es // coffee is for lovers


she sends her regards

musings, ink stains & siren songs

Teach me how to steer
es // coffee is for lovers

I am without a house. Well, I’m in my house still, but my days are numbered. By the end of next month I have to be somewhere else, anywhere else. I have been looking every day. I’ve looked at so many places. I’ve gotten my heart set on more than a few. And every one that I fall for falls away. One was because my credit is messed up (still trying to fix what my past did and what my late ex did, a combined mess). One was because another interested party paid an entire year’s rent upfront. Another one outbid me by $300 a month (who does that?)  And another still decided to rent to a family member.

I have a letter of recommendation from my landlords. I make enough money for any place I look at. I have good references and a job I’ve been at for four years. I am a good tenant. And, I’m scared, terrified really, and battling daily bouts of anxiety about this.

My daughter, the younger of my two girls, starts high school next year. She already has her schedule. She gets to be in advanced drama because of her experience. She has AP and pre-AP classes lined up. She has a good group of friends. And, she may not be able to go at all if I can’t find another house in our rather small town.

She’s panicking and sad and scared and taking it all out on me.

I get it, I really fucking get it, but it hurts all the same.

I lie in bed, tears silently falling, unable to sleep because of worry, because of fear, because of sadness, and because of this overwhelming feeling of failure.

After everything we’ve been through I had finally found some stability and security, and the kids felt it, embraced it, breathed easier in it, and now I feel like it is all imploding.

And my marriage, if you can even call it that, is over. It is over and I know it, and he knows it, and I said it – out loud – and he just sat there silently, not arguing, but arguing all the same. He never shows emotion except anger at inanimate things. He never shows any emotion to me. He told me when he thinks of talking to me his mind is just blank. He said I just want you to be happy. He said nothing is really going to change.

I said I can’t do this.

Because I can’t do this.

I don’t want to do this.

He locked himself in the bathroom and I could hear him crying. He came back to bed eventually, lying there in heavy silence, awake, but saying nothing.

I tried to sleep, but really, how could I?

The next night he came to me with no solutions, no words, just this vacant stare. I asked him what he wanted to do, where he’d go, what his plans are.

He said “I don’t know”.

He said “I don’t have anywhere to go.”

He said “I just want to be with you.”

And I felt my insides collapsing, along with my will.

The next morning I woke and touched his face softly, and I said we can work this out.



My insides were SCREAMING at myself. What was I doing?


I think back at last Thursday, meeting that guy from my past. We had dinner and talked and the tension rose. He asked me back to his and I made a million excuses. I didn’t go back. I didn’t, but I wanted to.

I kissed him though.

It felt fucking great to be kissed, to be touched at all, to feel something.

I still didn’t go in, though I wanted to.

Though I’m not sure I ever want to see him again.

I just want so much more than this. So much more.

So, why did I say that? Why did I cave? Why did my words not match my feelings?

I drive to work and cry.

I talk to the dead one again. I tell him fuck you for leaving me. Fuck you for leaving me with messes to keep cleaning up. Fuck you for making me feel like abandoning others will lead to them killing themselves. Fuck you for making me so fucking scared all the time.

And yeah, fuck you because I still miss you sometimes.

Every time he and I moved we were brave about it. We never worried that we’d fail. We just went, we just jumped, we just moved.

I don’t know how to be that girl anymore.

My head, and my heart, feel filled with water. I feel like I’m drowning.

I feel like I forgot how to swim.

Blue lights and sirens
cb // get out of my dreams you scum

This past weekend came and went in a blur. It was full of time with friends and being away from all the stress in my life, though it did wind back up in the epicenter of stress on Sunday late afternoon, it did. But, at least I had a mini-sabbatical from it. I needed it.

Friday night was Allison Anders and Ione Skye and Gas Food Lodging. The movie hit me in such a different way than the last times I’ve watched it. It had been awhile since I’d seen it, so long that there were details and scenes I’d forgotten about, including the ending.

I forgot that the ending broke my heart, even though it had an element of hope in the sadness in regards to life, and love.

I saw myself so much in Fairuza Balk’s character, even though she is so young in it, Shade being sixteen and so naive. I saw the me at that age, and the way I felt (and over-felt) things, the kind of boy I fell for (at least the first one), and how wistful I once was to know my estranged father.

I saw myself, too, in Brooke Adams’ character, Slade and Trudi’s mother, but not as much as I’d expected to. There were parts of who she was I just couldn’t wrap my head around, in some of the ways she reacted to her daughters, especially how she was with Trudi – I just couldn’t stand it. But, in her alone times, and in her dealings with one of the men in her life, I very much related.

Allison was incredible to hear speak, and to meet. I especially enjoyed and appreciated her speaking on her writing process, and how certain details, like the glowing rocks, made it into the story, and screenplay. We all insert parts of our life and life experience into what we write, no matter what the genre – I think all writers know that to a point. But, its nice to see another writer acknowledge it.

The desert has always had a special place in my heart, and has woven itself into some of my storytelling. So, for me, this film is one of my many muses.

Saturday night it was dinner with my oldest friend. We went to The Twisted Vine for tapas and shared a bottle of wine and all these delicious small bites . They were playing this great mix of late 80’s alternative music the likes of Love & Rockets, INXS, Peter Murphy. We went from there to a few bars in downtown Fullerton, saw two bands play – one was a mediocre 90’s cover band and the other a stellar rockabilly trio that blew us both away. Rum and Diet Cokes were my drink of choice. We briefly ended up at a small bar that was hosting karaoke, though we didn’t stay long. From there we went to the Rio, a dive bar that also hosts karaoke, one that she and I used to frequent. It was the place I met my husband at.

It was odd to be there, especially now that things have gone so awry in my marriage. But, we did meet-up with a friend of my friend’s who I never met. She and one of her friends ended back at my friend’s house and we ended up talking and playing vinyl albums all night, finally going off to bed after 7am.  I don’t remember the last time I had an all-nighter like that.

We woke up at 11, both hungry and slightly hungover. we went looking for breakfast burritos, but much to our chagrin most places were closed for Easter. We finally found a place, limping in with sunglasses on and looking like rock stars post-gig and post all-nighter, not exactly an Easter Sunday look.

We spent the rest of the late morning/early afternoon cross-legged on two sides of the couch, talking and laughing, and recovering. There’s nothing quite like time with your best friend, there really isn’t.

A headache and tired eyes accompanied me home. I showered quickly and the kids and I went to my mom and stepdad’s for dinner. I missed my older daughter, wishing she’d been able to come, but she was on shift at work. I got to play with my niece and nephew though, their laughter made me forget that I needed sleep.

I grabbed a too strong coffee on the way home that didn’t even phase me really. I suppose it kept me awake for a little bit though, as I was able to get through this week’s Walking Dead before collapsing into a much needed sleep.

Today it was the gym in the early morning. Bikes and treadmill with The Libertines and Abba singing in my ears. Then work, and lunch out for a veggie burger and tempura green beans. Writing and working today, and feeling inspired, albeit a little blue.

The stress of trying to find a new place to live is creeping back in. I’d escaped it a bit over the weekend, but its back. I’m just trying to breathe and trust it will all work out.

Tonight, I just want to listen to the Jackals and work on some writing…

Victory Gin (live) :: Carl Barât And The Jackals

The inevitabilty of real estate and broken hearts
es // coffee is for lovers
Name: Laura
Title: The inevitabilty of real estate and broken hearts
Rating & Warnings: G
Summary: Learning about the sale of my grandparents' house.
Note: Prompt: This is not my grandmother's sofa.

Read more...Collapse )

cross-posted on PULPED_FICTIONS

But nowhere, nowhere's on our way
af // love penny lane
It's my birthday.

It's a complicated day for me, but it is still that. My birthday.

I'm trying to carve out ways to make it mine again, to find the happy in it, to not get overwhelmed in the grief that still is attached.

This was once my late husband's birthday, and our anniversary. I wrote something about it, and to him, earlier here. But, I don't wish to write it all out again.
I'm trying to be okay, trying even to be happy.

It's my birthday.

It's a complicated day for me, but it is still that. My birthday.

I've gotten so many lovely notes and pictures and songs from people. I'm overwhelmed by the love in the best of ways. I'm so incredibly lucky to have such amazing people in my life.
I'm lucky to have music that I love, bands and artists to obsess over, books and TV shows to be a fan of, and crushes that make me feel like a giddy teenager again.
I'm lucky to have the best friends ever - old friends and new ones - and amazing kids.

I'm lucky to write, too. To love writing and to have allowed myself the space and time to write.
Writing is my art, and it keeps me sane(r). Well, writing and music.

Music really is my oxygen.

Oh, I posted the first part of my resurrected fic last night. I'm really enjoying writing it again, and being back with P and C again <3

ll at once my whole world had changed
es // coffee is for lovers

Flash writing (20 minutes without a pause):

The winds were howling through the canyon as we drove back to your house. It would be the first time I’d walked through the door, well, it would be the first time for a lot of things, for me, for us. You rolled the windows down and turned up the music. You said you wanted to feel everything. Wild Horses blew over us as the wind rushed through the downed glass.

I think I loved you already, right then, right there.

We raced up the steps, laughing, breath knocking out of us, my heart beating like an eighties drumbeat. I was too swept up to feel the jangling nerves, but they were there, rattling along, flapping their spreading wings.

You grabbed hold of my hand, pulled me close, saying nothing much of anything, but saying everything all the same. I breathed you in, breathed the front room in. You smelled of soap and citrus and cigarettes and a hint of peppermint. The room like wood, like old books, like the music room in school, and again, like citrus. A line of guitars smiled up at us and I made a silly remark about never going home with musicians.

You kissed me then.

And everything around us lit up.

I pulled back then. Overwhelmed, shaking, realizing that yes, I was falling, hard and fast.

In the middle of that kiss the choir of self-doubt and baggaged fears had started to sing. Their voices high-pitched, almost screaming, making my ears ring and my heart sink.

For a moment I thought I’d run.

Maybe you could see it in my eyes. Maybe you felt it when I pulled away.

You grabbed my other hand, softly, and said “it’s okay.”

I wanted to ask “what is?”

But then I turned back, looked into your dark eyes, soft, warm, quietly pleading, and I believed you.

You asked me to put music on, while you went to grab us a bottle of wine.

It was like you asked me to conjure up magic because that’s what music is to me.


Like that kiss.

Like that room with all the guitars, and all the lined up record albums.

Like the soft tone in your voice making promises of okay, promises that no one can really keep.

Not without magic.

You had my favorite Roxy Music album. One I’d had on cassette.

I played it in my first car, obsessively, until the tape wore our, and tore.

You told me your favorite song was “Dance Away”.

And then we danced. Tripping a bit over each other as we tried to navigate our newly met bodies.

Your dog howled in the background.

Like a back-up singer. Like an audience-of-one cheering us on.

I could still hear the wind outside. Heavy sounds, full of action and movement. Emotion and change.

Like us that night.

Dance Away :: Roxy Music

I Wish, part 2
pc // hold me closer
Alright, so I found my old fic that has about 12 chapters written, or well, 10 chaptes and a 2-part prologue. I spent part of the day today editing and tweaking and revising part 1 of the prologue, and I'm wondering if it is okay to re-post it where it was originally posted (), or if it is now too dated as it was written originally in 2008..though I know still where I wanted it to go/want it to still go.

I'd forgotten how much I was loving writing this.

Everybody in the whole cell block
es // clem
I woke with Bowie in my head.

On my way in to work I listened to a writer talk about craft and then a podcaster speak on the paranormal and ghost stories. There was one that gave me to the bone chills. I almost had to turn it off, but I didn't, because sometimes fear without actual danger can be thrilling.

I have a thing for stripes, an affinity, or maybe its an obsession. Last week I bought a stripey dress to add to the, well, many in my closet. It was one of two dresses, part of a buy one get one half off thing at Target, so really, how could I resist? Then it was a stripey long tee shirt at the thrift store that just had to be mine. I suppose the dark green maxi dress I bought Saturday, the last day of that buy one... sale counts, too, as it is dark green and black stripes.

I'm wearing the black-and-white dress today.

I'm becoming a one-girl Jailhouse Rock song come to life.

Jailhouse Rock :: Elvis Presley

I so have that tee shirt - maybe more than one.

Tomorrow is my birthday. I tried to take the day off work but there's too many meetings I can't get out of. At least there will be Thai food at lunch, though I'm so not a fan of the group lunch, especially not when I'm the reason. I'm not so good at being the center of in-person attention.

To the girl with the mousy hair
kstew // i don&#39;t give a damn
Flash writing (20 minutes without a pause):

I woke with Life on Mars? in my head. It was a musical hangover from a dream I’d been having of Bowie singing live in a darkened club, one that I wrote about recently. It felt like I’d been there. I swear I could smell cigarettes on my clothes, taste the sting of a strong rum drink on my tongue, as well as the tingle of kisses shared with a boy who smoked cloves. Sometimes my dreams are so vivid that all I want to do is go back into them, or at least write them down. I need a composition book to sit there by my bed.

Bowie singing. I’d fallen asleep to a Bowie video playing in the background. It wasn’t Life on Mars? though, it was that duet about street dancing he did with Jagger. But Bowie came along anyway, into my subconscious movie. It was nice to see him singing, to forget for a moment that he’s not still of this world.

I was standing in that dark club with a skinny boy next to me. He held my hand in his bony one, threading his fingers with mine. I couldn’t see his face, but if I could I think he’d have been a mash-up of three different boys that have been on my mind lately; two from my past and one not so much. But, maybe he would be someone completely different. Maybe he was someone my mind just made-up.

I was wearing a striped dress, black-and-white, so when I got dressed this morning I had to comply. Black-and-white stripes came with me today and its kept the dream going for me, at least parts of it, the remnants and half-awake imagery. I keep trying to turn the boy towards me, to get just the right angle to bring his face into focus. I want to see his face, hear his voice, feel his lips on mine.

But, all I have is the feeling of his hand in mine as Bowie’s voice sings about the girl with the mousy hair.

I could make him up, couldn’t I? The magic of being a writer is we an make everything up, rewrite our own history, create the better thing to say, the right way to look, or look away, kisses when we wanted them, running when it was the right thing to do, and that last conversation that never happened, we can write that out, too.

The truth, our actual history, is not so pretty, not so tied together, not so articulate. Mine’s not, at least. No, I’ve always been too clumsy, too quiet when I should have spoken or shouted or sang out, too full of the wrong decisions.

Is that part of why I write? Is that part of the appeal of creating other scenarios? Characters who either fuck up as badly as I have, or who take the trips and falls and make them fated, special, and full of story arc and meaning. In stories our regrets have meaning later. In writing we always defeat the antagonist, or at least we learn something from the battle, even if in the end we lose.

The dialogue always flows, and fills in the silences. We push ourselves to not drown in exposition, when in reality all we do is over-think and lose ourselves in all that thought.

But some days I don’t want to talk out loud at all. I don’t want any dialogue. I want to turn up the music and just think think think. I want to get lost in pages and pages of exposition. I want to break all the fucking writing rules.

Or, I want to go back to the dreaming. Bowie in the dark club singing, and a tall, thin boy standing next to me, holding my hand.

Life On Mars? :: David Bowie

Or was it my soul?
tb // first day of my live
I feel like I should be spinning Up the Bracket and Arcade Fire's Funeral and some Bright Eyes while I post.

The early 2000's had me writing here all the time.

I miss it more than I like to think on. The communities, the interractions, the sense of, I don't know, belonging. I felt it back in the mail-list days of the internet, too, though I think LJ expanded it, or maybe for me it encouraged me to write more, it inspired the writer in me to come out and play, take risks, and put myself (and my words) "out there".

I feel so separated sometimes amidst the land of social media. And even though I still keep a blog (well, two really) on a regular basis, I often feel that I'm sending words into a great abyss, and though it is still me writing, and keeping myself writing, I feel so disconnected. Though, I know that LJ is a bit of an abyss, too. Or it has become one. But, some of us are still here, right? And maybe if more of us come back we can bring some of the spirit back?

I started Daredevil S2 yesterday. I'm trying hard not to binge-watch as it is so not the way I like to take in series, but its hard not to. Jon Bernthal has my heart already, though to be fair he stole it back on The Walking Dead as Shane. And well, Charlie Cox, Deborah Ann Woll and Rosario Dawson already stole my damn heart last season, so, I'm back again, fictional crushes intact.

I need some Daredevil icons.

My Sunday writing workshp has me drowing in nostalgia. I'd been writing a rock band novel, but took a break to work on what is becoming a memoir. It is intoxicating, at times, paging through old paper journals and writing out moments from so long ago. It does have a melancholic aftertaste though that sticks around and makes me feel a bit blue. I don't miss the girl I once was because she's still with me, she's still me, but I do miss people who I've lost touch with, and I do miss certain connections.

Maybe that nostalgia and the stirrings of past are part of why I'm here again. Perhaps when katie_delaney and I started talking about it, it is why I felt so pulled back. I think its more than just me being sentimental though, I do think that this space mattered to me once -- so much -- and can matter again.

Now to unearth some old fic.
I know I'm going to want to revise/rewrite like a mad woman, though. I know I will.

I'm also tempted to pull up old music mix posts and curate them via Spotify because really, I think I need to reunite with some of those songs (well, the ones I don't still listen to all the time - hey, Libertines, I'm looking at you, kid).

Vertigo :: The Libertines

Where have you been?
gg // for the love of coffee
Flash writing (20 minutes without a pause):

It was a daily ritual, at least when I wasn't flat broke, which was more often than not that year. But, this was a good month, late July, 2007, I think, and I'd somehow managed to keep aside enough for a morning coffee. I'd read some quote from Twin Peaks' about giving yourself a gift every day, and a caffeine fix that included a walk outside, was mine.

I wasn't alone in this endeavor. The rush of bodies walking in small groups, or in their own worlds, clambered towards the green and white oasis of Starbucks, going through the security gates at the Warner Brothers entrance. We weren't exactly "on the lot", but close enough to require a bag check.

My mind was filled with the cacophony of song lyrics, daily stresses and the daydreams of what I was writing at the time. I didn't notice anyone around me. The weather barely registered. Sometimes I walk through life that way, so unobservant, barely in the world at all.

Would I have recognzied you if I'd caught your eye? You claimed to have seen me as I'd walked in a daze, pushing open the doors without looking up, stepping into the line.

Ahead of me was a woman who wore her entitlement like an accessory, treating the barista on the other side of the counter like less than hired help, barking a complicated order at her in sharp tones. I made a comment under my breath to no one in particular. I'd been on the other side of a counter before, many actually, and though I'd never made coffee or food (mine were clothing and book and record stores), I'd dealt with people like her.

I didn't  mean for anyone to hear me. Sometimes I forget that there are people around me at all. But you heard, and you remarked back, agreeing with my disheartened observation. I glanced back then and our eyes met. I rolled mine, and you laughed.

We both were kind to the barista and tipped her well, trying our best to make up for the rudeness. My drink took longer and when I turned to leave, you were gone. I felt a tinge of disappointment, though I wasn't sure why. I had nothing more to say, but...I'd wanted to say something.

You were waiting outside for me. You asked me for a light.

We both still smoked back then.

I knew who you were, but I never said. Not then at least. Not until much later.

I couldn't tell you what we talked about that first late July morning. I'm not sure it even matters. You were there and I was there, and in those early moments some synapses fired between us. A connection started to form, just the early stages, and we'd refer back to that day in the days, and years, that followed.

On bad days you'd bring me a coffee.

On days when we hadn't spoken, days when we were all but gone, on some of those days we'd send a picture of a coffee we had, as a photo text, often saying nothing else, but saying so much more than nothing else.

Coffee became a memory, a trickery, a secret language between us.

Even now, miles away, I could send a coffee reference, a photograph, a quote, or just the order I still remember as yours, and it would say more than hello. It would say I miss you. It would say that I'm thinking of you. It would say things that I choose to not say even here.

Today I am thinking of you.

But, today I send nothing.

Because today it all hurts when I think of trying at all.

So, I write. I listen to music and write. And, I remember.

Maybe not every word we spoke. Hell, I can't even recall what that rude woman even said.

But, I remember your eyes. The way your sleeve brushed my naked arm. The way my head tilted slightly to the left. The way your smile tilted slightly to the right.

I remember the sound of your voice interrupting mine in that excited first conversation way when two people have so much to say.

I'd say I miss you, but really, I just can't.

Again :: Lenny Kravitz


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