JOURNAL FOUND IN ALLEY + NOTES '06

The following, aside from the brief intro here, is not my writing...

Eric Wallen, a punker friend from DC, passed this journal along to me. He found it in an area where he'd been squatting- (in)famous Blagden Alley. Been thinking about its significance in the form of writing practice. And questions for myself, like, why was I compelled to type up this whole thing? It doesn’t amount to practice for me, because I didn’t run into any problems keeping myself from editing her work, as I've attempted to preserve her formatting AND misspellings...

But her work was practice, even though she didn’t know it. Her word choice provides for some good images and it's clear that she is moving into the fires of womanhood and embracing poetry, which in turn helps her to leave behind the things of childhood: parents, friends, religion.

She goes back and forth from noble philosopher to wicked siren and her duality troubles her, as it does every post-pubescent/pre-adulthood girl who, growing up in this society, has had to lay claim her subjectivity and take a moral stance on things labeled “right” but which her gut tells her to be “wrong”.

Her emergence from religion is key to understanding her motivation for writing. She seeks also to cleanse her soul and is working both for and against the idea that there can only be one way to do that, namely by prayer/scripture/Jesus.

I think her name is Megan. It seems like a good name to me: girly but honest, practical and modest. American and not blatantly Catholic. Very young. Very real.

Enjoy.

-

9/4/00

Tomorrow school starts. I have been sick all weekend and threw up.

As every year, I received a father’s blessing for school.

Here are some of the things in it: The first name the Father gave the Holy Ghost is comforter. He promised this his dieciples as they left for Earth. I felt this as a powerful relaxation. I am blessed to be able to take advantage of that gift. This life is often a “veil of tears.” I can find comfort in that to Eternity, it is short. This is a pivotal year for me in finding the Lord’s purpose for me and my mission, here on Earth, if I am righteous. I am a strong spirit. I will be able to lift others up, regardless of their social status and in so doing heal my pain and scars. I will have more energy to do the things I love and achieve a greater zest for life. There will be many days when I will be happy to be alive. I have endured much pain at a very young age. I will begin to see a pattern. My Heavenly Father loves me deeply and is much like an earthly Father, anxiously awaiting my return. I was blessed in his presence in the premortal life. I am blessed now to live so that I may return to Him. I’ve noticed he didn’t say anything about academics and little or nothing about social life. I find that significant. He also said in my times of despair I will never feel lonely or abandoned.

I find out today Lexi is staying in California to go to school there. That came as a shock. I found out right before the blessing and I was crying.

9/5/00

Yep. Great day. I love school. (HEAVY sarcasm). My feet are freezing and I’m still sick. Lorraine called today to see how I was doing, which was really nice of her. She called b/c she found out about Lexi, and me being sick. I liked seeing my friends at school.

Pure, refined hatred

deprives itself of you-

channeling, urging, caressing

itself to your cause

Ebullient, caustic raw

emotion erupts in Alaska

and finds you there

The sand you eat tastes like

bitter salt and trails

Bury, baptize, birth, die!

Blue vast invisible intangible rejoicing

ceaces

now.

9/12/00

I miss you. I hate you. How could you do this? How could you be so careless? How could you be so selfish and fucking stupid! It’s okay. We don’t need whores like you anyway. I'm so sick of duplicities. It maybe okay for Walt Whitman but not for me.

The minute I find something, I lose it. I thought I found you. I thought I found us. But then all that is, isn’t. Is this the last time we’ll be? When you come back, what will it be like? We can’t be the same – that’s a sick hope. We can’t evolve – we’re not together.

Maybe I will just go to sleep. Sweet sleep. Sweet tempting sleep. I don’t want to live. I just want to go to sleep and never wake up.

“Lord I'm walking down the line, and I'm walking down the line. Lord I'm walking down the line, my feet’ll be fine, let me tell you ‘bout my troubled mind.” – Bob Dylan.

But I only use my anger for a show. Because I really am hurt and sad and confused. I love you. You know that. The truth is I am so hurt.

I can’t stay sad for too long. You piss me off! You fucking hypocrite! I hate weddings! Yeah, that’s right, sleep around and do whatever drugs you feel like you dirty whore. That’s success if I ever saw it.

9/23/00

School started of course – It’s weird, now that I'm worried about the petty things, I don’t have time to worry about the big things. I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. Instead of thinking about people’s motivations and eternal concepts I think about what color I should paint my nails and what shoes would look good with my outfit.

“Trails of troubles,

Roads of battles,

Paths of victory,

We shall walk.”

My wall is blood red. Somebody told me that meant something about my personality. Maybe it does. That I love the blood coursing in my veins, I love the pulse in the core of the Earth and the breath of the trees.

Maybe I'm egocentric. Relationships don’t matter. I can’t have anything of value with anybody else. Every time I get close to someone I find some way to hate them, to push them away. I'm the only one that matters. But I know that’s not true. I can’t put my finger on it.

Purple lilac

Red wall

Black sweatshirt

But my feet are cold

Where’s the blood?

I am asleep and dead. I wish I was dead. Don’t you now? Don’t you know I'm talking about myself? It’s time.

There is pain in cold eyes

And the trees are silent

The flames are licking, caressing, taunting

How long can you/I hold your/my hand above the fire?

It’s soul touches me

My essence is ashes

At the core, I am hollow

An empty case with broken roots and scorched hopes

I bear the torch of truth and thrust it at you

To see what you can bear,

Your essence

Ashes to ashes,

Dust to dust.

I was born under a star

And awoke to weeping.

My skin is my wall. And I must protect myself. If you’re looking and me, you’re not looking at me. I have done so much protecting I'm afraid of becoming the person that I'm protecting.

10/14/00

I have a green pen. I feel lost, but not necessarily afraid. There is some future for me – I don’t know what. I don’t live for the future, I don’t live for today, I don’t live. There are so many people and things to keep track of, I can’t even keep track of myself. I don’t see beauty. I don’t see “the light at the end of the tunnel.” Are you supposed to live for something. My answer is not in these words, it’s not in me. Perhaps the answer is “blowin’ in the wind.”

The sea seduces me

Singing a melody of gentle malice

And I let her sing

Slowly, ever so slowly, she taunts me.

With her silver locks and sparkling complexion

Then we become one.

She erases me, erases my recollection.

And all I hear is the seagull.

And all I feel are endless, endless waves,

Eternally erasing my past.

I'm so cold, so cold.

So numb, so numb.

So cold, so cold.

So dead, so dead.

To Bob Dylan:

This is to you

I hope you understand

I wanted you to know I love you.

You sing and you sing to me.

It’s amazing how you know so

Much about humans

And you see the dark side of them,

Yet you still have humor about it.

So what do you do?

I stand up and I breathe.

I feel the ground beneath my feet.

And I walk.

I don’t know where to, but I walk.

I stand on the valleys of the world

And preach my soul

Until I hear the echo of myself

In something lost.

Then I drink the rain and grasp lightning

I bow to the Earth and the Earth gives me life.

And loneliness means rejoicing,

Where wild hopes fly on the breath of tress, where the ocean offers us her prisioners, where the sun sees life.

And life has joy.

Life has soul.

The whales sing and I listen to their

Gospel of harmony

And this time I hear.

NO SWEETS! 9/17/00

I'm kind of lost in my journal. I suppose I should write some about what’s happening. I am still seeing Lorraine, my counselor. I ran away 2 weeks ago. And then I told my dad things that I have been thinking. Lorraine said it might be a good thing if I do leave for awhile. I'm becoming vegetarian and my parents don’t really support that. I got a bunch of library recipe books (vegetarian).

Lexi is still down in California. I miss her but I guess its kind of distant. Sometimes I just get so scared and want to hide and quit everything. I have moments when in my mind I make a mental decision that I know I must go on. Look at all these empty pages I have before me!

10/27/00

If I set my life to music, it all makes sense. It’s all just a big pageant, with soft melodious passages, and angry flaring notes. I can see all the scenes connected and smell the memories. Then the orchestra lulls me to sleep.

11/31/00

“It is enough to enter the temple invisible.” – Kahil Gilbran, The Prophet.

I tried out for the play today. We’ll see. I also went to the Beach with my dad. There were hardly any people there. It was so quiet. I could feel my origins rising in me like I was newly birthed. I became young again. I no longer was striving for my inner-self or the Holy “Om.” It was manifest in the sea itself.

Where does it generate its peace?

December 4, 2000

First day on the job @ Hair Pros. Pretty cool. Great scripture:

For I am persuaded, that neither

Death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities,

Nor powers, nor things present, nor things to come.

Nor height, nor depth, nor any other

Creature, shall be able to separate us

from the love of God, which is in

Christ Jesus our Lord.

December 7, 2000

2^nd day taking anti-depressants. We’ll see- I don’t know. Mock Trial competition is tomorrow. I can’t describe how I'm feeling right now- but hey, I’ll try.

My head is heavy, I can see words and half-formed thoughts floating around in my mind. I hear the whisper of the holy “Om” wandering through my soul. Confusion is talking and music is playing.

4/23/01

I am in such a bad mood. My exchange student is here. She’s been here for a week now. I am so tired. I feel like I always have to entertain her. I’m not doing so hot. I feel like I want to throw up. Mom is really pissing me off. She’s moping.

5/20/01

Sometimes I forget where I am. Holden just wanted to catch people from falling. He just wanted to touch bottom. Things like that happen- when you are so completely apart from everyone they all depress you. They’re mean, dumb, or cocky. I hate those intellectual snobs. Who am I writing for? Go away. I hate it when you look over my shoulder like that. Today Sister Elliott talked about how she had this 5 year plan and all and how she wanted to major in theatre arts until she met this wonderful guy. She was 19 when she got married. Nice. What a dumb-fuck. Then she talks about she straightened her priorities and she poked fun at her friends who aren’t married like they haven’t had a full life or something. It makes me pissing mad when she talks like that. Like you have to be a wife or a mother to have meaning in your life.

I don’t want to give up my dreams. I wont! For me, its not about sacrifice. It would only be about sacrifice if I love Jesus most, but I don’t. That’s what those people don’t understand. If your number one priority isn’t God, there’s no reason in hell you should give things up for him. That sounds bad, but I mean it. And that doesn’t mean that you’re unhappy or that your life doesn’t have purpose or meaning.

6/12/02

I’m sitting here listening to Dave Matthews. Typical, eh? Especially for a high school student contemplating life. Tomorrow finals start and then I get out on Friday.

What a year. What have I done? I’ve done a No-Dinner-Dinner. A huge effort of which I’m extremely interested. I’ve lobbyed for migrant farmworkers and taken a great interest in

Ok- -So I never finish anything I write.

A stupid crying baby,

a barking dog.

and a ringing phone all

in one hour of attempted

sleep.

6/14/01

My parents had sex two nights ago and I cant get over how disturbing it was. All I want to do is never be home. I mean, I heard my mom say “It was good.” I about barfed. I felt sick all the next day. Do you know how torturous that is? I know I must sound so childish but I cant get over it. If I ever hear that again I’m going to SCREAM!

Honors English is officially over. I’ve successfully put up with one year of total shit. I mean it. Worthless shit. All in the name of deeper-meaning. Do you know what deeper meaning I found? People, especially adults will do anything to protect their ego. I mean Mr. West. I’ve learned that original thought and creativity scares small-minded people. I’ve learned that it takes a strong person to face the truth when it comes to having to change themselves. Mr. West didn’t teach me any of this so so much for learning deeper meaning from that bastard.

People will do anything to get an edge in, at any cost, at any expense to others. There’s a gap the size of the Grand Canyon between concern and pathos and action. Very few people are willing to take action on their beliefs if it means stepping outside their bubbles and getting off their fat asses. Those that do, at risk to themselves are my only true heros. I mean normal people- not glorified by the media or praised by mankind- people that sincerely care.

That’s the conclusion I’ve come to. I don’t have a lot of faith in humanity in general but I do have faith in a few. It’s the power of one to rise up from the dust and have their voices be heard. To protest the pettiness and greed and selfishness and to turn the tides from small-thought to acceptance.

This is my education.

6/27/01

I got this pen in a set of pens all for a buck at this store called The Dollar Tree. I’m switching to a darker one. Anyway, that store is really ghetto but its fun sometimes.

You know you’re PMSing when you cry at a dumb-ass movie like Save The Last Dance. I am. I think it’s kind of funny sometimes- you know you’re PMSing and you think its lame the things you do but you do them anyway. I gotta laugh at myself. Then you get to thinking how your life sucks and how everybody hates you but you know its not true.

It’s funny how I only write in this journal when I’m pissed. I should try writing sometime when I’m semi-normal.

My Aunt Sarah and Uncle Paul are here for a WEEK with their damn noisy kids. I look at them and it just adds to my resolution to be kid-less. They’re driving me insane with their incessant crying!

My room is a trash pit. It’s kinda funny. It’s a big room but I still manage to have piles of clothes covering my floor. If you saw me how you’d laugh. I got fat. I’m all gross and flabby. I have no discipline to be otherwise.

Blah blah blah.

Time to go to bed and go to the hell-house in the morning (more later).

The hell house is my babysitting job that I quit b/c the kids were INSANE!!

July 8, 2001

Today was an interesting church experience. I haven’t been good lately. I thought I would be perfect always but I screwed that up pretty quickly. All I have to say is it’s true what they tell you: if you don’t pray and read your scriptures, you will falter. And I did. I’ve been feeling lonely w/o the spirit and like I can never get it back that I’m lost forever. I know that’s not true, but at the same time, the path back seems daunting. The path I’m already would be so much easier just to stay on. But life’s not about taking the easy way out. My biggest problem is that I’m more afraid of man than God. I wanted so much more for people to not think bad of me that I forgot about God being disappointed in me.

I was sitting in bed, awake in the dark, Hannah falling asleep and waiting for my glow-in-the-dark stars to fade.

All I can think about is moving out. Where would I go? Shari’s house probably. I would pack all my stuff and just leave. My parents, after several futile attempts to get me to come back, would then resort to calling my bishop and my therapist. Bishop Hodges would come visit me and give me a never-ending lecture about the importance of family and all that shit. He’d try his darndest to get me to come back, but in the end he would fail.

Lorraine would tell my parents to mind their own business, that I would call her if I needed her.

I can’t breath. I wonder how long it would take the entire ward to find out – a week?

I sometimes think about severely damaging myself just so my whole life would turn around. I wouldn’t work and people would actually care about me.

9

Today I had to say goodbye to Lena, my friend. A German exchange student. She is leavning tomorrow for Germany. Also today was a sort of get together party for Natalie, she is leaving for college on Thursday. I am left contemplating how soon they will all be gone – slipping away. What will happen? Will I stay close to any of them?

If I had one wish do you know what it would be? It would be that I grew up in a family with no religion. Today I was walking into my house and my dad was driving in from work and that was all I could think of. How nice that would be. For them to just leave me alone and be able to understand. But I know that will never happen.

Always running, I am

running, looking back.

Afraid.

A lost child without her

mother.

Please God, send someone to

hold my hand.

Centuries ago things might

have been different.

Stones looked different then.

Just standing on my street

I can see the mountain and the

sun shuts my eyes.

Trees falling silent to the heavy

Earth.

I follow the sound of water.

Gliding over the empty

landscape.

I am thirsty.

Festering, bulging like a

blister waiting to pop.

Drained by the sun.

Please God, I’m tired.

Don’t make me walk anymore.

My feet are cracked and

bleeding skin peeling,

delusioned.

Ahead of me, a person beckoning,

crooning- telling me it will

be allright, that I will

always have someone to love me.

Sleep, she says. Sleep.

Watch me father

I’m flying.

Good daughter, good. I always

wished I could fly.

Here let me help you daddy.

Give me your hand.

No I am too old. Maybe years ago

I might have had the strength –

but not now, not now.

I can’t come down, I can’t come down.

I told you you would hurt yourself

and you did. Do you ever listen?

Please daddy – YOU LISTEN TO ME!

Don’t you see I’m flying?

I cant see you anymore

father. I’m being carried

by the wind. It is hot

up here but I don’t mind

so much.

Somehow I feel the soothing

breath of water against my

skin. I am encased in a

cloud.

Look at me daddy, I’m flying.

August 5, 2001

For some reason I can’t sleep tonight. I have this pressing feeling. I don’t know what it is, but I’m short of breath.

I feel like I have to do something. My life is void of meaning. I have no cause. I have to have a cause. I feel pressed to do something, to change the world. Who knows, I’m only 16.

August 10, 2001

I am here at the lake. It is dusk. There are bugs flying all around. They like my sweat- I’m sweating because I ran home from the Greene’s. I had dinner there. Wouldn’t you know it? I’m here by myself for the first time. I can’t stand how shy I am. I’m not shy in the typical sense of the word, but when I’m with people I don’t know very wel, where most people would be completely relaxed my insides are crawling. I say stupid things, my voice cracks and my sense of humor is out of reach. I’m so boring and obnoxious. I cant stand myself I have no idea how other people can. I’m talking about having dinner at the Greene’s. They’re friendly people and are hospitable yet I act like a blundering fool. Oh shit. I think they’re riding their boat over here right now. Yup. The more I try to act comfortable the worse I get. My writing is getting all messed up, my heart is pounding. Ahhh! Will somebody shoot me please?!

Okay, I’ll shut up now. It is so peaceful here. The water is calming down and there are less and less boats. My straight vision shows tree-covered hills. All the people are so friendly here. There’s a song I sang in fifth grade choir called Mariun Bridge that my dad loved. It was about someone going back to their small hometown- the best and most beautiful place on earth. I think my dad loved it because it reminded him of here.

A damn mosquito just tried to bite me. Did he think he was going to get away with that? Fuck no! Moo ha ha ha!! I shall prevail in the end.. Nevermind. I’m going inside until these mosquitos are gone. I see Venus, the only star, hanging above the trees.

I feel so violated! I’m being devoured by blood-sucking maniacs! I mean, I know my body is desirable but you don’t have to suck my blood! Okay, so the mosquitos win. I guess it’s comforting to know that nature prevails. Carry on.

Right on! “Poor boy” by Queen just came on.

I wonder if I’ll ever meet someone that I’m who I am when I’m by myself around. That’s hard. I’m weird by myself. I get all into songs and dance around and cuss and talk to myself and am serious and goofy at the same time.

I wonder if I like Queen so much because I’m gay. No really. No that’s dumb. I’ve only told two people that I can’t even write it. Oh well. You get the point. I’m so glad to be away from my family and by myself. My dad is being really weird. He’s having some trouble dealing with work and other things. He’s taking my spirituality upon himself. He paid me $150 to read my scriptures and pray everyday while I’m here. Doesn’t that seem kind of weird to you? It does to me. Who the hell am I talking to?

I don’t need a perfect body to be your honey.

Janis Joplin sang with her gritty voice and double chin.

The Pearl of the 60s

Destiny’s Child sings with their midrifts.

Thank God for quality music like Brittany Spears.

And I thought rock was dead.

What was I thinking?

A step down.

Sit on the porch in the cool night air.

Venus on the horizon.

Life slipping in the cradle of a dream

with a country song playing on

the radio and an old tan with

dirty feet.

I spy a Beamer racing by lulled

to sleep in the muted song of

summer bask in the firelight

of blazing bazookas and slam

drawers in rhythm to the crickets.

A drink of sand will quench your

thirst for leadership in the mirage

of the television buzzing jingle into

the early morning, accompanying the

tune of rotting branches and sullen

skin.

A groggy awakening. Welcome to

America jazz hip night-life lounge

singer feeling her up in the bathroom.

a short stop on the road trip

in the dark.

America, America where the

hell is my mother. Buzzing

confusion and deaf puppy dogs.

Incessant buzzing take a vacation

from the lake.

You might find that you engage the break.

Ecstasy dreams in what you thought was

heaven wake up to misery and heartache

and that same old country song playing

on the radio.

Religion

Remember me? It’s Jesus, waking

you from the dead.

Remember me? It’s your father demanding

you to say your prayers.

Remember me? It’s the chorister leading

the dismal hymn.

Remember me? It’s the phone ringing

in the middle of the night?

Remember me? It’s the hospital, we

think you’re dead.

Remember me? It’s religion knocking.

You forgot to say your prayers.

Wow I haven’t writing a good poem in months. I’m full of shit. There’s nothing to blame it on except that I’m brain dead. I bet if my dad read this he’d blame it on pot, even though I don’t smoke pot.

It seems everybody has some dictate on the cause of my life. I just love it. I love religion and how its made me so happy ha ha. They look at me and tell me to pray and read my scriptures and tell me itll make me happy when I just want to get as far away from them as I possibly can. I haven’t taken a deep breath in so long and its because of their goddamn religion that saves lives.

Famous Sin

You look at me and wonder why you cant save me.

Maybe its your fault

Perchance my eternal salvation Floats on

a cloud

I thought I saw a rabbit in the sky.

The clouds descend and bring a gift of

the Christ child

A dream unfolding caught in the

charm of a raindrop mirrored

in a thousand different faces

and channeled into excellence.

Am I looking at the rose the poets

speak of?

The perfect blushing red

cautious flight of the sparkling dew

into a bud of desires

Bursting in the morning of the

first dawn in forever.

A rose bush standing on the

precipice of Time

governing our existence by its

very presence.

A poets gift to humanity.

----

1. Unregister

2. Take CCC test

3. Call Bishop re: Recycling

4. Run

5. Job Hunting

6. Matt email: mhm29@email.byu.edu

Fall is here and I am lonely. It’s that odd time when all your friends go off to college and I am looking responsibility in the face and telling it to come back later. I am all alone ans so anti-social. I stopped taking my anti-depressants about two months ago and was fine for a long time but now I think I’m falling again. I don’t regret stopping them. I really don’t like what they did to me. I felt like I was in a fog and really it just made everything with school and church and life. Now I want to self-medicate by running.

Your love is like a song I want to stay in the car to listen to even after I’m home.

Say anything you wanna. Just know I’m here. So many things lingering –

and like the summer air it feels right somehow. We have this moment and Im listening.

Listen baby, youre not stude- give me your hand and you’ll see how my words fall into place like a strategically planted garden. No dark eyes here, only frolicking in fields of wildflowers and malt shakes.

The 50s never ended- we can still go to the drive-in movie and feel content and patriotic.

Look, its simple. No esoteric artsy’-stuff.

Just the smell of apple pie coolin on the sill and the kids swingin in the fields.

This day never ends just the song on the radio. I’ll wake up every minute to the smell of bacon and the sun peaking in the curtains.

Prayer

Lord- Here are my hands

I know there is nothing that keeps me from flying except my own weakness.

Here I am, pleading.

And somehow I know you’re listening.

Here I am!

Do you see me on the Earth flying overhead in your plane?

I too can soar one day.

November 4, 2001

I haven’t written anything about September 11^th. I haven’t written much of anything. I don’t really need to explain anything. This journal is only for me. There is chaos, death, turmoil. So many are lost. I’m scared for the future. I know this is only the beginning of the end. I used to imagine what it would be like to be in a war, and now there’s no need to imagine. The future is dark. But I’m not one to be fooled. It know that’s not all there is.

Amidst terror, there is always peace. The nature of the world speaks of opposition. We just have to find it. I know there is peace in contemplation, in friendship, in spirit.

May it be lifes mission to seek peace!

November 12

I hate working at Hair Pros. Its not the people or the job. Its just the shift. I hate how inflexible the hours are and how we close at 8:00. It’s ridiculous! Who the hell closes at 8:00? I’m talking about salons. We could at least close at 7:00. It ruins everything. If we just closed at 7:00, it would be TEN times better. And I have to work all Saturday! I want to volunteer on Saturdays.

Oh well, life’s not so bad. What the hell else am I supposed to do?

Bubbling, bitter old anger

Corroding the parts of the machine

A glint shines in the corner

A spot undirtied by you

Going to act out

Just for the fun of it

Being a bad-ass is my destiny

AC/DC knows me better than you

Paranoid sissy in the darkness of

home and shelter

Ditching the old shoe

Depth and breadth

covers the desert of mind

Eyes burning like bubbling sweet

chocolate

Again, the sun arises from its firey closet in the paradise

of the sweet night.

Drying, refining, baking, burning

The cactus relishes the penetrating,

searching heat.

While the woman slowly breaks,

awaiting the silence that bursts with darkness.

Staring into the anguish of the

descending cloud of confusion

a certain clarity comes to the ponderer

A heaviness and breadth to the torn

lovers of history and present

Swirl, overtake, capivate

You mysterious storm of

simple lonliness

Turn the lonely into the loved

Transform the unbeliever

Tear the reluctant

It’s a present on the horizon

That brewing tempest of passion,

thought, and power

It will not be contained

Brooding into the corners of timeless eternity

We are expectant mothers waiting

for the purity of the falling rain.

In a parallel world

I have wings and you have eyes.

Pitiful changes heed not constancy

Yesterdays ignorance is todays regret

My arrogance is permanent,

written in concert with the devil

on the scripts of eternity

It kills me to know you have read those scripts

Please forgive me. Please.

If only I was sure, if I knew my resolve

If I could trust my will

Your fat face harboring those eyes,

How did I miss it?

“So, do you wanna make breakfast?”

“Sure, why not.”

“Eh, nevermind.”

“Okay, Ill go home. See you later.”

Sometimes she wondered if she was like Liz, if people would only stand tiny bits of her at a time. Other times, it just clicked.

Painting her nails meant something.

A certain something in the carelessness of the act. So transitory. That’s why she loved it. Tomorrow it would probably be chipped, but today it was immaculate.

She wondered what Mike was like at college. Was he a charmer? What posters did he fill his vision with?

Eh, celibacy isn’t so bad.

Fill your thoughts with success! Fill them with distance.

Teen angst music of the sarcastic, clever variety

satisfied her current needs.

/ / /

She wants to shed the old life

The only thing that held her were the limits of age, and even that was loosely binding. Somehow, she felt people were being fooled.

He found her one day, hidden in the patchy shade of her cheap plastic tree. Things like that pleased her. Things ultimately rejected, useless, ugly. It was something she could pity when humans weren’t good enough. They never were.

It was time to go out. It was almost obligatory, social events. She was perfectly happy to be at home and paint her nails. Maybe her toenails this time. Who was she pleasing? Nobody much cared whether she joined them, which didn’t bother her. She could never reach her full beauty with anyone but herself, and besides, she was dwarfed by the more vocal and respected Alexis.

But some things are necessary, even if no one profits from the action. She was resigned. It came time to go, but she preferred to just stare at purple polka-dots.

I’d do ‘bout anything to get my feet warm

She was fading.

Like a moth before a flame

He was draining

…and she lingered.

It was yesterday when my

head was filled with polka-dots

Today its filled with you.

But your shoes didn’t win me over

It was your belt.

Oh well.

I touched your hand on accident

but didn’t let go

She was fooling

But dizziness overtook her

..And she held on.

Chorus

Andrew was afraid of falling. It wasn’t a fear of heights, it was different. On time, he played that game where a friend held his arms up for a long time, then slowly let them down, and he felt he was going underground. He hyperventilated.

This is what he faced the world with: An unnatural fear, and a glass jar. The jar set on his bookshelf, straight across the room if we was sitting up in bed. His favorite pastime was to sit in bed with wool socks on and stare at the glass jar. What could he possibly put in it?

The idea of capturing something was so genuine, so naturally greedful. The glass jar activity was really an exercise. He would practice feeding his greed, seeing how far he could go and still be able to harness it. It was an elaborate mind game. One which he was the emperor and the pawn. This fascinated him.

This wasn’t his only form of exercise. In public settings especially at school, he would practice saying two contradictory statement, one after another, to see if anybody noticed. Most of the time they didn’t. It entertained him to be overlooked.

(sucky _) Fortunately for some, his powerful intellect wasn’t matched by physical strength.

“Don’t get too excited, Drew. You know how weak your heart is.”

“Its disgusting, how much she dwells on that,” he thought to himself.

He never had any REAL health problems. Then again, he never exerted himself so much physically as to tell if there was a strain on his heart. From time to time, when he would be playing the glass jar game, he would get a little short of breath. This is when he knew he had let his pre-occupation with weakness go to far! A short break was all that was necessary to calm himself.

First, it was passion and pride.

Then is worry and wonderment.

The easy convictions of childhood

slide carefully away…

There was a time when faith filled you,

Now something must take its place.

You may feel guilty-

Bury it. Turn away.

You may see doubt in the corner of your eye-

discard it.

Only this, only your present inspirations

can carry you.

Anything more is too much to ask.

They came home from the restaurant, laughing and teasing, even fighting. The general feeling was contentment. One by one, they were dropped off their respective houses. She went inside.

I was left under the clear sky with you, wanting to kiss you but instead hugging you and turning away to the cold shell of my car. Even then, I felt some regret, but you could leave in the morning. – So I honked and drove off.

Driving by each road sign

into unknown cavernous tunnels

they way dotted by withering light

obscured to smothered stained glass

Overbearing crosses glistening from the recent sacrifice

you too, can be redeemed

its not accident. don’t get me wrong

don’t touch my fucking pulse

Doped up on distress

alive in the stifling surroundings

a concealed breath beneath you

billowing despair turns the wheel

Saturated images of a glorious middle finger

signifying its own institution

signifying salvation in the

“it all means nothing” universe.

How much do you understand?

Lost in a foreign land

spoken in a foreign tongue

Contours of the land arise to collide

Without a purpose, without a destination

The apocalypse is HERE.

It is now – no time for love – follow me

and empty your eyes.

Somewhere in that valley I can discern your face.

Shot up and shattered

Love is bloody and demolished-

Its funeral was yesterday as the river rose.

A passing glance drifts upwards

Flying in surrender-

or defeat.

Nothing much to find here.

It all sunk in the war.

LAST PAGE, LAST ENTRY –

You were sitting there

your fingers like fuses

your eyes were cinnamon

Birthday.

Am I fucked up?

Am I normal?

Am I liked?

Am I loved?

Am I flesh and blood?

I stand diametrically opposed

to this existence as we know it.

Chained to reality

shitting dogma

Why say anything when someone

else has said it better?

Faded faces rise like mirages

Voices from a distant past haunting

my dreams, sleeping my wake

I grasp at ghosts

And come back with a hand full

of nostalgia

These people pepper my life

stars in the sky

sand on the sea

Palpable yet intangible

I rise with a stale flavor in my mouth

Tasting distant tastes

Hearing distant songs

My wake and sleep fuse languidly

into an endless road trip

Hand out the window

Foot on the pedal

Cigarette in my mouth.

---END---

Proustian Questionnaire

... I guess M.P. was the first to make this famous. He completed it a couple times in a French parlor/roundtable-type setting. I don't know why I'm attracted to it, because I don't usually go for this tripe. Vanity Fair put out a book of celebs answers to most of these. Supposing it's the psychological complexity found in the simplicity I'm drawn to. But that statement could also describe one's attraction to astrological projections...


What is your idea of perfect happiness?
Peace in the body and in the mind. Total connexion with surroundings. Complete coalescence of meditation with environment. Enlightenment. Realized immersion.

What is your greatest fear?
Used to be that one of my limbs would get cut off. I guess now it's unattractiveness. That I will be perceived physically as ugly or repulsive.

What is the trait you most deplore in yourself?
Fear! Lack of confidence.

What is the trait you most deplore in others?
Laziness. Lack of motivation to do something they clearly state they'd like to do.

Which living person do you most admire?
Michael Hood. And his wife Kitty. They are a dramaturge/director and a writer, respectively, and they've done A LOT of work to get where they are. They care.

What is your favorite occupation?
Looking at art. Reading.

What historical figure do you most identify with?
Miles Davis said "the notes you don't play are just as important." Just about anyone who edited out enough of the world to preserve their own singular eccentricities.

If you could change one thing about your family, what would it be?
That they would all be better listeners, and also share more of their findings about the world with one another. We could be closer, in other words.

What do you consider to be the most overrated virtue?
Dolce et decorum est pro patria mori.

What and who are the greatest loves of your life?
What is writing. Who is boyfriend. But hey, Prose Before Bros.

What do you dislike most about your appearance?
My butt could use some work.

What is your most marked characteristic?
I seem to radiate a weird-seriousness. Physically: lips, tattoos.

Which living person do you most despise?
When I was young, my father. Now it's anyone in a car who purposefully incapacitates themselves with alcohol, a cell phone, etc.

If you could choose, what would you return as after you die?
A solar panel, or a tree.

On what occasion do you lie?
When it doesn't matter.

What is your greatest extravagance?
Shoes. Alcohol. Air travel. Not stopping for lights on a bicycle.

What is your current state of mind?
Steady. Content.

What is the quality you most like in a man?
Courage, which usually takes the form of decisiveness.

What is the quality you most like in a woman?
An agreeable confidence, which might better be described as poise.

Which words or phrases do you most overuse?
So, Um, Well, Potentially, I'll tell you what, Cha/Tja.

When and where were you happiest?
As a kid, in PA in our giant backyard. And in my room listening to rock and making collage, writing or reading or playing guitar.

Who are your favorite writers?
Bukowski, Steinbeck, Clowes, Ware, Butler, Vonnegut, Gibson, Cave, Ballard...

Which talent would you most like to have?
Currently I'd like to perhaps get a little better at riding a unicycle. Or writing better fiction.

Who is your favorite hero of fiction?
Humbert Humbert of Lolita. Protagonist and antagonist simultaneously. Pitiful and still attractive, and terribly full of love... and that name! Nabokov's genius builds a humor into him, but he's deeply human, so it's still hard for him to laugh at the recognized ridiculousness of his own situation even as he'd like to.

Who are your heroes in real life?
Currently my beau, Michael. Love is a heroic act, and he loves me very much. He has the compass and the heart- a capacity for greater and greater deeds lay deep within him like a well.

What do you consider to be your greatest achievement?
I think it has yet to happen... but if I kicked off tomorrow, it would be all of my writing.

Where would you like to live?
Maybe somewhere in Europe for awhile. Or Japan.

What is your most treasured possession?
Hard to say. I really like this small belt buckle with my initials on it that used to belong to my dad when he was small, as we have the same initials. Usually it's whatever journal I'm writing in at the time. And a pen! I've never lost a journal mid-way thru working on it, and I don't intend to.

What do you regard as the lowest depth of misery?
A woman having to give away her child. Or existential dread. Sarte's "Nausea"- knowing this body is a totally inadequate and fallible thing, and because of that it has a kind of sick perfection.

What do you most value in your friends?
Humor! And attentiveness. Inner calm.

What are your favorite names?
Turcannon, Raymond, Josephine, Stella, Dana, Brad.

What is it that you most dislike?
Jealousy. Not that I even really understand it. But that urge to compare yourself to others seems to be a brand of it.

What is your greatest regret?
I know I've had them. But it doesn't seem worth it to assign the mental energy to holding onto them. Dating my last boyfriend is perhaps one, but even that I know had to occur for a certain amount of growth to take place.

How would you like to die?
By suicide. After my grandparents are dead, when I'm ready, when I'm happy and with everything to be thankful for.

What is your motto?
Carpe Diem, baby. No time but now.

"Stone, New Stone" (2009)

(...now, your challenge is to take a line or few from this and write something of your own. good luck!)

channeled murmurs strike

in spike this echoing, this sensation of verbs

date. tense, past. Careful

cool reveal this bottom of where.

hung in the revelation, a rock of cherub/quality

my slow wit exits in the damaged words used in

yes, of yes, of yes final acquiesce

speaker/lights-notion up shared reality

(oft being spared reality)

three shades (real & myth & the real spectotic)

who will find this heart, and who will say, it is okay to believe (who)

(to) toward crass dismantle

a victory!

sublime liars, the milkman dreams

we etch new strings, harp, harp → it is done, this timely

affa(i)r, hands cuffed in the lasting vibration of windows, crack

(please) restore the ripened dignity

of a city in the eyes of love

not broken, not silent.

remembered. and fondly

dioce(dioce) do not gain the seas current.

do restore your victors, sublime

shapes glow in the dash (i's)

(not) di (to) o (say)ce, by this stare --

What has never been cut, will not

But what? Your car is in that part of

town that makes me nervous. (hollow?)

the

stones throw, throw as throat gives

n u d e language, a gauge, → it ← stutters

l l l lllook left.

walk, left.

speak, talk left.

if danger is a

heart, give it here.

Nick DeBoer/Dana Jerman

Arguments for Blood

Soooo, my mom has gotten remarried.
Here's a woman who has been divorced all of a year and change (and has re assumed her maiden name). And now, as a convenient means to keep her beau on some sort of insurance package, she's hooking it up again.

This is hard for her, because she's a debutante. She still comes from a place where the act of marriage was filled with lavish pomp and circumstance and societal presentation and that means something.

Not like she would need all that racket again, but these are not the most ideal terms under which she would choose to do this thing, and when she told me on the phone she was in tears. Now her beau is pretty cool and supportive of all her interests while having a lot going for himself. And there is plenty of financial glue keeping these two together- in other words, he wouldn't break up with her even if she had said no. Granted, its her choice, and since I'm a privacy whore (which says nothing of my blogging this), I realize it is also none of my business. She wanted me to know, and I appreciate that. This is after all, the woman who's done the most for me in my life.

If you'll indulge me for a moment: my mom is a Virgo, I'm a Pisces. We agree on practically nothing, but perhaps we subconsciously agreed that there would have to be a completion of the break from my father at some point. I'm not sure exactly how far along she was/is on the healing process from ending a 26yr relationship, but this new marriage has the potential to be cathartic and obstacle-clearing as much as it is a screw in the works.

So, how do I validate these essentially feminist feelings of frustration and longing, and still empower her without the usual lame-o "I'm here for ya, Ma." sentiments?

I've been thinking for a long time, and in several different contexts, about how to do just this for my mother. She gets along with women, but she was a boys-club kinda gal in her younger youth and I don't think she has any interest in "waves" or other mostly nonsensical academic feminist jargon. She's a go-getter. Ultra-practical but creative. Into control, but knows when she's got too much info on her hands. Like I said: a flippin' Virgo.

And my school takes a page from hers- my classic argument is "Do you believe women should be allowed to wear pants? Then yr a feminist." And regardless of whether you believe they should or should not be allowed to, they are. Change happens and the future is coming: All modern women are feminists, period.
Even here as I consider how my own blanket statement might fail me, my thinking is clear. I am a writer, but my writing is inseparable from and influenced heavily by my womanhood and my feminine experience.

On top of that, here's what's getting strange with all that pants-wearing (and this won't be the first time I've said this, and generally it isn't a new thought either): girls are becoming the new boys. The reversal of struggle in gendered culture fascinates me. Women now have the struggles that men have/had, in addition to their mostly traditional responsibilities when raising a family. Whether men (and gay couples) are more readily embracing the family structure and finding a balance being stay-at-home dads and the like... well, I haven't done the research there to say, altho' it seems likely. That's a whole other discussion- I do however absolutely support the rights of gay couples to adopt.

Yet, here's where mom failed not just me growing up. There was a lot in that big brain of hers, and she knew she could get what she wanted and still have a family- she's told me before she always wanted to be a mom. She had a lot to say, tho', that never got said for fear of my tempermental father. Clear patriarchal power grab at work, this guy. Her's was the bottom line, however, and her passive-aggressive way of communicating, and reacting poorly to my father's asinine behaviors (saying "Tell your daughter to fix her hair.", or having a fucking outright cow over where the TV remote is) didn't correct either of us. Now he's left with backhanded regret and I've got a few twinges of resentment.

One lesson that did go in pretty well was to let what has passed pass, and to hold no grudge, and I really do love my mom AND my dad.
She's made some choices and is older and wiser now. Her communication is better. And not just because I demand for it to be. Maybe that's the best way I can continue to empower her- to trust her enough to know she'll speak up with questions to address her own lack when it comes to communication or anything else. I too need help being not just a feminist, not just a writer, not just myself.

Wrote a post-card to mom a week or so back, A very sassy Adrian Tomine drawing of a girl lounging on a couch, talking on the phone with the caption: "But my problems are more interesting than yours!" On the back I wrote something to the effect of "Your mother looks to you and clings to your spirit for the same reason you do to mine: You say and do the things she feels she cannot." Feminism, what it will grow and change into next, finds its deepest roots in the binds of one generation of women to the next. I guess just being there and living and working as evidence for the future of feminism really is enough.

On a random note, "modern young feminist" publication Venus Magazine apparently went thru a corporate revamp recently, much like Sassy back in the day. There was an article about it in the Chicago Reader hinting that it was moving away from its "Feminist" with a capital-F roots. Can we afford to forget that we are standing on the shoulders of giants? No, but I'm not sure its worth looking down all the time and getting vertigo either. Chernobyl got on me to "submit" (ha ha) to the idea potentially writing for a magazine @ a SWOP meeting, and with good reason- "You should write about feminist issues, I know you have something to say." And I guess I do.

The best place to start learning about the feminist outlook has always been in our own backyards.

The Return of Ms. Regina St. DeMonde!!

...coming soon (again) to a dirty magazine near you sometime this fall.

And speaking of jobs, many of you have been asking, so here's a little rundown on the interesting work I'll be getting up to a lot this April: The Standardized Patient.

A glorified acting job for a med school based out in the Illinois suburbs. The gigs pay about as well as a modeling gig would ($16 hr), and last all day (8-3). Travel and food compensation as well. 

A typical day looks like this- Come in, sign in, pick up a schedule with students names, have a snack or some coffee, and go set up your room which is a perfect typical clinical exam room. Climb into my comfy hospital gown and wait.

I can't talk too much about the case that I'm portraying, or the students, due to contractual confidentiality, but the "encounters" are timed, 15 minutes. Student comes in and engages with questions and a sickness-specific physical. Then, when they leave the room, I take a computerized survey evaluating their communication skills. Sometimes the students come back in and I give verbal feedback. Most of them do pretty well.

 

Standardized Patients are also employed at UIC med school, and the cases that they use are apparently much more intense. People playing epileptics and schizophrenics and the like. I have yet to investigate the situation there so far as new hires goes.

One of the things the SP Coordinator said to me during training, which is already ringing true: "You will have renewed confidence in your line of questioning at your own doctor's visits, and a renewed sense of responsibility and entitlement to the best health care you can get."

And since everybody else I work with are actors/singers/performers, they don't edit and love to goof off. Very fun, I feel pretty lucky about the whole thing.

Let's see, what else can I tell you guys... OH!

As the weather improves I'm happy to invite you out to the "May Day" party at the X-Lab. It's a small place, but I'm sincerely surprised that mister-photographer-producer Mike Scheitler has never thrown a party there. Music, photos, booze, talented people, more music...

Saturday, May 1. (Probably)
Chicago, IL.
Email for details.

xo-
Dmj

Belated Valentine for Stephan

One of Chicago's finest of the fine art crowd is away on a 4 mo+ excursion to Laos, Thailand and Indochina. We hope he travels safe and has many intense adventures.

A man with dual citizenship in the US and Italy, Stephan is constantly pushing himself and transcending boundaries with his art. It's been my privilege as a model to work with him.

He is also looking for love. We can only hope he finds it in the most unexpected and most rewarding of places.
If you've got a minute, show him some support with words. Or just check out the art:

stephangiannini.com
chicagopainter.wordpress.com


Here's to those of you who encourage the freedom in others to live fully, which is identical to encouraging art.

Lost Notes! In Memoriam...

The "process" of writing seems to be breaking down to a point where the documentation (where and how the writing is put down) IS the process. Yet the thoughts about the work always seem to exist separate from it. Alienating? Yes. Attempting to fully integrate the analog to digital is daunting, and perhaps not worth so much of the effort unless one started here in the first place.

I've always loved taking notes, but recently I've begun to realize something.. I'm a bit chained to them. I can't let the ideas go, and once they're on paper, they're like little links in a chain all wrapped around me Jacob Marley style. I recognize the kind of crazy that leads me to write a poem behind a restaurant overlooking a swatch of train track and a parking lot- the same place where a homeless woman has lately set up sleeping quarters. Or the wizened Confuscious in the Sulzer branch of the public library- always there at the same desk and chair, always compulsively writing and copying from one notebook to the next. I recently read "Outliers" by Malcom Gladwell. He quotes Ken Gould: "Education lays the foundation for a large number of the causes for metal disorder."

But the true nature of this kind of work dictates that I must keep doing whatever I'm doing in order to become literate in my own metaphor by conceptualizing (or re-conceptualizing, here, among the notes) my environment within the realms of all of my chosen activities. The redemptive cohesion of all of this being autodidactism: the world is my classroom and I am its best student.
The collected experience and memories coupled with my imagination allow me to construct an "alternate history", which is, which will be, in the greatest sense, my life's work.

But back to the practical applications: I'm typing up a lot of these notes, mostly from a scribbled-in notebook, which are ideas for stories and images and titles and research subjects and just about anything. I've typed them all up before, and with mixed feelings on the result. I ended up printing out the document, which then just became another piece of paper to carry around and scribble on. Used to carry a list of music and movies I wanted to find in my wallet in a similar manner. Gets pretty messy and you feel messy using it. Using my phone for notes and recordings is only slightly unwieldy, but moreso untrustworthy. There's really no way for me to back that information up other than to make an attempt to immediately transfer to the computer or to paper.
Does this dilemma continue ad infinitum? HA! Probably. But people ask a lot, so here's a rundown what I'm up to at the moment, and how things are going, writing-wise.

Considering the following projects:
-Reading work on video, posting to youTube.
-Typing up and editing my collected erotic fictions
-Pulling some pre-existing poems written independently of one another into a cycle.
-Reverse engineering some stories and short cell phone films I've taken by storyboarding them.

Engaging currently the following projects:
-"Artifact" series: learning vocab by writing a small poem on an envelope which includes said word, and placing the word in the envelope and placing the envelope in between book pages at the library, or taping the envelope up outside somewhere.
-"Youth in 23": one poem for each of the chapter titles of a DVD. In this case, there are 23 titles/chapters on the DVD for Francois Truffault's "400 Blows".
-Finishing up a response to Gertrude Stein's "Tender Buttons", started back in college and titled "OBJECTIVES".
- "Rock Star" Poetry/Short Fiction Series: This took off all the sudden. I wrote one about John Lennon in a hotel and Tom Verlaine on a rooftop and now I've got about 10 of these.. so they are taking on a life of their own at this point. Fun to write and good practice.
- And, of course, Editing!!- 5 short stories left of a cashe of typed work to complete.


AND HEY,
I turned 30 today. I swear I got cuter...

Today- more cool shit happened...

Modeled for a portrait by Lawrence "Larry" Paulsen:
http://thisoldpalette.blogspot.com/2009/09/exhibit-james-f-hajicek-and-lawrence.html

Talked to my boyfriend on the telephone. He told me about a fantasy he had of my dusty bare feet over warm wooden floors.

Watched a documentary on Miles Davis and his transition to electric instruments. "A Different Kind of Blue".

Dressed warmly and went out into the weather despite sneezes and coughs. Watching snow materialize and make its descent is still an incredible, whimsical thing.

I got a new second cousin, and he's half-japanese! Oliver Ryuu Tsumori-Rinzler. 6lbs. 9oz. Born on his great-grandfather's birthday- Jan 8.


Tomorrow's forecast: more cool shit happening...

Illumi-naughty!

Just came up with a gang sign for the masons.

maybe they've already thought of this one.. sweet tho.












So!
Totally unrelated-

A few notes on the art of Figure Modeling!

In Chicago, IL, the going base rate for a FM is $15-20/hr. Sometimes with tips, as people may take photographs in order to reference the pose and finish the painting/drawing later. Again, this rate varies. Lots of models out there are working to raise it, and to see to better working conditions.
Visually, artists seem to prefer few tattoos & piercings and if you can SIT STILL, that's a big plus. Believe it or not, people are getting into this gig w/o much discipline so far as holding a pose goes. As well as staying awake! In addition, flexibility is helpful, altho' most artists don't necessarily want to draw you going thru your yoga routine. A no-brainer perhaps, based on the above stated- but get enough rest and an average amount of stretching and exercise.
Further points:
Hydration- Take a water bottle. Most places provide a heater/fan, but clean water may be hard to procure. Esp. if you have to use the bathroom on that precious 5-min break instead of searching for a cup. Pre-hydration is key for almost anything physical one could be doing.
Light snack- Recommendations include: nuts and raisins, fruit (dried or whole) and other granola/trail mix concoctions like energy bars and other not-so-messy hand-held foods that require little reheating or clean up.
Other- Take a robe for comfort (it can get pretty cold in some of these classrooms) as well as modesty, and reading material.

Having trouble with feeling faint or tired even though you've taken care of these things?-
Ask for a break: If you need it, the rest is well deserved and the artists will be accommodating. The hardest time to re-assume the pose is the 1st time getting back into it. So while you're sitting, memorize how your body feels against itself, and against the furniture. Try to steady your gaze at something. And you don't want to stare down the artists while they're studying you.
If you're holding a longer pose, most artists will "tape" you (altho' potentially not very carefully) in order to help you get back into the pose. The hardest time to do this seems to be when you must resume the pose after the first 25-30 minutes. Here's a hint- your head will go where your eyes do, so you can also re-assume a head position, difficult or easy, by closing one eye, then the other while looking down at the end of your nose and remembering what it falls against.
Also: Always anticipate the next pose: Even if you're holding one for the entire "session" (a word which can be used interchangeably to describe all or a portion of a sitting). This keeps you engaged and you can help yourself do this by looking at art both modern and classic. By increasing your exposure to and vocabulary for poses you simultaneously increase your own creative capacities.
Enjoy!

F a n t a s y F e s t i v a l

In a perfect world, this bill is go-

Peter Gabriel & Tom Waits (and a 22 piece orchestra)
Sonic Youth
Huey Lewis & The News
Daft Punk (feat. Bjork)
Jon Spencer Blues Explosion
Fulflej
Astor Piazzolla
Lee Hazlewood and the Raveonettes (all acoustic set)
Sunny Day Real Estate (playing Failure/Jeremy Enigk solo covers)
John Zorn (feat. Herbie Hancock)
Hot Chip & Boards of Canada present "The Official Seance For Frank Zappa"
Diamanda Galas and Fiona Apple (dualing pianos on fire!!)
Prince B (of P.M. Dawn) with TV on the Radio
Cornelius (maybe with Rob Halford)
Six Finger Satellite
PJ Harvey & M. Ward with Jonny Greenwood


Further suggestions?

And what would I call this damn thing?

Goals (?)

For 2010 and beyond, in no particular order:

- travel
- save $/light more $ on fire
- don't get pregnant or get std
- write more letters/postcards
- finish a journal
- take a class
- get published
- read more
- make my 30th b-day memorable
- go hot-air ballooning
- make more friends

Haikuxistential

I need to find
a bartender
who is willing
to trade beer
for poems.

-
Pulling
pulled like a magnet
to nowhere like home
so where am I?

-
Thinness promoted in women
becomes a symbolic surrender
of creative power
to men.

HAPPINESS/WISH

At the artists colony there are some rainy days and many bright days. I see them often from the one long tall window in my quarters.

I wear black slip-on shoes with thin soles.
I take long walks in the shoes and wash them once during my two month stay.
By the end they are paint splattered, dirty and torn and I cut a piece of them to keep before putting them in the incinerator with the set of clothes I have worn all month long.

I stand naked under the late September stars watching the other fire we have built on the hill near the field. Into it also goes the detritus from my cleaned studio. Most of the work produced now hangs in a hall, or given away to accompanying artists.

I had loosely packed one suitcase. A large canvas carry trunk with things that I planned on using up completely or re-purpousing- either with an established method, or a new one.

My computer and classical music.
A small plant. Paper. Colors.

There are brief meetings and some stretch into long meetings with the flavor of our company. I learn new framing skills and watch live dance performances.

I memorize a few of my own poems and subsist on tea and light evening meals.
There is a library. Vast, and in its vastness I resist the urge to consume it all.
I complete my sketchbook and model a few times for the resident sculptress.

The hottest day comes and I exhaust myself with swimming. Staying up all hours with the typewriter and an oil lamp that night. Typing into the frozen dawn.

On other nights the wine is white and glitters in my stomach as it does in my glass against the single work lamp that burns a same quiet, consistent burn.

I have eliminated more writing from a stock of old poems and stories. Recycled some ideas and forgotten others. Ready again to return to the arms of the outside world.

From a new list of all the art projects I'm interested in, I've already accomplished 4 or 5 of them. Some repeatedly, and into a series.


I light a candle, and my body feels the light from the candle.

I am as light as the candle.