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[08 Jun 2009|12:42pm] |
My weekend.
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[02 Apr 2009|06:45am] |
Lindsay is arriving today! We took these Polaroids back in September, when she came to visit last time. Did I really never post any of these?
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[30 Mar 2009|10:29pm] |
A corner of my bedroom.
My 8x8 test print (of the Peter Iredale shipwreck) should be arriving tomorrow. If it turns out to my liking, I will most likely start selling prints on Etsy.
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[18 Mar 2009|08:53am] |
I need more days like this.
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| Just because it’s dead, doesn’t mean it’s gone. |
[06 Jan 2009|02:46pm] |
A voice wants to know why I wasn’t there
the day the doctors splayed you out on the operating table,
You who carried me like a bouquet of splinters in your belly,
who let me suckle ambrosia from your coveted breast.
A voice wants to know how I can seal my heart up
like the lid of a submarine. The truth is I don't know
what's in there, and if I open that valve too quickly
the pressure might break me, might rip my ventricles
at the seams. When I saw you outside the methadone clinic,
half your teeth gone, I had to turn, couldn't watch
the family tree being hacked into more firewood.
Yes, I want to crush and snort the knuckles
of the doctor who prescribed you the oblivion chiclets,
but you're the one playing Paul Bunyan, swinging
the pill bottle like a plastic ax, and my tongue
is not a lavender ambulance rushing toward you. I know
reality is a mosh pit that keeps spitting you out, that beauty
seeps from your face like sugar from a punctured sack.
I know death is on the staircase, but you were a ghost
all along, an apparition with a wineglass
floating through my childhood. I know you were born
in a Polish neighborhood with an aluminum spoon
in your mouth, that booze runs through us the way
politicians run through promises. I know about the more
in morphine, what it's like to wake and feel like a chalk
outline of yourself. I know about days passing
so quickly that they don't even wave, let alone stop
and say hello. I know it’s been one of those months,
one of those lifetimes, when you dream of a laundromat,
a place to unscrew your skull and toss your dirty
thoughts into a machine, come back an hour later,
your impulses all folded and clean. If I could, I'd have a scientist
shrink me down and inject me into your bloodstream,
and I'd go with a wash brush and suds bucket,
scrub the opium out each one of your cells. I used to think
I was tough because I could hold a machine gun
of whiskey to my cranium and take bullet after bullet
to the brain. I used to think the greatest display of strength
was lifting a hunk of metal in the air, but now I know
it's far more difficult to put something down.
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| Rudy Fernandez is a dreamboat. |
[09 Dec 2008|10:53pm] |
I went to the Blazers vs. Magic game tonight - they lost at the buzzer by a point, sad. BUT, I would just like to point out that Orlando's coach looks like a younger, less creepy Ron Jeremy:
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[04 Oct 2008|04:35pm] |
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I saw Michael Cera today at House of Vintage. He's as awkward in person as he is on screen.
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