You see, I was on the hill going up to my house, and it had just started raining. And so I thought maybe I would try riding up the hill instead of walking. So I put my foot on the pedal and hopped on the bike, and pushed on the pedal...

...and absolutely nothing happened. I was in the wrong gear, I was on a hill, I was tired. And so the bike slooooowly tipped over, right into this giant patch of ivy, and I went with it. And my helmet (which was loose) fell off my head and bounced into the street. Picture a loud crash, and then a loud thunk, and my ass sprawled among the ivy.

I am sure the people walking their dog across the street thought I was a gigantic idiot. "Get the camera, Ned! That chubby girl fell off her bike!" So I tried to leap up gracefully (and as quickly as possible) but my foot got tangled in some ivy, and I fell right over again.

What else could I do? I took a moment to collect myself, used my bike as leverage, and finally managed to extricate myself from the ivy. I did not look at the people across the street and practically ran into my house.

I really wish my sister had been there.

Mmm, what else is there?

Joey and I met early for our Tuesday workshop so we could do the first revision of the ghost poem we wrote on the way to Reno. We decided that we're going to try and write a few sequels and turn the whole thing into a collaborative chapbook called Ghost Stories.

The sequel is set in Venice (California, not Italy) and the ghost of Jim Morrison has just shown up. The next one is probably going to be set in Manhattan. I think we're going to get together on Thursday to work on it some more.

Working on these poems is really fun. I don't think I've ever collaborated with anyone on poetry before in such a 50/50 way. It reminds me of the epic poem, "I Don't Wanna Die in San Francisco" which Charlotte and I wrote together the first time we visited the city. Some excerpts:

It all started, staying up all night singing,
show tunes and theme songs, sleep was not an option

I love this epic poem because re-reading it brings back all the memories from this trip. How many years ago was this? Man. At least seven or something; it was before I went to college, way before Charlotte met Bruno. I wish I had thought to write down the name of the guy who gave me the tour of what is now my school. (This is why I was in the city; to see if I wanted to attend my current school as an undergrad.) I'm sure whoever he was, I now know him.

and then in a span of about five minutes
hookers to the left of us and hookers to the right.

Aah yes, O'Farrell street in the Tenderloin. We had no idea where we were. I can't believe we wandered around there in the middle of the night. I drove by our old hotel (the Lotus Hotel, forever immortalized) only to find that it's now called something else-- the something Suites, a fancy name. It's still the same crappy, run-down, "quaint" hooker hotel it ever was, though.

Ski ball, ski ball,
toy stores, trend shops
vodka, vodka - and goofy little grab bags

I'm amazed by the attention to sound in this poem. I'm a better writer now, I certainly hope, but I've lost this amazing attention to sound. The poem (and you'll have to take my word) is totally rhythmic. And some things (like "Red Dog Bottle Cap") stick in my head to this day.

Incense and peppermints and chocolate too
How the hell are we gonna bring home
the damn bread.
San Francisco is not where I wanna die

Charlotte wrote this stanza. (Didn't know she was a poet, did you?) Her stanzas are a nice counterpoint to the rest of the poem; the rhythm is totally different, yet complementary.

I remember we bought all this sourdough bread, and it was so much heavier than we thought it would be, it was kind of a nightmare to carry it around. And you know, since I moved here, I don't think I've had any sourdough bread at all?

(We are
beatnik
San
Francisco
poets -

an identity we don
like a hat
or something)

Yeah, not great poetry, but it still makes me smile. We scribbled everything down that weekend so we could add it to our epic poem. It's fun to re-read it.

Totally not where I planned to go with this entry, but here you have it. A blast from the past.

I would love to post one of the three of us when we were 19, 13 and 16 (rather than 29, 23 and 26-- holy crap) but all those pictures are at my parents' house. Maybe if I promise to reenact the fall into the ivy for her, Abby will send me one.

"So I'm sitting here writing something so I don't look like a complete lamer."