the portland wall spoke to me.
2.21.2005
downtown athletic club
two more honey-stained brews
make slick circles on the tavern table
and the boys smirk.
two more foam mustaches line the lean lips
their girls like to kiss.
their girls who sip white wine,
their girls who blush at memories
and point at the lemon balanced on one boy's glass.
"it belongs in the beer," says the blonde.
he shrugs in protest.
the brunette disagrees, "don't put it in yet,"
and her friend turns.
"whose side are you on?" she asks.
"the lemon's."
make slick circles on the tavern table
and the boys smirk.
two more foam mustaches line the lean lips
their girls like to kiss.
their girls who sip white wine,
their girls who blush at memories
and point at the lemon balanced on one boy's glass.
"it belongs in the beer," says the blonde.
he shrugs in protest.
the brunette disagrees, "don't put it in yet,"
and her friend turns.
"whose side are you on?" she asks.
"the lemon's."
2.19.2005
at LAX
i'm at the airport again, but this time (knock on wood) the shuttle was on time, the lines didn't hold me up, and my flight is yet to be delayed. (it is, afterall, southwest.) i've got my tazo tea and am as comfortable as ever in this self-enclosed world that we call los angeles international.
i was a lucky little girl: thanks to my parents, traveling became second nature to me at a young age. i lived in airports. my brothers memorized airline schedules. my father explained the physics of flight. and my mother grinned, occasionally rolling her eyes when the boys wouldn't notice. some summers, we'd hop across the globe, running, weighed down with stuffed animals and gameboys, across dallas international or singapore chiangi. other holidays were spent in fly-infested shacks-on-tarmack: southeast asian airports whose electrical fans urged beads of sweat to run down your neck, providing just enough relief from the stifling heat. often, they would tell you they didn't think they'd seen your name on the passenger list. ten american dollars always helped them remember. european airports weren't necessarily any better. cigarette smoke used to fill the waiting chambers of heathrow. you had to meander into boots pharmacy or find your way outdoors to catch a breath of fresh air.
so, on my way home over christmas break this past year, my six-hour stay at LAX's gate 4 seemed almost pleasant in comparison to some of my childhood terminal adventures. my flight had been delayed, delayed again, and then cancelled. "bad weather over san jose," they told us. a phone call to my dad soon proved them wrong. filthy liars. grr.
they placed my name on numerous standby lists and i took my seat next to a throng of disgruntled passengers who had been foolish enough to book themselves on my flight. my chair squeaked as i sat down. damn. everytime i shifted my weight, tired eyes turned my way, obviously put out by the unoiled joints. what nerve i had to provoke such a noise! how rude.
the floridian couple to my left were furious at their bad luck. decked out in last year's worst hawaiian shirt, the pink puff-cheeked man continually threated southwest from under his straw hat. the wife, her middle as round as her husband's, chimed in with sporadic words of agreement. her eyes would glaze over for minutes at a time, and just when you thought she had calmed down, a shrieked "terrible service! terrible!" would wake you from your silly dreams.
across from them sat a patient young mother and probably the best-behaved kid i have ever seen. she was friendly and entrustd me with her boy's care- and a coke- when she ran over to grab a pizza to split from cpk. the boy clasped his hands together upon his lap. after sizing me up, he offered to show me his latest comic. "you like Superman, right?" he was oldschool. "who doesn't like Superman?" i asked. i think i won him over. (my kids better like Superman. oh, and they'll be bilingual. i hope.) ten minutes pased and his half of a pepperoni pizza arrived.
i flipped open my silver cell and called my brother, telling him to wait awhile before lugging the ghetto green minivan to OAK to pick me up.
"terrible service! terrible!"
i laughed. a boy in front of me caught me smirking at mrs. miami. i eyed his guitar. without hesitation, he opened the battered case. he pulled his beanie down further over his forehead, cocked his neck to one side, half-smiled, and asked me if i liked led zeppelin. he was from the east coast. his accent gave him away. i nodded and watched his pale fingers pluck out parts of kashmir, most of stairway, and all of the eagles' hotel california. my mind was taken from the wait. every long wait needs a guitar. in fact, i say people should carry them around for just this reason.
finally, when the goddess of doom behind the counter read our names off the standby list and issued us new tickets for the flight we were crowding, i smiled at the guitarman and got a high five from Superboy.
when we took off, the poppies that line the runways were in full bloom.
i only hope i'm so blessed today.
i was a lucky little girl: thanks to my parents, traveling became second nature to me at a young age. i lived in airports. my brothers memorized airline schedules. my father explained the physics of flight. and my mother grinned, occasionally rolling her eyes when the boys wouldn't notice. some summers, we'd hop across the globe, running, weighed down with stuffed animals and gameboys, across dallas international or singapore chiangi. other holidays were spent in fly-infested shacks-on-tarmack: southeast asian airports whose electrical fans urged beads of sweat to run down your neck, providing just enough relief from the stifling heat. often, they would tell you they didn't think they'd seen your name on the passenger list. ten american dollars always helped them remember. european airports weren't necessarily any better. cigarette smoke used to fill the waiting chambers of heathrow. you had to meander into boots pharmacy or find your way outdoors to catch a breath of fresh air.
so, on my way home over christmas break this past year, my six-hour stay at LAX's gate 4 seemed almost pleasant in comparison to some of my childhood terminal adventures. my flight had been delayed, delayed again, and then cancelled. "bad weather over san jose," they told us. a phone call to my dad soon proved them wrong. filthy liars. grr.
they placed my name on numerous standby lists and i took my seat next to a throng of disgruntled passengers who had been foolish enough to book themselves on my flight. my chair squeaked as i sat down. damn. everytime i shifted my weight, tired eyes turned my way, obviously put out by the unoiled joints. what nerve i had to provoke such a noise! how rude.
the floridian couple to my left were furious at their bad luck. decked out in last year's worst hawaiian shirt, the pink puff-cheeked man continually threated southwest from under his straw hat. the wife, her middle as round as her husband's, chimed in with sporadic words of agreement. her eyes would glaze over for minutes at a time, and just when you thought she had calmed down, a shrieked "terrible service! terrible!" would wake you from your silly dreams.
across from them sat a patient young mother and probably the best-behaved kid i have ever seen. she was friendly and entrustd me with her boy's care- and a coke- when she ran over to grab a pizza to split from cpk. the boy clasped his hands together upon his lap. after sizing me up, he offered to show me his latest comic. "you like Superman, right?" he was oldschool. "who doesn't like Superman?" i asked. i think i won him over. (my kids better like Superman. oh, and they'll be bilingual. i hope.) ten minutes pased and his half of a pepperoni pizza arrived.
i flipped open my silver cell and called my brother, telling him to wait awhile before lugging the ghetto green minivan to OAK to pick me up.
"terrible service! terrible!"
i laughed. a boy in front of me caught me smirking at mrs. miami. i eyed his guitar. without hesitation, he opened the battered case. he pulled his beanie down further over his forehead, cocked his neck to one side, half-smiled, and asked me if i liked led zeppelin. he was from the east coast. his accent gave him away. i nodded and watched his pale fingers pluck out parts of kashmir, most of stairway, and all of the eagles' hotel california. my mind was taken from the wait. every long wait needs a guitar. in fact, i say people should carry them around for just this reason.
finally, when the goddess of doom behind the counter read our names off the standby list and issued us new tickets for the flight we were crowding, i smiled at the guitarman and got a high five from Superboy.
when we took off, the poppies that line the runways were in full bloom.
i only hope i'm so blessed today.
2.13.2005
classic
to reinforce west coast cliches, here's this week's venice, california sunset... palm trees and all. (how's the weather, boston? wink.) i had been running. but in honor of all things childlike, i then kicked off my shoes and played on the swings, the BIG swings. unfortunately, perfection is only in the photograph. now the weather is moody- typical sunday study weather- and zola and aslund beckon me away from the temptations of blogging. pity.
2.11.2005
rainsong
i find something soothing in the relentless tiptapping of rain on my window. it begs, tenderly and persistently, for me to slide open the pane, to let it in. sometimes in fury it hammers on the glass. sometimes in pain it simply slides down the divide. i love it when the rains summon thunder and my placid state of being is shaken by each bellow. or when lightning threatens to darken the hour, cutting off electricity and arousing shrieks from all corners of the tangible world.
i wish this happened often in california.
today, the rain is like people everywhere who are just fine. how are you? i'm fine, you say. (well stop being fine and be alive!) the rain is just there, it doesn't threaten anything. nothing spectacular, nothing earth-shattering. (don't you want to be spectacular?) as i walk to class with collide, the killers, or the cure in my ears, the rhythmic drops roll off of my hood and smack my sneakers, which march in time with the rain, with the beat. when i return home, my jeans are rolled up to prevent water from creeping eerily up the back of my legs. my fake glasses fog my vision. i slip into a bathrobe and lie down, dry at last.
but the drops continue to zigzag across my window. the rain still knocks quietly for admittance to my heart. i decide to open it ajar.
i wish this happened often in california.
today, the rain is like people everywhere who are just fine. how are you? i'm fine, you say. (well stop being fine and be alive!) the rain is just there, it doesn't threaten anything. nothing spectacular, nothing earth-shattering. (don't you want to be spectacular?) as i walk to class with collide, the killers, or the cure in my ears, the rhythmic drops roll off of my hood and smack my sneakers, which march in time with the rain, with the beat. when i return home, my jeans are rolled up to prevent water from creeping eerily up the back of my legs. my fake glasses fog my vision. i slip into a bathrobe and lie down, dry at last.
but the drops continue to zigzag across my window. the rain still knocks quietly for admittance to my heart. i decide to open it ajar.
easily amused
1. while sitting at your desk, lift your right foot off of the floor and make clockwise circles.
2. now, while doing this, draw the number 6 in the air with your right hand.
does your foot change direction?
2. now, while doing this, draw the number 6 in the air with your right hand.
does your foot change direction?
2.10.2005
straight out of prime time nbc
the door swung open and in ran two of my ucla-clad, antsy roommates. i was on the phone. but as they jumped up and down, grinning and staring at me, it became increasingly apparent that i needed to hang up.
"guess what we found out!"
"maybe she knows-"
"-she doesn't know. she would have told us if she-"
"-but maybe she forgot."
they sat down on either side of me. they had news. BIG news. and it had to be shared. this meant one thing and only one thing: it was milkshake time. fifteen minutes later, we piled into the plastic-apholstered booth and hid behind three giant menus. three giant milkshakes were ordered and one giant plate of fries was on its way. we didn't wait long.
armed with junk food, the stories began to spill. old news, new news, it didn't matter. the three of us lounged sitcom-style, laughing and downing an unbeatable combination of grease, salt, and ice cream at midnight on a weekday. the gossip that brought us there is not what is important. we found time in our crazy lives to just be with each other, something we all tend to put on the backburner too often. we bonded. again. we consumed way too many calories. we plan on going to the gym today. oh, and we all decided to name our middle child aidan.
"guess what we found out!"
"maybe she knows-"
"-she doesn't know. she would have told us if she-"
"-but maybe she forgot."
they sat down on either side of me. they had news. BIG news. and it had to be shared. this meant one thing and only one thing: it was milkshake time. fifteen minutes later, we piled into the plastic-apholstered booth and hid behind three giant menus. three giant milkshakes were ordered and one giant plate of fries was on its way. we didn't wait long.
armed with junk food, the stories began to spill. old news, new news, it didn't matter. the three of us lounged sitcom-style, laughing and downing an unbeatable combination of grease, salt, and ice cream at midnight on a weekday. the gossip that brought us there is not what is important. we found time in our crazy lives to just be with each other, something we all tend to put on the backburner too often. we bonded. again. we consumed way too many calories. we plan on going to the gym today. oh, and we all decided to name our middle child aidan.
darling adelphia
now, i know it is really only my fault when my blog remains empty for almost two weeks (oh, the horror!), but it is just so much easier to blame the cable company. seriously. high speed internet, you say? how about paying up the nose for a signal that decides to stop working out of the blue? oooo, yeah, sign me up for that one. i shut down, restarted, ctrl-alt-del'ed, petted and caressed my computer. i prayed to it, read it poetry, and flung myself sobbing at its feet. still no luck. the cable LED on the modem remained unlit. (some pcs just have no heart.) but after a week and a half, and after an hour on the phone with adelphia, and after screwing around my schedule to fit the Cable Guy into a two hour slot on friday, the techie gods concluded that i'd gone through enough torture and they readmitted me into the eworld! so hi. i'm back. and so incredibly happy to be so.
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