I tried to ask questions today

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tried to walk around obstruction

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push in colors, dropletting face skin

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I wanted every single one of my happinesses

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And I think what kind of allowable things

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my book belongs to me too

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Another template for drawing blood, just wait


//  [un]grateful always to devereux for laying the skin to this book  //


Time passes just as well whether or not I document it.

I used to approach journalling as a means of getting rid of thoughts in my head, the adage of “getting the crap down on the page” so that it’s not clogging up the “real stuff.”

But really though, sometimes documenting just feels like creating. It’s not that you are writing what’s already there, instead, when you write you are creating something out of nowhere.

Which means, if I’m getting too much junk down on the page, haphazard, bonafide, junk, then, instead of clearing my head, what I end up doing is causing chaos, making messes.

Better not document. Or, better yet, better document differently.

I met with a friend today and we tried to talk poetry, somatics, creating with/in the body, all of which ended up giving us headaches.

Didn’t take too long to ditch that, shut up, do 5-minute speed sketches of each other, instead. Quietly, quietly.


What I drew of her


What she drew of me

I made soup today to make the house smell familiar again. Familiar like unadulterated by worry.

I was gone for two weeks (race and creative writing conference in Montana, then a roadtrip all the way to Louisiana and back) and came back to a house besieged under a thin film of abandonment.

Yes, musty, but, also, I think I’m about to kick up a lot of changes with my life, and I have neglected somehow to fully grasp the consequences.

It was this film of neglect that unsettled me into pain, awful, piercing pain the next morning of my return, or was it my uterus, my ovaries, pain with every movement, pain walking, pain sitting, pain sneezing.

So I bought a whole chicken, butchered it into pieces, and made soup, all the while clutching my middle, slightly bowlegged like I’m not actually walking around, I’m not actually real, I’m not actually trying to cook a thing to cure something inside me:

  1. Slice lots and lots of ginger (I used two palm-sized ones)
  2. Lightly fry ginger in some oil for 5-10 mins
  3. Add rice wine (about 1-2 cups) (I used up the last of mom’s homemade one which is red, hence the red-tinged picture) (I need to ask mom how to make red rice wine) (Pretty sure this was from a bottle she fedex-ed me probably 1-2 years ago) (otherwise any chinese cooking wine/rice wine/wine wine would do)
  4. Add in all the meat, fry them around and around for a while (picture below taken at this stage)
  5. Add in hot water to fill up pot
  6. Simmer for 30-40 mins
  7. Season with soy sauce, salt, whatnot
  8. Eat with rice or noodle
  9. House is purified with smell of ginger and chicken fat


How do you say it, ginger red wine chicken soup (or drunken chicken soup) sets me right again like a hug from the inside. Again and again.