Erasure.

I've been dodging phone calls. Things just got so... much, and I let things slide. I let myself let things slide. The bank's been calling, and at first I didn't know who it was so I didn't answer. Then, I forgot to call back. And now it's been three weeks, or four, and they've given up. I breathe a sigh of relief, because my chest constricts a bit when my phone rings. Not so much as it used to, you know, before I became experienced in the art of evasion. I kind of hope that the mood will strike me to call back, or pick up if they call again. "I'm so sorry," I'll say. "I was out of the country and didn't have a phone." Anyway, I don't think it was important. I hope it wasn't.

This is, though. This is something that I shouldn't have let myself convince myself that it isn't important, because it's the one talent that I haven't given up on honing. It's what I'm good at, it's what I want to do. Supposedly. It's the direction of my life, and I slid away from it. I didn't notice it happening, really. Didn't let myself. What does that mean for me?

I can't choose another path. I don't think I want to. But I give up the things that I want for myself, because in doing so I'm not letting anybody down. Everything else just swells, is so pregnant with should and have to, imminent disappointment, impending failure, it eclipses. Everything. All I can remove from my accountability.

And I disappear.

In which there is an update.

This happened:



Dunno. Shit's been writing itself lately. I've got a longer (and way better) one coming along, so it'll be up in the next week. Not in love with this one, really, but it has sentimental value. Maybe I'll work on it some more at some point.

Saturday nights in neon lights, Sunday in the cell.

I have endeavored, until now, to write and draw beautiful things: effervescent phrases; the darkest of which were eyes closed against the sun. Beautiful things. This is where it gets ugly. This is when the sun goes down, and it comes up again only through the bars of a prison cell. The night starts here.

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The boot flew across the room. It left a smear as it hit the wall, printing it with mud. I untied the other, yanking the laces out of the holes without thought for once again having to re-thread them, even though knew that I would. Re-thread the laces. Through the holes. Hurriedly. Late for something. Wishing I had left them alone. I would tie my boots after I threaded them and put them on my feet. I would wear them to work, to school, over pants, under a skirt, every day, the soles would wear, and I would replace them.

I threw the second one across the room too. Harder, at a wall made of cement. If it had been made of drywall and cracked with the force of my throw I would have torn the wall apart until my fingers bled. Instead, I punched it. Heard my bones crack. My knuckles came away without skin. I dragged them across the wall, slowly, leaving bloody streaks above the mud from my boots. It was wet, and my blood was wet, and I mixed them together until the mud on the wall until the blood from my hands made a fingerprinted set of swirls, and it was brown, and my blood was camouflaged by the mud in swirls that were brown, with no evidence of human suffering, and my palms were filmed with mud. My knuckles were clean. Except for my blood. It ran to my elbows. It dripped on the floor. It wasn't that bad. I wasn't lightheaded. I could mix it with mud, and the dirt that collected from my shoes, and that would make it invisible.

En Inglés con Español, y entonces en Español con Inglés.

¿Qué es la significa de una araña con siete piernas?

The spider was first on the bathroom ceiling, small enough to tolerate. She stayed overhead until Thursday, when she was on the wall near the mirror. It was there that I realized her strange asymmetry was not due to longer forelegs but to the absence of one; she had only seven. Tenía sólo siete.
A strange condition, for a spider. They do not live particularly perilous lives; predatory, sure, but their prey, unlike most carnivores, cannot bite or kick or maim. I concluded that she must have been born with the defect, because I cannot think of an injury that she could have sustained that would have altered rather than ended her life.
Pero, ¿qué es la significa? It feels meaningful. Something with nature, and accidents, and overcoming obstacles. But the pressing feeling is pregnant with this: she does not know that she is missing. Her gait is altered, but from one that is not hers, and has never been. She does not limp; her back leg has become front and she pulls more than propels. That is all.
Una araña con siete piernas no sabe la significa de siete. Entonces, no hay significa.

What is the meaning of a spider with seven legs?

La araña estuvo primera en el techo del baño, bastante pequeño tolerar. Ella se quedó en lo alto hasta el jueves, cuando ella estuvo en la pared cerca del espejo. Allí realicé su asimetría extraña era no porque de las piernas más largas, pero de la ausencia de una; ella tenía sólo siete. She had only seven.
Una condición extraña, para una araña. Ellas no viven vidas en particular peligrosas; predador, sí, pero su presa, a diferencia de la mayor parte de carnívoros, no puede morder o dar patadas o mutilar. Concluí que ella debe haber nacida con el defecto, porque no puedo pensar en una herida que ella podría sostenido lo que habría cambiado pero no terminado su vida.
But what is the meaning? Siente significativo. Algo con naturaleza, y accidentes, y obstáculos de vencimiento. Pero el siente está embarazado con esto: ella no sabe que ella falla. Su paso es cambiado, pero de uno que no es suyo, y nunca ha sido. Ella no cojea; su pierna trasera se ha hecho delantera y ella tira más que propulsa. Es todo.
A spider with seven legs does not know the meaning of seven. Therefore, it has no meaning.

Nostalgia... Smelly, smelly nostalgia.

The fraternity and sorority houses on the East side of High Street all have hilled front yards. There are small flights of steps from the uneven, laid-brick sidewalk to each porch and the metal railings, hinged together like plumbing pipes, reminded me yesterday of home. My red house in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, was where I grew up until I was eight, and when I went back to visit a year later it seemed so much smaller than it ever had when I was living there. The new owners had let my mother's flowerbeds wilt and die. Everything was different.

It had a small stairway with a pipe railing. Or, maybe, it didn't. I remember that railing from somewhere. The way my hand smelled after touching it is what threw me back, even though I didn't touch any of the railings of the frat houses as I walked home. Maybe there was such a railing at Jacobus Park, where my father or sister cast into the pond and snagged my thumb with their fishing hook as I stood behind them. Him. It had to have been him, or my mother, because my sister would have been too young to be casting a fishing rod tipped with a sharp piece of metal. It had a yellow top. I remember that. The piece of plastic where you tied it onto the fishing line was yellow.

I don't remember the important things: what it was like living in Milwaukee, what my house looked like, who was with me that day in the park. I remember smells. After running my hand all the way down the metal railing, my palm would be cold, and smell like an old penny. I often have the compulsion to smell things. It's not something I think about, and I have a way of doing it discreetly. I smell my boyfriend's laundry to see if it's too dirty to wear again. I inhale the drinks I make as a barista, to check whether I put the correct syrup in or to investigate a new flavor combination. And every once and a while, I'll turn a corner and a smell will hit me full in the face, out of nowhere, with no reason or provocation. I have to stay and try to place it, to identify it, but smells are funny that way. You can't always find the name for what it is or who you were with or when you first inhaled. Or why. But there's memory there, always, and I always am transported somewhere to a time I can't name.

¡Una poema del catálogo más!

New catalog poem! I have a lot of words from the latest Anthropologie, so they'll be coming for a couple more posts.



(it's one of my favorites!)

As far as el español en el título goes, I'm trying to practice my Spanish... just bought One Hundred Years of Solitude and The Little Prince in Spanish and The Little Prince on tape. Trying to prepare for my trip to Costa Rica this summer, so open Free Translation, bitches!

A tiny poem, more to come!

More catalog poems! In celebration of the warmer weather; looking forward to both the events of summer and the season itself. Here is one for now, three or four more to come over the next couple of days:

Too damn tired. Too. Damn. Tired.

I... yeah. Can't be bothered. Sleep now.

Web site: HALP!

So. There is a reason for my extended refrain from updates, and it contains good news and bad news. The bad news is: I can't seem to get it up. The FTP client I'm using isn't connecting properly, or I'm not using the correct login, or something, and I've been fiddling with it for weeks to no avail.

The good news?

I've made a website!

Right. Strike that, reverse it. Anyway, I've got the html files set up, it looks bitchin', and I can't get it online. I'm really frustrated and could use someone's help, really, but I don't know anyone offhand who knows web design to any extent. If anyone could help me, or knows someone who's willing to help me, I'd really appreciate it, and I'd do something nice for them. Within my means. They'd probably get a lame little poem or something, to be honest. NOT TO MENTION THE SATISFACTION OF KNOWING THEY'VE HELPED A FELLOW HUMAN BEING.

Honestly, though, I am starting to get desperate. My site looks so beautiful, it really does, and I've worked on it for hours. It would be wonderful to be able to get it online.

Angie

I wrote this a while ago. It's about this woman named Angie, and I honestly don't know where I got her from. Her use of language is a little outdated... I think I might have lifted it from Thelma and Louise. I guess I based her on Thelma a little bit; that's kinda what I imagine her sounding like. And she's oddly philosophical for a goofy housewife, too. I guess this can be considered the seed for something bigger. It was supposed to be something bigger. But it isn't, yet.

Angie.

Neurological constipation!

I've got my computer back, but unfortunately am now, apparently, brain-blocked. Nothing gettin' out. I can only read furiously on random schoolwork-related subjects. Somebody, please, save me from this hell. Gimme a prompt. Gimme a writing assignment. Anything. Otherwise, this blog'll be nothing but updates on the minutiae of my day-to-day life. And what's the point of that? That's what Twitter's for. It'd be, you know, redundant.

Also... http://catandgirl.com/?p=2364.

"I thought I was a novelist but I'm a blogger." I often forget why I love this comic, and then, I remember.

Horr' Story!

I wrote a new thing! It is very very long. As far as blogging goes, anyway. I need a way to store my stuff... like, a web site of some sort, or some way to cut away from the actual entries, so I can post longer stuff. Or maybe I'll just look in to posting the longer stories in parts. Any ideas? Suggestions? Opinions?

Since I can't quite yet post anything I've written, I thought I'd post a synopsis of the horror story I've been working on. I wrote it for this contest, and it still needs a little work, but it was just a fun little bit of writing that, once edited, I will post.

It's about my apartment building, more or less. It's old, like mine, and this girl lives alone. The complex is weirdly empty. Except for when it isn't. There is a door that has been sealed shut for a hundred and ten years. Except for when it isn't. There are footsteps in the halls, and there's a party on the terrace. And Rosalie's invited.

(Dun dun DUN.)

Hiatustime.

Okay... sent my laptop off to be fixed as of yesterday. Hiatus in full effect, because although I can sporadically update from public computers, most of my writing is on my laptop. I did manage to e-mail myself the two larger pieces I've been working on, but in all likelihood, I won't finish them until my laptop is back. I miss it so.

Catalog poems.

I made catalog poetry! I was flipping through an Anthropologie catalog the other day, and the names of the clothing were these really beautiful and inspiring phrases. So I blacked out everything but those words and phrases, and then arranged those images into poetry! So, it's kind of a cross between an altered book, and plagiarism. Enjoy.

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Converging roads.

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Catalog poetry doesn't work so hot with other catalogs, though. I tried it with Free People, even, and it's... sparse.

Official date on hiatus beginning: any point after the eighteenth. So, basically, the time when my computer will be away getting fixed is the exact date when school starts up again. Hooray! I'm thinking of asking somebody to guest-post a few times with their writing... I've a few people in mind. If anyone's interested, please comment and I'll set something up.

A short story!

Another short story! Although, it's kind of a hybrid poem, too. Much shorter than the last one, and rated R for sexual content, although it's cryptic as hell. So if you're a prude, go away. Tentatively titled Supernova.

SHIT shit shit shit shit

I regret to announce that at some point in the next couple of days, I will have to be on hiatus for anywhere from 2 to 6 days. My laptop is utterly fubar (has anyone used that word since Saving Private Ryan came out? I'm a-bringin' it back.) I managed to drop it two times and was still able to use it, and then yesterday I thought "I will bring my laptop with me on my various outings and I will be able to write while Ian and Sam play chess instead of watching The OC with Kyoko.". But the opposite of that thought happened. And all of the transport served to whittle my ever-decreasing screen into a little three-by-eight bar. So I'll be sending it in to get my LCD fixed and decrease my finances to dangerously low levels.

I'll try and update once more before the actual hiatus, but in case I don't, here's a short story to hold over my increasing readership (eep!):

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I feel I should add that comments on these entries are wanted and welcome, especially constructive criticism. The more specific, the better.

Haikus and horror.

Today is the day of haikus. I wrote this one at my grandmother's cabin in northern Wisconsin, Land o' Loons. Seriously. Every damn morning with the loons, man. And Sugie (that's what we call my grandmother, long story...) had also decorated the cabin with loons in every damn place. They're a classy-looking bird. Anywho, this is the poem, a series of haikus, and it is called "Leaves".

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This haiku is also about leaves. I think it is impossible for me to write a haiku that is not about leaves. I think I tried with this one, and it ended up being about leaves again.

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I'm going to try in my next post to post some prose, but I'm apprehensive. First of all, cuts are not possible as far as I'm aware. Also, I edit poetry to no end but, comparatively, barely edit my prose. So it all might suck. Who knows. Not me.

I'm also in the middle of writing a horror story for this writing contest for Writers' Journal, tentatively titled "The Tenant". So far, it's not particularly... scary. It's certainly creepy, but in order to win, I feel like I need to proved that lingering, nightmare-inducing feeling. I want it to be Pet Sematary-scary. I'm re-reading it so I can find out what makes it so freaky. Wish me luck. I may post the story when I'm doneif I'm happy with it, but I have a feeling that I'm just not cut out for the horror genre. If anyone has any tips for me for some reason, let me know, because I could use some help. I could even use a beta, if anyone's consistently available for editing help.

This is the only writing I've done so far today. I'd best at least try to eke something out before bedtime, so I don't get in the habit of doing fuck all. That's no way to maintain a blog, eh, people? No. No it isn't.

One poem, some peanuts.

Fp-fp-fp-fp-fp.

Now, imagine that emitted from my mouth melodically, and with head bobs to emphasize every syllable. That's how I would've liked to begin this entry. So.

And now, this.

(It's a poem.)

(I wrote it.)

(It's called The Night Descending.)

I seriously need to find a substitute for LJ-cuts on blogspot. My poor little poem feels naked. This is the first installment of a multi-part series of poems I'm planning. It'll be in the middle, probably.

In other news, I am watching Good Eats. Alton Brown is conversing with George Washington Carver. He is wearing a giant foam peanut on his head.

I have to be at work by 5 tomorrow morning, but I need to see where this is going.

Edit: INTERESTING DEVELOPMENT. Okay did anyone know George Washington Carver didn't even invent peanut butter? Fucker.

An introduction, and some weird statements.

My name is Britta, and my apartment smells. My cold apartment smells. My cold apartment that I can barely afford smells. Also, I am hungry.

And I am writing (or attempting to write, depending on your point of view) this intro entry (or paragraph in a blogspot window that I'll delete in a second, depending on how it turns out) rather than taking out my trash. Or turning on my heat. Or working. Instead of doing what I should be doing, I'm starting a blog where I will store my poetry and short stories that I will write while I'm not doing what I should be doing.

Hopefully.

Because otherwise, I'm just a cold girl in a smelly apartment knowing she should be doing other things, and wanting to write, but not doing either.

So this is it. This is my attempt at replacing nothing with writing. I'll be in touch.

Time for a ham sandwich.