Kiddie Kandids

Today -

a mom and her two young kids

walked in on me listening

and singing along to

"Cocaine Flow"

by De La Souls.

Oops.

Things I said.

At the grocery store,

the mother of this girl

who had cancer while she

was in high school with me,

skipped me in line

at the deli

while I was buying hot ham

and rolls.

I didn't say anything.

I wrote those words on a post-it,

to remember them-

and put it in my back pocket.

I must have dropped it going south,

because going north,

a friend picked it up,

unknowingly,

and read it aloud,

and corrected the grammar,

and we all laughed

at this weird stranger.

I didn't say anything.

The first day I hated my job.

The other day,

I took photos of

3 female adults

5 female girls

and one little boy.

The Salvat family.

They were loud,

disrespectful,

and completely mean to each other.

One girl,

Sophia,

who was ten,

had hair like Farrah Fawcett.

I could've choked on the hairspray.

The family switched from

English to Spanish,

saying things like-

"this background is ugly"

apparently figuring that

I wouldn't understand them.

They threatened to hit each other,

and called each other gay

or stupid.

When I was posing the six kids,

I asked-

"Sophia, could you sit over here".

Her response-

"That's MISS Salvat to you".

All I could say was "Whoa."

and pretend like it didn't bother me,

but in reality,

it shook me to the point

where I could have cried.

When I got back to the shop,

I just laid face down in the booth

silent.

Disheartened by the fact that

families like that exist, but

Relieved that my family is not

and will never be

anything like

the Salvats.

Image serene and Mike.

Today,

I played with a three-year-old

with big green eyes

named Michael

while his parents bought photos.

I put a top hat on him,

and a flowing crown on me.

He told me we looked cute.

Then,

I read to him.

Dr. Suess' alphabet.

He sat next to me,

on the floor,

and sometime during the "K"s

he put his little hand on top of mine

and held it.

My final two hours of the job

were spent taking photos

of a two-year old named "Image".

I couldn't bear to address her as such,

so I called her Immy.

They were modeling photos.

Her mom wants her to be a pamper's spokesgirl.

Dear Milwaukee,

I hope it never gets to you

how much I talk about Minneapolis.

Yeah, I'll admit it, I'm enamored.

My heart races whenever I even think

of going there.

Music.

Passion.

As soon as the skyline

comes into view,

I can feel the butterflies

begin to float in my stomach.

Like the first glance

of a long-awaited love,

dying to embrace.

But Milwaukee,

I love you.

You will always mean more.

You're not golden, no.

Impoverished, segregated, stagnant...

dangerous- some say.

But in those flaws-

perfection,

potential,

passion.

A dismal skyline

is the most beautiful thing.

You're not broken.

Thank you.

Midnight at the coffee shop.

Sitting in the dark.

I asked you what you were thankful for

this Thanksgiving.

"Being alive. You?"

I tried really hard to say it,

but I couldn't speak the words.

I was, I am thankful for you

for having met you,

and basically every minute

we're together.

No, you weren't, you aren't

the only thing I'm thankful for,

but you are glaring,

and maybe someday

I will be able

to articulate it properly.

"I'm thankful for the coffee shop".

Make, total

I just was outside

swinging an aluminum bat

as hard as a could

at apples on a tree,

knocking them off,

and sending them flying

as sauce across the yard.

I then started throwing rocks

at a hornets' nest,

that I'd only noticed today.

I don't think I'm angry,

but I just want to destroy some shit.

For lack of better features-

Mitsubishi's new car ad's premise is that

it's more "dog friendly" than the Subaru Forrester.

Easy fold down back,

allows for easy canine entry.

I'm going to design a car,

where the steering wheel

is made entirely of milk bones.

Fuck all y'all.

Priorities.

I've spent

my entire teenage

and, I guess now,

adult life

trying to be

interesting.

Just so he knows-

And since I'm pretty sure

he's the only one who reads this,

(which is probably for the best)

I just want Brian to know,

that he is one of the greatest

people I have ever met,

and I greatly admire him.

Honest.

Mostly because he is a giant nerd,

like myself.

I don't even have a legitimate emotion about it.

Maybe I just feel numb.

Superheros

Today,

a man who dresses in

a mask, boa, yellow reflective jacket,

and runs and dances crazily around

the east side,

(somewhat of a legend

a hero, or a pariah)

who I've come to know

on a personal level-

first name basis at least,

stopped by the shop and

motioned me to come outside,

and told me:

"Never believe you are anything less than radiant"

I had spilled my guts to him

about my trivial crush-

and he told me about his messy divorce,

living in a car, and mental disorders.

But this was when he was merely a civilian.

Then he started living as a superhero.

forward peddling.

I've got the ambition.

Though many of my

lofty dreams don't come

to fruition,

Maybe I've found a motivation.

A motivator, an agitator,

to keep the sediments

from settling.

Seven and a half tattoos.

Met a girl today

named Yevette .

She was seven

and a half.

Her leg was covered in

temporary tattoos

when she walked in.

I asked her why,

but she only turned her face away,

and took a bite

from her granny smith apple.

Twenty minutes later,

she sat down next to me

and started talking.

I told her that she didn't talk

like most seven year olds.

She was clearly very smart.

She knew.

She told me she was in

the highest reading level in her grade.

I told her that I was too,

when I was little.

(I then apologized for calling her little)

I asked her why

she wouldn't talk to me before.

She just shrugged,

and told me-

Her cousin had stuck about a dozen

temporary tattoos on her

when she was sleeping.

I said that was awesome.

She said her cousin is evil.

I asked her what she wanted to be

when she grew up.

A lawyer.

Why?

Because I'm a good liar.

Asking for

I am always going to be just

the great friend that

happens to be a girl.

Love, rather "like" stories

weren't made for

everyone.

I guess.

Except Jim and Pam, maybe.

It is selfish of me

to want more

than a great friend.

That's all I could ask for.

Lifted.

Yesterday,

ended up in Minneapolis

for a great opportunity

and something,

some things,

I just had to do myself,

by myself.

Success.

Told the truth

at 1 a.m.

Reality.

The Ocean.

This weekend

I am going up to Stevens Point, Wisconsin.

Next weekend

I am going to Tampa, Florida.

I am more excited for Point,

even though I've never

touched the ocean before.

REALLY?!?

My god,

he even bakes pies

from scratch.

This boy is

so intimidatingly

great.

Or at least Wikipedia.

My pseudo-dream

of becoming a pseudo-Milwaukee celebrity,

kind of like Brother Ron, the Jesus car guy,

(except less bigoted)

or like Expressionz Journal Raz,

(except less annoying)

or Frank "Pepperoni Cannoli" Cataldi,

(except with less spoiled meat)

became a little more within reach last night.

We will be the Tetris girls.

And we will go down in history.

Bored games.

I haven't been sleeping well,

but I've been dreaming well.

In a week I'm doing something

pretty idiosyncratic

by my standards.

I'm anxious,

in a good way

and nervous,

in a good way,

if there is one.

DKMS

Yesterday

I got the phone call

that I've been waiting several

months to get.

It was a six month follow-up

for the patient that received

my bone marrow donation.

The woman said that he is still recovering,

but cancer-free.

It's hard for me to grasp...

Six months ago, this man was in "dire" condition

dying from acute lymphoblastic Leukemia,

Resorting to a list of strangers.

What must that have felt like?

What are the chances one of these strangers would match,

that they would be willing to go through with it?

Your life, everything,

rests in the hands of someone

you never met,

and whether they'll even bother

going through with it.

I can't imagine that.

What are the chances that,

after swabbing my cheek at warped tour,

our lives would become irreversibly intertwined?

This man had cancer.

Now, he doesn't.

This man was dying.

Now, he has a second chance.

How fucking incredible is that?

I hope I match for someone else.

Dreams.

I never thought

eating cake

from a bakery dumpster

would be something

I would ever do,

much less enjoy.

Proved wrong.

All 50 States

Things will be good.

I'm smart and nice and funny.

That's still worth something these days,

right?

Filming a screenplay this winter.

Just read the script.

Stoked.

Ice Weasels.

Steve

is a 63 year old

childless, never married man

who's favorite hobby is

scavenging in alley ways.

He rolls his own cigarettes,

often times they are over 6 inches long.

He doesn't drink,

and I believe him.

He is a fantastic artist.

Able to draw almost any creature

since the Cretaceous,

with astonishing accuracy.

He wears the same jacket

every day.

Nearly every day,

he comes into the coffee shop,

with some things he's found on the street.

Shoes, books, a coffee table.

Pots, pillows, plywood.

Today,

he brought DVD cases, no DVDs.

He said he knows how we like to make collages.

Half the DVDs were porn.

Raunchy porn.

I think he freaks most people out.

But not me.

1,000

In the process of

listening to the

1,000 recordings

to hear

before you die.

I figure,

that's much more feasible

than visiting all the places

to see...

995 to go.

Yeah!

Take it!

My childhood friend

who I used to climb rocks with

and sing Janis Joplin

at the top of our lungs with,

just got engaged

at sunset

in Mexico.

I still think that shit's weird...

I'm pretty(,)sure.

Going through the process

of hope,

and dismay.

Then maybes,

then, no ways!

But, I guess this is natural.

Things are never black and white

or fairy tales.

Europe

I might just

fucking go,

and stop whining

about it.

<

A hundred

"You're funny"s

don't equal even one

"You're beautiful".

I'm the girl you tell

about how pretty that

brunette in your lecture is,

or how you wish you had

the nerve to ask that one

girl for her number.

I'm the girl that tells you

to go for it,

or to be reasonable.

The one who reminds you

that there are more fish in

the sea.

I'm the girl who makes you laugh,

the girl friend,

but never a girlfriend.

But I'll keep cracking jokes, anyway.

Thumbs up.

Today I learned

a beatnik handshake

from someone old enough

to have been a beatnik.

I also got a mix cd from a stranger

and cried a little during track three,

wishing that it actually meant something,

and that it wasn't just a pretty song

to a stranger

from a stranger.

Even though it's disgusting.

It's cute

how much you like

TAB soda.

Fantasy Football

I met a little girl today.

Her name was Giselle

and she was six years old,

turning seven, she told me.

She also told me that

her dad doesn't like listening to

Michael Jackson,

because he didn't sing about Jesus,

and when he died,

he went to hell.

She also taught me

what decapitation was

and pointed to a barbie head

someone had tacked to our bulletin board.

She even made a hand motion,

dragging her finger across her neck.

Veritas?

Today,

an albino girl

who was traveling with some free form jazz musicians,

told me I was "absolutely gorgeous" .

She said that she bets that,

if I get my picture taken at sunset,

with the sun behind me,

that I would look like an angel.

It made me feel, special?

She also told me that-

she is an orphan

she went to Harvard

she goes to Marquette

she has Leukemia

she was engaged (until this morning)

she is pregnant (with his^)

she pays for his tutor

and

she has four jobs.

Either, I got an incredibly nice compliment

from someone with absolutely atrocious life circumstances,

thus, I should be completely honored.

Or,

I'd been had,

and I'm only pretty to a liar.

Shame and babies.

Today,

I kissed a cute little baby,

two weeks old,

and realized-

it was the first time I had kissed a boy

in five years.

Fuck.

CARDINAL SIN

I hate for it to come to this,

it's terrible, pathetic, damn near unforgivable...

...but I have to quote a Smiths song.

Please, please, please,

let me get what I want this time.

Lord knows, it would be the first time.

I had to do it.

It's beyond applicable.

Just once, I'd love for something

to work out.

It would be...the bees knees, truly!

Paper planes.

We sat in the middle of the bridge,

and made paper airplanes

with posters we found in a record store dumpster.

We stood on the railings

and threw them in the river.

You are an engineering student,

but your plane didn't fly much further than mine.

I hope we can fly again.

Justice

I want you to be held responsible

and pay

for what you did...

and, as soon as I find out

the most effective way

to do so...

I will.

You can count on that.

Wrong.

I don't want to see your fire ever go out.

No matter what this shitty world throws.

You get so much more than you deserve,

and so much less than you deserve.

1,2,3,4

Every time

we high five

it makes me

want to

hold your

hand

a little

longer.

Illumination.

Woke up this morning

to a bouquet of

sunflowers

on my porch.

I have good friends.

Real good.

Noise

Tonight,

for the first time ever,

a boy offered me his jacket

because I was cold.

I bought him pancakes.

And also his train-hopping friend.

Milwaukee on a Friday night.

Milwaukee on a Friday night.

I play Scrabble

with a ex-hippie.

He tells me he pre-dates them though.

63 years young.

I grocery shop

with a train hopper,

fresh from a Seattle eastbound.

He carries three knives

at all times.

I watch a punk rocker

with big blue eyes

make a four egg omelet

with five month old eggs.

I get my picture taken

with a man in a mask,

and feather boas.

It was his idea.

I drink

two liters of Robinade.

Old school lemonade,

because I don't drink.

And mostly because

I like Robin Yount's mustache.

And I sit

and dance

and laugh

with my best friend.

And those other new friends.

And thank...

thank them, that I'm alive.

Milwaukee. On a Friday night.

Happy Birthday

They had survived.

The car rolled three times,

or maybe it was four,

and landed upright

as a mangled pile of metallic blue,

like a wad of paper sailing to a wastebasket.

The cracked radiator hissed quietly.

They were fragile.

They had been heading to a birthday party,

for a little blonde haired girl.

She was turning three,

and excited for them to arrive.

They were there.

The rescue squads only took

maybe, 10 minutes

Though, it could have been

10 hours, or 10 days.

All felt valid.

The back seat door,

where they had been,
was being opened by men with gloves.

As the door swung open,

three balloons floated out.

Cups

a homeless man walks into a coffee shop

he has been there before

the last time, he asked for a free cup of coffee

he walked out with a half cup

and seven pounds of corned beef

the coffee barely made it out the door

the beef, however, had a much better run

but still fell far short

of it's expiration date

which was in four years.

in his pocket, he holds a 20$ Canadian bill

he is staking a lot

on the hope

that the bank will assume that

Canada is similar enough to America

and will give him a fair price for it.

he sees some coloring books on a shelf

and asks if he can have them

because he knows some children that will

appreciate them

they are only half colored in

and not even he knows if he is telling the truth.

he eyeballs the paper he holds with

some queen on it

he asks again

for a cup of coffee...

The best thing since.

he kisses her on the cheek

as she throws her crammed knapsack

into the backseat of her cranberry lebaron

she doesn't look in his eyes

he crosses the street

it's a one way.

he is holding a whole loaf of white bread.

he looks back across

to see if maybe she' s glancing too.

she is not.

her eyes remain pointed forward

he hangs his head.

Holiday

I once met an ex-punk

who once partied with The Pretenders

in their limo.

She went to Dead Kennedy shows

with her boyfriend

and her fishnets.

She's over 50 now

and cleans houses

of rich people who live by the lake.

But, she still gets nostalgic

over Jello Biafra,

no matter how many

dining room tables she polishes.

Edit: Second Guessing

Trying to be

a little proactive

in situations

where self

pity is

no longer

acceptable.

Like learning

to ride a bike

again,

or learning

to keep a beat

without a

metronome.

One of which,

was exceedingly

difficult for

me.

I always feel

best writing

when it's after

midnight,

like some kind

of creative

gremlin

eating or

something

like that.

A name

A baby,

born on September 15th, 2009.

A boy.

A boy,

lost on September 15th, 2007.

A baby.

Just seventeen.

The town,

the neighborhood,

the high school,

the same.

A name,

Sebastian.

Coincidence.

...

right?

Judas, you've been pretty cool since Easter.

Sometimes,

I lay outside

arms stretched wide

and imagine what it must have felt like

to be crucified.

Welcome to the club.

Sitting behind three preteens

eating ice cream.

Them, and me.

"You know that feeling

in your stomach,

when you're really really happy?

It's like a little love.

It's like that."

I give it 2 and a half years

of bliss, ignorance,

before the cynicism sets in.

Legitimacy.

I wrote in a livejournal for 6 years

nearly everyday

and quit

simply because I came to the conclusion

that "real writers" don't compose

anything meaningful online diaries.

So I tried writing in a "real book"

legitimate paper,

going through at least seven different journals

without ever going through even one.

With cool handwriting.

"Artist" handwriting.

And in black ink.

Because that's how it's always been done.

And that's how I could be respected.

But looking back

in my fucking little "livejournal"

I find the best stuff I've ever written.

The realest, at least.

The most frequent.

So, fuck it.

I can't believe I ever thought creativity

was this commodity to be legitimized.

Like my black ink prose is better

because it's in moleskin.

Plus, to be honest, by handwriting is pathetic.

21 Tree

I saw this necklace last week
at an art gallery collective,
black glass, with a tree on it.
Couldn't stop thinking about it.
Wanted it.
NEEDED it, for some reason.

Rationalized spending 35$.
Went back to buy it.
Closed.

Next day,
went back,
open.

Guy working really seemed to
take a liking to me.
Introduced me to his dog.
(Bear)
(who was in his car)
And also talked about his girlfriend.
and how she doesn't really like his dog.

He talked to me about James Bond
and what kind of chain to put on my necklace.
He asked me if I'd like to call him sometime.
I told him to come to the coffee shop-
instead-
and wrote down it's phone number.

He kept shaking my hand. At least 3 times.
The kind where the person takes your one hand
into both of theirs.
"So glad to meet you".

I gave him 40$ for a 35$ necklace
and he gave me 16$ in change.


I can't go back with a clean conscience.

The same old thing.

It's not me.
Ok, I get that.
HEY YOU!
Did you even bother?
I did.
But that doesn't matter.

Con-create.

I grew up in the sticks.
An only child, where imagination was not only important,
but absolutely vital.
I could play for hours with my own thoughts.
None real, but no less satisfying.
And I would dream.
Every. Single. Night.
And remember it.



Hollywood has had a bad influence on me.
I'm waiting for a story.

Strummer

I've got a chip on my shoulder,
but this chip's a boulder
unable to hold
any longer.
I've got obligations.
Decisions.
Strings keeping me in position.
Stagnating my vision.
Should I stay or go Joe?
Shit, you didn't even know.

Conduit

I don't like
being the medium
for sappy, cliche,
albeit adorable
ramblings
that are never
ever
about me.

Your Senior Photo

Today at Sussex Hamilton
a senior girl,
(who I took as being pretty popular)
came in with a baggy purple tee shirt,
messed up hair, and sweatpants.

She asked if she could take a photo
with both her thumbs up.

No, I said.

She asked if she could make a grumpy funny face.

No, I said.

Why? She demanded.


In my head I thought...

"Let's say you go missing, unintentionally, you're abducted.

Is that the photo you want up on the 10 o clock news?

Let's say, they don't find you for a while, so there's a massive, prolonged search.

Is that the photo you want printed thousands of times on leaflets, Sunday paper inserts, or next to John Walsh on America's Most Wanted?

Let's say they do find you, but it ain't good. You're dead.

Is that the photo you want at your memorial service, in front of your entire school. Even the kids who...let's face it, you treated like garbage. The photo printed on hundreds of buttons that your family and friends sell to establish a memorial scholarship in your honor? ...



"It goes on your college transcripts".



She immediately went home to go put something nice on and fix up for the photo.

Rain.

I am in the process
of buying umbrellas.
From thrift stores,
rummage sales,
anywhere that's cheap.

Because this is my plan,
and I don't know why.

I'm going to fill up a backpack
full of umbrellas.
And on a particularly rainy day,
I will walk down the street
and give an umbrella
to anyone walking
in the rain
without one.

And the rest of the day
they will wonder why
the fuck a girl
with a backpack full of umbrellas
gave them one.

Working Girl

Had dinner last night
with 200 nuns.
No lie.
Photographing at a convent
has perks.
Free coffee, turkey noodle soup,
(complete with ketchup, if needed)
and possible salvation.


Took a photo of a high school kid today.
Short hair.
Cargo shorts.
Great smile.
As soon as he left, my co-worker leans in and says-



"I'm 97% sure that kid was part of the Aryan Nation. A Nazi"

Gifts and Takes.

Yesterday,
at a red cross tent,
at a punk rock festival,
someone called me a hero.

And took my photo.
And had me sign a release.

Yesterday,
I gave one of my favorite musical artists
a photo of him,
that I entered in a contest,
but didn't win.

I forgot to tell him
"Hip hop changed my life"
I hope he doesn't throw it away.

Whitnall

First day.
4:45 am.
Tripods. Hot box. Umbrellas.
Six graders. Punk asses.
Short shorts.

Break.

Went to a rummage sale on my break.
Lot's of old coins
and fake dollar bills.
One had Michael Jackson.

An old man, walked up to me
"Have you seen the Obama one?"
No.
Pulls out an envelope bulging with bills.
Michelle Obama 1,000,000$ bills.
Hands one to me.
"Is this for me?"

"Yes, don't usually give those out for free"


My first day on the job...
and I made a million bucks.

ABC

Public Enemy.

Today,
while picking up a few cassette tapes
to listen to
in the 15 year old car I'm borrowing,
I accidentally cut in line.
In front of a woman
in a motorized wheelchair
who was blind in one eye.

The Cure.

She told me not to worry about it,
She wasn't in a hurry anyway.
I got my change, two dollars.
I noticed she had a piece of tupperware in her hand.
I asked her how much it was.
Sixty six cents.
I threw down a dollar on the counter,
Said,
"This is for that,
thank you for letting me skip you."
and walked out the door.

Morrisey.

Canzoniere

Barbara Jean
is the queen
of the seventh floor
of public housing unit fourteen.

Her husband is a poet
but no one knows it.
He wouldn't let her expose it.
He was a business man, you know?
Where any shred of sensitivity
meant scrutiny and liability.
He wrote sonnets on napkins
and prose on scraps
of graph paper
and threw them in the shredder.

And her son yells at her
a 42-year-old drop out.
Who stays without
welcome.
She had to smuggle him
into her public situations.
Stayed for two weeks,
then took a two day vacation.
She hated sending him to the but
she had to.
'Cause if the landlord ever found out,
he'd kick her ass out too.
So far, they haven't noticed.
But it's just a matter of time,
and she knows it.
And Barbara Jean
will be back on the streets
quoting poetry
to strangers she meets.
Who won't look her in the eye
at the bus stop...

Worth it

Brewing Grounds for Change on Facebook

Nothing

No car.
No computer.
No job.
No place.
No love.
No peace.
No escape.


...

Rosie

Four days a week
she heads eight blocks down the street
to the same coffee shop
where they know what she wants before she speaks,
and it's always decaf.
She says it helps her sleep
because in her dreams
she is free.
It's there,
that that godamn chair
gathers dust
and her iron legs dissolve to rust.
But it won't last.
'Cause when she wakes,
reality shakes, her
heart can't take this ache.
She won't believe her destiny
is preconcieved imagery
full of sympathy
for eternity.
Well...hers at least.
So, every day, before she opens her door
she reaches for that white sunhat.
The one she said that makes her look
like Mary Tyler Moore.
At least that's what Steve used to tell her
back in 1974.
But, that was before that messy divorce.
Where he took half, but wanted more,
then ran away with his little whore.
So now she's left with a one bedroom, half bath
ceiling's cracked, mouse traps, hurts to laugh.
But, she still finds it within her.
She reads Buddhist literature.
"Everything's impermanent", she told me.
And plants Rosemary,
then gives it away to people she meets
for free.
And every day before her day begins
she puts on red lipstick.
Because then she resembles Betty Page
Half her age,
free from her cage.
Bird sings, and I know why
because I've never seen her cry.

In the dungeon.

I know that it's
INCREDIBLY PATHETIC
to feel at all disheartened
if a FOUR YEAR OLD
shakes her head "no"
when asked if she thinks
that you're pretty.

EVEN IF YOU DID
try pretty hard that day to look decent.

BECAUSE SHE IS JUST A CHILD-

AND SHE KNOWS NOTHING,

right?



People tell me-
"You should think better of yourself".
What the fuck does that mean?



Two nights ago-
I think I had a mid-life crisis.
Or, rather, as I termed it-
A "mid-youth" crisis.
Even though, I am past childhood,
by far.

I was driving on the highway with my arm out the window,
quarter to midnight,
Looking at all the buildings
I had seen a hundred times before
but in my head,
they were different
And I was in a new city.

So then,
I started freaking out.
Telling Crystal and Jenni
that we should take a month out of our lives,
and just drive with no destination.

What is one month?

I don't know what it would accomplish.
Probably nothing.
But, how can I know for sure?

I want the feeling of hot air on my arm
looking at a city I know nothing about...

I want it night after night.

I didn't fall asleep until 3.

The last things I see before I go to sleep
are three small ships
I have hanging from my celing.

I blame them.

All your friends are on the stereo now.

I am secretly
a little dissappointed
when someone comes into the coffee shop.

Then,
I can't sing.

Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia

Two months ago,
to the day,
I donated peripheral blood stem cells
to a 29-year old boy
from Texas
with Leukemia.

I don't know if he's even alive anymore
And it's beginning to haunt me every day.

I've been googling the phrases-

29 year old
Texas
Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia
Blood Stem Cell
Recipient
Donor
20 year old
Wisconsin
April 2009

in dozens of searches, in dozens of orders.
Hoping to find a facebook page, a blog, anything
telling me that this boy is still alive.

Maybe,
he will search some of those words,
that will lead him to this post.
And he can tell me that he is OK.

I don't need praise
or even a thank you.

I just need to know that you're OK.

IwritethingsIthinkpeoplewillread.

Christ!-
(in the same context one would utter "Fuck!")

Every attempt I begin at "blogging" or "journaling" ends up being an excercise in futility.
I had a livejournal for about 7 years. If I look at any entry earlier than 2007, I gag myself at my own pathetic tripe. I know in another few years, I'll be saying the same about this. My father found my livejournal online one day about 2 years ago, which despite my astoundingly dull life, apparently contained enough black-mail worthy material to bookmark my page under the subtle keyword "NOSE."

Today is father's day.

Sorry.

Two nights ago I woke up at four in the morning.
Outside was a white minature horse on my porch.
I'm not lying.
Her name was Misty (I found out later).
I swore for a few semi-conscious moments that there was a fucking unicorn staring at me.

We are not for them.

I still don't regularly have computer access.
A fact which, despite the frivality of it, is really weighing on my life.
THE INTERNET IS IMPORTANT.

It would be impossible...
rather, too time consuming...
to update on my life since the past month and a half.

I saved a life.
I suppose that's important.

A commercial for the ASPCA is on right at this instant
so it is hard to type, because my eyes are literally welling up with tears.
I'm a complete sucker.

Miracles, Puns, AND OVERALL FOOLISHNESS.

Today I went with my friend for her 13 week ultrasound.



It was the first time I'd ever even been in children's hospital.
The actual ultrasound procedure was one of the weirdest things I've ever seen.
Here was my friend laying on a table, watching by a grainy amphibious blob
sloshing about on a black screen. The ultrasound technician kept on doting on how
"cute the baby already was" and how much of a "miracle" it was. I was unimpressed.
Not necesarily by the fetus itself, but by the woman's mindless bantering. That thing
on the screen was not "cute". Don't get me wrong, it's not that I don't "value the sanctity of life"
(Although, my comfortableness with the idea of abortion unsettles many a person), it's just that
if that same "cute little miracle" popped out of my friends stomach tomorrow, it would be a
scene straight out of Alien. Or The Fly. Or Eraserhead. Not a miracle.

It was at this time that I thought it would be appropriate to make a "Juno" reference.
She didn't get it.
Apparently getting an ultrasound is too serious for puns of any kind.

On the way back, I got a phone call from the bone marrow donation center at the UW hospital.
She said that she would like to schedule my physical for April 1st.
I chuckled and said "Is that a joke?", assuming that she would get the April fools day reference.
She didn't.
Apparently donating stem cells is too serious for puns of any kind.


On another note, I should have been born in the late seventies.
I think that suits me much better,
and then having a crush on a 32 year old woudn't be weird as fuck.

<3

I can't remember

the last time I said

"I love you"

to anyone.

That makes me uneasy

Miranda Effert

Today, at 12:30,
a woman came in to the studio
with her son and her daughter.

It was her daughter's seventh birthday.

She was hooked up to a tube
through her nose which connected
to a long hose that ran to a portable breathing device.

Her name was Miranda.

Her mom told me right off the bat
that Marissa had severe ADHD,
and wasn't the best listener.

Her lips were slightly blue
and her fingernails were off color.

I brought out a background that was covered in daisies
and a big plastic number seven.
She was apprehensive at first,
yelling at her mom she didn't want to be there.
Eventually, she became more comfortable
and posed pretty well, and even smiled a lot.

Her mom told me that they had spontaneously decided
to come and take pictures today because
tomorrow they would find out
if Miranda would be put on the heart transplant list.
She was born with only one lung,
and only one side of her heart worked.

It was at that time when we decided to change the background.
Her mom suggested that I decide which to use.

I picked clouds.

Miranda didn't want to sit on the vinyl cloud background
,so I folded a piece of fake white fur,
and set it on the clouds

I told her to sit on the cloud
so she could be in the sky

She got excited by that, and sat on the cloth.

As I turned around to focus the camera,
the reality of what I just said set in.
I choked up, and felt my eyes welling.
I hid behind the camera quickly.

Perspectives.

A few days ago
I was sitting outside
on a bench, in the cold.

An old man came up to me
"Are you waiting for a bus?"

"No"

"How are you?"

"Good, cold, hah"

He proceeded to ask me my major,
I told him photojournalism.
He said he was on the front page
of the journal sentinel
a few years ago.
A story about the homeless
and mentally ill in Milwaukee.

He told me he's not homeless anymore.

He took a sip from his coffee
and a drag from his cigarette
Then he sat and told me about his life.

How he was addicted to
crack,
heroin,
and alcohol.
for 15 years.

How he told his mom
he would never do drugs.

He had a frozen wet streak
coming from his eye
reaching midway down his cheek.
I don't know if it was because
it was cold,
or because of what he was telling me.

He watched two people die
of heroin overdoses
and said
anyone who he's ever been friends with
is either in jail,
or dead.

He said Jesus saved his life.

This heart powered by

It started with
Cursive
and it ended with
Decendents.



R.I.P.
Atomic Records

You're a fish, just like me.

A few days ago,
disheartened by my
lack of things
to do,

I decided to go to
half-priced books and
the exclusive company

with plans to act
particularly mopey
and somber.

My rationale was that
people who like
books and music
would "get me"
and obviously sense
that I was having a cruddy night.

I sat on the floor
looking at clearance CD's
for about thirty minutes.
Waiting for my
empathetic savior.

No one came.

Films on the wall

For Christmas,
I got a projector
that plugs into a DVD player
and projects a
big picture
on a
big wall.

For the past few nights
I have been sleeping
in my unfinished basement
on an air mattress
watching films
on my wall

And I realized

I could be
totally happy
living in just a room
with white walls
and my projector

It would be like having
the most beautiful
window

I don't even need a bed
air is fine.

I play flute. Would that work?

In the first
2 hours
or so
of 2009
I have accomplishedthe following things;

1.Called
a dating hotline
with Cris
disguised as Cris
and we picked up a few chicks
or something
on the phone

2.Discussed
extensively
past episodes
of Hey Arnold
Because,
back in those days,
cartoons were good.

3.Weaseled
my way
out of being forced
to drink a gallon
of milk
in an hour.

4.Tried
really fucking hard
to not
make fun of Dick Clark
But, seriously.
Turn up his damned microphone.

2009, watch out.