I. Simon and Garfunkel visiting Fargodome, 07 May

II. I am going

III. End of story.

My favorite stories to tell

I USED TO FIGURE SKATE. Yes, true, it was a brief stint, but it always stands out as a defining period in my life. I had an awesome pair of skates that I got for a birthday or something, and some nice skateguards, too, that I often forgot to take off before I stepped on the ice. I even had a sweet bag to carry them in, one that was supposed to be for my rollerblades but it had my name embroidered on it and I couldn't resist putting my figure skates in it.

I excelled at figure skating, I like to think. I passed every level and collected a badge reward to sew on the jacket I never bought. I used to pour over my skating report cards before putting them in the file folder that held my birth certificate and social security card. I made nice fishtails—those were my favorite, and in fact, I did them with the gusto of a over-caffeinated walrus. I did waltz jumps like a fool, and likened myself to Michelle Kwan when I did them. Tara Lipinski was my favorite, I had a book about her that I read on a weekly basis (or just looked at the pictures). I thought I did a hockey stop better than a hockey player. And seeing the great Zamboni charge around the ice, taking the tarnished white to a glossy finish, brought on a wonderful, most unusual sense of renewal.

One day I decided I didn't want to do it anymore, simply because a coach (her name was MISSY, I'll never forget) snapped at me. And I've never really skated much since then, and I've since realized that I would have never looked good in the spandex bedazzled suits, and my waltz jumps looked like shit.

But the badges and report cards are still in my permanent file folder.

2.

One summer when my family went camping, my brothers and I decided to catch every single frog in the creek and keep them for ourselves. We gathered together our ice cream pails and marched toward the water, where we crouched by the bridge for hours and captured approximately the entire amphibian settlement.

My parents decided that we had to go somewhere—and the frogs couldn't come. So we placed our teeming buckets beneath a shady tree and went on the way. When we returned hours later from a muggy afternoon out, we discovered each catch belly up, motionless; frog stew.

The procession back to the pond was not to catch, but to release. And it was a sorrowful release.

III.

I could never reach the top of the refrigerator, but I tried. The only people that knew what went on up there were my parents. I once deemed it necessary that I find out what lie in this formidable space, and so jumped up along the fridge, fishing my fingers on its top. There were things up there alright! During one attempt I caught a rotary saw blade, and it slid and spun from the fridge's heights, then clashing with my face. Bam!

I have the scar to boot.

Four

I was in first grade when I noticed a man walking his dog on rollerblades one day. It looked really cool, and he looked good, and thus, I wanted to try it.

Clover wasn't quite broken in at the time. The sheltie pup was hardly a year old, and probably about the same age as me in dog years. My older sister had a really cool pair of roller skates that were splashed with soft pink and purple, four greased wheels and long laces. The combination of the dog and the skates were utterly irresistible, and I set out along the curvy concrete sidewalks one day, determined to be seen by the neighbors.

Clover and I got no more than three houses up from our home at No. 19, before I lost control and spilled in front of No. 15. It was a bona fide face plant if I ever saw one. I felt as though every thread of skin was dangling from my chin, and proceeded to skate, screaming, home. Never mind the dog that had escaped, that dumb pup could have been hit by a car for all I cared (the irony is, she later was). My mom was so dumbfounded at my dumb, spontaneous decision to take the dog for a walk on rollerskates that she did as any mother would do. She patched me up pretty good, my face littered with sympathetic band-aids, and set me up in front of the TV with a Squeeze-It. I watched a movie (a treat at our house) and basked in the glamour of being hurt, a survivor of the nonsense.

Clover died shortly after, when she ran into a nearby street and was struck by a car. Karma.

I vividly remember my siblings and I lined up in the bathtub, bawling out of control.

stave:

break something by forcing it inward or piercing it roughly; avert or delay something bad or dangerous.

lacking success in all senses of the word.

I REALLY DISLIKE the CATCHY MUSIC played on the radio. Daughtry, Nickelback, Kelly Clarkson, etc—I would rather hear silence. But my alarm clock is set to the radio, and every morning when I wake up it feels this song is playing. And I hate to listen, I hate to listen, and even more—I hate to like it. But this is truly how I feel now, and how I've felt over the past year. So I'm posting this video, because I'm pathetic, and I'm adhering to the cliche world of heartbreak grooves, and I feel mildly emotional and sappy right now.

There are, however, several other reasons why I enjoy this song and video, too. It's set in Europe. The guy is cute, he drives a lovely car, and he seems pretty damn sincere about what he's putting out there. Also, the girl is so, so beautiful. In short, I feel it's the perfect heartbreak music video about an undeniable truth. Damn.

Again. Really sorry to do that.

Red Weather

In addition to being on the poetry committee of the 2010 Red Weather, I'm having fun doing the design work for the magazine. Tomorrow I'm going to present my layout and cover preliminaries to the editing team. Once we reach an agreement of what typefaces, layouts, etc. they'd like in this year's issue, I'm going to town on it. InDesign, lookout!

If I could do prom over again, I'd go in 1953. In one of these.

The pixel sofa. Well, at least we know what Photoshop puke looks like.

Several of my favorite things about my mom:

1. She encourages me to eat monster cookies for breakfast, because they have oatmeal in them.

B. She appreciates my hair after it hasn't been washed for several days.

iii. She tells me not to sell myself short. (Sometimes I forget I stand just as much of a chance as anyone else.)

energy + (gut) punch

Surely there's somebody
That needs you more than me.

Fifteen dollar Malbec, you lean over the patio to release two minutes of toothpaste from a morning. Thunder cat like an evergreen, quiet in the missionary trees and sleeping until tomorrow. I pour a bowl of cereal, she pours a pint, you pour your body into a lazy bed. Crescent door creaks spark a path in the leaves---forget clean. Survival, it's a corn tortilla with beans, a wading downstream, and all the best case scenarios I'm forgetting.

Words that Stuck

A LONG WHILE BACK, I collected Beanie Babies. I had one in particular that was my favorite, a pink octopus called Inky (whom I still own and cherish). As Beanie Babies grew in popularity, I recall flipping through a guidebook to determine Inky's value.

It turns out Inky was one of the first Beanie Babies made, and that he was worth a good penny (which in the Beanie Baby collector's world was anywhere from $100-$200 for a little plush animal). My Inky, however, was worth nothing to a collector—I'd ripped his tag off from the onset of our relationship. Tags were important.

I will never forget this, because when my older sister found out, she said something to me that I have never, ever, ever forgotten.

"Everything has a purpose." I was crushed; I'd never thought of anything like that before.

I walked away and pondered it for a long time. This was more than 10 years ago and I will never forget that feeling. It went beyond the realms of the value of Beanie Babies (if, in fact, they ever had a monetary value) but to other things, too. Why had I chosen to get rid of a part of the toy, the tag? Because I didn't need it. I didn't need it to bestow affection upon my beloved Inky.

Strangely enough, I find correlation between this story and other things in life. Discovering that everything has a purpose—and there is purpose for everything. I believe I've met certain acquaintances for the sole purpose of them leading me to my best friends. I've taken particular opportunities, ones that don't necessarily mean anything, to later realize they've lead me to Europe, Colorado, Washington, D.C. Purpose for every car I've crashed, or every minute I've been late. Purpose for what I have and have not done—a great plan, leading to something grand.

Ripping Inky's tag off was only the beginning.

Send. End.

I PROMISED MYSELF I'D STOP THINKING about it, so instead I gave memory to thing I'd never much noticed: Intersecting lines, crumpled paper, smooth chords. An aroma that wandered over from the next table, two curls in my face, a saturated photograph. Persnickety, New York, or wherever that station was where we got on the train to the city. Rye bread. Poughkeepsie, that's it. Sitting in an '88 Chevy Suburban on a hot day…

There's nothing in the mailbox. I used to read a book about figure skating, I could be in Vancouver. I have no recollection of being anything less than five. The best times are the silent ones.

The only time I ever wore lipstick, it ended up on my teeth. I've been longing for bigger hair. I've never smoked a cigarette, not a single inhale to my name. Every time a car gets too close, I exhale again and again. I'm scared of traffic and of the buzz. I feel tied up in petty obsessions: making my bed, straightening the closet, the loose thread on my shirt, buying groceries. Mother taught me everything about modesty, and how to arrange the stuffed animals on my bed in perfect succession. They're all important.

Aching, I looked on as she raised a sheet into the air, watching it float down on to the living room floor. I looked on as the bridge raised, the ship went under, the bridge lowered. I looked on as he stood in front of the microphone and feverishly strummed through red and dark. I looked on to the cul de sac below, the door across, the car next to. Volume. I looked on to my grandma, who looked to my aunt, who looked at ease. I looked on from my bed, some couch, a passenger seat. I looked out.

Jkl Mno, the /\ OK \/ is not CLR.

Things to consider: Getting lost, taking the train, reconsidering.

PWR. END.

Nosebleeds

LAST WEEK-ISH I LAID MY HEAD DOWN TO REST in a quiet, dark, and dry room. Seconds after I reached out to extinguish my bedside lamp, I felt a drip, another drip, and finally, three streams roll down my face and on to my pillow.

My bleeding nose isn't anything unusual; in fact, nosebleeds are commonplace in my world. During the winter months I experience nearly one a day, no matter how often I moisturize. I've accepted this flaw as adjacent to people that have asthma or allergies. I get nosebleeds.

This particular nosebleed was, however inconvenient, just beautiful. I ran to the bathroom to clean up the mess, looked in the mirror and saw delicacy. The lines of blood had made perfect curves strolling down my cheeks, along my chin and to my neckline in arbitrary beauty. It was a graceful accident.

That night after cleaning myself up, I went to rest my head once more. Another night in a dry room, shifting side to side, holding back the outpouring as it dried in place. It's the time between awake and sleep that's hardest—holding still, wanting to go on with your usual ways, but feeling the slow trickle roll toward the edge…

…right before the drip.

Thank you for the flowers,

they are beautiful.

THIS IS WHAT I'M KEEPING IN MIND as I move forth with my next sculpture project. I have high hopes and am really looking forward to experimenting with new materials + concept.

Today I am 22 years of age—

I feel ecstatic, I feel wondrous, I feel ready for the up-growing, the limitations, the intensity of another year. The splendor is, I'm still young.

para mi corazon

You don't even have to watch the movie—just listen to the beat and enjoy yourself. This is life!

TONIGHTS FEATURE:

A Girl, a Night, a Computer, a 44 oz. Soda.

COMING SOON:

A Girl, a Year Older.

Rah-rah-ah-ah-ahh!

HAPPY Month O' LOVE!

FEBRUARY. One of the best months by my reckoning, and filled with many glorious things: Frosted pink sugar cookies (heart shaped, of course), bitter, hopeless romantics warding off love with their bitterness for love month, a day of birth that just so happens to be the day I was born, cryptic, classic heart shaped candies (what do they mean, really?), no dandelions, no mosquitoes, and plenty of opportunities to find excuses.

Today's excuse: It's February! Celebrate! Good ways to celebrate the first day of February are: Try to spell 'February' right (HINT: It's not like it seems). Or, say February ten times fast. Drill it through your head, dear readers, that these are going to be the best 28 (occasionally 29) days of the year! How do I know this, you ask? Think of how many people you know that were born in February. I'd bet a pretty penny you've counted at least one of your hands, if not both your feet. People love having babies in February because not only do they love conceiving in May (It took me about eight years to do the math on that one), but they know that Aquarius children / Febubabies go out into the world and do fabulous things. I actually celebrate Jennifer Aniston's birthday every year—it's the day after mine. I like to think that it's an extension of my birthday, another reason to celebrate. I also like to live vicariously through my fellow Febubaby Ms. Aniston, and pretend that I'm uber hot and have an impressive jawline…

But FEBRUARY! Whoooo eee! Saddle up, folks.

PS: TOMORROW is Groundhog Day! Mark your calendar—his shadow, it's happening!

I don't have time for this!