Saturday, July 19, 2014

I'm still writing.

My name is Tara and this is my blog of myself because the pen names were fun but #college

My alter egos you may be confused about:
(it's illegal to have 4 blogs)

Paul Varjak

Miss Carter

tara j

Thursday, January 9, 2014

A Eulogy: Le Café De Le’scalier

Le Café De Le’scalier

9:20 AM

Harold Miner is behind the counter. He fills Suzy E’s mug – on the house. She’s passed out cold, face down at the bar. Been there since last night. Her shoes are missing. But she’s covered in gold.

Daisy strolls in for a bagel.  Humming melodies that haven’t been released yet. She takes all the pennies from the take-a-penny, leave-a-penny-jar. Her walk preaches
Grace Kelly is making faces out of her waffles and grotesquely eating them and laughing by herself. 

Jern Hayes strums a guitar out front. Tourists stop to listen to his Parisian tongue and wonder about his lyrics and what inspirers them. Mort Rainy is beside him, swaying her head and creating sidewalk chalk. They could date and he’d run out of lyrics because her tongue spills too much but also too much right. 

Paul Varjak awkwardly shuffles around Jern’s crowd to get through the door. Avoids eye contact with Grace, they’ve had history. He’s about to try the day’s special, but goes for a coffee. H. Miner isn’t surprised. 

Pages are flying and Sky Trillion is lost in a book. She’s got her bagel, and her shit put together. Sasha doesn’t have her shit together but is still the shit and also watches  Paul hit on Sky a few booths away.  He makes a pessimistic comment about her book and how he “didn’t expect a girl with a pretty face to be reading Fitzgerald” and invites himself to sit down. Sky blushes.  Sasha laughs.

Grace makes note: tools strive to exist even in top buttons.

I’m Hazel and I’d date Jern Hayes. I’m Hazel and I read John Green. I’m Hazel and I love Carmel Vanilla Bean Frappuccino’s. I’m Hazel I’m too hung up on my heart. Sick of my style, the spaghetti I make, I’ve been sick for awhile.

And Paul isn’t much better at communicating or Poker either. He’s way too intrapersonal. He’s lazy, and doesn’t know adventure even as it haunts his midnight door pounds. 

He’s been in love her since the 9th grade and didn’t kiss her until he was 22. His eyes are too stubborn to change and too vulnerable for love. He’s a softie, got no sense of dream, but a whole lot of wonder.

He’s a realist and uses chopsticks. His British accent sucks but he has French Rosetta Stone. Has he tried it? No. He holds way too much in, but rubs his jaw and will wrench your heart if he wants his words to tear you.

He reads Hemmingway. Has scruff, not for style, he slept in. He laughs at so many things and somehow impossibly at hardly anything. I hate him. I’m quite skeptical but also have anxiety over him. I want to throw him out but keep his dreams because they’re mine and they're all I’m sure of. Thanks for letting me create Paul mid-semester because Hazel is too much myself.

Lol to all you suckas who thought Paul was a hot hipster you had a chance with and sorry Sky Trillion for flirting with you behind Paul I thought I was funny

In a minute…

Tara Johnson

Monday, December 23, 2013

If you'd like to propose.

If we got married, I'd like you to hold my hand at business parties. We'd laugh like we've got diamonds lining the tile floor. Our house would flood and you'd splash at my curled hair. It would go flat and you'd take me for snow cones and a movie. I'd sing in the car. You'd swerve the steering wheel like a drunk and the snow cones would fall over. We'd be sticky in the theatre.

I've thought about dying too many times. When your heart stops? What happens to the sighs, to the hair shakers inside my heart when it stops it's rhythmic taunt. I won't let the trickling nostalgia break that quickly. Where would your kisses go, the falling, and the catching, and the soft hello's go. These etchings of my heart have taken years to carve and I am not content with them leaving like.that.

Maybe it's a good thing. Maybe the beatings, and the waitings, and the needings, and the bleedings would leave quicker than the healings and my last thump would catch on a business party hand hold.

Just, Hazel

Sunday, December 8, 2013

just a few regular things i see in my future

I head to college

My friends do cooler things

Mom quits cross-fit

I write in cursive for the rest of my life
My blogs are read by the government and I’m put into house arrest

Nobody retweets me

I smell bad

But I’ve got 2 billion dollars and only half of of them are stolen from sky,000,000,000

I date Paul Varjak

Just, Hazel

goes out to the homies

Because you guys are the shit.

I remember Grace Kelly got really sick and very tired. I remember the ladder saved her. Sometimes she still gets sick, these sort of deliriums. I remember it being hopeless and the cascade of pills turned into torrents. Maxon Schreave is hot. (LOL at book references.)

I remember Mara Sera came to school in second grade for show and tell. She showed us her neck brace and I remember wondering how you would dance in a neck brace.

I remember Farrah Fawcett and she’s got the scar to prove it. Upper left foot.

I remember the first time I saw Elizabeth Woolridge grant cry. We were on the computer, and whatever was on her Facebook homepage made her cry. It must have been really bad because Elizabeth is tough like that. She didn’t wipe her eyes, she let them spill. I felt miniscule.

I remember sleeping at Rosie’s. She’s a riveter alright. Always telling us to “be nice”. Rosie the Riveter likes cuddling. 

I remember how in 9th grade, Lotus Sutra hung out with “them”.  We were twins. I remember I was afraid of her skirts. It all started from a stalker and a raspberry snack. 

I cannot forget Malark Shattux. Malark darling, I cannot. I cannot forget the worst first kiss in the world, and the best second kiss clear to Mars. The slow dance when you belted Miley Cyrus. I cannot forget being filled with good bricks. That dance could fill 93 pockets. 

I cannot forget your curly hair used to look like cauliflower. I cannot forget the first time you cried to me. I cannot forget when you let me punch you pathetically and kiss you in the same sentence. Or when you hit the steering wheel because I told you I needed time. I cannot forget how you asked me to leave because you promised you would never loose your temper at me. 

I cannot forget you trying to tell me you played guitar. You weren’t very good. I cannot forget telling you I was impressed. That was 2 years ago, and you haven’t played for me since.
I’m trying to forget the girl with white converse. The skipping my head made when you didn’t text back for 4 hours. I’m trying to forget you were with her. I threw up at the hotel, and I’m trying to forget the front desk’s complaint of the smelly mattress. 

I swear on this. 

Just, Hazel