electronic surgical words

A Song to Sing

2009-07-14T22:54:00.007-05:00

I don't care what anyone says:

These guys are, in my mind, some of the most dead talented musicians out there. Sure, they've had their moments of 'Mmmbop', pre-pubescent teeny-bopping, and gender confusion but REALLY. They're still going strong and sound/look better than ever — and I'd STILL date them.

The end.

Oatmeal.

2009-07-14T22:24:00.003-05:00

He comes in every morning at a quarter to seven. Scrubs, smile, and something witty to say. He marches over to the display of warm breakfast food, and every morning he chooses the same thing: Oatmeal. A hearty glass dish full of the bland mush, topped generously with brown sugar and cinnamon.

And every morning at ten to seven I give him a terrible time for it, and tease him, and he looks at his feet, and back up at me, and smiles, and defends his breakfast.

"Here he comes with his thrilling breakfast," I'll say as he approaches. "What are you going to eat when you get older?"

"Oatmeal."

"When you lose your teeth?"

"Oatmeal!"

Oatmeal has no speculation that I do, actually, adore him in a great, mushy way. The food really isn't that bad, either.

20

2009-07-14T19:23:00.003-05:00

A lovely 20 day to my lit'l sister! Stay fly, Tuneybell.

2009-07-13T23:16:00.005-05:00

"The people in the back seat were speechless. In fact they were afraid to complain: God knew what Dean would do, they thought, if they should ever complain. He balled right across the desert in this manner, demonstrating various ways of how not to drive, how his father used to drive jalopies, how great drivers made curves, how bad drivers hove over too far in the beginning and had to scramble at the curve's end, and so on. It was a hot, sunny afternoon. Reno, Battle Mountain, Elko, all the towns along the Nevada road shot by one after another, and at dusk we were in the Salt Lake flats, twice showing, above and below the curve of the earth, one clear, one dim. I told Dean that the thing that bound us all together in this world was invisible, and to prove it pointed to long lines of telephone poles that curved off out of sight over the bend of a hundred miles of salt. His floppy bandage, all dirty now, shuddered in the air, his face was a light. 'Oh yes, man, dear God, yes, yes!'"

( J a c k K e r o u a c • O n t h e R o a d )

Slow.

2009-07-13T02:10:00.003-05:00

I still feel like I did yesterday,

and the day before,

and years before that.

I've been searching for all these things,

all this time,

looking for tangibles and feelings that

I really, really am hoping exist.

But this place, it can make you so many things —

So happy, so tired, so low, and confined…

It's the balance we seek and the tedium we find

Defined as

"why not", where not, no;

We run to relieve, and relieve to

let go

Slow.

2009-07-11T01:00:00.001-05:00

Like a book elegantly bound
But in a language that you can't read

Just yet.

Little Mermaids.

2009-07-08T22:32:00.006-05:00

More nostalgia:

Amidst some of the best days of life thus far — babes in the making!

Growing up feels so unfair when I see this…

But such is life, and life was—and is—good.

If I Feel Tomorrow Like I Feel Today

2009-07-04T23:45:00.007-05:00

I will follow you wherever you go

If your offered hand is still open to me
Strangers on this road we are on
We are not two, we are one

Tuneybell & Cruella

2009-07-04T02:44:00.005-05:00

TUNEYBELL AND CRUELLA PLAYED FAIR with the occasional tangle. They lived side by side, bed to bed, one closet all the same. The same Barbies, emanated from the same genes, eating from the same cauldron of macaroni and cheese. Their drawings hung parallel on the fridge, their hairs clung to the same bathroom sink. They rolled together—to the pool, the tee ball games, the Sunday service, in the back of the Plymouth Voyager. They prayed the same rosary with Marcella, shared hand me up's and down's, rainbow coveralls and plaid jumpers, squished Daddy Long Legs in the yard, bolted through the same sprinkler spray in hot July, chalked up the same sidewalks. Together they played Peter Pan, made mud pies, built forts, climbed evergreens, sold lemonade. Their tenor was boyish, unwieldy, quiet, chummy bedlam. It was them, like twins, though never much of a muchness; each with a distinct nature but nevertheless, as Tuneybell, size 8, would lank with her twigs, a sturdy Cruella, size 10, sulked not far beside. Together they lived, capered, and snored behind the same door, the one that said, mutually, 'NO BOYS ALLOWED.' And they meant it.

When all was fair and resolved, crying concluded, words said, and trees climbed, it was the two of them, Tuneybell and Cruella, soaking in the same stinky bathwater at the end of a fruitful day, rinsing themselves of it all.

Ledge

2009-07-04T02:28:00.002-05:00

I want to be here, dangling over Chicago, staring into everything.

I would like that very much…

Home Sweet No More

2009-07-02T23:47:00.004-05:00

Number 19

The minivan outpours,

Mom, Dad, three, four, five, six, seven

A catholic cluster of curls and frowns

Big as the little house

Little as a house for two.

This house loves,

Your scents, your screams, your Legos

Watermelons and overflowing closets

Drying the grass, plugging the toilet

Squishing into the breakfast nook.

With rooms filled,

Boys with boys, girls and toys deluge

Makeshift space and attic dwelling

Where to grow? Where to play?

Nineteen is brimming.

The choice was none,

Boxes filled and packed bags escaped

Goodbye to the family 19 raised

A catholic cluster of curls and frowns

Outpouring elsewhere.

(Originally posted on 11 Nov 2008.)

19 Shirley Court, No. 9 Crabapple Tree

2009-07-02T22:52:00.008-05:00

IT WAS ROOTED IN THE MOST COINCIDENTAL OF PLACES, the old crabapple tree that jutted from the ground just beyond the back porch. The tree’s burgeoning branches, thick with fruit, plunged to the patio with the breeze as the tiny apples created a land mine of prospective mess. The sappy, textured bark had segued to gray, skin that had seen decades pass preserving the tree’s entrails.

A horizontal plank fastened near the base suggested inhabitants, and several others above confirmed, the numerous punctures in the wood coinciding with frequent repositioning of each step. Branches — one on the left, the other on the right — served as buttresses, their disposition summoning climbers to curl an arm around each before pushing off from the loftiest step. With a quick thrust, one’s weight was unfurled upon the rickety floor of 19 Shirley Court, No. 9 Crabapple Tree.

Salvaged shreds of lumber from deconstructed fences formed an encasement barely big enough for two, with gaping holes that had the potential of doors or windows, though their intention was neither. Rusty nails and screws poked out of every plank, gesticulating a child’s inability to force them any further into the wood. Crooked coats of peeling lime green and periwinkle paint scoured the structure, colors chosen for their boisterous and welcoming nature that best suited the wood they concealed.

A discolored plastic roof suspended overhead, the leftovers of the old porch awning. It was a high rise, with a second, and third story, each consisting only of a petty board to sit on after a laboring afternoon among the branches. The leaves gave way to a cooling shade in gratitude for a job well done; scraps melded into a beautiful eyesore of decrepit wood and a child’s imagination, three stories high and growing…

…and life was well-constructed.

2009-07-02T22:00:00.001-05:00

The Pump Don't Work 'Cause the Vandals Took the Handles

2009-07-02T21:58:00.000-05:00

WORK KEPT US ALL AFTERNOON and it was necessary, hardly work but painful tasks that leaped from our minds.

"Sometimes you have to do things you don't want to do." It's going to be a long day and quietly, we took the curves and signs of the streets in silent strides. Maybe we should digress or wonder less, maybe park the car and sit a while to dry our minds of the negative things it's inundated with day upon day and into next week. Let's forget, okay? Let's just forget.

The first step was under analyzing, the second honesty. I did them both—at once, in fact—and so well that I think—well, I know—I can do this. Keep on.

Deeper Down

2009-06-30T23:14:00.000-05:00

Underneath the ocean floor
A part of who we are we don't explore
I adore
The meaninglessness of the this
We can't express

2009-06-29T20:07:00.001-05:00

I am letting it get to me.

Yes, I am.

2009-06-29T00:09:00.005-05:00

WE WERE DRIVING INTO THE SUN, two days into a weekend away from work, and putting time into something more rewarding. I'd never noticed the lush blades that covered a generous span of the prairie ground and lush indeed, collectively the most beautiful grass of the summer. The wind settled and all that subsided were tan lines, a few careless hairs on my legs, a half tank of gas. Willow quivered in the backseat drooling, the expiration date on the buns said later this week. I don't know when I'll be back.

Then I got the message from you, and it said I could come visit any time soon. That's just fine, I'd shake a leg in two minutes to be that far away and see a familiar face. I've no money, but plenty in fact; can't spend, won't borrow, stubborn as shit. You know how it goes.

I'm trying to make the most of it. The appreciation comes slow, like sundown, after the evening's casting of recollection, and I try not to take myself too seriously. These days are so careless, so numbing and magnificent, that I cannot imagine a year without this kind of light. We all thrive on this — my mother in her garden, father fixing the concrete blocks, and sister with another love. And I — I drive with the roof open, throw the seat back and squint into that beautiful sun and feel that warmth, the best warmth, the best remedy. It's getting better all the time, you know.

A rock pile in a farmer's field reminds me of a day on the road with my grandfather, and searching for arrowheads amidst every mound under the midsummer sun. That day was just like today, save different motions and faces, but today was not taken for granted; I know better.

But where, in a summer, has time slipped?

2009-06-28T00:35:00.004-05:00

2009-06-25T20:55:00.004-05:00

For lack of greater, more original material:

And even more shocking, my mother is more torn up than me…

The Jackson Five must have played quite the defining role in her upbringing.

2009-06-24T00:55:00.002-05:00

I miss this so much.

2009-06-23T03:13:00.001-05:00

Still fighting it...

2009-06-21T23:47:00.007-05:00

I ONCE TOLD MY SISTER A STORY, about a spider that lives in my room.

"I have a spider that lives in my room," I said, "and I never kill it. I see it all the time, and just let it live in my room. It doesn't bother me, and I don't bother it."

She quickly retorted, "Jenny, you're stupid! Why…why would you do that? You know it's probably not the same spider you've been seeing, but one of many. If you keep letting it get away it's just going to have more spiders…"

I've come to realize how I live my life, letting things build up whilst being oblivious. Tonight I saw one small spider scamper across my closet floor—much smaller than the one I'd always let get away—and it served as a sign. Certain things in my life have gotten out of control, not just the arachnids lodging under my dresser drawers; things greater. I just choose to ignore them in hopes that they're not as numbered, as petrifying, or not crawling into my mouth at night.

And so, it is time to kill my spider.

2009-06-21T23:04:00.003-05:00

Happy Father's Day, Dad, with love from Cruella de la "Jenny Marie!"

xo

2009-06-18T22:14:00.006-05:00

If everyone demanded peace instead of another television set,
then there'd be peace.
( j. lennon )

2009-06-18T03:11:00.006-05:00

I've contradicted myself long enough. It's tough, better yet tougher, but it's the best thing. And who knows, somewhere down the line it's going to be the way it should, or just the way it can be. There's a plan, somewhere in that bag, just for a lady that's determined to exist as such.

But how many days have passed? And these threads, so tightly woven to my innermost workings, mind and movements, why? Why pass by and over thoughts so unavailing? And repeatedly throw myself against the wall, on the tracks, to the wolves? Who am I and what have I been doing this whole time?

So I will declare happiness on our lives. I want it and moreover, I've realized, finally — I mean it. Be free.