Sunday, June 14, 2009


I've written two posts this past week, both which have not made it to the blog due to my own internal censoring. One was completely psychotic and the other was depressing without meaning to be. I kept losing the point. I refused to hit publish. I chucked them up to 4AM ramblings and let them be.

There is no point to today's post either though, but it's neither unintentionally depressing nor chock full o' crazy, so it's ok.

Sprawled out on the grass in Dolores Park today, Jordan asked if I've spent this downtime writing. Most people have assumed that I've been either writing or going to yoga. I've gone to more yoga then I've written. I've actually been doing more baking then anything else though.

I'm glad he found Josh and I on Mission. We sat at Four Barrel and talked about art, tattoo design and luring the infamous Chicago Bean to SF.

I'm sad that I put back the wrestling helmet I had my eye on at Community Thrift. Jordan mentioned the dangers of getting punched in the face while bike riding. I really should have gotten it.

Antibacterial gel comes in handy for digging through thrift store bins full of gym equipment.


We made our way to Dolores Park on the fly as it was nice out and Cyrelle was taking her newly spiffed bike for a spin in that direction. While waiting for her, Josh ran off to pee and left Jordan and I to talk about writing and the difficulties of doing so while you are in love with the universe.

It's hard not to sound like a complete dolt when your life is all ice cream and rainbows. You'll need the wrestling helmet. Your friends will want to punch you in the face (or punch your boyfriend in the chest). Barf fest all around for those who aren't having as good a time as you are.

I document via bad photography so I remember the tiny details of life for contemplation at a later date. Words just don't seem to cut it anymore. It was easier at the beginning of this year when I could think of a thousand ways to say broken.

I like watching Cyrelle and Jordan interact, the funny games their hands subconsciously play when they are near each other.

It was a nice change of pace for it to be just us and not the usual cartel. We could actually have one cohesive conversation and hear each other talk. Sometimes it seems difficult for real communication to happen with 10+ people, regardless of their sobriety or lack thereof.

The kids took off on their shiny bikes to forage for food. Josh and I hoofed it. It's still relatively gorgeous out.

I'm making pancakes for dinner. That's all I really have to say right now.

1 comment:

Alicia said...

I haven't written any poetry (beside my lame-ass haikus) since 2001 because no one likes a happy poet. Depressed and tortured is the way to go in that department. I never thought I'd give it up. I was wrong, and happily admit that.