Wednesday, August 27, 2008


Yes! My mom and I did, in fact, find the actual, very large banyan tree that Oceanic flight 815 survivors often use as shelter from invisible, African Priest-eating smoke monsters and polar bears.
So we hid too.
Just in case.

Look familiar, Losties?
Love, jungles, and helpful Mexican workers in golf carts,

Monday, August 25, 2008

I love Hawaii, I love Hawaii, I love Hawaii

...Shall I say it again?
The Aloha has seeped into my skin, along with the humidity, and claimed me for its own. It's so painfully beautiful, so horribly friendly. It's been 3 or 4 days, maybe five, I can't remember, and I already feel like I'm home.

...Uh oh!

Travel log:

I came for four months...and am now afraid I might stay forever.

"Dude, Mr. Turtle is my father!"

Love, turtles, and getting leid,

Sunday, August 17, 2008


I wrote this poem just about a year ago, leaving for college for the first time. And now, a year later, I feel just about the same way. So, I'm reiterating the point.


"I guess it's time!"
said my childhood playmates
as I laid them in cardboard graves
and wiped a tear from their sightless
plastic eyes.

"Time to grow up",
sighed the clip-on earrings,
the fun old gloves from Grammy's world,
when people still wore hats and time
moved more slowly.

"Knew it must come"
nodded my purple parasol wisely,
the battered remnants of a forgotten
trip to disneyland, my faded cursive name
silently nodding in agreement.

So many pages filled with doodles and dreams,
boxes of days and years,
countless laughs emitting dustily,
but lapsing inevitably into
mournful coughs.

Drawers of memories,
prodigal socks, hair ties, and buttons,
dust accummulation of ages,
annoying but endearing.

Isn't it funny how dust,
on a good day, makes you
But when "it's time", all
it does is make you cry?

You know you'll miss that
The splattered hot chocolate on the
wall, never quite cleaned up,
the books always on the
shelf, but never quite read.

"Yes, it's time"
gently urges my blankie,
the embodiment of 17 years worth
of pleasant slumber,
something I can't quite give up and
am relieved that I don't have to.


Tuesday, August 5, 2008

It's a Sign

My new favorite intersection.
I think it's a sign... in the fate-related sense.



I want to carry you
and for you to carry me
the way voices are said to carry over water.

Just this morning on the shore,
I could hear two people talking quietly
in a rowboat on the far side of the lake.

They were talking about fishing,
then one changed the subject,
and, I swear, they began talking about you.

Billy Collins

that's all, folks


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