short fiction, one

It was my party. My party, in my city. This used to be your city too, before you left. When the two of you walked in I reached down toward my right stilleto and slipped that six inch knife out of my stocking and sent it flying through the room, sank it directly between your shoulder blades so we would match. But you turned around and looked at me like I was wrong, “how could you care? What did you expect from me? What are you gonna do about it?” your shrug and arrogant smile said to me through the party. I wanted to cry. At my own fucking party, without saying anything at all, you made me want to cry. She walked into a room full of my friends as if she had a right to be there, because she did. You. Why don’t I carry loaded hypodermics in my handbag? I don’t know how I hugged her. I felt everything in me collapsing on the floor as she walked away from me toward you. It was my party. You were there for me. If I didn’t love you so much, I swear to god, I really would hate you.

morning walk

boneyard

if you've never typed 'airforce graveyard arizona' into google earth, a) we probably aren't as close as you think, b) why not?, and c) you should do it immediately.

tuesday morning

nelson wakes me up at 8, so i guess i'm a morning person now. i take him to central park for about an hour where he has made all kinds of canine friends. ill take pictures tomorrow.

school is kicking my ass pretty thoroughly, plus roommate drama, plus this inexplicable 5000-mile-away drama, so expect a decrease in blogging.

sunday morning thoughts

i've been thinking that maybe there is no difference between "seeing something special" in a person, and projecting your bullshit expectations on a person. I've been reading Revolutionary Road, and therefore questioning the things on which i've based my relationships.

in other news, took nelson for a long walk this morning, mostly because he demanded it by physically pushing me out of bed at 7:30. we went up into central park and met what the central park website describes as "a community of responsible dog owners." they were cute, in a "responsible dog owner" kind of way.

also, i jammed my left thumb last night. do you have any idea how important your left thumb is when typing is your principal method of communication??? i'd post a picture of it but i think everyone can imagine what a jammed thumb looks like (think purple and huge) and thumbs in any condition are gross.

homework time.

Nelson

This is my dog. Yes, he is bigger than i am. by 50 pounds. having boys over is about to get hilarious (assuming i start doing that). I won't be very mobile for a little while until i subway-train him, so if you'd like to visit us you'll have to journey to the UWS. In the top picture, i'm the blonde and red blur on the left, he's the black blur in the middle.

nelson mandela

My parents are about ten minutes from my apartment. they drove in from ohio to bring my dog to the city. i'm nervous/excited. i'm sure there will be plenty of photos.

The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock, T.S. Eliot

S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero,
Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.


LET us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats 5
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question … 10
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes, 15
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap, 20
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes; 25
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate; 30
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go 35
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair— 40
[They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
[They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”]
Do I dare 45
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all:—
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons, 50
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all— 55
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways? 60
And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
It is perfume from a dress 65
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
. . . . .
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets 70
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?…

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
. . . . .
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully! 75
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep … tired … or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis? 80
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker, 85
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while, 90
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”— 95
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all.”

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while, 100
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen: 105
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.”
. . . . . 110
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use, 115
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old … I grow old … 120
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me. 125

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown 130
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

a country song

i just told one of my moms that i've started this blog to serve as a sounding board to replace the one i've used for the last few years.
she said 'I'm writing a country song called "I replaced you with a blog and a dog."'

p.s. i'm getting a dog tomorrow afternoon.

Hem

Hemingway's been a favorite of mine for a few years now, and has become symbolic of the most complicated relationship i have ever had. This image of him fucking around reminds me that i can't project my bullshit onto people i hardly know, like hemingway, because his identity and history will always belong to him, and he can't carry mine too. i guess that applies to men more generally as well.

virgin post

i'm not sure whether i've ever made a serious attempt at blogging, but i'm a trendy kid, so i might as well give it a go.
I hope that the exercise of telling my stories truly, if only to a hypothetical audience, will help me heal and, hopefully, grow.
The goal of this activity is to become comfortable with vulnerability and truth.
I'll establish a little credibility for my honesty policy by jump-starting this thing with some old writings and images and let that determine what follows.