/pretend..

hey, do you remember the night we crawled into the coconut shell? and we kissed and kissed and kissed in the coconut milk like two little baby kittens who couldn’t stop rubbing against each other. my body isn’t warm without your body. my fingers only reach out to touch you. my tongue tastes nothing but your sweetness and salt. do you remember when we slept in the sand pail? it rubbed against our skin until we were nothing but vulnerable, nothing but innocent and pink. my body isn’t whole without your body inside of me. my ears hear only your whispers. do you remember when we crawled into the car tire? it deflated all around us and the only air we could breathe was from each others lungs, from each others chests. tummy to tummy. cheek to cheek. feet tangled.

my body aches only for your body and my body only sleeps next to your body.

the secretary

I’m not even lying when I say to you that I took ballet lessons for about 8 years out of the back of a country store.

We moved to Kennesaw, Georgia, from Stone Mountain, Georgia when I was still a baby because my father got a job there for a roofing company. His office was across the street from my “ballet studio,” which was the back room of a two story country store. It was a wonderland of peach potpourri, handmade rocking chairs, hand-dipped candles, and stuffed bears with parasols and Scarlett O’Hara dresses. My ballet instructor was the red haired, big-eyed daughter of the couple that ran the store. To me she was a goddess.

My father’s office was in a small white building across the street, across Main Street of course. Sometimes he would pick me up from ballet on his way home. I would climb up into his big pickup and listen to the radio for the three minutes it took to get to the house. One time in particular, I couldn’t have been more than 6 or 7 years old, and he told me to come with him back to the office for a minute before going home.

The office was uncharted territory for me.

We walked in and my father plopped me down on a chair in the room, straight across from his secretary, while he wandered over to the vending machine. The room smelled like paper and carpet, my chair was hard and black. The secretary sat at a big metal desk covered in architect paper and a bulky beige phone with a shoulder rest. The phone had so many buttons! His secretary was intriguing; I couldn’t divert my eyes no matter how hard I was trying to be polite. She smiled at me with her magenta lips and I rustled around on the chair in my tutu and tights.

“What’s your name, darlin’?” she asked, squinting her eyes a little. I didn’t say anything, just blushed and looked down, fingering the tulle of my tutu. She went back to typing with her long acrylic fingernails on a huge IBM.

My father returned with a moon pie from the vending machine and handed it over to me. I grabbed his hand and pulled his face down towards mine and whispered in his ear:

“But daddy, when she types on the computer she doesn’t even have to look at the keys!!”

tired

my body is tired

my mind is tired

and if i knew where my home was

i would want to go there now.

sunday morning

I wake up this morning after a rather interesting, wild night out, to a message:
Tant que c’est moi qui paie la soirée je crois qu’il n’est plus nécessaire que tu viennes a l’avenir.

For those of you who don’t speak french, here is a translation:
"You are a total bitch for not wanting to sleep with me anymore, and because I had to go home alone it makes me feel better to leave you nasty messages at 4 AM."




The thing is, even though I know this true translation......





it made me cry anyway.

inspired/ uninspired

i would really love to live life making vanilla cupcakes with butter cream frosting // stitching calico napkins with rickrack edges // collecting vintage frames for my robins-egg walls // baking bread to bob dylan //dinner parties with chicken and dumplings and friends in knit hats //reading magazines with american coffee // local bands and local bars // i miss athens, georgia and my lovely lovely people there // people with curves and bends and singsongs //far sighted friends //The Grit for a sunday brunch // painting parties and band-in-a-box // waking up next to fresh-faced hipsters saying :we've got to get out of this town....: sometimes i think i was born to b-and-b

nowtimes i feel like i am surrounded by robots (robots charged by credit cards)

25 stories

I woke up in the dark, messy rive droite flat of a tall, dark man from Strasbourg with adorable black-rimmed glasses.

He kissed me on the cheek and told me to sleep as long as I’d like, then shuffled out the door in his suit and tie and black attaché case.

( It was so cliché that if I hadn’t of lived it I wouldn’t believe it.)

I slept another hour or something (in awe of his capacity to be not only awake but dressed and out the door at 9.) I managed to find one boot, two boots, pants, bra, my favorite black sweater... drink some water from the faucet, put the champagne flutes in the sink, made the bed.

Right next to the bed, on the floor, was an issue of Playboy, the new French GQ, and an Italian dictionary. It was so cute I had to take a picture.

I left him my card.

its personal

i'm 25 today.
i started this blog when i was 22.

This was my first post

that seems like a long time ago.
xo

n'importe quoi

when I miss you I miss you like my pancreas

when I miss you I miss you like a sunburn
when I miss you I miss you like a blood stain
when I miss you I miss you like chopsticks
when I miss you I miss you like a broken vibrator
when I miss you I miss you like windex
when I miss you I miss you like shoe boxes
when I miss you I miss you like gift baskets
when I miss you I miss you like leap years
when I miss you I miss you like
when I miss you I miss you
when I miss you

I hate telling you how much I miss you.
but I miss you.