"stick with me, devotchka, I'll teach you how to fly"

Morocco, Day 1

2010-08-23T19:47:00.000-07:00

I lost my journal in transit back to America, and I was going to let that go save for Mitya's spectacular posts.

What I remember of my first day in Morocco,

Mitya and Paul picked me up from the airport, for which I was incredibly grateful as I wasn't quite ready for the adventure of finding it on my own. It was a bit shocking to see them in what I thought was the marker of a tourist- so-called "native" garb that I don't believe any urban Moroccan of the age of 21 would wear. We went straight into the old city and I'll admit that I believed at the time that the conditions that we saw were typical of all of Morocco. Future exploration would prove this to be false. Morocco, like many, features a broad range of living conditions from western-style urban (Casablanca) to nomadic (the village we passed on the way to Ouarzazate) to crowded and slightly cloudy (the streets of Safi).

On the way there, we walked by the central square which was empty save for an abundance of dates, figs, almonds of every sort and the main prize: fresh squeezed orange juice for about 30 US cents. cents. I was starting to understand the origin of the incredulous phrase "What country is this?".

After downing as much orange juice as possible, we went back to the hostel. It was hidden in a complicated labyrinth that would discourage me from wandering off on my own ;)

The hostel itself was nice. One minor off-putting detail was the layout of the lavatory in respect to the room. No one found it necessary to include a door. The bathroom, which otherwise was "wastern" with a sit-down toilet- was just there, partitioned by a wall. It shouldn't be so weird, I mean, we place our bathrooms right next to our bedrooms and living rooms and kitchens but no door...quite awkward. Later, I'm to be further surprised by seat less installations. These, which were porcelain, plastic and usually quite recent, I believe are cultural. It's just normal to squat. Only in tourist-y areas was this different, particularly nice restaurants, hotels and hostels.

The entirety of the old city was for sale in the form of clothing, tapestries, rugs, cups, tea pots, shoes, hats, glasses, trinkets. Cheap american rip-offs and traditional Moroccan mass-produced goods were sold side by side- I was warned that all I would want to do in Marrakesh is buy things.

I tried some pidgeon french which people kindly put up with a little before switching to english for my humbled benefit. For the most part, people were friendly and inviting, though no one introduced themselves quite yet.

We went on a walk towards the new city, which had wider streets, restaurants, clubs and a McDonalds, amongst other earthly delights. In one of the central squares there was a highly entertaining and quite springy trampoline which Paul and I of course ran to. I did about 17 backflips, some unassisted while we were waiting for the "bungee" part to start. In one of those, I almost fell off the trampoline and hit a pole. T'was fun. Best ab workout you've ever had.

Back in the old city, I quickly learned that I had overwhelming bargaining power, which I found pleasant because I like my rules, prices and fines, like everything else, to all be flexible and reasonable. I don't really know why, but I wasn't a fan of bargaining. It's a bit absurd because I did appreciate the flexibility, but I found myself hard-line nonetheless. I would decide exactly how much I was willing to part with for an object, frequently about 15-30% of the asking price, and state my price. Then, I would go through the routine of being asked to pay more, for which I would simply reply that the most I was honestly willing to pay was what I stated. Most of the time, eventually they would agree. If not, I left. This way I never payed a cent more than intended, although I was never surprised with a cheaper price either. That was all right, because it prevented an onset of the "ah-unbearably-cheap-must-consume" American illness we're all admittedly tainted with.

There was enough surprise when, at sunset, the streets suddenly changed into a giant party. People swarmed the square, while the vendors produced a beautiful haze of smoke above them all. The place was covered in such a blaze of light, rhythm and festivity that we walked all the way back to the hostel to get Mitya's camera to capture the shock live. There was drumming and dancing and a magical apparition of delicious street food, which was excellent because I was starving.

As the night was winding down, we stumbled upon a tiny skeletal kitten which was enough to pull anyone's heartstrings. In a display of affection Paul reserves strictly for felines, he bought some grilled fish and we traveled the streets in a cat-feeding frenzy. When we woke up a sleeping cat with our fruits from the sea, Mitya made a commendable comment "Imagine, you are lying there exhausted, and fish falls from the sky. This is how religion is made".

At the end of the night, I was so exhausted that my first journal entry read something like this:

1st day in Morrocco. Did about 17 backflips. Fed all the cats in Marrakesh :)

School

2010-03-20T17:44:00.001-07:00

My mom has decided that when she retires, she's going back to school. I am so proud of her I can barely speak.

Unfinished IAPC

2009-11-07T01:20:00.000-08:00

I entered Gallatin with the goal of becoming the best defense anyone could ever get, and I maintain that intention.

As a loyal member of the sect of absurdity, I, like many gallatin students, feel a slight disconnect with anyone who insists they have mastered reality. More so, I am ashamed to admit a slight scorn for positivist statements; anyone who contents that things should be, and thus are, this way or that.

It has always been very clear to me that people's viewpoints much differ on the subject of what happened, what is happening, and even what will happen, the latter being particularly strange since one wonders how there could ever be so much conflict about events yet unknown.

The best part is, that not only do people have massively different experiences, but they also happen to be subjective and active agents in determining their own narrative.'The mind is, at best, a thing that makes up stories about itself'.

One thing that has always terrified me is my ability to empathize with another person's views, while at the same time understanding that the complete opposite can be true as well.

How can I begin to get any sense of reality, when my existence permits seemingly contradicting narratives to be true? How can I judge what is real when it is all a question of perspective? And lastly- and perhaps of greatest concern- how do I know if I what I am seeing has a stable substance to it (reality, per say) or if perhaps is only my innate conception of it?

If that isn't enough insecurity, when other relate their experience to me, can I trust it to have any relevance to my own? When I come across an unfamiliar perspective, do I dismiss it as nonsense or consider it another angle on the reality before me? Do you put more weight onto what you know, or onto an authority? Do you believe everything you hear? Do you believe a majority of it? Do you believe so much as is comfortably viewed from your place in the world, that doesn't force you to scurry constantly shifting your view?

So, when someone tells you about an object, how do you if the information they are giving you is true? Maybe it is. How do you know if someone is lying to you? Is in inconsistency, through contradiction, can you just see it in someone's eyes? Is there a difference between presenting a different perspective, lying or simply being wrong?

The copious amounts of doubt I feel upon the intake of any information surely stems from my own admitted ability to make things up. Er, twist the facts. Shed new light on them.

In the same way one might understand their own ability to steal or be misunderstood or excluded, understanding one's own capacity to lie opens up a world of vulnerability. One begins to doubt even the most banal of statements, and question the motivation behind even the slightest assertion.

Understandably, this makes human interaction incredibly difficult. Not only does one feel an incredible sense of alienation from the murky, unpredictable figures around oneself, but it becomes difficult if not impossible to enter into any extended course of action with anyone. This includes interpersonal relationships of any sort, small business, sex, study and sitting next to someone on the bus.

At some point in my time at Gallatin, it occurred to me that I could mitigate the discomfort of this murky world, and tone down this alarming state of being simply by resolving to not question my own perception and to never mislabel my statements.

That is, not to lie to myself.

And since there's really no way to lie to others without lying to oneself, I suppose there is necessity to avoid that pitfall as well.

This is more difficult than it would seem, because upon careful examination it seems as if the world is full of people who are just begging for you to confirm their contradicting claims. And even someone just asking you to explain your own perspective can be stressful.

(launching into an explanation oftentimes requires one to pause, parse and parcel their experience and transform it into a narrative work).

Nonetheless, I have resolved not to lie to myself. Not of whim or religious observance, but a logical conclusion supported by philosophical play and scientific research.

In my rationale, I will be presenting two different ways of thinking, all reasonable in my book, though each field of thought often scorned by the other; philosophical and physical.

By physical, I mean to say all that lovely scientific thinking such as physiology and by philosophical, I mean to say all that concerns itself with meaning. I understand that this is rather hazy terminology, but would you expect more accuracy from one who thinks the two disciplines may as well be merged?

In my time at Gallatin, I spent a lot of time examining what different fields think is truth. And though what I've found seems to be grossly contradictory, there have been patterns, ways of being that are strikingly similar and praised throughout the ages.

That ties into the theory of complexity- an approach that branches multiple disciplines, which states that seemingly complex and different systems can have underlying self-serving order, patterns that prevail.

But before these disciplines merge into a flexible way of being, allow me to recall and consider each of the different paths I've taken academically:

At one point of time in my Gallatin career, one summer while not actually in school and looking over some Sartre, I encountered the passage in Being and Nothingness where Sartre describes the relationship between the self and the infinite.

A person is essentially nothing, argues Sartre, but the product of their own actions and thus their own God. If man is made in God's image than anything that man does, God becomes. And anything God does, man is divined to do as well. Thus, if you smile at someone while walking down the street, it becomes so that God would smile while walking down the street, and so that everyone would smile while walking down the street.

I need a far smoother transition into this paragraph, but we could just take a small conceptual leap here (just as if one was writing a mathematical proof, it is not necessary to state all the corollaries of a fact, just the relevant ones). For the past year or two of my life, I've taken up Sartre on his grand been experiment. Hypothesis: What if I'm God? If this is so, then anything I say and do reverberates infinitely and becomes an absolutely truth. Not to you, perhaps. But to me, yes. Very much so.

Anything action I do, I can rest assured in my mind that the rest of humanity would do as well. And as I find exceptions, I mark them as such- exceptions to a grand rule of, overall, people are such. I can even dumb down exceptions as misunderstandings, and let them go as such.

Actions are simple enough, but what about words. What to make of the harsh, simplifying covers we throw over things in order to make them more useful, convenient and commercial? If anything I say becomes an absolute truth onto myself, then there are several things I ought to watch out for.

1. In honor of synchrony, my thoughts, which play in my head, and mix in with each perception I note, should - if not of the most pleasant sort possible- then perhaps the quietest will do just as well.
2. In spite of dissonance, I should avoid interference in my mind as much as possible. It is impossible in my mind to believe entirely in two contradictory things. Or rather, it is possible, but extremely uncomfortable and riddled with conflict. It sounds something like white noise, a painful din.
3. Mirroring the desperate struggle for peace for things outside of myself, I should, in all things and at all times, try not to lie to myself and cast a false rhythm amidst the sounds of my daily life.

Tantra

2009-01-11T12:03:00.000-08:00

The whole male/female energy thing alienates me faster than the Pope at a Grateful Dead concert.

Let’s say you’re a black girl talking with another black woman. And she’s explaining how Michelle is great because she retains some of her “black” energy when she’s up there.
And you’re like, “uh, what?”
And the older woman says, “You know, sweetie, your black and white energy. Everyone has some of both, and you need to keep them balanced. In this country, black people suffer because we have too much white energy. We need to balance that out with more strong black energy.”
And you’re like “uh….what? black and white energy, uh, what?”
So she says,
“Well, black energy is like….it’s umm…nature, and being passive- sort of being one with Mother Earth, and being ok with that, you know? And white energy is more….active, it’s like….doing….and…energy, you know?
And it’s ok to be a black person with lots of white energy, or a white person with lots of black energy. I'm a black person with lots of white energy, and I'm happy about that. My friend over there is a white guy with lots of black energy, that's why we make a great pair".

Doesn't that sound a bit... off-putting, maybe?

Humans do use a lot of arbitrary labels. There is nothing especially tall about “high” notes in music, or commanding about a “major” chord. The Greeks called our deep, brassy notes “high” and squeaky, chirpy noises “low”. Then again, you rarely hear about “high and low” energy as two separate but equal personality traits, or “tall and short” personas.

Somehow, I feel that it’s not pleasant to be told its ‘ok’ to be black person with ‘a lot of white energy’. It’s just not particularly comforting.

At yoga, they are always talking about being “active” and “passive”. The key is, in fact, balance. I like how you can always relax- relax your jaw, relax your brow line. The best is how there is always something to activate- focus on the breath, stretch your toes if you have to.
But they don't tell you to “female” your toes out or “male” up your core muscles. Imagine that:
“Ok, everybody, male up your arms up towards the sky, and let your shoulders be female down your back”.

They could totally get away with that. Most people have the cultural capital to make sense of instructions like “female your shoulders down your back”. They could use male and female. It's just more precise to say “active” and “passive”. Or “relax” and “firm up”. I guess those prosaic types don't get the same kicks playing with colossal, inflated metaphor all of the time.

For example, I could never believe there's anything male about an overblown ego.

Experienced servers needed

2008-12-24T12:25:00.000-08:00

So, I'm going out to a private party in Long Island to serve hors d'oeuvres. The woman that hired me says she'll meet me outside to pay me. She said she drives a truck with the name of her company on it. I said, "Uh, that sounds sketchy".

eek.

Yoga

2008-12-24T12:09:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, there was this incredibly aggravated woman at yoga class. Jenny, I think it was….. not a frequent flyer, I bet, tense as hell, with a peak nose and messy bleached hair. She jumped a rant on the unfortunate instructor, right at the door after class. The girl who taught that day had a soft, dreamy voice and a pleasant disposition, and I guess it’s natural that she was mistaken for a therapist.
Jenny’s angry because her friend blew her off to hang out with her boyfriend. And, like, she hangs out with her boyfriend all the time. Jenny asks her friend if she has five minutes, but she does not, because she’s hanging out with her freaking boyfriend.
“Well,” says the soft instructor, “sometimes when people find each other and really like each other, it overwhelmes them a lot”.
“But, like,” says Jenny, “I’m not like that with my boyfriends. Of course, the guys I’ve dated have all been assholes, but…”
“Someone for you will come along…” the yoga instructor croons, in an attempt to interrupt no doubt.
“- Yeah, but I don’t want my boyfriend to be hanging out with me all the time you know. I’d like him to have his own friends, you know?”
“Yeah, friends are good,” the instructor says with a sigh.
“One day, though, I’d like to get married. But it’s just so annoying now because all my friends are hanging out with their boyfriends, and it’s like ‘where’s my guy?’, ‘why aren’t you dating anyone’, you know?”
“Yeah,” the instructor says sweetly, “I’m sure that will happen for you one day, and you’ll meet someone like that. Just remember that these things take time, and relax in the meantime; it will happen.”
“I guess,” says Jenny, “I’m just so mad at my friends”.
“Well, they’re distracted…”
“Yeah, it just pisses me off.”

I’m glad she didn’t ask my opinion, though I was changing nearby. Most likely, I would have blurted out the following;
“Yeah, you’re probably annoyed because you’re buying into an oppressive gender binary based on sexual scarcity and competition. It weakens human connection with one another, and generally makes people feel helpless, bitter and cheated.”

This is why I would make a bad yoga teacher.

Mesmerism

2008-12-23T00:47:00.000-08:00

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mesmerism

Doll's House

2008-12-23T00:39:00.000-08:00

Life sized Polly Pocket. Polly swivels up the steps ad writes in her study. Polly makes some cheese and crackers, serves it to the guests; they make endless (un-appetizing) puns. Polly rides her horse, polly learns ballroom dancing, polly swims in her saltwater pool.

More on this amazing fragrance....

2008-12-21T06:57:00.000-08:00

A typical line from the press materials for CK in2u goes like this: "She likes how he blogs, her texts turn him on. It's intense. For right now."
Which may turn off its intended audience by the tens of thousands.

This campaign came out March 12, 2007, but I didn't notice back then so it's going to be the new thing to mock today.

Technosexual Turn-Ons

2008-12-21T06:35:00.001-08:00

what are u in 2?

CKin2U is a fragrance by Calvin Klein. To their credit, CK has made some extremely attractive commodities in the past. Their new campaign, however, is just....just...

The CK in2u bottle, designed by Stephen Burks, is made from the same materials — white plastic and glass — recognizable in an iPod. (Fabien Baron designed the original bottle.) The name is written in the shorthand of an instant message, a casual invitation to sex so immediate as to imply there was no time to spell it out: "in to you."

"We have envisioned this as the first fragrance for the technosexual generation," said Murry, using a term the company made up to describe its intended audience of thumb-texting young people whose romantic lives are defined in part by the casual hookup.

PrettiestBoy Blogger on this new craze: And what about the morning after? Maybe someone should get on that potential gravy train. Why don't we have a fragrance that embodies the giddy uncertainty of what comes after the arranged-by-cell-phone-(most likely) drunken tryst? Can you bottle smudged eye-liner, bed-head, morning breath, discarded condom wrappers, stilted conversation and that glorious moment before the curtain of what-the-fuck-did-I-just-do falls? Because if you can, they probably will.

A logic based system

2008-12-21T06:04:00.000-08:00

It’s funny how eastern countries care about the meaning of their words, but western countries only care if you get it right.

In Defense of Hipsters

2008-12-21T05:47:00.000-08:00

The half-built condos tower above us like foreboding monoliths of our yuppie futures. I take a look at one of the girls wearing a bright pink keffiyah and carrying a Polaroid camera and think, “If only we carried rocks instead of cameras, we’d look like revolutionaries.” But instead we ignore the weapons that lie at our feet – oblivious to our own impending demise.

From The Hipster Must Die and more simply Hipster.

Remember: hipsters don't hurl stones because they are lazy, vain and pretentious. The faint scent of nonviolent ideology, personal responsibility or balanced pragmatism is probably just 'Ginger Lily' by Urban Outfitters.

Reading:
In Defense of Hipsters by Dave Monaghan and Dan Hancox,

Vain Divinity

2008-12-09T06:15:00.000-08:00

If scientists construct cells so they'd be self-conscious creatures, we would simultaneously prove the existence of a God (Supreme Being/Creator) and that humans are God.

Me:"How do you think we’d act towards creatures that we created? Do you think we would be fond of them? Or scared, and cruel?"
Jeremy: "We’d probably abandon them…just like our god."

The Von Skankwhores

2008-12-08T06:25:00.000-08:00

Guther VonSkankwhore lived in the tallest mansion up on West 87th street, in the Red `zone (one family per city block).

And his three daughters, Slutessa, Whoretta, and Falopia Von Skankwhore.

They with their cats, Floozy and Trollop.

One day, Guther was having gin and tonics with his business partner, Diego. , the black sheep of the family.

Imps

2008-12-06T06:06:00.000-08:00

“Can they breathe in there?” I asked, as Caleb and I stared at the jars on the table. Caleb shrugged.
“Unfortunately,” he sighed, picking up a stray which had just hit the floor.

“Who’s that?”
“Beezlebum” said Caleb.
“Hmm?” I asked. I racked my head for some connection, anything familiar with “be” “ezle” or “bum” but all that came up was “beetlejuice” “basil” and “that bum on the sidewalk”.
One of the most surprising things about the imp is that they are rather thin, despite their gluttony. She’s got this impish quality about her. Fangs- of course,
She’s skinny, but not in the nice, graceful way. Lump for a stomach.

Anton Owns a Pet Parrot

2008-11-23T06:10:00.000-08:00

“Yo, Hitler, want a cracker?” I asked Anton, who threw me a dirty look.
Tenderly, he turned to the bird on his shoulder, “Would he?” he asked.
Hitler nodded.

The Company

2008-11-21T06:07:00.000-08:00

“The Company called me today,”
“….yeah?” I said, picking up another slice.
“Yeah….are you doing anything Monday afternoon?” Gabe picked up some pizza and held it up to his nose.
“Did you add garlic?” he asked.
“Rhys made it”
“Oh”.
“….so I’ve got class Monday”
“Hmm” Gabe grunted.

I drew a circle counter clock wise on the heat control pad, my paper mache fireplace crackled.
“That’s a fire hazard”, Gabe said.
“Live a little. What’s do you think is the right level to keep this at?” I asked.
“Huh?” Gabe asked.
“…I’ll just stick with ‘regular’”, I muttered. “So what’s up with Monday”.
“Well, could you come to the office from12 to 2?”
“…that’s variable. What could happen to me there?”
Gabe smiled, “So I just got a memo- it’s actually from my uncle, it’s his place-he’s exec”.

Better to Ask for Forgiveness

2008-11-07T06:12:00.000-08:00

Dear Mr. Rubino,

Thank you very much for your hospitality last Friday. It was most kind of you to host our event on such short notice, and all of us have agreed to express, emphatically, our appreciation.

I’m sure you’ll agree that the night was a tremendous success, despite our rather unconventional entrance by rooftop. I assure you our agency will be reimburse you for the damages done to your fire escape, which was quite rusty and - to the best of my recollection- might now be missing a few rungs. Our lead drummer is still pleasantly surprised by such a warm welcome, which, he adds, was quite a relief after the bouncer’s coolness and the icy stares of the cops nearby!

Our band would also like to extend their gratitude towards all your staff; particularly two tall brunette waitresses; Beth, I think, and Carrie. We were all impressed how efficiently they escorted us to the back room, and a few of us insist that they merit some recognition for these efforts.

Additionally, we are all appreciative of the delicious drinks Carrie mixed at the bar, and the complimentary liquor Beth brought from the cellar. Amy thought the pineapple rum, vodka tonic and gin julep were all fantastic, and adds that while she didn’t know that charming young man was your son, she hopes he’ll still join her at Chelsea’s Whip Festival tomorrow.

I hope that we haven’t understated our gratitude, but just in case, we also left a few stacks of flyers from our band in your bathroom, and spruced up the left wall, whose paint was peeling. My friend Miles Cores, who hosts the popular liberal talk show The No Judge Zone’, would like to add that he found your patrons extremely interesting, fascinating and beautiful. He strongly encourages them all to appear on his show, which is highly selective and accepts only 10% of all applicants. He’s gone through the trouble of replacing your coasters with mail-in reply cards, and I hope you don’t mind.

He tried to ask beforehand, of course, but you were too busy consoling the righteous anger of our friend Bevan.
Once again, I thank you for your service, attention and understanding, and I look forward to doing business with you in the future.

Eternally yours, and indebted,

Simona Marie Asinovski

agent & compère
89-91 E 2nd St, #11
New York, NY 10009
(cell) 508.963.1483

The Knitting Factory

2008-10-18T06:28:00.001-07:00

It was the hoodie that got to me, gave me the blues. I was here, ahem, to see my friend’s show, but after racing up pretty to see the place, I tripped my card at the doorway. Hunched-up bouncer hooked up to the wall, average & unimpressive, slouched in Aididas from head to toe. Looked like he fucked the store clerk. One of those girls who would call herself a “store representative”, ya know?

He’s covering up his stupid bald head, and either so stoned or spineless that he won’t look me in the eye at all.

I’m bubbling down heaven, just got off a five minute pitch of pure confidence. Joking around with Mick about Everything-and-Then-Some; I guess I’m ‘pretty cool’, if he thinks so. The street suddenly thinks so, too, when he says that. I brush up directions from some Italian hosts, call up a few friends and flick up a cigarette. I’m hilarious.

“Show ID?” asks Aididas.
“Uh, ok. Thought it was an all-ages show.”
I pass him the card, he glances at it.
“That’s a fake”.
“Why? It’s not. But isn’t it an all-ages show?”
“You can’t come in if you show me a fake.”
“Why do you think I showed you a fake? And..”.
“Because it’s a fake. So please step aside; this is non-negotiable”.
“Wait, ….friend. I’m here to see an all-ages show”.
“If it’s an all-ages show, you don’t present ID and you don’t drink. But since you showed me a fake, you can’t come in. Not tonight”.
“Why not?”
“That’s the policy.”
“Is it written down?”
“It’s written down.”
“Can I see it?”
“Do you want me to call the cops?”
“ …I’m just trying to understand what’s going on.”
“You can’t come in tonight. You could come in tomorrow night, or next week, but not tonight, even for an all-ages show”
“Well…I appreciate that, but my friend’s show is tonight”.
“It’s not negotiable.” “Why not?”
“Because you showed me a fake”
“I’m sorry- please, I’m just trying to make sense of things. Couldn’t I just not drink?”
“Not with a fake”
“What makes you say it’s a fake?”
“Do you have a passport on you?”
“I can’t carry that around….”

I sighed.
“Look. If it was a fake ID, which I am not saying it is, then I understand that you would be upset if I lied to you. Is that what’s going on?”
“I can’t talk to you about this”.
“Why not?”
“Can you stand over there?”
“Over here? By the way, my name’s Mona.”
“Ok…I still don’t care.”
“That’s not very reasonable. I’m just trying to be nice.”
“….”

Fuckers, ridiculous! Insane! Watch, babe, how dutifully the dick ignores me! Impressive, asshole,.....so hardcore…
“Ok. I just still don’t understand why. It’s really in your best interests to let me in or at least talk to me. …..
“Or, I guess I'll have to keep you
company until my friend comes out”.

So I wasn’t being helpful anymore. It was just so terribly amusing and since I was here already….. a nice way to pass time. I figured I had five minutes. So I call up Dan and tell him my situation, all while smoking a cigarette, right below the bouncer’s ear.

I tell new arrivers not to associate with me, or risk their chances of getting in. I ask Mr. Hoodie-Bouncer about his job, the hours, what he likes to do…he walks inside.

He’s powerless to call the cops, or to do anything at all resembling ‘action’. The Hoodie-B can do is try to be the least interesting/engaging thing in the area, in the hope of scaring me away or boring me to death. Hah, poor choice.

I get worse as he comes back out. I stay on the phone, call Nellie, repeat. Talk about how ridiculous it is. Discuss how this man is listening into my entire conversation and still ignoring me. Offer new patrons cigarettes, debate current affairs with smokers in the vicinity.

One of Hoodie-B’s friends takes a liking to me; I tell him I’m a polyamorous lesbian with three girlfriends; one in Williamsburg, Chelsea, and Midtown. I create personalities for them, whole background stories. I get Teo on the phone and try to communicate my desire for him to pretend to be a lesbian. My subtlety may have given away the joke.
I’m still ripe for amusement. I ask the bouncer’s friend if I’m dressed allright, and when he shrugs I reply that I think I’m rather pretty; aesthetically appealing even!

“And modest,” says Hoodie-B’s jaded companion*
I curtsy.

I keep at this for forty minutes before I start to get cold. I keep thinking Jeremy’s going to walk out at any second, and we’ll all laugh this off. Another bouncer turns towards me, but glances over my head. I wish I wasn’t so short.

Jeremy’s bandmates come out, and we chat all friendly. Some of them head off to Brooklyn, others stay and discuss the show. One of those guys recalls that he owes me a favor, as I’d once let him run off with a bowl of shredded cheese. He was tripping on acid, and I was hosting a spontaneous late-night gathering, where I fed everyone home-cooked vegetarian black-bean dip, chips and burritos. He asked to keep a bowl of shredded cheese. I said ‘sure’- and I guess you never know how these things play out.

I acknowledge the debt, and I beg him to pay me back by asking Hoodie-B for his phone number. Please mention, I add, that I find him very attractive, excellent company, and a good listener.

Hoodie-B hadn’t smiled so far, but I figured if anything would do it, that would.

It’s getting cold, and I’m running out of incendiary commentary. A guy exits the club with the trash; I ask the bouncers if they recycle.

“I’m getting tired, can I sit over there?” I ask, pointing to the doorstep.
“That’s a fire hazard. You can sit all the way over there” Hoodie-B’s friend points to the end of the block, relaying this information in a lightly belittling tone, graced with sincerity so that I know he’s not joking.
I tilt my head to the side to feign disclosure, “Oh, you know that wouldn’t help me, sir”.

Hoodie-B’s friend related a t.v. joke to another bouncer. Restlessly, I asked what show it was from. No response.

The scene began to bore me. I pulled out my phone to send someone a text. Another bouncer swiveled his head towards me, but glanced over my head. I wished I wasn’t so short.

People exit the club in a single-file stream, the place is nearly empty. I ask the rest of the band where Jeremy is, but no one’s sure.

Finally, I catch a face flashing glitter, and Jeremy appears, surprised by my presence. I smile.

I rung my arms around him, quickly, then blush. “Don’t kiss me,” I teased, “I need to shower- I’m sweaty after yoga.”
“Oh.” he says.
I laugh, reaching up to peck his cheek. “I didn’t have time. I ran round circles before I found this place. Took some useless directions from helpful Italians. Lucky’s supposed to be meeting me now”.
“Heading out?” Jeremy asks.
“No, I’m rejected,” I giggle, “They didn’t like my ID”.
“You know it’s an all ages show, right?”
“Trust me,” I laugh, “I know. It’s an entirely nonsensical situation. I’ve been out here amusing myself, though, mostly by keeping these guys company.” I raise my voice, “They’ve been wonderful listeners, and it’s just nice to talk to someone, you know?”
Grinning, I hugged Jeremy, “I just want them to smile, or say something,” I whispered. “I’ve been giving them a hard time.”
It’s insane, they’ve ignored me for an hour, so I pulled out my phone and called Dan, and Teo about it. I had Teo pretend to be my girlfriend at one point”.
“You’re ridiculous”.

Scene change. I drifted, unsure of myself. Jeremy smiled, shyly distracted. I stole a quick kiss and he took my hand but straightened his posture. As if to keep me at bay. I faltered, repentant and dampened my gaze.
“I’m just, you know, with my band”, he says, aiming his glance at the long-haired assembly.
“Ok.” I replied. Respectably, I recited ‘all relevant information’; “I was thinking of heading off to Brooklyn. To meet up with Brendan- he’d like to see you, though it is getting late”. Shrug.
“Teo wants to go to a party uptown…. with strippers”, I add on.
“I’m not going out,” Jeremy shakes his head, “I need to go to sleep…I’m tired, and I’ve got to get up really early tomorrow-
“-of course,” I cut him off.
“-because I’ve got a ton of stuff to do for the show tomorrow”.
“Yeah, I understand” I say, apologetic, “I might head off to Brooklyn. Probably not though, because I’ve got so much stuff to study.”
“Come to my place. It’s only a block away from here.”
“Oh, yeah. Are you going with your band?”
“No, I just need to say goodbye to them. Then I’m just going to sleep”.
I stumble, “I need a shower-
“You can shower at my place. I can’t go to Brooklyn, but just come back with me”.
I mumble, “I’ve got to study, though.”
“Oh, yeah”.
“I should get going then,” I shake myself off, and smile, “I’ll get some work done”.
“I’ll see you later then...” says Jeremy.
“Yeah,” I reply, “see you soon”.

I walk away. Shoulders relaxed, mock saunter of someone who is so not-running-away-right-now!
Hands in my pockets, protection by obsidian coat. My mommy got it for me, actually (I’ve been telling this joke to admirers all night). She’s good at it. In Russia, I guess they judge you by your coat.

I wasn’t invincible anymore… I imagine someone to talk to, how I would shake my head.
I was just being stupid. Don’t make a big deal of it. I took it too far. Why did I think I was funny? I could have made the whole band look bad. Shamed, I felt like a creep.
This situation was inherently ridiculous….right? I didn’t ‘fail to understand’ that they didn’t want me there…I just thought it was ‘funny’ to stay…..did everyone get the joke? Hello?

If it wasn’t funny, why didn’t some kind fellow tell me to stop?

As I walk by Lafayette, it’s so damn cold! I don’t even know why I’m rushing home, moving with such momentous tragedy. I had Jack Kerouc lamenting Billie Holiday, nostalgic weather stuck in my head. Holiday’s hand through her lovers hair; Kerouc hiding behind the bushes. Meanwhile, it’s freezing cold outside.
Pause. Ask, asking: ….actually, why am I going to walk home half an hour when it’s this late? I could study there. There’s the internet.

I couldn’t pause. Not to check for my keys, sneak a peek at my phone.
I just…..left. Just like that. Three bastard bouncers scorning my presence for an hour…but then, so easily- no effort required at all. No asking, at the drop of a hat…..

Tricky day it’s turning out to be….

2008-10-01T06:00:00.001-07:00

.....walking down 4th street, guy shuffles right behind me and whispers, ‘money’, I jump up, “Ay!”; he laughs, “I said ‘morning’”.

Ten minutes later, a man on crutches picks up his left one and points it at me; “Watch your step!”
I stop, check my footing; nothing. “Just messing with you,” he laughs, “Good morning”.

Huh. Yeah, good morning...

Feels like it.

2008-08-29T23:06:00.000-07:00

Lucky laughs at me. Want to know why?

I compliment him, on his tastes, or his outfit, but he shakes his head: It was random.
At a thrift store, bottom of my closet, just threw it on, thought it would look good. And I think he makes decisions, how funny.

He's not comfortable, so he's laughing, it's because he's a Liar.

Whore, liar- don't laugh, Lucky, you're no coward.

It's a sad kind of laughter; he thinks I'm impressed with the feat. I'm not.

I still see it, I'm simply bringing my notice attention, that's all.
Stating my case; 'you did that on purpose'. Didn't you?

I don't expect he'll answer, I just hope he agrees. If he's laughing, perhaps it will stick to him. Two teaspoon of pride, add tonic, stir, and garnish: medicine.

Remember my faith, kid, and find strength in it. This little girl thinks you're great. Think for yourself. 'Lil girl thinks you're smart. Don't worry, she's got your back. Go for it, whatever it is.

He just laughs, though. It is kinda an awful lot to handle.

Ovaries + Hatchet + NRA Cocksucking = Sarah Palin

2008-08-29T14:36:00.000-07:00

Ladies and gentlemen, the religious wreck presents you the pretty-in-pink equivalent of Michael Steele.

Man, McCain sure found "the right partner to help me stand up to those who value their privileges over their responsibilities". I'm just amazed he found the guts to say it out loud.

Anti-choice, gender binger that has less to offer women than Playtex.

"She knows where she comes from, and she knows who she works for," McCain said in introducing her to an Ohio rally.

"She's exactly who I need, she's exactly who this country needs, to help me fight...the same old Washington politics of me first and country second," McCain said.

She endured labor pains for a child with down syndrome. God bless her bright, white soul. Seriously, Olympe Snowe might have been bearable, but....

Yuck. She can roar in fucking Alaska, please.
Double up the Obama efforts (note to self). Hey, it's good for that...

creative prowess

2008-08-29T12:33:00.000-07:00

I've got my kicks back, babe, I'm drunk.
My second-command-boss (SCB) grabbed me a beer from the communal kitchen. For our office, secretly, cos' we're better than everyone else and deserve it,

which is true, but them all been gone 'long the young weekend. Ghost town, tenth floor Friday. Maybe they met up at Ulysses? Grab an oyster and a beer, the day is DONE.

"I'm finished! It's OVER," says Dan, "Let's get some alcohol, some drugs, some hookers...what else can we get? Some e? Some ecstacy?"

Hah! I realize: I love the guy. The understanding sense, in the extraordinary all-encompassing lavish-in-the-glow-of-someone's-existence that makes me want to yell,

"WAIT! STOP THE SHOW! Dan...you're amazing. Thank you. Ok: resume!"

Also, I'm lightly drunk and taken (two)vivanse(registeredT).

I wanted to do the same thing with SCB; I hugged him when he passed me a beer. We've all got a couple rounds.

Instead, I say. Listen to "Oxford Comma", Dan.
Is it on the same album?
Yeah, I'll bring it in Monday.
Hear of a group called The Von Bondies?

I'm editing the resume of a kind (convivial) co-worker on wall street.
I haven't been here since last week.

Why? I don't know....I couldn't. Couldn't find the courage. I've got a hint: I haven't worked since the housing appeal on Monday. I haven't written since, either. I haven't collapsed, dramatic, but I have been fairly miserable (in the short run), hrown up three times yesterday, once while running, and the energy/god has gone, darlin.

I wrote my second-command-boss yesterday: I show it to Danny for amusement:

Dear Dion,

You know a really interesting social phenomena? It's called the paradigm of increasing awkwardness (PIA). In other words, when one is awkwardly absent for any period of time in a group setting (school, or work, for example), they experience increased awkwardness upon return. I believe the actual formula goes: ([time of arrival] + [number of days missing])^2 x [the number of square inches covered in scary tattoos that hint at recent cult membership].

Anyway, so this PIA is creating a strong reluctance to attend work, which is rather sad if you think about it. I think PIA has also become exacerbated by my confusion on what would be the best task to focus on. I was wondering if I could be trained to take calls, like Jen, or if there were any other such specific writing tasks. If I could start brainstorming on how to set up the blog in relation to the new website, that would be good, too. I'm asking this because I'm kind of stuck on those financial articles, so to avoid looking angrily at a blank screen, I often find myself working on personal projects and short stories. If no one minds, that's beyond fantastic, but I needed to bring that to your attention, silly as I might sound. I really respect and like Frontier, and I wouldn't want you to disappoint you, and Michael, by not meeting expectations.

Sincerely,
Marie

"Were you on something when you wrote that?" asks Dan.
"Um. No. That was just my personality," (I-kid!I kid!I-joke-with-you!), "I think my personality can be more harmful than anything else I know,"
"More harmful than bullets?"
"No. Definitely not. My personality is significantly less harmful than bullets. Much less harmful.".
"That's good then."

I need to relax. I know that, I know. I just...I need to get it out there, you know?

"It's been such a weird week"
"Why?"
"I don't know. I...I...I'm sorry, I sound like an idiot. I really don't know. I mean...it's like this stage..this NOT ME...phase...or not not me, just...ugh. Um...like, I ran to 96 pier yesterday. 54 street and 10 avenues, and the whole way- everything I saw- everything, it reminded me of something I couldn't do, or failed to do, or wasn't good enough...I dunno".
"You're too young to be jaded".
"Yeah, jaded, exactly"
"It's also..like, there's a week of school left. And I feel like I should have done fucking something with the summer. Written about...life, the universe, everything- catch the Douglass Adams reference?"
"Who?"
"The Hitchhiker's Guide? You need to read it"
"Hmm...the meaning of life, I came up with that once".
"...really?," I asked, raising my eyebrows.
"Yeah, it was when I had an apartment, right nearby here. It was on on 45 wall street, me and my buddy craig cohen were up to three hours of the morning. We were doing some bad things. And we were postulating to 'what is god?' You know? And i came up with this sick sick sick conclusion, I loved it. I started thinking that God was energy and all energy was god. We still talk about that sometimes."

He grins.

So.

Dear friends, how to harvest energy? Teach me. Someone. Please.

Fuck it, I'll listen to Dan describe a candidate with 5 children and a life long membership to the NRA. Play the white stripes, Dan. Seven nation army. Thanks.

Manfred brings his siege back tonight. Cheers, babe.

Hearts, Diamonds, Spades and Four Leaf Clovers

2008-08-08T08:34:00.000-07:00

One sure sign that poker is a skill, she says, is that unlike roulette or the lottery or betting on football, "you can purposely lose at poker if you choose." To lose requires skill, she says -- or at least an ability to affect the outcome".

Woah.
Just woah.
I know that wasn't meant to be deep, but woah.

Did that hit anyone as hard as it hit me?

Her brother offers another proposal, which he suggests might impress a future judge. The "vast majority" of high-betting poker hands, he says, are decided after all players except the winner have folded. So if no one shows his cards, Mr. Lederer says, "can you legally argue that the outcome was determined by luck?"

More Sightings On Wall Street

2008-08-06T12:10:00.000-07:00

There was this girl outside some big building, and she's blonde, beautiful and incredibly well dressed. Real professional like. She's got this gorgeous watch, and this neat-looking sweater, and a great smile, and she pulls out a blackberry with a pink poly cover.

I really appreciate that.

I really, really do. I like to see that. It makes me happy, it's simple, but I notice. And I want to go up to her, and say, "Hey. My name's Marie Asinovski, I work over here. Look, thanks for doing that. I know you probably spend a lot of time buying your clothes, and doing your hair, and getting shit for having a pink blackberry. But please, never let that get to you, because it's so cool to walk down wall street and see someone like you. It's inspiring- you make business look fun, and it's making a huge difference, trust me".

But that would be awkward.

Instead, I say, "Hey. This is really random...sorry..but I like your outfit. You look fantastic. I just wanted to tell you that."

It's a start. She definitely smiled.

Egress (1)

2008-08-04T14:50:00.000-07:00

I’m the hero.
I’m going to be the hero in this story,

This here’s a quaint and masterful tale, involving a nice group of indie kids who live in New York City, and pretend to have magic when they know of course they really don’t. Except they really do, or they might, but they can’t know that because it would spoil them rotten, and no one could ever tell them anyway.

A few of them live in a red brick building above a hookah bar, lounge, and café located on 2nd st and 1st ave in the Lower East Side. It’s listed in guidebooks and directories as Hadi Badi, serving 32 varieties of apple-mint hookah, and pineapple-and-vodka drinks with names like “The Sphynx” or “King Pharoah”. This situation is most convivial , which is an SAT word meaning warm, pleasant, gracious, friendly or affable. It’s also rather funny and marvelously convenient- particularly in the wintertime when we’re all much too frozen, and lazy, to walk outside.

Hadi Badi is owned and run by our half-stoned landlord, Mohammed Ramadan, whose knowledge of libido is a sure sign of entrepreneurial genius or pent-up pedophilia. The entire place is shaded in a hazy pink glow, and cushioned with blankets, pillows, nostalgic posters and seedy photographs. It takes up half the block with three rooms, and in one of them is a little loft with a second floor three feet from the ceiling.
Please note that you can’t actually have hookah there because of state fire codes, and that it’s also impossible to see anyone who goes up to the loft from eye level.
At some point in this story, I’m going to discover a way to sneak up there after the place closes, thus earning the badge of debauchery endearing to a modern day hero.
We haven’t an elevator, but the place boasts a roof and a fire escape that usually accommodate such strange and similar occurrences.

I live on the third floor in apartment eleven, which neighbors the illustrious charm of my friends Kate and Lauren. They’d probably make for better heroes, but they’re already engaged in activities infinitely cooler than telling you just how their lives work. If they had a spare moment to do so, however, they would start screening a film themed brilliantly vaudeville, with color, light, music and spectacular animation; altogether clever and terribly entertaining. But like I said, I seem to be the only one to find this essential, so I suggest identifying with me as soon as possible if you’d like to learn anything at all.

You’re probably in here, you know, or you’ll show up at some point soon. Mostly, because I’m too insecure to show this to anyone but my friends just yet.

Also, I would like to invite you at any time to text me with tips to improve the content of this debacle, at 508-963-1483 or masinov@gmail.com. Just don’t whine.

Chivas Regale

2008-08-04T14:49:00.000-07:00

I’m waking out of a total haze, racking my brain in an attempt to regain a plausible sense of surrounding. All mornings are strange like this.
Vaguely, I can tell that I’m comfortable, and in the presence of someone I like very much. My uncle? His place in California, with my mom, her best friend’s house, maybe? We took this vacation in Colorado, once- like this, sort of. I could be six, sixteen or sixty, how would I know, anyway?
I heard glasses clink. Click.
“Amy,” I said, meant less in address but more in acknowledgement…I might have just said, “good” in a matter-of-fact-ly way.
“Hey, I’m going to work. Keep sleeping, ok? The door will lock behind you, don’t worry about it”.
“Ok”
“I made some espresso, it’s on the stove. There’s fruit in the fridge, too”.
“Thanks,” I murmured, not wanting to leave my dreamy state, “I love you,”
“I love you, too”
I sighed, happy, provincial. I heard more glasses clink. Or plates.
“Don’t do those,” I told my pillow, hoping Nellie heard. “I’ll do them, really”.
Also, that will wake me up. She turned the faucet off.
“Bye, Chivas” I heard her say. Door closed. Damn.

“Chivaas”, I whined, “Go away”. Amy owns a slightly bowed bulldog named
Chivas, that she loves for reasons beyond my reach and ability. Chivas has huge eyes (very watery) that make ignoring him that much more difficult.
He licked my face.
“Go away!” I opened my eyes; Chivas stared at them.
“Fine,” I muttered, “We’ll share”. I tried to fall back asleep, but Chivas then crawled to my right, stealing some pillow space. I sighed; the spell broke.

n+1

2008-07-25T10:40:00.000-07:00

"I was totally into democracy- before they extended the franchise. I was so into socialism- before it became so working class".

Brilliant.

2008-07-25T10:11:00.000-07:00

"sex is just an excuse to get you in bed"

Atlas Shrugged

2008-07-24T13:45:00.001-07:00

Me: "Uh..ok, sorry, I just think that's really funny. You realize you're walking around Wall Street, carrying Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand"
Guy on the street: confused look.
Me: "Yeah, your book. I'm sorry, I just needed to tell you that. I mean, of all places.."
Guy on the street: "You think its ironic"
Me: "Not ironic...just ridiculous...In a good way! I mean, that would make a really great picture, I wish I had a camera. Especially over right by the Trump Building..."
Guy on the street: "Or at the Stock Exchange, where I work"
Me (seriously considering this): "No, that might be too much, plus here's the architecture. But yeah, no, it would be cool. You should get someone with a camera phone to do that...I wish I had one. That would be great. Bye though!"
Guy on the street: shrugs.

Prodigy

2008-07-24T10:49:00.000-07:00

(a few days post legendary, while watching Batman)

"Hey, do you want some?", asked Amy*, passing me the water.
"Wait...is that the magic water bottle?" laughs Ryan.
"Of course," I say, "...do you want some?"
"...that's not water".
"It's wine".
"...Wine."
"Yeah."

Ryan shakes his head;"You desecrated the magic water bottle! You filled it with wine, when it was supposed to be filled with life force!"
"Hey, maybe the life force is just different right now..."

"No," Amy juts in, "It's magical. She just turned water into wine. Right?".
"Ohhhh" says Ryan. "That's right. Water into wine...that makes sense".
"Absolutely," I laugh.
"You shouldn't question the magic water".
"Definitely not".

Legendary.

2008-07-24T10:46:00.000-07:00

We'll keep the hits coming, don't worry.

Brought to you by the same company that's put beauty in a bottle,
spritzed it with youth and put it on the market for $2.75.

Bought Jasmine-vanilla water, hoping it will be the next big thing.
It's "The magic water…what's that….what's that doing, over there?

I picked it up at the deli, next door, instead of cigarettes that
were ten dollars a pack. Woah, man? Woo. Ah…. That's all I'm saying.

I'm staring at the paper…oh, its not really paper, is it? It's
fantastic; flowers are showing up, all over the LCD screen. Now in my
lower-left hand corner is Niagara Falls, the exact way it looks, too.

"Did you refill the magic water?". Um, oops?

"It's magic water", says Rob, "It refilled itself".

"How?"

"Don't question the magic water, dude".

"I'm not…"

"Yes, you are. Stop it, man. Don't question the magic water".

5/4 (Gorillaz)

2008-07-21T06:03:00.000-07:00

What the fuck?

I'm torn between complete contempt, and....honestly, wondering if this is kind of on to something.

Eh, grouping together sex, alcohol, drugs, processed food and caffeine is sort of annoying. Not necessarily inaccurate, just mildly irritating. In my bluestockings-bent mindset, sex isn't supposed to be consumptive, not in the way one can buy a bottle of beer or smoke a cigarette.

On a historic note, it has its roots as a creative activity.

In modernity, however, we're raised to see sex as an addictive, consumptive term- and if that's the experience, whatever-the-fuck-is-'natural' is boot. I'm inclined to say that if sex makes you a jealous, unproductive, craving monster, that's a conceptual problem. It will not be solved by removing toxins from your liver.

"Abstaining" from a person- not even an activity, but a person- implies seeing them as inherently consumptive. Taking the viewpoint that being your sexual partners is functionary, or servicing, is inherently obnoxious. Extremely obnoxious. That's not judgmental; everyone, including, embarrassingly, me, can and has taken this viewpoint. The intellectual free-willers we all try to be....commoditized sex is a lot to take head on.... I'm not changing that sentence, though now I've read it twice.

In a completely (I swear! On my honor, I swear!) totally unrelated note, I'm checking out detox in general. Juice can't hurt and I need to do something drastic if I plan to live past twenty-two, I suspect. Apart from inane amounts of running and strangely reasonable quantities of sleep, my body is still totally fucked up.

Actually, wait- may I brag? I quit smoking. Yeah, thanks, buy me a pony.

I mean, give me some credit, I've gone from twenty a day till....Friday? 4 Saturday? 2.5 Sunday? 1.75.

Oh, and I've been drinking and refilling the magic water.

Yesterday, I went to a deli at 7:30 to buy a pack. Conditionally at the time, I knew I probably "shouldn't" go on such a long and lonely venture (previous experience, kids), so I kept saying "I trust myself, I trust myself, I trust myself" the whole way under my breath. I was uptown, and they were all $9.75. Ew. So I bought jasmine-vanilla scented water instead, a $2.00 treat. I was born to kill my money, ok?

And what happened? Only the most magical morning ever. Well, peace.

Roommate

2008-07-17T13:39:00.000-07:00

I'm really glad I don't have to do this, but if I was looking for a roommates on Craiglist, I'd ask these two questions:

1. Can you discuss spectator sports at the Belgium beer bar on 3rd st, without being bored?

2. So: I come home one day, with three people and four penguins, and explain that its vitally important to keep them for three days (telling the truth, mind you).
Could you help me construct the kitchen into a makeshift aquarium, as well as find penguin food and arrange transportation to Alaska. All while taking pictures, and keeping them quiet so everyone gets enough sleep, and to class on time? Having saved the penguins, could you take on the press?

(I'm not asking if you would... I don't plan to do this... I'm just wondering if you can, you know, if such a situation arises...)

that's so russian

2008-07-15T14:33:00.000-07:00

Always will be the sun,

Always will by my mother,

Always will be me.

These wretched lyrics, sung by a chorus of freakishly enthusiastic Russians of various ages, blared from my grandmother’s TV as my mother and I walked in. My mother hates this sort of music- in fact; it’s the only time that I’ve actually seen her flip out- and walk out- on her mother.

Kitsch. Fucking kitsch, bullshit propaganda. Hypersweet lies, idiocy, nothing: worthless.

Always will be….that blatant, nightmarish certainty,

The death of opportunity and your Goddamned Destiny; Russia’s your Rock and Safety: it holds your life in its hands, dependent child,

Take your fine little lot, take your bread, know your boundaries,

Hate those capitalist pigs, those greedy bastards! Killers, opportunists, the ones who’d sell their mother for a dime.

Love your collar, love your Country. Love your Leash.

A slight hypocrisy with the genocide, but the theory being that you can count on the sun, your mother and Russia. And you’ll always be.

Isn’t nauseating, and desperate! How can anyone watch such a pathetic cling to a passing fad of power?

I’ve always hated such things. God’s messengers always seem to beg, or steal.

Christmas Music

2008-07-08T23:24:00.000-07:00

You're a mouse in the scene staring at the christmas lights, and the camera pans in, a long shot down the glittering strings. All tin celled garlands, all of it.

That kind of feeling.

Trial and Error

2008-07-08T09:27:00.000-07:00

Well I am
Stop
And go
In your eyes
And I am
Stop
Oh, darling, let me go

Tried it once, and they liked it
Then tried to hide it
Says, "I've been doing this 25 years"
And these friends, they keep asking for more
Oh, yeah
Oh, but that's it...

Against Monogomy #2
Against Monogomy #1
Against Monogomy #3

Just Ignore Them And They'll Go Away

2008-06-30T21:03:00.000-07:00

We took up three blankets, two beers and about a gallon of water. Giggling like idiots, we spilled the beers in under a minute. The clatter caught with particular irony, as we’d just broken a glass on the stairwell, and I blushed in beautiful absurdity.

Rhys* and I stumbled onto the most promiscuous part of the top, either by proximity or pure exhibitionism. We capped off the routine by spreading the covers smack dab in the heart of the roof.

“This is probably a bad idea…” I said. It was utterly free and ridiculous, or at least I felt that way. It couldn’t have been later than 12 on a Saturday, so despite our shield of solidarity, we ran a rather risky rate of exposure.

“It’s so nice outside, though”, Rhys said, as I slipped down to kiss his stomach. “…Unless, of course, you get evicted for this.”

I rolled off and laughed; “…That would be bad”.

Imagine being thrown out of your building for having sex on the roof.

Uh, explain your way out of that one, right?

I suddenly flashed to the confrontation “Yeah…actually, I’m changing apartments…sorry, mommy, I forgot to tell you…no big deal, just thought I’d like a place in Brooklyn, you know…

“But, I mean, come on…” I teased, “I really don’t think Mohammed would kick me out for that…”

“No, I think all your neighbors would just make fun of you for it”.

“That’s even better.”

“You’d be the laughing stock of the building”.

I pretended to pause; pensively- “I could handle that”.

We moved the blankets behind the pillars, slightly, as if it made a difference. I figured that coital figures- if slightly shadowed- would incite some bashful discomfort- potently protecting our identities, and securing the rooftop, as the sympathetic neighbors fled to back to propriety. The chary resident blasted with pure brazen nudity, however, might be a bit more furious.

This was wrong.

We had just started to slide comfortably, when the door opened to two men, chatting between each other. One of them looked familiar, bald or shaved with a goatee, the other I didn’t notice too much.

Rhys and I just shrugged, stifling smiles as we shifted behind the pillars. Expecting their quick retreat.

They didn’t.

Rhys and I stopped moving, looked at each other: what the fuck?

They saw us, all right. Oh they looked in our direction, then kept chatting as if

there was nothing at all notable in our nudity, or our existence in general.

Instinctually (what a weird instinct!), we reached for our clothing.

“Umm… maybe they don’t see us?”

“Maybe?”

“I’m not sure if they can….”

I stood up; ignoring underwear but sliding on pants, ready to laugh en masse at our ridiculous situation. We should share the roof. Right?

“Hey,” I called out, all buddy-buddy, “Do any of you guys have a cigarette?”

They didn’t even pause. Rhys chocked back laughter- I don’t know why we were bothering to keep quiet anymore.

“Um,” I whispered to him, “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know”

“This is weird- let’s go downstairs.”

We were dressed.

In the stairwell, we closed the door behind us.

“Motherfucker!” I burst out. “You realize what just happened?”

“They just kicked us off the roof…”

“They just ignored us off the roof! That was, like, an fucking awkwardness contest!”

I gasped, “Oh my god. That’s…. fucking-a, that’s what I fucking study…they just ignored us out of existence…and we left!”

“We should have stayed up there…”

“Yeah…but, well, I think they have the legal right. I’m not sure- you know, I really should check these things”.

“Well, they may have the legal right, but we’ve got the, you know, “don’t be a dick” right.”

“Yeah…”

“You know, ‘don’t be a dick’…pretty simple, I mean come on…”

“That was great, though”, (intellectual bastards like irony).

“Yeah, that really was”.

In the morning, we found condom wrappers…that weren’t ours. Wow.

Strip Clubs and Myths

2008-06-17T22:58:00.000-07:00

I started dreaming scales and claws, purple-spotted lizards, itching over glossy postcards.

Washington or Phoenix, but I've forgotten, forgotten which it is,

Each scale puffs up and grows, grieving sea gold and running blue, a big bashed loon, blushing embarrassment. It pinks itself to a wonderland, heralding the majesty of a feathery peacock that stares at its fingertips as it spirals down.

and Crash! Silly creature falls into a toy house, squandering the kitchen for a sushi bar or carrot stick,

And now she’s taken a bite and it’s growing, twisting into a pole all talled up- and the lizard crawls down it.

Except its sliding too smoothly, slicking the pole’s surface with skin and suddenly it’s thighs and stomachs and the room’s dark and full, little bits of plastic cluttering cunts.

Menacing fall- she’s but a hazy image but she slides down the colossal pole with confidence. Unbearable weight supported by tiny arms, balancing breast gigantic, falling into the furrowed frown of a pale young Spaniard- and that’s where the story begins, I suppose,

I remember how he told me the story: the maxed out credit card at the sleazy salon. Four of them, I think, oh Jay and Mark and some other snap, just dicking it out with nothing better to do. Spent too much at a strip club, once, had to go back to barter the charge.

He laughed through the story, breezing cheers of air, but I’m looking at it now- I swear I am- and it’s so much darker.

There’s brawls in the background, but only crudish bits of yelling, matched by frustrated creatures, circling a stage in relaxation. They all seem to lay back, rolled back sleeves digging into the bar, stomachs breathing open with crackling. Perpetually waiting for a lap dance, I suppose, even with no chance in sight, really.

The spotlights hit the floor, shooting three silver bullets with leather breasts, basking in conquest. The Jaysabirds’ surrender themselves, begging to those the barren dolls, waiting for their feet to touch the ground and grinning for their collapse.

Addison's a seat and a half away, face blank and eyebrows ascending in darkness. He’s staring at the foot of the stage, quietly detached. Occasionally, he’ll look up, daring- I can see his eyes gloss over- and he shudders a cold glace back to the table.

Mark looks over and thinks, Hey…you allright? But then he shrugs a sympathetic glace- nothing he can do.

Reds bomb the steely stage, and the strippers take off their bras, tearing apart the Velcro. Devastated and shocked, the crown roars, winding down to the yips of little puppies.

Addison taps Jay and asks, “Going out for a smoke?”

“Naw, no, not now,” says Jay, waving his hand towards the corner.

I bet Ad wants to use the back door, avoiding the bouncers- gaining entrance once was trouble enough, remember? So he ducks down, across the bar, tipsily crashing into the table of a business parting and yay,

“Watch it” (they snarl)

It’s a chilly November, but cool kids never wear coats, so Ad ignores that, too, and leans into calm arrogance by the doorway. He bends his knees to sit down, but just then the door opens, just a crack, revealing some sandy messed fauxhawk.

“Motherfucker, get in here,” he laughs, jostling Ad's shoulder, “The next bit’s bout to start,”

“In a second, Addison mutters,

“Come on,” says the Sandy, persistent, “Not s’posed to be out here anyways”.

Sandy bangs open the door for drama, more-than-inviting Ad in. “Cheer up, man”, he slurs, tossing an arm round his man's shoulders.

Which heave, effort, and manage a dry laugh.

Sandy guides Addison back towards the front, next to a beer that’s a minute gone. Replacements come around, gin and tonics spiked with orange juice, wetting rings on paper napkins, leaving their mark.

Mark tosses Ad some nose drops, then passed to another rowdy, converse to cap.

Jay pulls cash out of his back pocket. A twenty- he throws onto the stage- screeching; “Hey, baby! Get on my friend right here!”

Hands flash- one shoves him onto a chair, another offers a glass. Considering it a fair trade, he downs the glass and tries to fade in spotlights.

Cold and firm, hands grip his thighs, and he falls onto the silver sheen in the background. Skin rubs against dark jean to a mechanic rhythm, and the red glow lights up Marks’ triumphant face.

Then noise; mutterings, pitch high and breathish, betraying surprise and whispered in a voice too soft for anyone else to hear.

Interested by this abnormity, he pulls himself back to the body atop him.

“Whah’dya say?”

The stripper giggled. “You’re…hot”, she says, a bit louder, “I said you’re hot”.

I know, thinks Ad, tired, bored, but pleased all the same- a fall to familiar territory.

“Well, I’m sure you get a lot of hot guys down here”.

The stripper dismissed the scornful tone, choosing instead to aim lower instead. Nuzzling into his neck, she unlocked the buttoned jeans and slid down four fingers.

“You don’t wear boxers,” she said, apparently delighted with this revelation.

“No” (his terse response, bare, bearings, barreling interest) She begins to slide off him.

“Meet me backstage, second door”

“Ok.”

He left his card at the table. Mark charged it with each drink in a four feet radius. But only accidentally. They came back the next day to explain.

And that’s what happened, I swear.

I know it: I would know it, I always have.

Rumor.

2008-06-17T22:53:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time, ages ago, these shrivilittled people sat around with daggers and leeches, praying that blood held ancient memory. And it was true, too, the same way that marshmallows squish and Tylenol works. Memories and maladies could pass along those crimson streams, from fathers to daughters to silver swords stuck in rocks.
Pretty, isn't it? I'd linger my grandmother's lace, breathing the stale pressed romance..... such a beautiful woman, she was- and I....I was meant to be. At her house was a shelf of golden ships with scarlet sails; breathtaking details of my naval heritage, just beyond my conscious reach. Just look at my wrist, the little lines veining out, like the tree of knowledge or wisdom- no, nonsense. But all those dark lines webbing out, cells with dreams infinity long. I'm told that every molecule on earth is recycled, life over and over- they surely must remember something, then! Look how they quake with energy, pose and negatives screaming and screeching and bouncing all over like they're dying to say something!
It's not that they're going to talk, though. All the little bits of pieces
molecular cellupatterns technogizmits eyes and nieces
They switch So Fast...........................our silly words can't keep up.

But you can feel it. If you look.

Addison

2008-06-17T22:51:00.000-07:00

The present, and presumably permanent, owner of my virginity had his own taken in a Spanish brothel. For his son’s thirteenth, Ad’s father bought him a prostitute’s privilege at red-light Brothel in Valencia. Paternal affections aside, of course, I’d still call the action unnecessary.

He’d always been gorgeous, hypnosis, a sexual child. But his father was a business-sort, the type to purchase insurance for vaginal interest. A man who’d choke on a son smeared with hair gel or make-up or cum.

By his late teens, Addison ravished his story of corruption, pairing the plume with a sheepish grin. “Tall,” he’d answer (I asked), “She was…tall. Just, really tall... and nice, too, really nice.”

Then he’d grin again, mustering every ounce of ego against his former self, “I mean, imagine what she must have thought, little kid like me…"

I laughed, shaking my head "...probably better than her regular clients".

Ad disagreed, "I was thirteen. How embarrassing for her, really...with absolutely no clue what I was doing.”

As if you do now, I should have said.

Then he’d lift his chin and look up, up, up, and ring out in blazing laughter, the sort that swept right by you, then lingered around. A horribly living and haunted presence.

Lines I wish I'd written (to be updated continuously)

2008-06-17T22:43:00.000-07:00

"and they were aristocrats, the only real aristocrats America's ever known".- James Baldwin on the dwellers of Striver's Row.

"...in a blind man's dreams" ("Damn," said Jon, "listen to that...I mean, what do blind men dream of? And why can't I write lyrics like that?")

Look! echo, and sentiment.

I never black out.

2008-06-16T23:07:00.000-07:00

Once, I took a whole xanax bar and slept for two days, straight. I was round my friend Julie's kitchen table,talking about mushrooms with her drug dealer and trying out a free blue pill. I remember feeling tired, and asking Julie if I could nap in her bed. Flash through the haze, later, I recall waking in panic, and calling my best friend back home to ask what time and date it was. A bit dramatic, but I woke up with not mine, but Julie's, phone besides me- and his was the only number I knew by heart. In retrospect, I don't know why I didn't just look at the LCD display for the clock.

Maybe I didn't trust it.

Nonetheless, I still wake up sometimes with absolutely no idea where the fuck I am. Stone sober, even, but none. Even if I'm in my room, it sometimes takes a few seconds to piece it up..."oh. so that's a brick wall...which means I'm in a brick room, which is my room- I live here, yeah- that's my stuff...I put it up like that- so that is, half a year now, almost.and that's New York, right out that window. And...what time is it? What day is it? What am I doing today? Oh god, I'm late for...." and so on.

Wheat's going on, in which world, and most importantly- why?

Cynics

2008-06-16T02:53:00.001-07:00

I think I've got this romantic idea that cynics are somehow smarter than other people.

That's a trend, but it's not true.

Just more destructive, that's all.

I need to remember this.

Often.

Oh, you know I did it just to get you to laugh

2008-06-16T02:21:00.000-07:00

Danielle once told me that I knew myself pretty well, least better than most people, and I certainly tried enough

I guess that's a compliment.

She thinks that we ought to learn as much as we can about ourselves, and that will give us a nice grounding in post-modern life.

(those last bits were my words- she would usually say something about being a happy, wholesome person- but I've already run this by her, she liked it lots by the way).

I do make sense, Honest.
Least most of the time, least to my self, least more than most peoples.
I usually do stuff for reasons,
Well, instincts at first
That most always morph into reasons, given five or twenty minutes to think.

And let's not get started on 'the world'
The world is insane.
It has at least 7 (?) billion perspectives in it,
At least,
And a whole bunch of math and science and physics stuff,
But seriously- 7 billion perspectives.
Fucking-A
The world is ridiculous.
It makes NO sense.
It's funny.

In fact, it's kinda preferable that it doesn't, because I think there's a correlation between causation and depression.
I'm serious on that one.
I also think that existential crises are an STD.
They totally are.

When people start to make sense, completely, it's a bit of a disappointment. They are completely, and totally, manipulatable. Which is fun for about five minutes, or less, and then it's so fucking lonely, God.

Huxtlers

2008-06-13T01:50:00.000-07:00

(trapeze class)

First I notice this guy Sam, classic Long Island but a bit on the skinny side. Confident, painfully jewish-looking and proud of these facts. He's talking to a gorgeous Asian girl whose name should have been Melinda, but wasn't. That's just how white this girl's teeth were.

"I dunno," says Sam,"You just don't see that many New Yorkers in Greek life".
"Yeah...now that I think about it...there wasn't really anyone from New York in the frat scene at my school..." says Melinda (...sorry, I can't help really wishing that was her name.)
"It's because New Yorkers are just more independent," Sam adds,"New York makes you tough, self-sufficient".
"Yeah...its funny, whenever I go home now, everyone's like 'oh, you've turned into such a bitch!' and I'm like...'no...it's just..this place', really".

I laugh: oh look- friends!

I join in, "It's a necessary quality".
"Survival skills," Sam adds, "You just can't do that whole Greek group mentality".
"Exactly....hi, by the way, my name's Marie".
"Sam"
"Pleasure to meet you" We shake hands, happily and arrogantly, and I turn to Melinda. "and what's your name?"
"Christine"
"Christine," I repeat, then nod, "I'm Mona"
Oops?
"I mean...sorry about that, I just gave you two different names. When I came to college, I started using my middle name".
She doesn't even blink. "So it's Mona and Marie?"
"Yeah. You can use whichever".
"Ok" She sticks with Marie. Christie, an instructor, comes over with safety belts.
I point to the corner, "That's my friend Jay. He's on the phone, he'll be over in a second."
"No problem. Did you guys already sign the releases?"
I laugh, "Yeah, just now...well, Jay still has his..."
Jay walks over, "Sorry about that..."
"It's ok.... here, put this on".
"It's tight!" says Jay.
"Yeah," Christie says, in that very-calm-instructor-way, "Tell me you have trouble breathing, and I can loosen it. I can take your form, by the way".
.... hard to keep a straight face, when someone says that.
"Is this your first time?" she asks.
I nod.
"Ok, well- we'll throw both of you guys in right after this girl, everyone else has already had a turn. I'll just teach you some basics first, and some safety precautions..."

One hit of adrenaline and a little while later, I'm happy (excited, tilting my head a bit back and my chin up and talking way too fast).
"That guy has good handstands," says Christine/Melinda.
"Yeah, I really want to try some," I say.
"Me, too"
"Ok, come on," I gesture over to Sam, too, "We'll go Greek- let's all do them".
Sam laughs, and I step over to an empty spot. Christine follows, then looks at her hands, "Oh, wait, I shouldn't... my wrists".
"Aw..."
Fucking individualists, I think, smile at my private joke.
I do a handstand, stand up,
"I kinda want to do a backwalkover now, too....but, you know, if I didn't get it, I'd have to keep trying over and over till I got it,"
"What's wrong with that?" chimes a guy, listening in.
I smile, "Nothing....You get dizzy."

Christine laughs, "I could do that, I think". Flips over.
"Nice!" I say, "Ok, well I have to try it now...."

Success, but messy. I strained my shoulder, a little, the second time, but I still got a damn good handstand afterwards...

"Keep Your Temper"

2008-06-12T12:51:00.000-07:00

At Arlo & Esme, the barista's name is Antonia. You'll get free refills, and there's benches outside, good lights, outlets, twelve black chairs and one small purple couch.

And, downstairs, there happens to be an absolutely gorgeous lounge, art deco. It's nice like that.

I just asked what the song before this one was; "Solo and Pala", by The Fashion. Then The Strokes, two songs then Reptilia.

So,
I'm sleepy, dummy. In a way, it's great, resting and still up. Thoughts are simpler, slower;

I like my coffee. I like that I can like coffee, its an acquired taste and I feel all adultish cos' I really do like it now. I like that I like soy milk, too, but always, and I've poured some in my coffee.

Easy, right?
I just researched temper tantrums, and the debate between whether they are caused by rationalization or chemical weakness. The theory being that the higher brain functions (such as rationality and empathy) cannot overcome the lower brain functions (such as anger, or fear). Why? Mood depressants, mental disorders, alcohol, pot, exhaustion, brain exhaustion, lack of sleep, traumatic brain injury or environmental and parental factors that reinforce the behavior.

So what?

Doesn't tell you how to put up with them, or how not have them, either.

Doesn't say a damned thing.

Here's the best part- check a few of those- brain exhaustion and exhaustion- that kind of makes sense. Tired, are you? Nervous?

Facing facts: its easier to throw a temper tantrum than resolve the situation. Because you're tired. Because it's fucking hard to work through situations. It involves a lot of thought, and time. Then you can throw in all this effort... and still lose.

go figure.
but you kind of might as well try it (the patience thing), cos anger gets a bit boring after a while.

simple thoughts.
rolly lousy thoughts.

"This.... this is your new floor"

2008-06-12T09:19:00.000-07:00

, he said, pointing to the thin cork strip I stood on.
"And this-", (pointing to the asphalt),
"This is not the floor. Forget it.
It could be air, for all you know.
You don't know what the fuck that is....."

Mean Streak

2008-06-05T21:29:00.001-07:00

As we all know, cigarette smokers exist in a constant grey haze, and thus have no judgment. Once engaged in their torrid ritual, they are completely oblivious to the monetary and personal costs of smoking.

Which is why I'm so grateful when people on the street tell me about the new price of cigarettes.

Since, of course, the point of all conversation is to connect and identify with people, I generally respond something like this;

Old man on park bench: "Hey! You know- they raised the tax, and its ten dollars a pack now!"

Girl smoking a cigarette: "Woah. Really? That's so terrible".

Old Man: "Uh, yeah...so you know, you'd better- "

Girl: "-God, I am so sorry for you sir. That's such a terrible price!"

Old Man: "Sure it is! Wait...me?"

Girl: "Yeah, it must be horrible to pay that much! You must feel awful- I'm so sorry." (really sad, sympathetic, exaggerated look)

Old Man: "Wait..wha? No I'm confused..."

Girl: "Have a nice day, sir!"

Old Man:"huh?" (blubbers, stares).

I enjoy this a lot. Hopefully this sort of behavior will discourage the Old-Man-Anti-Smoking- Brigade.
Though honestly, that's not why I like it.

It's not very nice.

So hipster.

2008-06-04T05:35:00.001-07:00

I'm chatting with Steven, and Evan, in the kitchen; Steven picks up the phone.

"Hey baby, how are you?...You're in the village? I'll come meet up with you. We could walk down St.Mark's and grab a bite to eat, and then we could go buy a new bong, baby, for the apartment".

Wow. "Then, babe, we could buy a new leash for our puppy, get some Blue Moon, and hit up the organic market together...."

Love.

Athena

2008-06-04T04:27:00.000-07:00

A friend of mine named his daughter Athena.
I think that's incredible.

I'm just expressing the rarity of respect, and true admiration for this individual, with whom I played the best fucking game of chess yesterday.

His place reminds me of an ancient Greek palace, entirely devoted to the self-actualization of the self, and appreciation and understanding in all parts of life. All aspects- strength, mental clarity, creativity, top of one's game, you know? Hard to explain, I'll try later.

He's got bars, for pull ups, in the hallway, been helping me try them. I'm honored.

girl's gots her muscles back.

Being an intellegent, and moral person

2008-06-04T04:12:00.000-07:00

...is like being on a very, very, very fast train to hell. I want off.

Friday.

2008-06-02T16:12:00.001-07:00

Join us for an evening of soft anarchist jams and rooftop vistas. In honor of our new friend Evan, who has moved into the apartment, we're throwing a rooftop party in the alluring Lower East Side. We'll have liquored refreshments, but don't hesitate to support our communal environment and bring some of your own.

Despite our title, kitchen utensils will be limited to bottle openers and corkscrews. You may ask why the event is titled as such at the party.

Check out some of the music at:

http://www.everreviledrecords.com/

(Music is playable in the box on the top right. Also, the evening will not be limited to anarchist rock)

so- join in,
with love,
Mona, Sean and Dan.

names -not- been changed to protect anyone's weak identity

2008-06-02T14:47:00.000-07:00

__________"Personal"__________

let's pretend there's this line. let's call it "personal" (as in, "that's personal, thank you very much").

Below this line is all stuff that happens between people. All of it.

Uh...well, within reason, of course. For example, "Well, I had a great conversation with my friend today, and they said...".....See, now, that's totally fine, right?

But it would be strange to even say, randomly, "Chris said today...", because that would require explaining Chris, my friend, who I met at so and so and this and that. Otherwise it's out of context.

Unless everyone knows Chris, of course.

That's not it, though.

I know that I have some realm of experience that I don't want everyone to know about. Not things that are necessarily bad, per say, just... I don't know, mine. Mine.

For example, Jeongki yelled at me the other day for leaving Mike alone at a party for 40 minutes. I don't know where he found the authority to do that. It was kinda obnoxious,

"Thanks, dad," I'd say, or, "Look, you don't know what the fuck you're talking about.

Because, here's the thing: you really don't. You have.no.idea what you're talking about.
Hint: I know.
Hint: I am not stupid, that has occurred to me.
Hint: Obviously, there was something that made me go through with the action, anyway.
Hint: I know more about my friends, and my life, then you do.

Feel free to assume that I was simply inconsiderate, or wrong. I am certain that there is infinite wisdom, and accuracy, in your judgment.

Or not.

My relationship with Mike, like anyone, is personal. It is not formulaic, and I am not about to follow your set of social codes to maintain my friendship. You may be right, I acted improperly, but you are in no position to judge that, my friend.
If there's a concern, I'll ask him. Not you. Thanks."

Um.... I think that was a practice round.

Ode to the Eternal, the Divine, and the Ridiculously Awkward

2008-06-01T12:11:00.000-07:00

“I think,” you said, “that I’m obsessed with the word ‘awkward’. Everything is awkward. Every – fucking - thing. Is SO awkward.”

“I know. I know.”

“I mean ever. Like this time at the end of last year, in chorus, I brought my camera and we were all taking pictures and I ask Mr. Wren if he’ll take a picture with me. And he’s says “ok, Mike- come sit on my lap!” Come sit on my lap! – Wha- what was I supposed to do? So I did. And it was awkward.”

“Ha-ha! That is quite awkward”.

“Sooo awkward. Or just a couple hours ago, I was talking to this girl in my math class. And I wanted to say, “I really like your sunglasses!” Except I was kinda tired so it came out, “I really want sunglasses! I said this staring right at her. In her face. I just walk up to her, and say “I really want sunglasses”

I must have burst out laughing- “Smooth”.

“Totally”.

“What did she say?”

“She responded with the appropriately you're-kinda-weird look. I explained myself”.

“As proper.”

“Indeed”.

I reflect on this. Paused. “These are the awkward years”.

“What?!?”, you laugh, “No, no, no they’re not. Those already happened. I think we’re just really, really, really awkward”.

“Everyone’s awkward”.

“Maybe, but we’re really awkward. I think you're the most awkward person I know.”

“Ok, I am not that awkward”.

“Um. That's a lie?”

“How awkward can I be?”

“Just...a lot of awkward. Remember tenth grade, when Mrs. Farese wrote the reflexive property on the board, and asked what it meant?”

“yeah…”

“And you raised your hand and she called on you, and you said, “x=itself!”

“It does! What’s so weird about that?’

“It was just so not the right answer. And you said it in just a ridiculously pretentious philosophy voice like x was having an identity crisis or something”.

“It probably was.”

“Lies.... You should have seen the look on Mrs. Murray's face....it was just SO awkward"- you crack up, again, "You had to have been there.”

“I was there!”

“No, no you weren’t”.

We walked on. “Yeah,” I agreed, “That is awkward”.

“Isn’t it? It’s my response to everything now. Anything happens, I just kind of shrug and say, ‘oh….that was awkward’”.

“Yeahhh”.

“Yeah”.

"So true". I think we paused here, before you said;

"....Imagine if I was a lifeguard... and someone started to drown... I really think I'd just sorta stand there and say, "This is SO awkward" (you were laughing your ass off at this point).... yeah. I also think if we jumped into the ocean, and you hit your head on a rock and didn't come up or something, I would just sorta tread water for a second and think, 'hmm, that was awkward'".

"Wow! wow....you would do that".

"... I know"

Umber.

2008-06-01T12:03:00.000-07:00

Half the train was filled with sleepy commuters; eyes rimmed red from the squalor or solitude of the night before.

Deir rubbed in a spot on her knee, counting up the coats in front of her.

There were six brown wools, two varying shades of drab, one camel suede jacket, and the last, all the way to the left, looked like the coat she tried on yesterday, the color of “Raw Umber”.

Brown. Bearish burnt bits of it. Monday’s morning coffee in ten different shades.

Deir licked her finger, and again rubbed the spot on her knee.

In the corner of the car, an elder woman touched her ancient hair, pin straight and tinged purple. Her wrinkled right hand toyed with a bobby pin, while her wrinkled left held onto some reddish curly kid. The passengers held twelve of the twenty seats, and six were empty. The last two she filled herself, one with her copper body and mulberry coat and one with the Solyian Sun, a tacky sort of Today’s Paper, abandoned on the seat next to her: “The Solyian Republican Council reconvened for its fourteenth session”.

Huh. Funny. Simply. Deir reached out for the paper, finally, and placed it on her lap. Just sort of held it for the next two stops. Cover up her knees, maybe. She didn’t take it with her; oh-so-casually dropped it on the floor as she left. I wanted to pick it up, but for some reason, I blushed every time I meant to…. A slight shameful, just picking up an old paper like that.

To Artina, Langston Hughes

2008-06-01T11:34:00.000-07:00

I will take your heart
I will take your soul out of your body
as though I were God.
I will not be satisfied
with the touch of your hand
nor the sweet of your lips alone.
I will take your heart for mine.
I will take your soul.
I will be God when it comes to you.

Rabbithole

2008-06-01T11:33:00.000-07:00

Friday night (or Saturday morning, per preference), I spent three hours just kinda hanging out on a parked motorcycle in Chinatown. From 4:40 to 7:30 AM.... .... ... I don't really know how these things happen to me. don't exactly mind.

So. Turned out to be a great opportunity to blow through Rabbithole, probably the best thing I've seen since Baldwin, so that's...the two best bits of writing in four years. Not bad. Not bad, David Lindsey-Abaire, not bad for a genius. This play...is...just everything. At all. Life. Chance. Blame. Parallel universes.That sort of stuff. This is a terrible description, I'll rant more later. Why, every time I'm supposed to be on careernet, does this happen?

The Joke - Milan Kundera

2008-06-01T11:08:00.000-07:00

Sadness over the realization that there was nothing exceptional about what I had been through, that I had not chosen it out of excess or caprice or an obsessive desire to know and experience everything (the sublime and the despicable), that it had simply become the fundamental and customary condition of my existence. That is precisely defined the range of my opportunities, that it accurately depicted the horizon of my love life from then on. That it was an expression not of my freedom (as I might have seen it, say, a year earlier), but of my submission, my limitation, my condemnation. And I felt fear. Fear of that bleak horizon, fear of that destiny. I felt my soul shriveling, I felt it retreating, and I was frightened by the thought that it could not escape its encirclement.

I don't know how, but reading that makes that an unreal possibility somehow.

another old kundera quote

2008-06-01T10:17:00.000-07:00

It looked as though you did not act in a certain way because you thought in a certain way, but rather that you thought in a certain way because you were made in a certain way. Truth had nothing to do with it. There was no such thing as truth. Each man was his own philosopher, and the elaborate systems which the great men of the past had composed were only valid for the writers.

Portfolio (Airbrushed)

2008-05-22T14:15:00.000-07:00

You pick and chose yourself- I know you do it, I can tell.

Privately, you ought, I think, be original. Fine, yet flawed. Some slightly vague organic thing- great, essentially, but green, raw, uncertain. Messy. Young blood that’s mislaid its pretensions, and squirms, graceless,

turning, tricked, dark, damp, dirt and everything.*

I'm watching this cord, outside, flick a shadow on the windowsill. It may be a telephone line, I'm not sure. There's this little square patch of sunlight, and a grey line running back, and forth, across it. Faintly, humble, a metronome- back, forth,

back,

forth.

I don't think anyone planned that.

Driver's Ed

2008-05-22T08:13:00.000-07:00

Ode to my forty-year old russian driver's ed teacher in Newton (let's call him Vladmir for fuck's sake) and a girl of 23 -Olga (she must have been)- who was sharing a lesson with me;

She was taking her first, or second, test drive. "Wow," she gets all flustered, "I think I'm getting this. I think I'm learning how to drive".

Vladimir laughs. "Stick with me, devushka," he boasts, "I'll teach you how to fly".

Mad props, man.

Food Court

2008-05-21T09:25:00.000-07:00

I imagine saying the word to a kid; “food court”,

To Barbie, or Lewis Carroll, maybe.

“What do you think?” I’d ask.

Some dim might jail a hot dog, or ice pop, but,

I bet most people think court like King Arthur, or Penelope.

Some young maidens and brazen knights boozing a circle,

And a jester bobbing round with a bell on,

Only it couldn’t have been fun cos no one brushed their teeth,

Or washed or chewed or used tampons.

I always imagine the women cleaned up a bit, and that’s not fair-

Though it seems more likely. (Stop it).

When I was younger, I thought of it like that- like a fucked-up food court.

You know, classic trash-down/stripped-up watering hole.

All this junk to be devoured; cheap lard and fried strings

And these brownsquished globs, gritty,

The word ‘masticate’ comes to mind, for some reason.

They had Papa Jones and Eddy or Rosa’s, and someone like Harry or Luke who owned America,

Ol’ Taco’s Mexicali- and if you’re lucky a really Fresh deli,

Where they’d wilt lettuce till its ashamed apathetic,

And hides in some mayo quilt.

At some point they got fried rice and ginger cos its different,

The fancy joints have sushi, nowadays, I’ve heard.

Called choices, round ten of them.

All these options, and they all suck.

One of my favorite moments...

2008-05-20T11:45:00.000-07:00

In class, earlier this semester, (Gallatin) we were talking about prohibiting homosexuality, and if someone could find a gene for it.

I said something I can't quite remember, but most likely to do with how sexuality is not a very scientific concept, or that technically everyone is bisexual (or why would people be so scared of gays?). Or I said something about sheer randomness, or pheromones....

Maybe I said all of that, really fast, so it confused anyone who even heard me.

Anyway.

It was just a really irritating, boring conversation.

Three minutes later, the conversation turned to 'coming out' in a homophobic community. AKA, telling people that you're gay, coming out of the closet, etc. And this girl said something about the necessity of finding one's identity as a gay or a lesbian.

I jut in, "Um, sexuality doesn't necessarily have to be related to identity. I mean... I agree with what you're saying, but... just wondering if non-homophobic communities should be perpetuating that myth..."

And she turns to me, and snaps, "Oh, it's easy for you to say, you've already done it and come to terms with yourself. But for people who yet to come out, it can be a very scary experience..."

Um... uh, wait- wha? ...I never... uh, what?...

I just didn't know what to say to that. What...what the fuck can I say? It's pretty amusing assumption, but I can't really correct it without sounding like a complete hypocrite.

I love how people do that.

Um, sort of.

Still, I'm always surprised when people in New York do that, though. Just kinda funny.

I just kinda blinked, a lot, and kept silent after that.

My good safe friend,

2008-05-09T09:47:00.000-07:00

This morning around 3, I fell asleep, halfway through a conversation on the right side of a nice guy’s chest. In his bed, in his dorm, in my clothes, which I later took off because it’s true, it’s not comfortable. Nothing happened (we didn’t have sex).

Which is why my sleep is depraved and deplorable, inexcusably strange. Without sex I lacked the cathartic excuse, which permits exhaustion as natural. Between a stranger’s bed and your sleep, sex stands as the simplest, fastest, and most fragile barrier. It is, ironically, easier and less bothersome than explaining what I’m doing there otherwise. Couldn’t we just fall asleep together?

“just”, right?

I’ve had that offer once, or a bit more, maybe. First was Helen, my first real city, and friend, she spoiled me rotten.

“Just fall asleep with me,” she’d say.

That line might haunt me, always, my whole life.

The next time was a boy, already…I’m not certain. Did I ask to fall asleep? Did he? All I remember was the Colonopin, he took out beforehand. “Because I’m a drug addict,” he said, “Because I’m a drug addict, and I need to fall asleep, that’s why”. He crushed it up, and I took a bit, a small line and the last of the sort. It’s a pharmaceutical, a bunch of salt and junk in there, and one shouldn’t snort it. I could feel the powder hit my brain, stick in the crevices, making me a tiny bit dumber. Well, maybe- a new meaning to “all in my head”, right?

That was his excuse for everything, the drug addict bit, I mean. Why he was disingenuous, unloved, posing, competitive, tired, serial, cerebral and serene. Why he felt, or craved, forgot, lied and didn’t. I never believed it, nor used it myself. Blame the drugs, blame exhaustion, blame your mother. shame that I'm defenseless, I can’t use that plea.

Seven hours ago, I closed my eyes and limped my body, didn’t twitch or respond. The kid next to me was quiet for a bit, breathing, then he kind of removed my hand (on his shoulder). “I’m going to brush my teeth,” he whispered, checking. I lightly groaned an ‘ok’, and when he came back I played dead. Signaled, trusted, and lied.

I ‘woke up’ a few minutes later, groggy. “Hey…I didn’t just fall asleep, did I?”

I meant that. Did I dream pretending? Was it intentional, or did I fake it, or start, how can I know? What, I beg, is the difference between motivation and action, are they extractable, can you pull them apart? My wanting to makes it so, in a way, more real than staying up for propriety, or crashing from exhaustion. Would I be genuine, if, per say, I asked? What can or should people do, at 3 AM, tired, in bed, defensive?

How can something be so staged, so replicable, and yet so genuine?

I always fell asleep like that. “I passed out,” I’d say, in the morning, “I don’t sleep much”.

“Bad dreams?”

“Nightmares, yeah”

“I get those, you know”

“Really?” (I know this: I can feel you twitch.)

How often will I do this? In two years, five, in a lifetime- a hundred? In polar opposites, in sensitive, the same situation.

Kiss me and find me amiably drunk.

Was it fake, love? I can’t say, I honestly can’t.

Helen taught me that trick. If scared, fall asleep. Except you couldn’t wake her, at all, she was good, it was real.

I let Daren fall asleep, sometimes, with permission. I started it, though I wanted him, awake, we needed sleep, and trust, more. So I hugged a pillow and closed my eyes- and I could feel him, shocked, happy, safe, off the hook, unnecessary. But I didn’t really mean it; I was curious, and needy, I just wanted him asleep besides me more.

What’s blurred between reality and what’s been prepared for, scripted, blocked out? If, anything.

I just wrote about six people, rated G, themed and clothed and oddly sexless. I could continue the introductions; this topic so tense in fluidity.

Yet I still feel a slight guilt, betrayal- arousal, even.

Exposing them so, that simple, tender intimacy.

2008-05-09T09:34:00.001-07:00

Dictionary.com: 's Today's Word is: sentient

sentient \SEN-shee-uhnt; -tee-; -shuhnt\, adjective:
1. Capable of perceiving by the senses; conscious.
2. Experiencing sensation or feeling.

In context:

I can remember very vividly the first time I became aware of my existence; how for the first time I realized that I was a sentient human being in a perceptible world.
-- Lord Berners, First Childhood

Choice Rhetoric

2008-05-05T09:35:00.000-07:00

That split second in which we forge our wills towards rapture. The painful divine and pure human vanity; it is the ethical, instinctual essence of reality.

Choice is our desperation and evolution; it is the admirable and inevitable chimera we live because, in a way, we are all fated. It is a means and a flow; it cannot be had but must be made, culpted.

Choice is not options, nor numerical goal, it can only diminish, or expand, ever-present. It is not A or B, a Happy Meal or extra-long, such comedy but starves a hunger so pure and yet pleasant.

Faced with infinity, will we stop given simple duality? Never in hell- for the sake of all passion, and creativity, I’ve known.

Choice is God and eternity; you have to believe in it. In humanity’s embrace, of this effort, choice is our happily ever after and our radiant destiny.

Savor this pride, for this, at least, we can count on.

2008-04-30T08:21:00.000-07:00

Arlo and Esme (Antonia and Wally) Kobrick’s Coffee- 1920 NYC

With creativity and levity, we swing.

Valshebni

2008-03-27T10:18:00.000-07:00

I have been, I suspect, terribly tricked.

I was sitting outside our tortured park, beloved, wasting away another high-priced chance to earn my educated birthright.

One of the first spring days but I’m bogged and bitter, resting my eyes on a nearby bench. Attempting responsibility, I boxed up the day’s time, patting myself on the back for this mad effort.

Some hurried girl I could have been a year ago passes by, and I’m glad she’s-- I’m-- not.

She’s late and looks it, and I can't help but laugh as she's reminded of the fact, crossing the street.

"You're late!" , screams a little old man- that damned nuisance with a pocket watch! Herald of all things obvious and irritating, he growls, “Get to class!”

I watch him at his strange post, increasingly forlorn as he's abandoned.
It's just ten past after two, and even the tardy are long gone.

And summoned, perhaps, the eerie devil starts walking down the park’s main aisle.

“You Sir!” I call out, impulsively respectful.

He keeps walking so it’s a dare now: “Hey, Sir!” I yell, “Yeah-You! Hey!” and he turns around.

“I was wondering, Sir”, I say, mock-studiously and out-of-the-blue, “Are you affiliated with NYU?”

He’s not surprised as I’d expect, and actually winks, sitting on the bench behind me. “Not at all”.

“You’re the one at the corner, always, right? …I was wondering”. He nods.

“Telling people they’re late all the time…well, and ten and five minutes and stuff”.

“Yeah...” and he winks again, “I always stand there because the kids all used to come up this way- you know, before the construction and stuff.”

“Yeah, I did, too!” I jump in. “I was just…wanted to know- why do you do it?”

“Tell people the time?”

“Yeah. My whole class was wondering, actually.”

“Well, you know, kids were always on their cell phones. Always checking the time and then that texting…. And they don’t look where they’re going!” His voice goes shrill in a benign threat, the loving violence of moral men. I nod.

He continues, “…and the cars would go right around the corner- That corner, right there.” “And the kids- they think everyone’s gonna stop for them.“ -he checks himself- “they walk like they do, Two years ago a kid broke both this legs- and another time, a long time ago, seven years maybe, this girl….” He trails off for a moment.

“This was around that corner,” (he directs my attention), “where the cars would go fast and speed up at the green, though they shouldn’t…well, anyway. So one day this car turns- and this girl- she’s not looking- she walks right into it. And I an ambulance comes, and I see the ambulance- and it was right over there- her blood was on the sidewalk- a mess! The poor girl! Turns out she cracked her head on the sidewalk….”

“wow”

“Yeah. And of course it’s the car’s fault- though he was tryin to get where he was going, and maybe it’s the girl’s a little, too, but…” he looks down in discomfort, self-conscious of the implication. “They don’t look!”

I could see that- me, maybe, or the girl I saw before-high-strung music, shoes untied-
I smiled, sadly, falling in empathy for his outrage.

“It’s easy to do that,” I murmur, “Everyone’s running late- and they’ve got things running around in their head all the time. I’ve done that.”

“Well, you gotta look.”

“Yeah.”

“And another thing! They don’t come to class on time!” (I laugh). “You’re paying, what is it now, forty, forty-five thousand a year- and you don’t come to class on time?”

“Well,” I smile, “Things happen”.

“But you’re paying for it!”

“Yeah. But things come up.”

“When you’ve paid for it…” He shrugs. “So a while ago I started standing there- telling people to watch out and such…after a while, I got this watch here- and this way no one’s checking their cell phones. And I figure, hey, now they don’t have to wonder how much time they’ve got”. He grins in good humor, toothless and charmed.

“Everyone’s always wonderin’- who is that old dwarf at the corner” And he winks once more: “But I’m nobody! Noone! I’m not your mom or your dad, I’m not your parents! I’m not NYU or the police- I’m nobody!”- I nearly start to protest- “No one at all!”

“Why I’m doin this” he adds, “is because I want people to feel someone’s lookin out for them. Because I’m nobody, right? But I want ‘em to know that someone cares…”

Silly and self-conscious of the common cliché, I nonetheless said, firmly; “That’s beautiful. It is. And Thank You! Thank you a lot...it’s beautiful, what you do”

He shrugs.

“How long have you been here?” I ask.

“Oh, I dunno. Here? Twenty-five years- I live- over there in a buildin’. Been doin this for, uh, eight years, maybe?”

“That’s beautiful” I say again. In the air was a hint of closure, and I moved to observe the laws of charmed life.

“I’ve got to get going,” I smiled, collecting my things, “I’ve got a meeting. But thank you. Thanks again.”

And I caught a last wink.

2007-08-16T09:32:00.000-07:00

Unoriginal. If my life is now to have any meaning or ambition, the best I could ever hope for would be a Vonnegut follow-up. Like those greased up wannabes on the road dressed as Axl Rose or cowboying a Billy Joel, touring the country at old bars for gas money, I'll have to just write spin-offs of Vonnegut's style or something.

Sadly though, you can't always pay for a book the way you can for a show. But hey, I'd buy something like that- If I ever get around to it, anyway. See below,

What is God? What is Love?

2007-08-16T09:24:00.000-07:00

During my trip to Ilium and two points beyond- I let a poor poet named Sherman Krebbs have my New York City Appartment. My second wife left me on the grounds that I was too pessemistic for an optimist to live with

Krebbs was a bearded man, a platinum blond Jesus with spanish eyes. He was no close friend of mine. I had met him at a cocktail party where he presented himself as National Chairman of Poets and Painter for Immediate Nuclear War. He begged for shelter, not neccesarily bomb-proof, and it happened that I had some.

When I returned to my appartment...I found it recked by a nihilistic debauch. Krebbs was gone, but, before leaving, he had run up three-hundred dollars' worth of long-distance calls, set my couch on fire in five places, killed my cat and my avocado tree, and torn the door off my medicine cabinet.

....there was another message, written in lipstick in feminine hand on the wallpaper over my bed. It said, "No, no, no, said Chicken-licken"
There was a sign hung around my dead cat's neck. It said, "meow".

I have not seen Krebbs since. Nonetheless, I sense that he was my karass. If he was, he served it as a wrang-wrang. A wrang-wrang, according to Bokonon, is a person who steers people away from a line of speculation by reducing that line, with the example of the wrang-wrang's own life, to an absurdity.

I might have been vaguely inclined to dismiss (my previous experiences) as meaningless, and from then on to go to the meaninglessness of all. But after I saw what Krebbs had done, in particular what he had done to my sweet cat, nihilism was not for me.

Somebody or something did not wish me to be a nihilist. It was Krebb's mission, whether he knew it or not, to disenchant me with that philosophy. Well, done, Mr. Krebbs, well done,

-Cat's Cradle, Kurt Vonnegut

Edward Hooper, and Hell

2007-07-12T02:20:00.000-07:00

“the ordinary, made extraordinary”

How they crow.

Hooper’s paintings are quintessential America in a stupor, shallow breaths of air with yearning- stripped of disappointment. Trapped wilt-roses, windows of idealistic light, (fall short).

Alienating familiarity floats stagnant- the technique so noble but the voiding gasp filters the sky to but a watless grey mass.

And it’s all there- all of it, closed in fake-shade boxcars, bloated by respect-goers ground by fluorescence, shame-sweating pores.

Those little figures in those little rooms, the Cape Cod houses: is that it? All there is?

Colors so pretty, she says (a beautiful angel), triple toned traces- go, look! Moment’s nice but then…again, and again, next room, trap, stop, grey trap.

No envious greens or passionate reds, gone slick orange or silver moonshine- and those blues!

Such grainy blues,

Murked

Not even a moment of clarity.

And I hate it. Stale-tart hate it, shivering, hate for/it. Just so much.

Level

2007-07-12T02:18:00.000-07:00

Went to the MFA, hated Hooper, found amazing American, German and French artists, met Kelalie’s English class, started a Dance Party (in the MFA), twice, did cartwheels (in the MFA) and discovered a secret passageway (still in the MFA).

Heard a great local band play in Davis Square (www.myspace.com/suckabrown), ran into an NYU friend, befriended a group of leftyliberalcambridgites at Store 24 discussing vodka mixers and outfits

Met an army recruiter, argued with the army recruiter, got lost in Newton trying to find a gas station, had two intense emotional conversions.

Smoked a pack of cigarettes, made a pair of pants into cutoffs, cleaned my car/house/life, worked three hours for Share and wrote four articles for Allison. Read the Wall Street Journal.

And this is the absolute bare minimal level of activity/novelty necessary to keep me happy for a day. Or maybe just the dance party endorphins. If I ever leave New York, I'll move to Cambridge.

AWOL (Part 2, 2007)

2007-07-09T09:56:00.000-07:00

"Dude, I fucking screamed!”

“I know”

“I screamed like a fucking bitch!”

“I liked it.”

She's telling this story for what's got to be the fifth time tonight. Haunted housebreak- "White Ninja". (Even the police are scared to go there, she brags). Would I like to go? Of course, I say, why the hell not?

We turn into a tiny dirt road, Ash switching gears as she clonks into the mud.

"Oh, fuck…uangh, my poor car..Ash, I'll kill you if-"

“Shut up, I’m trying to listen”

"I didn’t know this was a swamp”

"Just this part, and shhh...hold on a second....

Are you scared yet? (she asks)

"No", flat. How I wish it was boldness not boredom. Adrenaline cravings creeping down my neck, tensing my shoulders and erving my hands. Pointless Rest dulls muscles, and, sensing lack ahead (why isn't anything new happening?), I fall back upon that sad little storage of life somewhere in creative memory- restoring bits of comfort with expansion, and the craving turns from just anything to.....

“Ok, that’s it”, calls Ashley. God bless her.

“Woah” I politely gasp. Dark little shacked set, shielded by marsh with grass by the meter. Standard tensions- boarded up windows, red graffitti and gaping holes marking the break-ins. Ash turns off the car.

“White Ninja.” She announces. “ God, we trashed this shit. These were brand new when we found them. I need to have a party here before I leave. Coming in?”

Kelly stays in the car while we take out our cell phones for light. "Do you have my keys?" I ask, "There's a little knife attached". Ash laughs.

No one's going to jump you- which isn't so certain when you enter a dead dark building littered with breaks. Corners unknown till lumed plastic proves innocence- in a "haunted killer" house, you're looking for dead bodies, no matter what, you just know you are.

It's a lot creepier than I expected, which is good because it makes me nervous. Ash checks each room, boarded up closet. She gives one closed door a funny look and kicks it, and...

"Dude, I fucking screamed! Did you hear me scream?" she asks Kelly.
"I heard something..." quips Kel.
"It was hilarious," I say, "It really was...and the best part was I got scared so I grabbed Ash from behind, to, like, hug her or something. But I've got a knife in my right hand so I ended up holding a knife to her throat...not exactly comforting, right", laugh.
"But I fucking screamed! Because some creepy stuff's happened in that room, so when the door bounced back at me...my voice was SO high, I screamed like a girl!"
"What did you expect?" I'm in a good mood now, "I'm glad though, it scared me wicked bad".

Every time we recount this story (far too many, and with elaboration until it's five times the thrills and lenght of the event), I make it sound like the funniest part was me holding a knife to Ashley's throat, and Ashley makes it sound like the funniest part was her scream. And it will always be that way- a reason I "damn fuckin' love her", too.

She doesn't tell us the story of "White Ninja" (which you've all heard in some form of another, probably at a camp of some sorts at some point in time) until we leave the area (too scared)

"So.....has anything happened?" asked Kelly.

"What?" asks Ash.

"Like, has anything actually happened...anything bad, like", she shook,

"Fucking shit," threw Ash, "We’ve had doors boarded up, glass breaking, people have disappeared and we dont know if they left the state or something....once we were all upstairs-"

"She means no," I chum in.

"We were all upstairs," (she ignores my charming contempt) ,"...and I mean, all of us, no one was downstairs- and we went downstairs and this room- that was totally open- was fuckin boarded up..like who was there, right? there was no one!"

"So no." I conclude, and pull out my laptop to write this down, free with my old friend driving my car.

AWOL (Part 1)

2007-07-07T01:30:00.000-07:00

She walked out on the fucking asshole. Teach, that is. Right in the middle of class (what was she thinking?)

"Well, you just proved me right", Sir Preacher goes on, look how immature that is. And, ah, her friend, obligated to not lie down for that. Her staunch advocate, I quickly conjured up a defense of her actions, though I barely understood them myself. He applauded my bravado, but warned me about Ash’s future.

“She’s insecure, looking for attention”, he said, “You watch, she’s headed for trouble”. I shook my head in shock.

Ashley was my confident savior. She brought me out of my shell, from an insecure thing sucking in my stomach when walking through the cafeteria, to a flamboyant girl dancing in the hallways. She was an extraordinary gymnast, a flawless and rhythmic spring of energy who stunned any audience. She achieved Level 9 at the age of eleven. The next step would have been the Olympics. She would have been the youngest American competitor ever.

Ash was content to remain within this realm as a child, but as the reality of high school approached, she desired a change. “High school girls don’t dance like this,” she’d say, relating to her creative choreography, “They just dance with their butts.” She’d start buying shirts that she’d lovingly name “slutty”, and changing on the school bus. At dances, she’d push the limits of what was socially acceptable. One step away from exhibitionism, she’d shed all inhibitions on the dance floor.

She joined a sub-culture of aspiring sexual objects. This is a convoluted world, where good is willing and bad is prude. Please him, and he will say you’re beautiful, or so sexy that he just can’t handle himself. Refuse, and your friends are shocked, branding you as uptight. In this world, I was labeled a flirt, a vessel of empty promises. Like every insecure adolescent, I quickly became attracted to the empty compliments, to the wonderful thought of my own appeal. On another level, I was scared. Our prince charmings were greasy, desperate upperclassmen, with bad breaths and sob stories, people who would give us the attention we desired. I could act interested, but I felt dirty at every touch. I always pulled away. Ashley was disappointed.

She gained and thrived on the label of a school slut. I continued to be her defender, snapping at any dishonorable rumor, yet she was growing tired of me. I was so sheltered, so prudish, apparently. I resented that label so much.

Over time, we drifted apart in an ordinary way. For the past couple years I’ve wanted to call her, inquire to her whereabouts, but either I was too busy or too cowardly.

Three years later, I drove to her house. Little house with a little porch, and no one home. I sat out in the mist, conveniently placed for my melancholy, wondering how I'd explain myself if anyone showed up. 20 minutes into my remencent pity party, a silver BMW parked up with her father suspicious inside. He got out, more tired than wary, and said if I was asking about Ashley, she was gone, somewhere, western mass. Brother's cell phone and three calls later, what do you know?

I wish I could write in Russian

2007-07-02T23:05:00.000-07:00

It’s surely a more comprehensive language. More painful, romantic, starving, wretched. English is the creator of only economic terms- good for writing of strikes and matches and sweet transitional nothings. The moment you can’t traverse, transfer or tally something, it’s a waste of paper- and ink, or print, loose-leaf, or LCD screen pixels and watts.

Philip Lorca diCorcia (Postmodern Photography) late 80's, early 90's

2007-07-01T22:05:00.000-07:00

Great America hates certain veins and sweat, breeding tired boys struck for cash by the side of the road..... Maybe.

diCorcia paid hustlers (male hookers), as well as addicts and drifters (in the middle of the NEA vs. Mapplethorp controversy) to pose for pictures. With federal grant money. He approached them, asked them if they would sell there time. He paid "the same amount as their usual work".
They worked with lighting and propping and detailing, and told diCorcia their Names, and Ages.

And Prices.

40$, 35$, 20$, 75$

They were posed in sultry poses, harsh light, mirrrors and windows, symbology,

He's done the same with strippers, when there's suspended in strenght againts blackness, perpetually falling.

Does reality exist here in a hollywood saturated land? Or appear? It's more than just glorified imagery though- that precise mockery is more interesting than a snapshot candid of someone's real life. Postmodernism is that blur between Truth and Illusion....does it matter in the slightest? There's more to learn with confusion.

Every Embarassing Secret from Seventh Grade

2007-07-01T21:34:00.000-07:00

[ “sweet, buttered toast”]

Caitlin Banning was the first girl I met in Claysville.

[imagine a slice of thin white toast, dry.]

[what for?]

[why, to spread, of course]

She was 1 of 3: Caitlin, Alec, and Tina. They were nice. Pretty. Similar. Scary.

O children!

What sweet memories you share,

Pureblood sisters,

Golden hair,

Toned tights on the soccer field,

Truth and dare.

In summer camp and dirty dicks,

Your trio’s protective, loving care,

Competition always picked,

A plastered breast held high,

Trinity!

Frictions awry,

CAT!

Rubbed red cherry pies.

So, fine, I’m a bit bitter. They were nice girls. Really. At least as well as anyone else. I was just Fat, buttering up Bread, Pasta and Potatoes, weighing them down. Frankly, I just imposed myself, trying to fit in.

I asked Caitlin to see a movie with me, Saturday. Then, whiny and desperate, I asked my mom to drive.

Sympathetic to my social peril, my mother chauffeured with her mouth taped shut.

I was nervous, socially inept. I planned out the event perfectly: we were supposed to bond, talk taboos and tampons.

“What station do you listen to?” asked Caitlin. I didn’t know: we never played music in the car, it distracted. I stammered,

“Dunno…what’s good?”

Caitlin shrugged, “I like Jammin’…you know, 93-5”.

and we played cats-cradle in the backseat.

My mother sat next to me in the movies. But not quite. Three seats away.

She bought popcorn for Heather and I to share, and I constantly wondered if I took too much. God knows what the movie was about. White Bread seemed pretty intent on it, though she’d seen it before. Wasted afternoon, but never a word of complaint.

When the Carbohydrates cast me away, a week later, I never blamed them.

Though I didn’t forgive my mother for years.

All About the Money

2007-06-05T09:44:00.000-07:00

Dear Allison,

It’s so curious the inherent disgust in “it’s all about the money,” I always get this sense that someone’s imagining piles and piles of Seven jeans, floating in a hideous sea of Diet Coke, spiked with lobster and caviar and all these bits of charming plastic.

New York’s the epitome, and every columnist quips, “another venue for the what-to-do-with-my-time-and-money conundrums of east villagers”.

The first day my friend came back from the army, she had 10,000 dollars. Four stores later, it was cut in half.

“Does this look good?” she asks in a sparkly gold bikini, and I stare in amazement. Stare and stare, and go outside and light a smoke.

Consume and be part of it all- for a minute.

I guess I see it a bit differently.

My mother says, “Money is so you don’t cry when the roof leaks”,

A silly example, but true nonetheless.

A lot of things are all about the money. Amnesty International is all about the money. As is Save the Children, and Wonderbread and Apple, Inc. Oncology is all about the money- as you said Alijor was, though I’ll later beg to differ.

Money is a cab ride from Brooklyn at 4 in the morning, and coffee to keep you up and 36 cents to send a letter. Money is someone’s bread, bicycle or bail. It’s the ability to leave- by car, cab or train ride- like hearing Someone’s Voice on the phone (which costs money) or crying to an old sad lark song. It’s freezing frigid cold, waiting for a bus for an hour because you can’t afford,

“But we can’t afford!” cries a school with creaky doors and broken steps.

A clean suit for a job interview, no, wireless access in a motel. Or the awkward pause when some friendly face asks for dinner and you stutter, “uh…sure, sure..”. And the ugly glare in florescent stores with the phrase: Get your money’s worth!

Money’s worth- does that mean something?

When three kids split a bill and they ask each other, “How much? What’d you eat, what’d you take?”.

How they’d use bad division to try to split it up, make it even- Equal, but it won’t be. A dollar’s a personal word, and what’s it mean to each one? Skin’s still branded with past favors, aches whenever it’s humid out and- no, No- and I’d rather it be me, it doesn’t hurt me, can’t- not as much. What makes you nauseous so you take your card and say, “no, no, I’ll pay, its fine”, because your revulsion’s greater than regret.

Four years ago I got lost in DC and I passed a ragged old man who stared and said my hair looked pretty. And he held out his hand and I said, “no, no sir I have no money” and I kept on my way to the Kennedy Center, where I stopped, and stared because it was pretty. But the lady at the ticket counter turned her head and asked, “Sixty-four dollars, miss”, so I said, “no, no ma’am I have no money”, and slunk away.

It might be curious that a housecat such as myself would so greatly want money. But the position of a housecat’s a funny one- any change affecting the owner’s attitude or circumstance affects the cat. Precarious positions are my style but to a degree- falling’s fun, of course, but only when you know there’s a net. And if I’m traveling across the country, you can bet I’m skipping the beat generation and checking my bank account to make sure its full.