Monday, January 28, 2008

I wanna be a part of it


We leave Boston and I am sick but smoking as I am sick and we leave Boston. Four hours later we're pulling over the Brooklyn Bridge after the sun has set and I see sparkling Manhattan for the first time without the World Trade Center in its skyline. I say things like "Wow," and "Jesus," because don't most words fail you at times like these.

Watching it I'm thinking about many things, about memories from the last time I was here with my Mom in high school, remembering wanting to go to NYU and imagining how differently my life would have been had I done so, and oddly, remembering my college roommate Kristen, the ballerina, whom I haven't spoken to in four years. Last I heard she was living in New York, but I know nothing else. A few months prior I found a mixed tape she made me our Sophomore year and have been listening to it in my car. As we cross the bridge I think, if there's one person I'd like to see here, it's her, but shake the thought away because this is the biggest city in the world and besides, life doesn't work that way.


In a tiny immigrant apartment I meet Kendra and Helena and Kendra's dog, Menina. We waste no time in drinking the pilfered bottle of gin Derek and I have brought, and I learn that Kendra is a dancer. I mention Kristen, wondering if maybe she has run into her in the dance world, but she doesn't know her. Of course not, because life doesn't work that way.

When Greg gets home we all go out and drink. Things get a little hazy there for a while, but suddenly it's 1 in the morning and I'm in a Brooklyn bar with no sign outside and we're walking to the back to find seats and a familiar blond girl is there in front of me and I'm grabbing her arm and saying "Kristen," and then I get hold of myself and realize I must be drunk and crazy and grabbing some blond stranger, because life doesn't work this way, but then her face lights up and she's screaming my name and we are hugging and talking for hours it seems about our lives and the past four years. She looks great. She looks happy. I can't believe it.

The last thing she says to me is "I'll be on the dance floor," and they are perfect parting words and I look for her there on our way out but I'm too drunk by then and anyway, what more can I say, so we go back to Kendra and Greg's and sleep on an air mattress and I wake up feeling sicker and thinking It is not just Boston, all my life is like this, like a Dickens novel. I wonder if it is like this for everyone and if so, how can anyone be a Christian or a Muslim or an Atheist? If this is the way the world is, how can anyone think they know anything about anything?




Saturday we are all recovering from Friday, but we have good talks and eat sushi in the Village. Sunday we walk around Brooklyn and eat lots of pizza. Mandiey and I find Amazing and Cheap clothes at a thrift store while Derek and Greg start drinking.

We find them at the bar at about 2pm and are joined by Dan and Helena. We go to another bar where the bartender is awesome and we are the only ones drinking on this Sunday afternoon. We stay so long and everyone gets loud and we play songs on the jukebox and talk and talk and sing and dance and laugh and play pool and blow up the free NYC condoms like balloons and when we leave hours later the bartender has given us many free drinks and we parade into the still-light streets triumphant, Greg (who has died twice and therefore knows how to live) carrying Mandiey over his shoulder and all of us howling in praise of this perfect time.


In the next bar there are pickle martinis and a tiny little chihuahua in a carrier and it is old and wood and everyone smiles so much. We go back so Dan can sober up before we leave and have a dance party in the tiny living room before finally crossing again over the bridge and coming home.

Back here in Boston it suddenly seems so cold. We are so exhausted, but glad to have a bed again, and we sleep so deeply and when I wake up, I feel so much better. So much better.

Thursday, January 24, 2008

entirely too much information

phones) I lost my phone on Thursday while Sam and I were looking for apartments. This development is good for my ADD, as I'm not interrupted by *urgent calls and texts while I'm in the middle of writing. This development is bad for my melancholy, because I cannot talk to my mom and my brother and other wonderful people when I'm feeling down about jobs and writing and stds. Segue, ho!

stds) Return of Planned Parenthood. So it looks like my whorish ways have landed me with the lamest albeit current media darling of all **stds, HPV. Cervical cancer, what? Woke up this morning to a nice letter from my friends down at the PP reading "Good Morning, Jade. You have HPV! Come back to us and we will scrape your cervix and look for signs of malignant mutation, you dumb slut." I am paraphrasing.

other kinds of ds) I am sick again. Hopefully just a cold. I hate my weak body. I hate that I can't sleep ever and then end up getting sick. I hate my knees and my nose and now, my cervical cells.

new york i love you but you're bringing me down) I'm supposed to go to New York tomorrow for the first time as an adult. I hope I feel better.

novular) Still no word from any of the publishers regarding my last novel. I talked to my agent the other day and she said she's heard from Kensington, who says he hopes to read it by mid-February. This is not a business for the impatient.

*lie

**I guess we call them "stis" now, but I'm a child of the '90's.

Wednesday, January 23, 2008

*I interviewed to be a receptionist at Sam's law firm yesterday. Drinks at lunch turned into drinking all day, passing out in Derek's bed at 8pm while he and Tony looked at videos of shark attacks on YouTube, waking up at 11, making a general nuisance of myself, being Lame and Whiney and Depressing, and thrashing around trying to sleep again for a few hours before getting up for another day.

*The human eye cannot adjust to see in the depths of my perversion. I am too crazy for everyone. I love them deeply and intensely, I live in their skin, then I shed them and run away.

*Bret Easton Ellis. You can write, kid, but I'm bored by your Puritanical moralism. Who do you think you are, anyway? Aren't we all just cocks and cunts cut from the same clouded cloth? None of us really know what we're doing, do we?

Saturday, January 19, 2008

bring the party to the art gallery - ho!

Sam finds this and we all go for the closing.

Derek and I arrive about thirty minutes before it's supposed to be over and eat the last of the free cheese. Sam's running late, though he lives the closest. Chris and Marah come full from homemade dinner. Tony's coming from his lab happy hour and is drunk when he gets there. I go straight for the wine, drink glass after glass of free champagne, eat free almond cookies, walk around with the cookie box and the plastic wine glass looking at the pictures with everyone.

We see Ginsberg's doodles and ee cummings's perverse sketches. We see Sylvia Plath's solemn self-portrait and Tennessee Williams's perverse Henry Darger-esque watercolors. We see John Ashbury's collages and Charles Bukowski's perverse depiction of DH Lawrence. Sam and I find a drawing we want to get tattooed.

We are the only people under thirty here and we are all conspicuously sticking together. An older woman asks if I work for the gallery. "No." Oh, well then you must be students. "No." Brow knit. Pause. Looks at all of us. Then what brought you here? "We're writers," I say. She nods. Oh.

When things wind down we hover around the refreshments. Derek and Tony create unintentional distractions while Sam and I steal three bottles of booze. An extremely high old man calls Sam "oriental," then sexually harasses Marah before telling her she looks like his niece. We grab our loot and scram.

We are the Loud Ones on the 66. We stumble back to Derek's and drink and dance. More friends come. This is the party, but we don't know that so we go to the Pill, where things are not as good. Fun is an elusive mistress.

Wednesday, January 16, 2008

give a transient a cookie

I was going to write a ranting post bitching about my alcoholic roommate, but Sam took care of that for me here. He handles the situation with more distance and humor than I'm sure I would have.

Tuesday, January 15, 2008

we are the things of broken dreams. wrestling awake before sun rising scares away terrors of the loosed mind. released they swell and swallow us beneath their gnashing waves. alone we all call for no one. dementia patients groping for the decade-dead lovers and sons. solitary figures in splash of night's recession. single horsemen against the bloody dawn, crossing to no familiar country. time is a crueller divide than distance. fortunate madmen carry friends with them in voices. we halfway sane watch them melt to sliding memory that can't be caught. heartbreak is a thing of mornings.



only i know my own failures.

Friday, January 11, 2008

Planned Parenthood

You go through a metal detector and a security guard to enter the Planned Parenthood waiting room. You fill out paperwork that asks about your sexual behavior and asks with disturbing repetition if you have ever felt afraid with your male partner. You go in and the nurse asks you again. Then the nice doctor comes in and asks you again. Then you lean back and spread your legs and she knits her brow looking at your thighs and says, "What are these bruises from?"

"Oh, from sex," you say matter-of-factly. You'd almost forgotten they were there.

"Are you sure? Are you sure there's not something you're not telling me?" she says, looking you in the eye, raising eyebrows, so serious, and you are under fire, and suddenly you are a frightened, abused woman. For a moment in the doctor's mind you are weak and desperate and your boyfriend is a monster.

So you look her back in the eye and say, "Yes, I promise. We just, you know, like it rough sometimes. Heh." And you shrug and try to add levity and try to crack her assumptions while knowing there's really no way you can. She will see you how she wants to in the end.

Then she opens you up and looks in your vagina and says with surprise and perhaps a bit of respect, "Oh. You did have some rough sex!" And you feel the shift and you know she sees you now for what you are, a horny freak and not a domestic violence case, and you feel better but then sad thinking of how many women must lie about their bruises to make this doctor so distrustful of simple explanations.

When you leave she hands you a bag full of lube for your "marathons," as she puts it. You thank her and take your lube and your prescriptions and walk out to the lobby where your boyfriend is waiting and you tell him, "Hey, we don't have AIDS," and you walk laughing at the doctor's reaction to your bruises arm in arm down Comm Ave in the grey dusk, laughing through the residential streets and the paint-peeling wooden houses and broken-swing porches, laughing and laughing together all the way home to your safe warm bed.

Tuesday, January 8, 2008

Sam Rocks

We started the evening by getting kicked out of the Harvest Coop Cafe for drinking whiskey out of a hat, tore through Stone Soup in a drunken heckling fury, and ended at The Field drinking PBRs screaming (yes, screaming) about the Beatles. I love everyone. These people are the best people alive.

Sunday, January 6, 2008

Thursday, January 3, 2008

Hello 2008

I said goodbye to The Longest Year Ever in an absinthe haze and a red dress. I received an auspicious Tarot card reading and at midnight kissed my sweetheart. I was then ushered home and into bed in blissful waking oblivion to snuggle with a soft comforter, spent a lazy New Year's Day with Derek eating eggs and seeing geeky Bob Dylan movies all dressed in down and faux fur in the cold pink afternoon sunsets of New England.

I welcome you, 2008, with open arms. I will trust you. Please don't go breaking my heart.