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quiet_seeds

in spite of the peephole between us.
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three miliseconds, exactly [
August 7, 2020]
you are my friend!




comment to be added.
ooo (4) ooo

[
April 7, 2015]
i had a baby.

she's here now, and she's a tiny human.

it amazes me that this same little person was here with me for nine months before she breathed air, and was officially here.

i lay in bed soon after taking the pregnancy test and thought about her dna, how even though she was only a tiny piece of tissue, all her direction were already written. all that she could be existed from that very first moment.
ooo (7) ooo

[
March 14, 2015]
i wonder where the urge to write has gone.

to the bottoms of coffee cups and wine glasses, abstained from?

away from my mushy brain, which can discuss and notice, but not distill into words.



still waiting around here, for this baby. one week til due date.
ooo (0) ooo

this room, and the past year [
July 31, 2014]
this room, and the past year
and a half

this room has all the textures of solitude. it's a quiet, still room. here, i have sat, deeply alone. vacillating between peaceful and frantic. the frantic somehow seems peaceful in retrospect. i felt patient.

other times i was alone, on the sidewalk island where you wait for the street car in the sunset district. the ocean to my left was deep, high, luminous. to my right, the darkening city i was returning to reflected sunlight for moments more. the wind battered all around my body, a wisp there, wearing clothes. the feeling of clothes, and darkening, and solitude. heading home to my quiet, peaceful room.
ooo (0) ooo

[
July 28, 2014]
i stepped outside the front door and walked down to the port, the area so close to my house, yet rarely explored. worth exploring. the familiar streets ended at a sign that said sidewalk ends, use other side. i disregarded these directions and picked my way through sand studded with trash and broken cement slabs, feathery fennel blowing against my legs. at the unguarded train tracks i crossed nervously and slipped under the freeway. i looked up at the slice of blue sky between two overpasses, and felt it all rushing down at me, but i didn't cry. i felt the feelings strongly and felt strong.

i walked through a lovely dried out july park, passed the boxy houseboats each with their own charm. i found a grassy place near some willow trees and drew unicorns until i had to pee, then i walked home.

at the vegetated median where the freeway entrance begins, a woman with bright red hair was walking two black and white dogs. they greeted me, and she apologized for their over-friendliness. we crossed the street together.
ooo (0) ooo

[
May 30, 2014]
such a hot, hot day. 30 degrees hotter than yesterday, it feels. as i rode my bike through new neighborhoods, the streets with sycamore trees expanding with green, it felt like another city entirely. the air.

i came home and sat drawing in the back yard, and felt at ease. i need things to be different, frequently. certain samenesses are required in small things, but the large things must shift. the clothes, the setting, the paths walked.
ooo (0) ooo

[
May 22, 2014]
the phases of this blending of time passing. a while ago i was concerned about my open mouth and lack of presence behind it, in the break room at work, in the classroom. from the vantage point of my bed, feeling out of control, disconnected from the body i inhabit each day.

then, for a while, i am not sure how long, i wasn't feeling that. and then, i started again. i think, just this week. this monday, this tuesday, this feeling of not-having-any-patience. not snapping at the kids, not not having time for their thises and their thats, but just not being present. hearing my voice scold or coerce, from afar. somehow it feels like lack of patience, but it's really a semantic confusion. i am patient with kids, i am present with kids, and i confuse the two.

and kids looks so funny on the page, those kids. who are those kids who are drumming my day into the rough spots of my knees. waiting at the train stop with julian, and he's giddy over the N-judah and i am there with him, sitting down with my head in my hands because i am too far away to feel the joy. his face three-quarter turned away from me, placed perfectly to see the train emerge from the tunnel, standing in the spot where at four foot eight inches you can see the most emergent part. when it stops, he likes to get the attention of someone on the train to ask them what stop they are getting off at. i encourage this, though i probably shouldn't. we differentiate between a point and a wave, and i explain how if you say "excuse me" the people will be less confused and more willing to listen to and answer the tousled-hair wide-eyed boy jumping up and down before them.

by the bathrooms today, my co-worker and i were discussing something and she came out with your eyes are so blue right now! and i felt a reversal. those things you notice about people, that you never think could be about you. i'm sad she's leaving, but also glad because our camaraderie (so rare for me) makes me feel sloppy, perhaps because i confess my laziness to her frequently rather than pretending no one notices (no one does notice; i am a perfectionist).
ooo (0) ooo

[
April 4, 2014]
there is a giant fly buzzing low around my room.

when you haven't written in your livejournal for months, you can't just make a post about a fly buzzing low around your room. but it's the need for something momentous that keeps me from recording thoughts here.

one small thought, added at regular intervals.
ooo (0) ooo

[
February 18, 2014]
i often see the one legged punk at the intersection of market and gough. her dog, a white pitbull with black over one eye, walks between her crutches, right where her right leg would be.
ooo (0) ooo

[
February 12, 2014]
the last shower of my twenties feels somehow significant.
ooo (1) ooo

[
January 7, 2014]
i. i,i,i.

there isn't any. this sluggish emptiness.

i went on a long car trip with my sister. we drove from california to north carolina, and i felt brain dead the whole time. i was on autopilot, and i wasn't the one driving. i don't drive. she drove the whole way. i just sat. perhaps the scenery was passing so quickly, it was all my mind could do to take in details.

i planned to write, record, document, reflect. i didn't, i just sat.

i really miss livejournal. i am so grateful to those who still post. i love it when you post. and i wonder, is there anyone else out there who posts in livejournal, like back in 2004, a personal poetic sharing that is not social media, that feels secret and private but is open to all eyes?
ooo (5) ooo

[
November 13, 2013]
as i was riding my bike home, through the autumn light, i thought about autumn light. i thought there was a film by bergman called autumn light (winter light), or a book (a light in august), when i googled i only got fall leaves. if there had not been crunchy leaves all under my wheels, would it have been an autumn light?

there was a three quarter moon, milky in the blue, just a few fists from the eastern horizon. blue eyes, a blue willow plate with a rabbit. a grecian urn.

i have a bad habit of aiming with my wheel for those perfect crunchy leaves, as i would when walking. the double crunch as it passes under both my wheels is so irresistible. it's out of my control, my eyes are wrenched from the task at hand of ensuring my safety, small risky swerves. i do this sometimes with other objects, all subconsciously. dangerous.
ooo (0) ooo

[
July 9, 2013]
for a while, every time i looked into the sky, there was something there. i'd look into what i expected to be the expanse, and there would come into focus a plane, a bird, an antenna. right there where i looked.

today i went on the roof of my house and lay down on the spot directly above my bed, one floor below. above me, there was only blue sky.

wind, too, but i couldn't see that.
ooo (4) ooo

[
June 30, 2013]
so many flickering flickers.

i spent the weekend in santa cruz, with richard. if only that line were enough to bring back all that i thought about, that needed writing down, that drifted away. and this only addresses one weekend of drift. but there have been months of drifting. i started drifting may first. april was stunning brilliant simplicity. then, unmoored.

i went up to the top of the parking structure, where, at the end of my time there, right before graduating, i had written a line from djuna barnes' nightwood. i don't remember what i wrote exactly, but later i drew a livejournal name from that line. i don't remember what it meant to me, but i remember it was windy up there. i remember which corner it was in, and that i felt very alive, daring, free. like an open window.

the line was written small, and i expected it could still be there, overlooked by janitors. when i saw the wall where it had been, a plain concrete wall, plastered with squares and rectangles of grey paint, i knew they had been thorough. when i had written it, there had not been others, scrawling more loudly.
ooo (0) ooo

[
May 25, 2013]
it looked like someone had been interrupted, abducted, from a quiet sit-down on my front steps. a pile of papers on the stairs; recipes torn from magazines; a new yorker article, pages stapled on the corner; a statement of reimbursement for one hour of psychotherapy; a large color xerox of a photo of a woman who is biologically a man. a leather bag, all pockets spread open, on the sidewalk. a tupperwear filled with dates, coconut cookies and dried figs, open, with its lid resting crooked on top. the contents had not been disturbed when the step-sitter was taken. every sweet morsel is carefully packed. but he left them.

his name was philip gordie, according to the statement of reimbursement. the articles are about bee-keeping, making strawberry mead. there is a pamphlet from a soup kitchen, for training volunteers. what happened to him?
ooo (2) ooo

[
May 18, 2013]
i got this glass at the thrift store a few weeks ago. it is tinted blue, thin glass. almost teardrop shaped, but with open top and flat bottom. in the last few inches, the glass starts to swirl clockwise. it looks just like water going down a drain. a whirlpool. water from it is so refreshing.

richard was here for 24 hours. it was lovely. but quick. somehow, after he has gone, the urge to get things done has return to me. it has been missing for weeks. when i got home from taking him to the train station, i took my bike into the back yard, and stopped to pull up all the terrible poison weeds that i hate that were starting to fill up the entry corridor. then i sat down to write. in a few moments i will get other things done, make things, keep afloat.

i my dream, i was a student at a school that was like a daycare, all bright colored plastic toys, educational posters. the people there were not children, but not adults either. the academic load was pre-school like, but also very rigorous. so much scooping puff balls with a spoon, naming colors and shapes. i fell behind. i wasn't given any work to do. for a long, long time. it was like a classic forgot-to-go-to-class-for-two-months dream, but such an altered reality. so many colors, textures. and i didn't know what was going on. everything around me was the same, but somehow different. i couldn't figure it out. then i met a girl who explained it to me. i was following her through this fantastical adult-pre-school world, climbing trees and sliding into ball pits as she told me i had been not feeling, not thinking, not sensing anything at all for seven years. she said it was the same for her. we had been in this senseless state in this overstimulating world and we hadn't even suspected it was hurting us.
ooo (0) ooo

[
April 16, 2013]
when i was a child, i had a starburst of a broken blood vessel on the side of my nose. i remember the day, in college, when i looked in the mirror and realized it was gone.

how long was it gone before i noticed?

our bodies are always changing. the freckle on my palm, the good luck freckle, is almost gone. i hope another one will take its place.

richard and his mom have matching freckles on their knuckles. two small brown dots, castor and pollox.
ooo (0) ooo

[
April 16, 2013]
today, i rode my bike from the library to the house of the kids i tutor. when i got there, i realized i didn't have my backpack on. how the hell could i have not noticed that i didn't have my backpack on? i rode back to the library in heavy wind, fantasizing about the horrors of the situation. this was in the haight-ashbury neighborhood. a third of the people on the streets are homeless, runaways, scrounging. i settled on a prayer: please let them just take my debit card. it is replaceable. i had no cash, but i did have a muni pass, and a free sandwich coupon, an old library card that i love, and my journal.

i got to the library and my backpack was sitting on the cement wall i had left it on, untouched.
ooo (0) ooo

[
April 15, 2013]
an idyllic weekend in santa cruz. i saw the town so differently from 10 years ago, when i was a freshman in college. it didn't exist as a space then, the physicality was all molded entirely by my experience, social interactions, huge emotions blasted the space away. now, i saw it as a space, i felt it as a space.

it was evident upon arrival that i have overcome so much since then. i am less afraid. i am more observant. i am less afraid, and my misguided days are over. i am guided, with my own aimless exaction.
ooo (0) ooo

[
April 15, 2013]
i was lying in the back yard, on my back with my arms shielding my face from the sun. through the crook of my arms was visible blue sky, a bit of tree, and power lines running crosswise. as i watched, a mourning dove alighted on the wires, framed by my two arms, and i remembered, there was a dead mourning dove. i was five, maybe even four. it was a great tragedy. my mother was very upset. something had killed it, this beautiful being, and i remember the delicate patterns, the soft pink-cream of its ruffled feathers. it may have been the first dead thing, it may be my first memory of a dead thing. and it was a tragedy.
ooo (0) ooo

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