tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15172938213836713792024-02-06T18:48:18.679-08:00Girltown Before She Knew She was Adoptedmy daily journal of things that happened before I knew about being adopted and a ward of the state.Girltownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05804297301438745857noreply@blogger.comBlogger86125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1517293821383671379.post-52013151374054294972016-05-09T11:07:00.002-07:002016-05-09T11:07:49.394-07:00The selfie as encouragement.<span data-offset-key="6kb3j-0-0"><span data-text="true"><br /></span></span>
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<span data-offset-key="6kb3j-0-0"><span data-text="true"><span data-offset-key="6kb3j-0-0"><span data-text="true">a couple of
times a year, i get in my underpants and take a photo of myself. i tell
myself i love myself and then i celebrate anything i see---i am lucky. I
have a ballet barre in here and i love to work out, but still some days
i think it's all over. then, the photo reminds me i am perfect as i am.
to me selfies are a positive way to overcome the voices that tell you
you aren't enough--in a world of models and people who get paid for
their face and body, why can't we too celebrate our perfection in our
imperfection as beauty. i have been accused of validation seeking by
humans that don't appreciate anything about me, save my writing--they
tell me my selfies make me less easy to be taken seriously as a writer,
but i don't see why anyone should be put in a box like that. are they
also upset i love sex? or that when someone asks me what my sexual
preference is, i say: good sex, obviously. but, i make films. i take
photos. i make clothes--why must i be categorized as only one thing. i
have beautiful taste and i think deeply about the world i live in and my impact on others and theirs on me. i also like
to have fun. i love animals and want to be successful--i got an agent last year for a book that i wrote and then went back to school to film my own content for all my screenplays that already do pretty well in contests, but never sold. i love my friends
and they love me. but even if someone posts a photo of their food, they
hope someone else will like it. truthfully in deep psychological
terms the selfie serves two functions it is overcoming things you can't
possibly ever quite get over, and teaching yourself bravery to be
whatever you are whether someone else likes it or gets it or not. </span></span> </span></span>Girltownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05804297301438745857noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1517293821383671379.post-89923363805873149512015-04-20T23:00:00.000-07:002017-03-26T20:58:42.130-07:00Brett or Something Close<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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a long time ago, i worked on a movie in houston. i met a few actors on location and hung out with them. the red hot chili peppers were on that shoot too, they were cool, but i knew those guys from l.a. brett was no actor, he was art department.<br>
<a href="http://lisadouglass.blogspot.com/2015/04/brett-or-something-close.html#more">Read more »</a>Girltownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05804297301438745857noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1517293821383671379.post-88554976299938009142015-03-15T10:07:00.000-07:002015-03-15T10:07:11.377-07:00the man who set fire to his house because of me<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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there was a man. he lived next door. he was always in my garden. i had been lost and broken at nineteen and came back to my parent's guest house to heal. it was in a neighborhood with security guards around the clock.<br />
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i was attending UCLA (the first time) and riddled with the kind of headaches that make you throw up. the doctors couldn't find anything wrong with me. but, i was tested like a lab rat. many days i didn't make it to class because i couldn't see around the cluster of light that was caught in my eye. later i found out i was having some kind of seizure brought on by all the dieting.<br />
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anyway, one day the next door neighbors house was on fire. i'd had a premonition about it the night before, but never told anyone because how can you be responsible if you see a thing before it happens? no one would believe you anyway, they'd think you made it up.<br />
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i have had a lot of things happen to me that sound made up. that's why it's important to write it all down.<br />
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i came outside, like everyone. i got dressed first, because it was back when I still thought it mattered how i appeared to the outside world. the man had set his own house on fire. i remember my parents asking me what kind of relationship i had with the man.<br />
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i only said, "you mean the dude in the kumquats? he was on the property a lot and smiled and waved when i left." i wasn't a person yet. i didn't know he wanted to talk to me and i was very sick at the time.<br />
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my parents asked a few more times about it. they, or the man, or the wife of the man thought the arson had to do with me. not that i did it, but that the man did it in reaction to his imaginary relationship with me. i never knew what happened to that man or his wife.<br />
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they were german. my german neighbors.Girltownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05804297301438745857noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1517293821383671379.post-68958764343372232972015-02-20T09:33:00.001-08:002015-02-20T09:33:39.251-08:00Henry Miller to Anais Nin<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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This is a great letter. Henry Miller, to Anais Nin. A love letter of sorts.<br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 19.434999465942383px; text-align: justify;">August 14, 1932 </span><br style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 19.434999465942383px; text-align: justify;" /><br style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 19.434999465942383px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 19.434999465942383px; text-align: justify;">Anais:</span><br style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 19.434999465942383px; text-align: justify;" /><br style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 19.434999465942383px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 19.434999465942383px; text-align: justify;">Don't expect me to be sane anymore. Don't let's be sensible. It was a marriage at Louveciennes—you can't dispute it. I came away with pieces of you sticking to me; I am walking about, swimming, in an ocean of blood, your Andalusian blood, distilled and poisonous. Everything I do and say and think relates back to the marriage. I saw you as the mistress of your home, a Moor with a heavy face, a negress with a white body, eyes all over your skin, woman, woman, woman. I can't see how I can go on living away from you—these intermissions are death. How did it seem to you when Hugo came back? Was I still there? I can't picture you moving about with him as you did with me. Legs closed. Frailty. Sweet, treacherous acquiescence. Bird docility. You became a woman with me. I was almost terrified by it. You are not just thirty years old—you are a thousand years old.</span><br style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 19.434999465942383px; text-align: justify;" /><br style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 19.434999465942383px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 19.434999465942383px; text-align: justify;">Here I am back and still smouldering with passion, like wine smoking. Not a passion any longer for flesh, but a complete hunger for you, a devouring hunger. I read the paper about suicides and murders and I understand it all thoroughly. I feel murderous, suicidal. I feel somehow that it is a disgrace to do nothing, to just bide one's time, to take it philosophically, to be sensible. Where has gone the time when men fought, killed, died for a glove, a glance, etc? (A victrola is playing that terrible aria from </span><i style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 19.434999465942383px; text-align: justify;">Madama Butterfly</i><span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 19.434999465942383px; text-align: justify;">—"Some day he'll come!")</span><br style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 19.434999465942383px; text-align: justify;" /><br style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 19.434999465942383px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 19.434999465942383px; text-align: justify;">I still hear you singing in the kitchen—a sort of inharmonic, monotonous Cuban wail. I know you're happy in the kitchen and the meal you're cooking is the best meal we ever ate together. I know you would scald yourself and not complain. I feel the greatest peace and joy sitting in the dining room listening to you rustling about, your dress like the goddess Indra studded with a thousand eyes.</span><br style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 19.434999465942383px; text-align: justify;" /><br style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 19.434999465942383px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 19.434999465942383px; text-align: justify;">Anais, I only thought I loved you before; it was nothing like this certainty that's in me now. Was all this so wonderful only because it was brief and stolen? Were we acting for each other, to each other? Was I less I, or more I, and you less or more you? Is it madness to believe that this could go on? When and where would the drab moments begin? I study you so much to discover the possible flaws, the weak points, the danger zones. I don't find them—not any. That means I am in love, blind, blind. To be blind forever! (Now they're singing "Heaven and Ocean" from </span><i style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 19.434999465942383px; text-align: justify;">La Gioconda</i><span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 19.434999465942383px; text-align: justify;">.)</span><br style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 19.434999465942383px; text-align: justify;" /><br style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 19.434999465942383px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 19.434999465942383px; text-align: justify;">I picture you playing the records over and over—Hugo's records. "Parlez moi d amour." The double life, double taste, double joy and misery. How you must be furrowed and ploughed by it. I know all that, but I can't do anything to prevent it. I wish indeed it were me who had to endure it. I know now your eyes are wide open. Certain things you will never believe anymore, certain gestures you will never repeat, certain sorrows, misgivings, you will never again experience. A kind of white criminal fervor in your tenderness and cruelty. Neither remorse nor vengeance, neither sorrow nor guilt. A living it out, with nothing to save you from the abysm but a high hope, a faith, a joy that you tasted, that you can repeat when you will. </span><br style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 19.434999465942383px; text-align: justify;" /><br style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 19.434999465942383px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 19.434999465942383px; text-align: justify;">All morning I was at my notes, ferreting through my life records, wondering where to begin, how to make a start, seeing not just another book before me but a life of books. But I don't begin. The walls are completely bare—I had taken everything down before going to meet you. It is as though I had made ready to leave for good. The spots on the walls stand out—where our heads rested. While it thunders and lightnings I lie on the bed and go through wild dreams. We're in Seville and then in Fez and then in Capri and then in Havana. We're journeying constantly, but there is always a machine and books, and your body is always close to me and the look in your eyes never changes. People are saying we will be miserable, we will regret, but we are happy, we are laughing always, we are singing. We are talking Spanish and French and Arabic and Turkish. We are admitted everywhere and they strew our path with flowers. </span><br style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 19.434999465942383px; text-align: justify;" /><br style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 19.434999465942383px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 19.434999465942383px; text-align: justify;">I say this is a wild dream—but it is this dream I want to realize. Life and literature combined, love the dynamo, you with your chameleon's soul giving me a thousand loves, being anchored always in no matter what storm, home wherever we are. In the mornings, continuing where we left off. Resurrection after resurrection. You asserting yourself, getting the rich varied life you desire; and the more you assert yourself the more you want me, need me. Your voice getting hoarser, deeper, your eyes blacker, your blood thicker, your body fuller. A voluptuous servility and tyrannical necessity. More cruel now than before—consciously, wilfully cruel. The insatiable delight of experience.</span><br style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 19.434999465942383px; text-align: justify;" /><br style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 19.434999465942383px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 19.434999465942383px; text-align: justify;">HVM</span>Girltownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05804297301438745857noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1517293821383671379.post-38405742735884474092014-04-09T18:14:00.001-07:002015-09-26T09:39:16.264-07:00On The Floor of the Closet<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">On the Floor of the Closet</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">I guess I’m writing this for
someone other than whoever I am or have become. I tried to explain this before,
but I have experienced it already and the shrinks know about it only in the
tiny glimpses that I tell them, which is how I remember it, as if it were a
giant kaleidoscope and everyone was on acid only I was only five. To my memory.
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>None of my friends know, this
story is untold virtually to anyone, but the occasional lover that scratches
their head and falls asleep holding me.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">When I was four or five, my parents
went antiquing across America. For reasons unknown, cause I can never get a
straight answer out of anyone----where did the millions of dollars go? What
kind of mental hospital was dad in? How did my mother’s father die---choking on
a sandwich or drunk? All stories true and false have been altered and fed back
to me wherein I must live in this mythology of the white trash family who made
good but still had white trash family violence and Jerry Springer type lies.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">Here we go---somehow my father was
a doctor and somehow my parents were in a cult and in this cult they learned
things and one of the things they learned was that you never play with a Ouija
board, only they did anyway cause they fancied themselves the intellectual
rebels of the era.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">So it goes that they played with
this Ouija board and asked it if we would have to go to Ohio where my father
would be stationed serving as a physician in the military, I have no idea what
branch? Please. I can’t even find out where the three million dollars went or
if my dad was schizophrenic or just had a nervous breakdown. So really, how I’m
going to tell this to you is my reality mixed in with my mother’s version of
reality which usually at this point I have come to believe is entirely made up
or at least mostly.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">They asked the Ouija board if my
father would have to go away or if we could stay, and the Ouija board to this
day is why we had to go, my mother swears the bad spirits made us go. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">I remember us leaving in the middle
of the night. There is too much to tell you, my sister was violent but it was
before Aspergers was a thing. My parents wouldn’t pull over to let me pee while
we drove across America. It was always, can you wait FOUR more hours. And until
I burst out crying and they let me pee in a field it wouldn’t happen. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">We get there, it is bleak. A ghost
lives in my room. He is not a bad ghost but has followed me from apartment to
apartment or I have the unique insight to see ghosts. The one that used to live
in my current apartment left after my ex was on heroin. So really, there are no
more ghosts except of my memory and you know those are the most pernicious.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">So, we get to Cincinnati and move
into the largest farmhouse I had ever seen. Keep in mind I am small. There are
lots of adjustments. I am shy, I have to make friends and such and my sister is
a monster who tells me everyone hates me so I am continuously paranoid when I
meet new people--- I mean then, not now, so don’t freak out or anything.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">Anyway, there was my dog Bambi and
this ghost and I stood up and talked to it cause I was so lonely. My sister was
mean all the time and I was afraid of the neighborhood kids but when I met them
they loved me and I loved them and we sled around on those trashcan lid type sleds
screaming and laughing. It was so much fun even though my sister was a constant
factor in my being uncomfortable. Like there would be a party and she would
tell me I wasn’t invited and I would go home and my mom would be all, dude, why
are you back and I said, Dina said I’m not invited and now it’s too late and
I’m too afraid and I would just play with bambi or read a book.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">Now, at some point, my mom and dad
decide to fill our home with antiques. Someone involved in the cult back home
had hooked my dad up with this man that knew lots of stuff about antiques and
they decided to leave me and my sister with these people who they had never
really met and go looking for treasures across America. I’m figuring this is
either after we’d been there awhile or on one of my Dad’s two week or month
breaks. I’m not sure. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">So, they take us and they drop us
off in this house that was tiny and filled with kids who didn’t take care of
themselves. They were dirty and loud and most likely had some form of
retardation like all kids from that section of the world do. Just go watch that
Appalachia documentary and you will understand. So, here I am with a proper speaking
voice and a huge vocabulary thrown in with kids that play in the mud and while
I have always loved playing in mud I didn’t like these children and couldn’t
pretend to.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">My sister isn’t like me, she can’t
control herself and that isn’t saying much when you look at my arrest record,
but I know when I’m in danger and I know when someone can kill me and I know
how to act so that I don’t get killed. My sister lacks this skill, which might
actually make her a less likeable personality but a more authentic human being.
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">In this house there were rules. I
just know the rules were don’t touch anything or take anything and what would
we touch, these people were dirt poor and lived in the way where if you touched
almost anything, you would have to go wash up because of the sticky film from
the children and the mess and the neglect.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">Like I said, my sister can’t
control herself and likes sugar. My parents are hippies and intellectuals and
crazy, so they didn’t allow sugar---I think that made my dad go crazy when I
think about it.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">Anyway, my sister crawls up and
gets into the cookie jar the first day we were there and eats cookies and then
knocks over the jar and it shatters and it’s a mess and I’m thinking to myself
can’t you just be cool, these people are going to fuck you up. I could just
tell, there was something bad about them. I hadn’t been around a lot of bad
people in my life. I’ve been around gangs and did drugs with some dangerous
people, but they weren’t true sociopaths, they were just as fucked up as I was
from a violent upbringing. There was no danger there---they were family---but
at this tiny house. I knew we could die.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">The first time my sister knocked
over the cookie jar she got beaten for so long and so loudly that I begged god
to help us and asked god to let her live and to save her life.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">The next day she was unchanged---covered
in bruises, but still going to steal food cause we were practically starving.
She got beaten that night and the next night and the next night. I remember sleeping
on the floor of a closet crying and begging for god to help us. I have a vague
memory of trying to be quiet or transmit to her that she had to behave. I don’t
know if she was being raped, but the screams were so intense, I will never
forget it and still have the guilt of whatever happened to me was not as bad. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have been to therapy my whole life
cause I had a bad drinking issue and eating disorders and all the stuff that
people have when they are fucked up sexually or have been tampered with, but to
my memory all I remember of the house was that they beat my sister continuously
and told us my parents weren’t coming back and that they didn’t love us, but if
we told they would come and kill them.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">I don’t actually remember what
happened to me there. I’m sure it wasn’t good or I wouldn’t be this fucked up
now, but this is only one story in many where I was placed in a violent situation
with no parental supervision. I don’t know if my parents cared or if they knew because
my sister and I were so frightened and we didn’t like each other all that much,
but we made a pact to never tell to protect our family from being slaughtered.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">When my parents finally came to get
us, we ran outside, I don’t remember ever being allowed on the front yard the
entire time we were there. We had to go to the bathroom but lied about it we
were so afraid to go back into the house. I remember that much. We stopped at a
gas station and it was ruined like no place to go to the bathroom and we swore
we’d never tell. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is gross and
I’m sorry, but I used a trashcan and my sister used the sink. We cried in there
that we had escaped our torture. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We said stuff like, we’ll never tell about this bathroom or
those people. We were just little kids. I remember we couldn’t get out cause
the door was stuck and we were so scared my parents would leave us there after
what had just happened. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We
screamed until someone freed us and my parents were in the car totally geared
to leave. I remember that they weren’t even concerned that we had been trapped
in the bathroom. By that point, we were free. We didn’t hate each other for a
few weeks cause we weren’t going to die, but we always kept the secret.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">Then one day when I was 17, I came
home and I was so sick of my dad having to drink out of gourds and face east
while drinking his weird water---it was thanksgiving and I just wanted to be
normal, not weirdoes. Can’t we just be normal? I was drunk, maybe a few beers
maybe a whole lot of mixed stuff out of Tupperware, who can remember that kind
of detail, what I said was—what happened to dad and why did you leave us in
that house where we were tortured.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">My mother always tried to say, what
house? What do you mean what happened to your father. Like she was protecting
this grand secret. I don’t think she hated me, I think it was protection in
some way I will never fully understand. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">The story up until that point was
my father had been traveling. He came back months later on Thorazine and I kept
asking what was wrong with him and my mom just said, “He doesn’t feel well,
leave him alone.” That’s why when someone stops talking to me I always think it
was something I did. That leave him alone comment. So my mom lies and I’m
screaming, you left us and they tried to kill us and what happened to DAD. I
was screaming until everyone sat down and my mom told me my dad had a psychotic
break and or schizophrenia, that night the story was both, but I still don’t
really know what my dad has or had.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I think his eyes were closed as he was trying to quiet his brain. My
Nana was there and said to me later, “How do you survive this?” I shook my
head.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">My parents said that they didn’t
know the family had hurt us. I told them that I had to listen to them beating
my sister nightly and I couldn’t remember what happened to me, but why would
they leave us with these people.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">“But did you know them?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"><br /></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">“No, they were just trying to make
some money.”</span></div>
Girltownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05804297301438745857noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1517293821383671379.post-49562296201516470932014-03-30T13:42:00.000-07:002014-03-30T13:42:15.557-07:00Narcisa is not for weaklings or idle spectators. This book is for the kind of trail-blazing rebels who make our world memorable.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-POuJ9TOeWcOffsp9FUfBbhzO4Sj0kt19_uuOnV1CMUmHCh8jYajg4ku8ZGBIBAHUOCiSwqs24dLeV71GiNHO6l1wYd3D7hp1OnBzltERci6iNOLVa4Jxuey2v48rN_EM-yKpmp02-j8/s1600/41e8zl4lF1L._SS300_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-POuJ9TOeWcOffsp9FUfBbhzO4Sj0kt19_uuOnV1CMUmHCh8jYajg4ku8ZGBIBAHUOCiSwqs24dLeV71GiNHO6l1wYd3D7hp1OnBzltERci6iNOLVa4Jxuey2v48rN_EM-yKpmp02-j8/s1600/41e8zl4lF1L._SS300_.jpg" height="640" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<!--StartFragment-->
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<br />
<blockquote>
<blockquote>
<span style="font-family: Calibri, Verdana, Helvetica, Arial;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">Have you ever been with a new lover, someone you found on a beach somewhere, and they scare you? But you take them to your blanket anyway? And you gaze into their eyes anyway? And you give them your body, inch by spectacular inch? Anyway? Well, there is this moment when you realize you are about to lose yourself in the Other, so you hold hands to try to stay on this earthly plane. But you cannot, because, by now, their spirit has overtaken you, gotten inside of you, and started to rearrange things. Tiny animal noises emanate from your mouth or their mouth—you cannot tell whose anymore, because, at this point, you are one being. <br />
<br />
It is not that way with all lovers, of course. And it is not that way with all books. But with Jonathan Shaw’s Narcisa, it IS like that---it takes you beyond your mundane, day-to-day life, and plummets you straight into the Abyss, where Satan is your only tour guide and his sprung angels attend your wounds. <br />
<br />
You become something else after being with such a lover---and after immersing yourself in such a book. You become a person who was once predictable and easy to define, but is now someone beyond description or comprehension. <br />
<br />
You can’t really transmit something like this to anyone with mere words—they must fully experience it for themselves. There are things one simply cannot tell another person. They must have their own first-hand knowledge. Prison. Jail. Obsessive love run riot. Sex. Drugs. Murder. Betrayal. Love. Addiction. The Bottomless Pit. The Dark Night of the Soul. You get the picture.<br />
<br />
Jonathan Shaw’s Cigano and Narcisa are two lost souls, living in the gutter, but staring at the stars. These characters come from that special place where the animal meets the divine; the place where one fights the other for their stake in unspeakable things. Things at once profane and sublime. These characters are both entertaining and tragic. They are the train wreck you cannot look away from, because to miss a single crucial detail would be a disservice to your own soul. <br />
<br />
I always say school gave me back my brains. It also did something to my nervous system that no amount of sex or accolades or external validation could ever do---Jonathan Shaw’s Narcisa gives you back your soul and your heart in that same special way. It is a must read for anyone who struggles on this earthly coil with questions of sincerity, the search for God, or the tragic-comical, angelic and delusional quest for new life through another's body, mind and soul; questions whose answers are so disappointing and uninspiring, we might even consider death itself a worthy alternative. <br />
<br />
Jonathan Shaw deals fearlessly with such questions, and hands them back to us in a way we can understand, and thereby be freed of our need to self-destruct in the face of such a drab disappointment of a world. <br />
<br />
We are yours Jonathan. Do whatever you want with us. Your book is not only life-changing, but might even teach us all how to be more bravely authentic. How to be courageous, even at the precipice of death. We are with you. We are you. <br />
<br />
Do not look away from this book, dear reader. If you are of mediocre stock, of course, that would be the only way you ever could look upon such a harsh vision of Truth. But even if you have a suspect genetic lineage, this book has the power to restore whatever you were initially meant to be. <br />
<br />
Narcisa is not for weaklings or idle spectators. This book is for the kind of trail-blazing rebels who make our world memorable.<br />
<br />
Jonathan Shaw is at his finest and darkest here, but holding up a literary torch so blindingly bright, the reader can fight his own demons with it, while seeing exactly where, what, and who they are. <br />
<br />
- Lisa Douglass<br />
SALVE OGUM!!</span></span></blockquote>
</blockquote>
Girltownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05804297301438745857noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1517293821383671379.post-78144410885786982792014-01-08T11:19:00.000-08:002014-01-08T11:23:25.694-08:00to all my friends and frenemies---at least i have the balls to stand for something<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvQ4GuVLG50DAAyEYiyfJouYXbjhbINJJaZIvQy393zjgK7vYI7VVwkk5-lzMPcKZchx6zh5O49uBSxJu5wFuhc1MSMrhSck2meiM1u9t11xZsy5CJtSa_3emsgmiB4SmmyybzbBmNfg0/s1600/Unknown.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvQ4GuVLG50DAAyEYiyfJouYXbjhbINJJaZIvQy393zjgK7vYI7VVwkk5-lzMPcKZchx6zh5O49uBSxJu5wFuhc1MSMrhSck2meiM1u9t11xZsy5CJtSa_3emsgmiB4SmmyybzbBmNfg0/s1600/Unknown.jpeg" height="384" width="640" /></a></div>
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<div>
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<div>
to all my friends and frenemies: a note about the human condition. the only reason a frenemy is in your life is to teach you about yourself or to awaken the parts of yourself that are dormant--to remind you of your own dreams your own lack of integrity, your own shady shit---get fucking angry---gossip, do your very worst, cause the brightest lights cannot be diminished--they just burn bright so you can see yourself and remind you of who you really are---underneath all that phony posturing. and you can resent them all you want, but in the end, if you really get that---you'll love yourself more by knowing all the people that bug you and call you out and annoy the fuck out of you--cause they are just mirrors of you. that's all they are there for, so you can love yourself in all your glorious flawed fuckedupery. those are your friends. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
your frenemies are the ones that fake smile at your face so they can be liked but then talk shit behind your back or fuck your dude or jack your shoes when you aren't looking. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
one dude said to me today that i was terrifying to him. he was secretly in love with me but i was in all my uncensored glory, cause most of the time i don't say what i think cause it's too much and people find me to be "too intense." some days i don't care that much. i'm like, oh yeah? like cause i did drugs with dangerous people and i know that they always had my back cause i was for real, that makes me terrifying? and he's like, no man, you say the honest thing. i only said it cause there was a girl in the room who was hallucinating and i wanted her to know i hallucinated for my first two years in the fucking thing that i won't name to not be boring to the rest of you. my friend is all----you've been to dark places and have no shame about it. actually, i can't remember what he said cause i was thinking of how i was going to return shoes and go to unemployment today and how i was going to start my life over just like the rest of you. but, i was listening sometimes going--most of the time, i edit it down cause i know you don't like it. and that's as shady as fuck to not just be whatever i am and say the real thing all the damn time. but, i gotta exist with the rest of you shut down, dishonest motherfuckers and i get lonely up here thinking all these crazy thoughts all by myself. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
i'm in these self help groups. and i won't advertise or say which one it cause for me it's touch and go. i never know if i'm going to stay or not cause if i decide to stay, i'll just leave. i do that with relationships, once i define it i'm out. so, i don't decide on it, i just keep going there--if i define it i feel trapped and my mind will find flaw with whatever thing it is. anyway, it's kind of a trendy thing to do in LA, but i don't know if using drugs is a disease or if it's just we like to get off. i don't decide that shit. i just don't like how much money it costs going to jail and i don't like how i act. and i don't like how i cut out all the people that love me, which i do a fair amount of drunk or sober. i don't like how i'm cut off from my own heart and have no more voice in the world. so there, we are in this vast movement trying to help others and ourselves, but what we have is an excluding fucked up hipster thing. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
it's like you get invited if you be gay and out. or you get invited if you keep your mouth shut or if you have a famous last name or if you can kiss the asses of the people around you better than i can. you get univited if you don't play by the rules and don't know how to talk to people or are a little bit shy. you get univited if your clothes don't look right or your bone structure isn't blue blood. fuck that. dudes. if drugs kill you, how you gonna pick and choose this shit? i think it's weird. it haunts me cause i have seen people die, kill themselves on purpose and on accident. i have seen dumb people say stupid shit like if you are on meds you aren't sober and then watch a beautiful 19 year old boy hang himself because that dude was under a doctor's care and needed to stay on the meds that kept the voices at bay. listen. i'm no advocate for anything except check yourself motherfuckers. we are in this fucking thing to stay alive. i never like to out myself about it cause i'm not a bastion of anything about it. i'm not all fucking spiritual, cause that shit almost killed me dead. i'm not all social there either, so what? i went back to school and i lost friends when i did it and going back to school was worth it dudes. that shit changed my DNA and my nervous system. so fuck.</div>
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<div>
fuck gender segregation that was a made up thing back in the day. talk to whomever you want to. you might save a life just by saying to a dude--you might be crazy, but i hallucinated and told someone who thought i was crazy and i don't hallucinate now. and if i OBEYED THE RULES, i would have said, you need to be talking to a dude. what kind of shit is that? plus, stay away from creeps but they ain't all creeps and it isn't fair to judge it like that.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
there's this dude standing outside this morning this program of altruism. he is just learning to read and he was reading the other day and all these people were like--why the fuck are we having to wait while he reads---well---because he is changing his life--he is learning to read---no one speaks to him---no one says hi to him cause he doesn't look cool and he has two bags with him----and a fucking hope in hell that glows outside of him that his life can be different and he is going to make it so---that shit breaks my heart. he is full of love---last night when i ran into him he said he is learning to read by reading comic books and the little bubbles and i said---fuck the haters dude--you are doing it--you're doing great--don't give up. he is trying. shame on you for that shit and shame on you for hating anything that you don't understand. ain't we all just people anyhow? just be authentic. if you authentically hate a dude who is learning to read or do you hate him cause he don't look cool? or cause he's a little fat? or lives out of two bags--that dude has more class than the rest of us cause he's willing to look like he is, not a pretender---just being real about it, yo. go do something you can't do and let yourself be humiliated. that's why i go to dance class---to be lame out loud and to sometimes be brilliant and either way my spirit is happy---i'm not in a writing class to be the best in the room either. my ego gets enough food. fuck all that. do something you are totally fucking scared to do today and i will too.<br />
<br />
i know i know, we're all scared of each other and it's just easier to talk to the people you know. i swear this is just cause that little dude today made me cry at my own lack of humanity. my own fucking lack of humility. my own lack of actually noticiing him today and saying hello. i'm yelling at me more than at you. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
why is it so easy to like the good looking successful people but not one person was talking to this sweet dude? i'm embarrassed for all humanity and embarrassed for my little tiny problems that are all made up anyway. fucking hell. there's my rant.<br />
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Girltownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05804297301438745857noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1517293821383671379.post-21654758263636438352013-12-25T12:00:00.000-08:002015-04-20T18:34:52.694-07:00The Christmas That Everyone Forgot But Me<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7uiPZX2wZIArNQLR0_KnoPaXVbU52LnqiNbhn0RuDYzFodOot48uYejzoE9eI5cxvuYkPLh2n1sKj3XI2pqmXNaPaAQK19rnBGJHzpPIE87pJ0oDqbSjefKLq-V79NDoAnlk3pR2lfr8/s1600/nan-goldin12.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7uiPZX2wZIArNQLR0_KnoPaXVbU52LnqiNbhn0RuDYzFodOot48uYejzoE9eI5cxvuYkPLh2n1sKj3XI2pqmXNaPaAQK19rnBGJHzpPIE87pJ0oDqbSjefKLq-V79NDoAnlk3pR2lfr8/s640/nan-goldin12.jpg" height="426" width="640" /></a></div>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #2a313d; font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande"; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;">I had a dream about you. You
came to my door wearing a giant bunny costume. No one spoke to one another. You
sat on my couch and we both stared forward. You told me the story of your
childhood crush on a boy and how you thought about him still. You told me you
kissed him in the closet and it made you scared and happy all at the same time
like crushes do. I didn't care. Everything was supposed to come as this giant
shock to me, only nothing in dreams ever are. You spoke as if the secret was
weighing on you, but I just left you there and made us hot chocolate. We were
silent while we drank the cocoa. Me holding your giant bunny paw. We sat there in
the godlessness of a state where you cannot let the person you love into you
and I played us a playlist that another boy had given me---someone I blew off
because I didn't feel like being owned---and we fell asleep, you on one side
and me on the other, just like in life. In the morning you had taken off your
bunny head. I told you, you are perfect. Love is love. I don't want anything
from you and you don't want anything from me and that's the only reason you are
here. I made crumpets covered in maple syrup and powdered sugar and one of us
was crying. I can't remember who.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #2a313d; font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande"; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;">While eating our crumpets
you told me you didn’t know if liking boys the way you do meant something bad.
I tried to tell you human sexuality isn’t bad, it’s just bad if you do
something you don’t want to do to make a person like you. You told me that many
lifetimes ago, when you were a little boy in school, people made you nervous,
but sometimes it was a girl and sometimes it was a boy. I’ve had many people
tell me I make them nervous over a lifetime. I’ve had gay boyfriends. I’ve been
conflicted about my attraction for gay women whom I always feel safe with. I
never understood why regular girls didn’t like me. Gays are more real. They
don’t lie. I’d rather be running up a mountain and climbing a tree than having
my barbies play dress up and cook. Who wants to cook? Not me. All my boyfriends
cook. I just ate a fig or a handful of nuts rather than have to cook. I’d
rather be writing things that might change the world.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #2a313d; font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande"; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;">You looked stricken. You
told me that you judged yourself for being pretty. But, boys are supposed to be
pretty, I tell you. Boys are supposed to be prettier than the girl. Look at the
animal kingdom. Plumes of feathers attract the female for example. But, no one
tells you what to do when you are human. When two boys are pretty, it’s just
normal. Sometimes a girl with lots of testosterone and no reason to identify
herself as a heterosexual or a homosexual or even a bisexual gets thrown into
the mix and then everyone wears costumes cause they just can’t handle that kind
of thing. How can you handle someone who doesn’t claim to be anything? How can
you exist if someone refuses to identify themself in a way so that the rest of
the world can then categorize them? Maybe that’s why I make people nervous.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #2a313d; font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande"; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;">You started to cry. I see
you cry all the time. You wipe your tears away and when I ask you how you are
you say fine. But I can see it. You aren’t fine. You will never be fine. I know
the type. I am that type. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #2a313d; font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande"; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #2a313d;">I hope you're always a mess. That's the best compliment anyone ever said. Your messes makes other people's success look so ordinary. I don't know if you'll survive it. The way you feel stuff. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #2a313d; font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande"; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;">The crumpets bored us--I mean they were
there but we didn't care about them the way we should have. We wanted to pretend we
could draw each other close and not push each other away, but we knew that
would never happen. It made our souls sick. I told you I’d wear a blindfold and
you could stay as the bunny and we could kiss. I could be a boy or a girl with your eyes closed. And we could see if we liked it.
I told you I was a pretty good writer of love letters that made no sense but
STAYED with a person. I told you I’d write to your childhood crush, the boy you
loved. I told you that we’d find him on Facebook first to see if he was still
good looking and if he still had bee-stung lips like you remember and an
interest in Poe. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #2a313d; font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande"; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #2a313d; font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande"; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;">You hugged me then. You didn't let go. It was the only time you've ever done it and I doubt it will happen again. The way you can love a thing but you know it will die someday. That sentence hung in the air like a fog killing anything real and replacing it with fear.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #2a313d; font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande"; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #2a313d; font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande"; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;">How can you trust someone won't hurt you, when that's all anyone ever did? You know and I know we won't be able to help it. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #2a313d; font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande"; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;">But, we looked up your crush and
it couldn’t have been him, because this person didn’t look the same. They were
old now and fat with the weight of the world on their face. Not like us, we keep the weight of the world in our hearts, that's why no one can ever tell. You never got old. You were still very handsome and very
pretty. I told you I’d help you find another guy in this city and you could try
it out. I don’t care if you’re gay. Everyone is gay at some point. People
always try to argue me on this point, but that’s cause they lack the thing
inside themselves that allows them to be ridiculously honest even if it
embarrasses everyone. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #2a313d; font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande"; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;">In dreams you don’t have to
lie, I tell you. We can be naked or with our clothes on. We can go deep
emotionally and one of us will wake up and be in denial it ever happened. There
is nothing to fear in the great big world. You can love someone openly who will
never love you back because you are the wrong gender. You can date a gay man
like I did because you were in love with their mind. You'll want to communicate it physically at some point. You should just do that. You can push away your
feelings but once you let them out, you will simply stop crying so much. I will
hold your hand. I won’t leave. We will be what they talk about in books. Soul
mates who are real friends. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #2a313d; font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande"; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;">I tell you in dreams is the
only time you don’t avoid me. I don’t know the reason cause you say you don’t
know. No one is honest in dreams. I tell you that I lie to people to not hurt
their feelings cause I think they like me more than I will ever like them and I
don’t know how to say that thing. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #2a313d; font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande"; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;">We build a fort with my
couch pillows and we light a candle in there. We say a prayer to a god who most
likely can’t hear us and even if he could would find our prayers too routine
too ordinary to answer. We don’t want to bore god, so we build an effigy to the
boy you want. We make him beautiful, but not too beautiful to not be sexy. We
make him smart. We put a tiny tie and tiny shoes on him that we stole from the
Barbie set your sister had. We name him Norman after a photographer I know who
is so cute and messy. We write a love letter detailing your love to him. A
person who doesn’t exist.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #2a313d; font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande"; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;">I ask you, “Are you
incapable of feelings?” You don’t seem to like the question so I pet your head
and let you cry in my lap. There’s a record player and I put on my record from
my last boyfriend that was kinda smart and kinda break your heart emo radical.
We listen and are amazed at how such a skinny kid can make such smart music. He
is our hero for at least 30 minutes. I remind myself that his courage to scream
out the rage in his heart was just in music, not in life. And that part made us
both sad. The effigy burns and you don’t see what I see. That you are trapped.
Beyond where I am. You keep yourself away from me because to let someone in
only means disappointment. We don’t even talk. I crawl out and get a pad and
pencil. I want to draw something I’ve never seen<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>before. A magical creature that can keep our secrets.
Someone we both can talk to.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #2a313d; font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande"; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;">I ask you to be my friend but not in that fake everyone lies to each other way--that kind of thing kills me over time.
The most important thing to me is just to see whatever it is that makes you hate yourself so badly, I remember in life when we are
awake, no matter what I ask you say no. You have built a wall to keep me out. I
don’t know why it’s there and you say you don’t know either. But, I think it’s
there cause I can see you. It’s like I can read your mind. And I don’t care. I
will keep your secrets. YOu can lie to my face, but I still know. You should stay away from me. The fire inside of me is
intense and I will never back down or let you be mediocre. You know this to be
true.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #2a313d; font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande"; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;">When I wake up the couch is
there and there is a bunny costume, but you are gone. I realize no matter how
long I wait, the thing I want, which is to just know you, will be withheld and
the sadness of it makes me want ice cream. In the middle of winter. Ice cream
seems dumb. So, I heat it up on the stove and I sit in my jammies on the couch
and I don’t turn on the TV and I don’t look at a book and the computer is
closed. It’s just me and my heart. Alone. On Christmas.</span><span style="font-family: Times;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br />Girltownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05804297301438745857noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1517293821383671379.post-57234168411783101182013-11-05T17:58:00.000-08:002013-11-05T17:58:09.857-08:00Boo<br />
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<br />
<br />
i was thinking of halloween. i was wondering if i spelled it right. i was thinking of the rage of man. you wouldn't understand it unless you were in my head. my heart was open last night, i had a long talk to her about it, i said, girl don't be foolish, love can't exist. and here we are. you and me. we can't be what we wanted, that's obvious. can we get into daddy issues now or should we wait? we could tear each other's clothes off or laugh until we cried, but instead we pretend we don't feel it.<br />
<br />
i had a boyfriend once. everytime we made love i thought of my father. he is the only man where that happened. i had to break up with him right away or i'd be some kind of perv and i'm pervy enough all on my own.<br />
<br />
do you remember sneaking up to a girls door and putting a flower on it? before stalking existed?<br />
<br />
you told me you were suffering, but does that mean you are still talking to somebody? i hope you are. like in my dream where no one is talking but we are still communicating while lying on our pillows in our separate houses, thinking no one can read our minds.<br />
<br />
in one dream, you were on a video screen talking to me. i think it was from this story you told me where the person can write into another person's thoughts. you were talking to me quietly, you were being held prisoner, but somehow managed to tell me things. it was good to see you. it had been too long.<br />
<br />
then later. i was drinking trying to make the drinks not be drinks. but they were. this guy who asked me to marry him from across the pond was sitting there and was telling me how i was some kind of fraud but i was cuter than in my videos. i just knocked the drinks back and back and back. i called you. i asked you what was a number between one and 100 worth remembering. what was a feeling worth remembering.<br />
<br />
you didn't answer the way i wanted you to. i wanted you to say, listen, come over i'll rub your head while you sober up. i'll read you a story. the one i told you about where the kids live in a village and they learn about sexuality but in a purer way that we learn in the village called America. but, instead you just say something that requires no answer. it wasn't even a number. i made it sexy cause i wanted that, but it wasn't like that. it was like saying CANDLE and then making that into DO YOU WANT ME TO COME FUCK YOU. it is the way my brain works. i had forgotten you were a prisoner and not allowed to say whatever you wanted. i had forgotten our code CANDLE meant god, i miss you.<br />
<br />
it wasn't the guy calling me today saying, please tell me when i can see you and me going, soon. soon. soon. but, really?<br />
<br />
i don't know how to do anything. i'm afraid of hurting him. he promises i won't hurt him, but i'm still afraid i will. i hurt people. on accident. if i get naked in his bed and we exchange our hearts we will be hurt. so just roll in leaves and crush them and say you like it and forget people. people cry when they crush. leaves just make a crackle then it's over. people take longer. the first cut, then the second cut, then the third cut, then the realization that this isn't going to last. then it keeps going. sometimes for months. sometimes it never stops. sometimes it stops in a day and fucking was all that it required to make it stop. but you can't count on that. can you?<br />
<br />
stop doing that to people. open. shut. open. shut.<br />
<br />
the last guy did this didn't want to be friends, but i tried to. i guess it was insulting to him when i said, if you are scared to fuck me at least lets be friends. our brains and hearts like one another. but he didn't want to. he just wanted to be mine. and i couldn't do that. or he couldn't. all i know is <i>someone</i> couldn't.<br />
<br />
how can you really? when you have that kind of chemistry? you can't. so, i keep checking in with myself going, is there a tree with a fruit and a name of a fruit that i shouldn't have eaten and is that tree you? and can't we go back somehow to where our bodies didn't know what it would be like?<br />
<br />
he told me he writes, but i wasn't allowed to see any of it. he told me we'd be friends but then didn't tell me anything. i realized he wasn't what he was those thousands of pages on IM.<br />
<br />
i want to see inside of your heart. to me, that is friendship. to you that makes a bond or makes you nervous or whatever. or create a deep disappointment. i crave you to disappoint me.<br />
<br />
everytime i see you i want to fuck your lights out on the floor. right there and i have to act cool and i'm not feeling that. i'm feeling. fuck this thing. fuck it.<br />
<br />
can i say all this without you gettting mad? you wouldn't be nervous if you just acted normal. like if you'd just let me see whatever dark thing it is. it won't scare me. i've lived a life of dark things. i've fucked my boyfriend seven times a day because we were on lots of drugs. i've locked the door on people because we'd go dark and i only wanted light. i've hated birds because their songs were too loud. can you imagine hating birds? they are beautiful. how can someone with a real heart hate them. well, i have. drugs do that to you. i've been happy when bad things happen to people who hurt me. you think you are purer than me because i admit these things to the world. but you aren't. you are way worse. you think sex is bad. when only lying is.<br />
<br />
do all guys only like you because of your tight vagina? or because you were a dancer? or because they think they'll get sprung. nobody likes a sprung dude. that just seems backwards.<br />
<br />
someone will ask me about why i am not using capitals and let me say, it's Halloween or Holloween or the harrowing of the hallows. don't ask the mundane on this day or you will be cursed.<br />
<br />
back to me--you are too shut off. i am too open, like as per usual.<br />
<br />
i told you guys from a certain continent don't like me, or like me too much or hate me. that doesn't matter, i'm in love with somebody else. also from that certain continent and he's been showing up lately. he isn't handsome like i remember or even tall. but we'd kiss and laugh until 7 in the morning. he was the last person i had chemistry with.<br />
<br />
he looks great in photographs.<br />
<br />
we were like children. he told me everything. he told me about the girl before me who had a pound of cocaine in her freezer. he was the last person i fell for. i'm still in love with him, so you don't have to get any crazy ideas. want to know why? he was honest. he opened himself up and showed me what was in there and he told me, "if i fall for you, i will run and you will think you did something, but it's just what i do." he wrote long letters to me on the daily. this guy also said i made him nervous. nervous about what? i would be sad if things didn't work, but i'd want to keep him as my friend. he was my smartest most funniest friend. i loved him. i know that isn't cool to say. but i love people and once i do it just gets stuck like that.<br />
<br />
he ran. then talked shit and like that. i did think it must have been something about me. three of his friends came after me. it was world-class asshole-ville but LA-style.<br />
<br />
but god, i miss him. i miss his words. i miss him telling me his stories, even though he was too scared to let me read any of them.<br />
<br />
before that there was a guy. i was engaged to him. our bodies fell in love. then he started using drugs again. he's doing that now. we aren't connected anymore, so it doesn't hurt like it did when we were together.<br />
<br />
do you remember being open? and how you could tell the whole world anything? that was before you were going to die. do you remember knowing that you could die and you'd never see the people you loved again? do you remember being scared as fuck that you'd lack the words to communicate what you felt in your heart and your girl would be so sad or a girl you left would be too sad and they'd be dead before you knew it and all you would have had to tell them was you were too scared or insecure or liked somebody else?<br />
<br />
you and i met. you came to me and were open. you told me your fears and how hard it is for you to get close to anybody. i wasn't banking on anything. i had seen you for months and you were too surrounded for me to talk to.<br />
<br />
i'm not like the other girls. that's the part i keep forgetting. part fairy dust part i'll fuck you up.<br />
<br />
so you shut me out. not only out of who you are, but out of all you do. i get these one sentence texts from you sometimes. i watch you fall in love with every new girl you see. but i don't care about those things. i care only about your heart. but, since we aren't going to fuck and we aren't going to cry in each others arms and we aren't going to be normal friends where i make a costume for you and make you wear it.<br />
<br />
instead i'll tell a story.<br />
<br />
it was halloween. the ghost was following me down vermont saying things like, why don't you just get a job already, this is boring. i said---and please listen, because i am not a ghost, i am a human. my soul isn't like yours. i need human touch and companionship. i die working for the man. i don't have a solution yet. i'm working on it. "work on it when you're living in your car, whatever happened to acting?"<br />
<br />
the ghost was laughing. remember me telling you that ghost laughs are totally fun? they lift you up and out of your body where you feel like a balloon. you float up and out and look down and you go, what the fuck. i don't need humans. not when i have a ghost.<br />
<br />
halloween is supposed to be all ghosty, but my ghost goes, halloween is like amateur night, like as in if you drink a lot or party all the time so is New Year's Eve. these ghosts that don't know what they're doing come up and they lurk you so you get all scared. but, they aren't adept. they are just players in a great big game no one has an answer to. oh, and like you're the ghost who has all the answers? and then the ghost stops me, i don't know how something made of vapor can do that. i guess it's the same with thoughts or love or a feeling. the things you can't see are the most tangible.<br />
<br />
do you remember when you were engaged to that crack addict? the one from ireland? he lived with that giant fat lady and he'd fuck her and not you because the emotional risk was too much for him? but you'd get drunk and he'd read the bible to you and tell you how you couldn't suck his dick unless you were married cause jesus wouldn't approve and you just sat there going, this guy is going to die an awful death and i'll say yes just to fuck him but it won't matter in the end cause he looked so sick the last time you saw him you were glad you never touched him even though at the time it was the REAL DEAL LOVE?<br />
<br />
this ghost had been around during all the fake engagements. during the real ones. during the guys who lived here, during the guys i said, i don't love you anymore. i never loved you, i just needed you and now i don't. sorry. the sex was fun. you cook great. i don't cook, so it's good someone did or we would have died. i loved you and now i don't.Girltownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05804297301438745857noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1517293821383671379.post-18209826452880470662013-10-18T11:05:00.000-07:002013-10-18T11:05:58.238-07:00ramblings about a human without boundaries in a world where everyone is closed.<br />
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But what of fairies? Do they grant wishes. Fingers on a
keyboard, a devotion to notes. Or do they remember your mother for you, when
all your brains are focused on whatever life you are trying to build. You play
until your fingers bleed, but do you remember the bunny shaped pancakes she
made for you on Easter? There was a woman and it came close to love, her
chemicals inside of you, her skin was too white but you fell in deep. It was back
before the Superdome. A homeless guy with a blanket stole her from you, but you
can see how that happened. We all went hungry beyond just food.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In a flash your mind is blank. We are covered by clouds,
these actual feelings. We put them in boxes. Safely away where no one calls you
on it. But there was one girl, who always seemed confused. She didn’t have the
heart to tell you how you hurt her and in the same way you never visited your
father---always a justification—he was mean when you were only eight. You tell her, you just need time alone--not to ever worry, but the answer is clear. You like somoene else better. You straight up ghost her whenever there's something else to do and call that friendship. You keep all your secrets because that's the way to keep things peaceful. No one wants to hear about other naked bodies if they aren't you. Just look
up, they tell you. The people you avoid are suffering, but you don't care, you suffer too. You think love is relegated to the mind and forget that people die without human touch. You are touching everyone else, so at least you are doing your part. There's soul in it, but not the kind you thought there would be. You just don't have the guts to tell the truth. You have never been an outcast. The answers aren’t where you are looking. The answers aren’t
relegated to the heart. Or the limitations of the mind. They are beyond the
clouds. Beyond human understanding. Beyond what you once thought was cool
indifference. The answers are in the bodies and in their ability to communicate. </div>
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<br /></div>
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One day you leave. You are older now, but not too old to
obey the blood in your veins. An old tired black skin look on your face. Your teeth were white. But, now you just rely on your wit. You kept the good ones away. You took to the ones
that kill hearts. Just like we all do. In the lines of the road, your car
chalk, the road chalkboard, you see a future. Something to look forward to. But
in the distance is a cloud. It contains all you’ve done to the people you love.
It is jagged and not going to produce sound so loud that the whole world will
be free. It will produce something unthinkable and it will open you like so
many people tried to before. You will be open and you will pull the car over
and you will ask yourself where are those people who loved you now? Are they
with a new lover? Someone not so shut down. You tell yourself you warned them.
But, you never tried to let them in. Letting them in could have killed you,
that’s what you never say.</div>
<!--EndFragment-->Girltownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05804297301438745857noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1517293821383671379.post-15718961911506708262013-09-22T15:37:00.000-07:002013-09-22T16:20:29.203-07:00Les Plesko--This will not do you justice, I'd rather stay silent, but I'm doing it anyway.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<br />
On Tuesday, I got some shocking news that my friend and long-time teacher, Les Plesko had died. Amanda Copeland posted it on my wall. I didn't have her number, she didn't have mine. That's the way it is sometimes. You know a person but don't have their number. Anyway, I pulled over and she called me to tell me my friend and mentor had died yesterday----this last Monday, September 16th. I posted something on Facebook immediately as I'm prone to do because I know lots of our mutual friends see my wall. I said something about Les listening endlessly to my suicidal ramblings. This is before i found out he took his own life. What I want to get across here, is that no matter what I say, or what I am feeling, it will not do proper justice to the impact this person had on my soul and heart. In fact, my life was quite aimless before I met Les and probably changed its course because of his encouragement and support of my writing. He was my friend. He listened to my tragic boyfriend choices, my suicidal tendencies, my total self-indulgence with rapt attention. Les was a person who liked me as much as I liked him---he found me interesting during a time that was an extremely important thing. He didn't want anything from me and I didn't want anything from him---and in any setting that is a rarity.<br />
<br />
We are meant to write something for our friend and teacher--a booklet is being put together, but everyone has already turned stuff in and I'm late because I'm not doing great in my head about this. A backward swan dive off a building? I guess there's a romance to it, but it wasn't supposed to happen to him. Not our Les. The reason I am late is----How does one write a thing for a person who was the most influential to them as a person---how do you write something for someone who maybe gave you the courage to be the type of person you have become--a person with balls and opinions and an I don't give a fuck if you like me or not attitude? I have no fucking idea. So, I'll tell a story or two. Tell you how we met and how like all people I meet that I have an instant affinity for, Les Plesko meant something to my heart. We looked at each other and knew. You know how that is. It happens with lovers and friends. A bond is made and it is permanent even if you don't know why. Like you just know the person as if maybe if souls are energy or chemicals last lifetimes, that you might have known them before this. It was like that.<br />
<br />
This next part is boring, even to me, but it seems like you might want to know it. So, I'm saying it for you and to honor Les.<br />
<br />
I was just starting out writing again after years of not doing it. In fact, I had been doing other stuff, stuff that didn't inspire my soul--stuff that kills the soul, inch by day, by incredible inch. I took a class and the first thing I wrote got published. It was a short story about me and my friend getting picked up by this old lady who had cocaine and Les was not my teacher at that time---Les was my second teacher. For anyone who knows me I have the sheer blind audacity to apply for the advanced novel class, novel 5 wanting to skip the other classes. I think and Les told the administrator that his class was full but that my writing was good and to try next time. I am a jaded cynic, full of innocence at times but mostly I just think everyone is lying to me. Whatever. I still applied again and was allowed in.<br />
<br />
I was writing a book of short stories about my life doing drugs with trust-funders and with trannies. It was boring but flashy. A total cliche, but Les liked it and like he does told me what was working which was my sentences not the stories. One day, I came in with something else. Les told me to abandon my book and work on this thing. It was called No Tell Motel. I trusted him but was mad because i had 200 pages of the other thing. Les said--fuck the other thing, those stories will always be there. This is special. Then, I won an award for the first chapter of that book. Then I got the first chapter published---all before it was even a book. Whatever. I told you this part is boring.<br />
<br />
Lets get to the meat.<br />
<br />
The only time I have ever cried in front of a man is during sex or after sex because of the beauty of it, not because someone touched me funny when I was little. But, I had never written a sex scene. It seems too intimate to write down, you know? But, as an exercise, I remember writing this sex scene where this dude fell in love with this girl's asshole. It was worded better, but to tell you now seems too trite. The thing is, is there was this dude in class it really upset. And everyone thought it sucked, but Les LOVED me for it. Because I was brave. I was being brave enough to suck openly on the public stage in a class of people who might have judged me. Some people told me that my bravery helped them, but there was one dude in particular who would say mean stuff and throw tantrums--eventually we got along, but it was long after my sex scene phase. So, a few times after class, I drove home crying. The point was not that someone stared into someone's asshole and fell in love there. The point was not the cottage cheese ceilings, the point I needed to learn by failing. And I needed bravery to do that. Les was safe that way. I felt like I could try things and he would laugh, but still find the shining thing inside of the clot of dirt.<br />
<br />
Les was the type of person you could tell anything to and I am the type who since I knew Les had a swat team with guns drawn on me at my door combined with a terrible loneliness that comes from not being able to tell anyone that would understand the story or why it happened. Les heard my stories and he told me to write them down. But, to lose the self-indulgence, cause someone had to eventually read this crap. If I could lose the self-indulgent emotionality, I could be good. I took that note to heart. The writing comes first, put your suicidal thoughts into the writing and it will heal your soul or at least you'll have something you are proud of. But don't write about it cause that would be boring. Write about almost anything else. Which is what i did.<br />
<br />
At the time, i thought i was the only one who wanted to kill myself. i wanted to so much of the time most of my friends thought i was crying wolf or lying. But, i wasn't. Les knew this because he was like me, he felt that way too. We had a pact that if i was really going to do it I'd call him. If he was going to do it he'd call me. But, obviously that didn't happen.<br />
<br />
My friend Patricia reminded me once that we all talked about the ways we'd off ourselves. I had a broken heart at the time. We laughed and joked, but i was really hanging on by a thread. We told each other the ways we'd die. Not to be selfish, but to get rid of the intense pain i was feeling that i can barely articulate, but that I feel in my bones. Many people feel this way at times and no one ever says anything. But, I am that annoying. I'll call people and cry to them and make them talk me into staying here. I'd tell Les him how bad it was inside of my mind and he'd say, "Who cares? you're a pretty good writer."<br />
<br />
Les had the sensibility of a well tuned junky. The kind that can get anything they want not by asking but by not asking. He and I were similar in that way. We liked our independence. Les wasn't fancy. He was cool. He'd say totally inappropriate things and eat a ton of chocolate and say stuff like, "Who needs teeth, anyway?"<br />
<br />
Les told us to write everyday, but i didn't. I was in UCLA trying to get my degree. I was a mess, trying to hold a relationship together. I'd write my ten pages that day, like an hour before class. Les never judged me and he heard a LOT of my bullshit. My sadness. My self-pity. My crap. But, here's the thing, he knew what I know, that while we might want to, no one can actually understand the depth of another person's pain. We can lie down in churches. Make snow angels in the dust. We can hold hands. We can be a silent witness to each other. We can press our bodies together wherein our skin tells the story that our words can't. Humans are hobbled this way. Hobbled by language and its limitations.<br />
<br />
We knew stuff just by looking into each other's eyes. When i could find his good eye-- a constant thing he made fun of----"Look at this one!" he'd say, but I couldn't remember which one i was supposed to look at.<br />
<br />
As for what happened. Les made it into my dedication for my thesis for grad school and I didn't tell him. Janet Fitch told me I reminded her of him when I met her at Squaw and that we should meet. But I didn't tell him either of those things. At the time, I was too depressed to think of anyone else.<br />
<br />
Les made it clear this was his choice and I will honor it as I honored everything about him. It might seem heartless to not say goodbye, but goodbyes are so fucking hard aren't they? Les was close to the soul and in my estimation one of the smartest people I have ever known and one of the most inspiring. He was a hero to many of us in life and will remain so in his death. If he couldn't go on, it's okay. I understand. I miss him and I'm mad but just because I think I could have talked him out of it doesn't mean he wanted to be talked out of it. I'm sad I won't hear him laugh or make fun of things or say how much he loved my writing. But, he is out of pain and for that I am happy.<br />
<br />
I love you Les. You gave me some kind of direction to an aimless life. I will never forget you or the last words you spoke to me even if I can't say them out loud.<br />
<br />
Take care and don't be a stranger. Amen and goodnight my friend. I'm deeply sad that you left us. Your friend always, Lisa.Girltownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05804297301438745857noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1517293821383671379.post-2888735636542015952013-08-08T18:31:00.003-07:002013-08-08T18:31:48.877-07:00What They Never Tell You<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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What it’s like is I was in this dream where you were this
fucking angel floating up and out all the way up into the sky way up to the
ceiling of the whole history of the world. And I go, look Maddie, that angel’s
got glitter coming off her in giant plasticine waves of blue and white
fluorescent light and Maddie goes, uh huh. </div>
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Maddie was naked. Lying on the floor making snow angels in
the blanket her old man left the last time he came to hang out here. And what
happens is Maddie’s arms go numb and she starts to cry. Crying out JOHNNIE,
what the fuck did you do, did you dose me? MY ARMS ain’t working. What the fuck
did you do? Only I didn’t do fuck. I was just there staring up at the
crystalline angel of death of this reality and thinking to myself, why isn’t she
naked so I could get a vision inside of here to finally see how the human
female animal works. And I go to myself, no chick who had my heart or I was
just fucking let me look up there with a flashlight and it was something I had
always wanted. BRAN muffins. Do you remember how we used to think Bran muffins
were like some kind of god’s gift when really they weren’t good unless heated
and covered in melted butter? Some diet. But, there was just her floating up
and above us---that angel chick. Maddie on the floor me on the side of the bed.
The bourbon almost gone as and as right then it dawns on my brain that my heart
had become this thing. A thing I covered up with mud. The dead mud like Rudolph
used on his nose from Rudolph the Claymation one from childhood. Whenever he
got around that one pretty reindeer chick his nose would glow out and burn off
all the mud. BRIGHTLY GLOWNG. Like he couldn’t cover his true feelings.
Remember when he covered that shit to make himself fit in with all the ordinary
reindeer and they laughed at him and called him names like BLINKY, fucking
BLINKY ON AND BLINKY OFF and it didn’t matter, cause the name stuck anyway even
though after the clay on the nose made his voice sound like he had adenoids. Do
you remember adenoids? I haven’t heard that shit in a million
years.----BUT----then after the mud took away the sparkly shine of my heart,
then I put TAR on it. I let the tar dry so it was like this sticky ball of tar
heart thing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And then I put a
quick drying glue on it over that and heated it up with a flame thing like you
use not when you solder, but when you start a big fire or smoke a hit of crack.
Like that. That was what was going down when Maddie had a seizure and her eyes
aren’t looking anywhere on purpose, just kind of everywhere at once like as in
if she were a fucking crazy person or a retard, no offense to anyone who is.
But the angel of death was like talking about this dead cat and how the dead
cat was fun to gut but even in the morning or mourning of her twisted guilt she
licked the knife. And all of a sudden I call 911 cause Maddie ain’t faking.
This is it. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And while I waited for
the ambulance, the glittery angel taunted me with all my fears since childhood.
Like you aren’t good enough and don’t have the OP shorts, instead you have the
fucking KMART shorts cause your mom doesn’t understand how you’ll get your ass
beat if you don’t fit in. And the whole time you’re rocking and saying to this angel.
Please stop being mean. Just be cool, man, you’re a fucking angel from god and
stuff. But angels don’t listen. That’s what they never tell you.</div>
<!--EndFragment-->Girltownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05804297301438745857noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1517293821383671379.post-75148633038458777972013-08-02T03:13:00.000-07:002013-10-19T13:41:00.521-07:00the shallow things you can throw away later<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<br />
<br />
you didn't expect her to be this way. what you expected was the biting screaming kind of thing. but instead it wasn't. she held your hand. the veil of toughness left completely and it startled you. you came too quick and then you tried to tell her how shitty that made you feel and how if she kissed you she'd fall in love with you, so you were only trying to protect her, but then when you go her on the couch you kissed her cause it's all you ever really wanted to do. you got so angry that you felt something and you sat there after making excuses for yourself holding her hand with your face buried in her chest. she pet your hair. "you'll get used to it, it really isn't a big deal." but you avoided her afterward, you acted mean when she said, why aren't you talking to me like you used to. you said, "if this happened and i wanted you as my girl i'd hate you forever." she laughed and said, but we aren't in love. i love you, but not that way.<br />
<br />
you make excuses for how to not see her anymore. you tell her you are rehearsing or too busy when all you really do is comb for chicks on the internet. you keep meeting them and seeing them and deciding that nothing really matters cause you live at home. you miss your ex. you don't have a job and even if you did you think it's in bad taste to buy a coffee for a girl. it sends the wrong message.<br />
<br />
you've read too many of those books about how to act like you don't like someone to get laid and you have become a hollywood cliche. she tells you she sees beyond all that and it makes you think she is deranged for liking you because you really are a douche. a total douche who runs around town telling people what kind of pussy a girl has or how someone's ass is too big or how the girl smelled weird or had nipples that bugged. in fact, your hatred of women runs so deep that it's all you can do to not tell them to their face how phony most of them are. but you have nothing to give them, that's the part that makes you hate them. you don't love yourself. that's the other part.<br />
<br />
she isn't phony. and her vagina is perfect. like an alien you tell her. if an alien were a 15 year old hot girl.<br />
<br />
if you give your heart, you will die. dead like forever.<br />
<br />
so, you act like a dick and it empowers you. you tell yourself that she is out to capture a man, you never see an ounce of purity in anyone because you don't have an ounce of purity. or if you do, it's locked down deep where no one can crush you anymore.<br />
<br />
she tells you how she's still in love with someone else and he hates her now and it doesn't matter because guys hate her all the time. you laugh at her suffering. you tell her she is annoying. you think when she says it makes her want to die that she is lying. you don't care about her at all. you actually hope she dies too. then you can feel better. cause no one on okcupid ever asks you anything tangible. once she's gone, so is your connection to the earth. you pray to god for that. but she doesn't die. instead she persists.<br />
<br />
she tells you about the time the gang beat up her ex and how he had his jaw wired shut and he would go into the bathroom and slice open his chest saying, "look what you made me do." it creates distance because now you are among them. the men who loved her and the love turned to hate. you are ordinary--a person without your own thoughts on things, you are only concerned with what other people think. you are just exactly like them because you are too afraid to just be yourself.<br />
<br />
what this does it make you die a little. every single time you see her, you hate her more and more. and she says, we never even fucked enough to get it going. and you go, yeah, but i don't want one of us to catch feelings and you mean her, but that's because in her case it's always "them" catching feelings and you want to kill her ego for it. if you knew anything, you would know that her heart might like you, it might think you have a great big brain and it might like to fuck you like that one time you took her from behind. but the thing you will never get past is your hatred for women and your taste for killing anything good. if you can squish a girl and bully them enough, they will give up, you hope. then THAT will make you a man. you don't know yet you don't have to hurt others to be happy.<br />
<br />
whenever she is around all you can do is think of getting her naked, so it doesn't really allow for friendship. you tell her, i have to fuck a bunch of other girls right now, cause fucking you is like going to the olympics. in the way where you don't fucking go if you don't train first. and you think the thoughts that everyone thinks to themselves and never says. if i were a more authentic person, if i were kinder, smarter, better in bed. but then you think again. there can't be any picket fences, you like younger girls and even if she is the best lover and has the best brain, you like the ones that won't call you or connect with you cause it is they who make you feel safe. safe and alone so you won't be too disappointing to them. you don't want something real. you want shallow things that you can throw away later.<br />
<br />
you walk out into the street and look for something to kill. killing has been on your mind a lot and you don't want to tell her cause even though she is innocent in many ways---too trusting and not judgmental, she would not go for killing even a baby mouse. baby mouses don't feel anything, like they don't have names and stuff, you tell yourself. you are going down to the river, where you can kill something. you don't want her to know. you avoid her and you hope she dies somehow so you can kill things without her knowing. you are deathly afraid to be around her as if she will know things like a mind reader or a gypsy knows things. there was a time when you couldn't look her in the eyes and that time is back upon you. she can't understand how her vagina can make a person feel scared or less than or insecure, but you know she has never been a man. and doesn't understand man thoughts. the bad thing is you have absolutely no one to tell. you can't tell anyone because this one guy in your circle used to be her boyfriend and then another guy liked her and bailed to go fuck around as much as possible until his soul got better. you are a shitty person and no one will tell you that because they don't know what you are doing and how you feed on other people's pain.<br />
<br />
all you really wanted was to take from someone. you didn't know that she was more predatorial than you, so you can tell yourself anything you want. you still know what is true. the reason you can't be around her is that she makes you hate yourself more than you already do.Girltownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05804297301438745857noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1517293821383671379.post-43247048663896064692012-11-14T23:37:00.005-08:002012-11-14T23:51:09.747-08:00Banksy Liberated The Banksy has finally been liberated because the gas station changed owners. Fuck to the yes. The old owners kept this little doll carefully hidden for YEARS. Tonight she is free. Thank FUCKING GOD for new shop owners.<br />
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<div>
Amen Los Angeles, we can finally sleep now that our art isn't hidden. Now, let's rally to free the one outside the Beverly Cinema.</div>
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I made the poor dude inside take one picture then took several thousand more. I don't know how long she'll be there. You know how people like to steal shit. </div>
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Girltownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05804297301438745857noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1517293821383671379.post-65598804569045942832012-11-07T17:42:00.003-08:002015-10-24T11:00:17.389-07:00sometimes you lie, sometimes i do too<br />
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<br />
i am alone sitting outside the house where you wait. you have what i want, the yellow dress, my journal.<br />
<br />
i tell you a lie, it has to do with how much i love you and how much i'm going to do better.<br />
<br />
you stare out your window at me, jerk your head telling me to hide from your girl as she's leaving. her hair is pulled back, that thin frown ever present.<br />
<br />
but that isn't the only thing. the only thing that there is, is need. my need versus your need, yours for power over me, mine for my journal, which carries not only my secrets but the secret of jared.<br />
<br />
jared was my friend once, he lived in the middle of the city. we used to be musicians. i went to his house before he became an actor, he gave me a book by alan watts. is that his name? something about beat poetry. or the way of the beat poet. some dumb spiritual name for a book that i never read and would never read. spirituality is fake. trust me. i've seen the fake meditators who beat their children and cheat their friends out of every last sense of themselves for the sake of filling up the empty.<br />
<br />
jared's boyfriend was there. i was supposed to act like i didn't know they were a couple. what they were didn't matter to me. i was just lonely.<br />
<br />
that night we drank and jared kept disappearing, spoons were black, and people were passed out on the floor of that giant apartment building when you go up cahuenga from hollywood blvd. and turn right on franklin. the first building. you know the one.<br />
<br />
we were up at the top. there was a fire escape, but no one even opened a window, we just listened to records---the sex pistols, marrianne faithfull, the cure, the clash until one of the needles just made that sound and all of us were too out of it to do anything.<br />
<br />
robbie was his name, jared's friend. he died in that room with us, but i left sometime around 4 am, out walking around looking for my car. never afraid of the street. so close to gunshots and the jail that hides right near capitol records.<br />
<br />
jared's secret is in my journal. i need it back. he's not going to be implicated, nothing happened, someone just took too much and i thought he was sleeping by the time i left.<br />
<br />
you were there too, but i never told you. i didn't want you to carry that with you. i'll carry it for everyone, plus you told me that things made you break, that was when i stopped telling you the truth. maybe we can remember it together sometime. me on one side of the table knowing something i will never tell you and you on the other side asking me for something in exchange for my journal. but, at some point i'll go get us starbucks and i'll put the pill in yours and you will pass out and i will get what's mine.<br />
<br />
i have some secrets i want to protect---none of them are mine---you and i lived--- when so many others were dead on accident.<br />
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<br />Girltownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05804297301438745857noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1517293821383671379.post-92091730988607252602012-10-24T12:46:00.001-07:002017-10-24T11:54:50.639-07:00If I Die Before I Wake, Burn My Stories First<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<!--StartFragment-->
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
If die before I wake, Burn My Stories First<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was looking at the back of
the world’s ugliest sweater. It’s the kind with the ribbon that goes in and out
of the holes in a line of the pattern. You would like it. You think that sort
of thing is pretty. We like different things. You like the ornate, I like
simple, stripped down things, distilled to their soul. Other than that, we fuck
good. You cook for me, but you have gotten fat and boring. I like the sex, but
can’t stand the fantasy football. The way you sit at your broken red computer
and lurk there and complain about a dude named Carnival and then stare
outwardly when I notice that nothing is going on inside your mind. The brain
you pretended to have is all gone and you resent me for that. You aren’t doing
your dreams and you resent me for that. You resent me for everything, but won’t
say it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One day you tell me I look
like Rosanna Arquette in this movie about a deep sea diver. The next day you
tell me, “That jacket of yours makes me want to die. You make me want to die.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Who cares. We are just
wasting days until one of us bleeds out.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sometimes I float up out of
my body and look down at myself and wonder what my mom would think of my low
choice in a man. I do not think about what my dad would think, cause that would
only hurt. It’s like I’m behind a screen of smoke or some kind of thick vapor
that prevents me from seeing the truth, which is your hair is unfortunate and
you already told me all your stories and they were all good ones but only about
other people. You have no real stories to tell because you have to hide what
you’ve actually done to people. If you keep talking about your friends, maybe I
won’t ever know. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
All you had was a record
player. What did we wear? Nothing. You wanted us naked at the keyboard and at
the bass. But you couldn’t concentrate. You’d write one line and have to go
smoke or call your dealer or text your old girlfriend, the one that loves you
even if you hurt her and like to hurt people because you have nothing going on
inside. It makes you feel important to hurt her, like you meant something once
even if you’ve wasted your whole entire life.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You told me, “Baby? I like to
suck a dick every now and then. what do you think of that?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I said, “I think you
shouldn’t tell me about it, but if you really like it, you should do it.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In my mind I’m thinking,
whose dick? Some tranny? Or even if you sucked any of your bisexual friends’
dicks then what would happen to me? Maybe you should use a mouth condom, but
even though everyone talks about mouth condoms—does anyone know anyone who has
ever actually used one?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You disappear one afternoon
and hide in bushes up near Dodger Stadium smoking crack with homeless people. I
wonder if you suck their dicks. If they are clean and if they smell like homeless
people dirt smell or if they smell good like a clean dick.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Whenever you disappear, I
wonder about girls not realizing you prefer sexual contact with boys or men or
whatever. I consider that you and I made love for 5 hours at a time without
breaks. I wonder what that means and think about it categorically like this:
but if he likes cock and made love to me for 5 hours what does that equal? Like
an equation for such a thing could equal something tangible. As if making love
equals love. Or the words spoken are stand ins for action never taken. I love
you, but have to go suck a dick and shoot crack and tell everyone else all my
stories so they can tell me I’m amazing. To you, love equals absence. In a way,
that’s true for all of us. Love that can equal an absence makes sure you can
never really be invested in anyone. Not in the way where if you invested your
full heart, that to lose a person would unearth you. Take you apart bit by tiny
bit until you were nothing.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One day you came back, you
were clean again for 3 days, I dosed you in the bed and gave you Suboxone and
Xanax. You told me you were going to see your son. But, then you made pancakes.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I have to go get high.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“But I thought you were
seeing Jack.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I can’t.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Can’t you see him and then
get high?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I can’t wait is all.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Don’t you love him?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I love him but don’t want to
give him anything. Same for you.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was all sucked out at that
point. But, your friend had been calling me over and over wanting to see me. It
didn’t mean anything, it was just loneliness. The loneliness of a love that is
only an absence not a presence.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I slept with him. I’m not
proud nor would I ever tell you. He hated you and called you a cockroach and
didn’t understand how you could end up with someone like me. He thought he was better
than you in bed and one day, while he was inside of me he said:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I bet you’ve never had
anyone make love to you like this.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I started laughing. I laughed
so hard and long that he rolled off of me and looked sad. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You still love him, I can’t
believe it.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“No, it’s not love, it’s the
obsession with why someone would hurt me. It’s not even the same.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I call that dude jackhammer
because that was his idea of sex. He thought he knew what he was doing even
though it was clear he didn’t know and wouldn’t ever know. I didn’t want to
take that away from him. It bored me to see someone so engaged in something
that didn’t even interest me, but I needed someone to pretend to love me again.
Not in the same way you pretended to love me. The way you pretend to love is
more believable. That’s why there’s a string of broken hearts all around
you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I always said you should have
been an actor. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But, now, I hate you with my
whole heart, just like you wanted.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But, I still want my stuffed
puppy dog back. The one that was supposed to protect you while you were
shooting drugs. He wasn't supposed to be yours forever. He was just like a companion or something. Do you even know his name is Flip Wilson? I don't like the idea of him with that girl you met in rehab. Her talking all baby talk to him and stuff. I
don’t like the idea of that dog in your sober living with the dudes that peep
each other through the hole in the closet. That dog saves lives and he wants to
come back to live with me, but if he has scabies or something then
forget it. </div>
<!--EndFragment--><br />Girltownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05804297301438745857noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1517293821383671379.post-52321048351153246212012-08-05T15:30:00.000-07:002012-11-02T14:33:23.564-07:00people who hate me make me famous!!!!!!<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #666666; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16pt;">My friend wrote me a love letter. I guess it's a love letter,
because I don't know what else to call it. She is one of my favorite writers in
the program at UCI where I am getting my MFA. This girl and another guy, who I
will just call BLANK (because I didn't ask permission to use his name)
encouraged me and loved me into a submissive state of self-love and openness
that has never occurred before or since. I love these two people with all my
heart and soul and they make me want to be whatever I am in all its flawed
uncontrollable energetic glory. At some point this summer I asked Kat to
remind me who I am. I asked her to tell me what she thought of me and to
reflect back that I should stay here on planet earth and continue to be my Lisa
Douglass self. As per usual I was looking for some form of validation of a self
that I don't always completely understand but that I exist within as I am in
this current human body----I was hoping for just a sentence or two of what
meaning I might have to people here on the earth as we know it. Instead, Kat
wrote me the following thing. I read it on my phone, in a room with people
who were very very sad. People who I
love. I cried openly, but no one noticed, immersed as they were in their need
to stay alive in their own way, just like I do through words.
Happily, I share this with you, because I've never had anyone say these things
to me and because I have had many people think that I hear things like this
often when nothing could be further from the truth. I reflect back to you, to
ask a friend to tell you what they think of you, because it might be
interesting. I doubt, with my whole open heart, that you will ever get a letter
so beautiful and well equipped to keep you going one more day, but in this
case, I humbly thank Kat for saving my dear heart and for reminding me that
sometimes people see things that I cannot see at all. Namely, myself.</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><a href="file:///klewin"><span style="text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;"><b>Kat Lewin</b></span></a><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Lo,
we have reached a period in the troubled beginnings of this millennium – a
crossroads – at which nothing is as it appears. Banks are government-subsidized
for-profit industries, PETA kills tens of thousands of kittens a year, and
everyone on the internet is a ten-year-old police officer. It’s an ugly scene,
no doubt, and to make it through the day while swallowing the absolute bare
minimum of Pills That Make Us Not Feel Feelings (for which I praise the god who
probably doesn’t exist), we need one truth to hold dear. Oh it’s time, my
kittens, for a manifesto. And on this worrisome day, there is BUT ONE THING I
HOLD MANIFEST: There are very few damn good things in this world. Lisa Douglass
is pretty much all of them, condensed down into superdense space plasma. THE
MANIFESTO OF LISA DOUGLASS, BEAUTIFUL, HONEST, CUPCAKE-SCENTED VIDEO-MAKING
GODDESS </span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;">1. Lisa Douglass is not a goddamn liar. You know how we all loved
Catcher in the Rye when we were thirteen, before it became embarrassing to
admit you like Catcher in the Rye, because when you’re thirteen everyone you
meet IS a goddamn phony and, by gum, you do hate those phony bastards? I don’t
care whether it’s embarrassing or not: everyone you meet at thirteen is a phony
bastard. Everyone you meet at twenty-three is a phony bastard. Everyone you
meet at thirty-three and forty-three – the world is filled with douchebags, and
we need to keep acknowledging that so we can treasure the rare prize of a non-phony.</span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"> 2.
Lisa Douglass is not a phony. If your hair is fucked-up, she’ll tell you your
hair is fucked-up. If your prose is fucked-up, no one else will tell you. Lisa
Douglass will tell you. This is a gift that surpasses that of the wish-granting
gem. </span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;">3. Lisa Douglass will never say anything about you that she won’t say to
you. And usually the things she says to you – the things she says to me, anyway
– are the kinds of things you give up hope on people saying because you’re
beginning to suspect they’re probably only wishful thinking on your part.</span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"> 4.
Lisa Douglass is unfairly beautiful </span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;">5. and the chick has style, that kind of
style that you can’t beg borrow buy or fake so if you’re not born with it,
look, why don’t you just go ahead and get your Connecticut country house and
keep shopping Isaac Mizrahi for Target the rest of your life, because you’re
strictly drugstore-smells-alike and everybody knows it.</span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"> 6. Lisa Douglass’s
fiction is the reason we will always need fiction. She’s got that damn heart thing
that most people are too scared to even approach. Her fiction makes you laugh
but then it jabs you with that those truths that are big and hurt like fuck but
you can’t put them away. Lisa Douglass isn’t afraid to butt heads with The Big
Lie. Every other lame wannabe New Yorker fiction dude or Saunders-alike on the
street fights their heart on the way to the page until it’s limper than a
sell-by-yesterday supermarket porkchop. Lisa Douglass pins down that hot
thrashing thing right to the page and she doesn’t even nuzzle it. She writes
things that hurt me to read. (The good kind of hurt. Everything worthwhile
hurts; the rest is just escape, and where did escape ever get anyone? Except
Jews in Nazi Germany, I guess. THIS MANIFESTO IS NOT FOR JEWS IN NAZI GERMANY.
THEY HAD THEIR OWN SHIT GOING ON AND ARE THUS EXEMPT FROM THESE VERY IMPORTANT
THOUGHTS.) </span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;">7. I remember details about every single thing Lisa Douglass has
ever turned into workshop. Go on. Test me sometime. She is the real goddamn
thing and everything she writes gets into your skin and inside of you. Except
it was already there inside of you, just waiting to be activated, because it is
so goddamn true. </span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;">8. Sometimes Lisa Douglass’s fiction is so true and inspiring
that it makes me hate myself, and go to the gym and run too long on the
elliptical while thinking Why Am I Pretending To Be A Writer Thoughts, and then
bang out twenty pages of red-hot prose while thinking, “What would Lisa say?
How would she say it? How much of this is disguise and which parts of this
needless façade would she crush into the dirt with one of her impeccably
stylish boots?” Often when I’m writing fiction and it’s all weird and fake and
New Yorkery, I tell myself, “Pretend you’re writing a letter to Lisa,” and you
know what? It always helps me.</span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"> 9. Did I mention Lisa Douglass is unfairly
beautiful? Some people don’t think that’s important, and I know people are born
with what they’re born with, but for my money, confidence and style make the
world more bearable and goddamn is it nice sometimes to be able to look upon a
person and think, “Yeah, your presence makes my life feel a little more like a
movie I’d like to watch, one that’s filled with excitement and intrigue and
Beautiful Things.” </span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;">10. Lisa Douglass actually gives a fuck about you. Maybe
she gives too much of a fuck – maybe that’s something that hurts her beautiful
truth-making heart – but even if it leads to painful vulnerability, it matters.
Lisa Douglass writes the flat-out best critique letters I’ve ever read, because
instead of talking about nuts&bolts and things that can be taught, she
looks at the big picture: how art touches lives, how it makes people feel, how
it can change you. It seems sometimes that Lisa Douglass is the only person who
remembers What Actually Matters (which isn’t, in my experience, at least,
always the easiest thing to remember). </span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;">11. Lisa Douglass is weird. Ultimate
weird. Mega-weird. Irreplaceable weird. And if there’s anything more worth
being than weird, I don’t even want to know about it. You can’t replace Lisa
Douglass. Not in a room, not around a workshop table, not in the conversation
of contemporary fiction, not in the world. Period. Everyone gives Henry Ford a
lot of credit for creating the assembly line, with its interchangeable parts,
and yeah, props to the dude for enabling twentieth century convenience – but
the thing about convenience is it robs us of doing The Hard Thing, which is
true and difficult and therefore the most worthwhile. Lisa Douglass, on the
other hand? Roll up your assembly lines. She’s straight artisan. </span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666;"><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16.0pt;">12. Lisa
Douglass is exquisite and magnificent and I adore her very, very much. Anyone
who doesn’t is a phony a douchebag a flake and probably a communist. These
things, today and in perpetuity, I hold manifest. Love love love, </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 16pt;">K</span></div>
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Girltownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05804297301438745857noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1517293821383671379.post-38717658668059805552012-03-29T11:27:00.001-07:002012-03-29T11:27:38.220-07:00This is Us: Dead<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande', Verdana, Arial, sans-serif;">I feel them watching me. I am at the side of the basketball
court. I hold my breath as I pass by. I know nothing of what they see, I can’t
understand myself in that way. What I am to you, was always unknowable, so what
I am to the world, is unknowable too. As much as I don’t want that to be true,
it is. In my mind there is a ball of light, I don’t know how else to say it. It
lives there and gives me all my ideas, but it is not really a part of me.
instead it is larger than I am or larger than I pretend. When I think of you,
you are in the absence, not in the light but outside of it. You live there and
haunt me like a ghost. I have done many things to love you and just as many to
hate you. I have tried to forget you, but you are all around me, like air. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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When I had my first dog, which was my only dog, I understood
that you can love a thing and fear it. Not fear it in the way you fear a
monster, but fear it in the way, that the thing that loves you needs you and
that you will never be enough for that thing. You are only you. A human. I am
me. A girl. That is all I will ever be. I have tried to be more, but I was born
this way. Fragile and trying to cover that up. I walk the planet knowing that
things can love me, but that I cannot help those things. They will be outside
of my reach to make safe or to save. This fact is like a tree. It is there and
once you see it, it just is. Beautiful and green and vastly alive, but all
alone in the way we all are when it comes down to it. A tree keeps its distance
from the other trees, if they are too close, they fight for sunlight and their
roots get tangled and they become each other. Or something.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was thinking in that golden shiny ball earlier today and
it moved. It traveled down into where my heart is supposed to be. It is there
now, making that spot warm and getting it ready for something. I can’t sleep. I
know what’s coming and I’m scared of it. I know I cannot meet the challenge of
being anything at all except my quiet self, my real self that I hide because I
don’t think you would like it or understand. I am usually on some sort of stage
trying to entertain you so I can feel love. </div>
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Have you ever held a bird in your hand and felt its
heartbeat? Birds are wonderful, I think my Father said that and he’s right.
There have been many birds in my life. Broken ones. Dying ones. Healthy fat
ones. I have always loved them. Except for seagulls or pigeons. Both of those
birds make me sick. Like they are rodents with wings. Scavengers that aren’t
actually birds at all, because they pick garbage and do a bird bath in gutters.
I realize that doesn’t make sense, but nothing will after this. I am a
different thing right now.</div>
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I am not of myself in the way that I can describe something
as accurate or in the way I am actually feeling it. I have always wanted to say
things with precision, but words have an inherent limitation being that we are
all animals and communicating as if we are noble and fearless. That’s dumb
isn’t it? To be something we aren’t.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I went to school, I saw kids there. I didn’t know how
to talk to them, because I was scared. I thought they all knew each other
already and I didn’t know how to meet them. My mother would say, just go and
play with them, but I didn’t know how. So, I would walk up to the place that
the kids were playing and find something to do with my feet. I was ashamed that
I didn’t know what they knew. It made me scared to be alive. Later, I became an
athlete at least a playground athlete, on the monkey bars swinging the whole
time so I looked busy and wouldn’t have to talk to anybody. </div>
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My mother used to say she was painfully shy and her sister
looked like Elizabeth Taylor, but my mother looked like Audrey Hepburn and I
thought she looked better. Not as fat. When I was little I always thought
Elizabeth Taylor was fat, so to say someone looked better than her was stupid.
Just be happy to look like Audrey, I would say, she’s thin. I was painfully shy
to be myself, never comfortable to be myself. I thought I wasn’t enough. I
remember sitting in my mother’s car while she had panic attacks and didn’t know
how to drive across the street. I remember being so young and not knowing how
to drive and thinking, this is a bad scene, me in this car and my mom freaking
out. I didn’t know if telling her to stop acting crazy would make her more
crazy. I remember thinking things I wanted to say and then not saying them
afraid I would upset my mother. I was very quiet as a child.</div>
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When I told my mom I was too scared to go to school, she
didn’t believe me. I was scared for real. I would go and no one would talk to
me and I’d be scared. Later after I made friends the people I did meet told me
I seemed stuck up. I just didn’t know how to meet them and it froze me. I found
out if I got sick I could stay home. So, I was sick a lot. Earaches. Sore
throats. Fevers. It kept me away from school and I could get codeine. Codeine
didn’t help the pain, but it made me feel quiet and safe. In a warm bubble all
by myself, but not caring anymore that that was the way it was and was always going
to be. It made me happy to be alone. It made me understand I had the best brain
and I was the coolest person. </div>
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<br /></div>
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I realized today that I tell people how to be around me, but
they don’t pay attention. I am very particular and closed off while pretending
to be open. They say they understand how to act, but eventually I see some glimmer
in their eyes wherein they think I’ve changed my mind about the directions I’ve
given them. I want to tell them, you can only be close if you play by the set
of rules and parameters I have given you, but there is free-will and they think
they’ll do things their way and that I will like it, it will be good for
me—their way. Only their way shuts me out forever. They didn’t listen. I have
rules—you can only get close by pretending not to and once you drop the
pretense, you are out. There is no other way, it’s because I’m scared of dying.</div>
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I think about death more than most people. When I was little
I knew that all the people I loved were going to die someday and the pain of
knowing it was hard to take. There wasn’t anything I could do about it. I remember
finding out. I was in my parent’s bedroom, I even remember the bedspread—it was
mustard yellow and brown flowers or leaves or something. My father was on the
bed and I was on the floor with my world piggy bank, I was counting my money
and my father was telling me stories. I asked what would happen to me when
everybody died and he told me I’d die too someday. Why be born at all if only
to die? It seems unfair. It stayed—the knowledge of it. Most people know this
and can forget it and that’s why they don’t do anything in their lives with a
desperation—they think they have all the time in the world. Or feel content in
relationships or find stability---But I know it and can’t forget it, so I am
awake to it all the time, which is a burden in one way, wherein I’m in more
pain and feel things all the time, because no one else seems to know what I
know, that we are all going to be dead, so why not try things, at least just
once? Why wait it out. I think that’s why I live the way I do, in a way, like I
am perpetually on vacation, doing things children do or teenagers do. It’s
because we are dying.</div>
<!--EndFragment--></span>Girltownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05804297301438745857noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1517293821383671379.post-55793450635634320202012-03-26T12:20:00.001-07:002012-03-26T13:04:03.689-07:00Dear Diary--Are You Bored Like Me?<br />
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Dear Diary,</div>
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When last we spoke, I had been thrown into a jail cell for a long weekend and it was the single best forced diet I have ever tried. What they don't tell you about jail is its like the worst highschool gossip nightmare anyone could imagine. You are not separated from people unlike you, you are sleeping, pissing and eating with them. My friend Anna was looking at a 7 year sentence for heroin possession. She was my jail friend, someone I would only know then and never again. I always like to think she is the one Anthony Kiedis wrote about in one of his songs, "she got seven years for being sad." I was released before her and being held for a very bad crime that I did not commit. My boyfriend had his jaw broken in four places by some gang in Venice. I had driven drunk and hit the car that came after us. By the time we got home Brett was so angry he jumped up and down on my guitar and smashed one of my chairs to my little antique table. Although I was in bed and crying because Brett could not be persuaded to go to the hospital, the cops came because of the screaming. He told the cops I had broken his jaw with the chair leg. Anyone knows that in Los Angeles, if the cops are called and there is a scratch on the other person, they have to take you in. Brett later recounted everything in front of a judge and I was exonerated and the "crime" was expunged from my record. It was a long nightmare, Brett, but I'll never forget him. He's on me like a stain.</div>
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When I got out, I was skinny. The jail was in the middle of Los Angeles, near Beachwood. I lived on Argyle. I walked home and sat down and never wanted to be in a relationship again. </div>
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Goodbye. You write to me next. Start it with---Dear Lisa (Wizard of all things Human) and end it with a sincere statement on what it's like to be you, the only one who hears my secrets. Till we meet again. Goodbye.</div>Girltownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05804297301438745857noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1517293821383671379.post-49062196541173165492012-03-24T19:05:00.000-07:002015-08-26T10:57:41.230-07:00A Tale Of The Spider Who Was Actually Satan<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuIkYvM4yiF83uPVsOun4ET75k4_Xm2HH1Ferc04_hxgpUiS_Wbl9cOVE6BhKEo7IhhrLk7H1dyQPkzEjnBq5qkBO4E6riViqfE_bTB1Rph_99ex1bv7Ro7iLTdOjvLQ6cjGODY28STGk/s1600/aspergers-love.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuIkYvM4yiF83uPVsOun4ET75k4_Xm2HH1Ferc04_hxgpUiS_Wbl9cOVE6BhKEo7IhhrLk7H1dyQPkzEjnBq5qkBO4E6riViqfE_bTB1Rph_99ex1bv7Ro7iLTdOjvLQ6cjGODY28STGk/s400/aspergers-love.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">A Tale of Why We Are So Fucked—As a Species</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Before the Baby Salty Jesus birthed us and we became our
non-human selves---it is written that we had once been human. We were real live
human beings that liked to kiss and tell and do the Holiest of the holies in
front of the videoscreen. But that was before the spider incident which later
conflates into the Satan incident which follows:</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Once upon a time, in the middle of winter, one winter when
we were really fucking cold in our beds and wearing our see-through hot pink
number without panties, somebody came to visit us in our rooms. It was the
first night after the brand new white sheets and the first night of the spider who stared at us with his beady eyes on our bedspread—wherein we went---why is that spider’s legs spread out like he is about to run the 100
yard dash and why do I feel like he is conscious and wants to talk to me about
something quite important?</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">We were all ears.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">On this night of the spider, we looked again and there was a
man, this man was Satan.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Remember: Before this happened---We had known how to love
one another without fear and we had understood that one text does not make or
break any relationship of value and we had been unafraid to do what we liked because
there was no fear to do the Happy.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">But, what happened was we wanted to be cool, more than we
wanted our hearts deepest desires and Satan knew that on some level when he
came to us in the nighttime while we were fast asleep in our angelic poses in our
beds without wrappers or crumbs but still in a cute outfit. On that night that Satan came, we opened up our beautiful orphan eyes and said to the Bad son of God because he was more competitive than Jesus and corrupted souls through deviant means:</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> “Hi.”</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Satan the Lord of Darkness had a little contract with him
and he was charming and good looking (even better looking than our adorable
bedmates who we had just stopped hugging to witness the aforementioned spider) </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">and Satan goes: “Hi.”</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">We felt our wholeness right then and there. We were no longer ordinary—we were visited by Satan and that fed our enormous but undeservedly so's ego.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">It was terrifying how like a human Satan seemed and how
handsome and how we hoped he would text us the next day. (We smoothed our hair
in the face of it). </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">But we weren’t scared of new things at that point, we were
still innocent with pure hearts.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">What Satan said was hey, you seem cool and I’ve been
watching how everyone else kind of looks to you as the model of cool and how
you have a hard time with commitment and significant others, so I was thinking
you might want to join a club: </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">The Club of Not Feeling or Caring and Impure Hearts but Look Cooler Than Everyone Else Club. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">We thought we might.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">He made it sound so fancy.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">So, Satan the Lord of Darkness made us sign a commitment to
not feeling human emotions at the expense of our inbred coolness. So, we were
like: “OK, what do we have to lose anyway, we are always trying to avoid
feelings and stuff by eating too much or too little or buying shoes and
obsessing on how to wear our hair in order to be neat and different.” But,
really we just said, “OK.” (Because we want to be considered cool and like we
aren’t overthinking this shit). </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">And we signed.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">The contract basically said, anyone who loves you from here
on our will be seen as the enemy and Lo and Behold it motherfucking was.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">After that our hearts were closed off. God and the Baby Salty Jesus were disturbed and kept sending us people who wanted to love us, but
we only saw them as suspects in a larger scheme of our newfound paranoia of all things cute and adorable and we read into everything with the one thought: What can this person possibly want from me? Fear Fear Fear Fear Fear Fear Fear Fear Fear Fear Fear I'm Scared, Etc. (Only
to be cured with copious amounts of anonymous sex and vast amounts of designer
shoes for the girls or car stuff for the boys).</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">And that is how we became non-human and unable to love.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Please send $200 to Lisa Douglass at her PayPal</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">fishtwin@earthlink.net</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">For this most important fact that is unchangeable and why we are all so fucked.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">The end.</span></div>
Girltownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05804297301438745857noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1517293821383671379.post-56466818627979707052012-03-20T00:15:00.000-07:002014-01-15T10:27:04.950-08:00Why Doesn't He Like Me, Lisa?<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioYCTz26K5tvPhS6z4cdwtuYL4gYzVQpAVybecIGiONn1qwyF9mifReBwnAxXMgSvexw-sKjKZRt5mKpMSmA2YN0d8Ahv0CRVIkitUyT0h2BXMvG5iRoGC4fkcB6b4wDLw59oYD1JrQBo/s1600/boy,boy,and,girl,camera,couple,girl,girl,and,boy,love,young,young,couple-bf43e31bff7209ae05f9248991d6d71c_m.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="341" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioYCTz26K5tvPhS6z4cdwtuYL4gYzVQpAVybecIGiONn1qwyF9mifReBwnAxXMgSvexw-sKjKZRt5mKpMSmA2YN0d8Ahv0CRVIkitUyT0h2BXMvG5iRoGC4fkcB6b4wDLw59oYD1JrQBo/s400/boy,boy,and,girl,camera,couple,girl,girl,and,boy,love,young,young,couple-bf43e31bff7209ae05f9248991d6d71c_m.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I also get calls from girls, going, why didn't he like me? Wasn't I cute enough? Smart enough? Did I bang him too soon or not soon enough or in the right position or it took too long or too short, Etc. Etc.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Here's the Real truth---I sat with my friend, kind of famous for being good in the sack and good in jail, and he told me the real reasons, the ones we all fear are true but never get told because the guys are being polite. His name is not Matt and not Brian and not Gregory and NOT Josh and or JIM (although those are five very good SOLID guesses).</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Exhibit one: Your pussy is too tight. This is the one boys can never say because it harkens back to pre-verbal stage when the insie-dimensions of the pussy-of-the-world---the one belonging to the MOMMY, well.. Yours reminds him of that pussy and he can't have that pressure on him ever ever ever again.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Exhibit two: You text smilicons and emoticons and tell him too many flowery things after he leaves your apartment and before he gets back to the other girl he is fucking. She then looks through his phone and the boy gets in trouble. So he gets FUCKED three times, not just twice like he planned.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Exhibit three: You believed the lie the boy told to get into your pants. It was basically, I really really really like you and even though I have a horrible reputation that all your friends warned you about I won't treat you that same way. In this way, the boy feels he's degraded you and that you aren't that smart. Dumb girls scare boys as much as smart ones do.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Exhibit four: Whenever he looks in the mirror and go: MONKEY! BANG!, you ask him what that means. It just isn't polite to always be asking a dude what everything means. And he doesn't know how to answer you anyway. (See: Exhibit Seven).</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Exhibit Five: He likes bigger titties or smaller titties or faker ones or less fake ones or ones with the giant nipples and you only have the tiny pink nipples and he likes the other kind of nipples the opposite of the ones you have. The darker ones or pinker ones or bigger and or smaller ones. (This one can be fixed by painful plastic surgery ONLY IF the dude is willing to tell you his preference--which is very hard to get a person to admit).</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Exhibit Six: Your breath is bad, consistently like you just ate a whole plate of salmon. Boys don't like that salmony breath, but are scared to tell you, the only difference is they will fuck you first and then ignore you unlike a girl who if they smell the salmony breath will just think of a cat they once had. (Cat's name: Mittens).</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Exhibit Seven: You analyze everything the boy said or did or didn't say or didn't do and you go over it with your smartest friends and your dumbest but sexiest friends and then you call some psychics to see if they can get it right or tell you that very thing that is a match for the answer YOU WANT TO BE true but never is. You analyze it to mean the boy really must LOVE you, that is why he is avoiding you and that is why he said that thing about Mr. Rodgers and that is what the spirit guides mean when they said: HE IS NOT THE ONE (in your mind it still equals HE LOVES ME). Hint which hurts: He's not intimidated or too into you to call. (Hint which hurts more: If he won't fuck you, he doesn't find you attractive---for serious--NO one is going to say out loud--I don't want to bone you cause of your weird NOSE, that's just mean).</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Exhibit Eight: The boy didn't like you all that much, he just wanted to see what all the fuss was about and you seemed to enjoy yourself too, so what's the BIG WHOOP? (And you actually did say too much or not make the right sounds during the "special act.")</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Exhibit Nine: Cars and motorbikes and "TIME WITH THE BOYS"; and or working too much or not working enough or working on himself---all code for: I DON'T LIKE YOU I JUST WANT TO FUCK YOU AND DISCARD YOU LIKE A FILTHY WHORE but are too polite to say what I want. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Exhibit Ten: Once when the boy was very small he realized he only liked blondes and you, sadly, are brunette, beautiful, but only for fucking not for marrying. DYE YOUR HAIR unless you don't have the skin for it, then MOVE ON.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">The boys say sorry they are such cowards, but are convinced that you are cowardly too in too many ways to count seeing how you are the weaker sex only to be used for sex and psychological domination. SORRY, they feel really really bad and guilty but you mean nothing to them.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">See: Porn addiction</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">See: Video Chat Rooms</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">See: Lying.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Sincerely, boys of the Americas and British Isles (Not Japanese or Kazakstanian boys).</span></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
Girltownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05804297301438745857noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1517293821383671379.post-8323520430617573422012-03-18T21:26:00.001-07:002013-06-27T02:17:36.662-07:00Why Doesn't She Like Me, Lisa? A Tell All.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0hfXWBYivUQ_OqqBFmYAzcrIKXnoHae5qSgGKs3aWKZM5q6ZUXqsKiqn2zauJ-lRDswVHXPeUKWJQIPTqHGAH9RJWXvw-xzBfLhPeafDyS9GVM7ta_vt7LUIVvYBltNUKsNwsMilgfWU/s1600/romantic_kiss-10690.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="297" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0hfXWBYivUQ_OqqBFmYAzcrIKXnoHae5qSgGKs3aWKZM5q6ZUXqsKiqn2zauJ-lRDswVHXPeUKWJQIPTqHGAH9RJWXvw-xzBfLhPeafDyS9GVM7ta_vt7LUIVvYBltNUKsNwsMilgfWU/s400/romantic_kiss-10690.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">To all the boys who have been calling me recently telling me that a cute girl dumped them and they don't know why but think they want to know but even as I write this I am doubtful that anyone wants the truth, still I submit the following: </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Exhibit One: Your breath is bad, terrible even and we don't know how to say that thing to you. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Exhibit Two: Your penis has the same exact dimensions of the one guy that you can never replace because he was WAY more dysfunctional as a lover and we need that dysfunction to feel sad about ourselves and our place on planet earth as the weaker species.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Exhibit Three: You aren't smart but try to be and we don't know how to handle that. We feel scared of dumb things.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Exhibit Four: We slept with your ex wife and or girlfriend and she told us about that thing you did once that you better not do with us but that you secretly hope will get you arrested one day. We actually admire you for doing it too, we think that took balls.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Exhibit Five: We aren't that available but tried to be. There was that tiny window, but then it closed, you were too nice, mean, angry, sweet, horny, not-horny-enough, BLANK, hungry, too skinny, too KAZAKSTANIAN but without the charm, too fat.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Exhibit Six, Seven and Eight: We wanted something different, we aren't sure what, but we'll know it when we see it.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Exhibit Nine: Your voice lacks testosterone and if we wanted a female lover, well..</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Exhibit Ten: Your life lacks adventure and seems boring. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">We hope you understand, please forgive us our cowardice but we are fairly certain that you have been a coward too.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">See: Ex wife</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">See: Ex girlfriend</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">See: Truckstop Bathroom</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Sincerely, </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Women everywhere.</span>Girltownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05804297301438745857noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1517293821383671379.post-3563685044058005472012-03-17T14:45:00.001-07:002012-03-17T14:45:57.312-07:00Night In Hell at the Chelsea Hotel<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmBPLJsjWNHTtLW7RCdTNlzpgMqIg4kp-1lmUSnoqNz74zmeRXbUdNtNHAFALRZEwXMOmE7KODwRzADaKs72yPmdxM6d6SNRqD23R1LDlu9gKzu5uZoNR7Q3rInguusql4J-3oKQFqdjo/s1600/chelsea_hotel_by_renela.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmBPLJsjWNHTtLW7RCdTNlzpgMqIg4kp-1lmUSnoqNz74zmeRXbUdNtNHAFALRZEwXMOmE7KODwRzADaKs72yPmdxM6d6SNRqD23R1LDlu9gKzu5uZoNR7Q3rInguusql4J-3oKQFqdjo/s320/chelsea_hotel_by_renela.jpg" width="197" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana-Bold; font-size: 10pt;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana-Bold; font-size: 10pt;"><b>Night
in Hell at the Chelsea Hotel<span id="goog_615143366"></span><span id="goog_615143367"></span><o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;">The man was married, but not in any traditional
sense. Morally speaking, he was getting off his original mark. The Chelsea
stunk of perfume and opium. His trench coat was black and he was dirty. Dirty
from drinking in a nearby dive, dirty from living wrong, from not being able to
love. He brought Dolly with him, if this was his last night on earth, he might
as well fuck. She was no whore either; she had nice skin and a pretty smile.
She told him the first time she got paid for it; she had been out all night and
forgot where she was going. Something about a bus ticket home. She said she had
a mental disturbance that made her forget every man she had since that first
one. She was smart though and took to reciting Allen Ginsberg's Howl for
entertainment every time things got too quiet. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;">Finally, he said, shut up, and he took her hand in
his and they walked quietly up the stairs. From some of the rooms you could
hear fighting and others you could hear the white noise of late night TV. He
held her hand and then opened the door. They sat on the couch with a bottle of
wine. He told her it was going to be a bad night after she was gone. “I don’t
have to go.” She rested her head on his shoulder feeling the warmth of two
people who needed something they couldn’t give the other one. He had changed his mind when he got her
inside. It seemed too sad somehow to have sex with someone he didn’t even
really know except for drinking. Too ordinary. Too every other girl he’d every
met-like.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;">“Don’t you want to?” Dolly said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;">“Nope. I want you like this, if we do it, I won’t
be remembered.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;">“It could be fun,” Dolly said, but made a face that
said otherwise.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;">“I’m not going to be every other guy to you. No
way.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;">After she fell asleep, the man told himself that he
better listen to some music and he better do his drugs before morning. He gently moved Dolly’s head off his
shoulder and lowered her onto his couch.
He pulled the blanket off the chair and draped it over her. He thought her face was pretty in a
noble sort of way, the kind of face that seems wiser than anyone else, only
appearances were false, that much he knew. It wasn’t like he thought it was
going to be, he knew things he wasn’t supposed to know, he tried it out and he
realized he was good at it though, so what the hell, he did it every chance he
got. Some would call it weakness,
but others might say it was talent.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;">He poured more wine. He got the David Bowie album
and put it on. Dolly was asleep so
he didn’t put it on too loud.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;">Ground Control to major Tom<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;">Ground Control to Major Tom<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;">Take your protein pills may god’s love be with you.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;">Ground Control to Major Tom.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;">He sat down and dialed hoping against hope she
wouldn’t pick up. Why does it always have to be me that calls, he was thinking.
She answered.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;">“I know, I know. I don’t give a fuck who’s sleeping.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;">“Really, is that so? Do you fight with him like we did? I miss you.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;">She didn’t say it back.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;">Later
at four, he put a gun in his mouth and said goodbye for good.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>Girltownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05804297301438745857noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1517293821383671379.post-7534654737690464782012-03-16T12:56:00.000-07:002013-06-28T23:34:11.366-07:00Advice For Writers<div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijXtK4p2x6XGSCRF9A0UokdKrupmsg7JMbm3YcoWmtA6ZGVFsuOaX_JCXkMmicI31W4HRSkfsemLwbyVyzyrAz40wEkdO57egZbpd9FKVT0Spih2ErBIqPEv0rQgUDBGmsnmeTjyhik4I/s1600/images.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijXtK4p2x6XGSCRF9A0UokdKrupmsg7JMbm3YcoWmtA6ZGVFsuOaX_JCXkMmicI31W4HRSkfsemLwbyVyzyrAz40wEkdO57egZbpd9FKVT0Spih2ErBIqPEv0rQgUDBGmsnmeTjyhik4I/s320/images.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Lately,
people have been writing to me asking me to help them in a variety of ways.
Some of them are cool when I say, look I'm all tapped out, some of them get mad
and don't understand my health issues or that I'm in school for a another full
year after this one is done. So, here we go--My blanket advice to writers who
hate me for telling them the truth and the manipulative ones who try to make me
feel shitty for being a real live human barely able to do my own work: you guys
can get fucked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Rules
for becoming a writer:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">1.
Fall in love. It should be noted that there are different versions of love most
of which include one person parasitically sucking off the other more strong
person, but this still can be used to the writer's benefit. What you do is you
label anything love that you can't figure out or when a person acts
inconsistent, one day happy, one day angry (like father), and you sleep with
that person and you listen to their hopes and dreams and they never ask you
about yours and you don't care because deep inside you know this isn't the real
thing but the sex parts feel good and you really really really like their nose,
but inside you know it won't last. This isn't love, and you won't call it love,
but it will hurt you when you end it just as if it were real love because the
person with the nose you love will cry and act needy and you will go, where is
the one guy and or girl who is not needy and just wants to be around me without
projecting their past bullshit onto me and assuming that I feel more for them
than they feel for me when usually it is not the case. Don't you remember the
story about my dog and how I stopped being able to love after my dog was put to
sleep while I was at school? Bambi--I miss him. He loved me. He did hump my leg
(not dissimilar from the men I date or even fake date). But, he loved me in a
way that no one else can because their private parts steer that part of their
brain that they try to idealize and call things love when it is really can I
put my privates into your privates and will you be nice to me after and see me
as a superhero? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">2.
Get drunk and take pills. This part, is debatable, because I no longer drink,
but the thing is but when I did drink I DRANK EVERYTHING and drank with a
vengeance and drank at people and drank with men without teeth and found myself
making out with harelip dude and toothless dude and then had boyfriends that
did drugs so I did drugs with them and we HATED each other and HATED ourselves,
but it was FUN. The ones who drink are in the most pain and their pain makes it
interesting to be them in their confusing sad lives and they are the best
writers invariably. I also think the one guy in my class who only likes dogs
and hates humans is going in the right direction. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">3.
Jail. I think if you want to be a writer and you have never been arrested you
can still be a nice writer, many people might read you, I just won't care about
it very much. But, I, thankfully, in all my pretentious un-goodness as a human
being, am not your only reader, nor will I ever buy your books or think you're
cool at all.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">4.
Look rad. This one is a must for any writer. It doesn't have to do with your
face as much as keep yourself cool looking. You have to have personal style.
That is very important. A style that is not copied or fake. It is your own and
while there may be copiers, no one does your style like you do.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">5.
Learn to hate. I was raised by Seventh Day Adventist/Christian
Scientist/Sometimes Cult member parents and they taught me to never lie, never
dance, if you are sick that there is something wrong with you on a deep
spiritual level, because you wouldn't get sick if you could pray rightly. I
don't hate them, but I have learned to hate ideas. Learned to hate people who
try to make me feel guilty. Learned to hate parasites. Learned to hate the
things in myself that close off to you when you are an ignorant person. Hate
has wings. Hate is memorable. You can write about hate. I'd much rather be
hated than almost anything else. I love hate.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">6.
Read astrology. This one sounds totally dumb, but is as real as the rest of
them. Look up why people are acting certain ways and find that astrology
answers the most predictable of all the questions you would ever have about
said person, confirming what you already know but are loathe to say. Then you
can admit to yourself that people can be categorized and no one is really
unique or even that different from what it says about you on google. Take me
for example Pisces with Leo rising. I am difficult, self-righteous and hard to
be close to, but once you are in, I am loyal forever. If you cross me, you will
go on my dry-erase board and become one of the people I am on a singular
mission to destroy psychologically. It will happen. The Pisces may easily swim
away if you do one wrong thing, but they never forget a slight. Not EVER.
Serious. And while Pisceans are the most loving and giving of the zodiac, their
ability to choose inappropriate partners is legendary as can be seen if you
study this blog. But, the leo rising part makes up for it in ways that will
make you scared to be alive. All this is factual and should be paid attention
to in legions of ways, so that you can figure everyone out and waste a whole
shit ton of time wherein you should be writing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">7.
Be irresponsible. (Steal stuff, sleep with bad people, say stuff you don't
mean, fake love fake people, don't be honest, etc.) This creates the kind of
guilt that keeps writers up at night and those writers have very little to do
having already worn out their lover, so they have to write stuff down so that
their conscience can catch a break.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">8.
Lie. This one should be obvious to any would be writer. But, you only tell the
truth on paper, lying and exaggerating facts makes you memorable and while you
never lie on the page you confuse all those around you into thinking you are
someone you aren't and this makes you memorable. (Writers, that are real should
be memorable).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">9.
Be memorable. In all ways, be different. Think different, say different things
that no one else would say because they are too concerned with being properly
human but not a real human. Don't cater to societal expectations. Be a nice
person one day a mean person the next. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">10.
Write. While this is something that should be obvious to anybody, it isn't. You
should write everyday and have opinions about the world you live in that are
sacrilegious and scary to others, but don't fabricate this--they must be the
secret things inside of yourself that you secretly think but would never ever
say because you are too polite to say to someone's face. Say those things. Like
when I broke up with you and I said the sex was good I only said it to make
your face stop crying. I didn't say it because it was real. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">11.
Be more yourself. I don't know what else to say about this one. Only you know
what that means. But, if you are secretly copying anybody, trying to be like
somebody else in anyway, style, dress, speech, thought, stop that shit and
become what you were born to become. YOUR OWN PERSON. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">12.
Eat things that aren’t known to be food, like hotpockets. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">13.
Question God or ideas on God or all the ideas that are in your head and ask
yourself, are these my own made up ideas or did I steal them or be infected by
someone else’s thinking to believe them. do this everyday about everything
until you are able to generate your own ideas not tainted by socialization,
weird parenting or psychologically abusive “friends.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">14.
Dump people that are dicks. Do not let people around you that don’t make you
feel better or suffer in some way, but for sure get rid of the dicks.
Especially if they are dumb. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">15.
Burn things in your oven. Food because you fell asleep, but other things are
fun to burn in there too. Use your imagination. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">The
end.<span class="Apple-style-span"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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Girltownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05804297301438745857noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1517293821383671379.post-31146927482402401932012-03-14T10:23:00.002-07:002013-06-27T02:18:14.517-07:00The Burning<br />
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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The Burning</div>
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<br /></div>
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And there are other reasons I burned the mattress.</div>
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I learned to sleep standing up against the wall </div>
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The moon cast a shadow on the mattress</div>
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of the both of us when we were children.</div>
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You were in your bug phase</div>
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The one where we researched the bugs that could exist</div>
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in a house with no couches, no tables.</div>
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You told me, “They smell like cumin.”</div>
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But I couldn’t smell it</div>
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We checked our bodies</div>
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Cleaned our couches</div>
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I still have the vacuum cleaner</div>
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It was 400 dollars.</div>
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You were married, that’s the one thing I never say</div>
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It was a girl who worshipped me</div>
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Her name was almost like mine. </div>
Girltownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05804297301438745857noreply@blogger.com2