Biding Time

Here's a new poem. Sorry to anyone who follows me...I haven't been on here because in the past month my grandmother passed and I've been absolutely broken about it. Hopefully out of sorrow can come creativity. This is a poem I wrote yesterday.

Biding Time

Killing ants with ashes,
blowing gray curls of paper
onto the cinnamon bricks…
This is how I bide my time.

Dismembering stubborn weeds,
watching their milk unfold
between my thorned fingertips…
This is how I bide my time.

Shredding paper napkins,
making squares out of the remnants
across the faux oak diner table…
This is how I bide my time.

Stabbing wooden desks,
etching words with staple edges
brushing away the finish crumbles…
This is how I bide my time.

Murdering the gray face,
scooping out the dead eyes
and cutting the parchment lips.
This face is not my own…
This is why I bide my time.

Life is dragging me down, down

I've been going through what I've called an existential crisis. I've been doubting my academic choice, my career plans, all of my human relationships. A nasty emptiness, the hunger that can never be filled, has arisen in me and I cannot seem to soothe it.

I think it all comes down to the fact that I'm bored.

I go to school, I go to work, I see my boyfriend, I do homework, I sleep. Repeat endlessly.

I have my hobbies...reading and writing, art here and there, the gym (yawn).

I would like to cook, to garden, to hike, to foster animals. But I have no place of my own and no car. So...these options are not realistic.

I don't really have time to volunteer (and believe me, I'd like to), because I do have my obligations (work and school). I'm looking for that little extra special me time (but fulfilling "me time"), that little part of the day I can look forward to, that means something.

I feel like a stranger looking in on myself. My days flow in and out...it's only exciting when something bad happens. Nothing good or celebratory seems to occur anymore.

Advice?

Blogs I Like (And You Will Too!)

Check out beautiful photography and vintage clothing with Rhiannon of liebemarlene.com

Get your fix of adorable puppies and obscure music references at hipsterpuppies.tumblr.com

And check out my boyfriend's ironic art at infernalbabypoo.blogspot.com

Photographs

A thank you and a short opinion piece

Hello everybody.

I want to thank whoever wrote that wonderful comment on my post a couple of days ago. Your suggestions were so spot on and helpful! Thank you for taking an interest in my work. The revisions should be up soon.

I only have a short piece today, my top 5 favorite films. I've become quite the film buff lately. I never thought I would, but thanks to living so close to an independent video store and movie theater, I'm all about movies now. I'm taking a "Literature and Film" class this semester and I LOVE it. Maybe my academic concentration will be on film...I just adore the combination of narrative, appearance, and sound. Good films really do change your life.

Deciding my favorite films of all time (thus far) is difficult, but I thought it would be fun and challenging to write about. So here it goes...

5. "The Nightmare Before Christmas" Tim Burton (1993)

I wore this VHS tape out when I was a kid. I watched it everyday for two years. No kidding. Being older, I can see why. The animation, the music (composed by Danny Elfman--that's a no brainer!), the story, the characters...it's all impeccable. We need more people with imaginations like Tim Burton's.



4. "Scarface" Howard Hawks/Brian de Palma (1932/1983)

I could not decide between the original and the remake. They're both so brilliant and honestly very similar. The remake is of course more stylistic, but the story remains essentially the same, just adjusted for the times. Hawks is THE Hollywood director that all directors should be compared to. He was prolific and amazing (undoubtedly you've seen a movie of his..."Gentlemen Prefer Blondes," "Rio Bravo," "Hatari!," "His Girl Friday" and SO MANY MORE). If you have not seen the original, go do so. If you have not seen the remake, that is a crime. Also, am I the only one who lusts for Al Pacino in this movie? He's just so damn magnetic.




3. "A Clockwork Orange" Stanley Kubrick (1972)

This movie will make you crazy. I suppose it's tame by today's standards, but I still find its moral ambiguity disturbing and intriguing. Alex DeLarge, played by the phenomenal Malcolm McDowell, is the anti-hero to end all anti-heroes. Without this power house performance, Ledger's infamous Joker would not have been the same. And I will never see "Singin' in the Rain," or Beethoven, the same way again.



2. "The Big Lebowski" The Coen Brothers (1998)

Dude, just go watch it. I never get sick of this movie. It's the funniest, quirkiest, loveliest damn thing I've ever seen.



1. "No Direction Home" Martin Scorsese (2005)/"The Rocky Horror Picture Show" Jim Sharman (1975)

You couldn't get more different than these two, yet I couldn't choose between them. I love documentaries, particularly documentaries about music, and Scorsese's documentary on Bob Dylan has got to be the best doc I've ever seen. Period. Informative, intimate, exciting...anything you could ever want from a documentary, particularly from a documentary on such an enigmatic man. And Rocky Horror? THE BEST MUSICAL EVER. I'm sorry, but "The Sound of Music" has nothing on this. Tim Curry is to die for.



No spectacular Rocky clips available online...go see it at an independent movie theater near you! It will probably be showing (if you live in Tucson, every other Saturday at the Loft!)

Where Did You Go?

I would appreciate help revising, especially with "Blue Windbreaker Jacket." Thanks.

Blue Windbreaker Jacket

I slept on your jacket accidentally.
Your blue windbreaker jacket.

The one with the black edges
fraying with old age,
pulling effortlessly apart
like the ragged rope toy
of a strong-jawed dog.

It leaves little string bits
for me to step on.

The one with the crisp hue
still virgin, somehow. The one
with the swish swish fabric
that clicks along
with your bicycle.
I can always hear you
down the hallway.
Swish swish.

Much too much large for you
as it’s always been.
And it will always be, I feel,
that same tent shape:
A room for you.

One time I remember particularly well-
you
and your jacket.

It was at your feet
by your blue backpack
by your blue shoes
(I think you might’ve liked blue)

and you were hunched.
I could count
the shallow gaps between
the broad lines of your back.

I wanted to trace them with my black, edged fingernails
and sit across from you.
That is all really.
That is all.

You were quiet, and there it was.
Your blue windbreaker jacket.

Blockade

The pads of my feet gently touch
upon the tile in the dimly lit kitchen
soaked in grease and boot polish.
I can hear them talking, harshly whispering
the dribble coming down from their mouths.
I can hear the click of the duty belt coming undone,
the gun’s muzzle hitting the plastic tabletop.
My heart peaks but my breath softens and slows.
The manipulated breathing is a tool, a skill
that one must perfect in order to be here.
It must be utilized well to eavesdrop on the scenes
you never observe with your eyes.
It must be utilized well to uncover the truth
you never truly wanted to know.
I do not swallow, I cannot.
I lean closer, and as gently as I came,
walk on my toes up the stairs
to employ another tool:
the erasing of memory
through the torture of the body
at the bathroom sink.