I have been doing math for the past 12 hours.

It hurts.

a poem for sad* girls, part two of three:
in which i tell you the truth.

(*please note that, here, the word "sad" is
used to mean: a broad term, often mistakenly
thought to refer to an emotional state, and not
a perception of the world in which the subject
has abandoned their sense of the definite, in
which the otherness of others has become
( Read more... )

Finding decent ukulele strings without having to order them from outside the continental United States? Not easy, yo.

Also, YA project is going amazingly well. I haven't felt this great about anything in a long time. But, that is all I can say, because I don't want to jinx it. (It's awesome though, people, seriously.)

Also, I'm up for the Aisling ( Read more... )

Two years ago, I could easily write 4,000 words a day, without it seeming like some kind of devastating, medieval torture. I think I'm finally, finally getting that back.

Also, drawing for fun and not for work? Yes, I'm doing that too. (Although, I guess that isn't fair, since a large part of my professional life involves questions such as: How can ( Read more... )

This year, I will:

1. Publish at least two new short stories, and three poems.
2. Finish a rough draft of this YA novel by February, and a second draft by April. 
3. Ghosts I Have Loved. This is a vague resolution, because the book's fate is also vague. 
4. Adventure out into the strange territory of Books I Haven't Read, which is a distant land from ( Read more... )

I dream constantly about death by asphyxiation, and I reread online excerpts of The Road over and over again, because I can't find my actual copy of the book. People find this charming, right?

(Or: I'd be horribly boring, without my intriguing psychological distance?)

This is everything here. It's a lot. Or at least, it will be, when I'm not lazy.

The fiction is kind of in my order of preference. The poetry is random.

Fiction

ghosts in earthly colors (i)
ghosts in earthly colors (ii)

A traditional ghost story, subverted. Set in Vietnam, circa 1970.

an empty space left behind

A bookstore that deals ( Read more... )

dear francesca woodman,
please respond.

dear francesca woodman,
                  please respond.

you are the only other on
this planet who can speak
the language of a grieving
face, sucked into the
moonscape of long
exposure - who knows
that, while you can
always return home,
you can never return
to the same home twice.

dear francesca woodman,

you've ( Read more... )

One of those five-minute poems, for people I miss.

rooms by the sea

edward hopper reminds me of you
and also of death.

it doesn't surprise me, since you're
both the same, these days -
a stranger, with very white
teeth, that waits at the other
side of a door without knocking.

(there is an envelope in his hand, and
inside there is a language that can be
( Read more... )

 Anyway, life is fucking awesome.

(Amended: I'm always sad, but at least, it's a romantic sort of melancholy. :-/ )