tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-42556696625369396332012-02-16T04:10:05.632-08:00Esmé Writeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13507447765371428167noreply@blogger.comBlogger191100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4255669662536939633.post-18050170466730092302009-04-02T17:00:00.000-07:002009-04-02T17:01:28.000-07:00

(entry omitted) …The passer-bys stopped, stood stock still all staring at the same phone booth. It had stood on the same corner, undisturbed as always, the stoic watchdog at the end of our common neighborhood street. Children made castles of it; the homeless found their welcome mat. Today, though, today the booth hummed and thrummed and buzzed and raised itself three inches from the ground. The

Esmé Writeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13507447765371428167noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4255669662536939633.post-81654944858258314812009-03-10T16:51:00.000-07:002009-03-10T16:53:09.112-07:00

DAY ONEWe set sail on the most beautiful day in the history of our world. The waters of the ocean supported us, Our vesselAnd we were borne on smooth clear seas to our Destination : unknown. We did not care where our vessel landed, We cared only for Arms and legs and eyes and heat and sparks and lipsTogetherAnd the open sea around usThe sky that was our canopy, brought down to the linesCrisp and

Esmé Writeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13507447765371428167noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4255669662536939633.post-74518218925467128002009-03-02T12:03:00.000-08:002009-03-02T12:16:15.624-08:00

There is so much anger in me.There is so much anger in me.How could you even not expect that with a termination,A truncation, that I begged not to happen,That there would not be?I crafted walls for monthsBecause the sly callousness burned behind my eyesAnd latched onto my bones.I tried. I tried. I tried. I tried.I fucking tried.I hated the sun andd the glareAnd the silent morningsSpent feeling

Esmé Writeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13507447765371428167noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4255669662536939633.post-43604328996962816832009-02-23T10:22:00.000-08:002009-02-23T10:26:06.426-08:00

We all have holes, she said, offering her palms to me. We all have the spaces people can see right though, like the old game of peering down a cardboard tube, making holes in hands. My holes are there and thereBut I didn’t raise my eyes to see where her finger pointed. There and there she whispered, bringing palms cool and settling to the sides of my face. They are there, but the difference is,

Esmé Writeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13507447765371428167noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4255669662536939633.post-18027085292709983122009-02-18T10:48:00.000-08:002009-02-23T10:28:16.577-08:00

The summer air shimmered and sweltered as her scent swirled in the air, in between the fragments of dust and pollen shooting in and out of the sunlight stream and rectangle on the linoleum floor: Satellites or comets at one in the afternoon in July.The slamming of the door still resonated in my chest, still rattled like aftershocks. I was sure the empty hangers in her closet still swayed

Esmé Writeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13507447765371428167noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4255669662536939633.post-49147171238175852242009-02-09T15:20:00.001-08:002009-02-23T10:28:31.823-08:00

We are all waiting for something, HE said, pulling away from me. We never know when it will happen, but, soon or never…it will. We were by the lake again, together but not ever together. HE looked at me with a glance that turned into a stare. You always wax and wane with the moon. We both knew the honesty in that statement. YOU are more inconsistent. He was stunned as I said this. YOU don’t exist

Esmé Writeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13507447765371428167noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4255669662536939633.post-71345699393818570002009-01-07T12:03:00.000-08:002009-02-23T10:28:51.650-08:00

My first thoughts, after sleep, in the frigid apartment of my best friend, were "Water." Then, "Jesusgoddamnchrist." The apartment was still silent and both my stomach and head were spinning against each other, my body a gyroscope of latent, instant alcoholism and 4 am Pokey Sticks smeared in ranch dressing and sriracha sauce. (Pokey sticks are these damaging pizza-like but worse-than-pizza

Esmé Writeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13507447765371428167noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4255669662536939633.post-51935674936949866632008-11-20T13:25:00.001-08:002009-02-23T10:33:40.356-08:00

I slept with a knife under my pillow last night. The shadows and whirls and murmurs grew into labyrinths and patterns so intricate they could be my fingerprints. Pressed my hands together, prints touching, not locking, and feeling the stick of skin and my breath, colored red and purple for the November air and fires still lurking in the foothills.My eyes poured. My eyes leaked, my car rolled down

Esmé Writeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13507447765371428167noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4255669662536939633.post-22719916956371269972008-10-20T23:33:00.000-07:002008-10-20T23:43:22.752-07:00

Her fingers wished across things she would never graspthey danced on items spread across tablesthings upon thingswhile her fingers wished and wanted and dusted on the surface of a mariner’s clock the color of time. Her fingers traced paths of silverto charms and lockets empty of lost lover’s faces streaked with grime and dented and scratched and worn where thumbs worried over a faded-thin

Esmé Writeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13507447765371428167noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4255669662536939633.post-30340627060557958062008-10-13T21:36:00.000-07:002008-10-13T21:49:47.940-07:00

it was tears again. it was tears and choked sobs and strangled snotty lines on flushed cheeks and lips reddened and full and the pit of dread when you realize that it all has been found out. all. every single flaw rushed with sudden sunlight. like your father's flashlight in the steamed window of his backseat as you pull your skirt down at the same time as pulling your shirt to your chest at the

Esmé Writeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13507447765371428167noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4255669662536939633.post-46150109767807927152008-10-08T21:52:00.000-07:002008-10-08T22:29:18.666-07:00

The city seems to lurk behind me. Every step I take forward there is the echo of broken glass and a muffled soft-step just over my shoulder. There is no physical manifestation of my deep-set fear of the darkest shadows and sounds that emit from alleys and empty lots and the dark recessed stoops that leak scattered and shuffled Latin-tinted conversations, painted sun-faded cyan and soft sweet

Esmé Writeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13507447765371428167noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4255669662536939633.post-16147976938909288342008-07-07T16:09:00.000-07:002008-12-11T10:14:37.053-08:00

Bubbling like overly thickened soup. Boiling and bursting bubbles mounting until they are sliding over the edge into a blue-heat gas flame. The weeks mount and burn away until they just linger, acrid scents caught once in awhile when the air conditioning kicks in again.Murmuring undercurrents and bad voltage through people, grown wary and suspicious. Quick to ignite, strike anywhere matches and

Esmé Writeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13507447765371428167noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4255669662536939633.post-37348894119156711472008-06-23T18:34:00.000-07:002008-06-23T19:04:03.903-07:00

Thirty days. Thirty days. one to thirty lost so quickly into vaporizing sun and the heat of fast, angry, days.One minute it is ten in the morning and I am staring at my reflection on such a shallow surface. Then it is suddenly midnight, and night has come.I am wandering the streets in the fellowship of a brotherhood, walking, head high, sharing the smiles of something more than anything I have

Esmé Writeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13507447765371428167noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4255669662536939633.post-7508647456132510812008-06-05T00:13:00.000-07:002008-12-11T10:14:37.260-08:00

I wake up to the downtown Los Angeles skyline and fall asleep to its wavering lights.One night my friend fell asleep and had a dream. At the airport we were met by these decorated cardboard boxes, our dream boxes, our wish boxes, and that all we needed for our journey into our future. As we opened them, we realized these boxes were completely empty.We need nothing in our journey.It is so easily

Esmé Writeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13507447765371428167noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4255669662536939633.post-86396259371093019532008-05-28T15:29:00.000-07:002008-05-28T15:32:29.454-07:00

Los Angeles, CA-More walking than I have done in years. Not having a car will do that to you. My feet are perpetually aching, but my mind- Lord on high- my mind is soaring.This is why people do this. This is why risks are necessary. I am here. I am home.This city opens up before me and I stand over it, smiling the widest I ever have.Tonight is the resurrection of the Lantern Hill Crew...it begins

Esmé Writeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13507447765371428167noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4255669662536939633.post-57782200879638380932008-05-20T22:41:00.000-07:002008-05-28T15:29:46.972-07:00

Jenni; spread your wings... from Ray Cathey on Vimeo.this was made for me by my brother's girlfriend.I am boarding a flight, Los Angeles bound, tomorrow evening. Here is to chasing a sunset that will turn into a sunrise.

Esmé Writeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13507447765371428167noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4255669662536939633.post-19438222457444282972008-05-07T08:48:00.000-07:002008-12-11T10:14:37.481-08:00

Lists in my head that disappear the moment I make them, like invisible ink and ghost-like greys and blues. There was a dream before the phone jostled me awake. The television was on and I stared at the images so broken and touched with the irregularities of static. Jump-cuts and faded images of atolls, crescent moon coral green and greys scattered and placed by hands touched with a shakiness of

Esmé Writeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13507447765371428167noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4255669662536939633.post-74730076432203148562008-04-27T20:39:00.000-07:002008-12-11T10:14:37.977-08:00

Esmé Writeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13507447765371428167noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4255669662536939633.post-12041425227816856022008-04-20T20:35:00.000-07:002008-12-11T10:14:38.208-08:00

Yesterday her room-mate had explained to her how the manifest effect of emotions tied to the past could physically cause her pain. She was not immune to the subjectivity of experience. She caught herself wondering how deeply it had cut her and if the wounds would still bleed if prodded. Who am I kidding? she asked herself as she caught herself thinking about him again. those memories were

Esmé Writeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13507447765371428167noreply@blogger.com0