Saturday, July 7, 2012
Thursday, June 28, 2012
Back in the break room we talked about babysitters.
He and his brother had one that tortured them, threatening to slit their throats and who he one day "moon"d. This gained him little favor, but made him feel better.
I don't tell him about "Sayword R.", the 16 year old Pittsburgh suburbanite with the weird name and fascination with our Michael Jackson's Thriller record. Her penchant for following me around and into the garage, only to catch me eating chocolate covered pretzels out of the deep freeze which, in the morning, I'd discovered she finished off.
I was twelve at the time and she didn't look much older than me. This caused some resentment, of course.
She went on to total the family car and probably have a bunch of her own obnoxious children. Such is life.
However, I do confess Veronica. Who is, after all, the best and most important one.
The first night she was over one of my parents homemade wine bottles exploded all over the kitchen. She spent half the night cleaning it up and was mortified.
Later, she would bring over "Joey" from time to time. Her scummy dago boyfriend. Sometimes her younger brother Allen would babysit when she was unavailable. Allen was 17 or 18 at this point and kind of cute and I'd woo him with my parents rock record collection. He lamented that we didn't own Pink Floyd's "The Wall".
Veronica's smile and spirit and laugh were infectious. She told us about a class trip to Spain- Valladolid. She had asthma real bad and wheezed. She chewed gum occasionally. She may have had freckles.
When she was younger she hallucinated snakes and spiders on some shitty allergy medication and feared them interminably.
I saw her one afternoon, over in her tiny room in her family's trailer, trying on for me her royal blue satin prom dress with the gold chain for the strap. Her firery red hair flowing past those same pale shoulders. I thought I was looking up at the queen of all my dreams.
And finally the blow of her last visit. The last one I remember.
I am much older. My mother has asked her over for some reason, to give her something maybe. Or she is in the neighborhood and wanted to stop by.
I am excited to see her. But the wind goes out of my sails as soon as I do.
She is massive. She has blown up in size to rival that of her mother. Well over 200 pounds. Maybe she is pregnant too. On top of all this, she has a blonde 2-3 year old boy in tow. I feel insulted by this entire scenario. The boy pounds on our piano and wants his mother's attention constantly while she's talking with my mother, which my mother tolerates as she gives it to him. No discipline. I observe all this, and I guess that's what I see.
There seem to be a bunch of icky feelings I was wrestling with at that moment.
I took Veronica to be much prettier than fat. I didn't think she deserved it. I thought she'd go on to travel some more and take over the world. Proof that I could get out of here and do the same thing.
It doesn't matter. People can't get away from their families, and they want what they want.
Wherever she is now, I just hope she's happy. And healthy.
I don't tell him about "Sayword R.", the 16 year old Pittsburgh suburbanite with the weird name and fascination with our Michael Jackson's Thriller record. Her penchant for following me around and into the garage, only to catch me eating chocolate covered pretzels out of the deep freeze which, in the morning, I'd discovered she finished off.
I was twelve at the time and she didn't look much older than me. This caused some resentment, of course.
She went on to total the family car and probably have a bunch of her own obnoxious children. Such is life.
However, I do confess Veronica. Who is, after all, the best and most important one.
The first night she was over one of my parents homemade wine bottles exploded all over the kitchen. She spent half the night cleaning it up and was mortified.
Later, she would bring over "Joey" from time to time. Her scummy dago boyfriend. Sometimes her younger brother Allen would babysit when she was unavailable. Allen was 17 or 18 at this point and kind of cute and I'd woo him with my parents rock record collection. He lamented that we didn't own Pink Floyd's "The Wall".
Veronica's smile and spirit and laugh were infectious. She told us about a class trip to Spain- Valladolid. She had asthma real bad and wheezed. She chewed gum occasionally. She may have had freckles.
When she was younger she hallucinated snakes and spiders on some shitty allergy medication and feared them interminably.
I saw her one afternoon, over in her tiny room in her family's trailer, trying on for me her royal blue satin prom dress with the gold chain for the strap. Her firery red hair flowing past those same pale shoulders. I thought I was looking up at the queen of all my dreams.
And finally the blow of her last visit. The last one I remember.
I am much older. My mother has asked her over for some reason, to give her something maybe. Or she is in the neighborhood and wanted to stop by.
I am excited to see her. But the wind goes out of my sails as soon as I do.
She is massive. She has blown up in size to rival that of her mother. Well over 200 pounds. Maybe she is pregnant too. On top of all this, she has a blonde 2-3 year old boy in tow. I feel insulted by this entire scenario. The boy pounds on our piano and wants his mother's attention constantly while she's talking with my mother, which my mother tolerates as she gives it to him. No discipline. I observe all this, and I guess that's what I see.
There seem to be a bunch of icky feelings I was wrestling with at that moment.
I took Veronica to be much prettier than fat. I didn't think she deserved it. I thought she'd go on to travel some more and take over the world. Proof that I could get out of here and do the same thing.
It doesn't matter. People can't get away from their families, and they want what they want.
Wherever she is now, I just hope she's happy. And healthy.
Friday, June 1, 2012
eleven.thirteen.eleven
Today I burned the last stick of incense my grandmother brought back from Japan many many years before she died. I watch the smoke uncurl at halfway and the ashes meet those of a dollar bill in a white ceramic bowl.
Yes, I am trying to call a phoenix...
Tonight I'm the little match girl in high heels. Too-large wool coat and tied up hair about to be let loose. Tiny sparks for jewelry, the pumps are wearing nervous sparkles onto my skin- baby blisters- that won't be so big I can't handle them in the time it takes me to get home.
My clutch: lipstick, pen, paper, money, tissues.
There was a woman I passed on the city street a while back.
The cords of her earphones were neatly tucked
underneath the strap that held the breathing mask/air barrier to her face.
She made eye contact with me. Her eyes told me that from under that mask, she wasn't smiling back.
Yes, I am trying to call a phoenix...
Tonight I'm the little match girl in high heels. Too-large wool coat and tied up hair about to be let loose. Tiny sparks for jewelry, the pumps are wearing nervous sparkles onto my skin- baby blisters- that won't be so big I can't handle them in the time it takes me to get home.
My clutch: lipstick, pen, paper, money, tissues.
There was a woman I passed on the city street a while back.
The cords of her earphones were neatly tucked
underneath the strap that held the breathing mask/air barrier to her face.
She made eye contact with me. Her eyes told me that from under that mask, she wasn't smiling back.
Monday, May 14, 2012
Wood Fears Metal - Notes on Desire
I've written so much to you. A lot of words you'll never see. You might never "see" these words, either.
Are you afraid of people? You say you're lonely.. why do you keep so hidden?
I can't shake this idea that you're bad for me. Yet I still want you. Better judgement says I want you more than you want me.
And why? You philosophize, yet you have no practice. You understand duality intellectually, yet the real exquisite terror of science is that when it looks in the mirror, it sees poetry.
The paradox of this is that any (assuredly volatile to some degree) partnership between us could still possibly be hi-functioning and mutually beneficial.
But nobody, Nobody, can make another person want something they don't.
Do I write this more for myself, than for you? Maybe. It doesn't matter.
Either way my skin demands to be articulated. My path, my pretext, conceived.
I do and do not struggle to hear all my raw desire in the wake of you. Desire that is not judgement. Desire that is not expectation.
Desire for warmth. True intimacy.
A pact of non-aggression is still a call to action.
Sometimes, a woman is encouraged to be a thing without a past. I certainly do not intend to give my legacy away.
I am the best writer I can be right now- as a feature of my will and the sum of my parts.
My own loneliness and sadness, interlaced the twine of a few bad decisions, are not regretted.
Their edges have been explored much much more than once.
Still more, they've been found expertly fathomed. My eyes see more clearly after tears have washed them.
The "you" I speak to is the great elusive love. The soul mate in the traditional sense- lovely, strong, and in the male form.
It would be arrogant to say "I am ready for you". I am only truly prepared to say "I am worth loving, and so are you."
So, are you?
I'll keep calling out into the dark, knowing you will come.
Are you afraid of people? You say you're lonely.. why do you keep so hidden?
I can't shake this idea that you're bad for me. Yet I still want you. Better judgement says I want you more than you want me.
And why? You philosophize, yet you have no practice. You understand duality intellectually, yet the real exquisite terror of science is that when it looks in the mirror, it sees poetry.
The paradox of this is that any (assuredly volatile to some degree) partnership between us could still possibly be hi-functioning and mutually beneficial.
But nobody, Nobody, can make another person want something they don't.
Do I write this more for myself, than for you? Maybe. It doesn't matter.
Either way my skin demands to be articulated. My path, my pretext, conceived.
I do and do not struggle to hear all my raw desire in the wake of you. Desire that is not judgement. Desire that is not expectation.
Desire for warmth. True intimacy.
A pact of non-aggression is still a call to action.
Sometimes, a woman is encouraged to be a thing without a past. I certainly do not intend to give my legacy away.
I am the best writer I can be right now- as a feature of my will and the sum of my parts.
My own loneliness and sadness, interlaced the twine of a few bad decisions, are not regretted.
Their edges have been explored much much more than once.
Still more, they've been found expertly fathomed. My eyes see more clearly after tears have washed them.
The "you" I speak to is the great elusive love. The soul mate in the traditional sense- lovely, strong, and in the male form.
It would be arrogant to say "I am ready for you". I am only truly prepared to say "I am worth loving, and so are you."
So, are you?
I'll keep calling out into the dark, knowing you will come.
Monday, May 7, 2012
List: Band Names
Dicky Listless and the Affairs
Heart Ache and the Bummers
Meta Phor and the Dislikes
Like Or As
Code Perfect
Meat Drawer
Sex Bunker
Petti Theft and the Pilfers
The Lonesome Bulldogs
The Long Midnight
Hot Noise (first album title: Hardup For Stereo)
Undercover Youngbloods
Dead Push Music
Covitous Ov
Mick Lixx and the Jolly Pops
Tab Lloyd and the Bad Publicity
Word Gun
Talking Tape Gun
The Daring Cut Lables
Satanic Carwash
Jefferson Leopard Lovestory
Grant Asylum
Mint Hoax Yawn
Plastic African
Pukeowski
Mechanical Bullshit
Occultocaust (Its a Dog Eat God world...)
The Reverend Bartender Headache
The Waitress Union
Glib Contour
Sleepy Dirt
Foxy Moron
Ultimate Beef (saw this spraypainted on the side of a building/restaurant)
Barking Jeanius
Double Death
Soft Sword
Jayjee Ballad and the Bombs
Hot War
Idiot Electron
Creative Fighting and the Anything Dangerous
Shugar Skhull
Napoleonic Code
Wet Magnet
Teen Murder Composition
The Glued-Ons
Deena Martini and the Crass Pack
Fierce Decible
Dick Nigger and the Badasssssses
Alphabet Tapedeck
Kilometer Frame
The Constantly Tinys
Bystander Effect
Light and Moth
Frankfurt Motor (had a dream about this one: "meat and bones animal deathfuck porn band")
...Up for grabs, that is, if you feel like starting a band(!)
And if you think you've heard any of these before... let me know.
xo!
Monday, April 2, 2012
Evidence, Relevance, Consequence, Action.
When commercials become too much to take, simply imagine the blowhard actor/voicetalent to be a cold-blooded murderer. Mass murderer, even. Something out of 'Nam. Whitey in flagrante delicto.
Then its all terrible giggles from there. Seriously. The ad loses all context and bleeds entirely any absurd integrity it may have had.
I thought of all this over a cleaning product spot. Corona nearly shot out of my nose. Bartender probably thought I was bananas. Effective.
Then its all terrible giggles from there. Seriously. The ad loses all context and bleeds entirely any absurd integrity it may have had.
I thought of all this over a cleaning product spot. Corona nearly shot out of my nose. Bartender probably thought I was bananas. Effective.
Sunday, March 25, 2012
In proportion to your intelligence is your perception of pain
My mother's mother passed away on Friday. The last of the matriarchs to go...
I saw her just a few weeks back, and have no urge to go to funeral services.
However, in a silly twist, in a week or so I'll be taking on an acting gig that involves being a mourner at a mock funeral...
It is there that I intend to do a lot of crying for no good reason.
One day when I was little, I found I could cry on demand. I think I had something in my eye.
My mother was dually impressed with this. She'd say things like: You could go to Hollywood with tears like those.
Now, I simply lower my eyes and try to think of something that makes my nose tingle and my face itch like an allergic reaction, and soon I'm weeping.
But these salty jewels don't come cheap...
A little while back, I watched Wings of Desire. A German film by Wim Wenders, and it made me cry. Or moreso that I cried for watching it. It occurred to me then to make a list of all the things that have ever moved me to tears.
This is a work in progress, of course...
-
Old Photos, sometimes, like movies.
The love of my mother, and things that have made my mother cry out of sympathy for her.
The death of my father's sister last summer. The death of my grandfather, and his incredible send off.
Often, the plight of others. Lost families during wartime.
Videos of people, kids especially, getting puppies for christmas.
Octavia Butler:
Went to write to her after I saw her at a reading in 2005. That's when I found out she'd passed away.
Mother Teresa, and her confiding to a priest with whom she was close late in life, that she was no longer able to hear the voice of God. And that even if he'd given up on her, she hadn't given up on him.
My brother, singing a song I'd written about love in the hospital.
The short story Girl Pool by Kurt Vonnegut.
The children's story The Velveteen Rabbit.
Every single boyfriend, especially the ones that drove me crazy, and the romantic love they offered.
LAIKA, the first dog (Russian) in space, who did not come back- "We did not gather enough data from the mission to warrant the death of the dog."
-
I hope you can find a reason to be thankful for your humanity and compassion today, and tomorrow...
and
tomorrow!
I saw her just a few weeks back, and have no urge to go to funeral services.
However, in a silly twist, in a week or so I'll be taking on an acting gig that involves being a mourner at a mock funeral...
It is there that I intend to do a lot of crying for no good reason.
One day when I was little, I found I could cry on demand. I think I had something in my eye.
My mother was dually impressed with this. She'd say things like: You could go to Hollywood with tears like those.
Now, I simply lower my eyes and try to think of something that makes my nose tingle and my face itch like an allergic reaction, and soon I'm weeping.
But these salty jewels don't come cheap...
A little while back, I watched Wings of Desire. A German film by Wim Wenders, and it made me cry. Or moreso that I cried for watching it. It occurred to me then to make a list of all the things that have ever moved me to tears.
This is a work in progress, of course...
-
Old Photos, sometimes, like movies.
The love of my mother, and things that have made my mother cry out of sympathy for her.
The death of my father's sister last summer. The death of my grandfather, and his incredible send off.
Often, the plight of others. Lost families during wartime.
Videos of people, kids especially, getting puppies for christmas.
Octavia Butler:
Went to write to her after I saw her at a reading in 2005. That's when I found out she'd passed away.
Mother Teresa, and her confiding to a priest with whom she was close late in life, that she was no longer able to hear the voice of God. And that even if he'd given up on her, she hadn't given up on him.
My brother, singing a song I'd written about love in the hospital.
The short story Girl Pool by Kurt Vonnegut.
The children's story The Velveteen Rabbit.
Every single boyfriend, especially the ones that drove me crazy, and the romantic love they offered.
LAIKA, the first dog (Russian) in space, who did not come back- "We did not gather enough data from the mission to warrant the death of the dog."
-
I hope you can find a reason to be thankful for your humanity and compassion today, and tomorrow...
and
tomorrow!
Saturday, March 3, 2012
dont you wish you had those nights back? the ones you paid rent for, but didn't stay?
don't mention the fog.
bring silk instead into the bed.
the place where our minds could be.
don't lean against the doors
when you could be under the covers.
-
Dawn...
coming like a message
hemorrhaging pink under Venus.
-
From the wide windows, sky.
A view of the high elec cables sine wave.
Cigarette ash in the upturned beer bottle cap.
Clean wide brown
paint brushes dried and
upturned.
Three in a clear jar with a wide mouth.
Glass tarnish
shimmy the light back toward
crumpled paper and crumb tatters
of gold leaf.
Sunset falls,
long and final
over the worktable.
-
Remember
Those times when
deja vu
doesn't feel like anything
other than a wave
of extreme perfection?
I feel that
every day
around you.
-
Cloudy Tuesday. Rainy warmth hangs in the air like a deceptive blanket. the threatening insulator.
I went into a tea shop and drank white tea. Slow, and with air. It provided a stillness and a clarity that let me see colors and hear the city sounds with more purpose. As in a film. The cinema of my mind is vast. It makes me smile! It swirls inside me and spreads peace... or maybe it's sloth instead? My movements feel sluggish as if I was just aroused from rest.
The end of December. Already the bright retainer of spring thrusts itself into view. It is about to be deceived but it doesn't care. Even in deference, it is grateful.
People go out to breath heavy. Boys and girls move their bodies to music. Whatever becomes the light in them?
-
The board. The larder. The pantry. Empty.
Almost completely. I don't mind the look of it, all individually wrapped crackers and box of cereal with one bowl left.
I cannot eat the sound of my drum being played. I cannot unspin a curtain into spaghetti.
Coffee plays an uncertain cadence over my heart.
I dated a caffeine addict whose cum tasted like the coveted roasted cherries of that naughty insurgent bean. The grit and the flower of its taste. Pressed like saliva from bark. Rain run-off juice from a washed city. Burned rebel-drink. A bad substitute for prunes.
It's a thing that makes a tummy feel more empty after awhile. Hungry for grease.
I cannot whip toothpaste into eggs, over hard. I cannot breathe and take in the air like milk. I must fill myself another way.
bring silk instead into the bed.
the place where our minds could be.
don't lean against the doors
when you could be under the covers.
-
Dawn...
coming like a message
hemorrhaging pink under Venus.
-
From the wide windows, sky.
A view of the high elec cables sine wave.
Cigarette ash in the upturned beer bottle cap.
Clean wide brown
paint brushes dried and
upturned.
Three in a clear jar with a wide mouth.
Glass tarnish
shimmy the light back toward
crumpled paper and crumb tatters
of gold leaf.
Sunset falls,
long and final
over the worktable.
-
Remember
Those times when
deja vu
doesn't feel like anything
other than a wave
of extreme perfection?
I feel that
every day
around you.
-
Cloudy Tuesday. Rainy warmth hangs in the air like a deceptive blanket. the threatening insulator.
I went into a tea shop and drank white tea. Slow, and with air. It provided a stillness and a clarity that let me see colors and hear the city sounds with more purpose. As in a film. The cinema of my mind is vast. It makes me smile! It swirls inside me and spreads peace... or maybe it's sloth instead? My movements feel sluggish as if I was just aroused from rest.
The end of December. Already the bright retainer of spring thrusts itself into view. It is about to be deceived but it doesn't care. Even in deference, it is grateful.
People go out to breath heavy. Boys and girls move their bodies to music. Whatever becomes the light in them?
-
The board. The larder. The pantry. Empty.
Almost completely. I don't mind the look of it, all individually wrapped crackers and box of cereal with one bowl left.
I cannot eat the sound of my drum being played. I cannot unspin a curtain into spaghetti.
Coffee plays an uncertain cadence over my heart.
I dated a caffeine addict whose cum tasted like the coveted roasted cherries of that naughty insurgent bean. The grit and the flower of its taste. Pressed like saliva from bark. Rain run-off juice from a washed city. Burned rebel-drink. A bad substitute for prunes.
It's a thing that makes a tummy feel more empty after awhile. Hungry for grease.
I cannot whip toothpaste into eggs, over hard. I cannot breathe and take in the air like milk. I must fill myself another way.
Saturday, February 18, 2012
A Moment In 2007 (for Heather and Christian)
Two Nineteen.
I am 27 today. And lonely. (In Maine).
On Hobson's wharf, in Becky's diner, warming my hands with half-decaf and thinking about how surreal a kind of day like this spent alone can be.
The odd years are always the best, but they start out so casual, so understated..
When I turned 21 by the end of the day I was crying. That day was supposed to be spelling my name in the sky. The day that followed instead, was much much better. And I guess that's how I'll feel tomorrow... relieved that the pressure is off.
I do currently have the best boyfriend ever. Supportive and sweet and calling me and sending messages. He is also lonely and we're a little heartsick for one another. Even as that situation won't remedy itself for another couple weeks, its still bittersweet knowing that a short few hundred miles away, someone is down with me.
The sun is so bright, it's hard for me to not want to be outside. But the wind: an icy and unforgiving witch.
I walk around town dropping off applications to everywhere I can think short of laundromats (and I might just break out the phonebook and do that later this week.)
No bites yet, but we're close. Hard to get a part-time gig in this town.
In hopes of a more positive experience with birth control and condom-free sex, I put in a "nuva ring" today. A little plastic hormone delivery system. More news on that later, I hope.
Guys to my rear rap about basketball and I think of a friend in PA with his family. Called me at the beginning of the weekend in anticipation of Monday off. Yes, today is also president's day. Me and Lincoln- we're taking on the world at every turn.
Volunteering at the TV station tonight. A show at the Strange Maine- a little hodge podge shop with music and movies. I only went there once and the cashier looked like every member of TV on the Radio combined. Having a phone conversation about something either extremely personal or very illegal.
The math professor sends me an email:
"And remember, 27 is the last prime cube you will ever achieve as a birthday."
Yep. 27. Your life is amazing. Right down to the split ends.
I am 27 today. And lonely. (In Maine).
On Hobson's wharf, in Becky's diner, warming my hands with half-decaf and thinking about how surreal a kind of day like this spent alone can be.
The odd years are always the best, but they start out so casual, so understated..
When I turned 21 by the end of the day I was crying. That day was supposed to be spelling my name in the sky. The day that followed instead, was much much better. And I guess that's how I'll feel tomorrow... relieved that the pressure is off.
I do currently have the best boyfriend ever. Supportive and sweet and calling me and sending messages. He is also lonely and we're a little heartsick for one another. Even as that situation won't remedy itself for another couple weeks, its still bittersweet knowing that a short few hundred miles away, someone is down with me.
The sun is so bright, it's hard for me to not want to be outside. But the wind: an icy and unforgiving witch.
I walk around town dropping off applications to everywhere I can think short of laundromats (and I might just break out the phonebook and do that later this week.)
No bites yet, but we're close. Hard to get a part-time gig in this town.
In hopes of a more positive experience with birth control and condom-free sex, I put in a "nuva ring" today. A little plastic hormone delivery system. More news on that later, I hope.
Guys to my rear rap about basketball and I think of a friend in PA with his family. Called me at the beginning of the weekend in anticipation of Monday off. Yes, today is also president's day. Me and Lincoln- we're taking on the world at every turn.
Volunteering at the TV station tonight. A show at the Strange Maine- a little hodge podge shop with music and movies. I only went there once and the cashier looked like every member of TV on the Radio combined. Having a phone conversation about something either extremely personal or very illegal.
The math professor sends me an email:
"And remember, 27 is the last prime cube you will ever achieve as a birthday."
Yep. 27. Your life is amazing. Right down to the split ends.
Saturday, February 11, 2012
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
Addressing Busters
"The State is for Man. NOT Man for the State." - Jacques Maritian
It's an election year, and I owe my friend Patrick an apology...
Back in '08, swept up in Obama fever, I shot an email out to friends and family drumming up enthusiasm, or at least sharing my own, for the upcoming election.
I was excited for much of the same reasons that others were, including voting for the first time in a place other than Western PA, and was- as I still am- a resident of Chicago, Illinois. Ground Zero Obamaville.
When I talked to my friend Pat about who he was voting for, he said: "No one. I'm not voting."
I then proceeded to give him a bunch of shit for it.
I'm not even sure I remember his reasons for not voting. But time, and experience, teaches.
Perhaps he knew something I didn't, and was afraid to tell me for fear I wouldn't listen.
My point being, I'm not sure whether I come to this out of the peculiarities of a generation so generally and swiftly jaded by a broken, static system, maybe each one feels more estranged than the last...
Although for me it was late 20's, I'm sure it's a more personal timeline for everyone. Some people never get to confronting that coarse of injustice that facilitates a nihilistic outlook on what is, at large, a wholly dysfunctional option.
But, to Pat and to whom it may concern: I'm there. I've arrived.
You were right, and now we have Occupy fever.
To digress a moment, my last two partners have been "Baby Busters". They were, are, 48 years old.
In speaking with the first one day, I had a realization that I should have had a long time ago, which was that this system and its politics are cyclical like anything else. The same samsara-trap set, the same trap going off again and again.
What scam that involves selling our rights back to us comes next is our only guess- "universal health care" seems like the likeliest candidate.
And the latest admitted a paradox, because the current Mr. President is himself a "Buster", a generation also plenty jaded with politics.
However complex the variables and outcomes, the primary conclusion is herein momentarily being: I've decided to divorce myself from voting.
No ballot casting ever again, for anything local, state, federal, international, universal.
Voting distracts.
And besides, don't we just vote every day anyway with a thing politicians are more interested in anyhow?
Money.
It's an election year, and I owe my friend Patrick an apology...
Back in '08, swept up in Obama fever, I shot an email out to friends and family drumming up enthusiasm, or at least sharing my own, for the upcoming election.
I was excited for much of the same reasons that others were, including voting for the first time in a place other than Western PA, and was- as I still am- a resident of Chicago, Illinois. Ground Zero Obamaville.
When I talked to my friend Pat about who he was voting for, he said: "No one. I'm not voting."
I then proceeded to give him a bunch of shit for it.
I'm not even sure I remember his reasons for not voting. But time, and experience, teaches.
Perhaps he knew something I didn't, and was afraid to tell me for fear I wouldn't listen.
My point being, I'm not sure whether I come to this out of the peculiarities of a generation so generally and swiftly jaded by a broken, static system, maybe each one feels more estranged than the last...
Although for me it was late 20's, I'm sure it's a more personal timeline for everyone. Some people never get to confronting that coarse of injustice that facilitates a nihilistic outlook on what is, at large, a wholly dysfunctional option.
But, to Pat and to whom it may concern: I'm there. I've arrived.
You were right, and now we have Occupy fever.
To digress a moment, my last two partners have been "Baby Busters". They were, are, 48 years old.
In speaking with the first one day, I had a realization that I should have had a long time ago, which was that this system and its politics are cyclical like anything else. The same samsara-trap set, the same trap going off again and again.
What scam that involves selling our rights back to us comes next is our only guess- "universal health care" seems like the likeliest candidate.
And the latest admitted a paradox, because the current Mr. President is himself a "Buster", a generation also plenty jaded with politics.
However complex the variables and outcomes, the primary conclusion is herein momentarily being: I've decided to divorce myself from voting.
No ballot casting ever again, for anything local, state, federal, international, universal.
Voting distracts.
And besides, don't we just vote every day anyway with a thing politicians are more interested in anyhow?
Money.
Saturday, January 14, 2012
No Comment.
I want a cigarette after that sex.
I'm on my period and its messy. Brown like nutrient rich earth after a good rain.
My phone never rings when I'm available and my legs will never shave themselves.
I will know when the time is right... why do I always want to rush it?
The plastic jangles. I forget my earrings are there @ the sides of my throat, until I brush them accidentally.
These actions coincide with my phone not ringing and the remembrance of needing to pluck eyebrows.
I ask my boyfriend not to drink so much at happy hour so he can pick me up tonight. He won't make any promises. It's Friday.
I start a new book.
The book store, there are so many people to write to, lonely. Only one person responded to my ad. I like forgetting that I've done those kinds of things.
If I was different, would I make new friends?
My hair works its way into my ear like a pressure, a thought that tickles the side of my reality. Quiet hair dusted and stuck, made loud against strands grown from the top. Brothers and sisters of another topography.
I'm eighteen.
I want to drink cold pink wine with my boyfriend in a bedroom in my hometown. I want him to visit me in his past so I can say his name & kiss him and call him my boyfriend. ...and then he can melt away in the morning.
I don't wear socks that often. And I don't have a reason why, other than it looks real cool, and I guess my feet like to get intimate with the sides of my shoes.
I wear a skirt today. Winter feels good on all the things I'm not covering.
The ballad radio at twelve twenty five.
My chin crushed into the pillow, staring at the rain.
That girl I remember from many previous summers in her bedroom on her bed watching the rain thinking about her dead pet. I pushed her door open and walked past and took the glance of her from behind that she'll never know.
From that I have all this- a head full of bedrooms and ballads. A piece of rain shuddered against glass near long brown hair and ass in denim.
Sometimes its so curious how we have all in one day, a noon and a night.
I'm on my period and its messy. Brown like nutrient rich earth after a good rain.
My phone never rings when I'm available and my legs will never shave themselves.
I will know when the time is right... why do I always want to rush it?
The plastic jangles. I forget my earrings are there @ the sides of my throat, until I brush them accidentally.
These actions coincide with my phone not ringing and the remembrance of needing to pluck eyebrows.
I ask my boyfriend not to drink so much at happy hour so he can pick me up tonight. He won't make any promises. It's Friday.
I start a new book.
The book store, there are so many people to write to, lonely. Only one person responded to my ad. I like forgetting that I've done those kinds of things.
If I was different, would I make new friends?
My hair works its way into my ear like a pressure, a thought that tickles the side of my reality. Quiet hair dusted and stuck, made loud against strands grown from the top. Brothers and sisters of another topography.
I'm eighteen.
I want to drink cold pink wine with my boyfriend in a bedroom in my hometown. I want him to visit me in his past so I can say his name & kiss him and call him my boyfriend. ...and then he can melt away in the morning.
I don't wear socks that often. And I don't have a reason why, other than it looks real cool, and I guess my feet like to get intimate with the sides of my shoes.
I wear a skirt today. Winter feels good on all the things I'm not covering.
The ballad radio at twelve twenty five.
My chin crushed into the pillow, staring at the rain.
That girl I remember from many previous summers in her bedroom on her bed watching the rain thinking about her dead pet. I pushed her door open and walked past and took the glance of her from behind that she'll never know.
From that I have all this- a head full of bedrooms and ballads. A piece of rain shuddered against glass near long brown hair and ass in denim.
Sometimes its so curious how we have all in one day, a noon and a night.
Saturday, December 3, 2011
"Cleanup Crew" - Chapter One, part 1
We called ourselves "The Cleanup Crew".
We'd go out on duty early early morning & late at night. Always 2, sometimes 3 of us. 1 or 2 to hold back the homeless person, or subdue them with a taser, the other to dump out their "belongings", and sort them into either usables or recyclables. Some homeless were quite patient, and they'd just watch us pull out plastic bags and jesus tracts one from the next.
"Duty" was always educational and we did it to help people. We only had to kill one person, and that's a long story for later.
Sometimes we'd get their good things down to one bag- show it to them & give it back. One man we took to an all night diner & listened to him over coffee for nearly four hours. He was early on, and I think we saved both our lives.. again, another story for a bit later.
Mini Van bumper sticker soccer mom came thru once and got her business in ours, other than that we'd be pretty discreet and move locales if we had to.
Inspiration for the beginning of the cleanup crew began with Mina.
We'd moved into the neighborhood from another part of the city and it wasn't a week before we saw her- big puffy new bright red coat at the beginning of fall when everyone was still out sporting shorts. She'd mill around the pizza place up the block when outdoors and we'd constantly see her passing the downstairs window.
Jake gave her chow from time to time even tho' she wasn't asking for it, or even asking for money. She'd smile & nod and talk to herself- a mumblespeech which was sometimes animated with ticks and retorts from imaginary friends. Her silent, profound emoting led us to believe that maybe she was an actress in another life.
She was off the street at night, but we could only guess at where she slept.
Two months pass, and we see her with a greater and greater infrequency, to the point of our thinking maybe she'd been arrested. Each time we spy her she seems sad. Stooped with disappointment. Dirty and downturned in the mouth. Then the baggage.
Each one bigger than the last and filled with a large amount of detritus. Then we'd see her sleeping on the street with a trail of trash leading up to her. She'd become this stinking eyesore you could find anywhere without looking very hard.
She passed out on our doorstep early one evening in December during a first snow and we knew something must be done immediately...
We'd go out on duty early early morning & late at night. Always 2, sometimes 3 of us. 1 or 2 to hold back the homeless person, or subdue them with a taser, the other to dump out their "belongings", and sort them into either usables or recyclables. Some homeless were quite patient, and they'd just watch us pull out plastic bags and jesus tracts one from the next.
"Duty" was always educational and we did it to help people. We only had to kill one person, and that's a long story for later.
Sometimes we'd get their good things down to one bag- show it to them & give it back. One man we took to an all night diner & listened to him over coffee for nearly four hours. He was early on, and I think we saved both our lives.. again, another story for a bit later.
Mini Van bumper sticker soccer mom came thru once and got her business in ours, other than that we'd be pretty discreet and move locales if we had to.
Inspiration for the beginning of the cleanup crew began with Mina.
We'd moved into the neighborhood from another part of the city and it wasn't a week before we saw her- big puffy new bright red coat at the beginning of fall when everyone was still out sporting shorts. She'd mill around the pizza place up the block when outdoors and we'd constantly see her passing the downstairs window.
Jake gave her chow from time to time even tho' she wasn't asking for it, or even asking for money. She'd smile & nod and talk to herself- a mumblespeech which was sometimes animated with ticks and retorts from imaginary friends. Her silent, profound emoting led us to believe that maybe she was an actress in another life.
She was off the street at night, but we could only guess at where she slept.
Two months pass, and we see her with a greater and greater infrequency, to the point of our thinking maybe she'd been arrested. Each time we spy her she seems sad. Stooped with disappointment. Dirty and downturned in the mouth. Then the baggage.
Each one bigger than the last and filled with a large amount of detritus. Then we'd see her sleeping on the street with a trail of trash leading up to her. She'd become this stinking eyesore you could find anywhere without looking very hard.
She passed out on our doorstep early one evening in December during a first snow and we knew something must be done immediately...
Monday, November 28, 2011
Seven Years Old- true story transcribed from a letter
I see a little boy in my thoughts and he is alive. He listens to Dr. Seuss on an old record album that his mom bought him and he reads along with the story. It is around Xmas because I see the lights twinkling from the tree. He is 7 years old and full of hope and joy. He does not know that his parents are fighting in the kitchen. His dad sits him down on the couch and explains as well as he can that he has to go away. The boy just thinks it is temporary. I'm sure that he was not aware that his life was just starting to fall apart and so he grows up not knowing anything. His father finds companionship as does his mother. He continues to grow.
His stepmother yells at him. His dad is not aware, the boy does not care. His life is OK. The boy loves his family and he is happy by himself. His father gives him his guitar and he plays and plays that guitar. That guitar made his dad depressed because he used to play songs to his wife.
Both families live, and die, in good health, and the boy lives on to become something great.
The End.
"I always wonder what this world would be without artists. It would not be original, it would be generic and boring. Perhaps hell is a world without art and music. My life is art, heaven is art, forget this all."
-I. Bonnet
His stepmother yells at him. His dad is not aware, the boy does not care. His life is OK. The boy loves his family and he is happy by himself. His father gives him his guitar and he plays and plays that guitar. That guitar made his dad depressed because he used to play songs to his wife.
Both families live, and die, in good health, and the boy lives on to become something great.
The End.
"I always wonder what this world would be without artists. It would not be original, it would be generic and boring. Perhaps hell is a world without art and music. My life is art, heaven is art, forget this all."
-I. Bonnet
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
Sometimes Model - a random portfolio, a short essay
The rose is without why.
It blossoms because it blossoms.
It blossoms because it blossoms.
Dear Riva-
As regards your question from Sunday concerning what the model is thinking about while working, or "on stage":
A swarm of things wants to come out of me in response to this question- none of which takes precedence other than.. sex.
I suppose male models can't really indulge in thinking about it for catching an erection, (and I've had some "models only" dinner parties, but seemed to have failed to ask this question.) But thinking about it gets me out of my body faster than anything else.
Not that escape or even "meditation" of some sort is the ultimate goal. Sometimes I try to not get too relaxed or I'll start to fall asleep.
My fears with modeling include, superficially, getting a flat ass and/or a weak heart from all the sitting- but that's why I have a responsibility to yoga and cardio, and to eat well- but also the times when modeling will not be the work I choose to do anymore for whatever reason (bad joints, poor health, new job, etc.) It seems to be such a fulfilling thing to be doing at this time in my life, I suppose I just don't want it to end. Maybe that's simply a fear of change that rules all of us to some degree.
I feel more a part of this community than I have the community for my own art form (writing poetry), and in a big city too! I'm from a small town and strange rivalries and friendships are made on every level of expertise. I don't sense it, but is there a Northside/Southside art rivalry? Maybe they are completely (almost) separate worlds? I think my process could benefit from exposure to this on a large scale, having come from the country (western PA).
Anyway, I'm getting off base here.
I don't feel personally hypersexual or preoccupied with sex itself as a subject, even tho' I'm sure I have quite a lot to say about it.
It tends to enter into my mind on its own more often probably for my occasionally forcing it there to launch myself out of some pain I may have to endure for as long as 20 minutes.
Being a model (and my dyslexic self causes me to switch the last two letters of that word constantly) has caused me to deal with pain differently.
As regards your question from Sunday concerning what the model is thinking about while working, or "on stage":
A swarm of things wants to come out of me in response to this question- none of which takes precedence other than.. sex.
I suppose male models can't really indulge in thinking about it for catching an erection, (and I've had some "models only" dinner parties, but seemed to have failed to ask this question.) But thinking about it gets me out of my body faster than anything else.
Not that escape or even "meditation" of some sort is the ultimate goal. Sometimes I try to not get too relaxed or I'll start to fall asleep.
My fears with modeling include, superficially, getting a flat ass and/or a weak heart from all the sitting- but that's why I have a responsibility to yoga and cardio, and to eat well- but also the times when modeling will not be the work I choose to do anymore for whatever reason (bad joints, poor health, new job, etc.) It seems to be such a fulfilling thing to be doing at this time in my life, I suppose I just don't want it to end. Maybe that's simply a fear of change that rules all of us to some degree.
I feel more a part of this community than I have the community for my own art form (writing poetry), and in a big city too! I'm from a small town and strange rivalries and friendships are made on every level of expertise. I don't sense it, but is there a Northside/Southside art rivalry? Maybe they are completely (almost) separate worlds? I think my process could benefit from exposure to this on a large scale, having come from the country (western PA).
Anyway, I'm getting off base here.
I don't feel personally hypersexual or preoccupied with sex itself as a subject, even tho' I'm sure I have quite a lot to say about it.
It tends to enter into my mind on its own more often probably for my occasionally forcing it there to launch myself out of some pain I may have to endure for as long as 20 minutes.
Being a model (and my dyslexic self causes me to switch the last two letters of that word constantly) has caused me to deal with pain differently.
Breathing into it to explore it, finding what muscles surround it to shift into to get out of it or away from it. Stretching on a break, or putting ointment on it to confront it.
Lauren Levato mentioned she notices that I reveal my true(er) self when I model... who knows, maybe the artist who is looking carefully can tell when I go away, then come back into myself.
Right when you asked me this, it was the first break, and earlier I'd been thinking about my aunt, father's older sister, who is quite sick and may die very soon.
Those very questions of morality, philosophy and great thinking lead to, sometimes, a preoccupation on the stand with a line or two of poetry. Most likely something new to compose.
Very rarely also a song will stick in my head- it happened once & I had the occasion to tell an artist about it and he went online and ordered a cheap CD of it for me right then. It was great!
Lauren Levato mentioned she notices that I reveal my true(er) self when I model... who knows, maybe the artist who is looking carefully can tell when I go away, then come back into myself.
Right when you asked me this, it was the first break, and earlier I'd been thinking about my aunt, father's older sister, who is quite sick and may die very soon.
Those very questions of morality, philosophy and great thinking lead to, sometimes, a preoccupation on the stand with a line or two of poetry. Most likely something new to compose.
Very rarely also a song will stick in my head- it happened once & I had the occasion to tell an artist about it and he went online and ordered a cheap CD of it for me right then. It was great!
But that's an overview of a little bit of my mindset during figure work... photography is a whole other beast we'll have to talk about someday.
xo-
Dana
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
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
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
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
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