June Status Report

I needed a whole weekend home, in the burbs no less, sans car, plans, money, or internet to figure out where I am.

This was the official business agenda:

-wrap up loose ends in Philadelphia
-train home
-party like emo-scenester years

-figure out where your head is

-enjoy family
-make peace

Where am I?

Around 2am on Saturday I was skinny dipping, in the rain, unabashedly floating on one of those plastic raft thingies. And I went through the extra effort of lighting the torches around the pool. I was feeling primal. I was tasting the tail end of a pot-opium cocktail and a Riesen chocolate- which reminds me a lot of my great grandmother who invariably lived on cookies, bacon fat and Pabst Blue Ribbon, bought at a discount because the cans were dented.

Chicks love candlelight, or in this case, torchlight because it makes them look less flawed. Couple that with being wet, and naked, and I thought this was the best state to be in to evaluate the state of my unions. This evaluation, on past several occasions, involved my best “There Will Be Blood” rendition- I’ve lost my boy!! (nix handlebar moustache)

Not tonight though.
The theme of the night is quiet introspection. I spent a lot of time looking at my feet. I enjoyed seeing the light bounce off the water pooled in my belly button. Cold air teased my tits into standing a-ten-shun! Fingertips got pruny quick.

Where am I?

Pretty discombobulated, I concluded. I certainly wasn’t in my own skin. I can compare this month to when you slipped down a few stairs as a kid: more frightened and surprised than actually hurt. Ego bruise.

My feet that I had been ignoring- they could use a fresh painting. Pink, I think.

My legs were particularly sore, as my bike has been a conveniently cheap getaway vehicle. You go fast enough that you can’t really drift off, but slow enough that you can breathe. Besides I don’t feel like I’m running away, per se. It’s on the same level as ‘Oh, I’m going for a walk,’ which is a-okay. I’ve covered the three corners of Ardmore, Front Street, Manyunk. South Philly tomorrow if the weather holds out.

My stomach. My core has caused me more stress that I care to admit this month. I’m sitting here now reveling in the dull ache of cramps because it’s at least better than the vicious cycle of being too stressed to get your period and then stressing that you didn’t get it yet. Two weeks of watching home births on YouTube, making sure I was eating, and praying to a God that I haven’t talked to in forever. I’ve never been so happy to see a panty Rorschach inkblot. Know what I see? No more YouTube videos and babysitting for a while.

Fingertips still pruny. Nailpolish chipped, but eh.

Stupid lopsided boobs. What sucks is having these stupid lopsided boobs. I want to feel someone, and not those unwelcomed, unsolicited pity-party hugs that are handed out to the newly single. Hugs are fantastic, but I miss hands, not arms.

Shoulders, browned and used to carrying boulders like Sisyphus.

I obv can’t see my own face but I guarantee my waterproof eyeliner wasn’t holding up. So lying on this cold plastic float. I put my hand on my stomach and feel that it is mine. I can feel my hair swirl in the pockets of now-warmer water. The rain had stopped by this point.

I look at my hand on my stomach. I give myself the car crash test.

Conclusion, Where am I?: Jamie, my love, it is time to get your shit together. You have said all that you needed to say. You are clean and you are whole, singular. What will be, will be. You are human- no tougher, no softer. No apologies are needed. Buy yourself flowers, but only daisies- this isn’t a funeral. Ride your bike to somewhere, not from somewhere. Sleep. Eat. Breathe, or even sigh if necessary. Touch your own belly.


I went to bed with a wet head, but not a heavy one.


Dog, Car

Remember those nights where the air was heavy enough to bellow not breeze? Those nights thick enough to keep the taste of cigarettes on our lips, our teeth, our cheeks, and boy, did we breathe deep.

The road is narrow. The road, it curves, sometimes sharply. It goes up. It goes down.

And the car floats mindless of the footprint it leaves- touches and rolls, taking small pebbles in its tread to ogle later of places been. Takes seashells, takes petals, takes rocks, and dirt. Takes the hair interlaced in sweaters, wound and wiggled into the fibers that be. Then, you see, when it gets dark, it’ll have pieces of places past to keep it warm.

Heated nights with its opaque air and its sparkly flairs, we’re not looking at what’s illuminated in headlights or at what walks the yellow line with us, slower.

Without thought, without brakes, it’s there suddenly ribs askew, and paws at awkward angles- like a restaurant receipt signature scribble. You see this animal (and that’s what it is) pumping its own blood onto the concrete through ruptured veins, arteries, capillaries, and whatever other tubes that carry us through. It probably would have picked up its head had its vertebrae not been shattered. It probably would have said sorry if pieces of its voice box were not scattered.

Metaphorical red light.

Now, think, think damn it! What do you do? Do you sit in humbled agasp? Do you curse? Do you apologize for circumstance? Because really it wasn’t your fault. You can’t predict the future. You can’t help it if that dog met your car. Had it not bolted out… Had it not stopped to look into your headlights… This is not what you wanted. You’re going places, and I just wanted to enjoy the view.



A clock face
And clock hands too
Irish plague potato eyes
Greens and blues on Yukon golds
Corn ears
To bring your mouth to in summertime
Curved pitcher lips
spill the sangria, vamos!
Pearly white comb teeth
To hold back all that spitfire
And a bubblegum bell tongue
a sneaker tongue before the morning brush

Down along a long bottle neck
just as floozy
Down a straight chair back
Posture! Posture!
Over rose hips and a treasure chest
corset ribs protect my artichoke heart
Slide down sturdy table legs
tablecloth skirted, of course
To poised bathtub feet
A tub that held me like a womb

Pão de Açúcar Mix

"through the roof and underground" – golgol bordello

"you love me" – devotchka

"elephant gun" – beirut

"falling down" – tom waits

"messenger bird's song" – bright eyes

"grace cathedral hill" – the decemberists

"golden slumbers" – ben folds

"start to melt" – peter, bjorn and john

"boy with a coin" – iron & wine

"how naked are we going to get?" – the blow

"how it ends" - devotchka


Moon Phase 1

Last night the moon was an orange-sickle and it's poised to drop.


Soma Holiday

I walked to work today, down South Broad and I am furthermore convinced that apocalypse is imminent.

I’m particularly hypersensitive today compliments of Tylenol Cold, which I hope harnesses enough witchdoctor power to cure the Bubonic plague plus tuberculosis. I think I accidently took the nighttime soma (blue). I’m feeling a bit drowsy.

Soma: “All the advantages of Christianity and alcohol; none of their defects”

A police car, with sirens ablaze, swerves to cut off traffic and a procession of maybe half a dozen vans pass. There’s a fire truck; a police truck; a Jelly Belly van painted to advertise their beans for cyclists, honking; a Commerce Bank van with four hands peeping out from the back seat, each with a Commerce-painted cowbell, further adding to the Chaos Procession.

Soma: "The policemen pushed him out of the way and got on with their work. Three men with spraying machines buckled to their shoulders pumped thick clouds of soma vapour into the air."

I think about stopping at Commerce to take out cash for the weekend, but upon nearing I see a DJ in front, blaring Gloria Estefan. I’ll pay the $2 ATM fee on campus,

and I’m switching my bank tomorrow.

I’m wearing my highest high heels. My center of balance is too high. I’m too high. I thought once heels would be comparable to horse shoes, the same clippity clop, but they’re not at all. Surely one cannot gallop in spikes that get stuck in concrete cracks.

I’m watching my feet, or rather, I’m watching my shoes, until a man obstructs my path. He’s wearing a purple fleece, though it’s 80 degrees. His hair is matted. He doesn’t blink. His hairy flat man-feet are crammed in women’s shoes. [My feet are crammed in women’s shoes. I can’t blink.]

Soma: "the warm, the richly coloured, the infinitely friendly world of soma-holiday. How kind, how good-looking, how delightfully amusing every one was! "

There’s an overweight woman sleeping with her eyes open (or at least I hope she’s sleeping) on a cardboard box. In front of her she has an orange, a triangle of sliced bread, and a coffee can full of coffee. Or what I thought was coffee until I saw the floating cigarette butt.

Nearly 9,000 children will be diagnosed with cancer this year. Buy this lemonade.

Soma: "A gramme is better than a damn," said Lenina mechanically from behind her hands. "I wish I had my soma!" "

William Sonoma is charging $300 for their Artisan buttercup-yellow mixer. I got the man, now I need the mixer. I want to bake cakes, all day, every day. I want to be flour dusted, Victorian. My darling, how was work? How I’ve missed you so! Oh how I love you so!


''Hug me till you drug me, honey;

Kiss me till I'm in a coma;

Hug me, honey, snuggly bunny;

Love's as good as soma."

[good afternoon, Bea. I’m good and you?] I snag an orange juice on my way in, made from oranges from Brazil. I’ve never been, but I hear it’s lovely. It’s 100% pure God-made juice but it burns like hell going down, its acidity stinging my throat coughed raw. A coughing fit commences and I feel my face flush with blood that somehow isn’t oxygenated enough despite all these gasps for breath. It’s been five hours. Tylenol Cold Daytime dose 2 administered.

Soma: “Was and will make me ill, I take a gram and only am."


43 things

i learn who you are.
you learn what i am.