twice; I'll stand on the sidewalk until the bus pulls away. "Goodbye," I'll say, "it was good while it lasted."

PS: I kept my promise! Did you notice?? I tried to fight you I brought up the past I even CRIED (you never see me, so you have no idea how rare that is)--but I kept my promise.


(comments screened)

It's always been jealousy, did you know that? It began when I met you: I was jealous of your intelligence. Then I became jealous of your patience and your rational thinking--how could I not be, when you and her were anything but tangled, angry, and lost? From these obese jealousies came flighty envies, most of which have proved as permanent as their counterparts (to this day, I still feel nervous every time I give someone a backrub).

Out of this covetous mess came guilt and shame, whose combined efforts tore down my ignorance and taught me the patience and rational thinking I'd wanted all along. Still, nothing was perfect. I found myself forced into an unshakable sense of unfairness: every time I danced across the coals, someone shoved hot charcoal down your throat. I listened to the snap-crackle-pop of your good fortune as I ran farther and farther away from what we had been.

I repaid your wisdom with music you didn't like and compliments you never heard. "He's such a good fucking human being," I'd say, "if I had to pick someone I knew to carry on the whole race, it'd be him." I was infatuated with respect and mired in self-doubt; I was Buck to your John Thorton. (And when the rapids came, I lept in with Hans and Pete and dragged you to the shore.)

Nothing could fulfill me more than your happiness. Nothing could calm me more than your freshwater embrace. Nothing could make me happier than a lie and a glass of water--#6, take it down, reach for the strings! Nudging you towards each other, I felt a coldness in my paws: it was the cool absence of envy. I played the songs that had defined her and I while your hands found curves for kindling and her lips mouthed justifications for her breath's behaviour and all along, I almost didn't mind. Sometimes I would let myself look, never focusing on any particular cheek or finger but merely taking in the rawness of everything: crumbling hair became fluttering eyelash became quivering knee (and death shall have no dominion).

You noticed the "almost," didn't you. Okay, okay, it's true, I'm back with jealousy again, but this kind's the silly kind. It's immature, childish, but at the same time, human. When the closest thing you ever had to a best friend is suddenly engaged in a passionate kiss with the girl you spent 11 months waiting for but never even touched, it's okay to feel alone and insecure.

My tantrum spat itself out in a series of quasi-emotional fits: the too-intense kiss for my girlfriend, the deliberateness with which I cooked your food. When you fell asleep on the floor I guided you to the bed, tucked the sheet corners up to your chin and smiled at the darkness before your face.

Now no god could make me take your place: you'd have to shoot me to get me to leave the woman I've been trying to find since since 8th grade. I'm proud to say that the only "jealousy" your tongue's engagement aroused was so fickle and weak that I dismissed it with the smallest amount of effort. But no matter how faint or short-lived, it was there, and that leaves an unbroken chain of invidia from past to present. Fitting, isn't it? Every time I've recognized my envy of you I've tasted it, dissected it, disposed of it and watched myself grow as a result. By watching you I learned every quality I'm proud to have today; by watching you still I learn to let those qualities grow and mimic yours. This entry is a stand-in for all the thank you notes I could have sent--it's a poor substitute and a cheap excuse, but you know I've never been good at repaying you on time.

Thank you. Really, I mean it, this is not a clever trick or a cloying fade-to-black, it's sincere: if you hadn't entered my life, I would not be the person I am today. One hand can count all the positive role models I've ever had, and I'm sure the thumb belongs to you. You redefine "patience" the way "beautiful" redefines "pretty;" you treat everyone you know with the selfless respect of a bodhisattva. If you had bothered to count you would have passed 70x7 two years ago but through some divine grace you continue to understand, empathize, and forgive. If the heaven we don't believe in is as judgmental as the Bible makes it sound, the God we're not sure about will reserve six seats for you. Sainthood is simply not enough.

Were I to show this entry to someone who doesn't know you, they might think I'm speaking in poetic hyperbole--they might look at the time stamp, assume I was high and say "ah, a fine elegy, what bullshit." It's not. My descriptions are weak and small; your silent virtue might smile and accept them but I know they are not enough, they are not enough, nothing will ever be enough. What I did for you tonight might seem "selfless" and "noble," but in the context of our friendship, it doesn't come close to repaying you for what you've given me.

I think I will go to bed now. As the clock crawls towards dawn as you and your replacement sleep in the beds on either side I will close my eyes and let this slip away; I will take my thoughts to the one who brings me more happiness than the world deserves. I am afraid I'll never be enough for her I am afraid some thoughtless mistake will undo it all I am afraid that I will not amount to what you showed me I could be. One last time, before I go: thank you for tolerating so much and asking for so little, thank you for helping me so often and waiving the fee, thank you so fucking much, Ritchell Van Dams, for being one of the best human beings I will ever come to know.

(comments are screened.)

in the spirit of dylan thomas: listen. (finally updated, 4.19.07)

: :: :

YOU'VE CHANGED

It's the standard we raise when there's nothing left to rally round
when our demands have been met with a tight-lipped smile and a firm "no"
when the check for fairy-tale love bounces back marked "insufficient funds."

(I'm using the royal "we" here,
speaking for the boys who rule over post-pubescent love
who find self-worth in our devotion to good-natured women
who reign as monarchs in the kingdom of uneducated passion.)

We refuse to acknowledge the facts, because the facts are scary and unfair:
she is supposed to be the waif we're there to take care of,
the patchwork quilt of insecurities we can wrap around our waists
the wounded little kitten we can heal and make out with
so where the fuck did she get the idea that she can have emotions of her own??

Who told her she has a right to stand on her own two feet
who told her independence is worth more than another year of indentured servitude?
How can she be so calm when she explains her decision,
why isn't she crying and throwing herself into our arms??

Rather than try to understand the situation, we choose to reach for the closest cure
instant gratification, immediate explanation, a panacea
for our helpless desperation: YOU'VE CHANGED.

With those two words we summon up a dream of a Golden Age past
the time when she was beautiful, malleable and clean
the time when we crashed through her self-defense levee with a devotional flood
the time when we earned our keep with whispered "I love you"s and promised "forever"s
(in English class, no less!)
the time that never really existed, because though the memories might've been
nothing was really perfect
we had violent fights and gnawing anxieties,
plenty of nights were spent in silence, each desirous and alone
so much was left unsaid and so much was thrown away
because we were too young to know what we were doing with our mouthes.
Words tumbled out unchecked tongues raced around unbridled
and all the while we were working our way towards that inevitable future
towards the day where she would wake up and say,
"I'm sorry, but this is the last good morning you'll ever hear."

Since that day is today and since maturity is still so far off
we'll hide behind our banner and take comfort in our hate
we won't care that the security in YOU'VE CHANGED is the stolen kind,
robbed from none other but the woman herself
who's probably alone at home right now, feeling terrible and cruel and shattered and alone
we've beaten her senseless with the sentences we spit through our keyboards
we've abandoned reason and traded kindness for malevolence because Goddammit,
if anyone deserves to feel pain it's HER...

(the saddest part is that there can be no "Forgive them Lord," for we know what we do
we know deep down that we're in the wrong that she doesn't deserve our spite
that by making her feel so awful and broken we're only using a dirty dirty tactic
to get her to come crawling back. in fact it's not even that deep,
all it takes is a few words from Nita Malaj--"but what did she do to you?--"
and we're uprooting saplings and slicing hearts in our arms
because we know who truly deserves our derision
we know
we know we know we know.)

...So we hold our heads up and scream to the sky
with dominion over bitterness and alcohol on our side, the hatred flows like a a Babylonian spring
it's pleasant, almost, hell after a few days it's pleasurable
like Aquilon's bite or a bic lighter sting.

As long as no one's listening
as long as our cocks are still hard
as long as she still looks at us with that soft look of longing that means she remembers the days we're doing our damnedest to resurrect write over and ruin
we'll guilt-trip whip her into submission or we'll break her to pieces
we'll stage Sherman's march to the sea from her chest to her forehead
we'll spread salt in her veins and set her pretty hair on fire
we'll say we're doing it out of love and if anyone questions the logic
we'll scream our mantra 'til we begin to believe

YOU'VE CHANGED

YOU'VE CHANGED

YOU'VE CHANGED

This is the first time I've done this, and I'm really surprised by how long it took... I just hope someone enjoys these.



Deep Puddle Dynamics  ::  The Taste of Rain... Why Kneel?
Download Album  :  Download "Rainmen (Controller 7 Remix)"

In 1998, four MCs--Sole, Alias, Slug & Dose One--came together to create an album that approaches Animism, bad trips, Shakespearean imagery, existentialist thought, alien abduction, and violent materialism with a mindset that can only be described as fucked up and surrealist. The beats range from haunting whirrs to jungle sex cries (try listening to "Where the Wild Things Are" in the dark, see how it goes) and the lyrics... no, describing them would insult the music, they're just so fucking good. Easily my favourite hip hop album of all time (imagine my surprise when I found this on Kazaa in 8th grade).

recommended if you like: Paul Barman, dextromethorphan, Macbeth's "out out brief candle!" soliloquy, divorce fairies




The Books  ::  The Lemon of Pink
Download Album  :  Download "There Is No There"

When aleatoric music first appeared in Germany in the early 1950s, everyone chill enough to own both a sitar and a mixing board pretty much shit their pants. 55 years later, we have The Books: an American and a Dutchman who use guitars, cellos, found audio and synths to create some of the most beautiful music you'll ever hear. Their sampling--especially the vocal bits--is fucking incredible, especially on "Lost and Safe," but since Lily already has that album this one's going up instead.

recommended if you like: eavesdropping on strangers speaking a language you don't understand, little girls who work at the Art Museum and do the plays




The Mountain Goats  ::  Get Lonely
Download Album  :  Download "Woke Up New"

In some circles, uploading this album would be considered a most unholy sacrilege.
Jeff Darnielle has been making albums under the moniker "The Mountain Goats" since the early 90s.  In the beginning they were incredibly low-fi (think playing on your guitar into the on-board mic in your boombox) and saturated in mythology and scholarly metaphors.  Now, the music is studio-produced, the fanbase has spread past Classics majors at Stanford and quite a lot of people do not like the result.  As passionate and brilliant as the old stuff is, the newest albums are so intensely personal and breathtakingly poetic I can't help but fall in love with them too.  "The Sunset Tree" deals with his bloody, alcohol-stained childhood; "Get Lonely" focuses on what it feels like to stumble around in a daze after you've lost the person who meant the whole fucking world. 

recommended if you like: beauty

/

The Decemberists  ::  Live 5.6.06 @ the 930 Club in Washington DC /
The Decemberists  ::  Live 11.?.06 @ the Apple Store in SoHo

Download both concerts  :  Download "O Valencia!"

The first concert shows just how good Meloy & Co. pull off stage banter--Mariner's revenge has never sounded so good--and the second can only be described as the most Ryan DeFranco recording ever made.  Brushed drums and a string section??  Holy fucking shit, Perfect Crime #2 with the Steely Dan bass lick on a HARPSICHORD?!  If you like the Decemberists (and if you can deal with the fact that while one of these comes to you courtesy of the good folks at National Public Radio the other is a manipulative "iTunes exclusive" released by the corporate shitheads in the basement of Steve Jobs' trendy Soho cube thinger), you're going to fall in love with these live tracks.  Listen to the second one first.

recommended if you like: screaming like you're being eaten by a whale, writing reminders to yourself in track titles back in November and then forgetting to change them back when you upload the album for your friends in late February

Dear Ryan,

Happiness is admission to your first-choice college as an Early Decision student. Congratulations!

First of all, I want to tell you how pleased I am that you will be joining us at Washington Square in December. This year's early decision class is by virtually all measures the strongest ED class in the history of the University, and you can feel justifiably proud that your achievements enabled you to be included in such a group.

Over the next several months you'll hear from a number of offices around the University, and my office will keep you up to date on admissions and financial aid matters. In the meantime, I want to encourage you to continue to maintain the attention to your studies that you have demonstrated to date [shouldn't be a problem]. While it is fine and only natural to pause briefly to pat yourself on the back, we expect that you will maintain for the rest of your senior year the course schedule and the grades that you presented in your application for admission. Just keep up the good work!

Please don't hesitate to contact us if you have any questions over the next few months. We'll be happy to assist you.

Best wishes for a wonderful conclusion to your high school career [someone took care of that, thank you though]. We are very much looking forward to your arrival!

Sincerely,
Barbara F. Hall
Assistant Provost for Enrollment Management

PS: Under seperate cover, we are mailing you the "Not for Tourists" guide to New York City. We hope it will come in handy later on!

:::

Okay Barbara, plus ten points for sending me the book Emily Simone gave me when I spent the night back in January, minus six for the bull shit about second semester.

This puts you at what, seventeen million? You racked up quite a few with the last three letters but keep up this "work ethic" song and dance and you might actually slip down a notch on the Strangers I'm In Love With list.

The ice and the snow
and the scent of shampoo that lingered on my favourite long-sleeved shirt
hemmed the edges of vision until it became all too easy to imagine
that I was peering across the lake at a distant future, 40 years off
where the snow soaked house with its forested backyard and icy gables belonged
not to a regional sales manager at P&G
but to a retired filmmaker
sequestered somewhere in the Adirondacks
40 miles away from anywhere
or anyone, living alone
mornings of coffee and canvas and handmade paint,
afternoons spent on poetry without periods, evenings
with baked apples and cinnamon ice cream
a charcoal stove and a cracked oil lamp
doing god knows what with the rest of his time
perhaps enduring a private battle with lung cancer
perhaps outliving a wife with unmatched brilliance
but regardless rising every morning to stand on the old red porch
stretching his arms to the edge of the clouds and
kissing the sun with smoke.

"I have no words for how I feel right now.

six men in pink polka dotted jumpsuits walked into my room a few hours ago. they didn't ask any questions, they didn't tell me who they were, they just picked up my shit and moved it around.

:: you remember the disgusting grey apathy that no one's been able to lift for months?
one of them opened the window, the other five picked it up and heaved it out into the snow.

:: what about the self-loathing that's been leaning against my bed since... oh, I don't know, november of '99?
two pulled out staple guns and tacked it up on the wall, then talked about it like it was conceptual art or something. one said 'I think it represents our unconscious need for passionate love' and the other 'bull shit, it portrays the decay of reason in adolescent youth.' after a few moments of quiet contemplation, they hacked it apart with box cutters.

I suppose the above examples are the more 'dramatic' ones, but really, I'd say everything was pretty fucking dramatic. somehow, the six of them managed to fix everything in my room in some small way--my furniture all works better somehow, my speakers have never sounded this good before, my carpet is spotless, etc etc. I still can't figure out how they did it. they were here for all of, what, two hours? an hour and a half?

when they left, I followed them down the steps, out the garage door, and to their tiny silver van. with kind smiles and comments about the weather, they got in and drove away, leaving me happier than I've been since sophomore year, 8th grade, the terrible threes, conception whatever, the comparison is absolutely worthless to me right now, I'm too happy to try to understand anything besides the words 'holy fuck what just happened and when is it happening again.'"

we apologize if the above statement seems based around a poorly designed conceit; the author was attempting to blend elements of a Murakami short story and a Dr. Seuss children's book with a momentous occasion in his own life and well the sad truth here is that he's just not very good at metaphors. we've tried talking to him about this, but it didn't do a goddamn thing, he swears they all make sense.

lesson learned: when you post a public entry, anyone might read it. anyone being lauren dean.

the night I wrote this, I was grouchy and overtired. I was just bitching to bitch. now normally, the only people who see my livejournal are really close friends of mine, but because I was careless I forgot to change this entry from "public."

lauren sees it, coline finds out about it, nick and bruns get upset about it, the usual bullshit.

corser and bruns don't worry me; those two hate me the way America hates Islam, and I don't care. coline, on the other hand, is someone I barely even know. he doesn't deserve to get berated by a stranger. when I found out that his reaction to this was calm confusion, a "well I'll talk to him after psych, seems strange, I don't really know him," I felt pretty bad about all this.

he and I will sort out our shit personally, I can explain this to him whenever I see him next. no harm done? well, I kind of wish I hadn't given the corser crew another seemingly-good reason to hate me, but whatever, can't do anything about it now.

( nevermind all this )

I would often go back and read old livejournal entries. Hers, mine, sometimes Ritchell's or Ellen's--just to see how stupid and boyish I'd been, just to see how terribly I'd handled one of the best relationships I've ever had. This was during fall of junior year, when the arguments started to get hellish and the pain increased sevenfold. I would go home and read through our history, sometimes silently, sometimes crying a bit, just trying to find a way to make sense of it all.

"How could I have been so careless??"

I would read her letters too, carefully removing them from their fragile little box and opening each one individually to extract photos, sunflowers, four leaf clovers, anything she had sent me before August 18th. Because she was gone, it was the only thing I could do to "ease out" of her--otherwise, the shock of her complete disappearance would have been even worse.

It was a very important time for me, because I learned a lot about myself and my flaws and my past mistakes--I think it was the precursor to the mindful compassion that blossomed this summer in Los Angeles. There are a few things I regret, there's a handful of experiences I wish I could go back and change, but that period of loneliness is definitely not one of them: everyone deserves to realize how wrong they were, once they get a little bit older, once the person they took for granted is gone.

alright I'm on johnson avenue in san luis obispo and I'm five years old or six maybe
and indications that there's something wrong with our new house trip down the wire twice daily
I'm in the living room watching the watergate hearings while my stepfather yells at my mother
launches a glass across the room straight at her head and I dash upstairs to take cover
lean in close to my little record player on the floor
so this is what the volume knob's for
I listen to dance music
dance music!

...
"I blamed everything on you. Like the night she said you pushed her to the ground, when she threw the coffee at you, the second time we had you arrested, then as always I had no idea about her disorder--"
"Oh... yeah."
"And then there was the time we had to take you to the hospital."
"When was that?"
"You don't remember that night?"
"What night?"
"She hit you. When you came through the patio doors, she swung the belt at your head... it left a big gash, you needed stitches."
"She did that?"
"What, you don't remember?
"No, I--"
"Ryan, did you smoke last night?"
"No! Christ no, we went out with her father, Jesus, we--"
"But you don't remember any of these events, all the times this happened."
"Dad, obviously I don't WANT to remember these things. You hitting me, her hitting me, cops, lies, arrests, do you think that's the kind of shit I want to keep on speed dial in my head? Fuck no, it's what I file away, keep locked up, closed off, hidden. If you want me to tell you every word of what Grace Bertsch said to me in a conversation we had sophomore year, I could probably do it, but when it comes to this kind of thing it's a LITTLE BIT different. These memories are not the ones I spend a lot of time in, you know?"
"I understand."
...

            -A small deli on W 4th Street (two blocks from Washington Square, NYC)
             Wednesday, January 3, 2007

on a warm night in march on a dark disco floor I danced up a storm like I'd never before
every step in the book and then some that weren't listed for a song or two I felt nothing else existed

now if a dream curled at your feet you'd take it home and name it I'm struggling now to find something to blame it on
strobing effects or perhaps it was that dress but my eye was captured by a beautiful actress

now the minutiae is still in my memory writ large she danced nearer me with her coy entourage
she tugged at the scarf round her neck it hung loose she flung it and hung it from the disc jockey’s booth

but before I continue one moment’s reprieve I grant you dear audience a chance to leave
for my tale never ends in that it never started when the house lights came on I’d already departed

no not one word was spoken nor a glance exchanged when the sun rose next morning the world hadn’t changed
see we only touched elbows was the plain naked truth and I can’t even backup my story with proof

we only touched elbows, felt our bones clank together then the moment was over in a falling feather
an accident sure, but it happened I’ll wrangle our elbows did touch our arms at right angles

now there’s naught the nosey observer could’ve guessed but the rock and roll drummer inside of my chest
everyone’s seen her films and I whisper her name that we only touched elbows is not such a shame

for the world’s getting crowded and I can’t see a lapse it’s not about leaving spaces but filling the gaps
we’re all bumbling and knocking strangers all the time sometimes we don’t notice, mostly we don’t mind

a foot brushes your ankle on a peak hour bus someone’s hand on the small of your back as they pass
a shopkeepers fingers while handing your change can lightly brush yours without feeling too strange

but why I felt so alive I can’t quite determine there could be a world to explain it in German
some take others home, waking up to regret it we only touched elbows and I’ll never forget it

5 minutes and 15 seconds of this:


about six or seven minutes (extra) of this:


and 1 hour, 33 minutes, 42 seconds of this:


pretty much saved my sanity.

(a million thanks to each.)

How I Failed as an Independent Filmmaker

(or, "The essay that got me into film school at NYU")

::: :: : Everything below is taken directly from my application. : :: :::

A Brief Note:
"My producer" refers to Patrick Wilson, my best friend.
     My producer and I leaned on the metal bars that separated us from the Los Angeles skyline. The city was a giant smear of golden light- its downtown heart ablaze in neon, its arteries pulsing with a crimson brake light tide. For a few seconds, we stood in silence, both of us paralyzed by the city’s awful brilliance. The moment lasted until my producer lit a cigarette. Then, observing my continued silence, he nudged me in the gut and wagged the pack of Camels in my face. “Ehh, mah boy? Nice pack o’ smokes ta’ get ridd’ada pain?” His cheeky smile and exaggerated wink made his facetiousness painfully obvious (the accent was ridiculous, and he knew I had sworn off smoking). It got a laugh out of me though, and that was all it was meant to do.
       “Now would be one hell of a time to start,” I said, turning my back to the city. “Stress plus emotional loss plus cigarette equals nicotine addiction.”
     “Equals Wong Kar-wai filmmaking,” he added, grinning again and exhaling a massive cloud in the direction of the Hollywood sign. “Listen, think of it this way- now you’ve got a story for the grandkids.”
       I smiled back. “What a damn good one this will be: How I Failed in the Making of My First Independent Film.”
( Continued beneath the cut )

FUCK YOU

I HOPE A KATHERINE PETERSON ZEALOT COMES UP TO YOU ON THE STREET AND STABS YOU WITH A PAINTBRUSH.

I HOPE SOMEONE PUSHES YOU OFF THE BALCONY OUTSIDE YOUR OFFICE (GREATER-GOOD STYLE) SO YOU FALL NINETY FEET TO THE COLD BLOODLESS MARBLE BELOW.

I HOPE YOU DIE IN A CREEK-THEMED RIDE AT BLIZZARD BEACH.

{{{}}}

**Sorry everyone, this is just a quick PSA for the entire staff of the "Bridge to Terebithia" unit at Walt Disney studios. All done now. GO FUCK YOURSELVES YOU PROFIT-FOCUSED SONS OF BITCHES, YOU HAVE NO SOUL**

An old friend of mine (brokendiamond) just posted a fucking amazing entry about relationships, "nice guys," feminine passion and the suspension of love.

I can't think of anyone on my friends page who shouldn't read this, but I can think of plenty of people who definitely should: the grace, sinzi, lana, ellen, patrick types will read and think "fuck yeah, that's true" because they know it already; everyone else will read it and think "well shit" and hopefully also realize how goddamn right she is.

Read it here: http://brokendiamond.livejournal.com/116900.html

O soft bony curve,
God bless your hospitality!
I couldn't have been more surprised when you offered yourself to me
at the time we were exhausted,
soaked in sweat and three day's mud
so it was an unholy kindness
(springing forth from your dark socket)
that invited me to share
in what little comfort you had.

O lean bicep,
what warmth did you deliver
what Pentecostal flame did you bestow upon my head?
It burned with a fierceness unmatched
by anything I've had this year.
No passionate moan, no drunken gasp, no breathless whisper
no physical contact of any kind
would dare challenge your quiet heat.
As we emerged from the holler and tore through the afternoon
I thanked the god of the art fags
the good people at North Face
and your mother's crooked tubes
because all of them helped supplement
your kindness.
Falling asleep I realized, "my pillow against the plastic bulkhead
might actually be more comfortable"
but I didn't care
for in your enlightened curves I found a haven no cursed-Toyota-robot-nightmare
could ever mold.
Divine prose roared in our ears
(Ginsberg intoned a kaddish, Darnielle screamed hallelujahs)
as you and I slipped into the almost-silent sleep
of the weary, the lovelorn, the damned.

okay waiting four and a half hours for that cab was definitely worth it.

my driver quickly woke me up with a spirited attack on the "dumbass dispatch bitch" who gave him the wrong address

as we make our way to the highway, he let loose on the organizational methods of the taxicab industry in cincinnati- explaining exactly how the system had fucked both of us over that day. this was followed by riveting commentary on the piece of shit grand vic he has to drive, and the assholes he works with

by the time we got to kentucky, I had laughed my ass off a solid six or seven times. I asked him to pull into the liquor store, so I could get a wick for my vietnam zippo

(he needed smokes, so he was all too happy to oblige.)

outside the store, he surprised me with a "lil present" (one of those drink-sized bottles of carolans), for his "favorite white boy." delighted, I thanked him, saying "not to be a racist prick, but you can always trust a brother to help you buy shit"

"naw man, not racist at all, it's like keeping a white boy in the car for when you get pulled over."

we headed back to the cab, where we engaged in a passionate discussion of American racism, touching on the black power movement of the 1960s, the protesters downtown and each other's personal experiences

we got to my house around 9:30. as I gave him all the money I had, amaretta tore out her doggy door and proceeded to flip a shit

"FUCK MAN, close the door! she smells nigger!"

we were both laughing so hard it took me another ten seconds just to get out of the car. before I left, I asked his name-

steve.