friday twas a discouraging day

Oh, there was a certain perversity to you and your opinions. If I was too opinionated, if I talked too much about one side of something, even something you yourself believed in or loved - foreign movies, for instance, me going on and on about Godard or Fellini or Fassbinder or whomever, you'd scold, "My God, Caroline, love an American movie now and again, won't you? Love a Raging Bull, or Nashville, or something. How about Love Streams? Love Love Streams.

Carole Maso, The Art Lover

letters inspired by a previous letter.

much to say, never enough time, it is raining and hookah is waiting, the inhale will be nice. for now, a few letters from the day and yesterday. letters are literature.

#1

Class, 

Provided is a link to Jeanette Winterson’s short story, The White Room. It is best to read/print it from there for the visual experience, as well. I hope the textual experience this time is pleasurable. I feel its evocativeness produces an aura of sense, that if approached open-mindedly can teach us all some thing as readers, writers and sexes involved with language. So please remember, sense does not solely mean that which is logical or spoon-fed, and a one-dimensional character is revealed though his resistance, all in all contradicting a craft workshop.

My reaction to the email that came Wednesday was split. But overall my reading of it was it seemed to be written on the borderline of genre: confession and apology. I enjoyed the quotes. And since the address was mainly spoken to me I want to make sure each of you know I expect criticism, and was never opposed to it. Criticism will always be inspiration. If anything, I was stunned by how the critique was explicated. I am a sucker for conceptual contradictions, but not contradictions rooted in character. I mean, maybe I am thinking outside the box, but [---] didn’t you say you felt heartbroken and personally had to go up to bat for your son when his teacher told him he should have spent more time on the assignment than his costume. I wouldn’t want to compare stories, but I find it interesting. His story now seems small, but still no less harsh. Life is entertaining. Father sends an email. Student sends hers.

Enjoy reading and hopefully a clearer weekend, 

Chelsea. 

- - "father" did send an email, getting the whole school involved for a meeting over what she had to son. that was the reference. my suggestion: never let silence be your last word. take the chance to speak, so others will have the chance to listen (a very difficult thing to do). - -

#2

I don’t know if I can do that, Parp. It may be too far from the truth for me... seeing as I just booked a ticket to Art Basel. Nothing like an impulsive insomniac. It may put a strain on my anxiety for applications, but hey, it’s already risky my applying and the experience will reflect eventually in my work. 

I hope this is okay in terms of your own plans. I just can’t be sure when I will be able to fly down for it again and it’s being something I have been wanting to see, I had to just think less about the choices and just do it. On that note, Manhattan has been better than ever, or perhaps Me in Manhattan. Ever since I got back from Miami, my mindset has been different, as well as my energy. These are all positives. Thank you for letting me spend that week(+) home alone. I don’t know what happened, perhaps I achieved what I had come for, but sick now or not, I haven’t been as good as I have been recently. 

I love you both and many exciting times are to come, 

Chelsea

PS: I am getting work-shopped tomorrow!

- - art basel alas alas i go - - 

#3 which inspired this letter: 

how about you think about this: come meet me for art basel. i wouldn't mind falling for you in a gallery again. hey!, i think i've been and still am thinking about you.

- - some day, i will collect all my little lovey exchanges. they are quite fun and always special - -

#4 today's best text message exchange:

him - passing hotel giraffe...

me - i need to get back there... sudden urge to break glass... get wild

him - ha! didn't even notice the roses on the bed.

me - of course i did! but, you know, i'm so shy about sensitive subtle erotica.

him - yet so extroverted about revealing your breast to the world.

- - i'm becoming convinced that text messages may inspire my fictional dialogue. there's nothing quite like an exchange that flows, when two people can go off each other's wit and of course, oddity. this is why you don't burn bridges, so to speak, so you can always feel comfortable reflecting on your shared moments and laugh, especially about what seemed serious then. - -

#5 my letter on ridicule:

OBAMA, THE BIKER

This picture may be better than that "Obama Wrap" I got from 6th b/w A&B. Actually, this is definitely better, I love that corner deli but dang, that thang was tasteless. Please make your way to the New York Times today. Obama is in the art and style section. I don’t really think I need to say more. What would the media have done if McCain had been elected and was only considered for his age and recognized for having to do his job? That would have been devastating.

dear student, love professor.

maybe i have nothing to say? or maybe i am saying nothing.

Chelsea:

As always I could be all wrong.

As I wrote on story, I can only retreat from this story with one of two sentiments:

1) I can assume I don't get it, and it is a failure of intellect on my part, and you are lording your intellect over me.

2) You don't understand how writing works, you don't care about me, the reader, about addressing my needs, you are all about you.

I think I'll go with number 2.

That said, it's your writing, your words, your life, and you can only do what you have to do. But I can only be honest and tell you what my response is. I would be doing you no favors if I didn't.

So, I think we should find out what the rest of the class thinks and go from there.

If they responded the same way I did, perhaps we can read the beginning of the story, sentence by sentence, and let you know what the experience is for the reader. 

Okay, we'll do that.

Best.

PS: Why should I trust you with the minutes of my life?

I particularly like how he sailed right into "Okay, we'll do that," as in the decision has already been made, he can predict the fate of my fiction. I am seduced into thinking that if he had to list two sentiments, point 1 and 2, then it was actually choice 1 he felt most. I wanted to throw up after an hour of sitting directly across from each other at the table, him at one head and myself at the other, as if we were in a legal battle, a divorce and he was trying to screw me over all the while claiming it was just the reverse. To quote, "You slammed the door in my face." I guess I should think twice about asking for a recommendation. Joke. Also, it has been extremely disenchanting, half of my professors associated with Columbia have been uninspiring and they have all had to try and make a living as a screenwriter instead. The most disenchanting part is he just missed the whole point, he missed me completely, "you don't care about me". To quote twice more, "This is like an avant-garde piece of writing which is fine, but it's too much work for me, very difficult, a personal struggle, but the language is great" and "What is worth our time? Ulysses?" All I could think was that I wanted to ask the class something, if you are going to reference Ulysses, did it teach you something, anything at all about style, about another way of thinking about fiction? This isn't to glorify me. This is to say it is a constant pull, putting so much of your inside forth, only to have it passed over because it is dense and refuses to spoon feed anyone...shit. This is also to say why I wanted to throw up. When the workshop ended and was allowed to comment, I only had one breath, "I'm glad the work felt aggressive and oppressive seeing as it all takes place in one day and is entirely mental. Isn't it interesting, in letting you listen to how you think, you felt exhausted. It is isn't? Exhausting." I did come close to crying, I know I did silently. I just am drained, it was nine pm and I was done with the workshop going absolutely nowhere. I don't oppose criticism, in fact I expect it and know it is necessary. However, this was different. I felt like I was being attacked for letting feelings be real, for being true to a state of mind. I was still confused, this was fiction (so I made the facts not not real, but unreal) but people still had to feel comfortable and in control, they refused to suspend their disbelief to take a chance. I feel this has always been a heartbreak in literature, in the arts, it takes generations to understand, it takes too many moments after the moment to appreciate. People want linearity in fiction, but in reality they're all screwed up. I felt exactly what I had written: "And a line is passed on on and on, five times attaching to me, let it go, they try harder, launching word-darts bull's-eye, stings, hickey on neck, yes that ridiculous, ravenous." It really was all there in the writing, already said, the time predicted. 

PS: "Chelsea, have you ever spent any real time or energy on writing poetry?" 

EDIT on 11/12: I woke the following morning the above had been written with an email addressed to the class from the professor:

All, but especially Chelsea:

When one begins to be persuaded that certain things must never be done in fiction and certain other things must always be done, one has entered the first stage of aesthetic arthritis, the disease that ends up in pedantic rigidity and atrophy of intuition … Invention, after all, is art’s main business, and one of the great joys of every artist comes with making the outrageous acceptable … Art, at those moments when it feels most like art—when we feel most alive, most alert, most triumphant—is less like a cocktail party than a tank full of sharks.--John Gardner.

Perhaps as one of the older generation, I should preach a little sermon to you, but I do not propose to do so. I shall, instead, give you a word of advice about how to behave toward your elders. When an old and distinguished person speaks to you, listen to him carefully and with respect—but do not believe him. Never put your trust in anything but your own intellect. Your elder, no matter whether he has gray hair or has lost his hair, no matter whether he is a Nobel Laureate, may be wrong. The world progresses, year by year, century by century, as the members of the younger generation find out what was wrong among the things that their elders said. So you must always be skeptical—always think for yourself. --Linus Pauling on acceptance of Nobel Prize, 1954.

I believe the above.

My fear is that we (I) let the voice of the teacher dominate. I suppose that is mostly my fault. But I only saw questionnaires engaging Chelsea's story from Rijin, Lauren, Stephanie, Lisa, Allie, Jennifer. It is imperative that all of you convey to Chelsea your reaction to the story, especially if your take was positive.

Ideally, I think, you bring a balance to a critique. Ideally you come at it as a reader critic, a teacher critic, and a writer (artist) -critic. Ideally you never come at it as a critic critic (a statue has never been raised to a critic, said someone). Anyway, I fear I got the balance wrong, and came only as a reader critic. I pray, always, to the god I don't believe in, that I never come at something as a critic critic.

I am also fairly cerertain we should always celebrate attempts to get outside of that "whitenoise" of the center. I forgot to join the celebration.

Mea culpa.

Best.

for the first time, i hadn't any words. i did cry because i was happy/sad that he called notice to the fact that almost no one had written reactions. they could not read it because they did not want to work as readers (and writers for that matter), they did not want to read. to me they were fake, they were close-minded, and it was them that were "all about themselves". and most of all, i was hurt because i knew yesterday had been an attempt in dumbing me down. this mornings letter proved it, and this was the closest thing to a confession and an apology.

what was especially predictable/comforting was another email in my box that followed it. from another professor, someone who has always believed in me, knows what i read, knows where i have been and where i have gotten, has heard my struggles, my inspirations.

Dear Chelsea: Wondering how your workshop went last evening. I've been reading the Waldrop book you lent me- I can see why she appeals to both you and Judah, et moi aussi. I'm planning to come to the reading tonight at St. mark's Place Shurch with a friend, so perhaps see you there. If we arrive first we'll save you a seat, if there are any seats!

it may just be my imagination, but i feel these two letters are coming from two entirely different places and perceptions of me. she is a phenomenal woman and the other day she approached me for permission to send a work i had written to her sister who has been going through a love struggle of sorts. her husband had cheated on her and claimed that after all these years he had never loved her. my professor told me she believed my work would bring clarity to her sister, tell her what she wasn't letting herself see or decide upon. i was touched that my work was doing what i wished, helping guide others, helping reveal something about one's interior, i want to be that voice, i want to be that mixture of sensitivity, strength and sensibility. i hope my obsessions can free others [from theirs]. 

Chine, I love that you stick up for yourself. By the way, do not take it personally. Think of it as a learning experience. You have the world in front of you, the Beezer never let anyone score on her. Until soon, Dad.

This too was very true. I put my entire body before the ball, my stomach buried into the cleat, collided with every opponent, doing anything to prevent a ball from hitting the back of the net - my frame - making sure defeat was less possible, impossible (if my mouth guard was in). I risked physicality to back my entire team. And it was the biggest, most liberating high of my entire life. Nothing compares to the responsibility I took on as a goalie. Playing on the edge of success and defeat taught me everything. Soccer was my proudest moments. And shaking hands with peers, strangers, the other side after the game was the achievement and the most motivating reward.

• any thoughts would be nice, anonymous, anything. what do you like about my writing? why do you read it? what in particular are you drawn to? the pieces that are abstract, dense or only the more telling, clear and candid writing. is there something you would like to see more of?subjects, thematics, specifics you would enjoy having more fleshed out? anything would help, my site gets/is getting more and more hits, but why is it that you are here?
  

gut symmetries by jeanette winterson

he: do you remember the first man on the moon?

me: we were in vermont.

he: no clock only the oak spreading over the evening.

me: that oak must have been two hundred years old.

he: you said, 'it will live for two hundred years more. why should we hurry?'

me: we had been making love in the dirt since the declaration of the independence.

he: wars and empire and the passing of empire had not disturbed us.

me: it was as if we had made love always and always would.

he: we rolled over to look at the astronaut, stepping clumsily in his dumb-bell suit, picking up rocks for NASA.

me: it was history.

he: you were naked and the night was cool.

me: it was a long way to fly for a rock.

we were in our separate bunks, his hand over his side towards me, his familiar arm, solid as an anchor. his voice a harbour.

he: history has no smell.

me: is that why we are nostalgic for it?

he: breathe in, breathe out. the past doesn't stink like the present.

me: were we happier or do we pretend?

he: we pretend.

me: you said it was my smell you loved.

he: the hidden world of pheromones.

me: the armpit seducer.

he: this armchair don juan.

me: your mother had truffles from the forests outside rome. they smelled of earth and roots and sweat. 

he: they use a machine now for rootling truffles.

me: a pig is pork.

he: they use a machine now for matching couples.

me: love is money.

he: i don't know what love is.

me: you never waited long enough to find out.

he: patience isn't a vice of mine.

me: not all experiments yield their results in a single night.

he: why do you confuse love and sex?

me: why do you continually separate them?

he: are we going to spend our last hours arguing?

me: yes.

he laughed and swung off the bunk and knelt down by my head. in the moonlight i might have mistaken him for a knight in shining armour. his t-shirt was neon-lit. he had grown a beard, or to be fairer, a beard had grown over his face. his eyes and teeth were wolfish. he was emblematic of safety and threat as knights in shining armour are. the drama of the rescue conceals its implications. 

he: there isn't anything to eat.

me: no.

he: would you like to eat me?

me: what?

he: im sure there are certain parts of me you wouldn't object to lopping off.

me: stop this.

he: no, seriously, what's it to be? die with both legs, survive with one? how much of me could we eat and still say that i am alive? arms. legs. slices of rump. your grandfather was a butcher. try me.

he reached over for the curved filleting knife, gave it to me, and raised his bottom into the air. the sight of him, jacked under the moon, made me start to laugh, quietly at first, then as the pain in my head increased, louder, and harsher. he started to laugh too, a pair of jackals we were, crouched and baying at the moon.

the boat was still, hardly rocking at all. stumbling together, we half fell, half climbed, up the steps to the deck. he gripped me, his prick straight in, the swollen saltiness of it dirty in my dirt. i was dry and cracked, unwashed, closed. i had a weeping rash on inner things. 

i held onto him, holding onto the years in between, the years notched in his back, his vertebral column, twenty-four separate, moving irregular bones, the years of our life together. 

when the push of him stopped we were both still. he rested his head in the cradle of my shoulder and i felt him crying. not the salt sea but these few tears capsized what hope remained. i thought of alice's hand, her long thin fingers like leaf-nerves. i thought of the leaves falling on my back when i had made love in vermont. or had that been alice? or had it been jove?

fragments of coloured glass, radiating fanwise, a diadrom of feeling spreading out through my mind, its life-jacket lost. the reassuring buoying padded stuff that floated me and insulated me has been ripped away. i am exposed now, and my discriminating, differentiating functions are useless tools in this unmooored sea. where is the beginning? where is the horizon? where is the land? the moon swings down on me like a hook. the boat is a blade, knife-edge of consciousness precarious on the unconscious sea. whatever it is, it is deeper. whatever it is, it is unfathomable. the point that i am, the definite bounded thing in time, is beginning to break up. i am dispersing myself through my known past and my unknown future. the present is without meaning. 

• a weather (music)
  

oats. finger food.

She taught me how to make oatmeal on the stove, as we waited for our delivery. It was absolutely necessary to be high before dinner at Ethiopian. That was the logic. I had been wrong, she had been right, oatmeal tasted better when it hadn’t been zapped in the microwave. What had I been doing for so long? Removing it after a minute, portions sticking to the plastic turntable, shaking cinnamon powder on top as it oozed over the mug. It looked stale, but I enjoyed it for the cafeteria memories it effectuated. This time, she showed me how it was really done, adding cinnamon and raw sugar, stirring as it became heavy in the pot. My sister made beef ramon and in between oatmeal bites, I brought the broth to my lips adding more cayenne pepper when she wasn’t looking. Typical college students, yet it seemed like dorm life had been memories from another life entirely. Forty-five minutes later, we were on third-street settling into a tight space lined with mirrors that distorted the sides of the street. The entire meal, I was mesmerized by this perverted perspective. I just couldn’t seem to believe it was contorted. I wished it were a true representation. It reminded me so much of side streets in Milan minus all the vendors selling balloon characters filled with flour. They looked like putty, and I would try and mash them up as I waited for my margarita pizza, only to end up with what looked like thick white dust all over my forehead and dough’s ashings on my hands. I’d miss stracciatella just to go back and buy another, so I could eventually break it’s skin and have it burst into the air again. It was funny and childish, the potential for invisibility that is.

I was pleased to finally be back at an Ethiopian restaurant. I always felt self-conscious saying it, but it had been my favourite experience while in Paris. Tucked behind the Sorborone in some district of sorts, easy to remember but which I never did, the four of us sat in a room underground that resembled a cave. A big pot of mashed beef, chicken, peas, carrots, lentils and collard greens were served to us. In Paris, we ate with our hands, cabbage stuck beneath my nail bedding. I didn’t eat bread then, too fearful of carbs. But that was what you were supposed to do, if you wanted the entire experience. I didn’t. I was fine with looking like a baby with a mouth covered in applesauce. And anyway, I was in a foreign city, in a cave bathed in black light. I never worried about the impression. However, this time eating Ethiopian in New York, I was more conscious of my desires, the practicality and perhaps respect. So, I took all the crepe-like dough that was prepared like pigs in a blanket and came in batches and ate the dish like it was supposed to be eaten. It all looked rather crude and for a few good minutes during dinner I couldn't restrain myself from commenting on how phallic the dough felt, “like a wet vagina”. No one really laughed, only questioned how I would know. I was totally out of line, but I knew there are times when I needed to be. Perhaps moments when I wanted to keep myself from yawning or when I was all up in my head, or when I just was tired of others taking/expecting me to be so serious. I won’t out myself, since I often follow that trend of thinking, too. When I left the apartment the following morning, I made sure to leave extra oatmeal on the stove for her when she woke. But in the evening, when I came home to an empty apartment, I recognized she hadn’t eaten a bite. And as I am writing this, I am sitting with my leg up and a bowl of oatmeal to my right that, for the first time, is golden. She made it, but I haven’t gotten around to taking a taste.

is this more about me than her?

I saw Erin Wasson in the village again, tonight she was outside of Bua. Beneath her signature, a biker's jacket and denim, I could tell she was withering. I hate these visuals, only because they betray my ideal ideation of reality or perhaps, authenticity. As I got further away from her, so distance (temporal and physical) could come between us, I knew what I had seen, myself as I was. It was tasteless and I feel that's what I disliked most. 

are people serious?

"who cares about the economy when you can have blue leopard dresses?" "if you can afford it it's totally okay."

i use to have a fashion blog for about a hot second. then things in my own life began happening, not positives, and i became indifferent to fashion, branding, the yappity yap yap yap of it all. i enjoy the theoretics and mythicism (where the designer's pull their inspiration from).  maybe i'll try to hold back those other feelings and immerse myself back into fashion, just because i feel like eventually i'll have to.

she may not be too happy about this.

twin and me.

*again made it to strand today before poetry, bought three books: danielle collorbert notebooks 1956-1978, andrew sean greer confessions of max tivoli, aleksandear hemon question of bruno. tomorrow i already expect i'll go to st. mark's bookstore and buy at least two books i have on hold, luce irigaray the sex which is not one and john berg and our faces, my heart, brief as photos. will i complete all of these? of course not, my attention span is barely existent and i'm manic. came home early evening, neighbor knocked on door, the hall smelt like burning peanut butter toast, he said he would believe it if i fell asleep next to the stove, but i don't sleep despite all the ambien, which is for fun and makes late night visitors think i'm crazzzzy. went over to his apartment, pacing back in forth, posing hypotheticals, smiling he asked me what was into me, was i high? no. oh you're finally sober. i'm happy, it's wild, i've been like this for awhile now. and i couldn't stop giggling like a child, like someone with a secret and an array of mental images stealing her from the moment. ohhh, are you dating someone now? he would do anything to find out more about me, always claiming behind my back that i am elusive. not some one, i said. did you have sex with him? will you still talk to him? i have always talked to him. but will you still? i realized i hadn't thought about it. my neighbor and i have shared a few nights of fun. he has black toenails, a wonderful smile and is insanely blunt. but i'm not real shy with secrets either. over the weekend i was suppose to write a rendition of one of ovid's metamorphosis poems, but i already own his erotic collection (in fact it was the first poetry text i ever picked up) so when i got to class i claimed i was confused about the assignment and read his book of the amores instead. it was somewhat true, but eh, not really. in actuality, i've never been interested in the passing of people's stories, and plus i feel a similar enough ovid thematic already, and at the time i found it more important to write myself so i could know how i felt, or perhaps, feel out what i know.

Weekend of Three.

I wake never entirely knowing not how to begin

Only having this want, which began as a feeling 

And is to say, its sense was less, but all the same 

Was persistently pressing, enticing nerves while paralyzing others

Willing an effect, to be passionately disturbed, 

Pleasurably, if the feeling got the best of me!

Certainly it is difficult knowing

What is it I want most, which I need now?

Often I come out of sleep

Finding some body, forgotten 

Moments before, during dream, he wasn’t on my mind. 

In instants I need reminding,

The relation of him to eye.

Mind backpedaling through memory’s rolodex. 

This not being a scene 

Where I hadn’t known him or forgotten lines

But rather, misplaced ourselves. 

Over a minute of fear, a time resistant to time, 

I want to be with him but I also need him to go.

Men are all different, it is hard to see

Taking time’s challenges to know, I’ve learned

Which doesn’t mean I am now godlike 

Predicting how each human heart will take to me.

But still I can wish

They knew how I act in indecision 

Never entirely knowing not how to begin.

Why I withdrew from the face I preferred to kiss again

Stressing distance in spite of attraction.

Not even explaining why on Sunday 

I need to snort amphetamines before noon

Spending Manhattan’s most marveled day

In a bubble wrap, working on self-imposed assignments. 

Watching him go even now is confusing, but it’s also impossible

To say I only experience ecstasy when bodies are outside of mine

Admitting his penis pursing dimensions is stimulating

Corporeally, but not cerebrally, which is what I need.

Yet when the morning catches me off guard

In a past lover’s arms my eyes unlatch 

Only to wish they hadn’t, he can feel 

Me, wasting away, blood draining through my sewer’s veins.

Drawing arms tighter against my heart

Happily whispering, “Has Sleeping Beauty woken?”

Do I wish I never would, but instead betray us both

Answering “I’ll never feel this bed again, if I don’t get up…”

But remembering the line, he interrupts, “I guess you want me to go.”

Yes, kissing me anyway, which makes me feel

Bad, but can’t change 

Last Friday when waking against a shoulder, a patchwork of moles,

I heard a breathing body and tried to pinch it breathless

Only to scare him out of sleep and have me reach for his clothes.

Words following him out the door, nothing clear or definitely real,

Just speech slipping saying he had to work, had to write, had to go.

Even in my nightgown, I was awake to what I didn’t know,

What did he want? What did he need?

But he left too quickly and abruptly to feel out any answers

And now it is Sunday, four hours after noon, 

I have all this bubble wrap but no tissue for my bleeding nose

So I’m continuing to work, needing to know what it is he wanted on Friday

Since he sounded like me, but didn’t say. 

Bathed in Expectancy

When waking, dreamers expected only to be ready

Never did I believe in myself so much

Always rather realistic, believing time wasn’t a guarantee. 

Reaching through the curtains, the sun would aestheticize me 

In the earliest hours of light, even I could be thought new.

An apricot, plump in places, the mouth would find

Between thighs, complexion ripening.

But even then, I wasn’t ready

Solely an image that hadn’t yet become a feeling.

I hoped any body waking before mine would first see

Intensifying case of light, knowing on impact

In bed I am made out to be an illusionary magnification.

Who, after closer gazing, is committed

Sleeping still, dreaming I was not close enough to the hour’s reality.

Nor in a rush to know whether I am alive and possibly

Someone substantial. 

more of it.

On display bananas, in high school wrote my number, black sharpie on yellow skin, so bold of me, gave it to a boy I barely knew, once he peeled it he called never stopped calling, bending in mouth I can’t eat them without laughing, Ziploc baggies packed with nuts, apples Fuji Macintosh two for a buck, score! grapes buy freeze wait till morning, candy in the icebox, trust me Rene Zellweger does it says they trick her sweet tooth every time and she looks like she doesn’t eat anything but egg whites grapefruit water. Catching my attention papayas lay orange under my reach radiating ripe earth newly plucked soft scoops of tasteless beta-carotene confidential laxative eat after protein and nothing will stick to bones helped weight remain hovering in little bitty hundreds a few months luck of the draw and I achieved two digit number, remember those? all five nine of me, people worried I was on my last heartbeat that I would die resembling a prepubescent boy. I am better now, every day spent sensibly, psychotic patterns of anorexic lessen, granted skin turned cantaloupe orange around ears palms beneath nose looked like self-tanner splats, child’s art project, big mess, ridiculous disaster, which was me. Still fiendlike for them though, encouraged by effect or taste I cannot be sure but seven dollars later it is mine, bought, handed over like gold, knee almost collapses pathetic display that would be starving girl near crash death papaya rescued heart cushioning her fall all she had to save her. Wow heavy as a log! “much better taste” the assurance I need from the man in a canopy of light. 

Where to go from here? Happy hour isn’t yet four to seven “manmosa” pint of mashed fruit drowned at bottom in pool of champagne or so they claim probably no better than sparkling wine but I am far passed embodying ego for complaining, ten dollars buys you happiness need for nap and hangover before time when practical people, that select group who has their shit together, are beginning nighttime life, I can’t drink alone anyway will feel like Halloween take two, lower east side “the spot” Plan-B outpouring of holiday enthusiasts high on tootsie rolls fear factor acid still soaking tongue and I am just slumped over dressed as myself because for once in my life I just want to be me drinking a Black Russian breasts smashed on bar counter alluding dairy makes bones calcified strong cleavage illusion! posture straight and these utters are just hanging out but I am confident in some corner of myself, alone on Halloween in staring contest with bartender, multitasking taking straw small and impotent, a disservice for sucking, have it touch glasses’ rim, an over determined circling, he would know, wasn’t even drunk but it had been done before, placing remnants of this vocal gesture on my tongue, swallowing what he had mixed, eyeing him thank you, this is exactly what I need, which is a lie but he would find me follow me home mesmerized by my way “amazing how you can be alone, call the shots, confidence, so sexy in a woman, few like you, makes me mad, most unique” last part makes me think he has a sense of humor in place of brains, I immediately lose interest forget to edit what I say or do it all becomes a story I can pass down a bedtime tale a game, Go Fish Scrabble or Marco Polo, close eyes I’ll hide find me, figure me out, he was either a genius, soul-mate or victim of me, unavoidable contradiction, having all this hope inspired by idealized image of who, me? exterior encouraging expectations of interior, you’re over-thinking, when all I cared about then and there was avoiding holidays spent absolutely alone. 

Taking advantage of achievement I let loose like gas tanks filled vacation time! haven’t partied in months we could die tomorrow behavior, crazy in bed, my finger between his lips, not what he thought I liked, having to show him what I want, what I need. Ass cheeks hanging out of underwear similar image would be padding in a cheap bra, how suddenly it exposes itself and more blatantly the secret, woops! except I’m au natural no imitation meat on me, hells nah! this derrière is what I call my pantry, you know, where any processed food is stored, most curvaceous feature, can’t even hide it in the dark, why some men say “baby I’mma call you back”, hey I’m game for wordplay whatever makes me pause, think, laugh. So I’m there all skin nothing to unhook, no more visible surprises, but he’s still clothed all because I won’t help him unbutton unzip, and I’m beginning to wonder whether he’s “that type” you know who keeps things real private or maybe he has some secret, a disease? a vagina? a boil? Naturally reacting I stiffen, lock jaw, funny taste in mouth, pretend to be harder to get than I, well then I was just moments before, shattering night’s speechless erotica with words that effectuate ear echoes, something pulsating with narcissism or if it helps anyone like me less may have sounded like ego-love, not verbatim but close to “this is when I act passively so strip or stay generic”. I wasn’t even trying to make sense, I was just avoiding how I felt. Scouts honor, he keeps himself dressed, undeniably he looks good gorgeous Kenlike but come on haven’t we all played doctor on our barbies before, the memory arouses me so I kiss him again, enjoy it too, rubbing the tension till he is tenser, his mouth muttering hopeless hissings, in my mind salacious stories cycle, his hands tearing sheet’s skin, lashes blown back, pupils big as an O, trying to tell me something but I am all up in my mind, can’t hear much over all the thick tension, sure if it were skin on skin I may hear him but not with all this rubbing. Then suddenly, as in every instant is its own time, his body jerks and I almost panic thinking, “his heart has been attacked but oh friends and family, he was still so young and tame”. Checking for a pulse, anything that throbs, I reach into his pants, hand all perverted like it’s got a gimp, and I feel something, something damp, like “mom daddddd the baby just spilt on the kitchen floor and I’m not cleaning up” and then translating the silence with what is felt I make sense of the situation, thinking “awwww, he hadn’t been touched in awhile”. 

Come morning room’s scent was stale secretion and I felt mattress become lighter, behind shut eyes sensed him sneaking out confused having checked closet to see if composure was a costume I had hung and retired or choice b, he vanished feeling I had already grown attached, “she knew my jeans were Levis, chick was wild dude, stay around any longer she’d have read my mind, studied my soul”. 17th time he’d have shared story, this time telling his version to some bloodshot middle aged man just laid off from work desperately attempting to drink real problems away, not enough spirits here for that, sorry sir gonna haveta’ cut ya off. Wringing washcloth, sponge of liquor over sink, he would think hard, trying to concentrate instead on memorizing mixtures for obscure shots requested by guys looking to show Jersey girls a good weekend trip in the big bad city, what a waste, I hadn’t felt anything aside from less lonely and content with what I had got, pleasuring seeing him coming in his eyes, which will hold any female over for a few inactive weeks, which didn’t mean much. 

fashion blogged.

i suppose boasting about 3 hrs of sleep per night for a week brought me inevitably to sickness. is this really a sign of aging - the body fighting against my urges to live life on the edge (and i use that loosely, if only i were that bad. even at my wildest i like to think i was "good" but really, who is to judge?). i'm never sick though, and it's no way to be, everything feels like it is falling apart, slowly, shambles, splintering. i just hate being low energy and i also wasn't able to finish my fiction piece. i'm so close, so close, and i couldn't possibly rush it. the ending always contains the epiphany, for the character and myself (the writer). since, as i have said, nothing is ever planned my writing does teach me something (as it should) and when the work comes to its final closure, it is then that i feel like i have resolved something, too, that i have gotten closer to a truth that upon starting and even in the process was beyond my control. i am sure some of my "sickness" comes from an overwhelming desire to have things be over, completed, just so i can stand back and look at it, perhaps see it for what it is worth. i feel the work i am referring to is the best thing i have written. i feel it is the most honest, the most revealing, the closest reflection of reality even if that reality is hard to define because it is interior, intangible, fleeting, psychotic (the piece is entirely mental), and what makes me most proud is that finally there is a plot, there is a narrative. a professor told me that where most every author examines the outside life in an effort to hopefully illuminate/glimpse at the interior life, i have done just the opposite, like a glove put on backwards. she said that she wished virginia woolf were in the room to tell me what i am, perceptive to the lived moment. 

the challenge will never end though. i will always hope to be closer.

obama won. the city sounded like it was on fire. then you wake up, and it's like nothing really changed. if anything it just seemed like less people were around. some fashion blog filmed me the day before the election. to no surprise i was the only new yorker for mccain, but some how it did surprise me that he didn't win or maybe it was that he didn't even seem to be close. regardless (and i admit, to my own fault, i am not that informed on politics) there was something genuine about mccain, and i enjoyed watching him in the media, each time he touched me. it may be inexplicable, maybe i just felt for his story and i liked his sense of humor or maybe it was when obama became a victim of the media - larger than life - maybe i was opposing this liberal mindset backed so often by youth to do something different, to be different, to go against the grain, maybe somewhere perhaps unconsciously i too wanted to do that, and so to be different i supported mccain. but that all seems rather shallow, and i think this was one of the few times where we all came together and went deeper than just that. 

Why should we not be illuminated by the night of our jouissance? Which casts a different light on things, on their contours, their spacing and their timing. It brings them back into the world, and reshapes them according to a perception foreign to the rigour of the day, which makes colder distinctions. For sight is no longer our only guide. Seeking within an expanse which is dazzling and palpable, odorous and audible. A night of sensations where everything lives together, permitting co-existence without violence. Before the brutal slash of discrimination assigns each their place. Already trapped in the form of a judgement which obstructs the mutual embracing of relationship. An imperative verticality already weighing over the whole. Already organising it into a hierarchy. An overarching vision exiled from feeling. And not to be granted again to the one and the other save in an ecstatic jouissance. A beyond - out of. Beyond all unveiled-unveiling clarity, there is a night which is thicker than any forces yet revealed. 

Elemental Passions by Luce Irigaray

almost dead, line!

on deadline, don't know if i will make it, there is always an outpouring of writing, i sit down and do it all in one (in this case four) sittings, never is there a plan, there is just something i follow, which is the word that came before, everything is written and decided in the instant, i think authors need to capture man as he is, an imperfect being, editing himself only as a result of his ever changing world, never able to turn backwards and edit past only capable of editing in the moment, which is to say the present being, something he cannot prevent or escape. at this point adderall no longer works like it did, a separate story in itself on addiction, this song explains a bit of what i feel and is simultaneously motivating me.

I hadn’t wanted to go outside with him. It had nothing to do with the sex but I couldn’t avoid wondering, at least once or twice, whether he thought it did or was just comfortable assuming I was lazy, unmovable, exhausted, cut off. It was 7:30 am, in an hour my alarm would ruin an instant regardless if I was still awake or in the first stage of sleep. At this time, the only thing I wanted was to feel comfortable in the silence surrounding me, and that was why I hadn’t wrapped myself in the sheets, following him to watch the city begin to wake from my balcony. My head was on the radiator when he walked back in and lied down with me, our bodies contorted and obscure. I blamed the bed, how we shifted it in the night, the force of our bodies moving it out of the corner. My intention was to make an awkward joke, make light of us by calling attention to something so obvious yet insignificant at the same time. “Don’t worry, it can be fixed.” I found it unfortunate that he took me so literally; maybe if I could listen to my voice I would change what I say, perhaps drastically or even a subtle difference. With the curtains spread open, I stared backwards at the sky. Upside down, the color was no different than it had been at four am, pink ethereal, a color I couldn’t logically process. Wondering aloud why and how it produced such an effect, he said he didn’t have the answer. But I wasn’t looking for an answer, I just wanted to make sure he noticed it too, and then I wanted to talk about it, maybe make up a story, exaggerate what we feel. Instead I listened to his stories about pain and what his family thinks about the songs he makes. He brought up Joseph Campbell’s theory of pornography, something I would later appropriate for my fiction to mean all/any exterior visuals we desire. I commented on the stillness, the silence at this hour, as if the world had picked up and left us behind. He responded, an effort to show me perception’s deceit. At the time I thought I was memorizing what he said, but I hadn’t been able to. Something about dream and reality, the world and us. Where I get mixed up is what was paired together. And I am sure that was the whole point in the first place, but hey it was almost time to be woken up by my alarm and I can’t be expected to remember everything, even details containing the meaning, especially since I couldn’t feel much either. The next night I would be with someone else and the situation will have been entirely different, the effect another story in itself, which is how it is supposed to be.

a year ago, Claudelean.

just found this document in my files, written a year ago november 1st 2007. a questionnaire for my play on my character, Claudelean Musee. hence where this website's name begun and where many of my female fiction characters come from. also interesting is the male character's questionnaire since that was, hmm, highly inspired by actuality. last night, again little to no sleep, reminds me of the good old days, when i was convinced i operated better without it. today was invigorating (one thing is i came home with a stack of unheard of cds for tops $4, crammed in hallway-like room, cds and cassettes caving in, collapsing, stacks to ceiling, and i just stood there switching music in the boom box, hearing sounds of what i needed then, there, time and time again). i hope to write scenes inspired by this last week. i ate a garden burger made of rice and beans, dunked sweet potato fries in tahini mixed with hot sauce dressing. i haven't eaten these things since ninth grade, maybe?, when i lived off my free meal (rice drenched in teriyaki dressing) from a waiter at moon. my sister said with a certain concentrated stillness, "you've been looking slender" and for the first time i didn't pry on what that really meant or implied, i just kept eating, caring less and enjoying more than i ever have.

Name Claudelean Musee

Age 28

Sex Feminine (Femme Fatale: attractive, seductive ultimately bringing disaster to the man involved)

Appearance Magnetizing, alluring, mystifying because she is unaware of what she embodies. Appearance can be likened to a painting; the sight of her calls upon all senses-- touch, texture, smell, color. 5'9, long, leggy, appears taller, glides, feline, movement to her body like a dancer, 123 pounds, appears lean, model figure but feminine strength that radiates, she isn't a waif, supple yet volumptous in parts as well, body glows with nature and she pays particular attention to its needs and health, natural golden blonde hair like honey accented by cinnamon tones, waves like the she was just swimming in the sea, her hair is first seen down cascading off her shoulders but over time it is pinned up showing off her facial structure and silhouette, ivory skin tone flushed red on the cheeks, posture is always perfectly posed.

Occupation Model and Actress. One relies on images and the other on words. Both performing artists.

Religion Spiritual, rather than religious. The only higher being is the self's ability to reason, rationale and think. This is a woman who believes the self should not rely on another and that one should never look up, but look within. Focuses on the personal experience (has the desire to know all of her human self) and the study of metaphysics.

Race, nationality Background is Greek and Roman.

Political affiliations Liberal participator, but conservative opinions.

Habits Observing more than verbally engaging, soft spoken but once she speaks it is a fit of theory (rhyme like, poetic perspective, intuitive, gets flustered by directionless streams of thoughts), trying to read into others, misty eyed, sly smiles, pressing lips together to prevent emotion from seeping out

Worst fault Ability to transform. Inaccessible, self-aware but not self conscious, can perceive herself but does not necessarily believe herself, all to others but not all to herself, seeks sociality but for the science of social studies (human behavior) and most of all seeks solitude and the study of the self. Needs material to perform for and from to be successful, to be star, to live up to self and societies role of her. Can easily destroy reflection (self and other) by breaking mirror.

Best quality The pursuit of imagination. The ability to perceive. Impressions. Desires and designs. Strive to see self.

Their motto To love oneself is the beginning of a life long romance - Oscar Wilde. To jewels they prefer human imperfections, moisture of the perspiration, bad smells, stutterings and all the time I keep this for the diary and give the world only jewels - Anais Nin. To make history or psychology alive I personify it. Also everything depends on the nature of the personal relationship. My self is like the self of Proust. It is an instrument to connect life and myth - Anais Nin.

A childhood memory Inside of a butterfly garden. A butterfly landed on her hand, disabled by a broken wing, fluttering to the point of almost being lifeless, she blew on its wing and it came to life, reborn and unbroken.

Where are they Shut away where a case study is being performed on them, where contemporary life can not penetrate them more.

Favorite food, place, movie Seafood (mussels, scallops, shrimp), fresh vegetables, bouillabaisse and ratatouille stew, likes using curries, herbs and spices, mint flavored desserts, sweet potato pie, pumpkin and banana loaf bread and carrot muffins. The Scandinavian islands and Germany. Persona.

What makes them happy The intoxication of theorizing, literature and wine. Figuring and formulating the fate and designing their destiny. And the attraction of the other.

Angry Never knowing whether what is in front of you is actually seen the same by all. Is it a figment of reality? It is an abstraction? It is what you want it to be? Changing through the eyes of every eye.

Sad The deception of appearances. Never being 'here' because she is always 'there'.

What does he/she love most Self as subject. The dramatics of human experience.

Hate most Not receiving and perceiving enough material.

Saddest moment The idea of losing material that would help conceptualize human emotion and existence.

Something they would never tell anyone (a secret) If it wasn't for my Self, I'd have to commit to the Others.

How much money do they have and/or make? Heaps of money. Well-known, highly requested actress and model.

What does the character want most? Deep down: to be one for herself and not many for others.

What does the character dream of? Knowing all of herself. Living by her desires and caring less about other's reality and more about becoming her dream.

Something they are proud of? Depth, ability to portray humanity.

Something they are ashamed of? The power she has to change others, but not to change herself.

Do they have many friends or enemies? Highly adored, easily criticized due to envy. More male friends, psychologist and sister.

Who is their closet friend? Close to self and few others.

What would be an ideal day? Finishing one novel after another, effortlessly. Finding her masterpiece and being charmed for life.

Any pets? A rabbit. Dreams of having a swan and unicorn.

How is their health? Glows. She looks like a goddess and is untouchable.

Sex life? Climbed her way to the top when she was younger by sleeping with men. Was the central figure of many men's lives. Shys away from mention of it, believing that was a different person doing those acts, then the mature woman she is now. Sex was self medicating then. Today, though she displays sex, it is rather forbidden and it is a precious engagement.

What does the character look forward to at the end of the day? "In the pose of sleep, without the defensive masks, every human being looks helpless." - Anais Nin

What is the character's secret ambition? To not model self after an act.

I.Q. (thought process) Well read, highly self educated, scholarly.

today tone changed, something other came out

Untangled lovers finally take their limbs back, goodbye sigh good bye, exaggerated effects, once he has left she will tell her friend “he was emotional, so honest and brave, it means he’ll have thoughts of me, call me, love me”. How do I break the news, he was believable, that is all, it could be read on his tongue’s fine print, hadn’t she looked there? Not thinking never thinking feelings feared as he promised a call by winter when genders develop infatuations for sex, the sex that is, I’ll have to find someone by then, preferably Manhattan man biker aesthetic, clinging, magnetic hands, “cross street without me, I’ll cry, you miserable egomaniac, could have been hit, then what happens to me!” warmth, we must have our bodies pressed, desperately decreasing draft, come inside where it’s not so chilly, eventually eat hunger away, not starving, no more, feeling makes me sick, smell it, I’ll heave, strip sheets gloved hand drags down stairway, hurl them on an avenue corner, maybe someone else will want to use you.

Winded on grassy slopes, exposed bellies, stoic trees, broken lovers have no shadows either. Backs on blankets, eyes searching for clouds Manhattan does not have, lie waiting for world to come.

How fortunate, I am to begin. Mornings walked instep, outpourings of others, disconnected realms merging, footprints down different street’s spines, flowing into one distinct city pace, connecting, colliding, then moving on, forgotten faces where can they be refound? Type, post, no one does the genuine gesture anymore, make it sound with love cords, in letter’s voice say I was the one, one and only female in black, all black, no color, colorless nameless beautiful woman who glowed, short hair, can’t hold it in big hand, “are you an actress? maybe your mother?” Jean Seberg had she a child before suicide, being suicidal had she wanted a daughter? So lonely pretty talented adored so breathless like me.

Try not to stare as man pulls key from his pocket. I have seen this done before, car key no longer silver but white beneath nose inhale blink open and key is silver, magic trick, things naturally back to normal. But he is not a magician, shoving key into ear, removing build up of some sort, yolk colored wax. Unsuccessful, unclipped pinky nail digs, his finger a hook in canal catches treasure unburies it between front teeth, making quick sucking sound barely heard over conversing cars, but I heard I saw it all out of eye’s corner and one ear alone. All things are everything to write about. Setting early morning. Subject legless woman. Scene woman watching neighborhood wake up, restless in wheelchair on sidewalk, people walking by confidently coffee in one hand iPod in other, modern day hand weights, eyes ahead see through everything so far beyond that thoughts think outside this world, do not acknowledge woman in wheelchair going nowhere, sitting beneath the young sun same street on the route they walk everyday, walking walking ahead of even themselves, she is taking it easy, catching a breather, having no legs in her pants she sits hoping the world, this young generation, will move her. Same thing every day on sixth street between second and third avenue. What was the last street she walked? does she remember? will she want to? has she ever walked? does she know how it feels? She may know best, all of us, maybe we have forgotten.

“You’re sexy” echoed between C and Layfatte. It’s like telephone, that game? and a line is passed on on and on five times attaching to me, let it go, they try harder launching word-darts bull’s-eye ass! stings hickey on neck, yes that ridiculous, ravenous, a vampire was the guest on Tyra Bank’s Talk Show Thursday, said seriously he is real, vampire, community of them, three different types, he’s hybrid, no he’s indecisive lost afraid past can’t be separated from present, memories provide safety show things go somewhere but he’s embarrassed of who he was, can’t relate, hates how he was treated, still hurt no one will forgive him for slapping high school sweetheart when she said he was kissing her too hard “softer, you’re hurting me” and so he did, hurt her, because she thought of it first when he was too busy tasting her, nothing feels the same, he desires distance won’t help him forget but will help others forget him, then can start over, be better this time, but he does not like energy of normal world, stays inside studying, vampire textbooks? philosophy? I’ll Google when home Amazon place my order, drinks blood, nothing mixed with HIV, heroine, no crackie’s blood thank you, Tyra eying him entire episode “boy you sound crazy” but she is the one becoming crazy, day after she will bring her “babies” on, models super models characters acting as super super super models in reality, this phenomenon told to be real, I am confused, are all happenings in reality real or is it just a coincidence, the root being in the larger grander word, wait could one of the two be a trick a joke, I think I am on to something, then there will be laughter? “Okay now go, off into real world, make mamma proud, eat veggies or buy pizza and change your career, runs in the genes, now go, bye bye super babies” commercial break then Tyra’s fluttering eyes smiling glorifing a female who blames her boyfriend for having “brofriends” no this is serious he told him that he loved him, something is wrong too many hims! grammatically incorrect, real romance, in a text message. Tyra laughing first, the yawn effect, audience becomes chorus of hysterics, all because they want to be her, do as she, she wanting them to be fans standing in for feeling. Hyenas pissing pants pointing at two males who god forbid care feel aren’t so damn cold rock hard, now confused, because of this absurd prank? laugher makes them feel wrong think “bad behavior!” bewitched change them in a snap Tyra and followers inflating penis give kids something to play with eyes will never smile never blink again because they won’t see or be able to think, now no longer feeling, either.

Thanks Tyra, superstar feminist, for helping lessen the divide, demeaning them, branding all of us gender “FEMALE…no not under my arm…behind me…single file line…HERE” “MALE…keep moving…further…away…THERE”. College education can do wonders minimize amount of backwards directions screwing us all up, I don’t want to be near you, I want to be closer to him! But I am supposed to feel liberated? by this woman who moment keeping it real became marketable forgot how to do it or just went on to another project, some mogul making idea? I am embarrassed, embarrassed! she, the feminine voice of our generation, encouraging females to stand up shouting, angry because they have a vagina and are entitled to be moody, as if they worked hard to get their vagina in the first place. Let them set flame to their tampons, they’ll just have to blow harder in the end, while doing so, I will be collecting their hall passes and burning them in front of their television screen. “You’re fierce” calling calling through my thoughts, so aroused dries me up. “Short sophisticated bob, let me make you wild, tug hair, pull it long like a lady’s” they saw the way I touched my hair, liked the way I touched myself, imagined how I might if letting them see me letting myself. Bite lip, they think I have appeal, elbowing partner in crime, rolling shoulders back like “hey pretty mama lemme come all over you mind” but really I just hold tension in my jaw, and nothing nasty ever tasted good, pass on trying, kind of stuck in my ways, I know better, think outside the box, possibility they want to see me smile lighten me up not be so serious, few bored lonely men will not ruin day, swagger, background noise doesn’t make it on my mix, choose soundtrack carefully it effects the entire show.

Coins tossing, shake shake no no not a panhandler chiming cents at car window, eyes staring down at you all safe in seatbelt as hand tries covering BMW symbol centered circle of life other hand gripping leather wheel, shining just polished, metaphor for what? Thinking you’ve tricked him, don’t worry it’s not immoral we all do it, lie? no never! just say some things, no it isn’t wrong, being smart is not your fault, don’t let anyone place blame, sure sign of projection, I’ll tell them, you cannot avoid being calculating. But that does not mean everyone believes trusts is convinced by you either, and hey it’s not like being discrete is what you wanted not “the look” you know won’t drink that cup of tea, there’s a BMW symbol on car’s front, like an arm extending a trophy under all losers’ noses, riding on rims tints “you can’t see me but that don’t mean I’m not real” after 911 time to eliminate terror privacy is crucial, faceless need space but wanna get close, real close on internet, come for me make sure everyone is logged in watching ever expanding cry, to be known heard all the places that can’t be seen. Car vibrating booty shaking in seat to a beach song and all you’ve got to do is cruise, just cruising when he knocks window, mumbling money, you’ve got tons not sure the amount dad said his kids couldn’t count that high just think mega like family is made, but you wave him away hand pushing air between each other emphasizing distance priority, you don’t have time to talk, he doesn’t want to either, no way, some change, a bit more he can go get what he wants cheeseburger? mcflurry extra m&ms only red ones? “anything for our loyal customers” wow special okay how about a bit of coke, don’t go out of your way wouldn’t want that, just a salt shake for good luck make my day, how about it can I get some cocaine? “I don’t have any money either!” oh mad now, real fired up. Why not be real, why did you say that? Tell him you don’t have any money because you just spent it all, and the piggy bank, tell him where it is, storage, you never were one to save. Maybe you will see him soon.

Jingles coming from waist, dark skinned man shaded by umbrella big bright parachute-like lending tone dimension to face making him a more colorful character than he is. Waves wad of bills high above drifting heads, from arm up he looks like a savior, employed on Wall Street right out of Stern graduate school first paycheck cashed heavy in hand “come on boys let’s go blow it, see how quick we can make it go” all come racing with certain amount of cool, pride, like they have money in pockets too, this is why they love him, so good to people, one of few reasons, maybe only, one asks one shall receive.

On display bananas, bending in mouth I can’t eat them without laughing, Ziploc baggies packed with nuts, apples Fuji Macintosh two for a buck, score! grapes buy freeze wait morning candy in the icebox, trust me Rene Zellweger does it says they trick her sweet tooth every time and she looks like she doesn’t eat anything but egg whites grapefruit water. Catching my attention papayas lay orange under my reach radiating ripe earth newly plucked soft scoops of tasteless beta-carotene confidential laxative eat after protein and nothing will stick to bones helped weight remain hovering in little bitty hundreds a few months luck of the draw and I achieved two digit number, remember those? all five nine of me, people worried I was on my last heartbeat that I would die resembling a prepubescent boy. I am better now, every day spent sensibly, psychotic patterns of anorexic lessen, granted skin turned cantaloupe orange around ears palms beneath nose looked like self-tanner splats, child’s art project, big mess, ridiculous disaster, which was me. Still fiend them though, encouraged by effect or taste I cannot be sure but seven dollars later it is mine, bought, handed over like gold, knee almost collapses pathetic display that would be starving girl near crash death papaya rescued heart cushioning her fall all she had to save her. Wow heavy as a log! “much better taste” the assurance I need from the man in a canopy of light.

Where to go from here? Happy hour isn’t yet four to seven “manmosa” pint of mashed fruit drowned at bottom in pool of champagne or so they claim probably no better than sparkling wine but I am far passed embodying ego for complaining, ten dollars buys you happiness need for nap and hangover before time when practical people, that select group who has their shit together, are beginning nighttime life, I can’t drink alone anyway will feel like Halloween take two, lower east side “the spot” Plan-B outpouring of holiday enthusiasts high on tootsie rolls fear factor acid still soaking tongue and I am just slumped over dressed as myself because for once in my life I just want to be me drinking a Black Russian breasts smashed on bar counter alluding dairy makes bones calcified strong cleavage illusion! posture straight and these utters are just hanging out but I am confident in some corner of myself, alone on Halloween in staring contest with bartender, multitasking taking straw small and impotent, a disservice for sucking, have it touch glasses’ rim, an over determined circling, he would know, wasn’t even drunk but it had been done before, placing remnants of this vocal gesture on my tongue, swallowing what he had mixed, eyeing him thank you, this is exactly what I need, which is a lie but he would find me follow me home mesmerized by my way “amazing how you can be alone, call the shots, confidence, so sexy in a woman, few like you, makes me mad, most unique” last part makes me think he has a sense of humor in place of brains, I lose interest forget to edit what I say or do it all becomes a story I can pass down a bedtime tale a game, Go Fish Scrabble or Marco Polo, close eyes I’ll hide find me, figure me out, he was either a genius, soul-mate or victim of me, unavoidable contradiction, having all this hope inspired by idealized image of who, me? exterior encouraging expectations of interior, you’re over-thinking, when all I cared about then and there was avoiding holidays spent absolutely alone.

Taking advantage of achievement I let loose crazy in bed but come morning I felt mattress become lighter and behind shut eyes sensed him sneaking out confused having checked closet to see if composure was a costume I had hung and retired or choice b, he vanished feeling I had already grown attached, “she knew my jeans were Levis, chick was wild dude, stay around any longer she’d have read my mind, studied my soul” 17th time he’d have shared story, this time telling his version to some bloodshot middle aged man just laid off from work desperately attempting to drink real problems away, not enough spirits here for that, sorry sir gonna haveta’ cut ya off. Wringing washcloth, sponge of liquor over sink, he would think hard, trying to concentrate instead on memorizing obscure shots requested by guys looking to show Jersey girls a good weekend trip in the big bad city, what a waste, I hadn’t felt anything aside from less lonely and content with what I had got, a gasm-glow that won’t wipe off for weeks, holding me over, which didn’t mean much.

Can do anything, places within a place streets stretched with options, neighborhoods like a town in themselves, not here? Get on subway, go, 6 train Astor Place heading Uptown Pelham Bay Park pass 14th street three after that 42nd street Grand Central get off West towards Madison Avenue New York’s Public Library kiss lion’s cheek climb steps stand under arch feel royal or like I’m in Paris taking pictures of landmarks thank goodness I know this one’s name, could never pronounce anything foreign never even tried “my language is English your words are not in my vocabulary” these things can be taught “no no useless useless wouldn’t want to waste our time so precious”. Guggenheim is an option, some experimental exhibit, museum as romantic comedy, conspiracies against human connection, spiraling narrative, labyrinthine hallways, familiar things forgotten to be seen, disappearing progressions, Pinocchio facedown on glass pool-like abstraction, Narcissus analogy, metaphor for what, Pinocchio drowning in lies? Resensitize people, make them look closer see what it is all about. Seems farfetched, Disney’s intention was never to take themselves seriously or I don’t know, maybe I was too young at the time, didn’t have to didn’t want to have anything be serious. Wandering ingenuously through ponderings, impartiality keeping me wholehearted unmoved grounded in present. Happiness easily spoken, just as easily done. Dewed eyes of enchantment not from sleep, a more ambitious escape, youth when fiction felt real. The reality that broke off falling forgetfully into oblivion where did it go?