friends only.

this journal is...
my life, largely chronicled in dialogue and text messages, lists and poems and revelations and confessions, self hatred and self obsession, self acceptance and self doubt and the search for self actualization. (hey maslow.) my memory and my outlet and my friend and my therapist. what's public is poetry and photos and projects.

i am...
a young woman in the early months of my twenties, going to art school in the south. a capricorn; a vivacious and passionate soul with an insatiable appetite for truth and understanding. i love design, shoes, lyrics, music, adventure, words. i am very much in love. surprises make me uncomfortable. i'm excessively self-analytical and obsessed with communication. i resort only to truth.

add me first.

what are some great books/authors?

it seems like whenever i'm knocked out early, fred can't sleep. but on the nights when his eyes can't stay open past one, i'm up until the sky turns blue. i've organized my bookmarks, found every entry i ever made on organizers, answered everybody's status on facebook, and browsed a bajillion design blogs.

earlier in the week, i struggled to find motivation to work on a poster project for my type two class.
"this isn't fun," i pouted. "this isn't even interesting." fred cradled me on the bed as i cried, explaining that everything is harder than it should be, and i have no idea whether i'm unhappy with school because i'm sad or if i'm sad because i'm unhappy with school. i said maybe i need a break. i want to love design the way i once did, fervently and without purpose, creating images upon images and hundreds of layouts, fiddling with code and type for the love of it. i want to be excited to create, instead of feeling trapped in a deadline, unsure whether i'm talented or creative or clever. i want to re-learn how to love creation, how to blossom an idea to a bloom, how to be unmoved by a deadline or a client.

tonight, after an afternoon at the high museum and a nap, i worked on my type project - a poster for the wizard of oz - and fred laughed at me as i got excited over color choices. he said he was proud of me for committing to the project, happy to see me engaged in the work instead of doing the bare minimum, dressed in a frown, and emptying a project i wasn't proud of out of my hands.

it felt good. i know i want to love this and i know i have. i think i can, again.

(oh and, check out some obama logo ideas that weren't chosen.)

this is not a poem
not a song
it's a surgery
a perjury, verbally
organs on the table for the world to see
a furious, web-to-weave heart on sleeve
pardon me,
for i don't mean to burden be
or beast a burden like a murder seen
but gone un-wordedly.
what is the purpose here?
to speak just to be spoken for or speaking to for open ears
or open doors
to reach for love like groping whores
sloping forward like houses on eroded floors
mine or yours? either or.
what is the purpose here?
to sling my tongue around and run-around
announce aloud a crowd of syllables and vowels
just to make a sound?
i honestly can't say without a lie
a suspect why
or what or
how to straighten out circular lines
if the purpose is to make a dollar out of dimes
to make a story out of rhymes
to make a life out of times,
than fine.
but i don't have an answer or the insight.
this is not a poem,
it's not a song -
it's a merge of these
an urge to free verbally
the words in me
organs on the table for the world to see
a furious, web-to-weave heart on sleeve
believe or don't believe
in me.

horrible cam-phone quality. forgive me.


contour hands assignment. (mine & fred's.)


contour feet assignment. (mine & fred's.)


contour portrait assignment. (some model.)


value portrait assignment. (fred. i got his facial hair ALL wrong.)

our being
is cramped between
sighing and seething and
not seeing you
is breaking
my bones
to pieces
like our bodies are coasts and
we are quaking beneath these faults.

our being
is mapped between
sound particles and
articles of clothing that
don't smell like you
any more
and they follow me to sleep
but i don't seem
to dream
of you.

our being
is believing
and i don't want to hold
the future in my hands
where you have placed it
because
it's there i know but i don't feel
it's fabric of being
being
on my fingertips.

our being is
not enough
being
not enough
being
state zones and time lines away.
our being is
not enough
being
phone conversation and
text messaging and
thinking of you
thinking of me all day.

i want our being
to be
you
being beside me and
you
being inside me and
you
being behind me and
whispering in my ear
how you love
being
with me.

i want our being
to be
me
being your last sight
in the ending
and
being your first sight
in the beginning
and

i'm sick of being
sick of not being
with
you.

not particularly impressive but.
that's what i've got.
(my closet looks so empty with all my coloreds in the laundry.)

a symphony of metaphors
arranged against
a physical rendition of
a hip-hop heart

a train-ride accompanist
better conversation than any beautiful stranger
even though
every line
every time
is exactly as it was before
and i have no room to speak

a simple dance
an eyes-closed
words mouthed
head bob
fingers tap

somebody watches
jealous of the melody
that sucks at me
seductively
internally
from reality

but i am so, so satisfied
electrified
intensified
by
immense insight
a wreck, rectified by
a wrench around my mind
that sends a shiver down my spine

a symphony of metaphors
like a score of similarities
this lyrical rendezvous
better than any tango because
it doesn’t take two

snap back?
like a back snap; a bra clasp
a long gasp
a wrong cast impression
rushed to a raw mess and
without dickhand or pussyfoot a
question and answer session.

so we snap back -
and back snap, a background track
a sat around and laughed
passed a blunt
because the tense was past

and making past tense be
irrelevant
we're moving on
replacing vengeance with
benevolence
making admendments

and meant it