30 July 2017

more more more

the poem a day project continues to rattle on into infinity. much the same way the days bleed together as I work work work. 
eventually will everything look like a smudged drawing? no distinctions in sight?

26 July 2017

today's poem

thinking about who we are, who we believe ourselves to be, & who we've become.
follow my poem a day project: poemadaydoctoraway.tumblr.com

23 July 2017

memory notebooks

Looking over old journals this morning. It's strange to think how I wrote them with the idea of "an audience" in my mind. Everything is so restricted. So performative. I was so held back.

It's sad because I'll never get those high school notebooks back. I'll never get those days back & I can't remember what I was really like. A journal should be a record of that but I was so concerned with performing. I was so obsessed with self-censorship. Whatever I was then has evolved away & there's no record of it. She's lost to the years.

It renews my dedication to be honest in my current notebooks. A diary is a record yes, but it's also something of a self-portrait. Of course we can't be totally objective when it comes to our selves, but I think trying to keep an accurate outline at least is beneficial. Maybe it's how we learn not to lie to ourselves?

17 July 2017

12 July 2017


A post shared by N (@natalie_raymond) on

los angeles stretches out like bones under taut skin.
no one was made here
we all came
to be born or

06 July 2017

5 min free write

"Sun beans on sandy hills the heat like potatoes boiling in rusty pots. California rises up like Lazarus reborn into desert, birthed through cloudless skies.

I wake up in my bed in Hollywood, fan circulated breeze slipping around me like olive oil separating from water.

The dream I had made my palms damp & clammy, but the memory dissolved with the last of my sleep.

A tuesday like any other, I'm waiting to bank on the pavement. Waiting for deliverance from the stale heat."

02 July 2017

documenting mess

thinking about spaces, & where we make. 
the clutter, the grime, feels like home. 
how else can I fit everything in?