Friday, September 7, 2012

Jetlagged in a Costa Coffee on Picadilly, London, UK


The Cure on the PA,
Americano black.
"Italians carry it off with style"
"Italian about coffee"
È stupido giocare a The Cure qui.
"Fresh Fruity Fun
Ice Cold COSTA"

(I keep waiting for that feeling of exhilaration and freedom to kick in, to make the world magical for a day or two. That pleasantly overwhelming feeling, as if all things were significant. Alive to everything. I want it again, like I had it before.)

Friday, April 20, 2012

modified from the original

The art of losing:
filled with the intent
to be lost.

Accept the fluster,
the hour badly spent.
The art of losing,

losing farther, losing faster:
where it was you meant
will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch.
Three beloved houses went.
The art of

two cities,
two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but

(the joking voice, a gesture
I love)
too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!)

(One Art by Elizabeth Bishop)

Tuesday, April 10, 2012

The Tempest

I cried to dream again
I cried to dream
I cried to
I cried
dream again
to dream again
cried to dream again
I cried to dream again

Sunday, April 8, 2012

To be nostalgic for the place you are and the time that is—can we call that self-indulgent melancholy or is it something more?

Saturday, March 3, 2012

Notebook 002

Three teen girls at a table in a coffeeshop. Full of of laughs, likes, ums, oh my gods.

Two of them are trying to get the third to say something. She laughs and oh my gods and nos.

"Well, type it then!"

On her phone, I guess they mean. Send a text message that says whatever is unspeakable.

Friday, March 2, 2012

Notebook 001

Stuck in my apartment all weekend.

Always assumed our building was soundproofed—but now I hear a neighbour. She screams randomly throughout the day. It might be sex noises, but I don't think so.

It makes me wonder if my other neighbours have crummy sex lives.

Sometimes she sings. She has a good voice, but it's the kind of voice that knows it's good so it doesn't actually convey much other than the fact of its goodness.

Maybe the screams are her singing Diamanda Galas style.

Question: is singing loudly while alone kind of like masturbating?


So the challenge of coming up with exactly 100 words per entry kind of turned me off updating this blog. It also made me do weird things with sentences. Trim fat and trim fat and trim fat. End up with 92 words. Go back and add 8 words of fat.

That's why I've decided 100 will be the limit, not the exact quantity, from here on out. I have a lot of material accrued in my notebooks. Time to do this properly.