Wednesday, October 29, 2014

Cobblestone and Upward Steps

My friend Tony and I are proud chickens when it comes to scary movies. Our thing, over the years, has become picking the scariest, and usually cheesiest, film that is playing in theaters, and to go see it in the middle of the day.  Today we went to see the movie Ouija.  There was no one else in the theater at first.  Later a long haired stranger sat a number of rows behind us.  Needless to say during the film we both shrieked, I used my "waffle hand" technique in which I watch the movie from behind latticed fingers, and Tony strategically, yet stoically, closed his eyes at the unbearable parts. Our comic relief to each other, which never gets old, is to, during the scenes where you know someone is lurking but haven't seen them yet, put our fists in the air as if we are gripping an invisible steering wheel, pretend start the car, and "drive off".   As it was Ouija, there was also periodic miming of chucking the spirit board out the imaginary fucking window.

In any case a great time,  as usual.  He's someone I learn a lot from- especially about film and sci-fi, which I don't know very much about.


I didn't know that Bram Stoker wrote short stories. I've been curious about Stoker ever since I read that Junot Diaz uses Dracula in his classes.  Fascinating. I've never read the book, but aim to, now.  This afternoon, in a break to clear my head in order to be able to do my homework, I listened to Bram Stoker's The Judge's House as I cleaned my room.  It's a pretty solid story that seems to have a liking of the adjective "baleful".  All of it is online to listen to,  here.  It's not too long and although the guy who narrates it has kind of an over-the-top creep-oid voice,  I still recommend it.  Give it a listen. 

That's what I've got, for now.  Keeping my eyes on the prize and heart lifted.  The days of ghosts are upon us, and it is only a matter of days before their fingers are upon my shoulders. Memories and loves and vapors, abound.

Be well; be loved~


(image: The Distance by Cornelia Parker via blackleather tumblr)

Sunday, October 26, 2014

The Wax and Slide of Lipstick

Today is a day of study.  Thick, wool charcoal thigh- highs and an equally thick black wool pencil skirt.  Bright yellow heels. One of my favorite things is the peek of leg that flashes from the slit in the back of my skirt as I walk.  So perfect for the library, although I do have to pause sometimes in the stacks to tug them up: I ran out of the house without a garter belt to keep them up easily.  They aren't too slippery, though.  Thick, tight wool tends to cling in the good way.

All in all, things feel good this morning: I keep warm and bundled all while still flagging femme librarian with a slash of pink lipstick and neatly brushed hair.


I've been reading quite a bit about sexualities I hadn't been aware of before thanks to a blogger and person on Twitter that writes a ton of essays and articles I've been enjoying as of late who identifies as ace.  People who identify as "ace" (asexual) and various types of identities within that. One general resource can be found here, but what has been interesting me the most are the identities that fall under the ace umbrella, which includes experiences such as gray asexuality, demisexuality, etc. Check out the glossary section of that last site. (Lithromantics, for example, are people who experience sexual attraction, but do not desire for the attraction to be reciprocated.) 

I've been seeing these terms and expressions of experience more and more lately.  It's a good idea to be aware of them as it impacts everything from health care to casual conversation and is just important information to be aware of, respect and assumption-wise.  I have to say that in reading the information, it really has made me think about my own sexuality and the sexuality of people in my life. It's made me think more about the distinction between sexuality, attraction that is not sexual, concepts of the "romantic" in general.  As a general statement, I always think it's good to get more complex about experiences, instead of getting more simple, no matter what is being discussed or framed.  It encompasses more people, shows more respect, and actually ends up assisting us in learning more about ourselves and our world. 


With that, I am off to get things done and to become undone.

Be well; be loved; be ready to do what is necessary.

(Photo: Jourdan Dunn photographed by Alasdair McLellan, 2011)

Saturday, October 25, 2014

The Clicks of My Teeth and the Smile of My Lips Around Them

The wind is whipping around like crazy, tonight.  I love it.  I've thrown my bedroom window open and the strength of its force is pushing the blades of my box fan as if it were on top speed.  The air smells like ice and spearmint, and it is exciting.  I don't mind that I have clothes on that leave my legs, arms, and shoulders exposed.  The contrast of the warmth of my body hitting the cold of the air is incredible.

Let the games begin.


My reading and writing and search for new ideas has been continuing. I will admit to loving Twitter because of the brains and ideas I gain insight from.  Not just of world news, but of perspective and experience.  People who have an experience unlike mine- racially, class-wise, gender-wise, citizenship-wise, sexuality-wise and/or on and on~ put thoughts and perspectives out into the world that are crucial in and of themselves.  Crucial, also, in me learning, un-learning, re-learning...It truly offers continuous portions of knowledge and insight to grow from and understand.

Okay, I'm not talking about if the only people I were to follow were those of Hollywood la-la Land-- you get my point.  And that *is* my point:  We get to curate who and how and what we pay attention to.  Need it be said that some of the most relevant things, current event-wise, anyway, are almost always left out of U.S. news sources, yet flooding independent and/or international sources. Yes, I am embarrassed to say the verb or noun "tweet" out loud, but I still have to say that I love Twitter.

Moving on:

Life, its adventures, and the blue sheath dress I recently procured are currently
and indeed



(image credit: Behavior of Waves, Berenice Abbott, 1960)
(experientially: I wrote this entry, as I am now, deciding to withstand the cold and violence of the wind lashing through my room until I have finished, entirely, every aspect of this entry.  Enjoyable to its depths. Here is to the denials of comfort so that we may see what they will pull from us: To be continued...)

Sunday, October 19, 2014

The Codes of Spines

I have been reading, obsessively.

Latin American theater, theory and analysis of theater, and fabulously indulgent tales of gumshoe mishaps and glory.

La noche de los asesinos, José Triana.
Vejigantes, Francisco Arriví.
Decir Sí, Griselda Gambaro.
The Theater and its Double, Antonin Artaud.
Books 1-3 of the 21 book Stephanie Plum series by Janet Evanovich.

I went to the library on Friday in hopes that Havana Blue, by Leonardo Padura Fuentes, had arrived from the library it was shipped from.  The man at the Information Desk told me I had no such luck and asked me if I had been notified that it would be there.

"No," I said, "I had seen that it was shipped a few days ago and thought I'd ask since I was here.  I'm being a bit of a book stalker."

"As well you should be." the man replied, and smiled.

I smiled back.

The secret language of library workers will always make me feel that I am part of the most glamorous and unturned rock in the world.


I feel directed.


Things that felt uncertain are shedding their ambiguity. Fool's gold is being revealed; rusted pennies are showing the worth in their years.

Come with me.

I have a tale to tell you.

I have a feeling

you have one to tell me as well.

I could only be so lucky

but chances are

I will be.


(image: by Nancy Wilde via blackshivers Tumblr)

Thursday, October 9, 2014

Operating Table

Back on track.

It's 6:45am and my heart is pounding from the run to catch the bus. It's packed.  People are freshly showered, or at least freshly nicotined. Some, both.

I'm sitting now.  Being shimmied from left to right with the travel- in the back of the bus where the staring crew sit.  May as well join them: I always prefer honesty and crassness to held breath and niceties.


Last night I had my favorite kind of conversation: At night, on the phone, underneath my covers, with someone I care about who is far away.

He called me on his break from the place he used to call me from when we were dating and we laughed about the déjà vu.  He is working there again.


A bit of time before my destination.  I'm sitting in the cafe that a dear friend used to work in, now, reading a letter from her that has been sent from states away. The morning is still just beginning to move.

I am fortunate to have such love in my life.  To have letters and phone calls and people who are brilliant and gruff and funny.

I feel proud and giddy and throb-hearted to be a part of a hodgepodge of people who all, still, recognize the importance of, and inject sincerity in, those words we add to the end of conversations from time to time:

Call me if you need to talk to someone.


For now, I wrap all of this around me.  There is a thick fog I have been watching from the windows of this cafe that the buses periodically cut through.

It's time to go out and enjoy it.

Be well; be loved,


Wednesday, October 8, 2014

Con(cave) Confetti

Sometimes there is a way that a person can love you that has nothing at all to do with who you are.

It's lonely-feeling.

It's that day when you were a child and you wanted to die but, instead, had to walk home from school, watching your feet shuffle gravel as you gripped the shoulder straps of your backpack.

Sometimes it doesn't take an entire group of people to make you feel left out and unwanted.

Sometimes it can be just one.


My friends are wise. They say things that make me want to quote them.  Here are two:

"I think because I'm so open maybe people see that as strength as well, so people don't expect me to have feelings about particular things and the reason why someone like you and I are strong is because we allow ourselves to be sensitive and it's totally O.K.  It's unfortunate that people tend to misread it and either cater to their expectations of a strong person or tend to walk on eggshells around strong people. Instead, they should see it as a site of comfort and they should just relax, you know?"


"The notion people have of capturing, taming, and training the wild cat inside is so normal, yet SO TIRED.  I feel I've been in that dance 1,000 times before. Find a new ploy, hunters! We have grown tired of your customary games."


I've been thinking of depression, lately.  And wondering if people can sense it.  When you are using every bit of your energy to keep your heart and organs in place, to keep the dark from casting visibly  across the color of your eyes: Do people know?  Or do they just think you are tired?  Daydreaming. Thinking.

I've been pinned with many awards of stoic beauty and seriousness all the while dying and feeling that my face was going to slide off.


To the people who have "Laugher is the Key" bumper stickers like the one I saw tonight, on my way home:

I read this and I just hear a more fitting quote thread through my mind.

People kill me these days
There's keys in their eyes
but they're locked from the inside.

(last quote by Blake writing for Jawbreaker)

Monday, October 6, 2014

The Golden Ticket in Your (Own) Pocket

It's past 2 AM and I'm in a bikini that I inherited from someone I used to date. I'm in a bed with white sheets, and my legs are sloppily wrapped around the pillow that holds my laptop. The light is illuminating my skin in a way that looks cool, and below me in the alley outside my window, someone periodically calls out 'Heeeeeey' to no one in particular in a way that is as intoxicated as it is friendly.

Tonight is one of those nights that inspiration injects itself into me at the most inopportune times and I end up going on a bender of art and wonder. It's what most of tonight has consisted of. I'm not complaining.  I'd rather it be that than suddenly being stuck with the desire to become a stock broker or CEO.

I read something a friend of mine has been writing- just a daily journal of sorts about her life.  I've known and not-known her for a long time.  Technically, it was her brother I knew first. But that's besides the point.

But here's the thing:  She completely changed her life to be happier than she was before in the course of two years.  And, while I won't get into the details because-who cares- it's inspiring.  It's inspiring to know that one can hate the shit out of their life, or worse- be just above hating it so they don't even realize they are miserable- and then BAM- in a series of events started by one middle finger flick to the first domino, throw everything they thought they wanted into a garbage can full of shit flames and somehow (in her case drastic decisions and hardcore routine) rise from it again with a completely different life.

And one they are happier in.

It's fascinating and weird shit.


Something is about to drop or explode or radically change in my life, and I can feel it.

It's the tension that happens just before an anticipated slap, or the burst of heartbeats that happen just before you see the person you've been waiting so long to see. It's all of these things.

Sometimes it is just a matter of perspective and approach, and other times, it is just not giving a single fuck about what anyone has to say about what you do.

Most of the time?

It's all of the above.

Be well; be loved; be exactly who the fuck you want to be, and never underestimate the power of believing in yourself and the ability to rise again.


Sunday, October 5, 2014

Burn Brighter (Internal; External)

It's morning, technically. On the cusp of afternoon.  My eyes are burning, slightly, from not wanting to have given up my bed, but, alas, here I am:  Showered and dressed and typing away.  Coffee almost finished; the crumbs of some sweetly made surprise banana crumb muffins at my side.

I've been thinking about friendships lately.

How they arrive in our lives, how the are tended to, how they flourish, dissolve, or become stronger based on conflict-to-deeper-understanding.

What is it that makes our friendships?  Is it shared experience? Convenience of location? Bonding through tragedy?  It can be all and none of these things. 

I was thinking about the at-risk-youth program I was placed in when I was a kid so as to  not be thrown out of high school and how, if I took anything from it, I took the importance of compassion and of building across and within difference. The importance of reaching towards connection with all of the other unwanted-s, castaways, don't-belong-heres, don't haves, and simply, the leftouts.

Because this has never just applied to "at risk youth" (whatever that means, and whatever privileges are involved in even being recognized and labelled as such): It applies to almost everyone at every moment for shifting reasons dictated by a rich, white, cis-gendered, Christian, college-educated, English speaking, citizenship-having, heterosexual, and on and on -supremacist world.

Yesterday, in reading my most recent enjoyable-junk-food detective novel, I came across a sentence that spoke to an aspect of friendship and how they begin and evolve that is so basic and true that it escaped me.  Escaped me even when it resonates down to my bones and their bare, fundamental aches, at times.  The passage is describing three people, so seemingly different and contradicting in their values, and reads:

It's funny how people form alliances around the common denominator of simply needing a friend.

be well; be loved,


(image: Feuerblume by Otto Piene (1966))
(Sentence from Two for the Dough, J. Evanovich)

Friday, October 3, 2014

I Will Have You Sideways

October begins.

It is the month I love the most, and the month that causes me the most trouble.

Correction:  It is the month I cause the most trouble in.

Which is not to say I start shit or start slamming myself atop cop cars, it is simply a question of mischief.  Spray paint and heels, Converse and hoodies.  I've been doing simple stencils and painting art to be shared in the city.

There is the smell of campfire and sex mixed with crisp air, and I am in love.

It is, indeed, my favorite month.

A list of my pleasures as of late would include:  The tall, red candles in my bedroom, lipstick, continuing the indulgence of cheap detective novels, using crayons instead of highlighters and enjoying their waxy smell and comforting colors, the feeling of being Harriet the Spy, the smell of cigarettes and sweat of the person I want, being a gentleman, wearing the smell of the forest upon my neck, not being a gentleman.

Today someone offered me the quote of the month by saying, "Every time I talk to you I end up wanting to listen to sexy music."

I take it as a compliment, and an hilarious one at that.

Everything is exactly where it needs to be,

all but a selfish wish to have a particular well-dressed school girl*

living just a tad bit closer in proximity

so that we might smoke cigarettes (I'd fake)

wearing thick berried lipstick

and trade thick, knitted leg wear.


(*= And by "school girl", here, I of course mean "well tuxedo'ed lad of many trades".)