so says the straw hat

The preview line of the email read "Holy shit. I just realized your not A. Davis anymore." What a conflicting thing to read. I felt immediately smug that my new last name is Mojgani which means I married a man that I love and I loved him enough that it made sense that we would share a name. He agreed to take mine as his middle name so we are going quasi-modern on this one. But after the smug pride of being married came defensiveness. I am too a Davis! I have years of christmas trees and scraped knees, bee stings,  camping trips and popsicle summers to prove it. I can tell you about how my brother cracked his head open on the basement-stair overhang or just the way he sounded when scaring me by howling "I'm Old! Warn Away!" Davis means long car rides and getting sick off of cheezits and tall grass adventures at the ocean. When cousin peed her pants in the back yard. Playing office in the graveyard tree. The gray ghost. Crunching cans, burning ears of indian c

A short list of observations/thoughts from tonight's ATX poetry slam: Anis is pretty much awesome at pac-man Why have an event start at a time if it never starts at that time? Is a late starting event a self-perpetuating monster of slowly increasing tardiness? Resulting in ever-later start times? Resulting in further encouraged tardiness? Causing even later start times? So people show up later than ever.... Most slam masters remind me of one particular slam master I used to know quite well. I wonder if it is the nature of memory or the nature of slam masters. Why go to a poetry event if you aren't going to listen to any other person's poems? Why poetry? Is poetry egotistical?  What would  happen if somebody signed up to Slam and did not use "the old standards" up on stage? Cristin O'Keefe Aptowicz is one funny, talented lady. She made me laugh so hard I lost my breath.  And to go a little more introspective...I wonder if letting go of my faith all th

Christmas music on my pandora station!

When we came back from thanksgiving we found out two things in as many days: 1) the heat in our house does not seem to be working. With overnight temperatures dropping below freezing, I feel fairly confident this can be considered a "problem." 2) we have rats. in our attic. and falling down our walls. I am also certain this can be catagorized under "problem." I am starting to think that being a grown-up is a bad idea. Let us move backwards then. When we considered it a "problem" when somebody wasn't playing fair at Loopin' Louie or the monster under the bed was a problem. Back to when deciding whether we wanted to buy the popsicle on the way to the donut shop or on the way home was a "problem." When doing homework was a "problem." Scraped knees. Lost Monopoly pieces. Incomplete Fire Safety Escape drawings. Not high enough allowances. The neighborhood boys. Give me those problems back. I officially resign from this whole &q

I got an email yesterday from a dear friend in Mexico who said she was personally thankful for me. So simple was the gesture, and yet so meaningful. In a world inundated with immediacy and efficient mass-communication capabilities (ie. the blanket text, the impersonal email, the facebook blast) it is nice to know that there are still people on the planet who slow down long enough to make the moment personal. Out of all the different thanksgiving wishes i received, all appreciated, this one was the most memorable, stood out the most, because of one simple word: my name. She used my name. She sent this specific email just to me. It inspired me. When I got home to my freezing Austin house--yes it gets cold in Austin you non-believing northerners--there was a sweet thanksgiving card in the mail from my mom: the queen of cards. I feel loved. I want to practice sending small messages of love to the people in my life. It is such a simple way to spread good cheer.

Oh vegas. How my feet do ache! How many interesting people are here. So many wonderful lights.

Remember Maine? And all the lobster we enjoyed?

I am sitting next to the crooked tree at the top of the bluff. Austin is a city skyline in the distance, a lazy meandering city between green hills with a great blue river cutting between. I am watching the river flash secret mirror-messages to the sky. The kayaking couple make good time under the bridge. The bridge is the color of rust, an arched contrast to the flickering flat blue river. When other people walk up, I ready myself to leave. I do not feel like being interrupted. She is carrying two white balloons with the words "Health" and "Happiness" scrawled in black permanent marker. He asks me overly excited: "What are YOU doing here?" we are both wearing 49ers paraphernalia. He should be taking her picture. She is untangling balloon strings. So quickly, before we can think, the wind sweeps the balloons up and away. Swift, out of her hands, and there was no picture taken. We all watch them fly away feeling helpless and guilty and helpless some mor