full of moxie and viscosity

The spoken word form is so different from any other form of writing I've ever done. It's different from prose, poetry, monologuing, blogging... it's really interesting and pretty darn real. I've been experimenting with it a lot. My newest idea is mutilation vs. sincerity... kind of crazy.

Also, I've been beading a ton recently, and making tons of earrings. I will try to post some pictures of these delights at some point in the near future. I'll have to succubus the use of a digi camera from someone.

Everything is in pieces, mosaic style, and I am feeling pretty good about that.

Emily and I went to this poetry slam thing last night. The slam is where I met the long-haired poet, and I knew he would be there again. I didn't go necessarily to perform, but when I walked in, I was feeling it, so I signed up. I wrote a poem on the backs of fliers on the tables while I waited for my name to be called. Here it is:

Yes Juan, You Can

I dress with scarred skin, cover up with makeup
Dressing for? Who?
Earrings, mascara.
Walk in to sixteen six-year olds.
Strange.
They only see my hand reaching at the front of the line.
Will she hold mine?
They don't look at my bronzer.
Not at my trendy brown jacket.
And then I get it.
Somewhere between shoelaces,
Caprisuns and the sand coming from the webs of their fingers after recess
I see it.
On Cecilia's gold tooth.
It shone from Leo's dimple.
Look, I wanted to cry, I understand!
It doesn't matter what the short sound for "A" is.
This means LAP.
Juan Luna clutched my legs during "Mrs. Grindy's Shoes."
I UNDERSTAND.
Maybe at night, I long for a green embrace,
a man, arms and heat and pressure.
Here, though, my libido shorts out
and I am not feeling like any of that.
Is there room?
No, there is no room for insecurity
in this warm carpet circle.
Who I am here is not a student,
teacher, facilitator, sister, mother-
though I feel the tiny fingers of each inside me
molding.
There is no room here for pretense.
(Plastic memories of fake breasts and Los Angeles
creep in- I look at Annabelle's too-small
pant legs and delete images of fake tans)
Tiny hearts with mine
read together-
I am moving-
we are living-
we are in love.
And as they gather their ratty backpacks
shoving handwriting samples in,
Juan Luna walks up to me,
with his three braids:
(never been cut, nappy and dirty)
"Miss Roellke, can I live with you?"
He already does,
beneath my Maybelline
inside my trends
below my beaded earrings
in the dirt of my fingernails
and clutched inside my ribcage.


I made it to the second round. I was called up before the following poem was written, so they gave me extra time.


X-Box and Fox

I promise to listen to every song you recommend
Lyrics, bassline
Come on
COME ON
Just put on the music.

But no.
Faint color lines over this television instead.
I wish you could see
how much my brain turns to mush with this
American Idol on mute
is more than I can handle.
All I want is your hand.
Do you put me on mute when I call?
Is it too much to as
that someone
just one person
OPEN THEIR EYES?
Halo 2?
Alias?
Is this your love?
Why don't you just look into my eyes?
I have something to say.
Someone else is telling you where to park your heart.
I have three spots available.
THREE SPOTS.
FREE PARKING.
But the joystick.
The game.
The remote.
Is more.
Than me.
Sad, that these animations
are more
than what I am
to you.


I won second place.

I'm sick of being taken advantage of, if you want to know the truth of it. I've always vouched that if you need, I will provide. No matter who you are, how dire the situation, what time of night it is, etc, etc. Recently, however, I have been feeling that this particular element of my generosity is being taken advantage of to an extreme extent and I'm just done.

If you want me to be a generous friend, ask nicely for things. If you want me to talk to you in the middle of the night on a regular basis, do not get mad at me if, one night, I am too tired to respond. If you want rides, give me money for gas. I want to give you the shirt off my back, but I want you to say thank you when you're nice and warm, INSIDE MY SHIRT.

That's all. Thank you.

(preface: this story was written from a story ender prompt from a book written in 1981. The ending was the last three sentences.)

The Night the Noise Stopped

The noise started one night inside her head. It was small, a buzzing. She shook it from her head, and it faded. A mere abrasion. Something scritching. Sandpaper over the film of her eardrum. She shook her head again and the noise settled down even more.

She moved about her day, handfuls of cereal for breakfast, milk straight from the carton, flip flops and sunglasses for yard work. It was Saturday. She did laundry, folded a rogue pair of his boxers into her drawer. Looked for a moment at the faded plaid print before she shut it.

The night came on top of her like a tide. She collapsed into her bed, folded over her pillow. In the silence of her bedroom, the noise started again, grew from a soft, constant buzz to a rhythmic heartbeat. The same buzzing, only a pulsing now. She stood from her bed, gazed out the window over Cedar Hill. It was still early, 12:30, and the young people of the town were milling around below her window.

As she saw them shuffle from bar to bar, car to car, person to person she touched her hands to her head, overwhelmed. The noise grew louder. She saw so many people, shell-top Adidas and decoy smiles. They moved in rhythm with the noise. She kept her hands on the sides of her head, in the silly orange light of the room and fell, sleepy, into the rhythm of the noise.

Below, none of the people were smiling. Some wore fake grins of insecurity, some wore sheepish smirks of intoxication, and some wore jealous lips cracked into darkness. Nothing genuine.

He was floating from bar to bar, car to car. He wore no smile, but felt the absence, as whole as a circle, a cue ball. He stepped from the curb, watched his foot bend in a crack in the tar. He started to cross the street, drawn by an orange light above him. As he crossed, he ran his hand along his beard, close-shaved to his jaw. It had been her idea to grow it.  He was far from home, drunk and hungry, mostly alone. It had been her idea.

The noise started high above him, and he followed it to her window. She was still standing, staring down at the moving orchestra of noisemakers. She swayed slowly to the noise. It trickled down her ears, down the window. It slid down, see-sawing between bricks, louder as it moved.

The people stopped milling, or he couldn't see them anymore. Maybe some people heard the noise, but everyone stopped moving. He, magnetized by noise and orange, touched the bricks. The noise slid onto his fingers, down his hand, and at the moment of contact, he raised his eyes to her. They locked in, closed their eyes simultaneously, and the people stopped grinning and smiling and smirking and moving and the bars and cars sagged.

On a night when the moon was shining, the stars sparkling, and the sky a clear black, the noise finally stopped. Everybody in the small town of Cedar Hill sighed. It was all over at last.

Gabriel Mann, back from his tour with Alanis Morrisette, has a new album out that I STRONGLY recommend you purchase. Not only is Gabriel clearly the oldest and newest choice in piano based rock/pop... but the new songs are off the heezy and I helped make the damn CD. Support local music, friends. Make Gabriel Mann a priority for your music expansion goals.


www.gabrielmann.com

It'll change the way you think about curly hair.

Los Angeles was both a sore disappointment and everything I wanted. I guess that's how it's going to be when I move back, too. So great, so much of what I strive for and crave, and so, so, so lame. I think it's going to make sense though. To move back, I mean.

Anyway, there's been a recent rash of "I still love you" confessionals in my life recently, which I both cherish and freak out about simultaneously. I love that they finally get it. But I hate that I'm not in a place to act on any of it. Everything is so distanced, written on parchment. I don't WANT to act on it. Some of it makes perfect sense, and I could have predicted it... and those ones, they're just food for my hungry ego. The Unpredictables, they snuck up on me when I was sleeping, seriously throwing me off balance. The Unpredictables are especially so because only recently have I become comfortable with the friendships these men have offered up. The progression went something like this for both:

Me: I love you!
Him: No, not right now.
Me: Waaaaaaah!! Cry! Sob! Fight!
Him: No, no, no!
Me: Fine, peace out.
Him: If you have to.
(time passes... months... years, even)
Me: Okay, I loved you, but I got over it.
Him: I'm so glad we can be friends!
Me: Wow, actually, me too!
Him: I'm still in love with you.
Me: WHAT THE FUCK?

It's beautiful and fucked up and clean and muddy and pearly and so fucking representative of how I am as a person right now. It feels just... perfect. I love it because I feel happy about who I am and happy that I can see these people as who they are and not just as the Injurers... and I'm even happier that I can maintain my emotional distance and keep a bright outlook.

My car got broken into last night. They took all of my cds, the digital camera I JUST bought from Pepe (luckily I didn't pay that much for it), the special tool kit my daddy made for me, and a necklace. They didn't mess up my car, they didn't steal it, it's just stuff, RIGHT?

Right, but how come I feel so lost?
I was never very good with directions anyway, but now I don't even have my maps.
I'll drive home today with a bruised hip and just a couple of CDs. If you have any CDs you think I need to have, please send them to me. Email me at rachelroellke@gmail.com and I'll send you my address.