Tuesday, January 04, 2005:


one-year-anniversary! the saddest blog is still going on sad...

walker gripped my arm with his characteristic carnivalesque acrobat strength and said "I thought of you alot this Christmas." i could only think the same, peering through his straggly arkansan-bred beard to think about how i still listened to vanessa singing about how she wanted to be friends instead and how this broke him in the best possible way every time i started to feel sorry for myself. how i could never tell him this, how what he thought of me and stolen library books already made it ridiculous to do anything but squeeze his warm rough hand back and promise the zine that i always write but never send. how this was the way it was with everyone in new york city, and i accept that, already knew it from the very beginning one foot off the plane at jfk on new years eve 2004. but that doesnt matter so long as i can stand at the back and close my eyes and feel my own heart beating and these two ears drumming that i almost lost this year. this past year sucked. it sucked so much. the rest of new years eve was as i expected. i didnt say more than was necessary; i stood at the foot of the couch, sometimes stood on top of its smelly arm and danced in my crutches. aaron was boring and long-winded as usual, but its still okay. that's all i ever wanted! and now that i finally have i don't know why it took my a whole goddamn year to get it. all i learned in 2004 was how not to sleep and how not to drink. but alcohol just makes it all so beautiful sometimes: things flash and pop with a shimmer and brilliance you thought were only reserved for those few brief moments before death when life airs its dirty laundry before your dying eyes. as i lay on that hot pavement cooled by the creeping breath of four a.m. on my forehead i thought alot about death, and why i just couldn't admit to myself that i actually kind of like death cab for cutie, they just seemed so coy. i guess its better to focus on the trivial items. but it means nothing, dries up to a dirty crust, a foam about the mouth, all that froth from all those lies, all this wasted used-up prettiness belies some petty desire for recognition, for notoriety before death, for a shot to the heart and you're too late, cuz you give love a bad name. ug i can't even write about this it just annoys the shit out of me. this is my ode to my only friend. if i had an eljay my screen name would have to be sentimentalityskillingme. or chestofdrawers. or fallsdownalot. but see that's an alcoholic reference. there's a myth that's been built up around me, fed by whiskey sours and captain morgan's pirate ships stealing away all my good intentions at the dawn of light. but when its all gone i'm still the same, i'm still the girl from Sunday August 10 2003 and Monday August 25 2003 and Tuesday November 25 2003 when people gleamed in little bits and pieces, dull knives sharpened irregularly and things tumbled around in my brain filling me with sand and marbles in my mouth and i try to reveal my true stumbling secretive shy whispery oblivious self that i am always like inside my own head who does not have to talk so much but of course the sand and marbles in my mouth made communication a moot point. but that's why duude is here. so here's a recap of the girl i used to be and still am, changed but still breathing. paused but still moving. lost but still leaving (heh heh bad weakerthans rip-off, ohmygod i'm going from ripping off nietzsche to ripping off the weakerthans! jeebus).

Tuesday, December 23, 2003: (i was really really sad this day and had terrible phone conversations all day long)
yahweh: the ineffable, the taboo. photographs should have a body since they have no physis. their incorporeality manifests itself in the presence of sounds, sights and smells without substance. thus it must always transubstantiate. when robert smithson's shaky camera skulks the dinosaur bones in the museum of natural history and he layers and breaks beckett's unnameable all over that red landscape, he is asking us to name the unnameable, to committ the last intransigent act of creation: the calling out of yahweh. that too was beckett's one desire, to give body to the ineffable, texture to our transparent needs. w- said the first fall was that of naming. before there was only silence so he spoke the universe into creation. and when yves fell from the rooftop into the ghostly, deadened air and broke all his bones in the fire that he started, this is what his blood must have burned like. borges would call this one, much like his favorite one with the donut, 'de algebra y fuego.

Monday January 19 2004: (this was the culmulation of not having slept for a couple of days and it was soooo cold and i didn't have any place to go and sat on the subway. then i decided to live in a hotel for a few days and then i left new york)
i discovered the portable galaxie 500 and lucy dreams for baku the day after the day of the snowstorm. the day of the snowstorm i rode the L train for three hours from 8th avenue to canarsie to 8th avenue and back again. it hadn't been this cold in one hundred and eleven years. there was one other person in my car who did the same thing for part of the time. he saw that i was too tired to ever get up, just like him, and sat down next to me in a bundle of down and fluffy woollen. our knees knocked gently back and forth as the train swayed from station to station. but i was only tired that day, and i think he was tired all his life, that is how he knew to get off at broadway junction the second loop around, our serendipitous rendevous over. i fell for galaxie 500 because i thought the day after the subway that i might never hear again, and i heard them. when i fell for lucy everything had been too crowded and cramped for too long and was now dead, stuffed under the dirty couch cushions of yesterday's news. the first snowfall of the season had turned into a vile disgusting thing for me. being at sasha's helps. so does galaxie 500 and lucy dreams for baku. but momma i'm hurting so bad... if i come home its only because i have nowhere else to go. i feel tightness in my chest and a constant hammer pummeling out my breaths because everyone i can possibly meet is taken off limits already and everywhere i go is everyone i meet. can i imagine two people feeling this way simulatneously and because of each other? how terrible this is. i do not want this and i give, i break. i have no boy, no music, no space. i am going to end this blog in california.

Sunday January 25 2004: (this was the only time i've been back to berkeley since i left! maybe i will go with max who is on tour right and playing with this is my fist at gilman and santa cruz! i miss max)
i'm so tired i can't even recount the fun. but lets recount the bruises: one for each degree over fifty it reached, one for each rock and roll adventure kid: i think theres five now with timmy the new tamborine boy who tells me to stop picking wedgies and start picking up my phone, one for randall's coast guard friend eric who was just rad, one for each fart laid by gross boys in marcos' chicken coop that marvel of fifties engineering, one for each 400 blows, one for every little piece of my broken heart that ben from federation x stole only to gather up and remake whole, one for every scruffy smelly punk that smelled vaguely(but not really) like chris so that i sighed into their armpits as i was being crushed by the crowd, one for each sweet boy in a tie that i saw all in one night: that's you two and me, readyville, and one for eileen for not scoring with the gay/not gay model. i really thought he stayed the night and then i felt incredibly sad but then you rallied eileen wu!!!

Saturday February 14 2003: (i was really really happy this day. i was really really in love. my toes really really curled. i blushed and thought of dirty things during these days by the radiator. i still feel the warmth on my face when i read this post)
sunshine pooled in bright little ponds at their feet. rays of light fell in between the screen of the windowpane like icicles of hail slicing through a brutal winter night. it had been like this all week: summer inside and winter outside. when they lied in bed till two in the afternoon talking about robots and curled their woolen-socked toes in defiance of the pneumatic gods and their falling thermostats, she always wanted to hold his hand. that's all she wanted. but he was plagued by a certain condition of the blustery weather that prevented this consummation. she thought it was the fear of being hurt again that kept him restless and his hands tingly all day long. but who was she? she didn't know anything except that summer in winter is the best time of year to be.

Sunday, February 22, 2004: (i waited for a long drunk time before i finally made this post. it actually was ten in the morning on a sunday and i never fell asleep and all my worst fears came true. i never recovered from this i realize now. as you can probably tell, i was highly delirious and rambled on more than ususal)
i hope nobody made out with anybody else last nite. i hope paul's an anal virgin. i hope everyone kept their fingers clasped firmly and chastely at their sides and their tongues fully in their cheeks and their shoes on. i hope noone's sleeping in unmade beds that aren't their own and there was no belle & sebastian or billy bragg lulling more than one person to sleep at any one time. i hope i hope i hope.

paul didnt come home last nite after his sushi date with mohawk boy. there are many sens staring at me on the computer screen. its ten forty-two. who the fucks up at ten forty-two? so i was going to give this all up, that's why the secrets out c'est finit blah blah blah. new yorks too fast for slow moving blogs and sad slogs and bad bugs ect. plus i guess aimee has even read this thing. which is weird. she was in my very first post. obliquely. she asked me if i had brought michael axelgard to anup's (?) party when anup (?) used to live in that white clapboard house somewhere other than where he(?) lives now. i remember there wasn't very much alcohol at that party. i don't remember much else. i cant reference what all that other stuff i was babbling in my first post was about and about how someone mentioned two unmentionables to me or something stupid. it was a stupid post. most of my posts were stupid. thats why i felt silly and disgusting and wanted to stop. but someone once said to me that it made them feel like running up and down shattuck waving their underwear with both hands and i thought how appropriate that was and how sexy. anyway i scanned down to where i said tag broke my heart because he said i was that kind of girl. what kind of girl? then i remembered about sexpigeon.org. then i read it and on it was a post from a month ago when i went back to visit berkeley. but i only vaguely recall even seeing tag, maybe the time on the stairmaster at the gym and whatnot. for some reason i thought he said brian eno at the time, but didnt' care enough to not pretend to know who brian eno was. anyway, i guess i'm allright with that. i guess i shouldn't list him as my favorite tv show anymore. i do write about nick too much, and how much do i really talk to him these days anyway? and i do love glossy surface things: glossy magazines, shiny fabrics, plastic rainboots, laminated book covers, mod things. but i also love rough things, like yards of twine and a freshly primed burlap canvas that's been crumpled and crinkled so it displays both its whiteness and its not-whiteness like in so many arte povera pieces, and beards and hands that work like my mothers and hair follicles that causes curls and each individual blade of grass giving texture to the grain in my overly exposed highly magnified black and white photographs. i think this prompted eileen to rally for me, or something. eileen's such a trooper.

i thought i needed a paragraph break, a breather, a little line to reorganize. so i blog cuz its so good for a hangover. its like a bloody mary for the brain. for a long while i forgot people even knew about this other than chris and eileen and nick and i think that's it. even sen i forgot. i'm glad paisley and volkert and mehmet have no idea. they would disapprove i think. this was a secret love letter to the people i loved. but now it feels sullied. not because of others, but because it was four in the morning the end of december i'm writing you now just to see if you're better new york is cold but i like where i'm living theres music...so dear tag: you see, this thing with perkins, its perpetually on the skids, its like a very tiring slalom race and my feelings feel sullied since they feels remiss. but when he makes me happy, he makes me very very happy. and when he makes me unhappy, i feel like absolute fucking shit. and i can only hope to do the same for him. and sexy bird was a welcomed punch in the gourd (i stole that from marc b.--i was stoned out of my gourd!! i love marc) that there was an oakland, even if capote spun it out of the tip of his silver tongue and the caps of his golden teeth. i dont mean to sound mean, but its not about you. its about him. this whole thing is about him right now. it might be about someone else later, and i'll read it over one hungover morning after being sad and ask what the hell was i rambling about? and who's tag? and wheres my piping hot chamomile tea? and why is spff's livejournal so much sweeter than mine? how does she get those big exclamation letters to work so well? when do i get to go to jackson's diner with chris again? who else can cut my hair and give me layers that eileen would interrupt my inept attempt at serious conversation about adorno and jazz to drag me to a salon? why do i feel like sticking the word "for" at the end of that sentence? would that sound better? would it be grammatically correct? and so forth.

Thursday, February 26, 2004: (this poem was inspired, dorkily, by Heidegger's Poetry Language Thought essays. He is one of my favorite stylists, the hemingway of philosophers, can make a hammer sound like the most vital object in the world)
what is a hammer?
an arc to cleave?
wood upholding rusted metal
ore ever falling to dust?
vergessen Sie chinoise.
I search for the anvil, and with
it I break thee.

then there were many days of happiness much like the golden halcyon days of the pneumatic gods when i had a bed and we slept in it. the thing that made me finally fall down and cry was this message texted on a telephone: oc tonight? sure, bring over the bbq and fire up the grill on our roof overlooking the future. but the meat was left too long and everything turned rancid and i wasn't even invited to the next and last bbq on my roof. so one can't ever say again that i dont seem that sad because this is the saddest blog that has ever blogged the earth and i own sad like the back of my hand. but really, nobody and i mean nobody even cares and that's the worst when you fret and and cry and sigh into your sheets and walk along the corridors of school all dejected and unhappy like you lost the combination to the locker of life and they dont notice not out of mean-spiritedness or spite but it was just forgotten! i feel so silly. so happy new year. resolution number one: keep my ear!!

current mood: (imagine kitty emoticon with a new room face) new room! with bed! crewtonz is back. first band practice tonite went allright.
current music: belle and sebastian fold your hands child you walk like a peasant (it's good!)/the ergs
current read: our band could be your life, nice and easy crosswords both stolen from kristie.