driftwood in circles again

August 15, 2012

From my bird’s eye view on the eighth story I can see an awfully lot of the city. Sometimes if I let my eyes slide just right I can see so far that there is no perspective and no horizon. Is pretty rad. Generally however when I’m looking out the window on purpose instead of as an aside while trying to come up with a perfectly turned phrase or twenty percent of something from the hundreds column it’s because people are fighting in the streets.

The building in the middle

is called Safety Net, an incredible place usually sporting lines down the sidewalk that put Salt and Straw’s to shame. They offer services for people in need, and so there tends to be a decent amount of desperate persons out front at any given time. Sometimes they scream at each other. Sometimes they scream at the police. Sometimes they stand on the street corner and scream all by themselves. One dude spent a while berating all the cars parked in the area. It’s a screaming kind of place.

Today there was some screaming, and I wandered over to the window to see what it was this time. A girl was yelling at some old dude pulling a duffle bag, and he was standing there looking confused. Every so often there’d be a break in her tirade, and he’d say something, and whatever it was would set her right off again. Up the sidewalk she raged, fuck him, he nothin. Back down the sidewalk she raged, damn bitch, he gotta learn, y’all don’t talk to strangers like that. Sundry persons stepped in and stepped out. Bystanders were told to mind their business, cunt. Back and forth and on it went, and I literally wasted about fifteen minutes of my day sitting on the edge of the printer shelf, watching this drama fold in and over on itself. At last it appeared to be over, and she of outraged majesty went into the corner store. The old dude just stood there, looking after her, confused.

She came back out of the corner store, and saw him still standing there. Oh, don’t yell at him again, I thought, feeling sorry for his obvious mental fog in the face of her raging verbosity. But she did, she yelled at him again, standing at one end of the block waving her fists. He stood at the other end of the block, shoulders sagging, and then all of a sudden he just opened up his hands in a gesture of, I don’t know. And she went sailing down the block toward him like a full rigged battle ship at out arms, yelling all the way. And she reached him, and she flung her arms open and asked him something, speaking quietly for the first time in my short observation of her. And he replied, and then, just like that, she gave him a huge ass hug, patted him on the head, and went away. He turned and went the other direction.

I am



I am

a candle in the wind

August 15, 2012

Grandma: So what have you been doing for fun?

Me: Oh you know, the heat obliterates me every day. So I’ve pretty much been reading this book called Game of Thrones and I just started watching a show called Downton Abbey.


M: Yeah it — G: I just love that Lady Mary. She’s so elegant. But that Edith is a snot.

M: I love William best.

G: Oh, William. It’s too bad he died.

Head: *pop*

It is always the ones I love best, the ones that some fucker somewhere decided he can toss negligently off a cliff or send first off into the heart of some other fucker’s stupid battle. It is never the most brilliant or most gorgeous, the twisted or nefarious; it is always the sincere, kind, brave, loyal and slightly bumbling good hearted unsung hero that they feel they can just rip from my heart and leave me bargaining the entire rest of the cast for with the coldhearted, unrelenting tv screen if I could just have that one small favorite back. Therefore:

A List of Grievances


My Heartbreaks

  • Really you had to kill Goose? All the goddam irritating ass pricks with their shirts off in that movie and you had to kill the only one who didn’t chew gum halfway up his nose with every smirk?

  • You made Edward Scissorhands go live all by himself forever. Mean.

  • You know what? Boone was NICE.

  • I liked Boromir. He TRIED.

  • When you put a shaft through the leaf in the wind I wept hollow tears in to my actual pillowcase. FUCK you.

  • And you, I’m not even talking to you. How the hell is he supposed to live without her for the rest of all time?

 I am

the house of the rising

August 10, 2012

I know this is ridiculous of me but I just can’t help myself today. I have had a bag of sun chips and a string cheese for breakfast, and I am on my second cup of coffee, (why yes it is in fact 10:43am what of it, I have the mountain toppling mood on), and I have been reviewing my okcupid profile. Now I know that everyone and their creepy sexual innuendo username uncle says that they are only on okcupid for the tests, whatever, but while that is not the only reason I am on okcupid it is definitely the reason I joined in the first place. Nitya was taking some what super hero are you test and I wanted to take it and she wouldn’t let me on her account because it would mess up her stats. So I created my profile and people, here we are today, several rad dates and two hundred and twenty four tests later. I am fucking addicted to these tests. Do I want to know what Firefly character I am most like? Why hell yes. Am I interested in okc’s opinion on my sexual style? Certainly. The clincher though, the real hook and sinker, is that I am proud of my results. What Pulp Fiction character am I? DAMN STRAIGHT I AM. Which day of the week am I? Oh, stop it you.

What I am saying, everyone, is this:

Take okcupid tests. Then we can put our heads together like a couple of middle school girls and compare results. I am currently in the market for anyone who tests as Clive Owen’s character from Sin City. I have spoke.


I am

a quiet revolution

August 10, 2012

When I was very little my dad worked in a shipping yard down by the river and we had only one car. Every morning my mom would bundle me out of bed, wrap me in blankets, and carry me out to the car with my pillow and my Cinnamon Bear to drive my dad to work. It would be dark and chill out, the air sharp and clean, the porch light yellow. The car would have been idling for some minutes now, surrounded in smoke, ‘warming up.’

I would fall back asleep and wake up again every morning to the sound of the dawn. The sky out the back window would be streaked with flaming pinks and oranges, what I called a sherbet sky. It would be invisibly rent from end to end with the roaring sound of throbbing sunkissed thunder. I would listen as the sound ebbed away and watch the colors dance their imperceptible fade into blue.

I was well over twenty when I realized that there was no way the dawn could make that sound; there was no true song of victory the light made when at last it broke its way across dark sky. By the river is the airport, and every morning I would be waked by the closest, the most epic, the loudest jet of them all. I think the realization caught me too late in life though. My lips still curl into the secretest of smiles when I wake every morning and there’s an airplane going by. Life is what you make of it. In my world there has always been and will always be a sound of the dawn.

I am