Sake

The bags under my eyes have tripled in size over the past four days,

l o n g,

sagging,

sad crescent shapes dripping from a face

so determined to stay the night awake

to make

and make

to create

all for love and academia's sake, I make

I stay awake

I make awake seem perpetual, put sleep at stake

with motions in disguise of awake

awake is not awake

awake

is

fake.

And to break, to sleep, to wake, to stop motion flow stop motion

f - l - o - w

for flowing's sake, I break

I take

time

to

breathe, for breathing's sake

and thank

that I'm alive.

You're like a moon that's full,
Across a sea of foam
I'm the sky you've been burning.

Write Back Soon

My mailbox,

scraped white tin

red flag

settled on the slim limb

of two-by-four

will

someday

possess

your letters

when you

write back soon.

Will the Real Sick Lady Please Lay Down

The first thing I hear every morning is static. I never bothered to properly tune the radio, and I never cared much for the music it played; come to think of it, I never cared much for waking up. Then there's the daunting task of taking a shower, of liberally applying layers of cosmetics, of finding my car keys. I do not like mornings.

Maybe my days get off to bad starts because of this curmudgeon-inducing static. If my alarm crooned 'Here Comes the Sun' on vinyl, I bet I'd thrust into a jovial world sunshine and roses. Better yet, if Jack Johnson or John Mayer or someone slightly dreamy (Waldo might even qualify for this) would sit at my bedside and softly, gently, and oh-so-tenderly brandish me awake, I might actually roll out of bed with a smile on my face (my ex-roommates and best friends can tell you that this is, indeed, unpossible).

Perhaps the worst mornings are those when above all static, coughing prevails. Sickness! Hypothetically speaking, I'd continue to lay in bed, and scrutinize if there was any possible way to rise. My bedside stand, serving as an outpost for all sorts of danger, would be stacked with candles, bottled water, and the codeine syrup that I'd swigged generous proportions of the night before. And twenty-eight minutes into my attempt at sleep that night before, after plugging my nose and chugging codeine syrup, I'd realized that there were no pillow cases on my pillows. So I'd ascend to my closet to sift through last month's laundry, stuff the dimwitted pillows into their sacks and call it a sick night, and later a sick morning. Then I'd skip class and wallow in sickness.

I wish I could say the previous paragraph were false.

Bygone You

My good man, you are eloquent. You wear the tears of society's cares quite nicely, and with class and a lovely rage. I do believe you've got what people pay for, pray for, work all day, every day for. Dear man, you didn't even have to contort your style not ever, never, all the while you were right on the money, right on.

Right on wrong, long ways make for lousy pay in together's game. Each day we'll wait in a bitter state of inexplicable debate and wonder, curse ways we made so-called mistakes before shifting, drifting, I'll call late, listening, what-in-Christ-sake are we doing, what kind of race of distaste, what a waste, what a waste.

Just wait! Think of all the ways we could negotiate: you, I, me, we, none! A punishment worthy of a crime none, walking a tree-lined boulevard in sun, believing in one and love, vanquished leaves and yesterday gone, done away with bygone you, bygone done.

The Shop

There's something about being covered in sawdust. The thin shavings and their tiny spirals of wood grain clinging to cotton, speckled on denim, peppered in my hair. The productive hum of machinery orchestrates with the exhaust overhead as I drill, slice, tighten and glue, then set my work aside in satisfaction.

Confessions

Dear Jesus, Mary and Joseph,

It's me, Jenny. Remember? Alright, you probably don't—I didn't go to church last Sunday, or the Sunday before that. I have a legit excuse! The people of Fargo, or at least the ones that live right off South University, needed their fried chicken, Baby Swiss, and Genoa salami, or Sunday dinner would be an utter disaster. You know? I know you know.

I guess I'm writing right now to catch up a little—you know, TALK. I've got bones to pick. First of all, let me get this off my chest: I've been using far too much toilet paper for my own good. I know, it's rough, but it's cold season and I've got to blow my nose with something. You understand.

I suppose I've some more 'fessing up to do. Well, okay. My bread says "Best before Oct 9" and I'm still eating it. It's easy, you just pick around the little green fuzz. You're cringing? You're cringing. Please. It all tastes the same to me anyway and I'm still trying to compensate for tossing out an entire package of tofu. Also, I drink straight from the orange juice bottle, and the gallon of milk, for the love of not dirtying another dish. But only when no one is looking. Forgive me, Father.

There's more. I raid my sister's closet three times a day and often wear her nice perfume, because my old stuff is starting to reek like pollution—which is funny, because I always thought that Ralph Lauren was classier than that. I also thought my sister was clever enough to catch on, and I'm sure she has. Matter of fact, she's probably been raiding my closet, too. Possibly even wearing my underwear (which, in my book, is totally unforgivable, but then again I'm not high and mighty).

Lastly:

Of course I practiced my techno robot dance moves in the mirror last night. I always do.

Take care and be well, Y'all.

PEACE.

jc

Climbing

There were only two hundred feet before we reached the top of the leviathan cliffs. Sweet surrender to the mountains was all that fell ahead, while thousands of feet below there was nothing beyond trees. I felt a placidness resonate as the wind took us higher and the sun, now less distanced, swept over our backs. It was alone in it's finest, rawest, most belonging form: three thousand feet up, and there you were.

There we were.

Raking with a Broom

This yard, this newfound, leaf-infested, sticky, wet and blundering brown, yellow, green and poop rectangle of halfhearted grass: This is my problem. This is the new responsibility that has fallen upon my garage and my fire pit that's filled with rainwater, between the fences and outside my window. This is bitter responsibility that tires my right arm, on a Saturday afternoon in October when I should be…being elsewhere.

I say that I've other things to do when in fact, raking the leaves with a broom on a Saturday afternoon is all that I've got going on. The cars will pass and I'll hide the end beneath the rather impressive, sopping pile of fall that I've amassed, so as not to let the passerby know I'm raking with a broom. And this broom is blue, and its screams 'SHE'S RAKING WITH A BROOM' to the tune of 'Heigh-Ho, the Merry-O!'; she's raking with a broom.

The pumpkin on the porch is laughing at me. He's not quite a Jack-O-Lantern yet, but I can feel his beady stare upon me as I rake with a broom. And the neighbor is looking out his window, I can feel his eyes shifting through the blinds and over the bushes covered in faux spiderwebs and festive Halloween lights. There's an afternoon get-together on the other side, I see the cars lined along the street and trickling to the curb in front of my house. Maybe, perhaps, and with any luck at all the world will think that I've got a friend over, and that I'm not outside, here, today on this Saturday afternoon, raking the leaves with a broom.

The mail is for the old tenants, not even a Macy's ad with a good-looking fella. The afternoon has taken a turn toward 'I've-got-to-go-to-work', so I put on my black pants and meaty smile. Today I'm going to slice a dozen types of cheeses and fondle turkey, corned beef, maple ham; all the usual suspects. The Havarti cheese on the bottom shelf boasts Denmark's Finest, and I contemplate a suspecting vision of this place: sunlight, green grass, windmills. Everything that I don't have and didn't see today in my yard, as I was raking with a broom.

Then I washed, and rinsed, and sanitized the polluted surface of the slicer, brazen with beef and provolone alike. The clock hit my number and I punched out, went home.

Two candles were lit at the kitchen table. In front of me were reheats and apple slices, one of them smiling at me. The music flowed in a dull clamor—something depressing, like Dashboard Confessional, Death Cab for Cutie—and I watched the shadows from the flickering flames. Down to my smiling apples, up to the dancing contours on the wall, down to my apples. It's Saturday night and I'm done raking my yard with a broom. Now I've created this sappy, romantic milieu—willingly—and it's making me feel downright pathetic. It's Saturday night. There's a four-pack of Seagram's Fuzzy Navels in the fridge, actually a three-and-a-half pack now. I'm drinking milk.

As I walk out the door, on my way to do homework at school, I see the card I started writing to my 94-year old boyfriend. I see my sister's boyfriend's shoes. I see my work shoes, caked in grease, and beef, with a giant, nerdy tongue. And I see that my landlord as mowed over all the piles of leaves that I swept today, every last mound that I raked with a broom.

I continue to walk sideways.

Tomorrow! Tomorrow! TOMORROW!

Hoooray.

And Spike Jonze isn't too bad, either...

We've got solid state technology
Tapes on the floor
Some songs we can't afford to play
When we came here today
All I wanted to say was how much I miss you.

My dad sent me a very earnest letter with these words at the end—

I couldn't love it more.

pretty numbers

Glaser Stencil

Milton Glaser

1970

typomaniac rant:

I know it's silly, and that this news isn't exactly "fresh," but…

What the flip, IKEA? You're supposed to be cool and Swedish and stuff!

"Futura has a quirkiness to it that Verdana does not, as well as a much longer history linked to a political art movement. Futura, dating from the 1920s, is loosely Constructivist (only loosely, because the proprietary version that Ikea made its own – Ikea Sans – is slightly tweaked to distinguish it from, say, something Joseph Stalin might have used). Verdana, however, is linked to something modern and frequently reviled: Microsoft."

IKEA: this is a fail. You need to know.

And we don't notice any time pass
we don't notice anything
we sit side by side in every class
teacher thinks that I sound funny
but she likes the way you sing

Tonight I'll dream while I'm in bed
when silly thoughts go through my head
about the bugs and alphabet
and when I wake tomorrow I'll bet
that you and I will walk together again
cause I can tell that we're going to be friends

Homemaker at home, loser at heart.

I DIDN'T ACCOMPLISH TOO MUCH THIS WEEKEND outside the house. There's been a ton of things I've wanted to jazz up around my home, and finally made time to do so. For example, the towels. Every time I was in the bathroom I thought, 'There's too many g'd stripes in here.' So I replaced them with solid ones, and now don't get as much of a headache.

So the towels weren't the only thing I fixed. I finagled with the living room, kitchen, and entryway, too. I can't believe I haven't posted anything yet, being that this is my first home* and all. I'm all about cozy.

I should give a bit of background on the house before I go any further. Built in 1912, our house is undeniably the oldest settlement on the block. Everything surrounding us is at least 50 years younger and six times more attractive, and everyone else has kids, pets, etc. (whereas we are kids and pets). There are three bedrooms, two baths, and one garage stall that stores such things as bikes with flat tires, and occasionally doubles as my workshop.

The house has undergone a series of renovations throughout the years, most of which are painfully obvious: Kitchen (50's), wood paneling (70's), addition to back of house (80's), kitchen laminate and carpeting (90's), new refrigerator (oo's). It's a regular Frankenhouse, the potpourri of decades. The only thing that feels true to 1912 are the door knobs — of about two rooms.

We've no dishwasher, a fireplace that's functionally functionless, and three-season carpeting on our "dining room" floor. Our only shower is reminiscent of my freshman dorms', the equivalent of being shoved into a wet locker. There's a washer/dryer in the basement, along with a primative deep freeze that could potentially house a body (or be the body of another house). And with all the shelving units and cabinets, I wouldn't be surprised if, in fact, it's history includes a morgue.

But really, it's a lovely place that we've made more lovely. I'd venture to say that it's "cute as a button" — well, when the sink isn't overflowing with dirty dishes.

Here you go:

A: The entryway room that doesn't have a proper name. Every time my sister and I refer to this room, we don't know what to call it. "That…room when you walk into the house" "The doorway" "That one room." It's a weird room because it was clearly added onto the house circa 19seventysomething. This weekend I sprayed the chandelier—a curbside find—and created some candles for it. I scraped together a bunch of vintage necklaces that I scarcely wear and strung them among the fixture, then tediously hung it from a small loop in the ceiling (fingers crossed). It's unfortunate that it's not functional, but I still think it looks interesting—and interesting is what I aim for!

The chair on the left is a work in progress. I found it on the curb a few weeks ago and recently ripped off the old upholstry, and began to reupholster it with some fun authentic retro fabric (never used, that I picture sat in an old woman's sewing room for years). I ran out of staples mid-project, and haven't finished yet...

The green ottoman is also another (unfinished) curbside find. I'm still debating how to revamp it; no matter, the chair comes first.

The blue chair was a sweet find this weekend. My sister and I found it while thrifting and split it's $10 price tag. I ripped the skirt off (I'm anti-skirtonfurniture) and am hoping to sew a few pillowcases to complement the blue (yellow and red perhaps?). The room still needs some funky curtains; artwork; and a nice, round area rug to pull everything together. Works. In. Progress.

2: Living room. This room confuses me to no end, because the layout and division of space make it hard to work with. Simply put, it's awkward. It doesn't help when you have a giant, fat television, either (placed in the half of the room I chose not to photograph, because it's nothing to see).

What's unfortunate about this room is it's lack of lighting. The ambiance is fantastic during the day with natural lighting, but there are no fixtures. I've been searching for the perfect table—or floor—lamp for a month now with zero luck. I am planning to construct a paper chandelier for this room (there are no means to suspend a heavy metal one from this ceiling); in the meantime, I've hung a decorative tissue blob for some excitement/color.

Most importantly in this room, however, the couch needs a serious makeover. My sister bought it on Craig's List last fall and tossed some questionable sheets on it to make it look presentable. This generally doesn't fly in my book, unless they're tasteful sheets that are tactfully adhered to the surface at hand—which in this case, they're not.

This is my favorite sight to see when I walk into the house. Everything aside from the two pillows on the chair and the floor lamp has been thrifted and revamped. I bought a lot of frames at the beginning of the month and have been gradually making them friendlier via spray paint + attractive images (most from magazines). I'm looking for several logs for the fauxplace (that's a fake fireplace, folks)—I'm going to paint them white. No luck on that yet.

This window is a curious characteristic of our living room. It looks into "that one room when you walk into the house." I love that it frames my new chandelier. Love to my mother for sewing all the pillowcases on our couch.

iii: Dining.

I see so much potential in this space, but am having a really hard time getting over the fact that the owner decided to tack indoor/outdoor carpet over the BEAUTIFUL hardwood floors that lie beneath it (believe me, I've peeled back a corner and looked into the situation.) I'm about $200 and a weekend away from renting a sander and doing the floor job myself. Then I remember that would be CRAZY because a) I don't own the place, 2) I'm not going to own the place and 3) I've got bigger fish to fry in my bright world (e.g. figuring out how to camouflage the carpet). Something tells me I'm taking this way too seriously. You'd be right—I am.

The table was pulled from our morgue basement, and being that we couldn't locate a pink tablecloth, it's covered with a shower curtain to look pretty/functional. The dresser is metal—and heavier than a mother. It once belonged to my uncle, who sprayed it the awesome red-orange it is today. This evening I finished framing the artwork setting on it, a book cover from a Jack Kerouac read I bought in Italy (the text is all Italian!), set in a $2 frame. Bingo.

Our built-in cabinetry is a true gem in the house—and so much that I've not figured out what to do with!

These kitchen curtains where my half-off Labor day sale find at a thrift store (though sales at thrift stores seem like an oxymoron…or something.) I had to cut them in about 13 different directions and make new loopholes in them in order to fit our window.

So there you have it, my so-called life played out in textiles, metals, and fluffy tissue blobs. The best part is, I'm okay with it.

Now…come visit!

Until the next renovation,

jc

*And by "first home", I mean the first time I haven't lived in the dorms. About time.