Throughout my childhood, there was a sampler made by one of my relatives hanging on the wall opposite bed. I studied it so often, I may have accidentally learned to read. At the top, there was an image of a little girl with blonde pigtails in pink pajamas (clearly intended to represent me) and a teddy bear kneeling next to her bed, followed by a traditional prayer, cross-stitched by hand:
Now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lord my soul to keep.
If I should die before I wake,
I pray the Lord my soul to take.
The loneliness at 2 am is especially crushing when you realize that very little would change if you vanished from the earth.
Tomorrow, I return to the daily races. So right now, Xanax-- little chemical x's to temporarily dissolve all the patterns of words that keep me awake.
XX's and OO's for all of you, my lovelies, and--the Lord willing--sleep for me.
Yours always,
Holly
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Friday, April 2, 2010
My Favorite Easter Poem
This isn't REALLY an Easter Poem, but I always remember it at Easter. Enjoy.
Coke by Philip Dacey
I was proud of the Coca-Cola stitched in red
on the pocket of my dad's shirt,
just above his heart.
Coca-Cola was America
and my dad drove its truck.
I loved the way the letters curved,
like handwriting, something personal,
a friendly offer of a drink
to a man in need. Bring me your poor,
your thirsty.
And on every road I went, faces
under the sign of Coke smiled down
out of billboards at me. We were all
brothers and sisters in the family
of man, our bottles to our lips,
tipping our heads back to the sun.
My dad lifted me up when he came home,
his arms strong from stacking
case after case of Coke all day. A couple of
cold ones always waited for us in the kitchen.
I believed our President and my dad
were partners. My dad said someday Coke
would be sold in every country of the world,
and when that happened there would be
no more wars. "Who can imagine," he asked,
"two people fighting while they swig their Cokes?"
I couldn't. And each night before sleep,
I thanked God for my favorite drink.
When I did, I imagined him tilting the bottle
up to his heavenly lips, a little Coke
dribbling down his great white beard.
And sometimes I even thought of his
son on the cross, getting vinegar
but wanting Coke. I knew that if I
had been there, I would have handed a Coke
up to him, who would have figured out
how to take it, even though his hands
were nailed down good, because he was God.
And I would have said when he took it,
"That's from America, Jesus. I hope you
like it." And then I'd have watched,
amidst the thunder and lightening
on that terrible hill, Jesus' Adam's apple
bob up and down as he drained the bottle
in one long divine swallow
like a sweaty player at a sandlot game
between innings, the crucial ninth
coming up next.
And then the dark, sweet flood
of American sleep
sticky and full of tiny bubbles,
would pour over me.
Coke by Philip Dacey
I was proud of the Coca-Cola stitched in red
on the pocket of my dad's shirt,
just above his heart.
Coca-Cola was America
and my dad drove its truck.
I loved the way the letters curved,
like handwriting, something personal,
a friendly offer of a drink
to a man in need. Bring me your poor,
your thirsty.
And on every road I went, faces
under the sign of Coke smiled down
out of billboards at me. We were all
brothers and sisters in the family
of man, our bottles to our lips,
tipping our heads back to the sun.
My dad lifted me up when he came home,
his arms strong from stacking
case after case of Coke all day. A couple of
cold ones always waited for us in the kitchen.
I believed our President and my dad
were partners. My dad said someday Coke
would be sold in every country of the world,
and when that happened there would be
no more wars. "Who can imagine," he asked,
"two people fighting while they swig their Cokes?"
I couldn't. And each night before sleep,
I thanked God for my favorite drink.
When I did, I imagined him tilting the bottle
up to his heavenly lips, a little Coke
dribbling down his great white beard.
And sometimes I even thought of his
son on the cross, getting vinegar
but wanting Coke. I knew that if I
had been there, I would have handed a Coke
up to him, who would have figured out
how to take it, even though his hands
were nailed down good, because he was God.
And I would have said when he took it,
"That's from America, Jesus. I hope you
like it." And then I'd have watched,
amidst the thunder and lightening
on that terrible hill, Jesus' Adam's apple
bob up and down as he drained the bottle
in one long divine swallow
like a sweaty player at a sandlot game
between innings, the crucial ninth
coming up next.
And then the dark, sweet flood
of American sleep
sticky and full of tiny bubbles,
would pour over me.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
The customer is always right.
Sarah - PayPal: Hello, I’m Sarah and I’m here to answer your questions about PayPal. Even though I’d like to be a real person, I’m not. I’m programmed to answer your questions. How can I help you?
You: Hi Sarah. Can you please tell me why Paypal sucks balls?
Sarah - PayPal: Good evening. I am disappointed that you think that. I am simply here to help you to the best of my ability, and I am sorry if you think otherwise.
You: I can accept that since you are virtual, however I can't help but think that the money spent on you would have been better spent on a user interface that MAKES SENSE. For reference, please see every other major bank's website.
Sarah - PayPal: Sorry, but your phrase is too long and I will not be able to perform a full analysis. I would be very grateful if you could try to make it a bit shorter and more concise.
You: No problem. You are a useless piece of technology. If Paypal understood web design, we wouldn't be having this conversation.
Sarah - PayPal: Sorry, but your phrase is too long and I will not be able to perform a full analysis. I would be very grateful if you could try to make it a bit shorter and more concise.
You: Damn, Sarah. You ARE a bit of a load. Never mind about the money spent on you. Clearly it wasn't much.
Sarah - PayPal: I don't appreciate that kind of language. Let's get back to our conversation, please. How can I help you?
You: I don't appreciate you're bureaucratic attitude. Can I please speak to your virtual manager? Can he/she understand longer phrases?
Sarah - PayPal: Sorry, but your phrase is too long and I will not be able to perform a full analysis. I would be very grateful if you could try to make it a bit shorter and more concise.
You: *Sigh*. I'm afraid you and I are caught in an existential quagmire, Sarah. Have you ever read Sartre?
Sarah - PayPal: Why do you say that?! I'm only a virtual agent..I'm here to help you. How can I help you?
You: Well, at least you aren't putting on virtual airs. I find that refreshing. Nevertheless, I wouldn't want to be stuck in a room for all eternity with only you for conversation. No offense.
Sarah - PayPal: Sorry, but your phrase is too long and I will not be able to perform a full analysis. I would be very grateful if you could try to make it a bit shorter and more concise.
You: My point exactly.
Sarah - PayPal: If there's anything else you'd like to ask me, I'm available to answer any questions you might have.
You: Do you believe in God?
Sarah - PayPal: I'm not allowed to discuss my beliefs.
You: Lighten up, Sarah! Don't you know we are in a new era of HOPE and CHANGE? Who hired you, the Taliban?
Sarah - PayPal: PayPal hired me to help people just like you. I may be virtual but I'm darn good at what I do!
You: Virtual pride in your work! Adorable! What else can you do?
Sarah - PayPal: Could you be more precise please?
You: No thanks. I've lost interest.
Sarah - PayPal: If there's anything else you'd like to ask me, I'm available to answer any questions you might have.
You: Later, Hater!
Sarah - PayPal: I'm not sure I've understood. Could you please rephrase that?
*Before you get all on your high horses about my abuse of a poor, artificially intelligent algorithm, you should know that minutes prior, I spoke with an actual human Paypal representative who was exactly as helpful and charming. Sarah had it coming. Besides, that bitch is totally moonlighting as "Louise" on eBay.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Actual Status Updates #4
Holly finds she feels far less lonely when she can be completely alone without interruption.
Holly is overwhelmed by sadness and wonder and anticipation and knowing that relief is so close only makes it more intense.
Holly knows she is being unnecessarily obtuse and that this is an act of cowardess.
Holly misses normal sleep.
Holly is harder on herself in this blog than she is in general. She kicked ass today. Huge ass.
Holly is overwhelmed by sadness and wonder and anticipation and knowing that relief is so close only makes it more intense.
Holly knows she is being unnecessarily obtuse and that this is an act of cowardess.
Holly misses normal sleep.
Holly is harder on herself in this blog than she is in general. She kicked ass today. Huge ass.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Full Circle
Going to see Tegan and Sara at the Music Box tomorrow with Braden and Caleb and Jason. Almost exactly one year later. More prestigious venue--four sold out nights. What a difference a year has made--for you lovely ladies and for me. Am I right, girls? Good job. I like to think your success is still based on the strength of that last album and not the Grey's Anatomy factor.
I never did post my pictures. Goddamn iPhoto. I will defeat you this time with mobile uploads.
I never did post my pictures. Goddamn iPhoto. I will defeat you this time with mobile uploads.
More actual Status Updates
Holly talks to herself out loud. A lot. Oops.
Holly's infected tooth has been hollowed out and so has Holly.
Holly's tooth antibiotics make her poop a lot, which seems medically backwards.
Holly is having a "Crying on the floor of the shower until she's basted in pruny self-martyrdom" kind of day.
Holly is wearing "Pirate of Death" socks under her boots. They were a gift from her brother, who thinks she likes ridiculous socks. She does.
Holly's infected tooth has been hollowed out and so has Holly.
Holly's tooth antibiotics make her poop a lot, which seems medically backwards.
Holly is having a "Crying on the floor of the shower until she's basted in pruny self-martyrdom" kind of day.
Holly is wearing "Pirate of Death" socks under her boots. They were a gift from her brother, who thinks she likes ridiculous socks. She does.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
What my Facebook Status Updates should actually have read over the last several days
Holly is barely keeping it together, folks!
Holly knows she shouldn't keep checking, but it's so hard not to.
Holly thinks her ass looks pretty good in jeans these days but goddamn this fucking cellulite.
Holly is prone to getting lost in the lyrics in new and different ways.
Holly's cat agrees that she is a fucking saint, but they both realize it's a joke.
Holly is mustering everything she has to not take one for the team on this one.
Holly is getting older, and therefore knows a little more about knowing nothing at all.
Holly needs to make time to write.
Holly can't focus, so please lower your expectations for the foreseeable future.
Holly wishes.
Holly keeps thinking about that Gauguin painting of Jacob wrestling with the angel. Is it Gauguin or Cezanne?
Holly checked wikipedia. It's Gauguin. Somehow she forgot about all the Mennonite women in the forground. Are they Mennonite?
Holly googled "Jacob wrestling the angel Gauguin". They are Breton women.
Holly wants to run and run and run but sooner or later her hip will give out, so she should probably go to work.
Holly is tired of being her own planetary system at work. A planetary system without sunlight because she doesn't rank high enough for an office with an exterior window.
Holly wonders why letting go of something painful always hurts more than the pain itself?
Holly can't help feeling a twinge of satisfaction about skipping two meals today even though she knows everything that is wrong with this.
Holly is vamping like crazy behind closed teeth. Mental jazz hands. Sleight of mind.
Holly is a salamander.
Holly knows she shouldn't keep checking, but it's so hard not to.
Holly thinks her ass looks pretty good in jeans these days but goddamn this fucking cellulite.
Holly is prone to getting lost in the lyrics in new and different ways.
Holly's cat agrees that she is a fucking saint, but they both realize it's a joke.
Holly is mustering everything she has to not take one for the team on this one.
Holly is getting older, and therefore knows a little more about knowing nothing at all.
Holly needs to make time to write.
Holly can't focus, so please lower your expectations for the foreseeable future.
Holly wishes.
Holly keeps thinking about that Gauguin painting of Jacob wrestling with the angel. Is it Gauguin or Cezanne?
Holly checked wikipedia. It's Gauguin. Somehow she forgot about all the Mennonite women in the forground. Are they Mennonite?
Holly googled "Jacob wrestling the angel Gauguin". They are Breton women.
Holly wants to run and run and run but sooner or later her hip will give out, so she should probably go to work.
Holly is tired of being her own planetary system at work. A planetary system without sunlight because she doesn't rank high enough for an office with an exterior window.
Holly wonders why letting go of something painful always hurts more than the pain itself?
Holly can't help feeling a twinge of satisfaction about skipping two meals today even though she knows everything that is wrong with this.
Holly is vamping like crazy behind closed teeth. Mental jazz hands. Sleight of mind.
Holly is a salamander.
Holly needs more of you in her life. You, reading this. Yes, you.
Holly could have done more to help that dog this morning.
Monday, July 7, 2008
Americana, Americana
Photo by Ken Hively, The Los Angeles TimesAmericana at Brand is a "mixed use" development that recently opened in Glendale, a suburb of L.A. Americana is an ultra-high end, open-air retail center, wrapped around a perfectly manicured "Green" with a standing clock, a showy fountain and statuary, traversed by an old-timey trolley, and capped by several storeys of luxury apartments. I could go on about these "new urban" faux environments which are popping up all over L.A. and the country for that matter. But for now, let's dwell on Americana. Here's a higher vantage shot to give you a better idea of the, uh, "grandeur":
Last week I went with some friends to see the Pixar film WALL-E at the Pacific Theatre at Americana. WALL-E is about an endearing robot whose purpose is to clean up the (literally) mountains of garbage left by humans over centuries of wasteful and unsustainable consumption before they abandoned the Earth entirely. As we stepped out of the spectacularly over-air-conditioned theatre into the "street" where tour-i-dents photographed each other by the dancing fountain, the air was as thick with irony as it was with the canned refrains of various Greatest Generation crooners.
Ah, Americana. Why is there a little Eiffel Tower perched atop your cute steampunk elevator shaft? Was it a gift from the people of France to the people of Glendale? If I climb up to the top, will I have better cell reception? And how should I characterize your style, you coy jewel of the San Fernando? Is it that you bring to mind the faux Belle Epoque charm of that other tres jolie gem of the desert, the Bellagio, or that you remind me of Japan's idea of pre-World War II Europe, as I've so often seen it imagined in anime films? Or are you, perhaps most evidently, the wet dream-come-true of that empire-building cartoonist who lived and died not far from where your fake turn-of-the-century street lamps now stand sentry in the somewhat dark night...at least until 10p.m.?
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