no result for a. bird's 'sovay.'

before i was shot, i always thought that i was more half-there than all-there – i always suspected that i was watching TV instead of living life. people sometimes say that the way things happen in movies is unreal, but actually it's the way things happen in life that's unreal. the movies make emotions look so strong and real, whereas when things really do happen to you, it's like watching television – you don't feel anything. right when i was being shot and ever since, i knew that i was watching television. the channels switch, but it's all television.

-andy warhol.

when the night becomes day.

im going to keep going with a subject. that of my lack o' sleep.

last night as i was laying down and drifting off [thanks to unisom], i started thinking. and the thinking was absolutely beautiful.
i realized that i wish i had a pen and paper to write down everything that went through my mind as i slipped away.
the thoughts were amazing. and everything made so much sense. it was amazing.
i could write a beautiful poem or song or play or story or screenplay or paper or anything during that time.
just give me a bit of exhaustion and a comfy pillow and you have the recipe for genius.

now if only i can relay it into real life and real time.
there is the catch that only the greatest accomplish.

check.

just came in from the san francisco bay.

oh the bittersweet fighting of sleep.
i find that in the past week, sleep has not come easy to me. in fact, it has come quite difficultly.
thus, my mind races with nonsensical [sometimes sensical] ideas, dreams, random shallow-dream-esque thoughts that all mold into one in the dark.

and tonight i am thinking of memories. the making of new ones and the resurfacing of old ones.
this past weekend i went to san francisco. beautiful, amazing city. cannot wait to return.
it truly is a foreign city on american soil.
and yet, as i return to marysville this evening, i cannot sleep. i believe its the mixture of the-excitement-of-the-vacation-being-over sadness mixed with anticipation to return to tennessee [and theatre...thank goodness]. so thus, i instantly netflixed a favorite movie of my past [my much younger past]...

new memory [and an addition to chaucer's traveling album]:


and the nextflixing of christmas past:


ah...good, goodnight.

you're a well rehearsed cliche.

i am newly addicted to the reading entertainment that is charlaine harris.
it causes me to emote immensely, often throwing the book to hysterical bouts of laughter and fits of rage.

how lovely.
i just love books books books.
i wish i read them slower.

don't believe all the who-hay.

my favorite michael jackson quote.
in reference to him talking to a reporter:

" Why not just tell people I'm an alien from Mars. Tell them I eat live chickens and do a voodoo dance at midnight. They'll believe anything you say, because you're a reporter. But if I, Michael Jackson, were to say, 'I'm an alien from Mars and I eat live chickens and do a voodoo dance at midnight,' people would say, 'Oh, man, that Michael Jackson is nuts. He's cracked up. You can't believe a damn word that comes out of his mouth.'"

—Michael Jackson

sweet, sweet Michael. RIP.

its stored in my cache.

drop.
she sneezes.
'bless you,' he says.

there is a long pause. all that can be heard is the slow drip of the leaky faucet and the hum of the refrigerator.

the refrigerator shuts off.
drip.

'bless you, i said,' he repeats.

'no. i didnt feel that,' she said. 'the sneeze, i couldnt feel it.'

i cannot convey.

i have always thought of myself as a healthy eater. but i promise you, the new dunkin donuts nearest my abode will be the death of me [point to conan]. blueberry cake donuts are a staple of my childhood.
and hello iced french vanilla coffee with cream and sugar.
american runs of dunkin...into their glutton, artery clogged graves.


oh no.
atleast they are not serving ice cream sundaes like krispy kreme is about to be.
krispy kreme just wants the world to die faster.

yah. ive seen the yeti.

i need accountability for this.
i had the strangest shallow dream the other day.

i wrote a screenplay. an its all in my head, i just need to get it out.
and i tracked down sam mendes to direct it.
i think i have enough luck to do that, or atleast get his opinion on it.
and then have will rucker direct it...yah ill do that.

a new month already?

june is french pressed coffee drinking, cultural anthropologing, nashvilling with the A [and B and W] team[ing], american pop culturizing, conan[do]-ing, summer quilting, costume shopping, movie going, book reading, taking time for walking, music listening all without a side of sleeping.

hey summa.

[dont] fear the reader.

a bit of my cross-country project.
starring frederick the polar bear with chaucer the teddy bear.

onward to discover america more!

the college of an eraser.

i really love being stuck inside my head with my thoughts.

wait. wheres the toast? waiter!

you know that feeling when you suddenly feel [redundancy heather...] that everything is going to be a-okay?

yep, i had that one today.
driving across beale air force base. pass the cows under trees and the wild turkeys. all while listening to the intro of "american girl" by tom petty.

aw shucks. thanks tom.
:she was an american girl:

seem awfully appropriate on a US military installation. ah, zee irony.

oh new post. three months later.

im certain i can find something really easy [too easy] to rhyme with later.
but more on that...[wait for it]...later. ha pun.

seventh day in california. beautiful and hot here. turkeys. gophers. mysterious breaking glass [i think it was a gopher]. musical crickets i swear. and wildfires around PAVE PAWS.
everything one would want california to be.

and im blogging at 5 am because i just woke up nauseated. but boy am i glad i woke up.
they say that the average person [dont know whether im above, equal to, or below] swallows seven spiders in their lifetime.
i just woke up to meet what i believe is number three.

i named him sinclair.

freetown, thats the capital of sierra leone.

i wrote this years ago and finally felt the need to post it.
i entitled it 'long division.' guy patching performed it as a monologue in the fall of 2006.

It was the dead of winter in January of 1995. Christmas trees and decorations had already been taken down and the only ones that remained were haunting remnants that the holiday season and cheer were far gone. At Adrian Burnett Elementary School in Mrs. Widener's 3rd and 4th grade split class, the children worked diligently on their assignments as the morning passed. It was not an extraordinary day in the slightest bit and not one soul in the room expected what was soon coming. A tall, blonde woman came into the room without knocking. She was wearing a calf-length, leather trench coat and her long, straight hair was pulled into a french twist. She quietly motioned for the teacher and spoke to her quietly. Very few of the children in the room knew this woman, let alone her purpose there.

However, as a bony, awkward girl of eight looked up from her long division, she saw her mother standing over her.

"Heather, your mother is going to take you home now," Mrs. Widener said in a calm, collected voice.

No one spoke, not even to say good-bye to Heather. Perhaps they all knew what she did not.

As Heather and her mother walked out of the school building, Heather's mom, Cindy, began to sob.

"What is it mom?" she asked casually.
"Nothing darlin', nothing at all. Just wait until we get home."
"Did someone die? Did papaw die, mom?"

Silence.

The drive to their condominium was unmemorable. Heather racked her mind to think of the possibilities of why her mother was not at work and why she was now out of school. The front door opened into the living room and down the hall into the kitchen stood Dene, Cindy's fiancé. There was no lights on in the condo, just the natural light flowing in from the windows.

Dene and Cindy nodded to each other with careless recognition and then Cindy pulled herself down to one knee onto Heather's eye level.

"Heather, your father committed suicide this morning. He's gone sweetheart."

It's funny what one notices when they are told grieving news. Heather did not scream wildly or cry out for answers.

On the contrary she suddenly remembered she hadn't finished her long division or even put it back in her desk. Her mother embraced her, sobbing all the while. It wasn't her papaw who has died. It was her father. No tears came to her eyes, only the vision of the blank television screen behind her mother.

introducing a new monthly homophone.

i dont enjoy being angry on this thing.

it would be absolutely utterly amazing if you were excited for my opening. if you even wished me happy opening. if you even acknowledged that i have worked my ass off these past few months for this show.

no, maybe i shouldnt be upset. i havent even realized its opening tonight. yah, you're right. there's no reason for today to be exciting or special. okay. right, yah. yah. i havent been stressed about the show or even anxious. ive been entirely calm. everything is running smoothly. and that mildly stresses me out. the no stress is rather stressful. its just a beautiful [adoringly beautiful] sunday here in knoxville.

"ill just call you later if i get a chance."

you find something to rhyme with ana.

rebecca haden's brother's video which i am using in part for my vertical work. this is just simply amazing to me.

oh the sweet jazz infusions of santana.

ive gotten on a new kick of inspiration.

and i havent cried in nearly a week and a half. something is afoot.

my dad always loved a glass of tropicana.

my title is a lie. my dad preferred five a-live.

happy fourteen years to my dearest father. i miss you too very much.
i am so thankful for the beautiful memories of you and your life.


and he was quite hot if i do say so myself [and i do].

just go be a dancer. . .in havana.

how you know i have test tomorrow.

naturally, my house is the cleanest it has ever been in quite sometime. clean sheets. laundry done, hung, and folded. vaccumed carpet. freshly seasoned iron skillets.

i made new candle holders out of old wine glasses and made a lovely arrangement for it on my kitchen island. i did finally take down my dead christmas tree. what a hysterical mess.

i've rearranged my bedroom to angle my bed in the corner. ive relocated large piles of books. sheesh. i should honestly invest in about 3 more bookcases. or shelves. or both. yes, certainly both. but my piles certainly do look quite pretty right now.

i took a small paint brush to my coffee table at around 2 36 am. with intent to just paint a few simple strokes, i halted the painting at 3 24am after sanding and priming the entire table.
perhaps ill paint it light grey this weekend. and then print leaves on it. again. maybe. or maybe not.

geeeez. i should be studying african countries. botswana. angola. democratic republic of the congo. not havana though. i should definitely not know that one. 54 countries. and their capitals.

dear me. keep me away from my sewing machine. i could make you an entirely new three-piece suit complete with contrasting lining.

oh, and then i blog about. schooool. oh eight!

the dearest, frequently angry. . .adriana

oh carol, of course ill meet you at 3 pm. do you know?

yes my friends, shakespeare is quite hard to tackle.


and then you learn how to read him.



and then hot dog.
'tis but a peevish boy...yet he talks well.

mrs. white, your first name? oh right...vanna.

8 30 am tuesday morning yoga.

obama's inauguration proceedings on the television [tube].
olafur arnalds and sigur ros playing in the background of my living room.
two million people in washington dc.

and i found out that i am far more patient with the left side of my body than the right side.

"for those who are appropriately humbled by this day..."

an unmarried woman cannot fish alone in montana.

my routine in the morning.

so as a general rule of thumb for myself [very recently acquired], i really enjoy getting up in the morning [about 2 to 3 hours before i have to be somewhere] to just be around the house.

eat english muffins.
drink chocolate soy milk.
listen to sigur ros and explosions and simon and garfunkel. and ryan adams.

then pending the day, ill shower. and days when i shower are just far better in general and not for the obvious reason one may think. oh contrare! showering mornings are better for me because they serve as the salvation of the roof of my mouth.



you see, when i do shower in the morning, i brush my teeth when i get out of the shower. and i really brush my teeth...normally for about a good 5-7 minutes. perhaps even 10. but i dont just sit around and brush my teeth during this allotted time, i do other things...things that further my 'getting ready' process.
so on these showering days, im normally in a robe or a towel...something that does not hinder my tooth-brushing experience.

well today. on this glorious wednesday.

i did not shower.
i just woke up [with only an hour to spare before i had to leave] and ate my english muffin. drank my soy milk. then i went to get ready. i had on jeans and a tanktop and went to brush my teeth.
[insert toothbrush into mouth].


i then decide "im going to finish getting dressed now."
and i do. i choose to wear an argyle sweater.
i pull it out of my closet and attempt to put it on. [toothbrush in mouth].

really heather?
no.no heather. you should not.
but i did. and the toothbrush of course got stuck on the sweater and pushed into my mouth.

toothpaste and spit everywhere. and a cut on the roof of me mouth...
i remember the good, safe times when my mother still dressed me in bed in the morning when i refused to get up...

the muted string of skinner's dulciana.

for those who slightly understand freud.

so, as freud states in his interpretation of dreams, dreams are the royal road to the unconscious. they are a subconscious key to our unconscious desires. they are distorted and loaded visions of what we truly want in life. we get into the latent and manifestation of dreams and such and blah, blah blah, bottom line is, frankly i don't understand my dreams and most certainly the one i had last night.

so to begin with my literal manifestation of the dream, here is what i recall.

it began in a movie theatre. very much like a movie. except i dont recall any of the movie but for its end. it was themed in a jurassic park-esk tone. except on a ride. ride-like form, if you will. so in the end of this dream movie, there was a tyrannasaurus rex. a fairly large one [abiding by my freudian manifestation], and we were moving along a set path.
only in our frontal plane [being it a ride] and myself and another person [i have no idea who] were stuck on a riding cart with this tyrannasaurus rex. think of joseph mazzello and ariana richards in the car with the glass in jurassic park.


then, this undisclosed partner of mine and myself began to remove the outer skin of the t-rex's skull [as such can be seen in hannibal]. thus, we expose his brain.

all the while, i am thinking that the second cart, full of my rescue party, is not arriving fast enough to help us de-scalp the kicking and screaming t-rex we have in our mine cart.
finally, the second cart arrives [mostly out of no where] and with our forces combined, we throw the t-rex onto the african soil surrounding us and cover him in dead grass.

following this, the camera angle [now my view of the dream] pans over city tops in new york city where there are album covers and cds piled on top of the buildings and i think "in tennessee, people would certainly steal those off the building tops."


as the camera continues to pan out, my point of view comes into seeing this on a television in front of me. i am surrounded by my friends who i assume to be amanda, audrey, andrea, adam, beth, ben, will rucker and will hooper. i am certain that will hooper is there because as the television screen goes off and the 'video' is over, we are all silent. . . . .

then the silence is broken as will hooper states, "alright. let's go and process this. i suggest we all start with a ballad."


fin.

i am really, truly intrigued to find out the latent meaning of this dream.

where, my dearest freud, does your [or my rather] id, ego, and super ego fit into such.

you say 'piˈænoʊ,' i say 'piˈæna.'

i'm an only child, but i have one sister.

dearest jessica.
you are absolutely stunning. you are beautiful and radiant. a beacon of hope in my life and in those around you. you are amazingly strong and courageous. you are ambitious and your smile is captivating. thank you for infecting my life with joy. you are one of the key components of the happiness that runs through me. you are a cornerstone of hope.
a thousand times thank you.

i remember mulan. and mushu. and dancing to spider webs. and squishing your tigger and her one ear sticking out. and boosh kitty. and ridiculously good chocolate milk. and lots of cereal. tons of cereal. and that crazy mcdonalds swingset in your yard that later became my yard.

and attempting to play horse with you. and losing. and not being able to dribble and run. and driving golf carts with you.

my gracious girl, you are wonderful. words are utterly failing me. but you are...my sister.
my dearest jess, i love you.

what? jersey is no where close to louisana.

inspired by ryan adams "the shadowlands."

until recently, i have never been capable of feeling. i existed, but i never felt. i never felt with intent or passion. i used to pray constantly for feeling. for a lack of the numbness which i never felt.

until recently, i have been capable of love. of love full and reckless. [i have loved recklessly.] i have been able to love without abandonment. without boundaries.

however. i cannot fuse the two.

i can now feel. and i can now not love.

i feel fully. i feel deeply and intensely. i feel wholly. and i love nothing. no one.





oh how i can feel! god what i could feel with this! what i can feel...what i do feel!

yet i cannot love now.
god please bring the rain.
please let me love now.
yah bring it soon.
i feel now!
let it flood right through the houses.
please god let me love with this.
into judy's room.
i can love with this.


most people never find the love.

i'm getting better at opening a banana.

a strangely beautiful morning in knoxville.

i couldnt sleep well last night. the last time i looked at the clock was 3:11. i dont remember exactly falling asleep [which i suppose is how it works] and when my alarm went off this morning [informing me of the crimes committed when and where during the night], i resorted into beckett mode.

i finally got up at 9:17. i pulled on my cardigan and walked in the kitchen. lit my tea candle. turned on itunes. poured my soy milk. put the tea kettle on. toasted my english muffins. fried an egg. fried. fried. buttered it all and sat down to eat.

starir a mig litill alfur
hleypur að mér en hreyfist ekki
ustað - sjalfur
staralfur

my tea kettle whistled on and on until it ran out of water.

silence is pouring into my life like water into a sinking ship.
nothing.