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Wednesday, November 19th, 2008
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Man, LJ is just really fucking hard to snap out of. Like smoking. 'Cept not poisonous.
Anyway. I survived London, if you'd believe it.
AND NOW, in my senior year in Mills-landia, I happen to be editing our annual LITERARY MAGAZINE, THE WALRUS! (Don't ask me why it is named that, I don't know, we have a stuffed walrus, oh, the cute)
And we're looking for submissions and I'm starting my own guerrilla marketing campaign, involving phrases like, MAKE ME A SANDWICH, and making veiled threats about WALRUS VIOLENCE!
But I know there are still some writers on my lonely and forlorn Flist, and I would love it if you submitted something.
As is, we have a "theme" but only not really a theme. No worries! If your writing reflects "intersections of gender and language", all the best, but if it doesn't, that's okay!
If you happen to be interested after all this bull, send us an email at thewalrusatmills@gmail.com. Three pages of poetry (no more). Ten pages of prose (no more). A short bio would be nice, but we can get to that later. Fiction, memoir, poetry, anti-fiction, flash-fiction, novels in verse, essay, YOU NAME IT WE WANT IT!
Thanks kids. Back to your regularly scheduled slacking. Email me at caiken@mills.edu if you have any questions. Amor, amor, y paz.
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Sunday, February 10th, 2008
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Alright, now don't think this is gonna become a habit or some shit. Nuh-uh. I'm still living in the land of too complicated with RL, much LJ life. I still enjoy reading all y'all on my friends list so.... yeah. And, of course, locked posts on Mills community, etc.
ANYWAY.
this is just a general shout out with an update in my ridiculous life:
I'm currently studying abroad in London with Boston University (still at Mills, it's complicated, yo) and it was London or Spain, so.... London it is as the Spanish skillz' I want are not going to be learned with a lisp associated with it. However, I do plan on going to Madrid at some point, suck it! No, not really.
London = interesting. Expensive, but I'm making do because, as Becky knows, I'm resourceful and I know how to cook! And I know how to drink for mad cheap. Americans are so uncool and I am trying to get away from them as much as possible.
I read too much. This week it's been Billy Bragg's memoir (v. good), and The His Dark Materials trilogy, ha ha.
Anyway. If you're interested in abroad adventures of the sort, I invite you over to a different blog thats fer friends, family, etc. 'Twould be Carmenbytheriver.blogspot.com. I know I haven't really.... been on LJ or on fl's fer a long time but you know, if yr ever in the neighborhood (meaning London or Chi, esp. for LOLLA!) you're welcome to let me know.
Also: mad sewing skills = new arm warmers. And a cheap nurses dress I've been looking for my whole life and have finally lost enough weight to get. And also stretching ears avec teeny spirals. And things come in twos with Boy getting a spiral scarification yesterday and me talking with a body mod at some pretty shop in the Camden Market. Jess and Daniella were right!
Hope all is well. Overnout for a much longer time, hopefully.
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Monday, January 15th, 2007
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i love my brother he's always taking shit, he's just not like those other kids /
i love my sister for always making things, she even made a brother out of me, sweet kid /
i love this feeling like i've got something to give
you know i think i'm gonna live
all things to those who wait.
adios
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Sunday, January 14th, 2007
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bad things that happened today:
first yell/guilt/disappointment fest of the year from la padres!
car died-thought battery was dead-jumped car-car no go
car is broken and in parking lot in schaumburg begging to not be towed
then locked keys in car.
boooooooo.
good things
watched good movies
ate at senor tacos
finished notebook
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Thursday, January 11th, 2007
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MmmTillyandtheWall. Joe and Mar came down yesterday and we're going to DeKalb tomorrow (hooray cheap smokes!).
The point of this entry is RAGE, though. FUCKING RAGE.
GODDAMN MCENTER REGISTERED ME FOR THE WRONG FUCKING CLASS. So now I'm in Creative Non-Fiction which, gotta be honest, I have no interest in taking. I WANT TO TAKE ADVANCED WITH MICHELINE *stomps around like four year old or possibly Graham* and seriously, fuck. FUCK FUCK FUCK. The one class I had pretty good interest in and NOW I'M NOT EVEN REGISTERED.
I'm thinking of giving up on LJ. Or something.
Mario's little brother: Man, that's gay!
Mario's mom: Ay! Shut up! Cuidate! *gives thumbs up to Mario*
hee hee hee. okay that's it.
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Monday, January 8th, 2007
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Mare gave me an adbusters magazine and wrote me a note in it after I gave her the postsecret book. Then I wrote a note. One thing I wrote was that I'm worried that I'm getting scared of the dark. Which fucking panicks me.
Now my real secret is that I can't even fucking stand the thought of going back to Mills. No, seriously. That fucking bothers me. So what do I do? Smoke lots of cigarettes. I don't know what to say to my mother anymore and it depresses me. My life feels like this bad universal joke right now and I'm not into it.
Honestly, I want to move into high fidelity/mar's sister's place and smoke cigarettes with her and joe harris and carlos and mario and make food and never talk about anything again.
...and on that note, I'm going to ... go grocery shopping? oh fuck all this shit.
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Friday, December 29th, 2006
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fuck fuck fuck fuck fuckfuckfuck my brain running in too many directions and my body paying the price
i can't do this. it's killing me. i need an answer.
(even though i don't want to know it/ i need it/ i need it/ i need it)
goddamn.
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Friday, December 22nd, 2006
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Okay:
last update ... was honest of the state of things. But I'm not about to go jump off a bridge (yet). Fucking livejournal. I'm shuttered and clamped but so it has to be for a bit. Anyway. I'm leaving for Oklahoma so will be out of contact in many ways for a while. Okay. Thanks for calls, notes, etc. Stop worrying, okay?
Have a good holiday.
Drank whiskey with my water
sugar with my tea
my stains and rags
with the staggers and the jacks
I dream a highway back to you
I dream a highway back to you
A winding river with a band of gold
the silver vision come molest my soul
I dream a highway back to you.
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Monday, December 18th, 2006
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fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck
this hurts so fucking much so fuckcing much why did i do this to myself? why whyhwhy why
i am in a house and i cannot stop crying and my mother comes in and yells at me and mark looks at me with such pity and i am all fucking alone i am goddamn alone i am alone it wasn't enough it wasn't enough it wasn't enough iwa sn't enough i'm never enough and it's true everybody bails everybody bails everybody bails
i'm sorry
i'm sorry
i'm sorry
(itsoveritsoveritsover)
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Sunday, December 17th, 2006
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Oh Jesus. (JAY-SUS! as Franny would say or Jay-sus, Murrry, and Jooosph, as I would say). I just did the Daniela P. and Jessica M. version of drunk typing (ra, ra, ra, pound pound pound). Not as thrilling as I thought. Fuck fuck fuck.
Christmas presents bought: NONE
Christmas presents needed: six, at least
Money had: not enough
Freak Outs avoided: infinite
So what now? I'm going to make dinner so Mark can eat before he goes to dodgeball and then probably end up driving him there. I'm kirking. Woo Fiona Apple. Woo driving to really loud Arcade Fire. Woo expensive cigarettes. Woo fucking hoo. I haven't written a goddamn thing. I read glossy magazines, spent the day with the paper, glaze my eyes w/ movies. So it goes. okay. okay.
(the poem is over.
stop reading
stop reading.)
The light is flickering, freaking out in this room. This room is a museum with bed and desk. This desk is useless and full of books. These books aren't getting read fast enough and filling this brain. This brain is not numbing quickly enough with too much coffee and cigarettes. These cigarettes are too expensive and killing my clothes. These clothes are old and comfy and everyone hates them and the jeans are full of holes.
See? See what I did just there? God. Fuck me.
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Friday, December 15th, 2006
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Oh my god I'm never fucking sleeping again. Nope nope nope. Never. I have the Arcade Fire in my head. I want to fucking drive and drive and drive for ever. Por siempre. I am awake and I want to sleep I want to slip away. I can't go in that room I want to fall on the floor and pass out. I want a cigarette. I want to stop lying. I can't. I don't know what to tell you.
What I like right now (because hell, I'm an optimist)
A good fucking movie/film
Also a good book
Reading
Shitty Denny's/diner coffee
Fried eggs and toast and also Tapatio/Cholula
Boots / the way they click and carry me
Ana Castillo + Sandra Cisneros + Hemingway + Cormac McCarthy + The Bell Jar
Camels
Zippos
Tequila
...oh shit! this has turned into some poseur shit, eh?
Okay. Silk ties
Gray cats
Diego Rivera's flower women
public libraries
sly, kind waiters and waitresses
Cold water
And if I wake up before goddamn ten tomorrow I'll be impressed. I wish I had a really strong shower. I wish I could boil my blood and bones like we did that Sunday night. But then, go under the cold shower and stand there until my ribs and heart jumped out and I couldn't think anymore.
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Thursday, December 14th, 2006
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Hmmmmmm... Dot. Fucking. Dot. Fucking. Dot. Hmph.
I'm back in Chicago. And LiveJournal's a goddamn liar. That entry was made at like... 1 am yesterday morning. Fuck. It's Thursday. FUCK!!
Hmph. I have so much to read. (=good) There's so much I don't understand. (=bad)
I was listening to Samson by Regina Spektor last night in my car, having a smoke, and had to keep driving around till I A) stopped crying, and B) stopped smoking. Jesus. Okay.
Coherent thoughts for another time.
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Tuesday, December 12th, 2006
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and all i wanna do is turn around
i'm goin down to sleep on the bottom of the ocean
cos i couldn't let go
of the water and the setting sun.
OH christ.
I mean, it's better.
And I still think I ca'nt do it. But I will. I will.
Goodnight.
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Sunday, December 10th, 2006
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I can't explain any of this. But I feel smooth and light and like a stone and rocking and it doesn't make any sense but I'm okay with it. My eyes heavy and quiet, my skin clean. None of it makes sense and I can't bother.
mermaids in lagoons and stars and valencia street and steamy wooden rooms and sweltering eyes and laying on cold wood and trust and everything, everything and cold showers that break into your chest and it's as close to crying with yr whole body and deep down breaths and heavy lids and empty muscles, mouths, bones full everything else
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Saturday, December 9th, 2006
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i hear in my mind
all of these voices
i hear in my mind
all of these words
i hear in my mind
all of this music
and it breaks my heart
and it breaks my heart
You have to believe me that my heart is floating right now and I really am okay and flying (and maybe with James Bond from Casino Royale but what does it matter?) but sometimes I wish for something quieter and calmer and sweeter and lovinger but I'm happy for tonight I am for someone to lean on and someone to care for and someone to lie for and someone to miss and someone to yearn for and someone to trust and someone to lie to (because it's the best thing) and someone to dream with and someone to secret with
but now, as is, i'm going to lay in a warm bed and run my nails across the sheets because it is quiet and empty and that's it. and I'd be lying if I said I was sober but when I'm drunk I bleed over the glass and wire and walls and filters and I'm going to run over everything, for now.
for now.
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Thursday, December 7th, 2006
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A few notes:
Dear school,
Stop kicking my ass!
Pleadingly,
me
Dear little brother,
STOP BEING GROUNDED BECAUSE YOU ARE DUMB. Because then I hear about it 2100 miles away and what can I do? Nothing. Never underestimate the power of denial, little bit.
yours,
tu hermana
Dear Killers CD,
You rock! Keep up the good work.
-Rockstar Me
Dear Micheline's book,
Your influence is turning me in windy directions. I just dont know anymore.
-tu estudiante
Yo! Interpersonal relationships,
Could we keep the bullshit to a minimum? Could we get a little easier?
despairingly,
la introvert
Dear Lit Crit Final Essay I haven't Written Yet,
You. Me. We're taking it outside. And I am walking away.
-The Post Colonialist
Dear lungs,
I'm sorry. Just put up with it a little longer. The same goes to you, madame liver.
-the brain, mouth and hands
Dear World,
CALM THE FUCK DOWN RIGHT NOW DEAR JESUS.
-me
-
Today I was sitting at the table during Holiday dinner and there was candles and we had this big long table of all of us, my friends and lovies and Mills ladies and there was good food and warmth and laughter. One of those moments. I was sitting there and it felt warm and good and still and good and light for these tiny moments. But all I could think of was that I was sitting there and I had this thought of, Everything is going to change. And How can it stay like this? Like that feeling. Some wind is blowing through and I'm holding on with my teeth and nails and I just don't know.
I just don't know. I have no fucking clue.
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Sunday, December 3rd, 2006
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Gahdahmn. I'm sitting here bullshitting a cultural response for Spanish sobre Amores Perros y ahora yo quiero ver, actualmente, la pelicula. Fuck! I mean, I think you get that, but I wish I could actually watch it. Instead I have to make my way down to the goddamn rec room and kick some ass to try and finish some more of these assignments.
I kind of hate everything right now.
Or I could be hungover.
Or who knows. Except everything is all goddamn fucked right now and there's nothing anyone can do. (Poco a poco tu dejas de pensar/ te vas querando solo/ con tu lado animal.) But it's not that bad, so I'm okay with it. There's all this pen writing over my hands and I think I hate it.
Alright. Off to find Univision out here.
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Give me strength reserve control
Give me heart and give me soul
Wounds that heal and cracks that fix
Oh give me love, love, love
over this
Give me love over this I pray
Shit. My skin prickles. It's not last year but more exhausted and bleary eyed and who can tell if that's a good thing? I compare, though, so I can't call it yet. I've been writing more than I have in along time, though, and I just don't know. It's no cause for concern. Or it's worse than I know and I just can't tell.
And I see no chance of release
and I know
I'm dead on the surface
but I'm screaming underneath
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Friday, December 1st, 2006
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I don't know why this goes in here but it does. Gotcha? Bitchin.
-
3rd story walkup
Mano, I was fucking yr brother.
Not as though it was a secret, but
we never focused on it or even
spoke. He had yr same skin,
hands, most likely, velvety dick
in a nest of lazy hair. You do
not know this; will not, cannot see
how I fuck with fingers in hair
bruising bites to the breast,
the way I could release the
supine animal into my muscles
bones, pupils. The want to be
tamed, to be black and folded,
if only for minutes of knees to rug
cheek to sheet and seconds of
folded climax.
Before this, before this
it was August, the hot moving your
belongings to that place
you stubborn boys who refused
water, smoked cigarettes like asphalt
while the mothers and I made
stoic trips with mattresses, lamps,
cleaning supplies.
And I think of you, even now.
The screened windows, the constant ashtrays
Chicago choking from all around. There,
form the fire escape, the thick
throat of the TriState, the calves
of the Loop skyscrapers, fingers
of commuter trains. Packing thoats
into hot/cold living rooms and flooding
them with fancy name drinks,
beer, loose tobacco, the illusion of
independence and idealist dooomed
discourse.
For they were all and you
were all socialist dilettantes
clomping around in a state that
couldn't care less, indulged,
and I bemused, cynical always,
and sometimes amused. All pale
and refusing meat and listening to LP's
and sad eyed cross wired
brain to the heart, split between
my soft brown brothers (who I
did not love more- I cannot say
that, even now) and my
half breed whole blood heart
existence. But what could you
know about equatorial revolution
and myth of my mixed family?
Never had I tongue to explain
it, to explain: the coup, the dictator,
the military, the exile
that all nails into the individuals,
the uncles, the aunts, the long distance
phone calls, the immgration lawyers
the word asylum the tired
father.
I ask you now, from a land
of hills and dying buses,
sunny streets melancholy
storefronts colorful lowland
houses high school prostitutes
and genius homeless men. How can you
know? the way blood runs
sad in the vein, the work
to exhale in the face of newspaper
Pulitzer Prize photos mass
graves in Venezuela and
missing women in Juarez?
Only to say these words
are mine again.
My thoat open and running off.
Hands new, body new, mouth
quiet, missing a tether. And there,
see, the sternum grow, open slowly
middle hollow and full. - C.A.A.
-
Got some things I just can't tell anyone
Got some things I just can't say
They're the kinds of things no one knows about
just need somebody to talk to me.
Thinking about leaving tomorrow
thinking about being on my own
think I've been wasting my time
thinking about getting out.
Thinking about getting out. - Speedway, Counting Crows...
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Sunday, November 26th, 2006
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I don't know what I'm doing anymore. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. Hm. See, that feels nice to type. To hit, methodically and fast and hard. I brought piano music back here and that was good, I think that was good. Franny and I sat in the living room and reinacted the fucking girl drama around here to my music and played Christmas carols.
Do you ever just want to tell people to shut up, shut up, shut the fuck up? I'm feeling so asshole lately. Wanting to not give a shit. Or to be a jerk. Or to call people on their shit. But I don't. ('baby yr great/ you've been more than patient/ saying its not a catastrophe/ but i'm not the girl you once put yr faith in/ just someone who looks like me')
I dunno.
I feel done. But not in the good way where I still wrote or went places. Or anything. Blah blah blah. I'm listening to Lost in Space and I brought back old notebooks from my house to read to try and figure out what the FUCK is going on. I feel so old. Which is stupid, but I just do. Because maybe it's that Carlos burned his knuckles with his cigarettes and Mario is trying to kick coke and I sit with them and the "old crew" (minus Mar and plus hipster bitches) and cannot stop laughing about Abel being drunk and walking about Iowa. And maybe it's because Mar is okay right now, she really is, she's figuring it out, she's in love, she's transferring to Chicago maybe, because I didn't call one damn person except Carlos and Mar while I was in Chicago, because because because.
Jesus. Trevor got me some xmas lights and it's nice of him, it really is, and I put them up in my room and it makes it look better. I cannot believe I am back here. I cannot believe I was in Chicago a week ago. This is just fucking nuts. I don't want to be there. I can deal with being here, but seriously, if there is ANY MORE FUCKING DRAMA I will shoot someone in the face. I just want to run again. But there's no where to go. And anyway.
What I mostly think of is that I've never been as constant/close with someone for as long as I have been with him, without either a) running, b)fucking up or c) them leaving. Which, you know, I'm not saying it hasn't been close. And for some reason I wonder if this is what Gertrude Stein was like with the lost generation. Like maybe Mario and Carlos are Ernesto y Fitzgerald and Trevor is the Pablo in the equation. Is that right? Like this length makes me older and mostly a friend but there's some sex going on, and frankly, I've always been okay with that. But I'm a realist, you know, and sometimes my mind walks me on the future and it's not what people think, I think.
Just that I wish I wasn't so sick of everyone and everything but I am. And there's a strong possibility I'm getting sick. And this presentation of Pablo Neruda will not, will not, will not write itself. And I'm not writing enough so I better start reading to make up for it, vale?
Aimee Mann brings me back to junior year and I HATE HATE HATE it. But it also works for the whole "ancient" feeling I'm going for right now.
I just wish I knew what the fuck was going on. But I mostly feel glassy and horizontal and fluid and motionless. And it works, I think.
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sighingpixie's journal
blah.
lazy.
pissed off.
numb.
exhausted.
relieved.
working.
drunk.