Sunday, December 21, 2008


Every mornin
I wake up to paint myself anew.
And the colors
F l o w.
Sketch in dEEP, fearless angles.
These are my transitions.

My soul is like the lightning.
On fire
But beautiful
He would rather watch
From afar
Bless his heart.

Saturday, December 20, 2008

The Conexsh, welcome.

From my journ and a letter to Brody-- 12/14/2008

I LOVE the women I live with. Right now I’m in the kitchen. I’m typin on my laptop over top of a summery table cloth. There’s yellow polkadots on the walls.
Melissa is next to me, reading a buckLONG email from her boyfriend Jeff. Jeffy lives in Salt Lake and they miss each other. They’ve been dating for five years. He just got baptized. Melissa is usually very composed, never spazzes about anything—except Jeff. “YES!” she says. “Whenever he writes me these things I just read them sloooooooooow and make it last. It’s like a meal.” She reads us the best parts. She sinks in her chair and sprawls out in sighs on the kitchen floor.
Danielle’s makin Hawaiian Haystacks because the musical fireside she organized finally happened tonight. No more transposing music or making quartets out of volunteers. This means her dedicated soul can actually chill-out and think about something else—like eating, finally.
Steph is sittin on the dryer, gigglin in her pajama pants with a big blob of Saint George blondy hair on top of her head—that mess is everywhere and I love it.
Danny and Andrea are on the couch making a book of the letters they wrote while he was on his mission, and pickin out baby pictures for their slideshow reception. Every five minutes Danny’s Mom calls to say that she has emailed 783490547839 more pictures of Danny’s childhood, and that she would like them to all be included. Sometimes they hit a sketchy letter and Danny is bummed because Andrea was dating someone during that one.
Now Danielle’s eating. Her freckley legs are sitting all polite and ladylike, even though she’s sittin on the dryer eatin rice. She’s still in her violin-black-dress. Andrea comes in and needs to get in touch with this boy in our ward. “Okay!” Danielle says, kinda blushing. “… I don’t mind texting him..." Danielle has a quietly cute, dang fat crush on this boy. Sometimes, she invites him over for cookies.
“Stephhhhhhh” I yell across the house. “Come back to me I miss you!” She comes back in the room, blob of hair undone around her face, and poses all hott in the doorway. This is a huge deal because if you met Steph, you’d have no idea she had such an attitude. You just have to love her and let her trust you and next thing you know—she’s goin nuts.
Brooklyn’s gone, buyin desert on the Sabbath because I accidentally charred the going-away cake she made for this boy. He has a fat crush on her, but she just wants to be friends. Story of Brooklyn’s life. She’s adopted him and some other terrific nerds from the tech support team at work. These boys are her new “guy friends.” (She had to give up on her our last ones, because one of them was in love with her. Now it is sad for him to see her, and just not a good idea.) Again, story of Brooklyn’s life. So anyway, I charred her cake. She comes back from the tainted Sabbath-violating cake party and busts into the kitchen with us. “Who was that girl with him tonight?” she asks. Everyone joins in. They say they noticed too. “She is not as cute as you, that’s all I’m sayin.” I know it's not about how cute she was, but it might have felt good to hear that. Danielle's still on the dryer. Steph in the doorway. Melissa beside me. My emotions are all over the place these days. But man I love these girls. Love them.

Sunday, December 7, 2008

A knock at the door.

This is just to acknowledge the fact
that many of my pages are withheld from this thing.
Specifically, the ones I wrote tonight.
To post them all would be unfair, melodramatic, and just gay.
I am not in middle school.

I will not be the girl on her living room couch, sending pleas out into the void.
Instead, words like tonight deserve an individual destination.
Before they're copied and pasted for the blank ambiguous public, they should be stated to their subject, bold and unashamed.
But, these words will not be spoken.

Instead, I wrote them down. I closed the book.

It was not enough.