Friday, June 30, 2006
on being 24
It's just like 23, except I am one year closer to flying somewhere and renting a car, bitches!
Wednesday, June 28, 2006
A list of 5 things of which I currently cannot get enough (1)
Sweet potato fries
Gin Rummy at night with Sean
Brazil Nut Body Butter from The Body Shop
The Cold War Kids
Meryl Streep in The Prairie Home Companion
Gin Rummy at night with Sean
Brazil Nut Body Butter from The Body Shop
The Cold War Kids
Meryl Streep in The Prairie Home Companion
RIP, beautiful things.
I've loved you all.
In an effort to prepare myself for living abroad, Sean and I plan to rid ourselves of all things extranous or not containable in a hiking backpack. To make matters extra unbearable for my consume-and-horde self, the fam moves to a small California home on July 17th, leaving me with no homebase to store my loads of beautiful posessions.
Sean thinks it's liberating. I do too. Yeah, like liberating myself from my fingernails.
I always encourage writing through one's feelings; ergo, to cope, I've written a healing poem of the Bigley/Farris apartment sweep.
Our fondue pot cannot stay.
My orange couch must go away.
Kilmt, a bookshelf, Mac, TV,
popcorn popper, gone they be.
Right now I am in crier-land
But soon I'll be in...
!!!!!!!
In an effort to prepare myself for living abroad, Sean and I plan to rid ourselves of all things extranous or not containable in a hiking backpack. To make matters extra unbearable for my consume-and-horde self, the fam moves to a small California home on July 17th, leaving me with no homebase to store my loads of beautiful posessions.
Sean thinks it's liberating. I do too. Yeah, like liberating myself from my fingernails.
I always encourage writing through one's feelings; ergo, to cope, I've written a healing poem of the Bigley/Farris apartment sweep.
Our fondue pot cannot stay.
My orange couch must go away.
Kilmt, a bookshelf, Mac, TV,
popcorn popper, gone they be.
Right now I am in crier-land
But soon I'll be in...
!!!!!!!
Friday, June 23, 2006
Caribbean highlights and downfalls
Caribbean highlights:
Finding 3 bags manufactured in 1972 for sale in a Caribbean “department store” -- one waterproof, yellowish, Le Sportsac-looking bag, one large, dull purple canvas tote and one bright red satchel with “MY NEEDLEWORK” stamped across it for 5 dollars total.
The key lime pie in Key West.
Chickens and roosters roaming the streets.
Crying with laughter every night because Sean’s family is so freakin’ funny. Or as Sean likes to call it, sucking up shamelessly because I want his family to like me.
Coming back to a new towel animal every night. My favorite was the towel monkey- Val Kilmer.
Eating the chocolate mints on my pillow while burrowing into a soft, turned-down bed, then using, “I’m on vacation” as justification for not getting up to brush my teeth. In fact, using, “I’m on vacation” for all my hygienic, behavioral and diet-related ineptitude.
24/7 frozen yogurt.
Caribbean downfalls:
Falling off an ocean ledge and walking through THE PIT OF ALL THINGS EVIL AND ROTTING
Back story: Sean and I were gallivanting across the beaches of Coco Kay and spying many island sorts of things- stingrays, a long blue and yellow fish, conches- it was great. Not long into our journey, we happened upon an irregular part of the beach where, at one second, we were wading in ankle deep waters and, in the next, the ocean had gobbled us head to foot. Now Sean thought dropping off a ledge was splendid fun, but I burst into a tearful hysteria and started swimming for my life from the abyss of cold, dark, liquid fear (water).
We went back to the beach chairs to regroup. I put on my Jackie O. hat and sunglasses and we waded out again, very careful to look for the dark spots. That’s when the second danger of Coco Kay hit- the sulfur swamp. Sean was walking; the water touched his knees. I held his hand and sat cross-legged in the water, being pulled alongside him. My whole head was dry and out of the water but my body was sumptuously immersed and gliding. Suddenly, Sean sank down and I thought, “Not another cliff!” But no. It was far worse. It was a long pit of poop-like substance. The taste rested on my tongue in a film and it smelled like someone farted in my nostrils. Sean loosed a scream and high-stepped it out of there. He gripped me like a surfboard, so that my stomach rested against his hip and my head pointed upward and he ran the whole time like this (about 45 seconds). Finally, we reached firm ground and I realized the dryness of my head. Sean had managed to carry me knee-deep through poo without getting my hat or sunglasses wet. I almost proposed to him.
Thursday, June 22, 2006
Ch-ch-ch-changes
A recent trip to the Rite Aid on Market Street illuminated how different my city life is from my county-suburb one.
Before New York and Philadelphia, I picked up litter everywhere I walked. If I saw a smoldering cigarette flicked to the sidewalk, I ground my heal into it to protect the world for unborn babies. I planted seeds in cups and gave them away as presents. I said things like, "Earth Day is everyday." and "PICK IT UP, BUTTFACE!" to those who littered. When I walked by the especially observant they’d say, “What’s that sound Jess? That faint song I hear?” I’d reply, “Hark. It's the Captain Planet theme song, earth brother. I emanate it. Here, have this daisy crown.” I could make a flower bloom by looking at it.
I said good morning to everyone I passed before 11:59 AM and grinned so hard in response to stragers' smiles that a friend told me I looked like I was pooping. I strolled, allowed others to stroll and stopped in the middle of sidewalks to talk to ladybugs and small twigs.
These days, I only pick up litter if it's in the Society Hill area and looks really clean. When I see a smoldering cigarette I leave it burning-I'll even protect it by kicking it lightly out of the main foot traffic path- because some bum is going to sniff it out and make sweet oral love to it. I give gift cards as presents and refrain from eye contact. The only song I emanate now is one I made up called, "Walk faster, you piece of shit."
With regards to daily human interaction, my earth brothers and sisters have vanished. Now, my world is made up of people who talk to themselves and people who don't. The people who talk to themselves occasionally open to the outside world to ask if your butt likes “whoopass sandwiches humph diddy potata.” (1) The people who don’t talk to themselves might tell you, with utter and terrifying clarity, that they hate your face and "want to beat the white bitch out of you."(2)
So, back to the Rite Aid--I was picking up some meds when an old man walked by the pharmacy counter to ask where he could find eyeglass holders. I’m guessing he’d lived about 75 years. He left a minty/smoky scented trail and reminded me of my great-grandfather; I thought he probably even used the old powdered toothpaste that Papa loved because he had a tiny smudge of white on his upper lip. He was sweet looking; time had bent his shoulders down a little so that when he lifted his lined face to look around, he resembled a peering turtle. I made a mental note to start volunteering at a nursing home.
When no one at the pharmacy answered him, he ambled away. I left my place in line, against my city sensibilities, to look for the small eyeglasses tower that all drug stores have. “Sir, hold on; I’ve found them,” I called out, reaching out for a soft leather case and a hard plastic one. I walked them over and he said, “Oh, thank you, dear” and then he put them in his breast pocket AND WALKED OUT OF THE STORE.
As he was leaving, I heard one pharmacy assistant say to the other, “Well, looks like the old cokehead just stole some more stuff.”
1. attributed to the woman by the bus station who crunks to head phones that are not plugged in.
2. attributed to James Massenson, the man who lives 6 doors down from me and who stared at me the entire time the police filled out the report on why he chased me up the block about 3 weeks ago. Yes Kate, I now get out my mace and start shaking it as I turn onto 13th.
***
Before New York and Philadelphia, I picked up litter everywhere I walked. If I saw a smoldering cigarette flicked to the sidewalk, I ground my heal into it to protect the world for unborn babies. I planted seeds in cups and gave them away as presents. I said things like, "Earth Day is everyday." and "PICK IT UP, BUTTFACE!" to those who littered. When I walked by the especially observant they’d say, “What’s that sound Jess? That faint song I hear?” I’d reply, “Hark. It's the Captain Planet theme song, earth brother. I emanate it. Here, have this daisy crown.” I could make a flower bloom by looking at it.
I said good morning to everyone I passed before 11:59 AM and grinned so hard in response to stragers' smiles that a friend told me I looked like I was pooping. I strolled, allowed others to stroll and stopped in the middle of sidewalks to talk to ladybugs and small twigs.
These days, I only pick up litter if it's in the Society Hill area and looks really clean. When I see a smoldering cigarette I leave it burning-I'll even protect it by kicking it lightly out of the main foot traffic path- because some bum is going to sniff it out and make sweet oral love to it. I give gift cards as presents and refrain from eye contact. The only song I emanate now is one I made up called, "Walk faster, you piece of shit."
With regards to daily human interaction, my earth brothers and sisters have vanished. Now, my world is made up of people who talk to themselves and people who don't. The people who talk to themselves occasionally open to the outside world to ask if your butt likes “whoopass sandwiches humph diddy potata.” (1) The people who don’t talk to themselves might tell you, with utter and terrifying clarity, that they hate your face and "want to beat the white bitch out of you."(2)
***
So, back to the Rite Aid--I was picking up some meds when an old man walked by the pharmacy counter to ask where he could find eyeglass holders. I’m guessing he’d lived about 75 years. He left a minty/smoky scented trail and reminded me of my great-grandfather; I thought he probably even used the old powdered toothpaste that Papa loved because he had a tiny smudge of white on his upper lip. He was sweet looking; time had bent his shoulders down a little so that when he lifted his lined face to look around, he resembled a peering turtle. I made a mental note to start volunteering at a nursing home.
When no one at the pharmacy answered him, he ambled away. I left my place in line, against my city sensibilities, to look for the small eyeglasses tower that all drug stores have. “Sir, hold on; I’ve found them,” I called out, reaching out for a soft leather case and a hard plastic one. I walked them over and he said, “Oh, thank you, dear” and then he put them in his breast pocket AND WALKED OUT OF THE STORE.
As he was leaving, I heard one pharmacy assistant say to the other, “Well, looks like the old cokehead just stole some more stuff.”
1. attributed to the woman by the bus station who crunks to head phones that are not plugged in.
2. attributed to James Massenson, the man who lives 6 doors down from me and who stared at me the entire time the police filled out the report on why he chased me up the block about 3 weeks ago. Yes Kate, I now get out my mace and start shaking it as I turn onto 13th.
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
On this day, 17 years ago, I got her.
Hey, remember when you used to sleep in my bed and I would chuck your pillow across the room? You’d go retrieve it, climb back in bed, rest your pretty head down and I’d throw it again. I usually did it 18 or so times in a row. God, that was funny.
This entry is devoted to my little sister, B-Bob Farris (what…she was named after her grandfather). On this day, 17 years ago, I got her.
Dear B-Bob,
Around this time…
15 years ago, your body shook with laughter when I blew raspberries on your tummy. Dog and dad were interchangeable and you would say “Daddy poo?” for “Let’s go in the pool, Dad” and “Daddy’s a bum.” for “Someone give this dog a bone.”
13 years ago, you sat on my butt every time I lay on my stomach in front of the TV. You wanted to watch Cinderella everyday and you loved going down the carpeted basement stairs in your silky Care Bears sleeping bag.
11 years ago, you often perched on Papa’s lap to watch the Weather Channel with the focus of an 80-year-old. You picked out a little black cat and would only consider naming her feminine-sounding synonyms for black.
9 years ago, you still brushed your hair out and thought Dad’s farts were hysterical.
7 years ago, mom kicked us out of a restaurant for being too damn funny. We did a butt dance for fluffy lemon chiffon pie and got down on our knees to beg for mom’s forgiveness when she returned to the hotel room.
5 years ago, you thought Britney Spears was the shit. I was in Allentown and I missed you a lot.
3 years ago, you danced dances that actually looked good and played songs on the piano so beautifully that I thought the radio was on. You made me laugh every time I saw you. I started thinking of you as Lindsay, my friend and sister.
last year at your sweet 16, you walked to the front of the room and spoke with the humor and eloquence of an adult. You were changed! Old! Mature! But you wore a light blue dress with sparkles, like Cinderella, so I could cope.
Happy birthday, Lindsay.
Love,
Jessie
This entry is devoted to my little sister, B-Bob Farris (what…she was named after her grandfather). On this day, 17 years ago, I got her.
Dear B-Bob,
Around this time…
15 years ago, your body shook with laughter when I blew raspberries on your tummy. Dog and dad were interchangeable and you would say “Daddy poo?” for “Let’s go in the pool, Dad” and “Daddy’s a bum.” for “Someone give this dog a bone.”
13 years ago, you sat on my butt every time I lay on my stomach in front of the TV. You wanted to watch Cinderella everyday and you loved going down the carpeted basement stairs in your silky Care Bears sleeping bag.
11 years ago, you often perched on Papa’s lap to watch the Weather Channel with the focus of an 80-year-old. You picked out a little black cat and would only consider naming her feminine-sounding synonyms for black.
9 years ago, you still brushed your hair out and thought Dad’s farts were hysterical.
7 years ago, mom kicked us out of a restaurant for being too damn funny. We did a butt dance for fluffy lemon chiffon pie and got down on our knees to beg for mom’s forgiveness when she returned to the hotel room.
5 years ago, you thought Britney Spears was the shit. I was in Allentown and I missed you a lot.
3 years ago, you danced dances that actually looked good and played songs on the piano so beautifully that I thought the radio was on. You made me laugh every time I saw you. I started thinking of you as Lindsay, my friend and sister.
last year at your sweet 16, you walked to the front of the room and spoke with the humor and eloquence of an adult. You were changed! Old! Mature! But you wore a light blue dress with sparkles, like Cinderella, so I could cope.
Happy birthday, Lindsay.
Love,
Jessie
REASONS FOR APPLICATION
Please explain your reasons for applying to the MA programme. Give details of your experience and interest in your proposed field of study. This statement is a key part of your application.
I called my housemate Sarah into my room two years ago. She sat on my bed and I on the hardwood floor and I said, "Listen."
"To what?" she asked.
"To this. ‘Would the departed never nowhere nohow reappear? Ever he would wander, selfcompelled, to the extreme limit of his cometary orbit, beyond the fixed stars and variable suns and telescopic planets, astronomical waifs and strays, to the extreme boundary of space, passing from land to land, among peoples, amid events.’"
"Woah," we said together.
This was our last semester of college. We were weary of our small campus and restless for the world. Joyce woke us up and kept us happy. During my senior year, I read "Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man," "Dubliners" and "Ulysses." Joyce’s writing knocked in my skull with a rhythm unique. His words--"rosesoft" and "softworded"-- slid down my throat. I was drunk on him and I’ve missed talking about him since.
Since my senior year I have surrounded myself with language. I’ve been an editorial assistant at Cambridge University Press and The American Association for Cancer Research. I appreciate the endurance of grammar and words more now than ever. The fact that I can correct a sentence on Fas-induced apoptosis without any knowledge of its meaning delights me. I’ve joined book clubs and been bold in writing workshops. I’ve befriended my local bookstore owners and given them a fortune in return for soft cover literary company. I’m ready, however, to rejoin academia. To study Ireland’s writers in Ireland seems right, and after much investigation, I’d like the MA in Anglo-Irish Literature to be my first step toward a Ph.d.
I called my housemate Sarah into my room two years ago. She sat on my bed and I on the hardwood floor and I said, "Listen."
"To what?" she asked.
"To this. ‘Would the departed never nowhere nohow reappear? Ever he would wander, selfcompelled, to the extreme limit of his cometary orbit, beyond the fixed stars and variable suns and telescopic planets, astronomical waifs and strays, to the extreme boundary of space, passing from land to land, among peoples, amid events.’"
"Woah," we said together.
This was our last semester of college. We were weary of our small campus and restless for the world. Joyce woke us up and kept us happy. During my senior year, I read "Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man," "Dubliners" and "Ulysses." Joyce’s writing knocked in my skull with a rhythm unique. His words--"rosesoft" and "softworded"-- slid down my throat. I was drunk on him and I’ve missed talking about him since.
Since my senior year I have surrounded myself with language. I’ve been an editorial assistant at Cambridge University Press and The American Association for Cancer Research. I appreciate the endurance of grammar and words more now than ever. The fact that I can correct a sentence on Fas-induced apoptosis without any knowledge of its meaning delights me. I’ve joined book clubs and been bold in writing workshops. I’ve befriended my local bookstore owners and given them a fortune in return for soft cover literary company. I’m ready, however, to rejoin academia. To study Ireland’s writers in Ireland seems right, and after much investigation, I’d like the MA in Anglo-Irish Literature to be my first step toward a Ph.d.
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