hellooo, nurse!

when silence is deafening, i like to put your hand to my mouth, to give it a reason to be so thunderous. i think about crouching under your eyelashes, and wonder if they would shield me from the rain. they say i laugh too loudly, but i retort, isn't it better than how they don't laugh at all?

she told me about how in this little town in the middle-of-nowhere-Texas, there are 2 cemeteries. there is one cemetery for the "white" people and a separate one for the hispanic people. her husband is from this little town, and she is from Mexico City. so she asked him once, when we die, do i have to stay over on this other cemetery, or can i stay with you? and he said, since you want to be cremated, i'll just tuck all of you under my arm right here and you can stay there forever.

without you i am nothing, and everything.

Carrie asked me if I was going to write about Colombia. She talked to me about being wary about starting a journal because she was afraid it'd be too direct of a line into her heart, being, and thoughts. I feel a little the same way. That something like this cannot be written.

She asked me what I remembered.

I remember the clouds. They were heavy, yet hovering, like the most tangible air, the most touchable nothing. The shadows on the bellies of each, the sunlight illuminating their torsos. I remember that they meant rain, or sunset, or dawn. They laid billowing against the horizon, never thin enough to hide, always coming in or leaving. They left their footprints on the sunlight, and the sailboats wandered around in their wake.

I remember the smell. It didn't smell humid, it smelled fresh like the sea and the jungle. and the mountains. I remember the smell of corn cooking. I remember the scent of seafood and of traffic and of laughter. The slowing of time.

I remember the wind, and the motortaxis, and walking barefoot on the sand. I remember the hotness of being burned, of flesh on fire and dancing to the cool safety of the ocean. I remember how the skirts flew, how our hearts fluttered and turned. I remember how the ocean soaks up anger, how the salt dries and hides tears and wandering fingers. How only joy exists in the water, and it is more difficult to keep joy away when you feel the sea chasing you. I remember the waves bringing sand into my swimsuit, I remember the sand pouring out from under us.

I remember the water. I remember the water seeping into the cracks of my skin, the space between us, my eyes and ears and nose. I remember how to float on my back, and how the ocean sounds when my ears are swimming in it. I remember the exhaustion of racing in the waves, swimming with exhilaration alongside an old man who swam with such tranquility.

I remember the old men, the little children, the tents, the hammocks, and the dogs.

I remember the rain in my face.

I remember the burn of walking up mountains. I remember the heat on the buses. I remember the density of patience and friendship. I remember the colors.

I remember how they dance for passion there. I remember how they step together because it's what they feel, not what they want to show off. I remember the music. I remember being held captive by movement, which is a curious feeling,

,because the only risk of going there is wanting to stay.

"A moment or two in each day which there is no Doubt."

1) when Sarah S. called me
2) when my coworker did the Robot to greet me

"simultaneously more and less fragile than you think"

NPR's 3 minute fiction is amazing.



I read this piece yesterday.

It Used To Mean The World To Me
by Alec Schoenfeld

The nurse left work at five o'clock.

I had written that on my place mat and you asked if it was code and I said no, it was what I planned on calling my first detective novel.

We were in our booth at the diner. I had finished my omelet and you were still working on your turkey club. It must've been late October or early November. By Thanksgiving you had gone vegetarian.

You remember this, don't you? We had just finished running in place for two and a half miles on machines at the gym. The country was at war but we hardly noticed. We knew nothing of monetary policy, nothing of the new Iranian government, nothing about Darfur except the green wristbands and that it was a grave injustice. We hung out on Facebook, at independent movie houses and corporate coffee shops. In theory, we were suspicious of big business. We checked our e-mail too frequently. Twitter hadn't happened yet, and the towers were still gone.

But we were smart in surprising ways. You knew a lot about medieval literature and Shakespeare because you naturally enjoyed them. You had played the flute in high school, had been quite good actually, and as of that day at the diner, hadn't regressed much. You had retained a good bit of your Honors French. I think you had just taken up knitting.

I had a passing familiarity with architecture and environmental issues and could intelligently discuss each for about 15 minutes. I could identify the names of several contemporary poets, and I had, earlier that fall, written a nuanced blog entry on immigration that I was still proud of. I was able to name all of the American presidents in order of service. This last talent, I decided, was the result of a plastic place mat of presidents I'd had as a child.

That day at the diner, I told you about the presidential place mat and asked if you wanted to hear me list the presidents. You asked me what I had been like in elementary school, and I wondered if you had worn pigtails and how often.

Is any of this jogging your memory? Can't you remember the hours we spent fighting boredom, trying to fashion new and exciting selves, trying to forget that — for everything we knew — we were mostly ignorant? We were ignorant of mortgages, of insurance, and of that subtle independence that comes from paying your own cell phone bill. Most of all, though, we were ignorant of the future. We knew nothing of how it would end, except that it would.

A day, a month, a year, who knew? I had a vision of you getting older without me but still calling from time to time. I knew it was a silly dream but wasn't sure why.
We couldn't hold each other tight enough to avoid it; couldn't hide under the covers and hope no one was seeking. We were young, so, so young, no matter how old we felt going out to bars and rock shows, no matter that we went out to dinners and paid with our parents' credit cards, no matter that we were already able to look at our childhoods — and each other — with regret.

That night, we walked back from the diner in the sunset, knowing our best defenses weren't enough. It wasn't five yet, but the nurse had already begun to gather her things.

someone used "eerie tranquility" to describe her photos.

since all i seem good for lately are reposts, quotes, Yelp reviews and one-liners, i thought i'd post Yokoo's interview as a featured seller on Etsy.


Tell us a bit about yourself name, location, affiliations, personal stuff.

I don’t mean to scare anyone here, but, to be honest, I spent a larger part of my childhood preparing for this question. I used to dream of being on Nighttime Talk Shows and having a host lean in and say, “tell everybody about yourself.” My father said that it was the type of question that meant you had finally become someone of note.

Ingrid Bergman was someone of note and would always poise when answering this question. I would poise, too. I would try, but I probably wouldn’t make it far. I would end up jack-laughing throughout the entire first segment. Catching the Giggles. I’d try focusing on the bridge of my nose to keep from laughing. My father said all Nighttime talk show hosts have miniature buttons in their desk to cue commercials when guests weren’t working out so well. I imagine my persona being very button friendly. And it would be pushed.

And there I’d sit. I would have blown it. Now the entire world would join me in knowing that I was not the type of person that entertains such questions. I wasn’t Ingrid Bergman, or Simone De Beauvoir. And I was in nobody’s note. I was Yokoo, and I made scarves, some of which were chunky.

Apart from creating things, what do you do?

Oh, I imagine I’m just like everyone else. I check pockets. I roll socks . I give tips. I skip pages. I fall asleep. I turn it off. I give directions. I scroll down. I make sure its even. I leave it out. I lock eyes. I write it down. I say thank you. I walk away. I pretend laugh. I for real cry. I say I voted. I wonder if he really loves me.

What first made you want to become an artist?

Strangely enough, artists don’t become. They either are or are something different. I imagine there are people somewhere in the world that see something extraordinary then shrug their shoulders and continue eating or whatever it is that they’re doing.

Sometimes I wish I was capable of being more like this. But artists are jealous enthusiasts. We are privately vain depressants. If we see something admirable, we feel rather overwhelmed to take some sort of action against it. Be it productive or barren.

Please describe your creative process how, when, materials, etc.

Well, Im not going to lie to you. A healthy dose of plagiarism never hurt anybody. When that falls flat, I find that taking my consciousness off of the process altogether really allows the problem to figure itself out.

Opening refrigerator doors does wonders for the dormant mind. I would bet that there must be a sort of creative composite in coolant. I find that staring blankly into the back of the refrigerator wall usually releases a couple of pinned ideas to rub softly on the forefront of my head.

What handmade possession do you most cherish?

Eating-out is one experience I have to be duped into to doing. Not only do I usually find the food less than appetizing, but it lacks intimacy and space. Making supper from scratch for the Mr. and I will forever be some of the fondest memories of being young, creative, and full of love/hope.


What advice would you give to artists who are new to Etsy?

If you don’t take yourself seriously, then neither will I.

it's raining outside, but i'm happy inside.