Datta, Dayadhvam, Damyata

Fri, 02 Oct 2009 22:18:21 GMT

My darling fox babies,
I must admit this livejournal thing is becoming a bit exhausting. I still read your entries, but I won't write here anymore. If you want to read about my silly real life, you are more than welcome to follow me here: http://littletiger.tumblr.com

Or you can always always email me or text me or call me or write me, etc.

Theodora's Feet

Wed, 29 Jul 2009 07:12:17 GMT

After the show, Theodora brushes excess
barley off her sticky skin and pulls knee to
chest, feet against groin, slowly massaging
her rough soles. Down the hall, an acidic smell
reaches me before I sense my mother's
presence, sitting in front of the television
with tired feet soaking in vinegar to remove
corns. My toes in a lover's mouth as our
bodies collide with the weight of history.
In the morning, Justinian remembers only
the smell of vinegar. As my mother feeds
geese, their red feet dance beneath the water.

Thu, 23 Jul 2009 23:13:22 GMT

"Sometimes, we need to return to certain ancient gestures of tenderness. Gestures are more than just gestures, they are like drawings made by one body on another body."

a way to not yet be wanted, a way to not yet be wanted

Tue, 16 Jun 2009 02:36:45 GMT

I have somehow managed to alienate myself from everyone I used to love, and it is a halting kind of loneliness; my heart is a ghost haunting my body. Do you know what it's like, to have your body betray you?

I swim by myself, float on my back and watch the cars drive past the spillway. I eat ice cream by myself, walk around the deserted shopping complexes of run-down Tuscaloosa. Most days, I stay in bed for 18 hours, reading and sleeping.

Jorie Graham writes, "there is a way to not yet be wanted," and I'm hanging onto it by a thread. There is a way to not yet be wanted.

Songs I have been listening to lately:
♥ When I was a Young Girl, Barbara Dane
♥ You Don't Know How it Feels, Tom Petty
♥ Hospital Bed, Seabear

maybe in the next world maybe in the next world

Thu, 07 May 2009 05:45:29 GMT

1. Jorie Graham is the most intelligent person that I have ever heard.
2. I am going home next week.
3. These days, I find myself reading more and more desperately.
4. Two more papers, one more homework, two more exams.
5. A picnic, finger sandwiches, afternoon matinee, and perhaps the cloisters before I leave.
6. Trying to learn the entirety of Statistics before noon.

I am keeping a paper journal these days, and it feels nice to have something solid and permanent in front of me. I can say, these are my thoughts, they come in blue, purple, and sea-green. My plans for the summer include:

1. Sleeping on the dock
2. Reading all those books I bought and never got around to reading, including: sonnets to orpheus, anna karenina, ulysses, a biography on marie antoinette still, and the complete letters of oscar wilde.
3. I think it will be nice reading someone else's letters and journals for a change.
4. Adrienne Rich writes, "I ache, brilliantly."

A Word on Revolution:

Thu, 05 Mar 2009 06:55:39 GMT

I. Today, I took my final midterm, went to a lecture on Mao Zedong and the Peasant Movement in China during the 1920s, worked for a little bit before throwing up and going home. Then, I sat in bed and read about the foundations of rural Chinese society, Frida and Diego, and the Mexican Revolution.
II. The words I have recently been hearing more than any other are: REVOLUTION, STALINISM, MAO ZE DONG, PEASANT MOVEMENTS, RUSSIA, 1911, 1917, THE TREATY OF VERSAILLES, INDUSTRIAL REVOLUTION, IMPERIALISM, OPIUM
III. I am turning into quite the history aficionado. I am currently reading about Marie Antoinette and the French Revolution. I am also still reading about rural peasant society.
IV. I am going to the library sometime this weekend. I am going to check out the following books:

1. The Elegance of the Hedgehog
2. Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera
3.On Revolution

V. Tomorrow, I am going to skip work again, apply for scholarships, order two dollhouses, buy watercolors and learn to paint.
VI. No matter how much I read, there is a part of life that I cannot learn through books alone.
VII. It is so strange to me how so much can be going on at the same time. Take for examples: 1920s involved flappers, the overthrow of the Mexican dictatorship, and a mass peasant uprising in China; 1950s, Frida died and my father was born.
VIII. All of this affects me in the most serious ways.
IX. -isms that affect me: communism, stalinism, totalitarianism, schism, heroism, altruism, leninism, homesickism, sickofsnowism, missinghimism.
X. I NEED TO LEARN ABOUT GRACE.

Sun, 15 Feb 2009 22:30:41 GMT

Sometimes I think the world is too small for a sadness like mine. There is no eloquent way to say it.

Thu, 05 Feb 2009 00:02:49 GMT

homo homini lupis

man is wolf to man

Mon, 02 Feb 2009 00:37:09 GMT

1. Today is the first day of the shortest month of the year, which means it is the perfect month to get my life back together. I start hopeful, playing Scrabble until two in the morning and going to the Museum of Natural History, examining delicate spoons of my ancestors' pasts.

2. He told me I ruined him, I am the reason why his life keeps falling apart, again after again. I do not know where to place all this hurt, when to open my palm and let these ills fly away, like swallows. I do not know what to do with all this misplaced love, this sense of betrayal. I am going through that phase where I hate art and poetry and am forcing myself to read small dosages of something, something like medicine, something to keep my mind off a heart like thimble, dented, broken.

3. Today is the first day of the shortest month of the year, and then it is Spring again.

Sun, 14 Dec 2008 06:00:01 GMT

Voice Post

Sun, 14 Dec 2008 05:46:25 GMT

I love incorrectly.

There is a solemnity in hands,
the way a palm will curve
in accordance with a contour of skin,
the way it will release a story.

This should be a pilgrimage.
The touching of a source.
This is what sanctifies.

This pleading. This mercy.
I want to be a pilgrim to everyone,
close to the inaccuracies, the astringent
dislikes, the wayward peace, the private
words. I want to be close to the telling.
I want to feel everyone whisper.

After the blossoming I hang.
The encyclical that has come
through the branches
instructs us to root, to become
the design encapsulated within.

Flesh helping stone turn tree.

I do not want to hold life
at my extremities, see it prepare
itself for my own perpetuation.
I want to touch and be touched
by things similar in the world.

I want to know a few secular days
of perfection. Late in this one great season
the diffused morning light
hides the horizon of sea. Everything
the color of slate, a soft tablet
to press a philosophy to.

I cannot enunciate and have a strange Southern drawl some of the times. I cannot pronounce words like press or curve. This is my last weekend in New York City this year. I am going to finish my exams, pack up my things, and go home to a warm bed, warm shoes. C. and I broke up again, and I am not sure if it is for good or not. I am not sure about anything most days, so I stay in bed and reread the story of Ahab and his Whale. I have dreams where I am saved from myself, of intervention and warm arms. All I am seeking for is warmth.

How to Build a Bridge of Umbrellas:

Fri, 05 Dec 2008 03:16:50 GMT

Jean Shin, Penumbra

I. A stampede is an act of mass impulse among herd animals or a crowd of people in which the herd, or crowd, collectively begins running with no clear direction or purpose. Stampedes are believed to originate from biological responses in the brains and endocrine systems of herd animals.

II. Stampedes and riots, Black Friday tramplings, Adah sticking her elbows out to float, being carried on the backs of strangers, to avoid being trampled, heels stuck in sidewalk cracks.

III. You know when it rains in the city, you don't even need an umbrella? You can stay dry walking underneath the bridge of umbrellas formed by everyone else.

IV. Weaving in and between people makes me miss driving my little red car so badly that I dream of car crashes over and over, slowly rolling backwards down a mountain into my neighbor's backyard.

V. This is me sticking out my-metaphorical-elbows.

Tue, 07 Oct 2008 23:18:03 GMT

"If you are a soul in here, how do you become a self out there?

Wed, 01 Oct 2008 00:59:44 GMT

For a city so big, New York is the loneliest place I know. I am taking this writing class, and everything I write is about home. I say, Tuscaloosa is my home of all homes. I write about my lake, the sticky summers, learning to dive. Critiques tell me that I am linking subject matter and not concepts. Everything I write is about home, but how do the homes connect? I wish I could connect the dots for them, form a constellation for the Druid City.

My days are like this: the fourteen block walk to class, lose my ID too many times, awkward elevator silences, drink orange tea and listen to sad music, write papers I am not proud of. I come home after working and class and change immediately into my mother's old sweater, C.'s boxers. I ran out of groceries three days ago, but have not been able to bring myself to walk half a block to Trader Joe's, or a block to Whole Foods. My sheets need to be washed, so I have been sleeping on a bare mattress. It fits, somehow.

A Poem in Which No One Wins:

Sun, 27 Jul 2008 05:40:55 GMT

I.
The delicate ebb and flow of tides used to be enough. The days grow longer --
the bond between ocean and moon no longer strong enough to
keep us together. You come home hungry day after
night. A kind of hunger my two saucepans, porcelain
cups, wooden cutting board will never feed.

II.
The days grow longer and it is the second month of Summer.
The sun chases the moon out of the sky; the tides grow weaker.

III.
In the myth of the nine suns, imagine how bright the one moon was, lit by nine stars.
You are my one moon; I am one of your many suns.

IV.
I dream day after day after day
of shooting the other eight suns
out of the sky, of being the only
day to your night.
How dark the moon would become-- lit by
only me.

V.
The days grow longer and the sun chases the moon out of the sky.
The moon pulls the ocean and the ocean pulls back.

In an attempt to start reading again;

Thu, 17 Jul 2008 16:05:54 GMT

"We need the books that affect us like a disaster, that grieve us deeply, like the death of someone we loved more than ourselves, like being banished into forests far from everyone, like a suicide. A book must be the axe for the frozen sea inside us." --f. kafka

Books I have read since 17 July 2008 (the goal is to read fifty by 17 July 2009):

1. Atonement by Ian McEwan; 17 July 2008
2. Coming Through Slaughter by Michael Ondaatje; 23 July 2008
3. Living to Tell the Tale by Gabriel Garcia Marquez; 12 August 2008
4. Tempted, the It Girl #7; 17 August 2008
5. Einstein's Dreams by A. Lightman; 17 August 2008
6. Twilight by S. Meyer; 18 August 2008
7. New Moon by S. Meyer; 19 August 2008

Will someone please read books with me, and keep lists with me, and remind me to keep reading?

Sat, 05 Jul 2008 05:19:50 GMT

Things are settling down, and my days are going by so quickly. This past week has been the best of my life. I've spent every day surrounded by people that think I'm nice and pretty and compliment my summer-dresses. Here is everything I've done, but this is more for me than anyone else:

Friday: worked, smoked a few bowls with Meghann, Ward, Cory, and Michael, drank a few beers, fell asleep in Meghann's bed.
Saturday: went to a meeting, worked, played cards all night.
Sunday: worked, ate lunch with Justin, had dinner with Lisa, Amy, Tony, Felix, and Kimberly.
Monday: worked, laid out by the pool and gossiped with Taylor
Tuesday: tutored, had dinner (Thai) and a movie (Wall-e) with Taylor
Wednesday: went to a meeting, had a dinner party with Elizabeth and Adelaide
Thursday: worked, played cards all night
Friday: worked, went to a barbeque with family friends, drank champagne and watched fireworks.

Tomorrow, I am driving up to Huntsville to spend the weekend with my lady-love counter-part.

This week has been so good. I have not thought about him at all, even though he called me, and blamed everything on me. Said it was my fault he was in the hospital. But, I am not letting that get to me. I am not believing him, not anymore.

Thu, 12 Jun 2008 18:05:09 GMT

My body is punishing me for the things that I've done. I have a heart murmur, a recurring fever, hallucinations. I have open sores and blisters and pus pockets all over my tonsils and the back of my throat. The doctors don't know what's wrong with me. They have given me shots and treatments in hoping that they've guessed it correctly. They are worried that I'll have kidney failure. My body is punishing me for the things that I've done.

Tue, 10 Jun 2008 20:47:03 GMT

Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not / Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither / Living nor dead, and I knew nothing, / Looking into the heart of light, the silence. / Oed' und leer das Meer.

I know that you are all probably really fucking tired of sea metaphors, and I am always talking about the sea, the ocean, the salt, the waves. Here is the truth of all truths: I loved him, and he loved me, but I did not want to be with him. And now I am barren, Oed' und leer das Meer, and stripped of the three shining babes that he promised me, and art about our family and the sea. We were going to live on a little wooden boat, I was going to have a yellow kitchen, blue bedroom, or was it blue kitchen, yellow bedroom? Big white comforters, and vases full of oranges; laundry lines hanging in the living room, ducking beneath your jackets to find the bathroom.

I wanted to be the kind of girl to save you from yourself, to keep you warm at night, and to keep you safe. You do not trust easily or often, and I know that I have not helped. But I was there this morning, at five, at four, at three, when you didn't want me. I do not know how to leave you, but even worse: I do not know how to stay with you. We cannot start again. It is too late to start again, because you are broken and I am trash. Your sad eyes are following me, your head buried in my arms, rocking you, soothing you, whispering forgive me, forgive me, forgive me, kissing your neck. But it is not enough, it is never enough.

Wed, 14 May 2008 03:28:46 GMT

It is Tuesday, the sixth day of summer. I woke up at one this afternoon, and the sunlight was coming through my window just so, so I could see all the dust in the air. All the dust is part of me, has been my skin and hair, and it was a nice reminder to see myself floating around myself. Reminder of what, I am not quite sure yet. I heated up some fried rice, drank two cups of Diet Coke, and got the mail. I checked my email, watched the Darjeeling Limited, and slept some more. The days have been too long, lately, but I start working at this restaurant, see, and soon the days will not be long enough, after thirteen hour days.

Mon, 28 Apr 2008 03:12:45 GMT

"We ate the birds." -- Margaret Atwood

Last night, I woke up hungry --
hungry enough to eat
the canary above my grandmother's bed.
So here's what I did,
I tiptoed into the creaky wooden room,
climbed onto a chair,
and snatched the sleeping
yellow bird
right out of its cage.

This is the part where I stop,

see if people are believing
this tale of a midnight snack,
but it is about more than birds,
hollow bones, nucleated blood cells,
four toes, four chambered heart.
It is about how for those four seconds,
with the tail feathers in my mouth,
I could taste flight, and
it felt like cream cheese on a summer day.

Tue, 22 Apr 2008 19:44:31 GMT

I wake up at eleven and sleepy mouth smile and dance around to Avril Lavigne. I brush my teeth and examine my skin for blemishes and pucker my lips to apply lipstick (Souffle de Rose by Dior) and lipgloss. I am scared that I am turning into one of those girls that I hate. Everything I wear is from either American Eagle or Victoria's Secret. I work on one of Mozart's sonatas and then bike a few miles after breakfast (Skim Milk and Frosted Flakes). I consider making a sandwich for lunch, but remember that I have stopped eating bread, meat, and cheese. Watching my weight, you see. But regardless of calories, I am drinking White Russians of Kahlua and milk with a splash of vodka by three o'clock. I play cards with my daddy, scan through my mail, and study for my French tests. I have given up on poetry and good movies. I am turning into one of those girls that I hate. I only watch movies about princesses and unicorns. I hate unicorns.

Let me be shallow for a moment,

Sat, 19 Apr 2008 19:37:44 GMT

(Coming Clean Words - I lied, To be in Tijuana - Ser) or, 98 across

Sun, 06 Apr 2008 16:16:45 GMT

"The problem with skin
is not how it keeps all of you in,
a miracle quite, a thing. But how

it remembers and remembers even if
the grey pocket in your brain says forget."

I am learning that being alone is not a status, but a condition, and I am not sure what I am trying to say. I am trying to say that things will be okay, that I do not need friends, family, lovers. But my skin remembers how it feels to have warm arms around it in the shower, but my skin says that being alone is not a condition, but a disease.

I spend my days learning to forget by sitting in the same pink sweatpants, crocheting rainbow colored blankets and working on the New York Times Crossword. I only have eleven more days of class and I do not answer the phone or reply to emails these days. I start all of these by saying, "I spend," that I am sure pretty soon, I will be too poor to spend time at all.

I am counting down the days until I move to New York, and I think I will be content with the quietest dorm on campus, a view of a brown bricked building, and a kitchen so small only I can fit in it.

a polaroid of yourself, everyday for ten years

Wed, 12 Mar 2008 23:14:04 GMT