Thursday, February 17, 2005

Must tiptoe around house due to cranky sleepless roommate. My carpal tunnel narcoleptic booty-driven self must needs to piss on the page, desires to fill it till it overflows and capsizes, ever do that in a canoe or kayak in a leech-filled lake with shivering scrawny twits who tell you you're special and that you need a reason to be cool, the fuckers now fat married done with pot and probably healthier than you, sucking the cocoa butter scent off sorority chicks and the pulse retards off the stairmaster baby slimming on selzer fraid of canines and wiccan hollows that effervesce with bald bird-like road unrolled yet yolked nautilus-style to the verse indeterminate. Too old to give in, a beginning groan gears for plinth found on Monday burp birds and American oat crows in the master's earwig float and a stand demands at his wish and his stand began. The three old friends wouldn’t hear father on road during the month went three meet and the rinse wigged begins to swill timber and unhinge middle falcon villains since the whispered coaxing will spoil a burgeoning phantom career here

no better time to rant than now.

dehydrated, perched on my milkcrate deskchair eating cheap yogurt for dinner because I haven't gotten paid yet and anyway who has time or energy to cook? or wander in search of decent vegetables? I have 5 more student papers to read and write comments on and I know this sentences sucks but it's my blog and I can cry and say fucking sucks and end a sentence on is. If I want to so fuck you. If you dont want to read it then go look at some cock sex.

I have learned one thing from teaching: the students who talk in class are the worst writers, and it's the quiet ones who are imaginative. Joy. No surprise, really, but joy all the same. I find myself making fun of students as I write my comments. Like, one girl wrote "till" meaning "until" but I wrote "as in till the corn, pa?" Fucker asked fer it.

I have this quiet one who is writing this kickass paper on the language of creation and misogyny, I wonder if she's a dyke but doesn't yet know it.

Now G has hurt her neck too, copycat. I can't even be original in my pain. Oink. I'm so miserable and pathetic. I skipped class to finish these papers and I'm still not done. I feel like hell, breaking out and growing a fine grad-student-butt sitting all day, ruining my eyes, And the fucking rain and closed computer labs and cute coeds wearing yellow boxers that say in bold black letters the name of this school across the butt.

But I'm not bitter and horny, no, I love my meagre salary because I'll do anything for my students and to kiss ass at school, like get there early and bring in all this extra work I write in my spare time. I sit in the Natural History room and bask in the light of the iridescent Brontosaurus and enormous gorilla and think of Bonobo monkeys as I let my brain and hand flow with the pen.

I wanna smoke. Or ram my head into some fluttering red silk. Two years ago I was a Matador for Halloween, pink fishnet socks and tiny jacket with epaulets and cape taunting the ladies. Last year where was I. Oh yeah, stuck on the A train between Jay and High in Brooklyn, it had run over someone. We all had to evacuate from the first car, which just reached the next station. And everyone on the platform was in Halloween gear, bloody surgeons and nurses, lots of them, and this was a month after 9/11, so that made it all the more hideous and surreal. I was late to superfictobio. What a fucking lame excuse. But after I went to nevernever in Jack & Peter's garden where I roasted something evidently delicious and charred on an open fire, yep, in Alphabet City Manhattan. Damn I miss the crazy energy there.

Maybe I'll never write fiction. Then again Denis Johnson wrote poetry before he wrote fiction.

I'm uninspired, that's what. I'm not in love, nor am I attracted to anything but myself. I smell good. I may have bad breath but I won't know, all I can taste is sour yogurt. My cat's even rejecting me. There are no pears for me to pick. My basil's dying. I need new boots, preferably cowboy boots. I'll never find any clothes here. I won't have a car in a few months. Someone is treating me weirdly and I don't know whether to spend the time telling her how I feel or if I should just move on. I am crying just thinking about it. Why am I so miserable? I need a glass of wine. I'll steal some of G's. It's all gone. I'm settling with a bud and will take a bath. The only pleasant thing I can summon to mind is the green shooting from my single paperwhite bulb.

Thursday, June 17, 2004

if we’re feeling this good, we ought to have a record of it

I let my misery show. Is that a crime? To not act happy, or friendly, when I don’t feel like it? I have the right to be pissed off and antisocial. Why justify it.

The worst is when someone tells me s/he likes me, and acts all happy to see me, even though we haven’t talked in months. More than anything, I abhor fake people.

I don’t know what I am doing, and I wish people would stop asking me. I need to get away from these people, who are awful.

Every day I think I am going to die. I think it when I cross a street, when I drive my car, when I ride my bike, I think maybe today will be the day.
I also think, when my phone rings at an odd hour, that it will bring the news of a loved-one’s death.

There is a woman here who looks very much like Adele, who died when I was 17. Adele had ovarian cancer. It was diagnosed when she gave birth --prematurely--to a daughter, at the age of 40. She underwent treatment for four years.

I was 13, and shocked. It was the first time I think I began to believe in the indifference of this world. The idea that people die for no reason. Good people.

She was the healthiest person I ever knew. She was a nutritionist, and when I went to her house, as a kid, the snacks she’d give us were rice cakes and other sorts of wholesome treats. She exercised, and she was beautiful, and she died for no reason at all.

And every child deserves to be loved. Then, the idea of God was a given. I mean, bat mitzvah, jewish camp--forget about the way I talked to "God" in nature and "felt things." The one in the books, in schools, the one represented in stained-glass windows and flames, or the one in paintings, who delivered presents to my christian cousins and neighbors--that one never convinced me. But Adele’s daughter did. From the day she came into this world, she knew that bad shit happens to good people. She's one of the smartest kids I know.

there's nothing wrong with needing to cry when it begins to grow dark.

and to consciously bring it on with music, declining invitations, not answering the phone, and when people ask how are you, answering "fine." smiling, even.

hello. can i just say i miss you?

so beat. met with students all day. finished grading their first papers last night. next thursday i will receive nearly 50 new papers to take with me to thanksgiving. what a break.

and before then, i have to complete a paper. in order to graduate.

on top of all that, there is so much going on this weekend, and i can't do any of it.


porn is good for stress. i am swinging by for more in a bit. it's actually making me want to make some myself. it's so DYI.

it's getting really cold. there is no other news. i can't procrastinate. i can't afford it. oh, and i have to perform next week, too. my god. so stressed.

Wednesday, March 17, 2004

and now. i'm thinking i need to make a plan for graduation. like, i need to apply to schools. apps are due soon. the idea of going back to the working world is scaring the shit out of me. i know i am depressed. i want to sleep all the time. but i wake around 4:30 or 5am, in a cold sweat, nightmares about sprung verse and a howling universe. and i have to calm myself down by pretending i am not alone. i feed the cat, i make coffee.

i just went for a long run, one that will make me hurt tomorrow. i doubled my route. today is grey and perfect -- there is a damp, low-lying fog, and no wind, and when i ran by the river and a pond, it was just me and the squirrels and ground hogs. the old crooked trees. it felt like being inside a painting. it felt like central park, except empty. this is NY weather. there were two beagles, howling and snuffling among the rocks. tomorrow i take my cat to the vet. i will probably skip class in order to do my work. i can't believe how much there is to do, and how uncertain it all seems at this moment, how we go on, despite how little it makes sense.

Saturday, January 17, 2004

La Niña de los Peines had to tear her voice because she knew she had an exquisite audience, one which demanded not forms but the marrow of forms, pure music, with a body lean enough to stay in the air. She had to rob herself of skill and security, send away her muse and become helpless, that her duende might come and deign to fight her hand-to-hand. And how she sang! Her voice was no longer playing. It was a jet of blood worthy of her pain and her sincerity, and it opened like a ten-fingered hand around the nailed but stormy feet of a Christ by Juan de Juni."

the word comes from duen de casa, "master of the house," and who has it might often be not homeless, but to borrow a word from an artist (are you reading this?), "undomicile," without a stable home, an internal or external exile, creating, out of pain, and in doing so, healing.

boy have i ever been a crab. i think i know why. because i haven't been writing, or feeling as if i am here to do the work i was meant to do. rather, i've been bogged down by the alarm clock, getting to class on time, and being there for my students. and doing the work that is required of me. doing my job. but i have not been enjoying it one bit. now i have this exam to do and to turn in before i leave town, and i'm (haha) enjoying it. i mean, i love to be a nerd. i just need to make sure i have confidence when i write this thing. it's kind of free, but not, since it's a requirement to graduate.


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