the thing about names –or—I’ve been trying to write out this post for ages

I’ve had conversations with people about the importance of names.
And the way nicknames belong somewhere within that whole scenario of friendship and intimacy and creating some kind of secret relationship that, most of the time, just feels good.

And I’ve had different experiences, for example, while reading a text and realizing afterward or after it’s too late, that I’d been reading one of the character’s names incorrectly. At which point, there’s no way to make it go back and thereafter hearing the correct form just feels wrong. And then the character often becomes somewhat comic or irritating.

So, I realized along the blog-reading-way, that I’ve been guilty of these mispronunciations. Sometimes pronunciations that aren’t really a miss, but are also not really the person’s name. For example, trying to not accidentally call David d.v.d. in real conversation might have been a bit of a trick at first. Because that’s the way I’d been saying it in my head for months. Right. Then I realized the other day that when I look at Jann’s name. I say Jan. Like the shortened version of the female name Janice. I *know* that isn’t right. But I can’t stop doing it. He’s always Jan when I click on the link.

I wonder how much trouble I’m going to be in for all of this. Or if it even makes any sense at all.

i was writing something important
then all my thoughts got gone
best, perhaps, to just leave them for another time
when i've got some kind of silence
and some room
to call my own

resuscitation

like breath
stolen

returned

jumping the loop track

my smile cracks--like a voice that's not sure it's ready to speak--when i remember
hoquiam
checking the voice mail
from just outside the door
sitting on the porch
i realize that at some point last night
jay and i were bouncing messages
back and forth
and i can't stop laughing
when i hear his voice
the last one--shouting through the background of what must have been a crowded bar--
one sexy word

i love it when you call me big what?

yesterday i stayed up too late into the night drinking too much gin
every sip
keystroke
this morning
worth it

yesterday i learned something fascinating.
things to think about:
this word and this one

reverberations

november brought my voice for the first time
something written on a cold day while waiting for the bus and then later read into a recorder with deliberation – without thought to recompense
numb fingers gripping a pen
to save those words that just wouldn’t stop
like the smile
from listening to his song
the way every note taught different pieces of my body yet undiscovered words for combustion
captured onto any stray scrap of paper to be found
the margins of a bus schedule

maybe he never knew that what it really meant
was that i’d never recover from the moment
that deep inhalation of breath in a space between chords
maybe he never knew that i wouldn’t stop listening

something happens in the span of time between making music and hearing music
the laws of space and time that allow one hand striking a chord—even a million miles away—to produce an actual physical response in the body of someone else. touching without touching. these moments when we hear. when we listen long enough.

what he said
from me:

maybe it’s a conversation
two voices saying
i don’t want you to go.
but I have to go
over and over again
until the disjunction reforms
mixing into a unification

and he breathes at just the right spot
when the dissonance between
metal and metal
metal and flesh
culminates
becomes clear
and the separateness returns
the plucking of chords
into words
into sounds that need no other name

no more coincidence than this

i haven't been this sick in a long time
and i remember when and where and under what circumstances
everything just like this
as i alternate between thanking any god imaginable for the cool porcelain tiles on the bathroom floor against my hot skin
and the soothing stream of hot water falling down while i curl up this body on the floor of the shower
trying not to think about how much i miss the comfort of my own bed

tonight i wanted to write
but now i just want to sleep

meeting on the corner

so taken by the writing—a paragraph about street names that had to be read aloud—held in the throat—the mouth—and then spilled out in the empty silence of this room—where there is only me and an unmade bed—
that i left the house
to walk
with these thoughts about the succession of numbers where i’ve taken residence
avenues and bird’s wings
the names of trees—white against green on metal glinting against the grey sky—the soft sun—predictably they came at each intersection
realize, suddenly lost, that i was walking the path to you
in a city with the wrong name, the wrong sky, the wrong signs on every corner
crawl the slow way back
thinking about all the times i’ve ever tried with desperation not to fall right off the precipice—how often i’ve used the phrase—until these faulty edges gave way
and the ground went, all suddenly, limitless
and there was no where left to fall

i'm either going to hurl myself from the top of this building
or walk to the store for some coffee

eh . . . store it is then . . .

yay! you

happy one year blog-ness to dvd
thanks for spreading the maths love and the comovedy genius
and for never failing in the hilariousness that is you

notes taken--or--shots in the dark

yours is the last voice of the day that i check for before i turn everything off
shut out the lights
to sleep
dream

earlyweekcrazyassedwickeddrunk
and i realize that it's been tuesday
all fucking day
and i didn't mind
in fact, these days, i've not even given a thought
or need
to notice it all

cribbing: a conversation in two voices

sometimes i can make thoughts move
like people do
with my words across wires
perhaps not to quench
but to sustain until those moments come
when lips and hands and eyelashes
can fall down amongst us like rain.

if i said that i know the way
you can make thoughts move
or that mine haven't stopped since
the first time
you touched my hand
touched like our voices do
through these wires
letting everything else disappear:
this might be the first time in my life
that i wished i could write poetry.

much thankful laughing

from this post by way of gregg and his wayward chops
[thanks for that my brotha]

all of this before coffee and the way things ought to be but at the moment aren't

if it is the greyness of the day
or the way the light
at this particular angle
just this moment
filters through the shade
that fills me with the desire to create pictures
leaving my fingers numb
from this constant longing
for a brush
a camera
some combination of words that might not fade so easily—stray just out of your reach—
like the glow of fireflies in the night

right now

i'm thinking about daisy chains
how i'd like to make a crown of them
and words
for your head
or mine
both
run through tall grass
our holding hands
touching

right now
i think it might rain
and if so -- under those drops
like soft silent fingertips
dancing on my skin
i'll go
close my eyes
wait

turning the one hand cold, sharply

tonight realization came down like a fist pressing too tightly in the space just between where the neck ends and the hard rise of the base of the skull begins
something about the importance of love letters
and the trueness of that shape of desire pressed out into ink--into words--on a page
of that
these days
there isn't near close enough

today's providential recovery

new
strappy
sundress

[and words produced straight from long missed finger tips]

denials

yesterday i tried to buy a cool green lantern t-shirt
(although i would have been just as happy with the fantastic four, the ultimate spiderman, or--of course--the punisher)
but the store only carried extra large
bastards

just now

i bit my lip hard
it hurts
i want to come home

update:
i need to find a new apartment
i need to change my name

shaking out like sounds

these days of hiding—like the deep pockets of a closet that never see the sun—remind me of the urge to scream. right now i want to scream until my lungs explode. start running until i’ve forgotten how to stop. this is the way to move closer to something like a reclamation of that necessary space. where this is room to breathe. where all my words or the desire to make them dance together across the page or into waiting ears haven’t been lost—like birds wings beating into nothing.

resolution: no matter what and without apologies, i am never coming back to this place.

the truth about fiction

i never thought that writing this story about white athletic socks--lost and found--might end up having some kind of significance. but now i think about who accidentally ended up with one of my stray pairs, and it makes me smile foolishly--heavy with the memory of losing things and finding them unexpectedly and over again.

what have i done to deserve this?

thanks for the link jann

here there is processed cheese
each slice wrapped in plastic
tastes like nothing

slowing it down

yesterday i read an entire novel
while traveling
today, instead, i've been trying to take the moments slower
as they pass
walking the dog and looking for small treasures to purchase and mail to the people i love too hard
drinking iced coffee and daydreaming the pages of a book away
while staring off into the distance
being blinded by the sun

i just wanted to say --

i'll be back posting soon
still in recovery mode from days on days of never-sleep
and worry

i really need to slow things down a bit

note: yesterday i had one of the most rewarding conversations than i've experienced in a long time. perhaps even moreso, because it was just a normal everyday kind of thing. and yet, it left with me with this intangible feeling -- as if i'd just been kissed by all the faces of the moon. some people in our lives--even when precious--continue to impress--like the evidence of footprints through damp grass.

bwat error on the page now?

dunno.
never do.

hey -- does any one know . . .

if dvd is back from mexico yet?

this post isn't for any one person in particular . . . but if you smile or laugh . . . then def. i meant it just for you

just now, whilst trying to search for a particular word in a scholarly article (online),
i casually hit control f, as you do, when you're searching for certain term
only to find that apparently the last word i'd used with which to search:
monkey

*shrug*

use it
come on. you know you want to:

globulousness

so busy i can't see straight
and it feels way too nice out to be inside
projects to finish
more words soon

point to remember

never, ever, under any circumstances
pour (red) wine with your left hand
never

c/o comovodic genius stv

last night whilst out with friends i kept using the term
'ke'
finally someone asked and i just shook my head and thought -- isn't it obvious, tho?

other great tids and tads:
trying to pay for a drink, but other hanging out person resisted taking the money--
me: come on, here, i need to pay for at least some of these
person: why should i take that money? [hands on hips. doubtful look.]
me: umm. because i'm lovely.
[laughter]
person: [finally takes the money with the caveat:] that just can't be argued with

how my whole life passed before my eyes waiting for the #10 line to downtown

the first morning we waited for the bus at the same time
her first words to me were
don't worry. i'm not crazy.
this morning
she stands in the middle of the sidewalk
working over a crossword puzzle that appears
from this distance
to be completely filled in
she wears a hair net--a nametag--
items that declare her station in life
slinging food or cleaning other people's messes
she is 55 years old
and every morning she tells me the same story about how soon she is going to move out of her sister's apartment
get a place of her own
and a job that doesn't require washing pots and pans
all day long
she is my mother
when i was young and we barely had enough food to eat
leaving for work in the mornings with her grey hair tucked under a net
and looking at least ten years older than necessary
during these days, i thought she never slept
that all mothers could do without
but mostly over the years i thought she was just plain crazy
until she married a man
still blue collar
he made enough money
to turn her hair back to a deep coffee flavored brown
and she could stop worrying about if we would make it
that's the way we turn ourselves into wives
that's the way we make sure we don't lose our minds
or the shirts on our backs
even when he turned out to be meaner than he seemed
even then he sounded like a better alternative to being a little scared poor girl
alone
and already bearing the marks of my own private violations
i found him
i was 18 years old
that insignificant creature who said he was going to college
promised to take care of me forever
and that was good enough
by example
the only love i knew how to name
at the time