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.