spaghetti war crimes

Long day for a minimum day. Subbed for Jana today. Her class is always tricky. They take a lot of patience and energy. Fucking talkative bunch. After work I hung with Hayden and that was fun. We went to Roosevelt Coffee, and it was good. Chatted and did bits and laughed; like always. That really cute barista was there. I think she recognized me despite the drastic haircut cause when we made eye contact, her eyes lit up a bit. I want to try and ask for her number or something but don’t wanna blow up the spot.  She’s real beautiful. I bet she smells great. Like fresh laundry and juniper and persimmons. Light and airy but flowery as well. I want to hear her talk more. I’ve only heard her say a few words. I want to hear her curse and be angry and shout and whisper and laugh and mutter and exclaim and laugh. Really laugh. 

Andy and I have been surfing a lot more lately. At least more this year compared to last. We surfed Doheny last Friday and had a blast. The wave was super weird; I didn’t remember it being like that, but then again, the last time–and first time–I surfed there was ages ago with Dylan and Emma. It was a very slow wave and continued to move towards shore without breaking until it crashed up on the lip of rocks about five feet from the receding edge of the water. Once while we were out, a couple set waves came in, not too big but still, they were set waves, and I paddled frantically to get over them. I did this once or twice and then for some reason, probably because of the tide and how slowly the waves were breaking that day, an idea popped into my mind: “we’ll get there eventually.” I can talk about it more later but all the thinking I’ve been doing on mortality kind of sprung up from my subconscious in this moment I feel like. Yes, I wasn’t talking metaphorically in that exact momen...

i stare into my phone and look over blonde hair green eyes a shirt that’s too big a running stride images from the past thinking i hope there will be more i hope that this is not the end i hope that all this pain will be worth something i can’t text and i can’t call we agreed space would be good if that’s the case then tell me why i’m falling asleep with your sweatshirt between my legs 2/7/22

I fucking hate chess. I don’t know why I suck at it so much. Like, it’s a simple concept: capture their pieces without letting them steal your pieces. So simple but I suck so fucking much. So much! Anyways. Yesterday I went to dinner with one of the girls staying in my hostel room. Her name, I think, was Tsinhe. She’s from China. I first said hi to her two days ago and we spoke very briefly. Then yesterday when I got back from skating, I showed her some of the clothes I bought and got to know her a bit more. I made a little show of pretending to try on the clothing items. It awarded me with a few laughs. I wanted to go to this Chinese place for dinner cause they had rice and miso soup, and I thought that’d be best for my upset stomach. I felt bad asking the Chinese girl to a Chinese restaurant, but I was curious about her. Turns out as we were walking there, the restaurant named Bento Copenhagen is not Chinese but in fact Japanese. Yep. Nice Brennan. When we got there, we realized we ...

Unrequited (adj.): not returned or reciprocated Love (n.): a profoundly tender, passionate affection, often mingled with sexual desire, for another person Many years ago, I gave a girl I loved a book for her birthday; and since I loved her, I couldn’t just give her any ordinary book. Well, the book was ordinary enough, but I felt that I must imbue it with some special quality. Since I didn’t know any spells or incantations at the time, I settled on something a bit less fantastic. I started on the first page of the book and circled a word, then I continued farther down the page and circled another. Turning the first page, my eyes skimmed the second as I searched for more words to circle. Word by word, I began piecing together a poem for this girl I loved, hidden in plain sight. I got to around the 20th page before I was content with my conglomeration of appropriated words and phrases. I gave her the book and waited for days, then weeks, then months for a text or call or facetime. I don’...

I miss being surrounded by creative people. I find myself many times a day, here at home, being deeply driven to create: Draw, write, photograph, zine, record, whatever outlet it is, but I have no one to collaborate with. Maybe the word collaborate isn’t even the correct word. I have no one to be with creatively. In Uni, I was constantly around people that were creating. Literature and writing majors; graphic design and art majors; Even some of the history majors had a creative bone in their body. At school I was never lacking inspiration from creatives around me, but now that I find myself graduated and back at home in the city I grew up in, I find there to be something missing.  Back in the apartment at Loma, I could be reading a book or watching a skate video, and the barometric reading of my creativity would undoubtedly rise. Slowly. A front disaster… up two units. A beautifully constructed parallel sentence… up three units. A cinematic B-roll shot… up another unit.  Then...

     Cresting a hill, I drive and look upwards. I see the criss-cross of power lines catch the early morning light against the backdrop of a blue sky. Streaks of chem trails from low flying planes slowly float down from the atmosphere and into our soil and cereal bowls. Morning air breaches my slightly cracked windows and streams over the features of my face. Skimming my ears and crawling up my nostrils. I squint in order to shield my eyeballs from any unnecessary buffeting. I reach the climax of the hill and for an instant, look out onto the city.      A backdrop of Mexican mountains lazily rolls from east to west. They seem to meet the ocean and drop off as sheer cliffs into pastels of blue, green foam. Dazzling light bounces off the millions of windows that line the office buildings and skyscrapers that sit in tight knit arrays along the streets before me. The city looks like a single, shimmering diamond dropped into the purse of an old woman. ...

        Caked in white powder, one would assume a fresh blanket of snow had just fallen in the small 12x8 garage that we are currently occupying. I sit on a sideways crate, watching as Tommy goes over–again and again–all sides of his styrofoam chunk with an instrument that must be a close cousin to the cheese grater. A resilience is needed by the surfboard shaper. The repetitive motions might be seen as tedious to some, but from my observations, the back and forth motion of the cheese grater facilitates a passive inertia that moves up Tommy’s arm, through his shoulder, into his neck, and eventually floods into the back of his eyes. With a glossy look and furrowed brow, he continues on with his task at hand. I, along with his surroundings, dissipate into non-importance as his world becomes narrowly focused on the board before him. This is the sign of not only a true shaper but of a true artist at work. Tommy is both.