this is going to be an exciting, kick-ass night!

my first live reading in MONTHS!

am i nervous? should i memorize anything? do i give a bio? i don't know the answer to any of these questions. i never feel like i'm prepared for a reading even when i have practiced in front of a mirror and rallied up an audience for the night.

i do wish i could do more. live readings, community involvement with other writers. i wish. and why can't i not do? the downsides of commuting into a big city from the suburbs. it took a toll on the day earlier, and for a moment i didn't feel excited any longer on my performance for tonight.

but i need to work around it. not let it suppress my passion. life's a bitch, so what can i do? i can tell her a damn good story in the least.

pictures (courtesy of Matt) and a followup post to come!

in the meantime check out these other literary events that go on around San Francisco:

LUNADA LITERARY LOUNGE
Galeria de la Raza in the Mission
every full moon at 9

FEAST OF WORDS
SOMArts Center in SOMA
third Tuesday of every month

THE POETS GALLERY
Caffe Roma in North Beach
every Friday

Marilyn the Muse

hello to Marilyn. he's 28, from Las Vegas, working Santa Monica Blvd. in L.A. and charged $30 for this photo by Philip-Lorca diCorcia.

this is the image i chose for a writing prompt in my experiments in nonfiction writing class. it's part of the many inspiring and random photos on display for the Real to Real exhibit in the De Young Museum.

"Winter Break"

            Turn on the radio. Vince’s hands are knobby. It’s Lana Del Rey’s low voice all scratched and distorted because Live105.3 is static out here for some reason. The car’s going, some ’08 Mazda 3—white. I’m sure it’s not his car. There’s what looks like a baby boar tusk hanging from the rearview. The car we drove in two months ago was green—the tusk was there too. At least he’s laughing; I can never tell his mood especially over voicemails.

            Nearing nine o’ clock, we pull up to Skid’s on the edge of Emeryville, up Hollis near Adeline. He always opted for this place, with its dimming blue twinkle-lights strung around the wide windows, its steel door, its mismatched tables of odd white shades. Mike’s still working behind the counter, nodding to us with that gap-tooth smile and always playing The Black Keys on repeat. No matter, we got a seat and Vince declares the drinks are on him.

            “One thing,” he says sternly to me with those browns eyes I know too well by now.

            “Mmm?”

            “You’ve got to try spinal fluid with me!”
            “Yeah right—” but Mike is already approaching with the two murky brandy glasses full of what could have been velvet root beer float. Vince—or Mike, whenever I had the time to drive out there and give him a hello—never gave in when asked about what the hell was in that thing besides the Grey Goose vodka.

            Catching up gets easier as the spinal fluid goes down. Lab work, fake IDs, the situation he was in up in Portland (like how he could put up with the snow and how good really were the donuts), selling my brother’s comics to a place on Divisadero in the City for Christmas shopping money—I just really can’t wait ‘til he mentions Carolina. She was why I had to show up. Had to hear it for myself.

            “Is she the one?” I say to him. He takes a breath before downing the rest of my fluid, then he bursts out that laughter that’s always been reassuring to me. Just then someone comes in from the street and starts shouting that a car’s alarm’s going off.

            The front passenger’s window’s been smashed with a wrench they threw onto the dashboard, and the locks on the front doors got jammed in the attempt. They found nothing of interest—except the boar tusk of course. Mike’s inside calling the police and a tow truck, but me and Vince take it easy on the cold black curve. He gets up to examine the car again. “This sure is one fuck-up!” he starts laughing again. “Another reason I can’t wait to get back to Portland.” He’s running his hands through his blonde curls roughly; I know he’s quite upset.

            I go and kiss the hood of the car, leaving my neon lipstick there into a perfect impression. “Alice!” Vince exclaims, looking with satisfaction, “Car looks just as good now.”
            “I know how to fix things,” I say mockingly with a dumb smile. Bet you Carolina would never do that. He doesn’t get to answer, instead he gets out that ’droid phone. “I’m going to call Carolina.” I knew it was her car.

            She’s the one.

the backyard as a desktop

you won't understand unless you were right here. in this minute. the air's still and lukewarm, no wind stirred, and the skies are just lush yet matte with pink-lined gray clouds slowly breaking apart in the dusk. dusk of the first in September.

love.

this is a wonderful feeling, not because it's perfect weather, the string of lights are going to be lit soon, nor that i sip a hot cup of green tea from the mug Liza bought me for my 14th birthday, nor that i wear my new favorite sweater--

it's that i'm letting loose.

this pen + this deep sincere (and silent) feeling is the key to productive writing right now. words, ink, passionate ideas spill out and roll along the paper like nothing.

OH MY GOODNESS.

spent minutes dowsed in chills all over me. a double rainbow, against the neon-pink clouds, graces my presence.

sometimes we all disappear, and into places that just seem so right for your genius. you're lost in the visions and muses that dance around in forms of double rainbows, twilight, golden clouds, and the damp ground beneath you. or maybe not these things. but right now, it's what i need. just happened this way, too perfect of anything to be a coincidence, where i wanted to sit out in the backyard under lights like fireflies and write.

And when i am back in my room again, the night dark and my carpet warm with whatever song that plays softly in there, i'll still be dreaming of this past.

i've come a long way.

Glasvegas, "Geraldine"

ends of summer, beginning to senior year

here i am for a lengthy, long-awaited little piece about this passing summer. typically i recap things, but there's just been too much that's occurred. and even better, i feel strongly that tons will occur in the next few weeks of my fall semester starting.

a boyfriend. oceanside. city lights i never saw. summer heat of California. alone. soccer. music is the savior-- yes it is. the blue skies overhead whenever i left my house. the last days of my summer were a turning point from before; this year was different, gaining some things and definitely losing others. it's not terrible, however. you learn from these events, a lot actually. and from the lessons take them and just move on to tomorrow, the months, and years.

like senior year. here it is, and surely enough these 9 months will pass along too-- and i'll be a graduate, a fully-fledged adult in an uncertain real world. once again, i'll be commuting. but school will be a relief, another new exciting adventure. i have friends there, scattered, but always glad to run into me and take a second out of life to just chill and catch up. and a city i love, one that's given me so much for writing, living, and coming to terms with who i am on this earth. San Francisco, you've always done it. you've never let me down, your majesty. sadly, no place in San Francisco-- commuting as before. but even if i commute, i'm destined to do so, and just have to make the most of it. BART does give amusing stories.

i'm looking forward to this year as being the most critically challenging and most rapid development of my writing in not just fiction, but other aspects of literature, preferably poetry and nonfiction. practice makes perfect, and perfect goes a long way, it's universal. and knowing the universal traits of the craft of writing, there is my confidence being built, my voice growing stronger. writing is the sole passion in what i want to do in this life, and make it count in every second for every word that i pen on paper or in a blog post. it's one thing i will never stop at.

and in the beauty of another year passing, doors open to many opportunities to write anything. in this passing year, i want to know and feel that yes, i can do anything.

a old, fond memory

i have a very special sleeping bag. it's just as old as me pretty much; my mom took me and my sister to JC Penny when we were little on an errand, to buy us sleeping bags, that is. don't know why, didn't question it. but i knew right away that while Milan chose a pink Barbie ballerina kid's sleeping bag, my heart was set on the Bananas in Pajamas one. yes. and it's still with me, vibrant in its blue and yellowness and just as fluffy and comfy as when i would use it to sleep or sit in watching movies with my family late at night.

it was also my go-to for Dr. Suess Days in elementary school-- the National Read to Succeed Day where everyone brought a blanket and pillow to read a book with. it's a genius phenomenon, getting kids to read and relax. i loved it every time, it was as if i was blocking out the stern serious tone of a classroom by bringing in the personal comforts of my home with me. i'd find the best corner of the room, usually on the square of carpet my teacher deemed the reading circle or library and just loose myself in the book of my choice, lying flat and looking up into the story.

nowadays i don't need that excuse. summertime, now especially, that's all i do. all there is to it is a bed-- a made one, of course--tons of pillows to throw myself back in, and the same sleeping bag in mint condition, always there and ready for me to ensconce in and just soak up a good book. it's a great feeling, a simple pleasure that costs nothing but wriggling around for a good position. this is an ode to those days, to reading, to just the wonders of childhood that come back to shape the present and remind that life always has its ways of just making things right in the smallest of measurements.

and i cannot forget the comforts of a reading wall, too!