Blast Fortune

2 Years ago, I started this blog, "Four Letter World", as an outlet for writing and other personal art/ephemera.
Today I celebrate the further potentialities by changing the name to coincide with a .blogspot address:

blastfortune.blogspot.com.

Also, a fantastic ebook from Pangur Ban Party has just been released with a story of mine in the line up. Pretty proud to be part of this crew:
verybeautifulwomen.blogspot.com

Hope all is well with you and yours.
See you post Halloween.

Xo-
Dana Jerman

It's really very ok to admit that your ex-boyfriend is sexy.

Thanks for being you, Kent.

Thank Others For Your Sanity Daily- 28 Feb. 1998

"NO, fuck! That's my birthday too, dude! I just turned 18!!"

I offer my hand in a high five he was too stunned to complete right away as he sat across from me in the well-lit bottom floor of Duquesne Towers.
That's how it all began, though.
The exchange of the fact of the shared birthday- us and Smokey Robinson and Seal (black vocalists, this one no different) and our same destination! Toga party @ Binh's.
"A quarter? Sure. For an apple pie?"
I smiled my stupid smile in a fresh-from-Sam-Goody Korn T-shirt. Reading the blue "How to survive your freshman year" booklet.
Tip 1: Bring alotta booze.

Jill arrives in the blue Toyota @ 10 instead of 9. We're pissed, but just glad she's here. Wendy dressed up almost naked in peter pan toga garb. She delivered us safely home, all thanks to tolerance.
Jill- the 23 yr old grad student- in Devil Red. Her oily white blond pixie cut shining from glittery face powder like Wendy.

123 in the South Side. Smile where I fucked you last.
Many beautiful individuals, past the glow room, the kitchen, the bathroom. Standing beside the sink. "Wanna go for a walk?" (This is me to Eugene.)

Outside into the many blocks of winding streets. Down to the corner with the white car and opposite the convenience store. February in Pittsburgh. I lean into his big jacket, on the car listening to his words, loving every melody of motion they created. How suddenly I'd found someone special.
Past Nick's Fat City on the main drag to Tuscany on the corner.
Lemon and Orange and Cinnamon. His colors and the coffee shops and mine.
Paid for my house blend and we sat in the back. Too briefly.
Back to the party. Then home. Home sweet dormroom.

Megan in "I'm dying!" mode. Wendy in hyperdrive. Me between Arturo and Eugene in the back seat: in heaven.
Crawling into the elevator to the 7th floor. Playing doctor to Megan and girlfriend to Eugene until 3am. I smiled and kissed him, he smiled and kissed me back. Only the presumptuousness of youth scared sober with love causes one to laugh nervously as they ask: "Do you want to see my dick?"
Another nervous laugh from me as I say "No."
Vampires in the bathroom. Jessica polishing off the VDK with her friends.
Sitting in silence with the Xmas lights on. People screaming up the street below.
Christmas on a cracker, it was a good night.

TEN OUT- THE 9/11 NOTES

On September Eleven, Year Two Thousand and One, I was in college in Indiana, Pa.

Went to class that morning, which was promptly cancelled. The instructor had friends in NYC whom she'd just been with the week prior. She couldn't get hold of them via phone, and was visibly distraught. A TV was on in a lounge, and I watched it with some others for a little while.

Outside. Headed back to my dorm room. Then I discovered all classes were cancelled for the day.
I decided to go to my mother's office (in now nonexistent Gordon Hall) instead.
A TV had been brought into her space. She had work to do so she wasn't watching that intently, but her boss and I were when the 2nd plane came thru.

It was then I opened my notebook and started taking notes.

I worked part-time at a radio station back then, and knew I'd have to be there in the evening, maybe into the next day after this. I took notes the whole time.

The following are the transcriptions of the few pages I kept of things heard and observed.

There is no pattern.
There is no peace.

-
911
Men walking into the white dust
Fire, Police, ATF.
("We saw on Television")
Cloth in the window.
Eyewitnesses.
Media incompetence/inflated speculation- since 2000?
1991 clip faked- misdirected hostility
FOX best footage sensationalist
Black smoke and cameramen
110 stories
Surrounding buildings collapsed- Man carrying other's bags
American flag still wavering on TV
Gulianni on Telephone "Democracy is our Future"
Reiterate the Facts.
Mayhem 9am-11am
BUSH SPEAKS- Placated statement
Flight 11
Flight 77
Boston to LA hijacked by suicide "damage"? terrorists
Eyewitness bodies
Firetrucks demolished by debris
(Saviors go in to die)- Lost Firefighters
Western Pa Seword, H-city, PowerPlant Area
Comparison to Pearl Harbor
Gaping hole- dramatic smoke (on the water)
Both collapsed
Evacuate thru basement
Company sponsored terrorist acts! (this bomb brought to you by Verizon)
Oliver North - Al Haig - WAR!
Pentagon, F to A, plane collapse
-Have something to do with Gore and Clinton!
Stock markets closed/ never opened
economic carnage
2:05 pm Evacuated - bomb threat- taped and cautioned off
United and American Airlines
2- 757
2- 767
#'s 77, 11, 175, 93
Bush- from FLA to Lou. to Nebras. to
more than 50,000 people in center
Osama Bin Laden?- Afghanistan/Iraq/Middle E./Israel-Palistinians
Land dispute- Libya, Syria, Sudan
Taliban
Voice Recorder "The Black Box"
Flights bound to LA- most fuel, least amount of time between conveniences
THREAT CON DELTA- highest formulated response for FBI & CIA alert Military
gravity kills
threat received against presidential mansion/residence
Yasser Arafat announcement- excited PLA
"The lure of the innocent"
Fed. Emerg. Response plan
Washed out holocaust film footage
abandoned bike
The Nature of Credible Threats
calling in threats
4 hijacked and are missing = 8 total?
asbestos/toxcicity/clothes blown right off
stoney creek township
where did #5 go down?
Somerset- shot down by apache helicopters? (coming 45 degree angle)
Newark to San Fran
No chunky debris, 45?ft crater, clipped trees, smoke, fire
Def Con 4
Capitol- car bomb
Camp David/White House intended target
FBI/Tom Ridge Press
9:58am call from bathroom
turned at Cleveland
Ignored warnings from associates of unpresedented US attack (blowback)
Cold War- well defined enemy
walking out of (US) on racist conference
boxcutters & knives- back of plane.
Tom Brokaw/Peter Jennings/Dan Rather
WTC
1,200 businesses
99 elevators
1976- Architectural edifices 1,350 ft. tall
6 stories of rubble
9/12- Noon. Somerset FBI Press Conference
6,000 body bags on standby
10:_ - President Address
Chuck Schumer (D.NY)- "New Era- Middle Ages clock)
US- the new colonialist Europe- (suitcase Nukes)
Progressives vs. Leftists?
diplomacy vs. nationalism!
"Orientalist" standpoint
Peace talks to back heritary regimes
Sanctions as govt?
American economy=people are money.
Taliban- "student", erected in 79- Russian conflict- 2/3 afghanis made refugees
Majority German or Russian NE US Policy Makers
"triage"- multicolored tags- red, yellow, green and black.

Hype Alert!! - Introducing Modern Artists

A while back, way before I got into this modeling racket, a friend from high school, Brad, asked me a very astute question: where could he start buying art.

Real modern art with investment value with which he could fill out a budding collection.

Often, from working so closely with artists, I think the whole world is composed of them. I don't realize that there are potential buyers out there my age and even younger who are really hungry to establish for themselves a solid collection.

Most of us "stumble upon" the things we like. The internet has fucked with this kind of culture in repeated ways, some good most bad, but fortunately there is still nothing in the world like going into an antique or thrift shop and entering a different world. Becoming enamored of an object (or three!) of often pragmatic but certainly always aesthetic, value, and enhancing your life or the life of someone else thru a gift.

This is slightly harder to do in the "show at the gallery" culture. All the artists I know are true this way- they would much rather be making art and working in their studios than standing around talking about said piece or process in a crowd of people. If you want to get to know an artist personally, this is not the place to do it. Find a way to contact them and make an appointment. Altho' artists (sensitive, compassionate, etc.), these are still business-minded individuals and this means "time is money."

This is not to say that the gallery opening is not ideal. Good art sells. Period. And it is a buyer's market right now. Go early so you can see what you like. Visit again when you've turned over the image in your mind and the crowd is away. The art won't be available for you to take home until the show comes down, so you'll have about a month to decide where said piece fits amongst your belongings. There is no such thing as buyer's remorse when you support those who dare to define culture thru a singular articulate vision.

With this in mind, I would like to introduce you all to some artists whom I consider to be masters of their craft. Some teach. Most are based in Chicago. I have been privileged to work with each on at least one occasion.

These artists are the living canon. All of them are prize winners, and some have work in the permanent collections of museums. Their work and the work of others like them accurately represents the majesty of not just the figure (their subject matter varies), but also the magnificent possibilities of the mediums in which they work (mostly oils, but sometimes watercolor, pastels, wood, etc.).

Best of luck!
-

Bruno Surdo - Founder of the School of Representational Art in Chicago and mentor to countless artists, budding and established alike. A man enamored of craftsmanship and wit, Bruno paints with an eye for the timely metaphor and purpose of pose. Very much in demand.
http://www.representational-art.com/biobruno.html

Mike Rubenstein - Here is an artist who reveals a story inside of every single piece of work. Exuberant, luxurious, and a modest observer of the 80s with a penchant for the feminine form.
http://www.michaelrubenstein.org/

Andy Conklin and Helen Oh - A husband and wife whose bodies of work couldn't be further from one another in scope and scale, and this is what makes them so dynamic as a pair. Instructors at Harrington College of Design, they must be seen to be believed.
http://www.ohandconklin.com/

Tom Robinson - A star of the current issue of New American Paintings, Tom's work is sweeping in scale, edgy, sexy and celebratory of the feminine. The complexity of his woodwork is always new, always amazing.
http://tomrobinsonartist.com/art/drawing/index.shtml

Richard Halsted - Portrait artist for the individual and the family. Never have I seen work so well done by students, or someone as passionate about teaching. "Radiant" and "Intuitive" are two words that come to mind immediately for Richard.
http://www.halsteadportraits.com/

Mary Qian - Here's a woman who would teach if she could tear herself away from her own canvas for a minute. Paint, breath, sleep, eat- in that order. Her work is gaining international attention, and the prices are going up because of it!
http://www.maryqian.com/

Amanda Johnson - Young, beautiful, electric. Amanda has studied art all over the world and it shows. With massive abstracts or gentle interpretations of nature, she too is fast gaining attention and moving lots of work.
amandajohnsonfineart.com
http://amandajohnsonfineart.blogspot.com/

Stephan Gianinni - Stephan's work rings a beauty that aches to be seen (Girl-in-Subway painting above). I'd swear actual, physical love comes thru this man's brush. An adept restorations expert with a mean case of wanderlust, find a way to own something this soft genius touched. You won't be disappointed.
http://stephangiannini.com/

Stuart Fullerton - A driven "plein air", or outdoor, painter, Stuart's work is subtle magic. Very active with the Palette and Chisel Academy of Art, and shows frequently. There is something here for anyone with a pulse.
http://stuartpainter.fineartstudioonline.com/

Linda H. Jerman (Huntley) d. July 2011

How fortunate that you have been called away so soon into the void! Your duties done in a manner fitting. Your race run fast enough.
This body having failed you, perhaps the next will be more generous. Better.
The Japanese of ancient Zen held to the notion that 50 years was a life span. It was all that could be expected, and to go beyond it in any way was reward. This is no consolation, only a reminder of your success in achieving years almost to 60.
I write to you on a cloud-coated Friday morning in the moody summer of 2011, Chicago, IL. Your only nephew, my only brother, has left for the train station to go home after visiting me for almost 2 weeks. It was not a drawn out goodbye: we leave each other with the notion that soon we will meet again to celebrate your life on the occasion of your passing.
Last night, I pulled photos of you from an unorganized collection. I imagine my mother, your brother's ex-wife, doing the same on the other side of Pennsylvania. We think of you. We are away from you, but never very far.
You surprised us all with every bit of a strangely satisisfying kind of love. We may never find it again. But we are the lucky ones.

Old Dreams Come True Without Warning (Summer 2k8)

She has avoided capture for the past few days. I have been less-than-diligent in my morning pursuit at her favorite coffeeshop. All the baristas in black aprons + visors know her. They smile when I mention her name. Helen.
My Helen of Troy I wish to capture and take on my boat to navigate history. Her last name is still unknown.
4-pronged walker and plastic bag filled with god-knows-what. Dressed like its 30 below.
She hands me a girl scout moment as I go to lock up my bike:
"Will you walk me across the street?"
This as my dehydrated roommate was eight seconds from passing out back on Lincoln St.
I ask if I can carry anything and she protests saying only that she wants someone with her- trusting the traffic in this town to slow and stop as much as I do, which is to say not at all.
Escorting her finally to caribou coffee's door, she confides for the second time amongst all the teasers for old stories pouring out of her: "I took the spurs off the bullets during the war."
I can only guess it was the 2nd World war, which makes me think about this country having been in war more than out. During the whole of its 230+ year existence. The 3rd one well underway.
Which only allows for a big history hard-on raging in my brain that wonders why in the hell I went to the gym rather than sat down with granny Helen and demanded stories.
But hunt her down again I fail to do, it being a thing that would get me up at crack-of-five to be at the damn java joint in time to catch her wizened bespectacled irresistibly magnificent talkative smile.

sexy memory from a long time ago --

The only problem with the movie was that it had a hot girl and a lot of sexual tension. It was an old flick I'd rented on a whim from the free library and had Vincent Price in it. I suppose it was a decent watch aside from the result which was unrelenting horniness for the both of us. I can't remember if we were drinking tequila or St. Pauli's Girl beer, which is something you'd think would matter. Like mixing that piece of information would have a bearing on the evening. We were drinking. That's the point, I guess. We are a dubious pair. We used to date, and now we live together out of a means to stay alive. Neither of us could afford rent anywhere else. It was a Tuesday and breezy and lazy and what else did any of us have but time? So we watched this movie. We were waiting for the girl to get nailed. We didn't so much as see a breast. He told me that there was porn on the computer upstairs, porn his old roommate had downloaded. Snippets of video with some illicit audio to accompany. We looked at everything & ached for someone to jump on. It simply could not be each other. Had this been two years ago, it might have worked. But there's something in time that sobers you up from love. You take a deep breath- compose yourself. I'll never forget the look we gave each other- strangers with the same mind. And we went downstairs and retreated to our separate rooms to masturbate.

Adaptation of Lines

Dear Garrett-
Please take it as a compliment when I say I liked your poem enough to fuck around with it.
See changes below.
PS. Going to the Slam at the Green Mill on the 31st. Will perform. See you there?
X0-
D.

-
Entente of your skin - embers.
Silk of your skin - uncut.

How you always wore a dress
In concordance with your pensive curves.

When I was bound within your arms
The earth became superfluous.

Here, I turned water into words;
I turned love into a mechanical song.

Brushed what was left upon your lush lips
Like makeup- things of oysters, flakes of skin.

Silent once more as the earth grows
Against stress the press of your open mouth,

As indents of skin pressed upon gallantly,
Each labor of your cunt made force
To force the crisis
Of pulse.

-
In a burl of perpetual bloom, curr
Of curls unfurled, locks
Bloom to salubrious tongues,
Unwithered in these tender mornings.

Such a dry land
Dry hands,
And dry dying thighs.
Of this thicket is asked:
‘Will ever there be a bloom?’

Of roads and grass blades have known
So many mornings when the sun,
So much sun and drafts
Kissed and hugged the pillowcases
Ears, shoulders, toes in turn;

Our lids, lashes and dripping noses
Dropped atop tea and shared toast,
Glancing coffee with cigarette smoke.


---
Across a rug, she-
spread and spared of questions.
Her brine eyes brown
eyelids ebb upon her eyes
lazygazing up toward
the bloom of a rotten sun.

P O S T 42

- Summer Is The Poet's Season -


Summer is the Poet's season
outdoors the Poet's habitat.
The Poet's preferred position supine
for riding the side of a world which

on a bicycle then with uprightness and glide
the poet does no waiting but watching.
Before her eyes the summer passes-
a high bird flying the long flight of time.

Voyeur Poetry Manifesto by Unknown Anonymous

To find words over a shoulder- the poet as voyeur. I flew a kite with him once before his dad shot him.

Call it dada, sampling, voyeurism, piece meal postmodern overheard prose, anything. Undertheorized, oversimplified, like looking at mountains you'll walk, that's the point- it's simple. People say the most (in)sight full things. My sister's birthday's in August. When I was little I thought, how the hell does that work. Doesn't make any sense.

It's in the words, falling from between teeth every day, spastic, crowded, and existing like land. Maybe Language for you. Whatever you want. For me it's just there, the syllable making up moments in bars and gas stations, days, and waiting to be listened to, spied on, then maybe written down, twisted out. The frame to be broken. Thrills me. Fuck the property out of it. And the pretense that poetry's from the soul. It's out there. Breath, right? Nobody's words are there own, so rip them off. Then build with them.

Montage. Pieces of language as material. Plural. Words put next to words. Not some falsity of dialect, either. The real thing overheard. Get them down, hear it, write it, graft them, juxtaposed for strength or hollow, or verbatim. Transcription, but interrupted. The way you put it together becomes disjunctive. Or not. Build from your skull a collective head - voice over voice or on. Sick, dripping, gorgeous, whatever. Make them yours.

Conversational stealing 'a la x. A searching through language.
Because it's all just like dirt - there and brilliant in mounds.

Brad: On Memory and his Father

I don't remember very much from when I was a kid.
A few little images here and there, more like sound bytes than memories. But I can remember feeding apples to a horse with my dad so clearly that the images wash over me and eclipse the present, and I'm six or so again, and sitting in the back seat of the car, driving to my grandparents house in Delaware.
We're taking this back road, and we keep flitting in and out of the shadows of big, lazy trees.
The road vaguely follows a small river, and occasionally on one side or the other a meadow opens up along its banks, and in one of these meadows there are three horses. Big brown animals with long faces and swishy tails, standing near the road and grazing on bright green grass.
My dad pulls us over and we hop out and walk up to the barbed wire fence. The sun shines in my face, and the pleasant white noise of a place with water- swishing trees, occasional cicadas- sort of hums behind my ears.
My dad pulls out a few apples from his pockets (I don't know how they got there), and he reaches over the fence and holds one out to the horses. He gives me one, too, after they meander over, and I'm not tall enough to reach over the fence, so I put my hand through the wires and hold up the apple.
One of the horses swings its head toward me, and he is so big!! And he snuffles at me a little, and sniffs the apple, and the peels back his lips and bites in.
This warm mix of juices from the apple and the horse's mouth drips down onto my palm, and I feel the slipperiness of his lips, and even the outsides of his teeth pressing into my skin. I keep holding my hand up through the fence, even after the apple is gone and the horse trots away, until my dad tells me it is time to go.

Now, my grandparents are all dead, and they've all been dead since I was 11.
Sometimes I wonder what I'll think about my dad when he is dead, too, and I don't really know.
But I'm pretty sure its going to be mostly these images I have:
Him mowing the lawn in the summer and the buzzing sound of the lawn mower, or me opening my wallet when I'm sixteen and finding some money in there that wasn't there before, him appearing at the top of the stands during a swim meet just as I'm about to race and then leaving right after I finish fifth...
him taking me over to feed apples to horses.

-

Epilogue:
Carl L. Leneis of Wynnewood, PA, died over a year ago in February 2010. He was 63. Brad is his second son- now 30 years old this year.
Carl was the very definition of a "good man", and is sorely missed.

Here's to a very happy and thoughtful Father's Day to the Leneis Family.

With wishes of love-
Dana J.

For Mother

My son is a memoir. The boy child is a thing with a searching gaze that finds my own to hold it, and I allow it to be held. His blue eyes cure mine blue. Cue them to look, look close. This is the special secret to my missing motherhood. That ideal is a look of total honesty and no truth spared. All secrets of the heart passed on and revealed and thought-thru if not realized.
I find it first in a lover, then I love him down and make a son to love. And the boy asks of me the questions of love that even a best lover, a man, cannot ask. And the asking becomes the very answer. The boy will not know for a great while that he has been the one to teach me this, while I teach him of other things.
My son is a small thing that does not force, but pulls gently, at the living capacity for love in me. Demanding presence, and words to compensate his words. His is everywhere. He demonstrates no silence and he does not sleep.
The boy is the net of the very best of all that is lover - mine and not mine - cast wide. He calls to daring deed and happy action and will not know, for a great while, that he has done and loved because he cannot have done otherwise.
My son is the greatest story of life and I am his mother. The fire of him is pure and my respect for him is great. My urgency for his discipline & direction are profound, but not stifling.
My son is evolution, an eon, a thousand shining petals adorning the lotus promise. My son is every woman's son, and I love him.

Peter's Favorites - A Celebration of National Poetry Month

Happiness Whoever embraces a woman is Adam. The woman is Eve. Everything happens for the first time. I saw something white in the sky. They tell me it is the moon, but what can I do with a word and a mythology. Trees frighten me a little. They are so beautiful. The calm animals come closer so that I may tell them their names. The books in the library have no letters. They spring forth when I open them. Leafing through the atlas I project the shape of Sumatra. Whoever lights a match in the dark is inventing fire. Inside the mirror an Other waits in ambush. Whoever looks at the ocean sees England. Whoever utters a line of Liliencron has entered into battle. I have dreamed Carthage and the legions that destroyed Carthage. I have dreamed the sword and the scale. Praised be the love wherein there is no possessor and no possessed, but both surrender. Praised be the nightmare, which reveals to us that we have the power to create hell. Whoever goes down to a river goes down to the Ganges. Whoever looks at an hourglass sees the dissolution of an empire. Whoever plays with a dagger foretells the death of Caesar. Whoever dreams is every human being. In the desert I saw the young Sphinx, which has just been sculpted. There is nothing else so ancient under the sun. Everything happens for the first time, but in a way that is eternal. Whoever reads my words is inventing them. -Borges - Regina Salve Regina and I need new geometries. One cone of silence as a centerpiece, Two non-Euclidians with recurring spheres. Point to point is too mundane. Give us trigonometry insane! Load tangential sines for show; We’ll take our calculus to go. Sub and super; Death’s h'ors d'oeuvres. Irregular polyhedrons, With which we serve. - Peter Miltz 10-30-09 - Pimp Blood in the Hour of Horus (Intro) Pimp blood chompin’ an’ hummin’ like a vampire! (repeat) Horus Florist Hoke her, poke her (Verse) Watching the game and I'm tryin' to call ya, You sitting in Milwaukee Jus' a' lookin’ at Ren-wah-wah (Verse) Call Harry Kalas, I got Dallas Green Bay While youse in Philly-Delphi learnin' how to mess da cha-cha (Chorus) Yo, girl! I can nevah catch ya weekends Damn, girl! wondrin' whatcha do fa' semen Dumb fucks, I can feel they neveh met me Mah luck, I got da plays dat gonna turnkey (Verse) Watchin' a film jus' trying t'forget ya She love to kick in LA Callin' dicks for golden showahs (Verse) Call Poppa, I know he know how t' do it She slummin' down Boca way Axin' chumps who wanna buy shit (Chorus) Yo, girl! I can nevah catch ya weekends Damn, girl! wondrin' whatcha do fa' semen Dumb fucks, I can feel they neveh met me Mah luck, I got da plays dat gonna turnkey (Bridge) Watching you now, from a place within y'all More shit, excuses why ya'll say ya can't call High art sittin' at da bottom of y'damn lies Big town, jus' picked da wrong girl t'satisfy. (Bridge) Watching you now, from a place within y'all More shit, excuses why ya'll say ya can't call High art sittin' at da bottom of y'damn lies Big town, jus' picked da wrong girl t'satisfy. (Verse) Pimp blood! I ain't never seen it cure yo luck she droppin up in Frisco got ideas to blitz shit schmucks (Verse) Her blood! can't bring mahself t'spill it she only hit hospital baby have kid, ‘fore I fills it (Chorus) Yo, girl! I can nevah catch ya weekends Damn, girl! wondrin' whatcha do fa' semen Dumb fucks, I can feel they neveh met me Mah luck, I got da plays dat gonna turnkey (Verse) Watching the game and I'm tryin' to call ya, You sitting in Milwaukee Jus' a' lookin; at Ren-wah-wah (Verse) Call Harry Kalas, I got Dallas Green Bay While youse in Philly-Delphi learnin' how to mess da cha-cha (Bridge) Watching you now, from a place within y'all More shit, excuses why ya'll say ya can't call High art sittin' at da bottom of y'damn lies Big town, jus' picked da wrong girl t'satisfy. (Chorus) Yo, girl! I can nevah catch ya weekends Damn, girl! wondrin' whatcha do fa' semen Dumb fucks, I can feel they neveh met me Mah luck, I got da plays dat gonna turnkey (Bridge) Watching you now, from a place within y'all More shit, excuses why ya'll say ya can't call High art, sittin' at da bottom of y'damn lies Big town, jus' picked da wrong suckah t'satisfy. (Bridge) Watching you now, from a place within y'all More shit, excuses why ya'll say ya can't call High art, sittin' at da bottom of y'damn lies Big town, jus' picked da wrong suckah t'satisfy. (Outro) Pimp blood chompin’ an’ hummin’ like a vampire! (repeat) Horus Florist Hoke her, poke her Pimp blood chompin’ an’ hummin’ like a vampire! (repeat) Horus Florist Hoke her, poke her - White Punks on French (Intro) Everybody run! Emile Zola’s got a gun! (Verse) Roman noses and middle names Amateur interrogator playing rude games Got a permit and he’s packin’ heat Realistically French and oh so discreet (Verse) Sick girl chillin’ to his wicked left side Chomping on hot wings for tickets to ride Can’t afford the medicine to clear her pretty head Thought she’d buy a meal that would do it instead (Chorus) Everybody run! Emile Zola has got a gun! I know who you are. Is that a surprise? Ya’ can’t conceal weapons In your damn black eyes (Verse) So you wanna study Islam Got me spillin’ like an Imam Five strong pillars and seven sins Wonderin’ when your life can begin (Verse) Loud muthafucka rappin’ with the caliber Revealing Id an’ tryin’ t’get back t’her Runnin’ your mouth an’ runnin’ your game Thing I’m keepin’ from ya: my own real name! (Chorus) Everybody run! Emile Zola has got a gun! I know who you are. Is that a surprise? Ya’ can’t conceal weapons In your damn black eyes (Bridge) Callin’ out the President Thinkin’ like a resident Tryin’ to set a precedent Gonna have an’ accident You wanna build the boys a damn fine empire Call state buildings – load, and open fire! Terrorist punk with all the fundamentals Threat to me? No! ‘Cause you ain’t developmental Bible born believer with the heart of Ahab Don’t remember Jesus sayin’: “Kill the fuckin’ Arabs”! Y’all packing the powder like you packin’ your dicks Finish your dinner drink and I hope you get sick (Chorus) Everybody run! Emile Zola has got a gun! I know who you are. Is that a surprise? Ya’ can’t conceal weapons In your damn black eyes (Chorus) Everybody run! Emile Zola has got a gun! I know who you are. Is that a surprise? Ya’ can’t conceal weapons In your damn black eyes (Bridge) Callin’ out the President Thinkin’ like a resident Tryin’ to set a precedent Gonna have an’ accident (Outro) Roman roamin’ back in time Roman emperor Roamin’ pines Roamin’ Roman catch ya next time Get roamin’, Roman! All in good time… Rome Roam Rome Roam ROME! - Art Thou Pale For Weariness Percy Bysshe Shelley Art thou pale for weariness Of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth, Wandering companionless Among the stars that have a different birth, And ever changing, like a joyless eye That finds no object worth its constancy? - When The Ship Comes In Oh the time will come up When the winds will stop And the breeze will cease to be breathin'. Like the stillness in the wind 'Fore the hurricane begins, The hour when the ship comes in. Oh the seas will split And the ship will hit And the sands on the shoreline will be shaking. Then the tide will sound And the wind will pound And the morning will be breaking. Oh the fishes will laugh As they swim out of the path And the seagulls they'll be smiling. And the rocks on the sand Will proudly stand, The hour that the ship comes in. And the words that are used For to get the ship confused Will not be understood as they're spoken. For the chains of the sea Will have busted in the night And will be buried at the bottom of the ocean. A song will lift As the mainsail shifts And the boat drifts on to the shoreline. And the sun will respect Every face on the deck, The hour that the ship comes in. Then the sands will roll Out a carpet of gold For your weary toes to be a-touchin'. And the ship's wise men Will remind you once again That the whole wide world is watchin'. Oh the foes will rise With the sleep still in their eyes And they'll jerk from their beds and think they're dreamin'. But they'll pinch themselves and squeal And know that it's for real, The hour when the ship comes in. Then they'll raise their hands, Sayin' we'll meet all your demands, But we'll shout from the bow your days are numbered. And like Pharaoh's tribe, They'll be drownded in the tide, And like Goliath, they'll be conquered. - Robert Zimmerman _ Losing all the youth of Athens (Is losing Spring from the year) (verse) Where are the boys who used to play? With ships and guns and forts of hay Into the wind, they fought all day, Into the night, they died their way. (verse) Where are the boys who used to date? With shirts and pants and loving till late Into the wind, we loved all day Into the night, we pledged our way. (chorus) Faith, hope, and love The greatest of these is metaphor What the hell’s a meadow for? For graves to sprout with fear Losing all the youth of Athens Is losing Spring from the year. (verse) These were the boys who sang their fate These were the girls dancing with grace Here are the fathers, painting their faces Here are the mothers, acting their paces (verse) Where are the parents who used to raise? She is the mother who can only gaze He is the father who works through haze Where is the God who guides our ways? (chorus) Faith, hope, and love The greatest of these is metaphor What the hell’s a meadow for? For graves to sprout with fear Losing all the youth of Athens Is losing Spring from the year. (bridge) Battle born, uniformly worn Following, leading Forward falling Forever sailing Born of battle, worn into form. All night long we resurrect All day long we insurrect But death cannot correct (verse) Dyed in wool through all lives past Lying red, into our memories cast Flag draped, death raped at last For future love of centuries past (verse) Monuments morph with morphine scorn Tall granite ships to sink once born All unknown souls with bodies torn All for love, once lost, reborn (chorus) Faith, hope, and love The greatest of these is metaphor What the hell’s a meadow for? For graves to sprout with fear Losing all the youth of Athens Is losing Spring from the year. - The Second Coming (Slouching towards Bethlehem) Turning and turning in the widening gyre The falcon cannot hear the falconer; Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world, The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere The ceremony of innocence is drowned; The best lack all conviction, while the worst Are full of passionate intensity. Surely some revelation is at hand; Surely the Second Coming is at hand. The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out When a vast image out of Spritus Mundi Troubles my sight: somewhere in the sands of the desert. A shape with lion body and the head of a man, A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun, Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds. The darkness drops again; but now I know That twenty centuries of stony sleep were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle, And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born? - W.B Yeats - somewhere i have never traveled,gladly beyond
by E. E. Cummings
somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond any experience,your eyes have their silence: in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me, or which i cannot touch because they are too near your slightest look easily will unclose me though i have closed myself as fingers, you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens (touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose or if your wish be to close me, i and my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly, as when the heart of this flower imagines the snow carefully everywhere descending; nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals the power of your intense fragility:whose texture compels me with the color of its countries, rendering death and forever with each breathing (i do not know what it is about you that closes and opens;only something in me understands the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses) nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands.

-

New Poem:

I Like Christmas

Wood of iron; life’s lampoon.

Beer, television, baseball dreams gone awry.

Pitcher special?

No, it’s a cold-activated glass.

Shouting, silently, “I like Christmas!”

KKK comes out of my mouth…

Fuck you, Poindexter! Issue a PO!

Your SS troops are gay as snow.

You’ll buy me a drink based on the size of my dick?

Give me a car bomb, low voices, big sticks.

Who’s the proprietor of this establishment?

I will shoot the unarmed man.

I will shoot the one-armed man.

KKK go away,

Come again on yesterday.

I came to this place to drink in peace;

Leave me alone or you’ll rest in pieces.

I like Christmas!

Nothing happens; everyone is there.

Nowhere to go; no one bothers us.

I like Christmas,

I keep telling myself

I love Christmas,

I believe myself.

Will you be back for Christmas?

I keep thinking of how much I love you

So I don’t blow these Nazi asshole faggots

Straight to hell.

Wood of iron; life’s slow swoon

I change stools under a beer light’s moon.

I don’t want to kill you, but I love my life.

Shut the fuck up.

I like Christmas

I like Christmas

Peter Miltz

11-11-09

Veteran’s Day

- For three potential corpses and, of course, Dana.

Key West

A mouse trap snaps off in the kitchen with no struggle to follow and my fitful waking sleep from holding onto bed pillows and charging them with feelings and responsibilities, meanings- well, that gives up all too easily. But it is an exquisite hour as the cocks crow brightly, madly, independently- and I bike out for sunrise, stopping at the AIDS memorial beside the long pier (White Pier, I think.) Watching Venus hang- like a hole punch with heaven's light blasting thru- over the place where a subtle jaundice gives way to a burnt pink. Clouds now- nebulous and melancholy as bulls, prepare to be themselves seared away to reveal the hottest and best light over this- an end corner on an American world. Sol bides her time, and the wind picks up to chill me, only clad in t-shirt and swimsuit. Inky water beneath me pushed out by the staggered, pock-marked rocks. A white lip of sky rising, rising, has almost cast Venus away. It is good that the last thing we see- a beacon to mark the end of the darkness- is our sister. Our celestial twin and guide. Increments of light dull further into shape and the last pastel of storm cloud blue lifts gently off the west side of the island. A fishing boat comes in fast. Water choppy enough to let your mind play that it sees fins of large fish coming out of it. Today is the sailboat race around the island. My first Sunday here- and the mark of the beginning of the second week. Maybe I'll swim myself into a nap today, or go get a raw coconut. Finally- a reward thru the clouds- thick flush to full sky blush around the great wide red moment. The planet put to bed in blue. Blood orange defying gravity and shaming inexpressibly what goes without color. I leave myself to be reminded, over and over and over again, that we are always being transformed, and always on the edge of further transformation.

Letter For A Last Time - A Fiction

Dear Mom-

You know, I didn't think he'd come out either. But maybe it was just to spite us. Either way, we tried to enjoy each others company as much as possible.

The weather held out for his trip- unseasonably warm the first day, and of course rainy the next. Lots of slush, but not cold. We even fooled around on the train like old times. He didn't comment on my new tattoo, but I know he noticed it because I caught him looking and smiling.

'Funny' phenomenon- near our old neighborhood we saw a Chase Bank sign with the C, S and E burnt out so it only read "ha". Same thing happened down the road to the 'shack' in Radio Shack. No S, C or K. only '"ha".
Ha Ha.

Oh! before I forget, we saw a white wolf! Very dirty, west off the green line while doing some urban exploration around the old candy factory. There are trolley lines thru there and the wolf was carrying on down one of them. Time seemed to stop while we watched him appear and disappear. I think we saw him before we found the beautiful ceramic children's tea party set. Seriously, I kicked over a box and there it was, dirty and chipped, but still set up like it was waiting for somebody. And that's why I refused to take any pieces away.

He liked my new room. The view at night is really the best part; soft pink grey light coming from obscure sources making the fire escape seem like a moody stage set. I turned on some music and went down to dance in the alley where he could see me. It was nice to feel more lovely than exposed.

The last night he was here I had a dream that I was home, trying to play chess using all my friends as pieces. Eventually they all got tired and started sitting and laying down and napping on one another, but I didn't mind even tho' I still wanted to keep playing the game- I just got out the regular chess board and set things up and then laid down myself! I remember laughing when I woke up.


-
Would you like another?:
http://www.goodreads.com/story/show/251128-inibriatti?chapter=314210
-
XO.

2 Flash/shorts

-Birthday-
Fiction inspired by Brandon Leydic


At a party at my neighbors. She's wearing a black mini skirt & black tights. I'm a tall banner in a too-short lavender v-neck sweater and jeans.
I don't know her name. Never met her. She's not the girl I came with. All I know is by the end of the night I will know her and that could be a problem.

A few hours and the party's moved from the house to the bar and now we know a few details. Namely that she totally wants me. Including some of the most subtle racist shit I've ever heard- but I'm not sure she wants to admit that these aren't really her own thoughts and words. I'm at least not so drunk I don't know her heart's not in it.

So then, a number exchange and a cheek-peck later my girl who is not this girl asks to hit it and we go.

Now Tuesday, and last weekend is miles away. 3pm and the winter sun bright as summer. I go out to the back deck of our building to smoke a cigarette I must have rolled months ago. The tobacco crisp and dry.
Looking down at the mess of mops, brooms, rags by the doors, a flash of something half remembered...

I was drunk and out here with my girl about a month ago. She'd gone in for something and I stayed out catching cold. Out thru one of those back doors downstairs comes bursting this couple. Ejecting themselves from a party with their kisses audible. Their gropes frantic.
It was just sexy and violent enough for me to think later I'd dreamed it up in all my stupor.
One pulled the other back inside after their fevered ritual and I guess I went back inside too.

This time I found myself going straight for the fone to dial her. Black-skirt-black-tights picks up on the 4th ring.
Now here's "Hullo?" made of equal parts annoyance and obnoxiousness.
I immediately think: fuck. Why am I calling this altogether beautiful, altogether unremarkable girl? What am I going to say? And... why am I resisting the urge to hang up?!

And that's when the tender wave of freedom realized me: None of this will matter. And it doesn't have to go anywhere...
So I could say whatever I liked!
Then I did:

"Hey! It's me, the boy you met at the party on Saturday. Yeah, that bar was great. No, you didn't introduce me to the bartender. Thanks, I thought you were well dressed also. No, really. Right, well it is a beautiful day and... Hmm, I've got a steady girlfriend. You know, you met her. Oh, yeah. Yeah, we'd love to. Ok, what time and where? Yeah, thanks, thanks again."

Ten minutes tops was all it took to get back in it for another go.
My girl couldn't wait. She's not usually into this weekend-after-next-party racket, but her attitude changed. I watched that mouth of hers and it behaved differently.
On the way over she showed her cards:

"Want to play a 'love game'?"
Was this really happening. Tell me this was happening.
"Uh... yes?!"
"Ok. I pick the girl for you. You pick the boy for me. We have to kiss them in front of each other at some point in the evening. No rush."

A "love game"?
I felt suddenly like it was my birthday and that here in the car on the way to a party on a Saturday night, all I had was all I wanted. The girl who was already mine had smiled at me and welcomed me home.

It was a good start.


-


-Kid Science-

Catherine and I in the park with the new adoptee. A bright super-blonde she was calling Eva.
Eva was getting spastic in the sandbox while we talked on the bench about any old thing. Catherine, after a lull-
"You'll take her for a day next week?"
"Uh, what?"
She sighed, explaining-
"Well, I only adopted her as a social science experiment, really. All my friends will have to be involved somehow, so I'm conscripting them, not as babysitters, but as multiple co-parents. Let's see how far we can push this it-takes-a-village stuff."
Her slow smile was irresistible. I looked back at Eva and thought of how many years I'd been trying to get into Catherine's pants. How hard could it be now? That tiny human now trying to eat a bug carcass was totally my answer.
I held Cathrine's blue-eyed stare with my own.
"Thursday and Friday. Provide the bottles and blanky and I'll track down some diapers and food."
Catherine said nothing, but her smile got a whole lot brighter. Score.

The Palm Reader

You must fly, she says.
There is one who will put you on a pedestal
Everything you do is fine,
he says,
you need nothing else.
And when you go, leave, fly and succeed and return
they will say they knew it all along.

The long extension between pinki and ring
the proud v
is indicative of artistic temperament.
But you, girl, are dilettante and your art is not yet a of a singular purpose,
which is acceptable on the part of your youth.

The trust issues...
have you deceived yourself?
On around your most pubescent year, you were betrayed.. a self betrayal.
Because of this you suppressed a part of your nature that is not gone
you should not seek to get it back
instead to relax into it again
and let it pop up like a button.

you're getting closer.
your nature again arrives
and on time
to carry you into the sky.

Practice for the Opus

-Upon finishing Transparent Things by V. Nabokov-

The sweet spank of unbelievably literate illuminated atrocities are again a familiar thing- fresh with the average abomination warranting tight reflection.
In the face of the plight of our hero, Hugh Person, who strangles his wife in his sleep only to end up in an asylum and die 8 years later in a hotel fire searching for remembrances of her in Switzerland (a place chock-full of alpine bad-behavior); it is sure to be true that Nabokov here, most clearly in his best absurdist critical sense, has written himself (and perhaps his very own wife Vera, to whom the piece is dedicated) into every character.
The pathetic stitches of clumsy emotion and character development moving our hero thru the story are lovingly addressed in each turbulent serpentine paragraph- a technique with language that seems to slow-mo the disaster(s) to cinematically observable, absorbable proportions.
Sprinkled adroitly with French, this compact yet ambitious 2 pgs-per-chapter volume would stand also as a proper introduction to N's humor- black and briny as velvet left in a swamp, true as philosophy, and relevant as the notion of forever...

Favorite line: "My only chance to remain the same was by appearing subnormal."


Other great books I've read this year include:
Amphigorey - Edward Gorey
The Playwright - Eddie Campbell
The Garden of Eden- Hemmingway
Wide Sargasso Sea- Jean Rhys
Bluebeard- Vonnegut
Lap Dancing for Mommy - Erika Lopez


The 2 0 1 1 reading list includes:
Confederacy of Dunces
Nelson Algren- Chicago City on the Make
JM Cotzee- Disgrace
Alex Lemon- Happy
Richard Farina- Been Down So Long It Looks Like Up To Me
August, Osage County -Tracy Letts
Tony Fitzpatrick- Hard Angles
Noise: Fiction inspired by the music of Sonic Youth
The Difference Engine and Zero History - William Gibson

And anything @ all (or more) by-
Robert Bolano, Studs Terkel, Dorothy Parker, Nicholson Baker, Henry Rollins, JG Ballard.


Good luck in your practice!

Heartchetecture - strange diary in short films 2006-08

Your Day Is Everybody Else's Life- a self pillaged from dreams

So here are a few scenarios from sleep over the past few years. Let me know what you've been dreaming about lately, or if you have dreamt something similar to these depictions.


8/26 - a scene capitalized upon mid-wakefulness. I am moving along the ground, crouched but not crawling, picking up change. Pennies, dimes, sometimes quarters, trying to pick them up as fast as they appear, but they are appearing too fast & my hands can't hold them, or my pockets. I feel a combative frustration knowing this. But almost as soon as the idea of release of the mental block by releasing all the change appears, it happens. The floor is flooded with coins & their sounds & the dream subsides.

12/16- My father is on his knees. Doesn't totally look like him. He is pleading w/ me to go out & "Do" & "utilize my talent."

2/7- Band geeks on stage @ my HS. Dressed up however we want. I'm about to go on, not fully dressed. Gonna do this runway thing. They play Black Box and it's ridiculous.

2/11- Wake up suddenly to a beautiful day. The sun nigh & bright @ 7:45a. I hear birds. So tennis. Lots of it. Frustrating as ever. Old indoor courts @ the Edgeworth Club. Suddenly I'm hanging out w/ the mentally retarded. Paula Abdul is there in red pumps. They all start laughing uncontrollably @ nothing @ all. This after I've asked the retarded girl to show all of us her tits, then explained why very intellectually, then showed them my tits.
Then another dream- a hotel. An elevator. Old couple refuses to take the stairs. A kid I'm tutoring in math tries to pull off his burn wound gauze while thinking about a problem he can't solve because I haven't given him enuf information. He almost looks like Spiderman struggling to get out of the suit, he's all meaty & gross.

3/18- "Bobby" has pink hair.
Seagulls eating homeless black men.
Sparkling champagne from 1798 w/ 2 visa cards.
Everyone on my outward bound trip quits & I go home with the leader whom I know.

6/7 I dreamt of the pet mosquito. Drinking of me as she coiled her longest strongest limbs around my finger. There she stayed, feeding, electric fires in her belly reproducing until she burst with the fire of growth and tongues of blood sparks became her new carapace- her triple-upgraded body, a new more perfect toy. Now her bulk fit the top of my hand, no longer my finger. My friends stand amazed @ my new pet, intelligent & fast, and my willingness to participate in the experiment that gave my blood over to the unknown creature. I was happy, as I knew she would grow larger still & thrive. Lit up with knowledge and usefulness- as much a servant to me as I to her.

6/18- Crushingly vivid!
Lastly- a federal excavation team is about to reopen the ground where something massive is buried (Chicago?)
-I am lonely with nowhere to sleep in Anchorage, AK. As I pass the lovers on the windy stormy night on the beach the man takes pictures of his loved who grows less shy @ revealing herself more w/ each shot, and more elaborate and beautiful @ the same time.. A dive bar is lit up by the beach & I wander into it.

2/27- I am roommates with artist Amanda Johnson. I'm also a dominatrix. A man comes over to the loft with his assistants and lots of toys demanding I service him. It is only later that I find an abstract porn of him and another "service vehicle" that I attempt to watch & quickly (or not quickly enough) turn off when I find myself amongst others.
Back in the loft, at first he is a eunuch, and his "hole" that he wants me to kiss/fuck is tainted with green pus. Later we get into it and, altho' he now has a penis and balls, they too are infected. I fuck him using strange (clear glass, ribbed) tools & in strange positions. There is a mess of lube/cum/something on Amanda's full length 3 piece mirror. She is angry about it. Before the boy goes he comforts me & tells me I've been great, which I know I have for him. (I am now deeply vulnerable.)
Later, other interactions occur. like a fat leprechaun-like man on a news program getting ready to do the weather dressed in St. Patties gaudy paper decor & yelling "Erin Go Braugh!"

5-5 - Cinco De Mayo!
I am trying to order Steelers tickets @ several "booths" for a large group of people and it turns into a lot of zine gathering (big newspaper size) and all these football-player-sized mascots (furry & representative of heaven/hell) appear, one of which is a Gene Wilder-type w/ which I am trapped in his pink furry comfortable suit, talking like "Sol Rosenberg."
I wake up @ quarter to 1p! So late!

6/6 - Slept @ dad's house.
Naughty dreams in the desert... very frustrating feeling & full of blockages & miscommunications. A naked boy with a symmetrical tribal rainbow tattoo around his mouth breaks in and tries to fuck the journalist, dressed in red, who flees to the jazz record convention. I follow...

6/21- (Star Wars influenced modern conflict?) A War.
Storm troopers are what many civilians have been brainwashed/bodywashed to become & the practice continues. A professor beckons a student to use herself as an information courier. Puzzle pieces & gadgetry are involved as well as a suicide method. Meanwhile cross-planet there is a "hole". A great monster in a deep gap in the Earth that soldiers have been standing on a rocky/crumbling temple-esque precipice of and throwing themselves over.

7/6 - David Lynch hosts a massive dance/theatre show. A "Musical: The Musical". I'm in it @ the beginning, and stay to watch the part where KISS/Phantom of the Opera dancers come out in Elvira wigs.
Side dream: During a nap I dream of a kooky Japanese scientist @his desk. At the final part of the dream he puts his feet up & laughs hysterically after saying: "I am going to go out and BE mouse!"

11/18- How to book.
How to successfully computer animate a swing.
Bike cops! girls freeze. take a tumble backing bikes out of my bedroom window so I can clean.


5/11/10- The Three Stages of Life!
1. 4-6some young movie love triangle. Super romantic letter sharing and outdoor play, and eventually children.. something DH Lawrence might write.
2.Plumbing the Depths- I can't believe its water.. its so quiet. But here I go, hanging onto the arrowhead hook, along for the ride to find the leak in the pipes (of myself)
3. Grandma hates remote controls. I am in her room and I am the young person, but I know I am her also. She cannot read the large white and blue buttons to change the channel. But I can.

-

DAY of the DEADKU

GUESS! Which Haiku belong to ancient dead japanese masters, and which belong to ME!


1.
The underbrush where doe
lead me into chase
is too thick.

2.
Dark water-
courdoury music pronouced
over the sound of diamonds.

3.
First Crops:
my pillow fluffed up high
i gulp down rice and tea.

4.
Feeling winter on the wind-
tiny yellow leaves
stand little chance.

5.
In squares of sunlight
cats rest; if they have
tasted future, I'll never know.

6.
I give my name back
as I step in
this eden of flowers.

7.
Blow if you will
fall wind- the flowers
have all faded.

8.
No ember-
Rain turns fire to smoke.
Steel blue tendrils swing a moist dream.

Overschooled and Undersexed- Part 1 of some out-of-context genius of one modern and beautiful graduate

In her own heart, she's both stoic and revolutionary. A lover and a feminist. Going to Harvard doesn't mean she gives up the rights to a good "fuck you, world" now and then. One of my favorite philosophers and an amazing friend. So...
Here she is:
- - -
I was in such a mood until i got home and there were flowers on the porch. they were misdelivered, so i brought them in, and they've been totally lovely.

made my day.

now, it's Sunday night and the same old song and dance applies, except that i can't sleep. the vacation was so good and already the improvements are faded, and my only real concern is that its going to be fucking cold tomorrow.

on the one hand i like that i am not weighted down with crises, but on the other, i feel like a nihilist. i don't think i really am, but I'm feeling rather unattached to most things.

a stranger in my own body.

but I'm not complaining, i don't think. hopefully the insomnia AND afterglow are attributable to my good sex tonight.


-
so... I'm thinking about what you said this morning... how your head/heart/mouth don't always have the same voice/motivationy sort of stuff.

I think this is a problem of the modern woman. Before 1980 women (in addition to not being able to go to Columbia university) had very simple expectations of them. squirt out a baby, make dinner, wear pearls, and if you really HAVE to... get a job assisting a man. Then the 80's were a serious paradig-m shift-m and everything went to shit. The extremes of the situation are either crazy supermomUSA'ns who do the work of two people, the successful career person, and full time child care, or complete failure when complete success isn't really viable.

The overwhelming pressure to be the archetypal USA'n woman in addition to the new liberated roll of being a substitute man--well it overwhelms. And somewhere out of this grows a fledgling female ego, which was previously subverted, like in a nunnery, or contorted to the extreme, like a geisha.

Sprinkle in some immediate gratification as preached by the all-invasive media outlet, add in the puritanical damned if you do guilt complex in sexuality in direct portion the the need to be sexually empowered.

So at this point, like a certain digital Lemmings game, we find ourselves with long green pigtails getting ready to burst in an adorably sinister fashion. Meanwhile, the menfolk are looking around trying to figure out what the fuck is going on. More on them another day.

The point being, is... your relative A.D.D. and dramatic outbursts are small potatoes, given the over stimulation. How could you not short out every now and again.


-

I know I don't want to play by the rules that other people take for granted, but having ephemeral rules that can be modified at a moment's notice isn't really working out for me.

-
I'm doing a lot of things I never thought I would.

Like maybe letting go of some relationships that were once the most important around.

or

Like just matching the (lack of) effort that I'm getting back.

I always told myself that I wouldn't let anything get in the way of the important people in my life, but now I'm so quick to say, city, job, school, boyfriend.

Are they just excuses?

--Apparently this evening is for introspection.

-

The word on that is that there is nothing new to note... days and days, a veritable eternity in online time, and nothing has happened. I have gotten over the novelty of the possibility of talking to him again.

Society on the web, I think, for the most part, has "normalized". Chat rooms, I'm sure, still exist but, god, there's got to be infinitely better things to do with my life. OKcupid? -- hipsters and people ten years younger than me.

Sex... Sexiness... It comes down to vice. Sex was my self destruct (lubricated by alcohol). Where my brother Ian might get drunk or high, or my brother might spend 36 hours doing an RPG... I was promiscuous. Honestly--the best time for me in this arena was in B-town, with J, one night a week and freedom to entertain opportunities. Most importantly though, I was masturbating. God, I miss masturbation, and I miss my natural period. c'est la vie...

-
so...sometime this weekend, I was ordering stuff from amazon. The email for my amazon account is one that I've had for 12 years which I don't really use for much else. I go to check my auto-reply order thing from amazon, and I see a message from an old yahoo id I used to chat with. It was surprising, to say the least.

I have to say that my online life started out on the opposite end of the gray scale that it ended on. IN THE BEGINNING!!! I did all the paranoid things for security about talking to people and it was all very g rated. I was 17, I was in Denver with my mom when she had radiation, I was trapped in her friend's house for hours on end. I escaped into the internet. I met some interesting people.

after about a year, I started using it to explore my sexuality. I would say... apart from random casual cybers, there were like four people who actually semi-merged into real life. (that I can think of off the top of my head who were serious/serial but that I never did it with IRL (as opposed to say, J, who i met on friendster, met in real life, had sex with; or (bad judgement of BAD JUDGEMENTS 'S'... but that's another talk for another day))

ANYWAY

one of these people was a guy named Sin california. The last I can remember a specific instance of contact was at camp, i think, and he was a nice enough guy, very yuppie/californian, newly divorced, a kid or two--but it has been years since I thought about him, so seeing an alert that he was using his (very anonymous) screen name and trying to make contact with me was odd.

It was like a time warp or something. Very peculiar.

So, I re-started that yahoo id, you know, out of curiosity, and I'm doing that annoying thing where I check for emails a ga-ja-bi-million times a day. I mean, i didn't even get the message until a couple weeks after it had been sent, and it could totally be a spammer, and I don't really know what I'm going to say to this guy, but I'm so interested in finding out if there's something interesting....

it's a head trip. My behavior in general, my behavior now, my behavior then, the things I don't tell people, the things I do tell people, the things I tell some people....

--well, none of it is consistent anyway.

so--that's my March first! -- Tomorrow is my dad's 71st birthday. Strange.

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It's 4:09a Eastern Time as I start writing this-What a weird mixed bag of a night.

So...I leave work early to try and make sure I can connect to my job remotely, so I can do my job from Atlanta where I'm taking my training class next week. This is vital, because I don't want to come back in a week and find no one did my job while I was away, which is what happened when I came back from PA.

Connectivity is null. I hang around till 5 just to see if anything changes.

Then I masturbate with mixed success. Fun was had, but I come away from it with my face/neck/shoulders painfully tense. Exhaustion sets in.

I go to Target to get a costume for G's birthday bash anyway. Half-way, I realize I forgot my wallet. Go back. Shopping is mixed success. After about an hour, I stumble on some footy pajamas which rule, so in the end it's a win, but just barely.

I come to the party. Again, mixed success. I see a couple people that I like, but not everyone. Eventually there are too any people I don't know so I go and hide with the upstairs neighbors. We pilfer food from down stairs, and start the hanging out. Generally good, but I fall asleep around mid-night.

I wake up at 230 sweltering under a blanket in my footy pajamas. They are really (fuzzy and awesome) warm. The only other person in the room is this girl I think I don't like. I get up, and she doesn't try to start a conversation, so neither do. Instead I pee, and splash some cold water on my face; then I get some ice water and commandeer a computer in the office for what is now an hour and 15 minutes.

I'm going to wear my footy pajamas when I go and wait for the bus at 5:00. It's either that or freeze my cha-chas off.

My weekend is not shaping up to be what I envisioned. I find this to be moderately disconcerting.

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I have officially done the math and I officially can't pay rent this month and enroll in two classes at Harvard. I have 2400 and I need 2700. I also need to pay for this myself and do this on my terms.

I don't want anyone else to pay for this. As it is 400 of that money I have is pinched from A as G hadn't given him the deposit back on the other place.

I think that I will take just the class that will get me in the degree program. It pushes this whole degree thing back by another semester which feels like losing the war again, battles be damned. To everyone else it will look like... I'm not giving up--I sort of feel like I am tho. I really wanted to go to college, grad school, get married, squeeze out some babies, travel retire and die. The further back the college gets, the further back everything else does too. Fuckety Fuckety foo.

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So... the hotel I'm staying at is super fancy (for me) and I have a two room suite. The first day I didn't have room service come. The second day, I put the 'do not disturb' sign on the door that leads to the bathroom and the bedroom. They picked up the stuff in the sitting room, and left everything else alone.

I did the same thing today, and they went back there. They picked up my towels but did not fill the TP dispenser (which I had left with just the cardboard).

They made the bed. Things that were in the messed up sheets:

Textbook
Notes from my new fiscal plan.
Hair clips
Vibrator

All now residing on bed-side tables.

I wish I could have seen house-keeping's face when that was discovered!

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long version of this week's shrink session..
which actually starts way before... like around 1, when mike calls me from his cell phone from his work, and opens our little chat with--hey, chicky.

Needless to say, not only am i beaming like a 14 year old girl who just got acknowledged by that really cool guy she like-likes, but I'm also feeling good enough about the situation that I'm entertaining telling my shrink. (in general, I censor what I tell my shrink because I know what she's going to say a lot of the time, or at least that's what I tell myself, and I really don't want to have the cheating on my boyfriend talk with her.)

anywho... I'm at work, and mike's at work, so we make plans to talk at 330, when he will be out of work and I will be waiting to talk to the shrink.

Then, I leave work, and it's fucking raining. not torrentially, but enough that the lower parts of my pant legs are soaked by the time i get there (less than a mile). I get my shit ready to call mike, and i discover that I don't have my phone--i left it on my desk. (shit fuck damn) I would have time to get back to my phone by 330, but it means another hour in the rain, and I'm simply not up for it, so I sit down and read 'modern psychology' magazine, or something, and berate myself for how frequently i shoot myself in the foot.

so... Shrink time starts, we talk a little about scheduling, Harvard, blah blah blah, and then i bypass the time i spent with mike, and make it sound like i spent the whole weekend with my dad. dad-talk gets about 30 minutes and then I turn the conversation on a severe perpendicular (i don't even know how) and she finishes with:

well, it's clear that you are still angry and confused about how your mother could choose that [abandoment/estrangement] path for you. we'll have to work on that.

~~So yeah, I find it a little hard to get over the fact that my otherwise spectacular mother would come up with something that would undermine every tenet of life and love that she taught me as her last great expression of the aforementioned love.

I mean, it was for the best right?

--The inherent wrongness of all of this fuels a great distrust in things that I can't even begin to explain.

I have told myself secretly that I would never ever put myself in a position like that again, living so ensconced in someone that losing them would obliterate me. and in the quiet of my head it seems totally reasonable. However, when she reiterated it back to me, it sounded totally ridiculous.

There was also talk about 'family'. I admitted that I didn't have a family, in the sense that she was implying, but she countered that I do. She listed my dad, bros and A as family. I think that assessment is truly off the mark--I feel like K, S, N, M, and to a lesser extent M are my family. You are my partner in crime, and the girl I'm gonna marry one of these days (mark your calendar). A is an egg I'm going to break one day, and maybe he'll be hard and stay egg shaped, or maybe he'll be soft and run. there's no way to know for sure right now.

I feel like the love I have for you and K, S, M, M, and to a lesser extent N disproves that I'm incapable of devoting myself to others. I feel totally safe inside of those people.

.... man energy for explaining all this is waning. I think the moral of the story is that if something sounds nice (like unconditional love) but you've noticed it has some inherent flaws, it's totally reasonable to wary of it. Yeah--that's the point.

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Einstein must have had limitless patience...
... because he always had to explain and re-explain his ideas to EVERYONE.

My shrink had an epiphany today, and maybe it was mine, but if it was, it was from like, years ago.

She asked:
But why would your mom choose M to do all of this all things considered?

I said:
Because she knew M would go through with it.

Shrink:
So M was just keeping her promise.
(which I swear to god, I've said before.)

Me:
Yes. We all wanted to see her dying wish happen or something, we all made it happen.

Shrink:
So it's not all black and white then.

Me (internally):
No shit, Sherlock.

This exchange is somewhat typical, but I don't hold it against her. She's doing more than just stenographing what I am saying to be read back later. She's paying attention to whatever it is that Shrinks pay attention to, and she's made some good points.

I just feel like, "Yeah, I know this. How long before I get some place new?"

Also, yes. There are lots of true things here, like this: My mom's last act of love for me completely demolished my faith in love.

This, among other things, makes me an atheist. Sometimes this colors toward pantheism, and sometimes it swings to nihilism, but mostly I'm just sure there is no god.

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--I've been walking to work. It's giving me a new appreciation for the city. I took a different bridge from usual this morning, and as I walked into Boston proper, I could really dig it. There were lots of trees going to leaf, old buildings, new buildings, and it really had the feel of a sort of mysterious secret place I had never been before.

Which is true, actually. I haven't spent any time really on the top side of Boston, and only a smidgen by myself. If A or K or G hasn't taken me there, I haven't been. Well, until just now, since day light savings flopped over.

I walked down B St., and there are all of these beautiful brown stone bldgs, and neat architectural stuff. The nicest bldg I saw was the...... SCIENTOLOGY bldg. I was so bummed. I will go into a church to investigate it, but I am not walking into a Scientology bldg. I think they have ray guns or something, and its just not worth the risk.

Also, it was nice not to have to jostle around people going too fast or too slow or walking toward me. So officially I like B-town 1 hour before dawn until probably about 8 or 9am. That's about four more hours than I would have said this time last year.

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I've been sitting on the cement floor next to an wall at the Harvard Computer Science bldg that has some outlets in it for about... 5 hours.

I came here with the intent to study. The comp sci library is not accessible, and I wasn't interested in looking around like a tourist for an hour until I found a desk. I could have gone to the Anthro library, but that place is like a tomb, and it really makes me feel like I've fallen off the face of the earth.

ANYWAY. -- MY ASS HURTS

Which I deserve, and here's why: I'm the master procrastinator. First, I posted a chapter of a second story I wrote, which took about... 30-40 minutes (final reviews and web formatting). Then I had to make sure nothing had happened on the internet. I can't focus if i think the internet is doing something without me. The problem is that something had--one of the grrls I know from the HP fandom made an interesting blog post, which turned into a huge discussion about fantasy and consensual sex, and what that means.

That lasted 2 hours. Now I'm 90 minutes from my final, and ... not ready.

I've come to terms with the failure on this one. Where last year I was all anxiety and fretfulness, now I am just... over it. This has everything to do with what my shrink was talking about yesterday, about how the end of the term is lock-down town. No one is dead, or in the hospital, no one is telling me that I'm clinically depressed and I should drop out of school, and I'm not leaving Bard, the last place I ever saw my mom. Tomorrow I will have job and fanfic and my boyfriend and no worlds will come to an end.

I'm not sure how failure will affect my application status, except that I won't be able to apply now, but I'm not going to worry about it til The E (E is for failure at Harvard... interestingly enough (or not)).

I know I say it every time, but next term will be different, better. And it's true, because with the exception of expository writing hell, I have been getting better every time. 1) I'll be taking more classes, and investing more time, and I think that will help the flow. 2) I'm recruiting study buddies. From my real friends. Would you be down with doing some readings next fall so as to help me keep myself on point? I don't know what I'm taking yet, but... it'll be something. do you speak any languages I don't know about?

BUT the real thing I wanted to ask you about was... when people ask you what you do, what do you say? Do you say that you're a model? A writer, an artist? Does it depend on who's asking?

There was this great word I saw in my book from last term that I loved, and I can't find it right now (because that book is at home and I'm sitting on the hard hard ground of Harvard). It is how one perceives herself... i'll look for it if you don't know it off the top of your head.

I think that my problem lies in that I don't have any words to define myself. What was, what I fantasize, whatever... I don't know what I'm about. I spent a lot of time figuring out what I was not.... --that's similar to what is, complementary, supplementary, but not the same.... Now the chore is to figure out what I am, what I hold close, and what that will cost me.

I have to admit I feel a little guilty about sending you these unilateral, introspective emails. They are so one-sided, and I can't imagine how that's fun for you. --just sayin' ;-D

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so... I'm having this random, shoot the shit conversation with a woman who moderates one of the hp fanfic sites I've been posting my stories on... and she says, sort of in passing that I'm such an alpha personality.

i've never really considered that to be true about me... not that I'm totally well versed in anything psycho analytical (i know that the minute i start doing it, i'll start self diagnosing, and christ, no one wants that!

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I know what I'd do--belly dance routines to depeche mode, the cure, the smiths, van halen,
you know... juxtapose the fuck out of everything.

It's on my list of when I win the lotto and have unlimited time and funds to prepare.

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why is it that
...I can never find the heart of my point when I am sitting in front of my actual shrink. Why does it take me until way after to figure it out?

So... two weekends ago, my dad visited. Of course, I mentioned this in passing the Tuesday before, and she must have made a note about it because she brought it up today. My dad's visit was good. I didn't have to tell him that I'm an atheist, and he didn't tell me that Jesus loves me. We went to Harvard, which my dad liked, but he got sick towards the end, and we walked around too much on Saturday, so he (and A) slept the rest of the day and through the night. Sunday we fixed his computer, and then we all hung out in front of our computers (and I did laundry). I took a half day Monday, and shot the shit the rest of the day with my dad. No, we did not have deep emotional conversations, but it was still good and I didn't want him to leave as soon as he did.

I mentioned to her that I am afraid each time I see him, that it will be the last time I see him. I then had to explain how this is a feeling I only hold for my Dad as he is an old man, whereas my friends are all young and healthy. It's times like this when I seriously wonder if what I think I am saying is actually what I'm saying, i.e. that up is up and not down or left when I'm speaking with other people. My dad is 70 years old, he could die in his sleep tonight. I hope not, but it is certainly a possibility.

So, the whole time we're talking about my dad and she is trying to get a handle on my relationship with him. He is my dad. He's not a stranger, but we certainly are out talking about our deep dark secrets every chance we get. She tried to say that my dad wouldn't have been emotionally capable of taking care of me after my mom died. I find this hard to believe, since anything would have been better than what I had. All I really needed was a lot of hugs, and to sleep in my own bed in the room that she wall-papered for me--a reprieve.

Of course, I didn't have this concrete idea or the language for it when I was in that stupid fucking room with her, but there it is.

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so... I've been on the patch for a while now, and my period is all gooey now, instead of bloody/mucusy. it really bothers me. although, since i don't have major purge days I can spend the first day just bleeding, it's a little insubstantial, but ... it make me feel punk rock AND like a goddess at the same time. Too bad I can't grow a righteous set of horns or something...

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I think this nation is just one great big dysfunctional family. I mean, seriously, George Washington is like the ultimate rebellious teen, telling the king to leave him alone, he's not turning down his music.

I honestly believe that I shan't ever get out of what I'm in right now. My empirical data contradicts all of the theoretical "should"s that we are generally set up with. I'm over my mom dying, it's not like I am still in mourning for her in a huge tangible sense. I'm in mourning for the life I had and the life I had wanted to develop when I was 18, but that's unattainable. Even if it is college and grad school, which I am working up to now, it's not synonymous. Getting a BA at 22 is grossly different from getting one at 32.

MAYBE I can change some of my psychological/emotional reactions. Maybe.

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I got nothing. all the money in my pocket went to pay my stupid fucking aunt. only 6 more to go tho!

I went home, hung out, didn't do my homework (stupidstupidstupid, but mostly unconcerned).

Shrink time these days is like a grand jury hearing. I present my life as evidence and then i intellectually cross examine it with her. it's like I am myself, and also the archaeologist. I get very defensive. I'm very protective of all my shit.

It's stuff I'd sooner fight for, than cop to (to plagiarize Ani (Difranco))

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Well, I thought that I'd have a better response to this once I was in a more definable state of consciousness, but now... it proves to be untrue.

It does matter that you haven't a penis. Actually, that's one of the things that I miss, the constant suspicion that I'm some super-femme-dyke. One of K's new roommates says I'm a fake lesbian, although I think she means I'm fake-straight. In general, though, no one thinks I'm gay any more. I miss the gender confusion. I really cherish our ... history? This conversation is much better had after a few rounds of shots, I think.

Sadly, my confidence is overly steeped in how people react to me, and as I creep towards 30 people notice me less and less. We can't be in our early 20's forever, I suppose.

Sigh.

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grumble.epiphany.grumblegrumble
I AM depressed. Walking home from K's tonight it hit me. The sheer ordinariness of my life is my mire. I am not proud of Harvard. What's the fucking point of going to Harvard if you don't have to even fucking try???

Living in a college town full of younger fancier whatever-er girls is like a punch in the nuts. My peers at work are all middle-aged kid raising, occasional divorce having, business people.

Seriously, my days at work are spent reading potter fucking fanfic because I need a magical castle to go to school in!

GGAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRGGGHHHHHHH!

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my maturation is hit and miss. i own that. sometimes she comments on it though, and i get very defensive and petulant. like a teenager. thus proving the point that I'm not totally mature like i should be. I don't believe anarchy is just for teenagers. I don't think open relationships are just for 20-somethings. I don't think that just because I'm pushing 30, I have to start subscribing to other people's aspirations.

when she makes observations or pronouncements, sometimes I don't feel like I'm getting anywhere. I have a high level of self-awareness, so if she's telling me something I already know, I get impatient. Also, sometimes she comes off as ... maternal. She says things like "I'm glad to be learning more about you" or something. fucking chicks.
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