sentences
Welcome to Mommy’s El Camino.
SENTENCES FROM PROJECT JOURNAL SEPTEMBER 2024 TO MID-MAY 2025
I have memories that feel like if I say them, touch them, they fade into nothing, a disintegration of a shadow.
Is it a gift?
What if I had done X instead of Y.
How I pay for strangers to touch me.
I basically did less of a negotiation and more of a dare.
The first time I had to look straight at what was so obviously a terrorist act.
That was one of my creations. Unless, they created me.
Those fourteen relationships can wring me out.
The sound of a faraway dog pleading, or just yapping.
The Georgia O’Keefe biography I found and took with me, reading it on a trip full of unknowns.
I am envious of fiction writers, man.
But back to being a weirdo:
I remember slowly throwing an imaginary ball.
Aware of the depth but without the proper tools or guides to make it all the way down without splitting apart.
Fucking with time.
Watching people progressively get drunk.
I was of the generation that had to do our illegal meetings with older men the old-fashioned way—in real life.
Theory is sexy, praxis is sexier, I wrote.
To write through disaster.
To move as though I am slowly flowing, to move and act and regard and behave with a kind of suppleness.
Me and M. walking in Griffith Park—I told her, I couldn’t ever afford to lose my mind.
There’s the rub—that I have to balance the serious and the unserious.
My cats and dog remind me that they are above it all.
The fire I need to maintain to follow through.
The way my heart grew and flourished when in love, even when the objects of my love were fools, payasos, and also just plain flawed creatures with ensnared yearning hearts of their own.
Maybe to her I was a performer? but not an impressive one.
Love most: weekly deadline. Hate most: weekly deadline.
This doesn’t make for the best writing conditions.
I was punching the top of their head with the pedals, riding over them, the little spiky parts of the pedal crushing, pushing, against their head.
I do feel somewhat resurrected.
I feel up to discipline.
I feel like I have deserted myself in some way.
Even the hot pink post-it note I have next to my writing area does not feel accurate anymore.
Was the book addressed to all my inner parts that were just starting to develop?
All the tiny decisions that one makes that lead up to the great leap.
But—this creeping doubt.
“Gotta get myself right out of here” the song goes…an attempt to get myself right out of here.
The tiny elevator up.
5th house of creative growth begins today.
I was just listening to the song “Save It for Later” on the radio—and thinking about my own private take on the song.
Realizing I barely ever share space with men…by design…
My power showed up—in the form of the grudges I hold, the malice in my heart, and the desire for vengeance in the form of living and writing despite all the noise and the detractors.
My words are spells.
A bird is squealing outside, so much that I wonder if it needs rescue.
I love her best when she says, “‘As a mother,’ I say, ‘fuck you.’”
I want to feel a metaphorical cleansing burn.
It actually seems that this is coming in at the register that I originally wanted it to be in.
If I had to illustrate the bookcase it lives in, there would be a black fire, a little swirling black fire, and the rest of the notebooks would feel its sear, curling pages, burning.
In other words, I feel like it’s on me.
This post was composed of random sentences I picked out from the journal where I write/think about the various projects I’m working on. I changed the order in which they were originally written.
I too hold grudges.