Tuesday, November 30, 2010


New Poem!

Really, though, I'm probably way to sleep deprived to post this. I was probably too sleep deprived to even write it. And I'm definitely too sleep deprived to write this-- I just made about 11 hundred typos. Like slepp. And splep. And a bunch of others that you're probably just not interested in. You probably weren't interested in slepp or splep, either, and you're probably not finding this funny. But I have had basically no sleep in the last two days, and tonight isn't looking that good either, and this is entertaining me, dammit.

For serious, though (for serious..) what do you guys think? Do you like it? What do you get from it, if anything? How could I make it better? And stuff like that.


there’s a place
that exists only in the deepest corners of your sighs,
and in the flexings of your breath.

the people there,
or whatever they are,
sail through the rippling currents of your exhales
over and over again
and they never leave you.

they whisper memories when you need them
your favorites
hiding in the tiny pockets of air they find in your chest
as you wait to be shipwrecked.

you’ll never know them
so you'll never be able to see
them breathing, just sometimes, air into their own stories
hidden in blurry blue flecks of beach glass.

Monday, November 29, 2010

It's not break anymore! D:

I like relaxing. I like not stressing about things. Thanksgiving break was full of all the loveliness, but now that it's over, I'm totally distraught. (I love that word.) Especially since having only three weeks of school left means no relaxing and lots of stressing. I don't even have enough time in my schedule for pretty walks. Sadness.

I went on a really nice walk during break. It was much too short, because I woke up at about two, which is practically when the sun goes down on Cape. But I could smell wood smoke the whole time.

Wood smoke equals the best smell ever. It's even better than just-baked chocolate chip cookies.

Then, the bus ride up to Vermont was fantastically relaxing, too. I got the window seat in both buses (I have to take one from the Cape to Boston, and then from Boston to Burlington. Okay, that part's pretty lame) because I have mad window seat obtaining powers. Seriously, there can be one window seat left, and I'll get it. Or, there won't be any, but the person I sit next to will give it to me without any prompting. It's kinda awesome.

Oh, and you know, Vermont is really pretty. Really gorgeous. And the thing about driving in it is you get to see it all. Mountains speckled with snow. Leafless trees swaying in the breeze like feathers. Sheep. Whenever the bus passed an especially amazing bit of scenery, literally everyone turned to stare at it, even the people who didn't look like they'd be into it. That was kind of fun.

Another thing, I love how Vermont doesn't get rid of its dilapidated barns. They are just so wicked awesome looking, and they're basically screaming to be explored. (So, anyone with a car? Wanna?)

Friday, November 26, 2010

Granite World! Yeah!

There's this little store in Hyannis called Granite World. I think it sells granite. And, it makes me laugh. I mean, "Granite World." That's basically the most exciting world ever, right? It's like Candy Land. But with Granite. Granite lollipops, chocolate flavored granite, granite flavored chocolate. The possibilities are endless.

You know, I think all stores should be named like that. Like, Shaws could be Grocery World. Best Buy could be Electronic Shit World. Or Stuff I Can't Do World. Everything would just be so much more exciting. Or something.

(I'm bored. And tired. But mostly, I really really don't want to do my homework. Sadface.)

Thursday, November 25, 2010

Two Homes

Living in college is a weird thing, especially when that college is so far away from your other home, the place where you grew up. You live in one place for a couple months, and then another, and then you go back to the first. It's strange, and it feels strange each time you come and go. You never even entirely know whether you actually want to leave.

And then, when you get to wherever you were going to, it feels as if you've never left it, until you remember that really you've been living hundreds of miles away for months.

Pretty much all of you already know this, of course, but I'm from Cape Cod and go to school in Vermont. Burlington. I adore both. They're both crazy amazing and crazy beautiful. They both have the things that can seem hard to live without.

Burlington is living with your friends and going out every weekend. Cape Cod is family and seeing friends only when cars and schedules can make peace with each other. Burlington is city and walking everywhere. The Cape is nature, but nearly always needing to use a car. Burlington has its brick, Victorian houses. The Cape has its white, centuries old farm and captain's houses. Burlington has the waterfront, with layers of pristine mountains shadowing behind it. The Cape has the ocean and never ending clouds. Burlington has trees with leaves that turn so gold, you can see their color glowing even against the navy night sky. Cape Cod has pine needles the color of rust. They're impossible to rake, so they stay strewn across most everyone's lawns, poking through the light snows, until spring. They make good additions to magic potions when you're little.

Sometimes, it seems like if these two different homes were able to blend into one, they would make something almost perfect.

I wonder how it'll be when I go to Ireland. I'll have three homes, then. Three different kinds of fantastic not-quite-perfection.

(Except, I'm sure, Ireland really will be perfect.)

(This is coming out to be a really muddled post, but it's kind of a muddled thought, too, I think.)

Friday, November 19, 2010

I Woke Up Flapping My Arms

True story, actually.

I had the weirdest dream last night, though I really just remember the end of it.

I was walking along the beach with Michael Cera and some really, really British actor with brown hair who may or may not be a real person. (Also, the British actor earlier told me that the Christmas Tree Shops that do the best are the ones with the most books. Pretty sure that's not true, but that's actually the only part of the dream I remember that wasn't at the very end.)

We kept walking farther and farther along the beach, talking about something I can't remember. I started to walk through a tide pool, when the little shrimp swimming in it rose out of the water and started to fly. Oh, holy shit. They began flying all around me, buzzing and buzzing. I freaked out, of course, and waved my arms around like a crazy person terrified of being bitten. Which I was still doing when I woke up. It was pretty awkward. And really terrifying, actually. I don't do bugs. Nor little fish turned into bugs. Especially not them.

It was wicked sketch.

Thursday, November 18, 2010

Our House Bistro

This is from about a month ago. It's a restaurant review of Our House Bistro, in Winooski, near Spinner Place. Yay. (Maybe. You guys get to decide that.)


Our House Bistro was tiny, wooden, and cozy. It was warm in the way a small house, its fireplace blazing softly, might be. It had the welcoming atmosphere of a place that had been there for decades, comfortable in its own existence. It didn’t feel like it was just opened last May. It may have helped that the owners, Matthew Pearsall and Maggie Barch, have been cooking for years. Their catering company, The Spice of Life, is not only number one in Vermont, but also specializes in the same sort of, “twisted comfort food,” that Our House is steadily becoming known for.

Still, the little restaurant was almost empty. It was early. Out of the eight or so tables, only one was occupied. Four people sat around their tall round table in their tall wood chairs. In front of them sat glistening glasses of maroon wine and plates of colorful food— red and green salads, crusty golden sandwiches, and creamy, creamy yellow ravioli. My mouth watered.

Amber and I were led to our table quickly by a friendly waitress who smiled. The table was big enough for more than just the two of us; we each had an entire booth to lounge on. The waitress left, and when she came back she was holding two sparkling glasses of ice water, and one big jar of it for refilling. After handing us menus, she left once again.

We were spellbound, staring at the menus. Visually, there wasn’t anything particularly special about them—there were no bright, impeccably arranged photographs of food, but the descriptions sounded voluptuous. We were silent, running our eyes down the choices. I imagined the grilled cheese— inches of gooey white Vermont cheddar enveloped by crunchy golden brown bread, dipped into startlingly red homemade tomato soup. I pictured the Caesar salad— crisp, juicy green lettuce coated in everything cheesy and garlicky and wonderful. I wondered what the butternut squash ravioli could possibly taste like.

In the end, I decided on the Twisted Macaroni and Cheese. A friend had personally recommended it and, as far as comfort food goes, nothing can ever beat a steaming bowl of mac n’ cheese. Amber chose a plain hamburger, medium rare, with fries. And with that, our food was ordered and we were waiting. We took the time to really look at our surroundings.

Another couple had made their way into the restaurant, but it was still largely empty. On the walls, shelves, and tables were black and white photographs of babies, weddings, family reunions, and first days of school. Their faces smiled and laughed from Fifty-Years-Ago. Across from us was a small but, we were told, quite popular bar, its wall filled with assortments of wines, gins, vodkas, and rums. If only we were 21.

Our food came about fifteen minutes later. Mine was in a little black skillet, probably the same one it was made in. Amber’s burger was on a plate, but her French fries were wrapped in newspaper, just like in Angela’s Ashes, the grease already starting to soak through. We started eating, ravenously.

The noodles were cavatappi. They were longish, squiggly, fun, and coated in the pale, pale off-yellow cheese sauce. Most of the yellow was from the butter, which pooled in shiny gold puddles wherever they would fit. I’m not a butter person, but it looked delicious, if terrifyingly artery clogging. I quickly speared a noodle with my fork, and as I brought it up to me, gloopy, shiny strings of cheese followed. I spun the cheese—it had to have been mostly mozzarella—around and around. I must have spun it fifty thousand times before the final thread of cheese broke and my noodle was covered. There was no doubt; this cheese was real.

As Sean Michael Gallagher, a kitchen manager, said, Our House Bistro doesn’t use tons of crazy ingredients; they use high quality, simple ones, and then they use them right. “We put a lot of love in everything,” he added. All of this together, he said, separates Our House from other local restaurants. It is also what scored them a glowing review in Seven Days. Gallagher said that that review was the best compliment the restaurant could have hoped for.

I tried not to think of the calories as I ate. I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t help shoving in the warm comfort food. I grabbed noodle after noodle with my silver fork, spun the cheese around like never ending spaghetti, and gobbled it up. At the same time, it wasn’t the best macaroni and cheese I’ve ever had. Not according to my taste buds, at least. I’m one of those people who buy the sharpest cheddar in the store, and then eat half the brick in one sitting. (I can’t let myself buy cheese too often). So, perhaps it was just that the cheese was very mild, but I thought that, somehow, it actually didn’t taste cheesy enough. It looked cheesier than I would have thought possible, but the warm butter almost overtook it. But, I can’t complain. All in all, it was delicious, addictive, and I adored the long stringiness of the cheese.

It has to be said, though, that the price was up there. The macaroni and cheese was twelve dollars, which is far more than I, as a fairly broke college student, want to spend on any sort of meal. I had a lot of fun eating out with Amber, and I enjoyed the food, but I don’t see myself coming back any time soon— at least not while I’m paying.

As we got up to leave the tiny restaurant, I noticed for the first time that it was completely full. All around me, people sat at their tables, eating, waiting, and laughing. As we walked out, a couple was waiting, ready to take our spot.

Tuesday, November 16, 2010

Can I go to Ireland... Today?

I. Am. Excited.

We had our first official meeting about Dublin last night, and I want to go now. Just run to the nearest airport and hop on the nearest plane. Go to Ireland and stay there forever. Except, I'd also go to other places in Europe basically all the time. And I'd come back to the US every, you know, once in a while. Just to visit people and stuff. And then I'd come back to the land of the pretty accents, and everything would be fucking fantastic.

I can't believe I have to wait basically two months. On the other hand, though, I can't believe I will be in Ireland in just under two months. It barely seems possible.

I feel like I did back in fifth grade, when the big, exciting field trip was to go to the National Seashore for a week. We would stay there in a big, centuries old house and do nature stuff away from our parents. We were all, "Yay, we're gonna get to eat ice cream all day and never go to bed and sleep in bunk beds and do stuff that we think is awesome but probably isn't because we're ten!!!" I remember the day we got there, we were kind of all in awe. The Seashore (never mind the fact that we were all little Cape Codders, and so pretty used to the beaches. We were away from our parents, dammit, and that made it special) was just this thing was so talked about, so mythologized, that it didn't feel real.

I think it will be kind of like that when I get to Ireland. I'll be in shock, practically, and at first it won't seem possible that I'm actually in this fairy tale place where everyone speaks in the most fantastic accent ever. But then it will. And I can't wait, for either of those stages.

Oh, but unlike the Seashore, which ended up being kind of lame, Ireland is going to live up to every one of my expectations, and more. I totally expect the day I come back to be the most depressing day of my life.

Saturday, November 13, 2010

A poem with no name. Yet.

she was born beside graves of crisp white sheets
bleached too many times to count,
and beds that could never stay warm long.

she learned to talk listening to footsteps that couldn’t remember
how to hold onto the floor,
under lights that blinked in urgent red whispers.

there were never any songs sung, not
to her, but as she got older
she learned to make her own,
molded from the smiles that echoed out of her scratchy TV.

she swirled words under her tongue
and hid them there,
waited for the day They would come one last time,
wearing cartoon scrub shirts and sudden, sudden smiles--
take out her tubes and wires
take off her bandages
and say, Be Free.

she saved her songs for running in the bright yellow
leaves she could see falling from her window.

but, whenever They came, Their palms
clutched no key, no quick happy chance
of a drifting cloud dancing dream, just rain,
coloring books stained with fingerprints, and I’m Sorry.


So, I was just looking at my blog stats, pretending, as I like to do, that I have readers. I was going down the list of visitors... me, me, me, probably me-- oh, hey, dude from Romania. So, I officially have an international blog. Except, not really. Honestly, I don't even think that's a real term. And, anyway, the dude only stayed for, "zero seconds." (Which makes sense. I basically have the least awesome blog in the world.) What's funny is that he found me by searching, "I've been wicked busy lately." How random is that? I mean, I'm pretty sure that people in Romania don't use the word, "wicked." I'm pretty sure they don't use English very often, either, but even the ones that do, I doubt they know all the region specific slang words, even crazy awesome ones like wicked.

Also, I'm really sorry I haven't been able to write a goodish blog post lately. Somuchworksomuchworksomuchworkholyshit. I have to write the rough draft of an entire play by Sunday night. I'm six pages in and it's going to end up at at least twenty. Probably thirty. Probably more. But, it's actually coming okay, so far. I'm really shit at dialogue, of course, but it isn't totally awful, I don't think. If it comes out okay, I might post it? I'm thinking of maybe later, turning it into a short story, since I like to think I'm better at those.

Tuesday, November 9, 2010

It Needs to be Christmastime

Really, why do we have to wait until after Thanksgiving? Thanksgiving's a lame holiday. I mean, even ignoring the whole, "Hey, so, actually, we kinda killed the Indians off and stuff, but, hey, let's pretend we didn't!" thing, all Thanksgiving is is eating turkey and pumpkin pie. Which is fine, but nothing you can't do any other day, and not so special that we shouldn't be able to get ready for Christmas until it's over. (Maybe Thanksgiving needs a Santa.)

Personally, I totally think we should start celebrating Christmas now. We should start celebrating Christmas the moment Halloween's over. (This makes sense because Halloween's the second best holiday ever, obviously.)

I mean, Christmastime is the best part of winter. It's a mug of hot chocolate with spoonfuls of cool whip, a candy cane, and a sprinkling of Cinnamon. It's warm chocolate shops with big, frosted windows. It's giant, wet snow flakes that melt on your nose and fill the world with cold, cozy flutterings. It's heavy, heaving, pristine inches of snow coating and draping tree branches on every side of you. It's colorful hats. It's a Christmas tree decorated with the same ornaments you've had your whole life. It's music you only listen to a month or two a year. It's being a kid again. It's Santa. It's fun.

Let's do it, now.

Saturday, November 6, 2010

Oh, Hey

I'm even more officially going to Ireland! Plane tickets equal bought. Now, I just hope that the plane doesn't crash. And that we don't get any turbulence, because if that happened, I know I'd freak out really pathetically. People would point and laugh. It would be terrible.

I kind of wish I could skip the plane ride all together, though. Or, take a boat. That would be pretty badass, actually. I could be all, "I'm on a boat," and then everybody'd be all, "aw shit!" and get wicked jealous. And since I was a pirate for Halloween, I could totally wear my costume on the boat or something. Like, the whole time. Which would definitely be the best thing ever. Basically.

I'm really tired. I promise I'll have a real blog post soon, though!