ok. so every time i write i close my eyes and just let my fingers go.
i've been wanting to write something---a play a screenplay, something for a long time so i fiddle with a lot of ideas.

this is so random. i swear im not a depressing person, it just all comes out.
so here.

"C ca cat. D da dog. Say it again. Do it slower like this: c. KA Kat. D. DA. DOG. You see. Put that down. Put it down and listen. C ca cat d d dog"

My parents were convinced that I was going to be their prodigy. From the time I was actually confirmed as an embryo, mom began to put headphones on her stomach. Dad read chemistry books to me, history, we practiced flashcards. All I wanted to do was sleep. Brahms was nice though.

"Draw this. Olook at me. Look at my face. No. do what I am doing. Go and get the A from the fridge. Bring it here. Get it. Now. go get it. Good. Good girl. Now bring the B. no not the D. the B. stupid. Bring the B. you know this you know the B. Get the B. good girl. Again."

When I was three I used words like vernacular and effervescent. I couldn’t stand classrooms where the kids read out loud because they would smatter the words everywhere. Bothching sounds and rushing words together. I was sent home for hitting a child because he pronounced schooling like sk. Ch. Ew. Lin. I didit hit anymore

At home I would read to myself. Mom would always have me read to her. To read out loud and record it on a tape so she could make sure I was reading. Secretly, I would read my father’s dragon over and over instead of reading books on philosophy or nitche or solipsism. I didn’t care for those things. I was made to. But I wanted a dragon.

I think I developed autism or something like it over the time during when I was 3 and 5. If that’s possible. Possibly.

I think my mom was always more comfortable when I was in her womb. When the only picture she could see of my was in black and white. And all she could hear was my heartbeat instead of my voice. She could dictate what I knew, or what she wanted me to know, to hear. She never lost me and could dream about what I looked like. She could worry about herself and wear flowy dresses and act like she was glowing and get attention because everyone loves a pregnant woman. Everyone loves that magic. i think she would’ve kept me inside for another three years and just imagined how her child would be. Frame the ultrasounds instead of balding pictures of crying baby. That’s how she would’ve preferred it.

my sister used to read with her middle finger...

she did and mom taped her "pointer" and "tall man" together and she never got sent to the princiPALs office after that.

anyways, that's not what this post is about, at all. I just got done watching Dan in Real Life and if you haven't seen it you should. Anyways, I won't ruin it for those who haven't but at the end steve carrell's character has a voice over that says something along the lines of " normally we tell our kids that they should be making plans about the future. plans about what they will do, wo they wil be, who they will be with and so on. but really we should tell them to plan to be surprised" and for some reason I thought that was so cool and true. All of these plans that we're making right now, they aren't going to turn out just so--i mean that's just the way the world works. I guess it's the way to keep us humble and to just assure us that we aren't superheroes and that life is going to suck a lot sometimes. I was also thinking about scripts when I watched the movie and about how people become screenwriters. I googled screenwriting and came up with this site that was basically a "how to" site. I mean, it had some good points, but when a person honestly alludes to "Jingle All the Way" with Sinbad and Ahnold as an example of good screenwriting, can you really trust it? no. i mean sinbad was only good at being a genie in that magic basketball movie. anyways, i was thinking about that and then I was thinking about life and how I listened to Donald Miller once give a talk or whatever about the story and about how our lives should be like the stories that people write and the stuff that people use as templates for movies--i mean, that's what many movies are based on--right? so here's my deal. every good movie has the protagonist involved in a conflict---they need to get something, they need to fight for something, they have to overcome things in order to resolve their conflict---and a lot of the time I feel like my life has no conflict--no epic desire or thing that i really, passionately seek--even though there are things that i WANT to seek. but it really all comes down to fear. it comes down to the point where you see this desire, this passion off, driving away and someone whispers to you "go, now" and you have to say screw it and just do it or end up kicking yourself for not taking the chance. i hate diving into conflict, into muddy waters, but thats what makes life exciting, that's what makes movies worth watching--nobody wants to watch a person just being, just painting their nails or watching tv--that's just boring. and i mean, i know where i'm going to be at the end of this life and it's so short, so logically what do we all have to lose? nothing really. nothing at all. but prepared to be surprised.

and probably scared to death.

ok so that's a galnapper.
pronounced GAL-nap-per as my grandfather (from arkansas) would describe it. but let's be honest,

it's just a freaking huge mosquito. i mean, really.

i found this little critter just hibernating on my screen door, like i do most nights and ususally i don't mind him, as long as he isn't flying in my hair or crawling up my thigh or anything. but tonight was just too much to handle.

i kid you not, the world is ending.

so you know when there are plagues and stuff in the bible and the locusts come out basically eat peoples brains out like little zombie bugs, this freaking galnapper is the modern-day zombie locust.

this dude is what killed pharoahs. this thing is what made dinosaurs extinct (not a meteor). this freaking steroid loaded mosquito probably will end the world.

so anyways, i looked outside and this is what i saw, beneath that singular, seemingly harmless galnapper:


yeah. it was like galnapper holocaust.

sorry that was uncalled for. but really. look at them all.

i don't care if they do kill mosquitos, they need to go away, or at least clean up after themselves when they all decide to get together like some freakish cult and die together. i swear that little one that was alive and looking down on them was the leader.

consider yourselves warned about these beasts.

so this is what i'm thinking. i don't know a whole lot about life, and deep down i'm afraid i never will. I'm one of those kids who is afraid to grow up. I'm really afraid of growing older and the thing is--i can't stop it. it's out of my control, and that in and of itself scares me.

but cry me a river,jessika, everyone gets scared to grow up--so just enjoy it.

no, i dont normally talk to myself in third person. so here's what i'm thinking, instead of being afraid of everything and so conscious of getting older, i'm going to pay attention to things outside of me--which life is really all about, beautiful things. and just the things that make up definitions of beauty and truth and things that are of substance in this life. sohere goes. the list of beauty for me, as of today:

things that i find to be truly beautiful are:

women who have salt and pepper hair and don't care to dye it or do anything to make it look tame.

my mom's smile wrinkles in her forehead and around her eyes because you know that, sort of like how you can count the rings aroound a tree trunk to tell how long its been living, i can tell how much my mom has smiled

people who go around barefoot and have callouses because they would rather have their feet tough so that they can finally feel the grass beneath their feet.

old people hands--like my granddads with agespots and scars, because hands tell a life's story and are so rich.

the eyes of little children because they will stare at you and not look away when they get caught. children are unaware of awkwardness and fully aware of themselves, and most of all--curious.

women who are completely comfortable with themselves, even if they never have skinny arms or thighs that never touch at the top or tummies that are concave naturally. women who believe that they are beautiful and don't need a guy to tell them that to believe it.

the sound of wind rushing through the trees and being so powerful that it can knock something over with a whisper.

laugher that makes you pee your pants and not care who's around to hear you snort. laughter that wracks your knsides and cracks ribs and consumes your being and makes you silent laugh until a huge burst of laughter emerges as you attempt to catch your breath.

reckless abandon and seeing people who live inside of that

and that is all as of today, i'll probably add more every day, who knows.

a rumble a rant a rave

ok so i'm not really gointg to pitch a fit and whine and cry one here at all, but really, a lot of things have been bugging me lately and this is what i want to say.

listen. last night i had to sleep on the floor of my sisters bedroom and i didn't flip you off in public. you know why? because you'd probably think that had the power to send me to hell for eternity. bullcrap. so i just put my hands inside my sleeping bag and flipped you off like 30 times instead. let me tell you, that middle finger after having no solitary time onstage since that time i was dard to walk down the hall in first grade with the bird held high, it felt good. i had a flipping off frenzy, just me and the floor. but you were on the floor. duh. i don't think its fair whne you say "hm" to what i want to do or be. you ask me where im going to school, i give you an honest answer and you "hm" me. is that fair? no. ok, if you don't believe in me, just say so. that or don't say anything at all. i spent 4 hours at a coffee shop by myself today. i preferred to be in a booth eating by myself where it was 40 degrees and my butt got tired of sitting and i read 50 pages of ibsen all because that was monumentally better than being picked at by you.
and yet i feel bad. i feel bad for seeing you only 3 times a year. im afraid i'll turn into you. i'm afraid that when i get old like you i'll try to climb stairs only to find out that i can't and that i need to hold on to something. im afraid that i'll turn into you and think that having children and cleaning house and cooking hot meals every night are the duties of a woman, which aren't bad, but they're required, apparently. i don't want to tell my daughter that her husband is fat. i don't want to tell my daughter that if she doesn't stop eating then she'll look like her daddy's mother, who was fat and soft and died at 52 years old. hell, i think, at least she was happy. i just don't want to be you. i love you, but i can't be myself around you. you were the one who told me i couldn't have communion because i wasn't baptized. but mom still said you loved me and i didn't understand.
but i still sleep with that blanket that you crocheted me every night, because you said it was made with love, and on that day i believed it.

this is the best thing i've read in a long time. and basically the only thing that i've liked in english class this year.

"Love Poem"
My clumsiest dear, whose hands shipwreck vases,
At whose quick touch all glasses chip and ring,
Whose palms are bulls in china, burs in linen,
And have no cunning with any soft thing

Except all ill-at-ease fidgeting people:
The refugee uncertain at the door
You make at home; deftly you steady
The drunk clambering on his undulant floor.

Unpredictable dear, the taxi drivers' terror,
Shrinking from far headlights pale as a dime
Yet leaping before apopleptic streetcars—
Misfit in any space. And never on time.

A wrench in clocks and the solar system. Only
With words and people and love you move at ease;
In traffic of wit expertly maneuver
And keep us, all devotion, at your knees.

Forgetting your coffee spreading on our flannel,
Your lipstick grinning on our coat,
So gaily in love's unbreakable heaven
Our souls on glory of spilt bourbon float.

Be with me, darling, early and late. Smash glasses—
I will study wry music for your sake.
For should your hands drop white and empty
All the toys of the world would break.


i love that poem. in other news, i have to wake up at 3am to write a paper about it because i have no motivation to write that paper as we speak. noice

hi. i'm lesa kochecki. i'm 42 and 18 at the same time. i think i'm going through a mid-life crisis.

i wrote this when i was falling to sleep. it's so strange what just goes from brain to hands to keyboard when you're dozing off or right when you wake up--like the odd boundary between dreams and reality. i certainly hope this isn't my reality--but i was thinking a lot about middle age, and about how people say that they never really grow up, they just literally grow out. and this is the beginning snippet of a story. i hope a good story. but a very messy one too.

Lesa Kocheckie: age Middle. sitting reading a janet evanovich book in bed under a qvc ordered booklight that clips to the page.she has cotton balls in her ear so her husband's snoring, despite breathing machine and nose strips, won't disturb her. her husband's arm is draped over her forearm and she has to avoid it to turn the pages of her book.
"Get your arm off of me. No I know that your left arm always has to be draped over me when you go to sleep at night or it’ll fall asleep and then blah blah youll lose circulation and die. You big oaf. I don’t smack you in the face for having that loud breathing machine and disrupting my dreams of making out with george clooney. The least you could do was keep your arm on your side of the bed and not resting on me.
I have to pee"
Lesa kocheckie flings her husbands arm over his stomach and gets up, goes ot the bathroom, flips on the switch and we see a middle aged woman with showing roots in a tigger nightshirt and her husbands boxers. She squnches up her face and makes an o face to smooth out wrinkles. She pulls back her face and turns to the side sucking in her cheeks. After peeing she gets on the scale and weighs herself, looking away. The scale reads 142.
"Excellent. Just fantastic. The last two digits are my age. Damnit. I guess I've reached the golden weight."

i feel awkward writing that because i have no idea what it feels like to be middle aged. weird. i even had to invent a word--squnch. noice. it'll be in webster's with "bootylicious" someday. one can only hope.