The Doors Closed So We Jumped Out the Open Windows

Throwing away days to
Savor the forgotten
nights
I'm moving in retrograde; back to where I was.

Ticket///Ride

My mind was given to this world
blind
to absorb and contsruct
personality.
creativity.
control.

moving vans//daycare//palpitations//cigarettes

My pupils dilate through time.

A mind, Full.
cluttered by
you
and me
but whatever me is
it is lost in commotion and dust

stimulated synthetic shells
litter the floor of years past.
Half a decade of life- as another.
Frantically looking for your old face,

without any realizing you don't know who you're looking for.

It's easy now, but harder than before
so go
go ahead.

cut those corners///pray you'll do just fine.

A Chicago Winter

A Chicago winter induces a collective withdrawl.
A lack of sunlight forms a void; an absence of the life force that surged through our bodies in warmer months.
One only hopes they've absorbed enough of that sweet, smiling light to remain charged through five months of darkness.
Those of us who are drained before winter's end, however, endure the darkness with numb fingers and numb thoughts.

Those of us who are born into this life of half dark, half light can sense the change coming,
It is a light switch being flipped off
We can feel the exact moment of season's change as the approaching bleakness swallows the energy out of the sky.
Natives may bow their heads, if only for a fleeting moment, to mourn the loss of the sun.
Its captor; the gray beast that is a Chicago winter.

Why do we stay? outsiders ask. How do we stand living in this depressive place?
I answer with this; each person has two halves that make them whole
One half light
One half dark
Those of us who stay can understand

We've learned to embrace the cloud-covered darkness
fully aware that, when those first spring rays hit our pale, chapped faces
Blinded, we will initially wish them away.

Walking Dreams

Pastels on Pink Paper- Drawing 1 final

New editions.

So I will now be posting my visual art along with my written work to this blog. All images are not to be used without my permission!

a seven-day descent (work in prog)

Grace Ford
Large group read 3/4/10
Seven Day Descent
It took me seven days to realize I’d misplaced my mind.

I just lost it somewhere random, like the subway, or my dentist’s office. I gradually, hesitantly, began to notice through the fog of my life that my surroundings were warping into backdrops I didn’t recognize; people who I thought were complete strangers were calling themselves my friends, my family. When I was made aware of my personal unraveling I was surprisingly unsurprised. I had already suspected my mind had been moonlighting as someone else’s, having woken up on more than a few occasions with different clothes on and unexplained bruises. Once there was a half-eaten sandwich resting on my ches. I’ve also spent months trying to convince myself that my dog, Paul, has not been speaking dirty words, and insulting me. I swore I heard him grunt, “Fuck this,” when I forgot to pick up dog food from the supermarket. I also tried to put him in a sweater once.

Crazy is an animal in human clothes.

I didn’t give much thought to the foreshadowing moments in my life until my mind completely lost itself in one week. Seven days of decent. I really had no say in the matter. Over the course of one week I could practically see my sanity pack up, tip its hat and gradually, ungracefully, fly out of my head, making a straight shot to the exit, leaving me with half-eaten toothpaste sandwiches and shit talking dogs.

The week began on Monday, as they usually do, when I thought I heard someone buzzing to get into my walk-up studio apartment. I pushed the button to receive the visitor.
Who is it?

gypsy revisited- the origin

About twenty miles east of Wichita, Kansas, in the rolling plains of Bachelor County, rests the all-American town of Augusta. Surrounded by golden prairies and filled with fresh air, Augusta is the epitome of heartland home-living and the perfect place to raise a family. With two lakes, one movie theatre, one bowling alley, and one high school, the children and young adults of Augusta are closely-knit and actively involved in the community and enjoy everything Augusta has to offer…
“Yeah-fucking-right. I bet if anyone asked a teenager living in Augusta if they were “actively involved” they’d probably spit in your face.” April whipped the tri-fold brochure down the drink aisle of the town’s gas station, sending it spiraling like a Frisbee.
“Watch it, you almost gave me an epic paper cut.” Cass’ eyes darted around the small station as her hands silently stuffed her purse with cans of warm beer.
“But seriously,” April said, fingering through the rack of other nearby attractions, “who the fuck would ever move here? I honestly don’t think I’ve ever seen a moving truck even drive through this town. People are born here, they live here, and they die here.” April heard Cass make a distracted sound of agreement as she continued procuring their night’s “community involvement.” Cass was a lot prettier than April, and she knew it. She wore tight jeans and low cut tops that made boys and men of all ages give her anything she was using them for at the time. She curled her blonde hair to perfection and lined her eyes with black every morning in the bathroom at school; her parents were crazies who didn’t allow make up. April also knew Cass wore a push up bra and that she occasionally threw up after a meal, which always made her feel a little better by comparison.
April looked at her reflection in the glass wall of the gas station. Too skinny, no boobs, no butt, brown hair, brown eyes, thin lips. She sighed and arched her back, willing curves to appear on her boyish frame. She was sure that puberty was supposed to change her body, but they only thing that grew after her first period in 6th grade was her increasing dissatisfaction of living in her own skin. Cass’ reflection appeared next to April’s, her eyes peering past the window to the outside parking lot.
“Who on God’s earth is THAT?” she purred, licking her glossed lips and nodding towards the station’s auto shop. April focused her eyes past the glare of the fluorescent lights inside and saw a man leaning against the side of a truck, smoking a cigarette while watching cars pass on highway 400. He was wearing a dark mechanic’s jumpsuit that he unzipped halfway, exposing a tattoo on his bare chest. Cass rolled her shoulders back and tugged the front of her shirt a little lower, exposing the black lace of her bra. Push-up bra.
“No idea, probably some grease monkey from Wichita who needed work so badly that he ended up here. Let’s go, the movie starts in ten minutes.” April turned to face Cass but was surprised to find the station, aside from the cashier who was busy thumbing through the newest Hustler, was empty. April looked back outside. “Oh, of course,” she snorted at her own reflection. Through the window was Cass, lashes batted, bumming a smoke from the dirty stranger, who was plainly staring at her tits. April sighed and trudged out of the gas station, intentionally pushing on the glass of the door to leave a smudged handprint behind.
Outside it was dark and foggy, the air so thick that April had to swallow. She hated the heat and the humidity that caused her shirts to stick to her back. The musk of a Kansas summer gets stuck in your clothes, so stuck that even after you washed them they still smell like sweat and fog. April threw away most of her clothes when September rolled around.
The streetlights that lined the gas station filled the parking lot with harsh white light that gave April a headache. The sound of forced flirtatious laughter didn’t help either. She approached Cass, who was practically laying on the hood of the truck, perched up on her elbows and trying way too hard. April tried her hardest not to laugh.
“Uh, hey Cass, we should probably be heading to that movie.” April rocked awkwardly back and forth on the balls of her feet, the foam of her flip flops squeaking with sweat. Cass sat up on the hood, only just noticing that her friend had joined her.
“Oh, Hi. This is Mark. He’s from New York.” She hopped off the hood and mouthed an “oh my god” as she turned to face the gear head, smiling like an idiot and twirling her hair. “Oh yeah,” she spat distractedly, “this is April. She works at Pizza Hut.” Her eyes were fixed on Mark’s tattoo.
“I like pizza,” Mark tossed half a smile at Cass as he reached a hand towards April, “nice to meet you.” His eyes locked with hers for what she thought was an uncomfortable length of time. She let go of his hand after she felt a slight pump of adrenaline that caused her eyes to look down at her toes. She wished her hands weren’t so sweaty.
“Marks invited me to a party in Wichita tonight. You probably have to be home too early, right April?” Cass said absently, her eyes glued on Mark who was lighting another cigarette. April took a hint but felt an incredible urge to yank the stuffing out of Cass’ bra.
“I guess, but what about the movie?” Mark was looking at April, making her feel uncomfortable again; people stare at Cass, not her. Mark cleared his throat and flicked the ash off his cigarette, not noticing when they landed on Cass’ foot causing her face to fall in a scowl.
“What movie did you have in mind?” Mark winked at April. April, confused an unfamiliar with flirtation, looked at Cass for assistance as her memory had been seemingly wiped clean. Cass was noticeably irriatated by the attention she was not receiving from Mark.
“Some weirdo flick where Johnny Depp has knives for fingers or something. But wh

Post Modern Caravan (full movement)

Gypsy Raid
We had minutes. Minutes to grab anything Sara and I could get our dirty silent hands on. Mark stood watch at the heavy oak doors of the church, smoking a hand-rolled cigarette and tapping his foot nervously. Sara and I were almost done blowing out and snatching the white prayer candles. My hands were burning from hot wax and incased by the dried paraffin from the first few candles I didn’t give time to dry. I still had room in my sack; not a good thing in Mark’s opinion. I walked down the center aisle of the church, scavenging for something we’d be able to pawn, sell or use.
“Ha, oh shit look at this!” Sara was standing in the first row of pews, looking down at something that put a grin and wide-eyed look on her dirt-smeared face. I approached her with an extended index finger to my lips, reminding her that we weren’t supposed to be there. Then I saw what she was looking at.
“Holy shit.” I heard slip out of my mouth in a breathy exhale, realizing it was kind of funny to be saying such a thing in a house of worship. On the edge of the pew’s bench was the basket of offerings that must have been left there from today’s service. It was filled with one, five, ten, and twenty dollar bills. No, not full; it was over flowing. I looked at the basket of money and forgot that we were on the clock. This run just got a whole lot more exciting…and illegal. Sara and I looked at each other for a moment, grins spreading across our faces as we realized what we were about to do.
The wax on my fingers made it easier to grab the bills. My knapsack, lacking an inch of room, was full of money, candles, rosaries, Bibles and a single song book. No one really buys the song books at our little merchandise marts we set up when we move around, but the Bibles, rosaries and glass-held relic candles get sold relatively quickly; especially in Mexican neighborhoods. I gently swung my pack across my back, making sure I didn’t break the glass, and grabbed the strap securely with my other hand.
“Let’s get out of here. Churches freak me out.” Having run out of room in her over-sized purse, Sara was now stuffing money into the pockets of her tattered jacket, her face still plastered with that greedy smile. She stuffed the last handful of bills down the front of her shirt and into her bra.
“We should take the basket too. Do you have any room?” Sara looked at my backpack, put the basket on the floor, and slid it under the bench with her foot. “Alright let’s go,” Sarah slung her purse over her shoulder as we started walking towards the back of the church where Mark was standing guard.
We were halfway down the center aisle when Mark let out a startling “SHHH.” The frantic sound reverberated through the aisles of the cavernous Catholic church and up through the dark wood of the ceiling to the tallest point of the central steeple. Sara and I froze in mutual terror and looked to the door where Mark previously stood. Only is arm was sticking into the church through a small crack in the double doors, only large enough for us to see his arm and his broad palm stretched wide in a Supremes “STOP in the name of love” way, while the rest of his body was hidden on the other side of the narthex doors; our only way out of the church’s great hall. Sara and I looked at each other frantically until a motion from the door caught our eye. The stop sign had turned into a fast up-and-down waving motion. Mark’s arm then slid, painful looking, through the door in a blink of an eye, the heavy oak door slamming closed behind him.
Sara and I remained frozen as the echo from the abandoning door close made its way down the aisle we were petrified in. As the sound reached where we stood, we split up. Almost as if the slam was a cue, we turned to opposite sides of the church and sprung our bodies into the same row of pews split by the central aisle of worn terracotta. My raw-skinned elbows and forearms pulled me under a bench in an army crawl and into the protection of sacred invisibility. I quickly maneuvered to face the aisle to see if Sara had landed safely. She was propped up on her elbows and studying her floor-burnt palms with an exaggerated frown. She looked to her left and let out a high pitched peep of excitement that made me flinch. She extended her left arm towards the row of seats in front of her, her right elbow still propped on the cracked clay floor. She slid a black retractable umbrella out from under the bench in front of her and, with a look of satisfaction, unzipped her bulging bag. Flinching again at the sound of the zipper I looked around me. There was dirt left behind from parishioner’s Sunday shoes, the shoes of those who just paid us their week’s tithing. We were giving them their poor and their hungry; we were just speeding up the transaction. I mused at the thought of the three us in line at a food pantry, pleading for another can of beans and a blanket, or begging for pity from some self-righteous suburbanite. I smiled at the thought of us ever falling to some pathetic poorhouse when a clinking noise, once again, snapped me out of my head.
Sara was trying the shove the umbrella into her purse that obviously had no room for it, causing the glass housing the prayer candles to clink and the rosaries to shake against them like maracas. I clicked my tongue against the roof of my mouth to get her attention. She stopped suddenly and looked up at me. With a murderous look I mouthed the words “Shut. The. Fuck. Up.” Exaggerating each word to make sure she knew who she was dealing with. Honestly, sometimes I don’t know why Mark keeps her around; the girl is just bafflingly stupid sometimes. Sara looked at me like a dog that’s just been scolded, then wiggled as she stuffed the fairly sizeable umbrella down the front of her ratty frayed jeans. I rolled my eyes and strained them to look back down the aisle. It didn’t look or feel like anyone was coming and I hadn’t heard anything except the noises from Sara’s acts of defining stupidity. To be sure we were in the clear I gave myself a couple more minutes of dead silence, straightened my hat, and slowly pushed myself out from under the protection of the pew’s splintering wooden bench.
Stealthily, I placed one hand on the seat of the pew I was just under, and reached up to grab the back of the row in front of me. Slowly, very slowly, I pulled myself up, my legs absorbing the weight of my body as I finally straightened my legs. I stood for a moment, staring at the altar at the front of the church, feeling painfully vulnerable and small in the loftiness of the old church. A shiver ran down my spine, snapping me out of my frightened stupor and into full attention. The church seemed so much bigger and daunting when I was the only on standing in it. Pains of stained glass filtered dusty light beams into the church on both sides of a huge, and very realistic, crucifix. I couldn’t help but feel guilty when I looked at the pained face of our lord and savior, crowned with thorns and pinned up with nails. The hot Arizona sun through the stained glass colored his skin, as well as the wood paneled walls and sloping ceiling, a warm palate of different reds and oranges. The musky but pleasant smell of incense tickled my nose and reminded me of how angry my mother would get when I lit sticks of Nag Champa in the house; it covered up the cigarette smoke and weed stink. I almost felt the need to kick down a kneeler and ask the man nailed to the cross before me for forgiveness, for everything I’ve done or didn’t do during the year since I fled home, but my voice of looter reason yelled at me to stay focused.
I looked down to the left to see Sara, still hiding under the pew, motioning for me to get back down or leave or something of that nature. Yeah, like she has any say in what I had to do next. She’s still new to our modern micro caravan. If you asked me, I still think she shouldn’t be here. She’s the kind of stupid girl that could get us busted by her own careless airhead mistakes; but Mark insisted that six stealing hands and another pair of tits could always be of help.
I felt like a mime, my steps taken so lightly on the soft soles of my deerskin moccasins, which were procured by Mark’s swift hands at an Indian reservation shop in Cherokee country; he gave them to me on the same night he told me he loved me, and I haven’t worn any other shoes since. I wondered jealously why he insisted on keeping Sara around, if he had any sort of feelings or attraction to her. My selfish thoughts aside, I reminded myself of one of the cardinal gypsy rules; if you’re in the middle of a potentially illegal loot spot- move.
I walked, quiet as death, to the wall where the prayer candles once burned in penance before we extinguished their messages. Under a pane of warm stained glass I slid against the wooden wall to a kneeling position that still gave me a decent vantage point of the entire great hall. I panned the room; altar, aisle, pews, DOOR. As my eyes reached the double doors they swung open. Before I could hide, I saw the white robes of a prepubescent altar boy. Exhaling slightly I made eye contact with Sara once again, then looked back at the altar boy who was playing with some handheld game device while walking distractedly down the aisle. She looked at me and winked while reaching a hand down the front of her pants to grab the umbrella. I crouched at the end of the pew I once hid under and crept closer to the aisle the boy was nearly in the middle of. Sara maneuvered the umbrella out of her pants as we took our hiding positions; then we attacked.
Sara thrusted the umbrella into the altar boy’s path causing him to trip, face first, into the hard floor. His gameboy flew out of his hand and slid to a halt a few feet in front of me. The boy, still shocked from his fall, began to whimper as I grabbed the game device and stood up quickly and ran as fast as I could, hearing Sara steps behind me, through the doors of the church and into the safety of the setting Arizona sun. Another successful night as a modern-day gypsy.

Indieball Post: Islands

Islands, headed by former Unicorns front man Nick Thorburn, is the refreshing burst of lo-fi indie-pop that I’ve been waiting for. Formed after The Unicorns disbanded in 2006, Islands clears up any bad air left in the indie favorite’s wake. Their first album, Return to The Sea (partially recorded in a former member’s bedroom), made it clear to fans that Islands wouldn’t disappoint. These six guys from Canada bring a fresh and addicting album to the indie music scene with their most recent release, Arm’s Way.
With more upbeat rhythms and catchy electronic riffs than the breezy sound of Return to the Sea, Arm’s Way is loaded with dance-inducing tracks suitable for any party or sunny day. My personal favorite, “Creeper”, is the gem of the album. Laced with electronic melodies, a steady toe tapping pace, and the distinct vocals of Thorburn (once known on stage as Nick Diamond), listeners are sure to be out of their seats…or at least dancing in them. Title track, “The Arm” is equally as upbeat but more complex with exciting bursts of strings, clean piano keys, and lyrics that prove worthy of quoting.
I sure hope Nick Diamond was right when he sang “Islands are forever.”

Check out and rate my islands post here :

Jealous of Nothing

I don’t know if I should wake him up or not. The bum just looks so peaceful and still in his most inconvenient home. Well, inconvenient for me at least. I stare at the bum’s make-shift home; a ratty, piss-stained mattress, a new-looking dark green Rubbermade utility bin spilling with god knows what, and a cheap metal picture frame with clouded glass. I teeter on the metal staircase leading up to the train platform, the heels of my work boots dipping slowly as I take more of the homeless man’s homeless mans haven in. The more I think about it, the less temporary it all seems. The way the shitty mattress fits perfectly into the corner of the landing, how the busting container serves as a nightstand for the lone mystery photograph, it all just seems to fit.
I look at the man, then look at my watch. It’s four am. I hear the first train of the day approaching in the distant ambience of the sleeping city. I have to work at a new site today and I should probably be at the equipment warehouse already, but having no car means using clockwork transportation that just so happens to start when my shift does. I look down at the man, still as silence, on the corner of the mattress closest to me. He’s bundled in winter clothes, or probably all the clothes he owns, even though it’s barely September. There is no expression on his face which makes me think he’s nowhere near uncomfortable or stuffy with heat. He’s so unmoving and content, experiencing the kind of stillness I haven’t experienced in years, if ever. I’m jealous of this bum.
The headlights of the train catch my sleepy focus. Oh shit, my train. I take a step up and extend my leg, holding onto the steel handrail for support, and bounce the edge of the mattress closest to the bum.
“Hey. Man wake up.” I say in a way that I knew wouldn’t wake him. It’s like pinching a baby after it had finally fallen asleep; I feel guilty. Hoping the rumble of the coming train would wake him, I waited on the step I’d been perched on for the past ten minutes until I felt something stir behind me. It was the working men and women starting their day as I was starting mine. I usually don’t see them considering I take the earliest possible train. They begin to head up the stairs, tired eyes blank and ears occupied by the music coming from expensive looking players and phones. As I’m unnoticeably pushed to the side of the staircase I watch these mindless robots of people crush and dirty the bum’s home. His home.
I sigh, turn around and very slowly begin my walk home. I can’t deal with this shit today.