Monday, May 31, 2010

Roamin with the Buffalos

We're off to a good start. A lovely night swim, slightly woozy/energized from wine etc, the water still and silent, looked as inviting as my very own bed. We giggled and swam and my legs were grabbed by seaweed which was scary/exciting. To lay in the water, looking at the sky, well I can't suppose there is much better. The water was warm, so warm, if you kept your limbs rotating, and I had trouble convincing myself to get out (and why did I get out? so I could come up here to tip-tap bullshit on my computer?). It was perfect. Things are perfect.

Friday, May 28, 2010

i've been home, i've been feeling dead, dead like I feel nothing, like I indifference is the only thing that I have, and maybe some shallow sense of hilarity and I love the stars and the moon but they weren't giving me anything, they weren't feeling like the ocean but now, with the help of thine blood relation my heart has opened again, and it is such a relief. I am on my roof I am on the roof and oh my god you guys have you ever seen the moon? I bet you have, but oh my god you guys how come it never gets old? I know that someday love can last forever because HAVE YOU SEEN THE MOON? my love for it will last forever, and I bet I could love a person forever too. But ya know ya know, the question is always, does the moon love me forever back? well, I don't really trust anything, not even myself, but I trust that things work out, they just do, no matter the sort of messes you make, and have you seen the moon? It is golden and round and I hope I never make it up there.

Today we made crepes, Lauren, Anna, and I and we said "next year, next year, next year" and we made plans, and the point of making plans is not that they will work out, but really just to show "hey I love you, I love this, lets do this again, and again, and again". Making plans is a way to show that you love someone. I think sometimes I get confused though, because not making plans does not mean that you don't love someone. Though me, I am a planner. My heart is hungry even though I just ate some ribs. My heart is hungry and have you seen the moon? I am not really fond of romance, but I would like to sit with you, here, and look at the moon. We don't even have to hold hands. We could sit on opposite sides. Just something, someone to make me feel al little less like I am in some strange bubble. Though, you know, sometimes I feel like I want to crawl inside people when I love them too much. Swimming is all I can think about to calm me when I get like this. Crawling inside the water, letting it embrace me, back to the womb, back to the womb, the darkness, the only darkness that doesn't scare me. This is the only thing that will make me feel OK during my first few weeks in Africa. The idea that the people you love can be far away but see the same thing you are seeing, that is more than comfort. I am sentimental (sentimental queens) but don't mistake me for no fun. I am always clarifying and reclarifying and yet, I am never clear. You are killing me and I think it is funny and a little cute. My dad says "life is pointless Savannah, once you figure that out it's so much easier" and I tell him he is pessimistic and he says "no, no" with a smile, he says "my two thoughts are conflicting because I belive in love and other things, but life is pointless" and I think that it must be rough to be in conflict with yourself all your life, and then I think "life is pointless" because what is the point in loving things, and why does everything have to have a point and shouldn't the point be doing your best to be happy? And to be American, to be a person in the modern world, we are practically a different species. Other people live to survive, and I think Is that any sort of way to live? and then I realize that maybe living just makes us happy, because otherwise those poor suckers wouldn't have worked so hard to stay alive. Life is pointless, everything is pointless, and yet and yet things keep going and going, and who needs a purpose? That is something us humans made up to make ourselves miserable. I serve no purpose, and it is strange, but I am ok with it.

I am hungry and I just want to add as many lovely people to my pointless life as I can.

Wednesday, May 26, 2010

snoozin on the roof

"this is no room at all, why don't you pour me a fuckin drink?"

Let me start out by saying that I am probably committing some kind of sin by sitting on my roof under the stars and moon (covered by clouds) tapping away on my computer. But it's already polluted by city lights and city things, so perhaps I am not ruining anything that isn't already. Being home is strange, and I have been writing letters, some of which I've been sending, other sitting in my binder trying to decide if they are worth sending or not. I've been hanging out on the roof a lot, and I have this vision of myself being seen from someone flying higher up, a girl, in the middle of her room, lit up by the glow of her computer screen. Being home is the strangest sort of lonely, the biggest sort of disconnect, like I am out of touch with everyone. Not just not in communication, but like somehow I forget how to relate to people normally. It feels so much nicer on the roof, less claustrophobic, and I wonder what it would look like if we all had our beds set up on the roofs of our houses. I am not lonely in the sense that I am dying for company, but it would be nice to have someone to sit and gawk at the sky with me,

I sound so dumbly introspective, home just gives me too much time to think and even though I am trying to stay busy, it is not quite working.

Monday, May 24, 2010

grandma's house

I was here yesterday, and it turned out that it was too hot at home today and there wasn't much to do and everyone was tense and crabby, so I came here. The plan was to swim and read and write all day but I instead ended up swimming and watching tv and all day, my excuse being a raging headache, though in reality I could just use that to my advantage. Grandma's house is one of my favorites houses, but at night when it is empty and the masses aren't here I get creeped out, and I was going to sneak to the lake tonight, to just sit by myself. But in truth, I would prefer to do it with company, I am fond of the idea of doing nothing, together. The buffalos come next week and it will be great to see them, here, in this setting, which hasn't happened for almost a year. I am excited to sit by the lake and just talk, this is what Sarah and I have always done, and something we're always good at, talking for hours, about everything, about Welch-things. We need these visits, all of us, to keep us in balance.

It is summer, which has always spelled out Welch season to me, and the thought of various visits and conversations quells my summer anxiety. Tomorrow, I will do better.

Friday, May 21, 2010

learning to love where you are more than where you aren't.

Thursday, May 20, 2010


Monday, May 17, 2010


As if you weren't sick of it, but it is my summer project, no?

I've spent the last hour reading the guestbook, laughing and getting teary eyed, wondering what the hell happened to Ellis Paul and Don Con. I pretended that it was research for the start of my writing project, which I am starting to think it's unnecessary altogether because I could just publish the guest book, and it would tell the story better than I ever could. But what the hell, I've got nothing to do this summer but rearrange words so I will do my best to come up with something spectacular and perhaps steal from all of the hooligans who filled up the pages of this book.

It's not just all in my head though, there is some kind of magic here, I found it in this book right here. I don't think that we can take the credit for it really, but these vagabonds find some great comfort and homeliness here, and I only hope that I make my homes half as homely for whoever happens to wander in. My attachment to my home is not the building itself, though it seems that way. It is the people, but I know that once this building is gone, once we don't have this same set up the people will stop coming and our lives will be a lot lonelier. The american folk-music scene is small, tight knit, and rather lovely. The music itself is about the same. There is something so warm about it, and that is the best way to describe it.

To live in a place that so many people call home is the greatest, and I am sure the main source of my constantly nostalgic heart because it always feels like someone is missing. I always try to bring people home, to check out the place for themselves, but I am never quite sure if they quite get it, or if I ever quite get it, so I want to dedicate a portion of my summer writing to figuring out how to describe it. I keep wondering if it will even be interesting to anyone who is not associated with el cafe. People are easy to love and hard to forget.

I am not the only one who thinks that these walls are always talking (silently), "there are angels in the doorways" .

To sum it up: "this place is a wildlife refuge" DJD/ "this is the best homeless shelter I've ever been to"

We've always been happy to take in the strays, because perhaps we are all a little bit astray and we all need a place to call home. Because I was raised on love from these strays and from some of the more permanent fixtures in this place, I sometimes suspect that I have never known such a things as sadness, though my heart tells me otherwise. I love it here, not in a selfish narcissistic way, but in a communal sort of way.

Perhaps this is all the reason i never really think of my places as my own, why I am not over protective of my room, my bed, my spaces, only protective of my meals (because there was never any need to share your food around these parts).

Tuesday, May 11, 2010

I felt like I should write tonight, something, even if it is bland, because I haven't written in a while and I should be, should be starting to work on my daily word spew, my daily word refining, my discipline. It is finals season, that is my excuse, though a poor one, because i have been at home and doing no studying. Unless "studying" the Brothers K counts, in which case, yes.

I have grown up on folk music, but haven't learned to love it until recently. Now I am digging through piles of CD's of various artists who have played here, because mostly what I want to hear is good, simple folk music, and I have some sort of romantic ideas about it, day dreaming of me and some faceless person, crooning to folk tunes together on a rainy day. Not even necessarily some love of mine, but just a friend, someone comfortable. I think about love a lot, and exactly what it means, and what sort of purpose it plays in our lives, and about the idea of meeting one person and spending some significant chunk of your life with them. I know the whole idea is romantic, but what if my generation changes it? What if romance just doesn't work out, so what if we just live with our friends for long spans of our lives? The idea is not to be lonely, to have someone that loves you to come home to. I suppose ideally it would be some significant other, but who says the "lonely souls" have to stay lonely while they wait/search? Perhaps it will help us all stave off the desperation and make us more appealing. But really, the goal is happiness, and I feel happy having some warm giggling friends to come home to. (the goal? I am actually not sure I have one, I think I prefer it that way).

My head is slightly achey and I am getting to romantic-y/love-y/ridiculous for my own taste. I guess that is goodnight then.

Saturday, May 8, 2010


I rarely ever cry when I'm supposed to, in "public" situations (funerals etc). I only find myself teary eyed in bad movies, cheesy flicks, perhaps because I am not so worried about thinking about what is happening and just letting it happen, and somehow I get swept up in it. OK. I know that everyone is sicksicksick of hearing me rant and rave about the Brothers K, but let me just tell you, this chapter is killer. Almost enough to tell someone that they should at least read this one chapter, if they won't read the whole book. The thing about this book, is that at the beginning, the information doesn't feel essential, but I would argue it is, he is slowly and carefully setting up his characters, letting you get to know them, before slapping you in the face with this knowledge. And that is what happens in psalm wars. A good ole emotional ass whoopin. and it never felt so good. I was sitting downstairs in el cafe (my preferred reading spot) doing my best not to bawl in such a public setting. But shit. If I am ever able to do that, do that just once with my writing.

I am starting to consciously understand what I already knew in the back of my brain. This might not be everyone's book. It hits me the right way, each an every part of it, but that is not to say that anyone else I know will love it the same way, and that is something that used to bother me, and something I am learning to be ok with now. But I want to know what all of your books are. I want to read your copies, the ones that you have hi-lighted and scribbled on. Do you have these?

Sunday, May 2, 2010


Prancing through
the woods
naked save for
my backpack

on my way
to your house
for breakfast
or lunch
or dinner
or will you even
let me in?

Oh, don't I know it,
I leave much to
be desired,
my limbs so wiry
you'd think I was
made from pipe-cleaners,
eager as a god-damned dog,
salivating at your feet.

My swollen knuckles
meet your twisted
door frame,
in not-so-quiet

I glimpse you
dancing behind
your Sunday curtain,
the curve of your
spineless soul,
and a meek yelp
barrels out of my lungs,
followed by the
drip, drip, drip
of my watering mouth.

Turning swiftly on the balls
of my feet,
so red and raw
from my constant spinning,
I tip-toe around back,
to the garden.
My Grandmother,
her aged body shaking
like a frightened pup,
feasting her eyes
on the broken door knob.

Oh no,
we've been unwelcomed
again, so
Grandma and I
sit on the stoop
pant-less, bra-less,
stark naked
save for her
wrinkles, my

We swap
war stories,
hers unfolding themselves
from her skin
mine carefully
drawn out
from my bag