Wednesday, February 27, 2008

Maybe a touch of the bipolar is par for the artist, but these days in my adulthood the world is either a warm and golden hopeful sunscape or a craggy stabbing ice chasm.

Today everyone is passing on my book and I am a failure. Maybe I'm still (still!) just too young, or maybe like they say, some people have it and some people don't, and I just don't.

Derek says: "If not this one, the next one." But how many times can you say that?

Greg says: "I don't care if I sell a single copy of my new album, I just want to listen to it and know I made it." But will my future be a barista job at fifty with a closet full of unpublished manuscripts? In fatuous youth I say it is preferable, but with wrinkles and sagging tits would that really be bearable?

Sam says: "Think of it this way. You're young, attractive, charismatic, and in love. That's all most people want." I don't know why that's not enough for me. I wish that thoughts of African puff-bellied children with flypaper eyes were enough to make me feel better about my life, but the knowledge that I want such unreasonable things just generally depresses me more.

My brain is so foggy. So hard to focus. Maybe it's winter and maybe it's whiskey. Worries about money. About never getting anywhere with what I love to do.

Tuesday, February 26, 2008

Today I accidentally wandered into a halfway house while dressed as a pioneer. This is in no way figurative. The homeless people looked at me like I was an alien, then I realized the BU theatre was the building next door. The quirks of art modeling are neverending.

I'm still sick, I think, with a lingering infection, and I'm starting to feel like I'll never be better but let's not dwell on negative things. Some people appreciate when you know the possessive of "Chris" is not "Chris'" but "Chris's."

I'm done with 89 Turner Street in Brighton. Locked my keys inside the swept and empty pad today. Saw old friends from Starbucks, Mallory, Leah, Andy, Brendan. Saw my awesome ex-neighbor Sara. So many people to miss.

Somerville will be much better once I sell my table. I've got two features booked so far in 2008 and an old poem of mine's up on Zygote in my Coffee. Novel comes slowly. I just wish I was writing more.

Tuesday, February 19, 2008

I move into a new place and throw in large trash bags old trinkets like Buddhas and glow-in-the-dark Virgin Marys and candles and mirrors and letters and cards and photographs and manga and computers that carried me through college and hold all my saved conversations and pictures from so many trips and journals people gave me I've never used and autographed cds and cheap souvenirs from the south or the west or across the ocean and even though some of these things are nice and even though I could find someone to take them or use them and even though I could recycle some of them or all of them I don't, I throw them into the trash because they are my life and my life will not be mashed to pulp and turned into new white paper.

I will etch it not in stone, in styrofoam, and it will take 10,000 years to decay. It will clog rivers, choke forests, blacken skies. They will read it as the sun dies, swallowing it.

Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair.

Thursday, February 14, 2008

Two rejections on my novel. MTV Books and Kensington. Fuck.



Without all I have and all I do, I am.

Wednesday, February 13, 2008

crying at the art school

Maybe it was the yellow snot running down my upper lip as a girl with a perfect strong chin line painted my portrait, my face puffy and old-looking. Maybe it was the coughing and hacking as I waited for the bus in the pouring rain with no umbrella in 33 degree slush. Maybe it was the condescending tone of the receptionist at the hospital when I explained that yes, I know it's the law in Massachusetts that everyone has to have insurance now, but that doesn't change the fact that I don't and 200 dollars for a round of antibiotics that only got me well enough to get sick again really doesn't fit into the budget of my pathetic semi-employed ass.

Whatever the reason I cried this morning loudly like a kid in the fifth-floor BU art school bathroom, running past the cute Northern European girl with her canvas set up in front of the stalls painting the Charles and Storrow Drive on this grey raining 10am.

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

"Oh my, are you crying?" says her accent.

"Yeah. Don't worry. I'm fine."

"You are the model, right? Are you okay?"

"Yeah I'm fine. Just overwhelmed."

"Sometimes I feel that way too."

"Yeah. I've just been sick for like a month and I don't have insurance and I don't have enough money to go to the doctor."

She nods. She has freckles and blond hair tied in a bandana. "I am sick all winter every year. There are many things you can do without doctors. Drink tea. Take herbs. Stay warm." She looks down at my bare feet. "You can't walk around like that in this weather."

"Oh, I don't normally. A girl was painting my feet."

She shakes her head. "She can paint something else. You must take care of yourself. So much of sickness is mental, too. You understand? Make yourself feel good. Take warm baths. Make tea. Take care of yourself. That is the most important."

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

Words I needed to hear perhaps. It was the first time I can remember crying since the fall, and I did it without much apology, letting the tears come down as I walked past all the painting students and the maintenance men who asked uncomfortably if I was okay. "Yes I'm fine," I said, but didn't stop crying, just walked to the bathroom to get tissue to wipe my face and nose. Your body wants things you can't always govern. Sometimes you just have to, I guess.

Tuesday, February 12, 2008

I think I need to lay low for a bit. Take a break from being very social. My body's just not having it.


Fun times this weekend, though. Liars show Friday night, then everyone came over for Italian dinner. Sunday was Greg's 30th birthday at Zuzu, and last night, Alana and Just Assassins brought down O'Brien's. (All photos by Mick Murray)



I need to take some me time.

Monday, February 11, 2008

I've been feeling really stressed out lately about mundane shit. I'm moving, I'm poor, I don't have a stable job. I am completely responsible, of course. Its the life I've chosen but the choice has its rough spots. I don't deal with quotidian tasks too well.

Went to sleep at midnight thirty and woke up at three. Instead of lying there hearing my heart beat I got up and got stuff done. I was nodding off while they painted me at BU this morning. I've come to the realization that I'm probably always going to fluctuate between dull depression and intense ecstasy. I think I can deal with that.

Thursday, February 7, 2008

And so it is written:

In the second month of the year 2008, Jade, Sam, and Chris will all move into a pale blue house in Somerville. It will have a wooden back porch and a grill. It will rest between Inman and Union square. It will hold many books.

And lo, it will come to pass, and the Lord will look upon His works, and say, "It is good."

Wednesday, February 6, 2008

One day in the life of me:

You wake up. It's 4:30. You don't need to get up for another three hours, but your heart is pounding and you can't breath properly and no matter which direction you lie, you can't get comfortable. Your mind starts. You have flaws. You see them painted in front of you in all colors. You are so imperfect. So wrong. You have hurt so many people. You have run from so much. You don't want to look back, you want to keep your momentum so you don't drown, but at 4:30 am, you can't always control what you're thinking.

Your tossing or your pounding heart wakes up the man sleeping next to you and he says what is wrong and you say your heart is pounding again so he puts his arm around you and says something comforting and says let's go together into the big black and you want to go but you just skim the surface as he sinks. Instead there is only waking and the feeling of your body struggling, your heart pounding, pounding, and racing and your short breath. There are only dry open eyes and visions of loss and death and the knowledge that everyone who says they love you is lying or mistaken. Knowledge that if even the man next to you saw you as you knew yourself to be, he would run as you run, as you always run, as you will run soon.

After hours you decide that it is okay. Even without anyone or anything you still exist. At 7:30 you get up and take a ho-bath in the tub and check out your eczema spots in the mirror and go out in the rain in your red boots. You get free coffee from Starbucks and a free busride while trying to read John Ashbery on the over-crowded 57.

You get to BU and they want you clothed today and in a room of amusing juniors who draw and paint you in eerie natural light. When you are not bantering, you are developing plot and character in your head. You are also calculating to see if you can get by on modeling and waitressing alone. You think you can.

On the busride home you think of an analogy you can't finish and and text everyone and they answer.

love is to death as hate is to birth as sex is to passion as echoes are to endpoints as play is to encore as happiness is to drunkdriving as education is to religion as surf is to shoreline as tide is to moon as time is to gravity as hunger is to food as lung is to air

You realize that nothing you do is good or bad. You realize you are selling out everyone you ever speak to. Lying to everyone. You realize you are not there. Not anyone. The you they think they see does not exist. This is why it is so easy to change.

Maybe it's the rain. You go to a cafe. You eat too much chocolate. You think you have this apartment thing squared away. You make plans for the weekend. You are torn between intense love and intense disdain.

You write this blog entry. You know there are people who think this is ridiculous, but you don't do it for them. You don't even care if anyone reads it. You just do it because it makes you a little less crazy. Because it helps you breath and pump your heart. Because when you send it out to the universe in the second person, you somehow feel less alone.

Sunday, February 3, 2008

please no I am not some fragile thing some wan and wilted thing some tilted stalk of a lily or soft daisy petals no I am lion and wolf no I am fox and hawk no you will not hurt me like some bruising fruit like some plump rotted plantsflesh no my heart pumps muscle and fat and sinew no my bones hold electric blood oh those women oh they sit back to soak up that sunsfood no I kill no I run no I hunt in the moonlight not one no to absorb nutrition I find and kill and eat you cannot deny you cannot kill me by putting me in shadow no ifwhen I starve it will be only my doing only my fault.

Saturday, February 2, 2008

Men are always telling me to get some sleep. Fathers and lovers and friends and acquaintances and enemies. Men who love me and men who hate me. In care and condescension, I hear it again and again in bass and tenor and baritone, "Get some sleep."

I've been an insomniac since I can remember. When it's bad it can drive me crazy. When it's better it's only mildly inconvenient. I once lay awake all night after taking a prescription Ambien. I've gone for weeks only sleeping an hour or two a night. I want to sleep, I just don't know how.

My cold has become bronchitis. I spent the day at the walk-in-clinic obtaining antibiotics. I'm so tired but I'm not asleep. I should start taking better care of myself.

Tomorrow I hopefully will feel better and will make cupcakes for the Super Bowl because oh dear god I am that heterosexual. Tony and Sam and I will pound on our Macs while some folks yell for teams. I just want to write a goddamned novel, is that so much to ask?