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The Journal of Julie Adams

I LOVE THIS POEM: the hardest part about love
07/06/2008 03:51 p.m.
the hardest part about love
—by Imani Tolliver

the fallen cross beneath my belly
is the most difficult part about love

i use eight fingers
to part the pink and brown
run one thumb across the slit
and begin
it is the opening
that is the hardest part
that is the hardest part about love

it is not fucking
fucking is easy
easy to forget tomorrow
and my last name
when a purple and brown dick
is rubbing the in of me
like a wet thumb on a djimbe
cumming and breathing together like that

the hardest part hides behind the space
before cumming and after the stories, the funk, the fat
and those bumps on my inner thigh
it is near that part

it is the part
forgetting my father’s face in my lap
the part that swallowed the promised wedding ring
that let a dreaded preacher in
who licked prayers into me
like he really meant it

it is the part that keeps my hands in back pockets
the day after i touch
cause i don’t want anyone to know

it is the hardest part
the nexus of nightmares
the power place
the daily news
the place where i cry
the place where i sleep
the color of lipstick
the itch on the bus
the squirm at meetings
the cough of a red, red blood
the place where i count lovers
the darkest hair on my body
my most sincere muscle
the sweet nutmeg sister that humps away memory
the brown bottom drawer where i store promises
the dimple at the foot of my bed

my brightest smile
my constellation of tears

it is the hardest part about love
the opening part
the trusting muscle
the metaphor of my story
the pink pocket of dreams

I am currently Reflective

Comments (1)

A cool Baudelaire quote :)
07/06/2008 03:43 p.m.
"It seems to me that I would always be better off where I am not, and this

question of moving is one of those I discuss s incessantly with my soul."

- Charles Baudelaire

I am currently Questioning

Comments (1)

A poem I love...by Cuban poet, Jose Marti
07/06/2008 03:41 p.m.
Dreaming Awake

I dream with my eyes
Wide open, Day and Night
I always dream.
And over the foam
Of the wide and agitated sea,
And over the undulated
Sand of the desert,
And of the vigorous lion,
Master of my soul
Joyfully riding
Upon the submissive neck—
A child that calls to me
I see always floating!

—Jose Marti
I am currently Amazed
I am listening to my creative heart

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new Poe quote...
07/05/2006 08:40 p.m.
Should you ever be drowned or hung,
be sure to make a note of your sensations

—Edgar Allan Poe
I am currently Calm
I am listening to an 'India Bar' cd- The Meeting

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Breaking Shells...
06/05/2006 06:26 p.m.

"Your pain is the
breaking of the shell that
encloses your understanding"

-Kahlil Gibran
Lebanese-American author

I am currently Reflective

Comments (1)

05/16/2006 09:27 p.m.

"Can you see the holiness in those things you take for granted -- a paved road or a washing machine? If you concentrate on finding what is good in every situation, you will discover that your life will suddenly be filled with gratitude, a feeling that nurtures the soul."

--Rabbi Harold Kushner

I am currently Reflective
I am listening to thoughts amassing...

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Ralph Waldo Emerson
04/12/2006 01:21 p.m.


A chief event of life is the day in which we have encountered a mind that startled us.

Thanks to Jon Kary for reminding me of this this morning...

I am currently Reflective
I am listening to Billy Holiday

Comments (1)

reading inward
02/15/2006 07:11 p.m.
I read dream at the foot of my journal page and want to cry want to remember when they felt closer more attainable rather than trying to discern my dreams I am trying to figure out when this matted hairball of possibilities became my life when I evolved into this who I am growing against my sanity faster than I can control 'til now and I list my issues like groceries to take to Elisa but I can't put her on the list again irony suffocates me in day in sleep inside walls no one sees but me so I write as the top of the page encourages in large looming letters I do it to release the images the muse the insanity that pushes pen to paper and as my fingers co-conspire against me I wonder where they will lead me what will spill if I'll recognize the images my words create but it must be freed the knot creation can build within this cancerous ink that drives and kills me with each falling letter how addicted I am to creation to expression to image to poetics living beyond monotony where truth embodies the double edged sword my life is turning at the point of how easy it seems to fall but easy street is not in my neighborhood doesn't run through Brooklyn but I'd settle for a little shut eye and an ink filled palette with an extended literature IV to feed me from Latin linguistics to Post Modernism instead of food instead of TV instead of being sucked into the vortex of daily life and then perhaps my internal floodgates will runneth over my fingers will have to swim to catch up with my mind which is alternately racing the 24/7 clock of NYC culture which is binding me with unwritten reels of paper and unwritten words floating into haunting dreams of whenever you find the time and that land has never felt so far away
I am listening to Andre Previn - The Subterraneans (1960)

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Christmas Memories 2004
12/27/2004 05:43 p.m.
(This will be added to as time allows, it is written out and being copied into this journal periodically) I "Serene was a word you could put to Brooklyn." A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, Betty Smith, p.1 It is Christmas Day in Chinatown Brooklyn, and we can hear Mrs. Lee downstairs, struggling with her granddaughter on their way out. Our house creeks with excitement, and sudden bursts of energy appear out of nowhere. Unexpected creeks. I listened to the hum of the icebox over the crackling white tube overhead. I had the TV on in the bedroom, with a crackling Christmas morning fireplace scene. Being only 31 degrees outside and minutes before 7am, the heat hadn't kicked in yet. I dragged the comforter into the living room, draping it about my shoulders. Yesterday I piled a small mound of presents mailed to us in the living room on a desk chair (fronting for the arm chair we lack) There were no Christmas lights or even a tree this year. No shopping spree as the TV predicted; only a quiet morning alone. Two of us--two of great thick families, sharing one apartment in a single-family two-storey turned snug, homemade three-family. Ours is a studio really, with a fridge in the living room and a dividing wall to allow for some semblance of defined living space. The fluorescent lights overhead beamed onto us with a sickly hospital tint, like memory on film, superimposed on real life. But we grinned at each other, sharing $6.99 white wine before worrying about breakfast. Like every Christmas I ever knew, the TV came on, but it was bland, more so than any Sunday sports results. Movies followed, but everything interrupted them by the second two-hour sitting. By dusk we were beckoned from our sanctuary, and we dove from the perch like doves searching for a communal connection. Our apartment disconnects us; we are in Chinatown, any other day here. No Christmas around this vortex. No rowdy comradery of family about, no friends who travel to Brooklyn nearby, really. We seek familiarity beyond Brooklyn borders, and find her communal family ties across the Hudson. II The techno dance mix of 103.5 echoed on the speakers as clean up music. It seemed to move the mist; we were boiling water on the gas stove by mid-afternoon when the heater left us to our own devices. The lazy day shower, put off for presents and holiday hoopla, found us at lunchtime with no hot water. Merry Christmas! The house became chaotic, bubbling with energy, scorching the stove with stony splashing water. A blue pail led to a conservative shower, the boiling water poured over us like hydrotherapy. As we took turns, our living room, once serene, began to vibrate, steep and spill over us too. By early evening, the heat of the radiator enveloped my right cheek and ear, more holiday wine blushing along with the heat. By day's eve, warmth wakes the house with stale, drying air, as the sun fades into light-blue streaks reflecting shadow light on the tan wall beyond the living room window. No romantic fire escape to retire to at dusk, with this 500sq. ft mass of semi-space. But in such quarters, it all feels like a tree house. Hiding from the outside, we've thrown ourselves into this option, against good advice, but proud of making it at the same time. We are making it in Brooklyn, together. Two of a kind, though individuals, we are learning how to cope with less than nothing on Christmas.
I am currently Blessed
I am listening to inner ponderings

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Emily Bronte
12/27/2004 03:00 p.m.

as I read her words
Bronte punctuation
punctures thoughts
into runaway balloons

sending my thoughts
on voyages
like luggage, they materialize

into matter (of mind)
of fact of thought of physical
on paper, of course

I am currently Reflective
I am listening to the soothing hiss of the radiator

Comments (1)

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