tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-41369931863588068222024-03-19T18:44:09.466-04:00what the flux.emmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06553527208298079205noreply@blogger.comBlogger211125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4136993186358806822.post-62836660011594894042012-01-12T00:07:00.004-05:002012-01-12T00:23:48.969-05:00ON FRIDAY.<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 153, 102); "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">i'm going to edinburgh, scotland and this is not going to be a travel blog.</span></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" color: rgb(255, 153, 102); "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">also, this type color is more or less the color of the raincoat i found at the village discount.</span></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" color: rgb(255, 153, 102); "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">apparently it rains in scotland.</span></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" color: rgb(255, 153, 102); "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">this is a picture i took of the raincoats when i saw them:</span></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" color: rgb(255, 153, 102); "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" color: rgb(255, 153, 102); "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); font-weight: normal; -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3xQHpDg-rVVHP2bX_4eC9N4okjf27Chx_VUU_v-XT5kJNjAtxN_gBV1pT0TNxD-HOjeEmudJAwgB22OAip7kxpOeDIOw4vdmbaXVwk22XKGWZMXwzcg9zm1v7f4RkKA-e5H1jgKuN2Jwc/s320/IMG_2460.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5696609208193947506" style="text-align: center;display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; " /></span></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" color: rgb(255, 153, 102); "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); font-weight: normal; -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></span></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" color: rgb(255, 153, 102); "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">this is a song by the raincoats.</span></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF9966;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><iframe width="420" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/0i0ZYE5gvec" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen=""></iframe></span></div>emmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06553527208298079205noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4136993186358806822.post-77015110451570289222011-10-04T13:18:00.003-04:002011-10-04T13:20:09.950-04:00what gives?sometimes, <div>when i'm writing, </div><div>i realize i come off sounding far more traumatized than i functionally am.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>but maybe that's just the liberal arts college?</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>this theater department is a joke.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>emmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06553527208298079205noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4136993186358806822.post-17862267376514431472011-09-24T20:06:00.005-04:002011-09-24T20:21:43.204-04:00new day rising.in high school, i floated along conversations. i heard about the "drama" other kids had, secondhand, from <i>their </i>friends who were just ranting or telling a funny story. and i was glad to float, glad i didn't haul around people's shit. glad i didn't babble on to third parties about people now to distant too make any sense. but i also wondered that if people were really so fucked up, why didn't they come to me? <i>duh. </i>i <i>clearly</i> possessed the special balance of emotional distance sympathy and patience. i would be <i>great </i>at advice, i thought. also, if no one saw this, saw how perfect and wise i was, then maybe they weren't actually fucked up, maybe they didn't want help, maybe they just wanted to be <i>more</i> angry over <i>something that was really nothing</i> so they went to a friend to get riled up. i don't know. the important part is i had no part of anything remotely considered social "drama" ever. i also didn't have but one <i>maybe two </i>good friends, but that's a different story. <div>but i realize, now when i am an older version of that self, one that has some friends and a hell of a lot of acquaintances, i am a person people come to for advice. and i am a third party, and i am a good balance of sympathetic and emotionally distanced enough to seem wise. and now everyone seems fucked up. and everyone seems to freak out FOR TOTALLY LEGITIMATE REASONS over <i>somethings that are really nothings. onlysometimesthey'rereallysomethings,iguess. </i>and it's weird because i think more about the fact of the sort-of burden and sort-of obligation i feel to be a listener, which i know is an essential position, than i think about the actual burden of my friend. their problem remains distant from me, and i am more concerned with my rational perspective as a third party, so as to give best advice. does that make any sense? </div><div><br /></div><div>no.</div><div><br /></div><div>but all i know is suddenly my life is filled with others people's emotional drama. and i think back to high school when i wanted to be this person who was turned to for advice. and i'm glad i am, because i love these people past their "drama" and want to see them get through it, but i guess i never thought i would be this kind of listener. everything in some kind of due time. i'm certainly better equipped and wiser than i was when i was 16. the same, but more so.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>emmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06553527208298079205noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4136993186358806822.post-53696632003449514892011-07-13T00:47:00.000-04:002011-07-13T00:48:37.203-04:00gracious haiku (7-10-7, sure it's a fucking haiku)<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial; font-size: small; "><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#6600CC;">some moments it's like, someone</span></span></span></div><div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#6600CC;">needs to shut off the happiness faucet, </span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#6600CC;">because my cup is so full.</span></span></span></div></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></span></div><div><br /></div></span>emmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06553527208298079205noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4136993186358806822.post-44033701651144714862011-06-22T00:22:00.004-04:002011-06-22T00:38:01.393-04:00i don't wanna talk about how i know this chick's fucking tumblr page okay? i jus wanna blame it on growing up in a digital age and all that jazz.so AN-EE-WEIGH <div><a href="http://moonbrains.tumblr.com/">this chick</a></div><div><a href="http://moonbrains.tumblr.com/"></a>complemented my backpack when we passed each other on milwaukee ave. in wicker paaarrrque today. </div><div><br /></div><div>she said, and i quote (as well as my memory serves me): "that is the coolest backpack i have ever seen."</div><div>"thanks, i made it," i said.</div><div><br /></div><div>and i'll admit i was a little disappointed when she didn't ask to take a picture and put it on her blog.</div><div><br /></div><div>god fucking damn it i hate my so-called-techlife. in other news i started a facebook page and now i really need to be put out to pasture. </div><div><br /></div><div>also today i said "times new viking" to this dude i'm sort of going to be working with this summer and he was like, "they're kinda scream-o, right?"</div><div>wrongwrongwrongwrongwrong six ways from sunday dude.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>emmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06553527208298079205noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4136993186358806822.post-85772791053619123532011-06-18T11:51:00.002-04:002011-06-18T11:52:31.133-04:00an early summer haiku:<div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#006600;">this summer is just </span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#006600;">uncanny in its twists of</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#006600;">mist blissed convergence.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></span></div><div><br /></div>emmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06553527208298079205noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4136993186358806822.post-38762604741074586772011-06-12T03:45:00.002-04:002011-06-18T11:51:04.917-04:00a parting haiku:<span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;font-size:small;"><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#993399;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-large;">seals in water, </span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#993399;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-large;">tuna in cans, a place for </span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#993399;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-large;">everything, for now</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-large;"><br /></span></div><div><br /></div></span>emmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06553527208298079205noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4136993186358806822.post-84089290587767703802011-06-02T03:39:00.003-04:002011-06-02T03:40:56.729-04:00<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 96px/normal Gulim; background-color: rgb(248, 248, 248); "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#33FF33;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 96px/normal Gulim; background-color: rgb(248, 248, 248); "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#33FF33;">had a seizure after thinking she was a mermaid (a girl after my own heart)</span><span style="background- ;color:transparent;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#33FF33;"> </span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Gulim; min-height: 16.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Gulim; min-height: 16.0px"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Gulim; min-height: 16.0px"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Gulim; min-height: 16.0px"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Gulim; min-height: 16.0px"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Gulim; min-height: 16.0px"><br /></p>emmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06553527208298079205noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4136993186358806822.post-20519473000726625792011-06-02T03:30:00.003-04:002011-06-02T03:40:38.072-04:00<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Cooper Black; min-height: 16.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#3333FF;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Cooper Black; min-height: 16.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#3333FF;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Cooper Black; min-height: 16.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#3333FF;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 96px/normal 'Cooper Black'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#3333FF;">MY HEART IT BEATS YES, TO YR CIGARETTE!</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 96px/normal 'Cooper Black'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#3333FF;"><br /></span></p>emmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06553527208298079205noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4136993186358806822.post-62664077410372262082011-06-02T03:22:00.006-04:002011-06-02T03:41:35.497-04:00<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;color:#990000;"><b><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 96.0px Verdana; color:#871612;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></b></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 96.0px Verdana; color: #871612"><b>DON'T PICK AT THAT.</b></p><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div></b></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;color:#990000;"><b><br /></b></span></div>emmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06553527208298079205noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4136993186358806822.post-42037588909181212972011-05-30T00:38:00.003-04:002011-05-30T12:18:42.835-04:00this is what the kids use blogs for nowadays, rite?<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ5O1531p21iInLyzxOChfpgLNqpfgE8qiQK6MNVw38JJbmqVgWE7o2BuZ3hQ94bSACM5fJyrfIUFNxBuIDCCf7Fpq4kmhizffe6Jb3hAMYPZD_hC60MqPza1GhTWqgQiE1uW5fIS18l17/s1600/Photo+248.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ5O1531p21iInLyzxOChfpgLNqpfgE8qiQK6MNVw38JJbmqVgWE7o2BuZ3hQ94bSACM5fJyrfIUFNxBuIDCCf7Fpq4kmhizffe6Jb3hAMYPZD_hC60MqPza1GhTWqgQiE1uW5fIS18l17/s320/Photo+248.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5612364212418395666" /></a><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ5O1531p21iInLyzxOChfpgLNqpfgE8qiQK6MNVw38JJbmqVgWE7o2BuZ3hQ94bSACM5fJyrfIUFNxBuIDCCf7Fpq4kmhizffe6Jb3hAMYPZD_hC60MqPza1GhTWqgQiE1uW5fIS18l17/s1600/Photo+248.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a>first full week back in chicago and my wallet got stolen, there was a hilarious (and tedious) mix-up at the dmv, and i got hit by a car. gonna send the kimberly and her bronze fucking minivan the bill for my bike tune up.</div><div><br /></div><div>now that i have only one government registered identity may i please have my seventeen dollars back and move on with the summer? i think i'll just steal seventeen dollars worth of something, who cares what, </div><div>also i need confirmation on my summer job, here's to fucking hoping i passed my drug test.</div><div><br /></div><div>scabs itch. it's gonna scar.<br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>emmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06553527208298079205noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4136993186358806822.post-57506236660812531432011-03-31T13:12:00.003-04:002011-03-31T13:21:41.374-04:00keeping safe.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2kGAquVen0aXFJ0k3wPwHTkhjS36biWQmJoeB1nxIKlQzfC6-Mh99ORWkPvdZIBVzK5po690lYev2-q7jyJ6Tjhf2IVvaAnVe8I8RVK-fyj6ZeJAuiQfrYWCckfqZg7a8BGcpGOkKYD6B/s1600/Photo+157.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2kGAquVen0aXFJ0k3wPwHTkhjS36biWQmJoeB1nxIKlQzfC6-Mh99ORWkPvdZIBVzK5po690lYev2-q7jyJ6Tjhf2IVvaAnVe8I8RVK-fyj6ZeJAuiQfrYWCckfqZg7a8BGcpGOkKYD6B/s320/Photo+157.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590294254124708962" /></a><div style="text-align: center;">i learned how to silkscreen! i put it on a shirt! little monster doodles who frequent the margins of my notebooks!</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>emmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06553527208298079205noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4136993186358806822.post-58273379457240236692011-02-18T22:30:00.005-05:002011-02-18T22:58:03.182-05:00fuck her tears.in december, <div>i entertained the idea of calling myself a poet for the first time EVER.</div><div>in that, i submitted the only three "poems" i've ever written to the school's poetry festival.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>wouldn't it be Grand?</i></div><div><i>just Marvelous, to read at a Poetry Festival! </i></div><div><i>just think! there there is such legitimacy to pouring your heart out!</i></div><div><i>just think! you would read along side a published poet, </i></div><div><i>one whose work the Powers That Be deem similar to your own work.</i></div><div><i>just think! you would have "work." and it doesn't rhyme! because rhyme is complex.</i></div><div><i>also, i do not think in rhyme. i think in panic. in inner monologue.</i></div><div><i>and if i cold read in a Poetry Festival, my inner monologues would be deemed good. made legitimate. </i></div><div><i>WHY LITTLE GIRL YOU'D BE A STAR. and all the poet boys and girls would take me out and tell me my voice is marvelous. </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>and we would drink cold beer and smoke smoldering tobacco and take turns reading patti smith and allen ginsberg aloud. stopping to say "me next! i have a great one!" and when we'd had enough beers, after hours in some poet loft (the best kind, because they aren't full of paint and pretentious/intimidating conceptual art-in-progress (i don't know what i;m talking about, but i'm sure i'm right.)) we would read our own poems, from our awkward notebooks and folded sheets shoved hastily into back pockets and backpacks. </div><div><br /></div><div>but no. i got so wrapped up in my anonymous sexy shitty poet loft fantasy that i forgot to finish my story. i got rejected. which duh, makes sense. and i'm fine with it. completely. </div><div>and it was out of my head. until i sat down next to this poetry grad student with whom i'm friendly and she was all like, </div><div>"emma, i'm glad you submitted to the poetry festival. i meant to send you a personal e-mail because i really liked what you wrote. we all like vote with points [the grad students/festival committee choose the poets by scoring them with points i guess?] and i gave yours high marks."</div><div>she said something about my work reminding her of like, herself, i think, sort of a young woman poet type, i think, i don't know, i just said, </div><div>"oh wow! thank you so much, jillian, that means a lot." and it does. i mean i don't get the loft or the fame or the compliments on my excellent reading voice, but i got jillian sitting next to me at a play that wasn't great, telling me personally that she enjoyed what i submitted, and i'm okay with that. hell, i'm fucking great with that. now, i'll go back to writing for the stage.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>emmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06553527208298079205noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4136993186358806822.post-73000766966341075052011-01-31T02:07:00.005-05:002011-01-31T11:28:37.569-05:00the walls we hit. it's tacky.i would like to inspire the world with my insanely ambitious failures and mistakes. <div>i would like to cast strindberg's <i>A Dream Play</i> with only two actors and an ambitious technician. </div><div><br /></div><div>we should all cry in public a lot more. we should extinguish each other's cigarettes with tears. </div><div><br /></div><div>an 800 mile essentially blind date in like 20 days is no big deal right? like, hey-o no need to freak out just because i invited a stranger to sleep in my bed right? i should hide my valuables. i should wash my sheets. and my jeans. and all the many articles of clothing that have suddenly begin to smell. abruptly, there are a lot of them.</div><div><br /></div><div>i am so not okay with skool. </div><div>is it really so much to ask to feel okay about letting people down and instead going to watch mr. rickman give me his bestest <i>john gabriel. </i>written by my posthumous boyfriend henrik of course.</div><div><br /></div><div>no one uses boomboxes anymore. i need three. </div><div>THEY'RE FOR AN ART PROJECT OKAY. I'M IN COLLEGE MAKING ART WHAT ARE YOU DOING WITH YR LIFE, OLD-LADY-IN-A-FUR-COAT-FRONT-ROW-SEASON-TICKET-HOLDER-AT-BAM-writing alan's paycheck. </div><div><br /></div><div>my friend saw daniel radcliffe and hugh jackman tonight at <i>john gabriel borkman</i>. that totally beats me seeing jenna fischer after <i>our town</i> last spring. because they're brits. </div><div><br /></div><div>i wrote and staged a performance piece on friday entitled "a dream play." it was very short. i wish i could turn that in instead of my strindberg homework. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>emmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06553527208298079205noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4136993186358806822.post-62444853358118373552011-01-25T22:15:00.004-05:002011-01-25T22:22:29.251-05:00winter wardrobe expansion #1: california edition.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQOVKxxWuOyQbw7ZgvQYcB0bPCF68dtPZJL9sxm2mYOUi9J_DjwPwZ1vLvqWzz8dCcv__vjFr8WRyoefklNelpeK6Im7OsnnUQVVWt2whaIm4-PlGKZblI8K8sq6Bhd4gqtngahddNBTnB/s1600/IMG_0150.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQOVKxxWuOyQbw7ZgvQYcB0bPCF68dtPZJL9sxm2mYOUi9J_DjwPwZ1vLvqWzz8dCcv__vjFr8WRyoefklNelpeK6Im7OsnnUQVVWt2whaIm4-PlGKZblI8K8sq6Bhd4gqtngahddNBTnB/s320/IMG_0150.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5566328056190768658" /></a>my cousin in california sent me the first thing she ever knitted for a christmas gift, and it was this totally badass weirdo necktie sort of thing (the kind of amazing first knitting project, that has stitches turning up and disappearing all over the place, and i'm pretty sure it wasn't supposed to be question mark shaped), so in return i made her a bunny hat, which might just be one of the best looking things i have ever made. definitely one of the first times that what i imagined in my head was as good in reality. <div>yeah, i used that cat hat pattern from the stitch 'n bitch book as the base. go tell yr mom.</div><div><br /></div>emmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06553527208298079205noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4136993186358806822.post-40585619720730866212011-01-20T01:04:00.004-05:002011-01-20T01:22:38.650-05:00no interest in.<iframe src="http://player.vimeo.com/video/18933499" width="400" height="300" frameborder="0"></iframe><p><br /></p><p>oh shit it's so good, like from that moment that beth puts on her sunglasses, i'm sold. and i know it's fucking stupid and hypocritical and lame to be blog-posting a video (a times new viking video, no less) that i saw first on pitchfork, but i super love their band even though this song is very like different and kind of derivative of lots of bands that i can't name off the top of (my head).</p><p><br /></p>emmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06553527208298079205noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4136993186358806822.post-64244267053532672642011-01-17T00:11:00.004-05:002011-01-17T14:53:15.127-05:00to yr skull.every time the pilot says we are beginning our descent into la guardia airport, my mind jumps straight to: <div><i>and now is the moment the bomb goes off. between now, this moment, when we are in mid-air decline, losing altitude like pennies out the our holes in our pocket, and touching down on LGA runway, my airplane is in danger of being hijacked and blown to bits.</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>this thought always comes upon me as if from nowhere. there are several seconds where i believe it with my whole person. in these situations i become preoccupied with wanting to curl into the lap of the person next to me or wanting to scream and run into the cockpit (where i will then curl into the pilot's lap). </div><div><br /></div><div>today i managed to push past this initial shock that i am in <b>grave and terrible</b> danger by then imagining the more particular things about the bombing. where would the bomber be sitting on the airplane? (how did he/she/they get a bomb, or the makings of one, past the new-fangled airport security?) were they sitting close enough to me to hear me ask the flight attendant for a diet coke? did they think to him/her/themselves: </div><div><i>diet coke, that's funny, see 'cause when someone orders </i>diet <i>coke they aren't ordering it to enjoy it now. well, yes, she will enjoy it now because it is a cold, bubbly, sweet thing, but so is regular coke. but diet coke, nah man, that's for thinking about the future, about all the calories she didn't ingest and won't have to worry about burning off, about some sort of future gain of rational or feel-good-ish-ness. but MUWAHAHAHA!!! listen to her with her diet coke and her future!!! she has no future. </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>and then we all die.</div><div><br /></div><div>and then i start to wonder how i'll die. when the bomb goes off. you know in movies when people are sitting in like cars or planes and a bomb happens the sort of jolt forward? would that happen to me? what would my arms do? would i throw my arms up against the tray table locked in front of me? could they hit the tray table so hard that my forearm bones or hand bones shattered? if i threw my arms up in front of me against the tray table and then lurched my body forward would my head collide with my forearms? could i get a concussion from my head colliding with my forearms? could i break my skull by hitting it against my arms? would my arms break after they hit the tray table and <i>got hit</i> by my head? would this scenario render me lifeless? or would i die of internal bleeding or shock or asphyxiation? if the bomb goes off near me, well, all those fumes i'm sure would knock me senseless instantly, if not kill me flat out. </div><div>would the oxygen masks deploy and would i be lucid enough to regard this as irony?</div><div><br /></div><div>and so for a few moments, we are not only descending into la guardia, but also into complete madness. and then i look out the window again and regard the flaming pink flamingo sunset in the west and the glittering golden blink of the city below.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>emmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06553527208298079205noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4136993186358806822.post-67931465478133485782010-12-26T00:05:00.001-05:002010-12-26T00:06:22.873-05:00the most advanced piece of technology i've ever put in my pocket.i figured it out.<div>i am full of rage.</div><div>where is my knitting?</div><div>my tea?</div><div>i'm still a luddite.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>emmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06553527208298079205noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4136993186358806822.post-90437043515680566522010-12-25T23:39:00.003-05:002010-12-25T23:41:25.757-05:00about THIS close to chucking it across the room.oh it's cool.....<div>i got this.</div><div>i'm in control.</div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifjZYgu5aVbw62G69BFqEQrdeR2V-urROulZAj0FlgjWFcC3_gSKXRx6Z6GPfwEhQkigIbw4xDImyN6n_Oo1SGqCTu8Ar0J3VzQ4DNq3qF1BQVtdSg6tA-mV4IhS16gN7xRHW2S6misBA5/s1600/Photo+158.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 273px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifjZYgu5aVbw62G69BFqEQrdeR2V-urROulZAj0FlgjWFcC3_gSKXRx6Z6GPfwEhQkigIbw4xDImyN6n_Oo1SGqCTu8Ar0J3VzQ4DNq3qF1BQVtdSg6tA-mV4IhS16gN7xRHW2S6misBA5/s320/Photo+158.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5554846098181181906" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><u><br /></u></div><div style="text-align: center;"><u><br /></u></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></div>emmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06553527208298079205noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4136993186358806822.post-79117391140508553542010-12-25T23:29:00.004-05:002010-12-25T23:34:10.545-05:00i'm missing something.my suburban cousin<div>took pity</div><div>on her poor urban luddite cousin (me)</div><div>and gave me her old ipod touch.</div><div>touching.</div><div>she got a new one two weeks ago. </div><div>and well, better than a landfill is a pack rat's bedroom.</div><div>so i've been staring at glowing screens for a couple hours </div><div>wondering what the hell i'm doing wrong because i can't for the life of me </div><div>figure out this user-friendly apple bullshit.</div><div>way to ruin christmas, technology.</div><div>excuse me, i have to flip my tape over to the b side. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>emmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06553527208298079205noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4136993186358806822.post-89550967458593726092010-12-09T02:40:00.004-05:002010-12-09T02:43:57.838-05:00basically,about a week ago, one of my professors recommended that i make use of the school's counselors (i.e. "therapy") because i have no friends and i had burst into tears in his office for the third time this semester and not done my conference work.<div><br /></div><div><br /></div>emmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06553527208298079205noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4136993186358806822.post-54726532426542653732010-12-07T15:08:00.001-05:002010-12-07T15:09:28.584-05:00dear ancient greeks,<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">i love the fact that the word “hysteria” diagnoses the condition of a wandering womb.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">when i get all panicky i love to think that it is because my womb has become detached and is wandering.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">i embrace it.</span></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->emmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06553527208298079205noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4136993186358806822.post-16708978596637370062010-12-05T23:59:00.004-05:002010-12-06T00:14:04.556-05:00lost, but part of a generation that has found itself in the particles of the air we call the Internet.i'm sure there's a more blog-chic way than youtube to make you listen to a song, but i'm kind of F.U.C.K.E.D. on my conference work and fucking hating school okay, so just listen to the velvet underground and goth lady music and stop reading my blog, because i'm going to do all of the above and i have to stay up all night and go to work at 7:45 a.m.<br /><br /><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/lZY24VUpsG0?fs=1&hl=en_US"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/lZY24VUpsG0?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><br /><br />so that's how the world works and i believe it's called unrequited when i pine for the boy, that boy, that, him, you, yes, you, look at me, dream about me, talk to me someday, promise?ok. actually it's called a crush and i'm twenty i should be over crushing on people. i should just go straight to dating them or fucking them or killing them because vampiric relationships are hip now right, lovely bloodsucker. lovely invincible werewolf babe, it's getting colder and i'm getting older and like really really cold, but not because that's just like a contact-california speaking, rubbing off. <div>i</div><div>am</div><div>swedish.</div><div>like ikea. like abba. like strindberg.</div><div>i </div><div>am </div><div>midwestern.</div><div>like jake barnes. like the cubs. like corn and soybeans.</div><div><br /></div><div>1/8 swedish and first generation midwestern. i don't belong hrrrrr.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>emmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06553527208298079205noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4136993186358806822.post-2336561189016752412010-12-02T02:20:00.003-05:002010-12-02T02:50:14.418-05:00i think it's fair to say,that we all screw up. <div>at some point. </div><div>and for a lot of us, a concentrated, simple, clean, easy, and unfun place to screw up is college.</div><div>we waste our parents' money. and our own. and our time. </div><div>and at 2 in the morning,</div><div>my orange tea tastes bitter. and i've stopped making any headway on my studies. not that i have for a while. i'm nailed to my </div><div>standard issue</div><div>cushioned</div><div>real laquered wood </div><div>college common room chair.</div><div>a little box.</div><div>in these last two and a half weeks i'm pushing towards blindness.</div><div>cause of blindness: macbook.</div><div>cause of macbook: college.</div><div>cause of college: </div><div>isn't it funny how i'm still the same person i was at seventeen?</div><div>and now i'm twenty. </div><div>(and as far as i can tell, twenty is the birthday that people give you a lot of sugarfood.)</div><div>and i still don't believe in college. and i still don't believe that this waltz of study and sleepless and macbook and blog is what i want to do.</div><div><br /></div><div>i would like to find, when i wake up, that thursday was taken out of the week. </div><div>so i might be spared the hassle of crying in my professor's office and recovering from crying in my professor's office and writing a shitty essay and going to rehearsal and pool-staring and attempting to justify a badly edited video as art....i just want to be in chicago. i just want to go to a state school. join the swim team. get a lobotomy. forget how to ride a bike. ride a bike. tour the midwest. and amsterdam. hide my eyelids in a jawbone when the sun turns to rainbows through smog and airbourne shit. it's fair. </div><div><br /></div><div>what feels unfair, </div><div>is that my name can get spread around like herpes.</div><div>from my professor</div><div>to my don</div><div>to the dean</div><div>to god-knows-who</div><div>all because of a bad evaluation. </div><div>i think.</div><div>there's a boy i never want to be like and some moments i'm afraid i might get expelled for the same root cause that he got expelled for. </div><div><br /></div><div>must not be an emotional wreck.</div><div>think of irene.</div><div>keep the dead dead.</div><div>when we dead awaken, cannot, will not should not happen.</div><div>no more weeping in the bathroom, </div><div>looking at your hunched figure warped in the reflection of the sink's pipes.</div><div>this is where the water happens. how fortunate we are, that water <i>happens</i>.</div><div><br /></div><div>i was told i have a future today. in a place/area that i become farther removed from daily.</div><div>excuse me, hi, yes, i have a number, will call, may i please pick up my future. just tell it to me straight. </div><div>do i make it through thursday?</div><div>may i go to art school now? is it my turn to live in brooklyn? or the lower east side? does participation count for anything?</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>emmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06553527208298079205noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4136993186358806822.post-41119081349495924402010-11-14T22:37:00.003-05:002010-11-14T22:52:22.918-05:00why is it that i get such strangely prophetic roommates sometimes?first <a href="http://liketheytaughtus.blogspot.com/2010/03/im-pulling-and-all-nighter-and-writing.html">erin</a>, now elizabeth, <div>who tells me, </div><div>"your body <i>hates you</i> right now."</div><div>i know.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>also i'm turning 20 in ten days. i don't want to be 20, and i certainly don't want to deal with being 20 ten days from now. </div><div>dear extracurricular (theatre) activities, </div><div>i just want to do my homework. is that so much to ask?</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>emmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06553527208298079205noreply@blogger.com0