i know i need to start writing every day. im kicking myself in the ass because i know what ive been working on for so long isn't going to get published. i need to learn how to write all over again. i need to know how you accomplish something. i feel like all i have wanted for so long is just to get published anywhere. i wouldn't care if it ended up shredded for bedding at the bottom of someone's hamster cage. i want it so bad. i think you were right when you said id cry if i got rejected. im preparing myself, i already know.
at home, i have potato soup cooking in my crock pot my grandparents gave me but i have never really used. i learned last night i love cooking and listening to music. somehow this makes me want to write. it could become part of my process: i cook and then i write. it takes my mind off things i need to do, things i wish i hadn't done, things i want to do, all my hang ups.
i wish it would snow more. i hate it when the world turns grey after the first snow. i want it pure white, full of light, like it was the first night, a big snow storm. i would love to be stuck inside with you right now. isn't it weird that everytime i write on this i always write to you? in my journal, entries are directed to you that you never read. i feel comfortable writing things to you but not letting you read them. i hope those things will change.
i love you and i need to go. this was random, but i hope someone understands.
ill post the story that night get published tomorrow.
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
Monday, December 3, 2007
what i want for christmas:
a great dane with floppy ears named jules
an apartment with wooden floors and a fireplace tucked away down a quiet street, tall windows and a place for me to grow flowers
my two sisters as next door neighbors
a room of my own, to write how i please whenever i please
my grandpa's memory back
my grandma's life back for just one day
one long night with you that never tires me, never leads me to quarrel, just love, our hands, lips, soft words, a glass of wine that never empties, me in my best dress, until the last darkness is floating out of the grey morning sky
the promise that things can still last forever
love,
lauren michelle
an apartment with wooden floors and a fireplace tucked away down a quiet street, tall windows and a place for me to grow flowers
my two sisters as next door neighbors
a room of my own, to write how i please whenever i please
my grandpa's memory back
my grandma's life back for just one day
one long night with you that never tires me, never leads me to quarrel, just love, our hands, lips, soft words, a glass of wine that never empties, me in my best dress, until the last darkness is floating out of the grey morning sky
the promise that things can still last forever
love,
lauren michelle
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
i fancy this the beginning to my book, my story
Peru, Indiana is where I was born and raised. A tiny town between a highway and a river, where there is nothing to do, nowhere to go... Peru is like an old lover you haven’t thought of – they were pushed somewhere back in your mind into the pockets of forgetfulness and then one day spring forth with a sharp, stabbing pain of remembrance, and you wonder how you could forget something this painful, and even more so, you’re confused as to why someone so forgotten could ever hurt you this profoundly to begin with.
No matter how long or how many miles I put between us, I couldn’t completely leave Peru behind. Something would always trigger it to resurface, to draw me back in. And when I would let myself dwell on Peru, these were the things I would always remember: Peru, the self proclaimed Circus Capital of the World, where once a year boys and girls swing on a trapeze and do cartwheels and people crawl out to fill the streets, eating cotton candy and greasy funnel cakes and riding the Ferris wheel they set up by the courthouse. Vacant teenagers in baggy jeans clog the alleys waiting to mug younger kids with bigger allowances. They kick away on their skateboards and spend the dough on packs of cigarettes and pop rocks. On Broadway by the railroad tracks, there’s one old man who is always chewing tobacco and waving at the passing cars. He wears a baseball hat that says "Joe," and that’s what everyone calls him, though no one knows for sure if that is his name or really cares. On the corner of Main and Fremont right downtown, a family named Patel who came from India to escape one rusted cage, only to fly into another one, runs a motel called the Shelton. The florescent pink sign that flashes down on the streets at night is missing its first two letters, so it just says "Shelton Tel." They run that motel to send their smart mathematician sons to college for a good American opportunity. All the cops with nothing more to do than bust teenage parties and give out the monthly quota of tickets, while conveniently ignoring the meth labs that provide the town fix in church basements and old VW vans. The mayor only cracks down on it when a van explodes into the side of Lo Bill’s grocery store and kills some little boy named Tim Walker. Outside of the city limits, there is a dam and a reservoir that was built to stop the regular flooding of the Wabash River where people live on shitty houseboats and shoot illegal fireworks off the decks. Everybody goes fishing out there during the summer for wide mouthed carp in the muddy toilet bowl that is man made Lake Mississinewa. Everything is fields and forests, stretching out for miles around the highway where cars zoom past it all. You’ve probably driven past it sometime on your way to Florida or California, never knowing. The countryside is littered with broken down covered bridges where my friends and I used to hide on Saturday nights, smoking and drinking and building our campfires to tell stories around. There was a feeling then that this was a world unto itself, the only complete universe we knew. But if you don’t leave right away, you never will. You will find yourself settling, that wondering inside of you slowly dying until you don’t care about what is outside. 3 miles of city blocks with 46 churches and almost as many bars rubbing out all the dreams and schemes hatched about becoming astronauts and being movie stars, of moving to places far away and living in mansions by the ocean. This is where I left.
No matter how long or how many miles I put between us, I couldn’t completely leave Peru behind. Something would always trigger it to resurface, to draw me back in. And when I would let myself dwell on Peru, these were the things I would always remember: Peru, the self proclaimed Circus Capital of the World, where once a year boys and girls swing on a trapeze and do cartwheels and people crawl out to fill the streets, eating cotton candy and greasy funnel cakes and riding the Ferris wheel they set up by the courthouse. Vacant teenagers in baggy jeans clog the alleys waiting to mug younger kids with bigger allowances. They kick away on their skateboards and spend the dough on packs of cigarettes and pop rocks. On Broadway by the railroad tracks, there’s one old man who is always chewing tobacco and waving at the passing cars. He wears a baseball hat that says "Joe," and that’s what everyone calls him, though no one knows for sure if that is his name or really cares. On the corner of Main and Fremont right downtown, a family named Patel who came from India to escape one rusted cage, only to fly into another one, runs a motel called the Shelton. The florescent pink sign that flashes down on the streets at night is missing its first two letters, so it just says "Shelton Tel." They run that motel to send their smart mathematician sons to college for a good American opportunity. All the cops with nothing more to do than bust teenage parties and give out the monthly quota of tickets, while conveniently ignoring the meth labs that provide the town fix in church basements and old VW vans. The mayor only cracks down on it when a van explodes into the side of Lo Bill’s grocery store and kills some little boy named Tim Walker. Outside of the city limits, there is a dam and a reservoir that was built to stop the regular flooding of the Wabash River where people live on shitty houseboats and shoot illegal fireworks off the decks. Everybody goes fishing out there during the summer for wide mouthed carp in the muddy toilet bowl that is man made Lake Mississinewa. Everything is fields and forests, stretching out for miles around the highway where cars zoom past it all. You’ve probably driven past it sometime on your way to Florida or California, never knowing. The countryside is littered with broken down covered bridges where my friends and I used to hide on Saturday nights, smoking and drinking and building our campfires to tell stories around. There was a feeling then that this was a world unto itself, the only complete universe we knew. But if you don’t leave right away, you never will. You will find yourself settling, that wondering inside of you slowly dying until you don’t care about what is outside. 3 miles of city blocks with 46 churches and almost as many bars rubbing out all the dreams and schemes hatched about becoming astronauts and being movie stars, of moving to places far away and living in mansions by the ocean. This is where I left.
Sunday, November 25, 2007
one of my favorite journal entries i just found in its tattered pages
i've given names to the strangers in the apartment building across the way. i wonder what would happen if we met on the streets, if we ran into each other in the grocery store. i wonder if i would recognize them but i know they would not know me. i have the common sense to close my blinds, to wander through my apartment in the dark, to peer at them through the slits.
there is the old couple, one floor above me and to the left. i have named them midge and joe because they remind me of an old couple i used to visit but who have now died. they are grey, late 60s maybe, or 70s. every night they walk around after dinner without their shirts on, cleaning dishes, watching the news together. they act like a much younger couple, leaning in to kiss one another, playfully smacking each other and laughing, disappearing into hidden rooms.
one floor below them is the dark haired man in his late 20s. i call him mikey, i don't have a reason why. he is gone for work most of the day, and when he comes home he is always alone. his living room is covered in movie posters. i can tell that he always listens to music because of how he moves jerkily, side to side, twisting his head with eyes sealed tight while he wanders through his rooms. one night when i couldn't sleep, i went to the kitchen for a glass of water and noticed that mikey was still up, bent over with his head almost touching his knees. his body was shaking and i think he was crying, but for what, i will never know.
they seem so close, like i could reach over and touch them, or maybe open my window and call to them, tell them what i think, read this to them. i wonder if people see me no matter how i hide, look in my window and tell their friends about the things i do. i wonder what they notice, how my life would look peering in through a window from across the street.
there is the old couple, one floor above me and to the left. i have named them midge and joe because they remind me of an old couple i used to visit but who have now died. they are grey, late 60s maybe, or 70s. every night they walk around after dinner without their shirts on, cleaning dishes, watching the news together. they act like a much younger couple, leaning in to kiss one another, playfully smacking each other and laughing, disappearing into hidden rooms.
one floor below them is the dark haired man in his late 20s. i call him mikey, i don't have a reason why. he is gone for work most of the day, and when he comes home he is always alone. his living room is covered in movie posters. i can tell that he always listens to music because of how he moves jerkily, side to side, twisting his head with eyes sealed tight while he wanders through his rooms. one night when i couldn't sleep, i went to the kitchen for a glass of water and noticed that mikey was still up, bent over with his head almost touching his knees. his body was shaking and i think he was crying, but for what, i will never know.
they seem so close, like i could reach over and touch them, or maybe open my window and call to them, tell them what i think, read this to them. i wonder if people see me no matter how i hide, look in my window and tell their friends about the things i do. i wonder what they notice, how my life would look peering in through a window from across the street.
Sunday, November 18, 2007
last night was
we went to our favorite part of town, streets like magnolia avenue lined up and down with brick houses we wish we shared. i can hardly believe that the christmas lights and wreaths are already up. the wind off the lake has just turned cold and i am still waiting for the first snow like an impatient child.
we ate at a persian restaurant with 4 floors, walls lined with windows and mirrors. downstairs was an engagement party, families laughing and dancing to a band with a fiddle and an accordian. their faces were red with wine and i watched them jealously, wanting to join and dance and forget about the world outside.
he ordered sangria and i ordered lamb. we shared a basket of pita bread, ate like heathens, wiping our faces, spilling crumbs in our laps, wiping our bowls of soup clean.
we left and bought irish cream and a bottle of wine to take home. we got coffee at the corner bakery, spiking it with the irish cream to keep our bodies warm. we chased after the 22 clark bus, catching it just in time. on the way home, we drank in the backseat, giggling and making everyone around us uncomfortable. we took turns asking each other "who would you marry, fuck or kill: fellini, truffaut, or bergman? based purely on talent." "how about kerouac, hemingway, or henry miller?" "marry, fuck, or kill: anita ekberg, marilyn monroe, jayne mansfield?" i was surprised when our answers matched. i thought it was a sign.
when we got to my apartment, i opened the wine and started drinking. he asked me questions because he knew i would be honest. and i was. i said things i never would if i had been sober. and somehow it made me love him more.
we laid on the bed beside each other, me in my corset, him in his boxers. we kissed and began to make love but i was too drunk to have sex. i started to feel like i would fall asleep and i was saying things i can't remember. my words seemed angry, i don't remember their shape, only the way they felt coming out. we got into a fight, he jumped up, he yelled, i yelled back. he told me to be quiet, that the neighbors could hear. he went to lay on the couch and i was left alone in the bed. i began to cry. i stumbled to the bathroom, felt myself getting sick. and i did.
when i was finished, i heard him knocking on the door. he helped me clean myself, brought me water, and told me to brush my teeth. he apologized and held me on the couch till i felt i could fall asleep right there. we moved to the bed again and right as i was falling asleep, he asked me "marry, fuck or kill..." but i don't remember the people he listed or anything else because i fell into dreams of a night that ended better.
i hope i gave him a good birthday.
we ate at a persian restaurant with 4 floors, walls lined with windows and mirrors. downstairs was an engagement party, families laughing and dancing to a band with a fiddle and an accordian. their faces were red with wine and i watched them jealously, wanting to join and dance and forget about the world outside.
he ordered sangria and i ordered lamb. we shared a basket of pita bread, ate like heathens, wiping our faces, spilling crumbs in our laps, wiping our bowls of soup clean.
we left and bought irish cream and a bottle of wine to take home. we got coffee at the corner bakery, spiking it with the irish cream to keep our bodies warm. we chased after the 22 clark bus, catching it just in time. on the way home, we drank in the backseat, giggling and making everyone around us uncomfortable. we took turns asking each other "who would you marry, fuck or kill: fellini, truffaut, or bergman? based purely on talent." "how about kerouac, hemingway, or henry miller?" "marry, fuck, or kill: anita ekberg, marilyn monroe, jayne mansfield?" i was surprised when our answers matched. i thought it was a sign.
when we got to my apartment, i opened the wine and started drinking. he asked me questions because he knew i would be honest. and i was. i said things i never would if i had been sober. and somehow it made me love him more.
we laid on the bed beside each other, me in my corset, him in his boxers. we kissed and began to make love but i was too drunk to have sex. i started to feel like i would fall asleep and i was saying things i can't remember. my words seemed angry, i don't remember their shape, only the way they felt coming out. we got into a fight, he jumped up, he yelled, i yelled back. he told me to be quiet, that the neighbors could hear. he went to lay on the couch and i was left alone in the bed. i began to cry. i stumbled to the bathroom, felt myself getting sick. and i did.
when i was finished, i heard him knocking on the door. he helped me clean myself, brought me water, and told me to brush my teeth. he apologized and held me on the couch till i felt i could fall asleep right there. we moved to the bed again and right as i was falling asleep, he asked me "marry, fuck or kill..." but i don't remember the people he listed or anything else because i fell into dreams of a night that ended better.
i hope i gave him a good birthday.
Friday, November 16, 2007
beginnings
i do not know yet if i am ready to see my writing here, to know both strangers and friends can read it.
but i think i should be.
and that is why this began.
but i think i should be.
and that is why this began.
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