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15 April 2009 @ 05:42 pm
Youtube this: Rives.

Made my day better.
Maybe I'll write or just continue to think too much.
28 March 2009 @ 10:04 pm
Tonight consisted of driving in the rain, American Spirit cigarettes, good music, and a desolate Barnes and Noble. I could have spent hours in there, but my brother was with me. And the shelves were mostly bare because they are moving. It felt strange.
08 March 2009 @ 06:09 pm
I think we do it on purpose. We leave people with a part of ourselves, knowing that once they've passed through our lives, we will still be there. Somewhere on the top shelf of a closet is our hoodie, or stuffed in a dresser drawer, an old t-shirt. We leave these bits and pieces knowing full well that the next time they're cold and grab that sweatshirt, or the next time they shrug on a t-shirt for something to wear around the house, they stop. And a crisp memory of us gets thrown back into their minds. And they remember, tugging at the hood or pulling the shirt down over their stomachs, just exactly when that piece of clothing passed from us to them. We aren't a memory anymore, but something tangible and real. Something soft and worn in, like we never really went away.
26 January 2009 @ 10:38 pm
i've recently started to hate capital letters. not intentionally; it's just become another aesthetic peculiarity of mine. and now it seems weird. i have saved notebooks piling up on a shelf from seventh grade until now. and now it feels weird.

i wasn't sure what I was looking for, but i went searching anyway. i felt the urge to shuffle through things in the old desk in the corner of the basement.

i found notebooks. college notebooks. my mother's college notebooks.
and it feels weird. because now i know we are more alike than i originally thought.

i haven't read them all yet. and part of me feels as though i'm intruding on her history, her private thoughts. and the creepy idea of my daughter, if i should have one at some time, reading through my notebooks, crawls into my head. there are poems, huge stacks of scribbled poems and typewriter written poems.

and she liked to mimic e.e. cummings (because she never capitalized her "i"s)
they are a part of her, a part i don't see. she doesn't write anymore, not that i've ever found or noticed.
but some of these pieces feel so familiar, tangible, as though I could have written them.

and we're really not that different.

it's pulled me into a moment where i want to hug her, and tell her everything.
but this girl, this poet whose heart i've found--i find it hard to see in my mother
becca g------ and becky p-----
just don't seem to be the same.

it seems, i am my mother, but before she even was, in '75.
19 January 2009 @ 09:48 pm

needed a change.
something real to come soon.