Barely, but solidly, she lives.

My mind is feeling less on-track. Less able, and very tired. How much longer can these moods last?

Found a great bookstore on Northside. Went yesterday and spent 20 dollars on “The book of Martyrdom + Artifice”, a collection of Allen Ginsberg’s journals, “Beat Poets”, a little handy copy of some beat writers, and a study guide for AP PSYCH.. The catch? All the books are half price of their original sale price. It’s a consignment bookstore, you could say. Pretty nifty.

I’m focusing my writing on healing relationships. My brother’s and mine for one. I’ve already got three poems out, painfully. We’ll see where it goes, yeah?


I went to see AVATAR in 3D the other night. I have to admit I loved it. My uncle did the special effects for it, and so even though I knew it had a fair amount of bad words, ect in it I saw it regardless. It got me thinking..

Writers have the right idea when it comes to peace. How better to promote something? If you think about it a writer will write a piece, like AVATAR, and throw in the good guys. The ones who are seeking betterment, or hope, or just trying to survive. The writer begins as to put you into that character’s place. Make you walk like them, talk like them, to ultimately make you feel for them. As the story progresses a conflict is added. The character(s) that you’ve come to love have been threatened, and you’re willing to do anything for them, you see them as a being with emotion and thought and something that very much appeals to you’re sense of empathetic thinking.

This made me think about our current and past problem with the middle east. I strongly believe that part of our problem is that we haven’t taken the time to take the risk of getting in there and getting to know our “enemies” no, i don’t mean the Taliban, Al Queda, ect, but the middle easterners as a whole. We haven’t taken the chance to learn and respect their customs and ways, as one would a character in a novel or movie. Why not spend some time learning customs that aren’t our own? Are we that prideful and egotistical? I think we would find that if we came to know, love, respect the people we jump the gun to hate, we would think twice about nuclear/chemical warfare and war in general..

Was this obvious to you? I guess some things just hit us. Like this:

Why do we sing “Rock a bye baby” to lull a baby to sleep when the song is about putting your baby in a tree and letting the wind crash the cradle on the ground?

Food for thought?

Which i will be celebrating with people I don’t know, in a place I love, with my family that I love and the guy that I’m slowly beginning to care about. Sounds a lot less manic than what’s actually going on inside my head.

My ex, has become someone else. And it’s not the man I’ve fallen in love with, the man who suddenly decided that he “cared too much about me to stay with me” and suddenly blames the distance. The sad thing is that if he could have held on a few more months, everything would have gone as planned. I got accepted into my choice University, and will be going to school and hour from where he lives. But now? Now he has his new girlfriend, and his new “it’s all about the ride” attitude. This is coming from the frugal, smart, organized man i love. He infuriates me and mesmerizes me with every turn.

Got myself into a sticky situation today. I went out with a guy to sled with some friends, and it got down to my friend and his brother rolling a fat stash. . something that two years ago, i could never have said no to. Now, i’m happy to say I left before they lit up and went home sober, and very happy with my strength to say no. It also made me think a lot about what I could be writing about. . So hopefully my morning will be filled with words.

Oh, I’m looking into a newspaper job at college. It’s money, and I might as well use the writing ability I do have..

Happy New Years, everyone!

When I said last week that I was in deep, I never meant it to become an actuality. Here on the plains, we have the extremes. Fitting climate for a borderline, eh? We have extreme ice, or extreme heat. No in-between here, baby. One day it’s 72 and fine, and the next you’re in the worst snow blizzard in 22 years. Yes, that was yesterday. . It was insane! A fifty car pile up, snow up to the waist, and the elders doing backflips off the dock of the pond into the snow..Yeah, it’s Christmas.

I’ve become obsessed with time. Hours, counting. All that runs through my mind lately is “three hours until work”…and then…”two hours until closing.” I need something to shake up the day to day. To set my compulsive mind free…

I wanna go somewhere, do something, man! I want to go back to Italy maybe. Be led down the canal by a nice Luca, or Adamo..or spend the day at Temple Square in Salt Lake City as “we” planned..I want to go to Bangladesh and watch Bollywood in the streets. Run away with Kajal or Rasheed and be free. Free of obligation, of duties. Just a break, ya know?

All this snow is getting me down. Good Christmas though, stay safe out there.

My body is being ravaged. Pillaged, havoc-wreaked. Last night, I got a total of…three hours of sleep and spent the night shouting in my sleep and trying to soothe my throbbing head and aching throat. When sickness pounces, it really gets in there.

A lot of aspects of my life have been colliding lately. It seems more than often when things come down, they come down all together, and in a rush. I found out an old boyfriend of mine, whom my family hates and will hate this entry–but it happens, is soon to be engaged. This was a relationship that was long, drawn out, and ruined thanks to my Borderline. But before I learned of his impending engagement, I had been thinking of him a lot, you know how certain things can associate? Hot showers, Medics, February; they all remind me of him. I even found a video on youtube the other day he’d made. It was filmed at his house, and everything about it cut me open with a fresh sense of loss. The bed the way I remember, the fridge I’d rummaged, his little poodle, and even seeing him just how I recall him, shaggy haired, lip ringed, and those arms I would have killed to have hold me–made me want him all the more. But, that’s a part of BPD so I hear, getting attached much too fast, and only wanting things you can’t have. I hope he’s happy in his new life, truly.

My computer has been afire with writing. It’s been hitting me in waves, and i am running with it. Don’t know how much longer it will last, and i want to groove it while I can, ya’know? I’ve been deep into my head lately, which doesn’t help at all. I thought if I didn’t update now, it may have never happened. Holidays are coming, too. I hate winter.

The blue cup. I can remember it sitting on the shelves of that old yellow brick house. Tucked away in the white hastily painted cabinets, and later on in the corner of my mind. The dark blue line running around the center, making it just a little bigger on the top half, and the lip still seemingly unchipped, after years of moving. No, we didn’t seem to stay in one place for long, and even though all the houses in all the towns seemed to blur together, those white cabinets and yellow bricks ring out sharply in my memory. In my own ambry, this house comes back to me. In my dreams it comes back to life, it breathes, smells and enfolds me all at once. Out of every image rushing through my mind I vividly place that cup back on the counter and hug myself tightly.

I saw that cup today. I was walking down the corridor at school and there was a kid, holding that blue cup from my younger days, from my Kansas, which of course brought back floods of memories from that kitchen itself. Then from my Godparent’s house..then everything hit me hard. Oh, Kansas.

Finals week. I have one more left tomorrow at seven-forty, then I am finished! I am pretty confident about the last few, so I’ll sleep easy. My last one tomorrow is in the morning, open note, open review, so let’s PRAY that I pass:)

I have a feeling I’ll be looking for a new job soon. Rash? Manic? Plain dumb? Yes.

Looking back at old pictures of my “Kansas Days”, kills me. I miss my little town of Neodesha so much it hurts. I miss my friends, my life, the town. All of it. Well, looking back at these pictures got me thinking. There is so much in my past, I haven’t even tapped into for writing. I think sometimes I focus more on creating the life I want through my words, that I forget to use the material life has given me. SO, I’m going to start making that effort every week–to begin. Then, slowly everyday. Remembering is the problem! I have to really  try to remember back all that happened. Who knows, maybe it will turn into something bigger.. I have to give credit to my wonderful Italian “Mannequin”, Luca Adamo San Geirgio. He always has the most simple outlook at things. When he asked me about writing he told me “Taylor, you have past, not just future. use it.” I love that womp:)

I’m babysitting a little girl, Kennedy. She’s so funny. Every since I learned about child narcissism in Psych, i love messing with little kids going through rapproachment. She has this little shopping basket of empty boxes labelled as food and I went through it acting appalled at the fact that the boxes were empty. “THEY’RE FAKE!” I mock yelled. She looks as if me as if i’m a moron. “They not real.” she says plainly. hah. This kids psyche is good. .

My head, as of the last few hours, has been spinning. I’ve been rapidly mood changing, and quite frankly it’s giving me whiplash. Ya know how everything can be running smoothly, everything’s going okay–then like a derby horse out of the gate it’s suddenly sprinting? Then slipping, falling, sliding downward? Welcome to my mind, as of late.

Despite the urge to crawl back under the covers and sleep the rest of the day, I will get up and at least keep my promise to myself to update this daily.. I don’t even want to think about doing actual writing today. And maybe I’ll eat while i’m at it–maybe.

I’ve been reading a lot of Beat Literature recently. Once I got out of that whole Shakespeare tragedy kick, I slipped back into the familiarity of the Beat. I found this quote today, that really applies to my change in writing,

“The only thing that can save the world is the reclaiming of the awareness of the world. That’s what poetry does.”

– Allen Ginsberg

This yells to me. I’ve never gotten the opportunity, or wanted one really, to see the world through rose colored glasses, I’ve always been one to see things for what they are– even if that’s a little cynical sometimes.  That’s how I’ve been writing lately poetry wise. I’ve been trying to tap into my inner beat, if you will.

Well, Daj left this morning for the clear, sunny skies of Hawaii for two weeks, lucky lady. What I wouldn’t do for some seventy degree weather in this winter ice-hole. I however, am heading back to the dark muted comfort of the covers to wait out this latest swing.

I have three and a half glorious hours left before I have trudge back into work–again. Normally, this isn’t such a bad vibe, but the fact that I got off at 12:30 last night, and the sleeping herbs didn’t kick in until about 1:30, doesn’t help. “Think money, money money!” is sadly my only condolence.

Spent the day working on long over-do writing and what not. Got some fiction sent off to Prick of the Spindle, Oklahoma Review and the ever elusive FRIGG. Ah, FRIGG. This literary journal has become my target. It seems like everything I’ve written, everything i’ve thought of writing, comes back to “Will Ellen like this?” I want FRIGG. Sadly, though, I have enough rejection letters from FRIGG to publish a whole other novel. Alas, I submitted three fiction pieces, one of which I ended up writing for my mom’s college lit class, and even with her changes, the professor seemed to like it, so why not give it a chance?


On The Bus.
The dinner was both lazy and rushed. The courses of fried, home down chicken and grits were quickly prepared, but filling. Good enough for the band of misfits and mystified heads that now surrounded the old wooden table. The conversation quickly turned to philosophy and literature, armature debates began and altered ideals were tossed around the room. The dull hum of voices changed slowly to exclaimed emotions and proposals, only to be quieted by the soft hum of words expressed at the head of the table. “Shh.” someone whispered, the soft hum quickly overtook the excited exclamations that filled the room moments prior, “Kesey’s talking, man. Shh.”
Ken Kesey sat at the head of the table, his calm blue eyes staring directly into Neal Cassady’s own deep brown. We watched, mesmerized. Kesey nor Cassady turned,  or acknowledged the sudden silence, and we used this opportunity to strain our hearing only to catch these two mind’s theories. “That’s not what I’m saying, Neal.” Kesey spoke calmly, his Oregon country accent slipping in every so often. The man never lost his temper. His companion watched him with quick eyes, catching his words and storing them in his mad mind. “What are you implying, Chief?” Cassady’s voice was fast and slurred, trying to get the words though his mind and out of his mouth. “You don’t understand the road, you can’t. Until you’ve lived it, been there, you just can’t see it, man.” Again, Kesey watched carefully, nodding, making sure that Neal was finished with his train of thoughts before he gave a response. “I’m aware Neal, but you speak as if this were the last time on the road–you and Jack. Don’t forget who made  you remember the speed, I ain’t saying it was all me, man, it was the thought behind the trip that got you hooked, but it wasn’t Jack.” Cassady’s arms flew into the air then back to his lap. We watched his mind turning, the wheels spinning as he remembered as well as we did the bus trip of sixty four where this wild man had driven us across America. We stood with Ken. Cassady spoke again, “Man! That’s what your hang up is! It’s all about the trip for you, the feeling. It’s not always like that! It’s not always some decoded message! I was not this man when I came to La Honda! I was not this mind! I prowled the streets of New York, lived in the village with Ginsberg, and first I traveled the road with Jack! I saw it from clear eyes, man. I saw the people, the poverty, I lived it! The women, Kesey! I saw the women!” Cassady was lost in his mind again, remembering his first trip out “on the road” with Jack Kerouac. Ken waited patiently, not wanting to pull him back from his memory prematurely. After a moment he spoke softly. “You’ve told me, Neal. When you came to me and asked to ride with us, you told me about the road. You told me about the women, about the poverty and about Colorado, remember?” He breathed deeply, his mind reeling now. “But you told me you were on the bus, kid! I relied on you to be on the bus! Just because the Harvester is parked out back, in the day-glo trees and tent city, doesn’t make it less real! The bus is your mind, it’s your thinking, and either your on the bus or off the bus. Remember Neal?” For the first time Cassady stopped. He stared at Ken, his huge eyes like saucers in the dim light. Collectively, we held our breath, what was this man thinking now? What did he mean, clear eyes? A smile spread across Cassady’s face, and he was nodding vigorously. “Yes, man, you’ve got it chief. You’ve got the idea, now. I’m on the bus, it’s my way of thinking. No matter if I’m in New York with Jack, in Colorado aimless, or even Mexico with old Bill, I’m on the bus. You haven’t lost me, Ken.” The last sentence was said softly, urgently. His motives discovered, Ken smiled back at Neal. “You’re on man, you’re so on.” He paused, looking sad for a moment, his eyes hooded and dark, then just as quickly they were twinkling. “Remember the lake, man?” Neal looked up, shocked by the change of mood. “The lake….” Kesey waited, looking for recognition in his old friends eyes. Cassady laughed uproar sly. “The lake man!” In an instance there was a flash of understanding between the two men and they were silent. Conversation flowed back into the room, following the old pattern of topics as if nothing had happened. No one spoke of the exchange, and the dinner passed on, as if nothing miraculous had happened at all. Under his breath Kesey whispered to his friend. “You’re on man, and you’ll always come back.” Cassady was at this time otherwise engaged in debate, but almost as if he had heard, he turned to Kesey, his brown eyes laughing.

and I also sent in this short:


It was a curious bunch. Grotesque in many forms, I thought. They seemed to radiate the feeling that the war was dragging on, but pretty much over, and they would never be faced with any hair splitting challenges again. They are still a part of me. Very much, I feel them inside of me. I see them now and again, in the old town, in the mental hospital, on the bench from our childhood. They were called then “A Wasted Youth” sure to “fester and spoil.” They were persecutors of the golden age, but somehow never good enough nor bad enough. Never sane enough or mad enough for their own minds. Too young to have been involved in the war and too old to be Vietnam war off shoots, a nothing group.

Will any new experiences jar us from our purgatory rut? From the undoubtedly bland and insipid days that has become their era? I do not see how anything ever can. Stuck in the middle of times, as if frozen in a whirlpool of events, all of them coming close but never quite touching home. Prepared to fight for something, itching to stand up for someone, but never getting that gratifying happening. Endless experimentation with the mind, stuck forever on my simultaneous rise and fall of words. I am back where I began, in a small town with an idea, surrounded by profound influences yet unable to feel anything more than a dancing half hope for humanity. In the car everyday I pass the place I graduated from, transcending into the place where my mind stands. Half-Howl half On The Road, I am betwixt myself. I flash back to the days before my youth was set in stone to be the decadent ones we have become. When we were all busy with our textbooks and our giggling phone calls as little girls, moving ourselves toward being prominent self sustaining citizens rather than the strung out, mystifying heads. The reaction was inflated egotism and disdain at our high hopes, crushing for some, driving for others, and when the reaction was set as a guideline our generation fell. Perhaps now that the era is forgotten, another retort will surface In the interest of realism and helping fellow man our silly little illusions will be recognized, our preservation of man will begin. The coddled period has gone. The time for love and harmony, I think is here.


So, we’ll see how those turn out. I am strangely hopeful.

Let the sun shine.

Follow on Twitter

Error: Twitter did not respond. Please wait a few minutes and refresh this page.