I would love to curl up with you on the right side of the bed that lives in Taliesin West over there in Arizona.

In early December I was sitting in a coffee shop in my childhood friend's little Chelsea neighborhood with Neil and we were amping ourselves up to be epic soon, we were telling each other all the right things. Things like how I need to focus more on the essayist that lives inside of me and how Neil needs to get off twitter and finish his damn screenplay.

I told him how my novel sucked but then I would look out the dirty window and tell him it may be pretty good but it will never get edited. He told me about his screenplay while sipping tea and I could kinda see it in my head. And this is a good thing. He was a bit manic and I was a bit gloomy.  We were wishy washy in our writer spine ways.
I think all the talking just talked us back into a circle.
We turned around and had ended the conversation just where it began.
Change. We need it. Writing. We crave it.
We are just unsure.
We are just angst ridden writers.
We are different.
Like you.
We are different.
We are so the fucking same as everyone else.

It sucks to be a writer. If I were a singer and good at it I could just sing out loud to people in the market or on the street. They would tell me I was good and I would walk away with a smile and a secret little pop to my step. A swagger. A bounce. I could know that I was good at singing. I feel beat down sometimes because if I were a singer I could make you hear me. I feel like I am talking to myself on here but I know it is good practice for me. It matters. It is time frozen. It is a memory.

I just want long hair and a small house with endless wooden floors and all of the people that I love inside of it dancing -but there would also be a small room for me where I would write poetry all day.

I would have a bed like Frank Lloyd Wright.
There was a divider in it. If Frankie was sleeping on the right he could be disturbed. It meant he was only resting or daydreaming or being lazy. You could come to him with art and dreams and wishes and problems. But if he were on the left side of the bed you could never touch him.  You could never bother him. He was sleeping. He was in his small allotment of true sleep. Genius sleep. The darkest place you can climb down into and nestle. The place where we are only ever alone.
I would have a bed like that.

I tried to tell someone today how I feel crazy a lot of the time. She just told me not to worry about it. That I was a little crazy but how the crazy ones are the best. Like the sweetest oranges and the slowest kisses.  I remembered this post I wrote about a year back and suddenly I felt fine. On 1/11/11 I felt fine. I shake my tiny fist at you 2011. I lift my shirt up at you and flash you. I laugh with my mouth so wide open that you can see my white childhood cavities. I make you want to be with me 2011.

I did drive across the United States one time. It was a very long drive.

I was with Julian Simpson from England and my friend Bryan. We had just been released from our shackles of Presbyterian church camp counselor servitude. It was August and someone that I loved had just died and it seemed like the thing to do. We drove from Chapin, South Carolina to Los Angeles and back home to Cowtown, Ohio. I was just thinking about how I hate to drive nowadays. How I am prone to panic and angst on long journeys in my adulthood. I am not sure when the little screw fell out and took me to a yucky place with driving, but it happened.
Back then I would roll down the windows and my long hair would slap my eyes and I would love it. I drove across Texas all night with Madonna and fast through the Nevada desert with Metallica where the sky hung low and purple. All around me were scenes from movies that had not yet been made and songs unsung. I think looking back- that trip was meant to be escapist for me in theory, but all the way as the tires spun round and round, I thought of how sad I was to go back home to a place that now was missing someone I truly took for granted.

I remember with my back against the sticky seat of the Toyota Corolla cultivating the uncanny mind sweeping thoughts that now take up most of my days- thoughts that it has to be easier for other people to get through this life. That not everyone can think this much and at this intensity all the time. That I was cursed with the internal equivalent of a mosh pit. That I just wanted to stop feeling so much. That the sun was somehow brighter on my face than anyone else in the car and if I opened up my mouth and told you the startling esoteric whispers that hid sneaky in my throat- you would laugh at me because that's what people do around me. They laugh. I think I learned in a startling catechism with myself that summer that I was indeed an artist -and not crazy. Well not crazy enough to do much anything about it.

I heard Metallica today and it did indeed jack my head up for thirty seconds or so as the day spread out before me and the kids were like beyond the fourth wall and I was back there and looking at the me that lives now. I waved at me and she waved back and it was like there was a little peace. And later in my minivan rolling down the main drag of my town I sunk low into my captain's chair and rolled the window down and shook my bob. I shook my hair and told the boys a little story about America.

Let's go get the shit kicked out of us by love

“Whenever I get gloomy with the state of the world, I think about the arrivals gate at Heathrow Airport. General opinion's starting to make out that we live in a world of hatred and greed, but I don't see that. It seems to me that love is everywhere. Often it's not particularly dignified or newsworthy, but it's always there - fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, husbands and wives, boyfriends, girlfriends, old friends. When the planes hit the Twin Towers, as far as I know none of the phone calls from the people on board were messages of hate or revenge - they were all messages of love. If you look for it, I've got a sneaky feeling you'll find that love actually is all around.”

for you Karey xo

Sunday

Scout met his 90 year old great granny today.

She is slowly making her comeback to pie baker extraordinaire
with her new pacemaker and physical therapy.

love

Who knows where she will end up living- nursing home/apartment/with my parents...
We are just thankful after all she's been through that she is still here.

IMG_8736

Kidd Sharp


I have been up since early morning cleaning and sorting.
I am sticking the two boys together to share a room to make a nursery for the new baby.
It's so funny how the last two times I had a theme and mad ideas and everything just so.
This time round we will be lucky to have the poor babe a stocked and minimal room.
I have to-date bought only 1 thing!
(pack of newborn pacifiers)
seriously

It's coming fast (about two weeks) and I am in full on insanity.
Do they call this nesting?
I have cleaned and purged so much that I have a giant pile of donations that nearly take over the play room today. This is a good thing.

We don't have a name yet- just lots of ideas that we throw at each other in the evening.
Finn and Blaise are convinced that we will name him Kidd Sharp because they like it.
We don't know much.

We just know that it has finally come to the place of complete love and anticipation that creeps up daily and tightens our throats.
It's almost time for our hearts to push out and expand again-
to pump and shudder with wild love...

image via fffound

What runs through my mind at night- moments before I fall asleep

My other granny- the minister's wife is struggling with a heart that wants to push from her chest. She has a ticker that tocks and knocks and causes her pain. She is weak now and it makes me sad. She is a painter and keeps telling my mother to ask me what I would like her to paint for me. I resist for this whole past year or so. I don't want the last of anything. It sounds so final. What would you have someone paint for you if it would be the last thing they may ever paint for you?

She's sensitive. She may even have it.
The ability to find the information hidden from most of us- from the senses.
Extrasensory perception.
Whatever.
She woke up one time in the night and said a plane crash was happening and it was.
Her son was in a plane crash.
She also woke up and circled a date on the calendar.
Her father died on that day.

I want her to paint my future.
In colors bright and vivid.
I can hang it up on the wall and never be afraid to look at it.
Or share it.
When the light hits yr lens you will see peace
and all throughout your body a feeling will wash right over you.

It will feel like the way it feels when someone rubs your head

and you know that through their fingers pulse love.

piper of love

My awesome friend Piper is having a hard time lately and a bunch of her sweet friends all over the web decided to make her a wee video to cheer her up. I just love the way the blogosphere really takes heart and supports. Love it. (thanks to Rachel, @sthrnfairytale for this video)

and decades seemed further than ghosts


Two nice things:

Last night I had dinner with my gals Michelle and Jenn and it was an awesome three hour plus spread that started with Mediterranean food and stretched out to vegan bakeries and then to a good old coffee shop full of real talk. The thing that was the best was when I was at the counter ordering from Ethan Hawke Circa Reality Bites in the flesh I could hear their laughter behind me in a small nook. I realized that hearing my dearest friends laughter is much like hearing my children laugh. There is so much joy inside of those audible expressions of people. And I really do float on it.

Also. Today I have been married to Joe for eleven years. This makes me smile so hard corners want to crack. Our family bed was ruckus and annoying this morning with spindly arms and legs causing me great discomfort yet all I could do was look over at this man who seems to always glow against the white sheets. He looks the same to me as he did on that amazing Spring day back when we had no idea what life really was and decades seemed further than ghosts.

back when we had no idea that someday we would be eleven years older
because time stood a bit still then
back when we had no idea
but tiny hopes that we would love so hard
as we were projected into the future

and here we are
and it's all good.

Happy Day my love.
xo
As Ever, Amy

image via ffffound

I'm a bad boy, cause I don't even miss her

I heard Tom Petty's first solo album today -Full Moon Fever and all I could see were the hills so very green of my past and the silver Chevy Cavalier I drove around and around.
The video is burnt in brain too like the urban escalator troubadour and Jerry McGuire can never bastardize this song because years before Tom Cruise rolled along on a movie lot and pretended to feel it I really did.

I have found this poet that I love so much I need to stalk her gently

Happiness

How far away is your happiness?
How many inches?
How many yards?
How many bus rides to work
and back?
How many doorways
and stairwells?
How many hours
awake in the dark
belly of the night
which contains
all the world’s bedrooms,
all dollhouse-sized?
How far away is your happiness?
How many words?
How many thoughts?
How much pavement?
How much thread
in the enormous sewing machine
of the present moment?

- marlena morling

Love, Friday

In 2010 I want to post love letters each Friday.
I think love letters are the pulse of life. I live in fear that they are falling lost away from us anymore. I want them back. I want you to give and get love letters this year. I have collected some love letters and want to publish them.
Some I may have written, some may have been given to me.
Some may be little figments of characters I create.
Some may be from friends.
Some were found in an old antique store.
Some may be from you if you want to send me some.
I just want to know how they move you.
how they make you feel

Love letters require passion and fearlessness.
open and brave
This is a good thing.

This week I am reposting a prose poem that is kind of a love letter of sorts I wrote in the mid 90's. It was a childhood memory. My friend Mindy (although that is not her name) was the center of this memory. It's all true and it's all real and just last night my mom tells me of some terrible news from my hometown that revolves around her. She needs a love letter today. And here it kinda is:

I was eight and sleeping over at Mindy Miller's farm. I always slept over, we were best friends and all. I guess we were on our best behavior considering the previous weekend we were all busted in Mr. Miller's small cinder block garage for playing some sort of doctor game. But it was Ryan Farely, the pervert neighbor kid who had suggested it, and indeed we were curious. And if Stupid Frankie Dinnel hadn't knocked over that shelf we would have been in the clear. After the talk about the sanctity of our bodies by our mothers, we made a pact to behave and at the very least to exclude Frankie from any future excursions concerning curiosity.

It was about nine o'clock and hot still. We stood outside of Mindy's house in our white cotton nightgowns. Our small flat chests chaffing against the material as we climbed the fence that divided her property from the Farley's. We always sat on that fence. It was slipping into pure black night and in the country darkness is massive. If you were a city kid or a pussy like Frankie you would be afraid, but we weren't scared of night. It meant that the tent of sky light stars would open and we would crane our necks back and talk. Talk about eight year old fears and wonder what we would look like when we were twenty. How we would change. It didn't matter much that my friend was skinny and had buck teeth or that I was chubby with incredibly large feet for my age. Everything was fine and when we looked up we weren't afraid of the curious future.

And then we heard him scream. He was yelling our names so loudly. We were busted again. Across the road. On the gate. In our nightgowns after dark. Only Mr. Miller was jumping up and down and flapping his arms and motioning us over towards the house. He was squealing and against the porch light dim we could tell he wasn't angry, only excited about something. The closer we came to the yard we could see Mr. Miller's face scrunched up and strange and his finger pointed sharp towards the green wet grass. It was there on the lawn, burning and popping. A meteorite. Mr. Miller said it was matter from the solar system. Fallen from up there. He wasn't even mad that we were on the fence because this was important he had said. Soon it was over like the way a sparkler from the fourth of July simply stops with that last shooting spark. I remember Mindy's teenage sister came home and thought we were stupid to be so excited. She hadn't seen it. She swatted us away and walked into the house. She was mean and wretched, but I still wanted to be her. I fell asleep on the top bunk that night wondering if it was anything special to see the sky fall.

Now I'm twenty three and drinking a raspberry ginger ale with my friend Pete. It is September and hot still. We are on his roof in the city. He is complaining about not being able to see the stars so well and what he going to do with himself in the Fall. I tell him about that night out at Miller's farm. He listens hard and tells me how beautiful, how rare of an occurrence. Do I know this he is asking me as he leans in closer. I hear him, like a murmur. But I am thinking, I am wondering if Mindy can remember that one night out of the hundreds we spent in childhood.

And Pete is now looking up like we all do to escape the ground. To swim around in the sky. I take out a deck of blue playing cards from my handbag and we begin to play war. I'm beating him but that's not why he's jealous. He wants to see one too. A moment that stops everything else. I can see it in the way he looks at the card that accidentally flies out of his hand and over the edge. Falling blue matter...

Love, Friday

In 2010 I want to post love letters each Friday.

I think love letters are the pulse of life. I live in fear that they are falling lost away from us anymore. I want them back. I want you to give and get love letters this year. I have collected some love letters and want to publish them.

Some I may have written, some may have been given to me.

Some may be little figments of characters I create.

Some may be from friends.

Some were found in an old antique store.

Some may be from you if you want to send me some.

I just want to know how they move you.

how they make you feel



Love letters require passion and fearlessness.

open and brave

This is a good thing.




Dearest Jimmy,

There is a place, a field beside of the road near our house, that I sometimes think of taking you to. We would pack a picnic and walk there in the hot summer and the sun would start to fluster us and my neck would turn red and drops of sweat would roll down our backs and we would swing our arms and walk and talk. We would talk about things that we don’t really talk about now. We would say what we want to do with the rest of our lives. Things about children and things about you and me. We would slowly fall down in the field after we feast on our baguette sandwiches with tomatoes. (the ones you loved so much when you were in the service) We would fall onto soft blankets and you would make love to me like I know you want to. You would call me sweet names like Lapin and other words you know in French. You would make me sing.

I know you don't want to sit in that wooden rocking chair and stare at something that I cannot see. I know that you can move your gaze and see the future. Just turn your head and the future is standing in the hallway in a pale yellow dress.

I love you Jimmy. Let's go walking soon.

All my love,

Helen






Get me delivered to yr email xo

Love, Friday



In 2010 I want to post love letters each Friday.

I think love letters are the pulse of life. I live in fear that they are falling lost away from us anymore. I want them back. I want you to give and get love letters this year. I have collected some love letters and want to publish them.

Some I may have written, some may have been given to me.

Some may be little figments of characters I create.

Some may be from friends.

Some were found in an old antique store.

Some may be from you if you want to send me some.

I just want to know how they move you.

how they make you feel



Love letters require passion and fearlessness.

open and brave

This is a good thing.



Dearest Judy,

When I wake and you are gone I am desperate for you. I reach all the way across the bed until my body hurts from the pull of muscles and skin. I want you to be here again. Across the bed are all of the memories of you pressed down on the cottons. They are of you and your wicked mouth and lamp eyes and your breasts skimming across the duvet and the way you turn into a small ball when you are cold. And when you are cold I take you in my arms and hold you. And all through the times that were harder than now, I would hold you in that tight ball and rock it all away. And if you let me do it again it will all come clean my love. It will all press out with the iron and we will put the bed together and walk down to Johnson's and grab a vanilla soda and then walk home slowly under the fast moving silent sky. And you will know that you are mine. All mine. Just come home Judy. I only love you.

Yours forever, Willem






Little Alouette giveaway


I have some giveaway fun today.

Head over to the fashionable Friday Playdate for a LITTLE ALOUETTE giveaway (I also heard there will be a copy of Sleep is for the Weak in the mix!)

AND HERE:
I want to give away a copy of Sleep is for the Weak also here on doobleh-vay as I think it makes a great gift for the mamas in yr life.
Rita was so cool to give us a couple copies to you folks!
Just leave me a comment below and good luck! It's a great book!
(I will choose Thursday at random a winner!)
xoxoxo