Saturday, December 29, 2007

5 scenes from the past week

The best Christmas presents are:

Habanero mango hot sauce

Mixed CDs

Smelly oils and Swiss creams

Homemade cookies

******************************


1) Fifteen year old boys are easy to impress. It just takes breasts and a few simple guitar chords. Driving back from Connecticut we oooo with Bono and sing of love turning to rust.

2) At Simone's house Sam and I get in a screaming fight with Tom Daley about Lord of the Rings. Some kid named Robert makes various homosexual accusations and I challenge him to a duel. Brian backs me up. "Elves and Dwarves can't do that! That's like putting a square peg in a round hole!" Sam and I dig through Simone's curry and pick out all the chicken. We talk with our mouths full about the elusive green wizards. Finally to settle some dispute, Sam pulls out Sindarin etymology, and the conversation ends.

3) Walking back from the salon in Quincy, Derek and I see Alana and Tony in O'Brien's. They wave and come out. "We have beer," Derek says. "Come over." Everyone comes. We drink beer and whiskey. Talk about Alana's show and red dresses. Tony tries to teach me how to blow smoke rings, but those damned American Spirits produce smoke too thin.

4) For a week blood is running from a place where blood should not run. I decide I have cancer. I will fight, I say. I still will not die until I write the Great American Novel. Then the blood stops and I have years left still.

5) Jeff's friend says she likes my taste in furniture. I say I didn't choose anything I own, I just inherited it from dead people. It's fate that has the taste, not me.

Wednesday, December 19, 2007

dour and ecstatic

Once I wanted to believe in God. Once I wanted eternity. I wanted truth. I needed, needed to know. I talked to priests, to monks, to professors, to scientists. I wanted answers. I wanted someone, anyone, to know, to tell me, and no one did and no one could.

My mom never brought me to church. I was never raised to depend on anything unseen except for some swirling amorphous universal logic of cause and effect and balance. As a young adult I groped, dug, and came out with no answers, just a comforting apathy. Just a sense of restless, hungry peace.

I don't believe in anything. I don't really disbelieve in God or ghosts or karma or what have you, I just don't really care. All that matters, all I've found I believe in is love, is how you treat the people you love, how well you love, and how you are loved. I believe in art insofar as it is love. I believe in science and religion insofar as they are love.

I understand nothing about anything, and neither do you, and it doesn't particularly matter anyway. My worth does not depend on an immortal, ectoplasmic soul, on an omniscient watching eye, on a fatalistic plan, or on random, purposeless chance. My worth is not in my IQ or my measurements or the straightness of my nose or my talent.

My worth is in my laugh. My laugh carries my love. It is ephemeral and eternal. I will live as well as I can. I will love as well as I can. What else are we breathing for, anyway?

We all will die someday, and therefore, we are free.

Sunday, December 16, 2007

thoughts from the shore by the sea

There are places I never thought I would go growing up. Why would I ever see the Alps? The rock of Gibraltar? Why would I ever be in Cape Cod?



We grow up in Indiana and we hear about places we will never see. No time for travel when you marry your college sweetheart and buy a house at 22. Oh you will see places when your children are older. You will save the money and bring them to Paris and they will see the Louvre. They will pick apart their food and ask for pizza. When you are old and they are up out of college and the house, maybe you will fly to Egypt and see the pyramids. Maybe you will go to Rome and see the Colosseum with your wife and your walker. Take your shriveled picture in front of Stone Henge. Your old blue eye will drop a tear as you thank god you saw this thing before you die.



I may not be old. I probably will not be old. But god the slow big snowflakes in silent Provincetown on the spider leg trees creeping around the New England houses in the tiny streets as I sit and drink coffee and write a new world and the wind by the grey crashing Atlantic on the footprintless beach or chess with heavy wooden pieces in the dimlit bar that is older than anyone you ever met in your family. It is enough to be twenty-five and beautiful and here.



I must be doing something right.

Monday, December 10, 2007

I am off tomorrow to flaunt my heterosexuality in Provincetown. Keep Boston warm for me.

Sunday, December 9, 2007

Sam takes me to his office holiday party where I drink the open bar and eat the free tenderloins. I get in a fight about Ezra Pound with a dude everyone later tells me they had bets I would punch in the face. I pop with a fork the balloon with the picture of the boss's face on it. We dance and go afterward to do Irish car bombs with the Indian kid and the kid with one leg. The kid with one leg agrees with me that life is tenuous, so you might as well smoke. His friend shot off his leg when he was fourteen with a twelve-gage shotgun. He is deft with his crutches. He does not need to make up stories. The Indian kid and I talk about Ganesh and the caste system. He is a Brahman. I say, of course you are, you're in this country. He laughs. Sam and I try to dance proper but he elbows me in the nose when he spins me. The streets are cold and I'm not used to wearing heels. I love Boston anyway.

Friday, December 7, 2007

fear in winter

Jme's feature was fucking amazing. Everyone in fantastic form. Prohibition repeal day it was and a swing band in 20's era costume pulls up in Rolls Royce while we're out smoking and I Charleston with Artie on the sidewalk.

Say what you will, it's good not to be the best writer in the room. How else will you ever work?

So many things are going so well right now I have trouble trusting life. After the past year of no and sweat and alone and plane rides to get away and phone calls to other time zones and too much caffeine and steady numbing pills and fetal positions on Friday nights I cannot really get my feet stuck in happy. I dance in a tornado of new friends and loving but then when it's quiet and I'm back in my room I think of the people I've shared bed with and something is it fear is it loss dulls the flutters in my chest. Somewhere I maybe feel the bristling spine of the scared and lonely young thing who could not do it, could never have done it, but I put her away and keep working.

I will never go back to being afraid, I tell myself. All courage is is setting steadily one foot in front of the other.

Tuesday, December 4, 2007

How many bottles of Wild Turkey does it take to spark an all-night existential conversation?

a recipe:

1 bottle Wild Turkey

1 pack Marlboro Reds

2 disenchanted Bostonian writers named Jade and Sam

Monty Python's the Meaning of Life

Mix writers together in small room full of books. Add The Meaning of Life. Gradually fold in Wild Turkey. Pepper with Marlboro Reds to taste.

Prep time: approx 7 hours.

Serves humanity.

Sunday, December 2, 2007

Lady A is a mitzvah. In her house we eat warm chili and smoke. It is too cold outside even to see your breath in the air and our hands go all dead. We wear our coats indoors in New England.

Tony curls and coils chains on a bald head. We all have voices that occupy space. What I say, if there are those out there who get off on girls popping balloons, then all things are possible and there is no reason to fear.

When the temperature falls this far I scrawl stolen lines in my Mead notebook crouched by the radiator. In the morning I think why does my neck hurt and then I remember it is from his teeth like mad like the last Yes. in Ulysses and I rub it out and go for pancakes and coffee.

I have never felt winter like this. I will not wear pants until I have to. I will fill my lungs with ice until my capillaries turn to crystal spiderwebs. I want her sleep to live in me.

Friday, November 30, 2007

Many drunk men from hence forward will say to me while leaning in and nearly touching my clavicle with an extended index finger, "Are these the keys to your heart?" Guess I should have seen that coming.

Working at the Cantab was fun. Made decent money. Makes me less broke. Everyone is nice and dancing. I get free beer.

I think I may just stay here for Christmas. It's too soon to go back to Indiana, and my brother won't even be there. We'll see. We'll see.

Wednesday, November 28, 2007

God, I missed Boston. I'm so over Indiana, not including about eight people.

First night back and Derek and I go to Chris's feature at The Out of the Blue. It's my fault, really, because when Chad called me last minute after a cancellation, I said I couldn't do it and gave him Chris's number instead. Sam is there. Jme shows up. Chris is wearing a paisley tie. There are forties and whiskey and various other substances. There is walking down streets and climbing up fire escapes and loudness and gestures and satisfaction and dissatisfaction. God, we are an attractive bunch, someone should say.

I got the final draft of my novel in, typos corrected and everything. My agent started querying today. I talked to her this afternoon and she said she already got two requests to read the manuscript. That doesn't mean anything, but it feels good. "This is the best part," she says, "after the interest, before the rejections start." I say "I am realistic," and she says "I know, it's very cool."

I gave away my Starbucks shirts today because I am not going back, and I've been drinking green smoothies. The movie about Dylan is out. I'd like to see that.

Sunday, November 25, 2007

one poem

as fires in the trees
become flashes of candles,
we race through the falling leaves.

echoes predict conjoined
flames burn twice
as bright, as fast.

for others there are
corpse photographs
of ivory dresses,
there are children,
there is cascading
vicarious immortality,
and flowers for names
carved on tombs.

handprints scattered
in brittle brown skeletons
across the cooling earth.
how quickly they crush.

howling sky,
have us ripe rich
and dripping juices.
suck us dry
before we rot.

leave for them
the cold paper hands
and the quiet sick deaths.

let us die
feasting
at fifty

and let
no one
eulogize,
no one
recall.

let no
women wail
in black veils
for us.

let the
setting
of the
red sun.

let the
coming of
soundless night.

let the
falling of
the leaves.

call them aflame
in autumn
when they've lost
their green.

call what
we do
burning.

if you must
call out
our names,

do it in houses
empty, gutted,
singed, with
broken beams.

then snuff silent
lurching echoes

and drink
tart ciders
and set us
to crackle
and hiss

until there
is nothing
to remind –

no bone relics,
no fillings of gold,
no English names,

no smoke,
no ash,
no scorch

on the
earth.

Friday, November 23, 2007

My brother and I are amusing separately, but when we're together we get in this zone. It's like we can read each other's minds, taking cues from the slightest intonations, and we'll go off for an hour on the randomest tangents. Before we know it we're reminiscing about frying Nazi soldiers in Dresden and eating them like bacon after convincing ourselves they were just pigs in helmets, and Mom and Val are watching on amazed.

"It's like they speak their own language," Mom says.

"I just sit back and watch," Val says.


I miss my brilliant physicist brother. Fuck Michigan. All cool people live in Massachusetts.

In Indiana two more days. I miss my Boston family.

Sunday, November 18, 2007

Things get better. They get worse and worse and worse and they get better. You spend months alone sweating in airless rooms, staring at lonely pages. Your mind becomes a shrieking spiral back into itself. You think god, really, I cannot do this. Really I cannot.

You keep going. You become new. You wriggle out of your skin and you are now pink again and uncalloused. You change your patterns, the way you speak, maybe your hair. You quit jobs. You meet people. You remember but you are not anchored, no not tethered to any hills after you've already climbed and descended them. You keep going, keep moving. One day you find yourself in a new city with a new name, and you are whoever you decide to be. You live. You choose.

Thursday, November 15, 2007

So when the fuck did people start calling me a poet? What is that? I'm not a poet, I'm a novelist, goddamnit. Remember, remember.

Poetry is cute and fun to fuck around with, but I'm in love with fiction.

Wednesday, November 14, 2007

Because it's too damned cold to sleep on a park bench and I have extra room anyway, Jeff's been staying with me the past week while he looks for a job and a place. We watch Woody Allen movies and he tells me his theories about society. Sometimes he plays my guitar better than I do. He is always getting phone calls from women wanting to buy him coffee. You work fast, Jeff, I say. Just don't bring any of those nineteen-year-olds round here. I know it ain't illegal, but I'm a woman of principles. And none of your chess-playing transients from the Harvard Square Au Bon Pain, either.

He got his job, and now I say Jeff, just stay here these next six weeks. Pay me rent. Then we can both figure it out. I'll miss your musings on Infinite Jest and Gravity's Rainbow, and you're so good about doing the dishes.

So I have a roommate, finally, with two months left to my lease. Mysterious ways.

Tuesday, November 13, 2007

Things suddenly are quieting down. I will be on a plane for Indiana in a week. Holidays coming. Good good. I'm always so hungry. Gobble gobble.

Sunday, November 11, 2007

Just a little hemorrhage, only the tiniest rupture, and well worth it. By 2am sleep is good. If I wake up dead, I say, make sure Jme Caroline reads the face-fucking poem at my funeral.

When Kinko's printed my manuscript, they put all 338 pages in this 8 1/2 by 11 cardboard manuscript box. It was so sexy. I wanted to be inside of it.

I saw No Country for Old Men. The Cohen brothers are the hottest brothers. They did such a good job of capturing the stark poetry of McCarthy's prose. Every frame of it was filthy and beautiful. The acting was impeccable, and it had the most. badass. villian. ever. I should see more movies.

In other news, I open my big mouth too much. Bitches.

Thursday, November 8, 2007

One Week

It's Halloween and I've just gotten my skeleton key tattoos beneath my collarbones, the word clavicle coming from the Latin "claviculus" meaning "little key," but I get them to open doors. I go to the Cantab to a party of dead poets.

He apparently always is there, but I have never seen him. I am Sappho and he is John Berryman and when he reads I am drunk on whiskey and High Life and I'm turning to Sam saying "Who's that?" Next thing I know I'm outside pulling a cigarette out of his pack and we're talking about something, then someone suggests we go to Zuzu and we go and we're dancing and drinking more whiskey.

When the bars close we climb in the back of someone's car. Jess and I are too drunk. Lights are blurry. When we stop in Allston Jess and I hold onto each other's waists as we wobble. He and his friends get in a fight with some Mexican guys, and a girl pulls out a butterfly knife, but all I hear is Jess saying "What's going on?"

Jess and I are tired and we go to sleep in his bed. Sometime during the night, Jess is carried away and I hear "I promise I'm not a creep, I just need to wake up in the morning," before he climbs in and puts one arm around my shoulder.

The next day I walk back over the bridge in my toga to get my car. When I get back to Brighton, I get a call from a literary agent who wants to represent my book, pending minor rewrites. "How long do you think it will take?" she asks. "Oh, about a week," I say, then cringe at my own words.

After hanging up I walk back to my old Starbucks to tell Al and Mallory. I run into an old regular customer who asks what I'm doing now. I tell him I'm recently unemployed and he calls his boss and gets me a writing job.

That weekend, we see each other again. I meet everyone. Outside the bar he kisses me and I say "I'm glad you got that out of the way." I get too drunk again and apologize for it. He says "Don't worry, I don't care at all. It just can't happen all the time. I'm not good at taking care of women." I am coherent enough, and say "Well, that works out, because I don't like to be taken care of."

I do my rewrite, get the contract in my inbox. I start the real job and instantly get more work. I go to a party at the Lizard Lounge and everyone is full of love.

Back at The Cantab, I read a piece about a guitar, string theory, and my father. He says "Good. I was worried for a minute about what I would do if your poems sucked."

Over breakfast, we make an handshake agreement because I don't have a pen to draw up a proper contract. We will not read poems about one another at the Cantab, unless they are so well-veiled that even we can't tell what they're about.

The revision is done. I'm sending it off tomorrow.

What a week.

Wednesday, November 7, 2007

So here's my update. Since Halloween:

- I got an agent for my novel.

- I got a new job writing for a website. I have a title and a business card.

- There's this guy. He's a Leo. Here we go again.

I'll fill in the story later. I have to finish a rewrite on my novel, sign the agent contract, and fix this website by the end of the week. Also read poems.

Sunday, November 4, 2007

On Writing

There are those who talk and those who do.

If you want to be a writer, you must know that you will lead a miserable, poor, lonely life. You must accept that you will never make money, never be known. You will eat day-old bread. You will be a leech. You will date people for money or ask your mom to pay the rent. You will be laughed at. When you tell people what you do, their eyes will roll subtly. At family gatherings your elders will whisper about you. You will not sleep well or sleep too much. You will always be the one who is too drunk or too sober. In relationships you will always be the one who is too intense, or you will be a titanic asshole. You will chase people away. You will procrastinate. You will never finish anything when you say you will. Your work will never be read, never be understood, never get you laid. You will show something important to someone important to you and they will nod and smile and say "Um, yeah. I totally think I get that." You must understand that you will never write anything good. You will never be happy with anything when it's finished. You are doing it, essentially, for nothing.

You must truly accept and expect that you will live a pathetic, painful, fatuous, cringe-worthy, worthless existence. Then and only then will you maybe begin to earn a gram of respect.

Thursday, November 1, 2007

Wake up in Allston in a strange bed still drunk and in my Sappho costume. Jess and I wander out to the grey street wobbling. Jess and I have the same cowboy boots as Regie Gibson. My car is still in Cambridge.

I am staggering over the bridge crossing the Charles at 8:30 AM on the first of November in a toga and sash and Greek sandals.

Some days it all makes sense. Some days the fabric of space just vibrates with the rhythms of your beating heart. This crazy, oxymoronic universe sure plans some random days.

Wednesday, October 31, 2007

she wrote me a letter, and she wrote it so kind

I've been getting shit in the mail. Letters from my tattooed Leo in Utah I never expected to hear from again, photos from weddings, a personal growth/pop philosophy/self-help book from my dad's best friend Russel. The universe is telling me something. People care about me. People don't dissappear. I matter to people. Things come back around.

Decay leads to regeneration leads to decay leads to regeneration.

I need a new job, but I keep putting off really looking for one. May do elder home care. May model for artists. May bartend. Suggestions welcome.

Also, I'm the Out of the Blue art gallery's poet of the month.

Monday, October 29, 2007

One Night in Boston

It's my last night at Spooky World and I'm hugging everyone, getting emails and phone numbers. We are talking and on a small TV in the corner, the Red Sox win the World Series. All the ghouls cheer.

Sam calls because Stacy has broken up with him. After I leave Spooky World, I drive to his place, where he has been denting a bottle of Johnny Walker by himself. I am still in my vampire makeup and am wearing my Red Sox hat for solidarity with the city. We sit and talk about entropy, about the unfairness of the goddamn godless anthopomorphically ordered universe.

We walk to buy cigarettes. The most comforting thing I can think to say is "Look at it this way, Sam. In 100 years, you'll be dead." We laugh.

Sam lives in one room with nothing but books. He has no cups and you have to go through some other guy's room to get to the kitchen, so I take the only container I can find, a Maker's Mark bottle, and fill it up with water from the bathtub faucet.

"Drink this. All of it, and take these," I say, handing him the bottle and two pills.

"What are they?"

"Ibuprofen. Please. You think I'd give you something illicit?"

I leave him and walk down the cold, nearly November street in my vampire makeup, Red Sox hat, and Sam's jacket. Everyone is out and drunk and toasting to the universe for letting their beloved baseball team win. I think of everyone I've ever loved in any way.

When I get home I go to the bathroom to wash off my makeup. I see myself in the mirror and see the red blood tears Tess always paints down my face, bequeathed to me from her own days in the vampire house. I scrub and scrub until they're gone.



I'm sure there's a poem or something in there somewhere.

Thursday, October 25, 2007

SPOOKYWORLD Boston 2007

Behind the scenes at Spooky World. See me putting on makeup!

Emo

I'm a cuddle whore.

I guess it's lonely in Boston sometimes, even though I can hardly walk down a street without someone saying hi to me, someone asking how I'm doing and really seeming to want to know. I know a lot of people for having lived here a shorter period of time, but I'm going all adolescent now and feeling like no one knows me. I miss my friends in LA and Michigan and Indiana and wherever they are, but I do not call them as much as I should. I write fiction, I write my poems and read them, but what is that? Jme had this great line in a poem about Elliot Smith last night. To paraphrase, "the lovers who love the artist but hate the human it limps with."

Oh me. Let's go all emo, shall we? Isn't this just life? Isn't loneliness just the natural state of the developed cerebral cortex along with a heart pumping blood? Isn't that what all the writers and singers who've ever lived have been saying all along? Isn't that dull longing in the pit of the chest that we call love just loneliness inverted?

Yeah, call me emo. When I'm a vampire I paint down my cheeks tears of blood. Right now we call this ache emo. Ten years ago it was clinical depression. 400 years ago it was Melancholia. The art will live past the labels. Fling them at me. I will tack them to my wall till they lose their meaning, and the art will go on.

Monday, October 22, 2007

On Vampiring

Man, being a vampire is hard work. I'm all scraped and bruised, and last night I had to go home early because I twisted my knee. Still, there's nothing as gratifying as scaring a group of cocky teenage boys so badly they run into a wall and fall into a pile.

Dracula's Dungeon is an unstoppable force. We will scare the shit out of you if it's the last thing we do. If it breaks our bodies, we will make you piss yourself.

I've noticed a range of distinct types of attitudes in the customers of the house.

1: The truly terrified. Often children or large groups of teenage girls. They scream, huddle together, cower, and sometimes cry. One teenage girl got so scared she ran face-first into a corner. We were worried we broke her face, but she was okay. These people are the most fun to scare.

2: The "I'm-Here-To-Be-Scared" laughers. This is the group I fall into when I go through other houses. A lot of times groups of young boys fall into this group, but also generally 20-somethings on dates and the good-natured, childless middle-aged. They come in, scream, are scared by us, then laugh -- not at us, but with us in a sort of "oh, you got me" way. When I laugh like this, I'm laughing at myself for being scared. Big groups of boys who run through and fall over each other laugh with a refreshing joy-of-life, like "thank you, universe, for letting me be scared by these vampires," and it makes me love everything.

3: The "I'm-Really-A-Coward" laughers. The people who are such deeply pathetic pussies that they come in and think it makes them look brave to mock and taunt the actors. Yes, because it takes a lot of balls to go into a funhouse full of paid actors in makeup and make fun of them. I bet if anything truly scary ever happened to these people, they'd shit their knickers. We get these a lot, especially on nights the Sox are playing. They are almost always males, ranging in age from say, 13 to 70. Making these douches jump is a source of great pride for us, and we always get them at least once before they leave. If you are one of these people, know we see through the act to the canary-yellow stripe down your back, and we're all glad you paid 20 bucks to make yourself look bad in front of your homies/children/extended family/wife/girlfriend/girl who thinks you're a great guy, but doesn't like you like that.

4: The "Shit-I-Shouldn't-Have-Brought-My-Four-Year-Old" laughers. Sometimes parents with petrified children will affect this disturbing, forced laugh when we scare them. This never bothers me, because they're obviously trying to mollify the child's terror, but Christ, people, what are you thinking bringing those super little ones through Dracula's Dungeon? I would think it would be even scarier to be surrounded by vampires, and instead of sharing in your fear, your parents are laughing maniacally. But what do I know about kids?

Thursday, October 18, 2007

I've got to stop biting the inside of my lower lip. It gives me these huge white knobby things growing up from inside my mouth and makes me look diseased. Of course if I ever want to attract a husband, I should probably concentrate on curbing one of my many other unpleasant habits, such as compulsive spitting, picking my cuticles, and sniffing random objects like the insides of books, clothes (clean or soiled), and other people's food.

I wish someone would pay me for being awesome.

Monday, October 15, 2007

1: Vampiring is the greatest thing I have ever been paid to do. I get to scream and insult people to their faces. It's the opposite of working at Starbucks. Today my body is sore from leaping out of windows at people and my throat hurts from hissing. There are worse things.

2: I think I need to buy a new computer. This situation is not working. It's making it difficult to write and I also feel completely cut off from everyone living alone with no internet.

3: If I ever have enough money, I think I may have a computer I intentionally fuck up just to have an occasional excuse to go and flirt with the Geek Squad.

4: Really lonely lately and really sad, and I don't know what to do about it. I don't even want to leave my house even though it's so depressing there all by myself with no internet. I know I should look for a new job but I can't bring myself to do it yet. I just sit alone and read or try to write or stare at nothing.

Saturday, October 13, 2007

After RESIDENT EVIL: EXTINCTION, Mike "Fitz" Fitzgerald makes the following comment regarding the new iPod ads plastering the T:

"I mean, there's rocking out to your iPod, and then there's what appears to be being shot by a sniper."





These aren't even the best ones. They're just all I could find in my 30 second google image search.

Yesterday my food consisted of a poptart, a jr. cheeseburger deluxe and small chili from Wendy's, movie popcorn, a couple of bowls of frosted cheerios, instant oatmeal, and salt water taffy. I'd say I think my seventeen-year-old boy lifestyle is starting to show on my hips, but I don't want Mallory to yell at me.

Thursday, October 11, 2007

After talking to a literary agent about how slim my chances are of ever having any of my novels published, I proceeded to the Cantab where I read my vampire poem and drank massive quantities of bourbon with Chris and Sam (happy birthday Sam). We bitched about various things such as love and writing, then I passed out on Sam's couch. It was so... something.

Wednesday, October 10, 2007

Humbling to find yourself at 2:30am in need of only a stopwatch and a copy of Frankenstein, and realizing you have no means of obtaining either for at least several hours.

I'm writing a trilogy of Halloween poems from the perspectives of the Vampire, the Wolf Man, and Frankenstein's Monster. Two down, one to go. It's fun to write about things that aren't me. Though I guess these things aren't me in the same way the obsessive protagonist in the Tell-Tale Heart wasn't Poe.

Yesterday I walked out of the house and spent twelve consecutive hours in others' company. Today I turned my phone off and only left the house to go to the library.

I also wrote a poem I want to post here about how I am with boys, but it would leave me very naked. Along the same current, I ran into Isis yesterday. To my surprise, we exchanged words numbering in the double digits.

It's a Libra day today. Everything's trying to balance itself out.

Monday, October 8, 2007

Last night my cheeks were sunken and my lips were dripping blood, and I still managed to get hit on. One chick even told me I had a nice rack. Working at Spooky World is exhausting, but more fun than pouring coffee.

I will need more money eventually, but I haven't resorted to selling parts of my body yet. I'm thinking of modeling for art classes again. Right now let's just enjoy right now.

When I leave Boston for good, be it in a car, on a plane, on a train, on a boat, or in death, the filmmaker of my life will show a slow montage of me drinking beer and whiskey with different boys on balconies and porches. Playing over this montage should probably be "A Case of You," by Joni Mitchell. If that makes the tone too maudlin, we should probably just go with "Don't Stop Believin'," which pairs well with any montage.

Also, the other night I was out with my cousin in the Back Bay and two drunk dudes in Red Sox hats declared loudly that I was "hotter than Daisuke's wife," and asked if I wanted to share their pizza. Oh Boston, I do love you.

Saturday, October 6, 2007

Everyone I've been talking to makes me realize how far I have to go, how much I have to work if I really want to do anything with this writing thing. Turning 25 has maybe (maybe predictably) turned into a quarter-life crisis. Or another one. I think my whole life is a crisis.

My parents came to the Cantab. I'm not sure if they had a good time, but they didn't seem to scandalized. I didn't read because nothing I had seemed parent-appropriate, which makes me hate myself. I was just glad Jme didn't do the face-fucking poem in front of my dad.

My computer is nearly dead. It needs help.

Wednesday, October 3, 2007

I'm not dead, but my pirated internet isn't working so well. I have a lot to say. I'm unemployed as of thirteen hours ago. But my parents are visiting and I got a million friends and it's a New England fall. Things are okay.

Wednesday, September 26, 2007

The good thing about the Cantab is it makes me want to write.

The bad thing about the Cantab is when people like Brian Ellis read, I think how mediocre I am, and how I can never even hope to approach these people, and who do I think I am and what am I doing with my life, and if I'm just an okay writer what's the point of my breathing the air that could go to a rabbit who's at least reproducing.

I think the time is coming when I need to be unemployed for a while. I can feel it scraping the door like the black wish you should never have made.
Yesterday is better. I get out of work early and buy a box of red strawberries and eat them all. Random fact: I am physically unable to stop eating fresh strawberries if they are in front of me.

I talk to my brother and Val. John thinks my new life plan of never having another crush, of never falling in love with anyone again and just fucking attractive people and not calling them might sound fun at first, but will probably be ultimately unsatisfying. I guess he knows a lot about physics and the laws of motion and time and stuff, but I've worked hard for my right as a bitter single person to proclaim, "That's easy for you to say with your wife and your house with a fence around the yard for the doggies."

In my headphones, Journey sings "Don't stop believin'," but my iPod seems to have entered a state of suspended animation. My computer is being a special child, and last night the veins standing out on my neck in my hot, silent apartment as I all want to do is write and the bitch is taking an hour and a half to open a goddamn document. When all is nearly lost Lisa Roth calls and collects me to take me to the bar. Girl's night (read: dyke night) at this swank place downtown where a Jack is eight bucks plus tip and they don't play Shakira loud enough for us to properly shake our asses. The gayity [sic] reminds me of Bloomington, and I remember how much I enjoy dancing around anyone but straight men.

The days keep turning into night. I'm surprised by how many new poems I have. I still have this novel I don't know what to do with, but after the night the sun keeps rising.

My friend Caleb took this out the window of a plane. All I'm saying is sometimes things are outstandingly beautiful.



Peace.

Sunday, September 23, 2007

Picture-rific!

I and Hillary enjoyed pizza once, before all of this madness. Before I even saw Boston and before I ever had a poem published and before Samson and I parted and before I met Isis boy and forgot how to fall asleep at night.
















Let us all dance and sing. Let us look at happy things, such as pictures.

Wasn't there just other madness, though? I don't think I ever knew how to sleep properly.

These days it's like manic-d. One day every bush burns, screaming beauty at me, the next all I see is endings and goodbyes and the terrible, inevitable cold of forgetfulness.

Once not too long ago I swam with dolphins in the Pacific, and I smiled like this:
















I was looking at pictures today. I stopped taking pictures for a long time in the spring when everything went nuts. I started again when I went to LA. Check it out.

Cape Cod, March 2007:
















Santa Monica, August 2007:



















In those five months, my face looks noticeably different. Older, I guess? I think it all caught up with me in my cheeks and my eyes. I also can't help but think I look better. Maybe I'm one of those people who had to grow into their looks, but I thought it worked the other way for women.

I want to start using more pictures in this blog. Thoughts, anyone?

Saturday, September 22, 2007

What a shitty day. Not even a corn muffin and a comped dirty grey goose martini could fix it.

I want to be unemployed and not in Boston. I want not to be alone.

Friday, September 21, 2007

After a few days of readjustment, of early nights and baths and reading, I'm back to my old self. Going to the Cantab for Pomes on Wednesday helped.

Today is my first day off in eight days. Last night out and getting wasted, happy to be 25 and pretty and independent, whatever that means. Ugly men buy me drinks, offer to take me to steak, to take me bowling, and I'm drunk so I say yes, but none of them are even close to my type so I will avoid them if they try to call me in my sober state. I want steak but I really don't want to have sex with this guy and steak + wine = expected BJ at least. At least that's what someone told me once.

This bald orc-like man follows Andy and me outside while I'm trying to give him Confidential Girl Advice. This man says he is thirty six, but looks at least ancient, and he once worked with the Red Hot Chili Peppers, which is all I find interesting about him. He's hammered and grabs my crotch, so I punch him in the balls and he cowers and leaves.

This fellow who is not my type buys me two whiskeys and two mudslides, which are pretty with chocolate sauce drizzled in martini glasses. He asks if I can tell what the last whiskey he buys me is, and I sip and say Maker's Mark and I am correct.

I am thinner than I once was and cannot hold my alcohol as well. Andy knows the bartender and we get free tiramisu.

This morning there is misty haze over the lake as I take my walk of shame. Birds sing and squirrels jump around all in front of me in the woods and fields. I smile and say good morning to the middle aged women out speed-walking. My head hurts. Life is beautiful.

Thursday, September 20, 2007

Had my first cigarette since Leah's birthday last night at the Cantab. Today I feel like death. My chest is heavy and angry, and I have a caffeine headache. I need my fix of espresso before I'm quite myself.

I'm old enough where I know how I react to thing. I know change is hard on me. I like working at my new store and like the people, but it will be a bit before I stop comparing everyone there to everyone at my old Starbucks. They were like my little neurotic Boston family. I can't get over thinking they're going to forget all about me when they don't see me every day.

This sleeping more than 3 hours a night thing is nice.

Monday, September 17, 2007

Tearing out of a guy's apartment at 5:55am so I will not be late to my last day at Starbucks, I realize my parting words, "See ya. Thanks," may have sounded a little coarse. It's a Sunday and his roommate is still up watching sports in the living room when I leave. If I don't see him again, I figure I stole an awesome t-shirt.

My last day at Starbucks is frustrating and cloudy. I work with my friends Brendan and Keri and all of us are leaving. At the end of the day I expect to feel sad, but as I tell Keri, all I feel is relief.

It's so strange how emotions can surprise you. The same way it can be so shockingly not weird to sleep with a friend and go right back to being friends, it can also be so completely not sad to leave a place that was so much of my life for so long. I guess when it's time to go, it's time to go. I think I'm getting better at recognizing when I'm staying somewhere not because it's making me happy or is good for me, but because it's easy and comfortable. Stasis is not happiness. To be happy, I need to grow, and to grow, I must always be changing. Someone taught me that indirectly, but probably doesn't know it.

This afternoon, I start at the Peet's Coffee in Harvard Square. I'm nervous because it's new and it looks so busy, but if I hate it I can always quit and maybe (no! anything but that!) get a non-coffee-related job. It'll be weird because it's in Cambridge, because I've always had my Cambridge life, with the poets and the craziness, and then my Brighton life, with the coffee and the bill paying. At work I always go by my legal name, which may confuse my writer friends if they come in and see me with a name tag that doesn't read Jade. I think we're all smart enough to handle it, though.

This job came about at the perfect time, completely by surprise. This is how it always happens with me, just like my lost bag in Los Angeles. Right when I give up, things fall into place. My mom says I have good Karma, and more and more it seems that way. I tell Mallory maybe I should rethink this whole atheist thing. I'm sure the Christian boy I've been sleeping with would agree.

Amber was a Christian for so long and now she says that none of that is real. That things just happen. Maybe it's just the writer in me that sees connections and plot arcs and meanings behind the random occurrences, or maybe they're there for anyone who looks enough to see them, or maybe they're only there for the people who want them to be, but aren't any less real for that. We create our own reality, after all.

Saturday, September 15, 2007

So, apparently all one needs to pull oneself out of a four month long depression is to get laid and to quit one's job.

Someone tell Eli Lilly he's been barking up the wrong tree.

Tuesday, September 11, 2007

You want everything to be a journey.

You want to have this life-changing blinding light hit you when you open your eyes on a new year. You want a new life. You want 25 to feel somehow different from 24, to leave behind all those jaw aches and sleepless nights and wanting. You want to be new with the rising of the sun.

But then the Universe says no, I will not let you forget, and poignantly I will time it so that you know that I know, and that I am saying no to your wants. No you cannot leave it behind, no matter how far you fly away. These things are boulders in bags now, tied around your ankles, dragging you down.

So this is the slow back-break of adulthood.

Sunday, September 9, 2007

25

A year ago today I wrote a blog on my livejournal about all the things I did with 23. I remember writing it, but it almost seems like another lifetime, that me another person.

What happened at 24? Jesus. How to start.

Pt. 1

I remember leaving one week after it came, flying to Ireland and snaking my way down through the European continent like some goddamned nineteenth century French something or other. What was the point of that? So I could see gay czec sommelier slice the top off a champagne bottle with a kitchen knife? So I could go high out of my mind to a small concert in Amsterdam where they sell rich beers at cost from a cooler and Jennifer Terran sings my mind's soundtrack? So I could see the autumn leaves in Paris? So I could sit shirtless in front of the blue, blue Mediterranean? A million people have done it better, and I crossed the Atlantic for god's sake like that nineteenth century what-have-you. So I made a lot of week-long friendships. So I didn't sleep. I saw Miami and rode up to Indianapolis on a bus. So.

Then then. I moved to Boston, got a job at the Starbucks down the street. Everything was so perfect. It was cold and the snow was deep and all the sidewalks were ice. I wore my black wool coat as I walked through them. I made new friends, I went to poetry readings. I was writing.

Pt. 2

I broke up with Thade. A five year relationship ended. It took months for him to find a new place. The house was electric with anger. I didn't sleep.

People reached out. I made instant fast deep lifelong friends. So lucky there.

In the spring haze I fell in love. Since then my heart has not stopped breaking. I lost my appetite, started smoking, stopped smoking, started eating meat, flew across the country and drank every night to forget about it. I spent late nights walking the empty streets, hearing the hard click of the heels of my boots against the sidewalk, sleeping when whiskey took me. I barely noticed the seasons change. Now it is fall and I keep thinking "Summer's coming."

I wrote poetry. I had my own feature. So many people came some got turned away. People said I did a good job. Some poems of mine got published. I finished a novel and started another one. I became a writer this year.

My brother got married. I was a bridesmaid. I danced in a red dress. John, Orestis, Dad, Russ, and I sang karaoke in a dive bar and ate 4am Taco Bell on John's last night as a single man. Some things are just perfect.

I visited Indiana, my friends and family back home. I went to LA and stayed with Amber and Maegan. I saw dolphins and ate cake. I bought a dress and the woman gave me a discount for a poem. I have met so many people this year.

And somewhere in all of this I realized I'm not afraid of death anymore. At least not as afraid -- not like I used to be. Maybe it's because I'm depressed, maybe it's because I'm past depression, maybe it's something to do with attachment, or maybe I'm actually happier than I ever have been in my life, but that Fear, that anxiety that was always omnipresent has dissipated.

Now there is only this feeling, this ache. I don't know what it is other than a tightness in my chest, a constant pain. It is both great sorrow and great joy. It is this swelling love for the people in my life, how grateful I am that I can walk down the street in grey September and breathe the air, that I am so lucky to be alive and to know these people, and at the same time it is sadness because I can never get close enough to anyone. How no one can really love anyone fully. How people hurt each other so deeply and so often. But then even as I cry about these things, and I can cry in front of people now, people are there to hug me, to take me to steak, to drive me home, to put me to bed when I've gotten so drunk I'm speaking French with a Southern accent, and how it's all the same thing, all part of the same thing, maybe even the Meaning of Life because I think if we're here for anything it's to love each other. It is too intense sometimes and I can't move, but I always get up again, always keep walking, and when I go to sleep at night I feel somewhere deep that I'm living a good life.

My mom sent me a cheesy e-card and I cried. I remember being a lonely teenager and not crying for years at at time. Now here I am tearing up writing this. I want to go back and hug fifteen-year-old me. Tell her I know it's hard, but just wait ten years and it'll be okay. You turn out pretty well, all things considered.

Friday, September 7, 2007

I don't know what I've done to deserve so many people being so nice to me. People have been feeding me. Like, actually feeding me. Good, homemade food. Someone knows I need this.

I'm so tired, but there's no rest yet. Some day I'll sleep well.

In two days I will be 25. Everyone says it's a good year. I'm just trying not to freak out too much.

Wednesday, September 5, 2007

Los Angeles: Part II Russel Saves the Day

Amber and I lay on her building's roof surrounded by LA picking out the tenacious points of stars that fought their ways through the citylight to our eyes and talked about what we believe in. I said I didn't know anything except that I believe in the Universe, and I believe that the Universe makes sense. It was one of those moments you know is important even as it's happening.

I remembered how she used to be Christian and how I used to be jealous. I remembered the first time I saw her in block class in 11th grade, her standing in front talking to Mr. Bardos because she was a new student. It was one of those moments when you first see someone you know will be important.

I loved hanging out with them in their Los Angeles. We went to a midnight comedy show and to bookstores and ate Mexican food. Amber and I got our nails done at the cheap Korean place with five-dollar-off coupons. Mine are shimmery lavender.

The night before I left, I lost my purse with my wallet, my id, my cell phone, and all my cards on Mulholland Drive. We drove back, looked, and called my phone for hours before deciding it was gone for good. I froze all my cards and sat there, saying shit, how the fuck am I going to get on the plane tomorrow? Amber and Travis, mensches that they are, grabbed my arm and said fuck it, it's your birthday in five days, we're buying you steak.

We went and I ate my first steak medium rare. I talked about some Leo. I was wondering aloud if there was any way I could get on the plane as a Jane Doe, thinking okay, maybe not back to Boston, maybe just stay here on the West Coast, because lord that lofty blue Pacific says my name in a way her brother never has. I'd given up hope of getting back today when Amber's phone rang and it was my dad. Some British tourist found my purse and called the number in my phone titled "Home." My dad called Russ, his BFF who lives in LA, and he drove to get my purse and met us at the restaurant with it.

Russ is like my uncle. I cannot tell you how much I love this man. After my meat Russ took us to this amazing cafe whose name escapes me and I had an ideal cappuccino with impeccable cloudy foam and an amazing berry whip cream cake and a fudgey frosty cookie. Food has never been this good. I still couldn't believe that my purse came back to me and brought me this moment. I want to write something and call it "Russel Saves the Day."

Today a final In-N-Out and goodbye to Amber and I was back on the plane to home, where I met a Leo named Lisa with whom I made instant friends. Lisa lives in Harvard Square, is a dancer, speaks Russian, and has tiny hands and pretty brown eyes. We watched the in-flight movie and found out we were on the same flight going out to LA too. We both agreed the week seemed like four, and that it was going to be weird to be back home. We decided it was kismet that we should be friends. She and her two best friends are going to come to my birthday party.

I came home to Mallory, corn, mint chocolate chip, a birthday card from Grandma, and a handwritten letter from a Leo from my past I never expected to hear from again. I opened it and inside was a gorgeous color picture she drew me which sits on my fridge door, and a note. She has fairy tattoos and freckles. She says I made her dance. I can't help it.

God these Lions. Is there even a lesson to learn? Does Virgin flesh like sacrifice attract the tongues of man-eaters? I must ask my Virgos about their experiences.

Sunday, September 2, 2007

Los Angeles: Part I

I got on the plane jubilant and hungover Wednesday afternoon and haven't looked back. The sky when I arrived was this crystal sapphire with splattered puffy clouds.

The first day I put my feet in the Pacific ocean and looked back at LA, back at Indianapolis and Boston and you. It was so cold and blue. I ate seafood.

Five days in a row I was surprised by the apparently random incorporation by outside influences of Journey's "Don't Stop Believin'" Is the universe trying to tell me something?

I went to Disneyland, somewhere I thought for some reason I'd never see. Maegan and I wore matching polo dresses and pretended to be a lesbian couple. I rode Space Mountain with my hands up screaming like a kid, and did Pirates of the Caribbean twice.

Today I saw Michael Madsen at a chili cook-off in Malibu. And check; I sighted my movie star.

Amber, Travis, and I went to the beach afterward and wrestled the Pacific. Her waves are irreverent and swell high and fast, pushing and pulling you, so different from the neurotic, limp waves of the Atlantic. So loving but so cold.

Today she was violent. When you swim in her, you fight her, leaping with the waves, falling under, choking salt. Her water is filled with sands not soft and white, but harsh rock shards which pelt, cut, and bruise. The waves throw you against these sands and drag you back again and again. When you step out, your skin is scraped pink and raw, and you will never win, and even as you fight her you love her, so you go and lie by the boulders in the blasting sun for a while listening to her waves.

Driving back to Amber's apartment on the PCH, watching the sunset (sun setting, not rising here) over the ocean, I saw a group of dolphins jumping in the water.

I miss everyone, but I can't even think of coming home right now.

To be continued...

Monday, August 27, 2007

I think I may have finished a novel yesterday.

How did I get so busy. No time to sleep. Two days from now I'll be eating In-N-Out Burger. Yesssss.

Sunday, August 26, 2007

I have not gone out in days other than for dinner and it feels kind of nice. I think I've finally beaten on my own whatever weird infection was wrecking my body. I've also seriously cut down on smoking. So yay.

It's been kind of nice to be alone in my place reading, writing, drinking beer, sitting in front of my window AC unit in my bedroom because Jesus, it is hot out there. Today I opened with a four hour shift, got out at 10am after actually getting a decent night's sleep, so now I am awake with the day before me and what to do? Coffee, percocet, and writing until going to Harvard this evening? Splendid idea, me.

Saturday, August 25, 2007

it's not dark yet, but it's getting there

I realized upon talking to Mallory online last night that for the first time I can think of, the only person I'm angry with (aside of course, from the usuals I don't actually know, e.g. Paris Hilton and the President) is myself. I should I guess offer myself the same level of forgiveness and slack I offer these others who do pretty much the same stupid shit I do, albeit usually without the muttering and swearing and maybe without the crazy-eyes, emo-running black eyeliner or what have you.

I was sobbing the other night in the passenger seat of a car. Been a while since that's happened. I'm finally grown up enough that I can cry around other people.

Sara-with-no-H and I talked about self-loathing, and how it is actually a form of pride. I gotta relearn to get over my goddamned self. I ain't no better nor worse than anyone of you, or the President, or Paris Hilton.

Well, maybe a little better than those two... ;)

Friday, August 24, 2007

Getting finally better I think. A couple days off, some rest and some turkey and beef meatballs -- good old Italian cooking, real, like my grandma's, is all it takes sometimes. Ten hours of sleep and some colloidal silver. Bring up the mucus with saline. We'll be back in action soon.

In one week I'll be in LA, looking at the other ocean over which the sun sets.

I'm excited about reading again for the first time in months. Reading now Geek Love by Katherine Dunn, and it's Jesus exactly what I need to read right now, both for my writing and my life. Also one of those things that makes me feel incompetent, because how could I ever, you know?

Jeff Berger says that's what you gotta read. The best stuff you can never hope to compare to. No use reading shit.

He gave me Darconville's Cat, which is scary and thick with arcane words but I can't wait to read it, and I just received as birthday gift from my brother Infinite Jest and Gravity's Rainbow. These will easily last me the rest of the year.

Wednesday, August 22, 2007

thought that I was young

You're always crying to leave somewhere.

I'm obsessed right now with the song "I Wish I Was the Moon" by Neko Case. I'm listening to it on a loop while I write this. god bless me, i'm a free man with nowhere free to go...

My upstairs neighbor Sara-with-no-H brought me cough drops and Tylenol Sinus. Having her as an upstairs neighbor is proof that I did some things right in my past life. We soon will watch nerdy videos or go to Maine. Whichever comes first.

Still sick, but getting better, tonight I finally ate my cheeseburger. Good god what life joy lives in just a cheeseburger and a chocolate malt. Pictures taken on a camera phone. Planting your "Art Saves" sticker on the wall of Bartley's. These things make me too happy and should make me happier.

Personal tumult on top of the physical sickness this past week. I am transferring stores, leaving the Starbucks where I made so many of my friends. Everyone is sad. I was crying today. Seven months ago I remember crying, pulling away from my parents' house in Indiana, driving down 465 wailing. If I had stopped, driven back, stayed there, I would not know any of these people. I would not be crying to leave this place. Change feeds me, but is so hard on me sometimes.

My wife, Mallory is back from her surgery. I forgot how good it was for me to have her around. I will miss working with her. I've just been hacking, coughing, writing, talking to friends and trying to sleep. These attempts have been varyingly successful.

I have not been to any open mics in a week. Tonight Mallory and I paid 3 dollars for the Cantab, but there is no where to sit, I am sick, and she is gimpy with a surgeried leg. We stand in the back for a while, but we are in Adam Stone's way and I feel awkward and sad, so we go right away. I'm afraid I seem rude. It is not like that. I'm just shy and sad, and I got up at five AM after going to bed a two.

I think I've forgotten how to write in complete sentences.

Monday, August 20, 2007

Why does my life work like this? Today I showed up to the Washington Street Starbucks where I was covering a shift so the employees could all go on a picnic. I'm there for twenty minutes and who shows up but Creepy Evan. He's waiting over with the employees. Apparently he knows one of them and is going on the picnic. Fabulous.

He sits there for what seems like forever, but is probably only a half hour. He's just sitting in the cafe, by himself against the wall staring at me. Just staring. It's just me and a shift, Rich, who doesn't work at that store either on the floor at this point, and he's gone into the back. I'm ringing and helping the customers and I can't get away from his eyes. Finally, I look straight at him and say loudly, "Will you please stop staring at me?" He does not. I repeat myself. He still does not but comes up and gets in line. I'm raging, seething, livid. I help the two customers in front of him and by the time he's up, Rich has come out from the back. I turn to him and ask him please to help the next customer, I'll explain later, so he does and I disappear into the back room for a minute. When I come out, Evan's gone.

On top of it, I'm sick. Like really sick. On top of that I got a 25 dollar parking ticket while I was there, so for the 5 hour shift I'll only make a total of about twenty bucks.

I'm still sick. I was going to go to stone soup tonight, Lizard Lounge last night, but I feel like total shit. I can't even sleep I feel so terrible and achy. I wish I hadn't gone to work today. When am I going to start to trust my bad feelings?

Sunday, August 19, 2007

After talking online for an hour last night about the glories of sausage I decided to give the meat eating thing a shot. Tonight after work I went to whole foods and bought some bourbon chicken wings.

"I'm glad you're in such a good mood," the kid behind the counter said. "It's been a long day."

"For me too, but I'm just starting to eat meat again," I told him. "I'm just so excited to see all my options."

"Oh, well, congratulations. In that case, do you want a free sample of this roast beef? It's really awesome."

"Um, of course?"

The kid cut me this great piece of roast beef (the end piece! the end piece!) and I ate it with my hands as the people behind the counter smiled and cheered me on. "Welcome back," one woman said.

Every cell in my body cried out in glee as I swallowed and digested tonight. I have only a bit of a tummy ache now, but it will pass.

Soon I will have my first cheeseburger. I think I'm going to go to Bartley's.


It's the small things in life, you know. You have to know when to treat yourself, someone said once. You have to decide at different times what to care about and what you're caring for. Sometimes you have to be good to you.

Saturday, August 18, 2007

Long days. I can't believe just Monday was my show.

Yesterday after work I ignored writing and the tickle in my throat for a while for an Office marathon with my friend Andy. After five episodes we decided it was too nice an evening to spend it inside watching TV, so it was a trip to the liquor store, followed by PBR tallboys and whiskey on the porch listening to jazz. Reminiscences of seasons past barely crossed my mind, and sunsets are better than a lot of things.

Andy is a happy person. Andy has Jesus.

Mallory came over after work and we headed downtown to Aili's going-away party. In the morning I worked a shift at another store. The weather again was perfect. I was home for 15 minutes when Brendan called me saying the new girl didn't show for her closing shift. I ate lunch and went in, working in the end twelve hours at Starbucks on a day I wasn't scheduled to work at all.

Unfortunately now I'm sick. I hope it's viral and not an infection, though I was hacking up some pretty nasty shit this morning. Time will tell.

In my drunken state last night I wanted above all else, a cheeseburger. Today I ate turkey bacon and chicken. I think my veg days may be coming to an end.

No writing the past couple of days. Nice to have a break though.

Thursday, August 16, 2007

No one likes to hear they're being worried about. It hurts because I'm thinking of course that I'm doing all right for myself, all things considered. I wonder if it's the sadness or what. I'm a spazzy-assed motherfucker, we know this, have seen it. What's different now?

Had a few days off from work and it will be strange to go back at 6am tomorrow. I'm courting the owner of the Cantab for a part time there as a waitress. May as well move to Cambridge.

My allergies have gotten noticeably awfuller in the past three days. I hear it's that time of year where your eyes want to jump out of your skull and run red and seeping down the road. I'm trying to reel them in, since I figure I've got a lot of beautiful things to see coming up.

Tuesday, August 14, 2007

My feature went well. I am happy with it. A lot of people came, which of course is nice. Sold a few books. Afterward, Erin Reardon and Tim Gager got me so drunk Al had to open for me this morning.

When I finally rolled out of bed, I texted my friend Andy and he, I, Al, and our friend Aili all went out to breakfast. It was a beautiful day and we decided to go to the beach, so we drove up to New Hampshire and lay all afternoon by the ocean. Aili gave me a seaweed bouquet, then we walked on the rocks and found snails and crabs. Andy dug a huge hole. I was happy just to lie in the sun in front of the sound of waves. We ate fried clams and our eighteen year old waitress hit on Andy, then I got an orange cream frappe.

We drove back as the sun was setting, all aware this was one of those good-to-be-alive days. I played iPod DJ. New England is really gorgeous.

Thank you so much to everyone who came out last night. I had a lot of fun.

Monday, August 13, 2007

Saturday, August 11, 2007

The weather here is fantastic. Thank god it's not so hot I can't breathe anymore.

My sleep schedule has been so bizarre lately. Four hours in the afternoons and two hours in the wee hours of the morn. At least I'm still going. And I'm writing fiction!

Planning on pawning my jewelry. Anyone know of any pawn shops in Boston?

Today my friend Andy said I was the only "woman" our age he knew. "Meaning what?" I of course asked. "Meaning you're not a girl and not a lady. You're just like, mature and independent and unique, but have your shit together in your own way."

So I thought, goddammit, I do have my shit put pretty much together. It's different from a lot of people my age, but I know what I want and I do it and go for it and I'm good to people and what more can you do in life?

By the way, come to my feature at Stone Soup on Monday night at 8pm at the Out of the Blue art gallery in Central Square. :)

Wednesday, August 8, 2007

Shit. If I were in a better all around mindspace, I would be reveling in providence and the goodwill of the people around me. All in all it was not a bad day. Woke up about 12:30 and actually wrote. Shit. Actually wrote fiction. Actually read. The weather sucked -- I can never breathe when it's so hot and humid, and around 5:30 all I could think of was Harrell's ice cream, so I thought why the fuck not? Drove down to Allston and got me some. Medium sized. Malted Vanilla and Cherry Vanilla. So good. Actually cheered me up.

Feeling a bit better, Al and I went to the Cantab. Got there late but Ryk is the man and put me on the open mic anyway. Read "Redlight." Ducked out at about 9 to get a quesadilla and smoke. Ran into Debbie and Devon outside the 1369. Some people recognized me. I told everyone to come to my feature.

My boss has been scheduling me with shit hours, but Mike at the door is going to hook me up with a waitressing job at the Cantab. I think I'd really enjoy doing that a couple of nights a week. Maybe more. I'm going to go in this weekend and talk to the owner.

See man? Good things are happening. People like me. Care about me. A lot of them. A lot of them care a lot. I was talking to my friend Maegan yesterday. She mentioned my low self-esteem. She said I was dynamic. And beautiful. And a good writer. I should know these things. I feel like I knew them for an instant last spring and then forgot them again. Where did that feeling go?

Tomorrow night Lisa and I have a date to eat Taco Bell and watch the best movie ever, Henry Fool. There's something to look forward to. I'm opening in four and a half hours for a four and a half hour shift. Not smart to sleep. I'll sleep when I ge off. Let's see what else we can get done in the meantime.

I like my time alone.
Today I actually did all but one of the things on my to do list. And (and!) I talked to a bunch of people I've been meaning to catch up with, and (and!) I played the guitar. This hardly ever happens.

Also, a new contender for Best Pick-Up Line Ever (by a 40-something man who makes vitamins in his basement):

"So what are you doing later? You wanna get a beer and see my vitamin lab?"


Ha. I'm so going to die alone. Ha.

Monday, August 6, 2007

Only thing I know how to do is keep on keeping on. My friend Lisa helped me this weekend xerox the pages for my book, The Crossroad I'm gonna debut at Stone Soup. We have an eerie amount in common, and it made me really happy that the girl who sat silently that one time at Stone Soup who I thought seemed so interesting came and said she liked my poem. Her poems rock, too. I wish I could write like that when I was 20, and I wish she wasn't leaving so soon.

We are obsessive, foolish girls. And it's okay. And it's fine. We're writers, we're melancholic, and that's okay. Emo? Meh. Labeling something as emo when it's genuine doesn't help. It never helps to apologize or feel bad for one's feelings. We have to experience what we feel in order to really grow, to really live, and to really move on.

Saturday night Open Bark and a full house. Tonight Stone Soup with a surprising range of young people. Chad asked Al and me afterward if we knew them. We did not. "You think all the people in Boston under 30 know each other?" I asked. "Well, sort of," he said.

I read some older poems from my book. Afterward, Jack Powers came up and tried to tell me something, but I couldn't understand him. Al concurred that it seemed like he was trying to compliment me. The only word I really understood though was, "okay."

Jack and I both are Virgos.

Two days off from work in a row now. I don't even know what to do with myself. Hopefully I won't get too depressed. Part of me wants to take off and go to Maine, where I've never been. Just drive, sleep on the rocky beach somewhere. Eat fish chowder and talk to the men with white beards.

But hopefully I'll get some writing done. And some reading. Hopefully I won't get too depressed.

Now back to PBR and the long stapler.

Saturday, August 4, 2007

Oh, by the way. I went to Tim Gager's Dire Literary Series. I really liked the vibe there, and I finally got to read some fiction in front of people. It got me excited about fiction writing again, and if I can stop, as is my plan, being so goddamned emo, maybe I'll be able to finish all the novels I have living in my head.
I was looking at all the goddamned emo shit I've been writing and I think I need to be more of a callous bitch in my life. I'm tired of feelings. I'm tired of being withdrawn and depressed. From now on I'm taking my pain and acting out. That's more fun, anyway.

Friday, August 3, 2007

Jesus. I need more distractions.

I wonder sometimes if I'm just a melancholic person. Maybe I'll always find something to be a little depressed about. Now it's a boy. A year ago it was writing. Two years ago it was the loss of my weird sense of faith. Maybe I do all this to myself. Maybe I'll never get out of it.

Wednesday, August 1, 2007

Yesterday was not good. I was more depressed than I have been for weeks. I can see now why. I got off work at noon after 3 hours of sleep, took a brief nap, then listened to my recent favorite album, Time Out of Mind. These songs ring too true right now, and their poignancy will maybe never be as fully understood by anyone who did not listen to the album in full while driving around the streets of Boston at 5 am after leaving someone's house for the last time. It was someone's birthday yesterday.

I couldn't write. For twelve hours I tried, but I just couldn't. Finally I gave up, did the dishes, listened to Joni Mitchell and watched girly anime. Fushigi Yuugi and Camel Turkish Golds. Drank some Starbucks Gold Coast and Knob Creek. Drunk dialed folks in other states. Paid rent and wandered down to the convenience store for bread and cheese. This is bachelor life.

I worry my friendship with the boy with the scars in irrecoverable. Hanging out with me only makes him sad. I know how hard it can be to be around someone you want who doesn't want you, and I don't want to do that to him. But I miss his company.

I'm still seriously thinking about quitting Starbucks, but I have no idea what I'd do. I might consider graduating to a "real" job, but... god, I don't want to get fat. I don't want to be so burned out mentally that I can't stand to sit at a computer for another second. I don't want to hang a photo of my dog in my cubicle.

Tuesday, July 31, 2007

This creepy kid named Evan keeps following me around at poetry readings and trying to talk to me after I've already told him he makes me uncomfortable and not to contact me anymore. It sucks, because he's at pretty much every reading I frequent. I don't think he has a job, and things about him make me physically uncomfortable. From the way he talks, I think he may actually be certifiably insane. He was apparently speaking to my friend Lisa last night about some sort of Rapture he believes in, and not even the normal crazy Christian one either. Some sort of Pagan happy people/sad people-suffocation-music-of-the-stars thing she couldn't follow. I can't stop going to readings, but I shouldn't have to feel uncomfortable and feel like I have to sneak out and run away to make sure this guy isn't following me. I shouldn't have to keep asking him to leave me alone. As the female cop I talked to about it said, "Ah, the joys of womanhood." But hey, I figure, I have a stalker, I guess that means things are going well artistically. At least my life isn't boring, and at least he's not emailing me anymore.

Monday, July 30, 2007

Went to Out of the Blue tonight with my friend Lisa. I read a few poems from back in the spring that brought some interesting memories back. Lisa read and told me it was her first time reading in public, which surprised me because she was charismatic and cool. She's gonna help me make my book for my feature on August 13th at Stone Soup.

I look at my apartment which I do not clean. I think, who lives like this? Venti cups and old recycling. I haven't vacuumed in a month. My fridge has milk in front of old, curdled milk. My pantry has Rice Krispies. But could I be happy any other way? Is this not the life I pictured growing up. Beans from a can. Shitty shift job. Readings. Alcohol. Late nights. Beautiful, twitchy friends I'm in love with. Sporadic and intense periods of productivity. Yes, my sixteen-year-old self would be proud.

Be happy being alone. I got 99 problems, but a bitch ain't one.

Sunday, July 29, 2007

Sooo tired, but less depressed. Nap, work, nap, read, nap, write, nap, eat.

I have to have to have to start writing fiction soon. These poems are great and everything, but I have novels crystallizing in my head. I hardly feel like a writer anymore.

I am the ninety-degree angle in a right love triangle. I held hands with a boy and I'm afraid it was a mistake. I have so little self-control about these things, but it's cloudy at night and you're tired and tipsy on top of a slide, so what else are you supposed to do? At least I didn't kiss him.

These things keep you up at night and drive you mad, but in a way it's kind of fun. I was with Thade for so long and didn't get to experience these ups and downs, these dramas. Maybe the dance is enough. I think I need to be no one's girlfriend.

Friday, July 27, 2007

At the Bluebird last night we saw Murder By Death and they played the song on my Myspace profile. They rocked the house in their hometown.

I've done a lot and seen a lot of important people this past week. It couldn't have gone much better. Now the question: Is my head on straight? Well, I'm calmer. I think I can go back and work my shit out, take care of what needs to be taken care of, and bloody write more for crissakes.

List of people I've happily been able to spend time with:

1. Mom and Dad
2. Hillary and her Roommate
3. Liz
4. Brooks, my sylvan spiritual guide
5. My brother, John, and his wife, Val
6. Orestis and his wife, Clayton
7. Grandma
8. Lacey and her husband, Ryan

Not to mention all the people I ran into last night at the show. I saw my old friend Catya who is proving to be one of those people you run into over and over again at the times when you least expect it. Maybe that means she's in my karass.

I've eaten so much since being here and hardly walked. I feel bloated but the winding streets of Boston will take care of that. I love Indiana, but I'm happy to go back. I miss my Mass friends.a

Thursday, July 26, 2007

Down in Bloomington again with my friend Lacey and her husband Ryan. We are in their house surrounded by the woods. In their backyard is poison ivy and a pit where they make fire. Ryan is spray-painting a chair outside. We hear Murder By Death is playing tonight at the Bluebird, and it is Kismet so Lacey and I put on eye-liner and straighten our hair. From outside through the open windows, the sound of crickets all circumambient and calm. This is the Indiana I miss the most.

Wednesday, July 25, 2007

Indiana is mind-clearing. I have eaten pizza and ice cream and visited the old places I used to dream of escaping. Coming back, they are familiar and welcoming. The new, different me finds pieces of herself in the streets and the woods and the bars, scattered but intact.

My friend Lacey says she knows I'm not over the city. I'm not, I miss it, but it's good to come home for a while.

Last night I drank and smoked out my cold. You thought you wanted this body, viral fuckers? Ha! Take that and that and that. Met a drunk girl who talked to me for two minutes before asking, "So what do you do for a living? Write emo poems or something?" "Why, actually, yes. Yes I do." Kissed on the mouth my brother's best man but he is sloppy. He is Orestis, of Poland and Cyprus. We got in a fight once in Paris at a fourteenth prefecture bar called AutoPassion. I said since he's not doing anything right now he should come stay with me for a few weeks in Boston. Be the man around the house. Keep me company and accompany me on the guitar. Protect me from the crazies.

Saturday, July 21, 2007

I am home. I am sitting at my parents' kitchen. Soon I will go down to Bloomington to see my old haunts and my old friends. I want to walk in the woods and drink beer. I want to remember who I was when I walked the rooms of Sycamore and Ballantine Hall, because I still am so much better off than that person in so many ways. It may be crazy to think this, but I wonder if anyone will remember me. I wonder how many people I will run into that I know.

I guess it hasn't been so long. Just a year ago, I lived there. But so much has happened since then, I feel like a different person. I've lived a lifetime since I've seen some of these places and talked to some of these people. These sentiments aren't unique, I hear things like this all the time, it's just when it's you it all seems so special and epic and wonderous. Just like a love story.

Last night getting on the plane again, just like back in June, thinking of boys in Boston, imagining them shrinking to dots as we rise into the air. I hate that this stuff takes up so much of my mindspace. Am I a romantic, OCD, too female, or a little bit of each? Maybe I'm just human.

And I think why this boy? Why cry and smoke over this boy who changes and runs and locks himself in his room for weeks, who hides and who avoids, who acts so much like a child when he is far too old to do so? Am I so weak for a smell and a smile and that strange, steady, gleaming eye-contact? I know there is a boy I once called my partner who is drinking over me now. I know there is another who rhymes and draws and chain-smokes, whose hands shake, who wears long sleeves to cover the scars on his arms, and he says he loves me, he's sure. Why can't I love him who took me to his house and fed me eggs and peaches?

Everyone says I deserve someone who wants me, but I have to want them too. When the fuck is this going to coincide? I said I am not one who is meant to end up with someone. I know that's a youthful, fatuous thing to say, but hey, I am what I am.

I look back at this poem I wrote back in March, the start of my Boston Poems. I didn't even know what I was doing, but it is about these three boys, my connection to them which was instant and palpable on that Tuesday night. A poem about drinking and smoking and art and youth and love. I think it is a poem that needs a sequel.

Friday, July 20, 2007

Holy holy holy Indiana, I am coming home.

Twelve hours from now I will be in Indiana with friends, away from all of it. The ex, this boy, the friends who care too much, the over-zealous admirers, work, work, and work. I count the minutes. It cannot come quickly enough.

Must do dishes, pack, take shower, prepare. Thirsty thirsty thirsty.

Thursday, July 19, 2007

I think I may need to stop talking to boys unless they are gay, have vaginas, or are blood related to me. No good comes of it at all.

Wednesday, July 18, 2007

I have lost all of my friends.

Last night I could not sit in my apartment sweating alone. I left and drove to Central Square. It was Bluegrass night at the Cantab. I went alone and the night was wet and sticky, and I felt the grease resting on my face, but the hot night reminded me of so many summers, and summer nights have their own comfort.

The Cantab was crowded, I could not stand or sit. I went outside to smoke and sat with Mike, the door man. I used to take IDs at a bar last summer in Indiana. I took his seat and did his job for him as we talked.

We talked for an hour and a half. He said he had a good feeling for me, and his feelings are right. That I will be fine. That it will be okay.

Mike said not to be too upset or surprised. That anyone who met me would fall in love with me because I have a kind heart. I said he didn't know me, and I meant he didn't know the way I am sometimes, the spinning thoughts and crying and whatever, but I said he didn't know me.

When the crowd died down I went inside and drank beer and listened to the music. A man asked me if I came alone, and when I said yes, he said I was brave. I have no idea what that was supposed to mean.

Slept late today, then drank coffee, ate an egg sandwich. It is raining and I sit on my back porch with music and notebooks, but just stare at the rain.

Sunday, July 15, 2007

Hungry and tired. Today I had incredible pizza from the North End. Felt down but not at the bottom. Tonight my friend Al brought me to his parents' house in Lincoln. His mom, Jenny, made me deviled eggs. His dad used to be a road manager and knew Bob Dylan in the sixties. I listened to stories and played my guitar. We watched Aeon Flux. It was good to be in a real house.

Al is an astounding writer, an impeccable rhymer, and an indispensable friend.

On Friday I'm going back to Indiana for a week to get my head on straight. I need a backrub like whoa. My neck feels like it's always punching the base of my skull.

Thursday, July 12, 2007

I guess I've been closer to depressed for the past couple of months than I have been in quite a while. I just wish I could figure out what the fuck I'm doing. When I'm leaving. Whether I'm quitting my job or not.

It is so stupid, I think, to be so upset over something that never really was. I know This Boy is the main thing which has been bringing me down, making everything else worse or opaque or not matter. I'm a romantic, yes, but at times I still can't fathom that two people can have such a mystic connection and feelings for each other and fuck things up so badly. It seems so unjust. I'm more angry with the Universe than I am with him.

For myself, I've had to put distance between us. He said that night wouldn't be the last time we'll ever talk, but I know it probably will be. I can't see him making the leap to get in touch with me, and at this point I just can't do it myself.

Yes I am sad. I will be too sad about this for too long, and that's okay. This kind of thing is what makes one a human being, after all.

But I think it was worth it. I have moments now in my memory that you wouldn't believe, that don't happen outside of movies or books, but happened somehow to me. I just have to keep telling myself that this is enough.

Tuesday, July 10, 2007

Nursing a broken heart, I smoke Marlboro Reds. I said I will smoke them until I get over This Boy. I think my mind in circles remembering all the things I said and he said, and if one different word, one less mean, one gentler, one more persuasive, could have left my lips at the right time to change things. At least I am spending only minutes a day crying now instead of hours. I talk to my brother on the phone and he recognizes the Marlboro Reds, the guitar playing, the sleeplessness, and the not eating. My family does not take heartbreak well, and I know I love too hard and too fast.

At Stone Soup last night met Erin Reardon. Loved her poems, her delivery. We share a fondness for whiskey and afterward my friend and I went with her friends to have a drink.

I read my poem about the Atlantic. A lot of people came up to me and said they liked it. A nice older woman said I was "hot." She had no idea how much I needed to hear that.



she turned around to look at him as he was walking away -- she said "this ain't the end, we'll meet again someday on the avenue"

Monday, July 9, 2007

And I says yeah well, maybe I fucked up real good, ye see, and maybe it all woulda been diff'rent if only I coulda kept my cool and played my hand right, but I was rained on for this on towering stairs, and at least one scared, lonely, neurotic piece of shit crawling around on Earth once mustered up the balls to say love when she meant love.

Thursday, July 5, 2007

I know it's been a while. Life happens.

Last night watching fireworks on someone's roof in Allston, screaming "Fuck the British!" we smoked and drank PBR in the rain. We are all young and sad in our own ways, all thin because of drugs or love or drugs and love, we do not eat but we smoke cigarettes and scream on rooftops.

In the morning our heads hurt, our throats burn, and we go to work.


With everything that's been going on in my personal life, I'm seriously considering whether I should stay in Boston much longer. I may move in the fall or the winter. I may move to LA.

Nothing is certain. Everything passes. We shall see.

Wednesday, June 27, 2007

It's one of those nights where I feel like a terrible writer and think nothing is going right in my life. No elaboration, just putting that out into space.

Monday, June 25, 2007

the stars are out tonight

My friend Al and I went to the Out of the Blue tonight to Doug Holder's feature. I read a long prose poem piece I've been working on and Al had a great piece he performed impeccably. We met a cool girl named Lisa whom we drove home, and now I'm home myself in my Fortress of Solitude.

Today = ten hours at Starbucks, one hour of Star Trek, and a couple of hours of minor poetry stardom. 'Twas an all-star day.

Sunday, June 24, 2007

I went to the Lizard Lounge tonight for Adam Stone's feature. He was really good. I like his stage presence -- funny, kinda dorky, but can slide instantly and effortlessly into serious and weighty material.

I've read three times already this week, and gone to five readings. Tonight I was signed up, but the jazz with the bass and the sax and the five minutes of Tom Waits allusions and the poem read about the dizzying spin of a crush made me think too much about things I have been doing such a good job of mentally dodging, and at 11:45 I decided I had to go home and get some sleep.

Which I better do, come to think of it.

Friday, June 22, 2007

Tonight went with Sue Red for the first night out I've had in a while. We drank a little, bitched about boys and men, watched some poetry, ate sweet honey cake, and saw five minutes of jazz.

We talked some about writing. How maybe we could be happy alone forever if our writing were successful. How we sometimes wish we really could marry our art.

But it was good. I left my Fortress of Solitude. I got to stop thinking for a moment, even if the imprint of problems always hung parachuting over my thoughts.

Thursday, June 21, 2007

My stomach is in knots again and I don't know if it's because of what I ate or how I ate it or just because. Methinks it's just because.

Sitting here trying to figure out if I ate too much or too little today. I felt like I was force feeding myself what was it, oatmeal, two boiled eggs, carrots with hummus, a scone. Drank a Frappuccino at work today. Feel both still hungry and still stomach sick. Took some Tums.

At least I've been sleeping better.
Yesterday read on Debbie Priestley's Cambridge TV show, then hung around Central Square for the Cantab. My friend I was supposed to go with got sick and canceled, which led to me eating and drinking alone for the two hours prior to the open mic while sort of writing at Middle East.

I got to the Cantab early this time, no number one slot for me, and talked to Adam Stone and Judy at the bar while I drank my Jack. Adam is the only person I know who is on the no fly list.

The crowd was weird tonight. A lot of first timers. I read my poem about the Atlantic and I don't think anyone liked it very much. I was down already about other things, and that didn't help, so afterward I went outside and bummed a cigarette. I talked to a nice kid from NH named Mark, who is also called The Colonel. I said I felt weird reading here because no one talked to me. He told me not to take it personally, that it just takes that group a while to warm up to new people.

I left before the feature. I had been alone too much, inside my head too much, and all I wanted to do was go home and do my dishes and eat hardboiled eggs.

Monday, June 18, 2007

I had the day off today. I was going to go make an appointment to get a tattoo, but the weather was great and I was alone, so I decided to ride the train downtown and sit and look at the harbor for a while. I gave the ocean a present, or offered something to someone, or tried to make a symbolic gesture letting the Universe know I acknowledged that certain things are out of my hands. Anyone watching just thought I was littering.

I wrote a poem about the Atlantic, then I came home and realized I'd misplaced my car. When I found it (it had strayed behind me at work yesterday) I went alone to Stone Soup and read, and I think I did a pretty good job.

Not bad today. Not bad at all.

Saturday, June 16, 2007

Published Poem

My poem, "Redlight" is up in the June 2007 issue of Word Riot. Please check it out and comment. It would make me happy.

Thursday, June 14, 2007

Went with a friend to see Knocked Up last night. It was more of a romantic comedy than I thought it'd be, and maybe it wasn't the right time for me to go kind of high to a romantic comedy. I didn't laugh much, and instead just pictured myself alone for the rest of my life.

I realized I don't know how to be single yet. I've defined myself along with another person for so long, when I take that away, I don't even know what's left.

Tuesday, June 12, 2007

Sweeping and dusting, I'm cleaning out my (my!) apartment and putting all my old letters in a black lacquer box.

With the distance this past week, finally being away from him, I am seeing things in brighter colors. I'm finding my own path again. I'm an individual.

God, exhaustion is hitting me hard right now. I have so much to write about, but no energy. Before I left I was so stressed out -- I can't remember being in such a state -- and I was sleeping about two hours a night. Then for the five days in Indiana, I was getting about four to five, but that was in the good way of drinking and talking and celebrating and having to get up early to eat an egg breakfast with clusters of family and old friends. Now it's 12:45 am and I'm waiting for my sheets to dry. I knew this would happen, that I would be nodding off waiting for my sheets, but there's just something about fresh, clean sheets that says to me "new beginnings."

Yes, that's what I need, and it's coming and it's about time.

Monday, June 11, 2007

Yes I am different. I am now the person who wore a red dress and toasted and danced with her little brother at his wedding.

Right before I left, I found out he's finally gone. I write this from an empty apartment.

So much more to say, but I must sleep. Not much the past few days.