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Wednesday, February 10th, 2010
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12:42 am
I just wrote and accidentally lost the longest thing. it was one give stream and it's not coming back.
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Tuesday, February 9th, 2010
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8:53 pm
The sky is glowing pink. The miles and miles of light reflecting off the snow clouds like a thick, warm blanket overhead.
As I write this, the first white flakes are coming down.
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8:13 pm
You know you're doing all right when your statements in class make people cry out,
"Yes!" as though thrust into an abrupt orgasm.
This always seems to happen in my literature courses. I've got your number, Joyce.
Holy shit. I just found a bag of crack on the sidewalk. A good amount. Someone's going to have a bad night when they realize their dinner fell out of their pocket.
This reminds me of the moment before school. I passed one of the everyday qualifying exams of being a new yorker: I ignored a persistent person for the length of a city block. I don't know why he kept asking on me, "Sir? Sir? ...sir? Sir? Sir?! Sir! Sir!!" as I walked away. I did not have my headphones on: which is a large neon sign that says, 'Thank god I can't hear you right now' No. I specifically ignored him for the duration. Why? Because I have somewhere to be, and because people who are trying to help you give up before people who want something from you.
The student and the acolyte have something in common: the mystery of initiation. The suspicion of mystery pervades the end of childhood, when you realize the adults have lowered their voice to prevent you from hearing their conversation. The student wears this doubt like a tattoo:
Does the initiation ever end?
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6:08 pm
Oh, fuck. All of my writing to this point is post-modern and I'm writing a modernist novel. If it sells they're going to call it 'The New Modernism.' Which is just nightmarish.
Modernism means I a) believe in something, which is never, ever cool, and b) there are a dozen Swedish people sitting in this coffeeshop. Which is freaking me the hell out. All blonde and wearing big, black eyeglasses. No, wait. b is) means I'm still thinking in small, tight spirals.
My Modernism lit teacher just told us we should be watching 30something. Now we're dissecting The Rachel Zoe Project, and he just said, "and I don't care for his hair." And now he's telling us about Ray Romani's new show and how he cries a little bit at the conclusion of each episode.
God, I love this school.
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5:02 pm
Smile like the devil every time they point a lens at you.
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3:08 pm
My school's email has been down until today, so I got everything now- including the email that says tomorrow's classes are all cancelled because of snow. I hope to hell my tattoo appointment is still going to happen.
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Monday, February 8th, 2010
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10:38 pm
The river is frozen, and the ferry is smashing through thick blocks of ice. Crunch, crunch, I can feel the impact through the frame of the boat.
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6:36 pm - revenant
I look out the window. There is nothing there. The night is a dismal sea, and its stillness ends below the glass that keeps me in the real world. There are hills, and when it's warm the hills are covered in green glass that shows the warm wind whistling through it. Countless birds chirping and fluttering through the trees beyond the hills. It is not warm. There is no grass. The trees are beyond the night. Tonight there are no hills, just the outline of the window, lit by the candles.
A slow, crunching snap echoes from afar, something thick breaking, like a ship wrecking. A man screaming, screaming. The sound of timber aching into pieces. These sounds melt into a shuddering moan, subsumed by something deeper, two long tones emanating from the blind night.
The sound dissolves into one solid note. The deep one.
I wait at my window. There is no moon. But a piece of the darkness is moving. Something small. It flickers, and I can see it is not small, but far away. A piece of the night growing larger in approach. I stand transfixed. It is walking, a large dark shape moving on all fours, and getting closer it is getting larger and it is quite large and darker than the night around it. It steps up to the house, close enough for me to see it is dripping sloppily. It has no eyes, but hunches there.
I open my robe, showing it the black circle above my left breast. It shows me it's teeth, terrible, shiny, several rows of jagged, broken teeth, and blood oozes slowly from its jaws. The thing is smiling. At me. It smiles because it is my heart.
Lurching forward in a bow, it ejects several wet objects onto the dead ground between us: a man's hand, a broken rib, a mauled boot.
Now I know why it's so large. It's doing this more and more. It smells my satisfaction, and gallops away, thump-thumping off into the sea of night.
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Sunday, February 7th, 2010
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2:11 pm
That's it. I hit the wall. I'm reading Nancy Siraisi's 'Medieval & Early Renaissance Medicine' and I had to restrain from launching it across the room. I'm sick of academia. Should I take all writing and literature courses for the rest of my time at this school, just because I have a modicum of talent there? Does it matter? There's nobody to talk to about this. There is no direction whatsoever, the compass is spinning, spinning as if poisoned by magnetic interference.
I'm so fucking tired.
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12:01 am - nihilsm. the non-musical adaptation of the Chinese menu
Starring 'remember when it meant something? that was neat', 'cleaning the master's quarters', 'catastropic debt' and other assorted inedible classics.
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Saturday, February 6th, 2010
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1:57 am
Insomnia. Wordless. waiting. work in four hours.
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Friday, February 5th, 2010
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3:05 pm - The heart knows the way
You go where you have to, to survive.
Just remember you don't have to stay anywhere forever.
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2:20 am - you don't want to live in my crime scene.
this insomnia is talking me apart. two days' missed work this week.
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Thursday, February 4th, 2010
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7:04 pm
I've heard the rumors. I've seen the videos. I don't care if Lady Gaga has a penis. I'd still fuck her senseless. She's as weird as Marilyn Manson ever was, and quite possibly stranger. It takes a brilliant mind to remain that weird and relevant in any genre, much less pop music. And yes, I think sex with her would be some crystal meth/lsd carnival, with floating feathers and swinging chains, a sweaty, perfumed, breathy marathon with blackouts and strange stains.
One week until my appointment with Horisei. Near as I can tell, he's the most senior tebori artist in nyc. I'm paying a little extra for the hand-poke, and he only speaks some English; but he bowed deeper than I've ever been bowed to, and he knows what I want. A thousand wounds, black ink and blood turning the space above my beating heart into something completely incomplete.
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Saturday, January 30th, 2010
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12:56 pm - sketching
Dosed
I carry a jar of flies
in my chest
where they sing fly songs
and they whisper fly thoughts
and tell me the language of scars
I can read about ghosts
like me,
they see the dead in you
from far away
I see the dead in me.
You try to forget
but your memory's too strong
holding on as long as it can
It no longer matters if it's gone
What was once your private smile
you'll spend years to erase
You'll wake up as someone else
in someplace strange
to outrun what was taken from you
Catching yourself in the mirror,
look at those eyes that say
"I wish I could hurt you."
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Friday, January 29th, 2010
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4:42 pm
Demons and Devotions: the hours of Catherine of Cleves, at the Morgan Museum through May 2.
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1:34 pm
16 degrees and wind. This is getting-raped-in-the-basement weather.
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Thursday, January 28th, 2010
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11:07 pm
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7:35 am - written under the influence of prescription drugs
Ah, lunesta. It takes an hour to work, pulling you down into the soundless, drowned deep after developing a coppery taste in the throat. It's inexorable, and it means 'Your ride is here.'
Then you're gone. Do you dream, with lunesta? I doubt it.
You wake up most of the way, moving around the morning routine in no danger of falling asleep, but prone to taking a wrong turn in what has become the labyrinth of your morning. Through a lunesthetic haze, your brain curiously places the bowl and glass on the counter. Then, you remember the cereal goes into the bowl, and you fill it to a certain limit. Replacing the cereal box, you find the milk and apple juice. Careful application of each liquid to its appropriate vessel. Put the cartons away. Now eat, and don't stop to think or you will forget to start again.
The sun wakes up paralyzed in a corner of the murky, indigo gloom. The air smells thick, and wet, and cold. You've gotten dressed in order, tied your shoes with dumb hands, and into the commute you go, on automatic. You're with the body, and it knows where it needs to go, but the mind is gone. It feels close, but it's not all there. The water is splashing the front of the boat, but you're behind the closed door, and it doesn't make a sound through the glass.
The brain says, "you go on, and you better be okay. i'm over here, i'm watching but i'm quiet."
"But brain," I ask, "How do I know you're okay?" The brain says,
"shhh. you're still here, aren't you?"
Now it's snowing on me. I'm numb, but warm.
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Wednesday, January 27th, 2010
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7:53 pm
Control on absinthe. Ow, my head. Ow, my heart.
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