An ex-boyfriend once taught me that when you're sick, you wear two suits: your orange pants, and your green pajamas. Pants being DayQuil, and pajamas being, thusly, NyQuil. Tonight I put on my green pajamas and wait to become sleepy. It's funny the things you remember from past relationships. I also remember, he used to drink bottles of hot sauce when he had a cold, though that was not a habit I ever picked up.
There is a laundry list of things that are constantly changing for anyone, anywhere, at anytime. When I was in high school I found a quote from Allen Ginsberg that said "That's the thing about life. It goes on". Simple. But at 15 I found it to be some sort of eye-opening peice of wisdom that I had never really thought of before. Life is always going on. At least for someone, somewhere. So I guess, just stop worrying, and just keep moving. Anyway, some things are changing.
Some of some things are:
--Today was the first day of spring. Hello, spring. It didn't feel like spring, but at least now warm rain and rooftops can be anticipated, and late nights that don't feel so late are coming, along with short shorts, and leaking fire hydrants, and happiness, and sweaty bodies.
--I started my job. My first New York paying job. It's good and I'm glad I have it. It's flexible and the people are nice. I redirected male wanna be cowboy models all day and answered phones and moved some boxes. For someone that needs a financial base camp, and a little bit of struture to her weeks, the future looks bright.
--I signed my first lease. My first actual ownership over space. I am now married to a space for the next year, along with my jam-banding companion who signed it with me. At least on paper. It's strange because I know it's something people have to do all the time but I never really immagined myself doing it so soon. We have so much work to do, so many things to build, so many people to come in and complete the home (Lex, I'm looking at you). It's exciting, and also scary. But it feels right. Though, so far, it doesn't feel real.
--The movie is becoming something else. I don't know what it is becoming, but it is changing and evolving dramatically from what it was two months ago. I watch the crazy Turkish man doodling notes and making new charecters and writing large metaphors onto the screen trying to figure it all out. And I don't know if in the end I'll understand it--my aptitude for comprehending art films has never been very great--but I know I was a part of it, and it is a very curious thing to see something you thought you knew evolve into a story you never saw in the beginning.
--My feet are morphing. The left one is, at least. I took my boots off today and looked down and there they were: two things I've stared at all my life, and in little black socks I saw that the left one was starting to slope slightly. Maybe this is a sign that I should invest in some insoles or better shoes, or maybe I should just let it do what it's going to do.
--My laugh is becoming my mothers laugh. My mother's messages are becoming like my grandmother's messages to her, and she always asks "I'm becoming Nanny, aren't I?"
--NyQuil may no longer be the "so you can get some rest medicine". The way things are going right now it's more of the "so you can have a crappy taste in your mouth and wish you could get some rest medicine".
I had other things that were changing, and I felt really amped to write them down (perhaps in an attempt to show myself that things are progressing and I am a creative and evolutionary non-stagnant person), but as it is now, I am mostly just staring into space thinking about dogs, and wether or not my eyes hurt because they're tired or because they're staring at a computer.
More pajamas? Oh brother, let me tell you, I just did. Dreams about dogs? Oh brother, let me tell you, I hope so.
3.21.2007
3.20.2007
These Are Cold Thoughts
Sleeping through the cold. I am trying to sleep through this cold I have acquired which means that I woke up at 6 this evening with a still-stuffy-nose after dreaming about swollen faces, angry ex-boyfirends, my dog in a cage trapped in the snow, and that same weird summer camp I have been dreaming about for the past year. But still awake, with a cold, and it's already 7.
I want to be a male model. Or I want to be with a male model. I can't decide. Robert "Boyd" Holbrook--has anyone seen this guy? I generally could care less about male models, but seriously, how do people get this good looking? I think I would be willing to fore go the fact that he's probably not that funny, not that smart, and not that intertesting just to hold hands and build forts and take pictures in photobooths and drink long island ice teas with him for a few days.
I don't know if it's that my head is stuffy with a cold and it makes me stupid and slow, or that sometimes things are just like this, but I feel like I am being told stories I don't understand, and I am fearful of writing stories I cannot be a part of, and I worry that the stories I write may not mean anything, and think what if productivity is a fantasy that we have and the leap to its reality is too great for most of us to make, and what if knowing all the "right" people & all the "nice" people the "bright" people is something that makes our tables full at holidays but never helps us learn more & do more, and then I think I am thinking of it the wrong way and I know it will pass in a minute or two but I still won't forget that I've thought it. And how come brilliant people scare me? How come I am affraid to approach them, nervous to talk to them? They are just people. Why do I feel that I don't know how to find what I am looking for and that the looking takes so long? These are cold questions.
I have been hanging out with the man who says "The fish is in the freezer, the whale is on the way" too much and am now thinking in loose foreign metaphors like him. My stories follow nothing, they just open up, let in light, and close into something else, another scene.
This is like robo-tripping without the NyQuil.
The bridge of my nose is bruised from blowing it too much.
I have stories I have to write.
I have bones that want a new project.
I have wants that need patience.
I wish I could breathe through my nose.
I want to be a male model. Or I want to be with a male model. I can't decide. Robert "Boyd" Holbrook--has anyone seen this guy? I generally could care less about male models, but seriously, how do people get this good looking? I think I would be willing to fore go the fact that he's probably not that funny, not that smart, and not that intertesting just to hold hands and build forts and take pictures in photobooths and drink long island ice teas with him for a few days.
I don't know if it's that my head is stuffy with a cold and it makes me stupid and slow, or that sometimes things are just like this, but I feel like I am being told stories I don't understand, and I am fearful of writing stories I cannot be a part of, and I worry that the stories I write may not mean anything, and think what if productivity is a fantasy that we have and the leap to its reality is too great for most of us to make, and what if knowing all the "right" people & all the "nice" people the "bright" people is something that makes our tables full at holidays but never helps us learn more & do more, and then I think I am thinking of it the wrong way and I know it will pass in a minute or two but I still won't forget that I've thought it. And how come brilliant people scare me? How come I am affraid to approach them, nervous to talk to them? They are just people. Why do I feel that I don't know how to find what I am looking for and that the looking takes so long? These are cold questions.
I have been hanging out with the man who says "The fish is in the freezer, the whale is on the way" too much and am now thinking in loose foreign metaphors like him. My stories follow nothing, they just open up, let in light, and close into something else, another scene.
This is like robo-tripping without the NyQuil.
The bridge of my nose is bruised from blowing it too much.
I have stories I have to write.
I have bones that want a new project.
I have wants that need patience.
I wish I could breathe through my nose.
3.14.2007
Dear The Pop Song About Remembering To Breathe
*DISCLAIMER: I do not have the ability to spell check this. Bear with me*
Remember when I listened to you about 40 times in the past two days? Remember how we promised not to tell anyone about it? Shhh.
Anyway
We lit the candle and the candle has stayed lit like I promised it would, because it has to, because we're not the only ones listening, because there's a reason it has, and I know it will burn down until there is nothing left like I told you it would. Fire puts out water, don't worry. Loss makes believers out of us. Or it can, if we let ourselves believe it.
So I haven't slept really for the past two days, which actually means that on Monday I finally fell asleep at 8:30 and woke at 10:30, and last night, when I had the pressing need to get a full nights sleep, I layed awake from 11 until 3:45 in the morning, rolling around and trying every "trick your body into falling asleep" I had ever been taught, until finally I was swearing at myself and marching to and from the bathroom thinking there must be something wrong with me. At first I was very hot, and then my body began to feel like it was being attacked. Like little lightening bugs were biting into my body--my thighs, my knuckles, my neck, my chest, my back, my head, my stomach, the tops of my feet. It stung, it itched, it burned, it was uncomfortable. I spent the whole night thinking I had bedbugs. After going to my first day of work I came back to Brooklyn and tried to nap several times, every time finding my body being stung and shocked by the invisible somethings that kept me from staying still for more than 45 seconds. So then I realized it was not bedbugs at all. But in fact what I have been expereincing is some form of poor circulation and that all of my body is "falling asleep" while I am trying to. Thank you, body. Taking the subway back to my new temporary home I experienced several other physical discomforts that I am not melodramatic enough to mention but made me concerned about my journey none the less. And I said to myself that when I got here I would just stretch for a long time & go to bed, but when I got here I knew that it was bogus, and decided on drinking red wine and talking to my mother (the "go for it" talks) instead, as something that would just put me at ease long enough for my body to fall asleep so I can. Thank you, mom. Thank you, red wine. I hate you, body lightening bugs. This is going to be me, trying to sleep, attempt #3. Third time's a charm.
And I think I can continue on from here a little bigger. I realized tonight, what do I have to lose in doing the tiny things that could get me where I want? My pride? (please.) Remember in high school when I wrote 18 pages a day because I was too consumed with something to pre-judge myself about it? I do. Why can't things be like that again? They can, can't they? In the mental bonfire of my in-the-woods-acoustic-mind everyone is singing "gonna go ahead and go boldly, cause a little bird told me that jumping is easy, that falling is fun..." eventhough no one has done that sing-a-long yet to date, except my butch friend at 16 when we were in her hoopty driving through Tacoma.
And telling someone something that really matters to you and having them react the way you thought they might is 1. gratifying because you are right, but 2. dissapointing because you wanted to be able to expect more. It can't even be said in a funny way. Because they know very well what you are saying. And you wish they would have been able to reflect the same, given the history of time. But they can't, or they choose not to. I don't pretend to know which. Thanks, "they". Maybe someday when I actually die it will hit home.
But I will never actually die. I will find Neverland before then.
Let's make big things. Let's make big creative things and decide what they mean after the fact. Let's decide what they mean first and then make something different. Let's all take a car to the coast and sleep in tents and let's sleep on the roof--it is so nice right now in the city and let's look at the lights--, and let's doccument our best summers, and let's make our best springs, and let's stop having dreams about men with razor blades and make dreams about beautiful snakes in our pockets, and let's buy ice cream and irish cider just because, and let's talk to people we're affraid of and not be pussies, and let's make a second draft, and let's find a second job, and let's say nice things, and let's try and say what we mean, and let's look back but only now and then when it is late and we're waiting for a train, and let's start being morally dedicated and not morrally corrupt, and let's make a poem again, and let's pee in an alley, and let's hold hands, and let's meet new people and take them on our next adventure, and let's have our next adventure, and let's be brave. Let's just be more brave.
Remember when I listened to you about 40 times in the past two days? Remember how we promised not to tell anyone about it? Shhh.
Anyway
We lit the candle and the candle has stayed lit like I promised it would, because it has to, because we're not the only ones listening, because there's a reason it has, and I know it will burn down until there is nothing left like I told you it would. Fire puts out water, don't worry. Loss makes believers out of us. Or it can, if we let ourselves believe it.
So I haven't slept really for the past two days, which actually means that on Monday I finally fell asleep at 8:30 and woke at 10:30, and last night, when I had the pressing need to get a full nights sleep, I layed awake from 11 until 3:45 in the morning, rolling around and trying every "trick your body into falling asleep" I had ever been taught, until finally I was swearing at myself and marching to and from the bathroom thinking there must be something wrong with me. At first I was very hot, and then my body began to feel like it was being attacked. Like little lightening bugs were biting into my body--my thighs, my knuckles, my neck, my chest, my back, my head, my stomach, the tops of my feet. It stung, it itched, it burned, it was uncomfortable. I spent the whole night thinking I had bedbugs. After going to my first day of work I came back to Brooklyn and tried to nap several times, every time finding my body being stung and shocked by the invisible somethings that kept me from staying still for more than 45 seconds. So then I realized it was not bedbugs at all. But in fact what I have been expereincing is some form of poor circulation and that all of my body is "falling asleep" while I am trying to. Thank you, body. Taking the subway back to my new temporary home I experienced several other physical discomforts that I am not melodramatic enough to mention but made me concerned about my journey none the less. And I said to myself that when I got here I would just stretch for a long time & go to bed, but when I got here I knew that it was bogus, and decided on drinking red wine and talking to my mother (the "go for it" talks) instead, as something that would just put me at ease long enough for my body to fall asleep so I can. Thank you, mom. Thank you, red wine. I hate you, body lightening bugs. This is going to be me, trying to sleep, attempt #3. Third time's a charm.
And I think I can continue on from here a little bigger. I realized tonight, what do I have to lose in doing the tiny things that could get me where I want? My pride? (please.) Remember in high school when I wrote 18 pages a day because I was too consumed with something to pre-judge myself about it? I do. Why can't things be like that again? They can, can't they? In the mental bonfire of my in-the-woods-acoustic-mind everyone is singing "gonna go ahead and go boldly, cause a little bird told me that jumping is easy, that falling is fun..." eventhough no one has done that sing-a-long yet to date, except my butch friend at 16 when we were in her hoopty driving through Tacoma.
And telling someone something that really matters to you and having them react the way you thought they might is 1. gratifying because you are right, but 2. dissapointing because you wanted to be able to expect more. It can't even be said in a funny way. Because they know very well what you are saying. And you wish they would have been able to reflect the same, given the history of time. But they can't, or they choose not to. I don't pretend to know which. Thanks, "they". Maybe someday when I actually die it will hit home.
But I will never actually die. I will find Neverland before then.
Let's make big things. Let's make big creative things and decide what they mean after the fact. Let's decide what they mean first and then make something different. Let's all take a car to the coast and sleep in tents and let's sleep on the roof--it is so nice right now in the city and let's look at the lights--, and let's doccument our best summers, and let's make our best springs, and let's stop having dreams about men with razor blades and make dreams about beautiful snakes in our pockets, and let's buy ice cream and irish cider just because, and let's talk to people we're affraid of and not be pussies, and let's make a second draft, and let's find a second job, and let's say nice things, and let's try and say what we mean, and let's look back but only now and then when it is late and we're waiting for a train, and let's start being morally dedicated and not morrally corrupt, and let's make a poem again, and let's pee in an alley, and let's hold hands, and let's meet new people and take them on our next adventure, and let's have our next adventure, and let's be brave. Let's just be more brave.
3.10.2007
A Tree Falls in Brooklyn: Precious Private Moments
I just did that thing where you go to sit on a chair, but the chair rolls out from under you and you fall to the floor in awkward slow-motion. And since I am all by myself and have spent most of the day wondering where the hell everyone I know is, and thinking that maybe I slept through all of Saturday and today is actually SUNday, and knocking myself in the head for inviting a strange bald man to a party and giving him my phone number which he is now using (Note to drunken self: just because someone else has experience dumpster diving and is also in awe of the all-freegan community doesn't make you automatic buddies, especially not when you're sober the next day), and wondering why I find the show Will & Grace cute and funny when most people I know find it offensive and counter-progressive, and feeling sad about the fact that I burn eggs no matter what I do every time I cook them & I should just eat a Popsicle instead---because of all of these things, once I slow-motion fell and attempted to brace myself on several things along the way down (the chair, a computer, this keyboard, a desk, the couch, & again the chair)once I was on the floor, in an awkward pile, I just sat there and laughed, out loud, at myself, all alone, for a very long time.
So if a girl falls in an apartment in Bushwick but no one's home because they're all elsewhere having fun without her, does anyone hear her laugh when she hits the floor?
So if a girl falls in an apartment in Bushwick but no one's home because they're all elsewhere having fun without her, does anyone hear her laugh when she hits the floor?
3.09.2007
Dear Wiener Time
Fear of going to hang out with talented people & being not-so-talented outweighs actually going to hang out with talented people who are really fun & like to drink. Lame. What a wiener. Looks like it's another slow Friday night in Brooklyn instead, where I can be a wiener in the privacy of my other friend's homes.
3.08.2007
The Self Resistsance
Don't let me do it.
Don;t let me do it.
Don't let me do it.
It's 6:30 in the moring.
Don;t let me do it.
Don"T.
See these typos?
Don't let me.
Don;t let me do it.
Don't let me do it.
It's 6:30 in the moring.
Don;t let me do it.
Don"T.
See these typos?
Don't let me.
The Good Things
--I have a job now. Yeah! Though I know a couple of days ago I had next to nothing, shortly after I wrote about the prospects of becoming a sexual service phone operator I got 2 job interviews. And I only went to one. And it worked out. I am moving up in the world. Thanks to the wife. Thanks wife! Purpose in this city step one.
--A friend of mine discovered he could break the lease on the closet he is renting in Union Square and within the last 48 hours we have realized we can be living together (and with numerous strangers to be determined at a latter date--look out, strangers) by the 1st. Amazing. Mama's going to have her real apartment, and not some place she has to crawl around in in the dark, making tubs of ramen at 4 in the morning when everyone else is asleep. And Mama can have a dog. Something is certainly right in the world.
--Also doing some writing with people who know their shit, which is both intimidating and amazing. But since alcohol is involved, hopefully at some point in the night they will be too drunk to realize how young and inexperienced I am, and that's when I will sic my opus on them. And by opus I mean the thing I am writing.
--After shouting enough the other night about feminism in music to a friend, he finally said "not all men are the same" even though last he spoke anything about males he said "all men are the same", but he agreed to listen to some "female" music and he likes it. Or at least I think he does. Call me a femi-nazi, but I still think that anyone who listens to predominantly male music has something to talk about. Well, some things never change. Just like boys never get over Kurt Cobain when they're 15, some girls have things that make them want to break things and scream and dance on roof tops no matter how old they become. Or maybe that's just me.
So, 3 great things. Sub-great thing: I will be getting a dog when I move! Hail something! This is news-worthy! Everyone knows I will be laughing and crying simultaneously for about a month once it happens. Ultimate cuteness party of the future.
On the other side sits the rest of my life, which can't be discussed. Just let's focus on the 3+ good things. And just let's sleep without worrying, or forgetting, or remembering too much, or drinking till we puke, or drinking so we never sleep, or sleeping with the wrong people, or don't sleep alone, or get to be alone and can't dig our way out, or get out but can't get back, or don't want to look back, or want the adventure but don't want the consequences, or forget there are any, or don't know what we're saying when we keep talking, and we keep talking because we're afraid to stop, but we don't know what we're talking about anymore, and by the time we realize where we are the sun is coming up, and we're not done, not done yet. And we're done denying things are important. And we're tired of apathy and irony. But maybe we're not. Maybe that's just me.
--A friend of mine discovered he could break the lease on the closet he is renting in Union Square and within the last 48 hours we have realized we can be living together (and with numerous strangers to be determined at a latter date--look out, strangers) by the 1st. Amazing. Mama's going to have her real apartment, and not some place she has to crawl around in in the dark, making tubs of ramen at 4 in the morning when everyone else is asleep. And Mama can have a dog. Something is certainly right in the world.
--Also doing some writing with people who know their shit, which is both intimidating and amazing. But since alcohol is involved, hopefully at some point in the night they will be too drunk to realize how young and inexperienced I am, and that's when I will sic my opus on them. And by opus I mean the thing I am writing.
--After shouting enough the other night about feminism in music to a friend, he finally said "not all men are the same" even though last he spoke anything about males he said "all men are the same", but he agreed to listen to some "female" music and he likes it. Or at least I think he does. Call me a femi-nazi, but I still think that anyone who listens to predominantly male music has something to talk about. Well, some things never change. Just like boys never get over Kurt Cobain when they're 15, some girls have things that make them want to break things and scream and dance on roof tops no matter how old they become. Or maybe that's just me.
So, 3 great things. Sub-great thing: I will be getting a dog when I move! Hail something! This is news-worthy! Everyone knows I will be laughing and crying simultaneously for about a month once it happens. Ultimate cuteness party of the future.
On the other side sits the rest of my life, which can't be discussed. Just let's focus on the 3+ good things. And just let's sleep without worrying, or forgetting, or remembering too much, or drinking till we puke, or drinking so we never sleep, or sleeping with the wrong people, or don't sleep alone, or get to be alone and can't dig our way out, or get out but can't get back, or don't want to look back, or want the adventure but don't want the consequences, or forget there are any, or don't know what we're saying when we keep talking, and we keep talking because we're afraid to stop, but we don't know what we're talking about anymore, and by the time we realize where we are the sun is coming up, and we're not done, not done yet. And we're done denying things are important. And we're tired of apathy and irony. But maybe we're not. Maybe that's just me.
3.06.2007
A Small Green Frog Said
"There's so many strange places that I'd like to be,
but none of them permanently."
but none of them permanently."
3.05.2007
Mark Hammer Died
Most of you all probably don't know who Mark Hammer is, and that's ok.
He died a couple of weeks ago, and I avoided opening the email about it until tonight. I didn't know what I was opening when I read it, and when I read it, well, I sat down and cried for quite a while. I won't try and recreate it for you.
But sometimes you meet a man, and you know he has a certain weight. He has certain things to say to those that proceed him, and you know that he needs to say them while he is still fit and able. Mark Hammer was that kind of man. And I don't know if he was ever able to relate everything he knew before he died, probably not, but I hope he was able to impart something. I know he said a lot to me without saying anything at all, just whizzing his wheelchair up and down the hallway banging into things, and asking me to make salads for him, and opening the door to his bedroom, and lecturing me about the trade of reading up on what you presuppose to want to study.
And Mark, I won't go into it now, since I already went into it once before tonight, but you were greatly appreciated, and by those that can claim so, greatly loved. You were a man of many powers, which you could never let anyone forget, even without legs, and you will be forever remembered in the art of the thing you loved so much.
Good luck out there.
He died a couple of weeks ago, and I avoided opening the email about it until tonight. I didn't know what I was opening when I read it, and when I read it, well, I sat down and cried for quite a while. I won't try and recreate it for you.
But sometimes you meet a man, and you know he has a certain weight. He has certain things to say to those that proceed him, and you know that he needs to say them while he is still fit and able. Mark Hammer was that kind of man. And I don't know if he was ever able to relate everything he knew before he died, probably not, but I hope he was able to impart something. I know he said a lot to me without saying anything at all, just whizzing his wheelchair up and down the hallway banging into things, and asking me to make salads for him, and opening the door to his bedroom, and lecturing me about the trade of reading up on what you presuppose to want to study.
And Mark, I won't go into it now, since I already went into it once before tonight, but you were greatly appreciated, and by those that can claim so, greatly loved. You were a man of many powers, which you could never let anyone forget, even without legs, and you will be forever remembered in the art of the thing you loved so much.
Good luck out there.
3.04.2007
@@@Females With Sexxxy Voices Wanted For Phone Acting! Work From Home!@@@
The only thing I need more than beer, dogs, and tacos is a job.
I need a job.
Has anyone, ever, in the history of this city, who's not looking for a lifetime career, isn't willing to man up and do phone sex, and doesn't have 18 years of previous restaurant experience, ever actually gotten a job from craigslist?
I've been looking long enough that I've gotten lost and don't even know what my marketable skills are anymore. I can barely remember my social security number for tax purposes.
"You just gotta get out there, you know, send your resume to everyone, walk in and act like you were born to do the job when you firmly shake hands with the manager, you know, just do it!"
Seems lately I only have the where-with-all and ability to "just do it" at 1:30 in the morning on a weeknight after a couple of 'cold ones' and a brief but emphatic tirade through "I'm so awesome at so many things" land, resulting in my self-confidant belief that I can go out there and get 14 jobs if I want to, because "I am the master of my domain" and "the world is my oyster" and "yeah, you know what? they would LOVE to hire me".
But you cannot apply for jobs at 1:30 in the morning. You simply cannot.
I need a job.
Has anyone, ever, in the history of this city, who's not looking for a lifetime career, isn't willing to man up and do phone sex, and doesn't have 18 years of previous restaurant experience, ever actually gotten a job from craigslist?
I've been looking long enough that I've gotten lost and don't even know what my marketable skills are anymore. I can barely remember my social security number for tax purposes.
"You just gotta get out there, you know, send your resume to everyone, walk in and act like you were born to do the job when you firmly shake hands with the manager, you know, just do it!"
Seems lately I only have the where-with-all and ability to "just do it" at 1:30 in the morning on a weeknight after a couple of 'cold ones' and a brief but emphatic tirade through "I'm so awesome at so many things" land, resulting in my self-confidant belief that I can go out there and get 14 jobs if I want to, because "I am the master of my domain" and "the world is my oyster" and "yeah, you know what? they would LOVE to hire me".
But you cannot apply for jobs at 1:30 in the morning. You simply cannot.
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