Darwin exposed.

We are all just moths,

flapping appendages,

buzzing towards the light.


_

5 Minute Poem

We drove to the reservoir
For a meteor shower
To fight sleep

Then, lying on top of your car
With blankets
And streaks of green and blue
Across the sky

We tossed back and forth
theories of space and time
And of the future
And of some obscure mathematical equations

That neither of us will ever know

 
 
.

5 Minute Poems

Break

I saw a woman on the phone during an entire lunch date.

Afterwards, when the call dropped, she said to the other,

"So how do you like the soup?"



20/20

Caviar gleams
atop raw, purple flesh

and I think of fish
swimming in my bowels.



Consequences

Back cruncher,

Back huncher


.

Day 2

Just bought my second Starbucks drink of the day:

Coffee frap with whip cream.

Whip cream because, when asked by the barista, I replied,

"Well I can't say no to whip."

Now I'm watching bodies move along
the pavement and gutters that
hold waste of those less fortunate.

I gather myself
for Danny
for a drive to Santa Rosa
over the Golden Gate

because life doesn't pause, wallow.

It continues, unencumbered.
Even after days of white walls
and empty corridors.

City Dweller.

Photos by Scott Hammel--scotterpop.com

Traffic

I handed a homeless man
a five dollar bill
just to see what he would say

The homeless man took
the five dollar bill
and said something
I can't understand

Meditative practices. And eating.

This is one of my favorite poems of all time:

The Orange

by Benjamin Rosenbaum

An orange ruled the world.

It was an unexpected thing, the temporary abdication of Heavenly Providence, entrusting the whole matter to a simple orange.

The orange, in a grove in Florida, humbly accepted the honor. The other oranges, the birds, and the men in their tractors wept with joy; the tractors' motors rumbled hymns of praise.

Airplane pilots passing over would circle the grove and tell their passengers, "Below us is the grove where the orange who rules the world grows on a simple branch." And the passengers would be silent with awe.

The governor of Florida declared every day a holiday. On summer afternoons the Dalai Lama would come to the grove and sit with the orange, and talk about life.

When the time came for the orange to be picked, none of the migrant workers would do it: they went on strike. The foremen wept. The other oranges swore they would turn sour. But the orange who ruled the world said, "No, my friends; it is time."

Finally a man from Chicago, with a heart as windy and cold as Lake Michigan in wintertime, was brought in. He put down his briefcase, climbed up on a ladder, and picked the orange. The birds were silent and the clouds had gone away. The orange thanked the man from Chicago.

They say that when the orange went through the national produce processing and distribution system, certain machines turned to gold, truck drivers had epiphanies, aging rural store managers called their estranged lesbian daughters on Wall Street and all was forgiven.

I bought the orange who ruled the world for 39 cents at Safeway three days ago, and for three days he sat in my fruit basket and was my teacher. Today, he told me, "it is time," and I ate him.

Now we are on our own again.



.

 
 

Photo by Jillian Tamaki


.

reflections of salty seas and jellyfish and anonymity of past lives.

i was brushing my teeth when i saw your soul. i stood barefoot at your bathroom sink, leaning on the tile edge as you walked up the stairs.

"you know, i can see your soul sometimes," i said.

"oh yeah?" you said. "what's it look like?"

it was the end of the night and you shuffled across the carpet towards me. i was drunk.

"mmm..." i spat. "it's more of a rhythm actually, i think."

"a rhythm?" you said.

"yeah. so i guess it's something i can hear. it's a nice rhythm. soothing--something i'd very much enjoy waking up slowly to. but also many something with dancing potential, but not like hip hop or electronic or anything. like, floating in a waltz, making giant shapes across the room."

you were brushing your teeth now, with that awful organic toothpaste. the dark of night calls for clean mouths. you stared at my reflection, watching me fumble words. you had a foamy grin.

you have such perfect teeth. they're already so white, aligned with immaculate precision. slightly narrow. delicate, but sturdy. charming. they could slice through flesh.

you probably don't even need to be brushing them.

"do you floss ever?"

"what?" you said.

"oh, i was just noticing your soul's teeth."

we fell asleep some time later with our hands intertwined.


.

what grounds my faith is not that which grounds my reason

and so it is impossible, then, to believe something and to know it too.

.

and then the whale reached up and swallowed the whole pacific in one gulp.

I remember one afternoon,
just before sundown.
We were tired and spent on
the sheets of a place that was not ours.

The noisy others' footsteps called
 from down below.
I rolled over onto my stomach, hair draping off
the edge of the bed. You said,
"look."

There was the sun,
peaking through the open bay window in our room.
The deep blue
stretched boundlessly.

I could hear the breaking wave's edge rumbling,
slicing the sand.
The salty air in conversation with the unrelenting
fisherman, trickled up and down the coast.

You rested your hand on my back.
I crossed my ankles.
I thought of the sand in the crevices
of our bodies. 
I could not remember
if I had showered the ocean out of my hair.

The sun loaned its final rays.
I held tightly to them, tasted
the colors of the burnt sky, purples and
greens and oranges.

I felt your palms, calloused and
forgiving,
tracing lines along
my spine as I drifted quietly
up and through clouds.

.

Jargon Jargon Jargon Jargon Jargon Jargon Jargon

Political affiliation
 
 

What's taking
 
 
 
So damn long?
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Mal/Un/Non Titled

Some say this is a field of dreams. Well, baby, I'm a dreamer.

This road might carry you all the way through, splitting between the mountains and on past the trees. (And by you I mean you, all of you, not just you or you. Us. We. That is, if you choose to join.)

Or maybe you'll end up wandering, floundering astray. In the margins, peasant-like. Begging for a generous hand.

Well, to them I say that:

Not all who wander are aimless.

But I would also tell them that:

The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena.

Etc.

We Must Do Extraordinary Things.

Also by Dave Eggers:

"And every day you'd start from scratch, and everyone'd get together and say, Hey, let's put some buildings there, and, um, over there, let's have a five-hundred-foot stuffed hippo, and there, in front of that mountain, a huge fucking, uh, something else."

"Sure, sure. But you'd have to be able to accelerate everything, have everything be a bit easier than it currently is, in terms of construction and everything: you'd need, like, huge robots or something."

"Sure, robots, of course."

"I'm dead serious about all this."

"I am too. I'm with you."

"We can do this."

"Sure."

"We have to get people interested."

"Everyone we know."

"Even the flakes."

"John."

"Right. Good luck."

"I know. You know what he was talking about tonight?"

"You saw him?"

"Yeah."

"I owe him a call."

"He was talking about how he had just taken some test, an aptitude test, to tell him what kind of job he should have, so he could be told what to do with his life--"

"Jesus."

"It's brutal."

"We need to change him."

"Inspire him."

"Him, everyone."

"Get everyone together."

"All these people."

"No more waiting."

"Means through mass."

"It's criminal to pause."

"To wallow."

"To complain."

"We have to be happy."

"To not be happy would be difficult."

"We would have to try to not be happy."

"We have an obligation."

"We've had advantages."

"We have a platform from which to risk."

"A cushion to fall back on."

"This is abundance."

"A luxury of place and time."

"Something rare and wonderful."

"It's almost historically unprecedented."

"We must do extraordinary things."

"We have to."

"It would be obscene not to."

"We will take what we've been given and unite people."

"And we'll try not to sound so irritating."

"Right. From now on."

Dave Eggers, A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius:

"

That must drive you insa--

Oh please. What would a brain do if not these sorts of exercises? I have no idea how people function without near-constant internal chaos. I'd lose my mind.


"






Adrianne Nicole Alusha, Broken Embraces; 2009

Together, again.

Today was a good day. It was a day of half-fantasy, half-jerking the mind out of the clouds, lasso style, and re-attaching it to things that are real and simple and tangible--things that mean something. Like family. And cheese. All in a home is where the heart is sort of way.

Mom and I skipped the morning workout we had planned for 8:30 because it was raining and we don't like to walk in the rain. (Walking, that's our workout. Followed by a seemingly spontaneous, yet always scheduled stop at Peet's coffee and tea. We only drink coffee here, nowhere else).

I scrambled eggs in the kitchen in sweat pants. Mom had a hair appointment. She offered that I join.

"But I'm making breakfast."

"Skip it.We'll get lunch."

"...But I haven't eaten..."

She didn't press me. She knows how I get when I miss breakfast.

I met mom at Barnes & Noble on North Main Street. I had to get a book assigned for a new class in the spring, the class being "Telling your story: Discerning Vocation," and the book being "Hannah Coulter" by Wendell Berry.

I could spend hours in a bookstore. The scent is intoxicating. Just walking around there makes me feel smarter, makes me want to run my fingertips over every paperback on every shelf, sift through cookbooks, novels, sit in the aisles with my legs crossed and flip through Ernest Hemingway's short stories without looking at the clock.  Everyone knows that smell.

I, of course, upon mom's recommendation, ended up instead purchasing a book called "Lunch in Paris: A Love Story, with Recipes."
_________

Mom and I sat for lunch in a booth next to a window. We ate gourmet pizza and drank iced tea with lemon. We talked about her Bible study group, though she isn't particularly religious. She told me about the other ladies in the Bible study group and how they pray for her, how they set up a "prayer list" and my mom's sadness and regrets and frustrations are on that prayer list. She told me how she prays for them too, the other ladies, and I thought that was lovely.

I told her about old friends I had in highschool, and how some have babies of their own now, and how they wear diamond rings and wait around for TV programs and ovens and telephones. I told her how I don't want to be like that, how I want to be like the women who say how things are going to be, who say how the world is going to be.

The pizza was very good. Mom's earings bursted in the light. She is beautiful.
_________

Mom and I stood at the counter at BevMo, planning a French dinner. BevMo, at that time, reminded me of Parisian markets, the way the food displays wrap around the worker's station in a box shape.

"We'll have fondue!"

"Oh, yes, fondue!"

"And crepes--strawberries, bananas..."

"Crepes. Definitely crepes."

"White wine, or red?"

The displays were cheese displays. The cheese smelled phenomenal. Soft cheese, or hard? Camembert? Mimollete? Goat? No, no, mom hates goat cheese--the smell makes her want to vomit.  A traditional Brie? There was nobody else in the store--we were all alone, conjuring up our authentic meal. The world awaited us two--what would they choose? They would ask. There is just so much cheese. We were the greatest chefs who ever lived.  We had so many ideas--imagine the possibilities!

Mom and I eventually went with quiche because, well, we like quiche, and because dad is on a diet again, so he probably wouldn't fully appreciate a giant dipping bowl of bubbling milk fat and a loaf of thick bread. Nor would he enjoy thin pancakes smothered in chocolate, we assumed.

Imported Gruyere and Bavarian Emmentaler. They would taste very good together. 2008 Sauvignon Blanc, Edna Valley Vineyard. We decided unanimously, and the crowd's whispers silenced, contented.
__________

I followed a recipe from the cookbook I handmade for Mom (written in French) after I went abroad--a compilation of meals prepared and served by my host mom, Beatrice Jacqmin, among other things I encountered on the road of different cities and countries. Like pastries, escargot, moules frites, Alsatian Baeckeoffe, chocolate souffle, and hot wine.

Mom was out picking Becca up from soccer practice.

Lay the pie crust in the pan. Whip 4 eggs. Chop 1/4 cup white onions. Dice 1/2 cup ham. Slice 1/4 cup artichoke hearts. Grate cheese, cheese, cheese.

Dad sat on the couch.

"This is the longest you've ever been in the kitchen, you're becoming so domesticated!"

"Oh, please. Can you come set the table?"

Salt, pepper, basil, parsley, etc. Oven. Salad (lettuce, mushrooms, avocados, tomatoes, cucumbers, basil, vinaigrette). Etc.

They all went for seconds.
________

Later we watched a movie in the family room, mom on the couch at the head of the coffee table, Becca and me on the other. Wet sat, huddled under the blanket mom sewed last summer. She was practically on my lap. My leg fell asleep but I didn't move it.

I stayed up in bed reading till very late, till I could hear dad downstairs grinding coffee, still dark outside. I fell asleep with the lights on.
________

Can you see what's in there, seeping through the cracks?

Or hear what's out there, beyond the ships, bellowing and beaming?

Twist me. Electrify my bones.

Thought Food.

At a table outside a Mexican restaurant. The sky is warm . A couple sits and eats.

“Are you a feminist?” Woman asks.

“What?”

“Are you a feminist?”

Man pauses, swallows a bite of burrito. “I’m not an anti-feminist.” Man takes a bite of burrito.

“So, you’re a feminist?”

Man chews. “A feminist?” he asks.

“A feminist.”

Man pauses. “I’m not an anti-feminist.” Man takes another bite of burrito.

“What does that even mean?”

“It means I’m not an anti-feminist.”

Woman stares, brows furrowing. “What is your understanding of feminism?”

“Like, women, um,” man swallows, “wanting more rights.”

“Feminism,” she interrupts, “is a movement advocating for equal political, social, and economic rights and legal protection of those rights.”

“Yes,” he says.

“ Are you an advocate of equal gender rights, then?”

“Sure. Of course.”

“So you’re a feminist.”

“No. No, I’m not a feminist.”

“How do you figure?” Woman is not enjoying her own burrito.

“You know,” he says, “I never liked the word feminism. They should call it, the movement for equal gender rights. Or, the gender equality movement. Something along those lines.”

“And why is that?” Woman asks.

“Well, calling it feminism sort of defeats the purpose, right? I mean, how can you say you want equal rights when the own name of your cause excludes males? Even still, that doesn’t matter. Women and men can’t have complete equality. Like, in sports. Can you imagine a female quarterback? Some things are just made for men. Think about the workplace. More and more women are getting high paying jobs, but look at what’s happening to home life. Children need to be taken care of.”

“What about the men?”

“What about them?” He chews. “How’s your burrito, babe?”

Jessie Trinchard


Jessie Trinchard


Scott Hammel; San Francisco


Kaitlin Peterson; Rome


Jessie Trinchard


Kaitlin Peterson; Rome


Le Jardin du Luxembourg; Paris


Jessie Trinchard

Are you a dreamer?

"On really romantic evenings of self, I go salsa dancing with my confusion."

Also:

"Man is only a reed, the weakest in nature. But he is a thinking reed." – Pascal


Please watch/touch/smell/hear/taste the following, if you enjoy living:

"Waking Life," directed by Richard Linklater.

It's a new day, today.

things change. grow, i guess. sometimes diminish, sometimes die and disappear. but mainly grow.

i'm making choices. well, i'm starting to. or at least i'm thinking about starting to. i will start with certain lobes in my brain. first, the motor. the one that buzzes constantly, itching, probing. so how about this: i will start by enriching my creative aura, if you will. my magic maker. my whirlwind. my batshit insanity.

i will broaden the scope of what is and what can be. kind of like a vitamin boost, or a back massage, or throwing the soul into the pit of existence and watching it swim about, floundering. eyes gaping. lungs gasping.

that sort of thing.



i want to start by knowing that i'm not the only one alive out there. i want to know what others think, what others feel. what others want so very much to say, but cant ever find the words. words are funny like that. they always seem to trip us up, to taunt us with their permanence, their simplicity, their mystery.



i want to know what keeps the world spinning in orbit; although, i probably wouldn't understand. i definitely wouldn't understand. perhaps someone, anyone, could explain it in simple terms, with symbols, diagrams--maybe pictures. like how in children's books everything is so easy, so beautiful, so simply formulaic--unraveling life's most profound qualities in a single stanza.

that was then.

but was it?

Memoire

I'm missing Paris. A lot. So I thought I'd sift through some pictures and find my favorites from the time in my life where I learned the most about myself and the rest of this crazy, beautiful world.