Friday, September 4, 2009


Procrastination is the art of self entertainment. I made that definition up when I was in college. But it's not always true. In fact, in most cases, procrastination is a passive aggressive way to gain control. At least thats the definition I have right now.
I have always struggled with procrastination, even with myself. Living with myself, I am my own mother, so when I tell myself that I should write, I procrastinate by cleaning my room. And when I tell myself that I should clean my room, I inevitably end up writing instead. If only I could find a way to trick myself, but alas, I am much to clever for that.
So, obviously today, I am cleaning my room.

Tuesday, August 4, 2009

Skater boy

I was standing on the corner or Lincoln and Venice, outside the front entrance, or what I thought was the front entrance of a notary public. It turns out the door I was trying to open was sealed shut and on the reverse side, blocked by those green and white Kirkland paper boxes stacked on top of the other .

I was pulling with all my might on the door, and in my defeat I took a step backwards on the sidewalk. At that exact moment, a guy on his skateboard happened by. And, as it was, my foot and his skateboard were indeed star crossed this afternoon, as either lovers of tumbled passion or enemies with intent to destroy.

His skateboard caught by my foot skidded to a halt, and he, thanks to Newton’s 3rd law “a body in motion tends to stay in motion”, slid on the cracked plates of Venetian sidewalk, ipod skimmed across the asphalt driveway. Disoriented we both stared at each other, he was a lanky, tanned local with maple syrup colored hair and green eyes the kind with the freckles in them, he smelled of essential patchouli and a boy dorm. I could hear the faint voices of rage against the machine coming from his ipod which seemed to contrast with his faded brown Bob Marley shirt he had on.

I think my face had a scowl on it, maybe from shock or maybe from pain, but he jumped up surprisingly fast and grabbed his ipod and board, “Sorry!” he said as he quickly turned around and threw the board down for another go. I wish I could go back and change my frown for a smile, maybe even offer my hand to him. I wonder how that would have changed the memory for him. Because in my mind, he was kind and humble, peaceful. People who say they don’t have any regrets in life are forgetting little moments like these.

Monday, July 13, 2009

The Staring Contest

We're sitting in silence.  A stalemate.  I ask you a question and you sit there with your hands tied to your throne.  The hairs on the edge of your nostrils slowly swaying back and forth as you inhale. And exhale.

I keep waiting for you to answer me, one way or another, but you stay still.  Stoic.  The Never Changing One, the Eternal One.  The one who stands on the outside of Time.  But I am inside it.  I am Times desperate prisoner- making a spectacle of myself the more you ignore me.  I want to jump on your lap and pound on your chest with my fists. I am at peace with tantrums, they come easy to me.  They are logical.
But it has no affect, and I'm exhausted.  So I am watching you breath now.  I am sitting at your feet while you are silent, unchanging, unmoving.  Breathing on me, all over me.

Friday, May 22, 2009

How i feel sometimes

Sometimes I feel this overpowering sense of love for people- like my insides, all of my organs and entrails turn into this warm dry light that pushes against my skin. It spills from my eyes and sprays out from my neck and chest and hands. My skin becomes a sieve and the love streams out in little square and cube shaped rays.
And sometimes it feels like the warm light condenses into bouncing, vibrating, little metallic balls the size of gumballs. All jumping and thrashing about behind the walls of skin. Sometimes they get so furious and frantic, I'm afraid this thin barrier of epidermis will shatter into tiny pieces at the force of it and all my love will come flying out at them with such speed, like shrapnel, only when it hits them, it will be like jello melting on an iron skillet.
When I feel this way, with too much love to fit inside my body, this is what I think it might feel like to be God.

Saturday, April 4, 2009

Hello, my name is Shannon, and I'm an Addict

I blame my mother. For my addiction. I would never have been able to get my fix with out her. She was, as they say, my enabler.
My reading addiction started out slow, like most dependencies. I would sneak into my parents bedroom, open the second drawer of my dads night stand and read his "Popular Mechanics" and "Popular Science" periodicals he had stashed away. Just a sumptuous article here and there was enough in the beginning. I would put them away exactly as I found them so that no one suspected anything. I remember reading about regenerating bio plastics, anti-entropied mechanical parts and other concepts I couldn't quite grasp. But they were words. Intoxicating, exotic words, strung together like a jasmine lei into a seductive sentence that rolled off the pages like the blossoms onto the floor from a snapped string.
It felt obscene. I knew what I was doing was wrong. My sister had made that abundantly clear. Only nerds liked to read. Reading was not an acceptable pastime, infact reading was never acceptable. You had a book report due, you watch the movie, maybe the Cliffs notes. And that's stretching it. No one liked to read and no one liked people who did it. I was filthy, tarnished, foul and engrossed with my smut. But I just couldnt help myself. So it became my dirty secret. Hidden in the dark away from others, away from the enpending shame I could induldge in my gluttony.
The addiction soon grew to where it upset my daily routine. At school I started skipping recess (lunch would have been too obvious to my class mates) to go the library. In class we would sometimes read a book that I had just finished and I would do my best to hide my joy and just roll my eyes with the rest of the class. I started bringing home classical plays and Greek Mythology. Soon that wasn't enough and I got into the harder stuff. Historical Fiction. Then that wasn't enough and was completely reliant on biographies and autobiographies of historical political figures. It was when I became reckless and sloppy that I got caught.
I had brought home a book, I was overconfident and I thought I could stop at anytime. I thought I was in control of my addiction. But my denial only led to arrogant carelessness, and I stopped being diligant about return dates. I was in the backyard pretending to listen to headphones when my mom confronted me. I pushed "The Early Trials of Susan B. Anthony" under the blanket in vain, I knew my internvention had arrived.
I'll never forget the look on her face. There was no surprise, no repulsion or fear. She wasn't even angry with me. It was a placid, calm and kind face. Yes, the ol' "kill 'em with kindness" thing then eh? Reverse psychology. I knew it well. She calmly stated that the library had called and that a book was overdue. She may as well have told me the Feds were on their way, that she enjoyed having me as a daughter, that she'd visit my cell on my birthday, maybe a Christmas or two. My heart started doing that really loud and annoying double beat that anyone within a five foot radius can hear. I awaited my punishment. She took the book from me and I flinched knowing she was going to strike me with it. But instead, she concealed it in her purse and asked if I would like the sequel.

Friday, January 30, 2009

one spring morning

A quiet sea of ravens. Bushel after bushel anchored on a green lawn. Rolling and bobbing, picking at fleas and spiders in the grass. Feathers undulately rock and ripple like wind on water. I drop my school books and run into the center. I am five years old again parting the black ocean. I am Moses. I provoke them into a storm of swirling madness. A swarm of black birds circling upwards as I sink down into a whirlpool of beating iridescent scales.

Saturday, January 10, 2009


You were preaching on Ezekiel one night in the basement. You asked for comments on the verse you read. I said it sounded like God wanted to be our lovers, like He intensely loved us with a passion, a romantic passion. Almost sensual. Fiery, epicurean. I was embarrassed when I shared that, vulnerable. But my heart like an crazed bird was bashing at the boned cage of ribs for me to scream out the truth it knew . I had never thought about God that way until those words passed through my lips. And it would have been better if I had taken a needle and thread to my mouth and cinched them shut before they did. Because you laughed. Kindly. But you laughed. You blushed. I blushed. At my vulgar interpretation.
"I passed by and saw you kicking about in your blood...I said to you "Live!" I made you grow like a plant of the became the most beautiful of jewels, your breasts were formed and your hair grew...I saw that you were old enough for love, I spread my garment over you and covered your nakedness. I gave you my solemn oath and you became mine."