I want to write movies like 'king's speech' and 'true grit'.
lovely, both of them.

I'm not ashamed to say
that none of this feels real.
I can hold your hand
(and will)
and run with you
through whatever fields you like.

Dive in puddles
swim in faucet drips.

And nothing feels real
until it's over.

Tell me,
what is true?
If everything's a lie?

I've been everything
no one wants me to be.
I've been everything
I was told was wrong.

I broke my own rules.

And it didn't feel real 'til now.

The Boy and the Beach Drowned Chariot

My ancient wooden wheels
are stuck in the sand, sunk
in the thick, wet would-be rocks.

Here I am,
immovable in you
and the vast desert shore.
No oasis, this, so I'll pitch
my camp here among
the Bohems and professional gypsies.

The routines stay the same
no matter where the tents.

Morning toothpaste smells
like medicine, but it culls
the night taste of
-last cigarettes
-stale booze
-and you.

Sand shifts and dances
like your eyes
your mood
your attention
and there's nowhere for me to go
without catching the shifting
drifting scent of
-sea salt air
-fish deep in water
-and your whiskey coffee lips.

I imagine that breath as a lure
hooking and catching
hearts and souls
like so many sea creatures
in the best homespun nets.

Does the squid know to escape,
when he is self aware
enough to sense that he's been caught?

Maybe the Dark is worth it. To flirt with total desperation. To not jump from the cliff, but dangle your feet over the edge. Treat the unstable ground on which you tread like a tight-rope, one foot always in the air, ready to come down but not.
I can't fight it alone, but I can't:
create
focus
invest
if I ingest
all the pretty blueandpink tablets they keep handing me. So it's a sacrifice I'm willing to make. Make up my mind to lose it so at the end of the day I'll have something to show and a decent story to tell.

I can do anything with my Darkness in tow. We struggle, we fight, and sometimes we destroy. But we're learning to dance instead. To give and to take.
I can be the hero,
Villian
I can be the lover,
Monster
I can sleep now.

Blessings (grudgingly)

This one's for you, Sister.

1) I'm back in Kansas City
2) I am full of good food
3) My family loves me
4) I had a nap

There. Those 4 things are great.

bah-humbug

The Last Days of Judas Iscariot

(Read this play, you won't regret it)


Cunningham: Okay, you say God made you-
Satan: God did make me-it says so in the Bible.
Cunningham: I know about the Bible, Mister Satan. It also says in the Bible, in...in Matthew I believe. In Matthew it says: "A good tree cannot bear bad fruit," correct?
Satan: Correct.
Cunningham: So are you saying that you are good? Or are you saying that God is bad?
Satan: I would never say that God is bad.
Cunningham: So, then, are you telling this court that you're good?
Satan: I don't know- are you good, Counselor?
Cunningham: That's not what I asked you!
Satan: I'm sorry.
Cunningham: Just answer the question.

Satan: I don't believe in Good and Bad. What I believe in is Truth.

So which are you, the volcano or the tornado?

The cheap, wood paneling of this room should not have been painted, kind as the intentions may have been. The once cheery pink has faded to a sad, sickly grey-purple, leaving one feeling upset of stomach rather than comfortable.
I look around, taking in my surroundings and fellows. Everyone does their best to avoid eye contact with me. Some absently stir their stale coffee, others pick at scabs or dry skin. No one wants to see themselves, much less me.
A young man picks at loose pieces of tile with the tip of his scuffed work boot. He wears a thick leather braclet to hide the scars we can all see anyway. I don't even need to look at his arms to see the scars, they're there in his eyes. His self hatred is clear as day, what he sees as weakness is written across his knitted brow.
We're all here for the same reason. Well, they are, I'm an observer. And no, not in a 'I-want-to-be-Tyler' kind of way. Although, I am your Narrator.
The hands on the clock align and a kind of silence settles over the gathering. Fifteen or so young to middle aged adults straighten in metal folding chairs, the logo of the host church spray painted on the backs.
I wander to the back of the room, seeking a better vantage point. A woman in standard Bank issue grey rises and turns to face the crowd.

"There was a time, in all our lifes, that we were on the right path. We were not ashamed of who we are, or what we did. We are here in this place to find our ways back onto that path."
She pauses and looks around the room, I'm the only face she doesn't know and I lift a hand to wave, but she goes on.
"This is a safe place. A place free of judgment and hurt."
There is a pause as she lets her words settle.
"None of us need to stand alone. Who would like to share?"
The young man I noticed earlier twitches his fingers in a way that almost suggests the raising of a hand. He stands and the woman sits.
"Whenever a person talks about sex, everyone around them assumes they know what you mean. If I bring it up to my friends, they think they know what, or who, I mean. Same with family. If you mention sex, everybody thinks they know. Like, you can't talk about it without having had it. So to your people on the outside, bringing it up is like saying 'hey, my name is Jack and I'm a whore' or a user, or a slut, or a man. Sex is conquest and victory makes men. Someone told me that once and it sounded good, sounded fun. That was before I realized that conquest works both ways. It's embarrasing, having people think they know you. I try to be honest about who I am, who have been, but..."

The boy's fingers take on that same twitch, this time dismissing his words. His hands betray his voice.
"...but they don't know. I don't tell everybody everything. No matter how honest I try to be, it's not possible. I tell them one thing, they assume they know the rest. I dunno. I don't have a problem with sex, I have a problem with guilt."
"Do you feel guilty?"
The woman speaks from her seat and the mood shifts from a confession to a public therapy session. I scan the audience and every member is paying rapt attention. Someone to my left lights a cigarette and I lose myself in the smoke, wishing I weren't trying so hard to quit. I clear my throat and she blows her smoke away from me. I wish she wouldn't.
"I feel like I should."
"Can anyone else relate?"
Eyes roam about the room, none of the previous avoidance now. The smoking woman next to me lets out a long exhale through chapped lips, then speaks.
"You shouldn't feel bad unless you feel bad. Don't take on someone else's guilt to make them feel better. Sex is sex is sex, everybody does it, and if they don't, well...I can't even imagine that actually."
There is an uncomfortable silence. Based on how many people now swill the remaining coffee in their paper cups, I get the feeling it's not the first time this woman has spoken out. She drops her cigarette into my Dixie of cold joe and weaves her way to the door. She looks back over her shoulder at the young man.
"Don't let them tell you you're not beautiful."
I glance down into my cup as the stale liquid finally swallows the smoldering tip of her cigarette.

game face

You wouldn't like me,
if you met me now.
I'm not that little girl you once knew,
kneeling down beside that pew.

Once upon a time
I was pale as white
only failure being blood from my crown.

I put on that face
and I smiled along
and you fed me my lines,
told me what to say.

And those words because faith
and that faith became life
and that life was a lie.

That life was a lie
the little pills told.

Pills I drank w. communion wine,
swallowed all the same:
lies, stories, 'truths',
and you.

I had a lot of fun,
living for you.

I've had more fun
running from you.

The narrow road
is a hunters path.
Do you see the way
thru the brush?
Do you see the way
thru the truth?

God, forgive me now.
I can't stand the sight
of who I've become.

You wouldn't like me now,
I'm not that little girl
on the narrow road.

the day after this one

On the day after this one, maybe I'll learn. Maybe I'll cry. Maybe I'll finally let it sink it.
On the day after this one, I'll go ahead and talk, I'll really think about it, I'll 'deal' with it.
But, really, I'd rather not. I think I'll go ahead and keep on keepin' on (as it were).

Because there are those dark nights, those long silences when the pain creeps in, when the indescribable anger starts to boil up from the pit of my stomach. In these moments outside of time, I can feel my face burning, jaw clenching. I have nightmare flashes of my teeth popping under the pressure, shards of bone bloodying my mouth. Teeth, after all, are only bones pushed through gummy flesh.

I want to scream and I want to cry and I feel guilty because I don't. If I let it in, even a little, the old darkness comes streaming back in with it. Pain is pain is pain and I can't stand to lose the ground I've gained. So, for now, these bones are smilin'.

the dark storms

I have to admit that the following is not of my own mind. Like much of the material here, it is derived from conversations with others. Sometimes, sometimes, the drunks can be so poetic.

"I find it hard to go out these days. I can't go out like I used to. All these people, all the people, just have faces. You know? They've got these faces and they're like tombstones. All their faces are tombstones and they're all dead. We're all dead.

I have these dreams. Storms. I can't sleep and I'm afraid of the storms. We're all there, we're together and we watch through glass windows as these storms come at us. I'm afraid of the dark ones. And there's nothing we can do, but wait. So we wait for these dark storms to come at us and we don't know if we'll make it. But all we can do is wait and see if the storms are going to kill us. But we're waiting together."

I've got to put down Easton Ellis this week. I find myself wrapped up in Bateman's world and dancing the patterns of his thoughts. I look at the names on people's clothing. I find the labels as important as the beings underneath them. My speech takes on italics, sharp and demoralizing. Try not to show panic at the red soles of another woman's heels. Boots as good as business cards in this world.

I'm switching back to Foer

un

I think that I realized tonight the differnce between the physical and the real. I feel as though I've been in and out of consciouness lately. Like, I'm awake most of the time, but rarely do I have REAL moments in which I recognize the reality of life.
Not all things are lasting. I was recently told that unless you write it down, whatever it was may was well have not happened. that is at once a terrifying and a relife. I can't decide if 'relife' is spelled right, I don't think it is.
My recognition happened thusly:
I was having an average day in which I can't quite recall what happened. Then, all of a sudden, I had a glimpse of what really was. I was at a bbq at Stana's house. Then, I was all at once aware, like really awake to what was happening. I was with the ones I love almost the most and I was really, really with them. I could tell that in a hundred blessed years, this moment would be one that I would talk about. And not in a 'this is completely awesome' way. Nothing particularly interesting was happening, I was just AWARE in this moment that this was a memory. These people were my people. This was my story and my loves were my characters. And much more intersting than any I could ever create.
It almost shames me that the only other moments I've had like that were when I was stoned off my ass.
It's not a secret.
And right now, I'm having one of those moments.
And they're infinetely more real and intersting when they aren't the fault of substance, but rather, the result of life itself.

Fooood for thought

I just got home from work and I smell like and ashtray. I'm hungry, but it's 3:30 a.m, no way am I going to cook something. I'll eat this 1/4 bag of sour cream and onion chips, though it kind of bothers me to eat soured anything. I can compromise with these chips because they are delicious. Tomorrow, I am going to eat sushi. Again. "But Jessica,' you may be saying, "isn't sushi 3 times in a week enough?" and I say no. No, it is most certainly not enough. Tomorrow I will be eating delicious soosh from the amazing Umi's on battlefield. You are welcome to join me, 'cause that's where the best un-cooked seafood is. Well, in Springfield anyway. This springfield. Okay, this has gone on long enough. I need some sleep. And a shower. In the opposite order that that is written.
Also, it's a new goal of mine to be a guest on 'The Late Late Show w. Craig Ferguson'.
That is all.

Computer virus

You were created by Apple weren't you? Just to make me want to buy a Mac so I never have to deal with you again. I hate you. I hate Marnie for bringing you to me. If I lose my writing (and it looks like you're a fan!) I swear on Dear Johnny (and he'd totally back me up on this) I will destroy you. I will hunt down your viral family. Your virus mother, your virus children, your estranged virus uncle, and I will kill them all.

One Man

Coffee and cigarettes,
I'm dying in doses.
I know what I was meant to be, predestined futures are spun for us all. The family shows how to live, how to love, how to make ends meet.
And I don't wanna be saved,
(must be the way I was raised)
And sometimes I don't wanna get saved,
(Contrary to the way I was raised)
And I don't know what this is, but it feels a lot like Hell. But things aren't so bad. There're some pretty bright lights around here after all. After all.
I always smell like a bar.
Liquor on my breath just from sniffing vapor. There isn't really a road to where I am.
I want to say something beautiful, but find a lack of words. And a subject so vague, I could be excited about it.
The tallies on my arm are starting to itch. (Do you know what I'm counting?)
Where'd you go? Where are you? I'll pull your strings and bring this kite right back down. All the way down, here, next to me.
Don't fly little one, I can't.
So we'll make a Great Compromise
and walk side-by-side
feathers twined with fingers
on these dark, midnight roads
each of us with someone else who doesn't sleep.
'Cause it's not that bad, but one does want for understanding. The family paved the way, but I ran and lost the trail. It's a Kansas City Shuffle. They look left, you go right.

Okay, that's enough nonsense for now.

Lisa is talking at me about how philosophy created the world so we should all hate it less. I don't hate it, but I'm trying to watch t.v

writeright

I feel as though I've spent my whole week trying to capture something that is always on the tip on my pen. But, as with the whole 'tip of the tounge' debacle, I cannot find the right words. I don't even know what it is I'm meant to say. Something is there, though. I would almost hate it if it weren't a reminder I am alive. It's a bad night to be alone, but that's the way it goes. I'm counting the days until a vaction. The number still seems too high. Too high. hahah. (I guess I'm having inside jokes with myself now, great, that seems sane)

This is what's in my brain:

Why the hell is Naveen Andrews on Law and Order? Have you fallen so far, Sayid? I hope not. (3 weeks)

The biggest headlines today were the earthquake in Haiti and Conan v. Leno.
Conan ftw.

I'm watching local news and the fire department is practicing ice rescues in Lake Springfield. We have a lake?!? Why didn't I know that? Lakes are kind of hard to miss, right?

The sports guy is way too enthusiastic about high school sporting events. He's old and this is boring. There is no way I spelled 'enthusiastic' right. No way.

If I walk past a vending machine and there's candy hanging there, by the coils, I will for certain smack the hell out of that machine to get the candy. I don't care what it is. Even if it's Skittles. I hate 'em, but hey, Free Skittles. Put that in your Sprite and chug it.

I've been sitting in this broken, horrible armchair for the past 4 hours. Productivity fail, relaxation win. It kind of bothers me when I come home from class and someone else is sitting in my chair. Like, a lot. I don't know why, I've never claimed it really, just sort of thought it was understood that if I sit somewhere long enough in my bathrobe, that place belongs to me. My chair.

I was at the boy's house for 3 days straight, prompting Ferranto and Cole to ask if I'd been peeing there. 'Marking my territory', they called it. I said yes. All your boys are belonging to me.

Andrea MacMullen, better known as the girl who trashed the McDonalds in K.C, said that the girl behind the counter 'prompted' her to it. She got charged w. a felony and hid in her closet. 'They set her off'. The anchors are making fun of her and Lisa Rose (anchor) just laughed and lightly hit the male anchor in the chest while telling him to 'shut-up'. I think they may be sleeping together.

(c)here's to Everyman

Rooms jammed full of faux intellectuals.
Yes, pretention, yes, education.
Let's push our glasses up our collective nose.
Wear houndstooth scarves
where we all smoke cloves.

Yes, I understand.
No, I don't agree.
Lean left 'cause it's cool
or rather, 'cause it's not.

We drink PBR on our off hours
and capture ourselves w. vintage cameras
held high above our heads
angled in mirrors,
solo.

Tweed jackets w. too short sleeves
sparrows on chests, exposed
thru bright neon V's.
And nothing's wrong,
nothings wrong,
our time is playing a borrowed song.

But cheers to that
'cause we're all goin' down.
Trust fund's up
S'best we blend.
Thin legs on fixies swinging
like our stretched out lobes
-but-
that's not so pretty anymore.

So stitch 'em up and grow a beard.
Buy some Av's or Ray's and a calculator watch.
Not that we care,

'cause we don't care.

Villiany to Romance

Last night I died
and was not reborn.
The dreams I dream
make mothers mourn.

Tried to walk,
could only crawl.
The Ether man,
he shook my wall.

Closer now to sea
than ground.
Jump to see
my faith rebound.

Do angels fly
on wings of grace?
These nights have put
my soul in place.

Head in the clouds
feet on the ground.
Needles in veins
can't drag me down.

Not soon enough
Not quick enough
God, you need me?
Not enough.

There's blood on my hands
and sin on my mind.
In the end
what will you find?

The ghost of a Girl
that you once knew?
Gentle impression
of knee to pew?

Get off your knees girl,
Don't you dare.
Wouldn't advise
a gamble on prayer.

Thoughts of Jan. 11th, early morning

There's something inside I wanna expres-s
There's a weight I wanna get lifted off this ches-t.
But you're all distracted and sidetracked
sidewinding thru this tide
And I don't wanna inte-rupt.
I don't wanna make things harder
not for you
not for you
not for anyone.
So I'll keep it inside
'cause I ain't that attention stealin' whore
I ain't that des-pera-te for your
fake love your
momentary adoration.
I wanna say
it
I wanna tell
you.
But I'm not gonna bring things down.
I don't wanna shift this mood
in my direction.

But there's this - thing
inside
and it pulls me: down down
and it turns me: 'round 'round

It's this worm
between my skin and flesh
and it eats at my clean bill of health
and it grows
fat on my fat
and it - l i n g er s
crawls
between my flesh and my guts
and it twines itself 'round
my soft palated organs
and sometimes it
leaks
from my nose.
and - escapes
on my breath.
in angry passive words
and dark agressive acts.

And it holds me tight like a lover
warm
on those cold winter soul nights

And that, at least,
is constant
and that at least
is relief

Dyonisus

I can only think of myself as a conduit, a vechile, thru which some talent, some words, some greater works, so good more than myself must travel.
There are no original stories, there are no unique thoughts, but one person may be able to say or express things in a manner no one else is able. I think that this is my job.

For the Sister

Day Two. I hate it.