if you build it, they will come.

but if i print the postcards i make, will you buy them?

woolgathering

so i'll sleep,

until i have another nightmare

then i'll laugh, 

until i cry

i'll run away, 

until i get to nowhere

try to live, 

until i die.

.xx.

beak, brine and dirt

what a harbinger of good fortune 

you have come to be

opened my window,

and still, you've only sat upon my sill.

 there was only time for one demonstrative caress 

•

to cleanse the sore, she advised

to rinse, with warm water and salt

eyes gazing up at the ceiling

head thrown back, gargling,

i saw your face over mine

and i spit

•

playing in the front lawn

of this, i have no recollection

i was never a child

only a small woman 

waiting to get big. 

.xx.

I had a dream about being in a very brightly lit version, of a very dark bar I know in my neighborhood. I put my hand behind my back and a shady character I know in real life but a very large bag of cocaine into it and disappeared. I chased after him and gave it back. He came to me again, did the same thing, and said "It's on me." As I looked around the room I noticed every one looked so filthy, playing with these bags of white, crystalized, death. In the dream it actually sparkled. When I noticed my purse vanished, as the crowd emptied into this white hallway, I ran after the group to find a young black and white couple trying to dig through it on the low, I pulled the straps and sheepishly begged them to let go. I fell backwards tugging, my chest collapsed and I was in my bed again. 

How does one get anxiety attacks in their sleep?

crumpled sheets / mounded blankets

Clinging to the edges of the sink, Elisa stood, head hanging, eyes closed. After mustering up the strength to let go of the porcelain, she splashes water on her face. The few vague memories she has of last night aren't really clicking. Who the fuck is that in my bed? The thought alone should have conjured up feelings of panic- but Elisa just shlepped out of the bathroom, down the corridor, back to her room. She's no stranger to strangers.

"Hey," she whispered, to the indistinguishable figure. She walked towards the mound of blankets, and a little louder this time, says "Hey... Umm you're going to have to get going okay? I need to leave for work."

The body stirred and Elisa bent over to pick up the jeans on the floor beside the mattress. As the change emptied from the pockets onto the hardwood floors, the stranger sat up. Elisa turned away, partially because she wasn't expecting such a bold presentation of nudity, but mostly because she wasn't expecting to see a woman.

"Oh... hey," Carolina muttered, tussling her pixie cut as she walked towards Elisa. "Thanks for letting me crash here. I was really messed up when we left the party last night."

The jingling of her belt buckle was not helping Elisa concentrate. What party? At the beginning of the night she'd been at a bar in Midtown with her co-workers, drinking heavily because... well, she was at a bar in Midtown with her coworkers. After that there was a stop at Mullane's on 10th and now she was handing a woman her pants.

"I'm sorry, you'll have to forgive me. I don't quite remember your name..."
"Carolina. We met at Jake's place last night... Oh God. Were you really drunk last night? I wouldn't have come with you." The pace at which she dressed quickened and Elisa sat down.

"Uh, yeah, no it's fine. You're fine. I'm sorry. I just don't really remember any of this. Jake is a buddy of mine from college... I knew he was having something at his house last night but," she chuckled, "I don't quite recall actually going. Did we..?" The idea of it all was stinging her thoughts like ice water through her veins.

"NO. Not at all! You offered me a spot to crash because I was a train wreck. I'm not a lesbian or anything, just a lady in need."

Elisa breathed a sigh of relief. This wasn't the first time she'd woken up with an unrecognizable face in her bed. The last occurrence had not gone nearly as smoothly; she almost wanted to invite Carolina out to lunch.  Ten minutes later when the door clicked, Elisa listened to Carolina's footsteps descend the stairs and arched her back with her arms pressed against the door. Her lower back and hamstrings were thankful, her pounding head and pulsating innards felt quite the contrary.

How long will I be like this? 


"I have to go work."



Creative Writing prompt: freewrite for three minutes on the cliche "ice water in her veins"

intentions to ease

"Birds are so free. They can be on land and up there." She's pointing to the sky with her cigarette and her eyes are barely focusing. This is not the first time I've seen her this way, and I know it won't be my last- but I recognize her point.

"That's why I keep feathers around me all the time; I envy their ability. I want to be that free." In that moment I was bound to the bar, my drunk friend sitting at it and the prospects of spending some time with the gentleman serving us.

Three of the six recessed lights of my room have shut themselves off and he asks if this is a normal thing. I explain that the prior tenant probably installed the lights from the original, singular light source- straining it's power source, causing this to happen. It's somewhere late in the night and he's watching me from my recliner. I pull my typewriter to my bed and begin to record a bit of our conversation onto a postcard. When I finish, I pin it to my wall. I can tell he's comfortable here and it almost feels like he's the first. I have no expectations; I feel really beautiful in front of him.  Actually, I've just felt really beautiful in general lately, which is probably how I landed myself in this moment at all.

.xx.

she keeps passing you by

There was a hatch, in the kitchen that lead to your room. When your parents decided to move to Pennsylvania, you had a going away party. About 40 of your friends showed up, 45 actually, I remember counting. They smoked weed and I left the room. You had a friend in a TOOL hat out front, and I sat with him. We poured salt on a snail and I listened to "Hooker with a Penis" for the first time. I felt guilty about the snail and I loved the song. Somehow watching a directly harmful action turn into a directly harmful result stuck with me. I realize this now, but I'm sure I realized it then. When I went back inside I learned what a contact high was. It was always strange to reemerge from the hatch- I never knew if your mom would be there, your younger brother, your sister. We were in a different realm.

Before THE party, there were parties. The thong pinned to your walls. You were the cool kid. You drove. No one in Brooklyn drove. Forgive me for remembering you as though you don't live, but I don't know you anymore... so you must expect me to consider the you I knew as gone. The only seventeen year old with a sex tape. You were a legend beyond your own years. When it finally happened, you looked right at me and said, "you're not even here, are you?" You were right.

.xx.

It was briefly after September 11th. I was in the shower and I lifted my ponytail in the shower and cut it off. My phone rang, the one with Snake on it- a Nokia. My best friend was calling to tell me that she loved me. "Warning" was playing and it was the first time she'd told me that, also the first time I'd heard it (from someone I wasn't related to). Not that I hear that song often, but I think about that moment in my mother's bathtub every time I hear it. I think of her often, as I don't let go easily. In the video, which I haven't seen since that year, there's a girl who screams in silence and shatters glass. Was it near September 11th? Or did she just call to tell me that she loved me? I remembered the important part nonetheless. The love.

Rewatching the video, she didn't shatter the glass at all. Memories are really over fantasized/falsified versions of reality after all. (But I loved the hell out of her too). I'm flying to California to touch a face I love. It's not the smartest move to make- but as I read the other day, tell someone you love them... to their face.

Remember life, can be, will be, is, good.

to resist is to piss in the wind

The problem with my work is that there is no stability. I have an elongated story to tell. I see things, I absorb them, and I want to tell the story again. I make the most immediate, organic art that I can. I collect because I see beauty in items and then I hope that I can make others see the beauty in those things as well. Everything I do is unfinished, and I hope it remains that way. I hope that I produce art that should be touched. I want everything to decay the way we do- art is not immortal.

 I’m listening to Incubus. I can remember that moment in high school when they became important to me. The only possibility of a straight boy in my school had their CD, along with Hole. It reduced my anxiety. I can remember putting my head onto my desk and just listening. I actually have a memory of waiting outside of their hotel, and Jared Leto coming out and asking who we were waiting for… Cameron Diaz came out soon after and I walked over to her and told her that the “cameras did her no justice.” I got dizzy when DJ Kilmore came down the street. This all happened. So did all of the safety pins, stalking, and floor sitting. Teenagers will sit anywhere.

The sun is beyond up. I’m not done. I’m never done. The glue is drying though. That’s a good thing. There’s a moment, in that room of The Olde that I remember him saying, “Incubus is good, but it sucks that his band is growing as instrumentalists as he is a stagnant song writer.” …in more words or less, this is certainly not a quote (yet, it’s true). But we are all growing at the rate of stagnation. Balance.

(this is a collage I constructed tonight. It's a D&G lookbook and a book entitled "How to be a Woman" published by Hallmark.)

(i stapled books to my floor. i'm an artist. it's inconvenient... being an artist and having books stapled to the MIDDLE of my floor.)

Time is passing. And I keep being reminded to breathe. 

xx.

(of COURSE i'm embarrassed of my interest in Incubus).