Sunday, June 29, 2008

The museums in New York make me think of time and intention. After how long do museums become museums of the people who created them instead of what's inside? If they did not update science museums with new information every few months, they would still tell us Tyrannosaurus has scales instead of feathers, and that Brontosaurus was a lurching, water-wading beast. Taxidermied (do people even still do this?) animals in the American Forests exhibit are poised in action above wood brass placards that read, "White Deer, donated by Beverle R. Robinson." There is a dark spot on the plaque where the Y has fallen off of the name, Beverley. Of course Beverly has likely been dead a hundred years, so I suppose they don't need to worry to much about hurrying to replace it.

Friday night Derek rocked the Goba salon. The poets there make me feel like shit the same way that poets at the Cantab used to. I read a sestina and Tom said I should stick to form poems. Maybe he's right.

Last night we went to Cuchi Cuchi for Jamie's birthday. I got to wear a pretty dress and eat amazing tiny plates of challenging foods. Artie, Simone, Tara, Jamie, Derek, Trish, Chris, such a fun group of people to go out to eat with. Afterward we met up at Zuzu with everyone. Some suburban dude tried to pick a fight with us for cutting in line because we're all in third grade and we want to make sure we get to the pudding cups before they run out of the chocolate ones.

Lower key weekend. I was tired and haven't really written in weeks, so I didn't feel like I deserved to go out all night. I felt boring and was tired of the conversations I would have. Came back to Derek's bed after writing a few limericks and passed out. He woke me up at five in the morning carrying a purloined pineapple and tickled my feet with it. Everything's okay.

Wednesday, June 25, 2008

What a week. My Dad visited last weekend. It was great to see him, and also to have the reminder of why we get along sooo much better when he lives far, far away. Then Monday to Manhattan for Jamie's show + hanging out. Monday night after only five or so comped Grey Goose shots and a couple of beers and NYC pizza I'm careening uptown on this hellish subway puking into a plastic bag from the bagel shop while simultaneously crying, snotting, and laughing hysterically as the nice-to-meet-you couple across from us bonds over the scene's horror. Tuesday I see the dinosaur bones and buy gold necklaces. Catch the Fung Wah back in time to see some friends before bed.

I have a lonely pit in my stomach and I know it's because I do not need people. I let myself be there for others, always, but do not reach out often, and no one asks. Instead I keep things inside and they gnaw a hollow cavern in my guts. Scream into my mouth and you get an echo.

Oh, Liberty, when you gonna learn you can't count on people? I usually try to avoid passive language here, but in the past week stuff has happened that really makes me question where I am in this flashing color world. Of course at 25 I go into all relationships knowing you can't trust anyone, but of course at 25 I always hope I will be proven wrong. Nihilistic as I am lately, I'm not pessimistic enough that I don't get disappointed. It must be me, these things are always me, the way I act toward the people I choose to be around leads me to these relationships where I have to be strong and standing always. I guess I'm not the sort who should play that game where you fall backwards and wait for of-course hands to catch you.

Don't worry about me, ladies and gents. I don't need any of you with your weaknesses and your failures and so shiny specialness. Letting people down is easy and boring. Being there for people is the curious intriguing act these days. Too bad no one's as interesting as I make them out to be.

The rug gets pulled out from under you again and again, but you always get back up to stand on it. I mean, what choice do you have? Unless you just want to lie there, you gotta stand on this tenuous surface, even though you know it's just gonna knock you on your ass again the first chance it gets.

Oh fuck those cold cro-magnons and their abstract thought. Would it really have been so bad if we'd stayed the tool-makers and never turned our hairy hands to art and want and the gleaming stars? I feel sick again.

Wednesday, June 18, 2008

Being an artist's model has really showed me how little other people's opinions about you matter. I walk around a class and see all these depictions of myself as someone sees me. There are some people who always paint you too fat. Some who always paint you too thin. Some draw out the pinks in the skin, accentuate the curve of the hip or the circles under the eyes, some paint you in hues of blues, some labor over your breasts, swelling them, making them firmer and higher and making them match each other better, some focus on fine lines, bulges, dimples, bringing out every imperfection, some smooth over everything till you look like a magazine girl.

But no matter how beautiful or ugly they may be, none of them ever really looks how I know I look. When finished, they always end up saying more about the artist than the model.

Tuesday, June 17, 2008

Holy shit! My dad's coming to visit this weekend. I was so depressed that I wouldn't see him for two more months (that would make it almost ten months since I'd seen him last) and he's never really seen my life here, hasn't met my friends, my boyfriend, seen my place, where I hang out, etc, that he decided he could.

I'm so happy to see him, but I'm a little nervous to hang out with him one on one for two days. He's very intense, kind of neurotic (no, Jade, not your family!) and a little particular. I'm not sure if he knows I legally changed my name. I know he hasn't seen my new tattoo:


Only one more session on that one, by the way.

In other news, I think my vagina is almost healed. I'm going back to the doctor tomorrow to get her looked at. Good, because for the good of all around me, I need to get laid.

In other news, I still need a job.

Tuesday, June 10, 2008

Another publisher is reading Backstage. The reader for Grand Central (formerly Warner) said she really liked it, but didn't think the initial printing would be big enough for such a large house. So another bite and an encouraging rejection. You take what you can get in the writing world.

Jamie brought over Patricia Smith's new book Blood Dazzler, out sometime later this summer, and it's really fucking good. Like, canonically good. Like, whoa. Buy it buy it buy it when it comes out.

I need a job.

You know, it's funny, but I'm not really afraid of much these days.

Sunday, June 8, 2008

Me: Do you ever get this weird little sick nauseous feeling in your stomach when you realize you've just written something really good?

Jamie: Yeah. I think it's called love.

Thursday, June 5, 2008

*Alana's show at the Plough was excellent last night. Good vibes all around. Talked writing with Jme and Oz. Feel better than I have in a while about it all. I have enough poems now for a chapbook and Brian Ellis is going to be my gracious editor in exchange for some vegetarian dinner and really good bourbon. Then I just need a publisher, but lets not get ahead of ourselves.

*Some MFA classes cancelled on me, which means I'm pretty fucked for money this month unless something else comes up, which something usually does, but not always.

*My agent Janice called last night and said another small publisher is interested in Backstage, so I guess there's still slim slices of hope for that one, if I even care anymore.

*I'm applying to work at Mass Innovations, a sustainable development company. I really hope I get a job there. My hippy side is screaming at me.

Monday, June 2, 2008

I feel like I got fucked by a cactus. I'm sitting in Herrel's Allston Cafe eating lunch/dinner and squirming after this 75 year old male gyno sliced off all the evil cells from my cervix aided by three oddly pretty and young female assistants of oddly central-casting-esque racial variety. I'm trying to write, but in my discomfort it just took me about three minutes to think of the word, "variety." Suffice it to say, you never want to hear "Should I set it to blend or slice, doctor?" in regards to any piece of machinery about to enter your vagina.

The weekend was so nice and glorious and low key. It was great to get out of the city with seven of my favorite people, all bunking a la The Real World, but fighting less and having more fun and better conversations. We went to the beach on a wonderfully cloudy and windy day, bought pretty things we didn't need, and made feasts. We went out and sang drag karaoke and danced to bad booty music at Vixen. We sat on so many balconies in our underwear with coffee. It was perfect, if only it were a little longer.