Thursday, February 26, 2009

"you will become an accomplished writer."

minneapolis, mn recieved 5-9 inches of snow this evening, starting around 1:00 pm.

as things quiet down i can hear the steady sound of cars stuck in the street outside my window. their horns bleating at the curbs of lyndale ave south trying desperately to unstick themselves and get to wherever they are headed. all the suburu's and neon's making a sound that i guess must be the mechanical equivalent of a panic attack, wheels waving to and fro in the snow globe of uptown, south minneapolis, the twin cities, greater minnesota.

today i said that the snow was an excuse for me not to leave the house, but the truth is, i haven't left the house in days anyway. i've been tempted all week to call up sarah and ben and tell them to count me in for the last minute week long trip to new orleans. ignore the hideous fact that i indeed have no money, no job, and the responsibility of financing a pretty serious move in close to one month. i still want out. which is a strange irony, because all i can think about is how i don't want to leave this house, it's uneven floors and crumbling walls. but for some reason, altough i can't leave my room for fear of some nameless threat just outside the door, there is one of those little men taylor always imagines controlling things inside our heads inside my skull, pushing on my cerebral cortex and shouting "GET THE FUCK OUT! GET THE FUCK OUT!"
of my room, of my head, to the south, i'm not sure.

i keep watching these documentaries on the PBS website, about the stock market crash of 1929, the summer of love in san francisco, and the history of new orleans. maybe it's due to some kind of inner desire for realism, watching the documented realities of others therefore making it less pressing for me to pursue my own.

lately i have been finding a sick comfort in the way my index and middle fingers always smell like a crumpled up cigarette. not quite an ashtray, or a burnt up halfy stuck in the pack. it's more a syrupy kind of smoke, an earthy smell, sort of the way i imagine the soil must smell beneath the remains of a forest fire; like a week old campfire that you accidentally plunged your hands into while tripping on some branch.

someone told me recently that i write like a soldier, always running towards peace. i don't know about soldiers, but i know about the metaphysical manhunt for peace.

you can ask me anything you want, i probably don't know the answer any better than you, but it's nice to wonder together.

Wednesday, February 25, 2009

Monday, February 23, 2009



1. The Lucksmiths - Smokers in Love
2. Hangun Man - How I Roll...Perfect Cigarettes
3. The Smithereens - Cigarette
4. The Replacements - More Cigarettes
5. Otis Redding - Cigarettes and Coffee
6. Rufus Wainwright - Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk
7. Hefner - The Hymn for the Cigarettes
8. Rilo Kiley - Smoke Detector
9. Tex Williams - Smoke Smoke Smoke that Cigarette!
10. Simon and Garfunkel - America
11. Brownsville Station - Smoking in the Boys Room
12. The Fiery Furnaces - Smelling Cigarettes
13. Oasis - Cigarettes and Alcohol
14. My Bloody Valentine - Cigarette in Your Bed
15. Jeremy Fisher - Cigarette
16. Hangun Man - American Spirit
17. Patsy Cline - Three Cigarettes in the Ashtray


Friday, February 13, 2009

1. First Name
2. Favourite Food
3. Hometown
4. Favourite Colour
5. Celebrity Crush
6. Favourite Drink
7. Dream Holiday
8. Favourite Dessert
9. What I Want To Be When I Grow Up
10. What I Love Most In The World
11. One Word That Describes Me
12. My LiveJournal Name

Copy the URL of your favourite photo into this site:  

Thursday, February 12, 2009



bruce springsteen - i'm on fire
beck - jackass
nirvana - tourettes (live)
pre - dude fuk
d numbers - xylem up
erase errata - tax dollar
fiona apple - sleep to dream
sonic youth - wish fulfillment
christian bale - no, fuck, no.



things to remember en route from santa fe -> tulsa
as written by myself on january 29, 2009

"last night we climbed a mountain with a boy named ben and a dog named gordo. watched the sunset over the huge valley below and thought about how i must be ready to write a novel soon. other things, a dog named juarez, a dude named chewy, and a boy named talon. dusty colored clouds on route 66. "isn't it better to be young forever?" i keep forgetting things, afraid that all the stories are going to slip through the cracks of my memory. falling asleep in richmond in the freezing cold, listening to nick drake, someone crying and we fall asleep holding hands, desperate for thoughtfulness. carcasses of dogs and deer on the side of the freeway, rotting in the white ditch grass. everything smells like weed and cheap coffee. dirty hair, yesterday's mascara caking on my eyelids, the desolation of the panhandle stretching out beneath the tires burning through the cold and hazy afternoon, trying to get to tulsa on time. shaking christmas trees, becoming someone's favorite witch, beginning to look at cows with envy. border patrol asks us detailed questions for citizenship verification: " are you US citizens? where are you coming from? where are you going? do you have any plants, fruits, or animals?" tap-dancing on fred astaire's star, driving down the 101, thinking "this would make a good sample." the birthplace of roger miller, the siren song of vegas, the same dirty flannel for weeks, stealing iron maiden shoes from a dude with a subscription to flex magazine, MAKING OUR WAY TO WHERE THE PUZZLES AND THE PAGANS LAY, oklahoma welcome centers, rowboats sitting on frozen ponds, hawks perched on weak and waving branches in dead trees. 24 hour prayer hotline, the oddity of middle america, life on the road! gotta get to the show! make it home by saturday! my cavities need filling, hot blood, hips and grease, baby springtime, love that feels like planets, my stringy hair sticking to my mouth, ashing into my lap, corporate cattle farms, wanting to get buzzed, red earth with mobile homes littering the dusty soil, elk city, dude ranches, menstrual cramps, wanting to swim, in an indoor pool, across the ocean, doesn't matter. drum machines and blue skies, cigarettes in our lips to calm the thump of a heart beneath the sternum. cops in pick up trucks, ink stains on my right hand, lip balm that smells like chew, windmills that make you believe in giants, born to be wild, like a true natures child. thinking about america, where we look at our country with horror and longing. its terrible beauty reeking havoc on our psyche's until we can't help but finger the hollow holes it burns into our hearts, the dead space that belongs to this weird patriotism.

don't forget about how in jacksonville you slept in the car as two people were robbed at gunpoint right outside and then the helicopters circled the neighborhood for hours and everyone was too drunk to remember to make sure you weren't dead."