Saturday, December 22, 2007

FYI, the sky is falling and/or we are falling from the sky

The first word Charles Bukowski's daughter Marina knew how to read was "liquor". Does this surprise you? No? Me neither. Several months back I asked my mom what my first word was, and she had no idea. I couldn't find any evidence in baby books to fill in the missing clues of my childhood either. This probably doesn't seem like a very big deal to most people, but as someone who bases her entire days/career/life on words, it means a lot. It upset me when I found out she didn't remember. I think I may have even cried a little, as though I'd just lost something precious and irreplaceable. I had fantasies that my first word would lead me to deep dark secrets about myself/my future/my past. But there's a glitch in the system, it turns out. And that glitch is that my mom doesn't give a damn about that kind of stuff. It reminds me of this remarkable poem by my (perhaps) favorite poet ever, Ben Lerner, pardon me while I exploit his words.:

"a program that replicates itself and destroys stored information; a worm unleashed on the canon; writing as vermiculation; the early bird is infested; after a storm, earthworms steam on the pavement; then burrow into the pavement; and destroy stored information; I double-dared Max to put one in his mouth; it burrowed into his heart; and destroyed stored information; a microscopic hairlike process

extending from the canvas; the rhythmic motion of said process; a neogenetic canvas; the worm is mimetic of the intestine it inhabits, therein its genius; a cog which resembles the machine it will destroy; a silverfish; a bookworm; a critic

FYI, debris is falling from the sky, becoming data; FYI, the sky is falling and/or we are falling from the sky"

I was taken on a horse drawn carriage ride through Central Park earlier today, and I'd never been before. I must say as a recommendation, it's one of the most lovely and romantic things you could do in NYC. If you haven't been, please don't wait 22 years like me.

Saturday, December 15, 2007

All the world is green

Check out my poemlette published in the December issue of elimae. I'm so proud and happy that they've adopted it, they have some really great stuff, they do.

I'm very excited about all the wintery things I'll get to do in the upcoming weeks. I'm especially looking forward to my upcoming Christmas dinner party, which will give me an excuse to indulge in all my girliness and cook up a fabulous French feast for all my lovely friends.

I finally paid off my mac bill yesterday so I now own it 100%. And today a piece off the front of it broke off. Lame!

On my Christmas wishlist this year I'd prefer my family/friends to give me experiences with them rather than material objects. Because in ten years that's probably what will stay in my heart.

All afternoon I've been listening to "All The World is Green" by Tom Waits. Fall into the ocean and listen with me.

Monday, December 3, 2007

Pretend Oceans, Real Fish


I had to snip out the poem that was here previously. Don't be afraid my little poem, you're going off to a better place, with a big country yard and fresh nibbles in the morning-time.


I had a lucid dream (nightmare) the other night. I started experiencing these a few years ago during a tumultuous period in my life, but haven't had one in a long long time. In case you don't know exactly what those are let me tell you:

"A lucid dream is a dream in which the person is aware that he or she is dreaming while the dream is in progress. During lucid dreams, it is possible to exert conscious control over the dream characters and environment, as well as to perform otherwise physically impossible feats. Lucid dreams are known to be extremely real and vivid."

There are two different kinds and the kind that I experience are the: "wake-initiated lucid dreams (WILD) which occur when the dreamer goes from a normal waking state directly into a dream state with no apparent lapse in consciousness."*

When they first started I'd get really scared afterwards because I didn't think I'd been sleeping but rather that I'd gone into some weird paralyzed/hallucinatory state while awake. In the past when I woke up from one I'd reach for my cell phone and call someone. The other night I did just that: I reached for the phone, but then realized I had no one to call. Bah.**

In a moment of clarity I realized that last Sunday I had text messaged my friend Lisa***, asking her if she'd like to come join my friends and I for a drink.

*Smartiness stolen from here.
***Unfortunately for me this didn't turn out to be my friend Lisa, but my boss Lisa. And now I feel like a weirdo.

Thursday, November 22, 2007

I love you more than I can say

"Lift your arm now, or be alone forever." -MJ

Today is the 8,289th day of my life, and I'm so happy to have you here with me. Unfortunately, I have the hiccups and feel a bit awkward.

I stayed up all night with someone special, writing poetry in 15 minute increments and reading poems aloud from Harvey, Plath, McDaniel and Siken. Here's something I wrote within the hours:

*Somehow we'll push through the symphony of the afternoon,
forget how hard it is to dull our mouths, enunciate the soft casualties
of being. Even if you can't go backwards with me, we can always sit still

together -- eat up the years by teaspoonfull, spit out
the fantastic, spit out the thousands of things we wished
we'd done differently.*

I saw this film recently and it's so fantastic, you will thank me later. Connect yourself with the surreal and the real and buy some popcorn.

Anyway, I'm crazy crazy crazy about a new contemporary poet I've come across: Here are some of her poems:

I just ordered the two chapbooks she has published, and I'm sure that after I read them I will never be the same. I want to kiss her over and over again and tell her how wonderful she is, but instead I e-mailed her, some sad words put together, in cyberspace.

Wednesday, November 14, 2007

You are everything I always wanted you to be

I can't sleep because I'm obsessed with the characters in my story. I'm astute enough of a writer to know that my story is nothing amazingly impressive (yet!) but my affection for these characters is so strong that I know if I keep plugging away at it, I can make something fantastic.

I was upset on the subway coming home earlier because I was thinking about how numbers under 10 must be expressed in word form (this is the accepted rule) For example: you must say "two" or "seven" when you write of numbers.* But why is there no reciprocation? There is no accepted numerical format for words. What if I said: "8!" to you one day, and expected you to understand that I love you, that you're everything I always wanted you to be? You'd probably think I was nuts. And for good reason. I just feel that there's a dichotomy between the rational/numerical/scientific world and the world of words/thoughts/feelings, and I shouldn't have to say "nine" to mean "9". It's as though that world is encroaching upon this world (the world of words). I know that things aren't as black and white as I make them out to be, but I sleep better at night thinking of things this way.

And when I was speaking of love earlier, I said that "If you sit still and just be quiet the world will collect around you" and someone told me what I meant was "entropy". Now, I know nothing of thermodynamics, and if someone could explain exactly what this word means I'd appreciate it. The dictionary says it's: "a hypothetical tendency for the universe to attain a state of maximum homogeneity in which all matter is at a uniform temperature (heat death)." But that is the third defintion, the definition no one ever gets to. Does this mean we'll all balance out to zero? That if we add up the people who love us and hate us we'll have to start over? I think it all has something to do with closed systems, stagnancy vs. the outside world, and as my friend mentioned: "the constant daily upstream struggle to maintain a system we can live in."**

*I've been critiqued several times for writing "5" instead of "five" in my poems. A film I watched a long time ago actually involved a man who wrote an entire novel in numerical code onto a calendar (afterwards dying and someone else getting the credit for it).
**I'm paraphrasing because I was half asleep when I was talking to him, and he talks about a lot of interesting and grand things but I understand maybe 50% of them.

If you sit still and just be quiet the world will collect around you.

I'm sick of masquerading as a fiction writer. I've been working on my sad attempt at a novel (or novella most likely) and it's just not working. I feel like all my stories are just a bunch of fluffy words surrounding my attempts to sneak my poetry in.

You know how people with bipolar disorder have manic and depressive states? I feel like I've been in a manic state, regarding writing, for some time now. I wake up thinking about it, I read and write throughout everything I do; while i'm in classes, on the train, eating, and then before I sleep I review poems so that my subconscious can work on it during the night.

I feel I've become increasingly happier/more cheerful/more focused as the years go on. Exponentially. At first I started by acting happy even when I maybe wasn't because I figured that my acting bitchy would only make other people feel bad. But I believe in the saying "pretense becomes reality" and it kind of has.

So my friend just moved into a new apt. and I went to visit him. He said it was a nice neighborhood on the upper east side, so I took the train up. I encountered 3 rats walking to the apt., the counter at the liquor store on the corner was protected by bullet proof glass, and I got robbed in the subway on the way back.

Wednesday, November 7, 2007

Sweetcakes and milkshakes, I am a fantasy parade

I attended my first wedding ever over the week-end and everything went smoothly, so I guess my wedding curse is over. It was a glamorous and lovely event, but I admit I was close to tears at several points throughout. It's easy enough to be sad at the end of things; a death or a failed romance, but it's the beginnings that really get to me. Just as it's sad to see a newborn baby, and know he/she will do dirty and terrible things, will hurt people and hurt themselves, will one day stop breathing.*

A great quote from Before Sunrise: Celine - "I believe if there's any kind of God it wouldn't be in any of us, not you or me but just this little space in between. If there's any kind of magic in this world it must be in the attempt of understanding someone sharing something. I know, it's almost impossible to succeed but who cares really? The answer must be in the attempt." I wonder if anyone could really be happy living completely alone, outside society. I think we would all probably create imaginary friends, or try to constantly remember the past. Because wouldn't life in that case be more 'existing' and less 'living'? I used to have an imaginary friend when I was little**, my younger sis and I actually shared the same imaginary friend. Her name was Berry and she spoke with a lisp. She always said bad things about people who were mean to us. I just find it funny that my sis and I had each other, yet were still lonely enough to create this imaginary person.

I saw an old friend the other night and we went out for German food and drank beers. He had a ridiculous amount of beer and went home, later e-mailing me all the poems he wrote during what he calls his 'Jennifer Period'. It can be very difficult when someone loves you and you don't love them back. It must be the worst thing ever, and makes me feel selfish. Here's one of the poems he sent (I've deleted line breaks to save space) It's a strange feeling to read about yourself from someone else's perspective. Like watching an old black and white movie where all the actors are dead:

"To J: You are a train wreck about to happen, A suicide about to occur, A fit about to be had, A fight about to break out, An apology about to be given, A tear about to be shed, A curse about to be uttered. I jumped off the train long ago, And am driving along on the side, Waiting for it to crash, And that will naturally occur. You will blame others, but never yourself, You will hate others, but also yourself, Not realizing that the hate is the fuel for your destruction."

Also, I'm 3/4ths done with Palahniuk's Choke, which I finally was able to buy. It's so fantastic, but is filled with such god-awful explicit things that I think I must blush a little when reading it on the train.

* I stole this general idea from somewhere in the dialogue of Before Sunrise, but couldn't find the quote online.
** Why are we allowed to have imaginary friends as kids, but if we have them as adults we're mentally insane? Are we supposed to be less lonely as adults?

Saturday, November 3, 2007

So quick bight things come to confusion

I've had a crazy week so tonight i'm staying in to read Shakespeare and watch Cast Away. I think I have a great job because last night, though I didn't get home from work till almost 2 a.m., I essentially was paid to sit on a couch, eating other peoples food, and reading Shakespeare plays/writing poetry.

My Halloween/Autumn Harvest dinner party was a lot of fun, we were all packed into a small kitchen in Williamsburg but the food/drinks were yummy and the company was even better. For the real Halloween, several days later, I dressed up as a fairy ghost princess accompanied by her magic pirate owl. (Pictures coming soon!) The fairy princess took an express carriage to meet her prince for the movie 'Nosferatu' at a haunted castle. It would have been the perfect spooky thing to do for Halloween but the princess forgot her enchanted metro card and alas, they missed the movie.

I'm very excited because I just saw a commercial for Wintuk: It's the newest performance by Cirque du Soleil which just started playing at Madison Square Garden a couple days ago. I love love love them but have only ever seen them on t.v. because I can never get anyone to go with me the 2 times i've been in the same city as them. They are only playing through December and I'm pretty sure tickets will be gone soon.

Thursday, October 25, 2007

in rainbows

I just spent the past hour deleting people from my phone book, which I tend to do on a yearly basis. Kind of like a new years resolution, I decide who I should keep in my life, and who I shouldn't. This way I don't end up in any lasting friendships with drug dealers, child abusers etc. If you call me and I don't know who you are, don't feel bad. We were most likely better off without each other.

And because I'm a hypochondriac I was in the emergency room all afternoon today and all yesterday. Apparently, they have this silly system where they take people on a basis of 'how urgent' the case is. As I was sitting next to a man who'd arrived before me, who was literally bleeding onto the floor, I decided I'd better give up.

I have a knot in my tummy. A travel bug. Nothing would make me happier than getting out of this city for a little bit. Here's a poem i just scribbled out.

The Wind-Up Doll

We are unmanageable. The wind-up doll
relies on the metallic coil, the spring
of ghosts that don't swallow themselves

into the walls. You are a Portuguese tongue,
speaking in electric romance, the marriage
of syllables that seduces the unknowing,

The unknown march in rainbows. Declares
nothing at the airport. They open their luggage
to you all. We are at the Stop and Go. We

are all meeting together, at once, have found
somewhere bright and dreamy, it's widened itself
as a yawn does. The march is electric and for once

we know where we're going. We reach the exit
and push. A gasp, we realize, is only as meaningful
as the punch in the stomach that brings it about.

Tuesday, October 16, 2007

Deep Sea Divers

I finally buckled down, accepted my sad sad fate as a functional member of society, and got a job. I'm a freelance babysitter for an agency, which affords me enough time to pursue my bubbling, glow in the dark dreams of being a writer. I've been so happy lately -- over the moon with happiness, because I really feel like I'm starting my life. A real life, not something I could pick out of a cereal box.

Last week I met two of my favorite writers. They just might be my two favorite living writers.

Nick Flynn signed my book "To Jennifer- A door in a rock". I waited after his reading at the Bowery Poetry Club so he would sign my copy of 'Some Ether'. I was so nervous, I had about 3 glasses of wine beforehand to calm my nerves, wore a beautiful silk purple dress and held my breath for most of the night.

I've been working on a short story for my fiction class. I sit down to write it everyday for hours. After about an hour I start to get discouraged, all of my words become vague, my thoughts drain off into a kitchen sink from another planet. At that point I pull out my copy of 'Bed' by Tao Lin, which is a collection of short stories that is beautiful in a ridiculous way. Reading the book feels like dipping into an exotic cartoon land, but at the end of the day, before you fall asleep, you realize it's realer than real life. And after re-reading a story or two, I get back to work, and everything works better. I repeat this process several times a day. And to me, this is life.

Here's an excerpt from something I hope to turn into a short story:

They were smoldering in that building, side by side. The smell of ashes hung in the air like ghosts. They noticed it starting to take up residence within them; the sad brittleness of it, it filtered in through the keyholes and laid itself down like carpeting. They walked along it, pretending not to notice. Elliot had never been a paranoid guy, but the recent fires were starting to change that. It wasn't the flames that scared him, he'd seen men in movies walk right through them, waving their arms, head pushing forward, eyes searching. No, it was the smoke. Fat, viscous smoke that could pack into him. He pictured it decorating his organs in cobwebs, squeezing his lungs repeatedly with tiny see-through hands. All that smoke would bully away the oxygen molecules, would force the oxygen to hide under the bed, or behind some other bigger molecule that could protect it. But Elliot wouldn't be able to get to it, to the breathable air, would maybe be able to grab onto a handful of it and press it against himself. The whole city could catch on fire from one wimpy, half-hearted spark, the city would be smoked out; the chalky gray pushing itself outwards as though it were a sad thought, a heavy, dull memory replacing the skyline. Skyscrapers would be crisped down to match-size, rivers and ponds would sludge over with smoke. Maybe everyone would move out, evacuate the city and find a place that still twinkled at night. Or maybe people would stay; invest in oxygen tanks and move down the sidewalks like deep sea divers.

Monday, October 1, 2007


Why October will be the greatest month ever:

Oct 1. Matthea Harveys book 'Modern Life' came out.

Oct 6. The 'Learning to Love you More' (Miranda July + Harrell Fletcher) book launch party at the Journal Gallery.
Oct 5-7: The New Yorker Festival! Virtually an orgy of literati.
Oct 11: Matthea Harvey reading at McNally Robinson Booksellers
Oct 18: Nick Flynn (Another Bullshit Night in Suck City) reading at Bowery Poetry Club
Oct 23: Opium5: Bad Company launch party/Literary death match at The Kitchen.
Oct 30: My Autumn harvest/Halloween dinner partyish party-party on Halloween eve
Oct 31: Boo! it's Halloween!

Photo taken by: them
Not to sound like a broken record, but I miss Paris terribly. I've currently been job-hunting like crazy. Hopefully after I pay back a certain babe, and pay of my credit cards I can afford to go on an exotic holiday somewhere! Or back to Paris ;)

So the other night my sis and I heard a lot of crazy banging around going on downstairs (no one else was home). We went to investigate and found our 2 kitties hiding and scared for their lives. Now these kitties, esp Oscar, don't get scared for nothing. We searched for an hour for Nina and finally found her hiding in the heater. Then we heard a strange low growling coming from somewhere. Heard it again later. What could this be? Very spooky. We finally realized that we have a ghost. (I thought-- perfect! I have a Halloween party coming up!) I've named him Fred. Fred le Ghost. My mother is strangely superstitious. When she got home later she said:

"I knew that when I went to that restaurant by the graveyard I'd picked up a ghost, I could feel it." -mom (when she says these things she's not being facetious.)
"Aw. Well you'd better not go back there then!" -me (teasing her for being scared)
"Oh, I know. If I do, I will take a cab." -mom
"Ghosts can't go as fast as a cab?" -me
"Oh, no of course not" -mom (being completely serious)


Wednesday, September 26, 2007

How strange it is to be anything at all

In psychology there is a thing called imprinting. This is basically the period of time after an animal/being is born, when they fill in the gap of certain info they require to survive. With Greylag goslings (which are a baby kind of geese) they imprint who their mother is during this time. Basically they'll imprint the status of "mother" on anything that moves. You can consider me an expert on this subject, because I recently aced my psych exam :) The psychologist Konrad Lorenz conducted experiments with them, and after they were born they imprinted on him, he was their mother and they followed him wherever he went, looking for guidance:

I wonder if I were a Greylag gosling, and after I was born I sat in front of a mirror, opened my little geesy eyes and saw myself. Would I follow my reflection around as though it were my mother? Would this make any sense? They have been known to imprint on ships, even.

I'm sad because I miss my best friend, who has moved upstate. I don't believe in replacing friends, there is only one slot that she has filled, and it's impossible to replace her. I thought I would be able to visit her, but I was supposed to go with someone and for certain reasons i'm afraid it might not happen.

I'm sad because I miss a girl I knew at Hunter, who I just found out has overdosed and died. I felt I knew it was coming, and I could have helped her. I knew that her brother had died several years ago, and whenever I talked to her I just knew there was a sadness hidden. I probably couldn't have helped, but anyway, she was such a sweet girl, and deserved a better end than this.

I also miss my old friend Craig, who has joined the army and is in Iraq. We talked on the phone a few minutes ago. There was static, because there is a war going on, and there is a lot that seperates us. A female operator warned us we had only a few seconds left to talk. We said our "I love yous" and then the operator cut us off.

Monday, September 24, 2007

Autumnal Equinox

So yesterday was the autumnal equinox, marking the official beginning of Autumn. It makes me excited because I love this season and vow to celebrate the beginning of it in all ways possible (leaf hunting, hot tea, pumpkin carving, harvest parties etc.) It happened at exactly 5:51 AM and I was awake at that time. It always bugs me when I passively live through events of importance (like when I slept through that mini hurricane).

This photo is how I feel right now, taken by this talented photographer:

People always try to set me up with very literary guys, and in particular, writers. I only rarely get along with these types of people. Aren't we all, at the end of the day, sick of ourselves? We want to come home to someone with a different perspective.

The main thing is that writers are strangely selfish. They go places, hold conversations, form friendships, even (in some cases) sustain entire relationships just to get writing material. Am I making a sweeping, ridiculous, generalization? Maybe...

But I'm terrified that someday I'll reach a point where people are no longer people, but only social experiments or research. I don't want to end up where fun times, friends and romances are just an excuse to have something to write about later. I don't want to befriend a psycho so that I have an interesting character, or dump someone for a plot twist.

Everyone in my life has been in my writing in some form. How could it be any other way? Even my childhood sweetheart, even the drunk homeless man who once insulted my shoes and then spit on me. You're all there. E-mail me and i'll show you how.

Sunday, September 23, 2007

Sugar Cubes

Love should be allotted out to people, and measured out like sugar cubes. That way they could be neatly stacked up, in some cold austere ware-house, until they were shipped off to various pharmacies. People would line up to get their prescriptions filled. The cubes would taste as sweet as the ordinary sugar variety, and would crumble if enough pressure were applied, but they would cost a hell of a lot more.

This was taken upon returning to the city from a holiday in Boston. It makes me feel all dreamy and cozy, until I spy the little Verizon logo. Grr.

One of my guilty pleasures is that I'm crazy about self-help books. I guess it's not so much of a guilty pleasure, seeing as I find myself really proud of it. I love books about positive thinking, finances for a young woman, establishing a career, oh and of course, dating!

I just finished reading a book about the science of love, and I'm so crazy about this stuff I swear i'll write a self-help book myself one day (when i'm old and gray and very happy)

I also started reading 'The Know-It-All: One Mans Humble Quest to Become The Smartest Person in The World' by A.J. Jacobs. You may have heard about his having read all 23 volumes of the Encyclopedia Britannica. The book so far is very funny and informative in a quirky way. He also edited the compilation: 'Equire presents: What it Feels Like...' which includes riveting accounts of what it feels like to, be shot in the head or walk on the moon for example. Is that neat or what?

So I'm proposing a photography treasure hunt, with an open invitation to participate extended to everyone, friend or foe (though I would prefer friend.) The objective is to find every item on the list (however you interpret it- feel free to be as creative as you like with interpreting) and then photograph it. If you decide to do it, e-mail me what you come up with and it will be posted in one collective thing.

The List

1. blueness
2. war
3. the future
4. the past
5. opposites
6. something where it doesn't belong
7. religion
8. romance
9. new york
10.peek-a-boo (something/someone trying to hide)

:let's say end of the year

Saturday, September 22, 2007

Reflections on a decade of writing

I went to Teaspot this evening to brainstorm ideas for my next short story. I sat with my pretty mac in a dark corner and drank about four cups of 'Suns Up' tea (which tasted like flowers and peppermint) until almost 11 p.m. I started writing about a guy who has to work in the servers room of a company (James took me to the one at his office and it was pretty nifty). But then I thought: Why can't I stop writing from a male point of view? The last 6 or so stories I've written have been from male perspectives. I initially started doing it so I could stretch my writing muscles and flip the coin, but now i realize there are so many reasons I keep it up:

1. The majority of amazing writer's I've read have been male
2. I'm sick of writing about what's familiar, or of writing a story that's secretly my own life- writing from a male perspective forces me to be completely seperate from the main character.

I wrote my first book when I was ten, my second at the age of 12. They were most likely the worst things ever written in the history of time. But they had a plot, characters, and enough words that came together to total almost 200 pages each. I keep them locked up in a trunk (where I keep all my other shameful things) for fear of anyone actually reading them.

Now, a decade later, after countless hours of writing and 7 writing workshops, I feel as though I'm worse off. For the life of me I can't come up with a plot idea for my next story that is not:

1. cliche
2. already been done
3. unbelievable (not unbelievable as in "Wow, this story is unbelievable! but unbelievable as in "Oh please, that could never happen)

People always say that when they write, the hardest part is cutting out stuff. For example, a girl I knew would write a dozen+ pages for a paper that was only supposed to be 3-4 pages long. Now for me, I have the exact opposite problem. I feel like every line I write has to be perfect and as concise as possible. Every word seems to take effort, it drains me. I'm afraid of rambling on too long about stuff no one cares about. How was I able to, 10 years ago, produce such massive amounts of writing, and I now have to bleed myself dry for a lousy 10 page story?

Long story short, I need to find a plot, a good plot, one that will keep me up at night wondering how I can keep it's machinery well-oiled.

Thursday, September 13, 2007

Whoever saves your life is responsible for your welfare forever

I found this photo on a writing prompt blog and just love it. It prompted me to write several story beginnings involving; a superstitious stripper, a man who talks into the telephone when no one's on the other line, a kid being followed to school and a ride in an elevator that changes someone's life. I can't clearly see any connection to the photo and the ideas that sprung from it (except maybe the telephone thing).

So I'm awake at 5 a.m. after writing most of the night and watching Leave It to Beaver. (I lead a wild life.) Now in this episode Beaver and his brother Wally are at the dinner table with their parents and want to discuss a secret with each other, so they drop their utensils so they can crawl under the table every time they need to exchange a message. I wish someone would drop a spoon on the floor and crawl under a table to talk to me. It reminds me of a scene in Love Me if You Dare which, by the way, is a fantastic film. In the scene there's a little boy and a little girl who show each other their private parts. Now, when I was little I never got to do anything like that.

I went to Borders this evening to catch up on reading. I started doing this recently because I've outlawed myself from buying books or magazines, so instead I go there for a few hours and catch up reading magazines and new fiction. I read the first several chapters of some books by Chuck Palahniuk. I got completely sucked into Choke, a novel about a man who makes money by pretending to choke in restaurants. The Chinese motto: Whoever saves your life is responsible for your welfare forever, being the motivation behind this. He also attends sex addiction group therapy meetings to try to get laid. Through an enormous exertion of self control I resisted buying the book (even though it was on sale!), but am headed to the library as soon as I wake up tomorrow to check it out. My ears perked up a while back when I heard that throughout Palahniuk's 2003 book tour 67 different people fainted while listening to him read his story Guts. It's pervy and revolting and amazing and you have to read it. But if a boy's intestinal tract being sucked out of his butt while he's masturbating underwater is a problem for you, maybe don't read it.

Thursday, August 30, 2007

Airbag and I'm a Pedestrian

I've been trying to be diligent about doing free writing and writing excercises every day. I went to Borders to try to pick out a writing prompt book and decided on: A Picture is Worth a 1,000 Words, which is full of b+w photo prompts. I've realized I respond very well to visual stimulation. Anyway, here is what I produced today, I organized it a bit into 2 parts:

Poem in 11 Shades

Blue: mailbox blue eyes, let's begin.

Orange: it must be afternoon; the venetian blinds are humming softly in tangerine.

Brown: potato skin hair. You are a distraction. You are a comfort.

Purple: she looked through the crisp button down of his chest, imagining the palpitations of that eggplant heart. With each invisible squeeze she imagined his blood emptying out and retracting like an ocean.

Red: the pomegranite sky clustered around the horizon, slowly giving itself up to the evening.

Yellow: the sun was swallowed up slowly by the sky, as though it were a large egg yolk getting sucked down the sink drain. When night hit there was clear fluid left; he was the only one to see it.

Pink: His cheeks had two deep strawberry rashes streaking across; as though he were embarrassed about everything, all the time.

White: Upon hearing this he paled; the color flashing out of him, as though someone had bitten his cheek and drawn it out.

Black: It's now Friday and the evening sky gives nothing back. It's a dull television screen shut off, without even the wandering static of clouds.

Green: The tunnel walls absorbed the reflected lights like a waxed apple. The gloss of the train station was nearly palatable, when the tracks received the onslaught of the A5 express.

Gray: There are nearly 500 variations of gray* that a human eye can recognize. As a child he was a crayon fanatic, coloring everything in sight. 20 years later he has been slowly eaten up by the color gray; it glowers in his irises, streaks down the flanks of his body, colors in his expanse of morning. It is all gray for him now.

*This fact gleaned from the nifty site: where you can find out lots about colors.
**This poem is dedicated to my beautiful color crazy buddy Vera, who inspired me with her color questionnaire!


The only understandable thing
is the air bag. The crash is misinterpreted.
Plotting it out for rational people results

in a mess. Spiked lines and no symmetry.
The driver was looking both ways. The pedestrian
was only a pedestrian in the strictest sense

of the word. The STOP sign is a message
to us all. When we reach a crash we all
get nervous, it's a rattling unknown thing.

The air bag fills up the space in front of us,
blossoms plastic and stitching, gives us something
tangible to hold on to instead of hope.

*I realized I subconsciously stole the title of this from a Radiohead song of the same title*

Wednesday, August 29, 2007

the white tonguing of a coffee break

I've been obsessed with nonsense lately. Reading Alice in Wonderland, various strange poetry and brainstorming. When I say nonsense though, I don't mean purely incoherent rambling nonsense, but nonsense that makes sense on some weird guttural level. Like, when you look at it all as a whole, from far away (inches, hours, years) it makes sense and it makes more sense than anything else in the world!

Just started Fall semester and am working on graduating in December. It should work out, unless something unexpected pops up. But there are often jack-in-the boxes hiding about. Honestly, I wouldn't mind staying in college longer. It feels really sad to leave.

I'm currently poring over: Spunk and Bite: A writer's guide to bold, contemporary style, by Arthur Plotnik. Witty, eloquent and an illuminating must have for any writer. One thing he quotes I particularly like:
"Within minutes of my first kiss I was stripped like a squid..and something inside me hardened, turned into a chunk of cement. A girl becomes a comma like that, with wrong boy after wrong boy; she becomes a pause, something quick before the real thing." (-Lisa Glatt, A Girl Becomes a Comma Like That)
I started reading it because I'm taking an advanced fiction class and have a story due next week. I'm not too experienced writing short stories; wrote my first about a year ago, but with this book i'll be a master story teller in no time!

Monday, August 13, 2007

Being silly in bean city

The past week has been a week of several various celebrations. I went to Boston this week-end. A very fun city to explore even though the frogs are metaphorical and the people are rude.

great war

Took the freedom trail to learn about Boston's history, I ended up here.

D'Peach Mode

Because it's just cute.

I ought to get a life. But I won't.

Monday, August 6, 2007

I'm finally going to be a published poet!

Astor Place subway station. Went to the 'Rock the Bells Concert' last Sunday. Madness.

I'm very excited today, because I found out that my poem 'Cartography for Beginners' is going to be published in Opium 5: (which is my absolute favorite lit magazine ever!) I can barely speak complete sentences, and every thought in my head is punctuated by a: "woo hoo!" I can't believe that my poem is going to be touchable-- (on a real page that real hands can touch!), in a magazine that's sold in barnes and nobles, a magazine that's published writer's like Stuart Dybek and Jack Handey !??

"Whenever I see an old lady slip and fall on a wet sidewalk, my first instinct is to laugh. But then I think, what is I was an ant, and she fell on me. Then it wouldn't seem quite so funny." -Jack Handey (funniness)

Anyway, I've been terribly inspired all day to write and do everything poetry. I wrote this poem earlier today after thinking about my last radiohead inspired blog title. It needs a lot of work but I am fond of some parts already :)


We sleep upside down, as bats, trying
to reverse the harmful effects of gravity.
All this talk about pollution, global warfare
and we've neglected the obvious.

We're not made of metal. We're soft
and bio degradable. We need to construct
a pickling system for our hearts; so they don't
leave us, so they can last throughout the winter.

Our humanity clings to our organs, like the last
defiant teaspoon of ketchup in the bottle.
Doesn't it know it'll have to go at some point?
Doesn't it know how delicious it'll taste?

Monday, July 23, 2007

"Down is the new up"

Roethke poetry + a woman's body + music, beautiful don't you think?

It has to get worse before it gets better, is the saying. So maybe we should just make it worse and worse and worse and we'll have nothing to worry about anymore.

Woman's studies class has me thinking i'm a "socialist feminist", as there are many kinda of feminists (which i did not know). Which means basically, I believe in the differences between men and women, and celebrate the differences that women have. What's so wrong about women being delicate and precious and beautiful and strong? We can achieve anything as men can, we just go about it in different ways ;)

We should all take some sidewalk chalk and write out all our grievances for the neighborhood to see. and wait for the rain.