21 feet under
4 am blue
all over coffee
Amnesty International
Amnesty International USA
bay folk sketchbook
beautiful shadows
brian andreas
cat power
cynthia connolly
cynthia connolly -- banned in dc
dissociated voices (sound samples on the bottom)
donald miller
dover beach
dresden dolls
drinking sky and sweet black
God's Debris
green night on a dusty red moon
he scanned it, staggered
how now brown sock?
i found this magazine in santa cruz . . .
jacaranda (greysight)
jonathan hartsaw
jones soda
koyaanisqatsi
letters from home. (Rnk.)
listen to the rain (turn your speakers on)
mindwalk
mogwai
paul madonna
pedro the lion
pleiades
richard stine
Rivers and Tides
SAP
staring out the window at the rain (my old blog)
the deep end. seven feet.
the deep end. seven feet. part 2.
the near and the far
thirteen
throatshot
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what happened to lani garver
white oleander
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This is my blogchalk:
United States, California, sometimes Steiermark, Austria, something bored teenagers say when they speak useless words into brick walls of cotton candy, English, German, Noreia,creative writing, fiction, reading, college student, strange, cat power, mogwai, arap strap, dresden dolls, white oleander, the earth, my butt, and other big, round things, welcome to the dollhouse, fuckers.
grey drooling cats under stars.
my mother had me listen to the song of the tea kettle. she's playing guitar. a song she used to play when i was so young. she's making mistakes. i used to sit on the floor and watch her, it was a treat when she played. singing, in german. hansel und gretel verliefen sich im walt. i used to lie on the couch with her late at night (eleven, midnight), my head in her lap, pretending to sleep but watching her HBO or lifetime movies through slits in my eyes that i would have sworn she couldn't see. she'd stroke my hair, i'd breathe in deeply -- her smell of clothing, her clothing, and cigarettes and mom.
it isn't even the occasional arguments, or irritable words. it isn't really her childlike exhaustion in the late-night, from alcohol and weariness and living in the lives of the women in her movies.
it's mostly just that she's not perfect to me anymore. she's not the beautiful young traveler who could fix anything, love it away. all of her opinions are not the Best Way of Seeing Things. i don't find in her the . . . the everything -- the magic of the steierisch dialect, the paul simon on saturday evenings with schnitzel and my sister and i playing on the front lawn with shane. the eggs and onions, but her eating so little. it was everything, so many tiny traits that made her the best thing in my life, the comfort and safety and love that everyone longs for.
i'm nineteen, and i get along with my mother. but sometimes . . . i miss her.
moon phases |