Dear Secret Man # 1

Please stop making things. Not at ten in the morning or two or eight do I ever want to see what you've done again. Please stop reminding me of the things I haven't done, don't have, and want to find. Thank you.

Sincerely,
Mama

Today: A Man Actually Attempts to Bring Snakes On A Plane

...in his carry on. People officially will do anything. And I can't even categorize the "anything", like: "anything you put in a movie" or "anything to get attention" or "anything to be different". People will just do anything period. Like that Sangina kid's hair, and naming your kid Rayon, and going out clubbing without underpants when you know your drunk ass is going to flash everyone in West Hollywood, and alerting the paparazzi of where you'll be so they can find you, and putting actual snakes in your actual carry on and ATUALLY believing you might board a plane. UNbelievable.

In other news...

My pillows and amazing blankets and surprises from my mom came in the mail! All of which I schlepped onto the subway at 1 in the morning after work like a true middle aged hobo. But still! They came!
I think I found the dog I want to adopt. He's amazing. I would post a picture of him here, but I'm afraid that by the time I am able to apply to adopt him, he will have been adopted. The organization has a very quick adoption rate and I won't be ready for at least the next week. Fingers are crossed. That little man is like a dream.



Fast Forward____To Tonight. Er, This Morning. I Mean, I Just Got Home From Work and It's 5:30. It's not Snakes On a Plane Guy Day Anymore. But here are some arbitrary things...

This dog, this soul-mate-dream-boat of a dog, will wait for me. He has to, right? I can't get to nowhere New Jersey for at least a week to meet him, but of God exists and knocking on wood counts, he'll be un-adopted until I get there. His name is Serge, by the way.

I realized as I was in the kitchen with a giant knife that I will always always cut apart the plastic rings from six packs. No sea turtles are going to get strangled on my watch.

Who is Murphy, from Murphy's Law fame? Either that guy had the shittiest life ever, or he bestowed shittiness onto all those who surrounded him. I do know that Murphys Law is always pretty much true, and as I examined tonight while at my hanging-on-by-a-thread job that it has always been the case that in jobs, when I screw up, the only person around who really sees it, is my boss. And no matter how many times I say "I've never done that before" it never sounds like the truth. Murphy, we've got beef.

A drunk man tonight in a festive Hawaiian shirt sat with me for a long time at the bar. And though he didn't tip me well, and spoke pretty undiscernable english by the end of the night, he said something that I wished could have been commemorated on some kind of mug or giant button. He pulled me close to him, and grabbed my arm very firmly, and said "You are the prettiest bartender in all the land". Now, let me clarify. I was not so blown away by the
"prettiest" part, because I know that's a blatant lie, or hollow attempt at flattery (if anyone can look simultaneously like a 12 year old boy, a cabbage-headed lesbian, and a drag queen, it's me) but it was the "in the land" part that catapulted me onto a higher plane of good-feelingness. "IN the land"? Seriously? It's amazing, it's like there are still princesses in pointy caps running around, and jousts at the end of the night on fancy steeds, and rolling moores that midgets and hobbits live in. Yes! I am the most something In-All-The-Land. What a majestic categorization. Hey, kind of large drunk guy, I think you just evolved the whole compliment system tonight. So thank you. (or I am too easily impressed which may or may not be the case considering the crowd at my bar).

I got home tonight and there were a couple of presumably drunk boys throwing debunked paper airplanes off of the roof. They threw one at me and shouted "come make paper airplanes with us!" And I thought, "You know what drunk boys? I think I will."

My roomates are amazing. I got home and one of them showered me with beer. The other one was sprawled out like an X on our still communal bed. They were both half naked (the heat, not the anything else). And they both like happiness, and sharing music, and hugging, and watching our out-of-control tv< and making movies, and having adventures. Though this space might still look somewhat like a crack den, at least the people in it are the kind of awesome gentlemen you can call at 4 in the morning to bail you out of jail in New Mexico, and you know they'll fly out and do it, with a slew of jokes, a case of beer, and some pictures of puppies. They're the kind of guys who, acumuatively, kind of make other boys you want to date look like lardos with 1,000s of dollars in Blockbuster fines. I don't know, maybe not that, but they're something else, that's for sure.

Hillary Duff is inspirational.

My mom is coming on Wednesday. Five days until the launch of the happiest hug of the past six months. She is the biggest little wonder that ever lived.

Now, onto paper airlanes, and pretending my friday night still has a hour or two left in it.

A Conversation.

Stop looking at your phone. Stop looking at the time on your phone. What are you waiting for? Nothing. You're not waiting for anything. You're waiting for not nothing. Something. You might be waiting for something. You might be waiting for something, but it could be a secret or maybe you're not certain you're waiting for something, so either way you couldn't say exactly. You're also very aware of the fact that anticipation often ends up being one of the more exciting parts of journeys, and that being the case, you really should revel in it now. Yet you can't forget the want for the something to happen, or present itself, or make itself available so that you can get on with things. Though you still see yourself three months from now sitting on a train alone reviewing the subject and thinking "THIS is what I was waiting for?" But maybe you are too skeptical. Or maybe you are a realist. Or maybe you don't believe in humans. Or you don't believe in kharma. Or you don't believe in god. Or you believe in too many things and you are embarassed about it so you pretend to believe in nothing. You could keep a log of how much time you spend waiting for something to happen, and of how much time you spend enjoying that thing when it does happen. That might be productive. Or scary. Does anyone really enjoy something for as long as they spend waiting for it to happen? Stop biting your hangnails. Stop biting your nails. Stop biting. If you conducted a study of how long people wait for the enjoyment of the act versus how long they enjoy the act itself, the results might be depressing, and therefore should be left untouched. You waited to get a big new bass amp for a year and a half, very intesnsely for several months. Once you got it you were overjoyed, for a few weeks, then you put it in your room, and now it's in storage on the west coast. Maybe that is because you're ungreateful. Or maybe it's because your band broke up. Or maybe because you moved and can't ship it. Maybe the time you spent enjoying it has actually surpassed how long you waited and you just don't know because you're too preoccupied with the worry that things might be bad. You should stop thinking about it. You should enjoy your night off. And stop using the word "enjoy" so "frequently".

You should stop looking at the phone. The foreign man said there is a lighthouse somewhere in the middle of the sea. Swim, swim, swim.

Two Things for People That Want Three

Hair: Here's what I find odd. Everyone always talks about how, as you get older, you begin to lose your hair. Presumably from all parts of your body (this is true right? I think I zoned out during this part of biology class, big surprise). But what no one really addresses, which seems to be happening across the board is that, from your teenage years to presumably your 40's, you accquire hair. Everywhere. It's like your body is trying to build a nice winter coat incase you ever decide to go live with the polar bears. It's not just something that happens when you're in middle school (and for some of us much later) and boys and girls get grown up hair. It seems that as we get older, girls' bikini lines drop further down their thighs, and boys' beards slip further down their necks (and backs, but I can't go there, sorry hairy dudes). What is this mostrosity? Why does it happen? Girls say "Well, you know, the more you wax, the more grows back" and boys say "Yeah, I have a beard down to my nipples because my hair grows funny". But I don't think that's true. I think something is happening here. And while I understand that we are living in a culture that is obsessed with selective hairlessness (internet porn community, I'm looking at you) I can't find the will to rage against it. Yes, hairiness is alright and all, but the unexplainable she-staches and male shoulder hair have got to be explained somehow. Hormones, ok. Sure. But hormones, riddle me this: why can't you just stretch yourselves out over a lifetime, instead of trying to cram everything in to a couple of decades? Women who once had to wear surf shorts to the beach will one day be patchy and bald, and that will be confusing for them. No one wants to take a bald lady on a classy date. So let's start talking about this. I mean, let's put this issue out there on the table; get the dialogue going. Am I alone on this or not? And surely, if I am, now I just sound like a pervert.

Memory Beer: Don't buy memory beer. I tried to today. In my defense I have only slept about five hours in the past two days, and been working consistently, so perhaps my judgement is skewed. But instead of taking a nap this evening (those "naps" only turn into sleepless nights later) I walked myself down to my corner market to buy a snack and an evening drink. I thought it would be such a nice thing to sit at home alone for a while and drink a cold beer and browse my ever-slowing stolen internet. Good idea, right. So as I am scanning the cases of beer in the bodega where I also buy tea and cigarettes and razors and talk with my friend the counter guy who for some reason lives in Bay Ridge, my indecisiveness kicks in, and like always, I can't choose. So, just like someone comes across an old vinyl they bought when they were 14, or a t-shirt with a No Fear phrase on it, I found at the bottom of a case, a six pack of Elephant Beer. Elephant beer! How amazing! There you are! The sight of that stoic elephant with his giant ears parading proudly across the green bottle immediately made me think of my step-father, and how he used to smoke his tobacco from pipes, and listen to old Italian Polka records, and talk to the seagulls, and pet the dogs while trying to teach me about the mold that grows on french cheeses. He drank this beer. It is familiar and comforting just by association. It's like drinking Frank Sinatra's favorite drink because you know he was a classy man. My step-father most certainly is. So I picked up the beer and a lonely can of soup and came home. I'm not gonna lie, I was excited to drink it. As I get older I find myself revelling in doing the things that my parents enjoyed, and finally understanding why. But the moral of buying Memory beer, and why you shouldn't do it (if you're me I guess), is that once I was home I victoriously pulled a bottle from the cardboard satchel, excited to read the label that this great man must have read so many times, only to discover that I had just bought a bunch of malt liquor. What? Malt. Liquor. Sure, it's "imported from Copenhagen", but what are the Danish doing making malt liquor in the first place? Aren't they above that? I mean it's malt liquor for chrissake--the stuff you drink when you're too young or drunk to care. Stoic elephant or no, it's not even real beer. And I don't know if there is some kind of legitimate elephant beer out there that I just didn't find, but I will tell you that this cannot be the beer that my step-father drank. The man who fights with swords and plays the accordion. Classy people don't buy malt liquor. That's like saying that tap dancers also masturbate to the Wall Street Journal. It just doesn't happen. So while I might be drinking this "beer" anyway, and wondering why, I still don't reccomend that anyone haplessly walk through a bodega and snatch up the first drink that sparks their happy memories. Because obviously you wind up with something that is grain and water, and too boozy to be sold in bars.

So I have started to build an intricate web of lies, which will hopefully lead to making money and doing a thing I might be good at. But the lies make me nervous and sweaty. There's a rooftop party somewhere close by and I want to see it, there's a window and I want to open it, there's a hand and I want to shake it--or talk to it and see how much I want to shake it. There's a lot of sleep I want to have without sleeping.

Dear Thank You For The Little Things That Could Be Big

Everything has changed.

You know what could make spring better? This. This that I just discovered.

The windows will be open, the boots will be on.

When it was revealed I ran around the house that is being built jumping and laughing and thinking of what I could do next.

Hey Friday, tell me what to do next. This is like a pile of dogs on my doorstep. This is like getting an unbroken foot again. This is like finding a music box you could sleep inside of. This is like a dozen beaches with aggets my great grandmother would want for the jars on her window sill.

Hey Friday, thank you. Hello spring.

I Thought Of College Part One

I'm not saying I came up with every thing that's been done, but that one thing, I'm pretty sure I did that first.

Tonight it rained and rained and there was lightening, and I thought it was beautiful and I wasn't scared because I knew I had so many things to anchor me down, and I wondered if anyone ever gets struck in the city--you only hear about that in places with large open fields, which is anywhere but here, little in-between places with storm cellars and buck fifty gas pumps and women named Cherlene and one black person for thirty miles. I thought the storm was nice. And I didn't complain when I was walking home beneath it. A nice storm in April...

If you can ever realize that you're in something great while you're in it, even if it's only or five minutes, I suggest you take it in for all it's worth, because too many things are complained about and then missed after the fact. Too many people complain about college while they're there, but the secret is, you'll never be able to be so reckless again. Unless you're a millionaire, in which case, please, by all means, complain about everything. You can pay people to listen. We think college lasts for about a half a second, but I'm starting to think that it's our entire lives that happen in half a second...

I slept for almost 14 hours today. I woke up on my day off and thought I had wasted the entire thing, and then I remembered all the years I spent never sleeping much at all, and realized maybe my body was getting its payback. I owe it a lot of hours.

Some place nice to go would be Illinois or Nebraska or Montana. Something nice to do would be watch my friends play music or go ride a horse so hard like it was about to die. Something nice to see would be my room, and my apartment in completetion. Something nice to have would be some money to see my friends, and my sister and my future dog. Something nice to touch would be my future dog, and a pair of bare arms, and cold sheets, and the water in a swimming pool or a lake with a dock. Some nice things to taste would be a warm mouth, and a hot burrito, and a cool glass of wine, and an endless pillow, and a movie moment, and cheap food from a rest stop on the way to something scenic. Something nice to feel would be achievement and completion and acceptance and anticiaption and promise and possiblity and bravery and valdation and high-fives and high elevation and adrenaline and chance and summer breaks and lucky breaks and the sea and hugs from family. Something nice to know you're making it.

Goodnight little world.
Goodnight little memories.
Goodnight little happenings.
Goodnight little dreams.
Goodnight little everythings.

The Drunk Button

One of two things is happening. Either I am only writing blogs when I am drunk, or the only time I have access to the internet is late at night, and I only remember this when I'm drinking. Probably both. So I have gotten in the habit of rereading the things I have written and laughing at my ever embarassing and unique ways of coming up with things to say at three o'clock in the morning. Drinking when I should be sleeping...

After tonight I can say with a fair ammount of certainty that the gay community makes the rest of us straight people look like a group of boring shitheads. Ok, we're not shitheads. We're just boring by comparison. It takes a generous ammount anymore to actually make my jaw drop from an inability to understand, but tonight my mouth was on the table. Despite the fact that I have to wake up at 6:45 in the morning, I found myself sipping large portions of Not So Familiar Gay Boy's Baccardi and coke just because I was so aghast about what was actually taking place. I mean wow. I might as well go home, do a jigsaw puzzle, eat a gingersnap, and re-catalogue my rolodex. Just cash it in. And then marry some ponchy computer teacher named Eugene and learn how to bake casseroles and only have sex, in the missionary position, on hollidays like President's Day. Because after tonight I don't think I can compete.

I would like to hold hands on a date, and pay my bills, and find a nice dress for graduation, and see my friend's final projects, and eat at bbqs, and make my room a room, and buy a ticket to New Orleans to see the Sister, and find good pieces of free furniture, and check out some Olsen action tomorrow when the second Little Bits Olsen comes in to work. But you know, these things are just things.

In Recent News, It's Bath Time

Polls today showed that I have not, in fact, cleaned my body in approximately the last seven days. Maybe more. We're not sure. So in about four minutes I am going to have to remedy that. Because I am starting to get a dirt tan, which, while being a funny topic of conversation, also makes my friends and coworkers sit further away from me.

I think that it may be inarguable that spring is by far and away a much better season than winter. I remember the first day that it was unbelievably sunny I just walked down the street, smiling at babies and dogs and strangers and groups of boys playing ball in the park and lovers buying eachother shoes and gellatto, and even at myself. I had no reason to be smiling other than things felt nice, but wow did things feel nice. I want to hold hands, and go hiking, and feed homeless people sandwiches, and actually wear shorts without two pairs of leggings (thusly exposing the world to my bizarre pale legs, so you know that says something), and give my seat up to women with suitcases, and high five male models, and laugh at myself when I trip, and engage in conversations about the importance of "being in love with the world". So something magical might be happening. And that thing might be spring. Thanks spring. Until you came I had no idea how much winter actually blew.

On a general world loving, spring infected note, I would just like to say: It feels good to appreciate, and it feels good to be appreciated. If you like the person you are spending time with, it is nice to share that information. It's good to tell people when they're funny and nice and pretty and doofy and strange and loved and clever and awesome. People should tell people. And eventhough I have heard the argument that just spending time with someone should imply you enjoy their company, I don't agree. I think that means you're affraid to be honest and therefore vulnerable. But let's be real kids, we're not getting any younger, time's not slowing down, and we aren't gaining anything by keeping ourselves so much to ourselves. So tell your friends you love them, and your girl(boy)friends you think they're awesome, and your mom thanks for pushing you out of the womb. And though I sound like a hippie, you all know I'm right. Or maybe you don't. But then, maybe you still think it's cool to stand around with your arms crossed, judging everything. How about this, I'll start thigns off: Bath, I like you, and I appreciate you for making me clean and more likeable by my peers. Thank you for all your hard work, and frequent efforts in giving me warm water. I enjoy you every time we hang out.

Bath time 2k 7.

In Different News

I should learn how to spell that word. I'm fairly sure that normally I would know.

I was mad about something. It seems lately I have a tendancy to be mad. I think what I wanted to say was:
It figures.
Very little floats.
I notice everything though I am so good at being the stupid one you might miss it.
My feelings are hurt easily, and though this reminds me that I am a baby, it also reminds me that I have the gift of feeling things, which I would not exchange for anything.
Lake Michigan is big, and wen can be like Lake Michigan if we wake up early enough.
I am not an alcoholic I just love things. And one of those things is whiskey. In all capacities.
I remember the last time we were really together,the four of us, in a foreign city, playing so hard we dropped to our knees, and I had never dropped to my knees before, and even then I didn't know it would be the last real time. How could we have known.
I should not feel so bad about the things which I know are inevitable. And many bad things are inevitable.
Remember every goodbye letter made in time away. Remember every hello.
I have jugs of water but I am dreaming of pastures of horses and O sound like the foreign man.

Someone hear me. I would like to go back to the badlands. And the real sea. I have not forgotten the things I cannot say. Though I am still just a girl trying to find a way to say them. Don't make me any more afraid of you than I already am, though I hardly am at all. Ahhhh, it's all so complicated, but less so when we're sleeping.

Recovering the Internet at Four in the Morning

Lucky me, wouldn't it happen to be that the only hour I get internet here might be a time when I should not touch it at all.

I'm slowly figuring out how to put the peices of my personal identification back together after having my wallet stolen twice in three weeks. AND NOTE: To you whom have them: there will be more to you later, but you should be ashamed of yourselves. One, because you know I didn't want to stay, and two because I only had one fucking dollar in it, and I hope you made good use of it. Good luck with my receipts and ticket stubs. You moron. I never understood what people said about not trusting New York City, really, until these things happened. Now unfortunately I guard my things in trains and bars like I have something left to take (which I don't), and I am glad I have friends who like to have fun at home (because I can't go out now), and a roomate who will pay for my train tickets to work each day. Shame on you. Both of you. But this is for another time, I digress.

I bought a journal. Once again I decided it was time to try the thing I was so obsessed with in my younger years, and went looking for a book today. Do you know how hard it is to find some plain book to put things in? I stood in the book store for maybe a half an hour, something that felt like forever, as I perused through the Batman, Hello Kitty, fake-moleskine "journals", meant to keep your utmost secrets and treasures. Well, i don't want a place to write my treasures, I just kind of want a place to write my shit, you know what I mean? Eventually I decided on some book with squiggels and a label that said "journal" emphatically on the outside, mostly for the reason that it only cost five bucks, but will make me look like a real asshole if I ever use it in public. Eh, everyone looks like assholes when they write in public though, right? So yeah, I bought a Gournal. Me and my Gournal. Good times ahead. Or maybe, at least, not so many confusing times. You know, now that I have my Gournal.

I read an article today about how to reduce to signs of aging and to live a longer life. One of their tips was "find small things that make you happy, and integrate them into your daily routine". "Great!," I thought, and I wrote it down. Like it was something new. Then I realized, I do this all the time, because I look at pictures of dogs on the internet nearly all the time, and feel like the most happiest girl on the planet. I immagine that once I have my own dog I will still do this. Because I can't seem to get over them, or wanting to save 30 of them to be my very own. So, according to this article in the lady magazine, I am going to live at least 20 years longer than everyone else I know. Joyous occasion.

So now that I'm admiting that I might be somewhat drunk, I have to ask the inevitable question: why does moving to New York to be closer to the things that you want to do mean that first you have to be as far away from them as possible?

At least it's spring. At least I'm here. Even if I have no proof that I exist and the government takes most of the money I earn. At least I am here. Ammong my idols ad my aimless peers.

Rumors of Famous People and What I Hate, part One.

What if you found out your idols were assholes?
What if you found out today?
What if you found out your idols were stupid and not worth the time?
What if that made everything feel hollow?

Because today I finally met a famous person, and another famous person, and they both were respectively cold, and though I never forgot the concept "I am the hired help", I also never forgot the concept that nice people can be nice no matter what, no matter who they are talking to, and though still I knew that 80 people spoke for them I felt that there was no need for their bodyguard to follow me though the door and scowl at me like I was stealing something vital when all I was doing was delivering a package to a man named Brad, because man, I don't want to harm your girl Alecia Keys, believe me, she's all yours to lord over, I am just trying to get paid my minimum wage. But believe me, one day you"'l be guarding me while I piss and I'll tell you I don't need it because I can fend for myself, and I hope then you can let other people piss around me, because it's only right, and you'll remember the way you looked at me when I was just a sallow studio worker, and maybe you'll feel a little bit bad. Maybe you'll call Ms. K and she'll feel bad too, because now I'm a famous person too, like her, eventhough I am white trash, and she"ll say "I knew she always had potential", and I'll be all "girl you know I did" and then maybe we'll throw some confetti around.

But I will never be a dick to people like us. Eventhough I have to smile and courtsey to people who are rude all day long. I would like to think that people who have nice things don't take those things for granted. I hope not to be so foolish.

I know the sun is always setting on a summer camp or a high dive somewhere.

I would like to find a drum circle or a space without judgement.

Mama K.

A Little Trip to a Friend's Computer. Oh, Hello Computer.

I've moved.
I have a new haircut.
I'm living in a startlingly wonderful bubble of niceness.
And my roomate doesn't mind when I wake him up by singing Skatman. Because he's the best.

We don't have internet until Saturday, at which point I'm sure the drunken posts will start pouring in. For the time being, drunken posts have been replaced, much to my dismay, by drunken text messages I should not send. Because no one has created a breathalizer function for cell phones yet. Someone, please, create this. Please.

Until Saturday,
Wishing I was Peter Pan,
Singing A Lot of Jock Jams,
Excited for Casey the New Roomate,
Missing my Ability to Look at Dogs on Petfinder,


Mama Kanine.

Dear Things Are Changing

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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 Small Green Frog Said

"There's so many strange places that I'd like to be,
but none of them permanently."