Comments Posted By becca Loo

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Shore up the sides, the back, and leave the front open. Today we scoop up the spent grain into totes for the farms, we won’t dump the yeast in the high strength, we won’t waste the CO2, not today. Today we brew sustainably. Today we brew for the next decades not for the next month.

» Posted By becca Loo On 05.11.2017 @ 8:38 am


They were out late that night and nobody felt like going home. Their outfits were too skimpy for the Oregon nighttime. Too bad tomorrow is Friday, so close to the weekend but still so far.

» Posted By becca Loo On 01.26.2017 @ 8:30 pm


it’s been a long time. she was slipping back into the normal ways of living. faint memories of alternative lifestyles still etched into the paper of her mind like crayon on cloth dipped in dye. acrobatic displays of experience winding time into a mobius strip.

» Posted By becca Loo On 03.04.2016 @ 12:59 pm


one stripe. two stripe. three stripes a country. primary colors and primary priorities.

» Posted By becca Loo On 12.08.2014 @ 3:27 am


the day seems longer than you think. tonight is just beginning and we have so much more to look forward to. i miss you like i miss the old me. all the time. but that’s background music and you’re background music now. take care of yourself, tom, the night is young and the future IS bright. and if you must: don’t die alone.

» Posted By becca Loo On 04.29.2014 @ 6:16 pm


Quiet night. Fall is here with Winter close behind. There isn’t anything left to talk about tonight so we’ll start with that: not talking. A typist is like a tone deaf pianist. The concerto monotonous, broken, stuttering it’s only beautiful to the eyes. I’m a long way from home and for a good reason. No reason to type about that now though I guess. Do you like the piano? I do. Maybe some people only type because they weren’t any good at the piano. I suppose if someone played the keyboard like the piano it would look awful. I’ve tried typing words with the piano but that’s fairly limited like this piece. Goodnight.

» Posted By becca Loo On 11.06.2013 @ 5:05 pm


to start the day off: a dry piece of toast, a cold orange, and a fresh orgasm. some routines are funny in their dichotomy. i read yesterday that there is more to life than physical action, that there is much more life to be lived inside one’s own mind. some days it’s hard to leave the bed, the dream flows into the day. sometimes i don’t notice it and it’s like i am watching something real. i don’t know where these storylines come from. they live in their world complete. today i played no part in the dream i just watched and in watching i was omnipotent of all subplots and plot twists lazy dreaming is what i call it. and yet it’s easier to leave a dream i have no part in. i’m not needed for the world to continue, it doesn’t cease to exist after i leave. the one’s where i’m in control are the hardest to keep still and the hardest to leave, then it is like something is physically pulling me down the rabbit hole. i am aware of my body and can strengthen or weaken the sleep paralysis, the tingle and buzz of exhaustion. it feels important to hang on to that wispy world as if i were close to a secret i could never gain access to otherwise. sometimes it’s scary because the secret seems to be to never come back, the secret is everything is already there in the dream, in the dreamer. as if i could change time entirely and go back to it, to never having been born. the manipulation feels necessary at first then i know i’m supposed to let go but i’m afraid i’ll buoy back up to my bed and forget the feeling of the secret. strange post, sorry oneword, lucid dreaming for all it’s clarity can be so hard to write about (and read about, i’m sure).

» Posted By becca Loo On 07.30.2013 @ 3:33 pm


leaky, like really leaky, like really really leaky all over the kitchen floor. it’s 2 am and anna has been sleeping through this for a whole hour. i’m doug i hate my name. the kitchen sink is leaky, really really yaddi yaddi ya. so we ate dinner last night and we ate dessert late night and we cleaned the dish and left the pot to soak in the leaky leaky sink. stupid humans are we. the faucet leaks, the sink leaks, the floor is wet. really wet. good thing we have a dog.

» Posted By becca Loo On 07.10.2013 @ 6:00 pm


He works in a coffee shop, coffee shoppe. Aren’t you jealous? Can’t you just get high off the steam of fun that evaporates into a cloud of camaraderie around the coworkers? Today is a weekday it means we care less about the banter that people overhear simply because there are less people. It’s a weekday. It’s also happy hour. $3 pints so it’s fun to watch the one or two people chug and chuckle drunk. It’s fun to watch the newbie couple laugh. Today is Tuesday which means we’re getting ready for the restaurant weekend which is Thursday through Saturday and Sunday morning if we’re lucky, lucky in work I mean, we’re always lucky outside of work (winkety wink wink). His name is Jose they love him for it here in Texas because it makes them feel less white working with an immigrant, oops I mean, a second generation Mexican-American. Jose don’t mind none though he’s glad to be able to fit in for once. He used to work at a bike shoppe before this. You couldn’t imagine the white pretension that followed him everywhere. It’s not the same as working on cars; when you work on bicycles for some reason white people don’t think you belong as if bicycles were too fragile for tiny Mexican hands. If only those white men knew what he could do for their women with his Mexican hands. Silly thought. They’d hate him more. Plus most white women suck at true intimacy. It seems like almost every person he’s been with at least knew the rules of intimacy. Fucking is always so much better when someone can actually hug you back. Race divisions know well how to run through the beds of infidelity.

» Posted By becca Loo On 07.09.2013 @ 3:40 pm

Christmas in July. Silly sweat soaked wrapping paper. “Here I brought you this Georgetta, it’s about your father. They say he was a great man.” “Yeah he was also great at the great art of the infomercial. Do you like infomercials, Johnny?” “I like what you like, sweet Georgetta. Why don’t you scooch over a bit?” “Are we playing that game where we only communicate in questions?” “Will you play with me?” “Will you promise to keep your hands to yourself even if I tease you?” “How hard will you tease me?” “How hard do you want it?” “OH, I lose, you win forever and ever you win now scooch.” “Le sigh, boys are so easy especially the older ones that are still pretending to be young. You lost, Johnny, you always lose against me.” “There are so many things I’d like to lose against you.” “Oh wit, oh fervor, oh silly boy humor. It’s late and my father is too famous for you to scandalize his daughter.” “Your father was a professional boxer. Your father is an Olympic gold medalist. Your father is an ordained Baptist minister. Then after all his glory your father let them use his name on a fat reducing grill. Your father is a joke, come joke with me.” “My father is a joke and so are you. Go get wrapped up in your hand I’m done with being your lean mean fat reducing machine. Take it out on your wife.”

» Posted By becca Loo On 07.09.2013 @ 2:47 pm


it’s just another season, right? drix was sitting across from the boy of his dreams but he didnt know it yet. sometimes it takes a catastrophe to learn how to get things right. hello cruel world.

» Posted By becca Loo On 12.23.2012 @ 2:31 pm


jean was good about these things. first he would knead the clay for at least five minutes it builds arm strength plus the pug mill at the community center didn’t actually do anything aside from shaping the clay into one large cylindrical lump. he’d take his molded clay into the other room, sit down, center himself, exhale and plop. right in the middle of the wheel. then wet his hands, reinforce his elbow against his hip and press on the pedal. the clay so smooth, the excess water splashing outward all of it made him feel in control again. the world seemed easier then it usually did. not like the windy night that broke the screen door not the like the windy morning that stung his eyes and froze his fingertips. now there’s only warm water and slick possibilities. he didn’t even know what he was going to make. he’d been wanting to make a sake set but he hated sake so it seemed kind of useless. he could always sell it in some school sale. he was always told to price his “art” at a much higher rate but he really didn’t care; he wanted it to sell he didn’t want it anymore. plus lugging it around on his bike was asking for trouble he always broke pieces. he’d been getting better at gluing them back together. he used to fill in the cracks with white toothpaste until a frequent customer said their dog kept licking the vases and so now if he did glue stuff together he would tell his customers to fill it in for themselves when they got home and warn them to keep the stuff out of animal reach.
somehow while he was thinking of all this the clay had turned into a small sake container. oh well i guess that’s what he wanted. his favorite part or what he imagined would be his favorite part would be pressing the indentations into the side. he liked messing with soft clay. it was a pivotal moment everything could be ruined in one motion. he scraped the excess clay off the wheel and used his wire to do a light spin, added more water to the wheel and gentle as he didn’t know he could be until he started doing ceramics he slid the bottle onto a board. he wet his hands a bit more, positioned where he thought the divots should go and first lightly touched the two spots to make a mark. then with his thumb pushed in the first. the whole bottle gave slightly and a quick thin rush of fear moved up from his belly to his chest and rested in his cheeks. he pushed the other indentation because at that point all you can do is go forward. the warp corrected itself. the tightness of fear released, he felt a small slightly shameful swell of pride. not bad for a brute. not bad for a man who used to be in prison.

» Posted By becca Loo On 12.10.2012 @ 10:15 am


this one time out at marcel’s place we were planning a get together and were wondering what all else we should have beside food and alcohol and people and so since his place is real messy and it’s got lots of rubbish everywhere like old couches and picture frames and pallets and stuffed animals and wine barrels we decided to build a fire. by the time we stacked everything as high as we could and as sturdy as we could we realized it might get a little out of hand. but then again it was a get together and if something happened we would all get together and fix it or watch it play itself out. so we found some newspaper that wasn’t wet and divided it amongst 4 of us and we stuffed a few ground bloomers in the middle of them on each corner of the pyre and all at once lit them except jimmy didn’t get his time. it was alright though he ditched and the other three fires did his work for him. the fire was something to see because even if you closed your eyes you couldnt help seeing it it was like sex scenes in movies you watch with your parents or war scenes in movies you watch with old vets it kind of made you sick all above your head and still not able to touch the sky still not lighting anything up but down. it kept on like that for a while the up not changing only the down swirling its shadows like a stew of people smoke it didnt help that there were stuffed animals melting on the couches and glowing wine barrels that shifted like they were full of old winos too drunk to stand up and save themselves old yellow winos and old forgotten stuffed animals.

» Posted By becca Loo On 12.05.2012 @ 11:10 pm


loaded word

» Posted By becca Loo On 08.13.2012 @ 4:41 pm


my feet smell like clean dogs
they walk like nimble cats
they stamp like wet sand

my hands smell like fresh milk
they sweat like newborn babies
they wring like worried old women

your mouth
a dark cavern
an unsung aftershave
a wet comma
hanging on the fall sky
of eugene, oregon

» Posted By becca Loo On 05.21.2012 @ 12:04 am

my feet smell like clean dogs
they walk like cats
they stamp like wet sand

my hands smell like fresh milk
they sweat like newborn babies
they wring like worried old women

» Posted By becca Loo On 05.21.2012 @ 12:01 am

tonight is even toned, a soft melody against a rather boring background. tonight someone is changing their life and wanting to share the experience but not here. here there is day old wine in glasses as big and deep as chowder bowls as to make the night seem endless. i keep dreaming of driving. driving too quickly i can’t get the speed right. i can’t slow down. what it means i only half know. somewhere someone has made a life choice they’re sticking to, but not here not yet. my mouth has made the choice but my insides know better. my insides are the car, my outside is the motion. i’m setting too many things in motion, my mouth too big for my britches. britches so big in my mouth, so good, so alluring. half toned, even toned, tell a lie the truth. my life’s become a turbine blowing a bitter sooth. it’s 26 minutes to midnight in the 26th year a familiar rebellion scratches my inner ribs, my false ribs. it tickles almost, the idea of reverting. tickles safe like an old small pink blanket not at all like the seizing tightness of the unknown grown up self. unknown grown up old future me. potential grows inside me exponentially. yuck! crap! crap shoot old new me, silly simple grown newbie. yuck! crap! crap shoot out the gun of my mouth into the middle of America, to Texas. Austin, Texas. who’d’ve thought? not me, the silly simple grown up newbie. little girl, little girl forever. until now.

» Posted By becca Loo On 05.20.2012 @ 11:59 pm


too late today. or maybe too early. it’s been the same time everyday for the past decade. tomorrow we go to the coast. tomorrow will be different. sort of. today i make brownies. today is last night. sleepovers sleeping. over. ugh coffee and creme fraiche and soy milk and cinnamon. ugh sunlight and homework. ugh we don’t usually do this haphazard commentary. this truth about our dietary habits. today is still asleep. today coffee can’t cure.

» Posted By becca Loo On 05.07.2012 @ 4:52 pm


it’s too late for the grapes to be saved this year i guess people’ll be drinking bourbon year round.

» Posted By becca Loo On 04.19.2012 @ 4:07 pm

a room of one’s own. now i’ve got two or two and half to be exact. virginia woolf was ready for the river that received her i wonder why and and what makes one that way? what type of room did she own?

» Posted By becca Loo On 04.19.2012 @ 3:57 pm


there’s power in a piece of writing, he thought late in the morning. he had just finished reading elie wiesel’s night. about the holocaust. about the burning of whole peoples. the day has started long ago and he wanted to know what else was in store now that he felt he had just died. or rather just survived death through the prose of eliezer. it was a sick and a sad feeling but also made him not want to waste the day. but maybe he should. maybe it didn’t matter because the world was so filled with evil what could it matter. what was this world worth. he was glad he did not believe in god. he was glad he did not believe in men. ego can be useful sometimes. belief in the self stronger, controllable.

» Posted By becca Loo On 03.12.2012 @ 10:45 am


it’s not the light from the window or the heater on full blast it’s him. it’s him on her. if she could move she’d tell him how good it was to sweat after holding it in for so long. an afternoon tryst after an eternity of mornings. lately life was all mornings. lunch was always late breakfast, dinner late lunch. night was a mess of blurry dreams and there was no time to decipher them in the dawn darkness. but now she could feel the restorative tickle of a trickle of sweat…

» Posted By becca Loo On 03.03.2012 @ 12:44 pm


“what it comes down to is a difference of opinion. now we could move to texas or utah or somewhere out of the states entirely but the more i look into it the more it looks like oregon is THE best state to live in. amazing state parks, mild weather, progressive politics, interesting people, and good beer and wine. but we already live here and we’ve seen quite a bit of it over the last six years so i’m not sure how worth it it really is to stay. i mean it’s best to travel while we’re young and we can always come back later,” george explained to daniel.
it was still bright out and they were sitting over their afternoon chai tea discussing the future. daniel had heard this talk before and wasn’t sure why george kept repeating it. some people plan life because they know how bad it can be and some people plan life because they know how good it can be. george knew the good side, daniel didn’t care either way.

» Posted By becca Loo On 02.28.2012 @ 1:49 pm


slick, silly jim was writing his memoir thinking someone would want to read it, but he was wrong. it was getting to be much too long but i guess that’s not really why he was writing it. he had to keep himself busy somehow and anything was better than actually having to do manual labor for a living wage. he had a lot saved up after he left the army and was just glad he got out without having to go to a war. he was actually pretty surprised that his country could go so long with out starting some shit somewhere. he was used to being pushed into other people’s business. he had grown up the only boy in a family of six. he had five sisters that needed pipes unclogged, gutters cleared, boyfriends beat up. maybe that’s why he moved so far away. he told them it was because he wanted to write and he needed space for that.

» Posted By becca Loo On 02.14.2012 @ 11:32 am


a carson mccullers type carnival all hunchbacks and nipple-less women and deaf sad sulking towns people, a stalker, a cheating wife, a homosexual husband. so quiet, so southern, so simple. it’s late and the accordion player is waiting for the crowd to thin. an open air house party, an open faced calamity. it’s late and tonight is not the night for the heart attack. alison langdon can hold on for one more day. anacleto can make one more cup of hot ovaltine. one more lovers’ tryst, one more stalkers’ sleepless night, one more round of cards and drinks. today is a carnival day. today is the last happy day before the town empties.

» Posted By becca Loo On 02.14.2012 @ 10:24 am


papillon busted free though it took him ’til he was 53 and no one cared about the god damn inquiry… it was a sort of foggy morning when the news came. tonight they were gonna go find out if it was true. no use worrying about it now. worry is for women or maybe i’ve been reading too much hemingway. coffee’s too hot to drink now but there wasn’t any other time for coffee so i guess i’ll burn my mouth. too many meetings. too many objectives. why did people have to DO things? always in pursuit that’s me. or has been for too long. i feel like a bad jim thompson novel all crime noir, dime store doestoevsky, beat junkie hypocrite.

» Posted By becca Loo On 02.09.2012 @ 11:05 am


melancholia was right. as she sits and spins she wonders what it’s all for. sex. men. this is an afternoon tryst. a dirty floor. her shirt pulled up, her pants pulled down, her skin the cream between the oreo of her clothes. too many other things to do. it’s hard to concentrate. a paper due thursday. a test friday. 5 hours of work today. 9 hours of work tomorrow. what was the name of that song? the one with the girl who runs away. ahh she hasn’t written yet. she’s got forty-five more minutes left unless he cums earlier. spin. spin. spin. exhale. she’s hungry. she wonders if the banana is still good, if she can cut around the bruises to make one last nutella-peanut butter-banana sandwich. sometimes she thinks she’s not busy enough, sometimes too busy. she wants to move. away. from everything. a degree then nothing. no masters. no grad school. a quiet room. an internet connection. a view. a friend like a modern virginia woolf. an orbit she can follow.

» Posted By becca Loo On 02.07.2012 @ 10:15 am


the holiday season brings out the grinch in him. it’s the winter solstice: the longest, darkest day of the year. a new year brings nothing new. sometimes he wonders if anything ever changes. it’s been seven years since adolescence. strange to think. strange to wonder what’s next without trying to make it happen. already life feels stagnant. his sister died when he was twenty, didn’t even get a chance to take him out for his twenty-first. he knows that’s a selfish thought. humans are selfish though and what difference does it make if he follows the status quo or more importantly what difference does it make if he doesn’t. festivus for the rest us, right? a chance to complain, to gripe, to bitch. but who is there to listen when the only family he had and cared about died five years ago. every christmas when all the shops are closed he drives out to the sisters (mountains in oregon) finds a new place to camp, a fresh place with no human footprints he hauls all his gear and feels the weight of the world. he contemplates til sundown then gets drunk and forgets it all. he used to write, he used to draw. he was never any good so he stopped. life is an experience, best to keep it that way. documentation goes to the dogs anyway, eventually, in some way or other.

» Posted By becca Loo On 12.22.2011 @ 10:08 pm


the sun was setting as the kids waited for the men to come home. as usual they were late. it always seemed to take forever for dinner. they passed around a jug of water to stave the hunger. inside, the women were weaving more nets and imagining them full. on an island life moved slower. the ocean made things less important, less urgent.

» Posted By becca Loo On 12.21.2011 @ 11:08 pm


there was grass in his hair and on his clothes. his palms were as dirty as his feet but i guess that’s what nature does when you grasp it with both hands.

» Posted By becca Loo On 12.20.2011 @ 8:15 pm

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