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.

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

nothingeverhappensnothingeverhappenswhereisyourheartnothingevehappenssoiamgoingtobed.

EL CAFE

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).

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.

PSALM WARS

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?

UNDRESSED

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
desperation.

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
backpack.

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