the atlantic, love.

i'm tired of imagining the perfect boy up in my head.
nothing can ever be in real life the way i imagine it.
i want to hold his hand while walking in the cold snow.
have my hair brushed away from my face in the sticky summer.

i want to visit many places, maybe i can just pick up my things & go.
maybe he'll be there.
i can go before i have rents to break, bills to pay, kids to feed, pills to take.

i'm trying not to think love is over-rated. love is perfect.
but it doesn't exist often around me.
i don't need someone perfect... just perfect for me.
something always goes wrong.

the last page in my seemingly endless notebook & this is all i can come up with. my cat is rolling to & fro all over my pages, wiggled loose from numerous folders of past works. she purrs & meows in different tones of voice to get my attention away from my paper.
rub my belly. you promised.
"when did i say such a thing?? i have no memory of this at all..."
last night. you were sitting there scribbling again and...
"...ohhh yes, you decided to smear all my words with your paw."
well, desperate times call for desperate measures. 'tomorrow night' you said, 'i'm busy now' & a tap on the nose.
"i finally thought i had an idea worth writing!"
rubbish. you were wasting time before bed as usual. scratch my belly.
i need a less demanding cat. my new pages have already fallen out thanks to unreliable perforation. in a crumpled pile on my covers, cat pushes them around all out of order until i feel as if i can see them differently. no longer a series of months, drawn and written into a fruitless chronology. maybe just a pile of things to be recycled. this is my last page. the cat grows anxious.
maybe when you've wasted the last of that book, then i'll get the attention i deserve.
i could write something awe-inspiring, that would leave the other 59 pages stewing in a jealous rage.
"we're grocery lists & IOUs, what makes you so special??"
"last chances", it calmly replies.
a chance to be remembered. the clock chimes another resounding digit i'm afraid to count. no pacing back and forth to the mirror tonight. inspriation isn't there. it isn't in my desk drawers, or in my pile of clothes on the floor, either. maybe if i read this book backwards or look at it upside down, i can catch a bit of something i couldn't see before.
nonsense! now you've only got half a page left!
 "quiet you, or no tuna leftovers for a month!"
a roll of the eyes. perhaps if i arrange together all the final pages of notebooks past- the best works of the spirals- i can create a patched masterpiece. one half page stares blankly back. okay. i could make lists.
people i should have called on their birthdays, but didn't.
artists whose work i detest.
suddenly, the inspiration pours from my pen. i can't write fast enough! too risky to move to the computer for typing, might lose the train of thought- the short burst of genius. the internet is so distracting. one click of a button & suddenly i'm caught up in the musical stylings of a one woman band from prague.
my left palm is covered in splotched ink, then suddenly, it stops. i'm back to listening to the breathing of my cat & gazing at the one-third left of my once white page.
a dusty photograph suddenly flies off of the top of my old bookshelf & into my lap. a random gust from the fan blows a frozen moment of january back in my direction. a picture of a secret. secret romance? secret emotions? a not-so-secret heartbreak.
voices repeating "i thought you guys were just friends." and "you'll get over it, you weren't even really that close" swirl around in my head. only this glimpse from a disposable camera leftover from holiday gatherings reveals a boy about to secretly kiss a girl who will later write a secret midnight story on the last page of another notebook no one will ever see. what a waste of ink.
"come here and i'll rub your belly. but not a word of this to anyone, you hear? i'm allowed to have secrets."

*please note: no capital letters. i am not lazy, or illiterate, i like it that way.

music, life, aesthetics, knowledge, travel.

I have a thing for magazines. I want to write for a trendy publication one day & hence, I keep all my past issues to admire & cut+paste from later. When I really like a title, I can't wait for the next issue to come out & quickly buy it off the shelf. [I'm not very patient in waiting for mail subscriptions...] So you have to understand that when I finally grow attached to a certain one, it's a bond only understood by other aspiring writers, fashion addicts... & maybe just teen girls. But, here's the thing:

My first FAVORITE magazine was elleGIRL. kind of off beat, fashion, travel, music news etc. for the growing teen hipster. Three or four months after I accepted my addiction? OUT OF PRINT. okay, elleGIRL... okay. I find refuge once a month online at ellegirl.com, as they're still on the web. Every once in a while, I attempt reguar Elle, but it's just not the same.

 So I found a new one. Jane... okay. for the savvy trendsetter. Five issues later, after they feature my all-time favorite actress [Zooey Deschanel] on the cover?  OUT OF PRINT. You've GOT to be kidding me. All the sudden janemagazine.com redirects me to a page that says something like "Thanks for your loyalty, Jane readers. we think you'll enjoy Glamour." Again, a redirect, this time to the hollywood rag website. What? WHAT? For anyone that's ever read Jane and/or Glamour, you should assume that either one of those readers would most certainly NOT enjoy the opposite. Hmm, "How To Build Your Own Bookshelf Out Of Antique Picture Frames & Cover It In Newspaper Clippings", or "What Awesome Shoes Was Cameron Diaz Wearing Last Night At That Event-That-No-One-Cares-About?"

One last try. Blueprint. Awesome. A little fashion "Find Your Spring Colors", interior design "New Paint & Vintage-looking Wallpapers", recipes "How to Throw a French Dinner Party", music "Ten Albums You Didn't Know Were Out" everything! Thanks Martha Stewart, you did something right. This one lasted a little longer, about five issues later [one every two months]... I went into Target [who always carries it] & they had the January/February issue waaayyy past it's "display until:" date. hmm, that's strange. Border's books. They have EVERY magazine. "Huh," the lady sticking sale stickers on bargain books says, "I know we carry that. Our magazine person is on vacation, check back later" Thanks for nothing. I begin to get worried... by now I have began to assume my bad luck with magazines. So, the end of March i decide to look online. Martha Stewart Living, Better Homes & Gardens, Real Simple, check. Blueprint?

OUT OF PRINT.

I lost my shit.
I am considering writing an angry letter to every other magazine ever suggesting they change their style to what I am looking for in a mag, & also threatening them that if I decide I do like it & they EVER go out of print [until I change my mind]... well... they'll be sorry.

Now, just in case, so we can prove I'm not just imagining things... my other "favorites" [they will never compare] are Domino the interior design fix, & teenVOGUE, the fashion/music fix... the regular Vogue is just like the regular Elle: too many ads for expensive things that they don't even sell in this area code. If those stop printing, someone just drive over here & help me because I'm certain I will become a little bit CRAZY.

"I’m sorry," she admitted, "but you’re just not my type."

Right then & there his eyes glazed over and his thoughts went numb. Every movement of her cherry red lips mouthed a different word entirely inside his head. He recalled her past relationships and created his own script.

"I prefer boys who use me, screw me over left & right. I’d rather they take me for what I’m worth then leave the remains for my girl friends & a pint of Ben & Jerry’s to piece back together. I’m a broken-hearted heartbreaker. My type is boys who think they’re way out of my league, God’s gift to woman.

So please, since I know you won’t hurt my feelings and if we go out you’ll drive, pay & probably call me the next day..." He woke up and tuned in to her actual speech.

"Hit on some other girl... one who’s more your type."

YUM.

1. coffee & cigarettes- augustana
2. i need some fine wine- the cardigans
3. pollen & salt- daphne loves derby
4. apples in the trees- mirah
5. honey honey- feist
6. cake parade- georgie james
7. pumpkin soup- kate nash
8. coffee shop- landon pigg
9. kiwi- maroon 5 :]
10. cherries in the snow- elk city
11. ice cream- new young pony club
12. chocolate- snow patrol
13. strawberry- paul baribeau
14. cheap wine- what make milwaikee famous
15. bowl of oranges- bright eyes
16. cigarettes and chocolate milk- rufus wainwright
17. red apples- cat power
18. black horse & the cherry tree- kt tunstall

1. california- phantom planet
2. boston- augustana
3. australia- the shins
4. harlem's nocturne- alicia keys
5. germany to germany- ratatat
6. coney island- death cab for cutie
7. sodom, south georgia- iron & wine
8. the shadow of seattle- marcy playground
9. new york girls- morningwood
10. uh-merica- regina spektor
11. i loved the way she said "LA"- spitalfield
12. california's burning- augustana
13. london skies- jamie cullum
14. the district sleeps alone tonight- the postal service
15. LDN- lily allen*
16. april in paris- ella fitzgerald
17. midnight in shanghai- kaddisfly
18. why georgia- john mayer
19. when in rome- nickel creek
20. chicago- sufjan stevens**

i'm sure there are 14,324 more, but the point of me posting a playlist is that these are the ones i personally like & own. & i'm trying to keep them mostly of the same genre. i'm not really into sweet home alabama.

* LDN is the international code for london, of course.
**you didn't think i would leave out good old 'illinoise' did you? :]

the wind is big and cool and roaring powerfully through screens and trees and everything else and it's perfect. everyone has that secenario of perfect weather imagined in their heads. this weather, chilly but crisp & gorgeously bright with sun, trees holding on to their leaves through the fighting gusts. this is perfect. i forgot my sunglasses so i'm squinting at everything and since i'm not really looking around, leaves and twigs & stray berries & acorns and such are bombarding me like confetti from their home in the green and brown canopy of life above our heads. with my hair in my face constantly from the wind, i dont have a chance of avoiding the hits. we're walking down this rural street now, you & i. the kind of street in the city that has hundred year old houses that are in beautiful time capsules, immune from new century zoning so they sit next to million dollar look-a-likes with upgraded kitchens & bathrooms & families. a few cars slowly travel past & i keep glancing up through the sunbeams hoping you're glancing back at the same time.

------

it's not a dark & stormy night. there's a slight chill in the air & a humid wind keeps slapping my hair against my face and into my eyes. as i constantly brush it away, i lick my lips and recoil at the taste of nothing but airborn sea salt. the moon is so bright, you can see at least 100 feet down the shore. the stars are crisp & the night sky is navy blue crystal. as i step into the rough surf, i flinch & gasp & the cool april water chills me all the way up into my head & make my teeth chatter. my ragged jeans are soaked up to my hips from the crashing waves, even though i am only in calf deep water. as i walk deeper, the sand is softer & i sink quicker. the water is not clear and perfect like it is during the day, it's pitch black and filled with unknown all around my legs and under my freezing feet and filling my pockets. for six or seven minutes i stand staring straight at the horizon. waiting for the sun to come up? waiting for someone to come & tell me they've been looking for me everywhere. stretching my arms upwards, i twist around, burying myself in the loose silt up to my ankles. i catch a glimpse over my shoulder... & there you are. i don't think all the rhymes and adjectives and synonyms in the world would make me as satisfied as i am when i look you in the face. your eyes are words like no one's ever read them before. i can't stare as much as i want to because i lose myself and get embarrassed because i know you're looking back at me.