Welcome to My Bed

Take me with you.

2011-06-12T20:20:00.000-04:00

It's been a long time. Truth be told, the reason I haven't been writing here is much the same as the reason I haven't been sleeping in my own bed most nights lately. The summer is a mess of sweat and hurry always, this year hardly the exception. I am on the highway or the commuter rail more than I am in my own apartment. I am searching out a new job and trying to be as much myself as possible in the places that won't quite take me at face value; I have to wear my septum ring inside my nose at work, cover my tattoos, put on a fake phone voice, say things like "my pleasure" when the customers infuriate me. I feel absolutely stuck. The last time I saw my father, he could not speak. I'm afraid I'll never hear his voice again. I'm afraid of a lot of things. But there is good too. A poem taken for the June issue over at The Pedestal. A lot of time with those I love. I am holding these triumphs like a fistful of clover. Nothing pretty, but lucky perhaps.

Like a favorite sweater.

2011-05-03T20:24:00.000-04:00

The sun is warmer here. Is that possible? As of Saturday, I've returned to the (main) city of my heart. The new apartment is coming together syrup slow, but that makes it all the more delicious. Tonight, we assemble our library. Just the thought of a wall of books makes my whole body smile.

I don't have much to say today. There is still so much sorting out to do--our study is all full of the un-emptied boxes, my room is one giant clothes pile--so sorting thoughts is the last thing I have time for. But I do have pictures of the past few adventures to share.

Button and I got tattooed at Screamin Ink by the too-modest, truly amazing Jeremy Miller.

The O'Neills, a la Gaga at her Newark tour stop. It was my brother's first concert.

I have so much work left to do in order to make my room livable, but when I can see the floor, I will show you the new bed that makes me feel like a queen and sleep like a lion. I've been having such fantastic, strange dreams here.

Small happies.

2011-04-20T08:56:00.000-04:00

You can read a poem of mine here, published on the thirteenth. I recommend leafing through the whole sixth issue of Phantom Kangaroo and getting thoroughly spooked tonight before bed.

This song makes me happy, especially when it comes on at a dance night.

This show is my new favorite.

And now I'm going to work, and then to New Jersey. See you across state lines, post floating tattoo appointment and Long Island Gaga concert.

"The poets are coming."

2011-04-05T00:14:00.002-04:00

The way things unravel never ceases to amaze me, but the way things come together is even more astonishing. I got a rejection letter today and was not devastated. My skin has gotten so thick about writing--four years ago, not even a handful of people had even seen my poems. I just talked my sister's ear off about Blind Huber and themed manuscripts (I'm working on two). I have yet to even complain about a 30/30 poem; I just wake up at 8 AM every day and write one.

Which reminds me--it's National Poetry Month. All of my friends are posting their work and tagging me in notes on the good book. Well, not all of them. The brave ones. The disciplined ones. The crazy ones. (Those words tend to be interchangeable when it comes to the people I love.) And then there's this thing happening in one of my adopted cities this summer that drawing closer every day. You should be as excited about it as we are. The National Poetry Slam is coming to Boston! I've known about this for awhile, but shit just got real the other day. April Ranger put together a great show of music and comedy that led up to a slam grudge match between Boston and New York City. Melissa gave me this postcard:

...in which the NPS logo is both the moon AND the poetry Bat Signal. She's also curating a tumblr for the event, which is currently chock-full of performance poem videos worth watching.

To top all this word-love off, I have a show tomorrow night in Portland, ME with Sam and Mckendy. I haven't shared a stage with them in months. I anticipate sheningans of a tall order. Or, at least we'll perform some poems and yell "Get it in!" and "Only off jumps!" at one another for a good chunk of the evening. If you're going to be in the area, come give and receive hugs. I am very good at those.

In closing, this song makes me really really really happy.

You better learn your lesson yourself.

2011-03-31T09:19:00.000-04:00

Seen Tuesday night at the Paradise. Still blissed out.

Today is.

2011-03-28T11:23:00.000-04:00

Morning with a favorite. Still under the blankets. All I can think of are birds. Petah Coyne's dead, still birds. The giant hanging masses of ash. Chandeliers of dead things. Flowers made of wax. Sol LeWitt's math, all of his chalk and crayon on the walls. Grids of planning. Now, take away the grid. Peel back the mask. What do you see? What will be left when the lines that propped up your words are stripped away? Can you stand on your own?

I am digging through the manuscript of the first, the only, year I did 365. So many new poems will come of this. Mass MoCA is still stewing in my head. Even frozen feathers make me think of movement. I've seen dead birds in the gutter and expected them to dust off the grit and maggots, take flight like nothing was ever wrong.

"Baby, there's a shark in the water."

2011-03-25T01:39:00.001-04:00

The last time I posted was a little over a month ago. A little over a month from now, I will be moving into a new apartment--back to the city of my heart--for a new start.

This condition makes for a strange progression of days. Since we last spoke, I've set foot on the ground in Maine, been to a casino for the first time to see the middleweight champ defend his title, gotten my first-ever acceptance letter from a poetry journal, and chosen a new place to rest my head.

I imagine that when my sister Kaitlin and I move in together again, there will be a lot of the following:

Which is to say, shenanigans, song-and-dance, Peter Pan-related merriment.

And we'll probably belt this out together at the top of our lungs while waltzing through the pocket doors between our two living rooms, the windows swollen with afternoon sun and a view of that fat dome on Federal Hill:

I wrote a poem about my mother riding a stuffed horse in her dreams first thing this morning. I wear my happy teeth every day now.

Happy Scandal Day!

2011-02-14T11:39:00.001-05:00

...otherwise known as "Singles Awareness Day (SAD)" or "St. Valentine's Day." I much prefer scandal to either of those depressing reasons to consume. I plan on spending zero dollars, listening to "Exile in Guyville" on repeat, and loving with the same intensity that I do every other day of the year.

But in honor of the extra emphasis everyone else is placing on love, here is a Wordle of the words this blog loves.

And here, David Bowie leads a cultish mid-nineties arts colony of shaved head industrial types who rather enjoy mannequins.

And here, Rihanna ball-gags her detractors and wraps herself in plastic.

And here, Nicki Minaj does the fairy tale thing and is still a BAMF.

And finally, Max Bemis warbles about phone sex and religious guilt.

Watch an endless chain of John Cusack films! Take advantage of candy sales! High five Alanis Morissette! Wonder aloud who the Arcade Fire is!

However you choose to celebrate, be sure to blow a raspberry at those around you acting like it's the end of the relationship if this day isn't the most magical they've ever had.

(And in case you didn't know, the Ribcage Kids are performing at AS 220 in Providence tomorrow night. Doors at 8:45. Come be my anti-Valentine!)

Round up.

2011-02-12T09:03:00.000-05:00

Things have been happening. Or. I am caught in the perfect storm of my own making. Since returning home from tour, I've been on a steady diet of highway driving, Boston, New Jersey, motivational speech, and wearing heels out to spite the snow. It's been working well.

Last Saturday night, I was in Montclair, NJ with my little sister, Button, and a few friends to see Girl Talk's final installment of the All Day tour. We danced for two straight hours and, man, was it a gorgeous evening. I realized that the amount of dancing in my life is directly proportionate to my resting happiness rate (RHR, to speak in faux-medical terminology). Back in the fall, I went dancing at least once a week, resulting in a very high RHR, glowy skin, sore-but-content leg muscles, and the envy of all my dance-inclined friends. However, since the onset of the snowpocalypse, dance nights seem not only impractical, but downright silly to attend. Who wants to booty shake in rubber boots? Certainly not me. Cambridge, my home base for most dancing endeavors, is jagged with snow drifts and rife with icy patches of sidewalk. The last thing I need to finish out the winter with is a sprained ankle. Cos the only thing harder than crutches is crutches in the New England winter when you live in a third story walk-up. So, until spring, I'll have to get my dancing fix where I can. The Wellmont wasn't a bad spot for it, in spite of the Bieber squad (in their neon atrocity) gumming up the bathrooms and somehow managing to drink with X's on the back of their hands. A word of advice to the high school set: your sweat band does not make you cool, no does your homemade Girl Talk t-shirt with glaring grammar errors. Stay home and study hard! Your little brains clearly need it. Leave the partying to those of us who've earned the right after a hellish work week. When I was your age, I was at home watching the Lizzie McGuire movie and...well, maybe I should cut them some slack.

In other news, tour has legitimized my writing and performing life to my family in a way that chapbooks had failed to and now I'm getting all kinds of odd requests. My favorite one comes with a bit of backstory. My father's younger sister Casey has always been adamant about not getting married. She's had a handful of serious boyfriends that made into inside the fortress of family gatherings, but none of them ever stuck more than a handful of years. However, I am proud to announce that she's found the man she's going to marry (fanfare and all that jazz). Which means I've been invited to me first wedding. My grandmother is practically spamming all of our email inboxes with questions about ceremony and reception details, etc. My favorite inquiry thus far has been along the lines of, "Will you be bringing an escort?" The bride has been wisely absent from all of this insanity, probably off somewhere riding horse, practicing law, or actually living her life. The one interjection she did make my way is that she'd like me to read at the wedding. I'm not sure if that means Bible passages or what, but I am flattered to be the first name she thought of. Look! My first non-poetry gig gotten by being a poet! Now all I need is a desk job that doesn't frown on visible tattoos. Go, liberal arts degree, go!

In closing, my car started last night on the first try. I take this as a surefire sign of spring. And George Watsky made a new video. Kid's now been a Def Jam poet, a guest on the Ellen show and viral video phenom. Show him some love.

Blast from the past.

2011-02-04T07:11:00.000-05:00

When you have the opportunity to catch a glimpse of yourself caught in some unspectacular already-over moment, take it. Especially if you can't quite remember where you were or what you were doing.

I'm pretty sure this one is from the summer of garage sales. I know Button and I did a lot of rooting through other people's cast-offs in the warm months before I moved away to New England. There is nothing I miss quite like a New Jersey summer. Even if my hair was terrible.

What I think about when I am a month late on resolutions.

2011-02-01T14:22:00.000-05:00

I am safely back from tour, getting buried in snow (again) but nestled into my beloved, frigid New England. This a quiet, Ryan Adams b-side kind of day. The sky and the snow are the same shade of nothing. I have spent most of this day reading a novel in verse about Los Angeles werewolves and answering emails. It feels good to stop spinning my wheels for a few days. The engine was beginning to smoke. When the year changed over weeks ago, I was too busy smiling to make any resolutions. I've never found them very useful, though I've always been vigilant about keeping a little list for myself. I leafed back through my journal this morning and that yearly list was nowhere to be found. So here's the short version: submit to journals (no matter how quickly my heart thwacks into my tonsils at the prospect), settle back into the city of my heart, fine tune the novella and let it loose on the world, never fall asleep without reading at least ten pages. Small steps lead to the largest movements. This year is a big one already. I have seen so many cities I never dreamed of seeing, loved so many people I never thought I would hold so close to me. I am full, if struggling. That must be what it's like to be alive.

Perpetual motion machines.

2011-01-22T11:40:00.001-05:00

Hello from our last morning in DC! Our time here has been both relaxing and exciting. Sam, Mckendy and I went to see the slam at Graffiti DC and got a feature by Rudy Francisco (this year's Individual World Poetry Slam champ) thrown in, all for the price of FREE.

Yesterday we went on a sight-seeing adventure on the National Mall, which involved hot pretzels, atrocious coffee, bitter wind, and a chill sesh with honest Abe. Sam got a proof of his first-ever book with a spine. I got my final evaluation for college. We have a workshop/interview/show in Richmond tonight, leaving only two more future cities for us on the road trip leg of this tour. But fear not! There are still a handful of shows in New England that will commence upon our return (one of them in Providence, the city of my heart, the day after the big ol' V-Day). The month of February will be far from a return to normalcy. I'll most likely make some drastic change to my hair--it's getting overdue for one at this point--and the Ribcage Kids will tear it up.

Speaking of which. Below, you can view the first video of me performing since the Providence Grand Slam in '09. I'm pretty proud of this one. It sold books and all that good stuff.

Out of love.

2011-01-18T19:16:00.000-05:00

"It hurts, but I didn't listen, so I learned."

I wish I could make a collage of all the happy feelings I've had here in Pittsburgh. I've had the chance to talk, to listen, to walk, to rest, to cook, and be taken care of. To be honest, all us were dreading the amount of downtime we had here. But now that the last show has arrived, it's clear none of us really want to leave for DC tomorrow afternoon. Our time here was longer than we planned, but too short for my taste. Thankfully, I've acquired a rather magical sweater, a book of daily devotionals, and a serious appreciation for Western Pennsylvania. Like Western Mass, it is highly underrated.

Get it in Pittsburgh! We'll see you tonight at the Shadow Lounge!

P.S. Keep your eyes peeled for the recordings we've been making the whole time we've been here (AKA the No More Ribcage Pittsburgh Sessions) with our friends Justin and Drayton from In The Wake of Giants. They're make their way onto the interwebs in the near future, and we promise sounds and such the likes of which you've never heard.

"I've been livin' the dream Joe. Whatever that dream may be."

Magic morsel #51, please excuse the rave music.

2011-01-17T09:48:00.000-05:00

The wonderful gaggle of punk men who made us dinner last night in Pittsburgh have big love for King of the Hill. Sam and Mckendy may have fund their true city love in Philly, but I have to say I am partial to the black and yellow. Perhaps because of all the Boomhauer quotes.

Magic morsel #50, with shoes on.

2011-01-15T00:43:00.000-05:00

Janey from The Serotonin Factory (and the Philly Slam fam, and general awesomeland) just showed me this while we're all winding down after our show at the Fuze. I am dying from the cuteness.

!!!

Good morning from Philadelphia.

2011-01-14T10:32:00.001-05:00

Philly slam mistress Jane Cassady has opened her lovely home to us: Mckendy is failing at tetris, Cass is in fat-cat-snuggling heaven, and Sam is awake before noon. Generally, we are out of our element, but loving the (frigid) adventure so far.

I plan on checking in at least every time we move cities. I want a picture in every kitchen we wake up to. This one has miniature cupids, a whole jar of them. And skylights. And a clock that ticks out loud. I'd like to come back here in spring sometime to sit on the terrace with sun tea and a good long novel.

Our tourist activities for the day are set to include a visit to the Mutter Museum (where Cristin O'Keefe Aptowicz is a writer in residence and has curated a cabinet--she warned us to watch out for the staggering number of rib cages on display) and then the obvious detour for those famous cheesesteaks.

If you're in town, come see us tonight for a forty minute set at Infusion on Germantown Ave. We have brand new TOUR EXCLUSIVE books, as well as plenty of shenanigans in store.

Road love!

When I wake in the night on the verge of a road trip, you get this.

2011-01-13T06:33:00.000-05:00

There are many parts of me.

The biggest part is a sleepy mess, scared shitless. But she has faith. Faith that today will be okay, and that tomorrow will be something else, and the next day after another breed, and so on. She is trying to be open to all possibilities. Thus far, the shows have been going well. We've performed our best across several states already and made friends, sold merch, and the biggest part of me is hoping we make it through the rest of the month in similar fashion. If thigs could go the way they went in Manchester or Jersey consistently, the biggest part of me will also be the proudest part of me.

But the biggest part of me isn't the largest part of me. There's a sizable chunk that's scared shitless. She's the one who hasn't written anything substantial in who knows how long. She's the one making excuses. I did just finish the better part of a novella and complete a pretty decent manuscript of poems, she mutters when confronted.

The cynical piece of me lights a cigarette and blows smoke in her face.

The biggest part of me sighs.

The navigator is pouring over her maps. She woke me up at this ungodly hour with endless dreams of road, of digging the car out of the snow in a few hours and hitting the dusty trail. She's the one who put us to bed far too early last night and then shook us all good and hard just now with the urge to run to the window and press our communal nose to it in excitement. "It's stopped blizzarding!" she squeals.

The worrier is revising her lists. The insomniac is creeping back. The smoker is lighting another one.

We're all chewing our bottom lip, waiting for something to happen.

Magic morsel #49, "I'm tryin' real hard to be the shepherd."

2011-01-10T10:58:00.000-05:00

I've been calling people "honey bunny" for years and just now realized where I picked it up from.

My favorite part of all of this is that the person who uploaded the movie clip runs a website that sells Bad Mother Fucker wallets.

Pink wig, thick ass, give 'em whiplash.

2011-01-04T07:40:00.001-05:00

The new hair, in full-ish effect:

The newest painting, now that it's no longer shrouded in secrecy:

And my new favorite outrageous lady:

Spent the better part of last night listening to Nicki the Ninja. Pretty sure the only reason I ever disliked her is that her verse on "Bedrock" is the only underwhelming one she's ever spit, and that's the track I heard her on first. But we couldn't have her upstaging the boys again, could we?

Lil Kim needs to get her ass back to music-land (besides that brief moment on Luda's "Battle of the Sexes") and join this little lady in breaking up the boys club with some serious skills. I'm rather tired of there only being one or two female MC's in the mainstream at a time.

What I think about when the year has turned and the room is too cold.

2011-01-03T21:06:00.000-05:00

It's warm in the sun but the wind bites hard. I forgot a scarf today, a pair of pants on the floor of someone else's apartment. I am full-to-bursting of so many good things, so much good news. Two shows this week, and the tour starts in earnest. There will be family in those seats.
There has been highway in my life every week as long as I've had my car. There are trips in the works--Nashville, North Carolina, New Hampshire. A wedding at the end of September, the first I've been invited to. I am eating. I am sleeping. I wrote two poems today, edited a third. I'm confident this will be a good year because of how it's started, all unseasonably warm and full of pillow talk. Telling stories in the haze of the wee hours clarifies the details somehow--the only words you can manage pushing past your lips are those attached to the most important things to be said.

"I hope you already got laid today. Twice."

2010-12-29T14:45:00.000-05:00

Good afternoon, Wednesday. You have so much room for improving things. Thus far, I hung a giant cork board in my bedroom, ate quite a lot of perfect toast, drank coffee without bringing on a migraine, AND I finished my first painting since September. I would show off this last accomplishment, but it is a gift for my guy and will thus not be revealed to the internet at large until after the giving. However, I can show you one of the elses I got up to earlier today:

I am trying to stave off the urge to dye the 'hawk teal without help (it is taking all of my will-power), and so I gave myself a little haircut instead. I will call this period of my life the "why the hell not" phase. It began this March, the first time I rocked the mohawk. I have generally been much happier since then.

A piece of today's soundtrack, courtesy of someone bored in a Boston office (and thus blowing up my inbox):

Then there's the ubiquitous Slug speech to get me souped for an awesome awesome day full of low-key wonderful:

And I will not apologize for my jealousy towards Nicki Minaj's pastel Cruella DeVille jam going on here:

And for my next trick, I will start a philosophical debate about Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah" via Justin Timberlake on my Facebook wall. (Because when you are a loudmouth, you tend to live among many other delightful loudmouths.)

See you on the flip side of the year, loved ones. Pop champagne, kiss your boo when the ball drops, break in your new heels, eat pigs in a blanket with whole grain mustard, make a glittery mess of your (or someone else's) living room. However you decide to celebrate, know you are a small part of why I do a little happy dance in the mirror every morning upon waking.

And a final warning: 2011, I am coming for you in floral leggings and shit-kickers.

Merry Happy Holiday Time!

2010-12-24T07:26:00.000-05:00

I wouldn't exactly call myself a Scrooge, but this December has been a rough one. Tour's been creeping up in a semi-insidious way (read about the shows so far here), I've spent more time on the road to various cities or just plain in Boston than I have in my own apartment, and when I do remain stationary, work has been sapping me of my lifeblood. Being that it is my very first retail Christmas, a lot is off-kilter, which mostly means my stress levels are much higher than they should be.

In addition to my regular schedule, the past few weeks I've picked up an extra shift for the cash, meaning I work six days a week instead of the usual five. And five out of those six shifts have been closing shifts. On my day off, I've had shows or some massive errand that takes far too much energy. I have not written much of anything since finishing my undergraduate degree a few weeks ago. I haven't even properly celebrated that milestone. (Cass and I did go out for a beer with our men that night, which counts to a certain extent, but I am more than a little itchy for an epic night of dancing to sweat away all those lingering college woes.) In all, I've been a bit divorced from the whole Christmas spirit this year, quietly acquiring my gifts and stashing them in a Rubbermaid box in the hall closet, avoiding the fact that I get one day off from my life as a cash register jockey/glorified stock girl for family during a time when I am used to at least a week of non-stop family shenanigans. It's hard. The only time I've felt the proper amount of holiday cheer is when it's been snowing. And thus far, at least in my little corner of the world, that's only happened when I've been in Beantown.

Kait and I met up in Jamaica Plain over a week ago for an epic feast and a few cocktails at Canary Square on Tuesday. Now, most people who know me know I am a huge proponent of the mid-week weekend. (Maybe it's because I work for the entire real one, but I'll call that beside the point.) I am rather fond of treating Tuesday nights like Friday nights. So a whiskey sour with a sisterly gabfest and a heaping helping of food is just my speed for such an evening. Our meal was full of cheese and laughter. The burger we had killed me with delicious. The french fries were epic. The beef jerky popcorn was odd, but I ate plenty. And I gave a chapbook to our waitress. Afterwards, I took her through the freezing cold to Deep Ellum in Allston to be the first of our family to meet my man. It was snowing. And freezing. The cold was like magic. We all did a lot of wild gesticulating and emphatic explaining ourselves, had great drinks and a great time. The night rounded out with me singing along to Ryan Adams as we ventured out into the flurry again for the night.

And then there was the snow in Somerville the other day. I ran away to the Bean again (and Charlie's Kitchen in Harvard Square) after a particularly rough Sunday shift (open to close during Consumer Christmas is much more brutal for those working it than I'd been mentally prepared for that day) and spent the night, waking to a morning full of the white stuff. I walked to Trina's Starlight Lounge for brunch the next noon and gleefully let the cold bite my fingers. Snow caught in my eyelashes, it finally felt like Christmas. We had what can only be inadequately described as a homemade pop tart, followed by the works, all washed down with lots of coffee. I kept straining to see the snow out the frosted window. And when I walked back to my car and drove home to NoHo for work, I was so disappointed that the snow globe effect didn't reach past Worcester. The city of my home address has yet to get more than a dusting, and for that matter, I've yet to be out in the snow in my current hometown.

I spent Wednesday watching the white stuff accumulate on my car while I baked my Grandma's Christmas butter cookies in a kitchen that isn't mine. My show in Portland got canceled because of the weather, so I had a bedroom Bloc 11 sandwich picnic and fell asleep watching Die Hard instead of performing.

Anyway, I guess the point of all this rambling is to say that I haven't exactly felt connected to the time of year. Until last night. Work was a frenzied mess, everyone in town out and shopping for last minute gifts. I left my wrapping paper in the employee closet, I've yet to pack, and I was kept up half the night by yelling from the thirsty Thursday bar crowd. However. Even though I'm not in Boston or its outliers, and even though I'm not nearly prepared for the big day tomorrow, I could hardly sleep last night for the excitement of stockings and ornaments and all of my family jammed into my gram's living room. So what if that means I'll have to brave midnight mass in a mohawk. This holiday season has been rough for me and for a lot of my friends, but it showed me that we all work hard, play hard, and have huge hearts. I wish it was possible for me to be with everyone I consider family tomorrow--the friends scattered across New England and the Midwest, I toast you! Here's to us and our crazy year!

Speaking of hearts, Jericha's been making me some goodies lately. My birthday present sheds just the right amount of nighttime light when I'm fumbling through the dark for a glass of water, and my Christmas gift took my breath away in our Christmas-lit kitchen.

The back of the necklace says, "home is where the heart is, for the heart is a house you can hold in your hands." Amen.

In closing, I think Dickensian Kermit says it best.

Happy Holidays everyone, and a Merry Christmas if that's how you're spending tomorrow. If not, go make a snow angel at Harvard for me.

Magic morsel #48, private Idaho's.

2010-12-17T13:07:00.000-05:00

This song came on four or so times yesterday at work. (This means someone put the 80's playlist on shuffle and then promptly forgot all about it.)

And then my mind wandered away from me (I was working in the dressing rooms and had two customers over a six hour span of time) and got really sad because this scene just kept playing over and over behind my eyes.

Thanks a lot, Gus. Now the B-52's make me cry.

Magic morsel #47, wake up songs.

2010-12-14T08:29:00.000-05:00

Songs stuck in my head as soon as I woke up this morning:

(One of these things is not like the other.)

What I think about when the fabric shifts.

2010-12-10T08:04:00.000-05:00

I have gotten mediocre at sleeping in my own bed. I chalk it up to excitement, to the way the world is falling away from itself like a drunk lurching into a crosswalk and there isn't any way to stop the movement, just to follow it to its eventual end--be that the opposite sidewalk or the immediate concrete. There is no rest for the willing. My head is a blur of set lists and single lines that have not found their homes in poems yet. So this is the first taste of tour. We retread the same highways two and three and four and five times in one week, sell books, divide the money in the back of Sam's car before going our separate ways for the night. It feels almost laughable that we can be paid for our poems. It still has not sunk in that there will be a solid month of travel, cities I have never laid eyes on before, people to dance with for a night and then hug goodbye. I have been living in this not-place of to-from. I do not know if I will ever be still again except when the fur from the hood of my coat meshes with the fur on his and we kiss in the dark of a private snow globe where no one can see us and we see only each other. I am happiest these days in the spaces I make in the moment, without thinking. Done with so much, but starting even more. Another show tonight. Another sea of eyes, a field of wells to drop my words into like wishes.

Magic morsel #46, or, post-hardcore on Paper Street.

2010-11-30T09:28:00.000-05:00

Remember when Fight Club was a cultural phenomenon and you watched it twice a night in your best friend's basement, quoting the lines with one of you as Tyler and the other as Cornelius? Kind of like how you used to divide up the singing parts in TBS songs into "Adam" and "John" and each sing one set of lyrics? No?!

...I mean, I guess growing up in Jersey, I assumed everybody listened to the Long Island bands and wanted to beat the crap out of their imaginary friends. My bad.

Cock-a-doodle-dee.

2010-11-27T18:46:00.000-05:00

Today's episode is brought to you by the feathered friends that both inspired this morning's haircut and live on my current shirt. Regardless of the fact that it snowed today, I still can't stop myself from succumbing to my intensive need for changes to my physical appearance. Too broke for new piercing or tattoos, but those clippers under my bathroom sink are always around, offering a free alternative to racing down to the drugstore for more hair dye. So I brought back the hawk in full force, just in time for the early onset of winter.

The bouncer at one of the bars my sister took me to while we visited Jersey for the holiday insisted I looked like La Roux. This is a photograph from that night:

My hair isn't nearly as architectural, but I must admit, I am insanely jealous of the amber tidal wave that lives on her head. I mean, look at her.

I'm going to learn how to sound mostly disaffected over a dance beat, grow my hair out a bit more, and then promptly steal her identity.

Maybe this is only something I want because it is a Saturday, and I just got out of work, and I am mostly delirious from lack of truly restful sleep.

Magic morsel #45, or, the holidays make me morbid.

2010-11-23T11:28:00.000-05:00

In honor of driving home for Thanksgiving this afternoon, I thought I'd spread a little holiday cheer, courtesy of Christian Alexander:

And a holiday haiku, courtesy of my dearest SPC (and my exhaustive journals, circa three years ago):

Get your head out of
the oven. Somebody needs
it for the turkey.

Don't get me wrong, I'm excited for the family time that's about to take place. I just know that it all comes with its fair share of strife. I'll see you on the other side of the weekend, hopefully less scarred (charred) than I'm expecting to be.

Gazing down at all the young and beautiful, with their questioning eyes.

2010-11-19T13:12:00.001-05:00

Last Saturday I made a pilgrimage to the Boston outpost of the House of Blues to see Grinderman. Now, I will admit to being poorly acquainted with him up to this point in my life--Button and I have surely listening to plenty of the Bad Seeds while galavanting in our high school days, but fuck if I know which albums or how long ago that was--so I had to do the pretend-you-know-all-the-things-the-cool-kids-do dance for most of the evening.

But mostly, I spent the night mesmerized. I'm sure I've mentioned in the past that the physical sensation of live music makes me happier than most things in the world. Rock music especially. The vibrations in the air move my blood faster or something. The bass in my chest sounds like "home" more than the word itself. And this particular instance of live music, I could not tear my eyes away. Some people are just built to carry off a magical kind of stage presence, a conviction I've come to from my years in poetry. But it was at shows that this idea first entered my mind. Performance, though a construct, is something that at its core must be instinctual. To be seen, to see yourself being seen, and to then feed off that energy and use it to create an experience that would not have been possible otherwise is astonishing when properly executed. I suppose what I'm trying to say is that Mr. Cave was made for the stage, and I am glad to have witnessed him.

Take a look for yourself:

In my internet travels this morning, I stumbled across this blog post, chock full of pictures of the man, mostly in his younger days. This photo in particular made me very happy:

I have been cleaning my room for what feels like (and is probably close to) the past three weeks, and it looks like a more color-intensive version of the same. Books and papers everywhere, clothes falling into coffee cups, typewriters strung with paper and stories half-typed. I've cleared away the dishes, but the mess does not get much smaller for all my trying. I suppose this is the way some of us will always live. It's like the mess in my head's just overflowed in the real world. Generally, I've decided to avoid it, choosing instead to melt Rachmaninoff records all morning to make new wall art. If Nick can survive the clutter, so can I.

And then there's this, which just makes the day that much better.

Punk in drublic.

2010-11-18T11:30:00.000-05:00

The other night at dinner with the family, I made some comment regarding the fact that novelty of drinking in public had still not worn off. My cousin kindly reminded me of its illegality. I told him I did not care.

These cats don't either.

Public projects and secret dreams.

2010-11-18T10:27:00.000-05:00

College is drawing to a close more rapidly than I was prepared for, so much so that I now have in my hands the rough draft of my novel with marginalia (read: my wonderful advisor's sometimes-illegible scribblings to push everything a little closer to literary greatness). I purposely took a picture where you could see none of the writing, not even the title, because the only person in the world besides myself who's read the thing in its entirety is the aforementioned advisor. If I am a public poet (which I am, let's be honest), then I am the most private of novelists. Since the story was re-imagined into its current incarnation, Nell has been the only one to read it. Before, I'd read bits and pieces to Cassandra, post others to the tumblr I made for the project as they moved out of my head and through their drafts. But the past month or so, this shit's been on absolute lockdown. It feels like I'm trying to harness nuclear power or take over the free world, which is silly, considering how small and generally quiet the story is. That pink binder is the last four years of my life. That blows my mind every time I think about it. I've been practically living in my Ouija board t-shirt because I like to put myself in the divination state of mind for all this jazz of writing about hungry ghosts and psychic energy. (I'll post an excerpt once things have moved through two or so more drafts when, perhaps, this will will all make more sense.)

ANYWAY. During our meeting yesterday afternoon, Nell made me cold coffee with cream and Lebanese sugar cubes and asked me about my plans post-December. There is obviously the tour to look forward to, but beyond that I've been nursing a bit of ambivalence about a very quiet, secret dream of mine. Lately, I've been telling it to a few just to test the waters, and the response has been puzzled, but generally positive. So I just came right out and told her. When I'm done with college, I want to go to cosmetology school. It may seem backwards to get a bachelor's in literature and creative writing and then jump ship from the academy to attend trade school, but as I told my advisor, I think that any more study of books and the like at this point in time might kill me. And, contrary to the response I imagined, she was overjoyed for me, even launched into a story about how she'd always wanted to be a plumber and often wondered what her life would be like if she was the caretaker of a house's innards. It is beyond comforting when your mentor not only validates your odd needs, but admits to a crop of the same feelings herself.

So it's settled. Finish the book, tour the coast, open the door for the next chapter of my life. One made of the cotton candy hair and silver rollers and diner songs of every middle school sleepover I ever had. I'm beginning to think that Grease has had a lot more to do with my development as a human being than anyone could have anticipated. But then, that's another post entirely.

Magic morsel #44, "...cos it's better than Monopoly."

2010-11-15T10:05:00.000-05:00

This is one among many hysterical bits and pieces from the Right Honorable Ladies' smorgasbord dinner party last night. I was running on two hours of sleep and could not stop laughing. I wish I'd recorded the stories that were told all through dinner and late into the night; not only were each of them priceless, but the verb choices were impeccable. (I know. I'm a pretty serious nerd.)

Sourcing shrapnel.

2010-11-12T02:19:00.002-05:00

My favorite song of the past few days (to be sung along to, LOUDLY, while dancing in the shower, or the kitchen, or the car, or anywhere really):

I think that settles the fact that I need to own a fringe dress as soon as possible. For New Years this year. And then every day.

And then there's this gem, which I found while procrastinating the other day and then subsequently fell out of my chair laughing. I dedicate it to my sisters. And Cass. Cos she hates this song with a fiery passion.

Speaking of procrastination--I somehow managed to turn in both pieces of my final on time, despite going to Boston for Cantab and getting riotously sauced and sleeping maybe three hours in total. My advisor congratulated me this afternoon in our meeting, then asked me if everything was alright. I guess I looked a little drawn. Behind my eyes, there was a waking dream of the night before--so so much booze, Fame playing on the wall of one of the bars we went to, burlesque night hosted by a Nick Cave wannabe in a velvet suit, and my Thriller shoes getting their curse broken. Right now, after a seven hour nap, I feel a lot more like this:

Or this:

Or this:

And as my own semi-private happy dance, I named the poetry manuscript after a line of Plath. I am just a big ol' nerd.

A big ol' nerd graduating college in a month. Shit is REAL. I feel really weird about it. But we can talk about all that later. For now, check the new tour dates! Soon I'll be on the road, my favorite of all places. This is apparently what it looks like to live the dream. Who's got the champagne?

Magic morsel #43, Manic monday.

2010-11-08T08:59:00.000-05:00

I have two manuscripts due this Thursday. Welcome to crunch time. My bed has turned into an odd headquarters of sorts--I sleep next to/under/spooning legal pads, six or seven fat stapled drafts of both poems and the novel, three or four jackets, a basket of my clean (and yet to be put away) laundry, my shark, various magazines, books, and at least seven hats. I ate ice cream for breakfast yesterday. I fell asleep at roughly nine PM and slept straight on and off until about seven this morning. My body and mind will not meet me halfway on this.

At least the Bangles know how I feel.

Brain food, and that other stuff that just tastes good.

2010-11-03T12:09:00.000-04:00

Good morning, sunshines. I got a solid ten hours of sleep last night and I am so ready to kick this day's butt! Too bad there's not much to do. While I wait for my laundry to finish drying, lemme sing another chorus of "Young and Healthy" from 42nd Street and then I'll tell you the tales of the past few weeks.

The past semester has contained more revision than any other period of my life to date. Til now, and as a writer I'm endlessly ashamed to admit this, revision was more of an afterthought than process. I see now that such an attitude was burying some of my best ideas in a whole lot of junk, and feel my words are better able to breathe now that I tend and prune them properly. It really is a lot like gardening; afterwards, my back tends to hurt and my hands can get ornery, but I always sit down to eat a helluva lot more satisfied than when I let things have their own way. And I'm going to cut that metaphor off right now before it gets away from me.

The preliminary final drafts of both my novel and my poetry manuscript are due next week. I have this. I can manage it. I am endlessly excited for the outcomes, as my projects have taken their time becoming what they are now. I have been peeling back layers for months and letting intuition do the bulk of the real work. It is both rewarding and excruciating to let your instincts write a book for you. If you only write when the mood strikes as it is, waiting for the mood to strike and your instincts to indicate where you must go next is like holding out both hands for lightning strikes. But it is getting there. I am getting there. In a month's time, I will be done with college and gearing up for tour. This all boggles my mind. I am still just a little girl playing house. Here, evidence of the playing--an experiment in soup turned genius fall meal. I literally just put things into pans and hoped for the best. Magically, that worked out with such success I had to record it. Jericha usually does the cooking at home, but I bested my roomie at her own game this time. She asked for the recipe, so I thought I'd write it down here for everybody. (And it's vegetarian.)

Accidental Onion Soup

5 medium-sized onions, chopped
1 bottle Opa Opa Light Lager
5 tbsp butter
1 tbsp olive oil
2 1/2 cups water
salt & pepper, to taste

Melt 1 tbsp butter in a large skillet on medium-high heat. Add chopped onions and remaining butter in layers. Drizzle with olive oil, sprinkle with salt. Allow to cook, unstirred for 25 minutes. Do not worry about burning (it won't happen). After 25 minutes, stir occasionally, continuing to cook onions until they are a deep mahogany, 15-20 minutes. Once a rich brown color is achieved, mix onions, beer, and water in a large stock pot. Add salt and pepper to taste. Cook on medium heat for 20-25 minutes. Serve with crusty bread and parmesan cheese on a brisk night when you want hearty comfort food.

Or, you could always stop by Nakedhaus and I'll cook you dinner while reciting for my latest project. No kidding. It happens at least three times a week now.

Magic morsel #42, teenage dreams.

2010-11-01T10:41:00.000-04:00

I love the shit out of this song before I'd ever swallowed a drop of liquor, probably sometime around sixth or seventh grade.

It makes a lot of sense that my first boyfriend and 2002 Ben Kweller had pretty much the same aesthetic.

And then this is what I'll pretend actually happened to me when I got to legal drinking age, mostly because this turn towards real cold is making me long some beach time like nothing else. As much as I adore fall, I will always be such a sucker for late summer and all that windows-down, bare legs, bare feet, seedy motel kind of adventure.

What I think about when I fall out of a dream crying not-unhappy tears.

2010-10-30T20:23:00.000-04:00

I am plagued by deja vu. I have seen so many scenes of my life before they've taken place, though thankfully, all of my favorites were originals when they happened and never got repeated in that hazy, distracting "I've been here" way. Which is what makes the dreams lately so scary. Jericha and I are becoming more and more sure that our apartment is the center for some bizarre psychic energy, a power that is not necessarily malignant, but one that is far too intense to be taken lightly. All of our dreams lately have been proof of this. Even the most outlandish, emotionally disturbing ones have been finding a way to come true. I am bitten over and over again in the ankles by snakes, and I know exactly why as their teeth are tenderly pulled out and I am returned to a lover's bed. I am the fastest runner on a country road, I am dancing on the edge of a room with no floor in the center, meeting and re-meeting all the loves that have moved through my life and they tell me things, but not whole things. Even in the broken truth, there are kernels of what is to come. This afternoon, my sleep was full of endless lines, unsatisfied people, so many happy "hello"s I forced out of my teeth mirroring my day at work. And then it shifted. Someone I am sure hates me came back as a character in a reoccurring chase. Someone I am not sure at all about was in a house along the way with some tender surprise I am still trying to make sense of. Always, there are books, animals, objects from my life that make sense but do not. I do not speak this language. I need to know how to find what is being told here. Never have I felt such an urgency upon waking to parce my own thoughts, to ask questions of those that have acted with me and on me in my subconscious, to understand what so many would write off as absolute gibberish nonsense. This is all so deeply unsettling. And of course, tomorrow is Halloween.

Trip or Treat 2010.

2010-10-29T13:38:00.000-04:00

Like any diligent type-A crazy, I am working til close tonight and then running over to campus for my last Hampshire Halloween. This time of year makes me want to be witchy every chance I get, but besides wearing black boots at every opportunity and lace tablecloths as scarves on the colder days, I don't get much opportunity to be serious about it. Until today. I bought a whole host of deeply discounted Halloween make-up at CVS this morning and happily painted myself up with oily black and liquid glitter and nail polish that looks like swamp slime. "Happier than a pig in shit" is a start, but doesn't exactly touch on how many smiles I've flashed today. Mostly because I look like this:

My costume isn't so complex which is a blessing for my wallet--I owned everything but the make-up and the wings before today--and I will reluctantly admit that it was inspired by a writing session I had recently where I was listening to my favorite album by the Books and realized I needed to dress up as the angel of death.

HIPSTER SCUM. I know, I know. But the effect of the costume is that I look nothing like a hipster. In fact, I look more like I'm larping, which is somewhat embarrassing. I decided not to get dressed twice today, so I've been wearing my costume on errands and got my wings stuck in the bank doors just a small while ago. The people in line seemed horrified at the sight of me. Good thing that's what I was going for.

If you paid the $20 ticket fee for non-students (or if you happen to be a student), I'll see you on the dance floor tonight. And hopefully not impale you with my feathers.

Ain't no party like a NoHo party.

2010-10-25T08:41:00.000-04:00

Saturday night after work I ran over to Pearl Street in lieu of joining the annual zombie pub crawl to catch Lynx and Beats Antique on the Blind Threshold tour with Zoe Jakes. Not only did I dance until my legs got rubbery and uncooperative, but I can honestly say that I've never had a show experience like that before. There are days I forget that one of my favorite feelings is live sound rattling in my chest. With two drum kits on stage at once that night, it was impossible to forget. And in addition to the amazing and invigorating experience of the room, there was stunning dancing besides. I had never seen anyone belly dance before, and I'm pretty sure I've been supremely spoiled in seeing one of the more famous belly dancers on the planet do her thing over some of the most fun, original dance music I've come across in a hot minute. My jaw was on the floor half the time for how simply the set-up was: two guys, two drum kits, a laptop and mixer, and the occasional electrified string instrument. Every few songs, Zoe came out in a different costume dripping of rhinestones and self-possession and wow-ed everybody. I know little to nothing about belly dance, but my roommate is an instructor, and I am willing to take her word that this woman knows her shit.

At the end of the night, a hippie chick had given me a glow stick, I felt all warm and fuzzy inside from the music, and both my ears and eyes thanked me for feeding them such delicious things. The following is an episode from the tour's video blog regarding a song collaboration between the two music acts on Lynx's forthcoming alubm, featuring footage from the show I attended. And there we are, in the front row. Bow-throwing back from my Jersey hardcore days still comes in handy every now and again.

Oh, and Lynx played a banjo beatbox cover of "No Diggity". Jus' sayin'.

What I think about when there is somewhere else I'd rather be.

2010-10-23T10:31:00.000-04:00

I am not good at sleeping in other people's beds. I must keep reminded myself of this. I toss and turn and wake them up thousands of times through the night with my restlessness. I am very, very bad at keeping still when someone else may or may not be watching. I've never been able to figure out why this is. Let's blame it on dance. Let's say it's because I was a dancer for more than half my life and they always said things like, "Don't lock back on your knees!" and "Support from below your ribs!" and "Keep your face breathing even when your body is still!" A ballet studio's jibberish. I have been thinking a lot about how the not-sleep from my ballet days and the not-sleep from my now are very similar. Granted there are the obvious things that set one time apart from another--I am eating now, I am healthy and happy and taking good care of my body; the only exercise I have anymore is the three flights of stairs to my apartment; but the insomnia still strikes and my head goes eight billion miles an hour asking questions of me in a very loud ballet teacher voice. I keep thinking, "You're so talented at these things; sleep or dance, it makes no difference. Just apply yourself, silly girl. You'll get there." I catch sight of myself in a mirror and it feels just like five days of class a week again and I am too fat for music and flat-footed with poor extension and less flexibility than I will admit to. I close my eyes and my head is talking to me again and I will never, ever get to sleep. I want to believe I won't always be manic about the things that make me happy. Some days I just want to abandon myself and start from scratch. First position. Relax your back, hold your arms like this. Good. Breathe. Now, second.

Magic morsel #41, "You've got your hipster dance down pat".

2010-10-22T10:52:00.000-04:00

"I love this song!"
"Everybody loves this song."

Sometimes I forget that people besides my dad are into David Bowie, and then he comes on while I'm out dancing and I get WAY too excited.

In defense of saying "no means no" to monogamy.

2010-10-19T15:08:00.000-04:00

And because I am sick and getting so much done, I feel I have license to sidetrack myself for just a moment to rant about something that's been grating on me quite a lot in the past month or so.

Let me start by saying that I have not read The Ethical Slut, do not abhor romantic comedies as a general rule, nor do I believe that the institution of marriage is a sham. That being said, I am happily single and casually dating various individuals who I will not incriminate in this essay rant out of respect for their (and our) privacy. I have absolutely no intention of getting any more deeply involved with any one of them. This is not because I am afraid; it is not because I am embittered by any past relationship; it is not "because" of anything. It is what it is. I am dating. Each relationship is good and right and functional and gives me joy in its own way. End of story.

It has come to my attention (mostly via "concerned friends" who claim they only have my "best interests" at heart) that the life I lead is viewed as dangerous, unsettling, and in several cases, downright abhorrent. This is shocking to me. If I am happy, as long as I'm not hurting myself or anyone else, I thought my friends would be happy for me. Not so, says the universe. Remember, you must derive your happiness from sources that the people around you find acceptable. "When in Rome" and all that jazz. You've transgressed the cardinal rule of sharing joy: do not present the masses with a form of happiness derived from a practice which they do not understand. It is like trying to make religious ecstasy tangible to an atheist, trying to translate the triumph of a flawless triple pirouette to someone who hates to dance. Do not tell those who do not live like you how happy you are, because the moment you try to explain, their lack of vocabulary on the subject will leave everyone involved in a very frustrated state.

Thanks for the heads up, universe. But I am going to say it anyway. I do not believe that monogamy is a healthy practice for me. I am of the mind that I have too much love in me to focus it all on one person at once. I believe that love is both a choice and a responsibility, not a mystical and uncontrollable state that one falls into and out of willy-nilly. Attraction is only the first step on a long road of decision-making that leads to and should strengthen the connection between partners. Love comes from these decisions to be responsible, caring, and present. Thusly, the validation that many of my friends derive from possessing their partners, I am able to derive from all of my less-than-tacked-down relationships, both those that involve sex and those that do not. Down to my most incidental friendships, I am a fiercely loyal person. There are plenty of people in this world I love so intensely that I would not only die, but kill for them. There is room in my heart for all of them. But this loyalty does not ultimately result in surrender. And to me, to have any one person call me "theirs", to possess me in a way that thereby means no one else has the opportunity to, would be an unnecessary surrender of myself. When it comes to love, I also have a responsibility to love myself. I am best able to do that alone, unattached, uncoupled, single, whatever you want to call it.

That being said, a troubling thing has been cropping up in conversation lately. I'll call it, for lack of a better way to characterize it, an unwillingness to believe my lifestyle is healthy, or, at worst, an unwillingness to believe that it exists at all. People assume that I have either numbed myself to what I am doing, or that I have buried my desire for commitment for fear of being hurt. Dear, dear friends belittle my decision to remain non-monogamous as a choice that will be my un-doing--as if I am King Lear teetering on the precipice of certain insanity.

And to those friends, I address myself now: I would like to tell you my love life is none of your business, but that would be a lie. It is your business, because you are a part of it. I love you. Even though you do not understand they way that I live, nor are you willing to believe that it could work for me without causing some damage, either on a daily basis, or at some point down the road. My love for you is just as important as the love I have for my blood family, my chosen families, my partners in business, pleasure, art, and intellect. And that is what I want you to see. I can love you and all of them, and where that gets me is only to a place of greater and more serious happiness.

There is no measure of love that is unimportant or repulsive. There is no specific place or space where love "belongs". There is no chant or name to invoke or ceremony to carry out that makes one kind of love more holy than any other. Love is only love, and can only be love. Romantic, platonic, what have you--these are just boxes we are given for sorting. I refuse to sort any of it. Let it be a mess. So what if you don't understand how I sleep at night without some specific face to greet me on my pillow. I get to sleep either way.

Forgive me nothing. Deny me everything. I will continue to love you anyway.

Magic morsel #40, this is gonna hurt me more than it'll hurt you.

2010-10-17T22:24:00.000-04:00

We were talking about first meetings with people who have all the right moves, and this song is now on repeat in my head. It will become a nuisance momentarily. But for now, just picture me dancing awkwardly in my kitchen while I do the dishes, singing this song in my best sexy voice.

What dinner parties are made of.

2010-10-15T08:07:00.000-04:00

Last night on our day off, Jericha and I decided it was time we threw a dinner party for a few of our co-workers. No, that sounds too sophisticated. We told them to bring beer and we would make food. We christened this gathering an impromptu meeting of the Right Honorable Ladies Society, our salon that usually takes place on Thursday nights, but instead of food for thought, we mostly stuck to the dinner aspect of things. And feast we did, on my momma's old faithful baked macaroni and cheese recipe, accompanied by heaps of bok choy. We have strange tastes, but the food we make always tastes amazing.

Alongside the supply of Shipyard Pumpkin that we mostly sipped in the alley during cigarette breaks while getting hit with doors and drenched with rain, there was quite a bit of giggling for one very special reason. Jericha had a flashback to childhood (I cannot remember what it was triggered by) that lead her to the following video:

Not only did we find where MJ learned his footwork, but we asked a lot of questions that supplied endless laughs as well.

Good food, good friends, and good ol' youtube. Welcome to the typical gathering of the 21st century.

Good morning, Sunday.

2010-10-10T09:37:00.000-04:00

Every day I wake up in this house, something feels absolutely right with the world. Strong coffee, vanana yogurt, toast, yellow leaves out the window, a book in my hand, and some loud singing. This is the starting point of the week. I am purged of bad things--I have handed over the necessary secrets, and now I live in my skin uninterrupted.

Yesterday, I wrote a little poem about the arrival of the fall. It makes me smile to see the leaves like this, to breathe deep and feel it crackle in my chest.

There is a big post coming--I've made my decision about where I will live for the next decent space of time--and I cannot wait to share it with you.

Magic morsel #39, dub-step remixes etc. near daybreak.

2010-10-09T04:56:00.000-04:00

Whenever I wake up from a dead sleep in the middle of the early morning, I look up Rusko remixes on youtube and dance myself back to sleep. Or maybe that's only tonight's remedy.

The dancing cigarettes in this one makes me a little bit too happy.

After a few good go-arounds at dancing, I then let things derail a bit. Which, tonight, means that I get on the Amanda Blank train and refuse to get off.

I suppose this is meant to make up for being a total homebody all Friday night.

Just a perfect day.

2010-10-08T10:30:00.001-04:00

Sometimes I wish I were as smooth as Barbara Stanwyck at making men fall in love with me. I'm not entirely sure how she manages to describe of a rape fantasy pressed against Henry Fonda with out aggravating the censors, but I am entirely sure that she is a minx and that I am supremely jealous of her high-waisted column skirt & bolero shrug combo.

(As an aside, Wednesday someone gave my sense of style very high compliments and I am still beaming about it. My leopard faux fur coat was mentioned, and I got a bit giddy. Can you tell I work in fashion now?)

I lay in bed for most of yesterday afternoon watching The Lady Eve and recovering from what has been a mostly sleepless week. Then Cassandra and I watched the last two episodes of Top Model, got goat cheese all over our lives, and polished off a baguette a lot faster than we realized. There were also many, many conversations about the overwhelming happiness of morning sounds, elementary school photographs and where they have got to, speaking with cats, and running through sprinklers. In all, the afternoon was exactly how I'd like to spend my day off, save for the meeting with my poetry advisor, who insists I try to have my poems say too much. I am still trying to figure out what she would have me do different.

When I arrived home, the wonderful day did not derail, but rather continued on at the pace of a float down a lazy river on your back in the sun with nothing to do but smile. I am getting carried away here, but it really was lovely. I curled up in the kitchen's cozy corner and read a huge chunk of my book. Mind you, I haven't had time to read more than twenty pages at a time in weeks, so this bout with my copy of The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo was particularly satisfying, save for the brutal rape and torture scenes that cropped up more than I would have liked. I suppose that's what modern crime novels include these days. Sigh. But, thankfully, according to the book anyway, the percentage of sexual assault in Sweden is much lower than in America. I'm hoping Stieg Larsson wasn't claiming his fiction as the norm for working class girls, because if so, I am terrified of Sweden. Apparently he witnessed a gang rape when he was 15 and never forgave himself for not stepping in, which is why sexual violence turns up so frequently in his books. He reads like a more direct, accessible Michel Houellebecq. I quite like his writing, although sometimes the translation has glaring problems and I simply wish I knew how to read Swedish. Apparently the book's title in Swedish is Men Who Hate Women. I can't imagine it would have been an American best-seller with a title like that. I am getting off on a real tangent now, but my father called me this summer to tell me how like one of the characters I am, and now that I'm halfway through the novel, I'm not entirely sure how I feel about that. On the one hand, it means he sees me as intensely brilliant and resourceful (parental flattery is always welcome to that end) but on the other it defines me as an anti-social vigilante who trusts no one and wants to keep it that way. But then again, the assessments of a man you have not lived with in years couldn't possibly be completely valid, right? Right?

Anyway, I sat with my book, and then was served an extensive dinner of broiled sun-dried tomato and mozzarella sausages with butter-boiled cabbage and silver dollar slices of potato strung through with crisped caramelized onions. Every dinner at my new apartment is gourmet to a fault. It amazes me how cheaply we manage to eat while being so extravagantly well-fed.

I fell asleep early and easily, having read, been well-fed, and seen many friends over the course of a day that started still in Boston and ended up nestled between chilly sheets next to my silly fish who gets excited every time I put something down on my nightstand cos he thinks it means I'm about to feed him again.

Yesterday's theme song is obvious:

Except maybe not so sad in voice. But that's just Lou Reed.

What I think about when the worlds around me are reduced to rubble.

2010-10-05T10:09:00.000-04:00

For the first time in my life, I am the eye of the storm. Every romance or relationship or partnership or arrangement between two people that is happening in close proximity to me has a wrench thrown in the gears; I am watching these massive, reliable machines grind to halt and shudder at each other for lack of any better form of understanding. We all stay up late into the night discussing emotional politics. We follow each other from one room of the house to another, from bar to bar to bar, from Northampton to Boston and back trying to properly articulate what it is that's broken. And I keep saying we, as if I am involved in any of this. I am background noise today. My problems are small and self-contained: I own too many shoes, I don't know whether or not I will be moving in the next few months, there is never enough money to make me feel successful. Everyone else is questioning the nature of their commitments. I am happy to just be left alone. I have never been consistently single for this long a period of time, and I'm beginning to accept that it's my natural state. I am more than okay with this. Not only is it easier to be background noise in the dramatic lives of others, it is more acceptable to me to be a sounding board for all of the relationship insanity that my friends are going through. I told one of them last night that I hate the existence of empathy; I truly ache for any friend I have who is hurting, to the point that it affects my quality of life. I get physically ill in a room full of people who do not know what to do with themselves. But this is different--machines breaking down seems not only inevitable, but necessary for moving forward. In a lot of ways, I feel very zen about all of the destruction and turmoil. I think that I might be mentally well=prepared for any sort of apocalypse. I'm pretty positive that the only person I would ultimately concern myself with is me, and that's something I've never been able to say with confidence.

Happy Monday.

2010-10-04T09:22:00.000-04:00

This song turns up on the playlist at work way too frequently for me not to mention it.

It makes me think of Maggie and Bookwood and the summer before I went away to college. There has been a lot of talk of moving somewhere new at the end of the road--I have no idea where I'll want to be once school's spat me out, but I'll keep you posted.

My favorite glasses are lost (luckily, I bought a new pair already, the same frames in red). There is not enough time to write (but I am getting things done anyway). The best living keeps happening in parentheses.

Last night, we drank a lot of what Wayne refers to as "bro beer of choice" and talked over and across and through each other until we were all too tired and tied up in knots to keep at it any longer. I got a lot of fist bumps. I guess that means my life is going alright.

We sort of/kind of have internet in the house now, except maybe the modem is broken, or maybe it's the cable jack. There are a lot of complicated things we could do to figure out which. I don't know what any of them are, but Jericha seems to be certain it will all turn out alright.

I have to turn in a stack of poems to my new advisor this morning. The old advisor has not gone anywhere, but her back-up is now a poet and poetry professor. I'm not sure how I completed half of my thesis with no feedback from the academy on my poetry. Now there are twenty or so pages queued up in my printer and I'm not even sure any of those poems belongs in my manuscript at all. I suppose this is what the whole advisory system is for.

What I think about when things begin to come together.

2010-10-01T09:19:00.000-04:00

Dear self,

You are too hard on your work. You did not believe strongly enough that by creating you would find your way to what you wanted to say. Look at the list in your notebook--every concern, every abstract you set down to write a poem about later, you have written about by now, the first day of October. You are months ahead of your deadlines. You have so much in your hands left to say. This is a good place to be. Stand in the rain today, drop your umbrella, sing to the street. The world is falling open now like the last flowers of Indian summer. There are big plans around the corner, the dearest of friends waiting in New Jersey for you to say yes to coming home to each other. You are successful, you are loved, you are loud and proud and ready to do ever bigger and better things with your brain, body and voice.

Last year, close to this time, a conversation in Central Square gave you the prompt that plagued you then but has turned into your mantra--what are your convictions? Keep answering, every day, in everything you do. Be reckless. It is the only way to be right.

Magic morsel #38, wake up call.

2010-09-29T09:25:00.000-04:00

I am writing at the kitchen table, mostly to this song on repeat:

It is easier to tell stories with other ones spinning away in the background.

Dance party + destruction.

2010-09-27T00:39:00.001-04:00

blissed out after a pint, a pinot grigio, a bourbon, a surfer on acid, a tequila shot, a vodka soda and a whiskey soda...all the major food groups present and accounted for

Not October yet, but it's still Octoberfest. I got to smell the ocean last night, to eat serious amounts of shellfish with good wine followed by good bourbon and questionable dancing at the piano bar and then sweatier questionable dancing at the sports bar. Fist pumping may or may not have taken place. (You can take the girl out of Jersey...)

There have been so many tequila shots this past week. However, I am proud to announce that I kicked my hangover's ass this morning swimming laps in the hotel pool. What a beautiful way to wake up in the city of my heart. The wind picked up while we lay in the grass this afternoon. I felt every muscle in my body, all of me covered in goosebumps and sore from the movement of the past few days. If I can be sure of anything, it is that I feel most at home in a place that was only mine four months out of a year that's already past. Maybe I can't fall in love with anyone because I am too deeply in love with a place. Just the thought of the skyline has me second-guessing quite a few of my plans for the immediate future but we'll talk more on that in the next few days.

All in all, I wouldn't have had it go any other way.

What I think about when I am one year older.

2010-09-23T15:50:00.000-04:00

Line breaks. Dechlorinated water. Fish food. Antique clocks for the new New Jersey kitchen. Shoplifting only from corporate stores. Leopard print. Loving my legs as long as they continue to be good to me. Taking naps. Not sleeping for three or more days. BEER. Playboy and pretzel sticks and tattoo placement. There is the omnipresent possibility of liquor for lunch now--how very odd a prospect. I had only four drinks at the bar last night, but I will venture a guess that they were all four much stronger than they seemed. The only way to know what force there is that may knock you on your ass when you try to stand is to drink everything straight. But I let myself get a little more than silly. A little more than sloppy. Everyone kept saying I had license to, which I did. However, this new club I've joined is an interesting one. I do not feel any different. Birthdays have never changed much for me. Yesterday, I bought a phone charger, had beers at the mall, performed a poem, was referred to by many near and dears as the "belle of the ball" and, for certain, it made me smile. I also told several people I love very much how happy I am for our friendship. They may attribute these revelations to my level of drunk. However, I am not in the habit of saying things I do not mean, drunk or otherwise. If I gushed at you last night about how awesome you are, I meant it with all of my heart, and I would mean it sober too. Forgive me my loud mouth and stumbling. Family are the people for whom unconditional love is not something that is ever discussed, but simply present. Cambridge will always be Thanksgiving, every single Wednesday. And for family dinner with words where the food should be, I suppose it makes sense I was cranberry saucy and dressed as tart as I'm sure I must've tasted.

Magic morsels, birthday edition.

2010-09-22T08:09:00.000-04:00

These are things that make me happy, since it's my birthday and all.

And just so you know, the photo-insanity has already begun. I don't own, nor have I ever owned a digital camera, but that will not prevent this occasion from being exhaustively documented. We (meaning my current roommates, my former roommate, and my male brain twin) went out dancing at midnight last night to ring in the day properly--"properly" meaning six inch heels, Patron shots, and a sweaty old school mix. When we walked up to the bar, I heard one of the guys at the door say to another, "We're hanging out with them tonight." It made me giggle. Once I gather the evidence of at least the pre-party, it will most likely make its way into a post. I wish I had a picture of the happy dance I did in the street that stopped short only of a flying heel-click. The next few days are going to be non-stop.

Magic morsel #37, those Bette Davis eyes.

2010-09-21T09:09:00.000-04:00

Check out how she downs that martini! And picks over those chocolates! And that gown! Oh, jeez. I am smitten with this movie. Jericha and I watched half of it last night before bed and dissolved into giggles so frequently it was alarming. We also got quite moony-eyed over the clothes.

Mostly, I just want such snappy dialogue in my life at all times. Where are all the well-dressed men to argue me off my high horse?

Magic morsel #36, or, how things look this week.

2010-09-20T08:33:00.000-04:00

It's been stormy. But there are still cute things. I miss my brother already. I want to watch the Studio Ghibli pantheon of greats on my birthday--especially Totoro. Wine and cartoons for the best afternoon.

VLOG # 13, & it's a family affair!

2010-09-16T21:02:00.000-04:00

I did it! I hung out with my brother Owen all day long! He offered to push me around in a shopping cart, and told me things about animals and planets and weird religions. And it was awesome. Who cares if he's in eighth grade? When catching up with family is as great as filet of sole stuffed with crabmeat or avocado salad or candles shaped like onions, you know something is going your way.

And with that, I'm going to excuse myself. I have not one, but two gigs to prepare for. Sarah Lawrence for poems and such (I even made a new mini-chapbook and everything!), and then my first official turn as DJ Chickadee at Kevin Devaney's new place for the after-party. See you there, in your very best red dancing shoes.

And if you absolutely can't make it, I'll forgive you if you head over here and find a day you can.

"Do I offend?"

2010-09-14T13:21:00.000-04:00

Mid-afternoon sanity break, after I realized that this was how I looked, curled up in the corner of the kitchen, poring over drafts with a correction pen:

The need to reign in my excitement is generally overcome by the need to keep trucking. I hope the world at large understands.

Kicking undead ass, via Boston.

2010-09-14T11:45:00.000-04:00

I know a lot of ladies with more than their fair share of pizzaz. But one in particular is celebrating a big day today--Madame Psychosis' first ever music video is live on youtube! HOORAY!

If you like zombies, and I'm sure that plenty of you do, you should probably check it out:

If you like what you saw/heard, check out Madame P's new EP on Bandcamp, and the rest of her AKA Jade Sylvan's projects here. I promise, you will not be disappointed.

Magic morsel #35, or, still not sleeping.

2010-09-13T06:10:00.000-04:00

I know I said I was going to sleep. I still can't.

This is my sleepy song. Is it an odd compliment to say that Yellow House is one of my favorite albums to sleep to? Because it is.

I can see the sky changing color in preparation for the sun's arrival. At least I've pushed a poem through two more drafts during all of this not-sleeping business.

Pomp (& circumstance).

2010-09-13T04:31:00.001-04:00

I can't sleep. I haven't had to say that aloud in a long time.

So I started thinking about my hair again. It's been an obsession lately (and always). I've dyed it twice in the past two weeks, once lighter, once darker. I am satisfied with the color now, but the length is driving me nuts. Having an inch and a half of hair is difficult. With my styling options close to zero, it seems my collection of hats is growing exponentially. Not because I want to cover my hair by any means, but because I just want something interesting to be happening on my head. Oh, how I rue the day that I shaved off my mohawk! Well, not really. I've quite enjoyed this crop. But I am ready for some different extreme. These two ladies and their fabulous coifs have been spinning through my head as of late:

Now, Rihanna is someone that can essentially do no wrong by me. Argue her talent all you want; I'm not going to tell you what opinion to have as far as pop music goes. But for the past few years, basically ever since she cut it short, her hair has been fierce as a tiger let lose on Las Vegas. If I could have even half the pompadour she's rocking at the right of that pair of pictures, I would be beyond pleased with myself.

If you have not heard of Janelle Monae, you have been living under a boulder of epic un-coolness. This woman can sing and dance like I have not seen in years, not to mention carry a sci-fi story of Frank Herbert-proportions on her shoulders rocking wing-tips and the freshest white shirts. I love me some Gaga, but I have half a mind to smack the entertainment industry hard in the mouth for being so moony-eyed over that New York love child of Madonna and Marilyn Manson when Janelle is leaps and bounds beyond. If we wanted to have a no-holds-barred battle between high-concept pop divas, I know Monae would win, hands down. That being said, her hair, while defying all gravity, has absolutely captured my heart.

I suppose what all of this means is that I'm currently sitting at my kitchen table in the dark, meditating on ways to make my hair grow faster. After dinner tonight, I had a brief modeling session where I showed my roommate Jericha this fantastic vintage dress I picked up mid-July. In talking about how to style it, I went off on a tangent about the plans for my future hair. She told me I was only allowed to dress pin-up if my hair got larger than life. I am inclined to agree. There is nothing that makes me happier than the idea of winged eyeliner, sky-high pumps, and even higher hair.

Except maybe this last picture:

In other, perhaps more important, news, the website for my winter tour is up and running. I have been smiling too much and doing impromptu happy dances in the crosswalk on my way to work because of it. It was designed by the badd-ass and talented William James, a man I admire for many reasons, the least of which is that his typewriter collection rivals his pearl snap shirt collection. RESPECT!

If you're in the New York area this weekend, you should come out to the inaugural tour date, my show at Sarah Lawrence's Teahaus, sponsored by their Spoken Word Collective. I will have limited edition books and lots of words and hugs and dance magic to share. Word on the street is there's going to be an epic after-party, as it's their first feature of the semester. I am honored, and absolutely beyond excited to rock New York hard. Details here. I'd love to see your smiling face in the audience!

Last, and perhaps most importantly, today is my sister's twenty-fifth birthday. Well, more like yesterday at this advanced stage of morning. I am sending her a unicorn for good luck in the coming year, her silver anniversary of living. What a wonderful lady!

Here we are at the Flying Rhino last fall, our favorite restaurant in Worcester. I can't wait resume our tradition of monthly dinners, this time with wine.

Did I mention it's now nine days until my 21st birthday?! SHA-ZAMMM.

Ok. I really need to go to bed now...

Magic morsel #34, or, ways to effectively numb the mind.

2010-09-11T17:27:00.002-04:00

I have found, in my endless hours of struggling through novel-writing, that the best music for literary achievement is not my favorite ambient noise, nor soft strings, nor instrumental film scores or any such nonsense. Not in the slightest. My writing music is mindless--and I really mean liquid-brained--pop music, preferably with autotune and lyrics that are a big fat middle finger at any self-respecting poet. Yes, I enjoy being offended while at my typewriter. By making playlists of blatantly awful music, I ensure that I will not be distracted into singing along. Cos honestly, who sings along to shit like this:

I am saving my rockabilly for the triumphant after party, sometime around December 10th.

From here, the stars look like flashbulbs.

2010-09-09T18:33:00.000-04:00

First, some cell phone camera remnants from the tri-county fair:

And second, there are so many exciting nights coming up this month that I can hardly contain myself. (No, really, I've quite literally been skipping through the streets and singing to myself at the top of my lungs with such abandon that everyone in Northampton must think I'm either crazy or endlessly obnoxious.) Next week, I get to go back to my homeland for a brief stint, during which I will buy a bed frame, introduce one of my new roommates to my family for the first time, and perform my first poetry feature for a college at Sarah Lawrence (details here). The following Wednesday is my long-anticipated 21st birthday--at long last, I will drink in public without fearing legal action, and it will be at the bar where my heart lives, the Cantab. As if those two wonderfuls weren't overwhelming enough, my sister is throwing me a fantastic birthday celebration at CGH followed by drinks and a coat of red paint for the streets of Providence. Then all of my near and dears will sleep in a giant bed with me at the Marriott. And maybe, if I play my cards right, that weekend will also include my favorite falafel joint ever.

September has long been my favorite month, but this one will most definitely be the best yet. And don't worry. I'm sure there will be whiskey. And pictures. Lots of embarrassing pictures.

VLOG # 12, reunited and it feels...the same as always.

2010-09-07T11:43:00.001-04:00

Good thing moving out of our mutual apartment didn't put the kibash on these shenanigans.

Happy happy happy.

2010-09-04T12:47:00.000-04:00

I have so many things to say about how awesome the new place is. But I have even more boxes to unpack than things to be psyched on. So you'll just have to wait and see.

Magic morsel #?: the new house.

2010-09-02T16:14:00.000-04:00

This was my parents' wedding song. I am nearly all moved in to my new place, and it feels amazing. There will be pictures or some such nonsense once I'm done setting up my new cave. And have a non-faulty internet connection. But. Great excitement!!

And this is what I thought my parents wedding song was for years.

VLOG # 11, with special bonus footage from the famed LOST EPISODE.

2010-08-31T01:47:00.000-04:00

So we thought's we'd never told you about how we ended up friends and roommates, but apparently that story got told (in eerily similar fashion) during the Lost Un-Valentine's Day Vlog, filmed February 15th, but never before viewable by mass audience (unless you happen to hang out in the general vicinity of my laptop). In honor of our final nights in the summer tree house, we are proud to present Parts 1 & 2 of the now-infamous lost episode.

What I think about when things are finally falling into place.

2010-08-27T10:57:00.001-04:00

There was a ladies dinner picnic at the Smith pond last night, a bottle of wine and a discussion of future love, life, and general excitement. I've been soupy in the head lately, the world swimming towards me, but seeing ducks and eating cheese with no knife helped still me and give me back my breath. The view from my new bedroom windows is of the mountains. I have a view of the Berkshires that is too gorgeous to properly speak of, a bed nook that will be cozy and wonderful. I have an apartment with two magic people, a space to finish my novel. I cannot get over the beauty of that, the way this place found me when everything seemed to be falling apart. There's so much packing and laundry and logistical bullshit that needs to happen between now and next Wednesday, but that does't even bother me. For the first time, moving hasn't crippled my sense of what must happen. I can see the building flowering out of its brick, the way our living room will grow around us. We have a purple kitchen table and a reading window and granite floors that will be perfectly cold on November mornings when I am not awake enough to remember how happy I am. White wine and hummus are good company for comfort. I am standing on solid ground again. I cannot drown atop a mountain.

"Teach me how to run hard and far from who I used to be."

2010-08-24T18:29:00.001-04:00

"Do you hear that Grössby? That's the sound of summer ending."

1. I haven't been here, really been present, in awhile. All of my avenues of self-reflection have been silent, and I feel that silence in a way that is terrifying. My journals go unwritten in, poems (until very recently) get brainstormed and lost to some dark corner of the forgetful half of my brain. And this poor, poor blog looks like a ghost town. For all the internet knows, I am bored and have nothing to say. The truth is, I am overwhelmed and have absolutely everything to talk about. There is just too much of it to wade through. But I'm going to try.

2. Regret seems to be the buzzword of the summer. Which sucks, considering I am that asshat who says things like, "Pssh, who regrets anything? I am always proud of everything I do." Which is not an outright lie. In the case of the past few months, I know that my doubts come from how I've spent my time. Too much whiskey (if that's possible), not enough writing. Bottom line, I'm feeling the pressure when it come to turning in a "completed" novel come December. I am well known for taking on projects bigger than the moon and pulling them off at the last possible moment, but this one seems bigger, Jupiter sized. I speak in lines from other people's poems lately, work at least six days a week, and have not sat down and finished a book since early July. I am worried about getting lost in all different kinds of shuffles. On bad days, it feels as though I already have. People are rearranging as friends leave for school again, while other return for the same reason. I know I am not standing still, but there is stasis in my bones now, where before there was entropy. I need to feel like I am moving forward. Some days I wish I was a runner, a real one, so that I could at least move myself physically out of this space.

3. I am moving out of this apartment in about a week, which is a loss of both the treehouse and my roommate. I'll be moving downtown to be closer to work, and in that way it is both exciting and practical. In another, it is completely disorienting. I cannot imagine how to make it less so, because as soon asI get settled again, I will be uprooting myself. At work today, I spent the majority of my time doing mindless organizational tasks and thinking hard about all of the things that are wrapped up in moving back to New York. Yes, I said it. I am moving back to New York. Or Jersey. City-side living. I kept having visions of goldfish and cooking dinner for my father and late night painting sessions with Maggie. I know it will be good, as well as necessary. I need to give myself permission to be excited about this. Everyone is talking about relocating to Boston post graduation, and it feels like last summer all over again, a party I am vaguely invited to but have too many reasons not to attend. I know they are all good reasons, but it's still awful to know that all of my friends will be living somewhere I am not. I suppose there are always the Chinatown buses.

4. In spite of all the gray weather and beige headspace, there is silver lining to this day. I gave a few of my chapbooks to a coworker, something I have never done before, and she came in today raving about my writing, telling me she had passed the books on to her friends. I wanted to hug her, but it seemed a somewhat inappropriate act, considering that we were standing in the middle of racks of American Apparel and she and I have never so much as gotten coffee outside of work. But still, the hug bubbled up, and stifling it almost hurt me physically.

5. Also, there was that thing that happened a few weeks ago in St. Paul. Lots of poems. Lots of crazy times. I am still trying to process all of it. The poetic essay is helping a bit, but mostly I just feel lost when looking for meaning in a hotel full of stranger who all seemed to know my name, and if not that, at least my face.

This is more of an organizational thing for me but...

2010-08-20T09:01:00.000-04:00

...I have a lot on my mind that I need to organize and you all get to see the thoughts un-knot themselves because typing into a blog window is the only way I can consciously turn off my filter and just think out loud. Okay. Here we go.

Since the beginning of my year-ish-long thesis project, I have said that the thing would happen in three parts. The first part was to be my novel. Novels are large and difficult to get along with (at least while writing them), so I gave that aspect most of the weight. The second two components are a poetry/essay collection about my relationship to language, along with a recording of selections from whatever writing I wanted to read aloud. The novel continues to be the main impetus for this project, but the other pieces refuse to pipe down about their importance. For example, my entire summer has been dedicated exclusively to the pursuit of poetry and its performance. I was on my first slam team, and I dealt with all of the joys (and equal pains) of that process. And then, suddenly, it was over. In the process of thinking a lot about the processes of how poems are born, how they grow to be the best they can be for the stage, and how the stage can best serve the poetry, I have had a lot of serious talks. Now that it is August, and all of the "official" poetry business is through, I have the tapes of these talks playing on loop in my mind. I hear myself, in echo, stating in various permutations, "the separation of the mind and body is what kills, or at least tortures, the artist" and "slam, for me, is the recombination of the mind and body for the poet" and all of it sounds pretentious and scholarly and detached from what I actually mean.

What comes from hearing these conversations repeating and repeating themselves to me is a compulsion to reason all of it out. To follow my logic wherever it takes me and write it all down--a transcript of a summer of thought, if you will. I think that I might need to do a series of interviews with my artist friends (especially those who are or have been involved in slam) to compile some data to bounce ideas off of. Which means I need a tape recorder. Which means I should probably go to the store and buy one.

I have made a list of topics. I will write a poem for each of these topics, then arrange the poems in a way that makes sense. I think this is how you make a poetic essay? (I am not good at remembering how to do real school things.) It will argue, in its final form, that my experience of slam is an approach that allows me to involved both my mind and my body in the writing process. Hmm. The idea seemed so much larger and more nebulous before I had it written down.

Everything is clear now. I must tell someone.

Stay out of the business.

2010-08-13T10:33:00.000-04:00

I have been lazy in terms of writing lately. I am going to continue to be. My novel is due, completed (at least in some sense), this December. I am still kicking unborn scenes around. I need to buckle down. Instead, I'll show you what we looked like in St. Paul.

Breakfast at Mickey's our first morning in St. Paul.

Tackling Sam through a storefront window.

Updating the exhaustive minute-by-minute travelog at dinner before our first bout.

Anddddd I found a carrot flower in my soup. No joke. We sang.

Anna & Mckendy talk politics. Or something.

Way too much time at the same thai place...

What I think about upon my return from the Midwest.

2010-08-11T10:46:00.000-04:00

The corn in Massachusetts has a lot of family. The farther you drive on 90, the more you see. Once it turns to 80, all bets are off: as far as the eye can see, fields of corn rolling towards a non-threatening, soft horizon that waves in the breeze. Like it's welcoming you. I come home from that soft bed of seeds to a stack of bills, no place to live come September, and a wedding invitation. Two of these are thrilling. I woke up at five o'clock this morning with itchy fingertips, so I sent Cassandra something like 13 emails of potential apartment to look into. In all the buildings I have even taken an elevator through, I want to push the button for the fourteenth floor. I spend all the time meant for ascending and descending rearranging the floor numbers in my head so that fourteen is thirteen and so on. If it shifts my room number, I sleep on my back so as not to feel the sliding between planes. If I am staying on the fourteenth floor, I do not sleep at all. This trip I stayed on the tenth. This trip, I slept on my side every night, one hand on the table next to the alarm clock. We have paid the bills. I have slept all morning in the living room, woke up once because of the garbage truck and the second time because it seemed like it was time to. My mind circles back to this wedding. I have known the bride nearly my entire life, known she would get engaged to her other for years now. And still, I feel assaulted by this news. Happiness that is too far away for me to touch or even see is calling out. It will come to me in the mail, quiet and unassuming. But it will ask me to define myself. Will you be here on this date? What will you eat? Who will sit with you? Who will want you then? Can you plan for this, be absolutely certain? I am not used to this brand of certainty. All that I am certain of is the amount of corn that guards the highway in the heartland. If I did not know better, I would say we are pale and brittle and made of many pieces. I would say that come fall, we will burn.

The first leg.

2010-08-02T13:54:00.001-04:00

Greetings from Ortonville, Michigan. The Lady Poets are taking a day of rest before continuing on our way to world domination (fingers crossed), and that day of rest is turning out to be glorious. First off, check out this good looking breakfast:

It goes quite well with the good looking morning we woke up to in a bed that felt like a cloud, a mattress so soft that I slept like a rock. Not that that makes much sense. Anyway. Sunshine so perfect you get drunk just looking at it:

And now, a selection of entries from the road trip log thus far, a minute-by-minute record of the strange things said, done and seen on our way to Nationals.

9:28 AM

Bumper sticker: "Nashua belongs to Jesus Christ." Sweet life, Trashua. I thought you were the meth capital of New England...

1:40 PM

First Amish sighting. "Are they even allowed to wear bright blue?"

2:14 PM

Who parks this beauty at a Pennsylvania McDonalds??

2:28 PM

"Are we still in Pennsylvania?"
"Yes, Pennsylvania has child-bearing hips."

5:08 PM

Ohio. Also, "No Scrubs".

7:19 PM

Speeding ticket.

7:34 PM

Ohio: where the cops are all assholes and the gas stations are too far away.

8:12 PM

My first nuclear power plant.

9:44 PM

Big Beaver Rd
Exit 69 A-B
I-75 N
Fo realz.

And because I just said Pennsylvania way too many times, here's a song about it:

Worcester/Boston spiritual retreat weekend.

2010-07-30T11:09:00.004-04:00

Sammy T and Mike McGee listening intently, probably to that story about Grace Jones and the bicentennial.

My new nickname is Missouri, and my chest lets me breathe easier after a weekend of real talk and quite a bit of honesty. Sam rescued me from the boonies so that I could get my head on straight before leaving for nationals. We did lots of silly activities, including (but not limited to) poetry readings, basement discussions about cream of salad soup, consumption of cheesecake without plates, Buffalo Exchange dressing room fashion shows, and late night long walks for conversations that just can't happen in daylight.

Incidentally, if I ever get knuckle tattoos, my fingers will spell out "REAL TALK". The past week has been stressful--lots of packing, practice, running around like a headless chicken attempting to fly, etc. However, having a place I can run away to in the midst of all of this insanity has been invaluable. Thank you to the Poets' Asylum reading for welcoming me back after several years away, and to all who laughed, cried, and carried on with Sam and I. I am now reminded of how much fun this living thing can be, and that was exactly what I needed.

To awkwardly quote one of my teammates, you are the most of what I know of God, and most of you don't even believe in him.

P.S. Expect to see some updates about tour when I get back from St. Paul. Sam and I have been scheming. There is a press packet and a Facebook page now. Get at me if you have an East Coast arts venue that would want to hear from us during January, or a living room or garage or kitchen we could commandeer for an evening. The show we are planning will rock your socks so hard, they'll be laundered, starched and folded by the time you get them back. Just sayin'.

Magic morsel #33, a sing along for your sorrow.

2010-07-28T13:21:00.000-04:00

This weekend was the closest thing to a spiritual retreat I've taken in a long time. Boston, you got my head on right, and I thank you. I'll write about it once the pictures are uploaded. But in the meantime, the weekend had a dank soundtrack. The most instrumental part of restoring my mental health (besides the shoulders to cry on and poets of all stripes) was the new Big Boi album. If you haven't heard it, I am concerned for your health.

The following is today's anthem. Turn your speakers all the way up.

What I think about on an empty stomach and an overflowing head.

2010-07-23T23:24:00.000-04:00

How is it that July is colder than June? I fell asleep in long sleeves and pants last night, under a comforter no less. I snuggled with a cat. July is not allowed to allow this. I have been writing letters on the backs of "damaged item" tags while working the dressing rooms. They aren't meant for envelopes. They are letters to future poems I know will get written eventually , love letters that say, "I know you are awesome a few weeks from now." I don't have quite the heart to sit down and make these poems (or stories, or chapters of my novel) yet. I am buried in rain. No one ever knocks on the front door, they just walk into my apartment, or yell, "Helloooo?!" in a very confused voice, as if they are coming over unannounced. As of yet, no one has actually come over unannounced. We leave for Minnesota in about a week. I leave for Boston tomorrow night after work. I want lots of vacations, breaks from all of this tornado warning. There was thunder so loud two days ago that I screamed and dropped my phone. The sky turned muddy water. There was no one in the house with me to hear it. Just like there is no food here to eat. A little boy came up to me today and the sidewalk sale and his sister stood in front of him and said, "He has something to tell you." But he just stood behind her and shook his head, tucking his chin into his neck and wouldn't say anything. And then she blurted out, "He really likes your hair." And he nodded, and looked embarrassed. And she looked at me and smiled, said, "Look, she's blushing," and they both laughed and walked away. It was a happy laugh though, much better than the we-only-complimented-you-to-see-the-look-on-your-face-afterwards kind of smile. Lately there are so many things to think about and so little time to do any of the thinking. I cut my hair off again to get closer to the thinking, to let myself know I was still brave enough. I don't feel as brave as I used to when the wind was this close to my scalp. Maybe the razor loses a little bit of its magic every time. I sing a lot of David Bowie to myself when the car radio should be playing. I've taken up praying in French again.

Magic morsels #31 & 32: Shock me, shock me, shock me.

2010-07-21T11:11:00.000-04:00

A lot has happened in ten days. Three shows, apartment hunting, various incarnations of late night debauchery (replete with my DJ skills, which may or may not find a regular outlet come fall--STAY TUNED), and quite a few helpings of rice and beans later, I am only weeks away from Minnesota and anxious as a foal taking its first steps. Okay, maybe not so cute. Or so metaphor-y. Mostly, I just feel like I work at Empire Records now, which may explain why I shaved my head Saturday afternoon before our show at the Elevens. Or maybe we should all just accept the fact that I hate having hair.

What I think about in the interstice between table-waiter and register-jockey.

2010-07-11T16:46:00.000-04:00

I need to not be so broke. Money makes me selfish, selfless, too many conflicting things. Carrie shook me by the shoulders and told me not to be a stripper. Selling my skin seems easiest. Selling my smile never worked as well as I wanted it to. Somehow, skin is more real to people than teeth. Or maybe they are just more honest about wanting skin than they are about wanting teeth. Hello, hump-day of summer. Four weeks until I am elsewhere. In four weeks I will be new skin and new hair and the dust of the Midwest and poems for a literal week and hotel swimming pool antics and space through my fingers and other people's beer and white sheets. Poets don't have jobs. Poets get paid to dream, and very little. Poets get paid and then they get drunk and then they get broke and then they write more poems, and so it goes. This is the place I chose to call mine in this heat. This is the bed I will not make. I am lying on my mattress with all the sheets on the floor next to me. It is too hot for housekeeping. We go to the laundromat and read books, go to the grocery store and buy beans. This living thing is simple, if quietly expensive. Perhaps there is a way to stay whole. To not melt. To kiss without losing my tongue. I have turned all my sharp edges into diamond cuts. I am polished well, if flawed. I can make correct change. Play well with others. Move things through space. I have hands. I like the word, "Hello". I have lots of skin, but a much more interesting mouth. I will use it to smile. I will.

I just hear what I want to.

2010-07-06T23:19:00.000-04:00

I have a distinct memory of this scene in Easter Parade, except that I've always thought that Ann Miller was singing "It's Too Darn Hot" from Kiss Me Kate.

Maybe the heat has fried my brain.

This heat literally made me sick to my stomach this morning. There is a clause in my lease agreement prohibiting air conditioning units. I've spent most of today with a wet wash cloth on the back of my neck and a killer headache. New England is not supposed to be this hot. Ever.

Vomiting rainbows.

2010-07-02T15:39:00.001-04:00

Art is more important than brushing your teeth! I have spent the better part of my day off listening to estrogen-heavy hip hop and assembling the team chapbook, and man am I amped about both of those things. I got to arrange things in space, make use of my drafting table (and long-dormant drawing skills), and reread all of the team's wonderful poems. Happy, happy Friday!

And now, a quick sneak peak at the soon-to-be-printed book's cover (and one of my three new pairs of glasses):

Running over to Duplications in a few minutes to make this shit real. Promise I'll brush my teeth beforehand.

Who doesn't love it when My Little Pony goes bad ass? Exactly.

Ladies, hands up.

2010-06-30T14:30:00.001-04:00

I have been listening to only ladies (with some minor exceptions) lately. The following are frequent members of the summer playlist club.

Observe.

2010-06-29T15:32:00.000-04:00

+ That picture has nothing to do with anything.

+ The writing in Rolling Stone has gotten so shitty that I am convinced they've given run of the magazine to twelve-year-olds. Or monkeys. Or sea horses. Or maybe glossy journalism is just on its way to dead.

Honestly. The interview with Lady Gaga was booooooooorrrrringgggg. Do we really care that she eats chicken fingers on her our bus post-concert?? Somebody seemed to think so. But the compelling information was all buried under "I don't want to talk about it"s, which the writer seemed perfectly okay accepting. Sweet tenacity, RS. I would have like to see the writer ask her some hard hitting questions, but s/he seemed content to let Gaga decide what was getting talked about, so much so that some of the questions weren't so much questions as they were--and I'm being quite literal here--a simple, encouraging "I understand". HELLO???!! I mean, I know that print media is losing readership, but maybe that's because print media is letting itself go worse than a housewife four kids deep with a lapsed gym membership and a husband who's stepping out on her with the dry cleaner's daughter. The music reviews were somehow better written than the featured articles.

Do people really get journalism degrees so that they can fuck around, make parallelism mistakes, overuse m-dashes, and get paid? If so, sign me up. I'd love to forget that proofreading exists.

NOT.

+ I haven't seen my roommate in nearly two days. I know where she is, but I find it difficult not to be concerned.

+ The reason that jobs make you give two weeks notice, the REAL reason, is so that you have to endure the gauntlet of co-workers giving you shit for leaving. In my current situation, every shift I work is drowned in pleas for me to stay. I know I work hard (I don't know how to do things any other way). What I did not know was that I was so deeply loved by everyone at my restaurant. It's making things really tough. I get choked up about it at least once a day, usually when someone new finds out when my last day is. I invariably have to go through the explanation of why I had to switch jobs, which puts all my anxiety to the front of my mind. And then they get sad. And then I get sad. And then I run away into the kitchen to sneak a handful of croutons so that I have something to do (eat) besides all of this sad stuff. I hate goodbyes. They always feel wrong. No one is dying here, at least not anyone directly involved with work. I try to remedy the whole affair with deep breaths. Some days it works. Other days, not so much.

+ Have spent the better part of this week talking myself out of spending my rent money on another tattoo. Don't worry though, no appointment has been made. And I am writing a check to my landlord as we speak so the temptation isn't there. Even though it is. I hate being so broke. June is the worst restaurant month ever. Good thing I'm done with restaurants for awhile.

Good things come in all packages.

2010-06-27T09:38:00.000-04:00

So many many many good things this past week, even through all of the tough stuff. I'll give you the run down quick right now, but there will be longer stories once pictures are uploaded, dates are finalized, and changes have taken place. I'm being vague. Bear with me.

+ Team practice is in full swing, and I'm not sure I've ever had a more rewarding space to grow artistically. My lady poets have given me endless happy surprises, and we've only really been at this whole process together for less than a month. Every evening we spend working together leaves me with an overwhelming sense of accomplishment. This is why I love collaboration. Besides a regular case of the sillies that infects every meeting, there is so much to look forward to for the summer because of all the poetry that's happening. We have two regional slams this month (one in Boston on the 7th, details here, and one in Providence on the 18th) and, if all goes according to plan, two team features to get us all amped and ready for St. Paul. Not that we need any help getting amped. Every time we get together to work on our poems, I am lucky enough to get goosebumps from absolutely everybody's writing on the page, as well as their performance choices. It's good to know that I will be going to my first nationals with no doubts about how proud I am. I am putting together our team chapbook, literally beaming from ear to ear.

+ I took a brief trip to New Jersey this week to see my family and was blessed to be with all of my siblings at once for the first time in months. I also had the pleasure of introducing on of my dear friends and teammates to my whole family, and the talks that ensued were so special and important for me. Going home provides a fair amount of stress in most situations, but this time I made sure to love the trip for what it was, not fault it for the hiccups. Things are not perfect with anything family-related right now, but I'm confident we'll get through this rough time. My father inspires me more and more every day with how strong he's been through this whole scary process. I just keep believing in the resilience of the heart, both his and my own, that this is just a test and a testament to how strong we will always be.

+ When in Jersey, a Manhattan/Brooklyn visit is always in order, and this trip (though only two days long) was no exception. Christina and I had quite the adventure, not arriving home until about 6 AM after much traipsing around in tiny dresses and sweating in the unbearable heat. That sounds gross. I'm sorry. It's no comfort to say there are pictures, but there are. Also, lots of stories of strange encounters with men on the sidewalk. But more about that later.

+ I have a new job. I start July 12th. I'll be working in retail, which, in pretty much any other case, I would be dubious about. However. Faces is the kind of place I'm going to fall in love with and never want to leave. Aside from the fact that waitressing has been draining my lifeblood without providing fair (or livable) compensation, my restaurant isn't exactly geared toward mohawked, rainbow-haired twenty-somethings with ambitious tattoo plans and a great deal of financial woe. In short, I'm not really the look they're going for. No matter how much I bust my ass, this will always be true. I will always be the "alternative" one. If the money was better, I'd be able to deal with this, but the money just hasn't been there because of this damned recession. So, I decided to take my love of customer service elsewhere. This elsewhere happened to be only up the block. And chock-full of rainbow-haired, tattooed twenty-somethings with big smiles, along with all kinds of quirky awesome for sale (and the best return policy I have ever heard of in my life--any time, for any reason, with or without a receipt). As my time in the restaurant winds down, I am getting really sad, but at the same time, I know that this change is definitely for the better.

+ In closing, last night was Star Trek drinking game night at Kevin's, and we had quite the time. We watched the belly dance episode from the second season, which was really a murder mystery, which somehow ended up being about metaphysics and time traveling non-humans, which is why I love Star Trek. But what I love even better is a combination of Star Trek and Ke$ha, courtesy of Christina:

What I think about the morning I apply for another job.

2010-06-23T08:32:00.001-04:00

I was standing at the bar yesterday, waiting for change for a hundred dollar bill, and I realized how utterly ridiculous money is as a concept. Trading paper for real things? Who decided this made sense? My mother is fretting at the kitchen table about how she is going to continue to afford to trade shit for other shit. I don't like it. I don't like writing checks. I don't like my money box, however practical it is, because it reminds me of how valueless my time is to some people. Here I am, blue hair and tattoos, trying to make ends meet. I rearrange my resume, trade one euphemism for a better, more vague, counterpart. I debate wearing the dress I bought yesterday afternoon at Uncle Margaret's. I want to crawl into a pile of vintage clothes and never come out, even if all of it smells like armpits. I've been reading Salinger's Franny and Zooey and wanting to go around chain smoking in well-structured dresses and gloves and little hats, though the book doesn't really have any one in it like that. I want something simpler. Not financial aid paperwork that still goes unfiled because I know nothing about my parents' Social Security numbers, not waiting tables for far less money than I hope to have at the end of each week. I don't want to be a slave to a paycheck. But problems keep barreling towards me, like I am in an ice field with no choice but to go down with the ship. I have a reoccurring dream that I have to put my little brother through college, and today, that possibility isn't too divorced from the truth.

Magic morsels #29 & 30, concerning sharks.

2010-06-22T08:25:00.000-04:00

Not to be confused with:

All are welcome.

2010-06-19T19:54:00.000-04:00

Welcome to my bed. My new, giant (even a double is giant to a girl who has slept her whole life in a twin/on couches), comfy-cozy safe haven. Welcome to my apartment. I stewed tomatoes all afternoon while I bleached and re-dyed my hair, and now I am making a potato casserole that may or may not be similar to one from the Emerald Isle trailer park I was in about this time three summers ago. Welcome to my lonely. Cassandra has gone away for the weekend, like any truly dutiful daughter. I am stuck here in the tree house, alone, waiting for something exciting to happen. I have had a summer cold for at least a week. I have switched my daily dose of Law & Order from SVU over to Criminal Intent, and am still lamenting the fact that the original series is not available for instant play on Netflix.

Welcome to my pile of financial paperwork that goes unfilled out and un-filed. Welcome to my search for a new, steady source of income. Welcome to the world of adults, Emily. We won't let you in without the proper hazing.

Things I want: more time to read, more time to write, more furniture. Small requests, right? Where we will start--a resume on Wednesday morning, and hopefully a job interview to follow. If all goes according to plan, I will slowly phase out the waiting of tables in favor of a retail outlet where I can dye my hair as many rainbows as I want and ink my skin anywhere I see fit. It does exist, even out here in farm country.

Welcome to the beginning. I am always beginning.

VLOG # 10

2010-06-17T01:52:00.000-04:00

We couldn't not tell you about this as soon as humanly possible.

Magic morsel #28, where movement and questions are next of kin.

2010-06-16T12:31:00.000-04:00

Life is slightly out of control. The way that I can tell is that I went out and bought more books this morning. Woke up at eight, dragged myself out of the house, had a pot of tea and played with words for awhile. I have been working more than I care to mention, which allows very little time for writing. My novel goes neglected, and has been lying dormant somewhere in the back of my brain since early May. My poems go unwritten. And my shelf of books stares me in the face every night as I fall asleep in this mocking way that is also sad. There are so many of them there waiting to be read, and every night when I get back from the day's dealings, my tank is empty of energy.

What remains in this chaos is my penchant for questions. I ask more of everything I hear, to the point that my co-workers laugh and are unsure of how to respond. Questions only lead to more questions. And all I want to do is watch the World Cup.

Exhausted from wrestling the router.

2010-06-11T20:51:00.001-04:00

I've been scarce (work, shows, debauchery, etc.), but now that we have internet at the tree house headquarters I will be back in full force.

Sort of. Next week begins thrice-weekly team practice for NPS. And I haven't been doing nearly enough work towards my novel. I need a desk. Or really just my drafting table so I can draw and write longhand in all the best hours of sunlight, then spend all night typing on the floor. I also want a comfy reading chair so I can make a book nook behind my bedroom door.

The New Hampshire show went far better than I could have hoped, the Cantab made me feel loved (as always), and there's a charter school in Chelsea that has seen me speak frankly about sexual self-determinacy and the responsibility that comes with language. In not so many words.

I DJ'd a house party last night, with great success. I even got people to dance. My casual knowledge of rap music is just serious enough to impress a couch full of hipsters with every word to "Gimme the Loot". My pong partner and I may have lost miserably (I blame my chronic ineptitude at gentleman's shots), but we were still deemed the two "coolest girls" there.

My de facto motto may as well be "Work hard; party harder", but it may be time to give things a rest for a few days. Good thing work comes bright and early tomorrow to whip me back into shape.

VLOG # 9 (part 1), + plenty of news.

2010-06-04T12:24:00.000-04:00

+ One of the last visual memories of the old tree house AKA the first half of the move documented on video. Or really, Cass and I making a final procrastination push before jumping ship from campus housing and entering the real world. We're not going to have internet in the new tree house until at least a week from now, so the second half will either be slow in coming or posted to the internets via this coffee house internet connection. If I don't find it too disgusting to be posting video blogs while sipping rooiboos.

+ Moving is tough. My whole body feels like it's made of old tires. I have at least six bruises all up and down my thighs from carrying couches up stairs. I had a sad moment when I returned the U-Haul. I liked driving that monster a little bit too much. Maybe my true car love will end up being a pick-up truck (but shhhh, don't tell Wendeline). Over the past few days, I have driven at least 500 miles all over New England gathering my belongings, biting my lip, and hefting an endless parade of boxes into my room to be unpacked and sorted into their appropriate locations. Through all of that driving, I thought a lot about how disturbed I was every time a radio DJ mentioned that a song I'd just heard was by Justin Bieber, mostly because his voice hasn't changed yet and thus he sounds like he is Miley Cyrus's new competitor for Britney reincarnated. Speaking of which, Miley's new-ish single sounds a bit too much like Britney circa the album Britney for my taste. As a home remedy for the amount of top 40 pumped into my system, I have only been spinning Sage Francis's Human The Death Dance and a lot of French shoegaze. I know it doesn't make sense, and I have no well-thought out justification for why it should.

+ I built a five shelf bookcase last night after work and an afternoon of swimming. Being able to look at all my reading material in one place makes me feel slightly more organized, even when the floor is still covered in clothes because I have yet to pick up my dresser from Wayne's garage. Furniture is a general problem right now for me. I won't feel settled until I have all my things with me (I am far too attached to worldly possessions to have ever become a nun, as I had planned in the fifth grade).

+ I have a show coming up this Tuesday in Newmarket, NH (event info here), which is a literal stone's throw from my beloved Portsmouth. I think a late night visit to the Friendly Toast will probably end up happening, and I will finally buy that t-shirt with the squirrel on it. I am avoiding thinking, talking, or pressuring myself about this show which is definitely not okay because I have half of my set list left to memorize and polish, in addition to the new chapbooks that need to be printed. But I finally brought my printer into the house from the car this morning, so I suppose we can call those baby steps. I am so excited to be performing in front of audience for an extended period of time again--I haven't had a feature since last June at Got Poetry! Live. I'm looking forward to the quiver in my stomach just before the first poem, and the drop that will come just before the last poem, when I realize that it is almost time to quit speaking. Incidentally, I'll be performing again on Thursday for a BARCC speak out organized by the Phoenix Charter Academy in Chelsea. I've been talking art and the politics of speech with just about everybody who will engage the topic and these performances will be a satisfying space to work out the energy I've had on reserve for public displays of artistic enthusiasm.

+ But the thing nagging at me the most these past few weeks isn't my apartment coming together or my show going well. It is my dad's health, as it has been for months now. Yesterday he checked back into the hospital (his language, as if it is now such a familiar action that it is on par with a hotel stay for him) because of an excess of fluid in the lung they collapse when they did his sextuple bypass. That "excess" ended up being 2.3 liters. When my sister told me, all I could see was a large bottle of RC Cola or some other such nonsense jammed up into his ribs. I have not been much for praying in my life over the past few years, but I have gotten very good at holding my breath over these things. When I was home last week and took him out to lunch for his birthday, he barely ate half of his seafood sandwich, couldn't even finish a pint of Harp. This is my father, more salt and pepper by the day, twenty pounds lighter than the last time I saw him, a network of scars, a cocktail of pills, and now all of this little bumps in the road that make recovery much slower going than anyone wants it to be. I wish there was something I could do.

What I think about on the day I get my new bed.

2010-06-01T10:46:00.001-04:00

I am tired of floors and couches, tired of the armrest of my car pressing into my face. I want furniture again. I like the idea of having all of my things in my car, moving around with me, but it's not a practical choice, especially when three trips isn't nearly enough to get me moved in. I got my keys at 2 o'clock in the morning, banged up and down the back stairs with two typewriters, a sleeping bag, the lucky cat for the kitchen, and a bunch of clothes I can't hang up yet because my hangers are sitting in Wayne's garage. I'm pretty sure the neighbors already want to murder me and it's not been 24 hours. This afternoon, Cass gets back, I pick up a U-Haul, and we get real serious about moving. I can't wait to cook my first meal in my lime green kitchen. I can't wait to buy a cookie jar that moos or some other garage sale nonsense, just because I can, just because I have my very own place to live now. This is a much bigger deal than I expected it to be. I have no internet, no TV, nothing in the place but boxes and bags just yet, but already it feels like mine. Pop Tarts on the counter, a cigarette clipped and left on the porch. Until September, this will be home. A claw-foot bath tub and every hole in the walls. I am in love. We have a porch. A PORCH. The magnitude of this overwhelms. I want to shout from our porch that tonight will be the first night of my life that I will sleep in a bed that I bought, in a house that I pay rent for. This is good, this adult stuff. Especially when I know I'm going to treat it all like summer camp. Those Pop Tarts are 'smores flavor, and I ate fro-yo for dinner last night. I want Cass to get here already so we can live like children, buy ice pops, have kitchen dance parties, make too much noise. Oh. And jump on my new bed. Cos y'all know that needs to take place.

Magic morsel #27, or, dances inspired by baseball signals.

2010-05-27T11:05:00.000-04:00

The other night when I was watching Glee with my family, I couldn't help but wonder why the boys' version of the night's theme (theatricality, for those who do not watch) didn't end up with a Bowie performance. KISS was also appropriate, but less satisfying to me. Especially when paired with Gaga. Just sayin.

What I think about when I am too tired to sleep.

2010-05-27T02:18:00.001-04:00

Will inhaling the smoke of too many Citronella candles kill you in the long term? Mosquitos just have kids to feed, man. I want Maggie to get the massive crack in her cement pool fixed so that we can go skinny dipping any night of the week and not have to bother anybody else to do it. Or skateboarding. That would also work. I always forget that I like vodka tonics. I don't drink enough Slurpees. Every cashier at the Hillsdale 7-11 must think we are crazy. Especially the Arab Frank Sinatra. I haven't seen him there in awhile--I wonder if he quit. He had the best hair of any convenience store cashier I've seen in a long time. Cept that one who looked like Don King somewhere along 95 between NC and NJ. How much force does it take to split someone's lip? I wasn't paying proper attention last time. I am very bad at keeping my own secrets. Maggie bought me a new-to-me typewriter, and it is probably the most thoughtful gift anyone has ever given me. She remembered the brand and everything. I was almost crying in her kitchen, it was so beautiful. I read her the poem I wrote for her about my favorite words, the one that finishes off the new chapbook. There were lots of hugs afterwards. Maybe friend love is the only love worth working for, because it lasts longer. Maybe the only real commitment left in a post-divorce world is to the families we all construct for ourselves, the people we select from the crowded rooms and set apart, saying, "This is who I want to laugh and cry with. This is important enough to stay."

Where the quiet part of my heart lives.

2010-05-26T20:10:00.000-04:00

The leaves in the suburbs put farm country to shame. Hadley asparagus may be delicious this time of year, but I will take rhubarb any day of the week, if only because it means I get to play with knives in the backyard, all while donning my peacock-print Tina Turner dress. And since I can't have her fabulous, giant hair at the moment, I suppose I will settle for wearing the old denim jacket I unearthed in the basement this afternoon, to be rocked a la 1984:

And just because I found this somewhat disturbing, here she is dancing seductively with a giant shoe?

If I have time to be watching all of this, it is thoroughly summer. I am in the midst of my only real vacation for the next string of months and I've already managed a close encounter with a deer on the Palisades Parkway, locking my keys in my car outside Sean's new apartment, getting lost off the BQE, a brief layover in Clinton Hill to visit the men of Black 29 Productions, the "recession special" at Gray's Papaya, a dentist appointment, and two massive loads of laundry.

Also, mostly so that my sister knows what I'm talking about when I say "those cats that wave at you in Chinese restaurants", I bought this:

I think that I may have a super power that allows me to turn pictures the color of my hair?

I haven't named him yet. (Suggestions welcome.) He will match perfectly with all of the old furniture my grandmother has nearly been carrying to my car herself--since I've been here, I've been offered all manner of dressers, shelves, end tables, lamps, etc. from the vast stores in the basement, attic, and garage. It would seem that my family has enough furniture for three families. I can be almost certain that none of it is new. Curb shopping coupled with pack rat tendencies makes for interesting after dark navigations of the living and dining rooms. And every visit I've made for the past year, I forget they moved the location of the kitchen garbage.

And because I haven't written any solid lists in the past few weeks, here are all the things that would be in my dream apartment: a fire pole, an iron spiral staircase, floor to ceiling bookshelves, talking candlesticks/flatware/appliances that sang with me so the chores went by quicker, an endless supply of avocado salad (avocados, orange peppers, red onion), and that stained glass fake Tiffany lamp that used to hang over my Gram's kitchen table.

I love New Jersey. I refuse to speak ill of it. Cos when I'm here, even on the days when it's hotter than Tina's legs in any given mini skirt, I get grass naps and New York as my great big humid backyard.

Magic morsel #26, from the magpie nest too you.

2010-05-20T09:47:00.000-04:00

Pitchfork loved this shit with all the affectation of being unimpressed it could muster, all while referring to Monae as comparable to Bowie, where Bowie is a "sci-fi magpie". EXCUSE ME, WHAT?? In light of the sidewalk dancing conversation about Spock's blood type had outside the Cantab last night, I needed you to see this bit of awesome before I drag myself out of bed, brush my teeth, and wait tables for seven hours. Dance with me first?

Ink, other ink, and moving (shuffle-style).

2010-05-15T09:57:00.000-04:00

+ Got tattoo #4 Thursday after work. Thrilled with the results.

However, my artist is moving back to AZ come August, which bums me out. My first color piece, I love it, everything goes great, and then I remember he won't be here past the end of the summer. When I go on tour (I say this as if I have one planned or something), I'm going to have to go to the desert and find him. In the meantime, I'll be back under the needle again some time in July to get my ribs finished (FINALLY!). I thought this was an itch I'd eventually get out of my system, but I'm starting to think it does not work that way.

+ Half of my life is packed and stacked in my living room. My mom is coming up this afternoon to steal it while I'm at work. I most likely won't even see her. It has been strange, sorting through what I need for the next week and what can go into basement storage until I get a more permanent place. The apartment that's mine on June 1st is only mine through August, so I should probably be looking for a place to hang my hat come September. I hate moving more than anything. I just want to curl up in my car with one suitcase and my shark and have that be it. However, I have one suitcase that is entirely full of shoes and that's only the stiletto portion of my collection, meaning that I will never lead a simple life. Or rather, I won't be doing it anytime soon.

+ I am itching to dye my hair again, but I've been holding out in favor of giving it a little break. The orange has been washing out slowly, and now I look more off-kilter blonde than anything else. I think I might play towards that and work my way up to platinum by the end of the summer. Or else I'll get restless and make some drastic change. There's a box of blue-black dye sitting on the bathroom shelf in case of emergencies.

+ I have a show coming up (June 8th in Newmarket, NH) that I am trying to pull together a chapbook for/rehearse for/feel confident about. I'll be honest--I haven't had a show in a year. I hope I'm not too rusty. I should probably not put my full length mirror in the pile of things for my mom to take back to Jersey, because it's clear that a lot of practicing must go on. If only so I can get a feel for what my set needs to be. Time to tape a sheet of legal paper to the wall and start making lists.

What I thought about on the drive back from Boston.

2010-05-13T09:54:00.001-04:00

Other people's houses, at least the clean ones anyway, all feel like hotels. I am bad at sleeping in beds I don't know. I am getting by on the rough equivalent of a nap. I am living on less and less sleep, not even noticing a difference. Chocolate tastes better when I am not expecting any candy. I love my car more than is necessary, and I know that on the day she dies, I will cry. I can talk about sharks considerably longer than it takes to expose myself as a nerd. There is a poem coming about broken arms and stiletto heels and making an ass of myself when attempting to play pool for the first time since middle school. Last night Max told me I'd changed, probably one of the many Manuel-isms, and it made me smile; six months ago I would've been very upset by something so simple. I say things in Cambridge and feel so much lighter. Time makes laughing much easier. My wallet is more full than I am comfortable with, but soon most of it will be gone. Today is tattoo day. Today is my seventh shift in five days. Today is the first day I have not had to remind myself that I like the way it feels to live inside this skin.

Stranded in New England, in need of sing-alongs.

2010-05-09T10:03:00.000-04:00

This is why I cannot wait tables for the rest of my life. Holidays are difficult (if not impossible) to get coverage for, so you end up biting the bullet and being the awful daughter who calls from far away and tries to mask her crying while she's on the phone with her mother but fails miserably and no one knows what to say so you hang up and cry some more and then feel like a mess for sitting in you living room cry so early in the morning. Whew. Or something like that.

So. Happy Mother's Day internet. I hope you are spending it well, hugging and drinking mimosas somewhere sunny, with family or at least thinking of them. Maybe not so down in the dumps as I am.

I sang this song in the car with Kaitlin on of the last times I was home, and it made me feel better. I am singing it now, and it's helping a little bit.

And this one I used to sing in the stairwell at AS 220 this summer, and it is like peanut butter crackers and a spiked mug of hot chocolate for me, which is to say, comfort food to curl into the couch with. Erick, who would noodle through it on his guitar, is all the way far away in Greensboro, NC indefinitely. Sometimes I wish America was smaller so that the people I love didn't have to be so off in the distance all the time.

Magic morsel #25--my eternal band of summer jams.

2010-05-08T09:03:00.000-04:00

I did some star-gazing earlier this week with a friend from work, just drove out to the middle of a field (love that you can do that here) and lay on the hood of her car listening to these dudes. Minus the Bear are far and away one of my favorite bands. Every song of theirs makes me feel like summer and highway driving and the slippage time between day and night. Composed of former members of Botch and Kill Sadie, you can almost hear the hardcore, except they're using their heads full of math and breakdowns to make ambient soundscapes with lyrics about traveling the world and having chance encounters with perfect moments. I am going to stop talking before I make everything they do sound like the plot of some terrible indie film that people like more than they should. Just listen to the song and pretend you're winding up the California coast in a zippy little convertible. It will feel better than right.

For the love of Friday (plus a little magic).

2010-05-07T10:51:00.001-04:00

Today is my day off. From everything. I have work I should be doing, but I'm pretty sure I'm not going to do it. I have things to mail, but I probably will not mail them. Etcetera.

Also, Grössby says I should show you my new hair. I think we can officially diagnose this as an addiction to hair dye. We could also call it my first successful double process in the comfort of my own bathroom. I am strongly inclined to write about it in the area labeled "special skills" on job applications. But then, I am strongly inclined to write a lot of irrelevant things there, like "high pain tolerance", or "lead foot", or "exceptional spatial reasoning".

I am pretty sure that the only thing I am interested in doing (besides video blogging with Cass) is watching my favorite movie of all time, The Fall. No one knew it existed when it was released, probably because it was only playing in New York and LA and then disappeared from the planet, and I try to recommend it to as many people as possible always. Lee Pace is magic in everything. Any film with swimming elephants and silly melodrama that knows it is silly melodrama and frame stories and experimental interludes with string and clay and dioramas and colors to drown in is A-okay in my book. A brief sample:

Le sigh. I am clearly delirious when I have this much time on my hands.