Sara Ellis

Things You've Always Wanted

2011-02-03T08:25:00.000-08:00

The Anatomy of a Wave

2010-12-28T12:22:00.000-08:00

There was the briefest moment where my life was sitting in the dark by the Pacific Ocean while a soft but masculine voice read Pablo Neruda into the nape of my neck. In Spanish.

Presently I am brushing Cool Ranch Dorito crumbs out of my sports bra while watching Masterpiece: Contemporary on Hulu.

Crests and troughs.

(Wave by James Jean.)

The Taste of Regret

2010-08-10T20:14:00.000-07:00

There is nothing worse than when:
you are dying of heat and thirst
walking up a hill
the sun burning your face
blisters on your toes
and you burp
and it is pizza.

What's Your Deal with Birds, Sara Ellis?

2010-02-22T10:05:00.000-08:00

There are all these back paths around my neighborhood. They vaguely follow all the paved ditches we have to prevent flooding. It was finally not freezing today. On my walk this afternoon I saw a blue heron, a hawk, and a white egret (and a hundred broken beer bottles). All within fifteen minutes, and only a dozen feet from me. Each considered me warily, except for the orangey-eyed hawk, who seemed kinda lackadaisical about the whole thing. Maybe he'd just eaten. He might be what gutted out poor Theophanu.

He saw a bird flying. It was the only bird in the sky, just as they were the only people walking on the street. It was far away, flying in wide, unhurried circles, contemplating the world on which its shadow fell with the arrogance that all flying things have. He thought it might be the raven, and wished that he had had a chance to say good-bye, although he knew that it would have meant nothing to the raven. But men must always say good-bye to things.
~ A Fine and Private Place, by Peter S. Beagle

Who are the Bad Guys, Sara Ellis?

2010-01-15T13:28:00.000-08:00

In the comic book I am writing with Meghan Kinder, there is a definite villain. There is a terrible witch who preys on children to contrive her immortality. There are more ambiguous conflicts : a mother left to raise a child on her own, a child without friends, a man without a home.

These problems, however, pale beneath the great evil that is the child-murdering witch. In fact, they seem to guide the characters towards heroism, and help them come together to fight evil. And, spoiler alert, they win. Good beats evil, evil is vanquished, and everything seems to have a purpose.

What happens when there is no witch, no clear villain to battle? What happens when that which preys on our children has no wicked plan to thwart, no jaw to punch, no wand to break?

Tomorrow I am attending the funeral for an infant. My friend's newborn got sick, and it was found that she had brain cancer. She was born on her mother's birthday, and passed away after less than a month here among the living.

There is no one to fight, but so many are left wounded.

It is very hard to understand. I don't know if it is even understandable. I want to fight, but it seems that in this war, the only warriors are those with hands that seek to comfort rather than crush. The only heroic feats are to mourn, and to heal. And to hope the things that mattered to us have a purpose. That we will find what was lost, and will be found in return.

The First Mourning, by William-Adolphe Bouguereau

Theophanu, 960 - June 15, 991 AD

2010-01-12T11:31:00.000-08:00

Here lies a bird, in memory of Theophanu, once Empress of the Holy Roman Empire.

You were married to Otto II, and his mom totally hated your guts. In fact, she was quite pleased when you died. Maybe she just hated on you because you insisted on bathing every day and dressing to the nines. Some people say you had a big mouth, but maybe you were just trying to keep it real, and to hold onto the power that was rightfully yours. You were a protective mother, and were friendly to peeps who weren't trying to lie to your face. Because of you, I get to eat with a fork.

Thanks, Theophanu, thanks. Rest in Peace.

Why Do You Like Old Japanese Guys, Sara Ellis?

2010-01-05T17:11:00.001-08:00

Today is Hayao Miyazaki's 69th birthday. He is the co-founder of Studio Ghibli and a great filmmaker. You don't have to be an anime fan to be familiar with his work. Look, he is also dapper:

Why should you want to bake a cake for this man? He doesn't just make beautiful animated films, he makes beautiful animated films with brave and well developed female protagonists. I'm not talking about breasts, people. Several of his protagonists are prepubescent. He even had the gall to make one of his heroes spend most of the film in the body of an old woman. Yes! They don't have to be naked or murdering people to be kickass.

Here is a man from a generation and a country where feminism is not exactly celebrated, and yet he is not afraid to tell stories with females as our main characters. When asked why his protagonists are almost always female, Miyazaki had this to say:

I don't logically plan it that way. When we compare a man in action and a girl in action, I feel girls are more gallant. If a boy is walking with a long stride, I don't think anything particular, but if a girl is walking gallantly, I feel "that's cool." Maybe that's because I'm a man, and women may think it's cool when they see a young man striding. At first, I thought "this is no longer the era of men. This is no longer the era of taigimeibun." But after ten years, I grew tired of saying that. I just say "cause I like women." That has more reality. (1994)

What?! He is also adorable, this Old Japanese Man!

You don't ever watch a Miyazaki film and think, Hmm, you know what would make this better? If the hero were a boy. The success of Twilight has explicitly shown the economic power of young women to even the most adamant naysayers. I think it is time that Hollywood, the comics industry, and media sources at large start recognizing that female characters that aren't merely girlfriends or victims aren't a niche market, or a gimmick. (Okay, Twilight is a bad lead in for that, Bella Swan is totes a weenie.)

That is why Miyazaki films are so great. His films aren't made for girls. They are made for human beings. Sometimes I think we forget that that is what girls are.

Click here for an interview with Miyazaki from when Spirited Away, my favorite of his films, was released.

Doom Eager

2010-01-01T12:35:00.000-08:00

According to Agnes de Mille: "I was bewildered and worried that my entire scale of values was untrustworthy. ... I confessed that I had a burning desire to be excellent, but no faith that I could be. Martha said to me, very quietly,

'There is a vitality, a life force, an energy, a quickening that is translated through you into action, and because there is only one of you in all of time, this expression is unique. And if you block it, it will never exist through any other medium and it will be lost. The world will not have it. It is not your business to determine how good it is nor how valuable nor how it compares with other expressions. It is your business to keep it yours clearly and directly, to keep the channel open. You do not even have to believe in yourself or your work. You have to keep yourself open and aware to the urges that motivate you. Keep the channel open. ... No artist is pleased. [There is] no satisfaction whatever at any time. There is only a queer divine dissatisfaction, a blessed unrest that keeps us marching and makes us more alive than the others.'" ~ The Life and Work of Martha Graham

These words are my guide this year. Doubt that we will not measure up to our own standards of excellence is one of the biggest obstacles for an artist.

I am not the athlete I was once was. I am still a lousy asthmatic. Inhibitive injuries, and the relentless march of time, have restricted my movement in ways that have made me fearful and shy. As a human being I am doomed to be a shambling sack of broken for the rest of my life, but my passion is intact, and my imagination is without limits.

I can work harder to be stronger. I can find ways to work with my weaknesses instead of against them. I can strive for new ways of thinking, seeing, and moving. My knees are bending and my heart is beating.

I can still pray that in 2011 I'll be a cyborg.

Slush diving

2009-12-02T12:17:00.000-08:00

Here is a wonderfully helpful post put together by new IGMS assistant editors Scott M. Roberts and Eric James Stone (and me) that could help your story get hoisted from the depths of the slush pile. I would recommend reading the entire post as it is full of good information for any fiction writer, but I'll paste my bit over here:

"I like stories that surprise me. I don't mind if a cliché is used, if there is a neat twist. What makes your vampire/werewolf/sorcerer's apprentice/space colonists story different from all the others? I once got a mutinous murder on a spacecraft story (cliché), but told from the perspective of a sanitation robot (twist!). I like detail, that makes the character/world real to me.

I like caring about the point of view characters, even if they are flawed. Why are they flawed? I hate stock villains. Villains you can empathize with, even just partially, are always more effective. I also love the themes of sacrifice, honor, redemption, and breaking/questioning tradition. I am inexplicably partial to stories about robots, empathetic monsters, and adolescent boys going through tough times.

I love captivating first paragraphs, and dislike impotent last lines. For most short stories, you have two pages to capture my attention. Do not waste these on exposition. Do not throw away first paragraphs with exposition. I like being shown why or how a character is a certain way, as opposed to simply being told. I like natural, realistic dialogue that comes across as sincere, as opposed to being convenient to move the plot along. I do not mind stylized, snappy, or
humorous dialogue if it fits in with the story and is creative.

One of my biggest turn offs in a story is when female characters are only described physically, or always initially described physically just because they are women. Especially when this only goes as far as letting us know she has great breasts. I hate stock beautiful women in a story that are not fleshed out (ha!). Violence and exploitation of female characters that is not important to the core of the story is a big pet peeve. It usually comes off as lazy or, duh, exploitative.

I also do not like stories where it feels like important or clarifying information is being withheld so it will feel like a surprise or a twist later. Being confused makes me impatient. Another minor thing that pulls me out of a story is "shoutouts." Shout outs to favorite bands, television shows, writers, etc. that are not integral to the plot. It doesn't usually ruin a story, but it often pulls me right out.

I like stories that make me feel passionate about how it will all end."

Painting by Vermeer, Oh, Vermeer.

What sorts of stories are you drawn to? Notice any trends?

All the colors of the wiiiiiind

2009-11-23T18:48:00.000-08:00

This is what I do when I am stalling out on the comic script.

But seriously, I doodle and color shiz to help siphon out the anxiety so I can unwind my brain and be creative. Try it some time! It is good to connect to something physical with your hands while your brain meanders.

Quick Review: Thirsty

2009-11-20T13:19:00.000-08:00

By M. T. Anderson, published by Candlewick Press, first copywright 1997. Just finished this book today. It's a super quick read, and one of my new favorites. The teaser synopsis:

All Chris really wants is to be a normal kid – to hang out with his friends, avoid his parents, and get a date with Rebecca Schwartz. Unfortunately, Chris appears to be turning into a vampire.

I loved the tone the whole way through. I usually get impatient with present-tense narrative, but it really worked and was well done. I would put Thirsty on the same shelf as Fade, by Robert Cormier. I really seem to have a thing for stories with an adolescent male POV with a paranormal twist. Other themes in this book I seem to dig on the regular: survival, overwhelming odds, dysfunctional families, what it means to be human.

One of the best things about this book is that right at the point where it feels like the story is supposed to end, for both the reader and the POV character, you notice there is still half a book left. That means something is wrong. Oh, good...

Grace

2009-11-19T13:38:00.000-08:00

This is what I needed to see today.

The unspoken fears/desires of my tiny indigo-smudged heart.

Jeremy's website is here.

The Absence of Stars

2009-11-18T07:58:00.000-08:00

Wish I wrote it myself! I was fortunate to receive The Absence of Stars by Greg Siewert in my slush pile for IGMS. These were my concluding comments to the editor in chief, Edmund Schubert, when I passed it along:

This was fabulous. The science was convincing and the
human element was stirring. Hot dang, this was a
great story. Buy it.

We did, and it was published in two parts, in issues 10 and 11. It went on to receive this years WSFA award for Best Story of 2008. Guys, this is the best story of 2008! How lucky are you that in celebration of Greg's award we have it up for free until the end of 2009? Very, friends.

Go read it. You won't regret it. If you've never read science fiction before, this is a great introduction. If you dig it, I implore you to subscribe to our latest issue. It is el cheapo, full of great stuff, and I would love you that much more. Feel free to drop a comment and let me know what you think.

Two of the stories featured in Issue 15 are by Mary Robinette Kowal, and Bradley P. Beaulieu. I attended Literary Boot Camp with them, and they were both awesome writers, and great people. Also, Mary Robinette makes puppets. You really can't be cooler.

(Space Girl, by Travis Charest.)

Spontaneous Geek Moment

2009-11-17T16:59:00.000-08:00

Angel season 4: kinda draggy, and not like blue mascara and rhinestones. It might be the whole Connor business. Connor = Dawn. Both are often irrational crybabies. (I can see my friend Aaron shaking his head, "Teens, yo. Gotta avoid those teens.")

So I was not feeling it all over the past several episodes, but then they bring back Faith. I wasn't in love with Faith when she first showed up in Buffy, but I didn't hate her, either. I totally love her in Angel. Especially in the season 4 episode, Salvage. First, when that ugly beeotch tried to shank her in the prison yard, but then I actually started bouncing on the couch when Wesley talked to her via window prison phone, and told her about the whole Angelus/Apocalypse deal.

"Stand back from the glass." BOOSH! Faith totally dives through the glass window, shards flying freaking everywhere, and bam biff kapows her way outta there. Yeay-ya! Don't be messing with crazy ass slayers who've been kicking it in prison, aiight?!

Tired.

2009-11-15T22:11:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I think the only solace of adulthood is eating ice cream for dinner.

Hands off.

2009-11-14T19:50:00.000-08:00

I'm five feet tall. This is relatively short for a mostly white American adult female. This does not revoke my status as an adult. This does not revoke my rights to personal space. This does not make it okay to scruff up my hair, squeeze my shoulders, rub my arms, poke my stomach, sling your arm around me, or rest your chin on my head. I am a 28 year old woman, not your 6 year old nephew. Especially since I have no idea who you are.

I'm not exaggerating. I'm a shorty, and this makes a lot of strangers think it is perfectly okay to physically interact with me as though I were a child. It was somewhat understandable when I was a 20 year old that looked 15. No excuse these days. I'm a very physical person, but I just loathe the assumption. Would you go up and playfully squeeze some 35 year old lady that walked into a doctor's office? You might, but it would be wildly inappropriate. Everyone knows this, so why do strangers keep SQUEEZING ME?!

It is most often men that do this, which may reflect on the infantilization of women in general, but that's another post entirely. Stop touching me. Unless of course we are friends. In that case, don't stop, never stop. Hold me, squeeze me. Love me forever and ever even until after we are dead.

Spontaneous Geek Moment

2009-11-11T16:47:00.000-08:00

In the The Doctor's Daughter episode of Dr. Who, when Martha Jones falls into the sinkhole, and then her new Hath friend sacrifices himself to save her. Martha breaks down so hard, so real. It was very upsetting, but supremely well done. You suddenly felt for everything Martha had ever lost, or was afraid of losing. Will Martha Jones get back home?? Also, those are great thighs.

Get out of my face:

2009-10-28T19:35:00.000-07:00

Natalie Portman.

If we don't tolerate rape, why do we tolerate meat?

I am all for vegetarianism, but there are some people in this world who have to depend on meat for survival. Nobody has to depend on rape for survival.

Speaking of rape, this just happened. A commenter at Jezebel responded to this quote:

"These suspects are monsters. And, I don't understand how this many people capable of such atrocious behavior could be in one place at one time."
-Richmond, California Police Lt. Mark Gagan

with this:

Does anyone else feel like this cop doesn't get it? The sheer number of men/boys involved in this attack indicates a societal problem, not a random gathering of particularly heinous people.

I'm inclined to agree. THIRTY people participating in the assault and victimization of a lone woman at a public event strikes me as a manifestation of deeper problems within our culture and communities, rather than a tragic random happenstance.

Then there is the whole Roman Polanksi deal, and while I do advocate the victim receives the peace and privacy she has begged for, this poem by Calvin Trillin sums of the truth of the matter.

That doesn't stop total crap individuals like Gore Vidal from saying things like:

"I really don't give a f-ck. Look, am I going to sit and weep every time a young hooker feels as though she's been taken advantage of?"

A thirteen year old hooker is not a hooker. She is a victim of abuse. She is a rape victim. She is a child.

Thirteen. Thirty. Neither of these numbers are acceptable. Not-Rape, Rape-Rape. Whatever. We obviously have a problem with hating women, and that problem is that we are okay with it.

Bioshock

2009-10-28T17:29:00.000-07:00

The Wolves in the Walls

2009-10-21T09:18:00.000-07:00

Or the rabid squirrels. Or undead raccoons. Not sure exactly what they are, but they are SCARING THE PEE OUT OF ME. They started running through my walls again just as I began typing, as if to emphasize the power they wield.

My new bedroom is on level with the attic. Our attic is apparently full of zombie squirrels and sarcophagi. They spontaneously run across the floor inside the walls, and it sounds like they are in my room. I think soon they will be.

Today I was sitting at my desk (So far that is all that is in my room. A gloriously dark wooden desk, with a cute little steampunky desk lamp. The most expensive piece of furniture I have ever purchased. It gave me palpitations.), and I heard this terrible shuffling sound at the back of my closet. This is the closet that has terrified me since childhood, with the not-ever-quite closed trapdoor to the attic situated in its bowels.

When I moved back to my childhood home a few weeks ago the trapdoor was laying on the floor, and the miniature (aka EVIL) doorway into the attic was wide open. Multiple times a day, for several days in a row, I would walk up the mini staircase to the bedroom. I would take a breath, open the closet door, and peer into the blackness. Five seconds. I would shut the door. A few hours later. Ten seconds. Fifteen. On and on until I managed to stare a full minute into the abyss. I even went with a flashlight the last time, but couldn't work up the nerve to shine it into the horrible dwarf doorway.

I think my mom caught on how terrified I was both of the room and the closet. One morning while I was still in bed, she hammered the trapdoor back onto the doorway. Huge relief. Sort of.

The shuffling. Today I was sitting at my desk sifting through the slushpile for IGMS, when it started. I looked in the closet and noticed that the trapdoor is only nailed shut at the top. Something really determined could push its way out-- like a large rodent. Or a mummy.

I grabbed the hammer, two long nails, and braced my feet up against the door. Brave, like Joan of Arc, Sara. Strong like John Henry! I pounded and pounded, while something sat scraping from the other side.

The nails wouldn't go through. This is why I crammed all my clothes and toys into the back of the closet when I was little.

Something is going to get out.

Something is going to eat me.

(Picture by Jon Foster.)

Dark glass

2009-10-15T18:47:00.000-07:00

I need to save some money for a spiffy digital SLR. It will give me something to do in between reading bad scifi and avoiding bathing.

I think taking photographs is a good way to help you gain patience with a place. I would like to hone in on the details that make Virginia Beach interesting, worthwhile, and its own. I need to explore, and have a more willing eye.

I am having a hard time adjusting. It's all well and good not putting on makeup, or real pants, for days at a time, but I'm starting to feel a little claustrophobic. I'm also having a really hard time breathing, literally. Virginia, especially in the fall/winter is very hard on my lungs.

I know coming here for a while was the right choice, but breathing always comes in tops. My lungs are already on serious drugs, and I've cut out dairy; not sure what else I can do. Acupuncture? Hypnotism?

If this move stops me from dancing I'll have to karate chop someone in the throat. And then go crawling after my inhaler.

(Doesn't that look comfy? Waah.)

Chiquitas

2009-10-12T14:01:00.001-07:00

Hey, if you're going to APE (Alternative Press Expo) in SF this weekend, make sure you check out these two awesome ladies.

Meghan is the artist I am collaborating with on the graphic novel. She is also a great friend. She will be at booth #228, along with her awesome boyfriend, Chris.

My best friend Valerie will be at table #216 with some other cool ladies.

Hooray, ladies!!!!! So sorry I couldn't be there, but it was just too close to the move.

Kwaheri

2009-09-29T20:28:00.000-07:00

Long overdue updates. My father is doing well! He is at home and making a good recovery. Because I spent my time in Atlanta at the hospital or child-wrangling, I only went to Dragon*Con for part of Friday. This was one of my favorite costumes:

I have already left Los Angeles. It was terribly, terribly difficult. I hope it is temporary. My friends threw me a Bollywood themed farewell party. And hired a male bellydancer. It was hilarifying.

But that chapter of my life is closed. No more bellydancers. Just lots of sitting in a creepy room writing creepy comic books.

I'll let you know how it's going.

Interrupted

2009-09-03T17:31:00.000-07:00

Several hours before going to LAX to fly out for Dragon*Con, my older brother called me. It was 3am his time, so I was a little alarmed. Turns out my father had a severe heart attack, and my brother was on his way to Macon to go see him.

I am now in Georgia, and my expedition for a weekend of sci fi and fantasy has been superseded by a whole lot of real life. My father is being held in a synthetic sleep. He is being pumped full of painkillers, sedatives, and a drug to induce amnesia. What does one dream in such a sleep?

He is supposed to have a quadruple bypass tomorrow morning. I don't know how this story ends.

Con Artist

2009-08-04T18:45:00.000-07:00

I will be attending Dragon*Con in Atlanta this September! I will be there officially as the assistant editor of Orson Scott Card's Intergalactic Medicine show; and unofficially as a soon-to-be graphic novel author and all around decent human being. Please come say hello.

Have you seen me?

2009-07-25T22:09:00.001-07:00

Not likely. I probably won't be updating for a couple months. I'll be finishing the script for the comic whilst editing, dancing, and avoiding anything like romance. But I'll be back. Like a rash. Only more attractive.

There's a new slayer in town.

2009-07-09T16:44:00.000-07:00

Ghost of summers past

2009-06-22T17:29:00.000-07:00

Getting ready to fly out tomorrow back to my mom's house in Virginia for a few weeks. Going to pick berries, go swimming, cook southern goodness, and oh yeah FIGHT GHOSTS.

What should I pack for my haunted house? Sage? Tarot? TARO?!

My middle finger is so clean, classic American

2009-06-13T18:52:00.000-07:00

Have you ever applied for a job at Abercrombie & Fitch, a.k.a. HITLER'S YOUTH?????

You best not have a prosthetic arm.

Phat as hell

2009-06-03T13:08:00.000-07:00

Hooray for lard! It's back, it's trendy, it's delicious. I'm not gonna lie, when my mom makes pie crusts from lard it is the best thing ever. Way better than Crisco.

An excerpt on how to make your own:
you can make your own if you can get your hands on top-quality fat from a small producer—back, belly, or kidney fat will all work. Cut it into chunks and cook them very slowly over low heat until the fat seeps out and only crispy bits are left. Strain it and save the fat in the refrigerator almost indefinitely. Salt the cracklings and eat them as what Mexicans call chicharrones.

(Thanks to http://twitter.com/LAFoodie for linkage. I highly suggest following them. Their tweets entertain and enlighten all day long. Pic by Winston Smith.)

PS: My new favorite web site: FOOD PORN DAILY. Click, drool, repeat. A great place for meal inspirations. And fantasy. Gosh, I'm dying over here.

A thin line

2009-06-02T17:25:00.000-07:00

Love: Twitter. I like knowing what Neil Gaiman is doing with his day, what is going on at the LACMA, and what my BFFs are doing when we aren't together. I also like telling the world every time I spot a hobo jungle, a fanny pack, or feel an onslaught of pathos because I am not a cyborg.

Hate: People who aren't really your friends on Facebook writing passive aggressive emails meant to induce guilt because you ain't trying to accept their friend request. Pretty much everyone I care about in high school, I still talk to. They don't have to come find me, they have my number. You don't live by me, you've never been to my birthday party, you don't know how many brothers I have or what hand I write with-- we probably aren't friends. It's okay, doesn't mean I wouldn't give you a ride during a zombie apocalypse. Just means I don't want to rifle through your vacation pics.

Love: American Apparel tees. It's like Renee said, "every frikkin' color of the rainbow!" They fit. They're soft. I wear them to death.

Hate: American Apparel. Dov Charney, drugs, explotation. Hate their ads. At least you get paid a living wage? I swore them off for a good while. But then I got tired of wearing the same inside out Transformer tee shirt every day.

Love: Sad robot stories.

Hate: Happy elf stories.

Love: Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Best feminist icon ever. Great characters, great acting, great writing, great story archs. Cheesy genre hijinks mixed with snappy dialogue and deeply human stories. Sex, violence, good vs. evil, evil that turns good, and good that goes bad. Plus Joss Whedon is a really cool guy. I would love to work with him some day. Not feeling the whole Joss-less Buffy movie on the horizon. A newfangled Slayer movie could be cool. But I think we all know it won't be.

Hate: Twilight. Not completely accurate: I like that it exists. I just don't care about it. I am not invested in obsessive actions with no motivation. I'll probably see New Moon, though. It will be amusing. Well, and I also really like when people turn into wolves.

(Sad Robot by Sam.)

1997

2009-05-26T10:01:00.001-07:00

Slush

2009-05-25T10:30:00.000-07:00

I'm the assistant editor for Orson Scott Card's Intergalactic Medicine Show. As a result, I read a LOT of short science fiction and fantasy. Sometimes it is good, sometimes it just doesn't cut the mustard, and other times... well.

I know as a writer feedback is appreciated, but I never have the time to respond to such requests. I get dozens of stories a day. This is not my only job. It is, however, the most time consuming. That said:

I've decided to start a new regular feature on my twitter, Reasons Why I Might Reject your Story. Maybe it will help a few of the new writers out there from making some common mistakes. Granted, there are exceptions to ever rule. For every forty utterly cliché vampire or anthropomorphic stories out there, there has been one that was original, surprising, and thought provoking.

There is one reason I would like to devote more than 140 characters to. Plagiarism. You'd think this would be obvious. But some people out there really suck. I once received a cheeky little story about a reluctant prince. It was very funny. I liked it; I think it sent it on to the Managing Editor and Editor in Chief.

A YEAR later I was riding with part of my family on a car trip from Indiana back to Virginia. My Oldest brother (who has quite possibly read every science fiction and fantasy story there is) began reading aloud from a book called Blue Moon Rising by Simon R. Green. It was a cheeky little story about a reluctant prince. A few paragraphs in and I was already feeling déja vu. I stopped my brother and summarized what ended up being the entire first chapter.

Gross. People, write your own stories. And go easy on the anthropomorphism.

http://twitter.com/saraellis

(Art by Dorian Cleavenger. I'm sorry. )

Friday Night

2009-05-22T17:41:00.000-07:00

My roommate is at some hipster hotel pool party in a black string bikini.

I'm at home writing new pages on the comic book script in a sports bra and sweats.

I should really give her a lesson in glamour. And everyone else. Pay me, World. I will tell you what is beautiful.

Just let me wash this chocolate mochi off my fingers first.

(Marilyn Minter is so bomb. KerPow.)

Gracious

2009-05-20T23:52:00.000-07:00

I have the day off tomorrow. I need dollars, but I think right now I need time more. Last week was a five day flamenco workshop, and so I got nothing done on the comic. Plus I've got magazine work up to my eyeballs. That didn't stop us from having a freaking fantastic Chosen Wednesday tonight. We watched the season 1 finale of Buffy. I baked a cake. There was a lot of red and black. And a fog machine.

Artists Don't Work For You.

2009-05-16T10:56:00.000-07:00

Unless they do. And that involves money.
A good rant about paying artists for their work.

Related, a good rant by Neil Gaiman about how people, and authors, are not machines. (After the letter in bold.)

Also related, I would very much like Neil Gaiman to read me bedtime stories every night. I'll even pay.

Unrelated, my roommate is in the shower singing Poker Face.

Dance Challenge!

2009-05-02T22:56:00.000-07:00

I have been struggling with an array of injuries and health problems for a fair bit. They recently settled their differences and are now functioning under a unified front. This is no good for dancers dancin'.

Lying in bed, I realized that despite the inevitable weakening of my physical muscles, I could put more effort into keeping my imagination and choreography skills active and sharp. Beefy, even!

So. A weekly choreography/movement challenge. A prompt image and parameters. Feel free to participate, and even to share your results!

This week's prompt is:

Drowning: To be explored/performed within the confines of 10 sq. feet. Music optional.

(Art byValerie LaPointe, inspired by a poem by me me ME.)

The Port Timberbottom Central Library

2009-04-29T20:29:00.000-07:00

The Break Room.

The librarians' break room is in the basement, where they keep all the film strips and microfiche.

It is a small room with one window at the very top of the far wall, on level with the sidewalk. They leave it open except for when it rains. This is because all the librarians smoke.

There is a card table with folding chairs, and a slouchy green upholstered loveseat against the right wall. In the back left corner is a brown mini fridge, that often functions as another chair. In the far right corner is a soda machine-- cans only, big plastic buttons with the soda labels displayed underneath. Sprite, Coke, Diet Coke, and Grape.

Miss Pelmouth is the only one who drinks Grape, but she mostly avoids the break room since walking in on Mr. March and Miss Olivia Dross in a compromising position on the loveseat.

She is currently applying for a transfer to the Redbee Branch.

May your burdens be light,

2009-04-27T13:20:00.001-07:00

and occasionally tasty.

A more accessible deity; dedicated to Tiffany.

Dinosaur Comics.

Apo(plectic)logies

2009-04-22T23:56:00.000-07:00

Twitter has really sucked the life out of the blog. Sorry, true believers. I won't be so vain as to assume this is hurting anyone.

No, I take that back. Sorry for withholding what had been the best part of your day.

Some quick updates:

- Little brother is leaving this summer to Kobe, Japan for two years. Happiness/tears. Will be visiting VA at the top of July.
- Still working at dance studio. Poverty. Still working for IGMS. Drowning in slush.
- Am the writing half of an awesome comic collaboration with Meghan Kinder. Progress is slow but steady. I hope to have the whole script finished before the end of June.
- Lungs slowly recovering from months long lameness. Swimming, and slowly getting back into dancing form.
- Every other Wednesday has turned into Chosen Wednesday; a night of Buffy and potato tacos in K-Town.
- My neighbors in the next building over usually have loud sex around midnight. At least it sounds satisfying.
- Animated .gifs and fan art are my new late night crack, thanks to this chick .

Easter

2009-04-11T23:46:00.000-07:00

And me without my hat.

Sadness.

Why???

2009-04-04T21:23:00.000-07:00

I came to the Night of Soft Rock late, but at least I came as the chubby Annie Lennox.

Birthday Slayage

2009-03-29T23:32:00.000-07:00

It started with a scream. It ended with a resurrection. It was my birthday!

My California Friends™ orchestrated the best haunted Buffy-style slayer quest of slightly terrifying adventure and delightful hysteria ever for my 28th. I had no idea, and I was caught wearing my dinner mustache. (You know, to be fancy.)

Wendy climbed up our balcony while I was sitting in the living room playing with modeling clay-- but Wendy always comes up our balcony, so I had no idea that anything paranormal was afoot. Then Emily screamed from her bedroom! I found her dead on the floor, with bite marks in her neck, and threatening messages scrawled in blood on her arms and chest. Vamps! Vengeance would be mine!

I was ill prepared for slayage. After much panicked rummaging for weapons (and my gold sneakers), I left with Wendy (my watcher) out into the darkness of Santa Monica, armed only with a tape recorder, my courage, and holy water in a mustard squeeze bottle. Note to potentials: squeeze bottles are a fabulously effective way of disseminating holy water.

I was compelled on a winding journey (of approximately one mile) where I was put up against the following foes, all of whom became my tenuous compatriots:

A Snuggie Phantom, by Bonnie. The lonely echo of a soul trapped between this world and the next, lurking between parked cars. A blanket with sleeves. Spooky!

A coke-addled Homeless Woman, who wouldn't stop quoting my own poetry at me, by Tiffany. This was hilarious, because I did not recognize Tiffany, and she is an amazingly committed actress. I assumed she was the real deal, and politely tried to brush her off, as I had no money on me.

Scary Old Woman stalking me in her car with the headlights off, by Broek. She offered me old lady candy, aka cough drops. It was gross. I almost got in the car with her, but Wendy warned me that it might be a bad idea.

My Doppelganger, by Dax. This was horrifying. I was put face to face with my own mortality, as Dave tumbled a hanged effigy from the boughs of a tree he was hidden in. It smacked me in the face. And then I saw that its face was MY FACE. My terrible wide-eyed, carnival-toothed face.

Hooligan in a Dapper Cap with Baseball Bat, by Jared. These people are so good at jumping out at me! Even after "Oh, it's you!" I regretted not having my wooden sword. Jared's bigger than me!

Uncouth Goat Demon, by Erin. Hidden behind a very large bush. She moved dreamily, and kept trying to touch me. It was another couple of blocks before I was sure of her mortal identity.

Hood in a Hoodie, by Renee, and Screaming Bloody Banshee, by Jenni. Again with the jumping out at me! Terrifying, but Jenni's wounds smelled of fruit roll-up. Perfectly adequate reason to have them come along.

Zigzagging Zombie, by Kat. As our little Halloween gang paraded down the hill towards beach, a dark figure shambled uphill at an alarming rate. She tried to eat my brain. It kind of tingled.

Then things got eerie. Gatekeeper Peter (you should know that mystical gatekeepers dress like assistant producers) stood on the seawall and beckoned forth. My dead roommate was laying inside a ring of Mexican Saint candles (Virgen de San Juan de Los Lagos y Virgen de Guadalupe ), guarded by a Veiled Dark Oracle, by Todd. Just behind them, were Jeff and Kristen, pilots of an ominous black kite.

Pictures really can't do this justice. It was just about the creepiest thing I've ever seen, and perfectly still but for the wind and the sound of the ocean. I had to resurrect Emily with a vampire cupcake (made by Wendy: chocolate, with cherry filling, vanilla icing, two puncture wounds seeping sweet, sweet, blood) and by blowing out all the candles.

Victorious, I laid down inside the circle of smoking candles, and everyone stood around me and sang Happy Birthday.

Holy water spent, masks removed, they walked me back home, peeling off one by one.

The most magical parts of the evening lay in the fact that they turned my neighborhood, where I walk every day, into a dark and whimsical place. Each block hid terrifying creatures and menacing characters, who once confronted, became my ragtag band of spooky and dangerous friends.

My apologies for squirting you all with holy water-- but you were evil. And evil must be vanquished.

Suck it, losArs

2009-03-29T01:03:00.000-07:00

My blood, that is. Aaron keeps resisting my ever-growing passion for the dark whimsy that is vampires. But mayhaps this will help sway him to the Big Bad. ( Supplied by Comptron, from her many travels.)

Kids and grown-ups love it so!

Earthbound misfits

2009-03-16T19:50:00.000-07:00

I cannot hear Pink Floyd without immediately thinking of my older brother, Sam. And then I can't help but remember nights and mornings around a dining room table playing Star Wars the RPG, barely keeping my crush on Johnny Sandal in hand because he was the best GM evAR.

For Immediate Release

2009-03-16T16:26:00.000-07:00

Ellison sues Star Trek.

You should read this letter. It is awesome. We love this man.

Again and again and again and again

2009-03-10T18:10:00.000-07:00

Before work at the studio this afternoon I stopped at the Yogurtland on La Brea to satisfy my newly persistent craving for peanutbutter/Cap'n Crunch/strawberries/chocolate/mochi. Yeah, my cravings are pretty specific.

It was really gorgeous out, so I sat at one of the little tables on the sidewalk and read some Ray Bradbury while I ate (with the pink spoon because I am a girl; that is the rule at Yogurtland). A man in a business suit with spiky hair sauntered past with his own bowl of froyo. "It's addictive, isn't it?" he commented conspiratorially.

Why yes, I nodded. Yes it is. Was it something in my eyes, something in my posture, that revealed I had been there not quite eighteen hours earlier?

I would like to replace the liquor store on my street corner with a Yogurtland. But I suppose it would have to sell toilet paper for those nights when we run out at 2am. And Diet Cokes, for Emily.

Happy Birthday

2009-03-10T09:40:00.001-07:00

Mr. 51773

Anti-Social Socials

2009-03-02T16:01:00.000-08:00

Music to draw to.

What a lovely idea. I've known for a while about various Drunk&Draws around town, but I would like to start the occasional anti-social social myself. Having CompTron over on Friday helped propel me through twenty some stories in the space of time that I'd normally go through eight or nine, tops.

I haven't been much for real socializing lately, and have a lot of pushing to do with my current comic project. But I work so much better when I can feed off the Real Live Energy of other people. This could be a perfect solution.

A link to one of the best comics of all time. (You can read it in the flesh in Mome, volume 14.)

If you ask me

2009-02-23T18:32:00.001-08:00

Dreaming about your parrot doom-prophesying in the middle of the night is as good a reason as any to lay off the Nyquil.

Stranger than

2009-02-21T20:43:00.000-08:00

I only fall in love with fictional characters. Sure, I get crushes on real boys. But eventually they take off their Real Boy masks, and inside is a small, rather sucky sort of person. That's fine. Plastic lips aren't any good for kissing, and I'd rather kick things.

Art by Sina Grace Face.

My style icons

2009-02-12T01:36:00.001-08:00

Joan of Arc

plus...

Joan Holloway?

Not exactly Tim Gunn approved.

In your dream house

2009-02-09T08:01:00.000-08:00

Two different doorknobs.

Flowers on a lightswitch. (In the Jimi Hendrix bathroom.)

My youngest brother and I were walking down Auburn, and discussing how almost all our dreams that involve a house are centered on the Virginia House. We both spent/spend a lot of time there, but it shows up even when it shouldn't. It has a death grip on our psyches.

A lot of my dreams that involve people sleeping over end up in the bedroom of my adolescence. They almost always end up being nightmares involving interlopers of the paranormal variety. I stopped sleeping in that room when I was seventeen. I didn't get another room; I just wouldn't sleep in it. Well, most nights I didn't really sleep. I would hang around downstairs, and eventually fall asleep on the green couch, or under the dining room table. And dream about this house.

Peace, Jesus.

2009-02-06T14:52:00.000-08:00

This is the Peace Jesus. He is the first thing you see when you walk into my mom's house.

Every time you walk by, you give him the peace sign. That's just the way things are done here.

The haps in the South

2009-02-03T16:39:00.000-08:00

So far:

- Midnight arrival followed by private feast of potato leek soup, baked ziti, and strawberry trifle, prepared by mother.

- Said mother refuses to believe I eat in Los Angeles, and has been pushing vitamin supplements at me in hopes of staving off my "malnutrition." ( I have gone from chunky to merely chubby; my mother finds this disconcerting.)

- Adorable new nephew José is still very small; still looks more sea creature than human.

- Finicky water heater made certain I was the only one forced to take a freezing cold shower, followed by a violent chicken dance as a means to avoid hypothermia.

- Nearly scrubbed off my face with new face scrub. I had a bad reaction, and my face is a terrible itchy, burny, hivey, mess. At least I am in a city where people care less if you are disfigured, chubby, and wearing white sneakers.

- My mother's parrot, Olive, is hysterical. She makes soothing kissy noises when the baby is in the room with her. She also enjoys diving in her water bowl to take baths.

- Loud talking in TJ Maxx as my mother and I critiqued every shoe, bag, and decorative paper weight in the joint.

- Chocolate chip cookies.

-Made my first pot of chili ever. It was okay!

- Several episodes of Buffy.

- Lemon Bars.

In a kitchen

2009-01-29T22:40:00.000-08:00

So good.

What drug for a grudge

2009-01-28T23:57:00.000-08:00

It is hard to like someone who keeps kicking you in the face.

Yoshitomo Nara.

Media naranja

2009-01-26T22:48:00.000-08:00

Dear orange,

You are out of my hands. May you navigate the seas with swiftness.

Love,
Liz

Crossing the Atlantic by Valerie LaPointe.

My parents aren't home, let's

2009-01-26T01:35:00.000-08:00

make art on the couch.

James Jean, your paintings turn me on. I want to stick my hands in their armpits, and then smell my fingers as I go to sleep. This is embarrassing, but that is what true love does. It makes you stupid and embarrassed, pretty much all the time. If one of your paintings ever relents and gives it up, I won't use protection. I will hope for an accident. I will carry your art in my womb.

Maybe this isn't love. Maybe it's hormones; making every line and hue adorable and perfect.

Maybe this is lust.

Sometimes that is enough.

(I was recently familiarized with Jillian Tamaki. Also awesome. Maybe we could consider an open relationship.)

Good art never stops being exciting. The Rob Sato showing at GR2 is good, you should check it out.

From separate rooms

2009-01-21T01:47:00.000-08:00

in the same apartment, in the middle of the night:

me:
i suddenly imagined you gently knocking on my door and opening it in the morning
and saying "sara?"
then walking into my room as a puppet
and how badly i would want to scream

Emily: hahahahahaha
gross

me: but how i woouldn't be able to
it would be silent
and you would walk in that horrible weightless way that puppets walk
over to my bed
and then sorta jump/float up
as if on strings
gah
and then be like
"sara? why are you crying? don't cry, sara". but your mouth would barely be moving.
and i would pray for God to kill me.

Emily: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
Sent at 1:40 AM on Wednesday
Emily: think what i would be going through ... my empty husk of a body shoved into the back of the closet, my spirit jerking about in a wooden monstrosity
my whole goal for you to just brush my hair with a tiny comb
Sent at 1:42 AM on Wednesday

me: AAAAAAAAAAAA
it's true.
how tragic for us both.

I hope you're listening

2009-01-19T11:16:00.001-08:00

Me voy

2009-01-15T12:22:00.000-08:00

Walking down 4th, over the freeway, Pinkberry in my hands (pineapple and raspberry), the Kicking Windows mix in my ears, and the sun burning my thighs through my jeans.

Pretty freaking good.

1:54 am

2009-01-13T01:59:00.000-08:00

Yesterday's burnt cookies.

Our kitchen became sad.

Really sad.

Reverend Eugene

2009-01-07T17:04:00.001-08:00

-sneaking dance battles and Busta Rhymes into a Japanese play about wizards and persimmons.
-running away from super villains in the flea market; hiding in the Krispy Kreme.
-driving through downtown, making up verses and car-dancing to N*E*R*D
-filling the car with about five thousand pounds of laundry.
-talking about God, and life, and giving all our money away.

Turn Table Tarot

2009-01-06T22:55:00.001-08:00

So Emily and I play a lot of fortune games. One of our favorite games is divining the future with iTunes' Party Shuffle. You hit refresh, and the last song on the list defines whatever incident you are inquiring about.

We also use this game to create the setlists we will play (against the will of our respective loved ones) at each other's wedding and funeral. I will, in fact, be marching down the aisle to Careless Whisper by Wham. Did I really have any other choice? No. Destiny has declared it.

Biggest win ever.

My funeral, however, will be a creepy mess. Emily inferred that the music bodes of an untimely death. I think it means I may just become Undead. Based on the soundtrack, the video montage of my life is going to be directed by the Brothers Quay. The one song that turned out lovely is what will play while everyone pays their last respects. Spaceboy by the Smashing Pumpkins. It's so perfect that Emily has promised to really play it. If I die first.

Of course I will die first. I have the most haunting to do.

(Photo by Syrie Kovitz.)

The void

2009-01-05T15:58:00.000-08:00

I really miss Nerf Fencing. I think about it on an almost weekly basis. I really wish they would start manufacturing the swords again.

Things I hate:

2009-01-04T00:06:00.000-08:00

1. Cowardice.

2. Dishonesty.

3. Being patronized.

4. Busby Berkeley musicals.

Seriously. When you go to heaven and you get the chance to pick five people to punch in the face, Bus is on my list. Sure, he made innovative strides with choreography and camera work, but he also helped women sashay back into the abyss that is the Feminine Ideal.

Layer upon layer and row after frothy row of pretty, vacant women, meant to be displayed and devoured in large quantities. Like sugar cookies. Smiling all the while. Sweet, sweet, sweet.

Resolutions

2009-01-02T16:28:00.001-08:00

They can make it work,

2009-01-02T10:38:00.000-08:00

why can't you?

Best Friends Forever.

Sometimes

2009-01-01T21:26:00.001-08:00

I have trouble waking up and accepting that this is what's really happening.

Art by James Jean.

Exit strategies

2008-12-30T22:39:00.000-08:00

What should you do if a half-naked man comes up and sits next to you on the bench where you are reading?

Nothing. He will eventually give up and walk away.

Nothing left to say

2008-12-30T09:52:00.000-08:00

I finally finished my piece with my friend Nano from Sweden. We actually choreographed it quickly, it just took so long to find times we could both meet. Also, it felt like a long time coming since the original theme for the piece was choreographed for a class over a year ago.

Now that it is done, I am not sure what to do with myself. There is a huge letdown when you are finished with a piece; you no longer have that creative need driving you to wake up and go. I said what I needed to say. Three people heard me say it.

It will probably never get performed as Nano is back in Sweden. It is nice to have the video so I always have access to the choreography, but watching dance on video just doesn't work. (Dance that was not choreographed for film.) There is a physical energy emanating from the dancers that fills the room and penetrates the viewer. So I have the steps, but I no longer have those feelings. It's like talking to someone wearing sunglasses.

I've really got to find a new drug.

I'm not that short

2008-12-29T22:00:00.000-08:00

I keep dreaming that I am accidentally eating shrimp. I've had three shrimp dreams in the past two weeks. I hate shrimp, and almost everything from the ocean except salt. I often dream of food; I can figure out most of my dreams. I cannot figure out the shrimp. Feel free to interpret.

Do over

2008-12-27T19:31:00.000-08:00

I hate my room i hate my room i hate my room i hate my room i hate my room i hate my room i hate my room i hate my room i hate it hate it hate it hate it HATE IT.

It has very little to do with the fact that it is perpetually teetering on the edge of being a domestic disaster, and more to do with the fact that it all came together by accident. I like pink fair enough. I like green, even the occasional loud and bossy chartreuse. I hate these colors together. How did they manifest in my personal space??!! Wendy spent the night last night so I could take her to the airport early in the morning. I could barely manage to get myself to shut up and lie down because I was so disgusted by my room. I feel entirely misrepresented. I have decided to ignore the fact that I desperately need new clothes (A sweater? why on earth would I ever own a sweater? More than one pair of pants?) and am finally going to fix my stupid ugly room.

It feels superfluous, but as Wendy stated, "It's where you sleep. That can't be good." Yeah, I may still walk around looking poor and busted, but what is the point of nabbing all those hotties when I have no appropriate place in which to seduce them? Have you seen my car? Lets be serious. I am out of options.

This is possibly the dumbest post ever. Whatevs. 2008 is over, bizatches.

Stand Up

2008-12-26T13:07:00.000-08:00

The Not Rape Epidemic, by Latoya Peterson of Racialicious.com.

Christmas

2008-12-25T20:23:00.000-08:00

Back and forth

2008-12-19T13:30:00.000-08:00

I don't remember the month or year. But I do remember: It was my second time riding with Critical Mass. Emily and I lived on Butler. Wendy and I had not yet started documenting lunch breaks. My bike had not yet been wrecked. I did not yet know this bike was secretly destroying my knees. The rich young mexican had not yet fallen in love with me. The rich young mexican had not yet fallen out of love with me. The artist hadn't hidden my name underneath layers of paint. I didn't know his name. Valerie had not drawn Jaune. Lauren had not yet come over with three pints of Ben&Jerry's. Chris had not yet been hit by a van. I did not have a car. I did not have a cellphone. Eugene was already pushing his younger brother through school. He still hasn't come to see me in California, as he is still afraid of being swallowed up by an earthquake. Emily and I had already played innumerable games of Would You Rather and What Words Do You Smell Like. Aaron had not yet slept over. I was still being paid to price back issues of Spider-Man. I was already learning flamenco. Was I still cutting my own hair? I hadn't tried to disappear into the Pacific. I had already written its poem.

Words.

2008-12-19T00:44:00.000-08:00

Are you angry? Punch a pillow. Was it satisfying? Not hardly. These days people are too angry for punching. What you might try is stabbing. Take an old pillow and lay it on the front lawn. Stab it with a big pointy knife. Again and again and again. Stab hard enough for the point of the knife to go into the ground. Stab until the pillow is gone and you are just stabbing the earth again and again, as if you want to kill it for continuing to spin, as if you are getting revenge for having to live in this planet day after day, alone.

(from The Shared Patio; a short story in No one belongs here more than you. by Miranda July.)

Emily gave me this collection of short stories for Christmas. Already, by page 4, it was exactly what I wanted.

Fails; wins.

2008-12-16T23:11:00.000-08:00

Last night I was standing in a cold, wet, and dark parking lot. But I had fresh pineapple, which is like sunshine in your mouth. Also, and old man with a mustache and trucker hat ran and jumped onto his shopping cart so he could ride it to his car. He even yelled "wheeee."

I put the wrong key in my sports bra before jogging this morning, thereby locking myself out of the house. But before going jogging I had unlocked the balcony so I could set out a creeping plant my friend gave me. I like the feeling of breaking into my own apartment.

I do not enjoy Christmas music in stores. I did, however, enjoy dancing unabashedly to Last Christmas by Wham! on the way home from aforementioned jog. Yes, I do have Last Christmas in my iPod.

I DVRd The Darjeeling Limited. It is not as good as I had hoped. But Jason Schwartzman can do no wrong for me. He's like Kate Winslet in that I still love everything he does, even in movies I dislike. Except I don't want to make out with Kate Winslet. I think.

These shoulder pads are so huge because they are full of wisdom.

2008-12-15T16:23:00.000-08:00

When you see me carrying around a small stuffed animal, make sure you ask me about it!

Oh! When those boys were trying to talk about their feelings I should have interrupted them to go change my underwear. You know, because it was making me so hot. Talk about hard science. My life is forever changed. I am not being sarcastic. If I were being sarcastic a man would never want to put a baby inside me.

Weekly discoveries and affirmations:

2008-12-14T23:26:00.000-08:00

- Chocolate cake and a pretty dress can fix most problems.

- My youngest brother may, in fact, miss me.

- There are opossums skulking around LA. I dislike them.

- California Love is still pretty satisfying.

- Jeans should never be shopped for amidst menstruation, no matter how urgent it seems.

- I am above accepting charity friendship. I am not above accepting charity underpants.

- Doing something you hate can occasionally make you happy.

-Que se dan los milagros.

-There is purpose in the asking.

-He has counted our tears.

Tafadhali

2008-12-11T20:31:00.001-08:00

Next Wednesday night, African dance class in Culver City. Let me know if you want deets. Gotta pray with those hips and thighs.

You ain't ever tell a lie.

2008-12-11T00:59:00.000-08:00

Girls make deposits. Boys make withdrawals.

BEST FRIENDS FOREVER!

2008-12-05T23:38:00.000-08:00

My best friend drove all the way down from SF this afternoon just to cheer me up. She talked smack with me at the dance studio, and went to eat late night dinner with me and Emily at Swingers. And then she threw up on the sidewalk.

It was awesome.

I love her.

Heh.

2008-12-05T10:00:00.000-08:00

xkcd.

Guileless

2008-12-05T00:17:00.000-08:00

When i was five I used to pick up snakes. I was never bitten.

(I so badly wanted to write "I never got bit." I felt like my mother would disapprove. It still sounds better, though.)

New Moon

2008-12-02T20:14:00.000-08:00

A new moon means no moon
in a sky that can't atone
for a naked woman sleeping
suspended there alone

if she waxed full
i might ask her
things to stars unknown:

did the sun offend you
does his warmth burn you
is this why you hide?
is that why you grasp in darkness
pulling at the tide?

moonlady,

are there hands that mend
what mouths break
a god that gives
what others take
gluing capillaries to veins
and veins to heart
warm palms to push
and make it start

how easy it would be
if moonlight were glue

but there is no moon
the moon is new

If you were a female painter

2008-11-30T03:13:00.001-08:00

Shani Rhys James

While walking up a borrowed coastline

2008-11-29T12:53:00.000-08:00

Riches
for miles and miles
pigeons
clutter the pavement like
filthy sapphires
stumbling between feet as i walk
past the woman
skin like
folded driftwood
staring out lost
at sea
over waves glittering with
silver
like the rings my mother gave me
(which are also lost)
i wear too many clothes and
take off my hat
to push back hair
which sticks to my face like
warm amber
the boy on the motorcycle
looks at me for three seconds
too long and
rubies
blossom in my cheeks
while the old man
peeling a cucumber
(and all my coy verses)
grins
revealing
row after row of
imperfect ivory
(like the keys of the piano under which
all the baby mice died.)

Chewy, by Marilyn Minter.

Wouldn't it be easier to say

2008-11-28T15:47:00.000-08:00

that I'd seduced a catholic priest?

As a matter of fact

2008-11-27T00:57:00.000-08:00

- Wendy and I walked through a vortex between the sixth and seventh block of Pacific Street.

- The fifth block of Pacific Street smells curiously of birthday candles, but only uphill.

- A lack of the right words makes you walk as if navigating spider webs.

- I don't take what isn't given.

(art by Junko Mizuno.)

No Context

2008-11-26T15:47:00.000-08:00

Sara: It's times like these that make me regret not properly learning to play my banjo.

Grant: Instead you're staring at hundreds of boxes of Fiddle Faddle, through the windows of the 99cent store.

I was trying to explain my brother Grant to someone last night. I finally settled on "a blustery victorian gentlemen." But with a mild case of Tourettes. Grant always manages to say something completely inappropriate.

Thus far:
"I have to say, I'd really like to snack on Will Smith."

"Eden, stop crossing yourself in front of churches; it's totally inappropriate. Just kidding, cross yourself all you want."

"This movie will give you your period."

"Breakfast is always better with a handful of santos watching."

"I can almost touch his part!"

"Go get her! He got her. Boom goes the dynamite."

Xing

2008-11-26T03:07:00.000-08:00

Caw

2008-11-25T10:21:00.000-08:00

This morning at 7am my little brother Mitch called me. (First off, Mitch rarely calls, second, everyone in my family knows not to try to talk to me before 10am.)

Mitch: Hello, Sara. How many crows would you say is a scary number of crows?

Sara: Uhm. More than forty?

We are used to huge numbers of crows, starlings, etc, swooping down into our yard and zooming off. However, Mitchell was unprepared for the THOUSANDS of crows that suddenly covered our entire street. He sent me this cool picture. He was mildly terrified.

This is all the creepy Southern Atlantic Magic I miss while being on the West Coast! Geez. I guess they were finally migrating? Also, I hope they were actually the souls of thousands of dead people. Migrating.

We hope you turn blue!

2008-11-25T02:29:00.000-08:00

The poetry SMACK! at Felice's was awesome. I found some new favorites, for sure. I always forget how much I dig poetry, until there it is, making my hands sweat and my face flush. It's super sexy, even when it doesn't have anything to do with sex. Language-- so hot right now!

Give me

2008-11-24T19:03:00.000-08:00

warmth.

(Click for full view.)

A word of caution:

2008-11-23T22:49:00.000-08:00

Don't try to make left turns late at night while singing to Beyoncé-- you will totally get in a wreck. I didn't, but you might.

Also, don't drive if you are seeing sparkles.

I don't want to be your ( ), I just want to be your ( ).

2008-11-20T22:44:00.000-08:00

My older brother Sam keeps insisting that all matters of love and romance would become smooth sailing if I would just invoke the power of Michael Bolton. So here is my ode to the man, the legend, the Soul Provider.

Excerpts from a life

2008-11-19T20:42:00.001-08:00

Remember how

2008-11-15T17:58:00.000-08:00

you've had moderately to severely persistent asthma since the age of two? Yeah, don't go ride your bike ten miles through a bunch of smoke.