October 27, 2010

Day 20: Picnic

The grass stains on the knees of your torn jeans complement the wine spots on your wilted white cotton collar (or was that lipstick? I’m still not sure).  Ants swarmed our dirt-caked bare feet and nipped at the crumbs of our store bought cake and sandwiches that we left untouched, as we focused on devouring each other’s bodies.  Your mouth was sweet, my skin was ripe under your fingers.  The threadbare blanket we laid out on hard dirt and wet grass rampant with poking weeds could have been Egyptian cotton on feather down, for all that it held us back.

October 26, 2010

Day 19: Solitude

No man is an island, but he often considered himself a sort of peninsula–an outgrowth from the rest of his friends/academic cohort/family/coworkers, attached not by the fear of loneliness, but by the fear that he will like the solitude so much, and forget to be human.

It was easy enough, as things were, to get out of bed, to go through the motions of consumption, combustion, conversation, connection, cunnilingus, competition, collaboration, courtesy, caution and creation that his various social circles demanded.  But what if, one day, he didn’t?  If, one morning, he just rolled over and went back to bed?


October 21, 2010

Day 18: Picture Perfect

He looks through old family albums and thinks about when photographs were special, when Mom would go to the drug store to drop off the film and come back with envelopes filled with memories–ranging from birthday parties to soccer games, random days at the park, or blurry bits from him/his brother fooling around with the family camera.

He is in love with the idea of these aging pieces of imperfect lighting, of truly candid moments, of contexts worth capturing.  He contrasts them to these digitally altered, overly posed pictures that depict people’s lives as fun, glamorous, never awkward or unflattering.



October 18, 2010

Day 17: Comfortable

i like you like i like oversized sweaters and broken-in denim, like i like the perfect cup of coffee or soup and grilled cheese, like i like acoustic guitars and bluesy jazz, like i like breakfast for dinner, a fluffy blanket and my favorite non-academic book, the smell of mama’s/nana’s food from the motherland.  i like you like i like hands/lips/bodies that fit like they were built for each other, like Disney movies, like the last mile on the drive back home, like my best friend’s voice on the phone, like my childhood bedroom.

i like you because it’s comfortable.



October 17, 2010

Day 16: Barbie Dolls

I really don’t see the point of dolls, much less Barbie Dolls.

At their best, they are useless.  While boys get toys like blocks and cars/other machines–toys that DO things, that develop cognitive and motor skills–girls are stuck with these plastic people that are too passive to be “action figures,” whose limbs don’t even bend in the right places in order to even pretend.

At their worst, they represent a ridiculous ideal of female perfection–of the lithe, tan figure modeled after a German sex doll whose primary purpose is to dress/undress and whose many “professions” still come from playing dress-up.


October 16, 2010

Day 15: Ugly

I want to know your ugly, love.

I want to know how you look the first thing in the morning, with your eye gunk and bad breath and your hair mussed and stuck to your dried saliva.

I want to know how your first love ended, how you lied/cheated/manipulated OR how you cried your eyes and face red and swollen, forgot to shower and stuffed your face with junk because he did the lying/cheating/manipulating.

I want to know your fears, to see your scars, to feel your darkness/jealousy/whatever.  I want to love you.

I want to love your ugly, too.





October 16, 2010

Day 14: The Girlfriend

boy meets girl and girl wants to be everything boy is looking for in a girl.  girl realizes early enough that this is unrealistic, and so, instead tries to live up to the idea that boy has of her, specifically.  girl feels like she has to choose her words carefully, has to dress/smell/fuck the part that he has written for her in his head.  boy has no idea that girl is suffering so, but boy feeds this need to please by praising her for those qualities that she has adopted artificially.  girl is no longer girl, but girlfriend to boy.


October 12, 2010

Day 13: One of Those Days

there are just those days that you wake up early but you lay in bed for half an hour anyway.  those are the days that you feel like you are just rolling along the conveyor belt, input: carbohydrates protein, caffeine; output: coherent thought, inane pleasantries, the visage of a normal, functioning adult.  those are the nights that take long in coming and are over too soon, nights that you want to indulge in input: alcohol, nicotine, shitty TV, fingers and tongues and more, if you’re lucky; output: laughter/other arbitrary noises to express your gratitude for the ends of those days.






October 11, 2010

Day 12:

he was a boat lost at sea and she was the star that guided him home.  beautiful as she was, he knew he could never reach her, and that other boats followed her same light.  the best he could do is skim her facsimile reflected in the water.

she was so removed from the world that her admirers only saw her as a speck of light.  her beauty was known, but not her heat, nor the sheer size of her personality.  she wonders if anyone would find her beautiful or lovable or mystical then.


they could not be more distant.


October 7, 2010

Day 11: Long Lost Love

The cursor blinks accusingly from the white screen, as my promises of daily devotion to my various blogs have proven false.  Instead, sheets of binder paper–with writing ranging from poetry to prose, letters to essays in lovingly shaped fonts to hastily scrawled script–litter my apartment like neon signs of infidelity.  But is this really cheating, when my very real love with paper and pen–the rawness and imperfection that it brings–long preceded my neatly packaged, spell-checked, digital diaries?  Nonetheless, I wonder if it’s like tasting another woman on my lips when we kiss, when I retype works from hard copy/rough draft?