close your eyes. make a wish. and...

And you.

There’s something about the corner of a wrap-around porch that makes you feel like you're sitting at the edge of the world.
And the way the willows shake their leafy hips in the breeze that makes you feel like dancing.
And the smell of a wood fire that warms you, even though its flame is out of sight.
And how a hand resting upon your lap rests upon your heart.

this is what my drive home produced...

The springs of her bed creaked and groaned with every tired tousle, any reasonable readjustment, driving her to submit to the land mines beneath: she made each night's slumber as motionless as possible. This still, however, did not take care of the untamed springs that would poke and prod her like an unanswered toddler--poke, poke. Neither the metal coils nor a being so small possessed the ability to understand such an annoyance. Even so, the thought of removing herself from the hot-pocket cocoon her mere six and half hours of undesirable, rigamortis-like hibernation had created was a difficult one. But it was peculiarly defined moments such as this--along with the seasons when pointy-toed heels outshined round-toed pumps--that allowed her to be, for once, thankful for the authoritative gradient her toes took, allowing her to attack the uncovered air...One. Digit. At. A. Time.

teeny tale: all dressed up

she likes it when her nails are painted a vibrant shade of crimson because it makes her feel all dressed up, even when that which falls between her digits isn't.

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness...

What's on your bookshelf? Maybe you're a literary snob: your shelves boast with the likes of Hemingway, Faulkner, Joyce, Steinbeck, and White. Maybe the majority of your introduction to great American literature was had and left in the chalky dust of your AP English class over a decade ago. Either way, the works that find their way to call a place "home" upon your shelves have made it there for one reason or another. It's a classic. My girlfriend said I HAD to read this. I had to buy them for my college courses. 


The bound pages one displays only allow yet another set of "covers" for others (i.e., those who have themselves thought consciously about their own visible collection) to judge you by. And it's just another conversation starter for those interested, while some would rather chose to comment on your collection of records--or lack there of--or the tabletop of trophy bourbon.

I'm by no means a literary snob, nor have I left my passion for literature on the high-pressure laminate work surface of years gone by. My collection is a combination of books I've read and acquired through my own means, books snatched up waiting patiently in queue, books borrowed, and those adopted from my partner's own collection. One from the latter that I've seen floating around, that I've even rearranged neatly within our Ikea cubed bookshelf, is the above: Howl and Other Poems by Allen Ginsberg. This ongoing contact lead me to choose "Howl," the movie, as my most recent movie drama.

Ginsberg's work was published by City Light Books in San Francisco in 1956. It's uninhibited use of obscenities brought it, along with the publishing house, much attention. To some, Ginsberg's choice of words were found offensive. For this, Lawrence Ferlinghetti, the publishing house owner, was charged for distributing obscene material. The 50s were a time of cultural revolution; those who chose to write about it became known as the "Beat Generation." But as once said by Ginsberg himself, and once again in the movie through the lips of James Franco,"there is no Beat Generation, just a bunch of guys trying to get published."

The trial drew national attention and marked a pivotal point in literature: breaking down the boundaries of what could and could not be published in the United States. It allowed for an entire generation to come out in expressive word, even in sexual orientation. It broke ground in the use of acceptable language. It openly announced that the world is not an aesthetically pleasing place to us all; therefore, describing it just as one sees it, be it beautiful or damned, was deemed acceptable. Together this Beat Generation flipped the bird to euphemisms, and banned together toward a world of written word that allowed them to tell it like they saw it. Write it how they felt it. Put words to the sighs that left their mouths. The tears that dampened their cheeks. The howls that boomed from their bellies.

I've already picked up the book I had organizationally tangoed with. The run-ons, the incantations, repetition, even the obscenities sit with me well. And it's because of its existence and what it brought thereafter that is due thanks for such an open invitation.

Seek the movie out. Watch it. And fall in love with the power of words and the writers who masterfully organize them to say that which the rest cannot.

teeny tale: tatter

the rain went pitter patter, as her heart began to tatter. & as polka dots adorned her plain tee, she tittered. & then littered the puddles with her fears; the pool beneath her swelled from the flow. & as she looked to the wealth of drops that had fallen below, she saw staring back that which frightened her most of all...

teeny tale: a single branch

he said it’s funny how life works. how many paths it can take. & all the moments that lead up to those possible paths. there are just an infinite number of possibilities. like a tree, with each branch shooting off in its own direction. although, she said, a tree does have a limited amount of branches. but it still works, because the paths we’d actual take are in fact limited anyway. i mean, yes, the possibilities are themselves endless, but there's usally only a few paths we'd really take and those are the ones that are a bit more defined, just like the branches of a tree. well thanks, he said. & she added: besides, there’s only one “branch” i wanted to choose. & which one would that be? he asked. the one that pointed to you, she said. & when she came home later that day, upon their porch sat their potted star magnolia with all but one branch pointing toward her. she smiled--it was a drastic statement but one of love nonetheless.

teeny tale: "dear sleep:"

dear sleep:

i know it’s been quite some time now since we last caught up. but i’m hoping you’ll come ‘round again. i miss you sleep. i realize i can be difficult at times with my night owl ways & my false perception of how my caffeine consumption doesn’t affect my sleepiness. but i promise…i pinkie promise if you come back, i’ll make it right between us. i’ll put the pen down at eight & stop the mind-editing by nine. i’ll even change the sheets so they have that mild mix of cotton breeze from the dryer & cedar from the chest -- the scent that helps me breathe in deeply & exhale slowly. & then i’ll slip that worn-out tee over my tousled bed-ready hair & pop on a pair of exhausted tube socks to cover my tootsies…just long enough to warm ‘em up until they’re set free by a quick kick. i’ll pull the blinds down & swivel them closed—pointing up. & then close the heavy drapes right before i close my heavy lids. 

so what do you say sleep? can I see you soon? please don’t make me wait…i'll only grow restless, & then we’re sure to never see each other again. & that…that would just be no good. because we’re good together, you & me. & deep down, i think you need me just as much as i need you.

with love,
jessie lynn

teeny tale: closer look

bloated backpacks blocked her view. & then through the window that idled right above her, rode a boy whose face was smooshed up against the glass of the school bus. he seemed to be inflicting this awkward position upon himself; no sign of a bully was present. so she decided to smoosh her face, too, upon the cool glass of her driver-side window. & she then realized the boy could care less about what he looked like or what his jammed up flesh was going through & more about being closer to the world. that's when she decided the boy would grow up pressing a pen to paper, just as his face pressed against the glass, so he could always have a closer look.

sunny b

you're tweet.