People only read on airplanes these days.

March 26, 2011 § Leave a comment

I am feeling too many things right now.
“is there a window open?”
(No it is cold in March and the heat hasn’t kicked in. On the drive home I noticed black ice on the hill. A small patch. I hit it just right with my brakes anyway- to feel that hiccup of a skid- making sure it was frozen and not a fake still reflection of dark sky.)

But there is sun. It comes back… watered down pulpy O.J. (Like when you get a continental breakfast and its a croissant and some think watery thing that isn’t quite tang but has the aftertaste of a sweet tart.)

I was in the Borders near my house. Most of the books I wanted were gone or shuffled so well that I’d never be able to find my six of diamonds in that mess. The fixtures were for sale. The bottles of syrup from the cafe were for sale. There was a huge sign taped to the register: “NO. WE DON’T KNOW WHEN WE’RE CLOSING.” I was going to make a joke… but didn’t have the energy to be THAT asshole when I saw the cashier’s face (flared nostrils, seven o’clock whimper). I purchased: Octavio Paz, McCarthy, Irving, Edna St. Vincent Millay -stuff like that, discounted.

A good friend is clouding off to Paris tomorrow. For two months. I know a lot of people—- but I really know this person. It makes me feel weird that there will  be an actual void. Like this person is too real and too connected to pass off as a phase or blip in my life. Things have simmered down to core nutrients lately. No, just bulk. It used to be like a full pot with the fat skimmed. I would sit floating. Now I am congealed and holding the sides like a steel blanket that can’t hug back. I don’t know. Work with me here.

I finished Infinite Jest and wrote a review (which is more like: here is my reaction, opinion, feeeeelings) on I can’t muster to talk about this book unless I’m drunk. Usually when that happens it means that I have an insecure connectivity with the emotional undercurrent of something that seems a little to dense to casually mention. Its always like that when I’m drunk. I want to hug a lot and maybe kiss people I know- but remain a little sarcastic and whatnot. It took me a month to read Infinite Jest. I got really mentally tired at points- but I was never bored. Right now I’m reading Eileen Myles and she doesn’t write. She talks. Talka talka talka. Names, names, names.

(The neon post-its are IJ quotes. A newish tradition that I’ve been doing. I then stick them into my book journal)

I had a conversation once with a friend about where our minds go when we get a bit too drunk. His goes towards the apocalypse. I said mine went towards having a good time and loving people. I like to dance and goof. I melt a little: My whole humor gets melty and I want to get close and personal.

I am having so many thoughts about my family and my body and stupid shit. I’m almost positive that if I’m still unemployed during the summer that I’m going to split my week between here and upstate. I can’t take how much I love it here- but how I’m not getting anything done. I’m burnt on socializing and I’m broke. I’m in a fuckton of pain because I have no health insurance and I’m fucking terrified I’m going to end up in the ER as usual. I keep getting up at whatever time I want- making tea, and then going about whatever slant-time tasks that bring me into the next minute.

I meant to go to B&H and get tons of rolls of film – but then I bought books. I keep looking for a job. I’m either overqualified or need a masters. I don’t have connections because I am not a very good networker. I hate knowing people for the sake of knowing them. If I don’t feel a true connection I feel that I won’t be able to give them anything and that’s not fair. I have real issues sharing my life in a friendly/acquaintance based way.



consortium of bogus genuflectors.

March 13, 2011 § Leave a comment

My bra is on inside out.
I came home at 4:30 this morning: delirious with morning driving. Saw Mill Closed. Detour to the Sprain through the one-road-vein from Ardsley to Yonkers: Jackson Ave. The flooding is the sweetest makers of traffic. Ducks in temporary ponds coast about with impatient buttfeathers, the double yellow under their webbing.

Supine in bed at long last, I curled my sheets like some high thread-count security. Fluid expression of fabric, restless brain misfiring.
One chirp and the sun was rising. Earplugs were rummaged from my bedside inventory and glommed into my canals. Fluffed out hyper orange noise cloggers that come in a plastic globe of 50 mates.

I sweltered into sleep long after the expiry of thoughts. For awhile, I was brainlessly riding the awake state of holding my eyelids shut: something that took all of my brainpower to do. The stimulation of light and books as well as my red possessions and buttercream walls, defaulted my rest state. My mascara thickened lashes glued together and caged the menaces into the default pink of membrane.

The day had the lit blur of something being smashed in slow motion. I walked through the wind tilted island and the Sound circled around me like I was the circumcenter.

Beyond details of various states of dress and seltzer consumption—- the day consisted of the confusing stagnation that happens when you read too much and look up—-expecting to be somewhere else because of all your mental progress.

I don’t have enough energy to get drunk downtown tonight.

Harvey Milk is playing tomorrow at Union Pool and I plan to enter that black hole fearless of coming out incomplete- or with parts strewn about, linked by DNA only.

(Right now a seagull is being slaughtered at midnight outside of my window. This is so uncommon that it is unnerving. Are there large animals of prey who take down seagulls at midnight?)

I know a great vending machine around here where you can get a coke.

March 5, 2011 § 1 Comment

Daily Dose:

Up-up with back tingles that border on spasms. I still haven’t replaced the shade I ripped from my window so by about 11 am the light strikes my face with a magnifying glass’s intensity. Everyday I wake up and remember my 9 to 5 jobs. Remember waking at 7:30am?
I then place my long hair over my eyes as a sleeping mask and roll on to my back for a good half an hour.
(Also: everyday I wake up thinking I should replace that fucking shade for ten dollars. Part of me is scared that if i clothe the window then I’ll sleep forever.)

If I wake up before noon I watch at least 5 minutes of the View for the chitterchatter tvhum. It swoons my blood for “the other.”

For an hour and a half I make and drink as much tea as I can. I alternate between bare feet and worn slippers whose faux fur guts are now gray. (As opposed to the flush beige of their infant months.)

I read “my blogs.” (I now equate the reading of said blogs as “my stories” because of the gossipy and dumdum nature of most of them. Some mornings I can’t handle lit blogs.)

Pick out my clothes. Mini skirt and aqua tights. Nails done and some red lipstick. Boots.

Crisis call from a redheaded workaholic Manhattanite.

I read. Stall.

Get dressed. Feel accomplished for wearing something other than sweats and Uggs. (I rallied against those so hard initially. Now look at me. Suburban loopdie loo.)
Throw on some rings and my watch. (Hey look! I care about the time!)

Get into the car. Tape deck that mother fucker to the ipod. REVREV I’m off. Construction at the Pelham Bay Bridge- Take Hutch South to I-95 South and beast off onto Westchester Ave. Bypass Buhre. Careen into a perfect patch of concrete perpendicular to the Middletown el stop.

Train train. All of it reading end notes. Start off all empty in my teeth marrow. Somehow time sorts itself into the losing center of a sinkhole when I’m reading. Not in that corny way— more in the “there’s a hole in the boat and we’re gonna drown faster than we can bail sorta way.” This bothers me. I crawl inside books and they breathe slowly through me and when I “come to” my breath is catching up my life to my mind.

I walk over to the CUNY Grad center. Wow. First time there. Impressive. Ionic columns I think? I don’t look at the tops because I’m running late. I did a great project on columns once in the 5th grade.

“Where is the such and such room?” I ask the bored guardian of the elevator bank.”GETHTHEFUCKOUTAMYFAVKMREL” she replies. “UH, EXCUSE ME?”
“THEE ELUHVATUH TO THE NINTH*” she speaketh in excited hisses.
*”tuh tha left”

but the seats are full. I swing around in front of the dais and politely ask a Neil Gaiman (but less persuasive) looking man if the seat is taken.
He ushers me in. Two minutes later I regret sitting next to him. I don’t like the way he crosses his legs. Usually I’m equal opportunity—but he smells like a manufactured dusk meadow that someone has added witchcraft herbs to.
I am behind a girl who nods constantly at the speaker.
Stop the nod.
I regret coming 10 minutes after listening to the archivists go on. I decide reinserting myself into an academic environment too early has fouled my senses and blunted my creative urges. Or maybe it has done the opposite. Maybe all I want to do is write. All these 45-62 year old interesting necklaced and tweed farting folk. I need to get the fuck out. I’ll write my hard drive into my will.

They are shilling for stuff. The book release is the second half of the program. FUCKIT I say and slip out—
On the elevator: two women talking about research quotes in a hands-on context. The valuable nature of interviewing hard-to-reach people (I am thinking Africa or the homeless or some equally well intentioned outreach stuff. These safari-white women give that yogic impression of searching for their centers and absorbing peoples woes… churning out experience butter and looking to slather it into social work and published reviews and stats that earn them validated rights to traverse the earth as being people in NEW YORK who CARE. I am unsure how I come off saying this. But I hated their “terms” and then changed my mind and loved them. I have been trying to withhold judgments regarding others lately. Good to let this out.)

I pass a Hello Kitty store on 33rd street. I take a photo with my 35mm Olympus XA. I know I will not see that photo until the roll is finished and I scan it. I am using expired 800 speed film—so the outcome is dicey to begin with.

I get a phonecall and put down my coffee mug because I must have two bags with me (if toting books) and am unable to shuffle everything correctly. Or juggle.

I enter the subway, forgetting about the mug.
I realize I don’t have it as I stand in front of a person who I don’t see. I see all of their possessions jumbled into a seat into a clothing/accessory conglomerate which is when I smack the side of my head.

Because I have left early and have nothing spectacular to do (with no intention of taking the effort to plan anything), I immediately resolve to buy another mug the instant I get off the train.

A child is blowing a whistle over and over again. Her mother and her sister are talking over it. I wonder if I am the only one clenching my teeth a little.

I unman the 6 train, hop in Lucille and get on the Hutch. Everyone is going so slow. I am in the fast lane going 60. GAH. I try to relax. Usually shit doesn’t bother me but tonight I have a coffee mug to replace and nowhere to go which makes me agitated.

I pull a really risky left turn in front of oncoming traffic and bolt into the Target parking lot. I feel better.

The hum of the Target relaxes me. Everything is on shelves and the grocery aisles are pleasing in particular. Things have price cuts. People are grabbing, conversing, socializing. Doing a routine. I pluck my soup and go to pay for it and my coffee mug. I replace the one I lost with the same make and color sans handle. I am clearly ok with everything. Most of the time I am not into the spending aspect of consumerism as it pertains to my wallet. Like any American who likes yellow cheese and old Dodge Darts, I find the lull of supermarkets and the colorscapes of retail as a sort of perverse art gallery.

For some reason I overshoot my parking place when going home. My mind talks to my hands, talk to the wheel, talk to the car, the road, and so on. I circle a distant echo empty parking lot, absorbing the waning bass thump of a particularly bad workout song. Back at my parking spot on a side street…everything has a peculiar stasis, resolve. I get to my mailbox and don’t remember the walk there. The elevator is not on call and I enter onto the hardwood floor. The clunk of my boots reminds me to take them off. I unravel everything in my arms and make some soup.

Selected February photo summation.

March 1, 2011 § Leave a comment

Check out this first photo. I didn’t mess with the color or anything. It really just burst through an invisible blue veil somehow.

Olympus XA 35mm: Packing for Beverly, MA.

Olympus XA 35mm: Spring Street Station


Perfect cups and showy peacock feathers. (Thank you Morgan)

When I eluded to reading a massive book. This is the one I was talking about. IJ by D.F.W.

Using any tense of the word “thrum” is like noticing distinct and attractive features on a guy who only you can see.

This happened. Oh well. A mere blip. Kind of funny when you think about it.

Wild eyed lions watched over my throat scum state today. Almost didn’t make it, save the tea.


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