February 16th, 2016
Home in New York for a little longer than planned - a soggy unsuccessful rush from the train to a non-existent bus, the sad frenetic scanning of the grey column of wrong buses, parked in a special aisle made to confound, an open air bus depot, all ignition off, no impatient wet waiters or a lit beacon on idle. The tempered agony of the 7 train unmoving, underground. I had leapt from the recesses of the Hudson River Yard, precariously squirming past a stationary escalator rider, and then charging a half a block in the wrong direction (and the recognition: I am fucked. I am fucked.) before redoubling my efforts with mascara streaked cheeks and a sense of the inevitable. For a brief moment I briskly passed a young woman named Amanda (I think?). We always meet on accident but this, our third time, was punctuated by my shout apology and a mental attempt to place her (Amanda? I). I wondered at how furrowed and unpleasant I must have appeared.
January 29th, 2016
|01:21 pm - addiction|
I approach my mental health like I have an addiction. It's not clear that I have one, or rather, ingrained behavior performed with frequency has the ring of habit - addiction, a medicalized term that applies to particular people, specific vices, diagnosed by psychiatry's pen. But shopping online or going into clothing stores brings with it both a heaviness, a resigned participation and desire, aesthetic reward and novelty. On failed visits, I garner the constellation prize of discernment, quality control.
I recognize that absorption and a loving selfishness are at play. Non-thinking "me" time is a project around in which my creative attributes and cheap wiliness excel. And I recognize that judgment of self, the constant sense of being responsible to a larger whole, lends itself to this disappointing vice. I consistently fail to measure up to the potentiality of the unstructured day. I seek erasure of my failings in the non-time of aesthetic immersion. Not liking the habit, pleasure and sadness greet me on the other side.
January 26th, 2016
|10:20 pm - Many years later|
Staring across the street at the school bordered by snow mounds and cratered cars, I watch puffy jacket children stomping the nonsludge with bright boots, aware of the unlikeness of writing here again. That unlikeliness is prolonged by the fact of Soups the cat digging his claws into the dirtied yoga mat on my floor - I fling shimmery blue spandex into his face to distract him and distract myself. My stomach aches - perhaps it was inadvisable to eat the congealed cocoa butter and coconut creme sweet that T made for Tara as a post colonoscopy treat but which was too rich for her palette and became the favored sweetness of mine. I am not tired but there is a fatigue around writing. I have high expectations of myself and they have evolved to backfire. Because I cannot upkeep introspection, I avoid the endeavor entirely.
Joan just came in and we negotiated dates around coop grocery pickups, someone being home for my February subletter to drop off belongings, a failed ask for the car to teach in Valhalla on Sunday. I told her that I was sad that my worm wood tincture was pressed with Ash - I hadn't specified another scenario but I want plant medicine to be a part of my life and felt excluded. And I am, in so far as Ash is concerned. It seems Ash wants to make plant medicine with a small group, likely a trans and poc group, and while that feels bad, it's my responsibility to recognize that cis white people generally have lots of access to herbal spaces and that if herbal study is something I want to do with others, there can and will be other options. As feelings are concerned, being not invited to join people I know in a shared interest, inevitably is a wet eyed tight throat thing.
Joan brings up a different hard topic - references I made in relationship to her body that had not felt good. I was frustrated when the worm wood tincture jar was unopenable and blurted that she had sealed it too tightly. I then realized the male stereotype associated with making jars too tight, or at least men being called upon to open them. Later, I had asked if I could use her tallness to hang a couple of paintings high on a wall. That reference had not come with mental second guessing - I remind her now that I have lived with very tall women (cis and trans) for a long time. And I understood how in quick succession, those two remarks were hurtful. And it hurt my ego, which was busy feeling bruised by her, to recognize my own blundering.
I know one never gets everything right. And I wish it felt like a lower stake matter to recognize that unalterable imperfectability.
June 23rd, 2004
|03:54 am - I have written 10 pages of thank you notes. single spaced. and i am thankful.|
Thank you for the generous check. I’m not yet sure what I will spend the money on, perhaps some Grace Paysley, perhaps some new plays. Maybe something practical like textbooks. In any event, it is much appreciated, as was your presence at my graduation party. I am quite pleased to have such an exuberant, opinionated, and supportive addition to my life. While I had enjoyed you in the past at the playwriting class’ staged readings, having you as a teacher was truly a challenging experience that demanded a different rigor that fostered growth. I am much obliged. I look forward to sharing my writing and my New York adventures with you in the future, attending more of your plays, and engaging in further discourse about all things politic and irreverent.
I feel Dan stamped into ever word. Dan. Dan. I. Dan. Am. Dan. much. Dan. obliged. Dan liked Sandy. He wanted her to call them so they could discuss character and conflict some time. I relayed the message, honestly hoping that this hopeful situation would transpire. It never did.
June 15th, 2004
|05:54 pm - summer begins|
I don’t know whether it is my place in nature to intervene. I don’t. But I was pleased to knock the farm ants off of the writhing worms, and the carpenter ants off of the lifeless mouse with the bloodied mouth. I was glad I took the path through the parking lot instead of up the side walked hill. There I found a yellow butterfly so beautiful that I started calling to it in my mind: “Please come to me. Come!” Hand outstretched, I begged, pleaded, but it did not pick up my psychic waves, either that or it didn’t care, for it flew in dizzyingly graceful circles, before landing on another stretch of gravel, or another ugly plot of mud. I found strange objects in the dirt, a crushed green beer cap, a wooden magnet, a blue metal circle with a winged buffalo and the promises of $5 off of something or $25 off of something else. I marveled at an ant hill between two slabs on concrete-the little brown kernels rose up into the sky half the length of my thumb-it was sure to be demolished by the next reckless biker, the next treading vagabond. I walked through a field with no shoes on, and knew that I could be stung by bees. I walked through the city with no shoes on, and knew that I could be cut by glass. There is no grounding without the awareness of the ever present reality of consequence. Nothing is perfect. How hard to dwell in feeling, keep my focus on my feet (which were so happy to be out of shoes). It was hard to walk without another objective or destination. I was happy. I thought I could begin to purify myself of feelings of inadequacy. The unwanted emotions were already leaving. If Dan were here I could speak to him calmly, aware that I was changing and I was free to change, that my actions were not silly and trivial, that his were of no greater importance. I might kick him, I thought. But that little cold space in my stomach, even if I felt myself on my way to purification-that cold spot remained, and I would have to fight harder to finally feel free enough to... stop feeling stupidly me.
I wonder where intuition ends and fear begins. There is the intuition that someone needs caring, or someone needs space, but what about the other intutions-don’t kiss this girl-this man- best friend when she makes advances for the sake of “experimentation.” I say, I’m not ready yet to date, I’m not prepared, and I want the touch with my best friend to be unequivocally sisterly-but is is just me relying on my fear and naming it intuition “for my own good”? I will live in the space of novels and nature, and forget sexual risk, and the vulnerability that now, when I think about it, humiliatingly aches.
Eulogy to Bird
Little Bird: You were created with the expectations that would live to take flight and ride the currents in full feathered form. It was assumed that you would experience the all consuming embrace of wind gales fanning through your wing tips, stirring the ends of your feathers. You were incubated throughout the wild storms of spring, and though at times your nest shook, you were well protected. Now it appears that you will never live to experience enraptured flight, nor find a mate, nor lay a pale little egg of your own. Instead, you return to the earth. Hopefully your limp body will find the earth as good a home as your full breasted live one would have found the sky. The ground receives you, and it is not my call to say that this is wrong. Wrong and right are only words. May you unexist to sustain further existence. Amen.
Eulogy to Mouse
Little Mouse: your lot in life is that of prey. We all eat and are eaten, it is an ungainly fact of life. But you, little mouse, have a particularly hard time, as you are the relished meal of giant birds, and long whiskered cats. Inside the house you are lulled by peanut butter and cheese to poison, sticky boards, and traps that snap your neck in two. Such cruelty is unheard of towards other forms of life. Little mouse, I don’t know how you died. I hope it wasn’t too gruesome a fate. I do know that you are returning to the earth, and that I can only hope there is a place where to soul lives on without pain, because otherwise I would say your preyed upon existence, little rodent, is a cruel trick from a soulless creator. You may rest easy now little mouse: the earth receives both predator and prey with magnanimous equality. There, may all of us be eaten, and may all of us find greater peace.
May 24th, 2004
|12:40 pm - this morning's dreams|
elana and I are in line for a ritual that turns us into bugs-we can mate or produce asexually-out of the belly button pops a translucent smiling child, to birth it we inject it back into the anus. Anne outside of the line, she and Andrea were supposed to do it but she backed out. We are moving forward.
another line, form a train. we have to make train sounds (into the speaker). who saved a place for me in the line? I am diligently making sounds.
waiting in the bathroom for Dan. I have two things I need. I need three. It is only 9::30. we have till after ten. I am waiting and he doesn’t come. I look throughout the house, upstairs down, I hear his voice say that this is “Too emotional” and I look for him further, because it isn’t fair that we were so close. I think it is Hillel who is talking to me. I am standing there, and I don’t want to be talking to him, and then Dan appears with a basket of batteries. “These are for you.” he tells me, and I know that they are some sort of vibrator thing, and so I reject them. “come to the bathroom,” I say. “I have a few things to show you-a few things we need to talk about.” I remember my shoulders, bare.
I remember purple paint racooning his eyes.
feelings aren’t fair
so many other things
dan's green dressed woman
driving, pursued by two others,
are group flat on the ground.
balls that became bombs
dancing with ray mcneices friend
no seat belt, holding on to the bar
Children of Eden
Hessler Street Fair
crazy healer (hippies on narcotics?)
Dan .... ahhhhhh
but later, I have to work on my senior project
May 21st, 2004
|03:47 am - Not even what I'm really thinking about. But who cares. :)|
Elana was answering a question and she covered her mouth
“What are you doing?” I asked,
she laughed. “I wanted to make bubbles with my tongue, but then I remembered that that was impolite.”
The other day we were joking about Dannon’s Water Healthy Tips. She was disappointed by how all the tips were related to different situations and how much water one should drink. “This doesn’t make the water bottle any more special than any other,” she remarked, demurely. “What should they do” I asked. Essentially, what it boiled down to was that they should market bottles that have scratch and sniff wrapping that smells like salty foods (nuts: i.e. macadamia nuts, cashews, peanuts, etc. fries and chips, maybe meat but we don’t eat meat and so we probably wouldn’t market that.) People would smell the food and want to drink more water. Viola. We really should be in marketing. Such wasted genius.
Elana came over to write while I worked on my collages. We didn’t get much done because I hadn’t slept much the night before, and consequently, I was sleepy. We kept forgetting what we were doing, where we were going... Finally, after dithering about, we fell to the ground laughing. It was concluded that our insurmountable flakiness was fine because a. we took more circuitous routes to our destinations and thus found surprises . La sorpresa me busqué. b. we were equally flaky so one didn’t have to constantly explain to the other what was going on and piss the other off. c. we had moments. like falling to the floor laughing. The genuine loose happiness we felt was sufficient. Who cares about what we were finding.
I love Elana. She is my best friend. Our power is equal. We find humor by building off of each other, not pulling each other down (even if we often fall and roll around).
Nature-thunder storms (it is storming now) are more exciting than cheesy porn. Thunder and lightning are without gimmicks, unadulterated hair raising, bone splitting.... cheesy porn is fine for rollicking laughs but I am glad I turned off the TV and came upstairs. I need to get back to the outdoors. People are so insecure and congested with blathering gobbledy gook. I like things stripped down.
“cutting my boundaries to ribbons of merciless light.”
I always think about people stuck out in the rain. I can never enjoy a good thunderstorm without the faint fear for the homeless stuck in it.
May 18th, 2004
|03:57 am - typing with eyes closed|
typing with eyes closed
Even though the sugar hasn’t worn off, at three in the morning I turn off the lights and allow my eyes to adjust to the dark. I see stars, the big dipper above my window, I am sure. I tell myself to make a wish, as I used to, but no one altruistic or selfish desire emerges with a precedent above the rest, and like an excess of pink rose petals bursting from one green stem, I wish a numerous intangible uninnteligble outburst that erupts at the the end of a smooth exhalation of longing. Ask me what i wished for and I could not say. It smelled nice. Same confusion when earlier I rubbeed an eyelash off my cheeks, and could not think what to desire. When I was little I would alternate between “world peace,” “personal love,” and “love for the world.” T’filah required that we prayed for the sick and when I could think of someone ill, I wished health for them. I don’t wish for world peace anymore (it seems too niave), and love, I’ve had that, even if it were the unrequited kind save late night hours and the confluence of liberal alcohal calibrating lascivious words. Then I loved and was loved back. Then all was good.
Who I want to meet. people who get how fucked up we are without pretentous posinngs. they want to share beauty, reveal wholeness without exces pomp. I want Artfulness, creativity, love. But what do I really want? i say it isn’t “intellectuals,” the word icy and dissolute, but apparently it is to this ranking that I am to belong if I can belong anywhere some day. status. I hate status. Maybe it is the consequence of feeling inadequate for so long. status feels to me like a feather boa wrapped again and again around a neck that would otherwise be too thin to expose. snappable. I say i want “authenticity,” that is all, but what is that? Give me the “salt of the earth” i say, i want to taste it on my tongue. but it seems this element doesn’t have the palette for me-intellectuals, in fact, appear the only ones who willl tolerate my obtruse meanderings and quite contemplation. Of course Dan thought “liberal” a bad word, but he was as confused as i was (as confused as I am), so who really knows what anyone means. who knows what anyone means. I am utterly ignorant.
my lips feel hard, wet, I ahould put some vasaline on them before bed but I like knwing they are there and when luvbricated the raw edge softens and they feel like nothing at all. my stomach hurts. i roasted marshmellows over the stove burner. i stuck them on butter knives. i ate them with german bakers chocolate. i blame jjill. the cover of the catalogue features a girl eating ice cream. we had no conventional sweets to cobver the crfaving.
3:30. i should go to bed,
May 17th, 2004
|06:42 pm - after prom|
Prom came and went with much expense, the excess of a white limo, very good whisky, a little dancing, a grumpy Dan (sulking during the Afterprom hours), and a couple important realizations.
1. For every nice thing Dan says to me, he says at least five that are not nice.
2. That in his company what I am and do not want to be is eggagerated. What I am not and wish to be is eggagerated.
3. He shuts me down.
4. I am shocked at how much I blamed the limitations he set up on myself. I couldn’t surpass them. I wasn’t good enough to break them down. So what. Why should I have to do it all.
5. I am much more than “a sweet girl,” as he often puts it.
I’ll put it to him, fucker.
Saturday night we had to share a tiny one person top bunk. Carrie and her Dan to the bottom. Another night of raging hormones and no pay off. It it funny that now I could really do the sex for sex’s sake thing and it isn’t an option. Sunday morning, at Cat’s House, I wanted to fuck him in the most strictly carnal way possible (without any lovelorn thoughts-as was evidenced by the fact that I tried to seduce him, and the loving friend in me respects him too much to try to molest him after he made his choice clear). He stopped my roving hands and held them against his chest-bare chest-warm heart racing chest-until I behaved, then he climbed down the latter and went to the bathroom... I insinuate nothing but wow, I have power again. Even if I didn’t get what I wanted, I wasn’t too afraid or too timid of too tepid to take it. To try to take it. To whisper in his ear.... and I used to be worried of sounding foolish or offending...
But it comes at the price of disillusionment. At least I’m ok with where I’m at. I’m ok with being 18 and on the verge of college. Growing up isn’t all that terrifying. Dan just treated me like a little sister- “I’m older, you know.” he said as we sat in the hall of mirrors outside the disco ball lights and awful hip hop of the main afterprom floor. “Yes. You are older by a few hundred more days than me.” I made a face into the mirror. “I’ve had more experiences.” He said. “This is true.” I agreed. And still it doesn’t entitle him to treat me like a child. It doesn’t mean I have to keep looking up at him with generous adoring eyes. I’m ready for something new.
Elana is home-a breath of fresh air-a deep swallowing of cool water. We drink each other up. She is going to Reed next year. No more New York for my lovely best friend. She predicts I will come to Reed with her. But she assumes that her sucespbility to things like New York fashion and inability to take the suffocating and isolating madness of the city will hit me as hard as they his her. Maybe, maybe not. I will miss mom’s company most of all. Dan’s too-but I’ve soured on him for now (see above). I’m most myself with her-she indulges me endlessly.
May 13th, 2004
|02:41 am - hmmm|
The trials and tribulations of daily life amount, the seemingly endless undotted “i”’s awaiting the service of my pen. Overwhelmed. My collage heap is out of control, my art mediocre, my stomach needlessly hungry (I don’t write about weight issues usually, I feel guilty writing about it. But I am so frustrated. I love taste. I have no willpower. I last three days eating well and day four I hit the cashews, chocolate silk, and excess fruit). Music feels like clogged snot in the nose. I can’t find anything to listen to-maybe classical will feel pure-everything feels so marred and incomplete.
But hey, I won a scholarship today. $2,000 a year provided I take a comparative religion or comparative literature course. I really need the money too. Barnard is so expensive, and I’m gonna have a workstudy throughout and a mouthful of stuffed bills to choke down on in student loans.
Are you sure it has to end? Mom is a testament to strength. When her needs aren’t being met, can’t be met, won’t be met in the relationship, she walks away. “have a nice life.” she says, hurt, tears in her eyes. She loves and is brave and courageous. That’s all I will say on that-because while the details are compelling, I value her privacy.
I haven’t talked about:
Henry Darger-the disturbed artist-phsycolanalyic meeting. real compulsion of a disturbed man-art protects the masses.
The March on Washington (long story short-female solidarity, more focused than anti-war marches, I got heated up because there were so many pro-life anti-marchers (which, if you don’t mind my saying, is so fucking stupid. “You have the right to march, and we have the right to march in protest of your march.” Oy veh. Organize your own march, cocksuckers, don’t rain on other people’s parade). Some of the marchers were saying “pro-life, that’s a lie-you don’t care if women die.” I remember thinking, “that’s pretty loaded. that’s not their perspective. They see it in moralisitc terms that have nothing to do with practical applications, etc..) but then I started saying it, and I got into it, really into it, screaming it, up against the sidelines, not in their faces, but close-my blood hot in self righteous indignant rage, and isn’t that scary-the group mentality, the moral certainty-the march stayed under control, but I let my passions hold sway, and loved it, love it, to my unhealthy detriment perhaps. I was wrong. I did what they wanted me to do (within limits) I was lucky.)
Bad Epitaph Benefit. I went as Margret Sanger. Martina (another Barnard bound) went as Eve. We danced with Janice Jobline and Susan B. Anthony. Played drunken twister (Martina one). Jello shots. Collected eccesive goodies from the sinata that I will clearly not need (flavoured condems, normal condems, etc) now that I am without a lover. I am embarresed about everything between me and Dan. I don’t regret my actions. I just regret all the inhibitiion, limitations, failures and endless compliance when he was feeling like sht and didn’t have the decency to leave me out of it. Love: I’m sick of it. I’m sad he won’t be putting himself in me anymore. There is no feeling quite like it.