the blackbird postings

2011-07-24T17:52:00.002-05:00

admittedly, i've had a lot on my mind and thus have hardly any time to update anymore.

however one of my professors this summer made a somewhat damaging comment that still plays itself over and over again in the back of my mind. it went,

"you all (speaking to the class) basically have no futures and nothing going for you".

she was referring to the current job market, but her comment made me cringe. i was angry she would say something so stupid as that, saying that we don't have futures, but to a very small degree she was right. i'm aware it will be hard for me to find anything after i graduate college, which makes me never want to graduate. i can't even land a part time job now and i'm still in college!

i just wonder what's going to happen to me. i don't want to know right now, though.

2011-07-06T21:29:00.003-05:00

i miss my long hair.

just kidding.

4th of july

2011-07-04T22:06:00.003-05:00

when i think about the 4th of july, i think of:

1. pastel-colored diners

2. The Music Man (1962)

3. shaker housing

4. hamburger cake

5. the american design gallery @ the art institute in chicago

6. smiley-faced fireworks at the wilmette beach (and cracking jokes about the breast-shaped fireworks {sometimes they're so uncanny that you feel obligated to comment})

7. shared beers in fold-up chairs

8. deviled eggs (a family friend used to bring these over as a post-parade celebratory treat, and now the picture of her deviled eggs is engrained in my head)

9. annual Old Navy july 4th t-shirts

10. blueberry pie with "crows feet" baked in the crust

what do you think of when you hear the phrase, "the 4th of July"?

2011-07-04T00:35:00.004-05:00

i do not know what to do with myself.

gradually i am coming closer and closer to my final year of being an undergraduate and gradually every move i make is becoming more and more significant.

don't know what to say, but i'm panicking.

i can't help but compare and contrast chicago to london.

recently i was at north bridge mall persuading people to get makeovers for Sephora, and everywhere i looked i saw a little bit of london on michigan avenue.

there were noises of the bustling and bustled, taxis on every corner, beautifully-dressed women and men.

there were no red telephone booths, clean, stark-white sidewalks. the victoria + albert museum was not just down the street. there were no georgian-themed houses lining the streets. for once in a long while i felt a bit sad, but the feeling quickly passed. i only wish i could have held on to it a little longer before i pushed it to the back of my mind again.

2011-06-26T21:43:00.001-05:00

father. mother.

always you wrestle inside me,

always you will.

- Tree of Life (2011)

untitled

2011-06-26T21:36:00.001-05:00

Oh swan,

I will wait for you across
the sun’s dawning resplendence
reflected in this lake,
and peddle past the democracies
of insects that shuffle to their colonies.

Summertime will find you easy
but not me; I’ll watch and blunder down
foothills whose grassy heads swing in the salted air,
and the white-wood sun rooms of villas nearby
contain the privileged, that take your ivory feathers for granted
just to watch you swoon and buck in their private lake
over their Sunday coffee.

c. me

a terse little verse: on lyricists

2011-05-30T18:39:00.002-05:00

on my way home my father and i debated our favorite lyricists. sure it's easy to create a solid, catchy tune, but it's so much harder to create an intelligent piece of literature set to music. while my dad may disagree, here are ten of my favorite lyricists; you tell me how you feel, but i know damn good writing when i see it.

1. colin meloy, of the decemberists

2. mark linkous, of sparklehorse

3. beck

4. adam duritz, of the counting crows

5. billie holiday

6. isaac brock, of modest mouse/ugly casanova

7. andy hull, of manchester orchestra

8. billy corgan, of the smashing pumpkins/zwan

9. elton john

10.

oh, i guess that's it! if you're looking for more of a "lofty" answer i will say #10 is dedicated to every lyricist that wrote for any band between 1950 and 1965, because god DAMN do those rockabilly love songs hit my soul hard!

no matter what you say or believe, conor oberst is in no way shape or form a brilliant writer. sorry, he's just not, but this is a very strong debate (not even) for another day. ben gibbard, however, does have his ups and downs.

2011-05-21T21:19:00.000-05:00

let me be vain and enjoy the wonderful job i did on my hair yesterday.

schedule

2011-05-17T00:52:00.002-05:00

i know in the past i said i love to create lists, but schedules just don't make it to that "like" factor. here is what this week looks like:

tuesday: final @ 1:30 pm, final @ 7:30 pm

wednesday: final @ 4:30 pm

thursday: final @ 7:30 am

friday-next saturday: freedom in lawrence

i couldn't hate this week more! i'm already tired and i haven't taken an actual final yet.

know your steak

2011-05-10T23:24:00.003-05:00

dear steak houses and burger joints across the nation,

i will have mine forever rare, please. rare looks just like it does in this picture.

devoted steak and burger lover,

amanda s.

2011-05-07T17:00:00.001-05:00

today is the day after my 21st birthday.

i never imagined turning 21 would taste like raspberry liquer and vodka, but it does!

the "chicken little" effect

2011-05-02T20:06:00.004-05:00

this friday i am turning twenty-one.

i plan on fitting the stereotype of getting wasted and being a public nuisance the night of, but as the date gets closer i am becoming increasingly aware this isn't just any birthday: this is the big 2-1. the world will be mine with the exception of the senior special at ihop.

aging scares me; adulthood seems so vast and kind of depressing and i feel like the sky is closing in on me. my days of dicking around are coming to a bitter end.

in august i will be starting my senior year of college with 19 credit hours, hopefully closing in on an internship and pursuing my career choice prematurely as to be expected.

when i was a senior in high school, this was not how i thought my life would look.

so many things have happened: i've been published a handful of times, been to england, found my boyfriend, lost my childhood home, been an involuntary participant in the most bitter divorce of the century, met an array of different people, grew my hair out, expanded my culinary horizons and gained a sense of dignity that i'd never had before. i'm happy, sure, but i am worried about what's to come.

what will become of me four years from now?

i don't think i want to know.

wordless wednesday

2011-04-19T00:49:00.010-05:00

mister heartache, i've found a way to make him leave

2011-04-17T21:12:00.017-05:00

today's weather was sunny, warm and breezy; perfect for music circa the 1950's. if you browse my itunes you'll find that i'm quite the 1950's enthusiast when it comes to music, so here's a sampler of some of my favorite songs from a decade of red lips, winged liner, shared milkshakes and mint-green cadillacs.

1. the dell vikings - come and go with me
2. the cleftones - heart and soul
3. the nutmegs - the story untold
4. elvis presley - pocketful of rainbows
5. the crows - gee

6. jaye p morgan - that's all i want from you
7. brenda lee - sweet nothings
8. christophe - aline
9. santo and johnny - sleepwalking
10. etta james - at last
11. the toys - a lover's concerto
12. the chiffons - i have a boyfriend
13. annette funicello - pineapple princess
14. frankie lymon and the teenagers - who put the bomp?
15. jackie wilson - lonely teardrops

i tried creating mp3 players for some of the songs but they weren't working out :/ i'm sorry!

me in my new sailor dress from london. i found it suiting for my post :)

je regrette

2011-04-15T10:24:00.007-05:00

nearly three weeks after my trip to london, my regrets from the trip are slowly surfacing. as i write my pieces for the travel zine that will soon comprise the memories and quirks from our journey, i regret:

1. that i didn't take as many pictures as i should have. as in, i should have taken pictures of the hotel i stayed in, architecture, food, oxford, the weather, london at sunset. i took too many scenes for granted.

2. not saving all of the wrappers of delicious british candy i ate, as well as stocked up on cadbury buttons. the ones here are definitely not the same.
3. not spending more time in harrod's or the british library. both places required a considerable amount of time, i.e. hours or even a whole day, and i visited them both for at least an hour each. despicable, despicable me.

4. not eating as many pastries, visiting as many pastry shops and not taking pictures of said pastry shops as i should have. there was a beautiful little patisserie by my hotel called l'opera that i definitely should have visited, eaten in and taken a billion pictures of but everytime i wanted to voyage over there there was always something else going on. there were cupcakes on candle-lit pedestals, colorful rose petals, glass sconces and gold fleck baby cakes were arranged in the window.

last but not least,

5. not buying ANY kate & william stuff!!!! how stupid am i?!
(don't answer that)

my Carre Chocolat @ laduree

the window of a house in south kensington

a widespread view of oxford from the top of st. mary's church.

2011-04-13T00:06:00.001-05:00

her will was her greatest masterpiece.

2011-04-07T16:38:00.005-05:00

you are just a sieve;
you strain all that is pearls in oysters and keep concentrated madness for yourself.

it's hard to preserve anything when you taunt it all away, isn't it?

home improvement, #001

2011-04-05T21:31:00.012-05:00

sometime this june/july i will be moving into my second (ever) apartment. while the space is already really cool, i want to find ways to bring out the easy atmosphere and decorate it. the only problems are that
1. i'm a college student.
2. being a college student, that means i don't exactly have any pennies to pinch and
3. with what money i do/will obtain, i will have a tight budget.

here are a few pictures i've collected thus far for inspiration. obviously i'm really diggin' nontraditional vases/storage places.

* i should also say that none of these pictures are my own and that if any of the owners of these beautiful photographs stumble on my page please let me know and i will rightfully credit you!

from london, with love

2011-03-28T05:03:00.003-05:00

i am finally back from london after a grueling day of dysfunctional planes, turbulent weather and running around an unfamiliar airport... my favorite.

my trip was absolutely wonderful but at the end i could not wait to get home! i got sick quite often after eating a few meals, including the hotel's breakfast, and drank so much i woke up miserable the next morning, but still i can happily say this was one of the best trips i have ever taken.
i didn't go to stratford or get my nails done but what i DID do was go to the british library! that was i think my favorite. they have the entirety of the king's personal library that took up the center of each floor as well as an exhibit that features some very, very famous and rare manuscripts. i got to meet ole beowulf itself (unimpressive) but the canterbury tale's original manuscript was extraordinary.
my favorite manuscript of all is the very last poem oscar wilde ever wrote, "the ballad of reading gaol". he wrote it after his wife was slain and he went to jail, and published the poem under the name "C.3.3" (his jail number). he wrote it whilst in exile and on the manuscript were little details and notes penned by the author himself. i've read the poem before, but seeing it in such a light really made a difference.

now back to unpacking.

billy bride jewelry

2011-03-11T02:40:00.007-06:00

website: www.billybridejewelry.com

there is no question: the talent this jeweler has is simply exquisite. admire the details of each piece; how organic every inch of them is, down to the band.

eres. this one is my favorite

click for bigger picture, i suggest it.

currently #003

2011-03-11T00:08:00.008-06:00

so guess where i am going next weekend, readers?

a little journal my brother bought me for christmas

LONDON!
the time is finally here: i am going to london for a week through a study abroad program at KU. i am very lucky to be given this wonderful opportunity. friends have given me some currency to use as well as wise words of wisdom and stories ranging anywhere from horrific to dynamically awesome.

things i know i will be doing:

- shakespeare & anne hathaway home tour
- WAH nails manicure
- jack the ripper tour
- harrod's
- pub crawling
a professor at KU actually located a pub that was owned by the chaucer family and i confirm this will be one of the bars i will be visiting.
- london eye
- portobello & camden markets
- high tea

things i am unsure i will be doing but think i really should do:

- two day trip to paris!
i mean, really, why the hell not?

so much to do, and yes, so little time!

six word stories

2011-03-07T15:46:00.008-06:00

instead of paying attention to my 10am lecture i tried my hand at six word stories.
here's a great website that describes the 6 word stories as well as a place to submit your own: http://www.narrativemagazine.com/node/83577

my stories:

1. asked about relationship. replied, "grey gardens"

2. new shelving; they'll never be occupied.

3. gravestone said what he couldn't alive

4. sleeve holds what her ribcage couldn't.

5. let's run away; missouri's wide enough.

6. "getting the paper!". left house keys.

7. whispering, she confirms: "let's start over".

8. pregnant thrice, nothing to show it.

9. crying into folded flag, wondered "why?".

mark linkous

2011-03-07T00:50:00.002-06:00

i hope you are resting well.

the one memory i have of him is watching him play with sparklehorse at lollapalooza in 2007.
at first it was my friends and i, but one by one they left. then my cousin joined me until she too left.
admittedly the show they put on wasn't very good and kind of lackluster in energy, but i still enjoyed it. the band inspired me to write, linkous' lyrics are still an inspiration and i am still blown away by his effortless rhyming, diction and sound.

you are so terribly missed!

simple math

2011-03-07T00:13:00.004-06:00

manchester orchestra's lyric video for their new single, "simple math".

i can watch this video for hours, which i have been doing for the past hour or so.

echo boo

2011-02-28T22:01:00.004-06:00

my guinea pig, echo boo, and i this past summer.
lately i've been feeling quite lonely: i miss the companionship of my guinea pig, any guinea pig. it sounds dumb.. they can't really hold up conversation or anything, but believe it or not they can read and react to human emotions! a quality SOME humans don't have.
i know i can't haul my little piggie all the way from chicago to lawrence, kansas but i've just been thinking about her lately. i would really like another guinea pig.
i've even cooked up some names in my budding lonesomeness!

arborous, of prose

2011-02-23T21:28:00.006-06:00

here is why i have a fascination with trees:
because there wasn't a time in my life that they weren't there. the neighborhood i grew up in, each block is lined with humongous, beautiful trees. the tree tops extend so far they interlock with the trees on the opposite side of the street.
such beauty can't really be explained, but know that when i think back on my old neighborhood it is the majestic trees and tranquility that springtime brings that surfaces. they blocked nearly all sunlight in the summer and the sidewalks were just slightly more pleasant to stroll on.
there were trees so ruddy and ambivalent in nature (no pun intended) they wrapped around the wrought-iron gates in front of select houses; bulbs and warty masses took over the gates. they were a source of interest and mystery growing up.

last night i dreamt i was walking down colfax st in springtime, heading towards the skokie border. these trees gobbled up what little sunlight there was. the new residencies of my mother and father do not possess these grandiose trees. i was collecting tree matter that had broken and fallen off the trees, picking up morsel-sized pieces to plank-sized. bike bells chirped nearby and birds flocked to their humbled lodgings.

this is why i have a fascination with trees.

music: AM - new road

wedding tree

2011-02-22T22:52:00.006-06:00

link
a beautifully photographed wedding in ireland, under the coolest tree i have ever seen.

let's all take a moment and take in this majestic sight.

fifteen facts

2011-02-21T19:59:00.002-06:00

1. i'm deathly afraid of fish.
2. i was born and raised in the same cityburb where uncle buck, curly sue, the weatherman and home alone were filmed. give up? too bad, not telling.
3. three of my favorite foods in the whole world are olives (all kinds), pickles and potatoes.
4. i hardly ever write in capitalization. call me pompous but i believe all letters regardless of placement should accept the same treatment with regards to their in/formal state.
5. i like to bake... in two different ways.
6. i can narrate my life in smashing pumpkins songs.
7. i am of russian and polish descent
8. i have a rather large obsession with all things from the 1920's. clara bow is one of my personal idols.
9. i have a deep-rooted penchant for poetry. my three favorite poets are dorothy parker, richard brautigan and pablo neruda.
10. i've had a lot of pain in my life, both emotional and physical.
11. i can semi-speak yiddish. i use the term "semi" very loosely.
12. i'm atheist.
13. nothing brings me more peace than meandering around sedona, arizona.
14. my junior year of high school my teacher had the class write about how herman melville's "bartleby the scrivener" was a reflection of american literature. i received an F. after convincing the teacher to let me rewrite it on my terms i set out to prove my point (that not only is that text god-awful, but it has absolutely NOTHING to do with american literature at all) i rewrote the essay and received an A. to this day i still regard it as one of my mighty accomplishments.
15. i love creating lists; i write at least one list on a daily basis.

happy late birthday, richard brautigan

2011-02-16T00:18:00.004-06:00

it's hard not to get a little verklempt watching this.
brautigan's daughter, ianthe, reads a story written by her father.
presenting, "one afternoon in 1939"

happy birthday.

bored to death

2011-02-09T23:21:00.003-06:00

my new favorite show. ted danson's role deserves an award or two.

black spring! pick up your pen, and weeping... boris pasternak

2011-02-09T22:57:00.002-06:00

Black spring! Pick up your pen, and weeping,
Of February, in sobs and ink,
Write poems, while the slush in thunder
Is burning in the black of spring.

Through clanking wheels, through church bells ringing
A hired cab will take you where
The town has ended, where the showers
Are louder still than ink and tears.

Where rocks, like charred pears, from the branches
In thousands break away, and sweep
Into the melting snow, instilling
Dry sadness into eyes that weep.

Beneath — the earth is black in puddles,
The wind with croaking screeches throbs,
And–the more randomly, the surer
Poems are forming out of sobs.

c. Boris Pasternak

a brilliantly-written poem that is quite suitable for this time of the year.

going to arizona in my mind

2011-02-08T08:56:00.014-06:00

this past december i visited the grand state of arizona with my father and brother. while at times inexplicably cold i had a great time and got in quite a bit of writing, eating and sleeping. an oasis, one might say!

i'd create a cut for this entry but i'm technologically incompetent.

the view from our little cabode

walking down mill st in tempe. fiesta bowl was going to start the next day, it was just the calm before the storm...

why don't we have cool stores like this? walking down mill st again

an unfinished burger at red robin with all the best toppers (buttery mushrooms, pickles and swiss cheese! om nom nom)

a grandiose house my father's friend was looking in to buying. for about twenty minutes i felt like the richest person in the world.

another beautiful view. this side of the mansion looks out at camelback mountain.

a lone harris hawk on a wildlife walk we embarked on. this fucker swooped down and nearly ran off with a good lock of my hair, but alas, i was too quick for him.

unfortunately we didn't get to go to sedona, my favorite place, but i'll/we'll be back!

pictures c. me

a playlist, since i feel like updating

2011-02-07T15:13:00.007-06:00

my new profile picture

my playlist (so far) of february 2011:

ugly casanova - smoke like ribbons
counting crows - omaha
ugly casanova - hotcha girls
michael buble - feeling good
zwan - honestly
wilco - say you miss me
nicki minaj - right thru me
carly simon - you're so vain
everclear - sunflowers
new found glory - it's not your fault

ray bradbury vs. e-books

2011-02-06T19:57:00.006-06:00

- ray bradbury, paris review 2010

makes me reconsider my upcoming birthday wishlist.

love poem, brautigan

2011-01-27T22:15:00.004-06:00

i wish i could have met you.

michelle williams

2011-01-27T01:34:00.006-06:00

michelle williams

abundance is the way
he fixes her curves of waist,
thigh and cheek
into the cast of his eyes,
knowing beyond the iris
there is more
than her cuticle-drawn nails
and soft creases of arcane smirk.

c. me

i really fucking love michelle williams. i was just fucking around today and not exactly paying attention to my lecture.

Schizophrenia

2011-01-26T00:12:00.006-06:00

this is a poem worth mentioning.
i'd like to say i have a mental chapbook of poems that have influenced me in my writing and the personal development of my "craft" (of course being poetry). "schizophrenia" by jim stevens is one poem that has done as such.
though not a poem i would generally go for, it touched me at a time when my own home life was in shambles in the wake of my parent's divorce. though not a poem on divorce, "schizophrenia" eloquently describes with heart-wrenching familiarity the breakdown of a once secure and stable home. as the divorce persisted i found myself mourning mostly over my childhood home; the only home i had ever known. reading "schizophrenia" in my second semester intro to poetry course was quite timely and it continues to be one of my all-time favorite poems.
this is the most open i've ever been on this blog.
anyway here's the poem:

Schizophrenia

It was the house that suffered most.

It had begun with slamming doors, angry feet scuffing the carpets,
dishes slammed onto the table,
greasy stains spreading on the cloth.

Certain doors were locked at night,
feet stood for hours outside them,
dishes were left unwashed, the cloth
disappeared under a hardened crust.

The house came to miss the shouting voices,
the threats, the half-apologies, noisy
reconciliations, the sobbing that followed.

Then lines were drawn, borders established,
some rooms declared their loyalties,
keeping to themselves, keeping out the other.
The house divided against itself.

Seeing cracking paint, broken windows,
the front door banging in the wind,
the roof tiles flying off, one by one,
the neighbors said it was a madhouse.

It was the house that suffered most.

c. Jim Stevens

gpoy

2011-01-25T21:37:00.005-06:00

the anthology i am published in and i!

also, feast your eyes on tonight's dinner: deux delicieux sirloin steaks and pasta with fresh parm. i, ladies and gents, am one helluva cook.

8:14 AM, sitting in my room

2011-01-24T08:13:00.003-06:00

there is never enough time.
(in college, at least)

an inspirational picture of a cupcake

2011-01-23T16:37:00.003-06:00

one day i will make visually-pleasing cupcakes like this.

on ghost stories and my other heists, the final draft

2011-01-22T21:14:00.004-06:00

tonight was something special for me.
i performed at a poetry reading for the first time. i had a great time; my friends and boyfriend were there to support me as well as my darling Blue Island Review group members. i performed the piece below as well as The Proposal, a piece that i (think) posted a little while back. without further ado, here is the completely edited piece.

On Ghost Stories and My Other Heists
for my divorce-weakened friends

If at once we part,
vagrant oceans and battered clocks
will become ghosts of our
imprint on the world, and soothe
what mottled thoughts of our future
pile as haystacks in November.

Before the oceans dry, remember
Tucson’s citric follies in the summertime
when there was never time to settle, or wonder
whether we really knew one another, or whether we really wanted to.

We fancied Captain as a cure-all and what remained
were aches in our swollen fibers from spats
seemingly were never had,
and at once I’ll regret neglecting
the oysters of your wrists,
your soft tissues arcing under
the pressure from my lips, giving in.

I am sorry for every time you tumbled under me
and I did not follow you.

And early autumn (all of it) how our memories
were unfurled after the suppression of others
after a red-backed summer,

Or calmed the blackbird
that nested in the pulp of your heart,
singing back to my grieving digits
what I couldn’t have, and why.

Remember this when you find yourself,
a mid-tempered shepherd of the nostalgic:

I found you;
and I will always be the one that picked
the sabled pith of your heart to absolute pieces.

c. me

arborous

2011-01-10T09:12:00.003-06:00

arborous

a lone elm stands ground in a clearing,
arches giving in to winter.

one ponderous trunk accompanies,
her wooden bulbs seeping pitch;
a vulnerable thing. heather modestly circles
the foundation in clusters,
serving sanctuary.

never to be undressed and persecuted,
the elm casts spindly shadows
in the quiet of snowfall, never to greet
human eyes as most gentle things come
to their demise.

c. me

Sonnet XVII

2011-01-08T22:53:00.002-06:00

one of my favorite poems to read over and over again. enjoy.

Sonnet XVII
Pablo Neruda

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

my first performance piece, a rough draft

2011-01-02T22:48:00.004-06:00

in lew of my very first real poetry reading i gave myself the rather daunting task of creating a poetic performance piece. it is much wordier (and way longer) than most of my work and i can't say that it is completely finished but i would like to post it (then proceed chop it up later) anyway.

On Ghost Stories and My Other Heists

If at once we part, love,
vagrant oceans and battered clocks
will become holograms of our
accession of the world, and sooth
what mottled thoughts of our future
pile as hay stacks in rural territories in November.

Before the oceans dry, remember
Tucson’s citric follies in the summertime
when there was never time to settle, or wonder
whether we really knew one another, or whether we really wanted to?

We fancied Captain as a cure-all and all that remained
were aches in our swollen fibers from spats
seemingly had never been had,
and at once I’ll regret neglecting
the oysters of your wrists,
your soft tissues arcing under
the pressure from my lips, giving in.

I am sorry for every time you tumbled under me
and I did not follow you.

And early autumn (all of it) how our memories
were unfurled after the suppression of others
after a red-backed summer

Or calmed the blackbird
that nested in the pulp of your heart,
singing back to my grieving digits
what I couldn’t have, and why.

Remember this when you find yourself,
a mid-tempered shepherd of the nostalgic:
I found you, lover;
and I will always be the one that picked
the sabled pith of your heart to absolute pieces.

c. me

the atypical new years blog post, installment #2

2011-01-01T00:52:00.004-06:00

with my next installment (with new years just a mere seven minutes away here in arizona) are three vows i will follow.

my first vow is to write and write a lot. i tend to get in the habit (especially when very stressed) of writing just one-hitters (sentences that i tend to make a poem around) and don't really stray much further. i really need to start creating more poems and i shouldn't let me nerves or pessimism get to me, even if i think the one-hitter's a piece of poo a few minutes later. in addition i swear to update this blog more. i know i haven't been updating much or anything but with the addition of new poems comes new posts!

my second vow is to ultimately lose weight. cliche, i know, but this really needs to happen. this year i really let myself go and gorged on foods that i could have probably lived without even if i didn't think so at the time. i don't want to know how much weight i've gained this year but i do know that whatever i did gain must be worked off at once. dieting has never been an easy thing for me, and after dropping from 181.5 (as a sophomore in high school) to 132 pounds in 5 months was, if i do say so myself, not very healthy nor did i really learn the benefits of what it means to be fit and healthy. i am definitely NOT 132 anymore, nor do i ever want to be, but this year i hope to learn the value of keeping fit and healthy.

my third vow? well... i vow to get every single expansion pack available for the sims 3, excluding that shiteous new medieval one.

have a safe, healthy and happy new year, readers.
- amanda schwartz

the atypical new years blog post, installment #1

2010-12-31T18:14:00.006-06:00

right now i'm sitting in a luxurious house in a private residential area in scottsdale, arizona.
how did i get here and why am i subtly boasting about it?

it is the house of my dad's best friend from college of who after 37ish years of knowing each other are still the best of friends. this year i plan on thoroughly rinsing the toxic people out of my life and making them simply into stories.
yes, a very cliche resolution to start the new year, but a good one: i have encountered a slew of people that for some reason or another, i let affect me and/or at one point in time be a subject of scrutiny. why do i need such people in my life? i don't, and i've got to admit i'm much too young for such bitterness. i want friends that i can see myself with when i'm my father's age. a friend accepts you the way you are; this was a lesson learned conveniently by this years' end. they do not pick on you nor do they belittle you.
friends let you stay in their mini-mansions without a question, are available at the touch of a button (or if you're like me, a surprise car ride away) and, above all things, will drop what they're doing just so they could bake cupcakes and read shitty poetry with you.

wade/ through black jade

2010-12-23T23:39:00.005-06:00

often i'll make a hobby out of finding ways to pacify lurking thunderstorms that encroach my calculated day-by-day plans,
but most of my revelations only boil down to the impending urge
to simply scream.

currently #002

2010-12-16T21:35:00.007-06:00

well hey.
so much has happened.. the semester is finally over and i plan on working on being a domestic goddess (or well, further perfecting the craft of). not much writing has been happening but hopefully i will have some thing(s) soon.

PS i made those madeleines pictured above. good, right?

five words of intellectual resonance i should probably use in future essays

2010-12-02T22:28:00.003-06:00

1. pedagogical
2. disconcerting
3. dichotomy
4. engagé
5. antiquated

The Proposal

2010-11-30T17:57:00.002-06:00

The Proposal

Between North and Clark,
apostles of urbana bow into
winter’s evening blusters.
Here we sit under
garden sconces and amid iced
rose delicacie s, this courtyard grins
from gate to gate as fresh snow
pats our rimy backs.

c. me

so i write stories, too

2010-11-29T23:57:00.003-06:00

and this one is one that i'm actually fairly confident with, but i apologize in advance regardless.
whatever readers i have out there, is it 'okay'? whatcha think, whatcha not think?

Reina in Uniform

When she was young Rosa’s days were spent climbing the arm-thick branched sycamores in front of her family’s adobe-walled farm in Oaxaca. The air, usually a light fragrance of blossoming oranges and sun-baked earth through the treetops, like fingers combing gently through hair, and wrote stories in her many notebooks. Nestled in the crooks of branches, she wrote about small-boned daughters of farmers that marked American soil with their foreign footprints. They became sirenas of the silver screen, angels of the quill, and more. Young goddesses that always strived for and received the best of life.
Her mother and father never understood.
One evening in May, Rosa wrote about a young virtuoso that hitched a ride with an American rock star on the outskirts of Hollywood. At dinner she reported back to her family her newest work. While her brothers and sisters jostled and let their little minds wander to images of red lips, mint-green limos and candlelit dinners on the Hollywood beaches, her mother merely shook her head, her eyes digging graves into the pores of Rosa’s complexion. “Niña, love, these stories of yours are simply stories. In America you will only grow sad, not famous,” she said, and that was that. Her father and mother sat on each end of the table while Rosa sat in the middle. Her father never argued for or against Rosa’s budding ambitions, but always said, “You are too young to understand what’s out there, Rosalita”.

At age forty-two, Rosa was working as a custodian in a Chicago public school. She had not intended it to be this way: at twenty, when she first came to America, she tried her hand at opening a food kiosk in Pilsen on Wolcott and Wood selling fresh empanadas to the hurried crowds that marched the street every morning but as the mornings and evenings grew colder, more people were settled on taking the bus. “Empanadas para ti? Yo tengo empanadas con pollo hoy! Pollo hoy, carne mañana!” she would chirp to passerby, empanadas nestled in wax paper saw waiting for eager mouths that never came. As her stay in America grew longer, the caramel-kissed bronze of her skin faded softly, and the definitions that she had brought with her from Mexico slinked away like a creeping cat at nightfall. While her major defeats gobbled, chewed and spit on what money she had put into them, they did not stop her from her passion for writing. Sometimes she would send stories back to her sisters in Mexico, and to her delight they would write back and their letter would smell like dried orange skins. She would lie to her mother about her progress in America; mostly, it would be about her spending habits. Rosa would lie about dinner dates she had been on and the friends that she had, but she did it because one day she knew the gaps the lies were creating would be filled with authenticity.
Rosa bore a daughter and named her Carmen. Her father, a Russian-American from the Bronx, left when Rosa was seven months pregnant to find work in New Jersey. He never returned. Carmen is presently sixteen, and often Rosa walked the mile from their ruddy apartment to pick up Carmen from school, and they would go to the library together.
Both of them would stack their selections of books and articles in neat piles, swing their thick ropes of ebony hair over their shoulders and stray into the worlds created before them: Rosa to the amethyst-crusted, sugar-rose sorrow of Pablo Neruda, and the argyle-jumper fantasies of Gossip Girl for Carmen. Sometimes Carmen would rent English books and help Rosa with her studies.
“Carmen, ¿cómo se dice, cómo estás?”
Calmly, Carmen would answer her questions with patience.
“You say ‘Hello, how are you today?’” Carmen replied. Her English was still quite broken, and Carmen would always accompany Rosa on her trips to the grocery store or while shopping. Rosa continued to write and finished three books from the library every week. Her storytelling developed, and often she entertained Carmen with stories of city girls and hair that glistened as if there were stars strewn throughout it. Carmen would laugh, and Rosa would be pleased when she saw Carmen’s smile playing in the lamplight, that still lingers even after the story was through.
It wasn’t until Rosa obtained a job as a custodian in Carmen’s school that their relationship deteriorated. At school Carmen avoided Rosa like the plague. She and her multitude of pale-skinned blonde friends would crowd next to Carmen’s locker and gossip. Rosa would sometimes overhear them in their babbling, but never come near. One day, Rosa was dreaming up a story of apple orchards that reached to the skies when she bumped into one of Carmen’s friends, knocking her friends’ books out of her perfectly manicured hands.
“Oh, my god! Watch where you’re going,” the girl scolded, tossing her straw-colored tendrils over her back and crossed her arms. Carmen turned her head to see what was happening, but stood back.
“Oh my, ah, I am—oh mios…”
“What, no speak-a English? Go back to Cuba, that’s where you’re all from right?” the girl said, pointing to two other custodians that were cleaning water fountains. They were completely oblivious.
Carmen’s eyes bulged.
The girl smirked, pleased with the snootiness of her joke, and was turning around to walk towards the lockers.
“México,” Rosa said softly, drawing her eyes to her dirt-scuffed Keds.
“What? What’d ya say?” the girl said, turning back around. She smacked her peach-glossed lips.
“I am from México, señorita,” Rosa said, more defiant. She clutched her mop, weapon-like, the water making puddles by her feet.
“Okay, whatever,” the girl said, walking away.
When Rosa rang out the mop and looked up, Carmen was not by the locker.
As Rosa continued mopping the hallway, she couldn’t help but think that this was the first time that she genuinely felt nostalgic for the home she left behind. As she mopped and thought, she was hit with the pungent aroma of her mother’s chili carne cooking and the crisp smell of grass. She felt her mother’s tender lips gracing her forehead as she tucked her in bed saying “hasta mañana mi reyna, mi cielo”.
My queen, my sky.
It was impossible for Rosa to believe that she had such purpose and meaning back home, where her life was predetermined and her stories were just stories. The path in front of her fogged with her oncoming tears.
The hallway was finally empty; class was out for the day. She heard a scuttling from a doorway she just passed.
“Ma’am?” she heard a man say. She heard the age in his voice, like a grandfather clock that has seen so many years. Rosa turned.
“S-Yes?”
“Did you drop this?” he said. In his meaty hand held Rosa’s latest journal, with her sister’s most recent letter peaking up from the middle. Rosa inched nearer.
“Si, suyo tu diario, Señora? Yo hablas español tambien”.
She left the mop in the water and walked up to him.
“Ah, yes”, she cooed, taking the journal from his hands pressed it to her chest.
“My name is Eric McDane, or Mr. McDane. Yo soy un maestro aqui,” he continued, cautiously, “your stories are beautiful. You should have some one look at these,” he said.
Rosa furrowed her brows. “Where?” she asked, growing exhausted, “I do not have any money”.
“You do not need money,” Mr. McDane, said, laughing, “You just need to send it in! The Chicago Times, the Tribune, they are always taking submissions! I will help you,” he said, patting her back. “I will help you”.
His face held all the answers she needed and her desires did not seem so out of reach any longer. She thought of the days she spent in the sycamore trees, back in Oaxaca, and how comfortable she became in their coarse arms. She thought of all her stories stacked in the closet of her bedroom, never seen by anyone else, as seeds waiting to be sown and mature into blossoms of modern day goddesses and hungry maidens. Her heart churned at the thought of her neglected stories of caramel-cream amantes, lovers, that dreamt billows of sea-salt waves exuding from their ruddy downtown apartments.
“Yes,” Rosa said. “That is an idea”.

c. me

a thought

2010-11-02T21:21:00.000-05:00

i will probably never like green tea.
but the smell is nice.

On Sleep and Where You Have Been

2010-11-01T01:33:00.002-05:00

I want to be the silver patchwork
in your dreams, pillows in
the dark chambers of your bedroom,
and more.

I’ll be the forest that unfolds under your
lonesome footsteps, simple in your solitude,
the sun licking your back gold and lilac,
the autumn winds blowing the sky cold and black.

In Rome, hiking along the Palisades
I’ll plant the honey blossoms that you pick
and love you still
as you thrash, comatose,
tapping on windowpanes to get to you
in our repose.

I would like to be the boat that pulls you along the Ozarks,
solely.
I want to be the shepherd that follows you to the rising morning,
only.

c. me

Leave Me

2010-10-18T02:55:00.001-05:00

Leave Me from Daros Films on Vimeo.

A Riddle

2010-10-16T20:09:00.002-05:00

Metaphors,
by Sylvia Plath
I'm a riddle in nine syllables,
An elephant, a ponderous house,
A melon strolling on two tendrils.
O red fruit, ivory, fine timbers!
This loaf's big with its yeasty rising.
Money's new-minted in this fat purse.
I'm a means, a stage, a cow in calf.
I've eaten a bag of green apples,
Boarded the train there's no getting off.

A Riddle
By Amanda Schwartz
I have a penchant for screaming
into anything that will catch my aches,
teeth in arms to corrode the pain,
my own red apple aflame.
I am the gleam that has left your eye,
weeds in a courtyard, a shallow spine.
Clipped pines scratch the window
and masonry, wanting in
but I was never big on promises.

c. me

currently #001

2010-10-08T00:27:00.005-05:00

a lot has happened to me as of late.
other than getting back my decidedly angsty paper that i wrote about edna pontellier that received a shitty C+ and all the midterms/projects coming up that are swallowing me whole, my poetry group is going quite well.
also, i was just accepted into a study abroad program at my college to go to london for a week. i worked quite hard to get to this point (and to this program). i'm so very happy.

mercury rising

2010-09-28T09:53:00.001-05:00

check out these new winged booties by steve mcqueen.

i will be a mcqueen footwear girl once i can afford it!

autumn is here

2010-09-22T22:44:00.000-05:00

and i am okay with that.

oops

2010-09-15T23:01:00.001-05:00

this is what happens when i try to make a nice dinner for my boyfriend.. i get hurt. attempt at being domestic but ending up hurting myself #2.

crave or save: croc rain boots

2010-09-15T01:14:00.002-05:00

ever since i saw the hunter/jimmy choo rain boots last winter i have thought about nothing else. however, it is the 450+ dollar pricetag that keeps me from splurging my meek ULTA paychecks on them. however, today i found these rain boots at WALMART (of all places!) today for $25 and i didn't even stop to think before purchasing.

nano watch

2010-09-14T16:39:00.002-05:00

tell me this isn't the coolest thing you've seen all day. apple makes chunky wristwatches out of the new ipod nano.

truck stop prose

2010-09-13T22:56:00.004-05:00

(it'll be back, i promise.)

to his lost lover, by simon armitage

2010-09-12T22:16:00.002-05:00

Now they are no longer
any trouble to each other

he can turn things over, get down to that list
of things that never happened, all of the lost

unfinishable business.
For instance… for instance,

how he never clipped and kept her hair, or drew a hairbrush
through that style of hers, and never knew how not to blush

at the fall of her name in close company.
How they never slept like buried cutlery –

two spoons or forks cupped perfectly together,
or made the most of some heavy weather –

walked out into hard rain under sheet lightning,
or did the gears while the other was driving.

How he never raised his fingertips
to stop the segments of her lips

from breaking the news,
or tasted the fruit

or picked for himself the pear of her heart,
or lifted her hand to where his own heart

was a small, dark, terrified bird
in her grip. Where it hurt.

Or said the right thing,
or put it in writing.

And never fled the black mile back to his house
before midnight, or coaxed another button of her blouse,

then another,
or knew her

favourite colour,
her taste, her flavour,

and never ran a bath or held a towel for her,
or soft-soaped her, or whipped her hair

into an ice-cream cornet or a beehive
of lather, or acted out of turn, or misbehaved

when he might have, or worked a comb
where no comb had been, or walked back home

through a black mile hugging a punctured heart,
where it hurt, where it hurt, or helped her hand

to his butterfly heart
in its two blue halves.

And never almost cried,
and never once described

an attack of the heart,
or under a silk shirt

nursed in his hand her breast,
her left, like a tear of flesh

wept by the heart,
where it hurts,

or brushed with his thumb the nut of her nipple,
or drank intoxicating liquors from her navel.

Or christened the Pole Star in her name,
or shielded the mask of her face like a flame,

a pilot light,
or stayed the night,

or steered her back to that house of his,
or said “Don’t ask me how it is

I like you.
I just might do.”

How he never figured out a fireproof plan,
or unravelled her hand, as if her hand

were a solid ball
of silver foil

and discovered a lifeline hiding inside it,
and measured the trace of his own alongside it.

But said some things and never meant them –
sweet nothings anybody could have mentioned.

And left unsaid some things he should have spoken,
about the heart, where it hurt exactly, and how often.

in cuba i was a german shepherd

2010-09-06T23:22:00.005-05:00

i will say this now: read 'in cuba i was a german shepherd' by ana menendez. you will not regret it.
if i took away something from my latin american lit class it was this beautiful story. i have never shed a single tear for a literary work once, but this short story did it. READ IT HERE (<-- this is a click-thru link that you should probably click through)

in other news i want to go to california.
i mean, i've had this strange desire to since last winter.

also, look at me looking like a profesh writer. tell me you DON'T want to sign me on to your publishing corp.

2010-08-18T18:59:00.003-05:00

the weather here has been so harsh; i don't know how kansans have beared it all their lives.
last week the temperature floated between 95 and 104. this week the temperature has been simmering at a calm 85-90 degrees. still, cigarette smoke hangs in the air trapped in the humidity. long billows of smoke encapsulated. school starts tomorrow... at one point i was more than ready to head back to school but now i'm not so certain.

updates in sentences

2010-08-12T10:58:00.003-05:00

i haven't had internet for almost six days. brutal.
moved in to townhome.
we have a pet squirrel. his name is archie. he splays his little limbs out on the concrete in our patio and lays in the shade.
it couldn't be more disgusting outside, and either 1. it really is getting cooler than the scorching 101 degrees or 2. i'm actually getting used to it.
saw inception with the boy.
my closet has way too much black in it. must downsize in my black-clothing purchases.
willow trees.

publishing

2010-08-04T20:44:00.002-05:00

so i have set my sights on becoming a publisher, but now i am not so sure what exactly i want to publish.
quite the pickle.

what the fuck DO i want to do?

food photgraphy,
fiction and non,
interior design,
fashion?

WHAT AM I DOING

what i left behind

2010-07-29T01:29:00.002-05:00

you wouldn't know what it's like to have your heart ripped out until it is ripped out.

stella mccartney resort 2011

2010-07-26T23:52:00.001-05:00

if i have this to look forward to next year, then i am very very excited. i shall embrace the scalloped-skirt, khaki-bountiful items that will be on display next year.

gin and roses

2010-07-25T00:20:00.002-05:00

i have been up since 5am after getting a mere 3 hours of sleep. ran around chicago, ate delicious crepes, played the part of a movie star at the merchandise mart and now i am pooped.

true blood first, though.

also there are two great things about this here photobooth photo:

1. is that i'm wearing the best essie color in the whole entire world, splash of grenadine
2. my hair is red, red, red. russia, the country of which half my heritage derives from, directly translates to "the land of the reds". i'm just living the dream.

2010-07-23T01:35:00.002-05:00

letting go and mending a really thrashed bridge is a very good feeling. all is good again and that is all i can say for the evening. goodnight.

2010-07-20T03:17:00.002-05:00

i pull things apart like i've done this all my life.
i'll never change, i'll never change.

matte nail polish

2010-07-18T23:24:00.003-05:00

i am now a fan.

{OPI's matte "You Don't Know Jacques"}

after hours

2010-07-18T03:16:00.004-05:00

tonight was something special.

my friends and i got pretty lost in the bucktown/ukrainian village area trying to find a hideaway, almost secretive street that our friend unfortunately lives on. it was the most fun i had had in a long time.
we raced down damen, bulleted down north and somehow wound up on the grungy outskirts of wicker park, finally.

a long time ago i told my dad i hated chicago and wasn't going to come back. he replied, "yes you will. once you're away you'll see all the magic chicago has to offer, and you will be back".
i took it for granted, but here i am about to start my junior year of college and i really do understand the gifts and lessons chicago has to offer.

as we looped around the area, we ran into some of his old haunts, like the diversey river bowling alley that took off in the fifties and has been mounted there ever since. his old office on western, situated just on the dividing line between chicago and evanston. the northern projects that we always passed on the way to andersonville; the lathrop homes. the taquerias and supermercados. roberto clemente high school, a structure that always comes to me in my dreams but that i have (nor anyone else i know) ever visited, but is still a haunt by my standards because on our saturday missions when i was a child we would always pass it and i'd want to go in.

maybe one day i will have my own haunts. maybe i will return again.

2010-07-15T18:18:00.002-05:00

summer's coming to an end and thank god.

a burial in arizona

2010-07-07T10:49:00.004-05:00

a burial in arizona

the jacaranda trees
can not bid you farewell either;
instead stray petals fall atop our shoulders
and the near saguaros bow within their thoughts.

i will love you still
after the sun takes our ample fauna
and it is me that is left collecting in the dust.

c. me

the prodigal son to his brother

2010-07-07T00:25:00.004-05:00

you asked, "where will i go when the rain drenches my skin and clings to my pores? who will i answer to when i have myself left?"
in response, "everything ends,"you will learn how to walk for yourself".
"not i," (with roses in your eyes) "my money, my jewels will answer to every aching whim".
but you asked.

c. me

the perks and woes of the two types of work i have had:

2010-07-02T23:02:00.003-05:00

the perks of retail:
-a semi-charming discount
-the necessity of always looking pretty
-talking about and forcefully flaunting everything you like/have

the perks of the food biz:
-free food
-tips tips tips
-regulars = really cool friends

the woes of retail:
-regulars = entitled pests
-no tips
-the long hours don't pay off as well as one might think

the woes of food biz:
-weight gain, major weight gain
-late hours
-sanitation means taking drastic measures

but overall, i miss the food biz. even though i started becoming a heffer.

forever yellow skies

2010-07-02T01:30:00.006-05:00

a few days ago the sky was a sickening tint of yellow and quite alarming. aside from the balmy weather and random showers that night all was calm. here are a few shots.

{click on the pictures above for the larger versions}

secrets

2010-07-02T00:23:00.002-05:00

everyone has them, but not everyone keeps them.

thrifted loafers

2010-06-30T20:03:00.002-05:00

do i look like an english major yet?
{they are by cole haan but i have no idea from what year they are from}

i should probably keep a record of my dreams

2010-06-29T22:19:00.005-05:00

because this summer i've had some pretty horrific ones.
last night i had a dream that my fingers and toes were bubbling, porous and breaking off. they resembled thinner honeycomb candy. what's worse is that this image and feeling stuck with me the whole day today and i can't seem to scrub it out of my mind.
i love deciphering dreams as well but this current dream i can't seem to figure out and it also seems that there is no such condition as "bubbling, porous nails". hopefully my dreams tonight will be much better.

what are your recurrent dreams?
i always have dreams about falling and flying. i wish those would come true. i also dream that i can't scream or physically hurt people which come in handy when i am getting attacked. i hate those dreams.

now, off to watch casablanca and lysol my new "english major" shoes. i'll post a picture once i've rid them of thrift store bacteria.

this is what i know

2010-06-28T23:10:00.003-05:00

i know that this is just another chapter (or, dare i say, another blog) amongst the many blogs i have had in my twenty years of life and this will probably not be the last blog. this is what i know is true: i don't know how long i will have this blog but that i do know this is just another installation of the many pictures, words and thoughts brought to you by me.
a little about myself that i do know, perhaps? i am an english major studying creative writing. poetry, not prose. i will never have a good relationship with shakespeare or herman melville. after college i will most likely go to grad school and from there i really don't know what the hell will happen.
i love fashion. i love the 1920s, and that entails lots of lace and black. i love blazers mixed with comfortable trousers, i love dresses i can throw a belt on and walk out the door. i love fragile outfits garnished with harsh accessories and thick outerwear. but of all things fashion, i love nailpolish.

so enough self-indulgence... welcome to this blog, the blackbird postings. hopefully this will be a keeper or at least another step towards my keeper blog.