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 http://www.wristcutters.com/ 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: http://www.octopusmagazine.com/issue08/ana_bozicevic_bowling.htm#light

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: http://www.cirquedusoleil.com/CirqueDuSoleil/en/showstickets/wintuk/intro/intro 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.