21st July, 2014

One of those nights, man

hopped up on coffee and by wine, ameliorated 

I sleep the worst at home

I touch everything like it’s a curtain of beads

everything glistens in its temporality

dim and gluey like in Vaseline

it’s almost Vonnegutian  

your past selves trail you around the house

you are a victim, haunted

you are a duck, mothering

but 

you’re

still

their

baby

aren’t you?

the shirt still fits you

but it’s shorter on you now

-

and you drive your mom to your grandma’s house

you feel vertigo, inverted

push the seat back to accommodate your legs

see your mom’s trusting head heavy with thoughts

resting on the passenger seat window

and you wonder how many layers of your fog

her hair is pillowing into

-

same pavement different shoes walking up the driveway

same feet different gait walking up the driveway

your extended family all looks the same but they

start

to

look

at

you

differently

and everything is eye-level

so you dip down, grab the anthology

of sixteenth century poetry (volume 2)

that you laughed at, felt so disconnected to

cue Vesuvius:

"ali that’s a really massive book"

"so many pages"

"did you read it all"

"did you read it all again"

It’s a collection of poetry, I said

and my aunt spewed something I had nothing to do with

"POETRY. it’s a waste of time. Why can’t people just say

what they want to say?”

my heart is a pincushion now

so I shrugged and thought of you instead

silk strings unraveling, unraveling…

"I mean, even when someone explains it to me

I’m so bored by that point and could have done

so much more with that time”

"would you say that poetry’s a puzzle"

You could, I answered, You definitely could,

and you could also say that it’s not for everyone.

Poetry is as tightly wound as your stomach

in the witching hour.

Your war with it matches the

war with yourself.

My lipstick is fuchsia right now

but so is blood sometimes

when the light is too bright

to squint out.

I’m a doll stitched together by

the threads of my mother’s stories

and my grandma’s memories,

wrapped in Instagram fabric

you steal from your kids’ accounts.

I’m all I remind you of,

the reference point of all reference points:

a post-teen girl of shared gene pool.

And primarily,

I’m all that my lungs have ever let me tell you.

I am so scared of everything and I see me in you.

are you scared of me?

because I’m scared of me too.

15th July, 2014

Advertising is so fascinating because it not only ambers the casual, universal mindset of an era— it also encapsulates the corporate values being forced onto an era

Every era has its own strange stresses

& yeah I used amber as a verb it should really be a verb anyway this is the 69th century or w/e

sidenote: my dad still thinks it’s the 20th century

my cousin said something dumb & he said all condescendingly: “Welcome to the 20th century” and there was this really awkward silence

15th July, 2014

In retrospect, it was really nice when my local mall had a bookstore right next to its movie theater. I remember people wandering out of the cinema and into the bookstore, inspired to read the book, or inspired to read related books, or prompted to delve into a topic that the film sparked interest in. I remember people meandering out of the bookstore and into the theater, their minds primed for storytelling, hungry for more.

Another one of my favorite bookstores was dovetailed into the commercial wonderland of the Wildwood boardwalk. Next to “Come At Me Bro” t-shirts and fried twinkies were slightly sandy used books and gluey new volumes.

Come to think of it?

Books should be everywhere.

It creates an oasis-like culture of reflection in the midst of a buzzing world that just never stops buzzing.

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